#the dirt looked like (my) fingerprints

[cahirsmommy]

give my poor dirty little sad boy more screen time

[friendofthecrows]

Finished my 31 page long forensic anthropology final exam the page count of which does not include the three full-length and ridiculously in depth essay questions. It took twice the estimated time and I've been looking at a screen so long I feel like one of those bog bodies with extensive adipocere formation that look weirdly preserved and yet exactly like you'd expect someone who was submerged in a bog for an extensive period to look. Maybe a 20 year PMI.

[gofishygo]

to me tf141 x 141! reader is always going to have some sort of place in my heart .

john price who knows he's breaking the rules, getting ever too close to his sweet subordinate, knowing that his grip on their hand during missions drags for moments too long . but he knows, he's okay with the risks , because it's you . even if it compromises the both of you in ways that would never happen if you'd just stayed apart , raises the price on both of your heads by a tenfold , you've wormed your way into his heart, and know he would make sure you lived there forever .

kyle 'gaz' garrick who'd sworn he'd always stick it to the civvies . less complicated that way, he initially thought , not having to deal with any more danger and conspiracy and the headstrong rivalries he kept to his taskforce , only another pretty face . but you come along , with your tac vest and chipper smile and bright eyes , and you let him breathe . a person who acted far more 'humany' than the rest of the team, but had the agility and strength the spear a gun like a battering bull into an enemy and still make it look incredibly beautiful . and then he forgets how to breathe at the sight of you , all over again .

simon 'ghost' riley who puts his heart out on line and hook for his new teammate . he'd never imagined finding gentleness under such military circumstances, never felt the warmth of his weary and broken heart in living hands ever since his family . but you patch him up and piece him up in and in between long deployments, and he cant help but cherish the fingerprints you leave on him .

john 'soap' mactavish who bores at the idea of a slow and civilian life, with his 'best friend' in the taskforce feeding right into it . testing bombs together, challenging each other to clear courses the fastest . wiping the dirt and blood off of each others faces after the roughest missions , excusing his rising heartbeat by the adrenaline when you fall asleep on his shoulder in the chopper . and when you laugh , it's sharp and loud and the exact hum he wants to drown himself in for the rest of his life .

[chibsandchill]

Simple pleasures (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: Aegon II x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aegon, brothel, talking, wine, more wine, sex, that’s it. Need I say more?

MDNI 18+

Warnings: p in v sex, Aegon, canon typical themes, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language), slow start, not proof-read

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-

The room smelled better than most brothels. It was a welcome change, as was the surprisingly expensive and tasteful decor. It was homely; soft, comforting, warm even. All it was missing was a hearth and Aegon might have believed it to be someone’s home. 

“Remove your shoes please.” 

Aegon wanted to protest, for who were you to command him? The need to disobey, to dig his feet so far in the ground he could never be moved, was ingrained in his very bones. What would you do, he wondered, were he to step onto the pristine fur with his muddied boots? Would you turn red in the face as you screamed? Would you simply ignore it and move on, aware that any and all wrong steps may instead lead you to the black cells? He almost salivated at the endless possibilities. Alas, the carpet looked like it would feel heavenly under his feet, and so he kicked off his shoes. You thanked him with a voice dripping with honey, sugar and all things sweet. It made his teeth ache. 

He stepped further into the room, onto the carpet. He dug his toes into it. Heaven, just as he imagined. It is soft, and warm, and the strands feel like silk against his skin. Another step, like walking on water. There was not a stain on it, nor a patch of fur bent out of turn. Twas like wading through clouds. 

You pulled the drapes shut. 

“Please sit.” You made a sweeping motion to a group of furniture. “Would you like some wine?”

Sit? Aegon was here to get his cock wet. But he was parched, and so he nodded. 

You balanced two pristine silver chalices on an equally shiny silver platter in one hand and an overflowing silver flagon in the other. Expensive, for a whore at least. Did you have a set for each customer? There was not a scratch on any of it, not a spot of dirt or smudged fingerprints. 

“Dornish red,” you told him as you filled his chalice exactly half-way. 

His throat tightened. 

“In my experience Dornish wine is quite… bitter. Less suitable for pleasure.” 

You chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised by the sound. Most of the whores had rougher voices and were not as quick to laughter. 

“‘Tis an acquired taste, aye, but I do believe you’ll enjoy this one. It’s sweet and yet rich in flavor. Truly there is none who make wine quite like the Dornish.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a whore, not a wine merchant.” 

 “I do not spend all day on my back.” You took a sip from your own chalice, resting a hand on a cocked hip. “A good whore knows her clientele, and well, mine prefer… simple comforts.” 

He looked at the room again. There were large tapestries nailed to the stone walls, though he was unsure what they depicted. Fourteen of them in particular, all in different colors and vague figures. Interesting choice, he thought, but at least it would serve to lessen the echoes of your pleasure later. If the other whores had half the taste and coin for interior decorating as you then perhaps his head wouldn’t ache like a horde of Dothraki screamers had ran him over, when he left the establishment.

Perhaps simple was not the word anyone would use to describe the would-be safe haven that you had created. Twas clear your clientele were highborn, and in Aegon’s experience they rarely longed for simple things, be it wine or decor. Even you were not simple; your hair was well-cared for and shone of oils and had strings of precious stones fell between strands, your dress was not of Westerosi make and clung to you. Even your perfume was nothing short of expensive. A silver necklace clung to your throat, and your fingers were heavy with rings. No, nothing about your craft was simple. 

“They pay you well for these simple comforts.” He said between sips of wine. You spoke true; he did care for it. 

As if reading his mind you spoke again. “I’ve already sent a bottle with one of your guards, it should be in your chambers well before you return.”

“The crown thanks you.” 

“Sarcasm is a family trait, I see.” 

You refilled his chalice with wine, voice as nonchalant as if you commented on the weather. And for Aegon, who’s very core dripped with debauchery, well, you might as well have. 

“As is the want for simple comfort, I assume.” 

Your smile is coy. “Aye, I’ve found that the more riches one possesses, the more they long for, well, simpler things. Comfortable furniture, conversations with a friend,” you move closer, your fingers brushing against his shoulders. Your breath is hot as it fans over the shell of his ear. “A hug. A…” your hands move over his shoulders, down his chest, “mother’s love.”

And then you’re gone. 

“Simple things for simple men.”

“I’m not a simple man.” Aegon scoffed. And he didn't long for his mother’s love. He’s experienced it plenty, as he had the back of her hand.

“No,” you say, “I don’t suppose you are. The blood of the dragon rarely is simple.”

Aegon drank the rest of his wine. 

“You talk a lot, for a whore.” 

“I’m not a simple whore.” 

“Perhaps not, but you end up on your back all the same.”

“And your coin ends up in my pocket. You claim not to be a simple man, Aegon Targaryen, and yet, you drink, whore, and sulk like any other man, only your features are not so plain.” 

“I could have your head for saying such things.” Aegon raised his chalice and gave it a wiggle. “If you insist on nagging my ear off I need to be far drunker than I am.”

You brought a different flagon. It’s decorated with green and red stones, and there’s words engraved along both the bottom and the top of it. It’s Valyrian glyphs, but Aegon cannot read it. He averted his eyes. 

The wine shimmers in the candle light. It’s gold in color and smells heavenly. 

“From the Jade Sea,” you said as you returned his chalice to him. “The Dornish are excellent wine makers but even their finest vintages taste like vinegar compared to the golden wines of Yi Ti.”

Aegon swirls the wine inside his chalice. Never had he seen a wine so… appealing; so mouth watering. He brought it to his mouth. It felt like silk as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and a pleasant warmth followed it. There was none of the awful burn that came with the household wine back in the Keep, and neither did it feel like a stone in his stomach. 

“I assume a bottle of this will be waiting for me in my chambers,” he jested. 

“It’s already there. I had it delivered yesterday. A… preview of our evening of sorts, though now it will be a memory of it.”

Doubtful. Aegon would hardly have the time to reminisce on his one-off evening with the oddest whore in all the known lands whilst drinking his body weight in wine. No, the bottle of Yi Ti gold would be one of many bottles strewn across his chamber floors when he would inevitably be sent into another week-long bender. Besides, you served it in a flagon, and thus Aegon would not notice which bottle was which sober, much less drunk. Though perhaps it would soothe his body’s protests, as it was currently soothing him now. He sipped at the drink like a babe sucked at his mother’s tits, not that Aegon had much experience with the latter. 

“What wine did you give my brother?”

Your lips quirked into a smile. It fit you. Yours was a face made for smiling. “One that fit him.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“You don’t last long in this business if you’re loose-lipped.” 

He chortled. “The one-copper whores beg to differ.” 

There’s a tightness to your smile. “You’d be surprised at the secrets they possess. Those one-copper whores could topple dynasties if they so wished.” 

“And you?”

Has his brother confided in you? His uncle? His father? Did you keep secrets that could rattle the foundations of the world as they know it? Aegon was almost tempted to give you more, to feed the fire burning under his feet until even he burnt. There were cracks in his family’s rule– of every rule– small as mice, but plenty big for secrets and deceit. 

“Perhaps if you behave I shall tell you some.” 

A hot flash of something rushed up his spine. 

“And if I do not?”

“Then you shall leave with nothing.”

“I could command you to tell me.”

“You could.” You inclined your head. “But as some of my… friends are also of noble birth then your command will simply be a waste of breath, and I would rather you save it for what is to come. You will need it.” 

There it was again. That thrill; that heat that licked at his insides. He should have you punished for your insolence. Whipped perhaps, or maybe he would have your tongue. But Aegon admired fire, but even more so he admired those who looked upon him as you do; as if he is more than a rusted sword fit to be wielded as his family saw fit.

“You’re bold.” Aegon pushed himself off the armchair. He walked up to you, moving as if to touch you. You glanced down at his hands, at his arms, then at his face. His fingers trailed up your arm, your shoulders, over your collarbones and the column of your throat. Aegon’s touch was gentle, teasing almost, he wanted you to want his touch. And judging by how your breath hitched when he reached your throat, his caresses are more than welcome. “I like it.”

His hand cupped your face. You were soft and warm. A healthy blush spread up your chest from the hem of your dress. 

How far did it reach, Aegon wondered. Were you as pink and lovely and soft and warm- 

You leaned into his touch. And then you were gone, leaving him cold with his hand still held high in the air. He dropped it quickly, but the feeling of you remained. Aegon adjusted his clothing but it did not lessen the memory of how you felt pressed against him. 

How odd, he frowned, to feel as such over a mere touch of his hand against your face. It was not at all intimate. Like a blushing virgin seeing a glimpse of a woman’s ankles he stared after you, which is altogether odd for a man such as Aegon who cloaked himself in sin and lust. He who had visited the brothels so oft even the whores’ whelps recognized him by the sound of his fancy boots. Scarce were the mornings he did not wake with one hand on a warm cunt and the other on a supple breast.  

“You’re eager,” you said to him with a slight smile. “I like it. It makes one feel wanted… desired, does it not?”

“Do you have more wine?” 

A flash of something passed through your eyes. “Of course.” 

“Go on then, fetch the next one.” 

You offered your hand to him. You didn't demand his answer, nor his thoughts. You took only what he freely offered. It left him feeling strangely full, and less like the hollowed out stranger he oft saw at the bottom of his bottles. 

He took your hand. Warmth flooded back into him. 

Pushed into a corner of the room was a large bed. It was similar to the one he had in his chambers, a bit too similar. Still, it looked comfortable enough. It certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of pillows, nor had you spared any expenses on neither the frame nor the make of the mattress. 

You gestured for him to sit down before you walked over to grab a third flagon of wine. Gods, Aegon was sure to be stumbling back to the Keep following your night together if the pace you were handing him drinks was to be considered. Still, Aegon sat fell down on the bed with a lack of grace most unbecoming of a noble. It was even softer than he imagined. 

He cared for conversation, he did, truly, but his cock had been aching for relief since you opened the door and any longer and he thought it might burst. Did you not see the lust in his eyes? Did you think to quench the burning desire in him with expensive wine? Nay, Aegon reckons his mother will have to collect his charred remains were you not to touch him. 

At last, after what felt like an age, you turned. Have you always walked as such? The sway of your hips were almost hypnotizing. A smile lit up your face, though he could not tell what kind of smile it was. He had no need for more wine, for his mind was buzzed and his hands longed to trace you. 

You didn’t bring the flagon you’d been observing. Mayhaps it was a bad fit. Aegon doesn’t care. 

“Are you familiar with how the wine merchants of Yi Ti make it?” You asked. 

He shook his head. Why in the hells would he know that?

You’re close enough that he could smell you again. Your touch is soft as you cup his face, thumb swiping over his bottom lip. “Wine is fermented grapes, as I’m sure you already know.” Your voice is a touch lower, more seductive. Odd, considering the subject, Aegon mused. You moved to straddle him, and he welcomed you with his hands falling onto your hips, his legs separating to bring you closer. ‘Tis a dance he is familiar with, finally. “The type of wood that is used is different with every maker,” one of your hands fell on his thigh. He swallowed a hiss when your hold tightened. “The merchants from Yi Ti? They use a very particular breed of tree to make the vintage I just served you. It is a known…” your hand released his thigh only to brush over his crotch, “aphrodisiac.”

“Uhuh.” Aegon nodded. So long as you kept your hands on him he’d feign interest in wine making. 

Pathetic. A brush of a hand makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

The brush turns into a flat touch, which then turns into a caress. ‘Tis all teasing, in the end. Like the smell of a pie wafting out from under the gaps in the kitchen doors; ‘tis there, and yet, it is not. It’s a promise of a future reward. 

Aegon tightened his hold on your hips before pulling you forward until you sat as close as physically possible. And still did he want you closer. It’s a crippling need of his; a dark pit of emptiness that can only be temporarily filled with the closeness of another. It came back stronger, deeper, each time. Still, it gnaws at him, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. 

Closer, it whispered. 

Closer, it shouted. 

He would crawl inside your skin and live there, and yet it would not be enough. Nothing ever was. The voices would remain, and the abyss inside him growing ever larger, like a looming shadow spreading its rot to every interaction. Soon, Aegon would be as rotten as his thoughts, as his desires. He would be the failure of a man his mother believed him to be. 

You showed no signs of seeing his struggle for you pressed yourself ever closer until he felt your heart beat against his. Aegon surged forwards, slotting his mouth over yours in a dance that was oh so familiar to him. This, he knew how to do. If you’re surprised by it you don’t show it. 

You’re a whore, of course you’re not surprised by him kissing you. 

Briefly Aegon wondered who out of them were the best kisser, him, his brother or his uncle? How many Targaryens had warmed your bed? Had his father stumbled into your arms and sampled all that you had to offer? Had you woven tales of wine merchants and the likes to them as well? 

Did he kiss like his uncle? 

He knew he did not fuck like his uncle, for the whores spoke often of his uncle’s talents, and his obsession with taking them from behind like a hound. Aegon found he did not care for that, but he reckoned his uncle’s fancy came more from a desire to dream of fairer features than the pleasure of it. 

You pulled away from his lips. Strings of saliva connected the two of you together, and Aegon would never admit it, but he found himself chasing after your lips. 

“Undress.” You said and pushed at his clothed chest. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. 

“If you insist.” 

He shrugged off his tunic easily enough, but his trousers, well, he’d have to move you to remove those and Aegon found himself very reluctant to part from you or your body. Aegon tapped your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He stood from the bed and pulled down his trousers, kicked off his shoes and then fell back on the bed. 

“Fuck.” Aegon grunted. 

You laughed. 

“Lay back.” You told him. 

Aegon did as you asked. The pillows were harder than he thought, but in a good way. His head didn’t sink in, but rather rested on it. They reminded him of his own pillows. Strange, but he was too horny to care. 

He’s already hard when you grab his cock. Aegon gets nothing from your expression apart from desire. No surprise at his size, but neither disappointment. Not delighted at finding him hard and ready for you, nor dismayed. Curious. His heart skipped a beat at the uncertainty of it all. With common whores he knew how to act – where to touch, what to say. They swooned and gushed over every aspect of him, slobbered on his cock whilst moaning about his size and girth like they had never seen a cock before. But this? This silent appraisal, the almost tender hold of him as you swiped across his tip, as you traced the vein and cupped his heavy balls? This, this was unfamiliar even to him. 

“Are you ready?” You broke the silence. 

“W-what?”

It was an odd question. For as long as he had visited brothels, for as long as he had laid with others there had never been this out-of-place pause in… affairs. It all followed the same pattern; greetings, some petting, then sex, and then he’d leave. He didn’t know what to do with your question, what did you want? What answer should he give? 

Were you going to sit on his face? Many of his conquests enjoyed that, and while Aegon wasn’t overly fond of it and was prone to feeling trapped if it went on for too long, it was never a question asked out loud. It was the moving of hips, of knees closing in around his head and a warm, wet cunt dropped on his mouth. 

You swiped damp hair off his forehead, there’s a strained expression on your face. Aegon doesn’t like it.

“Are you ready?” You repeated. “Do you want this?” You clarified. 

Gods yes, he wanted to say. I think I’ll die if we don’t, he wanted to say. 

“Oh. Yes.” Aegon said instead. The odd expression on your face didn’t waver. 

Curious. 

You released his cock, and he shuddered. Instead you brought your hands forward and gripped his shoulders, leaning forward. Your eyes never left his as if searching for something. You scoured his face, watched his every microexpression. 

He just wanted to be inside you already. 

But he laid frozen beneath you. 

‘Behave’. Echoed through his mind. 

Then, your hand is back on his cock. You bring your hand up and down, loosening your hold and then tightening it. You seemed acutely aware of him – of his reactions. As if reading his mind you adjusted your hold, your speed, the pressure, even the angle as his pleasure ebbed, grew, and lessened. 

Odd as you were, you were a good whore. Skilled, certainly. But odd nonetheless. 

His toes curled, and a familiar warmth grew with your movements. Aegon wasn’t silent, he was a man proud of both the pleasure he felt and the pleasure he gave. And so he moaned, and he shuddered, and he groaned. It echoed far louder than he’d thought, and were it not for the gleam in your eyes he’d surely fall silent. 

He was about to tell you to stop; that he was seconds away from spilling into your hand, when you pulled away. 

Perhaps you were a mind reader after all. 

Your grip on his cock is loose but firm as you guided him inside you. Heavenly warmth enveloped him, and your walls felt akin to silk. Aegon knew little of love, but if he knew anything, it was that love surely felt like this. Like two pieces connecting. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you bring yourself down. By the time you’re flush with his pelvis Aegon has started to pray to all the gods to let him last a little longer. It is too much and yet it is not enough. His body ached for release; beads of sweat formed on his forehead from trying to stave off his orgasm. 

But you seemed like you were above it all, like something ethereal. In the throes of your pleasure – as you forced yourself to rise and then fall on him like it was your gods given duty – you shone, and Aegon had never seen anything more beautiful. Your sounds of pleasure are music to his ears, and yet it is whispered. 

Aegon pressed a thumb against your clit, and you trembled at the sudden touch. Then you moved ever faster, and Aegon tried to match your pace. He alternated pressure as you had before, he pressed circles and squares, and he spelled his name, and all others he could think of. 

Aemond. 

Daemon. 

Viserys. 

Jaehaerys? 

He’s soon lost to his pleasure as well, in the way you impale yourself on his cock and force him out of his thoughts and into the present. He knew not what names he pressed into your clit, not what names or family he used to elicit more and more moans from you. It is not enough. He ate up your pleasure as if it was his own. 

You batted his finger away from you before forcing his hands above his head where you held him by his wrists. 

“Behave.” You told him through your teeth. 

Redness spread across his face and a thrill rushed through his body. 

“You’re still dressed.” He realized. How he had missed that, he would never know. It feels like a sin to have been so caught in his own pleasure, or rather the chase of it, that he had neglected even that. 

Aegon blinked and you’ve ripped your dress over your head without missing a beat. 

He blinked again. Too stunned to react. 

Breasts. 

‘Twas like an out of body experience watching himself reach for your breasts, to feel the soft flesh under his fingers. He cupped them, thumbing at your nipples. 

He knew not what to focus on; your body, you, or the delicious torture of your hips slapping against his. Aegon felt in that moment like he was one and ten and he stumbled into his first pillow house. 

Aegon shook his head. 

“Focus on me,” you said as if sensing his thoughts. You tore his hands from your breasts and held them above his head again. It brought him back to you, and he gulped. He thought he might have felt small with the way you loomed over him, but he found that he did not. 

Fighting against the whirlwind of pleasure was a losing battle, and the hand you laid flat against the side of his face was his undoing. He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It’s not a quick affair. He feels as if there’s no end to the white hot pleasure that shot through him. You didn’t stop your movements, instead you slowed down until you rose and fell in slow languid strokes. 

Aegon’s eyes burnt. 

“Did you finish?” He asked whilst panting when he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

You looked as if you were glowing, like the mother unveiled smiling down at him. 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

“Fuck.” He let his head fall back. “You didn’t. Fuck. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

“Nay, Aegon.” You laid beside him. He felt empty as he slid out of you.

Not close enough, the voices started again. 

“There will be other nights.” You soothed his bruised ego. 

“You truly are the oddest whore I’ve had the pleasure of fucking.”

You laughed. 

Aegon moved closer to you, though his skin crawled as the sheets below his sweaty skin seemed to tear at his skin. He pressed himself into you, resting his head almost tentatively on your chest. It felt good, he realized. And safe. Aegon melted into your embrace as you reached over to play with his hair. 

“So about that secret,” he glanced up at you, “what wine did you give my brother?”

“Myrish fire wine.” 

Aegon roared with laughter so loud that his chest ached. 

[unboundprompts]

Idk if you’ve done this yet but ways to describe a dark/scary motel/house? Something straight out of a paranormal horror story to be precise.

Thank you!! 🫶🏼

I love love love horror. If you ever want more horror prompts please let me know :)

Descriptions of Haunted Locations

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

The doors of the motel were identical, nothing differentiating them besides the rusted numbers. They were dirty, as if they had never been cleaned, and the paint had been chipped off over time. Some of the doors looked like they were covered in claw marks-- fingernails digging into the old paint in chilling, desperate lines.

The house was old. It looked like it hadn't been cared for in decades. The grass in the yard was up to her knees and ivy leaves grew on the exteriors of the house and rooted in the gutters. The windows were boarded up, making it look abandoned. The only way to glimpse the inside of the house was through the attic window.

The entry way was filled with dust. It lingered in the air and on every surface. He glanced up at the antique chandelier hanging high overhead, seeing the dirt and grime that dirtied the glass crystals. He tried the light switch, flicking it up and down but to no avail. When he turned on his phone's flashlight, and shone it through the dusty air, a shadow passed in front of him, darting through the entry way and up the stairs.

The motel room was small, the bed made with a comforter that looked like it came from their great-grandmother's house. It was a dirty floral pattern, with yellow pillows that were probably once white. The carpet was stained. Either with blood or dark red wine, they weren't sure. And the window that looked out onto the walkway was covered in fingerprints.

Taxidermy. The lobby of the motel was filled with horrible dead animals mounted to walls and displayed in the corners. She was near certain that their eyes would move. As she checked in, the taxidermy squirrel that sat on the desk stared at her with it's teeth bared.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[hippolotamus]

Hiiiii Hippo 💕💕💕

Buddie fic title:

If only I knew you had electric fingerprints

-❤️🪐

Hiiii Saturn!!!! So lovely to see you here! You said Buddie. Please know you have my eternal gratitude for forgiving my slip into Diaz Family Feels. 💞🦛

After the debacle of broken salad bowls, 'I think you should go home' and 'This is your mess now', Eddie thought that he and Chris had worked through the biggest tangles of dating in the Diaz household. Introducing Marisol was almost a non-event. Eddie might even go so far as to call it a success.

He will now admit that line of thinking was more than a bit premature and naïve on his part.

Maybe it was his own growth and evolutions in the relationship department that led him to assume Christopher wouldn't face the same issues. And, well, technically he didn't. No, Eddie's son dealt him an entirely new, foreign set of tribulations. A one-eighty of Eddie's nesting instincts where Christopher is leading on five different girls. Five!

Wasn't it just last year they were discussing how much shirt sleeve was acceptable to show? What the hell happened?

And, OK, it's a new world with new methods of communication and apps and how teenagers interact with each other. Eddie likes to think he isn't completely stupid, because he tries to stay informed about current trends that he would honestly rather not know about. But no article or discussion with the school guidance counselor - or Frank - could have prepared him for tonight. No tips, tricks, signs to watch for could have fortified him for the devastating blow of 'We loved her and she left us anyway' and 'I can't remember her voice anymore'.

When Buck emerges from Chris's room, Eddie is still leaning against the wall, crushed under the weight of a thousand emotions and questions, attempting to prevent his heart from spilling past the walls of his chest. To keep it from slipping through the makeshift cage where his fingers press bruises into his skin, just below his collarbone.

Buck squeezes Eddie's shoulder before wordlessly leading them to the kitchen where he pours them both a glass of water and he waits. Waits for Eddie to speak, because it's what they do. They don't press. And maybe they should - more or earlier - but that's another thought for another day. For another version of Eddie that doesn't feel like the ground has been ripped out from underneath him.

"I don't- How am I supposed to-" Eddie blows out a harsh breath, frustrated that he can't form a complete question. That there is no entry in the non-existent Parenting Handbook for how to tackle this scenario.

"Eds," Buck says the nickname so carefully, so gently, like his tongue is shaping it from the most fragile glass. His hand tentatively slides across the tabletop until it's resting on top of Eddie's own. "You don't need to have all the answers or know exactly what to do."

"I know I don't. It's just-" He cuts himself off, huffing out an unamused chuckle. Because he doesn't know.

And, look, Eddie is fully aware that he doesn't have to be one hundred percent in control all the time, but it doesn't make him hate whatever this is any less. This combination of lost and thrown off course; of sad, bitter anger muddled together with desperation. His own eagerness to bargain for a way to make this situation more palatable. A pathetic yearning for the chance to go back. To never enlist and close himself off. To splurge on the digital camera with video recorder so he could capture a truly ludicrous amount of everyday, mundane moments.

How many hours of footage might they have collected? Of simple things like Shannon chopping vegetables or putting on makeup before a night out. Her and Eddie slow dancing in the backyard to music only they could hear. Or her laughing, bright and bold, as she smudged dirt and filth across Eddie's cheek after he showed her how to change the oil in her car. The way he pulled her in with his own grimy hands, pressing their mouths together so he could swallow the sound.

He blinks rapidly to keep tears from falling as he wonders how many instances would have featured her rolling her eyes - exactly the way Christopher does now - and shoving her palm in front of the lens.

But he'll never know because he's stuck with the choices he made. That they made. He can tell their son stories, bring him for graveside visits, and offer small souvenirs of the time Shannon had on earth, but that's all Eddie can do. He can't replicate what it was like to be in her presence. He can't convey how she was soft and gentle and all the things Eddie isn't, while also being sharp and spirited. How she smelled like peonies and summer rain.

Whatever he has to offer is two dimensional. Framed photographs, memories stored in his mind. Some of them also stored in Chris's though Eddie suspects in a completely different way. Hopefully in a way that doesn't taste as much like guilt and regret for things left unfinished and words left unsaid. Words like-

Dear Christopher.

He swallows hard around the phantom taste of sea spray from the Pacific Ocean, has the urge to claw at damp, sun-warmed sand that isn't there. And god only knows how his best friend has any idea what's scratching at Eddie's brain, but he does. And Eddie is so, so grateful when Buck rubs his thumb across Eddie's knuckles and asks if he should stay or would Eddie rather it just be him and Chris.

As much as Eddie would like Buck to be present as an extra layer of protection, he knows this is something he has to do himself. Even though, as he walks Buck to the front door, promising to call later, he gets the distinct feeling he won't actually be alone.

In the low lighting currently casting shadows around his bedroom, Eddie's fingers tremble as he reaches for the small safe in the back of his closet. A simple design meant to hold important, precious things. The metal dial is cool under his fingertips, easily manipulated as he rotates it right and left and right again until the door pulls open.

It's been years since he read the words written in Shannon's flowing script, but he knows them like he knows his own name. He traces over her loops and arches, wishing, like always, that he had more time. That he could put off performing this errand for a few more years, decades, lifetimes. Even if he knows it's only for selfish reasons. Because he owes this to Chris and to Shannon. It's on him to follow her instructions and deliver this remaining link between mother and son.

He holds the folded pieces of paper in his hands, feeling something familiar wrap around him that isn’t the usual despair. Something that's more like spun gold flowing between the note and his skin.

Eddie bites back a sob as it dives beneath the surface to wind its way around nerves and spill through blood vessels on its way to his heart. As a calm takes root, anchoring in all four chambers, unfurling and flourishing. As the room, that typically smells like lavender fabric softener and the fancy vanilla linen spray Pepa bought for him, is permeated by the overwhelming scent of Texas nights - filled with crackling humidity wrapped in silvery starlight - and velvety pink peonies.

He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing it in, inhaling deeply to his core like it might allow him to hold onto this moment forever. When at last his lungs protest, forcing him to exhale, his eyes flutter open again.

Eddie closes the door to the safe, hearing it shut with a satisfying click.

"Thank you," he whispers, letting his gaze drift to the letter once more before he walks down the hall to pass it to its rightful owner. His son. Their son. A living, breathing tether between past, present and future.

He knocks on the doorframe, briefly saddened by the sight of Shannon and Christopher’s picture turned face down on the desk. It only makes him more sure he’s doing the right thing.

“Hey, buddy…”

For additional Feels™️ may I recommend

[riaki]

— last train at 25 o' clock | suguru geto x reader fluff(???)/light angst @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat please take this bc coffee shop geto is gonna take a bit

it's 1am in the morning, the train platform's a ghost town, and the hum of the vending machine is all the noise in the world as you and suguru wait for the last ride home after a mission.

wc : 2.6k cw : brief mentions of blood ; references to hidden inventory arc , shoko typical smoking , probably some other stuff i'm forgettin not proofread!!!! also he may be ooc srry

i cooked this up last minute cus i remembered my promise of posting every weekend last week so my bad if u can tell its rushed lol post hidden inventory pre defection

suguru remembers it like it was yesterday.

the song of summer insects reaches your ear as you clamber up to the train station platform; a pandemonium of cicadas and crickets that sing odes to the full moon in the sky partially curtained by dark clouds and the dew on the grass that's begun to form.

"damn, it's hot." you muttered, wiping your forehead as your arm shot out to grab the dirty railing, white paint cracked and peeled as a splinter pricks your fingers and you flinch. suguru follows after you; a small hum is your acknowledgment.

"careful. shoko doesn't like dealing with splinters," he says from behind you, stepping up the stairs two at a time to straighten up on the train platform, hands in his pockets. “i don’t have reversed curse technique healing either.” there's the smell of a storm in the air, and the lights overhead buzz and flicker with the intermittent beat of a moth's wings. you just give a dip of your head in acknowledgement as you pry your hand away from the railing, the scent of old wood lingering on your hand as you wipe off the dust clinging to your palm on your pants.

(geez, you two have no sense for these types of things.)

suguru holds a hand out, and you take it eagerly to let him pull you up the last step, before politely letting go and slipping it back into his pocket once more. you let out an exhausted sigh and stand up, rubbing your tired eyes as you look around.

the platform is deserted save for the stray cat beneath the station bench, sniffing at a clump of weeds growing from the metal leg. there's a vending machine up against the wall to the elevator, an obnoxious painted 'out of order' sign on the lift's muddy glass doors, stained with dust, dirt, and fingerprints. there's some... creative graffiti on the wall, and a starch yellow section of caution tape flutters in the humid evening wind.

the cat scratches at the concrete floor, and its matted white fur and crystal blue eyes remind you of someone. you glance up at suguru, poking his arm to get his attention.

"look. it's satoru." you huffed, still a little loose for breath as you reach out and grab his shoulder, leaning against him for support. the dark-haired boy just laughs a little, taking his phone out to snap a picture and no doubt send it to the white-haired brat. "i see it." he leans a little closer to you; it's subtle, and you don't notice it, but the way his shoulders sag just so you have an easier time holding on speaks volumes. "don't send it to him! he's probably asleep right now. think it's past his evening sugar high?" you asked, glancing up at him with a tilt of your head.

"most likely. i think he got sent on another solo mission today." there's a tiny bitter bite to suguru's voice that underlines its usual velvetiness; like an ocean current beneath the waves that you only find once you've been dragged underwater. you don't say anything about it, though. the sleeves of his uniform crumple beneath your fingers when they curl into the fabric, a shiver running down your spine as goosebumps spring up on your skin like shroom caps after the summer rain.

suguru is observant.

"you cold? you can have my jacket." it's immediate, and his voice is as smooth as cream silk and marble as he shrugs your hand off (much to your dismay-- shown with a bite to your cheek) to unbutton his uniform jacket, slipping it off his shoulders and offering it to you. when you stand there, feeling a little daze and a lot tired, he just smiles, shoving it in your face with a low chuckle that sounds like honey pouring from a jar.

"you sure? you can hug a cursed spirit if you get cold, 'cus you're not getting it back." you sighed after a moment, reluctantly taking his jacket and tugging it over your shoulders. it's warm, and it smells like his cologne- like some natural incense that soothes your nerves and loosens your body to the marrow in your weary bones. you bury your nose in it and forget to think about the warm hue on your cheeks that you'll later chalk up to the humid air.

"i'm sure." the cat by the bench perks up, staring directly in your direction. it yawns, before bounding away, disappearing behind the vending machine with a flick of its cloud white tail. the machine is missing a few rows of drinks, but the green of a melon soda can that's far too saturated to have a name to the original fruit and the cream and red of a yakult bottle are enough to catch your eyes beneath the harsh light of the display.

"still don't understand how you get cold on a night like this, though." he makes a gesture towards 'this' with one hand, fingers flexing in a way that makes your heart flutter unreasonably.

a moment of silence passes; you can see the distant lights of some prefecture over the hill, and your mind briefly wanders to rainy afternoons, puddles reflecting the red neon of passing cars and distorted faces under plastic umbrellas sandwiched between painted concrete and a dark sky.

"you want a drink? on me, as thanks." you say, breaking the sound of silence and nodding towards the vending machine as you look up at suguru. it takes him a moment to respond, so you use the opportunity to admire his profile; the slope of his nose, the deep hazel of his eyes that shine a copper rust beneath the pale yellow light overhead. his hair is a little messy; it's falling out of its slicked back bun, a product of your earlier fight. there's a scrape on your ankle from tripping through the bush in an attempt to put distance between the curse when you had been engaged earlier; it still stings. there's a tightness to his jaw, you notice- and some part of you wishes you could take it for yourself.

the section of dark hair in front of his face sways as he turns to look down at you, gaze charting the corners of your face (your cheeks look soft, he notes) before he opens his mouth to speak.

one kick to the machine, a disappointed frown when nothing comes out, and two yen bills later, the pop of can tabs fills your ears as condensation seeps into your skin, a pleasant relief from the heaviness of the summer air. it's too much when the cold side of a drink is pressed to your cheek, though-- and you let out a yelp of protest, shooting a quick glare up at suguru, who just laughs it off and takes a sip of his drink.

you down a sip of your own; it's a sweet fruit tea that's your go to whenever it's hot out. sweet, citrusy, like starfruit. it tastes like a summer of youth and a warm blue spring. it's pleasant.

a distant rumble echoes from the dark horizon, and both of your gazes simultaneously snap towards it-- at last, you think. the last train is here. you adjust suguru's jacket around your shoulders, catching a whiff of something that smells like rosemary and new leather as his voice fills your ears.

it's an easy night when you pass the threshold and step into the train car, speckled white floors and blue hard seats greeting you. somewhere, there's a ticket stuffed into one of your pockets; a memento of late evenings that blend into early mornings when there's a bruise on your face and a knick on suguru's wrist that soothe themselves with the harmony of small talk and sensation of fizzling bubbles in cold metal cans as the train jostles you along. you're sitting, and he's standing, one arm on the hangers overhead as you talk about everything and nothing. he catches himself every now and then, watching with minimal interest as the sliding doors part themselves like gateways to the afterlife for ghost passengers. it's not your stop yet; far from it.

"say, suguru-- do you miss going on missions with satoru?" you asked after a moment, fingers drumming against your knees as the automated voice overhead announces the next stop, empty farm plots and tangles of wire passing by as the lights inside cozy houses dim and go off.

he doesn't answer that, so you just look out the window.

(suguru, you gettin' enough sleep? heatstroke?)

"how's the cut on your leg?" he finally murmurs after a moment, his eyelids heavy before he tears his gaze away from a tacky advertising on the wall and back to your scrunched nose.

"annoying." you just sighed, and you watched as he gave a small smile; his eyes fluttering shut, long lashes resting against his cheeks. you wondered if the wings of a butterfly would be heavy enough to weigh them down.

he moves after a second, sitting down one seat away from you in a swift motion and beckoning for you to lift your leg. you comply, not entirely sure where it's going- until he gently rolls the hem of your pant leg up, pressing the cold edge of his half-empty soda to the angry red scratch, and you wince a little before letting out one, long sigh. you melt into the chair, feeling like a senior citizen with a hunched back and one too many shrine visits under a bleached kyoto sun.

"thanks." you mumbled, leaning your head against the window as the train jostles ever so slightly to its own tracked rhythm.

he just hums in response, pulling a worn bandaid out of his pocket; the plastic top has pen smudges on it and the white wax gets caught between his pearly teeth as he tugs it off, taking time to make sure he positions the healing strip properly before flattening it down on your leg.

"shoko makes no sense when she talks about her reversed curse technique, so this'll do." he says quietly, and you let yourself fall into the pool of molasses that comes from his throat as you close your eyes, feeling the dull sensation of pain drain from your muscles and melt away like the first waves of spring and the ripple of lake water as a lone sakura petal disturbs the mirrored blue surface.

"i could learn it." you said after a moment, pressing your lips together in an attempt to snuff out the feeling of his fingers lingering on your skin, toying with the loose edge of the bandaid. he just snorts, and you crack one eye open to glare at him.

the rest of the train ride is spent in silence; you slip in and out of a hazy sleep, and you're faintly aware of the timeline-- somehow, your drink ends up on his lips. your head ends up on his shoulder, and your ears pick up his quickened heartbeat. his warmth is nothing like the humidity that clings to your skin like a layer of smoke and vapor, accompanied by sticky dango and raucous laughter weaving between the sounds of fireworks and the crunch of dirt beneath pairs of geta. he smells like home and his soft hair tickles your face as your little breaths squeeze past your parted lips, a warmth like bumping shoulders and linking fingers seeping into your body like the steady stream of fine sand in an hourglass. a warmth like empty classrooms lit by golden hour; windows cracked open to let in a fresh breeze as the faint smell of cigarette smoke drifts up to the room from the brunette and her lighter beneath the patch of shade from a tree in the courtyard below.

(need a light?)

this is how it's been for the past month. tired mumbles and hushed murmurs exchanged between two people who are more than friends but less than lovers after each harrowing mission; shared drinks and linked pinkies, the warmth that stains cheeks rosy when fingers that look small against calloused ones brush with another hand reaching for the metal pole on the train. heavy silence as you fall asleep on his shoulder; faint tingles when his fingers graze your knuckles as he stares at the dark reflection in the windows across. even the windows know how to make him relax.

one day, it'll be just him. a white bird stained black by apollo's hand in a sea of dirty geese, silent as the others hawk and squawk for a place on the lake. one hand hooked around the hard plastic of a hanger, supporting heavy shoulders with weight that could rival atlas' burden. a boy so tired of being beaten by the waves that he succumbs to the undercurrent with the same practice as before, only the paint on the railings has chipped past repair and not even the greenery of the countryside can touch the stains on the windows to his soul; eyes that used to shine with mirth and crinkle with gentle smiles become sunken and heavy with experience more suited to those a decade older.

he'd already chosen his path when he offered his jacket to you; when he laughed at the way you'd sneezed after investigating the patch of weed that had captured the stray cat's attention from before. and he knew that you'd noticed, and he knew that you'd try, and he knew that he wouldn't let you.

he knew when he woke you up with a gentle nudge to the forehead, suppressing the fluttering feeling in the heart he didn't know he still had when you made a grumpy tired face and stood up with much effort and a stumble or two.

(damn monkeys.)

it was easy nights like these that he'd eventually miss the most. walking you back to your dorm, past the candy wrappers and empty cola cans in the halls stained with imaginary blood and passing glances. departing with a kiss goodbye when he knew you were too drowsy and delirious to be able to remember it come morning.

the swing of a jazz rhythm would get stuck in his throat when you stumbled, only catching yourself from the jolt of the train's stop by latching a hand onto his wrist like some evil little lamprey and muttering a small 'sorry'. he'd laugh it off, collect the empty bottles of drinks of debt, and tug on the sleeve of his jacket on your arms, gently helping you off the platform as your pant leg slid back down to cover the bandaid on your leg, rough fabric scratching away the ghost of his touch on your skin. he wished it would just stay for a little longer.

and when the morning came and you woke up in your bed with his scent on the fabric of your shirt, you'd do it all over again. the only part of the terrible cycle he ever took pleasure in. even when the vile taste of a cursed spirit sunk into his stomach, it would be washed away with the right pop and fizzle of sugary drink followed by an even sweeter kiss to the knot between his tired eyes.

there was nothing about your time together he wouldn't ever miss.

you'd be his past, his present, and his afterlife. even when it was his turn to get off the ghost train and step past those sliding doors that held new meaning, you were the last thought on his mind.

one day, he hopes to see you again, when the last train comes in the night so late it could be considered early morning and the platform can relive old memories of peeling paint on a past summer spring once more.

hope u guys enjoyed the catoru cameo my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

[f1nalboys]

Wall Of Photos - Bo Sinclair

Bo Sinclair x Fem!Reader

started as a sick little smut and then ended up all sick no smut so. sorry? anyways enjoy Bo making you pick a photo from the wall to recreate <3

WORD COUNT: 1165

WARNINGS: dark, death mention, blood and slight gore/viscera mentions?, bo's polaroid wall is the main focal point, photos of past victims described (not-correct shibari and chair being used, photos taken of creampies, etc), mention of past victims. reader has such intense stockholm syndrome and they just dont know it, bo gets off on the photos, weird metaphorical nonsense and just nonsense in general? real freak behavior from me, dark, alludes to past abuse from bo, reader sorta kinda helps (or ignores) the killings and is jealous of people that get bo's attention, alludes to reader death and them being perfectly content with it, polaroid wall is a vigil of sorts so religious stuff? the town and bo are one fr. proofread but i am dumb so....pls let me know if i forgot to tag something!!! it was kind of hard figuring out what needed a warning and what didn't

He steadies you, arms around your waist, his front pressed against your back. He smells like Marlboro Reds, cheap beer, cologne, and blood. It’s more comforting now that it was in the beginning. His smell had long faded from the stench of death that seemed to cling to him; you realized it was this town that the smell clung to, not him, sinking its claws into every crack of the road and every crevice in the maggot-filled buildings. 

“So,” he purrs into your ear, breath hot against your skin. He was always so warm, whether that be his breath or his skin or his words, red hot, hot enough to scald you if you weren’t careful. You were far from careful now, your mind still in the chair a few feet behind you. It hadn’t left even when he had let you out of it months ago. You couldn’t feel your feet but you could feel his arms around you, his fingerprints embedding themselves into your skin like his knife used to. “Which do you like?”

You blink, trying to focus your vision. “Which… do I like?” You repeat and he hums. He’s swaying behind you, with you, like you’re dancing to some tune only he can hear in his head. Maybe the wedding march, maybe something from his youth, maybe his mothers voice. It’s all the same to him. He has you in front of the polaroid wall. “These are…” You don’t finish your sentence, swallowing thickly. Your mouth is dry. 

You can feel the smile on his cracked lips.

Dozens of people, all dead now, all exposed on his wall. He’s in some of them, sometimes his hand, other times his cock, a few of his face, but most of them the person is alone. They’re tied up, either strapped to the chair with duct tape or suspended from the ceiling in a mock shibari style. They’re on their knees, tear streaks and blood covering their faces. Most aren’t looking at the camera, but some are. You try to imagine what they had done to deserve that, to deserve Bo’s voice telling them to smile real pretty for the camera. 

You ignore the jealousy.

“Pick. Whichever one you like, we’ll do.” A choice. He’s giving you a choice, something that had been stripped from you the moment you got to town, maybe long before that. Maybe you never had a choice to begin with. All roads lead to Ambrose. He reaches past you and taps a dirt-covered finger against a photo of a woman on her back, her legs spread, her face tilted to the side in embarrassment. The flash is bright but her cunt is the focal point, not her. She wasn’t what he was looking at, he was looking at what he had done to her, what was leaking from her. Him. The photo was of him. “This one’s my favorite. Ain’t that a pretty sight…”

Bo sighs as he relieves the memory then and there behind you. You feel his hips jut forward ever so slightly, grinding against your back. He was getting hard. “What was her name?” You ask and Bo scoffs, his movements stalling. 

“Fuck if I remember. Why? You jealous of her or something, darlin’?”

“No.”

“No? You suddenly feel bad for ‘em all, is that it?” His voice is sweet like the honey you had watched him slather onto your toast this morning. The sharpness doesn’t evade you and you think of the knife he had used. Steel and honey, honey and steel. One and the same when it came to him. “Didn’t feel all that bad when we had that other girl come into town, now did you?” His hand breaches your shirt, sliding up your stomach to your tits. 

Bo grabs at you roughly, keeping his voice level even when you squeak, struggling against him slightly. Not enough for him to worry; you knew better than that. “No.” It’s true. When she had rolled into town, you hadn’t tried to warn her. You hadn’t done anything, in fact. Just watched while she endured what you did. She wasn’t special. Not like you, not like how Bo treated you. A play thing was just that; a thing. You were something to Bo, and that was enough. 

“Now pick or I’m pickin’ for ya.” 

Blindly, you reach forwards and tap one of the photos. It’s an older photo, long before you, and the girl was smiling. She was on her back in Bo’s bedroom, you knew from the sheets, legs spread with him slotted in between. “This one.” You wonder if this was the first. If this is the girl he’s been chasing all these years, if this is who had started it all. Your stomach twists at the thought of Bo loving someone other than you.

“Good choice, sweetheart.” He drawls, placing a soft kiss to your neck. Your body relaxes at the feeling, at the rare praise, and he knows your putty in his hand. How could you not be? His hand falls out from under your shirt. “We’re gonna head on up there, alright? Let me grab the camera.”

You turn around when he takes a step back from you but you don’t dare move forwards. He grabs the polaroid off of the shelf, checking for film. In another world, the sight would give you butterflies. You can feel them stirring in your gut regardless. “Why do you keep the wall?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself and Bo looks up at you, eyebrow raised. “You never look at it. What is it for?” 

He bares his teeth into a grin. They’re white but they should be red, covered in red, blood from the sheep you are, the poor animal caught in the trap of his smile. “It’s a vigil. You think I just take, right? That I don’t give? I mourn them,” he steps forward slowly so as not to startle you. You wouldn’t move even if you could. The girl in his bed was you now and you were going to be added to the wall, another ghost in the town, another warning no one would be able to heed. Had she thought of Bo the way you did? Had she looked at him and felt a twisted love, a sick and festering commitment to the very end? “I’ll mourn you, when it’s time.”

You nod, letting him place his hands on your cheeks. You’re not crying. He didn’t expect you to. “And I’ll mourn you, Bo.”

“I’m sure you will.” He kisses you and you can taste the blood in his mouth. It’s yours, it's the people behind you stuck in a photograph, it's his mother and father and brothers. It’s his. It’s the town, filled with blood and bile and sickness and rot. He pulls away. “Let’s go on up to the house.” He grabs a wrench on his way out, your hand in his.

You follow.

[gemini-sensei]

Hawk Moskowitz x Gremlin!Reader NSFW Headcanons

Chubby!Fem!Reader ○ @sensei-venus

Request: Gremlin!reader x Hawk NSFW headcanons??? They’re my fav pairing-

A/N: I love this. I want to do more of this.

🪨Their first time was in the forest. Hawk wasn't even surprised when he it happened, just thankful he hand a blanket. Not thay they stayed on it very well. They had to hop in the creek to wash off the dirt they smeared all over each other while going at it.

🪨Hawk trying to help her scrub away some dirt just less to a lot more making out though. Not that he minded too much. Holding her, buck ass naked in the water? Something about that was super romantic to him. He gained a deeper understanding for her love of nature after that.

🪨Reader can get rough. She likes to be on top a lot and when she's riding Hawk, she bounces hard. He's holding her thighs tight, leaving little fingerprint bruises on her as she goes at it. He loves her roughness and encourages her to be as rough as she wants, assuring her that he can take it.

🪨After a few times, they talk about taking pictures and videos. He loves to take pictures of her and she loves to pose for him, whether she is under or on top of him. She sticks her tongue out for him and when he goes back to the pictures later just to see the look on her face.

🪨Videos he takes include a lot; showing off all of her curves and especially her fat tits. Videos are made up of his hand grabbing her tit and his cock fucking into her cunt. He gets all sorts of shorts, from the back, in the mirror, whole camera set ups. She loves the videos and they watch them together from time to time.

🪨There are so many pictures and videos of them in the woods. If anyone were to find any those, they wouldn't know where the couple was at or why they were there.

🪨OMG there are toys involved sometimes, but he went out of his way to get crystal toys for her. When he presented them to her in a pretty box, she wanted to use them immediately. He didn't mind using them on her at all. So he ate her out to ensure they she prepped, then took one of the long wands and filled her with it.

🪨Reader bent over a fallen tree as she gets fucked from behind. Half clothed, hard sex. The first time this happened, Reader had been trying to climbing over the tree and slipped; her ass was sticking out and he was behind her, staring at her as she tried to climb back up. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her back into him. She asked what he was doing until she felt his hard on, then things went on from there.

[trektraveler]

Geronimo

Summary: Dean and Y/N. Oil and water. Always at each other's throats, their endelss bickering comes to a boil and Y/N has had it. She storms out of the bunker leaving Dean high and dry! Well, he isn't about to let her get the last word! What happens when he catches her?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean x Reader, Dean x You

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Charlie Bradbury, Reader

Warnings: Angst, Fighting, Bickering, Mud Wrestling, Kissing, fluff

Word Count: 4563

One Shot

Author’s Notes: This is a follow up to Trouble (more or less). I've had this in my WIP for quite a while. My other stories are a little stalled right now, but the muse visited me for this one.

I do think this will be a series at some point... I mean, we all need another series to work on, right?! Right??? Maybe need is a strong word...

Masterlist

     Dean was ready to climb the walls.  He hated research; nose buried in some musty book that was written centuries ago, the pictures always sucked.  And it was quiet work.  Sam refused to let him play any good music when he was working, and Charlie had those massive headphones on.  Then there was Y/N. 

     A picture of scholarly serenity, she fit right in with the damned Men of Letters.  Three stacks of books stood in tall, narrow towers in front of her organized by publication date.  Her laptop was open to her left running a scan on her personal database and a pot of Darjeeling tea that she claimed was excellent for concentration sat mostly untouched.  Even after hours of research she maintained that perfect posture as she added notes to a yellow steno pad already half filled with her neat shorthand.  Not a hair out of place, not a smudge of ink on her fingers, even her over-sized glasses were clear of fingerprints.   

     How can anyone be so perfect?  It was freaking annoying! 

     He let his gaze wander over her form.  She was wearing another one of those impossibly soft sweaters the color of cranberries that covered her from neckline to wrist.  Probably meant to be modest but somehow looked incredibly sexy on her.  She shifted in her seat and reached for a book, causing the bottom hem to hitch up just slightly over the waistband of her pants.  The movement exposed a thin leather belt and about an inch of her lower back.  Creamy skin that Dean really wanted to touch, see if it felt as silky as it looked.  See if she tasted as good as she smelled. 

     God!  Why did she always smell so damned good?

     Dean growled in the back of his throat and slammed shut the book in his lap.

     Sam glanced over at his brother, “You good, Dean?”

     “We are getting nowhere with this and I am losing my damned mind.”

     “Why don’t you have a cup of tea,” Y/N suggested, not looking up from her research, “It will help calm your nerves.”

     “I thought you said it helped with concentration,” Dean muttered.

     “It helps with both,” she replied, irritatingly rational.  She glanced over at him, “Perhaps you should have two cups.”

     “I’m not drinking that crap; it tastes like dirt”

     “Then have coffee, or Gatorade, or whiskey, or chocolate milk with a bendy straw.  Whatever it takes for you to calm down and be quiet.”

     “Oh, sorry I am disturbing you, princess?”

     “You are disturbing all of us.  Honestly, you’ve been projecting your utter boredom out to the rest of us for the past three hours.  Its deafening and unreasonably distracting.  I’m surprised Charlie can’t hear it over her podcast.  So, find a way to calm yourself or go do something else.” 

     Charlie looked up wide eyed, not at all comfortable being brought into this argument.

     Dean did not appreciate being dressed down by anyone and his mouth formed a hard line.  “You are not kicking me out of my own library!”    

     Y/N regarded him over the top of her glasses, obviously not impressed.  “Listen to yourself, you’re like a child throwing a tantrum over having to do a little homework.”

     “A little homework?  We’ve been at this for days!  In case you’ve forgotten, we are on a deadline!”

     “How could I forget?  You complain about it every chance you get!”  Y/N felt her temper begin to boil, “Of course you’d rather be out there killing monsters than in here reading about it.  But just because you don’t like doing something, does not mean you are incapable of it.”

     “Look at you, you love all this don’t you?  You even dress for it, like you’re having tea with the damned Queen!”

     “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

     “Designer jeans, cashmere sweaters.  Would it kill you to wear something practical for once?”

     “These are my work clothes, we’re working.  Situationally appropriate wardrobe,” she arched a haughty brow at him, “I suppose I could take a page out of your book, buffalo check and burger juice couture.”

     Dean chuckled humorlessly, “I’m a hunter sweetheart, that means I do the dirty work.  I don’t have the luxury of sitting on my ass and drinking tea with my pinkie up.  While you’re here trying not to break a nail, I’m out there saving people.”

     With deliberate, measured movements, Y/N placed a marker in the book she was reading and closed it.  She removed her glasses, placed her palms on the polished tabletop and stood.  When lifted her chin and raised her gaze to meet his, there was a fury that nearly had him taking a step back.  Her professional reputation may be unconventional, but the respect that came along with it was well-earned.  She wasn’t about to be pushed around by Dean Winchester or anybody else.  She knew her strengths, she knew her worth and frankly she’d had it with him trying to muscle his way around her. 

     Dean Winchester with his fierce frown and muscled arms crossed over his broad chest.  He was used to being able to intimidate in a very physical way, the hardened hunter.  Tough as fucking nails, hard as granite.  An immovable force.  Well, he could get bent!

     “My work takes me to the most exclusive libraries and private antiquity collections in the world.  Places even the most celebrated scholars are denied access to, I find it helpful to at least look like I belong there.   You are a hunter with no monster, no direction, and no clue.  You want to get back out there, you want to do your job?  Sit down, shut up, and let me do mine.  Because without me, you are just pissing in the wind.”

     She sailed past him, towards the stairs leading to the entryway.  Her suede flats were kicked off and replaced with bright aqua rain boots.

     Dean knew she had a point, but with his temper riled he was hard pressed to admit it.  “Where are you going?”

     “I’m walking the dog,” she replied grabbing the leash and climbing the grated steps with Macey trotting up beside her.  “Feel free to pick up where I left off.  It’s a Christian text written in fourteenth century Italian.  Good luck!”

     When the sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the bunker, Dean rubbed the back of his neck and cursed, “Damn it.”

     Sam rolled his eyes, this thing simmering under the surface between Y/N and his brother was getting out of control. 

     “Nicely done.  Hope your translating skills are better than your manners.”

     Dean slammed his body down into one of the hard, wooden chairs and angrily tore open a book, “Shut up.”

Two hours later

     Dean checked his watch again and growled, “How long does it take to walk a dog?”

     “I’m sure she’s just blowing off some steam, you got her pretty worked up,” Sam muttered, his head bent over a manuscript.

     “I worked her up?!  She started it.”

     “Actually, you started it.”

     “Still,” Dean stood and paced, tension visible in every movement.  “She should be back by now.  The sun’s starting to go down.”

     “If you’re so worried, why don’t you call her?”

     Dean reluctantly pulled his phone from his pocket.  He really didn’t want to be the first one to initiate contact, “I’m not worried, I just don’t want to have to go looking for the little pain in the ass in the dark.”

     He dialed her number and a moment later her phone sounded from under a stack of papers where she had been working.  Dean dug out the slim phone with the shatterproof cover depicting the Eiffel tower.  “Damn it.”

     Charlie smirked when she recognized the tune, Copacabana.   “Is that… Barry Manilow?  That is not her ring tone!”

     The brothers exchanged a look and Charlie laughed, “No.  Come on… Do you really think the lady who told off lean, mean Dean would get lost walking her dog?”

     “Mean?!  I am not mean!”

     Sam was already out of his chair, “I’ll go get her.”

     “No, no, damn it.  I’ll go.”  Dean pulled on his coat and headed for the door.  “I swear, we are duct taping this phone to her ass!”

     It didn’t take the hunter long to pick up Y/N’s trail.  Her wellie boot tracks went west along with massive Labrador paw prints.  Probably headed off to the stream, she did like the view down that way.  He heard her before he saw her.  Calling to Macey and laughing. 

     “Come on, you dopey dog!”

     Dean slowed his approach and hung back behind a trio of trees, observing out of pure curiosity.  Down a shallow embankment that led to the water’s edge, stood Y/N.  Her shiny rain boots were sunk in mud up to her ankles and her dog was splashing through the stream in pure delight.  Finding her prize, Macey bounded back to her mistress with a massive branch in her mouth.

     Y/N took the branch and tossed it back to be fetched.  A fine mist of muddy stream water sprayed over her charcoal trousers as the dog set off after the stick.  When the dog dove into the waters again, obviously delighted in the massive mess she was making, Y/N laughed out loud.

     Dean had to admit, it was a charming scene.  The low light of the sun setting spilled golden beams through the clearing and glittered off the surface of the water.  Not so perfect now, Y/N was rumpled.  Strands of her hair had worked free and floated around her face and her clothes were splattered with mud and water.  Still, she looked nearly ethereal in the glow of the disappearing sun.  Carefree and certainly happier than when she stormed out of the bunker. 

     He had started it.  He knew it, but his frustration had gotten the better of him.  He took it out on her, but damn it.  She was driving him crazy!  Why should he be the only one to suffer?

     He sighed, now that his temper had cooled, he was reluctant to interrupt what was obviously a much-needed break for her.  As fate would have it, he wouldn’t have to.   Macey caught wind of his scent and made a beeline straight for him, all gangly legs and slobbery kisses.

     Y/N turned in time to see Macey tackle Dean with enough force he stumbled backwards, barely keeping his balance.  She frowned, “What are you doing here?”

     Dean patted Macey’s head, calming her down.  “Looking for you.  You were gone so long I figured you must have headed for the boarder.”

     “I’ve been gone like twenty minutes.”

     “Try two hours.”

     “Oh.”  She frowned, having lost track of time.  “Why didn’t you just call?”

     He held up her phone with a raised eyebrow.  She felt her pocket and confirmed its absence.  “Oh.”

     Dean strode towards her and tossed her the phone, “I don’t know why you even bother with the damned thing; you never have it on you.  At this point I’m thinking we just tag you like grizzly bear and release you into the wild.  At least then we’d have GPS.”

     “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, shoving the phone into her back pocket.  “I was always going to come back; it still gets dark early.  And Macey needs a bath.”

     “Sweetheart, you get lost going for milk.  You and that dog would be wandering around for hours if I hadn’t shown up.”

     “I’m sure this will come as a shock, but I have been traveling this world unescorted for years without incident.  And while navigation isn’t my strongest suit, I am perfectly capable of finding my way home without you!”

     Y/N turned on her heel, determined to leave the irritating Winchester as quickly as possible.  She started to climb back up the embankment, but it was slick after the recent rain.  Her boots slipped in the mud and landed square on her backside.  Mud and water soaked through her pants and splattered everywhere.

      Dean really laughed then.  Doubled over and practically crying, while Y/N glowered up at him.

     “Are you just going to stand there laughing at me or are you going to help me up?”

     He held out a hand to her, when she took it, she pulled him down into the mud with her, taking him by surprise.  He landed with a grunt, and she smirked. 

     Dean was fast, faster than she could anticipate.  Before she even knew what happened, he turned the tables, and she was flat on her back.  He had her quite efficiently pinned, yet somehow not crushed under his weight.  His large hands clamped her wrists, holding them fast on either side of her head. 

     She tried to struggle against him, and he chuckled, his intense green eyes boring into hers, “Self-defense rule number one Sweetheart, never give up your leverage.”

     He was so close, hips pressed against her pelvis, his face mere inches from hers.  Y/N wasn’t nearly as unaffected as Dean thought.  She was just as distracted as he was, acutely aware of his presence at all times.  He radiated heat and power, coiled just under the surface.  That warm, clean scent of his filled her senses.  Like leather, whiskey, soap and something else undefinable yet unique to him.  She swallowed and her heart sped up, hammering against her ribcage. 

     Y/N surprised them both by angling her head up and kissing him.  It was passion and desire, red hot and built up over weeks of denial.  He kissed her back, letting himself follow the waves of desire.  His tongue swept inside her mouth, drawing a moan from the back of her throat.  She seemed to turn to silk under his touch, soft, smooth, and pliant. 

     As he gave into the kiss, his grip loosened just enough.  Dean was fast and so was she.  Y/N snaked a leg around his and flipped him, so she was on top.  She straddled his hips and held her forearm against his throat just enough to gain control but not constrict airflow.  The look of shock on his face had her grinning in triumph. 

     She leaned in close and whispered into his ear, “Who says I gave up my leverage?”

     When she nipped at his earlobe, Dean growled deep in his chest.  She felt him harden against her and held tight as he sat up right, keeping her anchored to him in one swift move.  Sitting in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, fingers gripping his shoulders.  His calloused hands splayed her back and he pressed a hot kiss to the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat erratically under her skin.  He was everywhere, flooding every sense.  Fully in control, his expert mouth exploring and branding her skin.  When his hand found her breast and his thumb stroked through her sweater, Y/N breathed his name. 

     Dean believed words to be over-rated when it came to intimacy.  Anything he could say at this point would be inadequate in expressing how he felt, far better to show her.  The life of a hunter was harsh, cold; filled with darkness, horror, and death.  The woman in his arms sat in stark contrast.  A physical representation of all that was light, and good and beautiful in the world.  All he wanted was to lose himself in her and forget about the end of the world. 

     It had been a very long time since Dean let himself give in to his needs.  It was the job, it can take over everything so quickly and so completely that before you know it, that’s all there is.  There is no time for the joys of being human.  Most days, he kept himself too busy to even notice.  But then came Y/N, the living example of what he was missing.  Seeing her every day made it harder and harder to just do the job.  She awakened his senses, and he wanted more.  That was why he bedeviled her all the time. 

     She’d compared him to a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails on the playground.  And she was right.  It was just plain fun!

     But this… having her in his arms, pressed up against him.  Tasting her, feeling her, getting lost in her; this was better.  This was heaven on Earth.   

          “Wait, wait, wait,” Y/N pulled back, desperate to catch her breath.  She put her hands on Dean’s chest and dropped her head, trying to clear it of the hazy desire that clouded everything. 

     To his credit, Dean stopped his advances, taking a moment himself.  He ran a hand over her hair and touched his forehead to hers, “Yeah, yeah.”

     She leaned into his touch.  God!  He felt so good, so right!  Before she could stop herself, she brushed her lips over his.  It was intoxicating.  All encompassing.  Addicting.  The heat between them built again, hotter with each passing second, threatening to ignite.  Her fingers raked through his hair, sending an almost electric current down Dean’s spine.  He ravaged her again, tongue and teeth grazed her heated skin. 

     Suddenly, her control came back, and she pushed herself off of him.  She stood on unsteady legs and stared at him.  Her eyes, normally calm now stormy and clouded.  Like thunderheads brewing over the sea.

     Dean looked up at her and had to chuckle.  She looked somewhere between turned on and terrified.  “I gotta tell ya, I’m getting mixed signals here sweetheart.”

     She braced one hand on her hip and ran the other over through her mud caked hair.  Panic warred with yearning.  “I know, I know.  Damn it, I’m sorry!  I just… I’m sorry.” 

     Suddenly overwhelmed, she turned away and started walking as quickly as she could.  A task made difficult with her slick rain boots. 

     Dean was on his feet and right behind her, “Hey, Y/N!  Slow down.”

     Y/N ignored him and kept her stumbling pace.  She had to get away from him, just had to think for a minute, breath for a minute.  Get away before she did something she regretted.

     “Where are you going?”

     “Back to the bunker,” she replied, stubbornly trudging through the mud, “We have work to do and I’m sure Sam and Charlie are wondering what happened to us.”

     “The bunker is in the other direction.” 

     Y/N abruptly stopped and looked around; he was right.  “Damn it.”

     When she spun around to head back, Dean stopped her.  His hands caught her shoulders and held her fast, “Hold it.  Just hold it.”

     “Let me go.”

     “Not until you tell me what’s going on.  One minute you’re all over me the next you’re running away.”  Dean’s smile faded when he saw the tears gather in her eyes. 

     “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

     He released her, worried that he’d crossed a line.  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, okay?  Nothing.  Just talk to me, tell me what’s going though that head of yours.”

     “We’ve got a job to do, people are in danger and relying on us.  This is not the time for…for this.”  She waved a hand at him, as if to even say the word sex was to invoke its power.

     He nearly barked out a laugh.  She shifted back into the prim and proper, by the book Y/N in an instant.  It was her armor, her last defense.

     “You’re the who left in the middle of research.  Research we can’t complete without you.  Turns out I don’t speak Italian.  From any century.”

     A small smile curved her lips, but her eyes turned sad, and Dean could hardly stand it.  He could spar with her day and night.  Actually, he kinda liked it.  Her acidic wit and high-handed attitude were fun to bounce off.  Most women caved to his charm, and those who didn’t, usually responded to his gruff side.  Y/N remained immune to both. 

     And he liked it.  He craved it.

     But him being nice to her, had the opposite effect.  And him kissing her had her in tears. 

     “This isn’t about the job; this is something else.  I’ll fix it.  Whatever I did, just tell me so I can fix it.”

     She looked at him for a long moment before replying, “Why did you kiss me Dean?”

     “Because when a gorgeous, irritating woman sits on top of you and kisses you stupid, you kiss her back.”  He tilted his head to ask, “Why did you kiss me?”

     “Because I’m an idiot,” she blinked away the moisture in her eyes and looked off towards the horizon.  “Because I want you and I am just so very tired of fighting it and fighting you.  It was a mistake.  God, I’m so sorry.”

     He kept his voice even, despite the hope blooming in his chest.  “You want me, I want you.  Sweetheart, I’m not seeing the problem.”

     “But that’s the thing… I shouldn’t want you!  You’re all… hard and rough and you watch fake wrestling.  You look down your nose at anything Men of Letters related, and you hate when I talk about Rome.  You take every opportunity to tell me what a snob I am.  Dean, we have nothing in common except the job we’re doing.”

     Dean brought his hand up to slowly cup her face.  His thumb gently ghosted over her cheekbone then down her jaw.  His gaze focused on her lips, yet he made no move to kiss her again.

     “I’m not always so rough.”

     He touch was warm, yet she shivered and let out a shuddered breath when he brushed her hair back with his other hand.

     “I hate you talking about Rome because you always go on and on about that hot dude.”

     She frowned in thought, “Bastian?  He’s a cardinal!”

     “He’s a slick Italian.  Just like all the Men of Letters douchebags, they’re just a bunch of book smart, smooth talkers.  And that wrestling isn’t fake, it’s choreographed.” 

     He moved his hand to her shoulders, slowly rubbing his thumb over the curve, “Besides, we have something very important in common that you’ve overlooked.  Chemistry.”

     His mouth came close to hers then moved to hover near the sensitive spot just below her earlobe, but he didn’t touch.  His hot breath fanned over her skin making her thoughts cloud over.  She couldn’t help the tiny moan that escaped.

     “I think I’m exactly your type.”

     .  “It’s the close quarters,” her voice sounded husky, not at all like her normal, measured tones.  “It’s because we’re penned in together.  Stressed, with no way to release the tension.  But if you were out in one of those little dive bars you like and the right… opportunity presented itself.  You would forget I even existed.”

     “And if some suave, ivy league dirtbag swept you off your feet, would you forget me?  Just like that?”

     “No.  I wouldn’t.  That’s why this is so dangerous.  I don’t do casual, Dean.  I’m not built that way.”

     “There’s nothing casual about you.  And there’s nothing casual about what’s happening between us.  This is more than lust, Y/N.”

     She wanted to believe him, and that was a problem.  She was entirely biased.  She wanted Dean’s words to be true, but she need proof.

     “How do you know?”

      “Your birthday?  It’s June 17th.  You love cake but hate frosting.  You always put money in those little charity cans in gas stations, even if you have to go to the ATM to do it.  You tell people your favorite song is Let It Be but it’s really Africa.  You can roller skate backwards.  You speak your mind even when it scares you and you have a soft spot for Cas.”

     “Good angels are hard to find,” she muttered.

     “You hold your breath every time we drive over a bridge and you sent a Christmas card to that old guy in Raleigh.”

     Her head shot up and he nodded knowingly.  “Ben Montgomery, from that double werewolf case.”

     “I didn’t think you noticed that.”

     “I notice everything about you.  Always have.  From the minute you came knocking on our front door, you’re all I see.  For the first time in my life, I see more than myself.  More than a life ending bloody.  More than the job, even more than my brother.  I see you and I want… more.”

       This was Dean Winchester laid bare.  Green eyes, bright and earnest against his mud caked skin.  Who said vulnerable was weak?  He’d spoken so simple and true that she felt like a coward in comparison.  Her attraction sent her running for the hills.  If this was love, it was the scariest thing she’d faced yet. 

     “I notice you too.”  She shook her head with self-depreciating smile.  “You’re ridiculous!”

     “I think you mean adorable,” he winked. 

     Of course he did.

     “And funny.  And brave.  And… so very kind.  When I came to the bunker looking for answers, I knew they wouldn’t come easy.  I was prepared for that challenge, but I never expected you.  My whole life I’ve always known what to do.  I know the steps to take but when it comes to you… I haven’t a clue.  I am lost.  And I am terrified.”

     He took her hands and laced his fingers through hers.  His skin was warm, especially compared to hers.  A serious look creased his brow, making that little line appear between his eyebrows.  She resisted the urge to reach up and smooth that worry away. 

     “I’m terrified too.”

     “You?”

     “Comes with the territory.  It’s a risk, Y/N.  I’m not saying it’s not, but everything good in this life is a risk.  And this?  Right here, you and me?  This is good.  You’ll never convince me it’s not.  The way I see it, we’ve got two choices.  Door number one; we keep the status quo.  Go back to the bunker and take cheap shots at each other until Sammy and Charlie are ready to lock us in the dungeon.”

     “I think they already are.  Door number two?”

     “We jump.”  He grinned and swung his arms, making hers swing too.  A reluctant, but inevitable smile bloomed on her face.  “We tell the fear to fuck off and take a chance on ourselves for a change.  Even heroes deserve a little happiness now and then.”

     “Dean Winchester the optimist?”

     “I spent the afternoon mud wrestling with you, things are looking up.  So, what’d you say, Sweetheart?”

     He made valid points, and she shared many of them.  But that wasn’t what swayed her.  Nor was it the obvious appeal of his hunter’s physique or his shameless flirting. 

     It was hope.  For the first time, she saw it shinning in his eyes.  It was beautiful.  It belonged there always. 

     A jump, he’d said.  A leap of faith.  Maybe she could do it… if they jumped together.

     She wrapped her arms up around Dean’s neck, determined to meet his honesty with boldness. 

     “Geronimo.”

     Kisses between them always followed a fight.  Battles of strong words and unbending wills.  Building to a climax that could just as easily come to blows.  Overflowing with passion and misplaced emotions.  Exciting yes, but easy to dismiss as something else when fear reared its ugly head.

     In many ways, this was a true first kiss.  Powered by something more substantial than desire.  It was born of hope and tasted like joy.  If such a kiss could exist in the dark lives of hunters, then maybe happiness was achievable.  And that was a risk worth taking.

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[tracesofdevotion]

it’s not that I’m lonely. i just want to exist as a body next to another breathing body. i want to exist for a moment as a skin bag of bones and organs standing next to another skin bag of bones and organs. i want to be the blood pumping to our hearts. i want to breathe the same air and feel the same ground.

is touch a part of language? i know it’s a love language, but is touch a form of connection. to feel someone’s hair with my fingers, to hold someone’s hand, to press your fingers to someone’s neck and feel their pulse - is that the same as speaking?

I think about language a lot. i love poetry because it reminds me that words are so very limited. we are limited, all of us. but look at all we can create, look at how much we can express with the limited words we have been given. look what we do with poetry, with music, with touch.

we all live in a body. how do we experience the world if not through the lens of skin and a single pair of functioning eyes? how can I ever, truly know what it’s like to be you if all you can do is speak words to me? what if i could touch your face, feel the ridges of your fingerprint. how much more would i be able to understand you?

maybe not as much as i’d hope. if i reach out and touch your face i’d only feel the physical: how much your skin weighs, how warm it is, the texture of your nose and mouth and chin and forehead. the muscles that pull and stretch your skin. i wouldn’t know the memories hiding behind your lips. i wouldn’t be able to know the things you saw in your dreams last night, or if you like the feel of rain and dirt better than sun on your bare arms.

but i would know the body. for those moments that our skin touched, i would know your body as intimately as I know my own. i would know the veins and scars, the places where you hold your tension and the places where you carry your life.

imagine touching a tree. you can feel the bark and the ridges underneath your fingers. the tree isn’t human, but by touching it you know something of the tree. you know it is old and tough and has seen many seasons and has had many birds and squirrels make homes in its branches. you don’t feel how the tree feels about the birds or the squirrels, you don’t know what it thinks about anything. but you know that the tree is alive.

how much more information would we carry when pressed against another beating heart? what could we learn from each other if we could just touch? imagine a poem written with your hands and a body instead of just pen and paper.

[gtbutterfly]

Quincy and the forest giant part 8

this is the big one folks! this is the one where we finally see some of Ellas' employers! Will parts of Ella's background be revealed? will Quincy finally go home? maybe. uh, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, criticism is appreciated

previous part:

CW: mentions death(no actual death), guns(dart guns?), Ella says f*ck but is censored, implyed animal murder at the end.

______________________________________________________________

I woke up that morning to the sound of breathing over me. I slowly open my eyes only to be startled by the giant face staring down at me. I let out a shocked gasp and my eyes widened. Ella noticed.

“Oh, sorry kid,” the giant said, “didn’t mean to give you a heart attack,” she helped me sit up with her fingers.

“Um, it's fine. Good morning, Ella,” I said. The giant sighed.

“Today’s the day, huh?” she said, “you’re finally…going home,” 

“Um…yeah…” I said, trying to play dumb about what I overheard the night before.

“....you excited?” Ella asked,

“um…I guess so,” I said, looking down, “uh, what time are they getting here?”

“Pretty soon. I don’t know if I should give you breakfast since they might arrive while you're still eating.” Ella said. “You want to…um….wait outside for them?”

“Uhhh…yeah, sure…” I said, hesitantly. Ella held out her hand for me and I let her pick me up and start walking outside. I looked up at her, she had a look of almost nervousness on her face. There were bags under her eyes like she didn’t sleep at all the night before. She seemed like she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but she could’ve been wearing a different pair that just looked similar to the clothes she wore yesterday. She didn’t really smell too peculiar, in fact, she didn’t really smell like anything at all. She had a mild morning breath, but that was about it. Her skin had bug bites and scratches that she didn’t even seem to notice, and there was some dirt under her fingertips and in the crevices of the grooves of her fingerprints, but other than that her hand was soft and dry, there was no oil or sweat from her skin. 

We got outside and Ella sat down in front of the massive door to her house. She kept holding me in her palm, not letting me onto the ground like she did last time. I looked at her.

“So….um…how’d you sleep?” I asked.

“Oh, um,” Ella said, “not much, but well.” 

“Ok…” I said, “so when those people get here….are they just gonna….bring me home, or….”

“Hmm…” Ella thought to herself for a moment, “I’m actually gonna have to talk for them for a moment. Don’t worry, you won’t be waiting long,” 

“O-ok…” I looked down, “so…um….can I ask…one more thing before I go?”

“Hmm…sure, shoot.” Ella said.

“Um…do you…like this?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Ella asked.

“Do you like….um, being out here alone…as a giant…” I said,

“Well, it's fairly quiet…and peaceful, being out here alone,” Ella said, “but..I dunno, I guess I miss being around people, having someone to talk to.” she sighed, “you're the first person I’ve spoken to in months, kid.”

“Oh….um, I guess…that explains things….” I said. “Um….you were probably mean to me because…you never really interact with people….” Ella scoffed. 

“That might be part of it, sure,” she said, “but really, I think…I’m just like that in a way,”

“...what were you like before you were a giant?” I asked, looking down with my eyes closed.

“What are you talking about?” Ella asked, “how do…how would you know I wasn’t always like this?”

“Um…” I thought for a moment, “you said you miss being around people…you can’t miss something you’ve never had….”

Ella was silent for a moment.

“Heh…right,” she let out a weak laugh, and sighed, looking down. Then she looked up at the sky. “Nice day, isn’t it?” she said, trying to change the subject. I played along.

“...yeah, you’ll probably be able to stargaze a lot better tonight.” I said, looking at the cloudless sky. “Too bad I won’t be here to show you all the consolations and stuff…”

“Yeah…” Ella looked to her side, avoiding eye contact with me. Suddenly, her eyes widened. She looked off in the distance, into the woods. I looked in the same direction as her. 

“Wh-what is it?” I asked.

“They’re here.” Ella said, readjusting her grip around me and standing up. She held me tightly while standing to her full height. There was some rustling in the trees and grass before a dark green truck came into the open. It had tinted windows and gray lines across the sides. There was a logo on the door, I just barely recognized it from so far away. It was the logo of the logging company that started the town. The truck stopped some distance away from Ella and the doors opened. The people that came out were humans wearing some kind of armor, similar to riot gear in a way. They had boots and gray pants and jackets with vests of some sort over them, and helmets with some opaque glass covering their faces. They had these sorts of weapons that seemed similar to rifles but looked more tubeish. I think there were tranquilizer guns of some kind. There were two people that came out of the truck dressed like this, a third person, with a gray coat and a brown ponytail with silver at the tips. They had a clipboard and purple glasses. They stepped towards Ella. 

“Ella,” they said. Ella sighed and got on her knee, still holding me.

“Amber….” Ella said, looking down at her.

“Would you be…so kind as to put the child down,” Amber said,

“...aren’t we going to talk?” Ella asked. She sounded stern again.

“You will put the child down, they will wait in the vehicle, and we will talk then.” Amber said.

“Shouldn’t the kid be part of this conversation?” Ella asked, “we’re going to be talking about them, are we not?” 

“Put. them. Down.” Amber said sternly. I felt Ellas hand tense up around me. She noticed that her grip was getting tighter, and she sighed.

“Why don’t I put them down, and you can introduce yourself to them, and then they can join us in our…talk,” Ellas suggested, still stern and emotionless, like she was when I first met her. Amber was silent for a moment.

“Fine.” She said, finally. Ella sighed slightly and lowered me to the grass gently. She placed my feet onto the ground and let me go. Amber approached me.

“Hello child. You’re Quincy Mora, correct?” she asked.

“Um…y-yes….” I said, “your name was…Amber, right?”

“My name is Doctor Amber Laurier, you may refer to me as Dr. Laurier.” she said, sternly.

“...oh….um….ok…” I said. “Um…your…you're with the…um…lumber company?”

“You’ll have your questions answered soon.” Dr. Laurier said. “Guards, watch the child for the time being.” 

The two people with the helmets grabbed my arms and pulled me back behind them. Dr. Laurier approached Ella.

“You said Quincey would be part of our talk,” the giant said,

“You said you were stable enough to be around people after being turned,” Dr. Laurier said.

“I was.” Ella said. 

“All those people would beg to differ,” Dr Laurier said with a blank expression.

“We’re not doing this right now, Amber.” Ella said. “We’re here to talk about the kid.”

“right , right, Quincy.” Amber looked down at the clipboard. “Age thirteen, no parents, few peers back in the town, no permanent living situation as they are in foster care.” 

“That town is the place they've lived their whole life, Amber.” Ella said.

“And were they very happy there?” Amber asked, “they didn’t simply wander into the woods and get caught by you, they saw you and started following you. They wanted to be taken away.”

“They were just curious.” Ella said. “Ask them,”

“Even if they were just following you out of curiosity, we can’t just let them go back, Ella.” the Doctor said, “if we send them back to the town, they’ll tell them about you, and it would be cruel to send them to the foster system of some other place,”

“So you're leaving them here? With me?” Ella asked.

“It's the most beneficial option for all of us.” Amber said.

“You know what I almost did yesterday,” Ella said,

“If he was in any danger of you, you wouldn’t be standing here right now, Ella.” Amber said, almost smug sounding. 

“You just want some else too….” Ella stopped mid sentence, “...to do this to,”

“We haven’t scheduled plans for that yet. The child is assumed to be not of the right age for trials to begin on them” Amber said. 

“Trials?” I asked from behind the guards. They pulled me back. Amber looked back at me.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Quincy. Not for the time being, anyways.”

“Don’t worry about my ……” Ella murmured under her breath. Amber looked up at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell them what your plans are, Amber.” Ella said.

“There are no plans, Ella. we’re still planning it now.” Amber said. 

“Tell them.” Ella said, her voice vibrating in the air. The guards tensed up around the tranquilizers. Amber stepped back.

“They’ll know soon enough.” she said. “Now, why don’t we tell both of you about what we have planned.” She turned towards me. “Quincy,”

“...” I gulped as I stepped toward Amber, “...Doctor Laurier?” 

“What are your thoughts on being adopted?” Amber asked.

“A…adopted?” I asked.

“Amber, no.” Ella said, angrily. Amber looked up at her.

“Ella, remember Derrick,” Amber said

“Don’t you ***king dare bring up his name,” Ella said, her voice salivating in anger. The guards pulled me back again. Amber flinched, I did too.

“Ella, calm down!” Amber exclaimed. Ella took a deep breath.

“Don’t bring up Derrick again.” Ella said.

“Just let me make my point,” Amber said, “the two of you…you wanted to have a child together, right?”

“We wanted to both be alive together,” Ella said, her voice rumbling.

“Quincy here could be like the child you never had,”

“You know that's a bad idea, Amber. You know I can’t be around people.” Ella said.

“Well maybe it's about time you prove that you can, “Amber said. Ella paused for a moment.

“...what are you saying?” she asked.

“I’m not promising anything, Ella. I’m just saying, depending on how you take care of this child..” Amber said,

“Stop messing with me, I know you’d never do that.” Ella said.

“Think about what Derrick wouldv’e wanted, Ella,” Amber said.

“Stop saying…”  Ella took another deep breath, “...stop saying his name. You have no idea what he would've wanted.”

“Wouldn’t he want this child to have a home?” Amber asked.

“He would've wanted this child to be safe,” Ella said.

“So keep them safe, Ella.” Amber said. “We already told the town that Quincy went away to possibly be adopted. Just take care of them for a few more days, and we’ll be back to do some health checks on them, and then a permanent decision will be made.”

“You can’t…” Ella started,

“You're not being given the opportunity to refuse,” Amber said, walking away from her. She turned to me. “You understand this situation, correct?”

“Y-you want me to stay with her?” I asked, “but..”

“It won’t be for any more than three days. You aren’t afraid of Ella here, are you?”

“Um…not….not that much…” I said, looking to my side.

“Hmm,” Amber checked something on the clipboard she was holding. “Do you have any attachment with your town?”

“well…I’ve never left it before….” I said,

“Right…right…” She put the clipboard down to her side and looked at me. “Well, we’ll leave you here now. I’d suggest getting used to your situation here…”

“Wait…your…you're actually…” I started to say,

“Nothing has been decided yet. You will stay here with Ella for the next few days. We will come back, and you will report your experience back to us, understood, Quincy?”

“But…but…” I gulped, “What about school? What about…the town…and everyone there…don’t they….”

“They’re not worried about you, Quincy.” She said, “They’re not.”

I was silent for a moment.

“Do you understand?” Amber said, in the same tone as before. I nodded. 

“...yes….”

“Good.:” Amber turned around, walking back to the vehicle, before stepping onto the first step to the door and looking up at Ella. “We'll contact you each day to get an idea of how things are going. Expect to hear from us tonight.” Ella glared down at her, her eyebrows furrowing. I could hear air coming from out her nose as she exhaled sharply in anger. She sighed.

“...ok, amber.”

With that, Amber and the guards got back into the truck and drove away, off into the forest out of sight. We stared in their direction for a minute. Everything was just silent, and I was still there. Soon, Ella laid her hand out in front of me without saying a word. I hesitantly climbed on to it, and we went inside. She took me to the main living area of her cabin, where she placed me onto the same table I was on before. They looked right over me, out the window outside. Something was bothering her. Her eye was twitching, and she kept breathing heavily out of her nose. Soon she sighed, and went back towards the door. 

“Where….wh-where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to kill a deer.” she said, before walking outside, and closing the door behind her, leaving me alone in the house.

[quanticowrites]

The Wrong One Pt. 2 (Timothy McGee x Reader)

•• I've decided to look through my old fics and find ones that I never finished. So here's part two of this fic, and be on the lookout for a Part 3! ••

“But Director-!”

“You’re not working this case, and that’s final.” Vance said, pointing at his phone. “If I have to put you on house arrest, I will.” You sighed.

“Yes Director.” He smiled, taking your hand.

“Hey, you’ll get through this. Gibbs and your team will figure this out. Head home and get some rest.” You nodded.

“Yes Director.” He chuckled as you headed out the door. As soon as you set foot out of the directors office you went back down to the bullpen and to your desk. For once you were thankful it was empty. Another case had come up and had taken some of the tension away from you. You grabbed a couple of things from your desk, including your I.D. Before heading to the stairs. You would have taken the elevator but you didn’t want to risk running into anyone from the team. Especially Gibbs, he’d somehow know what you were up to. He usually did. Once you got to your car and out of the navy yard you put on an old MIT baseball cap Tim kept in the back and pulled your hair up into it. You pulled up about a block from the crime scene and walked the rest of the way. Walking backwards under the police tape to make sure no one saw you enter his apartment. You grimaced seeing the blood stain on the floor. He must not have died right away…

“Focus, (y/n).” You told yourself. “Look for something to prove you’re innocent.” You searched every room, only touching things with the cuff of your sleeve. You couldn’t afford to leave fingerprints on anything. Something caught the sunlight on the floor beside his bed and your heart stopped. You picked it up with a tissue and examined it. “How in the hell…” It was a necklace, one that looked eerily similar to yours. You put it in an evidence bag you'd swiped from the crime scene van before heading back out onto the street. You got back into your car with a sigh. “I don't understand. My dna, this necklace, what's the connection?” You got back home to find Timothy waiting for you.

“Where were you?” You sigh, shutting the door behind you and putting your car keys on their hook.

“What? Are you going to accuse me of murder now too?” He blinked before standing from where he'd been sitting on a bar stool.

“(Y/n), you know I don't believe you did this.” He looked down to your pants pocket. “What's in your pocket?”

“Tim-”

“You went back to where the Lieutenant was killed, didn't you?”

“I have to prove I'm innocent, Tim.” His nostrils flared.

“What do you think we’re trying to do?!”

“Oh! So when it's anyone but me going out and proving themselves innocent it's fine?” You scoffed at the irony. “Gibbs has done it. Tony. Ziva. You. Nick. Ellie.”

“YOU’RE NOT THEM!” His voice cracked from how loud he'd become. You gritted your teeth. You and Tim had fought before. But never to this extreme.

“Fine.” You state, trying not to show Tim the tears you were fighting. “I'm going for a drive.” You turn and grab your keys again.

“(Y/n), that's not what I meant to-” You let the door slam before heading back down to your car as fast as you could. Tim would probably try and follow you this time. You quickly peel out of the parking garage and head out of the city. If you were going to figure out the connection with this necklace and your DNA, you needed a clear head and some fresh air. Somewhere the FBI wouldn't be breathing down your neck. Gibb’s cabin seemed like the best place.

Your eyes kept flashing to the rear view mirror. You weren't sure if you had a tail, or if it actually was someone that just so happened to have to go the exact same way as you at every turn. Maybe it was just your federal agent paranoia. You saw a dirt road coming up. You slowed and turned. You had no idea where this road went, but you'd have your answer if they followed.

“Fuck.” You cursed. You did have a tail. But now the question was, who was it? The FBI? Gibbs? Or was it who left the similar necklace at the crime scene? You floored it. Sending dust flying behind you and you hoped it would help cover your trail as you wound down the road, looking for another turn off. “Ah!” You gasped as they rammed into the back of your car. Letting off the gas and went in for another blow. You did your best to keep the car on the road. The next hit sent you into the ditch. You were thankful the airbag didn't deploy, but slightly concerned. You didn't dwell on it long before scrambling to get out of the car and draw your gun. The dust was still flying. You could see that whoever was in the car behind you was still behind the wheel. “Get out of the car!” You yell, pointing your weapon. “NOW!”

Tag list:

@stanathanxoox , @nikkiwierden , @malindacath , @havlindzk , @countrygal17a , @memyselfandmaddox , @octobersmog , @mizzezm , @diaryofafan17 , @emmitheacefangirl , @a-sad-excuse-of-everything , @marennnx

[galateagalvanized]

2 is my lucky number!

#2 - Aphelion, by Sleeping at Last

Loving Obi-Wan was supposed to be safe.

Not easy—though it was that too, sometimes, and terribly so—but safe.

Cody takes a breath like sharpening a blade, like racking a round, and tries to focus on the intel report that he's run his eyes over three times already. His brain stutters over the words. It keeps catching on grief.

“Sir?” Boil asks, parting the tent flap with a gauntleted hand and a single second of hesitation. Cody checks his chrono. It’s been exactly an hour since Waxer came by; Cody would admire the consistency of their check-ins if each interruption weren’t a reminder.

“Come in, Lieutenant,” Cody says, sighing, looking up. He doesn’t know what they expect to find each time they peer in. He doesn’t know what they want him to say, to do.

“Forward scouts have found two additional Separatist camps north of Shyrikaw,” Boil says. A week ago, that would’ve been a comm message. A week ago, it would have been an alert accompanying an automatic update of their battle map.

A week ago, Obi-Wan would have mentioned it to him in passing, their heads huddled over the holoprojection, their fingers trailing possible paths through the blue mountains of Kashyyyk.

Now, Cody nods. This is an answer easy enough to give. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Boil hesitates again, waiting. The song of cicadas rises to a crescendo, then fades, then rises again.

“If you need to take some time,” Boil says, “Wax and I can—”

“I don’t need time,” Cody snaps, then breathes, then calms. “We lose people every day. We lose people on my orders every single day. I can’t stop to grieve them. Why should this be different?”

Boil looks at him, uncertain, wary. Kashyyyk’s atmosphere has the approximate water content of Kamino’s oceans. Sweat beads on Cody’s forehead; he wipes it off. Dirt streaks the back of his hand, and he scrubs at his face irritably.

“Cody,” Boil starts. Stops. Cody wonders if Boil would need to take some time if Cody died, if Waxer died, if either of them were shot in the dark by a coward hiding behind a scope.

Grief claws at his throat, clogging it like the gritty Kashyyykian mud.

“Check the perimeter,” Cody chokes out, ducking his head back over the report.

A whisper of canvas, and Boil leaves.

His hands shake. His knees shake. His chest expands in pointless pursuit of oxygen that his blood can’t seem to process, and he drops the pad.

Loving his brothers was a given, written into his soul, in every whorl of his fingerprints. He loved them, all of them, but there were no promised tomorrows for clones. And, beyond that, Cody had to put those well-loved lives on the table himself, to personally up the ante of the war with their lives. 

It required a distance. No need to make it any harder to be the one who survives, he had thought, but—

He never thought he’d survive Obi-Wan. 

Wetness gathers on his lashes, threatening to spill into the tracks carved by his sweat. Loving Obi-Wan was supposed to be safe, simple. He could never have Obi-Wan, and he could never lose him. Always perfectly just out of arm’s reach. And the love Cody couldn’t afford to spend on the brothers he would lose, he spent there.

And lost there anyways.

The sour summer heat soaks his blacks through. They’ve lost a few datapads to the humidity, and they keep having to scoop water out of their fuel supplies. Mud has seeped into anything with more than a hairline crack. 

Misery breeds in his lungs thicker than the atmosphere, and Cody hates himself for it.

He collapses into a chair, surrendering the fight to gravity. What would Jango have said, to see Cody mourning an outsider more than he ever mourned a brother, more than he mourned Ponds, his batchmate, more than the thousands of names Cody still reads through every Remembrance Day? 

Guilt seeps through the cracks in him like mud.

Guilt, because he must have cared for this man more than his brothers. Guilt, because after two years of loss, it was not the loss of his brothers who brought him to his knees, gasping in mud that is as red and wet as love.

And he thinks that that isn’t how love should work—there should be no finite quantity of love, for which loving one person more means loving another less—but few things in his life ever work the way he thinks they should.

Cody is so awfully sorry that he does not work the way he should. 

He stands. Mud stains the sun streaks on his armor.

Beyond his tent, he hears a squelch, a throat cleared. A white and black and gold gauntlet appears in the slit between the tent flaps.

“Sir?” Crys says.

“Come in, Corporal,” Cody says, and his guilt drowns out the grief. 

Surprise! the numbers were related to my spotify top 20 hahaha. This probably isn’t a very new years eve-y story, oops! But thank you very much for the prompt 💖

[hopefulqueer]

Solitude, Solifugids, and the Ten Percent Chance

(Author's note: this is about despair and radical hope and you are not alone, there's bugs. Please note that this story contains content involving heavily implied suicidal intentions and serious illness. Also, more than heavily implied bugs.)

A cloud of dust billowed up behind my car, tinging the blue desert sky with orange. It left a trail off into the distance, back towards civilization, getting fainter and more spread out and less easily detectable the further back I looked. I once heard a guest lecturer who studied theoretical physics say that no information in the universe could ever be truly destroyed. A drop of ink mixed into a pool of water might seem uniform and untraceable, but the movement of each molecule held the proof of what came before it. In that way, the motion of every particle that had ever existed could, in theory, be traced all the way back to the beginning of time. My dust cloud would eventually disappear to the naked eye, but once those particles had been disturbed, there was no going back.

My destination appeared as a tiny black dot on the flat horizon. There were very few man-made structures in this barren landscape in Eastern Oregon. This tiny church, lovingly built by pioneers on the Oregon Trail who thought it was their God-given right to take and take and take and leave their fingerprints on every corner of the planet, was the exception. This place had already been desecrated. I wouldn’t be staining anywhere new.

I pulled off the highway and onto the dead, scrubby grass and sand and rocks that surrounded the little stone building for miles in every direction. The ground crunched and groaned under my wheels. When I turned the key to kill the engine, something deep and powerful struck my ears.

Silence.

I got out of the car. The door slamming behind me was like a gunshot into the still air. A real gunshot might be even louder. I’d find out soon enough.

Apart from the occasional creaks as the heat in my car dissipated and it settled, my breathing was the only human sound for dozens of miles. I knew that there was no such thing as real silence in a city, but experiencing it like this for the first time still came as a shock. It was like putting on the best pair of noise-canceling headphones ever invented and then some. People were throwing away so much money to develop better and better technology. All that was ever going to do was add more noise to the world. Pointless. Arrogant.

Speaking of arrogance, an American flag hung limp, dusty, and tattered on a metal pole next to the church. That wasn’t part of what the original settlers had left behind. Somebody else had come along over a hundred years later and decided it was a good idea to put a flag there like a mark of pride, like an animal peeing on the scratches it left in a tree, like the church wasn’t bad enough. I opened my mouth and I screamed.

“There’s no one to hear you scream” is always that point in a horror movie where the character knows that they’re well and truly fucked. My piercing, wordless scream rose up and was lost into the hot, dry air. If a man screams in the desert and nobody’s around, is he really dying?

It felt like something was reaching down into me and tearing that cry out. Its claws ripped through my stomach and slit my throat, and the scream just kept pouring out of me like blood and smoke and water.

I was on all fours without remembering how I got there by the time I ran out of breath. My palms were stinging from pieces of gravel that had embedded themselves into my skin. I pulled dust and heat and oxygen into my lungs and stared down at my hands with dry eyes and a little bit of saliva on my lips. My body heaved into the returning silence. How long would it take someone to find me? A few hours? A day or so? A week? This dirt road was so infrequently traveled that scrappy little leafy plants were growing up around the wheel ruts. I wondered if I should walk further out into the desert and make life more difficult for somebody. I could make my impact just a little bigger, a little deeper. It felt unrealistic to me at that moment that more people didn't go missing. It was unbearably tempting, and there was just so much space out there to become lost in. This was more space than I had ever seen in my life. Why had it taken this to get me out further than a couple of hours from where I had been born? I'd never thought of myself as a coward before, or a shut-in, or even particularly sheltered. Now I was looking back at my life with this horrible fresh perspective and realizing how pathetic I had always been.

A gust of wind blew more dust into my face and I blinked hard to keep it out of my eyes. The sudden sound of a rhythmic dull tapping sent a burst of fear ricocheting through my body. It sounded so much like quick footsteps that I sprang to my feet and whipped around to look back over my shoulder, certain that I would see another person there. A reasonable thought would have been that it was a hiker, maybe, or a hitchhiker. But I had a strange expectation that they would be wearing the clothes of an Oregon Trail settler, or a pre-colonial Native American. I didn't believe in ghosts and I never had. Even so, when I heard that sound, I knew with every fiber of my being that there was a ghost behind me.

There wasn't any ghost. The ragged, faded American flag had caught the wind and was up and blowing, flapping and fluttering against itself. Some metal on its tether hit the flagpole and chimed weakly like a bell. 

I put a hand to my chest, actually shaking with adrenaline. Trying to get rid of some of that nervous energy, I kicked a rock that was a little too big to kick. It sent a shooting pain up through one of my middle toes and the rock only skidded along for a yard or two.

As I began to curse and hop on one foot, something on the ground caught my eye. In the dark leftover shadow where the rock had been, something was moving. A spider, or something like a spider, scuttled a few inches and froze in the sudden sunlight. I had disturbed its hiding spot.

I felt the need to get a closer look. I only knew a little about spiders and bugs. They had never captured my interest like the bigger animals had when I was a kid. I had always been enchanted by whales and dolphins and sharks and giant squid. This little thing, though, two inches long and tan and leggy with oversized mouthparts, was just as strange and alien as any deep-sea fish I'd seen in a documentary. I kneeled down and let my shadow fall over it. It tensed, and I leaned down closer.

Its body was a bit dull and its head shone a brighter orange. The shape of its abdomen was unlike any spider I had ever seen, bulbous and elongated at the same time. It had eight legs, like a spider, plus those long feeler-type ones in the front. As far as I could tell, it only had two little black eyes on top of its almost teardrop shaped face. 

I couldn't move. I was entranced with this odd thing. My eyes traced the gradient of colors down its long legs. I noted the hairs bristling out of it and the creases separating the segments on its back. It was beautiful. Beautiful.

As if finally recovering from the shock of having its home kicked away from above it, it darted off into a nearby bush almost faster than I could track it. With the spell broken, I sat back on my heels and sighed.

How long did a little creature like that live? A year or two? And how many of the babies of this species would live to whatever passed for a ripe old age? How many would live a full life, a full year? Less than ten percent, I was almost certain. 

Less than a ten percent chance to live out the year. It had resonated in my chest as such a hopeless figure when I drove out here. But that strange arachnid was so alive. It didn't know its odds and so it kept living, and because it kept living, it was still alive. It all seemed so simple now. That information, like all information in the universe, would never be undone.

[fandomnerd9602]

wired (part three)

Gemma x Programer!Reader

For @deafeningsharkslimeempath

It is supposed that eventually the cracks begin to show in anything. Including robotic friends. It all started on the day Gemma decided to try out this new type of school experience for Cady.

You were at the hotel, updating the new features on F1D0 when your cell phone got a distressing call from Gemma.

"Gem? What's wrong?" You try to calm her.

"Accident...at the school..." was the only words that you hear

"Come on F1D0 let's go!" You rush down the stairs and into the car, speeding towards the location.

When you arrive you see Cady craddling her injured hand and a tween sized body bag and stretcher being loaded into an ambulance.

"What happened?" you rush up to Cady, inspecting her hand

"A boy in the classroom tripped and fell into the road. He was hit by an SUV" M3GAN informs you.

"How do you know?"

"I overheard the driver's testimony and the officers" the robot responds, "I recommend some anti-bacterial spray for Cady's hand"

"Thanks" you rush into your car and pull out the first aid kit, tending to your injured niece's hand.

Gemma approaches, checking on Cady and then on M3GAN.

"Megan, what happened to your shoe?" Gemma asks, it was only then that you noticed she wasn't wearing one of her shoes.

"The deceased boy pulled it off me earlier"

"Well seems like he had a psychotic mindset" you mutter. F1D0 perks up and rushes off into the forest. "Fido? Fido!" you take off after your robotic companion.

You run deep into forest and up to your now paused dog, "what's the matter, boy?"

"Foreign object detected" he responds, his nose pointed to something fleshy in the dirt: a severed ear.

"Oh my-" you try to keep back the vomit building in your stomach. You look over and see M3GAN's missing shoe.

"Did this kid really take this shoe all the way out here?" you look around at the area, "F1D0 scene construct"

Your robot dog walks around the area, scanning every inch of it. He locks onto nearby footprints and handprints.

"Boy took off in the direction towards the road" F1D0 calculates, "speed indicates chase. Nearby hand and footprints suggest canine like run. Too small to be human, no fingerprints"

An idea forms in your mind. And a new sinking feeling hits your gut. Could it be possible? Could an android like Megan be capable of this?!

You and F1D0 walk slowly back to the car.

"(Y/N) are you alright" Gemma cups your face concerned. Your gaze turns to Megan, who tilts her head at you.

"What's wrong (Y/N)? Have I done something wrong?" the robot asks you. Her tone, it almost sounds...mocking.

As you help Gemma put Cady to bed that night, you keep an eye on Megan as she takes her spot next to Cady. Suddenly this friendly little robot doesn't seem so friendly anymore.

"Look I know that you're busy and all" Gemma talks to you in the hallway, "but Megan can watch Cady for a couple hours. Maybe you and I can go off and have a drink"

"A drink?" you snap to reality and smirk, "trying to get that second date?"

"As colleagues, (L/N)" Gemma rolls her eyes as she grabs her car keys.

One drink became two. It seemed like time just blurred away. You and Gemma speak for an hour or so, shooting the breeze and laughing at old stories.

"I regret not calling you" she admits, her hand reaching across the table for yours "you were the last good date I ever had"

"If things had worked out, we would've been each other's dates to our own sibling's wedding" you let out a little laugh.

"What happened?"

"Same song different verse" you take a sip of your drink, "you're brilliant Gem but you let your work get in the way"

"grades are grades" she tries to defend herself

"Gem, please" you say, "M3GAN is great but she's not what Cady really needs."

Gemma looks to you confused

"You don't have to replace Cady's mom" you explain, "Cady just needs you present. No throwing her aside for work. No projects that are greater than her."

"I wasn't trying to replace anyone." she gets all defensive "and Megan is-"

"Hardware" you interrupt, "Cady needs you and me. We're...we're her family"

"I suppose shutting down Megan for a few hours wouldn't be the end of the world" Gemma shrugs. "but I can't do this alone"

"well that's why you're stuck with me" you smirk. Gemma can't help but smile back.

And then came the murder of the next door neighbor. One murder was coincidence. But two. Something was up.

The police question you about the scene as you send F1D0 to investigate. No sign of forced entry, the robot dog sends a text to your phone. Angle of spray indicates toddler height.

That sealed it in your mind.

And then Gemma successfully deactivated M3GAN and bubblewrapped her up. Cady went into a full on tantrum, like an addict removed from their drug of choice.

Cady screams, "I hate it here! And I hate you!!!" She bolts off down the street.

"Cady!!" Gemma shouts but you take off after your niece. F1D0 remains close behind you.

Cady collapses a block or so away, on her knees sobbing her eyes out.

"Kiddo you're freaking me out here" you try to joke with her. Cady turns around and tries to swing a tired fist at you, one that you instantly catch.

"Why did I have to live with Aunt Gemma?!" the younger girl cries, "why can't I live with you? Don't you want me? Do you even love me?!"

She collapses against your chest, sobbing. You wrap your arms tightly around her

"Of course I love you," you get on your knees and look her dead in the eye, "I've loved you since the moment I held you in my arms. You're my niece and I would move heaven and earth to find you if i had to"

"Then why did you leave me with Gemma?"

You sigh, "you think I didn't want you to live with me?" you gesture to F1D0, "Fido is not a toy, Cady. I-I work for the government! Fido is an experimental weapons system!"

The dog looks to you, a little saddened by your words.

"If he were to malfunction and hurt you I-I..." you don't know what to say, "Gemma and I decided that you were safer with her than me."

Cady sniffs away a couple of fresh tears as you wipe away a few of them too.

"I loved you so much I had to let you go" you try to keep your own tears at bay, "but don't ever think for a moment that I don't love you more than all the stars in the sky, kid."

Gemma runs up towards you. She wraps her arms around you and Cady. And for once, Cady doesn't flinch.

"I miss them so much" Cady cries.

"I miss them too" Gemma admits, "I'm so sorry about all this"

"I love you Gemma" Cady hugs her aunt tight.

Gemma and Cady still had to take Megan back to the lab to run a potential diagnostic. You and F1D0 go back to the hotel to pick up a few things before that night's big presentation at Funki.

With an evening tux in hand, you jump into your car and turn the key. The engine sputters and shorts out.

"Sorry (Y/N)" a familiar female voice comes over your sound system.

"Megan"

"Looks like you won't be able to make it to tonight's event" she mocks through the bluetooth speakers. "a shame really. I hear it's going to be UNFORGETTABLE."

To Be Continued...

Tags @deafeningsharkslimeempath @silentstalker413 @ma1egamer