#yeah en is a cat

[d34d-f1sh-1n-r4t-tr4p]

Ships that I like

[mylove-thresher]

Myamyamyamyamyamya is genetic……

[chimeclan-tales]

Moon 2 - Newleaf

Muscle Memory

TW - mentions of disease (and its graphic symptoms), implied death, blood in the second image

Finally. I’m far enough.

The gray tom could no longer hold his excitement. It took too long to convince his clanmates he was asleep, and even longer to navigate the bramble walls of the camp. 

They’re waiting.

He quickened his pace and pushed through the undergrowth. It was a perfect night to spend with…

“Sunbloom?” He whispered. He recognized their scent, but they were nowhere to be seen. “Apologies, I’m late.”

“Oh, what a gentletom,” A teasing voice meowed from the treetops. He looked to a branch above, and there they were. The familiar ginger pelt and blue eyes. Almost violet, like iris flowers. “Come, the view up here is worth seeing.”

He sighed but obliged. The cats slowly climbed through the branches– until they were at the highest point.

Although the moon was as thin as a claw, it covered the forest in a soft, mellow glow. The stars twinkled above, and the cool Newleaf breeze brushed past them. A moment of peace, from all the bustling activity in the clans.

“How have you been?” Beetail meowed softly.

“You sound like we’re from different clans,” His partner let out a soft purr. “Like we haven’t seen each other in moons.”

“But you haven’t left the healers’ den all day.”

Sunbloom sighed, and rested their head against Beetail’s shoulder. He could feel their soft fur and steady breathing.

“Sunbloom?”

“...The sickness seems more complicated than we thought,” They meowed, no longer hiding the weariness in their voice. 

“What happened?”

“The remedies for aching joints have done nothing. Gravelpelt can barely move. Nectarkit might not make it tomorrow.” 

“I thought the kit visited you for bruises…” Beetail tried to suppress the dread building up in his throat.

“Ghostflood had shared prey with Gravelpelt,” They continued. “She hasn’t shown any symptoms, but maybe passed it through her milk. Even Rimethorn has told me to be careful around Fogstar’s reopened wounds. The blood could pass it.” 

Beetail curled his tail tighter around Sunbloom.

“But I’m being careful, don’t worry.”

“That doesn’t change how dangerous this all is.”

“I know, but we can’t stop and do nothing,” Their blue eyes met his yellow ones. “StarClan gave us a prophecy. There will be a cure...”

================================

“Beetail?”

Windstar’s voice snapped the senior warrior out of his thoughts. He was no longer in the forests of IrisClan. Here and now, these were the meadows of ChimeClan.

“Can you repeat that?” Beetail flicked his ear, annoyed at himself. All this talk about StarClan was getting to him. 

“Did you visit StarClan at the Moon Falls?” Windstar meowed as he padded along the border. 

“...Nightsplash did,” Beetail finally meowed. “I don’t intend to visit until I drop dead.”

“But things are different now. Don’t you even want to see your mate again?”

Windstar’s met them?

“No.”

Beetail could feel Windstar’s gaze on his pelt. Although they were once from different clans, the journey made the leader familiar with his mannerisms. Including his shifting paws and shortened responses when he lied.

“Beetail…”

“It was their fault they died!” He spat. “So righteous… Thinking they were some invincible prophecy cat, then left to slowly die from the Rotting. I would’ve preferred if a monster had taken them!”

“It was Sunbloom’s choice–”

“A mousebrained choice!”

He didn’t want to leave his clan to die, but he couldn’t keep watching Sunbloom’s slow death. No, he didn’t even get to watch it. 

After moons of toil, Sunbloom’s final moments were spent alone. Despite the pain from their bones, the blood dripping from their muzzle, they marched deep in the forest. A final desperate search for the strange herb StarClan had promised.

It was never found. 

“I don’t know what StarClan was thinking back then,” He hissed. “I don’t know what Sunbloom– what anyone was thinking! None of it made sense. I don’t–”

Both cats stopped the moment they heard barking in the distance.

“GULLPAW!”

Their fur prickled as a cat screamed in pain. The small body of an apprentice was thrown out of the jaws of a dog.

With a nod, Windstar jumped across the SpikeClan border. Beetail shook his pelt and all his thoughts out. It was time to focus.

“Paws off him, mutt!” A brawny she-cat slashed at the dog’s muzzle. 

Before it could retaliate, Windstar had landed and dug his claws into its back. It turned, trying to buck him off, but the she-cat swiped at its hind legs.  

Beetail ran past them to check on the poor apprentice. The brown tabby’s eyes were wide with fear, and his leg had been mangled.

StarClan, he looks like he just turned six moons. I need to stop the bleeding.

“W-who… Who—”

“Don’t worry,” Beetail meowed as he searched the nearby trees for cobwebs. The battle between the dog and the two cats continued, but Beetail knew what Windstar was capable of. “I’m here to help.”

A soft breeze tugged at his fur and guided his gaze. He jumped and dug his claws into the tree trunk. He wanted to relish the familiar feeling of his claws in the wood, but a cat needed help.

The cobwebs were now in his mouth, and from above, he could spot the forest floor below. He leapt to where the stalks of a plant laid.

“Eat these,” He ran back to the apprentice. “Thyme will help with the shock.”

“T-Time? Am I–” “The leaves.”

The apprentice obeyed as Beetail patched his leg with the cobwebs. The sounds of battle had died down, and two cats now approached them.

“Oi!” The brawny SpikeClan cat yelled. She, like Windstar, was lucky to avoid any injuries, and could run at full speed. “Is Gullpaw alright?”

“His condition is stable,” Beetail meowed. “But be careful bringing him back to camp.”

“You ChimeClan cats had no business bein’ here,” She meowed. “But. Uh. Thank you. As the deputy of SpikeClan, my clanmates will hear of this.”

She approached her apprentice who, with Windstar’s help, clambered onto her back. 

“T-Thank you…” Gullpaw meowed softly. “ChimeClan…”

As the SpikeClan cats disappeared into the forest, Beetail suddenly sat down. The adrenaline had dissipated, and his aged muscles started to complain.

“Beetail?”

“...I’m alright,” He sighed. “I think… I’ll need a break from patrolling.”

Previous Moon Event - An Annoying Kitten

Next Moon Event - COMING SOON

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Watched Mam'zelle Bonaparte with my mom and ate rose and chocolate macarons

[jack-of-heartstrings]

With us getting such big gay wins recently, I wanna take a moment to appreciate how inherently queer Miraculous has always been, even when it was far more subtle. I don't know if it was corporate pressure, actual meddling and censorship, or simply the writers being afraid of such things and finally taking off the gloves now, but I do know you could always feel it, and I don't just mean the previously implied couples now made canon, though maybe more in them than most really appreciate too.

It's in Marc's whole everything, how he's a walking gay pride banner to a point his name is a pun on "arc en ciel" (rainbow), yet his episodes have always been about belonging and acceptance and his personality revolves mostly around his passion for writing (and occasionally sports!) rather than Liking Boys being his defining trait as many shows with such an obvious design would do.

It's in how WAY back in season 2 Rose straight up kissed Juleka on the mouth, just slightly off-screen, and under the Zombizou effect.

It's in Kitty Section's whole vibe, and multiple characters directly assigning Luka the David Bowie song Rebel Rebel. (The song starts "You got your mother in a whirl, cause she's not sure if you're a boy or a girl." Bowie was also openly bi.)

It's in the ways the Love Square plays with gender norms. In the way Chat Noir's aesthetic would be traditionally only be for Catwoman and (Spider-Man's) Black Cat types. The way Marinette is frequently portrayed as the Knight to Adrien's Princess, the way Adrien is allowed to be a "damsel" in a lot of ways and still worth of love and treasured just as he is with no need to "earn" that, in Adrien being the Yin and Marinette the Yang with their symbolism. The ways their presentation and energy varies between personas. Etc.

It's in Alec, and the fact that they were one of the first characters we ever met in the show, and maybe the writers hadn't planned anything with them yet but even if it was retroactive that's still cool. The fact that their change was so casual and just remains a thing now.

It's in the pregnant lesbian dressed as a French flag sans-culottes wielding a fucking guillotine as a weapon storming the Paris capitol a day or few before Bastille Day and yeah okay maybe the lesbian part is relatively small but come on that was just one of the sickest things ever lmao. But yeah Miss Bustier and her wife are nice to see, as are Majestia and Knightowl while we're talking about relatively minor but still present adult queer couples. (I hope we'll meet Kim's dads in the show this season, too!)

It's in the occasional crumbs of polyamory acknowledgement. When Andre says he could make a three-person ice cream, it just "might throw off the delicate balance" (which is more than the vast majority of everything would give us). When Marinette says Zoe's crush could like two people. When Marinette acknowledges her feelings for Luka and Adrien as valid at the same time even though she still pressured herself to choose and then to shift flavors with Luka. Nathalie's whole everything and arguably the implications she was in love with both Gabriel and Emilie.

It's in how Alix is only said to be aromantic via Twitter but she's clearly so happy in her solo time guardian role, just chilling with herself. And the ways her reactions to Marinette's issues occasionally vary from the rest of the cast, i.e. "Wouldn't it be more logical to buy her a smoothie and help her work out her love problems?", are so good.

It's in how they treat chosen names in the series. That one I feel is so easy to overlook or take for granted, but whatever someone identifies as right then is their objectively true and correct name (see: the Book of Truth identifying Pharaoh, not Jalil, in Reunion). Every time Gabriel changes his villain name everyone uses the new one immediately. It's just really nice.

Nearly all of these things individually are so small, but there are so so many of them and I'm probably forgetting more. The series has always had queer influence, and it's honestly not surprising that they went through the steps needed to use the Progress Pride flag in a commercial work, let alone that we're finally getting more loud and explicit rep this season after the bolder steps they took in s5. But I'm so glad for every bit of it, deeply glad that it's finally more front and center, and I hope we get more moving forward, too!

[bookshelf-dust]

cat in the castle

frank castle x fem!reader

gif by @darlingshane

word count: 2,626

warnings: nothing i can think of, barely a mention of frank’s occupation, some smooching, literally just fluff

synopsis: the cat distribution system has chosen you…and your live-in boyfriend, frank. it’s safe to say he never thought of himself as a pet-having guy.

a/n: hello!! what with ddba and the fact that i’ve been rewatching the punisher, frank has taken up residence in my brain and made himself quite comfortable. i hope i’ve done him justice! writing a new character and then posting is always a little scary lol. enjoy, my loves!! <3

————

It’s not quite dark out yet, but Frank is silhouetted in the warm light from the front porch. The moths haven’t even begun to flutter out, circling until the yellow bulbs embrace them. The man slips his house key in the lock and turns; the motion is fluid despite only having lived here for a few months. 

Frank had told you he would handle getting you whatever kind of house you wanted, but you never cared about living in a castle. All you asked was that there be a spare room you could turn into a shared library for the both of you. Now, it has big, comfy chairs and a set of antique lamps that Frank hauled into the bed of his truck before you’d even admitted to wanting them. He built you a ladder for the top shelf of books after a conversation with your mother one evening and wouldn’t let you cry when he showed it to you. 

He’s got a fistful of grocery bags in his right hand. You’d been watching some show on the Food Network earlier in the day and gotten fixated on this pasta they were making. All they had to do was say “four-cheese blend,” and you were sold. 

A few moments spent rummaging in your little pantry revealed that you had noodles. Macaroni noodles precariously close to expiring. So, in that gruff tone that makes you weak in the knees, Frank asked—no, he set down a pad and pencil in front of you and waited—what you needed. He grabbed his keys, said he might stop and pick up some oil for your car too, and that was that. He was out for maybe an hour and a half. 

Stepping inside, Frank uses his elbow to knock the porch light switch down. You always cut it on, just in case. He toes off his boots and turns the deadbolt before surveying his surroundings, looking for you as he walks into the kitchen. You’re not on the couch, though there’s an ass-shaped indent in the blanket thrown across the cushions. 

“Hey, babydoll, where you at?” he asks, projecting his voice to the other rooms in the house. No answer. 

He listens a little harder as he quickly tosses the cold stuff in the fridge and leaves the rest on the counter. He doesn’t hear the shower. He knows you better than to feel unsettled, knows the atmosphere of his home well enough to know nothing terrible is afoot. He’s just afraid of what you might be up to. 

Frank makes his way to your bedroom. The light in the en-suite is on. 

“There you go, sweetie. Take it easy.” A vein in Frank’s throat jumps at your voice. His thumb and forefinger slide against each other.

“That feels nice? Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff, huh?” 

Frank pauses in the doorway. Who the hell are you talking to like that? He crosses the threshold to the bathroom in two strides, courtesy of his long, long legs. The sight before him is not at all what he expected. But what was he even expecting? 

The porcelain side of the tub has gone warm from where you’ve been sitting up against it for so long, keeping watch over the little thing tottering around your bathroom, over your lap and back again. The pressure in your bladder is reaching its peak—you’ve been holding in the urge to go for at least forty minutes. 

You were so focused on the task at hand that you didn’t hear Frank come in, but you aren’t surprised to see him staring down at you. Relief washes over you. 

“Oh, thank God, Frankie.” He watches as you push off the wall and stand, your gait a little wobbly, probably because your legs are asleep. “Hold ‘em for me, I’ve never had to pee so bad in my entire life.” You don’t give your boyfriend any time to process things. Suddenly there’s just a teeny ball of fluff in his huge hands.

As you sit down on the toilet, you briefly think about the fact that you never imagined you’d be at the level of comfortable with a man so as to pee while he’s in the same room as you, but here you are. You’re quick, only taking in the expression on Frank’s face once you’ve washed your hands. 

You can’t read him. This is, without a doubt, a look you’ve never seen on him before. You have no idea what it means. 

“Frankie, baby? Are you with me?” 

He meets your gaze. “What is this?” You blink up at him. “I-I mean, I know what it is, but what is this?”

You giggle and take the kitten out of Frank’s hands, setting it back down on the small pallet you’d made out of some older beach towels. Your heart flutters at the triangular tail and teeny little paws padding across the floor.

“Well, I heard this noise out back while you were gone, and I couldn’t figure out what it was so I went to look and—”

“You went investigating while I wasn’t here?”

“—anyway, I saw this little baby kitty pawing at the siding. You know that loose vent cover you keep meaning to fix? They were trying to pull themselves up and under there. I think they were looking for a safe hideout, Frankie, and I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I checked for Mama kitty and any other babies, but I didn’t see anything and this one’s so small…I think it’s the runt. Mama might’ve left ‘em behind. Or they could’ve been dumped, I’m really not sure.” 

You look up at Frank, track the crease between his brows, the slight downturn to his full lips. But his eyes tell a different story. They’re soft, lashes kissing at the corners. His eyes have never lied to you. 

“…Comments? Questions? Concerns?” you quip, keeping your eyes on his. If this were anyone else, Frank’s stance would be guarded. He’d become a human blockade, standing his ground, making sure you knew nothing was getting past him. That he made the rules. But you’re his girl. 

He slumps up against the bathroom vanity, looking over the kitten. It’s a pale orange color, striped and its paws tipped in white. Its front two legs are in the food bowl as he messily eats the teeny bit of sustenance you’ve provided. It almost looks like you’ve taken a pestle to last night's pot roast. Frank knows you grew up with pets. You’ve told him about every last one, dug up pictures, said you’d love to get a cat or a dog or even a damn fish with him one day. And even though he loves the way your eyes turn into cartoon hearts when you talk about pets, it’s just never happened. 

Finally, Frank speaks. “You know how to take care of this thing?”

You beam at him. “Yeah! I mean, it’s too late now except for an emergency place, but I’m hoping to find a vet tomorrow because you never know what the baby might have or need, y’know? And we’ll need a litter box and a scratching pad and some toys. And I have no clue how old they are, I just hoped this food was okay. They might need a milk replacement.” You lean down and scoop up the kitten, causing him to look around madly for a few seconds. Frank catches the moment you realize you’ve probably gotten ahead of yourself. He senses the change in your breathing. 

“But that can all be temporary, too. Some vets will put animals up for adoption, and I can call around at work or ask my mom if she knows anyone who might want a—”

Frank takes the cat from you, successfully leaving you speechless. He lowers his head until he finds your eyes, wordlessly making you look at him when you talk. “Hey, no. Nah, don’t do that.” He lifts the kitten up so he’s level with it. “I know you wanna keep this thing, so just say that, sweetheart.”

“I wanna keep it so bad, Frank. Honestly, I was tempted to just keep him in the closet and take care of him in secret. I had a book like that when I was a kid, and it worked pretty well for them, so. But I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Hush. If you’re happy, I’m happy—you know damn well that’s the case.”

You push up on your tiptoes, your arms going around Frank’s neck. “You’re sure? We get to have a cat?”

He rolls his eyes, wrapping his free arm around your back and slowly rubbing up and down your spine. He hums his response. When you go to pull away, he holds onto you tighter.

“Hey, hey, not gonna gimme a kiss? Didn’t when I came home, like usual.” He scrunches his brows together. The pout. 

You place your hands on his cheeks, feeling the start of stubble, and kiss him firmly on the lips. He tastes like those cinnamon mints he keeps in the truck. You kiss him three more times in quick succession, pulling out a smile. It’s the one he reserves just for you. His gaze darts away from you and his hands pull at your shirt. You’ve made him shy. 

The kitten mews between the two of you. “Oh, come here, little baby,” you say, taking the cat and holding it to your chest. “Too much PDA, huh? We’ll do better, I promise.”

Frank finds it hard to comprehend the flea-like size of the thing. They have a silent staring contest. “Is he gonna shit all over the bathroom tonight?”

You laugh. “I’ll go get some newspaper.”

————

It’s always the big, scary looking men that end up having teeny pets that they’re total suckers for. Frank is no exception. And right now, you’re pretty damn jealous of your cat. Mercutio (he let you have control over naming the little guy) is draped over Frank’s bare chest where he sits in your oversized, well-loved chair. He’s been there for hours. Frank hadn’t intended to sit there either, only pausing for a moment's time to cut the tv on, that is until Mercutio curled up on top of your boyfriend, exactly where you wanted to be. 

When Frank’s home, you try to spend as much time glued to his side as possible, which is why you’d asked to watch a movie with him, thinking you’d get to cuddle for the whole duration. You sit on the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, arms crossed over your chest. You’re watching the movie, sure, but you’re undoubtedly pouting. That cat was supposed to be yours—for one. For another, what ever happened to sharing?

You wiggle your toes in between the couch cushions like you would do to Frank’s thighs if he were sitting next to you, like he’s meant to be. Every few minutes you glance in his direction, hoping Mercutio will get up to go use the litter box or get something to eat, or even that Frank will be so desperate to be near you that he’ll move the cat himself if it means he can touch you. 

You tuck yourself more firmly into your little mountain of blankets and try to focus your attention on the film. A glare out of the corner of your eye distracts you almost immediately. Mercutio has swiveled his head in your direction, the light from the television reflecting on his eyes in the dim living room. He’s looking at you.

And he looks proud. Like he’s caught the damn canary. Traitor, you think. That’s my man, you little shit. You roll your eyes, turn back to the tv. 

Frank hears the sound your skin makes against the leather as you shuffle down the length of the couch. He glances over at you, your chin tucked into your chest, your brows practically hugging with the frown on your lips. He drags a hand down Mercutio’s back and the cat chirps, stretching his legs and hopping down. Frank sits up and stretches in a similar way. “What’s with the pout, sweetheart?”

You keep your eyes glued to the tv, despite your gaze being unfocused so that you’re not watching anything at all, just staring at a moving blur of color. “‘M not pouting.”

Frank knows exactly what your problem is. He has since he sat down and Mercutio hopped into his lap. He just wants to tease you until the words leave your mouth. My jealous girl. 

He stands, socked feet padding across the hardwoods toward you. Frank lifts your extended legs and slides onto the couch beneath them. He sets them on top of his own before dragging his fingers up and down your calves, occasionally massaging your skin with impossibly slow, firm strokes. You try to ignore the tingle that climbs up your spine. He’s giving you the attention you’ve wanted all evening, but you’re too far into your mood to let up that easily. 

You fight the urge to shut your eyes, to climb into Frank’s lap and curl into his chest, into that spot you swear was made for your body to slot against his like pieces of a puzzle. He resorts to grabbing for your hand. His thumbs pressing into the meat of your palms, sweeping out rivers of the tension you hadn’t even realized were there has always been it for you. The moment you’ll cave. You want so badly to keep up the stubborn act, but your body is already softening. Your heart flutters for him.

“You were supposed to be sitting with me…” you mumble, your voice a timid thing. Frank turns his head to look at you. His left arm extends, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek and giving the gentlest of pushes, making you look back at him. 

He raises his brows. “You poutin’ ‘cause the cat was taking up your spot, sweetheart?”

You nod, trying to sink further into the couch cushions. “He knew what he was doing. He fuckin’ gave me the hairy eyeball.”

Frank’s head falls against the back of the couch, the thick cords of his neck bared to you and only you. He’s stubbly. Without meaning to you’ve taken one of his big hands in both of yours, holding it to your belly. “You’re something else, y’know that?” he says. 

You stick your bottom lip out. Frank stretches his body over yours, kissing the pout away. He kisses you with purpose, telling the jealousy to quit while it’s ahead. Butterflies wiggle in your stomach at the way his brows knit together while he kisses you; he’s so intent on making it better. He kisses you twice more. 

“Not my fault that the cat I found and cared for is trying to steal my man. He’s so unappreciative.”

Frank laughs, breathy and sweet. “There’s plenty of me to go around, babydoll.”

You scrunch your nose. “Ew, Castle.” Frank keeps laughing, laughing until he’s settled fully on top of you, his arms circling your back and his cheek flat against your chest.

Mercutio appears a while later, licking his lips. He’s clearly been helping himself to that late night snack. He appraises the situation on the couch and raises himself up on white-dipped paws, peering over the edge of the cushions. Frank’s half asleep on you, but there’s no missing the feeling of Mercutio’s feet on his bare back as the cat settles himself there, leveling his gaze with yours. The cat blinks slowly at you and begins to purr. 

“Jesus,” Frank mumbles. But he hears you giggle. You’ve got both your boys right where you want them. 

————

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

rb banner by @steph-speaks

[macfrog]

psyche and cupid | one shot

happy valentine's, beautiful people. i love you with all of my heart. xx shoutout to @familyvideostevie for putting joel's slutty little thigh holster into my head and, well. yeah. pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader summary: valentine's day with joel doesn't go to plan. warnings: part two never happened!!!!! abby who!!!, established relationship, cursing, half joel pov, unspecified age gap, hints to reader having a sliver of ptsd, jesse is alive and well because he is my prince and i said so, reader has dark pubic hair, masturbation, somnophilia (not discussed in this fic but she is a-ok with it) and therefore dubcon, sprinkle of praise kink, oral (f!receiving), someone comes in his underwear, these two goofballs are big in love word count: 5.5k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩷

It’s not in his nightstand.

Not hung over the newel post, either.

He said he left it on the kitchen counter yesterday, right after he got home; said he woke up this morning and it was gone. And then he muttered something of an accusation that someone had tidied it away and forgotten where, and that started a whole new argument.

You know what, Joel? You’re following his tall figure as it sways down the hallway, his strides longer and considerably smoother than your flurrying shadow in his wake. Maybe if you weren’t going out today, we wouldn’t be having this problem.

His chin tilts upward, salt and pepper scruff angled to the ceiling with a ha slung from his throat. Yeah, he tosses a glance over his shoulder, we’d just be havin’ it tomorrow, instead.

You scoff in response, stepping where his boots lift off from, following the heavy thud thud thud like a cat at his heels until he’s rounding the corner towards your bedroom.

You pass over the messy trail of your jeans and Joel’s pajama bottoms, your underwear and his leading in a trail to the unmade bed – sheets like a rippled wave painted golden by the dawn.

The two of you split off – Joel lifts the cotton and watches it float back down over the flat of your mattress. Nothing.

You take the closet – the squeal of metal on metal harsh in your sleepy ears as you shove the hanging clothes aside, swiping around at the floor. Also, unsurprisingly, nothing.

Deflated, you straighten, stars peppering your vision and a tatty sleepshirt pinched in your fingers. Led Zeppelin – some band Joel was into before everything went to shit. You’ve listened to him out on the porch before, plucking strings in time with the record wobbling on the turntable inside.

The collar torn, sleeves pecked with holes, print lost to the years and the dryer – but each time you drape it over your shoulders, he smiles and hums some song from a world you’ll never know.

It’s sweet, when you’re in the mood to be wooed.

Which, incidentally, is not right fucking now.

His eyes flit down to the peeling, grayscale image – and that same smile attempts to bloom on his lips. That’s cute, but it ain’t my holster, pretty bird.

His smirk dampens quickly when he looks back up, snuffed by your stony expression.

You whip the tee down to the foot of the bed. You are a piece of fuckin’ work sometimes, do you know that? you growl, storming by him for the en suite.

Joel’s rough hand slips around your wrist, tugging gently but letting you drag him through to the bathroom.

Just go, Joel, you groan, the chill of the room prickling goosebumps on your naked legs. Give  me some peace and quiet. ‘s not like I’m gonna be seein’ much of you today, anyways.

Is that what this is about? His voice echoes in the morning blue, round in your ears as you hang your head over the sink. Pickin’ a fight ‘cause you’re pissed I’m goin’ out?

I didn’t start the fight, you protest. You’re the one who lost his holster.

Didn’t lose it… he mumbles, lips closing around the sentence when he catches your glare in the mirror. He crosses one ankle over the other, toe of his dusty boot on the cracked tile, and sighs. What do you want me to do, baby? I gotta do my job.

On Valentine’s Day? When I worked extra to get it off, and you can’t even get your brother to swap one shift?

Joel’s expression seems to stiffen, tense with a realization that you know, and now he knows, too – he should’ve had days ago. A weighty breath falls from his nostrils, admitting some kind of defeat, and then he’s wandering carefully over to you, two hands curved over your shoulders.

He lowers his forehead onto the nape of your neck, a slow breath which flutters the loose collar of the flannel you’re wearing and sweeps down your spine. I’m sorry, pretty bird. I didn’t know it meant that much to ya.

It doesn’t, you admit, adding, usually. I just thought we could have a day to ourselves, for once.

He’s nodding, sweep of his fringe tickling the slope of your skin. It’d be a lot more romantic than spendin’ it with Jesse, that’s for sure.

Your bodies fall together with a shared laugh, a bright and charming thing in the dull bathroom light. Joel kisses the soft cushion of your shoulder and hooks his chin over, beard grazing your skin.

I’ll be back before you know it. ‘n then we can do whatever the hell you got planned for us, hm?

He’s steady behind you when you lean back, turning to place a damp kiss to the hinge of his jaw. A reply, a plea – a promise.

In the echoing dripdripdrip from the faucet, Joel pulls apart from you, two fingers pinching the hem of your shirt to pull you back into the bedroom.

You wanna walk me to the gate? he asks, pulling the zipper on his jacket.

What about your holster?

He smiles. I’m sure I’ll survive without it. C’mon. Put some pants on.

February is bitter even by Jackson’s standards – a bite of ice in the air which numbs the tip of your nose and stings the helix of your ears. The chill slips a long, sharp finger down the collar of your – Joel’s jacket, and you wrap the baggy canvas tighter around yourself.

Told you to wear som’ thicker. Joel sighs, grip light around the strap of his shotgun. His elbow nudges into yours, a wide arm wraps around your shoulder and draws you flush against his side. Head on back if you’re cold, he says, rubbing until the friction warms your upper arm.

I’m fine, you lie, eyeing the line of horses up ahead. The eager crunch of their hooves in the frozen ground, the pinkish light on their backs from the sky flooded crimson overhead – a warning from the horizon, you think.

It seems to agitate the animals as much as it does you, their heavy heads tossing nervously, ears flicking and inky eyes blinking.

Jesse meets you by the paddock, slipping Joel the reins of his horse with a curt nod, before hoisting himself atop his own.

It bleats from your lips before you can hold it back. Be careful.

Your frozen fingers claw around the zipper of his coat, tugging it upwards until it brushes against his bottom lip. The weather gets bad, you turn back. Okay?

He’s nodding, paying half his attention to your words, the other half to the little crease between your brows. Sure could use my holster against the cold, baby, he mutters, smirk lifting his cheeks and folding similar creases at the corners of his eyes.

Your eyes narrow, palms landing flat against his strong chest. Home soon?

He hums a little laugh, lips ghosting across your temple as he shifts by. Home soon, he mutters, breath steaming against your cold skin, and he leads the mare off towards the gate.

There’s a lot about Joel you admire.

Each part of him like a pebble stolen on a hike; some more jagged, a little more weathered than others, some well-rounded and smooth to the touch. Each one turned and turned and turned between your fingers until you’re fluent in every pore and vein, then dropped into your pocket alongside the others you’ve collected.

Clacking against one another until you arrive home, coat heavier with the happy burden of how much you love him. The same weight you feel behind your ribcage when you think too much about it.

He takes good care of you – has done since you first happened across one another. As if hanging his hunting jacket over your frail body was a wing over your shoulders; as if, from then on, you would never make a single move again without your grizzly bear of a man making it first.

Quiet about it, sure. Subtle. Opens the crook of his elbow for you to hook your wrist around as you wander through town together, and waits until you’re under the cover of nightfall or behind the close of your front door to do much else.

Asks with little more than a fleeting glance if you’re okay; a squeeze of your knee under the table in the dining hall. A conversation shared between closed lips and the meeting of his honey-flecked gaze, and yours. A language which lives and dies with the pair of you.

He’s guarded – and for all that he’s been through, you figure you can allow him that. Allow him his private peace. For all that he says without saying, all he does without making some big song and dance of it – there hasn’t been a second since you arrived here on the back of his horse, that you haven’t known he loves you.

It’s in him like it’s in you. A fever which broke at the first touch of his hand and yours, the first meeting of his warmth and your chill. Two opposites – cooling the painful sear in his heart, warming the barren frost in yours. Something sewn deep into your flesh, carved right through to the hollow of your bones.

And Jesus, if it doesn’t drive you fucking insane.

The front yard needs tidied up after winter, you notice, as you scuff your way up the path towards the porch. Once the last of the snow dries up, you two can get to repairing the damage done by the blizzards and the gales: fitting new shutters, planting new bulbs.

A cycle you’re still getting used to: the upkeep of a place called home. The strange feeling of having someone you call the same thing.

Your extra shifts at the stables and Joel’s long mornings out on the trails mean your home has gone neglected for a few days. Dishes and cutlery left in the sink, a pile of laundry slowly sprouting to new heights like a wild plant each time you cast a wary glance at it.

It’s not like you’ve much else to do, given Joel won’t be home for at least another couple hours. So you shuck off your jeans, letting the tail of his shirt dangle from your behind, and pick your way around each room – wiping counters and dusting corners, humming along to the crooning old records as they spin in the background.

Playing house at the end of the world. Pretending to listen for the tired exhale of a yellow school bus, mimicking the electrified babble of radio presenters between each track.

The bedroom is arguably the worst offender. Bedsheets used a few days too long, clothes strung across the floor – the relics of a late one at the Tipsy Bison. It’s no wonder you’re so fucking tired.

Echoes of stumbling footsteps and hushed, drunken giggles loop your ears, the groaning bedsprings and blunt thud of the headboard. You pluck the underwear and socks one by one, your body wincing around a satisfied ache still lingering, and shuffle over to the laundry hamper, lifting the lid to –

The dopey smile on your lips dissolves instantly. You gotta be fucking…

The buckle glints in the light, silver blinking up at you from its bed of dirty laundry. The tan strap coiled and neatly slung through its fastener; the pouch empty. Awkward and ashamed, lying there in front of you. Apologetic, almost.

Your eyes roll closed; a short, hot breath seeping past your lips. A silent promise embedding beneath your tongue to take him by the sleeve as soon as he crosses the threshold, force him to lift the lid himself. An I told you so already brewing in the pit of your stomach.

The holster’s actually pretty heavy when you lift it up in the light. Leather a little worn, stitching frayed where it should clip around his belt.

It’s the size and width of him: a thick, toned thigh slotted inside the loop of leather, fixed by fingers long void of feeling when he’s been riding to the outpost, chasing infected, plunging his knife deep into their necks.

Patrol was never your thing. Joel took you out just once – but there are cracks in your past which threaten to split you in two, it seems, the longer you spend outside the settlement walls. Phantoms which follow close behind in the form of snapping twigs, of the wind rustling in the trees overhead. Shadows living in your periphery with curled sneers and spits of filth.

You lasted twenty minutes, that first and only day, before Joel had your horses tied together and your body shelled in his own, taking you straight back home.

But the thought of this around his thigh, the thought of him adjusting it to the waistband of his jeans; his hand floating down to settle gently atop it when he’s listening for danger approaching, two fingers slipping into the trigger guard.

It…stirs something.

You pad over to the bathroom, hopping as you step into the strap. He wears it on his right leg, right? You pull it past your ankle, ball of your foot slamming clumsily back down on the tile.

Adjusting it to fit your thigh, you bunch the hem of his shirt in one fist and stare back at your reflection. Her nervous stance, hips swaying left to right as she peruses the figure opposite.

Who is she, this mirage – naked thigh decorated with her man’s leather, fingernails tracing the messy stitching and imagining the weight of his gun, keen in the pouch?

A strange aura of possession about it, like a part of him locked firm around a part of you, from however many miles away. You swear you can feel the ghost of his warmth on the inside of the strap, wrapped around your sensitive skin.

Yeah.

Stirs something, alright.

Joel’s been gone little over an hour. He’s probably at the outpost by now, logging All clear and pretending to let Jesse take the lead. Wide shoulders swaying as he wanders from room to room, a careful scope of the valley from each window, tongue tracing the bottom of his teeth.

Ridges of his knuckles white around the grip of his shotgun, squinting down the barrel. Lines drawn between his brows and at the corners of his eyes like scores on parchment, focus and concentration tight on his face.

You sink back into the cradle of your bed, that divot where his body and yours meet each night. Each part of you intertwining with a part of him: the place where you become one. His smell and your touch, your giggle and his teeth.

A sudden, powerful thing which hammers through your veins and jumps your body for a few seconds – you pull the first orgasm from between your legs within a matter of minutes. The sight of his shirt disturbed over your stomach, the feeling of blood squeezing past taut leather enough to throw you under by itself, never mind the fast snap of your fingers deep inside your body.

Another – slower, lazier, still vibrating from the first – then almost a third, but the crinkle of sheets at your ears, the pillow-soft landscape beneath your heavy body, begins to sweep you off somewhere.

And in as little time as it took to entice you into the water in the first place, you slip beneath the waves.

The house is quiet when he finally makes it home.

Jesus, Joel thinks, what a shift.

Not one infected the entire run, he can’t quite believe – but Jesse caught his palm on some warped sheet of chain link fence, then almost passed out when he looked down and saw the scarlet seeping from his shredded skin.

The pair sat for half an hour, unsheltered in the unforgiving wind, waiting for the kid’s head to stop spinning and the cold to rob the feeling from his hand.

All Joel wanted was to get home to you. You, and your hips swaying as you stand by the stove, and his hands kneading into the velvet plush of your waist, and the smell of burnt sausages and spatter of angry oil from the pan.

He’s so late. He said he’d be as quick as he could, said you’d barely know he was gone, and he’s so fucking late.

But he’s here now, at least.

He’s home.

As he kicks off his boots, snow sprinkling from the soles onto the doormat, he notices the absence of your arms around his waist. The missing weight at the back of him, no ear flat against his spine and hands interlocked above his belt. No relieved, I missed you, no nuzzle of your head under his arm.

The house is still and dim. The turntable spins in the corner, a dead crackle playing nothing for no one. Joel sniffs, eyeing the room and its new, orderly form: the books slotted neatly on their shelves, the rings of coffee wiped clean from the table.

Lifting the needle from the record, Joel calls out, Baby?

Maybe you’re in town somewhere. Maybe you’ve gone to spend the morning with the horses. But then, you would’ve been watching for his arrival. Would’ve skipped out from the stables and swung around his body, a gleeful smile and an outstretched hand. Take me home, cowboy.

And you wouldn’t have left the lights still burning, the player still turning. Your coat is still on its hook, smaller and brighter and where it belongs on the right of Joel’s. The cushions on the couch are fluffed and smooth, perched contentedly in place; the curtains draped in their tie backs.

You’re home. You’ve been home all morning.

So where the fuck are you?

Joel crosses over to the bottom of the stairs, blinking up at the painted cowboys and horses staring down from the landing. Calls your name, a faint singsong as he slowly ascends the stairs. You up there?

Down the wintery dull hallway to the bedroom door, figuring he knows the answer. And he’s right, isn’t he, when he nudges the door open and peers inside, spots the tiny lump of you in your double bed. Sunk deep into the mattress – covers you’d come in here to change, swallowing you whole.

A crooked, exhausted smile pulls across his lips; his thumb hooks around a belt loop, knee cocking.

You’re so…perfect. So heavenly, so still like this – stretched out on your front, breathing in the scent of his pillow and breathing out little puffs of air.

Joel leans over you, a heavy hand pushing into the mattress above your shoulder, and runs a featherlight knuckle over your cheek.

Pretty bird? he whispers, lighter than the long breaths from your sleep-swollen lips.

You don’t stir. No movement, save for the rise and fall of your shoulders wrapped up in his flannel.

Joel feels a pang of guilt, numbed only by the chill still through his body: he woke you this morning, before even the sun had lifted her head. Had you hunting all over the house with him, for some dumb holster that he wound up not even n–

His eyes trail down the shape of your body, draped in the sheets like white marble carved into the round shape of something beautiful, hands following the curve of your thigh. His wrist freezes when it meets the odd bulge of something, an awkward bump beneath the cotton.

He peels the sheet back, lifting it from your shoulders, your waist, your hips – until your angled thigh lies on full display for his feasting eyes.

His fucking holster…wrapped tight around your fucking thigh.

A disbelieving laugh at first – a She told me so, before he notices the indents in your skin, the stretched leather snug around your leg, riding higher than it should at the doing of your slumber.

Christ, baby, he breathes, stare glued to the folds of plaid hooked around the belt loop. Following the tatty hem down past your hip, along the underside of your ass – riding up some, right where your legs part.

And between them, all sheer and thin, twisted around itself and slipping between: your underwear. The threading of pubic hair peeking over the frilled hem of it; the sight filling Joel’s mouth with saliva.

A heavy heat forms in his jeans, an irritable weight which aches when he moves; which hardens when he pictures the image of you in his bed, his shirt, his holster wrapped around your thigh – playing with yourself while he’s been gone.

Fuck. Fuckin’…shit.

He lowers, running lips he knows are freezing cold along the burning surface of your skin, tongue slipping past his teeth to drag a wet trail along your thigh.

Your leg shifts under his touch, the startle of his chilled fingertips behind your knee, nuzzling of his nose where the holster sits smugly on your thigh. Smelling like leather and salt, the sticky sheen of sweat still glowing on your skin.

Joel takes your waist in two hands – he can’t fucking help himself, can he? – and turns you, patiently, watching as you roll onto your back so he can drag you further down the bed. Tongue flicking at the corners of his lips, thirsty for something he only wants you to feed him.

Slow, slowly. Every effort put into not waking you, to keeping you in this peachy haze between asleep and awake; your movements long and staggered, held firm against the mattress by the weight of your doze.

With a sigh, your jaw turns to one side. Joel pulls you in, kneeling at the edge of the bed with your socked feet resting on his shoulders. His shirt gathers around your waist; your hips and the thin twine of your underwear spotlighted by stripes of weakened sunlight spilling in through the blinds.

Oh, pretty bird, he groans, slipping his open palms under your ass, rough and squeezing the pillows of flesh in his hands. This all for me?

A moan wrapped in a hefty breath twists from your lips. Your knees fall limp; legs open almost eagerly, like your body inviting him in. And he accepts, takes it with eyes blown black and hungry lips parted – leans in and nestles his nose against the thrumming heartbeat pounding through your clit.

Such a good girl, he whispers, closing his lips in a kiss over your clothed mound, and your hips jolt.

You’re so fucking warm. So wet; sticky and so ready for him. He kisses your folds, suckling gently and letting his tongue dart along the inseam of your lips in flicking movements – collecting the taste of salt and feeling his cock throb against rough denim.

Off? he asks – you and the room and himself – fingers hooking around the underwear rolled on your hips.

When your back arches, body feeling the loss of his tender kiss, rolling like a wave seeking to crash against the steady rock form of his – he smirks to himself.

Joel nods. Off.

He takes his time peeling them from your body, watching as more and more of his paradise is revealed. The waves of your folds, the sheer glisten of arousal along them; the dark hair peppering either side as damp and slick as the skin beneath it.

Your panties drop from a hooked finger without a sound and he turns back, hovering over your waiting cunt with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Out front, voices call back and forth to one another – some neighborly greeting and affable conversation – but Joel doesn’t hear. Deafened to anything but the sound of your sighs and his own blood hammering through his ears.

It’s a little rushed, a tad rough, the way he presses his lips back to yours. The way his beard grazes against your most sensitive spot, and the gasp he swears he hears lift from your tongue.

But fuck, he’s missed this, the way he always does – without knowing, without actively thinking about it, without knowing it was even at home waiting for him. If his mind weren’t on an entirely different planet right now, he’d curse that goddamn chain link for holding him up, for keeping him away longer than thirty seconds from the sweet little angel resting in his bed, and the sweet little pussy between her legs.

He parts your thighs wider, tongue dipping lower and deeper as he laps at your core, almost fucking panting against it.

You squirm lazily beneath him, shoulders tensing and untensing, a half-limp wrist lifting to pet his hair and an attempt at his name between your lips. Joel, you whimper, thick with sleep and something more dangerous.

I know, baby, he’s telling you, I know, and his tongue slips inside again. His hips grind into the mattress, cock an agonizing stiff against the sturdy edge. He can feel the wet in his boxers, the precome sticking to the inside of the cotton.

Fuck, he wants to be inside you so badly, so desperately.

Another gasp sputters across your lips, cut short in your throat when his teeth bump against your clit.

Too hungry, too brash, he thinks. You’re too soft, too open for him to let it go to waste. Not like this.

He pulls back, a filthy thread of arousal and saliva between his open lips and yours, and places a sodden kiss to the inside of your thigh.

But you whine, you poor little thing – your head twisting to the other side, a second hand now blindly surfing across his shoulder, past the brush of his beard and sifting through his still-chilly hair. The loss of attention to your pussy aching between your legs; your hips lifting weakly to meet the scratch of his chin again.

And that same sound – that same Jo-oel – a sound like song, like saccharine dripping over his shoulders.

So, he lifts a hand – two middle fingers coming together to push open your cunt, instantly sliding in knuckle-deep. Sucked in by the wet mess left behind by his lips, stretching you out with slow, round movements.

You’re slowly stirring, blossoming from your sleep and turning slowly back into this world. The cold edges seeping in, the warm flush of pleasure sharpening at their meeting. He’d do anything, he thinks, to keep you here; keep you teetering on the edge, tangled up between your world and his.

J– oh, fu-uck, you whine, and he can tell you’re still blinkered by sleep. But you grind on him again – a long, languid movement which seems to spatter out at its end when the coarse hair of his beard catches against your clit.

The breath stops in your throat, punching out in a shuddered moan. Joel could come just from the sound of it.

You gonna give me one, baby girl? he pleads, forearms clamping down on the underside of your thighs. Desperate – desperate to feel you, hear you, taste you as you come undone. Just one.

You’re writhing around beneath him, as needy as he is. A winding which matches his, coiling at the bottom of your stomach; a feeling which pulls at the corners of your lips and shocks them into a smutty, half-conscious smile. Your eyes roll back, fluttering open and then snapping shut when the light floods in.

There, you say, clearest so far, movements the strongest he’s felt. Your fingers root in his hair, rough over his scalp. Keep – keep doin’ that.

Joel smiles against your mound; a cocky thing, emboldened by the sound of that little Texan twang, the curl of an accent which doesn’t belong to you. Rather, a result of your years spent with him, watching the way his mouth shapes the words, learning the low swing and swirling melody of his tongue.

As if he’s as alive within you as he is within himself; every little thing Joel knows is him, injected into your bloodstream – his dry wit, his blunt honesty, his thick fingers and his insatiable tongue.

He slips in a third, flicking them perfectly inside of you. Beckoning your release; tongue sitting in wait, a resting point for you to grind your clit against.

And he wants it as much as you do: wants to feel the clamping of your body around him, wants to taste the flood of your orgasm as it shocks through every bone in your body.

Wants to pull three soaked, pruned fingers from your pussy and slip them over your tongue, letting you clasp your fingers around his wrist; watching the half-dozing flutter of your eyelashes as you suckle on them and make those pretty little sounds for him.

Your hand knots tighter in his hair, pelvis circling steady against his suckling lips. He can smell it on you: smell the need seeping from your pores. The sleep spilling from the corners of your mouth, the happy whimpers and quiet cries for more, more, Joel, more.

And – Shit, he breathes against you, feeling a sudden rush of electricity he knows all too well between his hips. Not now, not now not before he’s been inside – Shit, baby, gotta let me go.

You whine in refusal – a petulant sound, all stubborn and greedy. ‘m so close, I –

Pretty bird, he groans, lifting his jaw. He places a messy kiss to the crease between your core and your thigh, wrist stammering with his sudden movements. You gotta – you gotta let go, you’re gonna make me come –

You’re echoing him, mumbling the words gonna, gonna come – fuck, Joel, ‘m gonna –

Shit.

Not – Fuck – not right n– Christ, baby girl, you’re gonna – you’re –

Your walls spasm, clamping and relaxing, squeezing around his huge fingers. But it’s not that – it’s not the gush of warm fluid which seeps from between your legs, coating his knuckles and dripping into his palm.

It’s not the arch of your back, the way your breasts lift to the ceiling and his shirt slips below one nipple. Not the way your head rolls back against the mattress, a broken moan tearing in shards from your throat.

No.

It’s the way your hands leave his hair in an instant, and grip around the leather on your thigh. Skin stretching thin over your knuckles, thumbs between the strap and your sticky skin; hips still riding out your high as you ground yourself, holding onto his holster.

And it makes Joel come. Hard.

Harder than he knew possible, grinding against a mattress and the inside of his fucking jeans.

He falls forward, breathing a guttural moan into the soft swell of your stomach below your navel, fingers hooking into the baggy shirt around your arms.

Shitshitshit, he pants, feeling the warm ejaculate spurt from his cock and all over the inside of his boxers. Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck me.

His hips shudder a few more times, pressing hard into the edge of the mattress before he’s coming down, slowing to a stop – still a leaden weight on your stomach. His cock almost painful, overstimulated and oversensitive.

But then – something gently tittering. A bird singing, cooing above his head. The ground beneath his temple shakes, tremors with laughter. The dust twinkles in the sunlight, now brighter, golden, streaming through the window.

You’re awake.

Joel drags his gaze upwards, bleary and glazed with sex, and catches your eye.

Feel good? you ask, sifting hair away from his damp forehead. When was the last time that happened? Fourteen?

I don’t wanna talk about it, he mumbles into your belly.

Your chest jumps, a laugh which echoes into Joel’s ear. Tastes that good, huh?

It takes a mighty effort for him to push up on his palms, slowly crawling up the length of your body until his elbows plant firm into the mattress either side of your head. He groans as he lowers his lips, parting them to let you slip your tongue inside.

The kiss is slow, tender. Your bodies melding together, teeth clacking and jaws moving in sync. A sharp taste, sweet with a singe of bitterness to it. Perfect, you think, smirking against Joel’s cool lips.

He pulls away, lips tickling the tip of your nose deliberately.

With a giggle, you push on his chest. You should shower. You smell like patrol.

Joel cocks an eyebrow. You comin’ in with me?

Nope. I got even more laundry to do now, old man.

He entertains the quip with a subtle smile, a thing which softens the creases on his face and lights a twinkle in his eyes. Quietly, genuinely, in a way which makes your heart ache a little, he whispers, Sorry I was workin’, pretty bird.

You shrug. ‘s okay. You made up for it. And – I found your holster. You lift your knee, letting the buckle shine in the sunlight.

You did that, Joel agrees, nodding and glancing down at the thing. He hooks a finger around the strap, giving it a little shake. Maybe I oughta lose it more often.

Hm, you shrug, or I can just keep it safe for ya. Looks good, don’t it?

He feigns a disappointed smile, a resigned sigh before he looks back up.

Better ‘n when I wear it, he admits, and his lips crash down to yours again.

[mneiai]

Best and worst parts of the Ikemen Villain (EN) Routes (minor spoilers)

William:

Best: Actual villain. He's the sort of vigilante the other vigilantes would consider a villain and attack on sight. Maybe a little too try-hard at points, but that's because his heart is in it.

Worst: Second-hand embarrassment. The MC joins the William cult in like two days of knowing him and becomes creepily obsessed with him to the point anyone else would have gotten a restraining order on her. If she wasn't going to die first, she'd probably be asking Elbert about taxidermy.

Harrison:

Best: ACAB. No "good" cop can survive where any corruption exists.

Worst: Starter route. This should be the last route before Victor, we should have every route before that making Harry seem sus in ways that make us question how great a guy he seems, but without any answers for ages.

Liam:

Best: Found family. I think out of all the routes, this has the best of the found family vibe. Everyone cares about Liam in their own way (even if it's maybe not the best thing for him).

Worst: No Platonic Option. Liam feels more like someone MC is taking care of than a love interest most of the time and it's honestly a little awkward in parts to suddenly go back to the romance/sex when actually Liam really just needs like a friend who isn't so enabling.

Elbert:

Best: No Bad Ending Needed. A yandere from the start that gets to stay a yandere is pretty rare in media, and he gets even freakier about it in most of the events.

Worst: Animal cruelty. It's already implied by the taxidermied birds, but then you get into the cat and uhhh

Alfons:

Best: ?? I don't know, I quit after the below stuff

Worst: Rape culture. It's bad enough he SAs the MC right off the bat, but then most of the others treat it like a joking matter and more or less slutshame her.

Ellis:

Best: Malewife. Want a hot young thing taking care of you in every way imaginable? Sure, his end goal is codependency, but that's not so bad in the grand scheme of things.

Worst: Copaganda. How do we have MULTIPLE ROUTES showing the police are corrupt and then this guy is like, oh yeah, we just leave shit for the cops to clean up and totally trust them to take care of it in a reasonable and just way.

[little-mari-on-a-roof]

Frenglish differences in Miraculous - Episode 2

The Bubbler/Le Bulleur

This one's not really a difference, more of a double meaning that gets lost in translation: in French, the verb “buller” also means "to laze" and is a subtle reference to Nino's cool and laid back attitude (which is demonstrated more literally by him blowing bubbles during the episode).

Adrien, talking about his father

En: I'm pretty sure he was a downer back then too.

Fr: Je suis sûr qu'il a toujours ��té vieux jeu, même jeune.

I'm sure he's always been old fashioned (lit. "old game"), even when he was young.

I can't believed they missed out on Adrien making a hilarious joke!! And it actually would’ve been even funnier in English since “old fashioned” can be a reference to Gabriel’s job.

Chloé to Marinette

En: Out of the way.

Fr: Dégage, boulet.

Go away, boulet.

Here, “boulet” ("ball" as in "ball and chain" or cannonball) is a word used as an insult to qualify a person who is annoying or drags/weighs you down, like the ball attached to a prisoner's chain. Chloé uses that word very often when talking about Marinette in French.

Chloé

En: Happy birthday Adrien.

Fr: Bon anniversaire Adrichou chéri.

Happy birthday dearest Adrikins.

The nickname Chloé uses for Adrien in the French dub is over the top while she only says his name in English.

Chloé about the delivery men

En: Those slackers.

Fr: Les petites natures.

Lightweights. (lit. "Little natures.")

In French the emphasis is put on the workers being weak, when they're lazy in the English dub (it's just a linguistic difference here).

Alya, to Marinette

En: Don't be a pushover, literally.

Fr: Te laisse pas faire tu vaux mieux qu'elle.

Don't let yourself be pushed around, you're (worth) better than her.

Alya sounds more supportive in French.

Marinette talking to the house camera when leaving her gift at Adrien's house

En: [...] ... did I already say that?

Fr: [...] cadeauuu!!! pour Adrien.

giiiift!!!! for Adrien.

Just Marinette being awkward in slightly different ways (I didn't put the whole quote since the rest of it is pretty similar in both dubs).

Alya, to Marinette

En: Girl, girl, girl

Fr: Marinette, Marinette

I'm not translating that one for obvious reasons, but I noticed that whenever Alya calls Marinette "girl" in the English dub (not just now but also later in the episode), she actually says her name in French. It's not a big deal but I just thought it was interesting.

Nino leaving Adrien's house after being kicked out by Gabriel

Fr: Ouais c'est ça au revoir.

Yeah, right, goodbye.

The sentence was deleted in the English dub.

Adrien to Nino, about his father

En: It's just best to stay out of his way.

Fr: Vaut mieux faire ce qu'il dit, c'est plus simple.

It's best to do what he says, it's simpler.

I didn't really pay attention to this one back when I was taking notes of the differences but it hits different after the sentibeing reveal 🥲.

Hawkmoth

En: It won't be long before Ladybug and Cat Noir show up to meet their doom.

Fr: Ladybug et Chat Noir ne tarderont pas à se montrer pour leur dernière danse.

It won't be long before Ladybug and Chat Noir show up for their last dance.

One of Gabriel's many puns, since it refers to the party that the Bubbler is throwing thanks to his new powers.

The Bubbler after Ladybug changes the music that was playing

En: Dude, who just hijacked my mix?

Fr: C'est quoi ce truc ? Qui a osé remixer mon mix ?

What's that? Who dared remixing my mix?

I think "remix my mix" is very funny.

Ladybug, replying to him

En: Yours truly.

Fr: DJ Ladybug.

She <33.

At one point, ladybug calls the Bubbler "DJ bubulle", which is a way of making fun of him since “bubulle” is a cute word for bubble (bulle in French).

Hawkmoth

En: You can't run forever, Ladybug.

Fr: Tu ne tenvoleras pas éternellement, Ladybug.

You won't fly forever, Ladybug.

A little pun that got lost in translation.

Adrien to Nino about his awesome new scarf

En: Yeah. Can you believe my dad got this for me? It's so awesome. He's given me the same lame pen for three years in a row.

Fr: Ouais, j'arrive pas à croire que mon père aie fait ça pour moi, tu te rends compte ? D'habitude il oublie tout le temps le jour de mon anniversaire.

Yeah, I can't believe my father/dad did this for me. Do you realise? He usually always forgets my birthday.

I can't tell which one is sadder :')). Also, "mon père" can be translated as either father or dad so I left both since I think it would be more likely for him to say "father", but the official translation chose to have him say "dad".

[parkerflix]

—cielo en la mente

miles morales x gn!reader

genre: fluff, angst

wc: 4.5k

synopsis: miles morales had you seeing double. but what if it wasn’t your eyes playing tricks?

warnings: atsv spoilers! canon divergence

taglist: CLOSED as of 6/19!

part of my 1k celebration! & part two to this fic!

You had been ignoring Miles lately. It wasn’t that you wanted to see him, but you were confused. Nothing seemed to make sense, or add up.

You sighed, sweeping up the last of the hair on the ground. You mom had already packed up and gone home, telling you to finish the last of the cleaning while she got dinner ready. You went over to the wash bowls, rinsing the hair brushes from the barbicide.

The front door had been locked, and music was playing from the speakers. A bang came from the front door, and you turned around to see Miles standing there.

His hair was out of braids again, and he seemed to be wearing the baggiest jeans and sweater you’d ever seen. He waved at you awkwardly, and you walked over, standing in front of the lock. His eyes were pleading with you to open the door, and you sighed, knowing you wouldn’t be able to leave him outside.

You unlocked the door & opened it so he could come inside. The silence between the two of you was awkward, but neither one of you knew what to say.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You fiddled with the keys, and went to lock the door, stopping when he asked you a question.

“Could you do my hair? Please?”

It was such a simple question, but it still caught you off guard. Miles normally never asked you to do his hair, he’d just show up during regular hours or text you in the middle of the night and you’d do his hair in your room.

You steeled yourself, and nodded.

“Yeah. Follow me.”

Miles quietly followed you to the washbowls, and sat down at a clean one.

“Do you want me to use a different shampoo & conditioner?”

He was quiet for a moment,

“Can you use the ones you like the most?”

You hummed in agreement and pulled the mint scented shampoo and conditioner. You eyed the deep conditioning treatment, and grabbed that off the shelf.

Returning back to Miles, you leaned his head back into the wash bowl before starting the water.

“Let me know if it’s too hot or cold, okay?”

“Ah!”

You quickly turned off the water and panicked before you heard Miles let out a laugh.

“I was joking. The water is fine.”

You started up the water again and flicked some towards his face.

“Ack!”

“That’s what you get for scaring me like that!”

You both laughed, and soon it turned into a comfortable silence. Grabbing the shampoo, you made sure to lather his hair & rise it out. Miles was secretly a cry baby when he got shampoo in his eyes, so you covered his eyes with your hand.

Grabbing the deep conditioning treatment, you placed it in his hair, making sure to really get his roots. His hair had definitely seen better days, and you were confused how it got to this state when you were the last one to do his hair.

You finished with the deep conditioning treatment and went on with the regular conditioner, the minty scent hitting your nose as the cap opened.

“Smells good.”

Miles had been quiet up until now, and you genuinely thought he had fallen asleep.

“Yeah. Mint.”

He hummed.

“I like it, it seems to be very you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the comment, and nodded, knowing he couldn’t see you nodding.

You rinsed the last of the conditioner out of his hair, and wrapped it in a towel, tapping his shoulder to let him know you were done.

He opened his eyes and stretched out, reminding you of a cat.

“That was nice. You should do this as a profession, I think it would suit you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Har har. You act like I haven’t been doing your hair and the neighbor’s hair since I could walk.”

Miles gave you a small smile and walked over to your station.

You got your tray ready with all your supplies, not noticing Miles was watching you.

You were different from Miles. He wasn’t sure if you existed in his universe, but he hoped that there was a version of you, hopefully near him. He had seen how you treated him, so gentle but had an edge with your words. He wondered what his counterpart in this universe meant to you.

“You know,” he started, catching your attention when he paused.

“You’re pretty special. You have a cool heart.” Miles inwardly cringed at that, wondering what the hell a cool heart could be.

“Mmm. Thanks.”

“Also, thanks for doing my hair.”

You nodded, ignoring the way something in your stomach flipped.

Miles was never one to outwardly express his gratitude, he was always the type to just show his gratitude and appreciation in smaller ways. He was more reserved with his words in that sense, and this change was different to you.

The rest of time you were doing his hair was relatively quiet, Miles asking you small questions here and there. You enjoyed the atmosphere, happy that you got to spend some quiet time with him.

You finally finished the braids after a little while, showing him the end result. It was the same style that you had done before, but you just thought he looked good in them.

Miles got up from the chair, and got closer to the mirror to inspect them.

He looked at himself in the mirror, unable to shake off a feeling of happiness that swam through him. His hair had never really been in braids before, it was something that he just assumed didn’t suit him, but here he was. He could tell that you put so much effort and love into them, it made his heart swell with joy.

He turned to you, and engulfed you in a hug. He wasn’t one to be affectionate with people he just met, but there was something about you that drew him in, and made him comfortable.

You froze for a second, before hugging him back, ignoring the nudging questions at the back of your mind.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

You had asked Miles that day if he wanted to come over for dinner, but had declined and said he had a few things to do. You understood, but felt a little sad that he wasn’t going to come over.

The rest of the night had gone by pretty unceremoniously, giving you time to think about Miles and his weird behavior.

You sighed and texted him, seeing if he was willing to meet you for breakfast in the morning at your spot. He quickly responded with a yes, and a small pit of anxiety formed in your stomach, nervous for the morning.

The next morning your alarm went off and you groaned, not wanting to get up. Turning your alarm off, you closed your eyes for a moment, before remembering you were meeting Miles for breakfast.

Swearing under your breath, you quickly got up and threw on a sweater and jeans, not even bothering to worry about anything else.

Your mom seemed to still be asleep, so you slipped out of the front door, quickly switching your slippers for shoes at the door.

Your spot wasn’t far from either of your houses, and the walk was always nice in the mornings.

Yosi’s diner was the place that you’d been going to even since you were little kids, back when there were 5 of you coming. Even after your parents stopped coming, you and Miles made it a tradition to only have breakfast there. It held memories of you guys sharing good news, and bad.

Miles had seen you cry because a date had stood you up the night before, and you had been his support when his dad passed. Yosi’s diner meant everything to you both.

You finally made your way to the entrance, the flickering sign feeling like a signal that you were home. Opening the door, the soft tinkling of the bell along with the smell of pie placed a smile on your face.

Yosi was standing behind the counter, telling one of the servers some instructions. She was slightly older than you & Miles, with an aura that made everyone comfortable around her. Her parents had opened the diner, naming it after her when they found the place, hoping for her to inherit it.

She glanced at you and smiled. Shooing away the server, she rounded the corner of the counter and came to give you a hug.

“It’s so good to see you! Donde estabas escondida? It feels like I haven’t seen you in so long.”

You chuckled, embracing her.

“I’m sorry. El salón está tan ocupado, toda la gente quiere su pelo arreglado. I’m sure quiñce season is right around the corner.”

She laughed a parted from you, turning her head to the booth at the end of the right side of the diner.

“He’s been waiting for you.”

You hummed.

“He’s in a mood, good luck.” She walked away after that, going back into the kitchen.

You took a deep breath and walked over to the booth. Miles had been watching you since you walked in, eyes never leaving you until you sat down.

“You’re late.”

You rolled your eyes.

“We never agreed on a time.”

“We always meet at the same time.”

Before he could respond, food came to your table, your usual and his usual.

He always got the same chocolate chip pancakes with some whipped cream and a few cherries on them. He never mentioned it, but you knew he got it because his dad used to get them and share with him. You assumed it helped him feel closer to his dad, and understood it was his way.

Both of you tucked into your food, not saying anything until he broke the ice.

“So, que quieres?”

“Damn, what’s with the attitude?”

“There’s no attitude here mamí, just asking a question.” He said, taking a big bite of his pancakes.

You dropped your cutlery, glaring at him.

“Seriously, qué te pasa? What the hell did I do to deserve this weird ass mood?”

Miles didn’t want to say what he was thinking, but he was jealous. He hadn’t seen you in forever, and he had passed by the salon the night before, seeing you doing someone else’s hair when you were closed. He could tell that you seemed comfortable with whoever the guy was, your smile the same you normally only gave him. He hated feeling this way, especially because you weren’t huge on jealousy. Previous partners of yours always were jealous of Miles, and you’d go to him and tell him how annoying it was, not knowing they had reason to feel jealous. He knew you better than anyone, and he wasn’t shy to show it.

“Nothing.”

You raised a brow, not buying his words.

He glanced up at you, seeing your eyes already trained on his face.

“What?”

“Seriously, what’s with you?”

“Nothing, mamí. How was your night last night?” He had hoped that switching up the topic would divert your attention.

“Well, mi mama hizo pupusas, she left some for you. She missed you at dinner, you know.”

“I miss your mom too. Tell her I’ll try to come over one of these days for dinner. Did you miss me at dinner?”

Your face heated up slightly, and you cleared your throat.

“I-no.”

Miles’ face had a huge grin on it, and you knew you were in trouble for it.

“Oh so you did miss me? Mamí, if you miss me that much, you always know where my house is, we could remedy that.” He winked at you, making you roll your eyes.

“First of all, you know I hate when you call me mamí. Makes me feel like those groupies Jaime has. Secondly, you wish I missed you. I haven’t climbed up your window since you decided you'd rather spend everyday with me, papi.”

He laughed at that, he knew you knew he hated being called papi by anyone but his mom. Somehow, whatever tension that had grown between you two had dispersed and left you both pushing away any budding feelings. The rest of breakfast had gone without addressing it anymore, and Miles was thankful.

When it was time for the bill to come, Miles stopped you before you could even pull your card out. You thanked him, and he waved you off, not too worried about it.

“Well, thanks for breakfast.” You said, grabbing your things and getting ready to leave.

“Can I walk you home?”

You nodded and you both got out of the booth, waving bye to Yosi when you left the building.

“So, what’s with the gentleman act?”

Miles clutched his chest like he was wounded and gave you the saddest look he could muster.

“Amor, cómo puedes decir eso? I’m always a gentleman.”

You pushed him slightly, making him burst out into a fit of laughter.

“The only time I’ve seen you be a gentleman was when you were dating that cute enby.”

“Which one?”

“The one with glasses??? God, I can’t remember their name but they really were like your polar opposite, I have no clue how you managed to date them.”

Miles thought about it, and nodded his head.

“Ah, I know who you’re talking about. They were cool. Liked science, and wanted to major in it. We still talk now and then.”

“Mírate, keeping friends who aren’t just me! Rio should be proud.”

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“Yet you still hang out with me. Admit it, me amas.”

You were too busy looking around the neighborhood to notice Miles’ face get flustered, and he shrugged it off, knowing you didn’t have any hidden meaning behind it.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m stuck with you.”

You glanced at him and smiled, before realizing you guys had already made it to your apartment building.

“Well, this is me. Te veo mañana?”

He nodded and you gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking into your building.

Once you had disappeared into the building, Miles groaned and ran his hand down his face. His feelings for you were going to be the death of him.

The next day you regrettably had school.

Both you and Miles went to different schools, him getting into Visions and you going to the local highschool.

You slipped into your uniform, never quite getting used to how annoying the polo shirt looked on you. Fixing your hair a bit, you ran to grab your shoes from the doorway before Miles showed up.

Your mom was sitting at the dining room table, sipping a cup of coffee watching you frantically grab all of your stuff for the day.

“Llevaste comida?”

You grabbed an apple from the counter & a couple bucks off your piggy bank in your room.

“Yeah, totally.”

“Don’t be lying to me. No puedes ir sin comer, te vas a enfermar.”

“I’m not! I’ll see you when I come home?”

She nodded and you gave her a peck on the cheek, running over to your window and making your way down the fire escape.

Miles was already waiting for you, a shit eating grin on his face.

“Don’t-”

“Two days in a row, I’m starting to think you’re hiding a boyfriend up there.”

“Oh shut up.”

The walk to your school was fairly the same except today he bought you a breakfast sandwich. You gave him a questioning look, and he just ignored it.

Making it to your school first, you both stopped at the entrance, shuffling to the side to not block the doors.

“So, any big plans for today at school?”

Miles shook his head.

“Nah, there’s a bunch of lectures and maybe a lab or two. The school’s not that much different than yours.”

“Mmmm, well. Don’t forget to make friends!”

Before he could respond, someone behind you called your name and wiggled their brows.

“Nice boyfriend! Maybe that’s where you sneak off to all the time!”

You flipped them off & took a deep breath, turning back to Miles.

“Maybe you should be worried about making friends.”

“Nah, they just know you and I are close.”

“What’s that about though?”

“What?”

“You sneaking off?” Miles tried to hide the jealousy that was creeping into his voice.

“Oh that.” You scratched your neck and gave him a bashful smile.

“Everyone thinks I’m seeing someone but I go out and grab lunch nearby and then come back. We’re technically not supposed to leave campus so…”

Miles laughed and you felt some pride in your chest.

“That does make more sense.”

You both idly chatted for a little longer before the first bell rang, and you knew he had to go.

“I’ll see you after school?” You said, hopefully.

Miles shook his head and gave you a sad smile.

“Sorry amor, I gotta help my mom and my uncle with some stuff at home.”

You nodded, understanding.

He ruffled your hair and you swatted his hand away, annoyed.

“I’ll see you around then!”

He saw you walk into his school and checked his phone, seeing he was late for school. He didn’t really care though, knowing he would rather spend time with you than be on time.

On your way home from school, you decided to stop in at a bookstore.

You were strolling the aisles, trying to find something that you were interested in. You had found a book, and someone accidentally knocked into you.

“Sorry!”

You turned around and saw Miles there, in a completely different outfit from when you saw him leave for school.

“Oh hey! I thought you were helping your mom with something at home?”

Miles scratched his neck awkwardly and nodded.

“Yeah, turns out she didn’t really need my help.”

“Oh did Aaron have it under control?”

“Yes!” He coughed and glanced around the store.

“Yeah, she had him helping so there wasn’t that much for me to do.”

“So you decided to come to a bookstore?”

“Yes?”

You hummed and turned around again, looking for the book again.

You could tell that Miles was still hovering behind you, hearing the shuffling of his Jordan’s.

“Miles,qué quieres?”

“Uhh… I was wondering if that book was good? I’ve been trying to find something new to read that isn’t an action type of book.”

You whipped around, stumbling into him not realizing how close he had been behind you.

“Are you asking me for a book recommendation? Because if so, we should do a book swap!”

“Book swap?” He tilted his head and gave you a confused look.

“Yeah! We can find books from our favorite genres for each other! I know they have a little cafe area and we can read them there!”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Great! Do you wanna meet up front in like 15 minutes?”

He nodded and you clapped and walked off to a different section of the store.

15 minutes later you both met up at the front, both with books in your hands.

Getting to the register, you plucked Miles’ book out of his hands and paid for both of them. He gave you a look and you just shrugged.

“Think of it as payment from breakfast yesterday.”

You thanked the cashier and both of you had made your way to the cafe.

Miles watched you order a drink, and declined your offer for anything. Both of you sat down at a couch, and you put the bag with the books in the middle.

Pulling out both, you handed him the one you picked out for him.

“Six of crows?”

“Yeah! It follows like a group of thieves and you get to see all the different perspectives, I really enjoy it.”

“Oh, sounds cool.”

You smiled and looked down at the book you held.

“Oh hey, Lord of the flies!”

“You’ve read it before?”

You shook your head, a small frown tugging at your lips.

“No, you and I used sparknotes to write my essay on it?”

Miles’ eyes widened.

“Right. Right.” He cleared his throat.

“Well, after that, I decided to read it and I think you’d enjoy it.”

You hummed and nodded, opening the book and beginning to read.

Miles opened his book as well, and was reading, until he felt your head on his lap. He looked down and you and you smiled, seemingly not thinking anything of it.

Miles on the other hand, his heart was racing and he was hoping you couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t uncomfortable per say, he just didn’t know if it was normal between you and his counterpart. You didn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil and were fixated on the book.

A little while had passed, and Miles had seemingly got more comfortable, mindlessly playing with a strand of your hair. You were halfway done with the book when your phone had gone off. You sat up, Miles’ hand dropping down to his side.

Picking up the phone, you saw your mother had texted you to come home, she needed you to run an errand for her.

Packing up your stuff, Miles stood up when you did.

“I gotta head home, my mom needs me to run a few errands for her.”

“Want me to help?”

You looked at him and smiled.

“Sure. I know mom would love to see you anyways.We can talk about the books on the way there.”

You both quickened your pace, and you grabbed Miles’ hand dragging him along with you.

Neither of you had realized the whole way to your house that you were still holding hands, fingers intertwined.

Miles had told you what he thought about the book so far, and he was interested in it. You explained some things he wasn’t sure about, and gave him some fun facts about the characters and the author.

In turn,he told you about the book he had recommended and about the movie that they had made based on the book. He hated the movie.

Finally getting to your apartment building, you climbed up the stairs to your apartment, dropping his hand to look for your keys.

You opened the front door and the smells of cinnamon permeated your senses.

“Ya llegué! Traje a Miles también!”

You kicked off your shoes and Miles followed suit, staring at the photos on the walls. The walls were covered in pictures of you and your mother, of you and him, and your families together. He pulled his attention away, following you into the kitchen.

You gave your mother a hug from behind, kissing the top of her head. She let out a laugh and shook her head. She would always say you’re her favorite child (you were her only child).

“Dónde estabas? Necesito que lleves esto para mi.”

“Estábamos en la tienda, quería otro libro para leer.”

Your mother turned to Miles, giving him a big hug. He hugged her back awkwardly and you snickered at his eyes pleading for your help.

She parted from him and pointed to the fridge.

“Te dejé algunas pupusas, llévalos a tu mamá también.”

“Uh gracias, I’ll make sure to take them to her.”

Both you and your mom shared a glance and she shrugged, before walking over to hand you a package.

“Just this?”

“Yes, and then no getting sidetracked, you have to come home straight after. I trust you will be with them, right Miles?”

“Si!”

He didn’t miss the way you bit your lip, trying to hold in a laugh. You both bid your mother farewell, and went to deliver the package.

The walk to the place was quiet, Miles had no clue where you were going. You cleared your throat, eyes still forward.

“What was that back there?”

“What was what?”

You stopped walking and Miles stopped a moment after, turning to look at you.

“That accent, Miles!”

“Huh?”

“My mom literally side eyed you, she was definitely confused as to why you were trying to pull a joke on her…”

“Oh, right.”

“I found it funny though, mainly because I do that to her all the time.”

“Right.”

Miles started walking again, and you followed behind him, grabbing his hand that was just swinging.

“Estás enojado conmigo?”

Miles stopped and looked down at your hands that were intertwined. He had a strange feeling in his stomach, he wasn’t sure if he could pinpoint it. He was trying to get home, to figure out how to even get back there, but he didn’t even know how long it had been. Time was relative and he wasn’t sure if he was too late.

He also didn’t know why he felt attached to you, a sense of comfort while being around you. He secretly hoped, that even at home, you would be there.

“I’m not mad.”

“Good. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

He squeezed your hand, giving you a small smile.

“Nah. You’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hm, okay. But let me know if I do okay?”

“Got it.”

The rest of the walk to the place was filled with you two talking about different things, laughter from the both of you, once again never letting go of the other’s hand.

Miles realized that the area you guys were going to seemed familiar. It was his uncle’s place. His hands started to get sweaty, and he was panicking. He had actively avoided his family, watching from afar.

You, on the other hand, seemed perfectly fine. You hadn’t seen Aaron in a while, and you always wondered if he was doing okay. Miles always seemed on edge when you asked what he and Aaron did, which made you suspicious but you also knew he didn’t have to tell you everything.

You both made it to the hallway, and Miles squeezed your hand once more. You assumed it was an unconscious thing, but Miles did it to reassure himself.

“Why don’t I wait here for you?”

“Come on, I’m just gonna knock on the door and if he’s not there, we’ll leave it on his doorstep.”

He nodded and took a deep breath following you.

You knocked on the door, fully assuming no one would be home. Miles told you beforehand that he was helping Rio, so you just did it to reassure Miles. You weren’t sure if they had fought beforehand, but you didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable.

You knocked once more, hearing a voice on the other end yell for someone else to open the door. You straightened yourself up, plastering a smile on your face. Miles rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb, taking another deep breath.

The door creaked open, and when you made eye contact with the person at the door, your heart fell to the floor. Miles Morales stood in front of you, still wearing his uniform, his smile slowly dropping as he looked at your hand, being intertwined with someone. He looked at the person, eyes growing wide and jaw clenched.

Miles next to you felt his heart stop for a second, unsure what to do. He was staring at himself, who if looks could kill, would have him 6 feet under.

You dropped your hand from Miles’, thoughts going a million miles a minute. The main thought though was:

What the hell is going on?

taglist! @nameless-beanie @carmendanny2 @kukigirli @rayendrop @lovefks @anuncalledbridge @immortal-t @riki-gf @shuriri4life @starboychanyeol @sakura-onesan @the-smut-plug

if your name is in bold i was unable to tag you!

[mylove-thresher]

falling out of love with a lot of things lately

[eunandonly]

contemplating : love, friendships and theories of time

୨୧ ; fate is a strange concept, isn’t it? because park sunghoon was the last person you had expected to see in your philosophy lecture in uni

pairing! philosophymajor!sunghoon x philosophymajor!reader | wc. 0.8k | warnings: wrong philosophy info, prob cringe EN-

🖇️ : philosophy major sunghoon SKDKDKSK. also, to the girly who asked for a uni fic for the science and maths girls, i hope you’re looking forward to my sunoo uni fic ~

you and sunghoon go WAYYYY back

he was your neighbour in that little picturesque town you both lived in, your mum's friend's annoying son who always seemed to be loitering around at your house

you thought your mum adopted him or smth bc why was he at your house more than his own?? — more under cut!!

you used to tease him about being homeless back in the days

but yk you two were best friends

but you and sunghoon kind of just drifted apart in high school after he moved during his freshman year at high school

you see his instagram posts sometimes, pictures of him out with his friends, jawline still jawlining

you sometimes even scroll down to his older posts where you are present in his photos, smiling next to him with a wide braces smile

but you never thought you would cross paths with park sunghoon again

that is, until university.

you walk into your first philosophy lecture and oh look there he is

park sunghoon sitting in one of the corners with his notebook looking like the exact definition of brooding intellectual

what is that guy doing here WHY IS HE HERE?

you two recognise each other instantly but there's this moment of awkwardness

like "oh, do you remember when we used to steal each other's snacks in 5th grade?"

except now he's all grown up, wearing wireframe glasses and quoting descartes during class discussions

you just try to focus on your lecture but you can't really forget about sunghoon being in your philosophy lecture

oh yeah, and he looks x100 hotter than you remember WHAT'S GOING ON

puberty hit him hard

after the lecture, you're about to pack your stuff and leave as soon as you can but he just strides up to you with his obnoxiously long legs

you always hated his stupid long legs you always had to run to catch up

you're certain he walked faster on purpose to leave you behind

ANYWAYS sunghoon just says long time no see in that smooth voice of his.

he's polite, maybe a bit shy, but there's a hint of a smile on his face and it's almost like the years of not seeing each other disappears

you two start hanging out more- grabbing coffee together before 8AM morning lectures designed to kill university students, studying together in the library

your mum is also really happy to hear that you've met sunghoon

you always knew she liked him better than you.

but you guys only get closer on a fateful thursday morning as you’re making your way to your morning lecture

because sunghoon is standing in the courtyard with a baby kitten in his arms whilst panicking

“y/n this cat keeps following me and she doesn’t have a mum.”

ofc you need to take it in SHE’S SO CUTE

you end up skipping lectures and spending the entire day with sunghoon to bring the cat to the vet and buy food

sunghoon wants to name the cat descartes but you veto that immediately

by the day is over, you have a kitten named mochi with sunghoon as a co-parent

now you’re seeing him all the time bc guess who has joint custody over mochi??

ok but spending time with sunghoon isn't as hard as you thought it would be

like yes he moved without a word and practically ghosted you in highschool

but it all feels really natural WHO CHEERED??

but between kitten playdates and philosophy study sessions stuff start feeling kinda different HMMM

which you didn’t think was possible btw sunghoon’s hobby is literally talking about existentialism and calligraphy

yeah and you knew him since he was five

ok but he looks really hot whilst talking about sartre NDJDKDKSKS

who knew you would start feeling all warm inside from sunghoon

not the 14 years old you in the past

but now everytime you touch in any way, you feel yourself flush pink

and you can’t ignore how sunghoon tries to act all nonchalant about it but his ears are turning red

how cute.

“you ever heard about hegel’s theory of love?”

“if you’re about to lecture me, i’m leaving.”

“no- listen, it’s about how love is this push and pull that makes you grow and stuff, and i don’t think i’m just studying it anymore. i think i’m feeling it, with you.”

ok that sounded a lot better in my head please don’t come for me

but yeah

aristotle believed everyone has a purpose they’re meant to fulfill. perhaps you didn’t know it back than, but losing touch with sunghoon and finding him again… it feels like you two were meant to meet in the future. perhaps it’s fate

✉️ : @icyy-hoon

[factual-fantasy]

29 Asks! Thank you! :)) ✏️

My dearest compadre I am left handed

@ardent-38

WOAH hold your horses there friend! Octo and Seafoam aren't a couple- they're more akin to brothers than anything. So there will be no kissing in any scenario I conjure up for them <XDD

But other than that-- WAHGGGG THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! 😭😭😭🥰🥰 YOUR MESSAGE MEANT SO MUCH TO MEEEE!!! 😭😭🥰💞💞 --and honestly have encouraged me to reconsider drawing that idea!! :00 So thank you for that too! :DDDD

A force shutdown isn't the word I'd use to describe cybertronian fainting.. "force" sounds more like someone on the outside doing something to Ratchet to make him shut down when he is otherwise healthy/ok. Rather than something going wrong internally.

Like if he was going under for surgery, maybe when he goes under it could be called "force shutdown" as well as "inducing stasis".

Now a "system failure" or "system crash" might be more appropriate for fainting or suddenly collapsing. When Ratchet injected the Synth-en maybe his systems were overwhelmed by the foreign substance and he suffered a complete system crash and collapsed.💔

Something tells me that wouldn't work somehow, but I don't have all the technical knowhow to really explain why that would be a bad idea <XD I'm sure Ratchet could explain why that would be bad.

Hmmm, good question...

The only thing that comes to mind is for Raf I headcanon that he is fluent in sign language and that's how he communicates with/understands Bee. (My version of Bee communicates with sign language, not random beeps and boops that Raf somehow magically understands)

@rainbowwatermelon7

A drawing of mine doesn't feel complete or "safe to post" unless its been watermarked. But it could be different for you and that's ok :0

I mostly draw the scribbly head when I'm feeling well, and the drippy head when I am unwell in someway. I have been dealing with some health problems for well over a year now so drawing myself drippy became my new norm. <XD But its starting to get old so I might return to the scribble head just for the fun of it tbh-

I just like to draw it a bright and fun red instead of a dull and realistic dark red :00

Probably mentally break down and die somehow. 🫠 I couldn't handle living in a world where our planet and everyone on it could be destroyed by Megatron at any moment. Let alone being on the front lines along side the Autobots.

I do have other social medias, but they are all private/just for viewing other peoples art. This is the only one I post artwork to :00

Bibi you mean? I guess I was inspired by cats <XD But I cant remember anything specific that inspired me other than that.

@zecromgen5

Nothing specific I can share online, 😅 but yeah things have been alright!

I only know of YouTube <:( That's where I watched it back then.

@candyglumboy

Aww! The boys!! :DD

(Referencing this post)

Same ✋😔

@milk-powrit

My favorite of the beasts is Mystic Flour, for personality, powers and design. The others are alright I suppose <XD

I would probably be poisoned and die within the day 💀

If you mean if I was a transformer tho, I'd probably become really emotionally unstable like Ratchet was and just sob uncontrollably until I burned through it all 😅

I've seen it floating around Tumblr, but I never really looked into it <:0

He's recruiting more Autobots it seems XDDD

They might not want to fish, but they'd like to watch the koi swim around! :)

AAAA Thank you so much!!! :DDD

@florafandoms

Ough... so old.. 💔💔

Also thank you so much!! :DD

@misscherrypie (Pics from this post)

XDD I was hoping people would notice that. I think a hug from Bibi would fix me 🥺🥺

Pick up a pencil and my friend you have the power to bring a flood 🌊

@briandraws

My spirit animal ngl

@wolfie-777

Hey that cat is pretty cute! We should make a beloved internet meme about it! :D

@kaiserdarken

I have no idea <:0 Since MatPat took a step back from his channels I haven't been keeping up with any new FNAF lore 😔

@beryl-shade

I would obliterate the fleas with my Mary sue mind powers. No fleas shall cause my babies discomfort ☝️☝️

I have now. <XD How bizarre-

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 2: I’m The Son Of Rage And Love]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Jesus Of Suburbia” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

On the shores of the Susquehanna River, just north of Harrisburg, you find a Wawa with no gas: bags on all the pumps, cars with their fuel caps unscrewed and dangling. This is a common courtesy adopted en masse, like rationing during the World Wars or flying American flags after 9/11. It signals that a car has already been siphoned, no gasoline to be found here, no transparent flammable gold made of eons-past decomposition. You wonder if in a few million years, some unfathomable new apex species will be drilling your liquefied remains from the lightless layers of the earth to power their spaceships.

“Then we got sent to Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling,” Rio continues, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky, Jack Link’s in a red bag, teriyaki. Mercifully, whoever took the gas left some of the food. You are sitting in the parking lot, a quaint zombie apocalypse picnic, trail mix and Rice Krispies Treats, Herr’s potato chips and Tastykakes, warm soda sipped from plastic bottles. Luke and Rhaena are on the roof of the Tahoe. Jace is tearing the convenience store apart; he is convinced the employees must have kept a gun somewhere in case of robberies. You know he’s fine. You can hear him banging around and swearing in there.

“Then we built some schools and a hospital in Djibouti,” you say.

Aegon is baffled yet intrigued. “Djibouti…?”

“It’s on the Horn of Africa, near Ethiopia and Somalia.”

Luke snorts. “It’s nice of you to assume he knows where Africa is.”

“Huh.” Aegon tosses a green M&M into his mouth. “Djibouti is horny.”

Rio says: “And after that we spent like six months in Key West, and then we got shipped to Corpus Christi, where Chips very narrowly avoided getting impregnated by, marrying, and inevitably acrimoniously divorcing a Marine.”

Everyone laughs except Aemond, who gives you a teasing smirk. “Did you really?”

“Uh, no. He asked me out, I ghosted him, that’s as far as it went.”

“Why’d you ghost him?” Baela says, crunching on Utz Cheese Balls.

Aegon turns to Rio. “You want a Honey Bun?”

“You’re my Honey Bun,” Rio replies. Aegon smiles, his sunburn flushing darker.

You shrug, eat a handful of candied almonds, tell a half-truth. “I just didn’t like him enough.”

Rhaena yelps and points: a snake, black and maybe five feet long, is slithering across the parking lot. It passes beneath the shade of the Tahoe and then continues towards the bushes. A moderate amount of panic erupts.

Helaena glances up from her notebook. “Rat snake. Not venomous.”

Rhaena shudders. “Well, I still don’t like it.”

“Where were you stationed next?” Daeron asks Rio.

“Chinhae, South Korea. Wicked cool place. The people love Americans, the food is incredible. We were there to rebuild a pier that got wrecked in a typhoon. They have these cute dolphin-looking things, they’d swim right up to the edge of the water with fish in their mouths to try to give to us. Like cats bringing home mice for their owners.”

“Finless porpoises,” you say.

“Yeah, those. And after Korea, it was Diego Garcia.”

“Diego…what?” Rhaena says.

Aegon turns to Luke. “Try to act like I’m stupid for not knowing where that is.”

“Diego Garcia is a tiny little island in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” you say, a bit wistfully. “It’s technically owned by the British, but we share a base there, we use it for airfields and to refuel submarines, things like that. We were renovating the housing facilities for Camp Thunder Cove. At night we’d go to the beach, have a few beers, look out into the ocean and it was just…nothing. Wide open dark nothingness for as far as you could imagine.”

“That’s what we need now,” Helaena murmurs as she makes elegant cursive annotations in her notebook, the cover picturing different species of spiders, a pinktoe tarantula, a green lynx spider, a black widow. “Someplace to go where no one will find us.”

“So you’ve known each other since basic training.” Aemond’s remaining blue eye shifts between you and Rio, like he’s still trying to puzzle it out. There’s really no mystery. You’re friends, and you’ve always been friends, and you’ve never been more than friends, despite many of your fellow seamen’s jokes to the contrary.

You tear open a Slim Jim. Aemond rebandaged your hands this morning, though they barely hurt anymore; he touches you with a clinical, focused restraint. “Not quite that long. Rio enlisted a few months before I did, so we weren’t at Great Lakes together, and then carpenters do technical school in Gulfport, Mississippi near Biloxi, and electricians train at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. We met after we were both assigned to Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 1.”

“The First and The Finest,” Rio quotes the motto, grinning. “The original Seabees, founded during World War II. People called our battalion the Pioneers, which…is kind of ironic now.”

Aegon says, munching noisily on trail mix: “It’ll be so appropriate when you end up dying of a broken leg or the flu or in some other totally preventable way.”

“It’s so crazy, people died of anything back then,” Luke marvels gravely. “Tuberculosis, pneumonia, infections, starving, freezing, poisoning, getting kicked by a horse, giving birth…”

Rhaena shoots him a fearsome look and Luke shuts up, but of course he can’t take it back. There is a long uncomfortable silence punctuated only by birdsong and Jace’s muffled outbursts from inside the Wawa. Everyone looks at Baela, concerned, pitying, entirely unable to do anything to improve her situation. She is still eating Cheese Balls with one orange-stained hand, but the other rests on her belly.

“Clearly, the timing is less than ideal,” Baela says after a while, and if she’s terrified she doesn’t sound like it. “It wasn’t planned to begin with, but I was determined to make the best of things. I figured that I could still finish up my master’s degree with a baby, and Rhaena and our parents could help, and Jace would be done with law school soon, and it might be stressful for a while but we’d all get through it. And now…” She shrugs wryly. “Now all those plans are gone. Just gone.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Aemond says; a fierce low determination, a promise, a vow.

Baela smiles at Rio. “How old is your baby?”

He is caught off-guard, clears his throat, averts his gaze. Aegon looks over at him, alarmed. “Oh, he, uh…he’s little. Really little. He…” And Rio, so rarely at a loss for words, can’t continue. He eats his beef jerky instead.

You explain for him. “Sophie’s due date was right around the time the phones and internet went down. The last we heard, she was headed to Odessa to stay with Rio’s parents.” Aemond and his companions nod and don’t say what they’re thinking, but it’s swimming in their eyes: Sophie could have died, the baby could have died, they both could have died, you and Rio might be risking your lives to cross the continental United States for nothing. “Rio’s parents live in this…well, I joke around and call it a doomsday prepper cult, but that’s not really what it is, it’s just a farming community out in the middle of nowhere. People who have their own chickens and gardens, churn their own butter, don’t wear deodorant, make medicine out of tree bark…and a lot of them have kind of a survivalist mentality, they stock pantries and collect guns. So we figure we can reunite Rio with his family and then carve out lives for ourselves in relative peace.”

Rio reaches over to bump his fist against your shoulder. He is grateful. You punch him back, fairly forcefully; it’s like hitting a brick wall. Rio is as tall as Aemond but probably outweighs him by a hundred pounds.

You ask Aemond: “What’s in the Bay Area?”

“Our parents have a beach house. It’s up on a cliff by itself, pretty isolated, and surrounded by state parks. That’s where they were when everything shut down. I assume they’re still there.”

“Beach house?” Rio raises his eyebrows. “On a cliff?”

Rich kids. REALLY rich kids. “Your parents couldn’t just fly you to California in a private jet or something?” you say.

“Our pilots stole the jets,” Aemond replies, not realizing you were joking.

“Oh.”

“Jace and Luke’s parents were home in London, so getting there isn’t really an option, and then Baela and Rhaena…”

“Mum and Dad were on a business trip to Moscow,” Baela says. “I’d like to think they weren’t eaten, but…they were probably eaten.”

“I am so sorry,” you manage awkwardly.

A single zombie goes shuffling past the Wawa on the main street, a woman in a floral church dress, hair falling out of its curls, one pink high heel that clicks on the pavement, blood all over her mouth and chin. She notices the nine of you and begins to hiss, lurching closer. Daeron shoots her down and then trots over to retrieve his arrows, yanking them out of her cheek and eye socket. Rhaena winces. Aemond, distracted, bites into a Nature Valley granola bar. Aegon opens a can of Pringles, pizza-flavored.

Luke is peering through his binoculars, looking south towards Harrisburg. Faintly, you can see sunlight glinting off the gilded statue of a woman—the Spirit of the Commonwealth—that tops the green clay tile dome of the state capitol building. “What is that?”

“The sculpture?” you say.

“No. Farther away. Those big concrete towers, right on the water.”

Now you know exactly what he means…and you’d forgotten all about it. It’s an oversight you hope doesn’t cost too much. “That’s Three Mile Island. And we should leave so we can put more space between it and us.”

“Oh, fuck me…” Rio mutters.

Now everyone else is squinting to see the facility, barely visible from the Wawa. “Why?” Aemond asks you.

“Because it’s a nuclear power plant. And since the electricity is out everywhere, as soon as its backup generators fail, it will melt down and the whole area around it will become radioactive.”

Aegon puts two Pringles into his mouth so they look like a duck bill. “How do you know?”

“Did no one else go through a Chernobyl obsession phase in high school?”

“The professor mentioned it in one of my chemistry classes,” Aemond says, but he sounds doubtful; this must have been years ago, when he was consumed by med school prerequisites and had no space left in his brain for mere curiosity.

“Okay, listen up.” Rio knows the key points; he’s had to study different sources of electrical power. He demonstrates with dramatic hand gestures. “You have super radioactive reactor fuel, usually uranium or plutonium. You have a pool of water around it that circulates continuously. The heat of the fuel evaporates the water, which makes steam, which spins turbines, thus creating power. But if the external electricity fails, the water stops circulating, and the heat vaporizes all of it, and when there’s no more water the reactor fuel overheats and melts through the floor and poisons the earth, air, and groundwater. Any questions?”

There is a chorus of distressed chattering as people swiftly rise to their feet, clutching armfuls of snacks for the road. Jace comes trudging out of the Wawa, conspicuously not in possession of a firearm.

“No luck?” Daeron asks.

“Obviously not.” Then Jace snaps at Aemond: “Why were you stomping around all pissed off in the medicine aisle earlier? What were you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says quickly.

“Seriously, dude, what was it?”

“Nothing!”

“Damn, Plankton, calm down.” Jace shields his face from the sun, following Luke’s nervous eyeline towards the concrete cooling towers to the south. “What’s that?”

“Three Mile Island,” you say. “And we’re leaving now.”

Aegon yawns loudly. “I’m so full! Rio, can you carry me to the car?” And before anyone can tell Aegon to shut up, Rio has crouched down to let him scramble onto his back. Aegon cackles and waves his can of Pringles around as Rio sprints to the Tahoe. Now there are a few more zombies stumbling up the street, but you don’t waste arrows or bullets on them. Baela runs them down as she swerves out of the parking lot and drives northwest, heading towards Clarks Ferry Bridge where you will cross the Susquehanna River in a less populated area and commence the long slog to the Ohio border. She turns up the volume on the CD player: London Bridge by Fergie. Immediately, Rio, Aegon, Daeron, Rhaena, and Luke are singing along.

Baela checks the fuel gauge and looks at Aemond in the rearview mirror. “We have half a tank left.”

“We’ll find gas somewhere.”

“Aemond, it’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not going to be able to walk to California.”

Baela can’t think of a response. He’s right. Outside, the miles roll by in a blur of radiant, reptilian, early-summer green.

~~~~~~~~~~

Each time the interstate is blocked by a snarl of crashed vehicles or a backup too thick to navigate through—both common occurrences—Aegon digs the folded map out of his shorts and charts a new course for Baela to follow. This particular divergence might prove fortunate. The Tahoe has rolled into Distant, Pennsylvania, an Appalachian speck of a town, churches, coal mines, dilapidated old sheds. On the outskirts, perched on a hill and surrounded by oak trees, you find a small single-story brick house with a myriad of banners on the flagpole: an American flag, a Confederate flag, a black POW/MIA flag, Don’t Tread On Me, Trump 2024.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, scratching his scruffy chin as he peers up through the windshield. “I feel like they probably owned guns.”

“How do we know they’re not still home?” Baela asks warily.

“No car in the driveway,” Aemond observes. “No windows boarded up. They probably ran into trouble while they were out somewhere and never made it back.” Then he waits, the question upspoken. Are we going to risk it?

“We’re down,” Rio says after exchanging a glance with you.

Aemond turns to Jace. Jace—curly dark hair down to his shoulders, eyes on the house, chewing his full bottom lip apprehensively—doesn’t reply at first.

“You said you wanted a gun, Jace. All the Walmarts are cleaned out. This is what shopping looks like now.”

“Fine. Okay. Let’s go.”

Baela parks the Tahoe in the gravel driveway and tells Rhaena and Luke to stay inside with Helaena until the property has been cleared. The rest of you climb out, afternoon sun and mountain wind, dandelions crushed under your shoes. There’s a barn behind the house, you see now, gaps between the wooden boards and flaking red paint.

Luke is standing up through the open sunroof, inspecting the scene with his binoculars. “No movement.”

“We’ll take the house, if you want,” Rio tells Aemond. You’re clutching your borrowed baseball bat with bandaged hands, though it still feels unnatural; your M9 is in its holster in case of emergencies. Jace, Baela, and Daeron start plodding across the yard towards the barn. The grass is tall and mostly shaded, the oak trees decades old, massive, weaving a patchwork canopy of leaves.

Aegon trots over and slaps Aemond on his left shoulder, his blind side. Aemond says without looking at him: “I’ll go with them. You wait out here.”

Aegon drives an imaginary ball with his golf club. “I’m very sensitive to rejection, you know.”

“You’ll survive.” Then Aemond follows you and Rio to the house.

Rio tries the knob, locked. He doesn’t waste a bullet by trying to shoot the lock off the door, something that is far less reliable than movies would have you believe. He kicks it open instead, three tries and then the screws that secure the latch give way and the door swings ajar. You wait, counting seconds in your head, listening for growls or footsteps. There are no sounds except the breeze sighing through the trees, the warbles and wing flaps of birds. You steal a glimpse of the barn. Jace, Baela, and Daeron have unhooked the rusted iron latch and are venturing inside, Daeron last and glancing around watchfully, his compound bow already drawn. Rio steps into the house.

It’s hot, stifling, all the windows shut. But this has its advantages. You inhale deeply: no trace of decomposition, no black swampy nauseating rot, just dust and lemon Pledge and old-people staleness.

“Smells fine,” Rio says. And then, loudly: “Anyone home? We’re just looking for supplies. We don’t want to hurt you. If anybody is here, just let us know and we’d be happy to leave. And, uh, sorry about the door.”

You stay close to Rio as he sweeps through the living room—floral couch, television turned off, crosses on the walls—and then the kitchen, where bananas are turning black on the counter. Aemond is to your right; he’s placed you on his blind side. He trusts me, you think. When did that happen? You haven’t heard anything from Aegon or the barn. That must be going well.

In the bedroom, Aemond pulls the curtains open to let some light in. You search the drawers, the closet, under the bed. No weapons. The bathroom has 1950s-style pink porcelain, the dining room table is set for a meal that never happened. There is a deer head mounted on the wall, ten points, not bad.

“I can’t believe these fuckers didn’t have guns,” Rio says. “But where the hell are they?!”

You have always watched more than you’ve spoken. That’s why you’re good at shooting things, and why you’re still alive. Rio talks and you listen; Rio acts and you reflect. “Wait.” You turn to Aemond. “Did you see a cellar outside?”

“A what?” He is perplexed. “Like…a wine cellar…?”

“No. A regular cellar.” You walk back into the midday heat and circle the house, Aemond and Rio hurrying to keep up. Over by the barn, everyone else is stretched out across the grass, joking, relaxing, Baela with her hammer on the ground and her hands laced over her belly, Helaena cradling a praying mantis in her palms and showing it to Rhaena. Aegon is teaching Luke how to smoke with a pack of Marlboro Golds he found at the Wawa. Luke, game yet somewhat anxious, takes a puff and then immediately coughs until he starts retching.

“I want to try too,” Daeron says.

Aegon shakes his head, taking a nonchalant drag off his own cigarette. “Nope. Not for you. Illegal. You’re under eighteen.”

“I want to try!”

“Shut up, you can’t even vote.”

“Nobody can vote, the government has collapsed!”

You find it at the back of the house: a pair of large metal doors leading down into the underground cellar. The weeds have begun to encroach on them, wild violets and black nightshade.

“Awesome!” Rio says, lifting the doors open one at a time, the hinges shrieking. They’re heavy, but they cause him no trouble. Underneath is a staircase and a room dark with shadows; you can see a light switch that won’t work, the electricity long gone. Rio unclips the flashlight from his  belt—taken from Saratoga Springs, waterproof with a 90-degree head so it doesn’t roll, known as a Moonbeam—and ducks down into the cellar. It’s a small room, easy to clear, and then you can start inventorying your findings. Rio is laughing, ecstatic. There is a workbench, a coil of thick rope, an array of tools—screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, saws—some homemade leather wallets and holsters, cans of Brillo color spray…and then a treasure trove of weapons mounted on the walls.

You scan the collection. “We got Marlin .22s, we got Ruger Magnums, we got Remington 12 gauges, we got hunting knives…and one Glock 20.”

“A lot of ammo under here, Chips,” Rio says, yanking boxes out from beneath the workbench and stacking them on the floor, organized by caliber.

“No scopes?”

“Not that I’ve seen yet.”

You lift one of the Remingtons off its hooks and examine it: dusty, unloaded, vines of rust on the receiver. “We’ll have to go through and sight all of them. I don’t think they’ve been used in a while.”

“That’ll be a lot of noise. But here’s the place to do it, I guess. Low population, and we’re not staying.”

“Exactly.”

“Sight them for close range, like ten yards?”

“Yeah, that should work.”

Aemond says, eyebrow raised: “I didn’t know the Navy used shotguns.”

“Everyone hunts where I’m from.” You put the Remington down on the workbench then pick up the Glock, a box of 10mm ammo, and a can of Brillo. “Come on. Grab one of those hammers. I’ll show you how to shoot.”

You bound up the cellar steps and out into the shade of the oak trees, not stopping until you are at the edge of the property. Across the backyard where he lounges on the grass, Aegon gestures to the barn and asks Luke: “What’s in there anyway?”

“Nothing. Saddles and a few dead horses.”

“Oh, dynamite, I gotta see the dead horses.”

Jace says: “Aegon, man, what is your diagnosis?”

You use the can of Brillo to spray a large chocolate-colored circle onto a tree trunk, then make another two feet above that. You count your steps as you walk back towards Aemond: approximately ten yards. You load a single bullet in the Glock, aim for the bottom circle, and fire. A hole appears at the very edge of the circle. You take the hammer from Aemond and give the rear sight a few knocks. “This isn’t recommended, but it usually works.”

Aemond is smiling. “Okay.”

You load the full magazine and try again. The bullet hits closer to the middle this time. “Here. Both hands.”

Aemond takes the Glock but hesitates. “Is…my eye…?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. A lot of people close one eye anyway when they’re aiming. I always do.”

He is relieved. “Oh. Good.”

You tap the underside of the Glock. Aemond obediently lifts it. “The line of sight is slightly higher than the barrel, so you have to account for that. And then gravity will pull the bullet lower, and the longer the range of the shot, the more it will drop. So when you fire, the barrel should be angled upwards just the tiniest bit, not horizontal.”

“Like throwing a football.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s an arc, not a straight line. At first it’ll feel like you’re trying to do all these calculations in your head, and it will be overwhelming, but then it becomes muscle memory and you don’t even have to think about it.” Jace, Baela, and Daeron are now eagerly crossing the yard to help Rio carry the guns out of the cellar and receive their own lessons. “Alright, we’re going to start with a really terrifying enemy. I want you to shoot that tree.”

“What a formidable tree.”

“Aim for the top circle. And if you hit it, then you can practice on Jace.”

Aemond laughs, butter-yellow sunlight filtering down through the trees, the shadows of leaves flickering over his skin, a mosaic of flesh and earth. You ghost your open hand down the length of his arm as if adjusting the angle. Really, you just want to touch him, to feel his warmth and his stillness, the tension of his muscles, the rhythm of his pulse. He’s watching you, lips parted, goosebumps rising beneath your fingertips. Birds are chirping, sparrows and blue jays. High above, squirrels leap and scrabble through the branches. You pull your hand away.

“Look through the sights. The rear sight at the back of the barrel is shaped like a U, and the one at the front is an I. Is the I in the middle of the U?”

“I have no idea.” A pause as he reconsiders. “Yes.”

“Right, it is, and the bullet should go exactly where you want it to because I already sighted that Glock. I’ll show you how to do it later. Now shoot the tree.”

Aemond aims but doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s nervous; he doesn’t want to seem incompetent, pathetic. You imagine it is rare that he isn’t the one with the solutions.

“Hey,” you say softly, and he looks over at you. “You don’t judge me for not knowing how to cure people. I won’t judge you for not knowing how to kill them. Deal?”

Now he’s smiling again. “Deal.” He returns his attention to the tree, lets a few more seconds tick by, and fires. He hits one of the branches. “Oh, that is…embarrassing.”

“It’s not that bad. You hit something. Try again.”

More seconds, more birdsong, more wind through the grass and the leaves. Aemond’s second bullet pierces the trunk about six inches above the top circle. “Yes!” he cheers, boyish triumph on his scarred face.

You resist touching him. It is startlingly difficult. “That was really good.”

He lowers the Glock, and you click the safety on for him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Why’d you ghost that Marine at Corpus Christi?”

“I told you. I didn’t like him enough.”

“Okay, sure, but actually. What was wrong with him?”

“I’ve known you for like twenty-four hours. You think you’ve earned all my secrets?”

“Well, not all of them,” Aemond says, grinning. Rio is showing Jace, Baela, and Daeron how to load the .22s. Aegon is swinging his golf club in circles as he follows Luke into the barn. Helaena and Rhaena are giggling as butterflies land on their outstretched fingers. “But our time together could be very finite. It seems unwise to waste it by trying to preserve some amount of mystery.”

“You’ve convinced me.” You want to be known by him, you want to be understood. That is a frightening thing to realize. It’s like handing a stranger the keys to your home. Will they visit graciously, or will they rob you, ruin you, burn you down? “I haven’t seen many examples of love working out for people. I’ve seen couples who hated each other, and couples who split up, and a lot of women having to raise kids all on their own and turning into these…bitter, exhausted, hollowed-out versions of themselves. I never wanted that to be me. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like that was just one wrong choice away from becoming my life. I don’t want men to disappoint me. So I don’t give them the chance.”

You think Aemond is going to say something cheap, flirtatious, awful: Give me a chance, baby. I won’t disappoint you. Instead he says: “I haven’t known many happy couples either. I mean…Luke and Rhaena would be the closest, I guess. But they’re so young. I’m not sure if they count.”

“Rio and Sophie seem happy. But they’ve also barely seen each other in five years.”

“It does things to you, when you start to believe love might be doomed to end or tear you apart or turn to hatred. If it’s just an evolutionary mirage to trick us into reproducing, what’s the point of giving someone that power over you?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like one of us should be trying to talk the other out of being so fatalistically cynical.”

“Yeah, totally. Okay. You talk me out of it.”

He chuckles. “No, I don’t think I can. You talk me out of it.”

You’re watching Aemond, realizing you like everything about him—his smirk, his height, his hands, the clear direct blue of his eye—and wondering what the hell you’re going to do about it. Then there is a scream from the barn.

What?? Who??

“Luke!” Aemond shouts, and takes off across the yard. Now you’re all running, even Rhaena and Helaena who don’t have anything to fight with. Everyone is yelling, their lungs heaving in wild June air, their shoes pounding against the earth.

Inside the barn, on a wooden floor strewn with hay, Luke is shrieking as he tries to push a zombie off of him with his bare hands. She’s an older woman, grey hair in rollers, yellow nightgown stained with gore. Something has happened to her feet. Both of her legs end in exposed tibias and flapping strips of purplish, rotting skin. Aegon is beating her with his golf club, but he can’t get a good shot at her head. If he accidentally hits Luke, he could make it worse, he could stun him or even knock him out, and he’ll be bitten in the few seconds it takes anyone to remove his undead assailant. Rio lunges to grab the zombie. She snaps at him with bared teeth and he retreats, drawing his M9.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace is saying. The air is putrid: dead horses, dead people. “You’ll hit Luke!”

Your own M9 is suddenly in your hands, the safety clicked off, one eye closed. “Luke, don’t move.”

“Kill it, kill it!” he pleads hysterically, pushing the zombie as far from him as he can, his palms sinking into the decomposing bruise-colored tissue of her chest and throat.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace orders, but you ignore him. He fades into the background with all the other frenzied voices. Your finger on the trigger, a boom like thunder, bits of bone and brains against the wall. Luke shoves the corpse away, trembling, sobbing. Rhaena flies to him.

Aegon spots the fresh blood on Luke’s right hand and panics. “Is that a bite?!”

Luke notices the wound for the first time. “I don’t know!”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“I don’t know!” Luke wails, tears flooding down his pink face.

“I thought you cleared the barn!” Aemond roars at Aegon.

“It fell out of the loft, we didn’t think anything was up there!”

Luke is blubbering: “I hit my hand against one of the stalls, I think that’s how I cut myself, I was just…I was pushing it away…I didn’t think it bit me…oh my God, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t want to die…”

“It only takes once, kid,” Rio says grimly, fidgeting with his M9, looking at Aemond as if for permission.

“Don’t touch him!” Jace hisses, stepping in front of his brother and clutching his bat. “No one is going to hurt him, it’s not a bite, you can’t prove it’s a bite!”

You reach for Luke’s bleeding hand. “Can I see—?”

“Get away from him!” Jace swings his bat. The tip of it connects with your skull, just a graze fortunately, but still enough to rattle you. Rio charges Jace, tackles him to the floor, starts throwing punches. Baela has apparently forgotten she’s heavily pregnant and is trying to pull them apart. You join her.

He’s going to demolish Jace. He’s going to break his nose or jaw or something. “Rio stop, I’m fine, stop!”

There is another gunshot, a cataclysmic earth-shaking explosion that makes the pain in your head surge from a ripple to a wave. Aemond is aiming his Glock skywards; a hole has appeared in the roof of the barn. “Stand up!” he commands. Rio and Jace reluctantly comply. You help Baela to her feet.

“Aemond,” Jace says. “You have to stop them, they’re going to kill Luke—”

“No one is killing anybody.” Aemond lowers his Glock. “Maybe he’s been bitten. Maybe he hasn’t been. And even if we knew for sure that he was going to turn, we don’t just execute people like this, threatening them when they’re terrified. We have humanity. We have compassion.”

There is a silence that strikes you as heavy, laden, holding meaning that escapes you. Aegon points at Luke. “So what the fuck are we going to do about him?”

“We’ll tie him up,” Aemond decides.

“What?!” Luke exclaims.

“There’s rope in the cellar. We’ll tie his arms and legs so he can’t do anything and keep him like that for a few days until either his hand heals up or he turns into a zombie. Someone will always have to be with him to help him eat and take a piss and also…you know. Deal with it if he turns.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says immediately.

Aemond’s voice is now gentle, sympathetic. “I don’t think you want this.”

“If Luke has to die, I should be the person with him.”

“You’ve never had to put someone down before.” And in this statement lives another: Aemond knows what that feels like. Aemond has had to kill someone when they turned.

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says again, this frail harmless doe-eyed girl, and you see a steeliness in her that you hadn’t thought existed.

“Okay,” Aemond relents. “When you’re asleep, Jace or I will take over.”

“It’s not a bite,” Jace murmurs, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“We’ll all find out soon enough,” Rio says, casting him a glare, then goes to fetch the coil of rope from the cellar.

Aemond cleans and bandages the wound on Luke’s hand. Then the weapons, ammo, and newly immobilized Luke are loaded into the Tahoe. Aemond asks you once everyone else is inside: “How’s your head?”

“Fine, I think.”

“Hurts?”

“Just a little.”

“Dizzy? Double vision?”

“No, nothing like that.”

He takes a quick look, parting your hair with his fingertips, feeling gingerly for blood and swelling. And this is becoming a serious problem: every time he touches you, you want more.

“Aemond…who did you have to kill?”

He doesn’t answer. For another moment his hand lingers by your temple, then Aemond turns away and climbs into the Tahoe. This time, no one sings along to the next song on the mixtape. Heads rest on windows, eyes are vacant and misty. Baela steers the Tahoe westbound on Route 1004, the Chainsmokers drifting through the speakers: All We Know.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Pick a card, any card,” Aegon says when he’s done shuffling. He fans out the entire Uno deck face-down and offers it to Rio, Aemond, and Jace. They each select a card, then Aegon picks one for himself. Finally, he holds out the deck to Luke, who stares up incredulously from where he’s still bound with rope and sitting on a curb in the parking lot of a Burger King just outside of Yarnell, Pennsylvania.

“Are you serious?”

“You’re an adult male, aren’t you? You think being in the middle of transforming into an undead murder machine exempts you from gasoline siphoning duty?”

“I’m fine!” Luke insists.

“Great. Then pick a card.”

“I can’t move my hands, you idiot.”

“Pick it with your mouth.”

“I hate you.” Luke bites his card of choice and waits with it clasped between his teeth, glowering.

“I want to pick a card,” Daeron says cheerfully.

Aegon refuses. “No. Too young. A baby.”

“Aegon, I’m seventeen!”

“Can’t enlist, can’t do jury duty, can’t buy lottery tickets, can’t sign up to drink gasoline. Okay, everybody show their cards.”

“I got a three,” Jace says, then yanks Luke’s card out of his mouth and reads it. “He got a skip.”

Aemond’s card is a nine, Rio’s a five, Aegon’s a reverse. “That means you lose, Jace,” Aegon announces, admittedly rather gleeful. “You had the lowest number.”

“This is bullshit, I had to siphon last time!”

“Then stop picking bad cards.”

“Jace, I can do it,” Aemond says.

“And get to be the martyr, as usual? No thanks. Give me the damn hose.”

Aegon roots around under the Tahoe seats and produces a long, semitransparent siphoning hose. “All the ones with the little pump attachments were sold out everywhere by the time we thought that might be useful,” he explains to you and Rio.

“That sucks, Jace,” Rio says. “I mean, literally, it sucks.”

“Next time we cross a bridge, I’m pushing you off it.” Jace takes the hose from Aegon, pops open the gas cap of the Dodge Ram 3500 you’ve found, and threads the hose down into the tank. He sucks on the other end and then shoves it into the Tahoe once the gasoline starts flowing. The fuel gauge was hovering just above E. Hopefully you can get at least a few gallons out of the Ram, another fifty or a hundred miles, maybe even two hundred, enough to get you across the Ohio border.

Jace is bent over and vomiting gasoline onto the pavement. Rhaena and Baela sit with Luke as Aemond feels his forehead and peers into his eyes. Daeron accompanies Helaena as she goes to scavenge inside the Burger King, her burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Rio is now holding the siphoning hose and watching the liquid gold pour into the Tahoe, his smile growing with each passing second. Your eyes fall on Aemond and stay there, his careful hands, his brow knitted with concentration.

A whisper from behind you: “We could fake date to make him jealous.”

You whirl to see Aegon, mischievous smirk, neon green plastic sunglasses. “That is a super generous offer and I appreciate the thought you put into it, but no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dishonest. It’s manipulative. If something is going to happen with Aemond, I want it to be real.”

Aegon sighs. “No, you’re right, it was a dumb idea. I just figured I have a lot of experience.”

“Experience with what?”

“People pretending to love me.” He flashes a strange, sad smile, then follows Daeron and Helaena into the Burger King.

[the-californicationist]

The Fox & the Hound (Ch. 01)

Inspired by a tag on @ceilidho's tumblr post reblogged by @garbagecompactor3263827 where Johnny wants to sink his teeth into a newbie porn star.

MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS

AO3 Link - Comments/Reblogs very appreciated

You watched him prep in the shared bathroom. People were bustling in and out, and a lighting manager was handing him a fresh razor, reaching over him for her films. He trimmed around his fat, flaccid cock with a practiced hand, getting the hairs just right. Part of you wished it was still the 80s when bush was en vogue . The rest of him remained furry, thankfully, and just as you were about to tend to your own garden, he caught you looking. That same glint in his eyes sparkled, like a hound that had spotted the writhing tail of its fox, ready to crack its bones in his huge maw. He’d been looking at you like that all day. He laughed, but he didn’t ride you for gawking. If anything, he looked a little relieved. What had you gotten yourself into?

Nothing had gone according to plan. This was your first real shoot, and the original actor who had set you up with this production company wasn’t even in the film. Film , your internal monologue chided you, it’s a porno, you filthy slut . Okay, a porn film. You’d sent nude photos here and there, and you’d even landed in Playboy as a back-page lube advert girl. It was a start. But, now, here you were about to shoot your first porno , and the only thing you knew about this guy was that he had fought for this part. 

He was beyond famous. You’d heard that Johnny Dangerous was the man of the hour, and that most of the girls who needed to boost their bankrolls called him up to ask him to co-star. You’d never even heard of him until today, and after hanging around the catering cart, you learned that he was the one who had paid actual money to star with you. 

It was probably some power play. Maybe it was your novelty. Banging the brand new porn actress must have been some sort of game. You didn’t care. This one gig was about to pay off your loans and buy you a brand new car all at the same time. You just needed to survive Mr. Dangerous. 

“Honey, are you comin’? We gotta shoot outside before the sun goes down.”

The voice came from the doorway, but you weren’t the honey, for once. They were talking to him. He didn’t answer. He just nodded, dismissing them, throwing his bright green swim shorts back on and rubbing the remainder of the oil into his broad chest. He was staring at you, biting hard at the inside of his cheek like he had a secret. Then, his expression became resolute, and he spoke to you softly, the way you do when you’re trying to coax a cat out from under a car,

“You gonna make it, lass?”

“Yeah,” you swiped on some waterproof mascara as an excuse to stare into the mirror and not at him, “I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. That seems normal.”

“It is,” Johnny moved closer to you, fluffing his own eyebrows in the mirror right alongside you, “Very normal. I’ll take care of you, hen. Nothin’ to worry your wee head about.”

You smiled. You didn’t want to thank him, exactly, but you wanted to be nice. Cordial. Professional. 

It wasn’t very professional of you to stare at the way his cock bounced as he adjusted his shorts, though, was it?

Then, to your shock, he leaned down and planted a kiss on the corner of your lips, tasting your sticky, cherry gloss, and saying, 

"See you in a bit, bonnie. Gonna make you feel real good." 

You stopped. He was gone, and for the first time that afternoon, you were alone. He lingered in all of the cracks and crevices of you, though. Now that he had pressed his lips to you, the spell had begun, and you realized you’d be fucking this man for hours. You drank your water from your icy jug, trying to turn it into liquid courage.

“Okay, okay, uhh… cute, yeah. Love it,” the director, Mike, appraised you like he worked on an assembly line, swooshing you over to the diving board with his hand, clutching a venti Starbucks cup in the other, “You look great, babe. Go sit on the diving board and let’s do a little preamble. Feel yourself up, pretend that you’re sunbathing in Malibu and not fuckin’ Santa Clarita, mkay?”

You made your way over to the diving board, walking in a way that you assumed was sexual, making a sexual face, and moving your hands across your tits…sexually. You thought it was a fine job until you heard the cut whistle. 

Mike was behind four people, two cameras, and an iPad when he shouted at you again,

“This isn’t a goddamn church service, babe. C’mon. I get hard when Chuy over here drives too fast, and this is not doin’ it.” 

“Sorry,” you said, moving back to your mark, determined to be positively the sexiest sunbather he had ever seen. 

“Mikey,” you heard Johnny’s voice call out, “Lemme kick it off.”

“Shut up, Johnny. I can’t afford your extra minutes, you skank,” Mike laughed and sipped his triple caramel mochaccino. 

Johnny came out from his shaded tent and cut his eyes at Mike before staring right at you,

“No charge. Just want it to be right.”

“Ugh,” Mike rolled his eyes behind his too-small sunglasses, “You and your…” he used scare quotes, “... art . Fine. Whatever. I just don’t want to shoot in the goddamn dark, so hurry up.”

Johnny walked around the pool, stroking himself across his shorts to stay hard. He was so thick that it looked like he was petting a handle of vodka back and forth. You tried to control your face, but you were getting more and more nervous as he came closer and closer to you.

“C’mere, bonnie,” he pulled you up from the diving board and held you in his arms.

If it wasn’t for the twenty people sweating to death in black tech clothes and eating dried-out hummus from foam plates standing around you, you would have felt like you were at your high school formal, being cradled gently in hands that wanted to do so much more. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispered. 

You obeyed, for some reason. There was nothing else to do but obey him. 

When he bent to kiss you, you knew it was for the cameras, because the angle of his face was open and softly spread so that the way he sucked your lips into his mouth would be seen by A and B-roll film. You kissed him back, trying to turn the sexiness up to eleven, rubbing your hands on his rigid cock to appear wanton and needy. 

He shuddered, and you thought you’d done something wrong. The look in his eyes told a different story. They were feverish, daring, and his pupils were fully blown. You could smell the coconut sunscreen someone had applied to him, and you could feel his breathing quicken in his huge body. 

Mike’s nasally voice came over the speakers,

“Let’s get a boom in there and pick up some of the kissing noise, please. Also, Johnny, some of your famous accent there, baby. You know what the ladies like.”

You were being kissed again, now set up for everyone to hear. He was devouring you, and you tried to keep your footing, grabbing his hulking shoulders and running your hands across his hirsute form. His muscles rippled and stretched beneath your touch, and he spoke his lines,

“Thought you would sneak into my wee pool, did ya, hen?”

You gave your voice a high-pitched lilt,

“Yes, I just wanted to get nice and tan.”

“Aye?” He pulled the tie on your bikini top, “Wouldn’t wanna get any tan lines, huh?”

You shook your head no, kissing his bare chest and feeling the top slither off of you to hang around your waist. 

“Wow,” his voice had changed its timbre, “Look at these pretty tits. Jesus…”

Johnny brought his mouth down to your nipple and sucked on it, licking on your beaded nub until it tightened for him, making sure to allow the camera man a full view of your perky breasts as they filled his hands. 

You moaned, and then you remembered to moan the right way, high and whiny. The higher the pitch, the higher the profit, they’d said. 

Johnny stopped suddenly, looking you in your eyes,

“Go back, lass. The first way. Do it the first way.”

“Johnny!” Mike complained, “Do you wanna come sit in this fuckin’ chair, or are you gonna focus on gettin’ your fat dick wet? Stop directing mid-scene. Cut. Cut. Start over with the tit sucking, and we’ll take it from the top,” Mike changed the tone of his voice and smiled at you, “You’re doing great, babe. Ten outta ten.”

You felt Johnny move his mouth to you again, but this time, his eyes were watching you, looking at you and waiting for you to make a choice. He was eager to make you moan, sucking hard and then soft, letting his long tongue lave over you like an animal, nibbling at your skin and making your blood rush to the surface. 

You moaned for real, testing the waters. Johnny smiled so wide you could see his back teeth, his jaw open and parting to let his tongue come forward to do its work. 

“Tha’s it, hen. Lemme hear you.”

His enormous hand squeezed your other breast, and he moved his mouth between them, stirring up your pleasure like a whisk in cream. Soft peaks. 

You obliged. The more you moaned, the more he fondled. He was yanking at your strings and ripping the bikini from you quicker than you had assumed he would be, especially since you were still in the outdoor scene. Wasn’t this all supposed to be inside?

“Christ,” Mike groaned, “I look at my email for five seconds and you’re almost nose-deep in her asshole? Johnny, this was supposed to be at couch scene three. Can - hey! Can somebody get him a book?”

Someone handed him a book, and he tossed it in the bushes,

“I dinnae care if it’s scene five thousand, Mikey. Just shoot it vérité, mate. Just like old times,” Johnny barked. He was getting more and more ruffled as Mike kept cutting in, almost like he was impatient to be done with it. Done with you?  

Mike turned his head to his assistant and asked,

“How many minutes do we have? Are we good? Okay. Okay!” He threw up his hands, “Okay, Johnny, you prima donna bitch. Let’s take it inside.”

The Someone with the book now passed Johnny his robe and he shouldered it on. He looked around and barked again,

“Aye! Hers? Give it here.”

He then had your robe in his hands and put it over you, cloaking you in its soft terrycloth, making sure you were covered. It was such an abrupt stop to your pleasure, one that you were not used to making, and your body railed you for it. Your pussy throbbed, your nipples ached, and your belly was full of butterflies. He held your hand as you walked inside. Just as you were about to get into position four on couch three, he pulled you back, nodding up at Mike and his team of people.

“Okay, lets get lighting on couch scene three, Billy. Hey! Hotdog! I didn’t say pull the lamp. Put the lamp back. Thanks, my man. Two more clicks on the warm light. Okay, gross, one click. Perfecto.”

Mike’s head popped over his iPad,

“You lovebirds ready for scene three?”

“Hang on,” Johnny grumbled, removing his swim trunks and flip-flops. 

He positioned himself on the couch and spread his legs, jerking himself back to full hardness and staring right at you as he did so. 

“C’mon, bonnie. I’m ready for you.”

You made your way over to the couch and knelt down. You didn’t mean to, but you hissed when your knees hit the cold, hard tiles. 

“Sorry!” You whispered to him.

He took his hands off his cock and pulled you onto the couch with him,

“Here, bonnie girl. Like this instead, yeah?”

Johnny pushed himself out along the length of the couch so that you were both laying on it. You placed your knees on the arm of it, raising your bare ass in the air for B-roll shots, your face perfectly positioned at Johnny’s raging hard-on. It was massive up close. His plump head and thick rod had seemed normal in his huge hands, but now that your small fingers were wrapped around him, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. 

“Okay, fuck,” Mike smiled, drinking his coffee and nodding, “That’s hot. Good call, new girl. Smart.”

You smiled back at Mike, grateful for the praise, feeling like you were going to knock it out of the park. Then, Johnny’s cruel hand grabbed your hair and turned your head up to stare into his eyes. He grinned like a demon,

“You don’t have to smile at him, lass. He’s a fuckin’ bawbag.”

“JD! Can we get on with it?” Mike rolled his eyes. 

You got on with it. Something in Johnny’s demeanor had stirred a dark place in your belly. He was possessive, and he didn’t like you smiling at Mike. He did like the way you took each of his balls in your mouth and sucked on them with loose, pouty lips. His moans were cut short, not wanting to over-saturate the reel with male grunting sounds. Apparently, the straight male audience wasn’t a fan of anyone’s grunting but their own. 

He also liked when you tried to take him into your throat, moving your head as far as you could down his shaft, choking on his cock until you felt drool coat the inside of your mouth. You spit it onto him, and he wrenched his eyes shut, unable to watch you fuck your own face with his shaft. 

“Okay, while Johnny’s taking a nap or whatever that face is, let’s get B-roll in here for her mouth. Also, let’s take a minute or so of that gorgeous ass she’s got up there for us. That’s gonna be money, my friend. You are gonna be Miss Popular!”

In the place where you were staring before, Johnny’s face of agony and bliss, now there was a big, black lens. You could see yourself, bobbing up and down hungrily, and you pulled out all the stops. You suckled gently on his glans, lapping up his precome dutifully, enjoying it enough to moan again. 

He jumped, and Johnny’s hand snaked its way under the camera to squeeze the life out of his shaft. 

“Hey, mate, move to B-roll of her ass, would ya?”

The camera man laughed,

“About to lose it, Johnny? I thought she was the newbie.”

“Shut up, mate.”

You stayed stock still, watching as the camera moved to your rear end, feeling beyond exposed. You played with your pussy, spreading it open, fingering yourself, all of the things you were supposed to do. And, to be honest, it felt great. You needed to come so badly, a warm breeze would have been sexy to you at this point. 

Johnny stared down at you, his dick still in the prison of his fist, panting,

“How are we doin’, lass?”

“Good, you?” You appreciated the check-in. 

“Good. Ready to fuck you. So damn ready.”

His voice and his eyes were predatory. You felt like his prey. Prey had claws, too, though. So, you licked his shaft again, and you fed his own line back to him,

“I’m gonna come so fast. You’re gonna make me feel so good, baby.”

His face changed into a look of shock. Just then, Mike rang the bell,

“Alright, it’s couch doggy and - what does this say?”

“Light,” someone told him.

“Okay, light spanking? You okay with that new girl? It says you signed off on it.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged. 

“Okie dokie, just checking. Sweet. Let’s get there.”

Johnny was standing at the arm of the couch, positioned behind you were you couldn’t see him. You felt his hands rub your cheeks and spread them wide, opening your core up to him. Then, that long tongue was lapping up your wetness, and he was talking with his mouth full,

“Mmf, so wet for me, lassie. That’s my good girl.”

Your pussy clenched and you knew he could see it. You thought he might laugh or make some other comment, but he kept your secret, licking the inside of you with soft, languid strokes, you gave him another clench - this time on purpose - waiting to see if you could rile him up again. 

“Oh, fuck,” Johnny moaned, “You’re so ready for me. Fuck me, wait.”

He stopped eating you out, which was the opposite of what you were going for. This shoot was a disaster, and you really needed this gig.

“I’m sorry!” You said, turning around.

“What?” His brow furrowed, “No, just wait. Mike!”

“What is it now? Johnny - this is why I didn’t call you about Manuel Ferrara’s gangbang.”

“I just need my bag.”

Mike’s sigh was theatrical,

“Everyone take five.”

The bell went off again. You sat on the couch and the same someone brought you your robe and a water. You smiled and thanked them. Johnny had disappeared, but when he came back, he was wearing a thick, black cock ring, tightly secured around his shaft and balls. 

“Okay,” he sighed, sitting by you on the couch, robeless.

“Are you alright?” You asked, offering him some of your water.

He took it, gulping down two huge swallows before responding,

“Aye, lass. Just had to stop myself from ending this show too soon.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise,

“I thought it was for the opposite reason. Must be hard to keep it up for such a long time, especially with all these breaks.”

He laughed,

“Usually, yeah. But, not today.”

His eyes were raking over you, still hungry for you even though he’d seen it all already. It would have been a lie to say you weren’t hungry for him, too. It was intoxicating, the way he stared at you, eager and joyful. You weren’t surprised he was so popular. 

“Annnnnd, we’re back, people! Baby, could you perch up there again, please? Now that Mr. Princess is done preening, we can shoot a fucking porno.”

You repositioned yourself back to where you were, and someone came by to re-oil your ass cheeks. They felt shiny, and you hoped you looked great. Watching the film was going to be humbling, but this was your first time and you were learning so much. 

Johnny took his place behind you, and you felt the familiar, heavy slap of a cockhead on your pussy lips, sticky and exciting. You gasped. He responded, 

“That’s right, hen. It’s time for your reward.”

He began to feed his head into you, and the crown of it popped into your hole with some resistance. Behind you, his thick fingers spread your cheeks apart, and you felt one hand leave just to return in a sharp smack. You cried out louder. He sank in a little deeper, moaning right along with you. He slapped your ass again and growled,

“Fuuuuuuck, that’s too tight, that’s too tight. Oh, Jesus.”

You keened, embarrassed, but unable to stop the noise that came out of your mouth. 

“You like it, lass? Gettin’ this pretty little cunt all stretched out for me. Gonna make you beg for this cock and only this fuckin’ cock, ain’t that right?”

“Yeah,” you moaned, your voice straining, “Only this cock, baby. Fuck me nice and hard.”

You regretted every word because he was pleased to oblige you. He slammed himself down into your aching hole, pressing through your walls, through your wetness and the oil and the lube, and it still wasn’t enough. You felt like you were tearing apart, especially when he pressed you onto his hilt. 

Everything slowed way down. You saw white, for a moment, and you felt tears well up in your eyes, burning on their way down your cheeks. He was trying to ease you though it, but you were coming on him. Your whole body was shaking and trembling, and his girth was forcing an orgasm to rattle through your core. You even felt him fighting to stay inside of you, battling against your tightening walls, desperate to keep his position, nestled at your womb, deep within you. 

“Oh, fuck! Lass! Holy God, that pussy is tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You felt him slap you again, but the sting was gone. Your body had flooded you with orgasmic endorphins and adrenilne, and it was going to take a lot more than a “light spanking” to get your attention away from the cosmic nova exploding in your belly. 

Johnny’s thrusts were that of a hungry beast. He didn’t falter, nor slow, nor stop to check and see if you were even still alive. He was chasing himself down inside of you like a dog with its tail. Over and over and over, you felt the heavy weight of him pushed forward, smacking into you, feeling his hips snap repeatedly spearing your core with his enormous rod. He was grunting with abandon now, just barking out cries along with you, and when you looked at him over your shoulder, his face was bent and twisted in such a rage that it frightened you. He looked inhuman.

Suddenly, you were lifted from the couch, and his hands were around you. He flipped you over and held your thighs pressed down to your chest, creating an even deeper angle. You regained your thoughts quickly enough to hold your legs pinned for him, only half-worried that you’d tumble off the couch. 

You weren’t sure it was possible though, since his grip on your waist was so punishingly tight. He was fucking you so hard and so fast that you were feeling it in your bones. Your hips were taking the brunt of his sex-fueled wrath, and you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow. 

Then, his fingers found your clit, rubbing accurate and pleasure-filled circles around and around, making your lips swell with intensity. You were going to come again, and you told him so,

“Johnny… you’re gonna make me come, baby.”

“Come,” he snarled down at you, his eyes wild and haunted, “Come on me. I wanna feel you fuckin’ squeeze me out. Come. Come. Come, lass. Come for me, pretty girl. Oh! Oh, there it is. Yes, yes, yes, good girl. Good girl. Fuck!”

He rode you through your orgasm and stalled, leaving himself inside of your fluttering walls, basking in the sensation, trying to catch his breath. Johnny sat on the couch and you climbed into his lap, taking his cock in your hands and guiding it back into your dripping hole. 

“Bonnie,” he sighed, kissing your neck and grabbing your ass in both of his hands, “You feel like heaven. God, baby, don’t stop. Just like that, don’t stop.”

You were rocking back and forth on him, and you could feel his swollen head rubbing at the end of your pussy, bullying your cervix, making you feel too full. 

“It’s too much, baby,” you confessed, squishing your breasts together and letting him move his mouth across your nipples once again, “You’re too big. Filling me up… I’m so full.”

“You’re so tight, lass.”

He said it like a prayer. His eyes were glassy as they stared up at you. All of his bravado and flirtatiousness was gone, and it had been replaced by boyish wonder. It was as if it was his first time to feel the inside of a woman, to be hugged, warm and wet, engulfed in her core and playing within her the oldest song known to man. You sang it for him, not for profit anymore. His bewtichment was complete. You were totally and completely ensnared by him. 

Then, he held you to him, clutching you to his chest and screaming out loud, braying and writhing beneath you. He was coming. You felt him pulse, over and over, spilling and foaming and frothing around the edges of your hole, soaking you from the inside. 

You rode him slowly, back down from his high, and he gasped with every roll of your hips, looking at you in some sort of horrible ecstasy. 

Mike’s bell went off in your ear.

“Okay, folks! Thanks so much. Let’s wrap it. I’m sure some of this is salvageable. Johnny, and uh… whatever your name is, you still owe me garden scene six and upstairs… um, is it pool table? It’s pool table. Wanna be back here tomorrow at two?”

Johnny gave an exhausted thumbs up, and so did you, finally sliding yourself off of him with a wet milky sound. 

“Um,” you tried to catch your breath, “Thanks, for helping me today. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

He looked at you quizzically, almost a little hurt. It was a confusing face to see, but you didn’t really know him that well, so you waited for his reply.

“Sure, bonnie.”

You untangled your legs from him and pulled on your robe, leaving him on the couch. You needed a shower and some brand of fast food, as soon as physically possible. 

The bathroom was steaming when you hopped in, and you were covered head to toe in coconut smelling soap when you heard a knock at the door. 

“Uh, come in?” You peeked around the glass partition.

It was Johnny. 

“Got room for one more, lass?”

You looked around behind him, half-expecting a camera to pop out. He noticed your reticence, and he shook his head,

“Nevermind. Forget I asked.”

“Hey, yeah. Sure, if you want. Come on in,” you moved deeper into the shower, letting him step into the billowing steam. 

At first, he was silent, just washing himself, scraping the suds over his body and sharing the water with you. But, then, he asked,

“Wanna get a bite? I’m starvin’ to death.”

“Me, too,” you laughed. 

“Class,” he smiled.

There was another long pause, and then when you turned off the water, he stepped into your space, too close to be friendly, 

“What if I was still hungry for you as well, hen? What would you say to that?”

The water dripped from the head of the shower in a soft tinkling pattern. You breathed each other’s breaths, inching closer and closer until your lips touched his wide chest, the hair smeared flat from the warm water, rivulets rushing down his belly to his crotch, dripping off of him and of you. 

You kissed his chest again, feeling him shudder under you as if he hadn’t just come inside of you minutes ago, packed with anxious excitement. 

Smiling up at him, you took a chance, 

“Your couch or mine?”

Chapter 02

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Little Sister - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Here comes a new challenger...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

The Black Cat, equidistant between the Rumbler's Den and the Nymph, was a stewpot of blue lightningfire.

Jinx's hair just about stood on end; her first entrance past the doors and a peculiar sense of homecoming—or maybe its inverse?—zigzagged down her spine.

The place was a constellation of doppelgangers. Jinxettes and Jinxos, baptized-blue and crooked-fanged, all massed in under one roof. Nameless and legion: they cherished only one thing.

A heartful of chaos, and an eye on the horizon.

The music was pure champagne: spilling over in a foam of techno and crystal-cool vocals. Bassline like a sonic boom. Bodies swaying in sync. The conversation crosscutting through the cacophony was less small-talk than shout-out-loud. Words didn't travel at these decibels; the syllables got lost en route from lips to earlobe.

It was just noise. Mouths moving faster than the speed of light, punctuated by solar flares of laughter.

"...lovesdakiddelicious..."

"...gotanycigs..."

"...ILOVEUPPERS!."

And at the heart of the delirium:

Jinx.

No longer the lost girl longing to fly away, but a queen come home.

She cadged a fizzing bottle of Powerade off a crowded table—bubble-spicy and flame-blue. The swigs scalded, but in a good way, like chugging liquified marshmallows straight off the campfire. Most of the crowd were already three sheets to Shurima. Others were glowy-eyed, touchy-feely: aphrodisiacal strains of Shimmer infusing their veins.

One of them, a trippingly tall Vastayan made even taller by a coif of bright-azure braids, slunk within shouting distance.

"Your hair's soooooooo rad!"

"Thanks!"

"Wish my fur got that sheen..." With a flourish of nails like mirror shards, the Vastayan carded a hand through her tuft. Pink roots peeped through the blue. "...what dye d'ya use?"

"No dye. Just lotsa gunpowder!"

"Hah. That's a hoot."

The Vastayan, mistaking veracity for wisecrack, chortled. Jinx got a packet of wasabi crisps for her trouble; plus a little plastic square of fairydust. White with pink dots, promising a jolt of euphoria so potent it'd shame a thunderclap. Jinx palmed both, though she quickly doled out the latter to the next rando who crossed her path.

She couldn't stand nose candy; set her sinuses afire and makes her sweat bullets.

Last thing Jinx needed was for her firepower to get soggy.

At an indoor shooting-range set up in honor of Zaun's Blue Baddie, Jinx flexed her trigger-finger. The dummies, spray-painted with ultraviolet death's heads, were designed to spring backwards once hit. As Jinx squeezed shot after shot, they became her puppets: each one potted one-two-three in precise sequence, before pinwheeling into splinters.

Her marksmanship won hoots, cheers, and finally applause.

"WOOOH YEAH!"

"ALLLRIGHT, GIRLFRIEND!"

"GOT AN EYE ON YA!"

Jinx met each whoop with a fey curtsy; each toast with an extra shot; each whistle with a flying kiss. When the real crackshots, muscling their way into range, challenged her to a rematch, Jinx called for a whole fucking keg as tribute. Then proceeded to trounce each punter with a quickdraw that'd give the great Zilean himself a double-dose of vertigo.

"You," groused a man twice her age with biceps like meat melons and a gold-tipped canine tooth, "ain't human."

In reply, Jinx flipped him two birdies. He just laughed, clapping her on the shoulder.

"Eh, no hard feelings. Better a pro beatin' me than some rookie sludge-punk. Buy a round for ya?"

"Got my eye on somebody else!"

"An' is he worth waitin' on?"

"You bet my... well, Jinx's... bottom bullet!"

A hearty guffaw, and the meathead slapped her ass en route to the bar. Jinx riposted by snatching the air-gun from another player's holster and zipping off a smart ping that sent him diving for cover, while his friends at the bar erupted into laughter.

Jinx's own smile, tucked between her teeth, split wide open.

They weren't strangers, this lot. They were her own.

In the surreal glow of a back-alley gumball machine spewing rock candy, cherry cordial and gobstoppers, Jinx fed coin after coin, treating herself to the sugar-boost and deep drags of the smoky night air.

The leftovers, she divvied up among a passel of sumpsnipes loitering nearby. Her sweets vanished in seconds, crushed between sharp young jaws. As Jinx taught them how to string lollipops into a garland for a hat, she spied Billy swooping overhead, wingtips cutting black crescents over the smokestacks.

One bell to go, Jinx thought.

The sumpsnipes, cheering, scuttled off. Their little leader waved farewell before scaling a drainpipe to follow his posse up the rooftops, where refrains of Get Jinxed floated in ebbing waves. None of them had a clue their anthem's namesake was the one who'd stuffed their pockets seconds prior with loot.

And it didn't matter.

What counted was the glint in their eyes— the knowledge that tonight was theirs to keep.

A good run was shaping up. Jinx, idling back against the gritty brick wall, let the bloom of light sweat and heat radiate off her skin. She was reaching the sweet horizon of buzzdom: where inhibitions loosened and nerves jived. She needed it; nervousness had a way of curling her toes in their boots.

Soon, she thought.

From the shadowed corner, a voice drawled, "I don’t know if I should get the camera or the cuffs."

Jinx pivoted.

The speaker was a girl, roughly her own age, lounging sideways across a few crates. Her posture, languid, nearly liquid, made Jinx feel as though she'd been poured out of some abstractly sensual honeypot. Like the rest of tonight's jet-blue set, her hair and brows were tinted cobalt: tribute to the Lady of the Hour. She had a pierced lip, a hoop dangling from her right nostril, and lots of tinkly bangles around each wrist. The standard-fare Zaunite duds—tight black baby-T, patched denim hot pants, patent leather thigh-highs—completed the ensemble.

Yet something about her eyes sent a tiny chill skittering up Jinx's spine.

"Cuffs, huh?" Jinx cocked a hip, popping the last gobstopper into her mouth. "Sorry, toots. Never pegged myself for bondage gear. Pun oh-so-intended."

"No?" Those too-old eyes gave Jinx a slow once-over. "Too bad. It'd look good on you."

"Or better off me."

The tart rejoinder earned a sly smile. It was hard to look away from the girl's eyes, though Jinx couldn’t tell what it was about them that set her sonar pinging. Maybe it was the color. Dark sclera, golden irises. Her trivializing face-paint—two hearts inked under each peeper—didn't undercut their intensity.

A predator's eyes.

Jinx stared. She'd never met this broad before. Yet there was a queer familiarity, like déjà vu in reverse.

She'd felt it once before. For another broad, whose eyes were also gold, and yet not really golden at all—they just seemed to attract and reflect all the bright rays flitting through the airwaves.

Except Mel Medarda had never made Jinx's hackles rise.

This girl? A split-second under her scrutiny, and the urge to shoot was building, insuppressible.

Jinx's instinct, failsafe, whispered:

Aim straight for the skull.

Jinx kept her exterior frothy as foam. "You from around these parts? You look new."

"Far from." Another sly-lipped smile. "Maybe our paths haven't crossed because we move in different circles."

"Circles, huh? We talkin' crops? Or circuits?"

"Whichever you fancy."

"I fancy a straight answer," snapped Jinx. "And a lot less mysterio schlock."

"And I'd love to give you less of one, and more of the other." The girl unseated herself from the crates, doing a slinking side-to-side towards Jinx. "But I doubt your father would approve."

"My father?"

"The Eye." Those golden eyes danced, slitwise. "Right now, he has you running in circles. Doesn't want you coming near my particular circuit."

Jinx said nothing. The girl came forward, with steps so small, so measured, that each boot-tip barely stirred a sound. Yet her proximity was overwhelming. The not-right feeling in Jinx's spine escalated from funny to downright wrong.

Whoever this stranger was, she was a big leaguer; and not in the way of chem-royalty or cartel matriarchs: steeped in swagger and studded in bling.

This was a different breed: sharper, sleeker, deadlier.

"I think," Jinx said, dropping her smile, "that I don't much care for circus clowns clowning me for kicks."

"That's why I'm here. To get the air nice and clear between us. Because soon, you'll set your sights on horizons beyond your father's reach. And spread your wings wider than even I can gamble on."

"The only wings are the ones riding your batty ass ragged," Jinx said, flatly. "And what d'ya mean 'soon.' What's 'soon'? Couple days from now? Couple decades?"

The golden eyes shone again, full of cruel knowledge. "Oh, it's already happened."

"Yep. Batty as the belfry."

"And you're late, little sister." That sidling sway stopped just shy of intimacy. "At least... in this thread of time."

The chill in Jinx's bones spiked. It was offset by a jolt of adrenaline tracing her spine, down to the coldness of the pistol tucked into the belt at her lower-back, its shape hidden in sheaves of fabric. The pistol she carried everywhere. The pistol that went warm now. Empty chamber; live bullets. She hadn't fired it in a while.

She had no qualms firing it tonight.

"I ain't your damn sister." Puffpuff materialized in her palm; the safety disengaged with a lethally soft click. "Back up a smidge, sweetcheeks, and drop the riddle-me-this routine. Got somewhere I gotta be, so make it snappy: who're you and what're you after?"

Those odd eyes zeroed in on the pistol; the languid bearing shifted. No shock, but a secret respect. Just enough to turn that predatory prowl benign, dial down the tension from ten to five. She even added a tiny twist of smile, meant to beguile.

Jinx stood her ground.

"They know me by many names, Little Sister," the girl murmured. "Same as you. But you may call me the Wishing Star. A deal-maker. One who grants desires and paves paths."

"Neat-o manifesto," Jinx said, "for a cathouse. Zaun's got plenty, hon. Market's a mite oversaturated."

The smile twisted: amusement turned inward. "Your father would know a thing or two about that, too. Though, as a rule, it's not the sort of talk a man passes down to his daughter's ear. Or past her lips. At least not lips this pretty..."

Cool as ice, Jinx jammed the muzzle against the girl's throat. She fell still. Jinx could practically see the flutterbeats at the jugular.

"Since you've been payin' such close attention to my lips, dollface..." Jinx drawled, "take the extra trouble to read 'em in full. Keep up this charade, and it's one big boom, and a short hard splat. Our ginnels are no strangers to gunfire."

"True." The smile held. "Zaun is a city steeped in blood. Since time immemorial. Or is it time forward? I lose track sometimes."

"Yeah, well. Your time's up. Either spit out what you gotta say, or scram. Fast."

The muzzle dug deeper into flesh. Still those eyes held Jinx fast. The girl didn't flinch; didn't even blink.

"Who do you seek tonight, Little Sister?" she whispered. "And who, left to Fate's design, will you choose?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." The gun held steady. "On second thought? Who gives a rat's ass what you'd like. I've had enough of this yakkety-yak. Get to stepping, Scotch Brite. Otherwise I'll be blowing more'n birthday candles when the fireworks go off."

The girl's smile, at last, flattened. But she didn't seem afraid. More resigned.

"As you wish, Spiderweaver." The girl stepped back; the threat abated. "Our kind do nothing by halves, do they? Including keeping promises."

"Name's not Spiderweaver, and you're just about thiiiiiiiiis far—" Jinx held the forefinger and thumb of her free hand a millimeter apart, "from gettin' your brains spattered across the walls."

"It doesn't matter what I name you. What matters is that I warned you."

"Warned me of what, exactly? Besides the time-honored adage, 'Don't stick your gun in crazies'?"

"Time." Again the smile came. Just enough to send a prickle along Jinx's skin. "It is the favorite string of Fate. And it is winding itself around you, Spiderweaver. A web of webs. I advise you to watch your step. Lest the threads come tangled."

"Ugh!"

Disgust trumped Jinx's disquiet. Even the deja vu pancaked into the same sense of anti-climax as when Jinx, reeling from one too many cocktail-induced all-nighters, woke up in Viktor's workshop in the middle of a particularly steamy daydream about Ekko, only to find her guts skewered by nausea and her body propelled against its will straight into the nearest wastebin.

This whole exchange felt exactly like that. Deceptively promising on the surface; just crap underneath.

Jinx aimed: point-blank.

"See. This is the kind of tripe that comes with hanging with cultists too long. Loopy hokum, bogus prophecy and general lack of brain cells. I should know. Vik's cult of creepos get this way every Tuesday!" Her eyes slitted; blisteringly bright. "Now listen up, crazypants. One, don't ever call me that stupid name again. Two, stop pretending that fate, destiny and all that crap means anything between Jack and Squat in the grand scheme of my spare time. Three? If I catch you anywhere between my crosshairs again, your noggin gets blown to fine pink confetti. Ya get me?"

"I do." There was the barest tenor of disappointment in the girl's tone. It humanized her. Made her easier to dismiss. "I understand. Be well, Little Spider."

"Get bent, Space Cadet."

The shadows swallowed the strange girl's receding silhouette. Jinx's unease lingered.

She pushed past it. Hootenannies this hopped-up attracted all sorts: some cracked in the head, others just plain cracked. This gal had both sides of the coin covered, no question.

Jinx wondered if she was here alone, or on the clock for someone bigger. A messenger, maybe. Some shadowy threat looming behind the scenes.

Better keep on high alert tonight. If that meeting was a prelude, then trouble was sure to follow. Good thing trouble and Jinx's trigger-finger were intimately acquainted. In a city where chaos was currency, staying ahead of the game was a nonnegotiable.

And Jinx, pockets heavy with heat, kept her reflexes primed.

Distantly, the Old Hungry tolled eight o' clock. Jinx let each resonant gong dispel her funk. Tonight was not a night for carnage, however tempting the targets.

She had a different hunt in mind.

Over the rooftops, Billy spun dizzying circles. His dark wings folded sharp and sleek: he issued a single eye-splitting caw, then swooped away.

Coast Clear, he signaled.

Proceed to next stage of Operation Name-Day-Dicking-Down.

Jinx's lips curled into a smile.