#my hands wouldn’t stop until I got this drawing out of my system

[bold-embrace]

I wanted to see tomorrow with him

[aluciahaz]

Omfggg ur writing is SO unbelievably good i love it sm 😭🙏🙏

I got kind of a prompt for a sub!vox x gn (maybe afab) reader ✨ Okay so what if, since we all know vox is OBVIOUSLY a bratty bottom, the reader fucks the brattiness out of him? And he goes from trying to be a dom, to resistant bottom, to bratty bottom, to just begging to come with all his life, maybe even crying cuz the reader won’t let him

TYSM!!!! im glad you think my writing’s good ❤️ALSO FINALLY A VOX REQ AGHH

i have like 50094949 drafts for like all of the other stuff in my inbox but i just have to write this vox fic first ok im self indulgent i apologize 😭

—vox x gn!reader

—includes : sub!vox, dom!reader, light bondage, edging

vox is so obvious.

he clearly has a thing for control. a need, a desire. it was practically his core personality trait. yet, he’s most certainly not made to wield it.

sure, he can try and sweet talk you, saying sultry things and bragging about his power in order to get you to feel below his level. but you know how frail that persona is. a single slip up, and it would all come crashing down into deafening static.

which, was almost impressively easy to do.

his claw-like fingers runs up your neck, one of them stopping at your cheek as he smirked. if he wasn’t careful, he could fuck up and draw blood. he was tip-toeing the small line here.

a small line that if he crossed, you’d switch up this silly little game immediately, taking the control of the show and making him the contestant.

live only for you.

but, you entertain his farce of dominance, a smile playing on your lips as you see what he has in store…if he had anything, that is.

“you’ve been waiting for me all day, haven’t you?” he asks, clearly rhetorical as he caresses your cheek gently, his voice steady as he speaks. he leads you down to the bed with teeth raking your neck as he crawls over you. there’s something fun about watching him try and fluster you, to get you to say the things he wants. but you were no people pleaser.

“perhaps. unfortunately i can’t say the same for you,” you respond, your smile forming into more of a smirk at the ends of your lips as your hands snake around his delicate waist, tightening around it like a corset.

you can already see the hesitation in his eyes, the brief moment of surprise at your sudden grasp. it was too easy to surprise this man. it’s a wonder he hasn’t exploded yet.

“what do you mean by that?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing in both nervousness and curiosity, almost like he didn’t want to know. the fingers on your cheek seem to barely just get too rough as he looked at you.

“don’t act like i didn’t hear you in the office this morning, moaning my name like some prayer,” you mock, your knee slotting between his legs with ease. vox keels over at the sudden feeling, a sharp gasp getting punched out of his system with little effort.

“impatient.”

“what’s the big deal? am i not allowed to jerk off anymore?” he complains, bringing himself back up to his hand and knees over you as he glares with indignation.

“i told you to wait.”

“and i don’t remember needing to!” vox snarled, the grasp on your face tightening until you saw him pull it away, a droplet of blood adorning his finger.

simply unacceptable.

instantly, with a loud yelp of complaint and confusion, he hits the mattress with a thud, cursing in annoyance as he looks up at you. his face, once filled with irritation, shifted into one of almost astonished fear as he gazed upon your expression, cold and unforgiving.

“i’ll make you remember.”

his screen flickers before going back to normal, his face scrunched up in anger as he spat out his unwise words.

“i’d like to see you try.”

so, try you did.

his hands were cuffed with plush handcuffs to the bed-frame—you know he wouldn’t be able to handle real ones—and of course since he was never good with self-control, he had a cock ring on as a ‘treat’.

you’re delighted by how much of a fight he puts up though. considering how fragile his ego is, you were sure that he’d melt into your hands the moment you bound him to the bed.

“this is your plan?” vox rolled his eyes, watching you pour lubricant on your fingers with an unimpressed look. “not very impressive. you’ll need more—ngh! shit! give a guy some warning—!”

“beggars can’t be choosers.”

“i don’t fucking beg—!”

“you will.”

there was no mercy from that point forth. one finger after the other, shocks of electricity would course through his veins, mouth agape as your quick hand inside kept making him feel sparks of pleasure through his entire body.

“let me—cum! ass—zz—hole!” he shouted, tugging at the handcuffs to no avail. he wanted to touch himself so bad, yet you were adamant.

“if you ask nicely, maybe,” you tell him, circling your fingers before pressing deep onto that electric spot again, making him cry out in frustration and enjoyment.

all he could do was shoot you a disgusted look before yelling once more, kicking the blanket underneath him in exasperation. his anguish crackled through his veins like a current, trying to fight the urge to just submit.

but it was all too much. he was weak, even if he convinces all of hell that he’s not, he wouldn’t be able to fool you. the bucks of your fingers were replaced with the movement of your hips, making him wail for more.

an hour had passed, and his indignant claims of “i don’t feel anything!” or “you’ll never get me to beg!” shifted into more pleasant glitching screams of “don’t stop!” and “please, more!”

finally, he was using his manners.

“let me cum—ple—zz—se! i c-can’t—!” vox cried out as you quicken the pace, thrashing underneath you with his legs now wrapped around your waist, holding for dear life as you drive into him.

“i—hic—mm! ‘m s—zz—sorry! ‘msorry-AH! sorry!” his back curves off the bed as he squirms, crying in earnest now. tears fell his face with broken pixels blinking in and out underneath, his screen cutting at random points to an error warning from the overstimulation.

“pathetic,” you spit out, your hands digging into his hips as you practically manhandled the man, making him move once he lost all the energy to match your movements. “you listen to me. you do what i say, and you don’t talk back.”

you hear him shriek desperately as you grab his cock, red and weeping as you overwhelm him with pleasure, but never letting him over the edge.

“do you understand? you’re mine.”

you run your finger underneath his tip, and you see him glitch out into an expression you truly loved.

his screen was tear stained and his were graphics broken, yet it was clear enough to see the hypnotizing hearts that pulsated in his eyes as he yelled in defeat, small whimpers leaving his ruined throat as he babbled on and on.

“yours! your—yours! ngh—! please! pl—let me cum! plea—zz—oh, FUCK!”

his whole body trembles from need like electricity burned his skin. his legs fall from your waist, too weak to hold them around you anymore, yet you catch them, pushing the underside of his thighs until he was folded in half.

“cum for me then.”

instantly, vox does as you say as you slip the cock ring off of him, his wails loud enough to shake the room as he finds his release. his screen completely blanks out for a second as a shock flitters around his wrists, frying the cuffs and making them break into two before slumping back down to the bed.

you can’t even scold him for letting his powers go rampant before he pulls you over him, wrapping his arms around you as he sniffles into your ear.

“thank you—hic—thank…thank…”

this big baby. you sigh, rubbing your hands on his sides gently as you kiss his cheek. “yeah, yeah. just remember this the next time you think about acting out, okay?” you said quietly, feeling him nod into your shoulder as he starts to slowly relax.

but as per usual, he apparently forgets what you taught him in the next week.

fortunately, you’re a patient teacher. and you’ll remind him again and again about the lessons he foolishly dismisses.

sorry that this is shit 💀 i tried my best but the writing juices arent flowing this week😭 hopefully this weekend i wont have writer’s block and will blast through all yall’s reqs!! trust me, im working on them <3

tags: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @drlucichen @mvskedxrtist

[sometimesanalice]

Like I Can (Part 2)

Summary: After yet another bad date and tired of swiping on apps, the Dagger Squad steps in to help you out by setting you up on a series of blind dates. Much to Rooster’s dismay.

Warnings: fuff, language, slight angst. Minors DNI

Length: 5.7K

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X Female Reader

Part 1 | Part 3

(Here you go, lovely people! The wait is over! Enjoy❣️)

When you had first told Rooster that you were moving to San Diego, it had felt like the first time in a long time in that things in his life were finally going his way. He was excelling in his career, he was mending his relationship with Maverick, and he finally had the opportunity to start putting some roots down.

He knew how lucky he was.

He had been thrilled to know that you would both be living in the same place for the first time since you were teens. Sure he might have gone a little overboard helping you find a place near him and showing you the hard-learned secrets of navigating the SoCal highway system, but he wanted you to be as happy here as he was.

You were the only person left in the world, outside of Maverick, who had known him the longest. You mattered to him.

It was clear that you thought it had been his doing for how quickly his friends had included you as part of the group, but he knew it was all you. They’d all been so surprised when his nice, sweet friend was the one who kept playing the raunchiest hands during Cards Against Humanity. You’d pretty much swept every round that night. He was pretty sure more than a few of them would trade him for you in a heartbeat.

While they liked you, they loved a competition. He should have seen it coming the second Phoenix volunteered to set you up on a date, because what one person does the rest will undoubtedly follow suit. 

And that’s how Rooster found himself watching you on your first of the dates from inside the Hard Deck, the chaos of it all drawing more than one set of eyes to where you were on the outdoor patio.

When he’d arrived at the Hard Deck earlier that evening, he was surprised to see you there already seated next to Bob with his other friends chatting away nearby. He didn’t remember you saying you were planning to stop by. 

You looked a bit more dressed up than how he usually saw you, wearing a fluttery looking sundress and your hair piled up on the top of your head. After making a quick stop to get a beer, he’d made his way over to you.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight, kid.” Up close now, he could see some of the soft strands that had escaped your top knot and were framing your face. 

He was briefly reminded of the time you got bangs in high school. While he’d thought they had look nice on you, you on the other hand had immediately regretted them, pinning them back until they’d grown out.  

“Hey you,” you’d greeted him with an easygoing smile on your face, “I got here a little too early, but thankfully Bob was already here. He’s been keeping me company as I wait.”

“Huh? For what?” he’d asked a bit dumbly, his gaze bouncing between you and Bob.

Shit, did he forget someone’s birthday?

“She’s meeting my friend Casey from the animal shelter tonight,” Bob chimed in, speaking around a mouthful of sunflower seeds, “For the bet we all made the other night.” 

“Oh,” he’d felt his eyebrows pull together, glancing back to you, “I didn’t know you were actually going to go through with that.” 

He had never understood why you had such bad luck when it came to dating. He assumed you probably got a lot of attention in your day-to-day life, so your stories of dates gone wrong always left him baffled. Anyone could see that you were funny, intelligent, and had the best smile. If you’d been a stranger, he probably would have approached you out in a coffee shop somewhere if he’d seen you drinking one of those extra foamy cappuccinos you liked. 

But you weren’t a stranger you were his longest time friend, his most important friend.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you’d asked quizzically, tilting your head at him. “Outside of how competitive you all are, your friends were nice enough to go out of their way for me by setting this all up. Plus, it seems like it could be a lot of fun.” 

That was the thing though, he didn’t think you should have to be jumping through so many hoops to find a decent guy to date.

He’d met the guy you had dated before moving here a few times over FaceTime. He would usually try to engage him in some small talk always asking him about how many G’s he’d pulled that day before leaving for beers with the guys or some pick-up basketball game. It seemed to him like you guys had led pretty separate lives, but you liked him so the guy was fine in his books. However, when you had told him that you were moving out here alone, he couldn’t say he was too surprised. That guy was probably kicking himself now, because California looked good on you.

“Speaking of,” you’d reached out taking right forearm pulling it closer to you, he had let you turn and adjust it until you could read the time displayed by the dials on his watch. “I should probably head outside to wait for him there. You said we’d probably need to grab a spot on the patio, right Bob?” you’d asked turning away from him to confirm with the WSO.

“He said he was still looking for a dog sitter, but if he couldn’t find one he’d be bringing them with him,” Bob replied as he scanned the text on his phone, “That’s probably a good idea, just in case.”

He’d known this whole thing was going to be a bad idea, grasping the back of your stool he briskly turned you back towards him to give you a pointed look.

You’d just shook your head at him blithely and rolled your eyes, “It’ll be fine.” The expression on your face told him not to press the matter, even though he knew that would take a lot of willpower on his side.

Sighing in resignation, he had helped brace your forearm as you slid off the tall stool. You’d patted his chest a couple of times before making your way outside, the hem of your dress dancing around your thighs.

He had drunk that first beer a bit faster than normal, trying to focus on the conversation Coyote was attempting to have with him. Then he was waylaid at the bar for a while when he had gone up to get a second, spending some time catching up with Mav who had shown up and was sitting at the counter watching his fiancée as she ruled over her bar.

When he got back and looked out the window to check on you, he was expecting to see you out there talking with Bob’s friend and maybe a dog or two sitting at your feet, instead the scene before his eyes had him storming over to Bob who was already watching the madness unfold.

“What did he bring the whole damn shelter with him? There’s like 7 of them out there!”

“I had no clue he had that many,” Bob admits sheepishly.  

“He’s your friend, isn’t he? Shouldn’t that have come up in a conversation before this?” He liked Bob, but you were getting assailed by a few too many energetic dogs for his comfort. He can tell the guy is trying to wrangle them under control, and you’re generously laughing along while they vie for your attention, scratching as many ears as possible. 

“They seem to really like her. See how they keep licking her? Did you know that’s an instinctive behavior learned from when they’re puppies? It’s how they bond with others.” His attempt to bring some humor falling flat in Rooster’s ears.

“Not helpful, Bob,” he grunts into his beer his eyes glued on you.

Hangman struts up to them no doubt curious about what has the two of them staring so intently out the large window and lets out a low whistle, “Damn, that’s a lot of dogs.”

The sound naturally draws the attention of his other friends, and they are quick to drop everything to come gather around the window and observe the circus that is your first blind date.

The guy is standing trying to unravel the many leashes he is clutching onto, handing you a couple to hold on to as he works to disentangle the knot that’s formed. Your beer a casualty of the chaos when what looks like a Border Collie mix jumps up on the table.

“Oh shit,” he mutters when he sees you sneeze.

“What’s up, Rooster?” Natasha asked, glancing at him briefly before turning her eyes back to the flurry of fur outside.

“She’s allergic.” 

This is what he had been worried about when Bob mentioned your date might be bringing his dogs. He knew your pet dander allergy wasn’t usually too bad with a couple of animals, but being around this many couldn’t be good for you.

Now that you were settled in San Diego, you had told him you had been thinking about getting a pet. It was something that you were never able to have as a kid for the same very reason you were out there fighting back another sneeze. You were adamant about adopting one, but finding hypoallergenic pet in a shelter was harder than it was getting a missile to hit its target. 

When he sees you bring the back of your hand up to wipe under one of your eyes, he abandons his mostly untouched beer on the windowsill and marches towards the exit in a few long strides. Fingers already raised to his lips before he’s even made it outside. The sharp whistle he lets out the second his shoe hits the wooden planks of the patio surprising the tangle of dogs surrounding you into momentary stillness.

“Time to wrap it up, kid,” he hollers, jerking his head back towards the door.

Even haloed by the golden light from the setting sun, he can see how watery and red-rimmed your eyes have gotten. 

He sees you saying something to your date, handing him back the leashes as you step gingerly around the dogs towards him, making sure to avoid stepping on any of the happily wagging tails. 

You’ve got your shoulders pulled back tightly as you walk towards him, determination in every step you take. The force of your glare would be intimidating to anyone else, but he’s developed an immunity to it after so many years of having it directed at him. 

Although he doubts you can even actually see his face right now with how puffy your eyes have gotten.

“Are you kidding me right now? What the fuck, Rooster?” you fume at him.

Oh, yeah, you’re pissed. He’ll deal with that later. Standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, steeling himself in anticipation for whatever comes next.

“C’mon, I bet Penny has something for that,” he says gesturing to your face, “And then I’m taking you home.” 

He can tell you’re getting ready to give him a piece of your mind. Probably a very loud and vividly descriptive piece of your mind, but can’t be bothered to regret a thing. He knows he is in the right to intervene on your behalf. 

He’s looking out for you, like a good friend should. 

And you’re just standing there shaking your head at him, instead of listening to him when you know he’s right.

You’ve always been so frustratingly hardhead, so he pulls out the one thing he knows you can’t resist, “I’ll even stop for milkshakes.”

You look up at him skeptically with narrowed eyes before asking, “And I can drink it in the Bronco?”

That makes him chuckle, of course you’re negotiating with him. “Yeah, yeah. Now c’mon, time to call it.”

Rooster sees the moment the fight goes out of you as you turn back to Cashew, or whatever this guy’s name is. He looks a little like the crunchy granola type, if you ask him.

He grabs your hand pulling you with him back inside, not wanting to let you change your mind while the promise of a milkshake is still at the height of its power.

You tug back making him pause at the entry as you call back to Bob’s friend, “Thank you for coming, Casey. It was nice to meet you, but I think I’m going to head out. Good luck with your fundraiser for the shelter, I’ll make sure to spread the word.” 

That makes him smile to himself as he tows you with him, here you are clearly suffering with your allergies and still going out of your way for this person you’ve just met. You’ve always been too nice for your own good. Hell, you’ll probably get the whole team to donate to the fundraiser before he can even get you out the door.

Once back inside he pays the tab for both of you, while you swallow down the antihistamines Penny was able to find in the med kit she keeps behind the counter. The team is surrounding you asking questions about the date.

“I’ll tell you, but that information will cost you. You can Venmo the shelter your donation to their fundraiser and I’ll be happy to answer any questions once you send me documented proof of payment,” you say with a smug smile on your face.

He huffs a laugh while signing the receipt that Penny hands him as the cellphones are whipped out of various pockets. 

Such a little hustler. 

In school, you were usually the one to sell the most candy bars and wrapping paper during fundraisers. And he was always an easy target, you usually got at least $30 out of him every time. He was never one to say no to a good cause, or to you most of the time.

Bob apologizes profusely to you as he hands you a couple napkins when you start sniffling while gathering up your things. He watches as you just wave him off, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek and tell him not to worry about it. 

Huh.

Shaking out the thoughts of you with the soft-spoken WSO from his mind, he starts to guide you out the door to his car with a hand on your back. His other hand involuntarily tightening into a fist as Fanboy calls out promising to do better than Bob when you’re both almost out the door.

He can hear your phone already blowing up with the nosy questions from his squad before he’s even buckled got you in.

And on the drive back to your place he lets you drink your chocolate cherry chip shake in the passenger seat of the Bronco, just as he promised he would.

You weren’t too proud to admit that first blind date was a bit of a mess. 

While your eyes had been puffy for a couple days afterwards, you had also managed to get $700 in donations for the shelter from the Dagger Squad with all the questions you had answered for them while bleary-eyed. 

And it was Rooster who had ended up sending in the largest donation, which had surprised you since he wasn’t even participating in the bet. He had sent you a screenshot of his $200 contribution along with a text that simply said: “For the animals, thanks for not spilling your milkshake in my car like you did when you were 15.”

You’d sent him back a heart promptly followed by the middle finger emoji.

Thankfully the second date the next week was less eventful.

Fanboy had set you up with one of his friends from the escape room group he was in. When you’d admitted that you had never done one before he’d talked you through all his tips and strategies for how to beat it when you eventually tried one out. His enthusiasm could have been charming had it not come across as entirely mansplain-y. 

Why yes, you did know what a topographical map was and how to read it, thank you very much. 

You’d felt like some kind of oversized bobblehead since all you had been doing that evening was nodding along as an attempt to stay engaged with the conversation.

Rooster had stopped by when your date had left for the restroom. He was glistening a bit from the sweat he had worked up from the performance at the piano he had just given. It was a newer song for him, but he had still swept the rest of the bar up with his infectious energy.

“I can tell you’re bored out of your mind, kid. How about I show you how to do that four-in-one shot? Once you pick it up you might finally be some competition at the pool table,” he’d said grabbing your beer and swallowing down a few large mouthfuls.

From your spot at the high-top table, you could see more than a few hungry gazes in the crowded bar tracking him. Probably trying to figure out the nature of your relationship with him. 

When you shooed him away, he’d pulled down his sunglasses to give you a knowing look before taking your beer with him as he strutted away with a casual: “See you soon, kid.” 

He knew you too well. 

You weren’t bored per se, but you also weren’t having the greatest time.

When your date got back, it didn’t take long for the conversation to fizzle out, the long pauses feeling awkward rather than companionable. You’d both agreed that it probably wasn’t a great fit and left it at that. You’d even had Penny put his beers on your tab as a gesture of goodwill.

Plus, you had been trying to get Rooster to teach you that trick for ages, and you didn’t want to miss your moment now that he was offering. 

True to his word, he spent the rest of the evening teaching you his trick. You warred between watching him intently determined to nail the shot, and avoiding looking at him too closely. The tight jeans he was wearing bringing up some less than strictly friendly thoughts as he bent over the table to line up his shots. 

You were still terrible, but you also hadn’t had so much fun in a long time as you traded shit-talk back and forth with him. Cackling at the confusion on his face when he went to grab his beer only to find it empty. It was only fair, after all, he had taken yours.

It’s been a few days since then, and you are back at the Hard Deck for date number three.

From your time hanging out with the Dagger Squad, you’d learned that Coyote was a bit of a classic car aficionado. He had set you up with his friend, Will, who he had met at one of the vintage car conventions he had gone to in the area.

Will was already twenty minutes late when Hangman and Phoenix made their way up to the bar. The two keeping you company for a bit while they waited for Jimmy to get their next rounds, letting you know that Jake had already called dibs on setting up your next date.

“Get ready for a good time, Darlin’,” he boasted. 

“I keep telling you my guy is perfect. I already know they’re going to have some instant chemistry. I don’t know why you’re even bothering, I have got it on lock,” Natasha had retorted back.

He’d sent you a cocky salute before they’d both made their way back to the rest of the group in the corner of the bar.

When your date eventually arrived, you guys went through the typical small talk motions, trading the same tired questions that feel more like a casual interview than an actual conversation.

Since you already knew he had an interest in classic cars you had casually mentioned Penny’s ’73 Porsche to him as something to talk about other than the weather or what you did for work, and that’s how you found yourself sitting on your own waiting for him to return from where he was outside snapping away pictures of the sleek looking car.

You’re picking at the label on your bottle of Blue Moon to kill time, when you feel Rooster slide up next to you, the smell of his woodsy cologne giving him away before the print of his Hawaiian shirt does out of the corner of your eye. 

“Hey kid, you hungry? I could eat. What do you say to hitting up that taco place we like?”

You gesture to the coat draped on the back of the stool next to you, “I’m kind of on a date right now, Rooster.”  

“You sure about that? Kinda looks like you’re just sittin’ here alone to me.” Mimicking you he also signals to the empty stool next to you.

His words landing like a sucker punch.

“I mean, he hasn’t been out there for that long. It’s a sexy car, I get it.” 

And you did. 

However, it has also been like ten minutes now since he left you, and having Rooster point it out like that made you feel more than a bit self-conscious.

Especially when you look over and catch the rest of the team watching you guys with curious stares from across the bar. 

You knew having the dates here for their bet would put you directly in the spotlight, everyone wanting to see how things were going and how their friend stacked up against the competition. First dates were awkward enough without that kind of extra pressure and extra eyes. 

Now you were on the third one and things weren’t looking as promising as you had hoped when you first started. It would be humiliating if by the end of this they all thought that you were the problem. And it wasn’t like you weren’t trying, but being on display like this makes you feel like you’re wading through waist-deep mud while everyone watches you struggle from solid ground. 

When it came to dating, Rooster always had a much easier time of it compared to you. With those sunkissed curls and that toned body, it was rare if he didn’t get passed at least three napkins with phone numbers scribbled on them during nights out.

Even in high school you were always the one fielding questions from all the girls who were interested in him. Is he seeing anyone? Can you give him my number? He was naturally charismatic, of course people were drawn to him.

But you? You were just Bradshaw’s younger, tag-along friend. And then in college, it had always felt like you were the one who had to keep making all the first moves only to be left wondering why you had even bothered in the first place.

You never had a great poker face, and it’s clear you’re wearing your emotions on your face because when you turn back to Rooster his face immediately softens.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he promises gently, as he reaches out to tug lightly on the end of the braid you had woven your hair in for the evening. “I just don’t get why you’re putting up with this guy ditching you like this. Especially when we could be getting tacos instead.”

Shaking your head ‘no’ to both the invitation and the insecurities that were trying to creep in, “I’m sure he’ll be coming back in any minute now.” 

You weren’t excusing his behavior, but you did also want to give him the benefit of the doubt. It could still get better, he could still surprise you.

“And guess what? Apparently Will drives a Bronco too. He pointed his out earlier when he brought it up, but I can’t see it from where I’m sitting. I bet you guys could talk about that if we decide to see each other again.”

Rooster stands up to get a better look out the window that faces the parking lot, “Well, that certainly is interesting, kid.” 

There’s a weird tone to his comment, but it isn’t one you are able to investigate further as Will returns back inside making his way to you.

You expect Rooster to go back to the rest of the squad, instead he makes himself comfortable on your other side. 

“That’s not a bad looking car, the Fuchs wheels are a nice touch, but I’ve seen better,” Will ignorantly gloats as he sits back down, pulling up photos of another car on his phone to show you. “It definitely doesn’t have anything on the 1975 Porsche 930 Turbo, with its single turbo flat-six and the flared rear wings. Now that beauty was made for speed.”

Mortified you glance to Penny hoping she didn’t hear any of that, but the stiffness of her spine tells you everything you need to know.

This obnoxious motherfu-

“Wow, that’s really something. Do you mind if I take a look, man?” Rooster asks pointing to Will’s phone before you can say anything in response.

“Yeah, bro. Go for it,” he says as hands his phone over, “Spotted that one at the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance last year.”

You watch as Rooster swipes half-heartedly through a couple of the pictures before catching Penny’s eye.

“Uh-huh, neat. Hey, Penny?” he calls to her, as he sets the phone down on the bartop. “That’s your 911 S out there, right?”

“Sure is, Rooster.” She confirms playing along as she rests an elbow on the polished surface in front of him, a knowing smirk already gracing her features. 

“Well then,” a conspiring grin takes over his face as he nods his head towards wood sign strung up between the taps, “I do believe we’ve had not one, but two violations this evening.” 

Penny sends a wink his way as she wastes no time ringing the bell loudly and for longer than usual, undoubtedly for the slight at her car’s expense. The action causing the raucous crowd to erupt in cheers.

Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar you buy a round.

Will is still trying to figure out what’s going on as Rooster leans across you pushing the phone slowly across the counter back to your date with two fingers.

His face suddenly very close to yours. You can see the warm brown starbursts that surround the pupils of his eyes. 

“Let’s go get those tacos, kid. Drinks are on him tonight.” 

You watch as he slides off of the stool, pulling out his keys from the back pocket of his light wash jeans. 

He makes it a few steps towards the door before turning back to you, “I’ll meet you at the Bronco. It’s the only one out there so you can’t miss it.” Giving Will a sharp, pointed look as he passes. 

Slipping on his aviators and swinging the fob around his index finger as he struts out of the bar.

Not too long later you’re sitting on the beach with the warm California breeze on your skin, laughing as Rooster tells you about the time during training when half his squad ended up cleaning their gear naked. The Al Pastor tacos you ordered tasting extra delicious for whatever reason.

Try as he might, Rooster could not stop watching you on your date with the guy Hangman had set you up with. 

And if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t trying at all. In fact, he was probably outright glaring and he didn’t give a damn. 

It was too loud in the bar to hear your laugh from where he sat, but he could certainly see you grinning at something this guy was saying to you.

Did you go shopping for this? The top you were wearing didn’t look familiar to him, he liked the way the straps were tied into pretty bows on your sun-freckled shoulders. Did you mean to look like some kind of a present waiting to be unwrapped?

It was clear to him that you were taking this whole thing more seriously than he ever thought you would.

“Jesus, Rooster. What gives?”  

“Huh, what?” he asked distractedly, his eyes remaining on you. He was barely paying attention to what was going on around him let along the game of pool he was supposedly playing with Hangman and Bob.

“Your leg, man. You’re about to set off the San Andres with all that shaking your leg is doing,” Jake says slapping him hard on the side of his thigh as he passes by to line up his next shot at the pool table. 

“Actually, San Diego sits on the Rose Canyon fault,” Bob corrects. 

“What is this, Jeopardy? That ain’t the point. What I’m trying to figure out is what’s got ol’ Rooster’s feathers in a ruffle over here.” His eyes calculating and his grin sharp.

Rooster hadn’t realized his leg was even bouncing up and down from where it was balanced on the foot rest of the high-top stool he was perched on.

What he did notice is that your date had gotten you a Michelob Ultra. 

You hated light beer. 

Who did this guy think he was just ordering you something without actually asking you what you wanted? Because there was no way in hell that you ordered that on your own. God, were these the type of men you were forced to put up with here in San Diego? He hadn’t even pulled out your chair for you, for fuck’s sake.

He could tell you were being polite by resting a hand on the base of the bottle, lifting it up like you were about to take a sip before remembering what was in your hand, and setting it back down again. 

He might as well have ordered you a water, at least you would have actually enjoyed that. 

The guy is massive and covered in questionable looking tattoos, in both quality and taste. Just like his choice of beer.

“Hangman, how do you know this guy again? What’s his name?” he asked, finally pulling his eyes away from you and your date.

“He’s a gym buddy, does those body building competitions,” Jake told him, probably for the second time that night based on the annoyance in his voice. “Really helped me to grow my pecs.” 

Why was he flexing instead of answering the goddamned question? 

“And his name?” he presses again, pushing his cue into Bob’s other hand officially done with the game. He pulls out his phone and sets to opening up a new tab on his browser getting ready to run a web search on the guy.

“Elijah, why?” 

“Elijah what? What’s his last name?” Rooster wasn’t sure what was so hard about this. For how much Hangman bragged about being the fastest pilot, he was really struggling to keep up.

“How am I supposed to know? We’re not that close, man. We share trainin’ tips, not life stories,” he lets slip. 

That would not work for him.

Downing the rest of his beer, tuning out the rest of whatever Seresin was saying to him as he stalks off to the bar. 

He’s just being a good friend he tells himself, since it was obvious Hangman hadn’t done enough due diligence when it came to you. 

Once there he orders another beer from Penny before rounding the bartop to where you sit with your back turned to him. He reaches out and plucks the room temperature Michelob Ultra out from your hand.

“Hey! What the-” he heard you start before turning to see him, “Rooster?” Your eyebrows pulled up in confusion.

“You’re welcome, kid,” he states concisely as he wraps your hand around the fresh, cold Blue Moon he had gotten for you instead. 

His fingers brushing the end of the long tail of the bow that danced along your arm as he pulls away, heading back to his vantage point by the pool table.

The pressure in his chest lessening now that you at least had a beverage you actually liked in your hands.

“What the fuck, man? That stunt better not have screwed with my chances of winning, they were clearly hitting it off. Did Phoenix put you up to this?” Jake complained, pointing an accusatory finger at him. 

Not bothering to reply, Rooster just waves him off as he watches you lift the bottle to your mouth, taking a sip for the first time that evening. A small smile on your face as you savor the flavor on your tongue.

Good. That’s good. 

He’s very pleased when he sees Elijah head out the door less than 10 minutes later. And downright smug when you settle yourself next to him with your Blue Moon in hand.

“Well?” Hangman presses, leaning on the cue stick in his hands, “How’d it go?” 

“It was going pretty well until he decided it was more important to lecture me about calorie content and muscle protein synthesis instead of just letting me enjoy my beer,” you said as you rolled your eyes. “So I told him we were probably on two different levels, and we decided to wrap it up for the night. I definitely heard him mutter something about needing a second pump session on his way out though. I hope he meant at the gym.” You scrunch your nose at that.

“Atta girl,” he smiles down at you as he bumps his shoulder against yours, watching as you blushed a little under the praise. 

“You all might as well just give me the winnings now, there’s no way any of you idiots are going to beat me. I hope you’re ready to have your feet swept out from under you, my guy is going to be your dream man,” Nat declares, her tone self-congratulatory.

And just like that, he wasn’t feeling so smug anymore.

Read Part 3 here!

I am so blown away by the response Part 1 got! Thank you all so much for reading and all your kind comments! I appreciate every single one of you!

Written as part of @roosterforme’s #Love Is In The Air TGM Fic Challenge! Please go check out the fics on the playlist! There’s some great things already posted!

Song Inspiration Sam Smith’s “Like I Can”.

Thank you Jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) and Emily (@roosterforme​) for your all caps energy and for letting me spam you with ideas!

Taglist:

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[constantcrisis19]

Home

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN S/O

AN: I don't normally write smut, but things do get a little heated in this particular fic, so... enjoy the treat I guess, lol. Though, that being said, I can't say that adding smut is going to be something that I’ll do often, but on the off-chance that it does, I'll be sure to tag properly just to make sure that I don't catch anyone off guard. Thanks!

Word Count: 1,544

Main Page

You had just started on wiping the dust off of the kitchen countertops when you heard the shrill squeak of the front door opening, intentionally left unoiled to act as an alert for uninvited visitors. You and Ghost had installed a proper security system of course, but it didn’t hurt to do things the old fashioned way either. 

The flat that the two of you stayed at while on leave was modest, rented mostly because there was a fire escape outside the living room window and another window had a good view of the entrance to the building.

So Ghost would often occupy himself by watching the door when he couldn’t manage to sleep, tormented by memories of things he wouldn’t speak of. But he didn’t keep pieces of his past from you out of distrust. 

He refrained because, by the time he’d finished telling you about how he’d been betrayed by his CO and was tortured for months as a result, you were in tears at the pain and suffering that the love of your life had endured, despite your best attempts to be strong and keep the tears at bay as you listened.

Though, it seemed that Ghost didn’t really mind that you were crying instead of being the solid support that he deserved and could lean on while recounting something so horrible, the man simply pulling you into his arms and sitting down right there on the floor while holding you close.

He never brought it up again and you were hesitant to ask if he wanted to talk about it since you had reacted so poorly to just one of the many horrors that he had survived, especially for a soldier that was chosen to be on the most elite task forces that the British military had to offer. 

In your defense, you had been on leave -in this very flat, actually- when that disaster of a conversation happened, miles away from work and allowed to be human for a few weeks. So you had made no attempt at suppressing the onslaught of emotions that had torn through you like a bullet, leaving a gaping mess of grief in its wake.

You were dragged out of your somber reminiscing when your ears picked up on the crinkle of weighted grocery bags as they were set onto the small kitchen table for two, followed by the nearly inaudible tap of Ghost’s worn black combat boots drawing closer to your turned back. 

You hadn’t even realized that you’d stopped cleaning -just blankly staring down at the damp rag being strangled in your grip- until one of Ghost’s hands tentatively settled on your back, his warm touch grounding.

“Solid, love?” He asked, his pleasantly raspy voice having dropped to a low timbre that was gentle and reassuring all at once.

“Yeah, sorry. Got lost in my head for a minute.” You sighed, leaning into the contact with a slow inhale, your attempt at controlled breathing rendered useless when your exhale turned into a soft huff of laughter as soon as you felt Ghost press his scarred lips to the back of your neck in a fleeting kiss that made your chest ache with affection.

You found yourself awfully tempted to turn around and kiss that reverent mouth until neither of you could think of anything beyond finding the bed but, before you got the chance to act on that particular desire, the hand that was on your back suddenly slid down to your hip and pulled you backward as he simultaneously stepped forward in order to crowd up behind you, his body a solid wall of muscle.

"You're a menace, Simon. I never get anything done when we're on leave because you try to get into my pants every five minutes." You laughed good-naturedly, your hands reaching behind you to grip the back of his thighs, just under his deliciously round ass.

“Don’t know what you’re on about. I’m just comforting you, you’re the one copping a feel.” Ghost retorted dryly, though there was a noticeable heat to his tone now, his short stubble scratching against your skin as he nuzzled the back of your neck.

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you? I can feel your dick begging for attention, Simon.” You deadpanned, your brow raising as you leveled an unimpressed look at the cabinets directly in front of you, knowing full well that Simon would know exactly what expression was on your face despite not being able to see it.

Lord knew that he had gotten that exact same look from you enough times to have it memorized. 

“Well don’t start neglecting it now.” Ghost grunted with a particularly dirty grind of his hips and you tightened the grip that you had around the back of his thigh, heat pooling in your gut as your lips parted on a silent gasp. 

You could feel Ghost smile against the sensitive skin behind your ear -the smug bastard- and just for his cheeky attitude, you decided to be petty and play hard to get. You allowed Simon to do as he wished for another minute or two before turning in Simon’s grip in order to face the man, who had immediately loosened his hold the moment that you began to move.

“Get off me, you slag. I have to finish cleaning the kitchen before we can cook.” You stated as you met his questioning gaze, the man staring at you blankly for a moment as he processed your words, his eyes darkening when he finally caught onto your scheme.

“Slag? Must be rubbing off on you.” Ghost said with a low chuckle that never failed to send a bolt of pleasure down your spine and, going by the amused twinkle in Simon’s eye, he knew exactly what his voice did to you and was shamelessly using it to his advantage. 

You resisted the urge to squirm under his calculating gaze, since that would mean losing this little game that the two of you were playing, as the man’s fingers teasingly brushed over the slip of skin visible where the hem of your shirt came untucked from your jeans.

“Not yet, you’re not.” You mused with a wicked grin as your hand darted down to catch his wrist before his fingers could slip up under your shirt. You traced the delicate blue lines crisscrossing under the thin, pale skin of his inner wrist with your thumb, your smile reaching shit-eating levels when Simon’s breathing visibly became more labored, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you like you were the sole object of his desire.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost murmured breathlessly, the fingers of his free hand twitching like he wanted to grab you and pin you up against the nearest flat surface, and you didn’t bother repressing the smug grin that spread across your lips as you watched every individual thought that went through his head, every sinful things that he wanted to do to you clearly advertised on his maskless face. 

Simon really wasn’t as hard to read as he wanted people to believe, he was actually quite easy once the mask was off. So while Simon greatly enjoyed when you were rough with him, easily following your lead as you manhandled the man where you wanted him with a firm grip, more tender and reverent contact always had more of an effect on him.

“You love it, you insatiable bastard.” You said with a laugh, Simon leaning forward in order to rest his forehead against yours and you didn’t hesitate to curl an encouraging hand around the back of his neck, letting him have a moment to collect himself since you felt pretty bad for teasing him when you weren’t able to follow through right away.

“Yeah.” Simon admitted quietly, his tone openly affectionate as he tilted his head in order to draw you into a kiss. Words were no longer necessary since the press of his lips told you everything you already knew, the heat that had been bubbling up between the two of you easing as the intense bout of lust that came from your mutual flirting transitioned into something softer, slower.

You were the first to break the kiss when the lack of oxygen made your lungs burn, though you didn’t go far, choosing to instead linger in his personal space. Your nose brushed against his as you basked in the euphoria that came with being with Simon, each of your breaths mingling with his in the small space between the two of you, creating a sort of peaceful bubble where only the two of you existed.

“Didn’t you have some pressing matter to attend to?” Simon’s voice pierced through the quiet and you startled, flinching a bit as you sobered from the trance you had been in, before the words registered and you leaned away in order to scowl at your grinning husband.

“Very funny, Simon.” You said with a fond roll of your eyes, giving his solid chest a friendly pat before finally prying yourself out of his grasp, turning on your heel and making your way back to the kitchen in order to finish what you’d been doing before you got distracted.

_

Home

A place where I can go

To take this off my shoulders

Someone take me home

Home - Bebe Rexha, Machine Gun Kelly, and X Ambassadors

[idontknowreallywhy]

WIP Wednesday

I may be sleep deprived and slightly done with January already which has had the result of me being unable to make any progress on the fluffy chapter I’m supposed to be drafting (Sorry @sofasurf ). Instead my lunchtime sprint-write jumped back in time and got all… angsty (Sorry Scott).

Ah well, at least I wrote something! Sorry again, Scooter…

🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊

He should be dead. It shouldn’t be possible to be this cold and not be dead.

Initially the snow had been a blessing of sorts, muffling the echoing din of activity in the courtyard outside the high tiny grated window. The nearly constant tramping, shouting, barking, growling. The unnerving, heart-stopping howling. And even when those ceased for a few moments overnight, the more subtle skittering of untrimmed claws across concrete was ever-present. They were always there, just the other side of the stone wall, which meant he could never rest.

Claws didn’t make any noise in the snow. That was a definite mark in snow’s favour. The other noises were still there but less intrusive, like headlamps in fog. Another win for the white stuff. Although that did make the harsh clanging of the butt of a rifle across the grate extra offensive to his pounding skull. He knew they just did it to keep him and the others on edge and tried not to let it affect him… but that was hard when there was no trigger or pattern to them doing it… heavens he’d tried to figure one out. Counting the minutes between recurrences to see if it was related to the length of the guards’ patrol route or maybe a particular guard… but it was never the same. Never predictable, never consistent. It was slowly driving him crazy.

Along with all the other things.

It was so cold. He had to stop thinking about how cold it was. But it was so cold he couldn’t think about anything else. He should maybe move around? Every muscle sent firm feedback on that idea - it was a no. Huddling in the corner it was then. Here there was a narrow patch where the floor felt warmer, as if a badly lagged heating pipe ran underneath and bled some of its treasure upwards. Obviously the people who worked in this place had access to warm water. It felt good to steal a little of their heat.

His teeth chattered together as a particularly ferocious shiver ran through him.

He extended his forefinger and wrote Virgil’s name slowly, almost invisibly into the rapidly freezing condensation on the wall. He drew music notes around it and smiled inside. Not with his actual face, it hurt too much to move any of those muscles. But inside, he could picture his family and smile at them.

His drawing seemed to glow at him in the dim light.

He added John’s name and started to add some stars but hissed as the nerves in his fingertip crossed some kind of threshold and sent daggers of pain back to his central nervous system. He switched fingers and added Gordon and Alan’s names quickly before he couldn’t bear it anymore and hugged his freezing hand to his chest. At least they were all there now, he couldn’t miss one off. That would be… wrong.

He shuddered violently again and pressed his fingers into his burning forehead. He was vaguely aware that it was odd for his skin to be so hot while the air temperature was so low but he didn’t have the mental energy to question it anymore. Not while he had to use so much of it concentrating on ignoring how the throbbing pain from the full body suit of bruises he’d collected had sunk inwards and seemed to have taken up residence in the marrow of his bones.

The rest was focussed on staying alive. Because he was supposed to. They’d come soon. It had only seemed like so long because he’d got confused and double counted some days… he must have. It can’t have been that long. He pictured Dad. His squadron. Ash and Val. They wouldn’t leave him. Someone would come.

He just needed to stay alive and sane until then. Both of which were proving a bit of a challenge right now. But he was a Tracy. Tracys don’t give up or let themselves go mad.

He apologised again to the girl watching him from the corner, gently lowered his forehead to his knees and willed the ice in his veins to stay back from his heart.

🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊🧊

[astxrwar]

ties that bind [5/x]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: M

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT + WARNINGS: Emotional manipulation (a given,,,). The general vibes associated with that. Sex scene will be chapter 6 because it got too long, this one is just plot and developing the AU + character. I take liberties with RC because you kinda have to in long-form works; if you're an experienced cook no you're not and if you're allergic to sesame seeds no you're not.

If you're still reading this series we're married now btw. love u babes, mwah.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | [PART 5]

Beck says nothing else between the car and the elevator, nothing as he presses the only slightly-tarnished silver button for the third floor, still nothing as the doors glide open and nothing when they close, either. The silence begins to coalesce like its own entity, something that pulses and breathes, alive, expanding to fill the rest of the too-small space of the elevator car; something he is, of course, unaffected by. Whatever tension is building inside of you feels precarious, uncontrolled, like a shaken-up can of coke in the seconds before an unsuspecting hand cracks the tab open, an unchecked ignition system with the fuse dwindled all the way down to nothing but a fine powder of ash, the silence before something explodes, because it has to, pressure building too high for too long, until there’s no other recourse or hope for respite. It’s nerves, and you know that, the feeling, but it’s not like anything you’ve ever felt before, better and worse and more, now, in ways that you still can’t fully comprehend or explain.

Beck studies you wordlessly from the opposite side of the elevator car as it moves upwards, the motion so fluid that if it weren’t for a small digital panel above the door, the floor numbers ticking by in glowing fluorescent red, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was even moving at all. 

“Have you eaten?” He asks, cutting clean through that silence. It calms whatever tumultuous thing is coiling in your belly, even if only temporarily, the mundanity of the question striking and strange enough to draw your attention away from it for the moment.

“No,” you answer, quieter than you’d meant to, eyes flitting up to meet his and then glancing away again of their own accord, skittering back to the panel with the glowing red two now displayed and then to the doors, gleaming and reflective, the carpet, brand-new, only faintly discolored along the common path into and out of the car, a dappled pattern of overlapping shoe prints beginning to wear into it there. “I have my wallet, we can order something, if you want—“

Beck makes a sound; not a laugh, more just a particularly harsh exhale, dismissive and uninterested. “I’m making dinner, you can get yourself whatever you’d like if you won’t eat real food.”

The display panel ticks over to three and the doors slide open, a pleasant, bell-like chime announcing the stop; you follow him out into a carpeted hallway that’s painted a bland shade of steel blue and lined with wall-mounted lamps, like a hotel. There are windows on one side, spaced evenly down the length of the wall, and from this height you can see past the lines of barren, skeletal trees, the lights of cars as they trawl like beetles along the winding length of the road in the distance. 

“What do you think I usually eat, then, if I don’t eat ‘real food’ ,” you say, instead of any of the other things that you’re thinking about— your nerves, still, trembling like the wings of a bird in the hollow of your throat, or the strangeness of him offering you dinner, or the entirely predictable way he can make that, even, sound like it’s a dig at your expense.

“Takeout,” Beck answers pointedly, mouth twitching up at the corners; you’ve arrived at his door, the numbers 34 pasted in neat silver leaf below the rounded inset glass of the peek-hole, reflective and glinting in the light from the hallway, and as he rummages in the pockets of his coat for his key and slots it into the lock you can hear your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears. “Frozen pizza, boxed mac and cheese, microwave ramen, anything they sell at the dollar store,” it clicks, and the door handle turns, and he looks at you, grinning in earnest now,  “Hot pockets, probably.”

“Oh my god,” is all you can really say to that— because, yeah, he’s described to a T the off-campus-student-with-no-meal-plan diet, and you’re not even really any good at lying to him even when you’re not feeling some dubious combination of off-balance and dangerously out of your depth, so you decide that you’re better off not even trying. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“I’m actually not trying to be, this time,” he replies, amused, as he pushes the door open and moves into the darkened foyer, hand sliding along the wall until he finds the switch and the hall is illuminated by the artificially-white glow of the ceiling light. “I was also a grad student once; I do still remember it.”

 As you pass the threshold and press the door closed behind you, he follows with, “Take off your shoes.”

You do, stepping on the heels of your well-worn sneakers to slide them off, one foot, and then the next, stacking them in the tray by the door next to his impeccably-clean and perfectly-polished black oxfords. There’s another set of sneakers there, too, much nicer and much newer than yours, and a pair of thick-treaded black winter boots, the laces wound up together in a neat little ring, tied off to keep them from unraveling, tucked in behind the tongues of the shoes. 

Ahead of you, Beck has moved further into the apartment; he sheds his coat and hangs it in a small closet at the end of the hallway, his laptop bag, too, and gestures for you to do the same with your backpack. There are other doors, one on each side of the hall, and you wonder briefly what might lay beyond them as you trail behind him, your footsteps muted and the hardwood floor cool through the relatively thin barrier of your socks. 

He flicks on another set of lights, brightening the kitchen enough for you to see the whole of it; a high ceiling and low-hanging light fixtures and clean granite countertops, the two-section sink and drying rack both empty of dishes, a keurig machine and a toaster and a blender and other assorted appliances all pushed back against the wall, spotless and free of dust. His apartment looks like a showroom, like some sort of facsimile edition of a place where real breathing people live, and you mean to say that to him in a way that you intend to be insulting, but you find when you go to speak that your mouth is dry and your tongue is uncooperative and the words don’t even arrange themselves correctly inside your head, anyways. All of this feels suddenly very real, the cool stone countertop when you press your fingers against it, the faint draft of air moving through his apartment, drawn from the windows lining one side of the wall– and his eyes on you, something you can feel without even having to look at him, like a warm, solid weight on your shoulders.

Behind you, you hear the sound of some door pulling open, the rush of colder air against your back; the fridge, probably. 

“What are you making?” you say without turning, suppressing that nervous tension, forcing it down inside of you as deep as it will go.

“Nothing complicated,” he replies. “Stir fry. Probably one of the easiest things, actually, if you ever decide to stop eating garbage.”

“Didn’t we just establish you also ate like shit during grad school?” You do turn, at that, so that he can see your face when you pointedly roll your eyes. “Besides, I just– I don’t really have time to cook. Or the energy, honestly.”

“Cooking doesn’t take much time or energy, that’s a poor excuse,” he replies, and you’re halfway through formulating a more-than-slightly-defensive response when he continues, “Learning to cook takes time and energy. You don’t have time or energy to learn , right now.”

The abrupt transition from what you’d assumed would be another insult to a gentle and even understanding correction– it makes something inside of you lurch like the feeling you get when you miss a step walking down a staircase, your balance thrown off and your center of gravity ending up somewhere unexpected.

“Really unnecessary amount of semantic nitpicking,” you say, the words tumbling out uncertain and unsteady, not sure if the warmth you feel is irritation or something else entirely.

He grins, one of those calculating ones that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t.  “It’s necessary if one statement is true and the other isn’t.”

You don’t respond to that, and in the silence you move further into the kitchen, taking residence on a bar stool on the side closest to the living room. You hadn’t seen, before, what Beck had taken from the freezer, but you can see it now; a block of tofu, semi-defrosted, dripping beads of condensation onto the countertop.

“You’re vegetarian?” You can’t keep the note of incredulity out of your voice, and you don’t try, either, knowing by now that he’d notice regardless.

Beck moves to the counter space by the sink, pulls a shining silver knife from the block on the counter and a cutting board from one of the cabinets below. “No,” he says, “But I don’t eat meat frequently. I assume you know enough about epidemiology to figure that out for yourself.”

He doesn’t say it like a compliment, more like a basic and trivial fact, but it still kind of– registers as one. That he just expects you to know things. You’d thought his general opinion of you to be markedly worse than that. “Lifestyle disease?”

He hums in affirmative—that, too, sounding expectant and unsurprised— unfolding the block of tofu from the plastic wrap which he discards, and placing it on the cutting board. “Bodies aren’t miracles, they’re machines. Machines need to be treated well if we want them to last.”

“Nice rendition on the much simpler ‘you should eat healthy because it’s good for you’,” you say, through something that you are deciding to call a snicker instead of a giggle, for– reasons. “You are so not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations.” 

Beck finally looks up at that, and his face does the same thing it did in the car– the mask, or whatever annoyingly impenetrable facade he maintains, it slips, for second, his face relaxes and his mouth twitches up and his eyebrow raises a little, maybe unintentionally, the sum of his features far more expressive than you’re accustomed to, surprise and amusement and something else you don’t recognize flickering across them in quick succession. “Allegations,” he repeats, nonplussed, almost a question, and then, with an undercurrent of humor, “You’ve seen American Psycho ? That movie is almost as old as you are.” 

“Not beating the allegations- it’s just a saying. It means, like, you’re living up to a stereotype.” You register what might have been a jab at your age a few moments too late to even really react to it, and you think that it should probably make you feel uncomfortable or uneasy or anything, really, but it doesn’t– which does make you uncomfortable. Because you should care. Presumably. “And, yeah, I had a computer. I think I pirated it when I was like, fifteen.”

“I had it on VHS, for a while, when I was in high school; I was too young to see it in theaters when it came out.” Beck has already turned back to the task at hand, moved to another set of cabinets under the counters further from you to pull out a large, high-walled pan. You can see, though, from the light in the kitchen, the way that his mouth tugs up at the corners still, like he can’t quite suppress it completely. “You think I could be a serial killer, and you still willingly came to my house?”

“Do I need to explain the concept of a joke to you?” you reply, intending for it to be sardonic and scathing but finding that it really just sounds like you’re teasing him. The way a friend might. And god, that’s–

(Weird. Bad. Maybe neither— is that worse?)

(You’re not going to think about it.)

He doesn’t say anything back, just hums under his breath, low and amused and barely audible, and takes out a set of bowls from a cabinet above his head that he places on the counter.

“Go in the pantry and grab me the soy sauce and sesame oil,” he says after a moment, fixing you with a look in the seconds before it registers, “I’m not your personal chef, you’re going to help.”

It still takes a moment, after that, for the request to click. Even when you do get up to do as he’d asked, you take a moment to stretch out, first, before moving anywhere, reaching your arms up to the ceiling– he looks sidelong at you and you think his eyes might linger on the revealed expanse of your stomach where your sweater had risen up, and something low and warm inside of you is fucking satisfied by that.

“You say that like you wouldn’t still be doing this if I weren’t here,” you say when he looks away.

“I would,” he acknowledges as you approach him, and tips his head towards the closed door to his right. “But since you went and lost your keys and are now intruding on my weekend, the least you can do is make yourself useful.”

The remark is so at odds with the series of events that had brought you here in the first place and in such direct contrast with his own behavior that the slight doesn’t even really register; rolls right off, like water. “Right, because this is such an inconvenience to you.” 

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and there’s that new strange feeling again, like somebody’s filled your whole body with buzzing TV static. 

You find the pantry at his earlier direction, open the door and scan the rows of shelves, as spotless and impeccably organized as everything else in his apartment. The sesame oil and soy sauce are just below eye height and next to each other among a neat line of various other ingredients– cooking wine and white vinegar and molasses and more that you don’t take notice of in the time it takes to grab what he’d asked for and close the door again. 

“Fridge,” he says when you place the bottles on the counter beside him, having finished cutting the tofu into neat squares that he sweeps off the cutting board and into a bowl with the flat of his knife. “Broccoli and green peppers, they’ll be in the bottom drawer on the left.”

His fridge is one of those massive gleaming silver ones with the double-doors and built-in water and ice dispenser, and it, like everything else, is pristine and neatly kept; you find both items where he’d directed you, still wrapped in those paper-thin plastic bags from the grocery store. 

“There’s beer in the door, by the way, if you want any.”

True to word there are bottles lined in the trays on the left inside shelf— wheat and fruit varieties, mostly, light and tolerable and kind of surprising; you’d have pegged him as a snobby IPA type— though you decide that, despite his often incomprehensible devotion to being an asshole at all times, you still can’t abandon the weird sort of obligations that come with being a guest in someone else’s home. Namely, the feeling that it was somehow improper to accept an offer not also indulged in by the host. “Do you?” 

He considers it for a second. “Yeah, I’ll take one.”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” There’s that edge, again, more teasing than anything else, and you ignore that, too— the difference, the lack of overt malice— with an ease that should probably be concerning, “I like all of them, that’s why they’re there. Pick one and come here, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

The words come here, because you’re pathetic, they drag that winding coil of tension in the pit of your stomach back to the surface, but then the fridge begins to beep at you–you’ve kept it open for too long, presumably– and so you push the thoughts back down and blindly pick two from the bottom rack, allowing the doors to fall closed again. 

At the counter he’s already portioned out snap peas he must have pulled from the freezer earlier, and mixed what you assume to be a sauce together in another bowl.

“Start cutting them up,” he says as he takes one of the bottles from your outstretched hands, nodding towards the vegetables you’d grabbed from the fridge, and then the cutting board, moved further down the counter to a spot where you’d have the space to stand alongside him. Beck doesn’t wait for your response; he turns and flicks on the stove and pours sesame oil down the sides of the pan, not bothering with measurements, just eyeing it with a practiced and familiar ease. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, cuffs neatly folded and edges creased, probably while you were in the fridge, and the tanned and solid expanse of his forearms— you’re not staring, not exactly, but you’re aware of it as you rinse the peppers and the head of broccoli in the sink, the sight of him in your periphery. The oil crackles in the pan, browns and aromatizes, fills the kitchen with the smell, fragrant and rich like salt and nuts and caramel; your eyes keep getting drawn back to him, the muscles and the tendons flexing in his hands as he moves to add the already-prepared ingredients, sprinkles salt and red pepper, lifts and shakes the pan to toss the contents of it— 

“If you want to be of any use to me, that needs to be done before this is,” he says, tone deceptively mild. You’re barely halfway through cutting the broccoli up into approximately bite-sized pieces, and at his comment your eyes flicker away from where they’d drifted to him again.

You don’t say anything in response, just try to focus more intently on the task, slower and more clumsy and comparatively unskilled as you are at it; it’s not like it’s difficult, really, it’s just one of those things that’s borne out of practice, of which you had little, considering your circumstances. Begrudgingly, you acknowledge to yourself that he’d been right, before, about the challenge being less the actual cooking than the learning of it, something you had next to no energy for– much less the desire to do– as a seemingly perpetually-busy grad student. 

Some time during your finishing dividing up the broccoli and setting a pepper on the wooden surface of the cutting board he must have turned the stove down, set the pan aside; you feel him behind you before you really even know that he’s there, the air changing, growing warmer with his presence. 

“You’re going too slow.”

You hum, in response, before you try to speak, making sure your voice isn’t going to betray you and crumble the second you say anything in return, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, unconcerned, and for whatever reason that, too, feels like– something. Something weird.  “You’re learning.”

When he moves closer, his head above your shoulder, his arms bracketing yours and his hands lingering somewhere near your wrists, your breathing catches and your pulse picks up and that thing inside of you— the thing that had never really gone away in the first place, hadn’t ever faded or lessened at all since you first got out of his car, that ever-widening chasm of your own want like a fucking fault in the earth that you’d just somehow been managing to ignore this whole time— it rears its head again, dizzying, requisitions the bulk of your attention span to the point where you nearly nick your fingers. 

“Wow, actually, maybe you’re not learning,” he murmurs, gently mocking, low in your ear as his hands move down to overlay your own, steadying your grip on the knife. “So much for making yourself useful.”

“I’m not great at tuning out distractions,” you tell him, and in your head you imagine you say it with enough bite to imply that he’s being annoying, but in reality it just comes out soft, plaintive– a confession rather than an accusation.

“Oh, really? Couldn’t tell.” You can hear the smile, bleeding into the tone of his voice.

With him directing you, it goes much faster, turning with one hand and cutting with the other, the movements methodical and clean; rationally, you know it must have been no more than a minute or two, but it feels like so much longer and so much shorter, somehow, your perception defying all sense of logic, your entire body thrumming with the awareness of him, the broad span of his chest and the places it’s almost touching your shoulders, his hands, steady and warm and rough, his breathing, too, the rhythm of it against the shell of your ear, the goosebumps it sends prickling across your neck—

“There,” he says when it’s done, when he steps back and the air goes cold and that stupid thing inside of you twinges with an embarrassing amount of disappointment, “Not so hard.”

Beck returns to the stove, cranks the heat back up; you swallow and steady your breathing and reach for your beer on the counter, the top already having been cracked open for you; when he’d even had time to do that, you have no idea, but you murmur a quiet thanks as you reach for it and drain a long sip, if only to have something to do.

“Garbage is the drawer on the left by the wall,” he says over his shoulder, “Just throw out what’s left over and put the dishes in the sink. The bottles away, too,” he jerks his head towards the sesame oil and the soy sauce, “And then you’re good.”

“And then I’ll have made up for ‘ intruding on your weekend’ ?” you reply, still far softer than you’d intended it to be as you move through the tasks, tossing the seeded pepper cores and the stump of broccoli in the garbage alongside the scraps from the cutting board, placing that and a stack of bowls in the sink.

His answering chuckle is soft and low, the particulars of his expression blocked from view by the pantry door as you replace the items you’d pulled from there. “No, honey, then you’ll have helped with dinner. Making up for intruding on my weekend–” When he laughs again, the sound is a lot less kind than before; and maybe he’s amused by the reference, or maybe the circumstance, or maybe something else entirely, some other thing that only he knows about, a punchline to a joke that you’re not in on. “You will.”

It’s the way that he says it, probably, or the particulars of the words– the difference between you will and you can that seems impossibly large and unfathomably significant in this context– but it makes your breath catch and your pulse tremble and that warmth– the heat– it rages back before he’s even really finished speaking, searing and unavoidable like somebody had turned the gas on a stove up to the very top or just gone and broken the dial off completely. You could blame what happens next on the effect of all of a half a beer on an otherwise-empty stomach or the terrible realization of both being so far beyond outside of your depth and having lost control of whatever tenuous hold you ever really had on your own desire, but–

The last bottle– does not even matter which one it is and you don’t fucking care anyway– slips from your fingers a centimeter from the edge of the shelf, and though you catch it before it hits the ground and return it, more carefully, this time, to its’ place, you know— you just do, even though you can’t see him, even though he can’t see you, even though he’s ostensibly busy, preoccupied, not paying attention — that he still somehow notices it, too.

You don’t eat at the table, because he does not, strictly speaking, have one. What he has instead is just one of those chest-high dividing walls that acts to partially separate the kitchen from the currently unlit living room, outfitted with enough counter space to hold dishes for maybe a grand total of four guests. The food cools in the pan until the sound of crackling oil fades and then goes silent completely, leaving just the steam to rise from it and spiral up towards the ceiling in wavering lines; Beck brings it over to the bar, then, uses a fork to fill both plates, and sets the pan in the sink. 

You mumble a thanks, to which he responds with a noncommittal, wordless hum; you eat mostly in silence, perched on the stool you’d sat in before, on the end of the bar outside the kitchen. He sits across from you and you try not to look at him too often, but you’re certain you don’t succeed, as much as you’re certain that he must know, somehow, must be keenly aware of each and every time that you glance up at him— at his forearms, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, his chest, too, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the heat of the stove having softened the crisp, pressed lines of it, his tie gone, discarded at some point. He looks more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, more at ease, and you are affected by that, apparently.

He finishes eating before you, and you watch him then, too, as he moves around the kitchen, slotting his plate and the silverware and the used bowls into the dishwasher, scrubbing clean the cutting board, setting it to dry, washing the knife by hand with a sponge in the sink and returning it to the block on the counter.

“You’re so organized,” you blurt out, without meaning to, suddenly aware that your beer is less than half full, probably less than a quarter, and you’d drank most of it well before you’d eaten anything. 

“I take it I’m still not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations, then,” he replies, with a grin you could only really describe as conspiratorial. For a second you don’t realize he’s actually made a joke that wasn’t at your expense– one that was, actually, weirdly, at his own– and when it registers you’ll blame being halfway drunk for the involuntary and genuine and utterly helpless burst of laughter that escapes you before you can even so much as think to stop it. 

Whatever emotion passes briefly across his face in response to that seems almost pleased. But it’s late and you’re tipsy and unthinking and it’s easy to just not worry about it, any of it, to just let yourself react like you would in any other interaction with anyone else, for once unconcerned with the machinations of whatever game he’s always playing. 

“I was actually– ” you start, the words stumbling to a halt when you find yourself laughing again, and when they start back up they come spilling from you faster than your brain can comprehend, a precarious situation that results in far more honesty than you intended.  “That was— it was kind of a compliment.”

“A compliment,” he repeats, the tone of his voice mocking and sly; his expression has shifted to one of those pointed and intentional looks, the corners of his mouth curled up, not a smile and not even really a nice thing at all, but the rush of warmth that floods your face in response is still immediate and abjectly fucking damning. “And here I thought you would sooner drop dead than ever entertain so much as a positive thought about me.”

Part of the flush in your cheeks, you reason, is probably the alcohol, another part the way it’s gotten warmer in the kitchen with the stovetop on, but there’s still some that’s just due to whatever thing that’s been simmering inside of you this whole time– the way it’s buzzing, right now, nervous and flighty and alive as you watch him move back towards you. He’s grabbed two more beers from the fridge, with his empty, and yours nearly there; the thought occurs to you to decline, in the interest of preserving whatever remains of your ability for clear-headed and rational thought, but–

You realize, with far less shame than you figure you should be feeling, you don’t actually want to preserve that at all. 

“I don’t have to like someone to recognize they can have good qualities,” you say, flippant, more relaxed than you feel, “Everyone does. You’re still a human being, even if you do get on my nerves.”

Beck goes quiet and still for a second, takes a long, slow sip from his beer, and then fixes you with this look that’s so intense it’s unsettling. “So, what, you don’t like me, then?”

Something in your subconscious prickles at the question or maybe just at the fact that he’d even asked it; he doesn’t sound offended, or upset, or even like he cares much at all either way, which doesn’t surprise you. But you can’t figure out exactly why he would be asking, otherwise. You take another sip of your beer, finishing the bottle; wordlessly, Beck reaches across the table for the second one, and cracks the top open on the edge of the counter; you murmur a quiet thanks as he sets it beside you.

“I mean– you definitely don't like me, so I don’t see how that would be unexpected,” you say after a while, not really answering outright, unsure you would even be able to. Not knowing for certain what the answer even is, anymore. 

Beck blinks, expressionless for a second, before he breaks out into another smile, this one markedly unkind, suspended somewhere between derision and incredulity. “Of course I like you,” he says, in a tone like he’s talking to a particularly stubborn or particularly stupid child, and if he were saying anything else right then maybe you would have remembered to be irritated at him for that. “You’re— god, sometimes you’re so obtuse. I mean, you’re smart as a whip, really, but you’re just– clueless.”

And–

None of that makes sense to you, and you get the feeling that the alcohol isn’t to blame, that even stone-cold sober you would still be left parsing this same inexplicable and fundamentally contradictory amalgam of facts and secondary emotions– one, he thinks you’re smart, really smart, even, and there’s a part of you that does something awful and pathetic like fucking preens at that, and two, he also apparently and simultaneously thinks you’re stupid, which isn’t that much of a surprise, and three, perhaps most confusing of them all–

“What the fuck do you mean, you— you like me?” 

Beck exhales, this long-suffering sound as if you’ve proved his point by even asking, and says, “Really, just– it’s not complicated. Exactly what it sounds like.” He drains probably a quarter of his second beer, leans forwards on his elbows, and shrugs. “You said that I dislike you, and I’m saying that you’re wrong.” 

“Okay, I don’t–” you tear your eyes from him, stare hard at your plate, pushing a browned piece of broccoli around the mostly-empty edges of it with the tines of your fork, certain you can feel the actual cogs inside of your head as they turn, uselessly, stuck in place and uncomprehending. “That doesn’t make any sense. You– I mean, you’ve basically had a vendetta against me since I was in undergrad.”

“No,” he says, that patient, vaguely annoyed quality still lingering in the word, and when you look up again his eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable, “I had an interest in you.” 

“An interest in, what– bothering me?”

“Something like that.” The barest traces of humor infiltrate his otherwise still indecipherable expression. “You’re easily bothered, honey.”

“So, what, you—“ you stop to take another sip of your beer, head spinning, “You bother me on purpose, for years, and then you’re confused that I actually might not have liked you very much? At all, even?”

“I knew full well you didn’t like me. It didn't matter and it still doesn’t,” he says, with a level of disregard that you know, objectively, should concern you, “I’m not asking about then. I’m asking about now.”

Whatever your immediate response to that dries up as soon as you open your mouth, like your thoughts are flying by so quickly you can’t hold onto them long enough to figure out how to say them. You know, somewhere, deep down, that you should be angrier than you are about this. That you should be a lot of other things, too, things that are stronger and more important than anger– you should feel victimized, probably, violated , even, uncomfortable and uneasy and unsafe , knowing that he’d had some sort of fixation with you and with garnering your frustration for what amounts to numerous actual years. A subconscious part of you, though, might have already known a lot of that– or at the very least suspected it– since the very beginning of whatever the fuck this whole thing has even become, and there was that to contend with, too. But right now he’s admitting to it, all of it, explicitly; the intentional provocation and the unabashed harassment and the fact that he hadn’t cared at all about your feelings or your opinions or anything you thought that whole time– because it didn’t matter to him, not when what you felt had no direct impact on his ability to get what he wanted from you. He’s admitting that, presumably, the reason he feels some approximation of care– no, not even, just interest, cold and objective and impersonal– regarding those things now is because now it actually can impact things. What you feel about him now could absolutely stop him from getting whatever it is that he wants from you– sex, presumably, though he clearly still enjoys getting under your skin, too-- because now you have no contractual obligation to even so much as exchange pleasantries with him anymore, much less be here, in his house. You could leave, easily, never see him again if that’s what you wanted, if you really disliked him that much. 

He doesn’t want that, you realize, with a dawning understanding. He does not want you to dislike him, at least not enough to drive you away. Not now, because now– now it runs counter to his own interests.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, looking up at him and feeling unsteady just in doing it, not sure whether your instincts should be telling you to do now– because they aren't telling you to do anything more than what they’ve pretty much always done every time you’ve so much as seen him in the last four months. You still want him, the maddening and terrible way that you feel like you always do just at the sight of him alone, that desire simmering right under your skin, and maybe in the moment you could blame the one-and-a-half beers or the time or the circumstance, but none of that would really even be true. Your survival instincts, what little of them you even possess to begin with, have always, always been next to nonexistent when it comes to this. 

Him. 

Whatever.

God, none of this would be an issue if the sex was worse. If it was even just average. Or even–

“So you don’t, then,” he replies, and as soon as he speaks it’s like your awareness snaps to him, narrows and refines like adjusting a microscope, everything falling outside the edges of the lens drifting out of focus. Your thoughts; your ability to reason, too, probably. This was a terrible, terrible idea, you had thought that in the hallway in the biology building what feels like actual lifetimes ago, and you’d been right, then; you should not be here. 

It’s alarming, the way that you can’t even seem to summon up the will to care.

“I said I don’t know.” That horrible iniquitous thing in your belly coils itself tighter, twisting in on itself like a snake, hollow and starving, like it wants to sink teeth into him, and would do it, too, if he were closer.

“Right. And maybe you don’t,” Beck replies, as if to say, I do , a hard gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that betrays the otherwise light, conversational cadence of his voice. 

You don’t respond to that. In your belly, that heat pulses and burns brighter. 

There’s a silence, then, drawn out and excruciatingly unbearable, and during it you drain the rest of your beer, maybe just to do something with your hands, relieve that nervous itch in your fingers. Maybe to chase the feeling of being somewhere beyond your own control– because that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Because– well,  presumably because there is something fucking wrong with you.

“Thank you,” you say, after a long while, “For dinner.”

Whatever you see in his expression then; it seems like enjoyment. Like he’s pleased. And while you could almost understand all the rest of the things you’d just seen from him–

You don’t understand that.

“It’s late,” he says, with a casual nonchalance, taking your plate from you to the dishwasher and waving a dismissive hand at your protests, you being an adult who is perfectly capable of putting your own dishes away, and all. 

When he turns back, you rise from the bar stool and meet him halfway, in the middle of the kitchen. Like this, you have to tip your head back to look at him, just a little, and whatever shameless thing inside of you that you try so hard to repress when you’re not tipsy and unthinking is way too into that, but seeing as you are both of those things at the moment, you don’t care. That feeling, the climbing, steady warmth; it just spreads further, sweeps through your limbs and fills every part of you, until you think it must overtake every cell in your body. Until it’s all you can think about.

He looks at you, for a second, and one of those slow, sharp smiles curves across his face. When he moves past you and towards the living room,he steps into your space to do it– on purpose, you know it’s on purpose, if there’s ever anything you’re absolutely sure about when it comes to him it’s that everything is always on fucking purpose– and you can’t stop any of the things that you know must happen; the way your body must go tense and strung taut with anticipation or how your breathing must catch somewhere in your throat or how your pupils must dilate, the breadth of your irises reduced to just a tiny sliver of color–

“Come on,” he says, without looking back, voice unbearably even. “I’ll put something on the TV.”

And–

That feeling inside of you– it pulses and trembles and wants, and then it doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t understand or what little sense you could ever make of his behavior or motivations, because–

You understand this, at least.

[maria021015]

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 28 AHEAD!

“Okay, fire!” Lydia called out and the ten slivers of water Zaida was controlling flew through the air like knives at bulletspeed as her palms snapped forward and outwards from their parallel position, as if she was pushing - and technically, she was. The empty water bottles stacked atop the Lacrosse bleachers clattered to the grass in shredded pieces. Unfortunately, the bench beneath them also split into two, leaving one side drooping as it lost connection to its centre support beam.

“You’re getting stronger,” Stiles noted with an impressed nod as he climbed up the steps to run his fingers along the sharp edge of the serrated metal seat.

“Aim is still a bit rusty.” Zaida grimaced at the damage she’d caused. “You think Coach will notice?”

“Coach still hasn’t noticed my name isn’t ‘Bilinski’.” Stiles snorted. “He’s not gonna see it.”

“We’ve been practising for a whole month, and I’m still no closer to perfecting my blocks. We should be focusing on that, instead of this. This, I’m good at.” Zaida huffed, resting her hands on her hips. Using her powers always left her fatigued. “The other day, I was in the library and I felt you get absolutely slammed at practice. Lucky the place was dead, otherwise people would have seen me get knocked on my ass seemingly out of nowhere.”

Since practising with Lydia and Stiles, Zaida’s powers had been getting stronger. Unfortunately, that meant all of her abilities were heightened, including her telempathy. Instead of just feeling echoes of emotions, she was starting to feel physical sensations as if they were happening to her, and her nervous system was responding in kind. The impact of Stiles getting knocked down had caused her own muscles to respond to the force, and she’d fallen too.

“We’ll work on blocks tomorrow. You’ve pushed yourself hard enough for today.” Stiles pointed out with a worried glance. He handed her a spare bottle of water - a full one, this time - and she took it gratefully, unscrewing the cap and drawing it to her lips.

“I should probably head home soon so I don’t get another lecture.” She rolled her eyes just thinking about what was probably awaiting her at the apartment.

“Xander’s still giving you crap about training?” The boy asked, looking to Lydia for an answer as Zaida sculled her water.

“He thinks that the more powerful she gets, the easier it will be for other supernaturals to sense what she is.” The redhead explained with a shrug. “And he’s probably not wrong.”

“At least he’s stopped leaving case files of werewolf victims around the apartment for me to ‘accidentally’ find. Guess he finally got the message that I’m not going to abandon you guys just because Scott’s a wolf.” Zaida wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Things are getting better, but they’re still tense. Just wait until he sees the results from Harris’ pop quiz today.”

“That exam was hard, don’t beat yourself up over it, Zay.” Lydia sighed, encouraging her friend.

“What did you even get? Because I guarantee it was better than me.” Stiles chuckled humourlessly.

“She got an eighty-four, it’s not even that bad.” The redhead assured the brunette and Stiles’ jaw dropped.

“That’s the mark you’re ashamed of? That’s still a ‘B’.” He pointed out. “I got a sixty-five.”

“It’s a B minus .” She reiterated. “Which isn’t good enough for Xander. I’m usually a straight ‘A’ student, and I finally managed to get my grades back up after all the Kanima business, only for that asshole of a chemistry teacher to surprise us with the quiz from the ninth circle of hell.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it was the ninth circle. Possibly the sixth?” Lydia jested with a tilt of her head and a sly smirk.

“Yeah, maybe for you. You still got a ninety-seven.” Zaida scoffed and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder dramatically. “God, I can’t wait for summer.”

“That makes both of us.” Stiles groaned. “Four long weeks to go, and I am counting down the days.”

“Let’s just hope Harris’ final isn’t as bad as the quiz was. I need to keep my average up for end-of-year reports.” Zaida pursed her lips. “We’re still all studying for the English exam on Wednesday, right?”

“Yeah, Scott and Allison are going to meet us at the library.” Stiles nodded in confirmation.

“Because that won’t be awkward at all.” The brunette drawled sarcastically. The two still hadn’t spoken to each other since their break-up, much to Scott’s dismay. Zaida herself hadn’t exchanged any conversation past polite pleasantries with the huntress. Allison had moved into an apartment building just down the street from Zaida’s and whilst she was still part of the group, she was distant from all of them except Lydia. Zaida found it funny how the girl had thrown the redhead to the side for months only to then latch onto her when she had no one else. Well, not funny so much as slightly unbelievable. “Isaac’s coming too.”

“Great.” Stiles’ mood instantly shifted as his eyes darkened. He’d made it abundantly clear that he liked the boy about as much as he trusted him - which was not at all.

“Jackson might come too.” Lydia piped up with a hopeful glint in her green eyes.

“That’s what he always says, but you know he never shows up,” Zaida spoke gently, knowing it was a touchy subject for the girl. Jackson was moving to London as soon as Sophmore year was over. He still was coming to terms with everything that had happened, and apparently being around them just reminded him of the things he’d done, so he usually avoided it. Usually, being always.

“This time could be different,” Lydia suggested, still holding on. Stiles looked away, busying himself with tying his shoelaces - even though Zaida could have sworn they were already tied. She could feel a pang of sadness in her chest. Was it his, or was it her own? She couldn’t really tell sometimes.

“So, you really think she's gonna come back to you?” Stiles asked as he carried his Lacrosse equipment across the field, his best friend next to him.

“Yeah, I know she is.” Scott insisted, still convinced that he and Allison would eventually get back together. “What about you and Lydia?”

“Ahh. Well, the ten-year plan for making Lydia fall in love with me is currently on the back burner. I don’t think she’s ever gonna notice me in that way, man, and I can’t force it. If it’s gonna happen then It’ll happen on its own.” Stiles shrugged. He wasn’t bitter about it by any means, but he couldn’t deny it was still disappointing.

“Why don't you just ask her out?” Scott suggested as if it were the easiest and most obvious option in the world.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles scoffed sceptically. “Why don't you just get into the goal and help me make team captain like you promised, there, big guy!”

“Hey, you know what I just realized?” Scott said as he stepped between the goalposts. “I'm right back where I started.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles questioned, not quite understanding what he was getting at.

“I mean, no lacrosse. No popularity. No girlfriend. Nothing.” The boy shrugged as he answered.

“Dude, you still got me!” Stiles huffed, feigning at being offended.

“I had you before.” Scott smiled, spotting a redhead and brunette approaching from the other end of the field.

“Yeah, and you still got me, okay? It's a life fulfilled.” Stiles grinned, scooping the ball into his net with a tilt of his stick. “Now, remember - no wolf powers.”

“Got it.” Scott nodded and got into position.

“No, I meant it! No super-fast reflexes, no super-eyesight, no hearing…none of that crap, okay?” Stiles eyed his best friend warily. “You promise?”

“Would you just take the shot already?” Scott cried out in exasperation, and Stiles pulled the stick back and launched the ball through the air. Scott’s eyes glowed yellow as he caught the ball with superhuman speed.

“I said no wolf powers!” Stiles complained, appalled.

“Scott cheats during games, why wouldn’t he cheat in practice too?” Zaida’s voice from behind him made Stiles jump, swinging the Lacrosse stick around and unintentionally almost knocking the girl in the head. Lydia stood just a little way off, crossing her arms and waving hello.

“Watch where you point that thing.” Zaida managed to dodge the equipment easily. “Last day of Sophmore year is over and you guys are…practicing Lacrosse?”

“Well, you got any better suggestions?” Scott asked, approaching from the goals.

“I do, actually. The rest of us are celebrating with burgers and drinks at the Preserve. Wanna come?” She offered with a smirk.

“The rest of you being…?” Stiles questioned with a narrowed gaze.

“Yes, Isaac is coming.” Zaida rolled her eyes, knowing what he was really asking. She looked past him to Scott. “Allison’s gonna be there too.”

The wolf looked at his best friend with hopeful eyes, and Stiles sighed heavily, giving in. “ Fine .” he relented.

“We’ll pack up the gear and meet you in the car park." Scott nodded and both boys packed up their things and headed towards the locker rooms.

Lydia and Zaida didn’t have to wait long in her black Beetle for the boys to arrive and hop into the Jeep. Lydia pulled out of her car spot and waited for Stiles to do the same before driving off, leading the way to the spot where they’d organised to meet the others. Isaac and Allison had been tasked with picking up drinks and food respectively. When they got there, they all helped carry something through the woods to the spot that overlooked the whole of Beacon Hills. The summer air was hot even though the sun was dipping under the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange. They ate, and laughed, and some of them drank until only the dull moonlight and twinkling lights of town miles away from them illuminated the night.

Zaida was nursing a sour grape cruiser, sitting alone on a rock overlooking town when Stiles noticed she’d gone strangely quiet. He could immediately sense something was off as he took a seat next to her and bumped her leg playfully with his knee. “What’s wrong?” He asked - the others were too distracted to notice.

“Lydia just told me that her dad’s coming to pick her up on Sunday. He’s taking her to spend a week with him in Los Angeles.” She explained in a low voice.

“But…weren’t you girls supposed to leave for Monterey on Sunday?” He realised and Zaida nodded.

“I know how much Lydia wants to see her dad though. He’s never around, and I couldn’t ask her to miss out for me. We can always go another time.” Zaida tried to brush it off even though she was extremely disappointed. She’d been looking forward to their trip for months.

“You know…I could still take you?” Stiles offered and she looked to him in surprise. “Don’t look so shocked. I once promised you I would take you, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.”

“Even though I ditched you to go with Lydia?” She arched a brow, still feeling slightly guilty for pushing Stiles out of the trip.

“I get it - it made more sense for the two of you to go. It would have raised less suspicion.” He shrugged.

“How would we explain it?” She wondered. “Xander thought I was going to Lydia’s lake house with her.”

“You can still go ahead with that story. Lydia won’t be in town and Xander would never find out she was actually with her dad in LA and not with you.” He suggested.

“What would you tell your dad?” Zaida questioned, pointing out the flaw in his plan.

“I could say I’m going on a camping trip with Scott?” It was the first thing that came to his mind. “Dad won’t question it.”

“The problem with that is Scott’s not going to be out of town. What if they run into each other? And won’t Scott be wanting to hang out? What are you going to tell him about where you are? And what if Xander and your dad talk and they realise that both of us are supposedly out of town on separate trips? They’d definitely think something’s up.” She listed everything that could possibly go wrong, her mind working on overdrive.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right.” He admitted and scoured his brains for an answer. “Okay, new plan. You keep your story the way it is. I’ll tell my Dad that I’m staying at Scott’s for a few days, so if he does talk to Xander he’ll think I’m still in town. Then I’ll tell Scott I’ve got the flu and can’t go out. He’ll be so busy moping about Allison going to France for the summer that he won’t be going anywhere, so Dad won’t see him in town. Then when we get back you just tell Xander the trip got cut short because Lydia’s dad wanted to take her to LA. It means we’ll only get a couple of days, but it’s better than nothing.”

“That…” Zaida slowly nodded as she processed everything, her excitement sparking. “That could actually work.”

“So…is that a yes?” He raised a brow and turned to him with a broad smile.

“That’s a definitely!” Zaida agreed and held up her drink in a cheersing motion before taking a long swig. She’d get to go to the beach house after all.

[elirastudio]

I like to imagine before the birthday comic

-

Erlang: Surely you're joking. You would halt our hunt for a meager social visit?

Macaque: Oh I'm sorry, last I checked today's my birthday not yours. Shut up.

Beautiful 😂

I could write the all interaction….

Maybe …

Ok I will

-

Macaque Was the one to lead this hunt for the ex monkey king.

He and Erlang Shen had been following sun wukong for months now; months away from his brothers, his kingdom, his generals… from his kid.

His kid.

This thought had been on the king mind all week, something important was coming…

“Six eared macaque.”

Liu er was brought back to reality. “You are not focused.” They stayed in silence…then the king spoke “its my kid’s birthday… I need to see him…” he thought about the last time he saw his kid. He shouted at him, in an attempt to make his kid let go of his father; maybe Xiaotian didn’t want to see him anymore, maybe he just wanted to enjoy his special day without him.

But he needed to see his kid.

Erlang put a hand on macaque’s shoulder “ the sooner we take down Sun Wukong, the sooner you can go back to your kid.” Silence again.

Macaque knew Erlang was right, heaven wanted wukong down and they wouldn’t have let macaque live in peace until they get what they wanted.

Maybe if Erlang used the fillet spell…they could follow wukong’s screams instead of his heart beat, they could find him faster and keep him in place.

No.

Macaque couldn’t do it.

Reality was that macaque didn’t want to hurt wukong, he didn’t want to put him down,he wanted wukong to be free and delaying their confrontation for as long as needed, even forever.

But Xiaotian didn’t have forever .

“Please” it was almost a whisper “just a few hours…I will come back. Please.” The king was begging at this point. Erlang sighed, sat down and started petting his dog “don’t make me come get you.”

Macaque didn’t need anything else, he smiled and fell in one of his shadow portals, to his kid.

-

Macaque caressed his kid’s hair until he fell asleep, the silence of the room gave him time to think. He missed Xiaotian so much, the kid had told him all that he did in this past months, how many new things he learned…especially about his new powers. macaque was so proud of him but couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he missed all of it, he wasn’t there for his kid, even if he needed his father.

And he needed to leave soon. again . he didn’t want to leave.

He signed, made sure his little star was sleeping and wrote something for him; took the drawing his kid made for him with love and fell again in another shadow portal, back to erlang.

-

The monkey king passed his companion, who had just stood up “I hope you got everything out of your system.”

Macaque didn’t look at him, he just kept staring at the drawing Xiaotian made for him.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t stay away forever.

He had so many things he cares about , a kingdom to rule , people to protect, a kid to see growing… all took away for sun wukong.

For what?

To save him?

There was nothing more to save.

He lost his sun the night they killed Tripitaka, he should have understood that sooner instead of following his selfish desires, convincing heaven to let the ex king live , in hope to have him back one day.

It would have saved a lot of pain from both monkeys.

“Yeah” answered the six eared macaque still looking at the drawing.

He wanted to go back to his kid as soon as possible, to be a family again and leave the past behind forever.

Yes. Liu we mihou was determined to put an end to this chapter of the story.

[juneknight]

Thoughts on how it goes the first time reader gives the boys oral sex? IF your okay with nsfw stuff 💘

I’m okay…definitely okay. 😏 some first time stuff here, but also just blow job thoughts in general. Thank you for asking 🥹

mature below the cut 🤍

Steven

Privately, Steven would be in disbelief that you’d want to perform oral sex on him—but man’s used to rolling with the punches and not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Not that you’re a horse, that’s horrifying imagery, but if you were a horse he, well, you wouldn’t be in this situation at all, now would you? Yes, he’s a nervous babbler 100%. I imagine that the first time you sucked him off, the outlandish things he would say (and the mild, unassuming way in which he would say them) had you choking on his cock from laughter. He would groan and throw an arm over his eyes and say, “I’m so terrible at this. Embarrassment of the century.” Tangles his hands in his own hair, pulling at the roots to keep from cumming before he’s ready—then gets insecure and wonders if you aren’t trying to finish him off quickly on purpose. When he spots your own hand between your legs as you masturbate, he gets the hint that you really are enjoying yourself and he allows himself to enjoy you too. Doesn’t say Cheers when you swallow his cum, but it’s a near thing.

Marc

I imagine Marc to be the most intense of the three. That doesn’t necessarily mean rougher. He’s the kind of man whose eyes you can feel when they’re on you. His focus is tangible. If your hair is long at the time, he absolutely gathers it in his hands and draws it back so that he can clearly see you. Marc will press a thumb into the hollow of your cheek so that he can feel his cock in your mouth. When he talks, every time is like the first time: my god, look at you. You take it so well, you’re so good to me. He likes dramatics and he likes feeling wanted, so he’ll hold you back until your lips can just barely brush the head of his cock, and ask if you’ll beg for him. Bonus points if you strain against his hold a little. Nothing turns him on more than when you debase yourself because you want him so badly. Man’s got stamina though; feel free to pull out all the stops, he’ll last as long as HE wants to, and not a moment sooner.

Jake

This is a man who struggles to accept even the most minimal physical or emotional affection. If he wakes up beside you, he’ll move to the couch or leave the flat altogether. It’s definitely not due to a lack of desire, it’s just that he has a complete lack of self(esteem). He believes he has one purpose, and nowhere in that purpose is there any clause that allows for a blowjob. But what he does know is pleasing people and taking care of them; so I imagine that after many, many encounters with you during which he begins to understand that not only are you not a threat to the system but you are good for them…he might allow you to convince him that you really want to suck him off. I guess all the weeks of one-sided intimacy has made you determined to focus on him for a change. You have been his only real sexual encounters, so he isn’t sure at all what he was expecting (besides the basic mechanics of it, of course), but as a guy who is used to wielding violence and having it wielded against him, you knock the breath out of him with your softness. Absolutely no teeth, no nails digging into his thighs, just the wet warmth of your mouth and the way your eyes slip shut every now and again. You really enjoy this. You are really enjoying this. When you notice his hands clenched into fists at his sides, you would carefully coax one open and bring it to your hair to show him that it’s okay, he can guide you if he wants, but all he does is pet at your head softly and let his hand cup the side of your face, stroking the apple of your cheek. He absolutely stares at you like you’re the most startling, rapturous creature he’s ever seen.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

At one point, I mentioned that I was torn as to which silly crossover to let myself write for my birthday. Friends in Low Places ultimately won out, but the second option was a Psychonauts crossover. This isn't the same as Power Trick, even though it draws from what I'd put together for that story-- it's an entirely different take on the concept.

If you're unfamiliar with Psychonauts 2 and don't want it spoiled via an incomplete WIP, you probably shouldn't read this one. It even starts with a spoiler, so the whole thing's going under a cut.

---

It wasn’t that the mission to retrieve Helmut’s body was going badly. It wasn’t.

It was just that his body… didn’t stay as trapped as anyone thought it would, and had been roaming, brainless, throughout the Grulovian countryside. But, hey! They didn’t need to chip through nearly as much ice as they’d expected, and Raz was getting a good clairvoyant workout in trying to track him down! There were more pros than cons, in his opinion.

He had yet to decide what category the giant ice mountain fell into. Raz had been tiny when his parents moved the family out of the country, so he would have assumed it had been there for millennia, but the locals insisted it was a new feature. That seemed relevant, somehow. A giant lake gets frozen solid, and then a couple decades later, a big chunk of ice appears? It couldn’t be coincidence. None of the nearby townspeople seemed to know how it got there, though-- just that a couple of years ago, everyone had gone to bed and found it looming over them the next morning.

Now, Razputin may have been a master of neither geometry nor geology, but he was pretty sure that was abnormal mountain behavior, and definitely worth investigation. As luck would have it, Helmut’s body had already moved on from the town, and the mountain was the next stop on it’s predetermined path, which gave Raz a perfect excuse to poke around without ignoring his mission.

When he went to leave the town, an older woman tucked [?] into his hands and told him to carry it with him as payment for safe passage.

Ominous!

He was still going.

The toughest part of the trip was the distance itself-- outside of more developed areas, the snow piled up and was difficult to traverse, though there were numerous grooves worn into the powder, suggesting he wasn’t the first to travel this direction. Not all of them went the same way, and some were deeper than others, which made Raz wonder why the locals would trek all the way out here-- if it was curiosity, tradition or psychic interference drawing them in.

One of the funny things about distance was that it minimized the destination. Slowly, the mountain grew in scale, the opaque ice glittering in the midday sun from a mile away, until it dwarfed everything else. Even at a distance, the dark tunnels leading inward were an immediate contrast against the shining, pristine surface, and in and of itself, that could so easily lure passerby.

Someone who lacked a brain in a very literal sense would stride right on in.

Fortunately, Raz was no mere passerby. He was a mildly trained psychic with a mission, and he kind of knew what he was getting himself into. He made an effort to remember the turns he was taking and thought he was doing a pretty good job… if one were to ignore the fact that he hadn’t actually found anything. Every offshoot led deeper into the tunnel system, and while it made sense that there wouldn’t be much open space inside the mountain, the halls were unnaturally consistent. There came a point where Raz found he could predict what the next set would look like because they all followed the same pattern-- all of them identical.

He was probably caught in some kind of illusion.

Raz wasn’t one to give up, but he could also recognize a lost cause, and right now, he wasn’t making any progress. He had to figure out where the [illusion] was coming from and neutralize it before continuing down this path, so he turned his back on the next fork and began retracing his steps.

To his surprise, it didn’t lead him directly out of the mountain, like a single loop would have. He had to count each repetition down, inverting the turns he’d taken, which made him realize just how far he’d wandered before the pattern registered. He wasn’t worried yet, because he knew where he was going, but it made him reconsider what was going on; maybe not an illusion or a psychic construct, but something focused on disorientation? It didn’t feel like he’d taken this much time on the way in…

He heard footsteps. He whirled around to face the branch off of the tunnel, one hand raised to his temple just in case, and crept closer, hoping he might get the drop on whatever had caused the sound. The silhouette that turned the corner was strange-- tall and disproportionate, wider as it [got lower down].

It was the tale end of a muttered, “--V?” that clued Raz in on its exact nature. He relaxed and-- since there was no point in calling out to a brainless body-- trotted over to start corralling Helmut. The upper half of the silhouette moved, distinct from the body and, now that Raz was looking, rose well above the horned hat. He would have gone on the defensive again, if not for:

“Ah, are you lost as well? Come with me, please; I’ll see you both to your destination.”

He didn’t move, but Helmut’s body did. The second person gripped its shoulder to still it for the moment and raised their free hand. Gradually, light filtered in through the ice-- crystal clear now, instead of opaque with frost, keeping the tunnels dim-- which allowed them to observe one another.

The first thing Raz noticed was that the person looked like he’d lost a fight with a psychic bear; his clothes were ratty and thin in places, but in spite of the [lacking] winter wear, he seemed largely unbothered by the cold. The second thing was that he was incredibly pale-- pale hair, pallid skin, and eyes light enough to reflect back at whoever was looking. He hesitated on the last point, because something was wrong there; while this person was looking at him straight-on, it seemed like he wasn’t seeing Raz properly. Not in the sense that he had bad eyesight, but that he just… wasn’t seeing the same reality Raz saw.

That probably had something to do with the third point of interest: the impractically thick hunk of psilirium that encircled the person’s wrist. It wasn’t the worst Raz had seen by a long shot, but it was still enough to make his eyes water when he looked directly at it. From the corner of his vision, he watched the light play off of it as the man dropped his arm; he wondered how in the world that could have happened, and how this person was going about their daily life wearing the world’s worst mood bracelet.

“Please,” The man said, his clouded eyes sweeping over Raz, “It’s not safe to travel down these tracks. I know the route well, and can lead you back to safety.”

That final word struck a chord, and Raz inclined his head. Was this who the woman in town was talking about? The [?] was meant for him, in return for guiding people out of the mountain?

The man’s shoulders relaxed and the angle of his eyes shifted. He waved Raz over with his psitanium-cuffed hand and waited for him to fall into step after him, adjusting his grip on Helmut’s shoulder to prompt the brainless body onward with them.

“You don’t dress like the locals. Did you come here to investigate Korona? If so, I would highly advise against such a course of action; the paths here are treacherous, almost like they have a mind of their own.” The person said, voice low, but still bouncing off of the icy walls and echoing into the tunnels.

Raz shook his head, and then tilted it toward Helmut’s body, “Actually, I was looking for him.”

He heard a relieved laugh, “Ah, good! Perhaps you’ll succeed where I’ve failed; no matter how I try to impress the danger upon him, he always returns here. It’s… nice to see a familiar face, but I don’t want him to put himself at risk.”

“Do you know him? Who are you?” […]

There was a long pause. “Warden. I’m the warden of this territory. It’s my duty to ensure that none come to harm under my watch.”

[…] “You’re the warden of the mountain?”

He nodded, and didn’t look back.

“Then do you know how it got here?” […]

Warden’s head turned to fix him with a blank stare. “I’m unsure what you mean by that; Mount Korona has been here as long as I can remember.”

Raz felt his brow wrinkle as he considered the impossibility of that, and then realized how it could be true. “How long have you been here?”

The look turned vaguely helpless, and the warden repeated, “As long as I can remember.”

...yeah, the psilirium definitely wasn’t doing him any favors. Raz didn’t think he could take his eyes off of Helmut’s body long enough to do anything about that-- not without running the risk of losing it to the countryside yet again-- but maybe he could come back after this mission was over... or, if not, then at least make sure he reported the person wandering around with an active psychohazard on his wrist. As they walked, he prodded gently at the man’s mind, but wasn’t surprised to find himself repelled; while the psilirium was taking a toll, Warden was in direct contact with it and still functional, which meant his psychic defenses wouldn’t be anything to sneeze at.

For just a second, Raz considered lobbing a confusion grenade, just in case that might increase the man’s lucidity, but he was pretty sure he’d get in a load of trouble for it if anyone found out.

They made it to the mouth of the cave without incident, and Warden inclined his head to Raz, gesturing for him to take over in guiding Helmut’s body. He reached over and took him by a sleeve, and then hesitated. The man was outside of the cave system for now; if he could get him to the base camp somehow, that would make removing the psilirium orders easier. Not only would it save everyone the trouble of hunting him back down, but they would have numbers on their side, and maybe even tools that would help.

Before the stranger could bid them goodbye, Raz hastily said, “You think you could help me get him-- ah-- home? He… keeps getting away from me.”

Warden blinked at him, and then shifted to consider Helmut’s body.

“I can.” He decided, tucking the psilirium-laden arm behind his back and moving the opposite hand to rest upon Helmut’s shoulder. “Lead the way; I’ll ensure that he follows the route you set.”

The trip back to the base camp wasn’t going to be an easy one; it was definitely more direct than the path Raz had picked out, hopping from town to town as he tracked Helmut’s meandering body, but even walking in a straight line, it was a substantial distance. One unexpected silver lining was that, instead of behaving as snow usually did, it parted for them as they passed through, the powdery ice freezing into place on their either side.

Raz reached out with one gloved hand and found that there was no give; it was like it had thawed and refrozen, creating a smooth, glassy texture. He didn’t know cryokinesis, and without a brain, Helmut’s body couldn’t have done that, so he looked to the last off the potential culprits; the warden stared dispassionately out at the horizon line, giving no indication that he noticed the scrutiny he’d been put under. He wasn’t actively moving the snow, but the ambient energy around him-- a psychic aura-- absently pushed outward, and was definitely the reason they could travel unhindered.

He didn’t try to make small talk as they went-- though, occasionally, Helmut’s body chimed in with one-word commentary-- and that seemed to suit the warden just as well. Every now and then, the man would glance over at him, as if to gauge where they were headed and ensure that everyone was where he’d last seen them, but he never offered any of his thoughts, either.

[…]

Belatedly, he realized that they were missing one body, and frantically scanned the area. He found who he was looking for in a matter of seconds, back turned and already on his return trip to the mountain.

“Hey! Warden!” He hollered, and didn’t even need to make up any excuses this time, “Wait up! I’m s’posed to give you something for helping us!”

The man hesitated and only half-turned to respond. While his answer was clearly audible, it barely seemed like he was even raising his voice, “That’s unnecessary. I don’t require a reward simply for doing my job.”

Raz was vaguely aware of the startled breath that sounded behind him, but figured it was just because Hollis realized that the psychohazard was all but wandering away; he decided to stall for time and ran to catch up. “That’s how they said it works in town-- it’s not payment, it’s just, you know, gratitude for helping people out.”

Warden watched as he skidded to a halt, and then sighed. “I appreciate their kindness, but they don’t need to do any such thing.”

“Yeah, and they appreciate your kindness. See? It all equals out.” He tried, insistently offering the [?].

Finally, Warden accepted it, extending his psilirium-laden hand in order to move the cloth back look at what lay beneath. As he did so, a pained hiss sounded from behind Raz-- more than one, in fact-- and the man’s head shot up. His eyes were no clearer than ever, but there was an awareness in them-- the recognition of danger. Panic. Rapidly, he raised his cuffed hand to a temple and… vanished.

So it turned out that he knew how to teleport. That made this a lot harder.

“Razputin,” Hollis said, sounding hoarse, though that could have been a byproduct of the psilirium exposure, “Do you know who that was?”

“Yeah, that was the warden; he helps out whenever people get lost inside the mountain.” […]

“Maybe that’s how he was introduced to you,” [Otto], “But before that, he was one of ours-- an agent who went missing years ago.”

Shaking her head to dispel the lingering effects, Hollis looked from Raz to where the warden once stood.

“Agent Aquato, you just found the lost Agent Motif.”

(Pardon me while I perpetuate the joke about Raz being the best at finding missing persons, be they bodies, brains or something in between.)

---

Raz was pretty sure he recognized the name Motif. The most likely explanation was that he’d read it in a comic somewhere, but that didn’t help narrow it down; he’d gone through a lot of comics in his time, and couldn’t exactly go back and revisit all of them, since his mom family had little to no regard for the preservation of literature.

It must have been the name of a supporting agent, he thought-- either that, or maybe it had been in an advertisement for another issue that he hadn’t ever gotten his hands on. The specifics didn’t really matter right now; it was way more important to find Agent Motif again, and for good this time. It seemed like a pretty good bet that he went back to the mountain-- to Korona-- but it wasn’t as simple as going there and wandering through the tunnels until someone ran into him. Even if they went to the trouble of tracking him down, there was nothing stopping him from teleporting away for a second time.

It sounded like everyone had different ideas how to tackle that problem. Hollis had gone to talk to someone back at HQ hours ago, and Otto was tinkering in his field laboratory, trying to set up something that would inhibit Agent Motif’s powers without relying on psilirium to do the job. Lizzie hadn’t been there to meet him, but when brought into the fold, she’d scoffed and muttered something about lectures under her breath. That seemed a little extreme; it had just been a basic rundown of the facts, not [a lecture].

Raz was on his way to check in with Bob and Helmut again when a new voice caught his attention and-- without thinking-- he found himself wandering toward it.

“Hollis.” The speaker said, steely and without emotion, “What is going on here?”

He stopped just shy of getting a visual, and belatedly realized that this was definitely eavesdropping, but stayed put, too curious to walk away yet.

“We’re on a mission to retrieve a lost agent. You already knew that-- you had no interest in participating.” Hollis said back, utterly unmoved.

“Correct. I had no place in the effort to retrieve Helmut’s body.” The other person somehow both agreed and argued, “We both know that is not why I’m here now.”

“Then why don’t you do us both a favor, Emmet? Explain to me why you are here, just so we know we’re on the same page.” […]

There was a dull thud, only resonating for a split second, “My brother, Hollis. You explain to me why I found out about this through office gossip.”

“At a guess, I would say it was because you were listening in on communications channels again.” Hollis [said] dryly. After a second, she sighed, “This is why I didn’t contact you immediately; we have to get a handle on the situation first. I don’t have any doubt that was Ingo, but he’s not acting like himself, and we need to understand why before diving in.”

“You don’t think it’s the giant piece of psilirium on his wrist?” The man asked, flat but disbelieving.

“After your stint at Charlie Psycho Delta? No, there has to be something else.”

“Our defenses are best when we’re together. He won’t withstand it as well by himself.”

[something gives Raz away]

Both of them went silent, and, after a moment, Hollis called out to him. “Would you care to join us, Agent Aquato?”

Guiltily, he slunk around the corner and through the door. He made apologetic eye contact with Hollis, and then looked to the other person. All at once, the pieces fell together: the surname and given names, the long, worn coat he’d seen Agent Motif wearing, now that he could compare it to an undamaged version, the teleportation out of and into the base--

“You’re the Countertype Conductors,” He said, already raking his mind for everything he knew about the pair of sibling Psychonauts. Since their job was to get agents to and from their destinations, they usually only got passing mentions and cameos, but one of his guesses had been right on the money: Issue 57 of True Psychic Tales had teased a story about psitanium smugglers, and the splash page featured two identical men pressed back to back, channeling psychic energy between their own pointing hands and between one another. He hadn’t ever been able to read that [issue], but any mention of them he had seen was as a pair-- as the Agents Motif or, when a book was getting dramatic, the Countertype Conductors.

Agent Motif-- Emmet-- curled his lip into a grimace at the declaration, and then looked back to Hollis. “This does not get you off the hook. I want to be a part of this mission.”

“There is no mission yet.” Hollis told him, nodding briefly to Raz, “It was just today that Agent Aquato brought his findings to us; we’re in the process of gathering intelligence, not acting on it.”

Agent Motif looked at him again, considering. “Then our business has concluded, Agent Forsythe. Agent Aquato. I want to hear what you saw.”

“Emmet,” Hollis said, low and warning, “Is that really how you want to conduct yourself in front of a junior agent?”

He turned to look her dead in the eye and then, bluntly, declared, “I don’t care, Hollis. It’s been two and a half years. I am beyond caring what anyone else thinks of me.”

They stared at one another for a handful of seconds, neither backing down.

Eventually, Hollis narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I do have a mission for you, Motif. I want you to go speak with Agent Zanotto.”

“He has nothing worth saying. Not to me.” Emmet scoffed.

“No?” / “You don’t think the man who lost his partner has any insight into your situation?”

“No. I don’t. He lost another person. I lost part of myself. It is not the same.” He said, expression twisting in offense, “I am done with this conversation. If you have any useful information, tell me. Otherwise, I will handle the matter myself.”

A stony silence settled over them. Agent Motif shrugged and turned his back.

“You’re not leaving this base.” Hollis warned as he crossed the room’s threshold.

“You can’t stop me.” He said simply, which… was true. They were kind of hung up on how to prevent teleportation right now, without any of the tools from HQ.

Hollis grimaced as he walked away, and her eyes fell on Raz.

“I’m sorry about him, Razputin. It’s… too complicated to explain in full right now.” She pursed her lips in thought, and seemed to [give in], “Could I ask you to keep an eye on him for the evening? You don’t have to approach him again-- I’d actually avoid it, if you can. I just need to know that he’s not doing anything stupid while we figure out what to do about Ingo.”

[…]

“Ah.” He said, sounding less than enthusiastic-- and yet, what actually followed was, “Good. Aquato, I still need information from you.”

Yeah… Raz wasn’t exactly inclined to share, between what he’d seen earlier and the instructions to keep an eye on Motif.

“I don’t think I can tell you anything else. Hollis is probably your best bet.” He tried, thinking that might be enough of a deterrent for the time being, but Emmet just rolled his eyes.

“You do not have to tell me anything.” The man said, tilting his head to the side and closing his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. For a second, it seemed like he would try to read Raz’s mind, but there was no pressure on the edges of his psyche.

“I don’t think that loophole works when everyone involved is psychic.” […]

Emmet snorted, but didn’t open his eyes. “You don’t have to think anything either.”

He was definitely manipulating some sort of psychic energy. Raz… thought he recognized it as Mental Connection, actually, but the application was completely different from the examples Hollis had used while teaching. It was a little closer to the functionality he got out of it, but there were still more differences than there were similarities.

“That works.” Agent Motif declared after a moment, and made an abrupt turn without opening his eyes. When he did tune back in to the real world, it was to shoot a glance Raz’s way, “I am sorry if this gets you in trouble with Hollis. Tell her I could not be reasoned with. It’s true. I will not tolerate any further delays.”

And, with that, he vanished from the premises.

Well, shoot.

---

The technique Agent Motif had used was, in fact, a branch of Mental Connection-- crossed with clairvoyance in this case. Hollis had given a very general explanation when Raz reported to her, but as fascinating as it sounded, there wasn’t time to delve into that right now. The combination of skills could be used to follow a trail, and there was little wondering where Emmet intended to go.

Raz had been the first to note that he must not have known about Mount Korona, otherwise he wouldn’t have needed to do anything but look out the window. With the confirmation that he was working with a dangerously small amount of information, Hollis decided they had to act immediately.

[…]

It was dim, but the light that did filter through suggested that it wasn’t always the case-- the cavern was dark right now because it was night, and during the daytime, visibility would have been much better. Because of the scant lighting, a number of features were visible: a vaguely circular [platform] in the room’s center, extending seamlessly from the floor, shelves of ice that were two inches thick and still crystal clear, putting their contents on full display, a frozen basin that somehow contained water, albeit with a thin sheet of ice forming on its top and, on the far side of the room, an uneven, knee-height platform.

It was the last [feature] that they gravitated toward, largely due to the fact that there was a person resting on it.

Agent Motif knelt down-- biting back a hiss at the cold that immediately seeped through his pants-- rested a hand on their shoulder, and gently shook it. There was a [startled] inhalation as the other man startled awake, and automatically raised a hand to rub at his eyes.

“Lady O--”

He stopped as soon as the sight registered; even though he’d only cracked one eye open, he somehow narrowed it as he tried to understand what he was looking at, and pushed himself into sitting up. The former Agent Motif looked one way, and then the other-- attention only barely flickering to Raz-- and even up before letting himself settle on the man in front of him. Haltingly, he raised an arm, dropped it, and then frowned at the result.

“You’re… not a reflection.” He said numbly.

Emmet visibly stopped himself from saying something, substituting a slow shake of his head.

The warden hesitated, the silence a blanket of snow obscuring his racing thoughts, and eventually added, “I know you.”

“I know you.” / “I missed you.”

His brother almost reached out, and then snatched his hand back, thinking better of it. It would have been confusing, if not for the way he tucked it into the coat he’d been wearing even in sleep, hiding the chunk of psilirium from immediate view.

Emmet let the hand braced on a shoulder drop, trying to coax it back out by tugging at a sleeve, “It’s okay. It won’t hurt me if we’re together. You’re safe with me.”

While its owner wasn’t convinced, he didn’t put up a fight. The arm slowly eased out, mirrored by a hand that reached over to press their palms together. Raz caught a hint of a wince-- the same expression that had crossed Emmet’s face when he’d first realized how cold the floor was-- but it didn’t stop the man from lacing their fingers together and leaning in until their foreheads touched.

Something must have passed between them, unspoken, because the warden flinched and Emmet raised his opposite hand to the back of his brother’s head-- not forcing him to stay, but steadying him and encouraging him to linger.

“It’s okay.” He repeated, forcing his voice into gentle tones, “I will not let anything else happen to you.”

---

Also, misc notes:

[urmumsdrycooch]

ᗷᒪᑌE-ᕼᗩIᖇEᗪ ᗷITᑕᕼ

Victoria Chase x Reader

Summary: A reason for me to release my burning detestation for one Chloe Price. AKA Y/n and Chloe getting into an altercation for Victoria’s entertainment.

Warnings: Swearing, violence (if you squint), Rachel and Victoria actually getting along and a lot of fucking dialogue.

I'm sitting in my maths lesson next to Vic just like any other lesson, and she's doing her usual thing: picking at her nails and finding something to judge somebody on and laugh about it later. She does this when she's bored, which is pretty much all the time now that she's back in school after a summer break.

Her eyes finally land on me and she gives me a mocking smile before picking up her pencil and beginning to doodle on her desk. Her doodles are always the same: a squiggly line followed by a bunch of dots. I think it's meant to be her signature or something, it's so cursive it's unreadable.

"So, what did you get up to?" Vic asks, referencing my going MIA since the start of the day. "You were gone for ages."

"Nothing," I say quickly, knowing she'll keep pestering until I tell her.

She attempts to examine me again as she continues to draw her squiggly lines with her usual resting bitch face planted on her face.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out from my pocket. It's a text message.

"Who's that?" She interrogates in a sharp tone.

"Why are you so far up my ass today?" I shoot back, not getting a chance to read the text, "Seriously, you're so far up, I wouldn't be surprised if you crawled out my mouth with the answer."

"No need to be so crude about it." She huffs, leaning back in her chair. Her focus returns back to the teacher in front of us, arms crossed, clearly trying to hint to me that I've annoyed her.

I raise my phone, reading the text from Justin.

Justin: Hey, wanna go see a movie tonight?

The words stare me right in the face, but I can't help but feel unsure about this. Does he really want to hang out, or is it just another move to try and gain my attention? The guy's cool and all, but I guess I'm just not into him.

"Ew, what the fuck, Y/n? Him? Really? He stinks like all the time of a sewage system and has been high since birth." Victoria scolds me in my ear after reading the text.

"Do you ever stop?" I roll my eyes, sliding my phone back into my pocket, choosing to ignore Justin.

"Well, what do you expect? I've had a dull day, you disappeared so I had nobody to rant to, and now you're all about math and Justin. I need something to feast on, that whore Dana hasn't had any scandals recently, Max is getting snarkier-"

"Victoria, please." I breathe out as my hand covers her mouth, "You can rant to me later, full-blown rant. Hell, I'll even let you hit me if you want. Just, shut your fucking trap for the next 20 minutes." I request, not gaining a straight answer from the blonde.

I only receive an eye roll, a bitch face and "Un-fucking-believable." She scoffs.

This isn't the first time Vic has done shit like this. We're really close, and that's completely cool until she gets hugely irritating. She knows it too, but for some reason, she keeps doing it.

The next twenty minutes consist of me doing the work, and Victoria trying her best to prove she's ignoring me. It's pretty funny until you realise you must deal with the consequences later.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N. You've got a cut!" Victoria screeches loudly once I have put down my pen, causing the whole class to turn their attention to us. I look down to see a small scratch along the side of my finger.

"It's a paper-cut, I'll live," I mumble to her, getting an annoyed sigh from her in return.

"I'll take you to the nurse, come on." She states, raising me up from my seat by my forearm.

The teacher observes the whole event, witnessing Vic encouraging me to leave the room, "Victoria, I don't think that'll be necessary.".

"No, it is completely necessary, Y/n tends to faint when encountered with blood." She lies, lies incredibly, sometimes I wonder how she learnt to lie so well.

"What? No-" She nudges me in the ribs, immediately giving me an idea of what she was doing, "Yeah, Miss I don't feel too good."

Using a slow nod of her head and a slow exhalation, Ms Miller allows us to go to the nurse. Leaving the classroom, she drags me to the courtyard.

"Twenty minutes have passed since I last checked." She states with one raised eyebrow as if she was expecting something from me.

"You couldn't wait till the lesson was over?" I asked.

"No," Victoria snorts, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, which it was, Victoria is infamous for her short patience... Amongst many other things.

"Hold on," Her eyes drift elsewhere for a moment, "This will be perfect."

She leads me over to the parking lot, predatory eyes still on its prey. "What exactly are we doing?"

"Oh, you'll love this. We will love this. I will love this." She smirks, not bothering to look me in the eyes.

"Hey, Carrie!" Her perfectly practised fake-smile aimed across the parking lot, catching the attention of a certain blue-haired bitch that boils my blood.

"No, Victoria," I grumble, not in the mood for the girl's antics.

She strolls over to the rusty yellow truck horrendously parked across 2 spaces, giving me no choice but to follow. She chats with Chloe for a couple of minutes, the conversation filled with backhanded comments.

"Oh hey, Y/n. Didn't see you there." Chloe says, her voice teasing.

To put it softly - I fucking hate the whore.

"Hmm? Oh yeah, wasn't looking too hard," I respond with a shrug, forcing a smile on my face.

"Oh, really, well maybe you should've been a little more interactive with the conversation me and your tall girlfriend had going on."

Victoria could see the infuriation the blue-haired girl brought out in me, oh and she loved every second of it.

"Maybe, I don't tend to find dropouts very interesting."

"So, what brings you here today?" Victoria cuts in smoothly, the way she puts people off balance is amazing.

"Meeting Rachel, she should be here in a minute," Chloe answers, Vic's face dropping at the mention of the drama student's name.

"Lovely." She rolls her eyes for like the 10th time today.

"What about you, L/n? Not been kicked out yet? We could be good friends."

"Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you," I chuckle.

"Come on Y/n, you know I'm a friend of the world. You'll never meet a better person." She blatantly lies. Even her voice crawls under my skin and makes me want to rip it off and put it into a shredder.

"Debatable." I retort sarcastically, folding my arms.

"Don't be like that, Y/n/n. Cheer up."

"Shut up already, I'm sure you've damaged my ears," I groan then turning to Victoria, ", no like seriously. Is there blood gushing out my ears?"

Chloe furrows her eyebrows, "Excuse me?" she squeaks, not expecting such rudeness.

"I said shut up, you know, for medical reasons," I smile, feeling the familiar rage building inside me.

"That's cute, maybe Icky Vicky here can get all nurse on you." She pokes, laughing at her own words while Victoria flushes red.

"Yeah, too bad Rachel doesn't like you enough to do that to you." I spit out, making her smile sweetly.

Her eyebrow arches, "Oh, really?" Blue bitch looks around, spotting her friend approaching. "Speaking of."

"Hello, Chloe... and friends!" Rachel greets her with a bright smile.

It goes silent for a moment, Victoria blushing like a maniac, Chloe and I glaring at one another and Rachel standing in the middle of it all. She slowly shuffles toward the taller blonde, "What's going on?" She questions.

"Just let it play out, you know how they are." She answers, all their dislike for each other put to one side.

The mute environment comes to an end when Chloe bites, "So how's it feel failing at literally everything."

"Familiar, really. I think I'm starting to turn into somebody I know." I snarl.

Chloe opens her truck door and hops out, now standing about four feet away from me.

"You know what? I don't think I can be nice anymore. Maybe it's time I'm not so nice." Chloe states in an attempt to scare me.

"Oh God, Rachel catch me, I think I'm gonna faint." I joke, pretending to lose balance "Please, I've met toddlers scarier than you."

Rachel and Victoria look between each other, their faces ready and eager for Chloe and me to continue. "Hah!" Price cheers, "Finally, you've met someone your own height." She looks down at me, the single inch she has over me giving her the biggest ego boost of the century. We bite and snap at each other back and forth, while the two blondes spectating watch intently.

Rachel whispers, "You think one of them's going to act." Not daring to drag her eyes away from the interaction.

"Sure of it," Victoria smirks.

At some point during our chat, things may have gone too far. Too far being Chloe falling up against her rusty ass truck door holding her jaw.

She uselessly shouts threats, as Rachel drags her off to the side and Victoria doing the same with me. The blonde walks me through the courtyard just as she did earlier, all until we were almost back at the dorms. "I'm feeling a lot less dull now, thank you."

All I feel is pure confusion with a hint of anger and a slightly aching knuckle left over from the previous encounter. She opens her dorm room door and lets us both inside, the two of us taking a seat on her couch.

"She's such a self-absorbed bitch!" I groan, storming in, my hands shooting up to my head to massage my temples. Victoria drags my arm down from my face so she can look at me, "Well, did it release any pent-up anger?"

"No, actually. If anything, it set fire to a forest of anger inside of me." I wave my arms for dramatic effect.

She remains quiet due to her plan not working, knowing fully well the interaction was not for my benefit. The silence now left me to my own thoughts, thinking of every possible outcome of the situation. "Blue-haired tramp thinks she can talk like that to me." I think out loud.

"I know," Vic smirks. "Rachel and I both thought it was very hot."

I shake my head, chuckling softly. "You're sick, you know that right?"

"I am, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong." She laughs, putting her legs under herself and sitting upright.

"Well, I'm glad you agree at least because I'm not letting her near me again." I groan, the mere thought of the dropout making me want to throw up.

"Good, neither am I. That bitch has no fucking respect for anyone."

We lean back into the couch, enjoying the peaceful environment and letting everything sink in. It does feel nice, especially after a stressful day- ahem- 15 minutes.

"So, how about Justin? Are you going to go?" She asks as though she was doubting something.

"No, I wasn't in the first place."

"Good." She states, her confidence returning to its natural state.

"Why is that good?"

"Because you're mine, and I like having you to myself."

"Good," I repeat her single-worded answer, with a smirk.

Minutes go by, though each second feels like an hour, Victoria's head has found itself on my shoulder and I've folded my legs so that I'm sitting on them.

"I don't know why you bother, you only like me when I'm being a selfish asshole." She taunts, smiling at the thought of me being hers.

"You know what they say, 'You can't keep a good woman down'." I let out a small laugh.

"Oh, you're so original." She teases, crossing her arms and giggling.

"Hey, don't get pressed because I'm right." I joke, stroking my hand through her short, blonde hair.

"Ugh, don't start using lines like that."

"Like what?"

"Don't play dumb, it really doesn't suit you." Her eyebrow raises as her brain thinks of the perfect guilt-trip to use on me, "Maybe you're stinky little boyfriend will enjoy it."

"Boyfriend?" I repeat the word, making sure it sounds foreign coming out of my mouth. "I thought I told you I never responded to his message."

"Yes, boyfriend." She answers my first confusion, "And- Shut up." She says, leaning back into me and pressing her lips against my mouth. Her tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, teasingly, before she pulls away.

She giggles when I lean forward to continue the kiss, "Oh no." She purrs.

"None of that, definitely not after that little stunt you pulled earlier."

"But you fucking started it," I argue.

"Okay, and?"

[traayaa]

Mushy May - Day Five & Seven

Hair braiding & Compliments - Dew & Swiss

I'm back! In the interest of trying to keep Mushy May to May, I'm combining a few prompts and skipping a few. The timezones have thrown me, when I catch up I'll stick to posting on Aussie time for the sake of my sanity XD

Word count: 685

Dew took the hottest showers possible with the abbey’s ancient pipes and a subpar hot water system. He’s tried complaining to Imperator, but unless there was something broken, she wouldn’t pay the outrageous costs associated with updating the entire plumbing system yet. That would be some major work that the Clergy wasn’t ready for yet. He would just have to make do with what he got, which admittedly was more than enough for everyone except the little fire ghoul.

It had become a sort of ritual now, after his showers, Dew would take his brush and a couple of hair ties out into the common room. It started out with him braiding his own hair in the company of his pack. One night not long after they’d got back from a tour when Dew had been struggling with getting his sleep back into some sort of normal, Cumulus took mercy on him and offered to braid his hair for him. Since then, someone else would do it. He preferred Cumulus’ softer touch after tours and when he was overwhelmed. She would comb through his hair before braiding it, he’s fallen asleep halfway through on a number of occasions, waking up in his or Aether's bed a while later. Usually, it was Rain or Swiss, pulling the little ghoul into their lap. He grew to love the routine, the feeling of someone else playing with his hair, the feeling of the brush or fingers gliding through his damp locks. The soft purrs from both of them, the cuddle time afterwards that he used to fight against, tooth and nail, that he now looks forward to. The closeness with his pack. 

Both Swiss and Rain had different ways of doing his hair. Rain would try out different types of braids, constantly learning new tricks, depending on mood and if Dew would sit still long enough, he would attempt some more complicated ones, braiding and rebraiding a number of times. Swiss however took his time. Slowly running the brush through Dew’s long locks, being meticulous in getting the knots out, making sure his hair was smooth and both the brush and his fingers didn’t snag. He knew Swiss was playing with his hair more than was needed, but he’d never stop the others from the joy they got out of this routine. With a sigh, Swiss started sectioning his hair and braided it quickly, something that would last him throughout the night but would start to fall out as the fire ghoul tossed and turned as he slept. Swiss loved seeing him the next morning, one leg of his sleep pants hiked above his knee, one of Mount or Aether’s old tees hanging off one shoulder because they were entirely too big on him, eyes open enough to avoid others and door frames on his way to the coffee pot and some stray strands that had worked their way out of the braid framing his face. Those mornings were Swiss’ favourites. Dew would never tell the multi-ghoul that he has on occasion messed his hair up, just to see the bright smile he’d get from Swiss on those mornings.

Even with both ghouls drawing out the process as long as they could, the braid was finished pretty quickly. Dew ran his hand over it before tucking a few of the shorter stands that didn’t make it into the braid behind his ear, turning in Swiss’ lap to rest his head on the other's shoulder. His purr getting just a little louder. They stayed like that until the smaller ghoul started yawning, Swiss taking them both to bed. They ended up in Swiss’ bed, with Dew diving under the covers as soon as he was out of Swiss’ arms. Once the multi-ghoul joined him, Dew cozied up to Swiss’ side. 

“Swiss? You still awake?” A mumbled ‘yeah’ into his hair was his response. “Do you, maybe, think you could show me how to do your hair? …I love it so much and I wanna do your hair, like you and Rainy do for me.” 

“I can do that Firefly."

[trippin-over-my-fandoms]

* slams my paws down on the counter * TELL ME ABOUT YOUR ETHAN AND MIA HEADCANONS! I wanna know so bad about literally anything you got going on in that brain of yours with them!

THEYRE EVERYTHING TO MEEEE

I love them literally so much you got it fr

Aight so to start off with Mia wasn’t part of the connections or even looking to get into that specific kind of work when she first met Ethan. They were just two kids in college barely out of high school. They had the same friend group and everything, as average as average could get.

After college Mia ends up being scouted for their little group- probably something along the lines of how a MLM/pyramid scheme works where someone sought her out and twisted what their company was about so she’d join. Most likely making it seem like they were doing good so when she found out what they were truly doing it didn’t matter anymore to her.

The whole “trading company” thing is from them too. They’ve got an entire cover that all of documents and insurance is under and all that fancy stuff so Ethan never suspects it and they get married with Ethan being none the wiser.

Not that she wants to lie to him but she believes it’s for the greater good anyway. She can keep it a secret. She’s always been good at that.

And Ethan? Well, he knows something is off just doesn’t know what and doesn’t want to question it for fear of losing her. He’s so in love with her that he doesn’t really care. She isn’t cheating on him which is enough for him.

So when she dies he can’t help but think it’s his fault in a way. He blames himself. If he had just been closer to her and made her open up or confronted her about whatever it was she was hiding then maybe she wouldn’t have accepted the job abroad and maybe she wouldn’t have died trying to get home.

His life is damn near over when Mia is gone. Ethan is so heartbroken he loses his job because he doesn’t go in to work, staying at home and falling into a deep dark depression soon after losing her- she was his entire world.

He only stays like that for a few months at most. He’s got a friend in California who’s job is hiring and convinces Ethan to move out there. Other friends of his reminded him that Mia wouldn’t have wanted that sadness for him, that she’d want him to be happy- she loved him so much it would break her heart to see him in so much pain. It doesn’t really help much at the time but he does leave Texas and moves out to california.

He never stops looking for her though. Once Ethan gets settled in at his new place and new job- he keeps an eye on missing persons articles and anything that could be Mia. Her body was never recovered so surely she’s still out there somewhere. He spends a lot of time obsessing over it, he’s incredibly stubborn.

He’s just about given up on it when he gets her Email.

Mia on the flip side spends those three years at the Bakers fighting for her damned sanity. It’s the memory of Ethan and her love for him that will often bring her back to reality when Eveline has gotten her claws in her.

She spends ages avoiding the Bakers and learning the estate like the back of her hand just trying to get out, to get back to Ethan.

And that persistent thought of him is what draws Evie to Ethan in the first place. She wants Mia to be her mommy so badly and for Mia to be happy with her but she knows Mia won’t be happy until she has Ethan back.

After Dulvey they’re horribly dysfunctional.

Mia is damned near manic and she’s incredibly paranoid.

Ethan doesn’t feel the same and he chalks it up to trauma often (and I also headcanon Ethan as autistic which he doesn’t know he is- he’s known he’s different since he was a kid but it seems to come and go. And with the presence of the mutamycete in his system he’s all over the place poor guy). He still can’t fathom how all of what happened… happened. He tries so hard not to look at all his scars because it makes it even harder to grasp.

They’re both snippy and get into fights, enough they’ve had the cops called on them. But they can’t bear to be apart, it only makes it worse. It’s this awful flip of going from being the perfect couple to no longer working. And it’s hard for them with how much they had loved each other before hand to just all of a sudden not work out?

The only reason they even stay together as long as they do is because they still love each other but what happened, Mia’s lies, the horrors that are so very real in the world, it all makes it hard.

It’s only when Mia ends up pregnant that things are kinda put into perspective for them. That’s when they move out to Romania. They want to get as far way as possible. Running away had worked for Ethan so maybe it could work for them too. They could have a life far away from all the bad and terror that they’ve faced. Rose was like a new leaf for them.

They’re new identities were in being parents. They threw all of themselves into it. Whereas before they found themselves in each other they now found it in their daughter.

And they still didn’t communicate well which is why when Mia started acting strange those few days before the village incident Ethan didn’t say a damn thing. He gives her space, maybe too much, maybe he should have asked more questions.

Also one of my top songs for them- especially for the beginning of 7 is Wait for Me from HadesTown. Like that’s so them. And then for the part between 7 and 8 I like to listen to My Fault by Imagine Dragons n sob thinking about their dysfunction. And we can’t forget Run to You by CJ Starnes.

Ty Mish <3 I love rambling about these two.

[kinocomix]

Metal band story devlog 11: Dealing with productivity as an artist

so here’s an update since last week, the rest of the designs kind of… worked out. I could go ahead and explain the ways that i got there but you’re well familiar with how the process can be volatile and all over the place and this wouldn’t be adding much value to the conversation. and I really don’t want to burn steps here so I think this is an excellent opportunity to talk about something that was going to come up naturally, which is productivity. though It would be rather dickish on my behalf to talk about designs without showing anything (I feel like that could be a good burn to some designers out there) so here you go:

left to right: Rami (lead singer), Jamil (drummer), Rabih (guitarist/bassist) and Leila (manager/other)

if you’re just here for the comic side of the devlog that’s all there is this week. But if you stick around, maybe you’ll read something you’ll find helpful. anyways…

On the 12th of october 2022, I wrote the following in my journal:

I don’t understand the concept of artistic satiation. The idea that, as an artist you could sit back and just go “yeah I’m good” [...] when I share my art, that’s a part of me that I am proclaiming. this thing is about me. [...] it doesn’t need to change the world, it just needs to have been useful to [me]. so when people “have enough art” it really makes me question their priorities. Were you making art for you? or is the art you’re making not good enough to be called your art?”

Productivity is a surprisingly sensitive topic to talk about with any form of objectivity because if you boil things down, human beings were not created to measure anything: circadian rhythms are a thing because we’re not meant to all go to bed at the same time, there might be a big scary thing and someone needs to be awake at any given time to warn the others. The time of day is never the exact same in two places because you’re not intended to measure it. I’ll stop before it starts to sound like I just drank a bottle of cough syrup and got bored of alphabetising my vegetables. The point I’m putting across is that one of the defining traits of humans is that we construct things around our reality. We add measurements to it that let us do great things, we make GMOs and structures and telescopes and planes and come up with fun stories about things. But if there’s something we can learn from any table top role playing game is that a system is great until it’s not: at that point the solution is to add, change or ignore the system entirely. Productivity is the idea that you can measure the effectiveness of something, even potentially optimize it to make it better – however you may define better. This is where my personal experience comes in, so bare with me for a moment.

earlier that same year, I had this conversation with my therapist, you’ll notice some parallels to that journal entry I mentioned earlier: 

If you pay close attention, you can calculate just how long it really takes someone to internalize the concept of self respect and love. The understanding that a person’s life and worth is unrelated to what it is that they’re doing. Today I am Charbel who goes online by Kinoko and likes to draw himself as a round sheep. Tomorrow I might be Charbel, the man who's passionate about theoretical economics and skydiving, and that’s just as good. Does this mean I have plans to stop art? I don’t think so. I’ve seen first hand that I’m capable of making nice things that help even a single digit amount of people go through a tough time, and I think that’s something great that I want to keep doing. But if something were to happen that permanently stopped my ability to draw and write and talk, I think I’d pick the cello back up again. 

When an artist makes something you like and finishes it, sometimes you wonder why they never seem the same after that. they appear infrequently and seem to close in on themselves. Maybe a large shift will happen in their style and way of doing things that seems unexpected to you. I get it, and I’ll try to explain it, having been through a miniature version of that myself after finishing my first comic. it should come as no surprise that Almost home means the world to me, even less so that finishing something that big leaves an impact on you. What do you do after you save the world? Will you save it again? save another? Sometimes, the answer is easy. you just do something else. It can be daunting and uncomfortable realizing you have to go through all those feelings again, learning to understand and appreciate your new different characters, seeing them grow and then reaching a point where they, for a lack of a more delicate way of saying it, have served their purpose. Do you just… make more? It feels weird. they’re like your kids. 

but you kind of have to. There’s a lot more to say about art block, not having the time for your art and such but I don’t think I’m personally qualified to talk about that since, honestly, it’s not my experience. What I do know is that I have these 4 characters so far, and I’m looking forward to getting to know them better.

now with that out of the way I’d like to discuss some exciting things that aren’t quite ready to share yet that I am doing for the comic. First off, since canonically at some point the band would have a fashion designer, I have spoken to one who seems to be onboard and looking forward to working with me. Second, I’ll be visiting a dog shelter to get references to make the fifth member of the band sometime soon. lastly, I need to learn how to use musecore because… reasons. making a comic is hard okay?

we also need to work on the branding for the band and make concept art and like a billion things but WE’RE GETTING THERE

devlog updates on tuesdays.

[cyberrat]

72nd Batch Of Fics: 12th Fill

Hana/Brigitte – cont B71F14 – Part 1/2 (or 3) – transwoman Brigitte; girls in love; dirty talk; (fantasizing about) anal – Brigitte and Hana make a fun bet!

---

Hana’s hand is wrapped around Brigitte’s ponytail, keeping her nice and close so she can keep sucking kisses into Brigitte’s mouth that take the breath out of her lungs.

She’s so much taller than Hana but when she’s with her she feels so soft and submissive and really really thankful that Hana doesn’t feel an ounce of shame crawling all over her.

It’s still difficult to believe that they are girlfriends now.

Hana is sitting sideways on Brigitte’s lap but for once there is a lull in their kissing and she just sighs all content and puts her head against Brigitte’s shoulder.

Brigitte draws idle little patterns on her thigh with a finger, thoughts just moving along. She’s half-hard but she doesn’t feel a particular urge to do something about it just now.

“What are your plans for the weekend? I thought we could do something…”

Hana hums thoughtfully, then sighs again; this time not all that content but a bit annoyed. “I can’t. I got to practice some stuff. There’s this charity tournament coming up and I can’t blow them off…”

“Well you shouldn’t, if it’s charity,” Brigitte says earnestly. “But uh… what kind of event? Like… video games?”

Hana nods, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. “Sure! What other type of tournament would I be in, dummy?”

“Do you really have to practice for that? I mean… you already play so long each day, you’re a pro at everything.”

“It’s not one of my go-to games. I’m super rusty at it.”

Brigitte does not look convinced.

Hana rolls her eyes. “Listen. I know that you’re like a… video game virgin or something. Just believe me that it’s not that easy.”

“I am not! My dad played those really really old ones with me. Mario. But we… kind of got distracted I think, trying to pimp the system.”

She squints into the middle distance, trying to recall what exactly happened. Hana thumping her shoulder again jerks her out of her thoughts to look at her.

“Well first of all: that sounds fucking amazing and if there’s a pimped SNES in your garage, I absolutely want to see it. And second: why don’t we do a little bet?”

“What kind of bet?”

Brigitte tugs a loose strand of hair behind Hana’s ear. She tends to get distracted by how pretty she is; everything on her so dainty and pixie-like with a fierce personality that seems way too big for her body.

Hana curls her arms around Brigitte’s neck, pulling herself in until their tits are pressed together and her mouth is against her ear.

“I’ll let you play some Super Mario and if you can beat the first like… three stages or something without a game over, I’ll blow off practice and fuck you all. Weekend. Long.”

She suckles on Brigitte’s ear, biting into the soft flesh and pulling on it until the words have properly sunk into her brain and she curls her arms around Hana’s waist, holding her close to her body.

“And if I lose?”

Hana giggles, putting her head on Brigitte’s shoulder. “Well then I got to practice all weekend and you got to take care of your big fat cock all by your lonesome.”

She wiggles her ass back and forth, probably having been able to feel Brigitte’s half hard erection for the past hour or so.

Brigitte swallows thickly and nods. Honestly, it sounds like too much fun not to try and do it.

“Okay. Yeah, that sounds fair.”

Hana squeals in delight, pressing a kiss against her girlfriend’s cheek and jumping up to get things ready.

Brigitte sits there, watching her hectically move about the room, trying to refrain from sliding a hand underneath her skirt and curling her fingers around her cock. She presses down on it until it is between her thighs which she clenches around her dick. It’s a bit painful but that’s kind of what she was going for anyway.

Anything to make her stop pushing toward that edge. Anything so she wouldn’t come just from watching Hana’s little ass bouncing around the room and fantasizing about holding her thighs together while she carefully squeezes her way into her perfect little peach.

And she could do that all weekend long. Just fuck Hana and fuck her and fuck her more until her pussy is so sore she begs her for some reprieve.

And then, maybe, she’ll offer Brigitte up her asshole. That secret little furl of muscle that Hana is surprisingly shy about getting wrecked on cock.

Fingers impatiently snapping in front of Brigitte’s face startle her out of her thoughts.

She looks up at Hana whose expression goes from exasperated to smug. Reaching out, she touches her cool fingertips to Brigitte’s flushed cheek.

“Have you been thinking something naughty just now?” she purrs. “Oh, what a dirty girl you are…”

Brigitte swallows thickly. Not knowing what to say, she just stares as Hana’s grin becomes wider.

“Have you been thinking about your reward?” she asks softly. She puts a hand on Brigitte’s shoulder and reaches down with the other to slowly – oh so slowly – ruck up her skirt.

She’s wearing panties underneath… but she might as well not. They’re so thin, Brigitte can see her gash through their fabric; her peach looking ripe and juicy and just perfect for Brigitte to fit her mouth around and suck until her labia are obscenely swollen along with her little clit-

“Oh wow… fuck… you really are horny, aren’t you?” Hana sounds surprised and delighted. Tucking the hem of her skirt into its waistband, she slowly lets a single finger dance along her slit. Once. Twice.

Tickling herself and mewling out the sweetest, breathiest moans. They’re played up, probably… but they sound so good-

Brigitte presses both hands against her lap, trying to keep her cock trapped. It’s throbbing painfully.

“Naughty little girlie… only thinking about sticking that big fat cock of your’s into my poor little cunny, are you?” Hana asks. It sounds a bit degrading; and Brigitte has trouble swallowing all the saliva flooding her mouth.

“I’m already starting to wet through my panties, you know…”

Brigitte has to wrench her gaze away from Hana gently brushing her finger along her gash. She stares at her cat-like eyes; the sharp, knowing grin on her face – and realizes that the game has already begun.

Hana isn’t playing fair, of course. She should have known.

Brigitte licks her lips, somehow finding her voice.

“You uh… you’re done, right?”

Hana’s eyes glitter. She looks dangerous in that moment; like a predator… only that Brigitte is some very willing prey.

“Oh I’m nowhere near done. But yeah. I set everything up. Sit on the floor, doggy, the cable isn’t long enough. We’re going full old school for this. You’re going to appreciate that, right?”

Brigitte starts to wonder if she should regret ever having poked that particular hornet’s nest, but honestly… she can only go out of this a winner at this point. Hana obviously is in a devious mood and while they haven’t been together for that long yet, Brigitte has found that Hana in a devious mood always ends up in some kind of orgasm.

So why the heck not?

“Do your worst.”

“Oh… I’ll make you eat those words.”

[skyedancer2006]

Othertober Day 12 - Guarded

We’ve been wanting to draw this scene from our ‘kin memories for a while, but couldn’t work up the motivation to until now. Not the most happy with the facial expressions (especially on the humans), but we’re happy with the rest of it ^^

(Rant/explanation of my ‘kin memories and why I made this for the prompt below the cut since it got very long lol)

Ok, so to all the folks who may be finding this through the main Undertale AU tags or simply don’t know us well, we are a Nightmare Sans fictionkin, meaning we are him in some way. For us personally, it’s a mix of a past life/reincarnation thing and some psychological stuff we’re really not sure how to explain. (Also random note: we are NOT a system or plural in any way; we just like using we/us pronouns to refer to ourself. We will use I/me in places we aren’t sure how to or where it would be confusing to use we/us, though)

All of what is written below is our memories of living as Nightmare. Some of it is the same as the original canon, but some isn’t (especially the events surrounding our corruption).

Anyways, now that we have that out of the way, here’s the actual explanation for why we drew this for today’s prompt; guarded.

As Nightmare, my brother (Dream) and I’s job was to keep the balance between positivity and negativity, and to protect the Tree of Feelings, on which grew golden and black apples representing the positive and negative emotions of the multiverse. Dream was in charge of the positivity, and I was in charge of negativity.

The people of the village near the tree loved my brother because of his positive aura, but hated me because of the side of the emotional balance I represented and was in charge of. They attacked me verbally and later physically. We don’t quite remember if we ever told Dream about it, but if we did, anything he did to help didn’t work, and the attacks became more vicious over time.

When Dream and I were 8 years old, he went down into the village to play with his friends, and I stayed behind to read and watch the tree. A human from the village (who I clearly remember having messy brown hair and blue eyes) came up to me and said he came for one of the golden apples.

Now, the apples on the Tree were pretty much concentrated emotions, and they contained way too much power for any mortal to have without dying. Even Dream and I knew to not eat them, as though it wouldn’t kill us since we were the guardians and practically immortal, it would do irreparable harm, though we didn’t know exactly what that entailed at the time.

We told him no, and that he would have to talk to Dream since those were his apples. The human said something along the lines of “I wasn’t asking,” and a mob of other villagers, both human and monster, came over the hill the tree was on, armed with whatever they could get their hands on in the small village.

And that’s what the drawing is! The moments before they actually attacked us while we did our best to guard the Tree while Dream was down in the village. After this they beat us to the edge of our life and left us to die while they cut down the Tree to get all the gold apples.

One of the gold apples rolled over to us and we grabbed it to try saving it, but it corrupted under our touch and turned into one of the black apples. Since we were already probably going to die, we ate the apple as a last ditch attempt to stop the villagers from taking the apples. It corrupted us and turned us into the black slime-covered, one eyed, four tentacled skeleton most people think of when they hear “Nightmare Sans.”

After that everything is a blur, as we weren’t really ourself after we ate it, at least not until we met the gang (Killer, Horror, Dust, Cross, and kinda Error) a few hundred years later. I killed all the villagers that came to the tree, and destroyed the village in my negativity-fueled rage. We aren’t sure what happened to Dream; whether he turned to stone for 500 years like in the original canon or if something else happened, but either way we fought almost non-stop after my corruption, like how the fandom portrays us most of the time.

And that’s all our ‘kin memories up to our corruption! And the explanation for why we drew what we did! Sorry it was so long; these are the most vivid ‘kin memories we have, so there was a lot to write. They’re so vivid in our mind we thought they were the original canon for years! It wasn’t until we re-read the comic that we realized that wasn’t the case XD