#you’re not a real doctor you fucking weirdo

[propertyofkylar]

so um... you mentioned kylar tributing pc while they sleep ... elaborate PLEASE ♡ sigh he's such a weirdo i lub him

dear anon it is literally CANON and if you aren’t in a relationship w kylar he can sneak into your room at night and jerk off and cum on your face and tell you he loves you. in my research i discovered that kylar can sneak into your room at night to fuck which ive never had happen before but i couldn’t get it to trigger because FUCKING ROBIN comes into my room every night that bitch. wanted to supply screenshots but u will have to settle for my headcanons below…

cw: somno, tribute, ONCE AGAIN a brief mention of a breeding kink i can't help myself, kylar being kylar. m!kylar, gn!pc

ok so, i know tributing is technically for cumming on photos right. which kylar definitely does too. creepy photos he’s taken of you, screenshots of you from his hidden camera, his own drawings (he made it too hot and couldn’t resist :/) and even those “doctored” photos he found of you online (he felt really low after that one)

but why should he stick to photos when he knows how to get the real thing??

so he sneaks into the orphanage at night. he watches you from a distance to make sure you’re fast asleep.

once he’s sure of it he gets as close as he can. you look so pretty and peaceful when you’re asleep :)

he climbs next to you in bed, careful to not disturb you.

he peels down your covers, hoping you’re wearing something more revealing than your regular pajamas (god help you if you are)

he’s already salivating no matter what and pulls down his sweatpants to start stroking himself. he has no underwear on to make it easier, or maybe because you told him to stop wearing it

and he’s already hard of course, he has been since he got in. seeing you sleeping does things to him.

he’s biting down hard on his sweatshirt trying not to make noises but he’s mumbling about how beautiful you are and how much he loves you

if he’s feeling confident he’ll pull up your top to stare at your stomach and chest. and if he thinks he can get away with it he’ll pull your bottoms down too if you have any on. depending on your relationship with him though he might want you to catch him!!

hell, he might even try stroking your cock/fingering your pussy. just a little bit! he hopes it will make you dream about him <3

seeing you so vulnerable makes his hand speed up on his cock. he can never last long with you laying there so nicely for him !!

where should he cum? if he cums on your face he'll rub it in and against your lips so you can wake up tasting him. :)

but he might cum on your chest/stomach, and pull your top back down so you wake up with it stuck to your skin.

if he's feeling real brave? if you have a pussy, he will ever so gently push his cum inside. wouldn't it be amazing if you got pregnant?

a brief kiss to your forehead and a whispered i love you and he will be gone. well, not before he takes photos of you sleeping with his cum all over you. then back to his own home where he won't be able to sleep because he can't stop thinking about you. he hopes when you see him tomorrow in school you can have some fun. <33

[puckrph]

SHIT MY FRIENDS HAVE SAID PART 5

feel free to change pronouns, etc.

“i’m serving only the coldest, stalest opinions in this chilis tonight.” “this man is girlbossing WAY too close to the sun right now, which is bad, because he’s a vampire.” “he looks like if they peeled the grinch.” “i wish desolation row gerard way had me by the throat for real” “absolutely insane in shows and movies when people don’t have their window screens down. you’re just raw dogging life like that?” “it’s not sadistic if your players can take it.” “i’m doing this all in the service of the christian god, so it’s fine.” “wine-horny is what the fuck or die trope is about.” “it’s hot gay serial killer vampire summer” “[in a yoda voice] MMM. CUNT, THEY ARE SERVING.” “boytoy, enable kill mode.” “your father eats tomatoes like a beast of a man.” “you fool. my muppet-like behavior has blinded you to my competency.” “you people need to calm down.” “you know it’s a good joke when i start whimpering like a hurt dog.” “i’m insulted to my core. are you questioning my patriotism? my dedication to this country? my belief that the american dream is witnessing two f-150’s making passionate love on 690? i’ll have your badge and your head, [NAME].” “your influence is both vast and perplexing.” “putting your blood through a brita filter is discount dialysis.” “people is like sauce: more is better.” “hell would be more fun than this, i think.” “hard to believe the same studio made two games where you get to run around, steal vehicles, and be an asshole, if you want.” “pda stands for people doing atheism.” “first of all, through the power of keanu reeves all things are possible, so jot that down.” “i don’t feel like his name should be david. i feel like it should be… giancarlo.” “you aren’t laughing or loving this, and soon you won’t be living either!” “did i ever tell you about the dream i had where baljeet from phineas and ferb got lightning powers and fought in the clone wars.” “everyone is bullying so much about cooking meat that i simply must become vegan.” “i’m gonna deep clean you out of my life.” “the only difference between a twink and a frat boy is a limp wrist.” “he’s right, of course, i am going to do that. but still.” “what is a roommate if not blorbo from your house?” “i just realized that i’m going to medieval times for the first time on the destiel putin election anniversary. none of those words are in the king james bible. how am i going to cope.” “body dysmorphia? yes, but you can hang dong like nobody’s business.” “he can’t do anything wrong, he’s too cute.” “so many people eat an orange normally. isn’t it better, really, to do it like a weirdo?” “i’m probably in the top 98th percentile of pez dispenser information knowers by the way. most don’t know that about me.” “there is always further to fall from god’s grace.” “jesus is rizzin’?? amogus???” “you think i could gauge the emotions or feeling of any human beings in high school?” “sorry, the coffee never actually kicked in so i’m stupid now.” “the bar for men is so low. just be fun, slay, and be a little fruity!” “i feel like JC probably has some hilarious lines in the quran.” “side note: does anyone else initially read FMA as ‘fuck my alchemist.’” “astigmatism is when you have an eye issue and stigmata is when you have the wounds of christ, right? because i was at the eye doctor and he said ‘looks like we need to correct a stigmata in your eye’ and i was like come again?” “surely the micro plastics and lead cancel each other out, you’ll be fine.” “schrodinger’s sports call: the call exists in a quantum state of correct and bullshit until i figure out how it affects my guys.” “oh, tom waits makes some good songs. he just sounds like a gravel beach got a wish to become a real boy.”

[cryptcombat]

scarlet hollow tag game

tagged by @cymatile (thank you :3), tagging @nerime @sehiriti @jennystahl and all mewtuals who played this game djsff

TRAITS:

Your "canon" trait combination? Mystical/Book Smart. ronja is obsessed with discovering and studying the unknown; these traits make the most sense for her. she has a whole encyclopedia on all kind of random niches in her head, ofc she got it from staying up night reading wikipedia articles :/

What third trait would you add for hardcore mode? i would add hot bc lbr she’s a hottie; she’s very fashionable and has a mysterious vibe to her that’s alluring to ppl. she isn’t interested nor does she flirt with any of them except for wayne. honestly if you want her attention you have to be fucked up and a fucking weirdo. massive bonus points if you’re monstrous.

What trait are you least drawn to? Powerful build, not to be mean but i don’t care much about the meme-y himbo dialogue.

Coolest Trait: Mystical. love the way it has been implimented in the game so far. especially how it effects you if you drink sybil’s tea or not or the ghost dimension scene.

ROMANCE:

Who are you romancing? wayne, it has to be him.

What romance are you least interested in? Stella. stabby real! can’t see her in any way that’s more than friends. ronja is not interested in making friends at all, she’s got horrors beyond comprehension to uncover!!

Who would you romance if every single character was eligible? No one lol

MISCELLANEOUS:

What character would hurt you the most if something bad happened to them? wayne, by bad i mean, he gets a very unsatisfying ending. reese and the gutierrez family come to mind too since in my playthrough reese ate the only available doctor in town and rosalina lost her leg...... i already mentally prepared myself for the consequences

Would you stay in Scarlet Hollow when the week is over? no i dont fuck with cursed places

Who would you vote for dog mayor? Scraps, i trust gretchen’s judgement

[azar-rosethorn]

Rottmnt Incorrect Quotes

(feat. some Leosagi)

--

Mikey: *watching the Lair burn down*

Mikey:

Mikey: *starts filming* Waddup, guys, welcome to my vlog, today's topic: how to get away with accidentally committing arson because you forgot Spaghetti O's cans are metal and thus non-microwavable! Step one: deny everything.

--

Casey Sr: In case you haven’t noticed, I’m weird. I’m a weirdo. I don’t “fit in” and I don’t WANT to fit in. Have you ever seen me without this stupid skull mask on? That’s weird.

--

Donnie: I am literally evil incarnate.

Donnie: I’m not actually, I just enjoy being evil.

Donnie: Which I think actually makes it even more evil because I’m making a conscious effort.

--

Leo: You’re charged with…..breaking into a pet store?

Raph: I thought the animals might be lonely.

--

Leo: Something tells me Donnie's going to be a bit more unhinged today...

Donnie, holding a lit match and a bag of cheetos: Leave me be, Dad isn't home to stop me, I'm going feral.

--

Casey Jr: You can take away my rights, but can you take away my lefts?

--

*Donnie teaching Mikey to drive and taking Leo along for the ride*

Donnie: That's a pothole. To the left!

Mikey: Take it back now y'all *Drives into pothole*

Leo, sticking his face into the front over the center console: Cha Cha real smooth.

Mikey: I don't think that's how the song goes.

Donnie, crying and gripping the handle: Please just take me home.

Mikey: Country Roads.

Leo: To the place.

Mikey and Leo in unison: I Belong!

Donnie, crying harder: What the fuck?

--

April: *cocks gun* Go to Bed. This is no longer a request, This is now a Threat.

--

Usagi: Last night I found out Leo is a sleep talker.

Raph: Oh, really?

Usagi: "The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell." Right. In. My. Ear. At 3am.

--

Leo: I wasn't hurt that badly. The doctor said all my bleeding was internal, that's where the blood's supposed to be!

--

Casey Sr: I came out here to attack people and I'm honestly having such a good time right now.

--

Surprise appearance from my genderfluid Mikey hc yay

Mikey: My gender is in a constant state of flux.

--

Donnie: I dunno if I'm ready to process the ramifications of this bullshit.

[stevenbasic]

Growing into the Job, Post 379: The Tale of Queen Angie, p8

Alright, so you need me to explain? Okay, though you should have figured it all out anyway by this point, if you’ve been reading this crap, this is what I know. I’ll tell you if you need. I know not all of you weirdos pay attention.

Me? I pay attention, for sure. I listen, I ask around, I snoop. I’m able to see some of his emails. I know Melissa’s some sort of freak, that she gets studied by scientists at the drug company. I mean, I kinda knew it even back in high school. Things are way too easy for her. She changes, like physically, to get what she wants. Not just “go to the gym and get hot” kinda changes. She fucking evolves. Have a teacher that likes long legs, you need to pass American History? If you’re Melissa Monroe, a junior at Middlesex High, your legs get longer. Does your supervisor like big butts? Boom. Asszilla. Really helped at that dealership she worked at. And here, with this cretin of a doctor who wants to - what? - be a fucking worm like all you other guys these days and burrow into our fucking under-tits? She’s not just growing into some sort of Dolly Parton meets Pam Anderson the 4000cc porn star She-Hulk the Amazon Queen Kong, SHE’S MAKING HIM FUCKING SHRINK. And I think - no, I know - that it has to do with these chemicals coming off of her. They’re doing something to him, and they’re changing everyone else, all these other bimbos, too. They’re making them taller and stronger and bustier and some of them are getting fucking superpowers.

BUT WHY NOT ME?!?!!!?

I’m fucking pissed. I mean, I took this job in the first place because I wanted in. This stupid old-person medical practice is, like, ground zero for some of the shit going down. No one really tells us these things but I just know it.

This “Product” that they’re ‘studying’? ‘Testing’? What a joke. They know what it does, they’re just jumping through hoops that they could break into pieces, if they really wanted. This stuff they’re injecting is making all these study subjects into little fucking Melissas!! I’ve seen it, I’ve read some of the papers and documents that come through that are supposed to be classified or whatever. Shit that, for some reason, people like Morgan and Kathy have access to but he doesn’t?? And he’s the ‘principal investigator’? Red flag much?

I mean, I’m not a scientist but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they’ve concocted some treatment from whatever it is that naturally makes Melissa a freak of nature and they’re trying to spread it around. So they can have a whole, what?, echelon of women that can breastfeed a small village or break spines with their bare hands?

Is “echelon” too big a word for you? Sorry. Yeah, the way I see it, Evolution Pharmaceuticals - or, probably rather, this big shadowy network of companies they’re calling 'The Collective'  is trying to create a bunch of these ‘Queen Bees’ from hand-picked women, each with their own little ‘hive’, like the thing Melissa has here with the girls (THAT I’M BEING EXCLUDED FROM). They want to make some sort of ruling class maybe, using like Melissa’s genetics or something. Is that it? Well, whatever the fuck it is I refuse to be left behind. I came here wanting to be part of this shit, but now I know too much. In fact. I don’t want to be a fucking worker bee anymore, even if it does mean growing six inches taller and knockers the size of zeppelins. I want to be a fucking Queen. The fucking Queen.

But nobody will talk to me. My calls to Evolution go unreturned. I’ve tried to weasel into, or at least listen in on, some of the meetings between these ones that I think are “agents” here - Morgan, Kathy, Karen (if that’s her real name), some of the others - but these chicks are pretty careful. My next thought is approaching the intern - Sammi. I think she knows more than she lets on, and is into something weird with the tall redhead Bianca and the big-boned one. Emily, yeah that’s her name. Even this new manager lady Olivia - the friend of his wife’s that’s never around - something’s up with her.

What else do you want to know? Oh yeah, about the prion? Didn’t think I knew about that, did you? I didn’t even know what a g-d prion was until I started reading some of the communications back and forth between these agent-girls here and Evolution. They didn’t explain too much themselves, but I did  some of my own snooping. It's been around for a while - I'm not sure how long, a few years, at least - and it changes people somehow. Not necessarily physically, but maybe it's what started everything on this…whatever. Path, trajectory that society’s taking.Like, ten years ago there’s no way most girls would have wanted to be taller than their boyfriends. Back when I was in high school guys always tended to be kinda in charge. But maybe it was around then that things started to change?

Anyway, for now, I have more important things to worry about. Like, I have his suit. Yeah, someone had bought it for him, brought it to the tailor to size it down for this photoshoot thing (he'd shrunk again since they measured him for the suit). They’re doing this press event crap over the weekend, and though it sounds like he’s more an afterthought at this point, they want him to at least look put-together. The news station was sending people over today to get some footage, take some pictures for a news piece they’re doing to cover the grand opening of the new wings, which - technically- wasn't until Monday but there’s like this little ceremony or whatever, some party with the new staff this Friday. So, yeah, I thought, if I hijacked his suit, I could get in on some more of the action.

“Heyyy! You’re awake!” I sang, busting into his office that morning with my friendliest, most bubbly office-girl voice. I wanted to make him comfortable, and I knew he’d basically been avoiding me since the party downtown where I’d come on maybe a little too strong for him to handle. So yeah I can play the bimbo when I need to. “So…I have your suit, and we need to get you dressed. It’s almost eleven and your photoshoot’s in a half hour!”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he answered, looking up from whatever he’d been doing on his computer. He didn’t look well, kinda squirrely. Immediately he started nervously smushing down the bed-head of hair that he was sporting. “And, uh, good morning Angie,” he finally said. 

“Good morning to you!” I sang back. Of course I noticed the cot in the corner with the rumpled sheets. The girls had snuck him some of Katarina’s breastmilk yesterday, I heard, and it had eventually knocked him out for more than twelve hours. I’d filed that under “another weird thing I’ve got to figure out” in my brain and moved on, but not until I’d grabbed the bottle of leftover milk still in the breakroom fridge and hid it away. 

“Speaking of good mornings, I haven’t had my daily kiss yet!” I chirped (yes I can chirp if I want to). I saw the look that came across his face but I moved in on him anyway, laying the suit I held on its hanger down flat on his desk and leaning over, towards him. I’d made the mistake of wearing this high-necked black sweaterdress today, with these crazy shoulder pad things; something with some cleavage would have been useful for this moment. “C’mon,” I said, “You know the rules!” My face was suddenly right in front of his, and I set my eyes to flash, egging him on.

For as dumb as Melissa is, this new policy of mandatory morning greetings was a win. Even though I could tell his heart wasn’t in it, just getting him to peck me on the lips gave me the chance to exert some dominance. My tongue danced over his lips and even though he pulled away quickly I could feel him shudder.

“Watcha working on?” I asked, leaning in a bit more to look at his computer screen, rotating it towards myself. He was writing to someone, and I saw him get nervous. Was this one to that “Anderson” guy? No, it looked like he was talking to someone else.  “Some emails?”

“Y-yeah…” he answered…

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

Thx to Elephantporn for the image and RiF for editing work

[floatingcatacombs]

annual music post.

12 Days of Aniblogging 2022, Day 6

I am sick.

No, it’s not covid. My immune system and I have been doing a remarkably good job of dodging covid, all things considered. Nor is it any of the other 8 respiratory infections going around this winter. It’s something in my gut, and I’ve been dealing with it for quite some time now.

Back in October of last year, my acid reflux meds stopped working, leaving me with soreness and the lingering sensation of something in the back of my throat. My gastroenterologist wasn’t able to help and by January I was dealing with the new terrible symptoms of generalized abdominal pain and constant burping.

After months of delays due to the medical system collapsing from covid, I finally got some important tests done in May. They confirmed that the problems were real and esophageal in nature, but ultimately did not help one bit with trying to figure out how to treat them.

As this year has gone on, things have gotten slowly worse. The stomach pain has gradually intensified, as has the belching. More and more foods started giving me indigestion until finally it’s just every meal, no matter what. Some grosser symptoms which I don’t want to write out crept up on me. It’s no good, and while I’ve gotten my shit together and am much better at working with doctors, I’m no closer to being well.

If I hadn’t lucked out in being able to work from home, I would definitely be out of job and money by now. How am I supposed to be professional when I belch for hours after every meal? Or when I need to lie down for hours a day in pain? It’s as embarrassing as it is life-ruining.

_

When you’re in hell, and want to listen to music, there are two different routes you can go down:

Seek out the most downcast, most abrasive stuff you can handle and wallow in it.

Immerse yourself in fluffy, happy, relaxing, or otherwise escapist songs.

I’m really good at the former! If my previous music writeups and Spotify years-in-review are any indication, my taste leans strongly towards the negative emotions. But there’s only so much despair you can take, and sometimes you need a change of pace. So this year, I’ll be writing about the musical niche I carved out: Japanese musicians with English-language releases, most of which are a significant tonal shift from my usual.

Flipper’s Guitar

This is Keigo Oyamada’s band from before his work as Shibuya-kei legend Cornelius, and I feel like a lot of people gloss over them for that exact reason. But Flipper’s Guitar is a real delight throughout their quick 3-album run. Their first album is sung entirely in English, owing to its inspirations in 60’s American music and 80’s British jangle pop. It’s straightforward and cheerful stuff executed perfectly, and the second album is a solid rerun of these ideas but with more of it sung in Japanese. It’s their final album which is the most interesting, as it’s an eclectic mix with more of a psychedelic dance-pop sound that seems to have directly led to the development of Shibuya-kei. There’s even a shoegaze song for good measure! This album isn’t on streaming services, probably because of its extensive sampling, so the easiest way to listen to it was a Youtube upload by now-terminated channel Asian Shoegaze. The thing is, they fucked up and accidentally uploaded the tracks in alphabetical order. After listening through both this and the original track listing, I’m actually of the opinion that the alphabetical version flows better. Life is funny like that.

Poison Girl Friend

You know how the Spotify algorithm will occasionally propel an obscure musician into millions of streams? That’s how most people discovered Poison Girl Friend this year, similar to how Youtube turned Plastic Love into a decades-late international hit a few years back. But I, being a weirdo, knew about Poison Girl Friend years ago, from her being inspired by pervert pop artist Momus (her stage name is a reference to the second Momus album!). Her debut album, all self-produced, has a spacey trip-hop sound to it, right on the dial for 1992. The breathy vocals and relaxed tempos lead to an excellent atmosphere, with THOSE WERE THE DAYS getting stuck in my head the most.

In what should be a success story, Poison Girl Friend successfully caught the attention of Momus, who went on to produce her second album. The thing is, compared to her own work, his production here is dogshit! Never meet your heroes, I guess, especially when they’re Nick Currie.

Coaltar of the Deepers

not their best album, but easily the one with the best art

Oh man, these guys are legit. If my description of the final Flipper’s Guitar album made it come off as an eclectic genre mashup, then this band is downright overwhelming. We’ve got band members who are really into noise rock and abrasive metal. Others are clearly here for the shoegaze. And finally, there’s the one guy on synths who does electronica that sound like it’s destined for Ape Escape. Their early works jump between all of these from track to track at a breakneck pace, but they finally release a more coherently organized album with 2007’s Yukari Telepath. It starts off with some of the most aggressive metal you’ve ever heard, which gradually softens into shoegaze as the album goes on, with some spectacular dreamy electronica in the middle. When the breaks in Aquarian Age come on, or the jaw-dropping xylophone solos later on, you will understand.

Coaltar of the Deepers have a bunch of side projects with different lineups, and as expected they lean into the strengths of the members working on them. There’s the hardcore BP, glitchy electronica Watchman, and more atmospheric Sadesper Record. The CotD extended universe been one hell of a rabbit-hole to fall down, but they’ve kept me very busy.

Honorable Mention: Shonen Knife

Yellow Loveless is mostly a wash, but Shonen Knife’s cover of When You Sleep is better than the original.

_

I’ve spent most of this past year miserable. My physical health has decimated my mental health, and it’s bad enough that I couldn’t ignore the problems even if I wanted to. I’ve shied away from considering myself chronically ill so far, but when I write it all out and reflect on just how much all of this lowers my quality of life, it gets a bit more imaginable as a way to understand myself as I currently am.

One silver lining to all this trying meds and running tests and failing to be diagnosed is that we’ve eliminated a lot of the scariest possibilities. No cancer, no allergies, nothing that would show up on an abdominal CT scan, and my lungs are powerful and sexy and not the source of my intermittent breathing problems I forgot to mention earlier. I’m not going anywhere. But at the same time, it’s hard for me to even conceptualize a future where I continue to feel like this every day, for years or decades on end. I have to get better. In the words of Sufjan Stevens, I want to be well.

Hopefully next year’s music post comes with good news alongside the good tunes.

[loverofdoctorwho]

Cut A Long Story Short

This story was written in 2022 from my year 12 Applied English classes that went towards my QCE.

It’s a hot night in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. The gum leaves are cracklen’ under yer feet and scrub is denser than thick fog. I live in an old Queenslander, with the only livin’ things for miles are kangaroos and the teens that randomly appear running through the unfenced areas. Dr. Musk, (my legal guardian due to me Mum surrendering me to him), doesn’t let me go play with ‘em. He says I’m not ‘trustworthy’ all because me brain is a bit broke and I act oddly in public. I’m always trying to persuade him with statistics. “1 in 5 Australians suffer from a mental disorder, I ant’ no weirdo!” But he gives me the look with his sly fox eyes in his slimming white coat and says in his upper-dee voice; “Macca, you’re merely a socially abandoned, uneducated runt with a holey singlet, scruffy hair, and a broken mind. Somebody not to be interacted with.”

Anyway, I’m sittn’ in me room reading K-Zone magazines that Richie, (me best friend that is constantly dressed in a dirty football jersey and ripped denim jeans), smuggled in. “YEP! You only get to be 15 once and no point spending it around old prickle pants!”, Richie chirps at me as he tunes in to the local radio station for an episode of ‘The British Spy’. Maybe I can convince Doctor Musk this time. But the last time I did that I spent a week in the basement. Well here goes nothing. I creep up to Dr. Musk with Richie beside me, and lookn’ as saintly as possible I ask:

“Doc, you know how you saw me talking to those teens today? “Well I was thinkin', since they didn’t spook when I talked to them, well do you think I could see more of them?”. Noting the silence as he turned in my direction. “Look, I’ve kept Richie as a best mate since I was little and he hasn’t combusted so they won’t either,” I quickly add but I just shot me-self in the foot again.

“RICHIE ISN’T REAL! HE’S A FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION THAT WAS THOUGHT UP BY YOUR POTATO SIZED BRAIN!”, Doctor Musk simply booms back at us. Richie is deeply insulted and calls him an “inconsiderate man child!.” We both bottle our rage and storm back to my room where we make our plans for the great beyond.

The next morning Richie wakes me early and we creep out under the house. I spot one of the teenage girls on the other side of the fence. Richie runs up and calls me over once it was clear. It is a bit awkward as I try to make eye contact but Richie asks in his smoothest cool guy persona; “Got a light?”, like on ‘The British Spy,’ given me an in to ask a name. It's Ruby. I introduced Richie and me-self, but she looks confused when I state his name. “Am I the first person you’ve spoken to?”, Ruby questions. I get butterflies in me stomach and turn bright red before blurting out “YES!”. I start to ask about the other kids and Ruby asks me what’s it like to live in a prison. I can’t stop me-self lookn’ at her crop top and flared mini skirt. Her beauty puts me in a trance-like state. Before I knew what hit me, there was a loud screech and I’m gettn’ dragged backwards. “GET OFF ME YOU DOG!,” I shout while Richie tries to pry the death grip off me scruff.

“I HAVE TOLD YOU TO NEVER INTERACT WITH OTHERS YOU MENTALLY HANDICAPPED PRICK, BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN!” Doctor Musk screamed as I’m kick’in and squirm’in for dear life. Richie is pushing things over to divert the Doctor’s path to me bedroom and not the basement door. It doesn’t work and I’m being dragged down a wooden staircase then hoist up onto a bed. I get one arm free to give a strong uppercut that knocks the Doc backwards. He stumbles forwards and stabs me in the arm with a liquid that’s maken’ me sleepy. Then, BOOM, and the Doc falls limp to the ground.

Richie scoops me up in his arms, runs out of the house, and leaves me at the front gate where a worried Ruby is crouching. “Stay here,” he says as he runs into the garage, comes runn’ out with a petrel can and matchbox, goes back into the house, pours its contents from the basement to the front door, and throws in the lit match. Then the house goes up in an explosion of flames just as Richie is back at my side. I’m back in arms and we all leaven’ for town.

[jesuisgourde]

i still can’t believe the section on autism in this book

the only source they directly quote from is an incredibly insulting article in the daily mail. the doctor they quote from the article has supported a debunked pseudoscience treatment and a bullshit ableist theory about nd relationships, and he’s been called out multiple times for mocking autistic people. oh also the article they quote just calls hans asperger an “austrian paediatrician” and doesn’t mention the fact that he was a nazi eugenicist.

it’s just infuriating and it’s more infuriating the more i think about it. like....i disagree with anyone but the actual individual and/or a professional diagnosing autism in particular (at least in real people, fictional characters are fair game obvi, that’s different) because like everyone is diagnosing a person’s experiences through their own filters of what autism is supposed to look like or whatever and aren’t actually like, y’know, experiencing the internality of the person they’re trying to diagnose. but like not only does this book armchair diagnose richey, it does it with the worst fucking sources. you’re gonna quote a guy who has a history of mocking autistic people while giving conferences about autism? you’re gonna quote a guy who says trans autistic people only want to transition because they think it’ll fix their autism? you’re gonna quote a guy who supports a theory that neurotypical people are inherently abused by their relationship with autistic people? what the actual fuck. like do you really want to be diagnosing a person you love with autism if you see autistic people as clueless, childish weirdos with no agency and no awareness of the world around them? if you see them as less than human?

god it makes me want to scream. i hate these authors so much they clearly did basically zero research and obviously didn’t speak to a single autistic person or look at any sources actually written by autistic people.

[cerastes]

It’s true though, Tomimi’s design is apex horny but I cannot think of her in any sexual light 20% because I’m a thin, long tail kinda guy, and 80% because she’s actually fucking hilarious, all I associate Tomimi with is “endorphin”, she’s a Caster but excels in hand-to-hand combat, to the point where she managed to take over several Sargonian tribes by beating them, cunning enough that she managed to do that in the lowdown without a lot of people noticing, canonically knows how to operate a surface-to-air missile launcher, canonically operated a surface-to-air missile launcher to shoot down her crush because she (correctly) assumed said crush could survive not just getting hit by a missile, but also the subsequent plane crash, she did this after she got her crush to come by plane at her own repeated insistence, met Doctor and unlike the vast majority of characters, immediately perceived them as a LETHAL THREAT but not because she sensed anything wrong with them or managed to peek into their past or anything, it was simply because Doc and Gavial are canonically good friends, and since Doc is also pretty fragile physically, Gavial was taking extra care to make sure they were alright in the harsh conditions of Sargon, which made Tomimi supremely jealous, and the moment she goes an “uuuu uuuu uuuu why don’t you ask ME if I slept well”, Gavial immediately chokeslams her with “bro you are literally a warlord, I’m positive you’re fine”, oh, yeah, Tomimi is a warlord, also the moment the GIG IS UP, Tomimi goes “my psionic warriors! Seal this booboo bear within my bedroom! I command you!” but then Gavial and Eunectes do a beautiful reenactment of Dynasty Warriors 3 and beat the absolute shit out of numerous tribes while Tomimi rapidly starts freaking out in real time because SHE knows it’s up, she’s getting owned in front of girls, she’s getting owned in front of the girl she LIKES, by the girl she likes, and by the end, she gets spanked in her fat tail by Gavial (around 800000 newtons of force) and says FINE and applies to Rhodes Island instead if she can’t keep Gavial in Sargon.

And what do we learn in Rhodes Island? She knows how to fucking work a grill. She canonically can operate a surface-to-air missile launcher AND a grill, and everyone loves her! And when getting evaluated to be a Caster, since her style of magic is “hook to the liver into double leg takedown and transition into triangle choke”, the evaluators were like “mmmm so that’s not quite what we do here...”

but then

“...But also that was dope as all fuck and I think we, as Casters, ought to get BUFF and learn HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT as well, funny alligator girl has a point” and they let her be a Caster even though her signature spell is Suplex.

So this absolute goober shoots your plane down with a missile launcher, then tries to kidnap you, THEN fails so fucking hard at her job interview that they go “we’ve never seen anyone do it this bad, you’re fascinating”, actually gets the job, under you, because that’s where they put the weirdos, and turns out to be a grillmaster that is only born once every one hundred years.

There is actually nothing about Tomimi that isn’t fucking hilarious and I will wingman for her at the cost of everything, I will risk it ALL.

[cdelphiki]

Kid Jason and Bruce bonding over cars, 5k words of fluff, no archive warnings apply.

“Good morning, lad,” Alfred said, one Saturday morning just as Jason stepped into the kitchen, “What would you like for breakfast?”

He’d skipped ‘family’ breakfast in favor of sleeping in, which Alfred had said multiple times was perfectly acceptable. He was 12, after all, and needed his sleep. 

With a smile, Jason started crossing the kitchen, over to the pantry, as he said, “Hi, Alfred. I was just gonna get some cereal.”

“Then help yourself, lad.”

Despite saying ‘help yourself,’ Alfred both got him a bowl and the milk out, but otherwise let Jason pour himself the cereal. He then traded Jason the milk for a spoon before going back to whatever he was preparing before. Kinda looked like bread. He was kneading dough, whatever it was.

“What’s Bruce doing in the garage?” Jason asked, after he’d watched Alfred for a few minutes and got through half his bowl of cereal.

Alfred rolled the dough up into a loaf shape and dropped it down into a glass pan as he said, “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

He didn’t even look over, but Alfred must have heard Jason frown, or something, because he then asked, “You like cars, don’t you?”

“Well yeah,” Jason stammered. He did like cars, but why did that mean he had to go ask Bruce what he was doing? “I just don’t want to bother him.”

Bruce was obviously doing work or something. He had spent almost the whole week working, and then had to take Jason out yesterday, so he probably had stuff he had to get done around the house, right? With… the tools.

“You won’t be bothering him,” Alfred said, like he thought it was impossible for Jason to bother Bruce, “I’m sure he will be more than happy to tell you about the work he’s doing on his cars.”

So he was doing work then.

Just… on his cars…

Jason looked down into his bowl and scooped out his last bite of cereal, contemplating whether he would go bother Bruce.

On the one hand, Bruce had said he would show Jason his cars if he just asked.

But on the other… he didn’t know. Things were good with Bruce so far, he was kind of scared if he bothered Bruce too much, he’d ruin it.

But as soon as Jason set his bowl back down, after finishing off the milk, Alfred walked over and took it, saying, “Go on, lad.”

And, well. Jason was supposed to listen to Alfred, right?

Back at the door to the garage, though, Jason hesitated. Bruce was back rummaging through the toolbox, but his Volkswagen was moved out to the middle of the floor, out of its normal parking spot in the line of cars away from the doors.

He didn’t turn around, though, when Jason hesitatingly pulled the door open and stepped down onto the the little set of three stairs that led to the garage floor. It wasn’t until he found whatever it was, it looked like a funnel from where Jason was standing, did he turn around and notice Jason.

“Hey, bud,” he said, as he pulled a little earbud out of his ear, “what’s up?”

“Alfred said I should come see what you were doing.”

Bruce nodded and put his little earbud in a case on the work bench as he said, “Oh, well I’m changing the oil on the cars today.”

“All of them?” Jason surveyed the garage and couldn’t help but think doing something like that would take ages.

“Most of them,” Bruce nearly hummed, as he opened the driver’s door to the Volkswagen and leaned inside. A second later, the hood popped.

Jason hopped down the last two steps and walked over toward one of the lines of cars, the one with the red lambo he’d been drooling over every time he was in the garage. He hadn’t had a chance to actually look at it, though. Because every time he was in the garage, Bruce was ushering him someplace or another.

Bruce peeked over at him, but didn’t say anything when Jason put his hand down on the hood of the car. It was gorgeous. Shiny and flawless. Not a single scratch on it anywhere Jason could see.

It was obvious it was taken care of, but Jason would have never thought Bruce did the work.

“Don’t you have people for that?” Jason asked, as Bruce opened the hood on the Volkswagen and propped it open like he’d done it a million times.

With seventy-four cars, he probably had done it a million times.

“Have you seen people around here I’m not aware of?” Bruce asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he checked the car’s oil, using the little stick thing. Jason had never actually seen someone do that before. Mostly because his parents hadn’t owned a car. He’d seen people do that on TV and stuff, though.

“No one’s mechanic lives with them,” Jason scoffed, turning fully from the Lamborghini to watch Bruce. Although Jason wouldn’t put it past a rich weirdo with a million cars to have a live-in mechanic.

Bruce huffed, what Jason assumed was a laugh, but he said, “I’m my own mechanic,” as he started messing with something in the car. Jason was kinda curious what.

“Why?”

“Is it so wrong I have a hobby?” Bruce asked, looking up at Jason finally.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Jason answered with a shrug, “You’re rich.” Rich people had hobbies there were like, horses. Horses and… well. Jason didn’t actually know, outside of illegal stuff, obviously.

“I like working on my own cars,” Bruce said, as he walked back over to his tool box and slipped on some gloves, “At least, on the cars I can work on. Some of these are just easier to bring to the dealership.”

“Really? Why?” Jason asked, looking back around at all the cars. Bruce actually had about ten cars, mostly sport cars, “Which ones?”

“It’s all the computer systems in the newer cars, I don’t feel like owning the equipment for every single car, especially if I don’t drive that car much, anyway. And cars like the Tesla you have to get parts for on the blackmarket, and it’s far more trouble than it’s worth.”

With a slight grin, Jason asked, “So you’re saying you don’t buy stuff from the black market,” as he pointed to himself when Bruce looked over. Regardless of his intentions, Bruce had exchanged money for him. Which was technically buying a child on the blackmarket.

Bruce just rolled his eyes, though, and said, “I try not to.”

“Why do you own like ten cars?” Jason asked, as he started inspecting the other cars in the line he was at. Next to the Lamborghini was a sleek black sports car and Jason was pretty sure was a corvette. He really needed to study the symbols on cars more. It was a little ‘V’ on the hood, so he was like, 98% sure.

“There’s only nine here and one is Alfred’s,” Bruce said, like that made a difference, “and I like cars. They’re fun to collect.”

“Do you actually drive them all? You always pick the Tesla when we go anywhere.” Or that one time the Volkswagen.

Although maybe Bruce brought the sports cars out on his dates or whatever he did at night. Jason had never watched him leave or anything.

Bruce leaned back over the Volkswagen’s engine compartment as he said, “I try to drive each one at least once a month, even if it’s just around the block.”

“Oh,” he said, shoving his hands into his hoody pocket. He was wearing his Wayne Enterprises one, since he’d sweated all over the Batman one.

Maybe Bruce was right and he needed a summer hoody or something, because it was hot in the garage, too. Since the door was open to the outside and all…

Jason walked over to the open garage door and leaned back against the threshold between inside and outside and asked, “How often do you do this?” as he motioned at everything inside the garage.

“Every six months,” Bruce said, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his t-shirt sleeve. Then he stood up and looked straight as Jason as he asked, “Do you want to help?”

“What?” Help?

Bruce would actually let Jason help?

“Come here,” Bruce motioned with his head for Jason to come over, “I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

Jason pushed off the wall and took an aborted step forward as he asked, “Really?” Couldn’t he like, fuck up the car horribly??

Why would Bruce want him to help?

“Of course, this is a good skill to know. One day you’ll have a car of your own to take care of.”

“I will?” Jason asked, a little dazed as he did cross the garage to where Bruce was working.

Not many people owned cars, where he was from. He’d never actually dreamed that one day he’d own a car.

But maybe he should have. Because… if he got a real job, like doctor or lawyer or something, then he’d have enough money to buy one.

And if he did that, he’d probably need one to get to work and stuff.

“Of course,” Bruce said, like he hadn’t even thought the opposite. Once Jason had fully approached the car, and inched up to the side of the engine compartment, across from Bruce, he said, “Okay, tell me what all you know about cars.”

“Uh,” Jason stammered. He didn’t know much about cars, in the grand scheme of things. He’d only recently been able to research them! “Well. I know that’s the engine,” he continued, pointing to where the engine was, hiding under a cover, “And it has, uh, cylinders and pistons…”

He trailed off, but when he looked back up at Bruce, Bruce was smiling brightly, like Jason had said the right thing, so he tried to return the smile.

“Great, you already know more than most drivers,” Bruce said, as he walked back over to his workbench. He grabbed a pair of gloves and held them out for Jason as he said, “Engines have oil in them we need to change, to make sure it’s staying clean. Dirty oil damages the engine, which can cause some serious problems. Engines also burn off oil, so changing it ensures we’re keeping enough in there for the engine to work properly.”

Jason listened attentively as he rolled his sleeves up and pulled the gloves on. Bruce went to on explain how they were going to get the old oil out, replace it, and change the oil filter. He’d known kind of vaguely the basics of all that, but he’d never heard it be explained in detail.

Bruce walked him through everything, and even let Jason do some of the work. Like pull out the old oil filter and insert the oil extractor down into the car. Bruce took a step back once he showed Jason what to do, and even let Jason extract all the oil. By himself.

It was actually super easy. No wonder Bruce did his own oil changes.

While Jason was watching the oil slowly drain from the engine and into the extractor, Bruce went and got two huge bottles of oil off the shelf, which was stocked with, like, twenty bottles of the stuff.

“That much?” It looked like he had two gallons of oil, or more. Probably more. The bottles were bigger than milk jugs.

“Yes,” Bruce said, as he set the two bottles on the ground next to the extractor, “This car needs almost six quarts.”

Jason had no idea how much that was, because who measured shit in quarts?? But he nodded and watched from the side of the car as Bruce took the extractor out and slipped the funnel in, then poured the entirety of one of the bottles in.

It wasn’t until he started pouring in the second bottle did Bruce say, “Okay, I need you to pull the dip stick out and check the level.”

Jason bounced back around to the front of the car, so he could reach the dip stick. Bruce stepped to the side, further out of the way, but couldn’t go too far since he was still holding the bottle over the funnel, but it was fine. Jason could reach it just fine.

“Pull it out and wipe it off,” Bruce explained, when Jason located the dip stick, “then dip it back in. That will give you an accurate reading.”

Nodding, Jason grabbed the rag Bruce had set next to the dip stick and did exactly as told. Once he had the ‘accurate’ reading he held it up into the sun and squinted at it, trying to figure out if he was supposed to be able to tell if it was low. “Uh, it’s below the bottom dot.”

“That means we don’t have enough in there. You want the oil between the two dots.”

“Ah.” Jason nodded, and watched as Bruce poured more into the engine, a little at a time.

Each time he had Jason check the levels again, until the line was almost all the way to the top dot. Once it was, Bruce nodded contentedly and said, “That’s good enough,” and put the bottle of oil back down on the ground, “Now we just have to put the new filter in and we’re done.”

Doing that was a piece of cake. It was basically just the reverse as removing it. Then Bruce had Jason put the engine cover on by himself and they were done.

Just like that.

“Great job,” Bruce said, as he removed the stick holding the hood open, then motioned for Jason to step back so he could drop it shut. Jason jumped when the hood slammed closed, but then smiled when Bruce added, “You’re a pro already.”

“This is some people’s job,” Jason said, as he stepped back into the sunlight, shining in through the open garage door behind him, where he could get a good look at all of Bruce’s cars.

“It sure is,” Bruce said, “Mechanics is a very good field to go into. We’ll always have a need for mechanics.”

“Unless all the rich assholes start doing it themselves,” Jason said, walking along the edge of the driveway, toward the other row of cars on the other side of the garage.

Bruce huffed as he peeled his gloves off and tossed them over at the work bench. “If I crashed one of these,” he said, walking back to the Volkswagen with the key in his hand, “or the engine failed or something drastic, I’d let a mechanic fix it. I just do the routine, easy things.”

“Oh.” Jason supposed that made sense. It probably wasn’t fun if it was super tedious or whatever.

While Bruce started up the Volkswagen and backed it up into its spot, in the row of cars across the way from Jason, he wandered down the new row of vehicles.

All of the cars Bruce or Alfred drove the most were closer to the door to the Manor, so that’s where the Tesla and Bentley were. On this side was some cars Jason didn’t even recognize. He’d need to do a lot of research on fancy-ass sports cars to figure them out, too.

That was, until he stopped on the last car in the row and recognized the SRT logo on the side of the grille.

“No way,” he whispered to himself, as he circled the car.

There was no way it was what he thought it was.

He’d just seen a documentary… or four… about this car three days ago. It was an expensive car, sure, but not like million dollars expensive. It wasn’t even 100k, if he remembered right. He hadn’t been expecting Bruce to have one.

Then again, Bruce owned a Volkswagen. And this was an awesome car.

“You like that one?” Bruce asked, from across the garage.

“Is this a Hellcat?” Jason asked, before he cupped his hands around his eyes so he could try to peek inside. Sadly the tinted windows were too dark, though, so he stood back up and looked over at Bruce.

And Bruce looked… delighted. That was the only way Jason could describe it. He looked delighted.

“It sure is.”

“Dude,” Jason exclaimed, excitement bubbling up in him so quickly he felt like he would burst, “No way! What year is it? Does it really have a red key? How fast does it go? Why don’t you drive this one everywhere!”

Bruce grinned probably the most genuine grin Jason had ever seen but he couldn’t even though about it, because holy shit. He was right!!!

This was like, one of his favorite cars ever.

He’d watched four different documentaries, all on youtube, all because of the red key and how the regular black key governed the engine but the red key unlocked over seven hundred horse power.

And besides being so fucking cool that a car could go so fast, it was such a funny image, picturing seven hundred horses pulling a car.

Bruce walked over to the key lock box, up near the door to the manor, and put his Volkswagen key away. Before he shut it, though, he pulled out a bright red key and Jason just about lost it.

“Oh my God, that’s so cool.”

“Do you want to go for a ride?” Bruce asked, holding the key up, but not yet crossing the garage.

“Are you serious?” Jason asked. Bruce unlocked the doors in answer, so Jason exclaimed, “Yes!” and quickly rounded to the passenger side to open the door and look inside.

The first thing that hit him was the new car smell.

Such a wonderful, beautiful smell. Probably one of his favorites.

“This is so cool,” he whispered, in hushed awe as he slipped into the passenger seat.

There was a backseat, but there was almost no windows back there, and barely any space, and he wanted to see. Not be trapped and blind to everything happening. So Jason buckled himself into the passenger seat and just hoped Bruce wouldn’t make him move.

But Bruce just walked around to the driver door, smiling softly as he slid in and buckled himself in. “Feeling good?” he asked, as he dropped the key into the cup holder.

Good????

Jason was fucking ecstatic.

“Are you gonna go fast?”

In answer, Bruce pressed down on the brake and pressed the start button, then revved the engine loudly.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Jason said under his breath, trying not to grin too wide when Bruce put the car in drive and slowly pulled out of the parking spot.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Bruce said. Jason didn’t even have enough time to agree, though, before Bruce lined the car up with the garage door and then gunned it.

Mostly because Jason was too busy laughing, watching the trees and bushes that lined the driveway speed by.

He only had to slow down a little for the gate, because somehow he told it to start opening before they got anywhere near it.

“You’re gonna get pulled over,” Jason said, through his laughter as Bruce hit 60 MPH out on the road outside the estate. On a road with a speed limit of 20.

“Probably,” Bruce agreed, obviously not caring one bit as he shifted gears and started going faster.

The car only his 70, though, before he slowed down to come to a stop sign at the end of their long, semi-private road.

“Okay, we have a couple options here,” Bruce said, looking over at Jason, “There’s a high school with a large parking lot we can play in, or there’s an industrial area with a network of roads that are deserted on Saturdays. Which do you think sounds better?”

Jason fidgeted in his chair, but asked, “Which one can you go faster on?”

“The industrial complex,” Bruce said, immediately turning the car to the left and zipping off again.

Bruce did keep the speed down, though, as they drove through all the little neighborhoods. Which was probably good, because Jason saw a few kids playing in their yards, and hitting a kid would probably be super bad.

But it only took a couple minutes before they were suddenly staring at a wide open straight road.

A huge wide open straight road, with four lanes running in either direction.

Obviously it was meant for tons and tons of traffic, but true to Bruce’s word, it was completely deserted.

“This was built up to be a large industry area,” Bruce explained, as he pulled onto the road and came to a stop right in the middle of it, “and there ended up being only two companies to move here. It’s one of my favorite places to play with a car.”

“It looks like a race track,” Jason observed, leaning forward in his seat so he could see over the dash, at the brake marks on the street right in front of them.

“It’s used as one. Ready?”

Quickly, Jason sat back in his seat again and nodded enthusiastically.

He was so ready.

Bruce smiled and put one hand on the wheel, the other on the clutch, then floored it.

Jason it thrown back into the seat hard, they accelerated so fast.

And all Jason could do was laugh.

Bruce treated the road like it’s a race track, circling it several times, making the car slide sometimes in his turns, the tires squealing as he did, every single time making Jason laugh harder.

It was the coolest fucking thing Jason had ever done.

They drove for nearly half an hour, Bruce driving around some of the smaller roads around the big huge buildings, and even doing a donut in the middle of a parking lot. Jason just knew that had to be terrible for the tires, but it was so cool to do.

So, so cool.

But eventually, Bruce did turn back to the manor, and by then, Jason’s stomach and cheeks hurt from laughing so much.

“You like this car, huh?” Bruce said, once they were going slow again, back through the neighborhoods with the kids.

“This is like, my dream car, dude,” Jason said, sitting back up to look at all the buttons on the dash. He hadn’t paid much attention to any of them. “Or, well, one of them.”

He had technically just learned about it a few days before, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t instantly become a dream car.

Bruce held a hand out, motioning at the radio as if saying ‘go ahead, mess with it,’ so Jason did.

He pressed all the buttons.

“Why is a Hellcat one of your dream cars?” Bruce asked, after Jason had figured out how to work the radio and was flipping through the seventy-billion satellite channels.

“I watched a bunch of youtube videos about these the other day,” he said, “I thought they were so cool with the red key. And badass looking too. I didn’t know you had one.”

“What are your other dream cars?” Bruce asked, as he grabbed the red key from the cup holder and held it out for Jason to take.

Happily, Jason took it and started inspecting it, looking at all the buttons in it, before he found a little switch that released the actual key from inside.

Although, obviously the car didn’t need the key. It needed the chip inside the key, that told the computer it was present.

“There’s a lot,” Jason eventually said, as he kept playing with the key. He couldn’t really think of car names, though. “I’ve seen a lot of really cool cars. I just never got to research them until, ya know. You gave me a laptop and stuff.”

“Right,” Bruce said, slowly, “What have you been researching on your laptop?”

“I saw an episode of some show about Roush Mustangs,” Jason said, as he dropped the key back into the cupholder and pulled his legs up on the seat, to sit criss crossed, “those look cool. Although your lambo is way cooler. Your Tesla is awesome, too. I always wanted to see a Tesla in person, then you had one.”

“The Tesla is my favorite commuter car,” Bruce said, as he shifted gears and sped up, now they were back on the semi-private road that led to the manor, “but almost all my other cars are more fun to drive.”

Jason nodded. He could see that, since the Tesla literally drove itself. “This one looks so fun to drive.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce said, once he reached the gate to the manor. This time, he had to come to a complete stop and type in his code and do the eye thing, “If you’re still here when you’re 15, I’ll tech you to drive on this car.”

“What?” Jason said, a little stunned. Because, “really??” He hadn’t even… thought that far ahead.

Not like that, at least. He’d only thought about getting through living with Bruce until he was 18, so he could move out and go to college.

But obviously if he was going to make it to 18, that would mean being here when he was 15 or 16, and…. well. That was when kids were supposed to learn to drive.

Why would he have ever thought Bruce would do that, though?? Teach him to drive??

That was what parents were supposed to do for their kids, and Jason was just a foster kid Bruce got stuck with, because Gordon made Bruce take him.

But, but, but… Bruce said he cared about him… so…

“With the red key?” Jason eventually asked, as Bruce pulled the car into the garage, and started slowly backing it up into its spot.

He paused, however, to give Jason a flat look as he said, “No.” He couldn’t hold the face, though, because he started laughing and added, “No way, with the regular key.”

“Aw.”

Although he supposed 500 horsepower was nothing to sneeze at.

“But,” Bruce said, “I might let you test out the red key, once you prove you’re a good driver.”

“Really?” Jason asked, sitting up straighter in his seat, trying to gauge Bruce’s sincerity.

He didn’t look like he was lying, so Jason cheered, “All right! I can’t wait to be 15.”

“Why don’t you focus on turning 13, first,” Bruce said, cutting the car off.

“Fine,” Jason whined, collapsing back into his seat dramatically. He righted himself quickly, though, to unfasten his seatbelt and hop out. “That was so cool, though.”

Bruce got out of the car himself, and just watched with a smile as Jason bounced up to the front of the car, to look at it and all the bugs they picked up.

Poor bugs, they didn’t stand a chance.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Jason whirled around, a second later, when Alfred cleared his throat from the manor door.

“If you gentlemen are done, lunch has been waiting for you for quite a while. Do come eat it before it gets any colder.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason said, at the same time Bruce said, “Sure thing, Alf.”

Alfred quickly retreated, so Jason turned to Bruce and asked, “Is he mad at us?”

“Nah.” Bruce shut his door and started walking to the manor door, but stopped when Jason didn’t start moving in step. “He’s not mad, Jason. That’s the face he makes when he’s very happy and doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t quite sure why Alfred would be ‘very happy,’ but Jason wouldn’t complain about that.

Bruce took a step forward, so this time Jason followed along, and stopped on the steps as Bruce put the key back in the box.

“You’re really going to teach me how to drive on that?” he asked, pointing back at the Hellcat. He kind of had a hard time believing it.

“Yes, I promise,” Bruce said, smiling when Jason shot him a grin.

“All right!” Jason cheered, grinning so wide his face started hurting again. “No take backs, okay?” he said, holding his fist out toward Bruce, “Fist bump.”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to be startled, apparently, because he looked at Jason’s fist like he had no idea what to do as he said, “What?”

“You’re hopeless,” Jason groaned, slouching dramatically before he straightened up and reached for one of Bruce’s hands. “Look, it’s easy.”

Bruce lifted his hand cautiously, and let Jason forced his fingers to form a fist as he said, “Make a fist. There. Okay, now pound it.” Jason make his own fist again and bumped it against Bruce’s hand, grinning wide again. “There. No take backs, we fist bumped.”

“Uh, yes,” Bruce said, like he couldn’t figure out what to fucking say. His smile grew wide, though, and then morphed into something fonder. “I swear it, no take backs.”

Jason fidgeted, under Bruce’s stare, so he quickly pushed open the door as he said, “Come on. Alfred said lunch is getting cold.”

He didn’t want to think about whatever Bruce was thinking.

They’d just had a freaking awesome time, Jason was not about to ruin it. No sir.

So he skipped on ahead, to the kitchen where Alfred had a couple paninis sitting on the counter, and just focused on the fact that Bruce was going to teach him to drive.

In the Hellcat.

All because Jason liked the car.

How fucking awesome was that????

This is chapter 46 of Reclaiming Innocence, slightly edited to read as a one-shot. Link to story can be found on my masterlist. 

[restapesta]

23. Don’t you get it? You’re the only one I can be honest with.

Mickey takes being alone with Ian for granted. He really does.

It's quite sad he only realizes that when he's not alone with his ginger life companion—specifically when he's stuck in a moving car with him and fucking Phillip, feeling like a pussy for not having the guts to just open the door and jump out.

Did Ian put child's lock on his door, what the fuck?

He can't do this. It's a fifteen-minute ride to the Gallagher house and Mickey won't be able to survive it. No fucking way. Why did Ian have to say yes to picking Lip up from work? Did he know what hell he would be putting his poor husband through, huh?

If college bitch says something about his shitty delivery job one more time, he swears to God—

"And you know what the best part about this shitty delivery job is?" No. Please, God, make him stop. "Bathroom? Doesn't even fucking exist,"

If Mickey had a gun, he'd stuff it in his mouth.

From the corner of his eye, Mickey sees Ian's gripping the wheel slightly tighter, his knuckles turning white, his tongue bitten between his slightly clenched teeth. Sadly, only Mickey can see him be so frustrated from the passenger seat. He wishes Lip would lean over from the back and see how fucking annoying he really is with his constant babbling.

Maybe it's good he didn't bring a gun with him—Ian looks like he'd wanna stuff it in his mouth, too.

Does he have child's lock on?

"Anyways," Lip breathes out and Mickey focuses on the buzzing of the AC so he wouldn't have to endure the brainwashing his brother-in-law's—why him?—voice is doing.

Ian seems to be thinking the same thing, his eyes rolling discreetly to the back of his head, staying there for a moment or two.

Mickey's torn between telling him to keep his eyes on the goddamn road or just letting him crash their new car into a pole. At least then they wouldn't have to listen to the yapping that's filling every nook and cranny of the fresh interior.

Their car had never seemed so small. Since when is Mickey so claustrophobic? There used to be so much room.

Oh right, Lip's ego is taking up most of it. How could Mickey forget?

"Oh, yeah," He says suddenly, and Ian and Mickey share a look. What now? Will he ever stop? "I meant to ask you about your meds, Ian. You told me you were visiting your doctor or some shit like that."

Mickey reclines back in his seat, lips pursing as he waits for Ian to fill Lip in on the new prescription and its side effects, and whatever other shit Mickey's already got written down in the notes on his phone from when Ian told him in detail about it.

He had been pretty down when he came home from seeing his doctors, listing off all of the shit he was worried about with the new therapy and adjusting to it. He even had a couple of sleepless nights that resulted in him seeking out different pharmacies to buy sleeping pills, which ultimately led to a night of sleepless vomiting because the cocktail of pills didn't really bode well for Ian's stomach.

Mickey doesn't mind reliving it. Doesn't mind listening to his husband talk about the things important to him and things that Mickey should know about.

And, truthfully, Mickey's already come face to face with the fact that he likes knowing about all of Ian's shit—they're already living, sleeping, and working together, so the prospect of knowing that new meds give Ian diarrhea if they're taken on an empty stomach doesn't really seem like a TMI-type of thing to know.

When Ian's related, nothing and everything is pretty much TMI.

"Oh," Ian responds after a moment of silence. His eyes aren't focused when Mickey turns to look at him. It seems as if he's racking his brain around for the proper words, yet can't seem to find them. Eventually, he just lets out, "Everything's the same. Nothing new."

Mickey knows that's not true.

"Didn't you say you were being put on some new shit?" Lip's confused. Mickey is too.

Ian was put on new shit. Shit that landed him with a week of goddamn exhaustion and a fucked-up stomach.

"No. It's the same."

"Oh," Lip mutters. "Okay then."

And he continues to go into another monologue about why being a delivery boy is such a shitty job to have with a mind of his.

Mickey stares at Ian's side profile for as long as it takes him to turn around and meet his eye. It takes him long—in fact, Mickey's pretty sure Ian won't be turning around any time soon.

Why would he lie? Why would he hide the fact he did change his meds when it's really not that big of a deal?

Mickey's even more confused by it because Ian had ranted about his doctor's appointment the day of it, nearly talking Mickey's ear off. He had been annoyed, relieved, and worried, all at the same time, and the entire Tuesday was just spent with them talking about bipolar like the mundane thing it was.

So, why wouldn't Ian just want to retell that shit again? It wasn't as if he didn't still have frustrations over it. Not like he wouldn't fucking jump on the chance to talk about his biggest concerns the second the opportunity presented itself.

Why then?

Lip's still talking and Ian's still not looking at him.

Mickey places a gentle hand on his thigh, trying to get his attention. In response to Mickey's thumb running over his husband's jeans, Ian just places a hand on top of his, picking it up and raising it to his mouth until the rough skin meets the smoothness of his lips. When he finally looks at him, there's a plead in his eye. An answer to Mickey's unasked question.

Later.

"Ugh, can you guys not do that here? Since when did you become that couple?"

They both ignore the dumbass in the backseat of their car. Ian turns to look ahead, and he pushes his foot down visibly on the gas pedal, and Mickey knows that the time until they're able to drop Lip off is cutting shorter.

"You guys are really annoying with that mind-reading shit, you know that?"

Mickey breathes in deeply.

Five more minutes. Just five more minutes and they'll be alone.

Ian's hand doesn't disentangle from his, but Mickey does move them so they're laying on top of his leg, palms pressed tightly together. He squeezes at it once.

Ian squeezes back.

There's a faint mumble from the back.

"I fucking hate being the third wheel."

Mickey barely stops himself from jumping into Ian's lap, just in spite.

Instead, with his free hand, he just flips him off.

---

They're driving to their place when Mickey finally asks the question. They've been alone for a couple of minutes now, after a prolonged—much to both their dismays—goodbye to Lip in front of the Gallagher house. As soon as it was appropriate to, Ian peeled out of the driveway, putting as much distance between him and his family—his annoying-ass brother—as he possibly could in a record time.

At first, Mickey fiddled with the radio until he landed on some radio station that played pop-shit music, lowering the volume until the Taylor Swift song—he hates that he knows it—was just a hum filling the silence. Ian isn't speaking, but he doesn't seem tense.

He seems just as always, shoulders even further relaxed—slumped, actually, because he has the posture of a question mark—now that Lip is out of the car and in the hands of the others to deal with.

"So," Mickey starts casually when his weirdo of a partner starts singing lowly to Lover on the radio. It's a song they only listen to when they're feeling sappier than usual, but Ian tends to always be sappy, so none of this sweet singing shit was a surprise for Mickey. The lyrics coming out of Ian's mouth still make his chest swell pleasantly, despite him barely holding himself back from rolling his eyes. "What was that?"

"Hm?" Ian's eyes momentarily move to eye Mickey. They go back almost immediately. "What was what?"

"What was that thing with Lip?" The question isn't meant to be judgmental nor accusing. Mickey really is just curious.

It wasn't him whom Ian had lied to. But why did he lie in the first place?

Ian shrugs, lowering the volume with the switch on the wheel even further until they can barely hear the soft voice.

"I just didn't feel like telling him." Is the simple reply.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Ian."

"Mickey—"

"Come on, man, don't give me that bullshit."

"I'm not—I don't," He exhales roughly as if finally forcing himself to admit to something he doesn't want to admit to. "I don't like anybody knowing about it. It's nobody's business but my own."

Mickey makes a face, still confused as fuck. He gets the reasoning behind the words, but it's just not clicking in his brain. Maybe Lip really did brainwash it. "You say you don't like anybody knowing, but you told me."

Ian glances away from the road and sends Mickey the type of look that says he thinks what Mickey just said was the dumbest thing possible. It's incredulous.

"You're not anybody, Mick."

And that's sweet and all, but—

"Lip's not anybody either."

Ian sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, dramatically exasperated. "Don't you get it, Mickey? You're the only one I can be honest with. Completely transparent."

Mickey doesn't know why he's still pushing, but fuck, there's no way. "You can be transparent with Lip. He'll hear you out, give you advice. Won't judge you." Why is he defending Lip again? "I'm not the only one who understands."

"Yeah, but you're the only one who isn't annoying about it. If I wanted Lip to know, I would've called him straight away. But instead, I talked to you. Mickey, you're a dumbass if you don't see that you're the only one I want to tell."

Well fuck.

Mickey blinks. He actually is a dumbass, but that's already been genetically proven. This is something else.

Mickey feels Ian's words deep in his chest. His heart jumps to his throat—it's one of the best things Ian could've said to him. It doesn't feel fucking real.

"Really?" He asks pathetically. It's not like Ian would lie; he's always had a knack for saying everything that's on his mind. Mickey loves that about him right now. It's just that—Mickey? He wants to tell Mickey about it and nobody else?

Ian smiles at him. "Really, babe," Mickey blushes as the nickname. "You know just how many questions to ask. When to listen and when to talk. When to give me advice and when to tell me to get out of my own head." Ian's eyebrows furrow. "Lip doesn't know how to do that. Not like you—"

No. Mickey will not cry. No. It's just eyeball sweat.

"—With you, I know that I can say whatever is on my mind and won't feel like shit about it. It's fucking liberating, having somebody like that."

Mickey breathes in deeply. Fuck Ian for using his words like this and making his heart squeeze impossibly. Why is he so fucking perfect all the fucking time?

How did Mickey get so fucking lucky?

"Yeah," He responds dumbly, out of breath—because it legit is logged up in his throat at the moment. He clears it. "I guess that's what best friends are for."

And the grin Ian sends him in response to the sheepishly-said sentence is enough to make butterflies explode inside Mickey's belly—ugh, no, he's supposed to be past that stage, for fuck's sake.

Ian's still grinning as Mickey's whole face probably turns the shade of Ian's favorite vegetable—maybe that's why Ian likes it when Mickey blushes—and he has to avert his gaze so he doesn't go even redder than Ian's hair.

"Best friends? I feel honored, Mick."

"Shut up."

"No, for real."

"Shut up."

Ian laughs and spares Mickey the embarrassment by raising the volume up on the radio, the song now booming loudly through the space.

Ian glances over at Mickey right as he starts singing it joyfully, a wide smile on his face. This is the Ian Mickey knows and loves—happy Ian.

Mickey's favorite Ian after the horny one.

Mickey's chest swells with pride. He ended up with Ian. The Ian who loves him unconditionally; who knows just the right to say and when to say it; who just told him Mickey's the only one he can be real with.

I can only be honest with you, too. He wants to tell him. I only am honest with you.

Instead of saying the words, he starts singing himself, and the screeching voices of two men stupidly in love are seeping out of the slightly opened windows, the wind whooshing them away.

I can only do this with you, Mickey thinks. I'm only this free with you.

Judging by the way Ian's smiling, Mickey guesses he's thinking the same thing, too.

"Darling, you're my, my, my, my lover."

[bittcrblue]

I’ve been watching Star Trek lately to decompress from the sheer amount of shit I have to do this week, and wrote a little AU ficlet this evening when my tutoring sessions got cancelled. It’s very dumb, I hope you enjoy!

Essek is the only Vulcan currently serving on the USS Eden Horizon. While he is neither a fool nor forgetful, he is certain that he, nor indeed anyone, would be capable of forgetting as much, given the series of inane, banal, and childish nicknames that his crew members insist on assigning him.

“Hey, Pointy!” calls Lieutenant Brenatto as she enters the laboratory where he is conducting his experiment.

Essek does not sigh, nor does he cease his work or halt in his movements; instead, he finishes logging his observations and locks his PADD before turning around. 

“Lieutenant Brenatto,” he states. “I assume your work in Engineering is going fruitfully, if you have the time to spare for further inter-species sensitivity training.”

“Oh, fuck, you’re not serious, are you?” Veth Brenatto groans. “Come on, you already cried sexual harassment about me calling you Hot Boi, and now Pointy’s out too? Grow up, would you?”

Essek simply folds his hands behind his back and blinks at her.

“Ugh, whatever.” She crosses her arms and scowls at him, her impressive brow furrowing. He is reminded of the fact that she has a small infant by the ferocity of that scowl, but Essek was raised by Deirta Thelyss, and is not cowed.

He should have taken the posting at the Vulcan Science Academy, he thinks, as he so often does, before remembering that, had he done so, he would be forced to interact with his mother and brother every day, along with the rest of the drooling Elders, so obsessed with their beloved Surak’s principles and the stagnation of their culture due to a veneration of logic above creativity, above progress. This would certainly leave Essek with no other avenue but to strangle himself with his own robes so as to save himself from their lunacy; as that would be most illogical indeed, it is for the best that he chose Starfleet, despite the strange mannerisms of its members.

“I came to tell you that Cay-Cay got roped into helping Beau with something real hush hush for Fjord, so he won’t be able to make your weird science flirt lunch date.” 

“You did not have to make the trip when a message to my PADD would have sufficed,” Essek rebukes. “Furthermore, I have no such standing arrangement with Commander Widogast, and would thank you to not refer to our disagreements as… weird science flirt lunch dates.”

“You know, I used to have weird science flirt lunch dates with Cay-Cay,” Veth Brenatto continues wistfully, ignoring Essek wholesale. “I’m happily married, of course, but you know, all these years out here in space…”

“I did not ask,” Essek says, and powers down his station. “I hope that Commander Widogast’s meeting with First Officer Lionnett is fruitful. Good day, Lieutenant.”

“We’re literally about to walk in the same direction, you weirdo,” Brenatto calls after him as he begins to make his way to the crew mess. 

While it is true that he often spends his meal times in intellectual debate with Commander Widogast, they are hardly dates; rather, Essek is eager to engage in intelligent conversation with a near-equal. The irony is not lost on him that he has found more stimulating arguments here, on a Federation vessel, than he ever did on the Vulcan research vessel Everstorm on which he served as Science Officer before his transfer. Even the strange Doctor Clay has offered interesting points of view at times, when he is not in his medbay or the botany labs cultivating the hallucinogens which he provides to the crew under the guise of mental relaxants. 

Essek has not partaken, despite encouragement to do so from no less than seven members of the crew. This is not out of some slavish regard to regulation; his mind is his greatest tool, and it needs no dulling. 

Upon arriving in the mess, it occurs to Essek that he is indeed without his usual partner for meals during this particular shift, and he decides to eat alone when he is hailed, enthusiastically, by Nurse Lavorre.

“Yoohoo, Essek, over here!” she calls. “Come sit with me!”

Essek does not smile, but he still crosses the mess to sit beside her. “Hello, Jester,” he says. 

“Oh my gosh, hi!” she appears to be eating replicated ice cream for her mid-shift meal, which is highly irresponsible for a medical professional, but utterly in character for one Nurse Jester Lavorre. “How did your black hole thingy go?”

“My experiments on the gravitational anomalies are proceeding well.” Essek partakes of his soup with satisfaction, both at the mild taste of his meal and the satisfaction of a well-conducted experiment.

While he may be a smooth talker and, Essek suspects, a charlatan, Captain Fjord Stone is loose with his ethical restrictions, and Essek has been able to green-light far more experiments on the nature of space, time, and gravity than he was ever allowed on Vulcan.

“That’s great!” Jester seems genuinely pleased for him. “I bet Caleb is crawling up the walls in the ready room, driving Beau crrrrraaaazy. He wanted to be there tonight when you finalise the experiment, but probably he and Beau will be working all night.” She frowns. “We could record it for him?”

“It will be recorded, as all experiments are, for Starfleet logs, and are accessible to all with appropriate clearance,” Essek reminds her. Indeed, Nurse Lavorre is not a person with such clearance, but if she wishes to be there when Essek unveils his dark star he will not be the one to stop her.

He has found that Jester Lavorre tends to get what she wants. Even the Captain is weak to her whims.

“So, anyway, I got a holo from my friend Calianna on the USS Mist, I don’t know if you know her, she actually caused a kind of huuuge fight between Beau and Caleb when we all first met, but anyways, she discovered this cool new species of lizard on a ground mission…”

Essek listens to Jester chatter about her friend’s expedition while he finishes his soup, occasionally asking a question when she seems liable to halt her tirade. The conversation has progressed from Calianna’s lizards to Calianna’s skincare routine, Jester’s mother’s skincare routine, questions about Essek’s own skincare routine (extensive), and is currently on the betting pool in the sickbay surrounding whether Ensign Nydoorin’s facial markings are tattooed or cosmetics, as nobody in Sickbay has gotten close enough to her face to attempt to wash them off, when Essek feels a warm weight in his lap.

He looks down to see Commander Widogast’s cat sitting in his lap like a large, red, furry loaf. Mrow? Frumpkin vocalises, head cocked.

Essek scritches under his chin. His Vulcan touch telepathy conveys a sense of contentment, curiosity, and the urge to lick his testicles. Essek ignores that last, and focuses back on Jester.

Jester is squealing. “Aww! Look, Frumpkin came to say hello! I bet Caleb asked him to check on you, I bet he misses youuuuu soooo much.”

Essek would know if Caleb and Frumpkin shared a telepathic bond which allowed Caleb to give his cat orders and instructions. “I doubt that very much,” he says. “Caleb is a human, and Frumpkin a cat. Neither of them is telepathic.”

“Sure,” Jester says, and smirks into her ice cream. “I know the truth, you can’t hide from me, Mister Essek.”

“I am not hiding,” Essek says.

“Sure,” Jester repeats, smiling the whole time.

Essek does not sigh. While he appreciates Jester’s company, he wishes he were eating with Caleb right now.

Frumpkin purrs under his hand, radiating smugness.

[tomhiddelstonandzaynmalik]

Love at first sight?

Chapter 8

Note: im using Celsius instead of Farenheit bc I get confused anddd for the fics purpose I made the reader from Arizona bc it's hot, sorry hehe.

prologue chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Warren Worthington III x reader

Word count: 1300 words

Warnings: language

"Worthington! Wait up". Warren stopped walking for his friend to catch up. "Yes, Monroe?". Ororo rushed from the main entrance to the end of the hall, where Warren was waiting for her. "So? Spit the beans!". She was referring to the meeting with The Professor, which had just ended a few minutes ago.

"Hell no! I'm starving, thanks to you! As far as I can recall, you did say you were going stop by the infirmary to bring me my breakfast, but you never came". Warren said resentfully. "Oh! Forgive me for trying to give you some privacy! I DID go over! but when I realized you were having a blast with "ms. mystery", I left!." Warren's mouth turned into a big "O" surprised by the girl's comment. "Shit, sorry I'm an ass. I should have known better than t-". Although Warren was showing great remorse for his actions, Ororo, on the other hand, seemed unbothered as he had cut his ramblings off. "Whatever, man. Listen up! Why don't I fix you something to eat in the kitchen while you tell me everything that happened, and not just with Charles". Her big brown eyes were beaming at him with mischief. After all, it wasn't likely of him to speak more than five consecutive words with strangers.

"Fine by me". The blond said, already walking to the kitchen. "Oh, by the way, her name is Y/N". He informed with a small smile creeping on his lips.

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

"For real?" You said in amazement as the man with glasses who went by the name of Hank explained to you some medical facts about your mutation you've been oblivious to your entire life. "Are you telling me my hydrokinesis has been the reason behind why I'm always cold?". Your face in awe had made the man chuckle. "Indeed, Y/N. Your connection with water goes beyond expected. Your body temperature resembles the ocean's, which means, unlike the rest of us who have an average temperature of 35.5 C° to 37 C°. Yours can go as low as -2 C° with its highest in 35 C° ". You turned to your left side, inspecting the monitor showing your vitals, where you read the big bright numbers. "So, does 20 C° mean... ". "Just fine". The doctor said.

"No need to remind you about staying clear from desserts or, you know, fires". "Damn it, just when I was considering moving to Egipt". You had meant for the man to laugh at your joke. Instead, he shot you a disapproving look. "I'm serious, Y/N. You could die. The body can endure temperatures up to 50 C° before death, but you, anywhere up to 39 C° can be fatal".

Those last words were bringing back the multiple times you'd fainted without any apparent reason. Even during a spring day back in your natal Arizona, you could end up in E.R. The doctors had always told your mother it was a heatstroke, yet it never made sense. Yes, it was warm but not blazingly hot like it should have to suffer one. To your mom, you were only doing it for the attention. And after moving to Washington, when you were 5, the faintings stopped, making her believe more in her assumptions.

It also made you remember those winter days when you were little, where all your friends would be covered head to toe with fuzzy clothing whilst you had nothing more than some jeans and a crewneck. People always believed your mother had sucked at parenting for leaving you so exposed to the weather, but for the first time, they were wrong. Yes, she sucked at being a mother, but at least this time, what seemed to be a lack of caring coming from her was just you not being affected by the freezing air like everyone else.

You were about to ask furthermore questions the tall man with the glasses he could perhaps be able to answer when a bald man in his late forties wheeled in. "How is our patient doing, Hank?". He asked. "Better than expected, Charles. Although I would suggest staying in here for observation another 24 hours, just to be sure". Hank replied, straightening his posture as the older man came further inside the room. But why? Just as you were seeking an answer, he spoke. "Because I am the headmaster, young lady. Charles Xavier, at your service". What the actual fuck, how could he have- "Telepathy, that is how, dear". A foreign voice explained inside your mind as the bald man stared at you with knowing eyes. "Please, don't do that ever again! Not without a heads-up at least!". You yelled fearfully. The idea of having somebody else inside your head unexpectedly had to be the scariest thing you could think of, and after having seen your frightened self, the man spoke ordinarily once again.

"Certainly! But, before we continue, how should I call you, dear?". The man, Charles, asked you with a tender voice. " Y/N".

"Very well, Y/N. Now, has Hank told you anything about what we do in here?". "Not much. That this is kinda like a boarding school but for weirdos like us and that some are of you like to run around the city wearing matching bodysuits playing heroes". You said while sitting down crisscrossed on the medical bed. "Well, you are not so wrong, but we are more than that". With that, the conversation about a brighter future for you began.

You had been brought to Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters by luck, without any clue of what could be there to come for you. When you woke up, you'd thought for that place to be nothing but a fancy hospital and nothing else. Now, after your interaction with the headmaster, you were left with a lingering feeling of something you had never experienced before, hope.

Hope for a future away from the streets you've called home for almost a decade. A possibility to become someone you could be proud of being. To form bonds that could last more than a weak or two. Most importantly, the chance of not being so lonely anymore.

In conclusion, Charles Xavier gave you hope for making your wildest dream come true. Stay here, and you will live a normal life.

Both Charles and Hank left the infirmary wing for you to process the information at peace before accepting his offer of prolonging your stay. You'd been so concentrated thinking about all of it. You missed the moment your angel came in.

"By the expression on your face, I'm guessing Charles already asked you to stay in here". He spoke to you as he was reaching for the stool next to your side.

"How do you know that, Angel?". You asked, squinting your eyes in a questioning look.

"He told me after proposing to me the very same thing". Warren said.

"Well, are you?". You eagerly said.

"I don't know, are you?". If you were honest, everything about living at Xavier's sounded perfect to you. You would have accepted right away if it hadn't been for Charles himself who stopped you and made you think about it. After all, it was a 180° lifestyle change.

"Hell fucking yes! Why wouldn't I? It's not like you're allowed to live in a mansion every day" This was the answer which caused the mutant next to you to chuckle slightly. "Is that the only reason you're staying?". You would have said everything you'd been thinking about before warren showed up. Yet something in you told you. If you didn't, you could have plenty of time to do so.

"Not really, but if you decide to stay here, I might tell you all about them, Angel". You told Warren, who had now his eyes fixated on yours, those piercing blue eyes which seemed to be searching for something, what? You didn't know.

"Seems like we got a deal, Y/N".

[nekasu]

SnapCube’s Until Dawn Real-Time Fandub Sentence Starters (Part 1)

"I didn't bring my phone. It was in my other pants!" "This is a really long high five." "...I won't tell anyone about this." "Ya see, that's a joke thinger." "Can you see me? Don't answer that." "Who talks to screens? Maybe you can." "We're here in a strange time at a strange place." "Hopefully you enjoyed whatever the hell THIS video was." "When those girls died? That was funny." "My phone still has battery? Holy shit, I gotta keep that warm." "I'm trying to get like 100% on Animal Crossing." "Check it out, I have this gun. It's really really cool." "Are you McCree from Overwatch, hit video game?" "Make sure you don't shoot any guys with that." "Never mind, I do have the key. I just found it in my pocket." "We're all just really good beans at the end of the day." "Why did you hit me? That hurt so much!" "Sorry, I've been in jail a while." "My arm really hurts. Do you have any first aid?" "I just got off the big train in the sky." "This is my Smash invitation and frankly, I deserve it." "It was gonna be a surprise for your birthday, motherfucker!" "Jesus, everyone is so rude. What is this, Rude Mountain?" "This mountain fucking sucks." "I'm here to be rude to people." "I think this is sus. He's definitely the impostor." "As a gamer, I know all about Among Us." "Is this...Tamriel?" "Well, that's a cliff." "No, you got arms!" "I don't speak corn." "Grab my stinky hand!" "I will live on in the vibes!" "No, that's too fast! Oh, god!" "2x4? You're not even a 1x1." "You look so stupid right now." "Hehe, I'm under the bed now!" "It was for a prank video. Come on!" "It's fine, honestly. She has a blanket." "Women never listen to me when I talk..." "Everything's a big deal when you make it." "Oh my god she has pants! What the fuck?!" "No one told me I was wearing pants today!" "It's pretty cold because it's DEAD of winter!" "Hey, tree! Look at me, I'm looming right now!" "Not a blanket, but maybe I can keep you warm." "This fuckin' candle doesn't keep me warm at all.” "At least you're not calling it 'arm pants' this time." "Oh, wow! SHE'S looming! Oh, she can teach me!" "I don't want to play any of your Among Us games." "I have this weird feeling someone's looming around here." "Answer a question for me: how are you feeling today? YEAH!" "Well now, wise guy. Let's see who among us really is the funniest." "Helloooo there! I am Doctor Rabbit. The world's only rabbit rabbit." "Whoa, that guy was straight up looming! I wish I could loom like that.” "Was that that Anus Unnus guy?" "Hey, babe, you wanna go and record a blog with me?" "So are my pranks as good as Markiplier?" "Wait, when did they get the hugging perk?!" "See, that's what I think of your problems, is that they're just some sort of joke." "Got in real trouble with the locals, I did. They don't let me back there." "Maybe you're just trying to be woke or something." "Your insurance isn't covering these sessions, by the way." "We can send, like, aura to each other. You know like, uh, vibes." "I don't guess, I know. I never guess, I know everything. I do the math." "Two plus two equals you're my friend. Just kidding, it's four." "I just hurt all of my bones." "High five? No, you're too far away. My bad." "Did you solve my wolverine puzzle?" "Did you know doors hurt?" "Everyone has a raccoon!" "Why don't you keep it to yourself, tough guy?" "Save the fight until I have the camera ready, okay?" "That's not a view, that's a snow." "I think you're in the corridor of the monkey." "If you throw that me, I'm gonna fuckin' flip my goddamn lid." "You want some snow, bitch?!" "Lady? Girl? ...I should really learn her name." "Water's looking a little green, that's just the way I like it." "Did the ghosts take my friends again?" "I'm actually half ghost." "Is that a lightsaber? Like from Star Trek?" "I'm gonna level with you, I hate being in the same room as you." "BOOOOOOOOOOOK!" "You like the new office? I fuckin' don't." "You didn't read through the contract, did you kiddo?" "I can get fucked? Finally!" "Even the ghost agrees." "I should have fucking known. This ghost is such a libro." "That's great and all, but I'm gonna look like a jackass!" "This is what happens when you pull mean pranks. God punishes an elk." "THAT was a HEALING spell?! Oh god!" "Door key? You're pretty dorky!" "I can imagine a lot of dipshits, in fact." "Get un-naked! Get un-naked! Get un-naked! Get un-naked!" "I'm casting a hex on you now. Have fun getting hexed, idiot." "See? The Kinect causes psychic powers." "I can't believe Blue's freakin' clue is on here." "Ugh...I freaking hate doors." "Blue save me..." "Telling them the vibes made you do it won't hold up in a court of law." "Oh, would you look at the time. It's time for me to rip you a new one again!" "I cannot wait, but I suppose I'll have to." "The hex worked great. Now let's see if I can go shoot what remains of her." "I love running through the forest like a fucking weirdo." "You look like an idiot on the ground there." "If I have anything to say about it, you won't make it back." "I wanna see you, whatever you are, you funny-looking fellow." "Why do I have so much trouble with doors?" "Hey, funny voice! Fuck off, please!" "It's a saw trap, you dumb piece of shit!"

"Seems mysterious, but I won't shoot him this time. Gotta weaken him with the hex." "You're gonna get fucked if you can't say goodbye to a ghost. Trust me on that one." "Hey, uh, do you wanna stop having trouble with doors, now'd be a phantasmical time!" "Unless you want to work with me here, well...we're gonna be stuck here until dawn." "Not like you've ever done anything on purpose in your entire life, you fucking hack." "What, not even a goddamn laugh? Oh, it's gonna be a rough fuckin' couple weeks." "I can't believe I made it up to Rude Mountain only to be discovered by rude people." "I've got all my gamerscore on my phone, so I'm hoping that nobody really touched it.” "That's pretty cringe of you, buddy. I'm gonna put you in my Cringe Tuesday compilation." "If I wanted to talk about beans, I'd hang around with the fuckin' Among Us crew down there." "You know what? I have two arms, so I guess I CAN carry both of them at the same time." "I just got my lips unstuck. Aw, geez. I've been trying to talk to you guys this whole time."  "I left some beans in my backpack. They might be a few years old, but they don't really expire." "I should've known that coming to Rude Mountain would have made you worse as a person." "I've just been playing a lot of Among Us recently and I've just been trying to really get good at lying. "Oh, so NOW you're a funny guy, huh? You think you got your own jokes?! Ya think this is stand up?!" "I have blankets in the back, but I'm gonna go to the front just to see if I can spice things up a little." "I'm here to help you, and whaddya do? You spit in my goddamn face! ...Metaphorically, of course.” "What do you take me for, some kind of clown?! Some kind of Boo Boo the Fool that ain't done this rodeo before?!" "Here at therapy we're here to answer the one big burning question everyone's got: what the FUCK is wrong with you?" "I noticed you don't have much of a sense of humor. That might explain all the shit you've gotten into recently, wouldn't it?" "Well with my ten step plan I'll be happy to go plumb the depths of your sad, scared little mind and see what makes you...tick, as it were."

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 6: “Who Brings a Gun to a Cemetery?”

For Day 6: Cemetery Boys

Rating: General Audiences; Ship: Pre-Destiel; WC: 3,219

POV Outsider (Original Male Character); full tags on AO3 or below the cut.

Summary: Jerry Wallace has seen a lot of satanic rituals. A lot. Candles and daggers, pentagrams, hoods and chanting; you name it, he’s seen it. As the head of security — and only guard — of Sullivan Cemetery, he’s bound to have run into the occasional devil worshipper. It doesn’t even faze him anymore. There’s not much Jerry Wallace hasn’t seen.

In which: Jerry Wallace encounters Dean Winchester, supposed Satanist.

On AO3 Here (or read under the cut!)

Full Tags: POV Outsider, This poor cemetery guard doesn't know what to do about Dean Winchester, Dean seems insane, BAMF Castiel, Early Seasons Dean and Cas, Pre-Relationship Dean and Cas, Pre-Friendship Dean and Cas, somehow they still manage to flirt though, POV Character is briefly threatened by Dean Winchester but it all ends OK,Humor

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jerry Wallace has seen a lot of satanic rituals. A Iot. Candles and daggers, pentagrams, hoods and chanting; you name it, he’s seen it. As the head of security — and only guard — of Sullivan Cemetery, he’s bound to have run into the occasional devil worshipper (and worse. People dig up graves for really unsavory reasons). It doesn’t even faze him anymore. There’s not much Jerry Wallace hasn’t seen.

But tonight, as he sweeps his flashlight back and forth across the dewy grass, making his rounds and sipping on his steaming coffee, something stops him short. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to listen. There’s a scuffling sound up ahead, from just outside the Bennett mausoleum. It sounds too big to be any of the usual animals. Humans, then. Jerry sighs. He was hoping for a quiet night, so he could make himself comfortable under the lamp at the cemetery entrance and read the book his teenage son, Andrew, had lent him. Cemetery Boys, it’s called. Jerry finds it fitting.

A man’s rough voice rings out from around the corner of the mausoleum. “Dammit, Sam, you can’t give me any hints?”

Jerry blinks at the audacity. Who sneaks into a cemetery at night and doesn’t even try to be quiet about it? He decides to give these particular satanists a little scare, just to teach them a lesson. He switches off his flashlight and gently sets his precious cup of coffee on top of the nearest headstone. Time to have some fun.

He sneaks on silent feet across the grass, clutching his flashlight tight in hand and deciding which tactic he wants to use. The reliable old jump scare? Flashlight beam to the face and an earsplitting yell — it’s worked well on thrill-seeking teenagers in the past. Or the more tricky option, creeping around and making ghostly sounds to unnerve the trespassers so thoroughly that they leave? More time investment, but also more amusing in the long run — Jerry decides on Option Two.

The wall of the mausoleum gives him excellent cover to start his performance. He sidles up along it, to the very edge. The intruders are just around the corner, and it sounds like one of them’s rummaging around in a bag of some sort. Jerry rolls his eyes. Probably some weirdos with spray paint, here to deface the walls of the mausoleum with symbols that take ages to wash off. Jerry opens his mouth and is about to emit his first long, ghostly moan, when the same voice as before pipes up again.

“Picking the lock didn’t work, Sam, I’m telling you, it’s gonna take longer. You gotta hold her off.”

The other person — Sam — doesn’t reply, though. Jerry furrows his brow. Who’s being held off? He decides to get a better picture of the scene before initiating his plan. Very slowly, he pokes just the right side of his face around the corner. The front of the small white building is washed in moonlight, the nearest lamp a ways down the path.

There’s a man crouched outside the mausoleum, maybe in his late twenties, from what Jerry can tell in the low light. He’s wearing an oversized leather jacket over a patterned shirt, with jeans and sturdy-looking boots. His short hair is spiked a bit in the front.

He doesn’t look like a satanist. Jerry stays very still, breathing shallowly and watching.

The man has both hands in a medium-sized duffel bag, rooting around. The contents of the bag are clanging and thudding. With a triumphant exhale, the man stands up, crowbar in hand. Jerry balks. This is already a step beyond chanting and spray paint. Again, nothing he hasn’t seen before, though.

What Jerry couldn’t see while the man was crouched, that now makes itself clear, is that he has a mobile phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. As the man advances on the door with the crowbar, he barks into the phone, “Update, Sammy. You still kicking?”

Jerry can’t make out Sam’s muffled response, but it obviously displeases the man, because he whacks the crowbar against the mausoleum door with a frustrated growl. “Watch your back. Figure out what the hell I’m supposed to burn!” He flips the phone shut and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.

This is getting stranger and stranger. Jerry watches as the man goes to town on the mausoleum door, an offense that Jerry would usually be more inclined to stop from happening. Something about this man, though, about the way he carries himself and the way he talks, is holding Jerry back.

He’s very glad about his decision to stay put about ten seconds later, when the man drops the crowbar to the ground with a clang and pulls a gun out of his jacket. Jerry doesn’t even carry a gun. His heart starts beating and his palms prickle with sweat. He didn’t sign up for this. Who brings a gun to a cemetery?

The man steps back a couple feet, points the handgun at the lock, hunches his shoulders, and fires. Jerry barely has the wherewithal to throw himself back around the corner and press his hands over his ears before the shot goes off. He feels it reverberate through the wall, twice, as the man fires again. Fully out of sight now, Jerry gingerly lowers the zipper on his jacket and reaches into his chest pocket for his radio. He needs to call this in. This is way above his pay grade.

“Dammit!” the man yells. The gun must’ve been ineffective. Jerry mentally pats himself on the shoulder. He requested upgrades to all mausoleum locks after a series of break ins last year, and it looks like the security company came through.

Jerry hears the keypad of the mobile phone beeping as the man punches in a number, then there’s muffled ringing. Jerry uses the sound as cover to pull his radio out and to inch his face around the corner again so he has a visual of the scene.

The man’s phone rings and rings. With another frustrated yell, the man slaps it shut and paces back and forth in front of the door, one hand running through his hair, the other still holding his gun. After a few moments, he stops in his tracks. He’s facing Jerry’s direction, silvery moonlight throwing his cheekbones in sharp relief. He looks like a respectable young man, really. Jerry wonders where he lost his way.

There’s a set of complicated emotions working their way across the man’s face. His eyebrows are pinched in concentration, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving as if he’s talking to himself. This lasts about ten seconds before he throws up his hands and glares at the sky.

“Oh, come on!” he shouts. “Get your harp-toting ass down here! Castiel!”

Jerry, who prides himself on never swearing, thinks: What the fuck.

The man is obviously disturbed. He needs a doctor. Jerry glances down at the radio in his hand, and presses the emergency button. He can’t afford a conversation with dispatch; the man will overhear. This will at least get someone out here.

When Jerry looks back up, he twitches. There are now two men in front of the mausoleum. The newcomer is wearing a long trenchcoat and standing stiffly. He’s facing away from Jerry, looking at the gunman, sensible shoes planted hip-width apart. His messy dark hair blends into the shadows.

Where on earth did he come from? Jerry darts his eyes around. The mausoleum is on a slightly raised part of the cemetery, visibility clear in all directions. Even if the trenchcoat man had approached from the opposite side of the building, Jerry would have seen him.

“Cas,” the gunman says, voice heavy with something like — relief, perhaps? His tense posture relaxes slightly and he claps the trenchcoat man on the shoulder. “You took your time,” he accuses. “Can you open those doors?”

The trenchcoat man, Cas — is this Castiel? Jerry cannot keep up — turns slightly to regard the doors.

“This is why you prayed to me?” Cas’ voice is deeper than the gunman’s, rougher. He speaks like a robot. “Heaven is at war, Dean. You call me to help you break down a door?”

Jerry’s brain is spinning. Are these… actors? Cosplayers? He learned about cosplayers from Andrew. Some of them do have very elaborate costumes. Jerry squints at Cas’ back. This doesn’t look like a costume, though. Cas looks like a tax accountant. Like he should be at home with his family at this time of night.

“Sam’s in trouble,” Dean’s saying, an ever-so-slight pleading edge to the words. “I gotta get in here, Cas, or he’s gonna meet a real bad end. I know you’ve got the mojo, come on!”

“I do not exist to do your bidding,” Cas replies. He strides over to the doors, though, trenchcoat flapping around his calves. “I do not serve you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re a warrior.” Dean’s hovering at Cas’ shoulder. “Can you blast ‘em?”

Cas lays a hand on the doors, long fingers splayed against the metal. Jerry glances down at his radio again. The red button is flashing, indicating that he’d called for help, but he can’t hear any sirens yet. He hopes they send enough officers for two grave-desecrating weirdos.

“Stand back,” Cas says. “And tell the man behind the wall to stand back, too.”

“What?” Dean’s head whips around.

Jerry hastily pulls his head out of sight, heart racing. Oh, no. He’s seen enough. He can ID these two for the cops later. He doesn’t need to be on the scene.

He turns heel to run, but makes it only two steps before a hand grabs his collar and yanks him back. The air is knocked out of him and he yelps, feet scrabbling on the pavement as a strong arm drags him around the corner. He lands on his butt in front of the doors, palms scraping on the ground. He quickly raises one over his head in surrender.

“Please— please, I have a family!” He keeps his eyes averted. Dean’s boots are inches away from his legs. “Don’t hurt me, I won’t say a word, I promise!”

“You the guard?” Dean crouches down in front of him. Oh, lord, the gun is trained on Jerry’s face. He whimpers and nods.

“Great. Give me the keys to the doors. Stat.” A palm appears in front of Jerry’s chest, held out in expectation. He hesitates. Isn’t that aiding and abetting?

No way. He’s at gunpoint. He nods again, fervently, and fumbles in his pocket for his ring of keys. His hand shakes violently as he drops them onto Dean’s outstretched palm. He sneaks a peek up at the men.

“Cas,” Dean says, tossing the keys to the trenchcoat man. “Figure out which one it is. I’ll deal with him.”

Cas catches the keys. “So, you do not want me to break the doors?”

“No— just—” Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lips pressed together. “Just unlock them.” Cas scowls, but begins slotting the various keys into the mausoleum lock.

Dean turns back to Jerry and waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey,” he snaps. Jerry meets his eyes, conscious that he must look utterly terrified. He hopes it’ll appeal to any sense of humanity in this gun-toting lunatic.

“Whatever you think I am, I’m not,” Dean says, quickly and gruffly. “I’m not some pervert tryin’ to get my rocks off with Sleeping Beauty in there. I haven’t got time to ease you in slow, so here it is: ghosts are real. There’s one after my brother. I can gank it, but I gotta burn some hair or somethin’, something keepin’ it here. That’s all. Once Cas opens the doors, I’ll be in and out. We don’t have to get nasty. I’m even saving your doors from gettin’ blasted, as a favor. ”

Jerry picks and chooses what to process of that. “You have a gun pointed at me.”

Dean glances at the gun, like he’s just now realizing he still has it trained on Jerry. He lowers it. “Sorry. Had to let you know I’m serious. You gonna let me do my thing, or we gonna have a problem?”

The police will be here soon, Jerry thinks. It’s not my responsibility to stop this maniac.

“No problem,” he says. Dean nods once, satisfied, and in that moment, the lock clicks. The doors swing open heavily. Dean springs to his feet and races toward the mausoleum.

“Awesome, Cas!” he shouts, slapping a palm against Cas’ chest as he passes. Cas looks after him, a bemused expression on his face.

“I don’t know what to burn!” Dean hollers from inside.

Jerry is so far past trying to understand any of this. He nurses his scraped palms, huddling on the cold pavement and thinking of the book Andrew gave him. He wanted to finish a few chapters tonight so they could talk about them over breakfast tomorrow. He hopes he gets the chance.

Jerry is tough, but his eyes sting a little as he thinks about it.

“Dean is a good man,” Cas suddenly says, in that mechanical way of his. “Righteous. He won’t harm a human.”

Jerry stares at him in disbelief. There’s nothing he can say to that, beyond “Okay.” Cas just nods, and turns to gaze into the darkness of the mausoleum. There’s a lot of scraping and clattering echoing from the room inside, as if Dean is dismantling the place. He probably is, Jerry thinks miserably as the sound of breaking glass reaches his ears.

Dean comes storming back out of the room, assorted items piled in his arms. Jerry recognizes the doll that’s usually propped up behind the glass of the Bennett daughter’s crypt, and a locket that hangs behind the mother’s. A whole array of other personal effects that Jerry spends his nights guarding also end up on the pavement at Dean’s feet. Dean dives into his duffel bag, pulling out a can of gasoline. He douses the whole pile in the acrid-smelling stuff — Jerry’s nostrils sting and he coughs, scrabbling a little farther away. Dean pulls a lighter out of pocket and flicks it several times, cursing when it doesn’t ignite.

“Allow me,” Cas says, stepping forward. He pauses. “Close your eyes.”

Jerry throws an arm over his eyes without a second thought, just catching sight of Dean doing the same. His jacket sleeve does very little, though, to shield his eyes from the brilliant blue-white light that rips through the darkness. It feels like a bonfire, there one moment and gone the next, leaving the tips of Jerry’s hair singed. He cowers, eyes pressed shut, heaving huge breaths.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says, voice tinged with awe. “Thanks for the assist.”

Jerry lowers his (slightly smoking) arm and peers at where the pile of belongings once lay. It’s completely gone, reduced to ash, just smoldering dust on the pavement. How on Earth—

In that moment, Dean’s mobile phone rings. He frantically plunges a hand into his jacket and rips it out, flipping it open.

“Sammy?” he asks sharply, pressing the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end mumbles something and Dean sags in relief, dragging a hand over his face. “Close call, huh? Yeah, glad it worked.”

Jerry tunes out the rest of Dean and Sam’s conversation. His eyes travel from the smoking pile of dust, to Cas (who’s standing motionless, staring at Dean), to the open mausoleum door, to his own hands, trembling in his lap. A light catches his eye off to the side and he follows it, realizing it’s his radio, abandoned on the pavement, red emergency light still blinking steadily. He gazes at it like a lifeline.

“Is that— Did you—” Dean’s voice is suddenly closer, right next to Jerry, and he quickly looks up. Dean’s looking at the radio, too. His phone is closed in his hand; he must be done talking to his brother.

“The cops coming?” Dean demands, gesturing at the radio. Jerry doesn’t want to let on, he doesn’t, but faced with this strange, complicated, definitely violent person, he can’t hold out. He nods.

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. Just then, the first siren wails in the distance, growing louder by the second.

Finally.

Dean groans and rushes over to his duffel bag, throwing the can of gasoline back in and grabbing the crowbar off the ground to toss that in, too. “Leave the keys, Cas,” he snaps at the trenchcoat man, who still has Jerry’s key ring dangling from his fingers. Cas drops the keys on the ground.

“Can you zap me to my car?” Dean hoists the duffel over his shoulder and faces Cas. “I won’t make it if I run.”

Cas steps closer to Dean, until he’s right in front of him. Their noses are just a few inches apart. Jerry, with nothing else to do but wait for his rescuers, watches them. Dean takes what looks like a shaky breath. His eyes flick down to Cas’ mouth. “You gonna stare, or you gonna help?” he asks, but it comes out small, a weak attempt at bravado.

Cas reaches out and places his hand over Dean’s left shoulder. “I’ll go with you,” he says, deep and measured, and in the next second, they’re gone. Just gone.

Jerry could swear he heard the flapping of wings. He sits there, numb, staring at the spot where they vanished.

Eventually, the yellow beams of flashlights dart across the front of the mausoleum and voices break through the fog in Jerry’s brain. A hand lands on his shoulder. “Sir, are you all right?”

He’s saved.

There’s a lot of questions from the responding officers, a lot of Jerry having to recount what he saw, picking and choosing details — which of course renders his story utterly implausible — and a lot of nobody believing him; there’s a breathalizer test — humiliating — that of course comes back clean (whether that’s better or worse for him, Jerry’s not so sure), and a round of paperwork, and finally, finally, Jerry is allowed to go.

He stumbles down the cemetery path in a daze, passing his long-cold cup of coffee, still perched on its headstone. He snags it and throws it away in the trash can at the cemetery gates. The officers said they would lock the mausoleum and the security station; Jerry was supposed to go home. He stops briefly at his station, though, to grab Andrew’s book.

He’s not quite ready to go home yet. He’s not sure what to say.

Jerry makes himself comfortable in the front seat of his car, overhead light on, and cracks open his book. He starts to read.

[mascwhump]

Chapter 14 - Mistakes

TW: Forced self h*rm, (almost) forced attempted s*icide, noncon drugging, needles, blood, manhandling, guns, begging

Tag list: @whatwasmyprevioususername @milk-carton-whump @whumpasaurus101 @whatwhumpcomments @mnmlover2002 @ashintheairlikesnow

-

The sound of a drill caused both of them to wake. Rudy was standing on a step stool at the other end of the basement, screwing something into the ceiling. As he stepped down, Charlie realized it was a camera.

Rudy folded the stool and pointed the drill at Charlie, pulling the trigger twice before walking up the stairs.

"Fucking weirdo," Charlie mumbled.

"Great, I was just getting used to not having my every move watched," Crow said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

They both got up and stretched. Charlie went into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. When he walked out, he noticed Crow sitting on the couch.

"Hey," he said, "we can't sit there."

Crow sighed, annoyed, as he got up and went to sit by the wall. Charlie sat on the floor across from him and crossed his legs.

"How do you think the guys are doing?" Charlie asked.

"Fine, I hope. I'm surprised Deke's plan worked to the extent that it did," Crow replied.

"Me, too. Hey, I've been wondering... why didn't you stay on the helicopter? You could've gotten out."

Crow shrugged. "Couldn't just leave you."

Rudy came down and set two plates of toast on the bar without a word. Crow ate quickly, and Charlie wondered about when was the last time he had eaten.

"Here, you can have this other piece. I'm not really hungry," he said, putting the toast on Crow's plate.

"You sure?" Crow asked.

Charlie nodded. After they ate, they sat in their previous spots against the wall.

"After this, what's next?" Charlie asked.

"Well," Crow sighed, "there's going to be a lot of questions. A lot of assessments. Best case scenario, nothing changes and the team stays together. Worse case, honorable discharge."

"Let's hope for the best case, then," Charlie said.

"Yeah. Um, how's your neck? It looks, uh, pretty bad."

Charlie reached up and felt his neck. He had purposely avoided looking at himself in the mirror. It was tender to the touch.

"It hurts a little, but I'm fine," he replied.

"Okay. How about your mouth?"

"Stings a bit. I don't think it's nearly as bad as it looked, though. Just bit a little hole in my cheek."

"If only Ethan were here.”

"I'm kind of afraid to be in his care after this. He's strict when he's in doctor mode," Charlie laughed.

Their conversation was cut short when Mallory and Rudy arrived at the bottom of the steps. Mallory was carrying a small case, and Charlie already knew what was inside. He set the case down on the bar, then turned toward the two.

"Rudy was kind enough to bring along a sample of the first batch of this new serum we're working on," Mallory said with a prideful grin.

He opened to the case and pulled out a syringe filled with a deep orange liquid. Charlie thought it looked similar to the truth serum, and he shifted uncomfortably. Mallory stood between the two of them.

“Who wants it?” He asked.

“What does it do?” Crow questioned.

“Why don’t you give me your arm and find out?”

Charlie and Crow exchanged worried glances. Rudy was just inside Charlie’s vision, and he could see his hand resting on his holstered pistol.

“I’ll do it,” Charlie said.

“No, I think I want Crow to be the first to test this one. Arm?” Mallory said.

Crow reluctantly held out his arm. Mallory kneeled down and took hold his arm to steady it before pushing the needle in. Charlie hadn’t noticed that he was chewing on his lip until he tasted blood.

Mallory put the needle back in the case and turned back toward them.

“Well?”

“Don’t feel any different,” Crow said.

“Good, it’s not supposed to make you feel different.”

“Then, what’s it for?”

“Stand up.”

Crow immediately got to his feet, and a confused look appeared on his face. Mallory looked at Rudy and smirked.

“Hold up your hand,” Mallory said.

Crow’s hand shot up.

“Hey, I didn’t do that,” he said, his confused expression turning into one of concern.

“Listen closely. You only listen to me, and don’t make a sound unless I tell you to. Got it?”

Crow nodded. His eyes were wide as he looked down at Charlie.

“What the hell have you done?” Charlie snapped as he stood up.

“Crow, grab a glass from behind the bar.”

He walked almost robotically. He picked up a wine glass from under the counter and held it in his hand.

“Good. Now break it,” Mallory ordered.

The glass shattered in his hand. Blood and glass fell to the floor, and he remained still and silent. Mallory was beaming.

“Stop!” Charlie growled, grabbing the collar of Mallory’s shirt.

Mallory shoved him back hard, causing him to slam into the wall.

“Restrain him,” he ordered to Rudy.

Rudy grabbed Charlie arms and held them behind his back as he forced him against the wall.

“Take one of those shard of glass, and cut your arm with it,” Mallory said.

“No! Crow, don’t do it!” Charlie yelled, struggling against Rudy’s hold.

Crow picked up one of the shards on the bar top and held it against the back of his wrist. He began to drag it slowly up his arm, stopping at his elbow. He set the glass down as blood began to drip down his arm and onto the floor.

“Great job,” Mallory said.

“You fuck, stop! Stop now!” Charlie screamed.

He tried to kick Rudy from behind, but he was wedged between him and the wall, preventing him from getting a leg up.

“Shut up,” Rudy hissed.

Mallory paced for a moment. The blood continued to drip as Crow stood there, eyes wide and breathing heavy.

“Crow, you love Charlie, right?” Mallory questioned.

Crow nodded.

“I saw the footage of you jumping out of the helicopter. Very brave,” Mallory said, “So, my question for you is... would you die for him?”

“Don’t answer that!” Charlie yelled.

Rudy slammed his head against the wall. Crow nodded again. Mallory reached over and pulled the gun from Rudy’s holster, then walked over to Crow. Charlie fought as hard as he could to get free. Tears were streaming down his face as he tried to rip his arms away from Rudy.

“Prove it,” Mallory challenged.

He held out the gun. Crow took it from him with no hesitation.

“No!” Charlie sobbed, “Please! Please Mallory, I’ll do anything! Please, just stop!”

“Anything? I don’t believe you,” Mallory said.

“Anything, I swear! Anything you want, please!”

Charlie lost his ability to stand and fell to his knees. Rudy kept his grip on one of his arms. Mallory walked over and lifted Charlie’s chin to look into his eyes.

“Put the gun down,” he said.

Crow set the gun on the bar and Charlie let out a terrible sob, like he had been holding his breath for hours. His face was soaked with tears as he pulled in sharp breaths. Mallory sighed as he let go of his chin and went to retrieve the gun. He put it back in Rudy’s holster.

“Go clean up your arm, and then clean up this mess,” he ordered to Crow.

Crow went into the bathroom and Rudy let go of Charlie’s arm. His attempts at controlling his breathing were futile.

“You’re fucking pathetic,” Mallory hissed.

A sudden anger exploded inside of Charlie. He sprang up and tackled Mallory, throwing his fists at him wildly.

“How fucking dare you?!” He screamed.

His attack was short lived. An earsplitting bang stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at Mallory and the reddened marks on his face. His eyes were wide. Charlie stood up and backed against the wall. Mallory stood, as well, but his focus was on Rudy and the pistol in his hand.

“I thought it wasn’t loaded,” he said in a eerily calm tone, “I thought I told you not to load it.”

Rudy put it away. Mallory roughly grabbed his jacket and stood on his toes to get in his face.

“It wasn’t supposed to be loaded!” He yelled, “I told you! You’re lucky you missed, you stupid twat!”

Rudy stammered over his words, trying to find some sort of excuse.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mallory hissed, shoving him backward, “Now!”

Rudy walked toward the stairs like a dog who had just gotten caught destroying furniture. Mallory picked up a glass from the bar and threw it at the wall. It shattered, and he grabbed a bottle of vodka to take a few swigs from.

Crow emerged from the bathroom with his arm wrapped in toilet paper. He walked to the bar and began picking up the shards of glass. Mallory sighed and left upstairs. Charlie stood, frozen. When Mallory came back, he was carrying the first aid kit. He set it on the bar and told Crow to give him his arm. He unwrapped his makeshift bandage and cleaned the cut with an alcohol wipe. After, he wrapped his arm with a real bandage and secured it with tape.

“It’s not deep. Won’t need stitches,” he mumbled as he packed up the first aid kit.

He walked into the bathroom to wash his hands. Charlie watched in disbelief as Crow then continued to pick up the glass.

“Crow, stop. I’ll do it,” Charlie said.

Crow ignored him. Charlie held back new tears as he helped clean up the rest of the glass. He grabbed a rag from the back of the bar and soaked up the blood on the tile.

“Go rest, Crow. You can lie on the bed in there,” Mallory said.

Charlie popped up from behind the bar as Crow walked away. He threw the bloody rag on top of the bar and folded his arms.

“Charlie, I didn’t know,” Mallory said.

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Charlie hissed, “He could’ve died. You made me believe he was going to shoot himself. Why? Why, Mallory? What for?”

“Charlie-“

“No. I don’t want to hear it. Whatever shitty excuse you have, I don’t want to hear it. There is no justifiable reason you can give me for making me fucking beg for his life.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Charlie reached for the vodka on the counter and poured it into a tall glass. He shot it down, not caring that it was the equivalent of 6 shots or so.

“And you loved it, didn’t you, you sick fuck? You loved every second of it. I fucking hate you,” He went on as he took a seat on the couch, not caring about the rules anymore.

Mallory didn’t say a word. He pulled out his phone, and began typing something.

“Who are you texting, now?” Charlie questioned.

“I’m telling Rudy to come back. He’s going to take Crow and put him on a helicopter,” Mallory said without looking up.

“A helicopter to where?”

“Home.”