#stream kneecap

[thismustbetheblog]

Best interaction from the Kneecap/Corbyn discourse

[crazy-lizard-lover]

And then Sharon Osbourne wants them deported for calling out Israel for their genocide.

Anyways, I'm now blasting Kneecap music

Coachella: let us get famously political rappers Kneecap to perform at our festival

Coachella when Kneecap get political: hey wait- no

[birdhousematerial]

yeah i wrote about 4k words and now i’m crying, please this is so stressful, not the writing but what i’m writing about

i wont change my story but when itafushi start arguing in this or get upset with each other i kinda black out and reject my own ideas like “no, they’re in love and adore each other why is megumi raising his voice and why tf am i orchestrating this”

yuji is a wet and trembling chihuahua in this chapter ya’ll keep him in your thoughts

[halfagod]

happy paddy’s eve eve 🇮🇪 sharing my st. patrick’s day playlist in case any of ye feel like getting into the fenian spirit this weekend xx

[bibleofficial]

legal weed comparisons netherlands to us:

- purchase limit (day): 5g vs 1oz

- available to purchase: bud/hash, brownies vs … name a noun ? 😭😭

- percentages: <25% vs >25%

- price 35€/3.5, 15€ fatty prerolls vs just buy it illegally so u don’t have to pay taxes on the same product 😭😭

overall i mean it runs standard to black market broadly for eu it’s just … legal-ish

[aquiusf]

Welp, i just made all the streams i remembered to export out of twitch public on youtube, ENJOY(or ness will come for your kneecaps)

[watcheraurora]

Tango Stream Quote

Cleo: Is there any way to kneecap Pearl [for Hungry Hermits]? Joe: It's called a flight to Australia and a crowbar

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 17 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

A/N: some writing at the end. don't miss it!

TW: daddy issues

To say you'd been "checked out" for the past week was an understatement. Your daddy issues had always been the punchline of a self-deprecating joke, the kind that gets a nervous chuckle and a quick subject change. But deep down, you knew that particular brand of emotional baggage wasn't just a problem; it was the fertile ground from which all your other charming neuroses bloomed.

Your parents' relationship wasn't exactly a gentle stream flowing through a meadow. More like a constant, head-on collision between two very stubborn, very loud freight trains (unless you count your eventual trust issues as a logical outcome of witnessing the wreckage).

You were the resident eavesdropper, a tiny, silent gargoyle perched atop the stairs, knees tucked so tightly to your chest you could practically feel your kneecaps fusing. The yelling was the soundtrack to your childhood, a discordant symphony of slammed doors and raised voices.

Then, one day, the music stopped. Not a fade-out, more like a sudden, jarring silence. And just like that, the man who was supposed to be your superhero vanished into thin air. Your mom, bless her tight-lipped heart, offered no grand explanations, no dramatic pronouncements. Just a simple, devastating "Daddy's not coming back." At eight years old, that sentence was a linguistic black hole, sucking up all understanding and leaving behind a void.

Fast forward eleven years, past a graveyard of missed birthdays, silent Christmases, and Thanksgivings where his absence was a louder guest than anyone present. He didn't show up for your high school graduation, a milestone that apparently ranked at the bottom on his list of priorities.

And it was in those years, navigating the minefield of adolescence and burgeoning adulthood, that you truly began to catalogue the sheer, unadulterated damage his disappearing act had inflicted.

Your teenage years were a masterclass in misguided control. Since you couldn't control whether a parent stuck around, you decided to control the one thing you absolutely could: your own body. Turns out, an eating disorder is a fantastic (and by fantastic, I mean soul-crushingly awful) way to feel like you're in charge when your world has gone completely sideways.

And relationships?  You were the queen of the emotional hit-and-run. Anything past the one-month mark felt less like a budding romance and more like an impending disaster.

The script was always the same: they'd either get fed up with your expertly crafted emotional unavailability (a skill honed over years of practice, thank you very much) or you'd execute a swift, silent ghosting – your signature move. It wasn't conscious, not really. More like a highly effective, deeply inconvenient trauma response.

After the original heartbreak, delivered by the man who was supposed to be your ultimate protector, you never quite rebuilt the part of you that knew how to stay. So, you perfected the art of abandoning ship, because being the one who left felt a hell of a lot better than being left again.

Letting anyone new into the inner sanctum of your messy, complicated self was like asking you to perform open-heart surgery with a rusty spoon. Terrifying didn't even begin to cover it.

The thought of someone seeing the darkest corners of your mind, the echoes of that original wound, and then choosing to walk away? Your nervous system literally couldn't tell the difference between vulnerability and getting shot at point blank.

You decided to walk back to John B’s from work. The chateau wasn’t exactly down the road. Given your recent car troubles you usually got Rafe or John B to pick and drop you from work. But these days you enjoyed walking.

Headphones on, world off. Your standard defense mechanism was in full effect, drowning out everything but the carefully curated soundtrack to your current state of advanced avoidance. You were so deep in the rabbit hole of your own making you almost clotheslined Rafe, who was leaning against his truck like he owned the street.

"You're avoiding me," he said, no preamble, just the accusation hanging in the air as he stepped closer.

You mumbled a "Sorry," yanking off your headphones like they were suddenly too loud, your gaze fixed firmly on the ground. "Just been busy." The lamest excuse in the book, but it was all you had.

Your previous setup with Rafe had been demolished. You'd practically lived at his place, especially after the fallout with your mom when you got back from rehab making home feel less like a sanctuary and more like a battlefield. Rafe's bed was a five-star resort compared to your aunt's lumpy sofa.

Then came the fight. Just a few lines, a shift in his usual easygoing dynamic, but it had felt like a physical blow. All that tough-girl bitch fasacde? A paper-thin shield. You were raw and exposed underneath.

The sudden anger in his words, the sheer force of his frustration – it had tripped a wire deep inside you. Your built-in eject button was slammed. He's pissed. He's going to bail.

You had convinced yourself you were unlovable, too damaged to make a relationship work. The thought wasn't logical, but it was loud, a siren screaming through your brain. The only way to control the inevitable was to trigger it yourself. Pull the pin. Run.

So you'd been bunking at John B's, ignoring Rafe's attempts to reach you for the past seven days. Your friends weren't stupid; they knew the whole "my deadbeat dad is back" drama was only part of the story. They just waited, blessedly, letting you self-destruct in peace.

“You know,” Rafe started, his voice rough, etched with hurt, "I was hoping your phone spontaneously combusted. I was seriously considering 'missing persons report.' Figured it was more likely than you just not answering my calls for a week." He rubbed his temples, the gesture speaking volumes about his stress.

You stared resolutely at the ground, the worn-out treads of your sneakers suddenly fascinating. Any attempt to speak would shatter the fragile composure you were desperately clinging to.

"Can't even look at me?" A heavy, frustrated sigh. Then, gently, his fingers were under your chin, lifting your head until your watery gaze was trapped by his. "Baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I blew up at you."

"It's okay," the words were thin and unconvincing, accompanied by a weak, wobbly smile.

"No, it's not okay." He shook his head slowly, his eyes scanning your face, cataloging the damage the past week had wrought. The dark smudges beneath your eyes, skin unnaturally pale despite the relentless summer sun. It was a clear report card of sleepless nights and relentless anxiety.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked, his voice softer now, taking your hands in his. You managed a small shake of your head.

"Are you upset with me, then?" His eyes searched yours, a silent question begging for an answer you couldn't give. "What is it, then? Just tell me. What did I do?" His voice climbed, a note of desperation making it sharp.

The sound transported you, stripping away the years until you were that small, scared child huddled at the top of the stairs, the sound of yelling echoing around you.

Tears welled instantly, spilling over and tracking down your cheeks. You recoiled, stepping away, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself, shrinking inward.

"Hey, hey," Rafe was there in an instant, circling you, his arms gentle as he pulled you into a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

You collapsed against him, deep, racking sobs tore through you, shaking your entire frame. Your face pressed into his chest, soaking the front of his shirt. He held you close, rocking you side to side in his arms.

"It's okay," he said quietly, his voice low and comforting, guiding you towards the open door of his truck. "We don't have to figure it all out right now." He helped you in. "Let's just go home, yeah?"

You knew exactly where home was.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

"I missed you so fucking much," Rafe groaned, pulling you into him, tangling you both in the sheets.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his chest, the apology a small, inadequate offering for the week of silence. "I... I don't know why I'm like this." 

It was a lie, a reflex born of habit, because you knew exactly the root of this twisted behavior.

"It's okay," he murmured, his hand stroking your hair.

"No," you pushed yourself up, crossing your legs on the bed. "It's really not."

He sat up with you, leaning against the headboard, his expression open, waiting. He didn't demand answers, just reached out, his fingers finding yours, lacing them together, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I'm a leaver," you choked out, the confession a raw wound.  "That's what I do. When things get... real, or tough, I run. It feels like it's just... in my programming. Part of the factory settings." 

You finally looked away, shame heating your cheeks. "So when we argued... it felt like the beginning of the end. And I just thought it would be easier to... handle the exit myself."

"Baby," Rafe's grip tightened slightly on your hand, his voice soft but firm. "That was a stupid argument. My fault. It wasn't the end of anything."

"You don't want this, Rafe," you insisted, shaking your head, a dry, humorless laugh escaping you. "Trust me. Because this is what you get. Someone who disappears, who shuts down, who builds walls the second things get hard. No one in their right mind would sign up for that."

"Well, maybe I'm not in my right mind then," a faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes were serious. "Listen to me. I see the walls. I see you pushing. And yeah, it hurts like hell. But I also see you. The person underneath all that. The person who's been through some serious shit and is still standing. Still sarcastic. Still amazing."

He squeezed your hand again. "And I don't care if you push. I'm starting to understand how your defense mechanisms work. I just... I want to be here for you. If you'll let me."

Your throat felt tight, your eyes blurring again. "I don't know how," you whispered, the admission a painful one. "I don't know how to... let anyone help me."

A flicker of hurt crossed his face. "Like you do with your friends?" The question hung in the air, unspoken acknowledgment that he meant John B.

"It's just... easier with him."

"How?" His voice was gentle, curious, not accusatory. He genuinely wanted to bridge the gap.

"He knows," you explained, the words finally flowing, carrying the weight of years. "He was there. When my dad left. He knows the before and the after. He knows all the messy parts. I don't have to explain. He just... gets it. Automatically."

Rafe nodded slowly, a dawning comprehension softening his expression. "So... that's what this week was about? Your dad?"

You nodded, a hesitant dip of your head. Swallowing hard, your stomach twisting with nerves, you made the decision. A leap of faith. He'd stayed through your silence. He was still here, holding your hand. You wanted this to work. You wanted him to last. 

And then you started talking. The words tumbled out – the sudden reappearance, the complicated, painful history, the gaping wound of the "daddy issues." You laid it all out, the ugly parts, the fear, the feeling of being fundamentally flawed. And as you spoke, pouring out years of buried pain, the weight on your chest began to lift, just a fraction.

"Baby," Rafe murmured when you finished, pulling you into a fierce hug, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, the other stroking a soothing path down your spine. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. Trust me, I know a thing or two about shitty dads."

"I'm sorry I don't... open up," you mumbled into his shirt, the apology feeling small but necessary. "It's just... hard. Because if I let myself feel things, if I let someone see... all of it..." You pulled away from him, meeting his eyes. "...I'm terrified they'll leave. That you'll leave." The confession was a quiet ache in the air. "It's easier to be the one who walks away than to stand there and watch someone else do it. It hurts less to expect it than to be blindsided."

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and earnest. "I know that's your default setting. I know you've been hurt. But I'm not him." He paused, letting the unspoken name hang in the air, acknowledging the shadow of your father. "I'm not going anywhere just because things get a little messy, or because you're having a tough time, or because you show me the parts you try to hide."

"I'm here. And I'm staying. You pushing me away for a week? It didn't make me want to leave. It made me worry. It made me want to figure out what was going on. It made me realize... how much you mean to me." He reached out, gently cupping your face in his hands.

"I'm not going to leave you, baby. Not for this. Not for anything." His voice was a solemn promise, etched with sincerity. "You don't have to be afraid of falling apart in front of me. I'm not going to leave no matter how much you run, I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth.”

"When you're shutting down, tell me. Just a word. 'I need space.' 'I'm freaking out.' Something. So I'm not left guessing. Communicate what's going on. Okay? Can you do that?" He continued.

"I can do that. I'm gonna work on it,” you promised him, and you meant it.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

Taglist:

@yktayy9669 @urmomaahoe @rafesgurl @rafesdrew @sophreakingfunny @hannaa20002000 @furiouscopshepherduniversity @mirellef2001 @colbysbrocks @drewstarkeytruelove @luzstarkey @sassyvilliantrope @wintercrows

@lolasangelz @scream4mami @pixieflu @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pandxra @Ivxstarr @kissylec @hannieskzzz @soulsearchinginkauai @mysticbby2009 @matildalittlefreak @giouvarlakia @yncoded @my-name-is-baby @harryzcherry @lilithblackkk @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ethanthequeefqueen

@angelicameron @rafecameronswhoore @Imaowhatt @jun13bug @sqfewrd @chillgal135 @angeldiaryy @bee-43 @chirpchirp69 @klarxtr

@countryclubwhore @ayy1234567 @gublerstylesobrien1238

[wlwsoccerfics]

Lights Out & Pain On (LionessesXHamptonReader)

Warning: knee injury.

Summary: the England vs Spain Game ends in pain for you when the Lights Go out.

You felt the rush, close to the Goal of your opponents. You saw Out of the Corner of your right eye , that Leila tried to tackle you. But before you could Score or Leila could react the Lights went out and she collided with your knee. You yelped in pain. Holding your right knee. Some tears streaming down your face. Leila managed to kneel down next to you.

"i am so sorry." She told you. It was so dark that no one had seen you get hurt yet. And no one apart from Leila had heard you. it was just too loud at Wembley.

"not your fault but Leila it Hurts." You told your Manchester City teammate."i can't move it anymore." You sobbed out. All of sudden the Lights turn back on and people started shouting and gasping. Leila waving over the medics. Your older sister racing out of the England Goal and over to you. Your Teammates looking quite concerned but tried to tell you some positive stuff.

"y/n!" She screamed. Kneeling down in front of you. At the same time as the medics.

"i can't move it. I can't get Up." You sobbed out. The pain getting worse by the minute. So you quickly got taken off the pitch on a stretcher. Mary got subbed in so your sister could come with you. You being carried into the tunnels. Then it hit you. Your girlfriend Georgia probably saw what happened on TV and must be really worried. It was like your sister read your mind.

"Focus on getting your knee checked i will call Georgia!" Hannah answered. Offering you a small comforting smile.

"thank you." You told your sister. The pain meds slowly kicking in.

When you reached the medics exam room and they laid you down they figured right away that you needed Scans because your kneecap looked like a Rainbow at this point. It was different Shades of blue from the bruises and swollen.

"i am certain your knee cap is fractured. Which does require surgery sometimes. Not always though." The medics stated. Deep down you knew it was bad before He said anything but hearing it made it so real. You couldn't hold back the sobs anymore.

Your sister gently hugged you. Kissing your head.

"it will be okay. It all will be okay. you are not alone in this!"Hannah let you know. She then grabbed her phone to call Georgia.

"how is y/n?!" Georgia asked right away. Your sister had her phone on speaker. She could hear your sobs "Babe? Talk to me?" Your girlfriend and England teammate told you. She currently was in recovery, ironically it was for a knee Injury as well.

"hi Babe. The pain after the meds is better but inam worried about how long i will be out with this injury! It's my knee cap. They think it's fractured. I am going to the Hospital in a few to find out the next steps!" You explained.

One of the stuff members drove you and Hannah to the hospital. You promised you would Update everyone including Georgia with News about your knee as soon as you knew what was wrong.

Thankfully you didn't have to wait that long to find out. But unfortunately there were No good News that day.

"to fix this fracture you require surgery. we would like to keep you here and fix it first thing in the morning. If it goes well you can leave tomorrow at some point." The doctor explained. Hannah sent the Update into the Lionesses group Chat. And also informed your parents. You always wondered how your parents handled you and Hannah getting hurt on the pitch and them not being able to help.

When you were in your room for the night you weren't able to rest. Cause all you could think about was that you will be out for months. And most likely miss out on the Euros this year. But at least you knew you weren't alone with your recovery. So that helped a bit.

[thriplerex]

hermitcrab charitree streem (plz reblog n share)

hermitcraft charity stream dis week, watch at scarred man place:

check out fun hermitcraf doodads for sale here, monies go to good cauz

donate or we take ur kneecaps /silly

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Okokokok SO….. I know the cowboy!reader is already set up with JJ- but what if there’s like one fic with hotch instead of JJ as the love interest?

Love your work! Make sure to eat and drink some water!

-Gay trash panda

Oooooo!!! Is it really bad if now I want to do that as a separate series? My whole tumblr is just gonna be cowboy reader, I can see it now (I mean it already is - don't worry I fucking love cowboy reader)

combination of this ask too

Warnings: mentions of death, child deaths, yelling, kissing (fairy heavy make out scene which feels weird to type), yelling

Taglist at the bottom of the post

When you first joined the team, Hotch was a dick. He didn’t trust you, he didn’t like that the decision to add you to the team didn’t go through him. And he made that known from day one.

He had made snippy comments from your first day and had yet to stop. You would catch him glaring at you for no specific reason. You would always be the first one he sent back to the hotel on a case. And you were sick of it. It made you want to rip your hair out. 

This time, he was particularly annoyed because you had intervened during a hostage situation. Everyone else was practically sitting ducks, trying to talk him down when there was a little boy with him. You had disobeyed direct orders and snuck into the building, taking the unsub down (you knocked him out). Hotch was absolutely fuming from the second he realised you were gone. Stream practically flew out of his ears. 

You all head back to the police station in silence, Hotch motioning for you to get in the same car as him, Reid, and Rossi. Tension filling the air. You all made your way back to the bullpen, thankful the case was close by. 

“(Y/N), my office. Now.” Hotch says, walking past you, going straight to his office. 

“Good luck,” Morgan mumbles as you walked past him. 

You walk in. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Hotch snaps, as soon as you were in his office, door not yet fully closed before he’s yelling.

“What was I thinkin’?” You scoffed, “I was thinkin’ a kid needed help and none of y’all seemed to be doin’ anything about it!”

“You know it takes time to talk an unsub down!”

“N I weren’t willin’ to wait!” You snap. “I didn’t wan’ another dead kid in my arms!”

“You were reckless! If you keep going like that, you will end up with another dead kid in your arms!” He exclaimed. 

You don’t care that he’s your boss, that this is probably going to get you fired. All you can think about is the anger as you slam him against the wall. You both glare at each other, chests rising heavily. Silence passed, both of you glaring at each other, chests still rising angrily.

“You keep breathin’ like that n I’m gonna wanna kiss that pretty mouth of yours,” You mumble. 

And the next thing you know, he’s kissing you. And he's breathing heavily, the thought of you pressed against him causing his brain to short circuit. You don’t hesitate, kissing him back. The argument and hatred forgotten, your hands gripping his blazer tightly as you push against him, deepening the kiss.

Some clears their throat and you both pull away at record speed. Ignoring the potential whiplash, you turned to the noise, Garcia grinned at you both. “Thank God you finally realised, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”

Taglist:

@xweirdo101x @xdark-acadamiax @ara-a-bird @poolclaws @chaosofmanyfandoms

@prmsn-17 @logicalhorror @shane18492 @iliketozoneout @goth-boi-atlas

@introvertpan84 @13thdoctor-run @winterwitchxxfan @ducks118 @woodandwaxwings

@aphroditeslovr @wizardmon3 @pinxeajin @pendragon-writes @chubbyboyinflannel

@migwayne @bigolgay @technikerin23 @supercriminalbean @honestlycasualarcade

@1s3v3n1 @oddmiles @kevyeen @stealing-kneecaps @criminalskies

@azeal-peal @luvfornick

[2xchomp]

I have made an artwork of Pearl’s chat personified as lil spuds that follow Pearl around just floating about :D

There’s only a few references that I was able to put in (ie. the kneecaps and centaur etc.) as they were on the streams I was able to catch, but I am pretty proud of how I’ve made chat

[kawaiitronwastaken]

Happy birthday, Pearl! I actually drew this during stream on June 12th (I’m American)/13th, 2024, but with me moving to Tumblr on July 23rd, it would’ve felt weird to post this over a month after the Redstone Master Pearlo’s birthday, so I just posted it the day I moved here and scheduled it for June 13th, 2025. Big brain.

…Yeah, us Pearl fans are a little different. Starting hgldshgjh cults, stealing the kneecaps and braincells of anyone who joins PotatoMoons, and scheduling posts for 11 months in the future.

[dreamings-free]

"Kneecap getting a bunch of Americans to pop for 'Margaret Thatcher is still dead' then sing 'Maggie's in a box' is crazy"

By Poppy Burton 12th April 2025

Kneecap led an anti-Margaret Thatcher chant during their explosive Coachella 2025 set, with fans reporting the online stream had cut out shortly after.

The Irish group performed at the Californian festival – which will see sets from the likes of Post Malone, Travis Scott, Missy Elliott, Charli XCX, Megan Thee Stallion and more over the weekend – last night (April 11), taking to the Sonora stage to kick-start the chant.

Taking aim at former British Prime Minister Thatcher, who they’ve previously labelled a “c*nt”, they said: “Here, if anybody was wondering, Margaret Thatcher’s still dead,” which drew a massive cheer from the crowd, who then sang along to “Maggie’s in a Box” to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Give It Up’.

The trio, made up of Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap, and DJ Próvaí, are longstanding critics of the former Conservative leader and are well known for being outspoken politically, utilising their set to make several statements in support of Palestine and the six counties.

Fans watching along online took to social media after their performance, with many claiming the stream cut out and the band had been “censored” after the chant. Others attending the festival reported the band closed out the set by saying “Free Palestine”, a moment one X/Twitter user claimed was not kept in the stream.

The band later took to their social media channels to confirm that part of their set was cut along with their “Free Palestine” message.

They wrote: “Not the only thing that was cut – our messaging on the US-backed genocide in Gaza somehow never appeared on screens either. Back next Friday Coachella and it’ll be sorted. Grma to everyone who packed out the tent.”

12/4/25

-> full article at nme.com

[generic-sonic-fan]

Crybaby, crybaby

Summary: Omega and Amy have a storied tradition of destroying things together. But today, something is off. Omega helps as best he can.

1486 words

---

“Hey omegaaaaaa!! I’m feeling upset 💥💥💥!!! want to meet me at the junkyard?”

Omega was no stranger to these sorts of texts- they were the primary method of communication between him and Amy Rose. They found out early on that they were quite opposite in their hobbies and preferred topics of conversation, but this one activity brought them together like no other.

Amy had previously arranged with the owner of a junkyard on the perimeter of the city for permission to demolish the ruined cars. She cared about this sort of courtesy; Omega did not, but avoiding the hassles of the meatbag legal system was something he could appreciate.

Omega eased his jet boosters and slid to a stop in front of the barbed wire fence. A loud crash told him that Amy was already inside. With a puff from his jets, he hopped the fence and kicked a nearby lump of metal into a pile of wrecked cars ahead. 

Amy leapt to the top of said pile, and with a magnificent PIKO! she flattened the stack down to his height. 

Omega walked forward and tore the flattened cars in half with a wrench of his claws. He savored the tearing of the metal and shattering of glass, taking the time to analyze the tensile strengths of different components as they broke.

Amy, meanwhile, moved onto the next stack of cars, sending the top one skipping across the broken roofs of others beyond. But when she landed, she hesitated, so Omega grabbed the next car off the stack and tried to skip it further. She had skipped hers three times, he skipped his. . . two and a half times. 2.75 times if he ‘squinted’. Which rounded up to three, which made them even.

Amy did not comment. 

Omega grabbed the next car and tried to break it over his kneecap like he’d seen in a recent human action movie. It didn’t work. He ended up dropping the car, the loose components of it clattering against all the other bits already scattered across the yard. Amy did not flinch. 

Omega scanned Amy further to find. . . moisture leaking out of her eyelids. Inconceivable. Perhaps some coolant from one of the cars had sprayed on her face? 

But then she hiccuped. And let out a sob.

“YOU ARE CRYING.” Omega stated.

She dropped her hammer and covered her eyes. “O-Oh, it's nothing! Just. . . something in my eyes, you know how it is. . .” 

She shuddered and rubbed her eyes. Then she turned to him with a smile. Her upper lip was twitching. She picked up her hammer and tapped it against the car Omega had dropped. It did not even leave a dent. 

“THAT WAS PATHETIC.” 

“I know!” She flung her hammer to the ground again. “I know I am!” 

A stream of tears poured down her cheeks and she covered her face again. She fell to her knees

For four minutes and three seconds, she sobbed and whimpered. Omega spent most of that time trying to reconcile this expression with the data he’d collected so far on her, only to find that he was unable to. 

“I-I’m sorry Omega.” She finally spoke when her whimpering was no longer quite so frequent. “I don’t mean to be- to be like every stupid person you hate. That everyone hates.” 

“IF I DESPISED YOU, I WOULD NOT HAVE COME.” Omega replied. 

“R-Really?” She looked up at him, eyes full of moisture. Like she was absolutely dependent on his next phrase not to spill anymore tears. 

He wasn’t used to this. “AFFIRMATIVE.” 

“Even when- even when I’m like this?” she pointed at the pathetic mess of snot on her face. “Everyone hates when I’m like this.”

“IT IS IRRELEVANT TO ME.” 

“You don’t h-hate it?” 

“I DO NOT.” He reaffirmed again. He didn’t know what else to say. 

“I do-don’t understand, how you of all people can stand me. I’m so- like this! Like this!” She kept pointing at her face. “Stupid and emo- emotional like a stupid little girl.” 

“YOU ARE NEITHER STUPID NOR LITTLE.” 

“How do you know?”

“YOU ARE STATISTICALLY AVERAGE IN HEIGHT FOR YOUR AGE AND GENDER.” 

“Omega, that’s not what I-”

“AND YOU ARE NOT STUPID.”

“But I am overly emotional. Over the stupidest things.”

Omega paused.

“Please don’t play dumb. I do-don’t need you to. You can say it.” She looked down.

“WHAT DO YOU DESIRE FOR ME TO SAY?”

“Stop playing dumb!” She shrieked. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m a crybaby who gets mad over every little thing and I obsess and I. . . and I. . .” 

Omega inched towards her. When she continued to sob into her hands, he knelt down beside her. She still didn’t move. 

“YOU BELIEVE THAT YOU ‘GET MAD OVER EVERY LITTLE THING’?” 

“Y-yeah, because I can’t take a joke, o-or. . .’

“FALSE. THAT IS MY JOB.” 

She choked on her next sob.

“YOU ARE NOT AS WRATHFUL AS I AM.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it a competition.” 

“YOU WERE NOT. WRATH IS AN INFINITE VARIABLE. I AM STILL WINNING, OF COURSE.” 

“That’s not the point!”

“WHY ARE YOU UPSET ABOUT YOUR ADMIRABLE STOCKPILE OF WRATH?”

“Wha- what’s that supposed to mean?”

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR WRATH?”

Amy stared up at him. “Because I’m only angry at the wrong things.”

“FALSE. YOU GET ANGRY WHEN PEOPLE INSULT YOU.” 

“But they don’t mean it.”

“IRRELEVANT.”

“And I get angry when people even just look at me wrong and-”

“BECAUSE THEY LOOK AT YOU AS INCOMPETENT.” 

Her mouth fell open. She looked down at her palms. “Is that why?”

Omega could only look at her palms as well. “IT IS A POTENTIAL HYPOTHESIS.” 

“If you don’t know, then why did you-” She looked at him. “Oh Omega, that’s not fair to you.”

“THAT IS NOT WHAT I WAS IMPLYING!” 

“I’ve seen how other people treat you and it’s not fair that they think you’re any different from them just because you’re a robot.”

“SILENCE!” He pounded his other fist against the ground. “IT IS NOT ABOUT THAT! IT IS ABOUT OUR RAGE!” 

She nodded for him to continue.

“THEY SEE RAGE AS JUVENILE!” Omega pounded his fist again. “THEY RIDICULE MY CRUSADE TO SLAUGHTER EGGMAN!”

“Y-yeah, it’s not something funny to you.” 

“NEITHER IS YOUR RAGE.” Omega clenched his fist beside her.

“No, I guess it’s not. But what about all the other stuff? Like being a cry baby?” 

“CRYING EXPRESSES SADNESS: CONFIRM?”

“Sometimes I cry when I’m angry, or stressed, or happy, or frustrated, or anything.”

“REVISING DEFINITION. CRYING EXPRESSES STRONG EMOTION.” 

“I think so.”

“CONCLUSION: CRYING IS NOT FUNNY.”

“Well, no, maybe it isn’t, but I cry too much-”

“CONCLUSION: CRYING IS NOT FUNNY. VERIFY?”

“I cry too much!” She pushed him away. 

“YOU DO.”

“See, now you’re getting it.”

“BUT IT IS NOT FUNNY.”

“No.” She crossed her arms. “It doesn’t feel funny to me, at least.” 

“THEN WHY ARE YOU MOCKED FOR IT?”

“Because I cry too much.” 

“CRYING TOO MUCH IS ALSO SEEN AS JUVENILE.” 

“Yeah.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

Omega hovered his hand above her shoulders. When he placed it down, she flinched, clearly not expecting it. 

“I-It’s okay Omega, you don’t have to.” She ducked out from his touch. 

He withdrew his hand. 

“Look, I,” Amy stood, “I should get home. Clean up.” 

Omega stood as well. “UNDERSTOOD.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“UNDER ONE CONDITION.”

“And what’s that?”

“YOU ARE NOT INCOMPETENT. OR STUPID. AND ACCORDING TO THE DATA I POSSESS: NEITHER I, NOR ROUGE, NOR SHADOW HATE YOU.” 

“Really?”

“THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES I CAN VERIFY.” He replied. “HOWEVER: THERE IS STRONG DATA FOR TAILS AND KNUCKLES AS WELL.” 

Amy gave a half smile. “And Sonic?”

“I DO NOT POSSESS ENOUGH DATA ON SONIC.” 

“Why not?”

“HE IS A CIRCUMSTANTIAL ALLY AT BEST.”

“But you don’t dislike me?”

“AFFIRMATIVE. YOU ARE PASSIONATE AND DESTRUCTIVE.”

“Ha. ‘Passionate’. Sure.”

Omega loomed over her. “DO NOT DOUBT MY ANALYSIS.” 

“You actually mean it? Passionate?”

“AFFIRMATIVE. UNLIKE SONIC, WHO CLAIMS NOT TO ‘CARE’ ABOUT ANYTHING ASIDE FROM VAGUE MORAL IDEALS.”

“Hey, that’s not true!”

“YOU ARE PASSIONATE. HE IS NOT. THIS IS A STATISTICAL FACT.” 

“So what do you mean by ‘passionate’ then?”

Omega eyed the fence of the junkyard. He could reach it in 4.5 seconds. But instead, he looked back at her. “I AM COMMONLY REFERRED TO AS ‘PASSIONATE’.” 

Amy cracked a small smile. “Aww, Omega. That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“I AM NOT ‘SWEET’.” Omega wagged his finger at her.

She nodded. “Right.” 

“DO YOU CONFIRM THAT YOU ARE NOT INCOMPETENT OR STUPID, AND THAT SHADOW, ROUGE, AND I DO NOT HATE YOU?” 

“I do.” She said. “I mean it.”

“GOOD.” 

Amy grabbed her hammer off the ground and walked to the gate of the junkyard. Omega watched her leave, then kicked around a few more junked cars for them both. 

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Favorite Chapter 5

Summary:  Bucky Barnes, the big boss of the crime underworld, is notorious for his unhinged behavior and punishments.  There’s not much that can fully set him off, unless someone messes with his favorite…

Warnings:  violence, blood, gore, language, smut, depravity 

**Picture is A.I., found on Pinterest.  Don’t come for me.**

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Hours later Bucky was drenched in blood as the cleaners came into the interrogation room and rounded up the pieces of Nicky before hauling him all out toward one of the cars for transportation.  He walked into the shower station just off the interrogation room, turning it on so multiple hoses started pouring water and a fountain of red dripped down his body.  He stripped out of his clothes and threw them in the hamper to get burned, washing off the gore as best as he could before walking out of the shower.  Steve was waiting for him, holding out a robe for him that Bucky put on and tied before facing Steve.

Steve’s face stayed neutral, and Bucky took a stuttering breath.  “How is she?” he asked.

“Still critical, but stable,” Steve answered.  Bucky nodded, looking away and blinking away his tears.  Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  “She’s a fighter, Buck.  She’ll make it. I know she will.”  Bucky sniffed and nodded again.  Steve stepped forward and hugged him for just a moment, then pulled away and kept his hands on his shoulders.  “We’re ready when you are,” he continued.  “I already sent a group out that surrounded the house and has been taking down his security quietly.  The wife and daughter are there, I just need to know how far you’re wanting to take this before we advance.”

Bucky thought about little Seraphina that he’d met just days before.  He wanted Falcone to hurt.  He’d taken his family, and now his last reason for living was hanging on by a thread.  His jaw ticked as he met Steve’s gaze.  “Make it quick.  One second they’re here and the next they’re not, got it?”

Steve nodded somberly.  “Got it.”

***

Falcone never stood a chance.  The attack came from all sides and was quick, the rhythmic popping from gunshots echoing through the mansion and then all stopping within a matter of minutes.  Steve held Falcone firmly as Bucky walked through the house, inspecting everything as his other men drenched everything they could reach in lighter fluid.  Falcone was trying to twist out of Steve’s grip, grunting and swearing up a storm.

“Fuckers!  Get out of my house!  Trina!  Seraphina!” he screamed, his head trying to whip back at Steve, who dodged it easily.

“Trina?  Seraphina?” Bucky called out, and a few of his men brought in their bodies.  Falcone stared in shock, then started wailing as the men set them down on the floor.  “Such a shame,” Bucky said, sounding bored as he glared at Falcone.  “Uncle Sal couldn’t save his favorite nephew, and then Daddy couldn’t save his precious little family.  She had such potential,” he said, glancing at Seraphina.  “If it’s any consolation, they didn’t even feel it.  Which is more than I can say you did for my family.  I’m nice like that.”

Falcone snarled at him.  “Tit for tat, is that it?”

“You made it personal years ago, Sal,” Bucky snarled back at him and slapped him hard, making Falcone yell.  “I’ve been planning your downfall ever since.  I was playing the long game.  I even considered taking her in, giving her the family she deserved,” he pointed at Seraphina.  “But then you came into my house, and you almost took my favorite person in the whole world from me.  You involved my wife.  MY WIFE!” he screamed in his face.  “And that’s a transgression that I simply cannot condone, Sally.”  He grabbed him by the throat and threw him towards his family’s bodies, then took out his gun and shot his kneecaps.  Falcone howled in pain, tears streaming down his face.  “Now you get to stay right here in the castle you built, and watch it all burn to the ground.  What a fine resting place,” he smiled bitterly at him.  “Tell the devil I say hi,” he sing-songed, then walked toward the front door.  “Light it up!” he shouted, and his men started to light everything on fire.

Bucky ignored Falcone’s screams as he left the house, Steve and Sam on his tail as his other men all poured out of the house and surrounding area.  They all watched the house quickly go up in flames, and even as the rest of them left after a while, Bucky stayed, wanting to make sure that the whole house burned to a crisp.  When the house was finally nothing more than charred embers, he walked back to where Falcone and his family were.  He shoved away fallen wood beams and debris until he found their remains, and picked out the family ring that Falcone had been wearing on his right middle finger.  He scrubbed off the soot and ash, admiring the gold band and the large emerald in the middle with the Falcone crest etched into the sides of the band.  

“You okay, Boss?”  Steve asked, following him into the house.

“Better,” Bucky said.  “How is she?”

“No longer critical,” Steve said.  Bucky hung his head in relief, letting out a huff of breath.  Steve pulled Bucky up and kept an arm around his shoulders.  “Let’s get you back to her,” he said.