#the color coding .. i barely remember how i did that

[lapdogchase]

welp its official

[luna-azzurra]

Romance List Prompts

Forced Proximity “Oops, There’s Only One Bed” & Other Nightmares (aka: trapped together, forced to talk, and now I’m noticing your eyelashes??)

✧ They hate each other. Of course they do. But now they’re snowed in at the same remote cabin. One bed. No signal. Nowhere to run from each other or their feelings. ✧ They barely know each other, just enough to be annoyed in passing. Then they get stuck between floors, in the dark, and suddenly all the things they don’t say become impossible to ignore. ✧ They agree to a long-haul drive for mutual convenience. Cue broken-down car, sketchy motel, and sharing snacks like it’s an act of war. By night two, they’re sleeping back-to-back and trying not to notice how quiet it gets when the other person isn’t talking. ✧ They’re both responsible for watching someone else's pet/kid/home. They bicker like divorced parents. They bond over chaos. And somewhere between late-night takeout and arguing over dishes, they accidentally become something like a couple.

Forbidden Romance “We Shouldn’t, But God We Want To” (aka: slow burn with a side of inner turmoil)

✧ They were raised to hate each other. But then they meet, outside the context, outside the war, and start to realize they’re not what they were taught. And it wrecks them both. ✧ They’re assigned to protect someone who is completely off limits. Flirting is forbidden. Feelings are dangerous. And yet? Every glance feels like a confession they can’t afford to say out loud. ✧ Teacher/Instructor x Student, but make it ethical and age-appropriate. It’s a short-term class, a writing retreat, a combat training course. The power dynamic is there, but so is the connection. They try to keep it professional. They fail. Beautifully. ✧ Best Friend’s Sibling... They’re off limits. Point blank. But the tension? The tension is screaming. Especially when the best friend keeps leaving them alone together, completely unaware.

 Grumpy x Sunshine “Why Are You Like This?” (aka: emotionally constipated x aggressively full of feelings)

✧ Roommates from Opposite Vibes... One’s all color-coded calendars and 7AM smoothies. The other hasn’t done laundry in three weeks and growls before coffee. They clash. But one rainy day, the sunshine one leaves soup on the grump’s desk with a dumb little smiley note. It breaks them. ✧ Coffee Shop Owner x Frequent Customer... Grump runs the quiet, broody café. Sunshine comes in every morning with messy hair and too much enthusiasm. The barista rolls their eyes, but they always remember their order. Always. ✧ Hired for the Same Job. Grump is practical. Sunshine is chaotic. They’re forced to collaborate. The tension is delicious. Especially when the sunshine one starts to get under the grump’s skin and into their heart. ✧ They're on a team. The world is ending. The sunshine one makes jokes to stay sane. The grump one acts like they don’t care, until the sunshine one gets hurt. Then suddenly they’re soft, scared, and furious about it.

 Extra Angst & Emotional Damage For the Writers Who Like to Hurt (and Heal)

✧ “You Remembered?” They thought the other didn’t care. They’re used to being forgotten. But then, in the quiet, the other person says something, something small, something specific, and it hits like a train. ✧ “I Would’ve Picked You Every Time” They lost each other once. Circumstances. Timing. Fear. Years later, they meet again. And this time? This time the truth comes out. And it’s raw, and ugly, and healing. ✧ “Don’t Look at Me Like That” They’re breaking. Mid-fight. Mid-confession. One of them cracks and says the thing they swore they wouldn’t say. The other just looks at them soft, wide-eyed and it’s too much. ✧ “I Never Stopped Loving You” Classic. Heart-shattering. Should only be used when you want your readers to cry at 2AM while whispering “why did you do this to me”.

[lov3lyl3tters]

“All the little things”

summary: Spencer shows his love through small, everyday acts of service—making your coffee just right, folding your laundry, stocking your favorite snacks—all quiet ways of saying “I love you” without needing the words.

warnings: Fluff, Slice of Life, acts of service, reader getting sick, Spencer being dreamy

Living with Spencer Reid meant noticing the details.

Not the dramatic ones—the sweeping romantic gestures, the overly flowery confessions, or the movie-style declarations of love. That wasn’t his style. What was his style was quieter. Simpler. And, honestly? So much better.

You saw it first in the small things.

Every morning, when you stumbled into the kitchen barely awake, your travel mug was already full—coffee, two sugars, a splash of oat milk. Spencer never asked. He just remembered.

You used to make a joke about it. “Are you reading my mind again, Dr. Reid?”

He would smile softly, always with that slightly bashful look, and say, “No, I just… pay attention.”

You never had to ask him to do the laundry. Not because it was his chore—there was never any scorekeeping—but because he always noticed when you were exhausted after a long day at the Bureau. He’d quietly sort it after dinner, folding your favorite sleep shirt last so it stayed warm when he handed it to you.

He even did it the right way—sleeves tucked in, tags folded so they wouldn’t itch your skin.

Once, after a particularly hard case, you came home and found that he had already stocked the fridge with your comfort food. Mac and cheese, those overpriced ginger sodas you liked, your favorite chocolate from that specialty store two blocks over.

“Don’t tell me you profiled me at the grocery store,” you teased, collapsing onto the couch with a tired sigh.

He smiled, setting a bowl in front of you. “You don’t have to be a profiler to know what someone needs when you love them.”

You melted on the spot.

He always made sure your phone charger was plugged in before bed, even if you’d tossed it somewhere during the day. He bookmarked your latest reads so you never lost your place. He even color-coded your shared calendar—purple for your work, blue for his, green for nights off together.

The first time you got sick while living together, you tried to brush it off. “It’s just a cold, Spence. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t buy it. He’d already rearranged his schedule, made a thermos of lemon tea, and queued up your favorite comfort show on the TV.

“You need to rest,” he said simply, sitting beside you with a tissue box and a book in hand. “I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

All day.

You weren’t even surprised when he showed up at work with a second umbrella because he checked the forecast and knew you’d forget yours. Or when your car mysteriously got new windshield wipers after you casually mentioned they were squeaky.

One night, you were both curled up on the couch, the quiet hum of the city outside your window, and he was rubbing small circles into your back without even realizing it. You turned to him and asked, “Why do you always do so much for me?”

He blinked, like it was a strange question. “Because you matter to me.”

You stared at him, heart full. “You know, you don’t have to do any of this.”

He smiled again—soft, sure, a little sheepish. “I know. That’s why I want to.”

It hit you then. His love wasn’t loud. It was consistent. Reliable. Woven into the rhythm of your daily life in ways you didn’t always notice until you paused long enough to look.

Spencer’s love language wasn’t about words or gifts or grand gestures. It was about checking the tires on your car before a long drive. About picking up your prescription on the way home. About learning how you like your eggs even though he never eats breakfast.

It was acts of service. Every day. Quietly. Faithfully.

And every time he refilled your water bottle without being asked or plugged in your curling iron because you were running late or made sure you never ran out of the lavender lotion you liked… you fell a little more in love with him.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

But because he wasn’t.

[regressionschool]

I know why

The rec hall smelled faintly of juice and talc, that familiar blend of childhood and control. The padded floor muted every step, every shift, every squirm. Somewhere across the room, someone was singing off-key to a plushie. But in this little corner near the reading nook, she sat alone, perched cross-legged on a foam mat with a stack of oversized board books she had absolutely no intention of opening.

Not with him nearby.

He was kneeling at the low cubbies, sorting crayons and picture cards, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Not a teacher, but a helper. A grown-up. With quiet eyes and careful hands. Littles liked him. So did mommies. And she… well. She was more interested in the way his eyes didn’t look at her when she moved just so.

Her pull-up was dry. She’d checked, obviously. Pale lavender with little sleepy clouds, smooth against her skin, the waistband high above her belly button. It made her waddle a bit when she crawled, but not as bad as a diaper would’ve. She liked the way it clung. Liked knowing it might not cling for long.

She waited until he was close. He was putting away a toy xylophone—just the right distance for her voice to reach, but not quite near enough to pretend she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“I bet you like diapers better.”

He paused, slowly turned his head. “I—what?”

Her mouth curved in a slow, sly smile. She popped a paci between her teeth but didn’t suck—just let it hang there as she tilted her head. “I said…” She tugged up her tunic so the top of her pull-up showed clearly. “…you like it more when girls wear diapers.”

“That’s not—” He looked away, color blooming up his neck.

“Mmhmm.” She scooted forward on her knees, pull-up crinkling softly beneath her. “You always look longer. I seen it. Especially when they’re waddlin’ with that soggy-squish. You try’n not to, but you do.”

He hesitated, hands hovering mid-air like he wasn’t sure if he should be offended, amused, or leave the room entirely.

She giggled. A warm, syrupy giggle that buzzed under her breath. “It’s okay. I know why.”

“…You do, huh?”

“Yup!” She leaned in close, resting her chin on her fists, elbows on the mat. “’Cause I went to school.” She gave the word a smug little bounce, like it was a magic spell. “An’ they teach you why boys look extra when a girl’s got a soggy tushy.”

His lips parted, caught somewhere between a laugh and a protest. “That’s not—what does that even mean?”

He was trying not to smile. Or blush. Or breathe, maybe. She could see it—how still he went, how the edge of one shoulder stiffened like maybe if he just focused hard enough on the color-coded flashcards, he’d vanish into the carpet.

But he didn’t vanish.

He stayed.

She liked that.

She inched closer, until her bare toes nearly touched his shoe. “Wanna know why?” she whispered, eyes big and round and knowing. The paci bobbed between her lips, dangling from its ribbon clip. “Why boys look extra when a girl’s got a soggy tushy?”

He looked like he was about to say no. Like he should say no. But he didn’t.

“…Okay,” he murmured. Quiet. Careful.

Her smile bloomed. “S’cause,” she began, voice dipped in sing-song sweetness, “when a girl’s soggy, it means she’s not thinkin’ no more. Not like a big girl.” She rocked back on her heels, hands splayed in her lap. “Her pants are warm, and her legs are spread, and all the grown-up stuff’s gone poof.”

He stared. His mouth twitched.

“Boys like that,” she added, eyes twinkling. “Makes ‘em feel big. Like they’re the only ones who remember stuff. ‘Cause she don’t gotta anymore.”

That did it.

Color flooded his cheeks. He turned his face away, jaw tight, but not tight enough to hide the curve of his mouth. Not quite.

She beamed. “You like that too, huh?”

His eyes snapped back to her.

And oh—there it was. That flicker. The one she’d seen before, the one he tried to smother when a little girl tugged at her onesie or bent over too far to pick up a binky. He opened his mouth—probably to deny it, maybe to scold her—but the heat in his ears said more than he ever could.

She sighed contentedly and shifted her weight forward, the crinkle of her pull-up louder now, pressed taut between her thighs. Her eyes didn’t leave his face. Not for a second.

And then—

pshhhhhhhhhh.

Her breath hitched. Just a little.

The warmth blossomed low and slow, a heat that spread over her hips and down the seat of her pull-up. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t squirm. Just… let it happen. Watching his eyes as the lavender clouds darkened, as the faint pattern on the front blurred into soggy lines. It swelled between her legs, a warm squish that pressed up as she leaned her weight back into it.

He looked stunned. Like maybe he’d forgotten how to breathe after all.

She blinked slowly and gave a tiny, wet little giggle.

“Guess I’m not thinkin’ no more neither,” she whispered. “Oopsie.”

She sat there in the spreading warmth, a blush of her own rising to her cheeks—but hers was prideful. Satisfied. Her pull-up was puffy now, wet and swollen, and she could feel the way her legs didn’t close right anymore. Didn’t need to.

Her voice was soft—singed with teasing, but almost dreamy now. “You gonna put me in a diaper now?”

She tilted her head, lashes low, the wet squish of her bottom loud in the silence between them. “’Cause I think maybe… I kinda earned it.”

[lottielovelace]

technically

(Valeria Garza x Reader)

summary: You're working as KorTac's reserve medic on an assignment in Mexico, leading you to a "nameless" woman.

You don't know her name. You don't know what she's done and who she's killed. All you do know is that she is very dangerous, very powerful, and you're going to have to do surgery on her. In a bikini. No pressure!

Prior context if you haven't read the prior installments: Reader is König's long-lost half sister. Code name Prinzessin (Sinn for short). Recently graduated from Med school. There is more, but it's not relevant to this specific fic so I'll leave it unspoiled in case you end up reading the series. For people who have been following the series, Ghost x Reader is still endgame, but they aren't together yet and I think Reader's life shouldn't solely revolve around him. Plus she's going to go through the wringer later, so let her have some fun now. And in case it's not obvious, since this is in second person and you don't know Valeria's real name, you know her as Bravo-Three for most of this fic.

originally posted on ao3 (wordcount: 2.2k)

Rating: E

Relationships: Valeria Garza x Reader

Ao3 Tags: Improper Medical Procedure / Cunnilingus / Flirting / One Night Stands / (though actually more like a two night stand)

this is a part of a series

Many thanks to @xstanceh3x for beta-ing!

Technically, this was a work trip.

Only technically.

In everything but name, this was a reward. Your reward for graduating with flying colors: a trip to Mexico.

Now, technically, you were a reserve medic for König, Horangi, and their allies. But you weren’t working in the field—not yet at least. Instead of being in the thick of the action, you were nicely holed away in the villa of their contractor. Not half-bad.

Hell, so long as no one got hurt, it was a free vacation.

So of course midway through your pool lounging, your radio crackled with Horangi’s voice.

“Sinn, are you there? Over.”

“Loud and clear. Over”

“Bravo-Three got hit, I’m taking her to you.”

“How bad is it?”

“Stable, but needs immediate care. I could try taking the bullet out myself, but I figure your stitches will leave the smallest scars.”

“I’m not afraid of another cicatriz,” an accented voice drawled out. Bravo-Three. You didn’t know her name—it was redacted from the files assigned to you—but you knew her face. You’d been briefly introduced when you arrived at the house—her house. The files didn’t say it, but your brother privately divulged that she was the one bankrolling this entire operation.

She was beautiful, stunning in a way that kinda made you forget everything for a second (just enough time for her to gut you). She had a quiet confidence to her. If you looked close you noticed that, while lacking the bulk of her male compatriots, her frame was bound with muscle. Not that you’ve been staring at her, of course. 

Horangi made good time. You were barely able to get out your equipment before the elevator dinged.

Shit, you didn’t even have time to change. You hastily slapped on a mask and gloves. A bikini may be impractical, but so long as it was paired with other PPE, it wasn’t the end of the world.

Horangi stumbled in, Bravo-Three leaning on him. He gently deposited her on the sofa. Her forehead was slick with sweat, messing up her normally immaculate hair.

“This is your medic?” Bravo-Three sneered through gritted teeth.

“Graduated top of her class,” Horangi reassured.

You smiled at her, “I would offer my hand, but I think it’s best for the both of us that these gloves remain sterilized.”

Bravo-Three’s eyes traced your attire with an unimpressed eyebrow but an appreciative gaze.

“I see you have proper scrubs on.”

“Well you did catch me a little off guard.”

“You should be better,” Bravo-Three reprimanded. “This is a job, not a vacation.”

Her tone was firm, but she was not being nearly as harsh as she could be. You remembered overhearing her dress down a subordinate last night (something about some “product” being missing, you weren’t sure, you didn’t speak Spanish). It’d been terrifying (and a little exhilarating). Bravo-Three could be very cruel and very scary when she wanted to be. This was neither. Maybe she had a soft spot for you. Or maybe she was just taking pity on you (or the piss).

“If you want me to change, I’ll change. But I would rather treat this wound immediately.”

“Fine,” the woman relented, a shark’s smile emerging on her face. “At least it’s a nice view.”

You couldn’t stop your blush. You know she saw.

She takes the bullet extraction like a champ, barely wincing as the forceps pull the metal out. It lands onto the living room ashtray with what feels like a deafening clatter.

Changing your gloves, you allow yourself to breathe. Step one down.

Antiseptic in hand, you cleaned her wound before beginning to suture. Even though you were scared out of your mind, your hands didn’t shake. You were too well-trained and practiced for that. Still, your anxiety was noticeable.

“You’re nervous,” Bravo-Three all but purred.

“You’re kinda a big deal. I wouldn’t want to screw it up.”

“I already told you, I’m no stranger to scars chula. No matter how big or small it ends up being, it will be in good company. As long as it heals, all is good.”

She pulled the neckline of her tank top down to give you a visual demonstration. You paused your work to look up and scold her for moving, only to be struck dumb by the sight of bare skin.

Tattoos and scars crisscrossed over her tanned skin. She still had her sports bra on—just as clothed as she would be in the gym—but something about this felt incredibly intimate. Maybe it was the way her dark eyes stared into your soul.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand.

“Just don’t take it out on my brother and Horangi. No matter what happens, pay them in full.”

“Don’t worry, I keep my promises. How did you know, I’m—”

“Your body armor. It’s the good stuff.” A half-truth. You weren’t going to rat on your brother, and her body armor was expensive (your time at the KorTac base taught you that operators had THOUGHTS on armor brands and styles). “Done.”

She looked down at your handiwork.

“Not bad… Princesa, isn’t it?”

Your call sign rolled off her tongue in a way that made you shiver.

“Yes.”

“Nice, very nice.” The woman leant in. She looked even prettier up close. “You know, I don’t like being indebted. I ought to repay you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” your voice was breathless. “Just doing my job.”

“Let me thank you.” Her hand found its way to your waistband. It rested there like a promise. “Would you like me to show my gratitude?”

Want thrummed through you, but your tongue refused to comply—still shellshocked that someone like her would want you. You settled for a nod.

The woman sank to the ground.

You still didn’t know her name. You didn’t know what she’d done and who she’d killed. All you did know was the following three things:

She was dangerous. She was powerful. And she was on her knees for you, wanting to make you feel good.

She parted your legs with one hand, untying your bikini string with the other.

Her touch was gentle but firm. She had a job to do, she knew how to execute it, and she was damn well going to see it through.

You hated to interrupt her but, “Wait, what should I call you?”

“What do you know me as?”

“Bravo-Three.”

“And nothing else?"

“I’ve heard… whispers,” you conceded.

Bravo-Three looked up at you, intrigue now mixed with her lust. “Yes?”

“That you’re known as… the nameless one? I don’t know. I don’t speak Spanish. Either way it doesn’t really roll off the tongue, especially in the heat of… the moment.”

The woman thought about it for a moment, before deciding: “You can call me V.”

“V,” you tested the name on your lips. Clearly another pseudonym, but you didn’t mind that. It was yours to use for, yours alone.

You had only one more request before you surrendered yourself completely.

“V, please don’t tear your stitches.”

----------

She started with soft, little licks. Exploring the way your body reacted. Learning what made your breath hitch and insides clench. She didn’t want to break you, not yet at least.

As she began to get a feel for you and the way you… tick, her movements increased in both speed and confidence. You always prided yourself on being able to keep your mouth shut, but V had this… unpredictability to her that allowed her to pull moans and gasps and other little sounds from you with embarrassing ease.

The noise seemed to embolden her. But you know what they say about cockiness.

She’s skilled. Obviously. Undeniably talented and experienced. But slightly and frustratingly off target.

She’s so damn close to where you need her, but ever so off.

“Harder,” you moaned out.

V’s tongue didn't move. 

But after you add a desperate “Please”, her lips do.

With a jolt you realized that she was smirking. She knew damn well what you needed and was pointedly refusing.

You couldn’t help but let a groan of frustration slip out.

Fine. Guess you have to do it yourself.

You began grinding your hips, rocking her tongue into your cunt, riding her face .

V paused her gloating for a moment, reveling in your movements.

She made a muffled noise. It rumbled against your lips, tantalizing vibrations that only brought you closer to the edge. A laugh, you realized.

Teasing you was fun, but she’d had her fill of it.

Lifting you with ease, she pinned you against the wall—tongue still buried in you. Safely against something sturdy, she started writhing her tongue like a woman crazed. It’s intense, setting every nerve of yours ablaze. Scrambling, practically getting fucked silly, you reach for something— anything to steady yourself. Your hand winds up tangled in V’s beautiful locks, much to her apparent delight.

In the end it’s her canine—not biting, but instead—grazing against your clit that does you in. The shock of cool enamel, the reminder of danger, of the sharp teeth hidden in her plush mouth… your brain went numb.

Your head snapped back and for a second everything was blinding white. For a second you didn’t feel the wall behind you, or V’s grip on your waist, or her arms holding you up. All your body could even comprehend was euphoria.

When you finally came to, it’s to those same goddamn teeth, smiling at you through lips covered in your slick.

----------

You do end up having to redo her stitches. V has enough self control that they remained intact while she went down on you, but when you returned the favor she got… carried away. Arched a little too quickly and they reopened. When you said you wanted her gushing, that wasn’t what you meant.

“It’s a compliment, cariño,“ she reassured as you fixed her up again.

“Yeah, yeah.”

----------

“Well done, the wire transfer should process in two to three business days.”

“That’s good to hear.” Even though your absence perturbed Horangi, the fact that El Sin Nombre was walking around and discussing financial details—relaxed and fully stitched—was a good sign. “How did Sinn do?”

“Nicely. She’s very good with hands. Talented.”

He didn’t like the smug smile plastered on Valeria’s face.

“Where’s she now?”

“Resting. She worked hard. Very hard.”

Horangi thought about it for a moment before deciding, “I don’t need to know the details as long as she’s safe and on the flight home tomorrow.”

Valeria rolled her eyes.

“Yes sir.”

Her words held neither ire nor deference.

----------

You woke up to V’s voice. You groggily opened your eyes to find her on a phone call. Even though she didn’t seem angry with the caller, her voice was sharper than it ever was with you. This was business. Talking in rapid fire Spanish, you didn’t understand a lick of what she was saying—and judging from her ease at discussing such sensitive information with you present, she knew it.

You sat up, eyes still half lidded. At the sight of motion from you, V hung up, redirecting her full attention to you.

“Looks like someone’s a dormilona.” You groaned in response. “There’s some breakfast in the fridge.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You had quite the appetite yesterday.”

“That’s not…” you began to nod off before a gentle nudge from V woke you up once more.

“Come on, I know something that’ll wake you up.”

She ends up leading you downstairs, dressed in her pajamas, still half asleep. You two wind up at a door. V barked something at the guards down the hall. After getting acknowledgement from them, she opened it and flicked on the lights. Blinking away, your eyes adjusted to the brightness revealing a private shooting range.

“What are—”

“I’m not a very popular woman. I have enemies, enemies who’d like to hurt me through any means possible. Even if I never see you again, you’re still in danger. I would like to ensure you can defend yourself.”

“You do care.”

“You have such a pretty face. I’d hate to see it ruined. Can you shoot?”

“Long distance yeah, close range no.”

Her eyebrow leapt.

“How’d that happen?”

“Sniping is a family tradition. Plus the boys aren’t the biggest fan of the idea of me being in close combat.”

“With a chica like you, it’s a matter of when, not if that will happen. You know how to load a gun?”

You demonstrated for her. She tsked.

“Needs to be faster. While you’re fumbling for a round, someone else will have unloaded one into you. But speed only comes with practice, which we have no time for right now. Though when you get home… Anyway, let’s see what you can do.”

You tried your best to get into position. The handgun’s weight felt so unfamiliar, center of gravity completely different.

“This isn’t sniping. You can’t wait for the perfect shot to align. You need to make do. Your enemies already see you. You won’t be giving your position away.”

Her hands made their way to you. One landed on your waist, the other on your shoulder. After she noticed that “Dios you’re stiff,” she let her lips rest in the crook of your neck, accompanied by a simple order: “Relax.”

BANG

Even with noise protection, the gunshot and its recoil were more than enough to wake you up.

“Not bad, cariño. Again. Faster.”

Several rounds later V declared, “I think that’s enough for today. You have a flight to catch. And you should probably shower, I don’t know how your brother would react to you coming home smelling of me.”

You smiled at her from under your eyelashes, “All by my lonesome?”V chuckled, “Eres una chica muy traviesa, ¿lo sabías?”

[euphorajeon]

the love upon your eyes | jjk

— pairing: jk x f. reader

— genre: fluff | college au

— word count: 0.9k

— warnings: soft jk, llike very soft, shirtless jk, that's it haha

— summary: when your mind is cloudy with sleep, jeongguk takes the opportunity to gaze at you, lovingly.

— author's note: broo did you all see how cool jeongguk was in golden live on stage... our best friend for real... also the gcf in budapest is really boxer!gguk coded hhh i got whiplash watching it. anyways. hope you enjoy this little bit of something from boxer!gguk !!! (ps. this is basically in the sheets but with the roles reversed :> )

masterlist | boxer!gguk masterlist

You’ve known Jeongguk for as long as you can remember. His annoying presence seemed to cement itself in your life, not allowing you to have a day without some memories of him. Jeongguk who always sang on the way home from school. Jeongguk who was there when you almost drowned when you were ten. Jeongguk who made fun of your hair in middle school. Jeongguk who had a colorful t-shirt phase in high school. Jeongguk who moved to another city for university.

It felt weird when he left, not having someone follow you around just to pester you, but eventually, it felt peaceful. You’re able to make new friends, study properly, and enjoy your time as a new university student. Jeongguk still texted you occasionally, giving you updates of his life and bantering with you whenever he wanted (when you protested, he said he’d only done that because he was bored. You’d given him the middle finger emoji which he laughed off.)

Jeongguk’s been annoying all of his life, so when he showed up at your doorstep two years after the last time you saw him, you expected nothing less. He truly didn’t change, still the same Jeongguk who brushed off your shocked concerns and responded with teasing remarks instead. So much teasing, so much tempting, until you lost it and kissed him right on his pierced lips.

All of that tells you that Jeongguk will always be annoying. Endearing, but annoying. Loving, but annoying.

So imagine how you feel when one morning, your whole world tilts on its axis when you open your eyes to Jeongguk gazing at you, lovingly. Most of his body is covered in his white blankets, only his shoulders and arms are visible, one of which is covering the bottom part of his face. You can only see his nose and eyes, again obstructed by the unruly strands of his hair, but those eyes tell everything. They tell you that Jeon Jeongguk is looking at you with all the love he has stored in his heart, without even a pinch of the annoying twinkle he usually has hidden somewhere in the flecks of his orbs.

Jeongguk lets out a chuckle through his nose when you groan.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, words muffled by his arm still covering his mouth. “Did you sleep well?”

Your barely-open eyes narrow into slits, blurring his form in your vision into a mush of white, black, and skin color. Despite that, you know the sound he just let out is another chuckle through the nose, now even more endeared. “Who are you, and what have you done to my Jeongguk?”

It sounds sassy in your head, your usual tone when talking to your boyfriend, but you don’t know that it only sounds like a jumbled mess in Jeongguk’s ears. Your whole body is still heavy with sleep, the tiny functioning part of your brain only recognizing the love in Jeongguk’s eyes that is so peculiar until your brain fails to aid to your ability to speak clearly. You don’t have to worry, though, because the tiny laugh that rumbles through Jeongguk’s chest tells you that he understood your words perfectly.

“Why so cranky, babe?” Jeongguk reaches out a tattooed hand to pinch lightly at your cheek. “Was last night not enough?”

You’re in the middle of turning around, intending to ignore Jeongguk’s soft stare and confront it later when you’re more awake, but his question makes you pause. Focusing your crusty eyes on him, you just realize that he’s not wearing any shirt, his arms and shoulders bare for you to see. Oh, he must have been looking at you with so much love pouring out of his eyes for you to miss the tattooed bulging biceps on display. This is bad.

Okay, back to his question. Last night, he said?

Your hands automatically pat down your body, which, thankfully, is covered by a t-shirt. You even still have your pajama shorts on. What does he mean by last night?

Apparently you voiced that aloud, with confusion written all over your sleepy face.

“Alright, alright, we didn’t go all the way last night,” Jeongguk laughs—he’s really cheerful considering the time of day, you notice—while coaxing the crease between your eyebrows away with his fingers. “Made out for a while on the bed, but you kinda slipped away from the kiss in the middle of it. I guess you were too tired, so I let you sleep instead.”

You didn’t remember anything from last night. Maybe he’s right, exhaustion took over your entire body that your brain just didn’t store any memories for a few hours. So, you ask the one sensible thing your brain could conjure up right now: “Did I leave you with a hard-on?”

Your eyes are nearly closed again, so you don’t see the amused expression Jeongguk has on his face. “If I tell you yes, would you apologize for it?”

“Mhm, sorry,” you mumble non-commitally.

There’s a few seconds pause. Then, “That’s it? No snarky remarks about how you don’t have to apologize for my bodily function?” Jeongguk asks, still amused by your lack of bite.

“Mhm,” you hum again. “Wanna go back to sleep…” You’re interrupted by a big yawn, “if argument, no sleep…”

Jeongguk has to bite his lip to prevent himself from breaking into a huge grin as he reaches for you, tugging your form closer to his so you can place your head on his chest. He envelops you in his arms, completely engulfing your frame with his big build. You drape your arm lazily on his waist, let him tangle his legs with yours. Jeongguk then drops a kiss on your head, one you barely register because your brain starts succumbing back to sleep.

“Sleep tight, sleepyhead,” he whispers before smiling to himself. 

“I’ll still love you even if you gave me blue balls in the middle of the night.”

a/n: thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed this little ball of fluff hehe. help me improve by giving me feedback in my askbox or here! :D

[dresh-rx]

(I had this in my drafts for half a year i forgor)

CRACKHEAD THEORY RANT TIME

(plus dive into Ras'plans??)

People, I'm putting my money's worth on Ras'master being the First Spinjitzu Master!

So i can't rant nicely now but look:

Grasslands vibe!!4!

And the place where Ras'master teleported the dojo

Also it's clear that it's someone/something with great power if they can just do that.

And my theory on it being a source dragon has been buried with s2pt2(cause of the dead "balance" source dragon), so if not a source dragon then what. Well, eighter a new powerful character or FSM.

Also the color theme is very much Golden for the master...

As why he can't communicate normally is an intresting question.

Cause he speaks in morse code or broken toaster with Ras.

Maybe the merge fucked with his ability to communicate or smth(more on this below)

More reasons and Ras plan dissection contain SPOILERS for s2pt2 under!

We now know the goal of Ras and the Master:

To reverse the merge

(and all of this, somehow through the Sources, maybe capturing or even killing them, as we now know)

Sounds intresting, considering it doesnt exactly makes sense rn. Like, i get it, the merge was made to be prevented, it shouldn't have happened, but the merged lands are mixed right now. I don't even know how you could separate them anymore.

So obviously, the FSM was the first to want to prevent the merge, with the help of the Sources. He also created multiple standalone realms.

We also know, Wu had something to do with the eruption of the merge. Now its probable he didn't cause it directly and on purpose, since he was looking like he wanted to prevent it. My guess, maybe he was searching for the Dragon Cores and use them similarly of how Lloyd later fixes the merge quakes. And the origin of the merge is tied to the early Spinjitzu family, or just the FSM.

"Too soon"

So he did know it will come, just way more later.

But obviously:

So he didn't tell anyone but he probably knew this might happen all along cause his daddy told him... Oh Wu when will you learn

The last thing he tells Lloyd is:

"Remember, family is key"

Is also very intresting...

Another note, circling back to the idea that the FSM can't communicate properly is the exact same situation with Wu!

He is audiably struggling to talk to the ninja and barely speaks words.

So what if the merge affected the whole early Spinjitzu family (excluding Lloyd ofc). We don't know anything of Garmadon as of now tho, but he could be in a similar position.

Wu lives with this mistake he had a part in, but i doubt it's simple. It's probably the FSM's fault to begin with, as the possibility of realms colliding came after he created multiple more.

The reason why Ras' Master can't be Wu(plus he might doesn't even know the FSM did seek help from Ras) is simple. He is definetly not powerful enough to transport the Shadow Dojo. We haven't seen his full powers, but seeing him in this weakened spirit state is pretty much enough to prove that.

Another thing. He led the ninja to this location:

Which leads to the Monasteries in each realm. (Or just the 16 monasteries, since there seems to be both one in Imperium and one in The Land of Lost Things, which were in the same realm)

Ultimately this could be to warn them about the forbidden five's plans. Which doesn't contradict anything, the Forbidden Five has no intrest in Ras' plan, nor the Source dragons. But they can definetly complicate things.

But i am not sure if Wu has anything to do with Ras' plan or master as of now, but i can't explain it why. He may have, I don't know...

Also:

You guys think the Cauldron of Realms is the place Wu led the ninja to?

It doesn't look, cauldron-y but it definetly leads to all realms... And the place was referred to as a Monastery so maybe unlikely.

...

Anyways i'd love to hear your thoughts on this theory!

And with s3 around the corner this might change

[dcdreamblog]

Opinions on copycat heroes? As in people that take up abandoned mantles.

I always found facinating how you can take over the name of someone you have never met, but my buddie thinks is kind of morbid, specially when the hero is dead.

I think "copycat heroes" is the wrong nomenclature in this case, unless we're talking about something specific. I'll give you a broader example of the kind that I'm mostly sure you're talking about and then a second example of the more...strict case.

Now, what I THINK you mean when you say "copycat" in this case are heroes who take names that have previously been used by others without having a direct relationship to that hero. Especially if said hero has passed on. Without some kind of acknowledgement from the original hero to pass on their names. Excuse me for a semi-repeated example but I just answered another ask on this heroic legacy so it's on my mind.

(The most famous photograph of the 5th hero to call himself Starman, The Arizona Daily Star)

This Starman is a famous and beloved hero in his hometown of Tucson, Arizona and the surrounding southwest. As far as we are publically aware he has no relation to the Knight family or either of the previous aliens who held the title in the interregnum between Ted Knight's retirement and Jack Knight's temporary assumption of the mantle.

Despite having taken this title for himself, while Ted Knight was very much living, this Starman is remembered as having bravely faced menaces like Bolt and Doctor Polaris, even stepping up to the challenge of the Dominator invasion and eventually giving his life in battle against the villainous Eclipso.

When asked about this very thing, I think Jack Knight put it best in his VERY long final interview. "I didn't know the guy personally but no one I've ever met who did has ever said an unkind word about him. I read some of the things he did, some of the fights he took, even how he went out...Connected with his family pretty deep after I found out about him too. No names you understand, even for the dead but the bottom line is that he was there when people needed him and he died with his colors on. Hell, probably a better Starman than I ever amounted to."

Now the OTHER example is much rarer and shows a facet of this part of the superhero community that I think throws things into a stark enough relief to be understood.

(An image of Nicki Jones as "Jade", taken from her "Infinity Inc" trading card, the image is of her first appearance at the Metropolis Thanksgiving Parade)

Nicki Jones was not the perpetrator of the crime on display here, we can lay the entirety of the blame for thist "Infinity Inc" farce at the feet of Lex Luthor and we all know it, but the example is demonstrative.

The entire effort was an affront to the good name of heroes who, living or dead, had sacrificed and struggled directly in the legacy of their JSA predecessors and names they made their own. Scooped out through a dubious buyout of the Pemberton estate (which is why its now the law that superhero names and images are not under business copyright as characters but as the good names of individuals). Lex Luthor using his money to rub the JSA's noses in it. But this "fake Jade" was a step too far, as the real Jade, Jennie-Lynn Hayden, the daughter of the original Green Lantern had recently perished in a battle during the 2nd Multiversal Crisis. Her brother, Obsidian, famously inflammatory in nature confronted her in front of the public and was only barely restrained from violence by the very curt intervention of his father. The entire enterprise would be very quickly revealed as a shit show from top to bottom and none of the "heroes" within it worth the paper their stickers and endorsements were printed on but that's neither here nor there.

The deciding factor here is intent and respect.

Superheroes do not view themselves, nor do they act as if they are copyrighted beings. There is no officially enforced code of conduct within their community. There is simply a mutual understanding that that community self enforce for the sake of the public trust and their bonds with one another. The Arizona Starman was a hero, by all accounts and in every sense. He wore the name he chose well and acted with all heroic intentions. Had he ever met a member of the Knight clan I'm sure they would have worked it out amicably over coffee and a handshake.

The Infinity Inc "project" trotted out the corpse of a woman who wasn't even a year dead as if she was the newest iPhone to replace. When confronted by the people who loved and respected Jade in life, both their intentions for that name and respect upon it were found wanting.

If you are found to be dragging someone else's name, especially the name of a departed comrade through the mud. The superhero community will not settle the matter in intellectual claims court.

[bird-in-the-space]

Echoes of the Unknown

You put your plan into action. Now, will you escape, or be captured by the cons?

Warnings: Cursing, near panic attack, Emily sweet-talking Knockout, shocking Knockout, and escaping.

Chapter 19

----------------------------------------

Fuck! 

Shit! 

Fucking!

Hell!

Dammit! 

You were trying your hardest not to have a panic attack after watching Soundwave take Emily away to somewhere they might torture her for information. How the hell did it go this wrong? You just needed to figure out the ground bridge controls, wait for Emily, and then get the hell out of this ship. 

What are you gonna do now? 

You took a deep breath, trying to calm down your panicking mind. Alright, (Name). Calm your shit down. You can’t help Emily if you start panicking and give yourself away. There has to be something you can do to get her and yourself out of this. 

You knew Knockout. He’s the medic of the Decepticons. The bots also described him as someone who did not like his paint job getting ruined. As the medic, he had to be at the med bay, so that’s where Emily was currently taken toward. 

You knew where the ground bridge console was. You could go to the med bay, grab Emily, and run for the ground bridge console. But what would you do when they sound the alarm? You would then need a diversion to keep the attention away from you. 

Your eyes widened when you remembered something. The drills! You could code the drills to start automatically and use them as a distraction. But what if they turn off the drills before you could use the ground bridge? Then what? 

You then grabbed the Holly out of its hiding place. You stared at the little device while organizing your thoughts into a fully formed plan. It was a bit of a long shot, but if you were careful and timed everything right, you and Emily would get off this ship without further issues. You could use the Holly to trick the cons when needed. You just needed to do a few more scans. It was a good thing the vehicons shared the same face as you. 

Attaching the Holly around your wrist, you left the ground bridge console to prepare your plan for action. You just hoped that Emily could hold on till then.  

Emily stayed quiet while still being held by the metal tentacle thing. Soundwave quietly took her somewhere. She tried to start a conversation, but the mech was silent like a rock.  It was actually a bit unnerving—- even you weren’t this quiet. 

They then arrived at what seemed to be the med bay. Emily saw a red bot waiting there. 

Soundwave dropped her off on the metal table. Emily yelped and grunted from the fall. She quickly checked on her camera, seeing no damage to it, before returning her attention to the two cons who looked down at her. 

“So, this is the Autobot pet that caused poor Airachnid some trouble? You can leave Soundwave. I’ll take it from here,” the red bot said, and the faceless con left without a word. 

Emily cautiously looked at the red bot. She had seen him a couple of times while hiding in the vents and guessed his name to be Knockout, the medic of the cons and assumably the crazy doc. 

“Now, doll face. Since you know the location of the Autobot base, I suggest you start talking. I would hate to ruin that pretty face of yours,” Knockout said, turning his arm into a spiral saw. 

The sight of the saw unnerved her, but unwilling to share the information and desperate to cause a diversion, she quickly went through her mind for ideas. Only one idea seemed worth the shot. 

“I… uh… Sorry. I was stunned for a moment because you certainly are the most dashing con I’ve seen on this ship so far,” Emily started. 

Knockout turned his arm back to normal with interest in his eyes. “Oh?” 

“Yeah! This place is so dark and gloomy. There’s barely any color and here you are, standing out in your cherry red paint like a polished ruby among these plain rocks,” she continued, quickly observing his form and the wheels on his back. 

“Is it safe to assume that your alt form is based on Aston Martin? I heard it's one of the best sports cars to this day, really pretty and really fast,” she asked, emphasizing the pretty and fast words. 

“You have a good eye, human, and a good taste,” Knockout stated. 

“I admire beautiful things. I’m afraid not even the Autobots can compare to your looks,” Emily said, causing him to grin. “You must have a meticulous paint care routine. So, what’s your secret?“ she asked 

“I’m glad you asked. I rarely get to talk about my care routines with anyone on this ship,” Knockout said. 

“Then talk away. Perhaps we could exchange secrets, one car enthusiast to another,” Emily smiled. Knockout started talking about his supposed care routine while Emily hoped it would buy you enough time to form up a plan to save her. 

Walking past vehicons, you used the Holly to scan them while they were walking. You were careful enough to cover the scan light to avoid catching attention while making your way to the mining storage. 

You arrived at your destination and to your luck, no one was in the room. If you remember correctly, Steve, Carl, and the others were on their breaks. You quickly grabbed a data pad and climbed to the nearest drill. Remembering how Raf did his coding tricks, you opened the drill’s panel and attached the wires to the data pad. You connected the datapad to the drill and opened the coding terminal.

You put your complete faith in remembering what each of the codes did and how to write them in cybertronian letters, adding them to the drill’s system and giving you a way to activate them remotely. After succeeding, you placed the panel back and jammed the controls so that they would start moving after activation.

You then went to the next drill and repeated the progress. You programmed three of the drills and decided it would be enough for the diversion. 

Now, it was time to get Emily. 

Emily nodded along as Knockout continued on about his paint job and complaints about working with the Decepticons. She kept up with an interested face, but after some fair minutes, it started to get a bit tiresome. However, it was necessary to keep him talking about his interest because it would buy you time to figure out a plan to save her. She had faith in you — you were smart and creative when it comes to solving problems. 

She checked the time on her camera. It had been twenty minutes now. Hopefully, you have already come up with something to get you both out of this mess. 

“Anyway, even though I enjoyed this brief discussion about my life. I think we have to get back to the real business, which is you telling us the location of the Autobot base,” Knockout suddenly stopped talking, turning his attention to her. 

“Hold on! I was enjoying listening to you talk why stop now?” she asked, hoping he would keep talking. 

“Because, dollface, I have a job to do, and Lord Megatron would do something much worse to me than scrap my paint if I do not bring him results sooner than later,” he answered. 

“Okay, I understand…” Emily’s eyes suddenly noticed you arriving behind the doors of the med bay. You were looking at them through the opening. 

“But— I must ask. If working with the Decepticons is so rough and most of your colleagues treat you badly— why do you keep working with them?” Emily asked. “From what you were saying, it’s nearly impossible to satisfy their expectations,” 

“It is challenging I admit, but there are certain perks of being a con which makes fighting for the Decepticon cause worth it,” Knockout replied. 

Emily kept Knockout talking while you surveyed the med bay, trying to think of a way to get Emily out of there without causing an alarm. Your eyes then landed on what seemed to be one of those shock rods. It gave you an idea. It would most likely set the alarm, but the other options also involved setting off the alarms, so this was probably something you just had to do. 

You dared to enter the med bay through the automatic doors. You walked slowly while watching Knockout and Emily talk. She glanced at you a few times. 

“Anyway!” she started, raising her tone, and keeping Knockout's attention on herself. 

“Knockout. I get it you have a job to do. “ she slapped her hands together, causing Knockout to raise his brow curiously. “Working with Megatron seems hard enough so I won’t put up a fight,”

“Hmm. Smart choice, Emily,” Knockout said with a pleased tone. 

“But! Before we start with my interrogation. Can I take a few pictures of you? I’m actually a photographer and I think it would be a waste not to capture a beauty like yourself in my camera lens,” she asked. “Be my model for a moment, please. I will then start talking about the Autobot base,” she said, pleading innocently with her eyes. 

You stopped to see if Knockout agreed to it. 

“Hmm? Well… I guess I would not mind getting photographed if it gets you talking. Make sure to get my good sides, doll face. You won’t get an opportunity like this for the second time,” Knockout said, flaunting his claws. 

“Lovely!” Emily slapped her hands together. 

You quietly sighed in relief and rolled your eyes at the con’s ego. Emily— you one hell of a sweet-talker. 

You turned your attention to the shock rod as it was within your reach. Quietly grabbing it, you then turned toward Emily and Knockout as he prepared to pose. 

“Alright,” Emily held up her camera after setting in. 

“Ready…” 

Knockout waited but then you pushed the shock rod between his neck, causing him to yell as he was electrocuted. He then dropped down on the floor, smoking from his openings. You and Emily stared at the unconscious con for a moment. 

You sighed then dropped the rod, extending your hand toward Emily. 

“Come on. It’s time for us to leave this place,” 

Emily hopped into your hand and you quickly left the med bay. 

You move through the hallways, taking calm deep breaths. You try to keep a steady pace while walking past the vehicons. They paid you no mind except some nods as a greeting, which you returned. Your nerves and spark pulsed with anxiety as you were actively hiding something from the cons. When you felt the weight inside your chest move again, you made a quick stop at an empty room. 

You opened your chest. “Em! Stop moving! “ you said as she was hidden in there. 

“Sorry, it’s a bit cramped here,” she said, trying to get into a better position. 

You then heard what you suspected to be an alarm. 

“Troopers. An infiltrator with a similar face as yours has released the human prisoner and is attempting to escape. You are to find and capture them immediately!” you heard Megatron order through the com. 

“Seems like our time is running out,” Emily remarked. 

“Then It’s a good thing I prepared a diversion,” you said then pushed a button in your arm, sending the signal for the drills to activate. 

In the mining room, the three drills activated. The baffled vehicons watched and ran away when they saw the drills move, hitting each other and the walls. The vehicons quickly fled the room and avoided getting torn to pieces by the drills. 

The ship shook beneath you and you could hear the drills in the distance. You saw the passing vehicons turn their attention toward the mining room and run over there to stop the chaos. 

“Alright. Time to go,” you said, closing your chest. 

After seeing the last vehicons run past you, you used a shortcut to run for the ground bridge console. To your relief, the ground bridge console was empty. The cons would be too busy to stop the drills, so you had time to set the coordinates. 

“Squadron in the east hallways. The pretender is at the bridge console,” you heard the voice say and then noticed what seemed to be a surveillance camera watching you from the ceiling corner. You quickly shot the camera with your blaster. 

You then heard running in the distance. 

“What are we gonna do now?” Emily asked through your chest, having heard the speaker and your blaster fire. 

Your mind wanted to panic but then an idea popped into your head. 

“I have an idea,” you said, inputting the coordinates and activating the ground bridge. The green vortex appeared beside you. You then powered up the Holly, just in time when a squad of vehicons arrived at the ground bridge console. 

You looked at them as they saw you.

“Halt!” 

You ran inside the ground bridge. They gave chase, following you into the vortex, unaware that they were following a hologram version of you. 

After they ran in, you appeared from the wall, having figured out how to use the Holly to camouflage with the environment. You stepped to the console and deactivated the ground bridge, trapping the vehicons to the random location you inputted. You then added your intended coordinates, opening the ground bridge and running through — escaping the Decepticon warship with the ground bridge closing behind you. 

Driving on the road in your alt-mode, you speeded without stopping. You did not want to take chances of the cons catching up to you or tracking you down even though you had the locator long removed. The adrenaline makes you go even faster as you and Emily finally take a breather from the tense escape. 

Emily laughed. 

“That was brilliant! That was awesome! You actually tricked them!” she exclaimed with the biggest grin on her face. 

“Yeah! But let’s not do that again!” you replied through the radio. 

“But still! That was awesome!” she exclaimed, laughing and resting against your car seat. 

“You know. You are much braver than you let yourself believe,” she said. “You’ll make a one fearless Autobot,” she added.  

“I was actually terrified the whole time. I was afraid it would fail and we both end up as hostages,” you replied. 

“But we didn’t thanks to you,” Emily smiled softly. 

“Thanks for coming after me. I do not know what I would have done if I was on my own with them,” she said, looking through your windshield. 

“Of course. I couldn’t just stand there while they took you, especially someone like Airachnid,“ you said, thinking about the spider con. 

“I care about you too much to let anything happen to you,” you said. 

Emily smiled. 

“I love you too,” she said, patting the top of your dashboard. 

“Now, let’s call in the bots. They must be dead worried about us,” she said. You then called in the bots and asked for a ground bridge, which they happily activated. You were glad as you both were finally out of danger. 

[sonicenvy]

So this project is continuing to be complex and detailed, but I'm having a good time. If you haven't seen my original post, this is an image that I pulled from the book of Kells on folio 27v. The full page contains four figures: the man, the lion, the ox, and the eagle. The four figures represent the four gospels. This figure is the eagle, and it represents the book of John, St. John the Evangelist and the ascension of Christ into heaven. I am not religious (though I was raised Irish Catholic), so I picked this design because I love the art in medieval manuscripts and in the Book of Kells specifically.

So, how'd I get here? (an extremely detailed step-by-step)

Downloaded the full size image of Folio 27v

Cut St. John out of the image using the pen tool in Photoshop and moved it to a new document with a clear background.

Pasted St. John into a blank high res procreate document.

Did a rough digital tracing of the image in procreate with my iPad and Apple Pencil.

Opened tracing in Illustrator and made it into a vector. Took forever because I fucked up my procreate settings RIP.

Turned Vector into live paint object.

Opened original image in PS, and used eyedropper tool to select colors in original document. Compared those colors to the colors that I had in my stash (wanted to use mostly if not all from my stash rather than buying new floss).

Used threadcolors.com to get the hex codes for the selected threads. Made a spreadsheet of the selected colors for my reference. Printed out spreadsheet.

Colored the image using the paint bucket tool (and recolor artwork options) with the colors corresponding to selected threads. Saved Illustrator document.

Opened illustrator document in PS, gave it a solid white background and exported it as PDF.

Printed out initial copy of PDF image on blank printer paper to see if it was the right size. It wasn’t lol, so I made it bigger (super easy with vector images!) Printed test copy #2 and it was the right size.

Iron chosen fabric and stretch in Phillips head screw tightened hoop.

Printed the PDF image on Sulky Fabri-solvy, cut to size, and adhere to the surface of the stretched fabric.

Stitch, all single stranded….

 

What's new?

Since the last time I posted, I've mostly completed the head. It's comprised of a mixture of satin stitches, long and short stitches, chain stitches, and some other stitch I can't remember the name of. The other new feature is very, very, tiny orange and red glass beads.

When I was considering how I wanted to render the dots in the circle behind the head and the three tears of blood, I initially considered doing french knots for the dots and bullion knots for the blood tears. To make a decision about this, I did some tests on scrap fabric. At the end of the test stitching I found that I was not completely satisfied with what I had come up with. As I stared at it, I was hit with the sudden vision of using seed beads of some kind for these two areas. This idea completely possessed me (lol), and I made a trip to my delightful local beading store the next day, hoop in hand.

The old ladies who run the bead store helpfully showed me to a bunch of interesting beads and got me all set up with them. I also purchased some size 11 beading needles, which are barely large enough to stick a single strand of embroidery floss through. At the time, I didn't know whether or not the embroidery floss would even go through the needle or the beads, so I purchased some tiny beading thread, but ended up not needing it. The eyes of those needles are SO tiny that they were extremely difficult to thread, but I managed it eventually. They were also, interesting very, very bendy. I ended up liking the stitching experience with them so much I continued using them to stitch other, non-beaded sections of the piece.

The other consideration that I had to make while putting this section together was whether or not I wanted to render that yellow ring around the head in golden yellow thread or gold, gold metallic thread, as in the original image that section appears to potentially be illuminated with gold leaf. However, my hatred of metallic thread (Satan's embroidery supply) won in the end so I went with the gold yellow thread, leaving the crosses as the only metallic gold element. I don't know that I'll end up using any other metallic gold, but I obviously can't rule it out.

Anyhow, looking forward to continuing this project and to what new challenges I'll end up having to figure out as it goes along.

[respectthepetty]

Look at my pobrecito.

He is suffering because he is a pendejo who can't communicate even when his (love) life is depending on it.

I know the colors mean things, but Pat has no idea that Elyes wearing white signifies his love and devotion for his Happy Human.

I love this damn show so much.

So here I am in the tenth episode of Bad Guy, My Boss watching Elyes make the same damn mistakes he has been making for nine episodes.

But I'm not mad at it, and neither is Pat since he is wearing Pat's darkness even though they are in the middle of ANOTHER fight.

But neither of them remember that once Pat gets hurt.

And this is why I love this show! Elyes is just so light around Pat.

And Pat eats it up!

Elyes is ridiculous! He legit told his guy that he didn't need anyone killed CURRENTLY. Like the man has no chill!

And Pat is right next to him for the ride *wink*

So just as much as these two color-coded boys love each other for no good reason, I love them even more!

Pat takes on Elyes' darkness, and Elyes gets to bare his soul to Pat (but not communicate any of that because Lord forbid this pendejo use his mouth for anything other than kissing and blowjobs!).

Oh, but Elyes did use his mouth to be petty and remind Pat how he didn't believe him when he said his cousin was not to be trusted.

I genuinely do not care what the plot is of my Wattpad BL or how messy it gets.

Because it's giving me everything I need.

Exactly how I want it.

[kivino]

TAKE US BACK || ZOMBIE AU || KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK X GN!READER

Word Counter – 6.4k words

Summary – The new world was rotten, and you rotted away with it. 

Tags/Warnings – Zombie AU (heavily twd coded, don’t expect some l4d type of stuff /lh. Death and turning after the bite ARE slower, however. For the sake of drama. obviously), gore, blood, gn!Reader, established relationship, heavy angst, major character death. 

A/n – So, this fic is my contribution to the spooky season! Special thanks to @mockerycrow for helping me with the pictures for the header, you're the best, pookie!!! I have a playlist for this fic too, so in case you want to read this with complete immersion I’ll link it here. Enjoy <333

also available on my ao3

upd. if you saw that unfinished paragraph you didn’t see anything, move along 👁️👁️

“Kyle, I think…I think I’m bitten.” was all it took to shatter him into millions of tiny pieces. Just like that. Nothing mattered anymore, even that you promised each other to stay alive, no matter what. In the back of his mind, he knew all those promises muttered into his lips while he feverishly kissed you were empty, shallow attempts to silence his mind, to make him sleep in peace, thinking you’ll be there no matter what. And of course, he didn’t doubt your words even for a split second.

Kyle knew he was a fool to believe that. To think the two of you were inseparable. In a world like this, how could one even think of something staying forever untouched by decay that spread far beyond the horizon? Rot overtook everything, and if something was still untouched by it, soon enough that wither would find a way to slither inside, spoiling it forever. It would even find its way into people’s minds, ruining humanity in a manner no physical disease could ever hope to damage them. Kyle and you have seen it happen far too many times, and his only wish was for you to meet your end together, peacefully. But now…he only wished he had the strength to go on, he truly did. 

Because you needed him. Now more than ever. 

And so, he kept trying. If he didn’t then both of you would be done for. You didn’t deserve that, not when all he wanted was for you to be safe and well, not caring much about himself. You were the one who saved him when all the shit went down, now it was time to return the favor. So, he pushed himself through every agonizingly slow day. But he was starting to feel the already feeble remains of his strength slipping away from him. He wouldn’t give up, however. Never. Not when your life depended on it. 

That’s why while you were bedridden, weakness setting in your body as a permanent, bitter resident, Kyle was scouring the old town for fever and cold medicine, trying to be as quiet as possible, not to attract any undead. He had a gun, but he did not use it – too loud and bullets were a luxury, not a commodity. Kyle only had one bullet, following the advice of a nice older man with mutton chops he remembered meeting in one of the survivor camps a long time ago.

“Always save the last bullet for yourself or your loved ones. You never know who’ll need it more”

Methods aside, recent days were spent wandering abandoned houses in attempts to find at least some food for the two of you. Only when the darkness started to settle, Kyle would head back, throwing his backpack over the fence and barely managing to climb it, sore muscles and empty stomach sending jolts of pain all through his body. Even then, he was restless, sitting by your side, wiping your forehead of sweat, and taking your temperature. Your breathing was strained, chest rising and falling under thin blankets that barely kept you warm. And each time he looked at you for more than a minute at a time he felt his insides twisting in pain, eyes getting white-hot with tears, and throat closing, barely letting him take a short breath just so he doesn’t suffocate in his misery.

And then the sun rises, warm rays painting the room in a variety of colors, falling over your face, morning birds wake up Kyle from his nightmare-filled sleep. He jolts awake from the dreams, filled with the image of you, dying in agony over and over, crying out for help, begging him to do something. You get torn apart, your intestines spilling out on the damp floor, pulled out by a crowd of the undead who devour you with vigorous hunger, biting into your flesh until he can’t recognize your face from the bloody and mangled pulp that rotting hands and jagged teeth turn you into. Your raw, pained screams haunt him even when he’s awake, observing you lose your life all over again. Much slower and in a much more painful way. 

The sun rises. And so does Kyle. Your desperate pleas that drag from the dream are muffled as soon as he sees you sleeping. Forgetting, that you were getting weaker with each day that passed. Choosing to bask in your tranquil glow, in the way your eyelashes fluttered while you slept, choosing to neglect the worry clawing on the back of his mind just to stay like this with you for a little longer. Kyle knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable, but he still decided to make the best out of the short amount of time he had left with you. Hoping that some miracle would happen and you wouldn’t succumb to the decay. That the bite would turn out to be a bad dream you both had on the same night, waking up from it in cold sweat, searching for the comfort of each other’s embrace, while letting out relieved sighs, realizing that you’re safe. 

That would be great, wouldn’t it?

Instead, he shakes you awake with a gentle hand, almost not wanting to wake you up from your slumber. You blink up at him, looking even more tired than before you went to sleep. Circles under your eyes are even darker than the previous night. And Kyle is in pain once again. He wants to help you up, throwing your arm over his shoulder, to lead you through the long, silent halls of the school where you were staying, full of dust and damp, moldy smell, to have breakfast together. Like good old times. But he sees that in your eyes, you’re too weak to pull your weight up and stand up. So, he brings the heated-up cans of beans here, putting one on a stool in front of you, helping you to sit up before he even thinks of touching his food.

“Kyle, that’s twice what I usually eat.” You mutter, watery eyes rising to him, sitting on the mattress in front of you with his legs crossed. He raises his eyebrow and his head shifts to the side in a questioning motion.

“Well, you have to eat plenty to recover.” He said, matter-of-factly. You stay silent, unwilling to have that debate right now. You barely managed to stay awake as it is. Let him think that you’ll get better, despite everything you saw together. Despite every rule that you’ve discovered. Let him live in the illusion, in the waking dream that all will be well if he tries hard enough. “Well, what are you waiting for? It’s growing cold” 

You didn’t realize that you’d been drilling the can of steaming beans in front of you with your glassy gaze for the past several minutes, submerged in your thoughts deep enough to suffocate. You pick up the spoon with a weak, shaky motion. Then your eyes fall on the can. Somehow, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to pick it up. Failing at something so simple…you knew it’d hurt your pride even more. So, you opted to push the tin closer to the edge of the stool.

Kyle glanced over at you, beads of sweat glistening on your forehead. He sensed the fatigue from you, lacing the air that surrounded you and leaving dark, oily traces over anything your fingers lingered on. You breathed sickness. Your hands, which were able to easily bash an undead’s head on the wall just several days ago, now could barely hold a spoon steady without it trembling and threatening to fall, spilling all the contents over the moth-eaten blanket. He felt his heart squeeze in pain, and he swore that something shattered inside of him once again. 

“Let me help you.” Although it sounded like an offer, Kyle didn’t look like he was going to let you debate it, shuffling closer to you, taking the spoon from your hand in a swift motion. You purse your lips, knowing that protesting that would be stupid. If it wasn’t for how weak and sick you were, and for a lot of other circumstances, it would be a cutesy moment. Your dear spoon-feeding you something? Please, one’s teeth would rot from how sweet it is. But now it was just another deep, bleeding gash on your pride. Kyle blows on the food, cooling it off and promptly moving it towards your mouth with his hand cupped just under the spoon. You obediently clamp your lips around the spoon. “There we go.” He gives you a small smile, but you see the melancholy in his eyes when Kyle wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb. He means well, yet you can’t help but feel like you’re a burden to him. 

You loathed being like this. Being this weak. Fragile. You were able to fend for yourself, you had resilience and strength, but now you were just rendered useless, only dragging Kyle down, depriving him of the freedom to go on.

He’ll die if he continues like this.

You knew it. He was exhausted, and you’ve been like this for a little over a week. Survival wasn’t about skill anymore, it was about luck. You lost yours already, the moment rotten, jagged teeth sunk into the flesh of your forearm like it was butter, drawing the first blood. But Kyle, he…sooner or later he will lose his luck too. And it was apparent that it was coming sooner than you anticipated. A bullet he won’t be able to dodge. An infected scratch. An undead that he simply didn’t notice because of how tired he is. A bear trap in the vicinity of someone’s camp. Something will get to Kyle. Or someone. And thankfully, you won’t be here to witness it. Hopefully.

 “What are you doing? Where are we going?” You barely managed to mutter out, clinging to him with all the strength you had, which, to be fair, wasn’t a lot. He could feel the cold of your hands clasped around his neck even through several layers of his clothes. Kyle’s hands carefully held you under your thighs as he went up the stairs, not showing any signs of exertion except for beads of sweat on his temples. 

“Just thought we might watch the sunrise together, like good old days” You could hear the soft smile that tugged on his mouth when he said that. Another reminder for you that he probably loathed the way you lived right now and would prefer to go back to the way things were. With you not being his…burden.

You didn’t need to be reminded of this. Of the “good old days”. Finding that abandoned farm, deep in the buttcrack of the countryside was what saved the both of you when the world started going to shit. You and Kyle met each other years prior, but it didn’t matter anymore. Not when everything as you knew it was gone.

Hiding there gave you a sense of normalcy you missed so much, after having to live for months, years like an animal. You didn’t feel like the world as you knew it was falling apart beyond that fence with cracked white paint. Deserted fields full of dead crops, empty house with a bunch of stuff forgotten or thrown around messily - it was obvious the owners wouldn’t come back any time soon. Snooping around gave you too much information - you couldn’t help but feel a bitter burn on the back of your throat when you picked up a framed family photo from the fireplace, five tan faces staring back at you with perpetual smiles etched into the glossy paper. 

You didn’t have the gall to throw away or burn everything personal the previous family left behind. Photo albums, children's clothes and toys, diplomas, drawings, letters, posters, and even something as small as shopping lists on the fridge, five life stories were packed into several boxes, taped and put in the attic. Kyle didn’t understand your wish to preserve something that wasn’t even yours, but he didn’t interfere, choosing to give you a hand instead. If it helped you to sleep in someone else’s bed calmer, replacing the presumably dead strangers, he was willing to indulge you.

Despite how far away from the civilization this farm was, seeing an undead roaming around wasn’t a very rare occurrence, but at least you could handle the occasional walking corpses. You wake up, you go on patrol. You finish patrol, and you meet the sunrise with Kyle by your side, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, with a blanket thrown over the both of you, sitting on the front porch, right on the creaking stairs. These fleeting moments felt so right. Like home.

Eventually, you had to continue moving. Started to run short on supplies ever since then. Running into all sorts of different people, relying on strangers, leading a nomad way of life. It wasn’t unfulfilling, since you only needed the company of each other to keep it together. In a variety of groups that you’ve been through it was always a known fact that you’ll stick by each other before someone else.

All he needed was your loving hug when you came back from a supply run. A soft kiss that you would put on that scar right on his cheek. Or to hold your hand under the table when you sat down to eat with whatever group you were with this week, like your love for each other was a secret meant only for the two of you. All you needed was his warmth, his comfort, his mere presence, that would light up your shitty day like a damn light beam. He managed to take your breath away each time he looked at you with such gentleness and softness that sometimes you didn’t think you deserved it. You’ve found the world in each other. A purpose.

So what is Kyle going to do when you’re gone?

The morbid thought suddenly crosses your mind, while the man carefully sits you down on a worn lawn chair with a soft grunt, plopping down on the ground by your side, warm palm reassuringly resting on your thigh. Bringing you down to earth. Gusts of frosty wind brush through your hair, nipping at your cheeks, nose, and ears. You missed the outside, despite it being quite cold and unwelcoming this time of the year.

“I think the herd's close. See that dust?” Kyle taps you lightly on your leg and points towards the horizon. And true to his words, there is a fine dark line separating the sky, burning up in a mix of reds and yellows, from the earth. “They’re moving weird.”

“What does that mean?” you croak at Kyle, not able to peel your eyes from that sheet of gray, bunched-up dust that sat on the edge of the horizon like a shadow.

“Means if we’re lucky they’ll pass the school.” Kyle mutters, trying to reassure you, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze.

And then it clicks.

When he came back from the supply run you were nowhere to be found in the wind-torn building. There were no traces of you in the old cafeteria on the first floor where the two of you would heat up the canned food that your taste buds got used to over the long months the end of the world stretched over. Before you got bit.

He felt his heart sink to his stomach, so nauseous from the mere thought of something happening to you. Kyle fought himself not to double over, press his forehead against the wall and throw up everything you two had for breakfast until he feels the acidic burn on his tongue and cries his damn eyes out from the pain. You knew that the herd was getting closer, why did you have to disappear right now? You two were supposed to wait it out together, by each other’s side. What were you doing, and more importantly, what were you thinking? Nothing made sense. Nothing at all.

Kyle felt the wall with an awkward, stiff motion of his hand, before putting his weight on it and sliding down, he felt like his legs could not hold him anymore. You barely had the strength to sit upright, where would you go in your condition? 

The only place he could think of that was close enough for you to get to was the motor inn down the street. Of course.

The herd was already here. Kyle had no time to spare, he needed to act now, to get you and run away as fast as possible. He remembered there was a car in that old motor inn, so that could be your getaway plan, sure thing he could figure something out…and to get there…He can use that old trick that another group of survivors taught you two. “If you smell like them, they won’t notice you, simple as that. Just make sure not to bump into anyone, or they’ll get real friendly with you.” Of course. It was that easy. You never resorted to that trick, preferring to avoid or dispose of the undead on sight. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Kyle cringed at that sinking feeling in his stomach, but not at the thought of having to walk through the herd and probably be eaten alive, no. The possibility of you not being in that motor inn was what made that hollow pit inside of him grow. The fact that he might never see you again. Or that he would find you already gone.

He moves with calculated precision. Catch the undead’s attention, yellowish whites are dull under the daylight. Let it get close enough, it groans with each movement, joints snapping and clicking. Make the undead lose its balance, kick it in the knee, and the rotting leg almost falls off under the force that Kyle unintentionally applies. Destroy the brain, put a hunting knife right to the forehead, and let it thud to the ground, finally at rest. He’s thoughtlessly going through the motions, every step ingrained into his consciousness, almost like second nature to him. Rips through the stomach of the undead, black, resinous blood oozing out. Sinks his hands in the intestines, they smell so strong Kyle tears up and gags, hands shuffling around clothes caked with dirt and grime, swiping putrid, nasty mass all over himself. But it’s nothing. It’s alright. It will be worth it when he finds you.

After that, everything he remembers is under a thick blanket of haze, accompanied by the smell. You never get used to it. He feels nauseous, his insides twisting in worry, gnawing and biting at his heart like a terrified, desperate dog. His eyes grasp onto anything, but all Kyle sees is the sea of rotting flesh all around him, groans and moans of the undead so echoing in his ears loud all he wants is to tumble to the ground and end it all. He barely breathes with how tight his chest is squeezing his heart, it feels like in a split moment his insides will collapse onto themselves, capturing him in this meat cage. He has to remind himself that he’s not doing it for himself, he’s doing it for you, only for you. Kyle has to let his thoughts travel to your voice, to the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, to the frown between your brows when you slept in his arms just so he doesn’t go mad. Stares from decomposing, milky white eyes with yellows, blues, and reds here and there felt like stabs right through him, each could be the last if he gave himself away.

He could be grabbed by any of the half-rotten hands with sickly yellowish bones sticking out like spears of the cavemen, bitten, dragged away, or devoured. But he pressed on through the seemingly endless crowd of the undead. He would be lying if he said it didn’t affect him. That abandoned motor inn was like a beacon right now, but his imagination still ran wild, his hope growing more and more dim with each minute spent away from you. He didn’t feel like any hero. Kyle was scared. Mostly for you, but he could feel the tremble in his knees at the mere thought of any undead in the crowd recognizing him as an impostor. If that happens, he won’t be able to mutter even a single word. Rotten fingers will dig into his flesh, tearing it apart and Kyle will meet his end like this, on the damp ground, abandoned and scared out of his damn mind.

When Kyle pressed himself against the closed door of the motor inn, he finally could breathe in again. It wasn’t the time for a break, however. He still needed to find you. He wanders through the dusty, ransacked rooms in a daze, fixated on finding any traces you left, noticing the old rusty car in passing. The getaway plan. If the two of you are lucky enough. Footprints in the dust. They look new, and similar to the ones on the soles of your old boots. He follows. Your thin blanket lies forgotten on the stairs. Kyle practically flies up to the second floor, picking up the blanket, while he’s at it. More footprints in the dust, door to some old office is left ajar.

First, you felt the smell. Then you heard him cry out your name in surprise. And then you finally saw Kyle. He’s a blur of red, black, and brown. Covered head to toe with blood, guts, rotting flesh, and dirt, you presume. A sad, heartbreaking sight. Kyle, however, doesn’t mind it and immediately runs towards you, falling on the floor with a loud thud, and you’re sure he might’ve scraped his knees with how hard he landed. His arms cage you in a tight hug and you hear him let out a shaky exhale. Tears start to sting your eyes when you feel him pressing your head into his shoulder, stroking you with a gentle motion. You weren’t sure if he was trying to comfort you or reassure himself that you’re real, and not a fragment of his imagination. Regardless, you manage to reciprocate the hug, raising one of your arms and wrapping it around his back.

All of these days you saved up your energy for the last push. You needed to get away from him. You couldn’t trust yourself to remain near Kyle anymore. Any moment you could turn. You felt it in the way your bones ached with every gust of wind, how your blood boiled under your veins and your vision turned even more blurry. And in that case, you’d be a threat to Kyle, possibly getting him at his most vulnerable. It didn’t matter that you’d be long gone by then, you would still never forgive yourself if there was any possibility of it happening. Because, deep down you knew. No matter how skilled and ruthless Kyle was with handling the undead…he didn’t have it in him to bash your head in. So, you only had one choice to ensure his safety.

Yet he finds you. Here. You could feel your cheeks burn from being so angry at him, for his lack of acceptance that you were on the brink, and all it would take for you right now to fall into the abyss would be a light gust of wind or a slight shove. But you couldn’t blame him. You thought a lot about what you would do if the roles were reversed. The scenario brewed in your mind, haunting those short hours you were awake and trapping you in restless dreams.

You would want to live in illusion too.

“There you are.” You could practically feel something inside of you crack when you catch his smile beaming at you. Kyle just went to hell and back to get to you. And he still finds it in himself to smile at you, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders with hurried, but soothing movements. You were so weakened by the bite that you couldn’t even find any strength to go down the stairs and get the blanket when you dropped it. Humiliating. “Come on, we have to go, now, we can’t stay here.” He tries to scoop you up in a warm hug again, but you dig your heels into the ground. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he looks at you again, trying to catch what is wrong,

“No.” Kyle looks you over, eyes open wide, expression of confusion and sadness on his face. Of course, he doesn’t understand.

“You don’t…have anything on you. Then how, how did you even…” You didn’t have any grime on you at all, looking like you just walked through the herd of the undead without any preparation. But then his eyes trail lower and he sees it. Your left hand, cuffed to the rusty radiator. Suddenly the wave of terror cuts through him, like a fine, thin string through a block of fresh clay.

You came here to die.

“They stop paying attention to you once you’re far along enough. So…I guess that’s it.” He hated you for saying that. God, he hated you so much, he wanted to cling onto your body and suffocate you, arms wrapped around you in weak, pathetic attempts to shield you from any harm. “I…I don’t have any time left.” Kyle felt like he got punched in the gut. Air squeezed out of his lungs, wheezing in pain that he felt for you, because of you, chest aching, tearing apart, and baring his heart under the cage made of bones. 

“No. No, no, no, no, you can’t say that! Why are you saying that?” And for the first time, since Kyle saw the bloodied, ragged teeth marks on your flesh, he broke down into minuscule, fragile pieces right in front of you. His voice trembled, frantic and exerted, refusing to believe you even dared to make peace with the inevitable. He grabs your shoulders firmly and his fingers dig into you so hard he can feel how cold you are through your clothes.

Key. He has to release you from the handcuffs. The herd was here, the way the floor vibrated under his feet, and the way gargled moans and sighs echoed outside made Kyle even more agitated. Where did you get those handcuffs anyway? It only takes a moment for him to remember. One of the supply runs that feels like a lifetime ago. Police station. Searching the bodies, or rather, what was left of them, for anything useful. You take out the handcuffs and show them to Kyle, telling him some kind of joke. He can’t remember what it was or the way you smiled, only that you made him laugh. 

He wished instead of quiet rasping he could hear your laugh again.

“Where is the key from the handcuffs, where did you put it?” Kyle jumped to his feet and started looking over the room in a hurry, suffocated by the fear of losing you. He was wishing, hoping that you would show him where you hid the key, somewhere, anywhere, Kyle needed to throw you on his back and run right this moment.

“Fuck, listen to me, listen. To me.” you tried to snap him out of his delirium, with your harsh tone, freezing palms digging the bloodstains Kyle left on your blanket “You know what you have to do.” He shook his head wildly, looking at you like were mad for even suggesting something like this. “I don’t want to become one of them! You have to make sure I won’t come back.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?! I-” Kyle didn’t understand you. How can you say, make a request like this? Something was fundamentally wrong and the bite, the illness were to blame.

“Have you?” you interrupted, pouring all of your strength into this yelling match. You didn’t care anymore. You felt your fingers going numb, black, inky spots dancing on the edges of your vision, taunting you in their vicious dance macabre. You did not have time for his lame excuses and whatever it was he was trying to be right now. “I’m asking you one thing, and you can’t even do that! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You couldn’t feel the way tears burned your cheeks.

“Listen to me, please! I’m not putting a bullet in your head; do I look like a fucking murderer to you?” Kyle pinches his brow in frustration, not even able to look at you right now. Every single suggestion and comment from you stings, fucking hurts and tears him open once again. Because you’re talking nonsense. Absolute bullshit. And you don’t even realize it, he thinks, blinded by your sudden chase after death.

“I’m fucking dying and you’re worried about not being a murderer? Are you being fucking serious right now?” You couldn’t believe your ears, quite frankly. It was the only thing that you had asked of him. The only thing that you wanted. To be finally released. You couldn’t bear it anymore. Your body working against you, living with the constant threat of turning any second, massacring and desecrating Kyle’s corpse as a bloodthirsty, disgusting creature, that will have your face, your body, your hands, and your voice, but not anything that makes you – you. No memories. No love. No inner strength and compassion. Just hunger and urge to slaughter, destroy, and ravage everything in your sight.

“You know that’s not what I meant! Why are you doing this right now?” Kyle felt like he was about to collapse into himself from despair. He couldn’t just do what you were suggesting. And you knew it, yet you chose to ignore it and refuse any acceptance? You always listened to him, even if you didn’t quite agree. You always were patient with him. What’s gotten into you now, what happened?

You don’t have any more time. That’s what happened.

“Oh, so I run away, trying to keep you safe so you live another day and see another one of these stupid sunrises, cuff myself here just so I don’t harm anyone and you can’t even do what I’m asking you to?!” Your voice rises to a volume you didn’t even know you had in you right now, after dragging yourself through the imitation of your former life for a little less than a week. To think your suffering so far lasted less than a week, yet you were ready to end it all right this moment.

Because you could feel it in your bones. You were close.

“Well, tell me, what’s the point of me living if you’re dead?!” You can hear the way his voice breaks in the end. Desperate. Pleading.

The silence rings in your ears with how loud it is. 

“I’m sorry.”  You croak at him after a short while, eyes trained on the dirty floor. Kyle chuckles, the sound that you love so much, but then it’s followed by a muffled sob. He kneels in front of you once again and your eyes rise to meet his. You can’t help but think that he looks even more beautiful covered in rotting guts, with his eyes full of light and love for a doomed failure like you.

It’s almost impossible to breathe from how hard your heart aches. God, you love him so much. You want to take all the pain from him with you, into the vile, putrid abyss. Kyle takes your hands in his. You’re terrifyingly cold. And he’s too warm. You feel tears rising to your eyes, prickling at them, as you fail at your attempts not to break down right now.

“I can’t stay mad at you when you make that face.” Kyle says with a small laugh that breaks into dry sobs, as his shoulders shudder violently with every single one, before he clings onto you, seeking comfort and reassurance, that you’ll be here. With him.

His embrace feels suffocating. It’s so tight you think any more pressure from him will break your bones into yellowish sharp daggers and fine dust. And you’d forgive Kyle if that happened. You’d forgive him for anything, quite frankly. Funny, how now you have the answer to what you would do if he was the one turning. You’d let him devour you wholly, in the ultimate show of love. You’d let him bite into you, whatever he wanted – neck, arm, a leg, he could have. You’d lay in the pool of your blood, muffling your pained cries by stuffing that worn blanket into your mouth. You’d slowly slip away into oblivion, letting your undead beloved gnaw on your bones and taste the love that would seep out of your flesh. You would probably turn a lot faster if that happened too. And then you’d be together for eternity. You knew Kyle always wanted you two to be together. Both in life and in death.

“I’ll wait for you. I promise.” You barely manage to squeeze a smile out of yourself to comfort Kyle, feeling your strength leaving you. Succumbing to the weakness that spread a dull ache over your body, to that festering rot inside of you, that was finally overtaking. You felt cold, thin digits of terror sink right through your chest, sweat prickling once again on your forehead and temples. There was no use clinging unto something that was unsalvageable. Your body and your mind were beyond repair. You knew it. Only he kept you here.

“Please…don’t leave me.” Kyle couldn’t feel anything besides the pain and hot needles jabbing his eyes. Your touch almost felt unreal, how weak, subtle it was. He tore away from you only for a moment, bloody palms cupping your face. His lips pressed against yours in a quick, feverish kiss, and even more pecks like this followed – to your forehead, eyelids, corners of your mouth, and nose. As if this would save you from inevitably losing the remains of your strength. As if you weren’t clinging to your last seconds with him as it is. “Please…please.” He whispered against your skin. His tears glittered like gemstones in the dim glow of the sunset. Kyle looked so beautiful like this. Yours.

He missed the moment when he stopped feeling short, warm breaths on his neck and your body started to get cooler to the touch. But he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet. A little more time, that’s all he needed. So, he lays your head across his lap, carefully, gently. Like he’s trying not to wake you up from a peaceful dream about places far better than this world. Kyle desperately tries to find that strength to make sure you won’t come back, to grant your last wish, but he just…he can’t. Now when you were right here, beside him, getting your well-deserved rest.

But you started stirring back to life unexpectedly, and just when Kyle wanted to say something, he realized, that it wasn’t quite you. The glazed-over eyes with a milky white cloud over them looked right through him, the blood that was dripping down from your nose, ears, eyes, and mouth after your brain finally shut off from the illness. The strained rasp, full of pain and hands that started grabbing and clawing at Kyle with crooked fingers, contorted into bizarre figures.

Kyle’s heart leaped down to his feet again in fear and he forced himself to push away your undead form, reaching out to him, pleading for something he no longer understood, as he crawled away, still facing whatever you turned into. If his heart wasn’t pumping blood through his body as fast he would’ve felt the small cuts from scraping his hands on the dirty floor. But his eyes were on what was left of you.

There were no traces of what he was searching for in this hollow shell, stolen from his love, stolen from you. Crimson trickling down from the mouth, the creature in your shape bares its bloody teeth and lets out a gargled moan, stretching the trembling hand towards him, demanding flesh, demanding sacrifice. And in Kyle’s mind, this isn’t you. This just can’t be. Absolutely not.

Kyle thought about the way you held him in your arms, while he gripped his shoulders in a tight hug. He thought of the way your thumb brushed over his knuckles. His thoughts traveled to the distant past, when you met him years ago in that summer camp, even before the world started rotting, only to be reborn a sick copy of itself.  He remembered your smile when you sat near countless bonfires. The way fire played in your eyes. Your old leather jacket, the tent in your old survivor camp, the older man with mutton chops.

It wasn’t long before a bullet was between his fingers, being drilled by his sharp eyes. Kyle sat there, silent, eyes trained on the gun in his hand, unable to even look at your cuffed undead. Contemplating. Letting his mind stir around, thoughts sticking to the inside of his skull, brewing and bubbling there, like heavy resin. Kyle’s heart sent waves of dull, ringing ache all over his body. His eyes were on fire, burning and raw from tears.

Nothing made sense anymore. Kyle’s endless search through his mind landed on another memory again. Survivor camp in the forest. Ring of mountains to the west. A woman with dark, brown eyes and a shaved head.

“Turning is not the end. They still harbor the memories of their former selves. They’re just prisoners in their own bodies. I know that it’s not the end for them, it can’t be.”

Right now, Kyle would’ve clung to any lie that would explain to him your state. He would’ve believed any tale. You can’t just be gone in an instant, just shedding all that made you yourself like a snake sheds its skin, or a bird picks out the old feathers. How could he ever accept that you were gone, like a puff of smoke on the wind, leaving no visible trace, only the gaping, bloody hole in his heart and years’ worth of memories in his head?

All he ever wanted was to be with you. In life and death.

A minute passes. Another one follows.

A single gunshot echoes through the valley, drowned out by the rumble of the herd.

Taglist - @mockerycrow, @stridersdiner

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[tvckerwash]

@joltning I present to thee the elaboration requested:

When broken down to the bare essentials Wash and C.T fulfill the same function within the story, and the differences between them as characters mostly results from how the story was executed when it came to them fulfilling that function. 

For example, everybody (myself included) complains about how C.T exists solely as a plot device in the Freelancer Saga, but nobody complains about how Wash also exists solely as a plot device in Recovery One and Recollection. I mean Reconstruction is literally the ‘omg theres a plot!?!?!?!?” season of RvB, and without Wash there is no story. 

The main reason Wash isn’t perceived in the same way as C.T is due to the level of freedom the writers had when it came to telling the story they wanted to tell. The Blood Gulch Chronicles and Out of Mind set the foundations for Recovery One and Recollection, but it was through Wash that the lore of RvB was reconstructed into a cohesive story. The unexplainable was explained, the unelaborated was elaborated upon, and all the wacky hijinks and random bits and bobs of the previous seasons were tied together in a way that answered the question asked in episode one: Why are all of these idiots stuck in a canyon in the middle of nowhere while being separated into color coded teams that are fighting each other?

C.T however did not have the same level of freedom as Wash, and this is because of pfl’s nature as a prequel combined with the pacing of those seasons. We pretty much already knew everything about her that there was to know, so there was no point in hiding anything or taking it slow because of that, hence the painfully obvious foreshadowing. This approach to the Freelancer Sage, and C.T’s story is what leads to her essentially having the same arc as Wash, just reversed—or more accurately described; mirrored, like Chief and Arbiter in Halo 2.

A majority of the reversal and/or mirroring between them manifests in their personalities, which I actually talk about some here, but some examples of the phenomenon in regards to actual plot points are:

They are both introduced as recovery agents (or rather fake C.T, who was the real C.T at the time, was introduced as a recovery agent). Wash is a single agent recovering human technology from dead Freelancers, and he uses explosives to destroy the rest of the equipment to prevent information leaks. C.T is attempting to recover alien technology from a long dead civilization with the help of other aliens, and he uses explosives to make sure anyone who knows of their operation and presents a problem will be destroyed to prevent information leaks. 

We knew exactly who Wash was, who he worked for, and why he was reassembling the blues. We didn’t know who C.T was, who he worked for, and why he was fighting Tucker in the desert. 

Wash was shot in the back and survived, but failed to subdue the enemy. C.T was shot in the chest and died just as they were going to subdue the enemy.

In regards to the real C.T, some examples include:

The Meta was portrayed as the primary conflict for Wash, but in reality he had always been aiming for the destruction of Freelancer. On the flip side, C.T’s fight to take down Freelancer is portrayed as the main conflict, but in reality, while poorly explained, tracking down the alien artifacts seemed to be her real goal (which is not as insane as it sounds when you remember that Charon Industries was more aligned with the UNSC proper than pfl was). 

Wash never hinted towards his plan of taking out the Meta in Recovery One to South, or his plan for destroying Freelancer to the Reds and Blues until he had the perfect opportunity to strike, and by then he had built enough trust that they were willing to help him out despite his secrecy. If they weren’t, well, he knew what to say to change their minds. C.T however wasn’t exactly subtle with her thoughts and feelings, and she didn’t build any trust with the people around her, so when she finally defected—which didn’t take a genius to see coming—no one was willing to listen to her or take her at her word, and there was nothing she could say or do to change their minds except offering concrete evidence. “I’m starting not to trust you.” vs “I can’t trust you.”

This one isn’t a plot point, but I’m going to mention it anyway because I think it’s a nice example of this subtle yet obvious mirroring I’m talking about, and shows what I was trying to replicate in my blurb that spurred me to finally write this analysis:

Counselor: Agent Washington? Agent Washington? Washington: Sorry, what were you saying? Counselor: Were you thinking about Epsilon again, Agent Washington? Washington: No. Counselor: What happened with Epsilon was not your fault, Agent Washington. Washington: I didn't think it was. Counselor: We have safeguards for the unstable emotional patterns of an artificial intelligence. Sometimes these algorithms fail. Washington: Oh. So then it's your fault. Counselor: We prefer to think of it as no one's fault.

Vs:

Washington: It wasn't your fault, Connie. Connie: Easy for you to say. You didn't drop the ball. Washington: The ball got dropped. We were all there, it's everyone's responsibility. Connie: Dammit, why are you doing that? Washington: What am I doing? Connie: Making excuses for me. I'm not making excuses for myself...why are you?

All I've mentioned above is also why C.T’s relationship with the leader and the plot twist that the C.T in the desert wasn’t the real C.T are disliked by so many, as there was nothing to justify the sudden bait and switch like there was at the end of S6. I mean, considering we see both Tex and South use voice mods to sound like men, it reads as though that was supposed to be the case with C.T as well, which makes it feel like it was changed at the last second because everyone saw it coming.

This is an issue because A) There's nothing inherently wrong with being predictable—a good plot twist always has foreshadowing, even if it won’t be registered as foreshadowing until the twist happens in certain cases—and B) The story of the Freelancer Saga as a prequel was confined in a box created by the previous seasons, and all they were doing was connecting the aforementioned events to tie up a few loose ends and properly establish Carolina's driving force in present day S10.

[qin-qin16]

Also Noir's clothes are different from regular papyrus's

He'd be wearing something more like black pants, a pullover and a jacket. His scarf would be more work out and the color would be faded.

Something like this but with a pullover and a scarf.

He'd probably be the type to smoke, from the paranoia and the itch of knowing someone exists and having proof but barely remembering them.

Maybe he'd be having contact with alphys to know how things are going in his AU while he's away.

.

And then one day she stops responding.

And suddenly, he feels like a little piece of him just got emptied. Like a part of his soul- of his code, just got removed.

He goes to the omega timeline, where he usually goes to rest.

Goes to the inn, where he usually sleeps at. Asks the old lady at the counter if she's ever had that feeling.

"oh, most people here had that feeling before. That's usually the feeling people outta their AU get when it crumbles or the code gets corrupted."

WHAAAAAT? YOU CANT JUST LEAVE THAT IN MY ASK BOX 😭😭 /j

It's aesthetically interesting that Papyrus replaced the vibrant and colorful colors he wore with more sober and dark tones, almost as if he wore the mourning of memories that never happened (at least not in that timeline). I like to think he would wear something more detective style? Abandoning the hero/royal guard style

And as you said before (or possibly @howlsofbloodhounds ), since it was Killer who did the last reset, something could have definitely gone wrong, after all, his code had been misconfigured for a long time, so why not his resets?

I think Killer's AU possibly closed itself off after a while after Noir left, as if a barrier had closed so that no one could leave or enter. Or it was deleted by Error because it was another anomaly.

Or maybe Nightmare himself did something to stop Noir from chasing after Killer once and for all, so why not destabilize him a little by destroying his refuge?

[al-the-remix]

14, bucktommy!

This was a really good first roll... Good Hurt by Chappell Roan, this is definitely a Tommy coded song. Tommy Kinard all fucked up after the breakup because no one fucked him quick like Buck did, no one ever had his number in quite the same way, prodded Tommy into showing him what he wanted despite hesitation. Made him roll over and show all the messy vulnerable parts of himself that he's sure would disgust Buck but only proved to make him curious and enthusiastic instead. Who took him apart, figured out what made Tommy tick and applied himself liberally. And he definitely didn't think it would be as hard to go back to the way things were before, when he didn't have some one who not only knew how to satisfy him sexually but also cared so so much, who Tommy loved-- 😌

I haven't written a second person pov fic for this ship yet which I really enjoy doing from time to time, especially ones that focus heavy on internal reflection/character studies etc. Lol, this would probably turn into more tommy kinard pain kink of one flavour or another because that is my favourite thing...

///

(cw for breath play and dubious consent)

Most of all it was the scent that lingered with you. 

The acridity of lighter fluid burning as you sat on the sidewalk, heat bathing your face, the glowing eyes of your childhood home staring back. somewhere inside is your father.

Beside you your mother moaned. An animal sound hucked up between sobs. 

The smell of smoke clung to everything afterwards; your hair, the pyjamas you’d been wearing, the inside of the cherry red ford pinto you were now living in. It wouldn’t come out until a week later when you’d finally reached your aunt’s house and even then when you woke with a start in the middle of the night with the rest of your senses dulled you still thought you could taste it on the night air. 

Lighter fluid gets replaced with the scent of fry oil and burnt coffee, slow cooking on their burners behind the counter at the diner. You do most of your homework sitting there, when you bother to do it at all. 

There’s a lot you don’t remember: your first beer, your first kiss, or your first time, but you remember the scent of sweat and the close press of bodies in the locker room before practice and the color of the grout between the tiles in the shower, damp and a little moldy the way it tickles at the back of your throat. Football doesn’t lead to college–it leads to the army–but it prepares you just the same.  

He touches you like he hates you. Like it’s your fault he wants you the way he does. In close quarters of the broken down shower stall on the outskirts of the base, the air is hot and dry, it tastes like metal and you can barely breathe.

The emulsified night blankets you as you swallow him down. You think if you’re going to die anyway you might as well do it with a cock down your throat. You hate yourself a little bit too, for loving it as much as you do. Even when his fingernails scrap sharply against your scalp and his cockhead presses rudely up against your soft pallet.

You bury your nose in his pubic hair, wild and musky. The scent of the pair of you is pungent, you can practically taste it. Spit and come drips molten down your chin and you’re not sure if you’re ever been this hard. 

You leave not long after that and the scent of the crisp night air makes everything feel sharp and real in ways that you don’t want to acknowledge. 

You go back again the next night. It's someone different this time, you can tell by the grope of his hands and the sounds he makes as he ruts against you. His body molds to the contours of your side, pressed up all along your bare skin and hot, hotter than the fire at his feet which had burned down to ruby embers; a pulsing glow that penetrated the darkness not unlike the combustion of the burn pits that bleed heat in thick waves, dotting the border of base camp. The smoke that stung your eyes and the back of your throat and lit the bellies of the wheeling birds above like they were burning from the inside out.

The air is already so hot it burns and when he wraps a callused hand around your throat you think this time, this time you might actually die.

You don't, instead you paint the rusting corrugated wall with your release. It's going to be a while before you can feel heat on your face and smell mildew and not get a little bit hard about it.

It's a bad recipe for a first responder, but at this point you're running out of options and couches to sleep on. When you're not facing a wall of blistering heat, it's a mess of body fluids and dark, cramped spaces. All things that would put you on edge if you were wired properly.

Sal slaps what is probably supposed to be a commiserating hand on your shoulder after your first loss, a woman who the fire got to before you could. The sweet scent is familiar, comforting in a way you wont be mentioning to anyone any time soon. It makes you think of your father in your house, your friends you left in Iraq.

You skip the offer of a round with the team at the ladder bar after a rough shift in favour of a place you scoped out a week after moved here. Half an our later your face in pressed into a pillow and there's a large hand keeping it there, fingers webbed out against the back of your skull like impact fractures. You wonder if it would be weird to ask since he was already inside you rearranging your bowels he could to the same for your brain too, sink his fingers inside and pluck out the important stuff.

White starbursts break against the curtain of your eyelids as your breathing becomes laboured. You barely feel more than a prickle across your skin when you come, head filled with cotton balls and fingers clenching weakly at the bead spread.

You don't realize you've blacked out till cold water is being poured on your face and you're sputtering back into consciousness. A guilty looking man with a spent dick is apologizing because he didn't know what else to do.

After that you stop for a while because what haunts you more than the feeling of heat on your face and a hand around your throat is the thought of your colleagues finding your body, still hard, and your bulging tongue a telling purple.

///

When you first meet even he smells like soot and sweat. His fingers are long and tapered when he peels his gloves off to shake your hand.

(I'm stopping here because I'm literally falling asleep while writing this but I'll try and add a part 2 with Buck this weekend)

[england-would-fall]

He’d forgotten his pen. Yes, there were dozens in his office: in the letter tray, behind the lamp, scattered through every drawer and bin and chair cushion. It was an occupational hazard of living with a mad genius whose antidote to anxiety was color-coding.

Despite the plethora of writing implements, Henry was forced to sneak into the bedroom for his favorite pen—the pen his father had signed autographs with, signed his wedding agreement with, and had left Henry in his will. Henry wasn’t usually superstitious (Alex called him “a little stitious,” whatever that meant), but it was bad luck to sign contracts with anything else.

His bare feet on the hardwood floor weren’t enough to disturb Alex where he lay smiling in his sleep. Face pressed into a pillow, one tan leg hooked over the top of the duvet, and making a deliciously satisfied humming sound. Henry approached the foot of the bed, remembering the way Alex had looked as he left his room that first night.

Domesticity poisoned passion, he’d always been told, but this man…this witty, charming, endlessly kind man…did nothing but fan the flames of Henry’s want with each passing day. Dressing gown dropping to the floor, Henry stripped out of his clothes and climbed the length of Alex’s body.

“Darling,” he whispered, nose running along the side of his neck, “I need you.” He pressed his lips to a shoulder, a vertebra, a hip. His tongue paid worship to the dimples on Alex’s lower back, which still owed him a debt for all the years they’d been visible only in magazine pages and Henry’s dreams. He lifted his head as Alex rolled slowly onto his back. A soft grin spread across Alex’s face at the sight of Henry hovering above his thighs.

“Baby.”

Henry needed nothing further. They had danced this dance a hundred times, their steps now fluid and sure.

“I dreamt of you.” The back of Alex’s hand brushed Henry’s cheek, sending his eyelids fluttering closed against an onslaught of emotion. How could his chest compress beneath the weight of calm Alex instilled in him while simultaneously setting every ounce of blood in his veins aflame with desire? How could one man feel so deeply? How could another drive such feeling? It didn’t make sense, and so Henry turned to the one act always able to anchor his runaway mind: he looked Alex in the eye and swallowed him down.

A gasp rang out near the head of the bed, slicing open the early winter morning’s darkness. Alex’s hands sunk into Henry’s hair, the electricity coursing through his fingertips spurring him immediately to a furious pace. There were moments of endless tenderness between them; this was not one of them. Alex’s grip tightened and pulled in a gorgeous plea for control to which Henry easily yielded. He released the tension in his jaw, shifting his focus to the suction between his tongue and palette.

Dark moans tore themselves out of Alex’s throat as he thrust himself fiercely into Henry’s. Eyes watering at the rawness of Alex’s claim on his body and the intensity of their trust, he leaned hard onto an elbow pressed into the crumpled linens beside Alex’s flexing thigh and wrapped his free hand around himself. Matching the erratic pace of Alex’s hips as closely as he could, Henry was vaguely aware of the lack of lubricant building heat quickly where skin met skin. He should wait, but the almost-painful drag of his palm met the mounting soreness of his throat and the lingering sting of abuse to his scalp and he was there, pressed against the edge and moaning around a mouthful of Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz until he was shaking with the force of his release.

Alex, his amazing fucking Alex, was crying out now into the fading darkness, fists clenched in Henry’s hair to hold him in place while he came into his wonderfully aching throat, gasping each time Henry swallowed with him still deep inside his mouth. Eventually, the body beneath him melted back into the bed and Henry found himself being beckoned more than pulled toward the pillows.

“You,” Alex said, shaking his head and smirking, “are absolutely perfect.” He turned his head to meet Henry’s gaze, which was embarrassingly adoring, and wound their fingers together.

“This shouldn’t be news to you, dear.” Henry’s attempted attitude failed thanks to the enormous smile plastered on his face, though he’d never concede the point willingly.

“It’s not,” Alex said simply, forcing Henry’s heart to skip a beat against its better judgment. “What time is it?”

Henry’s brow furrowed a moment. “I was up at half five, so about six now I’d wager.”

“Six o’clock. On a Saturday. In November. You are perfect. And I love you. And if you speak one word to me in the next hour, I will have you killed.”

Henry kissed his temple and slid off the bed in search of clothes. “Shall I put coffee on, sweetheart?”

“Wales, I swear to god. MI6 cannot save you from my wrath.”

“Half pot, then?”

Alex groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Henry strode out of the room to a muffled “better remember the cinnamon.” He would, of course, until his dying day. Unfortunately, he had once again forgotten his pen.