#what in the goddamn hell is this 40 year old man doing on the floor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lukascreamsintothevoid · 1 year

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Blooming Panic Boys

Two obsessions hit hard at the same time today. Backstreet Boys songs and Blooming Panic LET'S GO

Quest-

Just Want You To Know- (oh god why am I doing this to myself) Your break-up song with him. Something happened, you two just weren't compatible in the long run, but god he misses you. He wants you to be happy, and he wants you to think that he's moving on from you, because he knows that you'd be worried and upset if you realized he was still devastated from your breakup. But he would give anything if you could try one more time. (I linked the music video cause the song is bittersweet, but the music video is so goddamned funny)

Chances- This man is a hopeless romantic. Utterly hopeless, and he is blown away by how many completely random and out-of-his-control things had to happen for you to end up by his side. It's over-the-top, dramatic, and romantic as hell.

As Long As You Love Me- Quest's Angel could come from any background, Have done just about anything, and his love would not change. He loves you, not where you came from or who you were before him. The here and now are what matter to him, and in the here and now, all he asks is that you love him.

Xyx-

Love Somebody- This man is so in love with everything about you. Poetic, energetic, yet really grounded in real life. These are the things he openly admits he feels about you.

Helpless When She Smiles- You would almost never be able to get him to admit it, but this song is him with you. You bring reason and life and joy to him, drive him insane, and he'd do almost anything to make you smile. You're a calm in the storm of life and his mind, but you're also a storm in and of yourself, but he'd stay in your storm forever.

Treat Me Right- This boy gets a good breakup song. Hopefully not with you. I'm kinda picturing this one as him finally leaving the ex that hurt him so badly. He adored them, and they were fine in private, but around their friends, they would talk shit about him, and be horrible to him, and he finally realizes he deserves to be treated better than that. I just can't hurt him. I really can't. His break-up song is him realizing just he deserves to be happy and treated well.

Nightowl-

Hey Mr. Dj (Keep Playin' This Song)- You and Nightowl at a club, and he's just praying that the DJ will play any song it takes to keep you in his arms. You look so good out on the floor, and he'd stay there all night with you if he could. Also, super horny song, perfect for the eager puppy :)

Passionate- ... yeah... eager, passionate nightowl... I just think that he would be this forward. Hell, he IS this forward in the game. Just... owl, please, why are you like this?

Chateau- Ok, so, Robo's headcannon that Nightowl and You divorce, but that you end up back together? This is the break-up/getting-back-together song. Nightowl still misses you, still remembers the little things about you. He meets up with you years after the divorce, just wanting to catch up, not planning on trying anything, but he then sees you and can't help himself. He'll respect what you want, but he's not letting this chance slip away. Still kinda boyish and bouncy, but matured. Perfect for 30/40 year old nightowl.

Toaster-

Safest Place to Hide- The world and work are really rough sometimes. But you and Toasty find a little peace and quiet with each other. This song just is the calm comfort that is Toasty's love for you..

Unsuspecting Sunday Afternoon- Idk, this just feels like the kind way Toaster would realize how he feels. He sees you, talks to you a few times, and he kinda has a sense of what's going on. But then there's that night, talking about Bloomic, about letting things go, and you whine when he says that you should probably log off so you can be ready for work the next day. He says goodnight, logs off, and it just. Hits him. Just how much he cares about you, how much he wishes that he could keep talking to you. It was a completely normal day, and the days are going to keep going forward, but now he knows how he feels about you, and its like the world has changed, but just for him. And he has no fucking clue if you like him too. And it kinda hurts, cause he really hopes you do.

BONUS SALO

You Can Let Go- Pure Comfort. You've been working too hard, You've been letting the world tear you down. Salo wants you to smile and rely on him if you want to.

Straight Through My Heart- Me any time Salo speaks. He said hello and I broke. I'd break up with anyone and everyone at the word from Salo. Absolute GILF. (Also, Vampire music Video, so it also works for nightowl, but I would kill for Old, Grizzled, Grey Vampire Salo. That sounds so sexy.)

#blooming panic #bp quest #bp nightowl #nakedtoaster #xyx #no onion #bsb's too sexy for him #how dare you bring this smut into his catholic household #saloCin

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voluntaryvictim · 2 years

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literally somebody come stop him

#what in the goddamn hell is this 40 year old man doing on the floor #every day i find new shit. sighh #idkhow

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lizziesfirstwife · 3 years

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Mobius having a crush on you would include

(+and dating extra!)

(warning: this was not requested but the idea sat in my head for a while now. And btw it's a female!reader who's a little younger than him, but still of age ofc. Just as a warning for all who don't identify as female btw. Also some swearing & adult themes mentioned, so kinda only 18+, pls keep that in mind. Also English isn't my first language, so please be kind <3...)

He wouldn't be the clingy kind of man who crushes on someone

You were a bit younger than him, surely a few people could tell from the outside

Sometimes it made him feel bad, but as it was a matter of maybe 10 years difference, it wasn't that bad at the end (at least on the outside, who knows how old y'all actually were,let's say he's in his late 30s/ early 40s, that would make you early 30s)

Still letting you your space and freedom, he would simply try to spend as much time with you as appropriate and manageable for you

Sample, eating salad in the cafeteria, or secretly taking you on a mission

Only to be admonished later by Ravonna

But hell, seeing you smile every time you two were together was more than worth it for him

"I am not crushing on her, she's simply a good friend. Unlike you if you keep teasing me about her."

That's what he once told Ravonna in her office, drinking coffee even though he wasn't even thirsty

They always did that after he was on a mission, sometimes you were so bored and then mad at him for neglecting you, that you wouldn't talk to him for a while

She just rolled her eyes and mumbled something about him being a terrible liar

Unaware of you standing in the door frame, words stuck in your throat, and a stack of papers Ravonna told you to bring to her office, now lying on the floor

Not saying anything you fastly picked up everything and laid it down on the table in front of the sofa, where both of them still sat

On your way out you gave a last glance over your shoulder, only to see that neither mobius or ravonna bothered to go after you

Did he really not care if you understood anything wrong?

Hell, if one of your friends could only have the slightest chance of even considering that you like them, you would also do everything to make sure they know it's not true, right?

But no, not even the slightest enlightenment he could give you

So it came that you both didn't talk to each other for a while

And seemingly it didn't disturb him, as you still saw him eating his food at the cafeteria regularly

You avoided eating there, instead you took your food to your bedroom and brought the crockery back after you finished

It was uncomfortable to you, as the food always fell from your fork or spoon and on your white bedsheets

But one day, one day the chaos began (let's just pretend we can use the word day there hehe)

Too many missions and too few colleagues lead to the point where you suddenly found yourself on a mission, together with the infamous Mobius

Ignoring the fact that you once originally worked in the library, you encouraged yourself and pulled through that shit

Hell, you even ignored him for the whole mission, trying to ignore his obvious glances at you

The tension could literally be seen in the air between you two, you being rather angry, and him not giving a damn about the unfriendly glimpses that were thrown at him from time to time

"You know, why can't you just act like a grown-up and stop trying to kill me with your eyes?"

You stopped walking up the mountain you both were currently on, and looked back at him confused

"I am the guilty one? At least I know how to put my mouth to work and clear things up that've been messed up. Unlike you I know that cockiness isn't something that attracts people, Mobius."

He only smirked, and put his left hand on his hip, the other one scratching his slightly existing beard

Those goddamn hands

You once had a fantasy about him putting those hands to good work, after he spontaneously worked out with you at the small gym they had there, his muscles and small veins almost jumping in your eyes

Oh girl, and don't think you didn't notice the way he also stole glances at your décolletage that was clearly on display with the way your sports bra was cut (no matter which size they are, he could've still not helped himself)

He was all for woman rights, and found it disgusting if other men only looked at you the wrong way, and hell, he swore himself to never do it again

But still it was a good picture for his daily before-sleep-routine

Let's just say the mission wasn't the only thing that was finished by you and him that day

Small dating bonus :

When a little time went by, your once regular meetings in the cafeteria turned into regular meetings in your bedrooms

Mostly in his because he had a bigger bed, earned due to his high status at the tva

You found it unfair that you had a smaller bed than him, just because you worked at the library

But god, the things that could be done in a small bed were immaculate

especially if it was him on top

Normally it was a joke between you two that you always took charge in his bed chamber, but now it made sense

Vice versa also

When you were lying in his bed after a mission where both of you almost died, rather naked under the covers of his blanket, he asked you to be his girlfriend

You, and don't mind how mean that sounds, needed a moment to process what he said

Would this even work out? Him and you being on constant risk of dying on some mission, neither of you really had the warranty of living long enough for this making sense

You also never really had a relationship before, and by what you heard he also didn't

But with the soft look in his eyes, hands trailing down your back and drawing little flowers with his fingers right above your butt , you couldn't imagine anything else in your life than risking your ass on missions

With him.

#mobius #loki laufeyson #loki series #headcanons #mobius x you #mobius x reader

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coffeeandspn · 4 years

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I’m really, really sorry...

GIF is not mine.

Summary: Castiel hates to celebrate his birthday, and Dean knows that, but he thinks that Cas needs to let go his past, so he surprises him anyways. Things don’t go as planned, and they have a big fight.

Pairing: Eileen x Sam Winchester, maybe Human!Castiel x Dean Winchester

A/N: I’ll write some ACTUAL Destiel scenes only if u guys like this first part and want me to write a second chapter, because there are no mentions of Dean and Castiel having another relationship than just best friends, nor there are mentions on they having feelings for each other, simply because it didn’t fit with the situation..

Rating: Teen and Up.

Warnings: angst, unhappy ending, Dean is an asshole, Castiel is depressed, physical abuse, blood, fights, Castiel’s father is an abusive and drunken asshole, homophobia, language

Words: 1972

It was done. There was no way of coming back in time to change it. Dean was sitting on the kitchen floor, alone. All the lights were out except for a faint one, everybody was sleeping, and there he was… By himself. His sobs were the only thing that filled the silence of the night, and he swore, he could hear Castiel sobbing as well. That made him feel even more miserable. He blamed himself over and over again for his stupid mouth. Couldn’t he just, shut up for one time? No, he had to ruin everything. All the damn time. Sam gave him a disappointed look before going to bed, and Eileen gave him a pity one. Castiel had left like 30 minutes before that, and the look on his face… Dean didn´t even want to remember the way Cas looked at him before storming out of the kitchen, with tears on his face. He went directly to his room, slamming the door. Everyone was silent for a minute or two. Dean didn´t know what to say.

He felt and still feels like an idiot. How could he be so heartless? Why on Earth did Dean think that saying that Castiel was acting just like his father was a good idea? On his goddamn birthday!? Dean was definitely an asshole.

Castiel was doing the best he could, but by the time Dean realized that, it was already too late.

He knew Cas felt tired and sad, that the memories will haunt him forever, he knew basically everything about him, they´ve been friends for over 10 years, but Dean thought that maybe, it was time to let that horrible memory go. He thought that it was time for Cas to actually start living the life he always deserved; a great one.

But Dean doesn’t know shit about how Cas really feels. Because his mother had a great life, and his father wasn´t an abusive asshole, unlike Castiel´s parents. Dean´s family was the typical perfect one, the kind of family everyone wanted.

On his 13th birthday, Castiel´s dad, Chuck, beat his wife to exhaustion because he discovered that his younger son Castiel, was gay, and no one said a word to him. Plus, he was a drunken, a horrible husband and an even more horrible father. He blamed Castiel´s mother because he claimed that ‘’That little faggot bastard came out of YOUR vagina and you raised him to be like that, not me, you fucking whore! Look what you did with my son! He can´t even be my son anymore, not if he likes to suck fucking dicks!’’ His brothers, Gabriel and Michael, that were 16 and 18 by that time, tried to stop him, but Chuck was way stronger than them. Castiel was terrified, he couldn´t even move. When he was done, and had left his mother unconscious on the bloody floor, he tried to catch Castiel, but he luckily reacted quickly and started running as fast as he could. He escaped his house and started screaming for help, which worked, because a few neighbors came out of their houses, and called the police when they realized what was happening. After all, that wasn´t the first fight of the family and Castiel was sure the cops had their address memorized at that point.

The police arrived minutes after, one of the neighbors let Castiel in to their house while Chuck was busy trying to get his drunk ass up from the floor because he fell while he was running behind his son, trying to catch him.

That´s when Castiel met the Winchesters, and that´s when Dean and Castiel´s great friendship started.

The ambulance arrived as well and they took his mother to the hospital as fast as they could. She fell on a coma after that. His father went to prison and killed himself after spending barely six months in there.

Castiel, Michael and Gabriel were sent to an orphanage after that, and visited their mother (and the Winchester family) every day. As they grew older, and their responsibilities bigger, they stopped seeing their mother that often. She never gave any signal of improvement, or waking up, and their hopes started fading. After ten years of being in coma, not even breathing for herself anymore, they painfully decided it was time to let her go.

Today was Castiel´s 25th birthday, the 12th anniversary of his family officially breaking apart, and in two months, the 2nd anniversary of the official death of his mother.

That´s why Castiel hated to celebrate his birthday so much, but Dean insisted on making a surprise dinner for his best friend, alongside with some decorations around the house.

Castiel was drunk when he came home. His clothes and hair were messy, and he smelled like alcohol and cigarettes.

When he saw the decorations, he started swearing and yelling that he didn´t want any of that shit. Sam and Eileen managed to calm him down, and Sam helped him to take a shower, because he could barely walk.

When he sat down at the table to eat, he was incredibly quiet.

Dean, as always, was trying to make things better, so he started talking about his day, and then asked Castiel about his.

‘’How do you think my day went, Dean?’’

‘’I mean… I don´t know, that´s exactly why I´m asking.’’

‘’Well, it was trash. I saw the bloody body of my mother in every corner of my mind the entire fucking day, but thank you for asking though, dumbass.’’

Dean frowned at the insult.

‘’Wow, ok, I´m sorry if your life isn´t perfect, but that´s not my fault and you know it, buddy, so don´t come at me like that, I was just trying to be nice and break the tension in here.’’

Castiel let go the cutlery abruptly and look at him furiously.

‘’If you were trying so hard to be nice, you would´ve started by not doing any of this shit in the first place, because this is no special, nor happy day to me, and you fucking know that!’’

‘’Man, it´s been twelve years! You´ve got to stop tormenting yourself with what happened that day all the time! Do you really want to live your whole life like this? Depressed?’’

‘’Dean…’’ Sam tried to interrupt, but clearly failed when Castiel interrupted him instead.

‘’Are you fucking kidding me, Dean? Do you think I like living like this every damn day? I try so hard to get over it, you have no idea, but it´s impossible when the image of my fucking father physically abusing me, my brothers and my mother, comes to my mind and even haunts me in my fucking dreams all the time!’’

‘’Cas, I know what you´ve been through, but…’’ Dean tried talking softer this time, but that only made Castiel angrier.

‘’NO YOU FUCKING DON´T!’’ He screamed, punching the table and breaking his plate and his glass.

Everyone in the table jumped in surprise and concern. Again, Sam tried to calm things down, but he couldn´t.

‘’Your family was always perfect, your father wasn´t an asshole and your mother lived ‘til you were 20, she was with you through childhood, took care of you, you were able to go to the games with your dad and enjoy a family picnic, so don´t you dare say that you know what I´ve been through, because you absolutely don´t! I´ve been through hell and back and tried to recover millions of times from this, but I just can´t, and you don´t know what real pain is like.’’

Dean got angry as well. Castiel was treating him like he was some sort of perfect commercial guy, and he wasn´t.

‘’You think my life was always perfect? You don´t think my parents had some fights from time to time? You think I don´t know what it feels like losing someone you love, and that should be with you until you´re at least 40 years old? I´ve lost my mom at a pretty young age compared to other people, Castiel!’’

‘’I´ve lost her when I was 13 years old, Dean! And the stupid fights your parents had from ‘time to time’ are NOTHING compared to what I had to witness! Stop trying to minimize my problems with yours, you have no right!’’ At this point, both Dean and Castiel were yelling. Castiel took the already broken glass while he was speaking and threw it, making it break in thousands of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.

‘’You´re acting like an insane, just like your father!’’ Dean yelled. The room went silent.

Castiel´s expression changed from angry to hurt in a matter of seconds.

Sam was hugging Eileen tight, trying to protect her in case things got even more out of control.

Castiel´s blue eyes seemed to be even bluer when the tears started accumulating.

His fist loosened, dropping more small pieces of broken glass to the floor, along with a few drops of blood.

A tear came out of his left eye and rolled down his cheeks. He turned away and disappeared.

Sam and Eileen started cleaning up the mess without saying anything, while Dean was still there, trying to process what just happened.

After it was all clean again, the decorations in the garbage can, and the food in the fridge, Sam said ‘’Dude, you´re an actual asshole, you know that, right? I told you this whole thing was a bad idea. You should’ve known, Dean, you guys are best friends since you´re thirteen… I really hope you go and apologize to him soon. Good night.’’

Sam gave him a disappointed look, and Eileen a pity one. They turned off the lights in their way to their bedroom, leaving just one on.

Dean dropped to the floor devastated, already crying. He couldn´t believe what just happened. After ten minutes of panicking, having no idea how to apologize for the monstrous thing he said, crying and sobbing, he decided to look out for Castiel. He needed to fix this right now. He had no idea if Cas was ever going to forgive him. He hoped he will at some point…

He knocked on Cas’s door, obviously not receiving an answer. After two minutes, he knocked again. Nothing. He sighed, and started talking.

‘’Look, Cas… There’s absolutely nothing I can do right now for you to forgive me, but… I just want you to hear me, please?’’ Dean waited for a response, or for Cas to open the door, but none of those things happened. ‘’Alright, I´ll just start talking from here… I hope you can hear me… I- I wasn’t thinking, man. I´m really, really sorry for what I´ve said, I´m an asshole… I honestly have no excuses, and even if I had, it´s not going to work anyways. I just want you to know that I´m so sorry, I mean it… I hope you can forgive me someday, I… I really don´t want to lose you. Not after all we´ve been through…’’ Dean sobbed, and waited for… Well, anything. A sob, a move, a word. But he couldn´t hear anything at all.

‘’Cas? Man, are you okay?’’

After waiting outside his door for five minutes, he decided to come in.

‘’Hey, dude, I´m coming in, okay? I´m… You´re worrying me…’’

Dean got into the room, only to find Castiel’s window wide open, and the curtain moving softly because of the breeze of the night.

‘’Cas!? Where are you?’’ He started looking everywhere, screaming his name desperately, but couldn´t find him.

Sam and Eileen got up, and asked Dean what was going on.

Dean, with tears in his eyes, and a heavy breath, turned around and looked at the couple.

‘’He´s- He´s gone. I found his window wide open, and I don´t know where he is.’’

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izzyovercoffee · 4 years

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iii. gotta have your face to the sky

They all said the same thing: Lady Luck’s blessing ain’t earned, it’s given, and you gotta be open to receive. But how to receive meant a different thing to every son-of-a-gun with a head still on his shoulders and one hand still workin’ enough to line up a sight and pull a trigger.

Superstition.

It was always a might tricky workin’ with the paranoid and delusional folk out on the desert---the kind of desert that was all hard rock and long sun, not rolling sands and sinking earth. Different kind of person to be found on the hard roads that had to live there, versus the ones that were only settled for a night between the place they come and the place they go.

Carmichael knew the score all too well.

Lady Luck, someone said to him once, showed up in a long dress with sharp heels and a sharp glass with the bar’s best in hand to look at you from under a smokey eye. Another told him Lady Luck had come up from around the river bleeding out into the dam and pursed her lips with a smile, then dragged his brother down to the current, then down under.

Gotta leave a cap out for Lady Luck. Gotta buy a drink out. Gotta open doors for the ladies, pull out seats, let them eat first. The damned lists go on, and on, until all the rituals in the Mojave blended together to some fool’s song.

Carmichael never much concerned himself with luck, or having it, or not having it. He lived a long, long time---long compared to the betting average of 30-odd before the deadbeats dropped, and 40 for the supremely lucky or supremely violent.

Men like him didn’t live to lose count of the years if all they did was depend on luck and superstition.

Didn’t mean he didn’t believe in Her, though. You just didn’t see him bending ass over head to be extra contorting to any beautiful woman that walked into a room, through a door, into the light, or sung on a mic. Hell, ask him thirty, forty, years ago about his opinion, and all he’d say is a firm-if-unsteady maybe she do, maybe she don’t, exist.

That was the safe line to take---don’t deny the Unseen to the Seen, and the Unseen don’t have to make a lesson outta you to reassert their position in the world.

Superstitions, and all that. That was the only one he’d subscribed to.

That all changed in time, of course. All things must change, after all.

Survive in a shit world, you learn how to adapt to survive. Learn how to change, how to see the signs, respect the dead and pray to the living to do the right fucking thing every once in a while, if they’d any sense and wanted to live half as long as he’d done already.

It weren’t an opinion he ever shared with anyone, save Charlie.

Charlie. That’s when he took the sightings of Lady Luck a little more seriously.

Lady Luck, is what Charlie called one strange as fuck woman.

His partner---a hard man, harder still for the anger in him that turned sharp, and bitter, with no outlet and no direction between shaking hands---raged adamant in the Lady’s walk on the long roads. Weird shit couldn’t be explained he ended up chalking out to her swinging by.

Being around Charlie for so long, hearing him wax and wane at odd intervals over long hauls with two baby brahmin still learning to get used to carrying large packages---who could blame Carmichael for tuning him out?

But eventually some things started to wiggle and sink in.

The stray bullet that clipped the armor of his shoulder when it should’a hit his head. The Deathclaw that tripped half a step and blew the fuck up on an old landmine no one’d seen until it blew the fuck up. The rad storms that soaked up hell from The Divide dissipated before it could cross their paths and sick their brahmin.

Little things. Things couldn’t be controlled, but superstition felt validated, felt good, felt right to say Lady Luck took a shine on him tonight because maybe, just maybe, he was a little bit kind, a little bit soft, a little bit pay-it-forward before they left their last rest with other people.

So maybe he never did see Her. Never saw the woman in the long gown with the perfect smile and the hands soft as a feathers. Maybe he never saw the old woman who could use a bottle of purified water to stave off the Mojave thirst. Maybe he never held open a door for a sweetheart weren’t lookin’ in the right direction.

Maybe it was all in his head.

Everyone in the Mojave havin’ mass hallucinations of some nameless women grazing their arms and witness their luck turn right the fuck around that night. Some things were just a roll of the metaphysical dice, and he didn’t want to lean too hard one way or another if that dice went rolled by a pair of elegant ungodly hands.

He stopped believin’ it was all just in Charlie’s head when Lady Luck came bearing down on them from through a goddamn set of old stained-glass windows, silent as the night before she smashed the glass and blew two Legionnaires away with a shotgun that didn’t look like it should hold together after two rounds, much less tear through thick Legion armor like ragged teeth.

Lady Luck had a name he heard and didn’t register because nobody, and he meant nobody, ever had the jump on his ass before and that should have meant he was a dead motherfucker---‘cept he was very much not dead, mostly alright, with a woman lacking hair and sense holding out a stimpack to him in the dark.

“Thanks,” he waved it away. “But I’m a’right.”

She shrugged and tucked it into the inner pocket of her bomber, and toed the closest dead bastard with a twist of dry lips. Way she angled her head to look at him headlong, he couldn’t remember another who did that.

“I was huntin’ these fucks a while,” she said. “Lucky I caught up when I did.”

“Yeah,” he said. Scratched his head. “Real lucky.”

She holstered the scrapped together shotgun, and looked back up the window. He didn’t believe his eyes, but this what he saw her do: climb up and out the fucking window.

The door was right there.

And that was the first time. Charlie didn’t say a fuckin’ thing, but Carmichael saw it on his face the way he looked at him after she’d gone back out into the night: You saw that, right?

Unfortunately.

Second time, he’d gone into the Tops Casino with Charlie to make a delivery personally ordered by some important schmuck Carmichael couldn’t remember the name of and didn’t care to be reminded. And there he saw her---almost didn’t recognize her, neither, for the hair she had growing outta her head where there’d been none, and the dress she wore that hung to the floor in a shimmer he thought he’d never see again in the world attached to a garment. She’d traded the hard plates of armor, thick pants, impossible trench for a slip of a thing that left little to the imagination, and when she turned her head to view the door…

She’d turned and angled in a way that echoed the fucking night he’d thought was little more than a bizarre fever dream.

And then she smiled. And she waved.

And Charlie got done with his delivery, and dragged Carmichael out to have a nice goddamn dinner for once, partner, and when the dinner was done---he’d gotten word from another caravanner’d been out on the town that fucking Benny, owner-of-the-tops-casino Benny, Benny the backstabbing son-of-a-bastard Benny, the checkered suit wearing cigarette smoking conniving motherfucker Benny, was dead as a doornail.

Cut and bled out in his bed, in his sleep, after a night with a dashing dame whom no one caught the name.

“Our Lady Luck,” Charlie had said in bed that night. They’d gotten a little advanced delivered to them, personal and sweet-and-easy, for another shipment and delivery, after the news, well after dinner.

“Dress don’t suit her,” he said, quiet, in the dark, and Charlie laughed.

“It did the job, didn’t it.”

That it did.

Third time’s the charm, is what they used to say. Third time’s the charm.

They were right.

Third time, they’d come along the side of the road west and out of the Mojave---over a sprawling piece of land no longer living, surrounded by hellfire and rads that even a coupl’a ghouls like them might’a had hard time soaking up over the long haul. So they walked a little south, and then east, ‘stead of west, and came across a young woman pushing cloth to her eyes as if she could soak up the sadness that spilled out of her with no end in sight.

She looked up and Carmichael looked down and he saw the face of Lady Luck torn and shredded, two sewn up surgical scars that marred the hair that didn’t want to grow in the same space as a dead memory.

“Y’all headed East?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Come on,” Charlie said. “Stand up, and dust off. You can cry on the way.”

And she did.

And that was the best fucking decision they’d ever made.

A year gone by on the open road damn near ended them---except it didn’t, and it didn’t for the extra pair of hands at their side. Sure, Charlie wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night with a start and a frantic hand searching for comfort or Carmichael, but that beat the alternative.

Alternative’s them both six feet under and a hurt soul trapped in a hell of her own making after exacting the kinda luck the Mojave didn’t ask for but sure as hell deserved.

Hell, alternative might still find them there---but Lady Luck looked Death in the eye and asked for an extension, and she got it for them. Every time Charlie so much as curses the state of the world, the sky, and the shit food this settlement stop offered them, Carmichael thanks his lucky stars and the good decisions they’ve made.

Maybe he wasn’t so sold on the superstitions bit. But the Lady wandering the land in perplexing image, inconsolable and irreconcilably different each time?

Yeah. Yeah, maybe he might come around to becomin' a believer just yet.

#writing: mine #v: fallout #g: fallout 4 #writing: fallout #oc: Carmichael #oc: Charlie #c: courier six #this has also been sitting in my drafts for a while #so just gonna ... put that down

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sevdrag · 5 years

Text

Getting Dirty, Coming Clean

Here’s my contribution to @mandatoryfunday! Apparently I just wanted to write gratuitous smut! AO3 Link incoming soon.

Bucky huffs angrily as he picks up his plastic container of laundry soap. Mostly he’s glad that his relationship with Natalia has leveled out to the point where she can ask him for favors, but sometimes, it’s really frustrating. He can’t read her much, anymore, and so the point where she’s asking a serious favor versus asking an amusing favor is a line Bucky hasn’t quite learnt to see, yet; and he’s still working on earning Avenger goodwill, no matter how many times Stevie says he doesn’t need to.

And even if this is some kind of Natalia joke, Bucky thinks, it isn’t like it’s a hardship for him to go help out Clint. He hopes Natalia hasn’t figured it out, cause he’s tried to put every ounce of his ill-begotten training into hiding his own interest cause the part of his brain still stuck back in the 40s thinks he still has to. And if that ain’t messed up - using seventy years of brainwashing training to block out a notion he knows is old-fashioned - Bucky ain’t sure what is, but messed up is still better than Natalia, or Stevie, or Clint figurin’ out that he has some kind of notions towards their archer teammate.

With all of that in the back of his head, though, Bucky still ain’t sayin’ no to the chance to go catch Clint outside of normal hours. They hang out plenty, but it’s gettin’ regular: one of them finding the other in the shooting range, or in the shared theater room watching something at 0200 hours, or even sitting down after a mission to watch some kinda crap Clint always comes up with. It’s a good habit, great habit even, but Bucky’s gone enough that he’ll take any kind of jump that gives him extra time with Clint outside that habit. If that’s pathetic, well, at least he’s hidden it from Natalia for this long.

Or so he thinks -- until he shoves the door to the laundry room wide open, and his enhanced eyes spot Clint in the dark -- totally fuck naked, sitting on top of one of the machines, humming to himself.

“Fuck!” Clint yells, and in that spasm of gesture Bucky realizes he ain’t entirely naked: no, Clint’s wearing these black briefs that soak up all the light, not that he’s lookin’ or anything. “What the fuck!”

“Jesus shit,” Bucky replies, his heart racing, trying to make it calmer than Clint’s; he wins, if only by a small margin and only cause Clint’s literally curling in on himself. “What the fuck. Natalia sent me down here with your goddamned laundry detergent.”

“Aw, Tasha, no,” Clint moans, shoving his face into his hands momentarily before remembering that those hands have something more embarrassing to cover; they hover over his hips, awkwardly, until Clint just crosses his arms and slumps. “I told her I had to do, like, all my laundry.”

“Wait,” Bucky squawks, which is embarrassing enough; “did she send me down here knowing you were naked.”

“She kind of goddamn did!” Clint yelps, jumping off of the machine. He seems to realize what a bad idea that is the second his feet hit the floor, cause it gives Bucky yards of skin to look at, with only a few inches of dark fabric blocking his view onto that, um, particular area. And Bucky’s blown away enough with this much of Clint on display; he’s seen the bits and the pieces, sure, but with all them bits and pieces bare at the moment, Bucky isn’t even sure he’s gonna be able to hold it together.

Clint’s hands sort of hover around, up until the point where he decides he has nothing to be ashamed of, and Bucky watches in a haze as those hands come to rest on Clint’s hips.

“Well,” Clint says, and it’s a little self-righteous but a lotta unsure, “for your information, I stole Cap’s detergent, so I should be able to, uh, have some pants, in like an hour and a half or so.”

“I still feel like you need somebody to be the doorman,” Bucky says, his mouth working before his brain does. He really didn’t mean it to be so flirty, but it was, and it is, and it’s out there now. So he sets the bottle of laundry soap down on the nearest counter and leans up against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his t-shirt and settling in.

To his surprise, Clint grins, and those hips come to rest leaning up against the nearest machine. “Well, shit,” Clint drawls, “if I knew I had a bouncer I could have washed everything.” The look Clint gives him is nearly filthy - is it filthy? Bucky can’t tell; Clint has most of the lights still off, and Bucky knows he could easily be imagining things.

“Do you need this or not,” Bucky manages to get out, and it’s barely a question. The thought of all of Clint’s bare skin flirting back has Bucky momentarily stunned, which is usually a sign to abort and get the hell out of the situation, except that this scene is specifically relevant to Bucky’s interests and he ain’t all that concerned with leaving right now.

Clint’s eyes seem to trace him down to the bottom and then back up, but he can’t really be sure. “Yeah,” Clint says eventually, gesturing with one hand. “Bring it.”

And now Bucky has no choice but to wander over there, cause the second he makes some kind of protest with regards to Clint’s lack of attire, he knows Clint will be all over him.

So instead he takes the opposite approach and stalks over there with a determined swing to his own hips, settling the bottle down directly on top of the machine Clint’s leaning against. “Here,” he says, grinning. “If you need it.”

Clint bites his lower lip, which makes Bucky want to lick at it. “Why, thank you,” he murmurs. “My hero.”

This bit of a moment’s extending between them, and Bucky wants to recoil cause it could go really, very, super wrong, except the look in Clint’s eyes from over here - from this lighting - is low and amused, almost encouraging, and sort of hints that Clint knows something Bucky doesn’t at this point.

He goes to say something, but to his surprise, Clint jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve still got another load,” he says, and Bucky’s eyes can’t stop staring at his mouth. “You got anything to throw in?”

And, well, that’s a leading line if Bucky ever heard one, but in case he wasn’t exactly clear Clint reaches a hand out to clutch at the hem of his t-shirt. “Like this, maybe?” Clint asks, innocence and spice in his tone.

Well. Bucky may be a bit hesitant, but he ain’t dumb, and he ain’t gonna waste the opportunity. He fists his own hands in the shirt and helps Clint tug it off, over his head, and once his face is clear he leans in -- until he’s a breath, maybe two breaths, away from Clint’s mouth, and says, “I guess you’re probably right.”

And that’s all he can manage to say because Clint’s mouth turns up in a smile and his eyes flutter shut and Bucky isn’t even sure which one of them moves first but they’re kissing, right there, Clint’s lips softly demanding on his like even that’s a question. Bucky swallows the sigh he makes and gets his fingers into Clint’s hair, tilting Clint’s face down onto his until the angle’s just right for his tongue to sweep through Clint’s mouth. Clint makes this groaning sound and pulls Bucky closer so that skin’s on skin, and they press together until Clint’s own hands come up to tug Bucky’s hair and Bucky cedes, willingly, letting Clint dip down onto his mouth with an urgency he hasn’t felt in decades.

Bucky can’t stop the noise he makes, and he kind of doesn’t want to once it makes Clint’s fingers tighten in his hair. Clint pulls his mouth away only to lick along Bucky’s jawline, and Bucky nearly keens as Clint’s lips stop to suck just under his ear, his fingers tangling in Clint’s messy hair.

Clint breaks away to pant into Bucky’s mouth, their noses brushing, his pupils blown. It’s the hottest fucking thing Bucky’s seen in a long goddamned time. His head is still tilted backwards by Clint’s hands in his hair, and normally he’d hate seeing anyone above him, but Clint’s entire expression is so goddamned gone that it’s almost like Bucky could say a single word and shatter this. Not that he would, fuck; he’s wanted this for so long that it hurts, below his sternum, and even this distance is too far away from Clint right now.

Bucky pulls a hand from Clint’s hair and slowly traces it down Clint’s back - fingers outlining shoulderblade, then spine, then sinking to trace hipbone before settling at the very top curve of Clint’s ass. Clint shudders, and Bucky’s breathing is erratic, shivering right back into Clint as his fingers twitch against all that skin. Their eyes meet, again, and Bucky slowly fastens his fingertips into Clint’s skin to tug the other man’s hips forward into his. When Clint realizes what he’s doing, a groan catches in his throat unlike anything Bucky’s ever heard, and he remembers a few clear moments of Clint’s wanting eyes on his before Clint’s mouth descends and everything turns hazy.

Clint’s mouthing at him, tongue making a counterpoint against Bucky’s lips, and he doesn’t even have a chance to rub his hips up against Clint’s before Clint’s fingers are at the fly of his jeans. Bucky fucking groans, sighing into Clint’s mouth, now with one hand clutching at Clint’s ass and the other in Clint’s hair, tugging those lips back down onto his every time Clint seems to need a breather.

“Let’s throw these in as well,” Clint murmurs as his quick fingers unfasten the button, unzip Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky’s murmuring something in agreement as he shifts to let Clint wrap his fingers over the hem and pull the jeans down to the floor.

“Shit,” Clint hisses, and Bucky turns his distracted gaze up to Clint’s face. Clint’s eyes are raking down Bucky’s own abdomen and over his boxers almost greedily, focused on where Bucky’s mostly-hard dick is trying to make an appearance, pushing up against the fabric. “Buck,” Clint whines, and Bucky hears too much in it -- something nearly akin to his own weeks of wanting, and the small portion of his mind that isn’t entirely absorbed by Clint’s briefs wonders whether Natalia knew what she was doing with this favor.

He pauses, and then even that section of brain gives itself over to feeling, because of course Natalia knew what she was doing, and he can thank her later.

For now, Bucky backs Clint up against the nearest machine and tugs Clint’s face down onto his, pressing their hips together, frantic and needy. The noise Clint makes is low, hot, deserves to be enshrined somewhere, and Clint shifts his thigh between Bucky’s such that Bucky - only slightly shorter - is leaning forwards on it, thrusting up against it, and trying to rub his hipbone against Clint’s hard cock with every move he makes until they’re both moving against each other, uncontrolled and wanting.

This is good, this is better than good, but Bucky wants to see Clint’s cock, wants to taste it and feel it in his hand, in his mouth, and his fingers tug at the band of Clint’s briefs like a question.

“Shit, Barnes,” Clint breathes into his mouth, but he shifts so that there’s enough of a gap for Bucky’s fingers to work the fabric down and away. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Bucky chucks the fabric away and then lets Clint pull his own boxers down over his thighs, and knees, and kicks it away once at his ankles. “Fuck, Barton,” he says as Clint’s long fingers wrap over his hips and pull them up against each other. Clint’s cock is hot and hard against the skin of his hip and Bucky hisses as his own dick presses into the curls of Clint’s pubic hair, the heat of the crease between crotch and hip, and these sensations are gonna fucking kill him if he doesn’t come soon.

He’s about to shift his weight when Clint pulls his mouth away to breathe against Bucky’s collarbone, lips and teeth and tongue working a rhythm on the skin there, and when Clint breathes, “Shit, Buck, can I?” Bucky has no better response than a nod before Clint sinks down onto his knees on the floor of the laundry room.

The goddamned view is rich enough that Bucky almost comes all over Clint’s hand as he reaches up and softly grabs Bucky’s cock. Clint’s looking up at him, eyes wide and blown, his mouth reddened and rough as he lips at the head of Bucky’s dick. Bucky’s gone, watching it, Clint’s tongue flicking out against the slit, and he has to grip at the edge of the machine behind Clint to keep his balance as Clint licks up his length before sucking the tip into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Bucky blurts out, “fucking hells, Clint,” and Clint works his tongue against Bucky’s slit again and Bucky can’t help it when he thrusts his hips forwards against the flat of Clint’s tongue. Clint makes a noise that’s pleased and wanton at the same time and Bucky’s pressing farther, and Clint lets him, until Bucky’s deep in Clint’s mouth with Clint’s whole throat swallowing around him and his world turns white until Clint backs off, slightly, giving Bucky breathing room.

“Oh, god,” Bucky says except that it’s a whine, needy and wanting and weak; “don’t stop,” he says, and Clint surges forward again to swallow Bucky’s cock down, and it’s really minimal movement and motion until Bucky’s eyes smash themselves shut and Bucky comes with a twisted howl down Clint’s throat.

“Fuck, fuck,” Bucky’s saying when he comes back into himself, his hips still working a low stutter of aftershocks into Clint’s mouth. “Fuck.” Bucky pulls back, and shudders as his dick pulls out over Clint’s soft lips, but then he’s pulling Clint upwards and pressing him back against the machine again, tugging his head down and licking into his mouth. That salty taste must be his, and it has Bucky making some noise deep in his throat as he pulls Clint hard against him, tongues working hard against each other as Bucky enjoys the hardness of Clint’s dick up against his own sensitive flesh.

He pulls away and slams Clint’s hips back up against the edge of the machine. “Stay there,” he hisses, and Clint makes this whining noise as Bucky bends down to lap pressure against one of Clint’s nipples before lowering down to his knees on the cold floor.

He barely notices, though, between the hot hardness of Clint’s cock against his cheek, the scent of Clint himself - sweat, and some woodsy tang - up against his nose as he licks into the dip of Clint’s skin between groin and hip. Fuck, but it’s delicious, topped with the noise Clint makes, absolutely no restraint in his throat as he moans loudly. Bucky sucks at the skin and hair until there’s a mark there, one he knows will look purple-dark against the light, and then turns his face into Clint’s dick, slowly mouthing his way up its length.

“My fucking God, Buck,” Clint gasps out, and Bucky looks up to note that Clint’s hands are gripping hard at the edge of the machine behind him, knuckles almost as white as the appliance.

Bucky responds by pulling the tip of Clint’s dick into his mouth. He tongues at the bottom, then brings a hand up to hold Clint’s shaft in place as he pops his lips forwards and then backwards over the bottom edge of the head. He loves feeling that, the pressure of the swollen ridge against his mouth, and Clint makes this noise like he’s being strangled that Bucky interprets as encouragement. He sets his lips right below the rim, so that it’s just the head of Clint’s cock in his mouth, and then sucks hard, loving the way it fills his mouth, loving the sound Clint’s making as he does so.

Bucky pulls off, grinning up at Clint, and gets a split-second view of Clint’s face - lax, surprised, overwhelmed - before he sinks back down and works Clint’s dick all the way to the back of his throat.

Bucky’s maybe not as good at this as Clint - and fuck, that had been a surprise - but Bucky knows how to work between his fist and his mouth to make up for the fact that he can’t deepthroat someone for days, and that’s what he does. His fist is slick, now, spit and sweat and precum letting him glide tension all the way to the tip before sliding the pressure back down all the way to the base, his hungry mouth following. He loves the taste of Clint’s dick, the weight against his tongue; he can feel it as Clint gets closer, his dick swelling until Clint’s hands are in Bucky’s hair and he’s gasping a litany of words and curses as Bucky hollows his cheeks to suck Clint down as he comes.

He swallows the hot liquid and then keeps swallowing, his hand working Clint in slow pumps until he’s sure the other man is done, aftershocks shuddering against Bucky’s lips, and Bucky moves to mouth the line of Clint’s hipbone instead, waiting for Clint to be here and coherent and suddenly almost a little embarrassed.

What he gets is Clint sliding down, his back against the washing machine as his body collapses to the floor, until his arms are around Bucky’s shoulders and he’s pressing messy, wanton kisses against every surface he finds: Bucky’s cheek, his neck, his shoulder; the hollow of his throat.

Bucky pulls him forward until they’re kissing again, again, and again, tongues just brushing as they dissolve into something that’s breathy and sloppy and not laughing but not tears, either.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, finally, breath gusting against Bucky’s cheekbone with a hitch that might be a laugh. “Shit, Buck, did that really just happen?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m bare-assed on the floor, Barton.” Bucky leans in to mouth at Clint’s throat, that fucking tender skin he wants to mark up with his teeth.

“Oh my god,” Clint says, and his hands are all over Bucky as if he needs to remember: up Bucky’s back, then one into his hair as the other one sinks to grab his ass, then fingers working their way over his hipbone just so that Clint can drag knuckles up his abs and chest to his shoulder. “Oh my fucking god, Buck.”

Bucky laughs into Clint’s neck, suddenly happy and light with it, licking against the skin there before he kisses the spot tenderly.

“Do you have any clothes left?” Bucky asks, slowly tilting his head until he’s looking up into Clint’s face. “Like, enough that we could make it up a couple floors in the elevator without a disaster happening?”

Clint grins down at him, filthy and fond all at the same time. “I’m not sure,” he murmurs, leaning forward again to kiss along Bucky’s temple. “It’s not like I do laundry all that often.”

Bucky snorts. “Obviously, if you’re always stealing someone else’s detergent.”

Clint freezes, and then snorts, reaching over into a laundry basket and pulling out his mobile. “You know what? She owes me.”

“Natalia?” Bucky asks, surprised, and when Clint nods confirmation while hastily typing away, Bucky huffs a small laugh. “I think I might owe her,” he admits.

Clint’s eyes flick over to Bucky, and his face lights up with this crooked little smile Bucky’s never seen before. It makes something twist in his chest. “Yeah,” Clint says, “I know she did this on purpose.” And that tells Bucky somethin’ about Clint’s feelings, don’t it, and the warmth in his chest flips over again.

He’s about to say something sappy and stupid, but then Clint continues cheerfully, looking back down at his phone. “That being said, I’m pretty sure she’s tired of seeing my bare ass in public. Bet I can get her to run interference long enough for us to head… somewhere?”

Clint glances back up at him, question in his eyes.

“My room,” Bucky says decisively, and catches a flicker of that smile on Clint’s face again. “I have clean clothes I can lend you.”

“Hmm,” Clint hums, typing away. “Bold of you to assume we’ll need clothes.”

#winterhawk #mandatoryfunday #clint barton #Bucky Barnes #clint/bucky #bucky/clint #fanfiction #smut

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ask-joyce-byers · 5 years

Note

#40 please!

1962 | 1967

{45 OTP Prompts: “I want a baby.”, and Drabble Prompt List: “I’m pregnant.”}

Christmas, 1962

The everlasting mismanagement of the NYPD meant that half of the deputies promised off on Christmas day had to work after all, and those who had volunteered to walk their beat despite the snowfall and the forfeit comfort and joy got sent home early to spend time with their families. As it was, Jim Hopper received no especial privileges despite his having requested off to spend the day with his wife. You don’t have kids, was the consensus. The deputies with kids got preference to go home and see their progeny, whereas if you had decided not to reproduce or were just otherwise unlucky, you got to work same as any other day. Nevermind the fact that Hutchinson got sent home, and he and his old lady were far beyond the kid-having age. Andrews and Williard too, both of them empty-nesters.

“Damn unfair,” Hopper muttered to himself, stamping through the snow that night, frozen to the bone, icicles having formed in the ends of his hair, stabbing him in the back of the neck and making his eyebrows so he could see them if he looked sharply up. “Diane? I’m home.”

"Merry Christmas, baby,” Diane beamed, a vision in her bright red sweater, blonde hair curled in loose waves, bangs full and just shading her blushing face. The warmth of the apartment’s interior hit him like a heavy quilt, and he let out a long breath, reaching for her and pulling her into a hug against his snowy coat despite her squeal and helpless attempts to swat him away.

“You’ll get me wet! This is cashmere!”

“Cashmere? Really…” He ogled, hands finding her waist, smoothing there as she pecked him on the cheek and twisted away.

“Food first. Then presents, then -”

“Sleep,” Hopper groaned, and Diane pursed her lips.

“If you say so.”

“Unless you had other ideas.” His level of alertness was immediately heightened.

“Food first,” she reiterated, all but dragging him into the kitchen where a modest, but fragrant ham sat, resplendent in its roaster, bordered in seasoned potatoes and bright greens. “And for dessert-” She gestured to the oven and he bent, cracking open the door to reveal a good deal of indistinguishable shadow and the unmistakable scent of apple pie.

“You’re an angel,” Hopper proclaimed, hugging her to him again, and this time she let him as he pressed a resounding kiss to her rosy lips and dragged a freezing hand through her soft hair. “Lemme go get cleaned up.”

“Please,” Diane grinned, and while he rummaged and recuperated, splashed and stomped, she arranged the presents on the small kitchen table, crowned with the bright Christmas tablecloth and overhung with fake evergreen swags. Little things, they weren’t living on big money here, but he was home from overseas, they had their own place, and it was time to start enjoying the little things in life. One present in particular, very light and thin, she placed in the forefront.

Supper enjoyed, one and two word answers to her questions sufficing to explain that the food was too good for conversation, Diane slowly inched the envelope towards him.

“Open this one first.”

“Why don’t you open one of mine? The little square one.” A bracelet, something he’d picked out with help from Mrs. Hutchinson, as he had about as much idea what to get a lady as a grizzly bear knew how to pitch a tent. He was keen to see if he’d hit the mark.

“Open mine first. You’ll like it.”

“Will I?” Tearing into the envelope with impish impetuosity, he pulled out a simple card made of folded stock paper, drawn all over in different colored ink and the curly message OPEN ME. Lifting a brow, Hopper did so and saw, in stark contrast to the elaborate outer portion of the card, the inside was blank save for one, short sentence.

I want a baby.

Blue eyes looked up at Diane, and then back to the card, and then back to Diane, the muscles in his jaw working as he strove to work out an appropriate answer.

Yes. Yes. Right now.

“You want a baby,” was all he managed to echo, voice sounding strange even to his own ears. “You don’t wanna wait another year -”

“Way I see it, we’ve done enough waiting.” Nam. It hadn’t seemed like waiting to him, it had been war, it had been hell, but back home, to Diane it had to have seemed like decades.

“You, ah….” He licked his lips, meeting her gaze at last. “You wanna start workin’ on that now?”

“You don’t want to finish presents first?”

“They get better than this?”

He stood, leaning across the table to capture her lips. The way she slowed into the kiss, her breath catching, fluttering against his skin, his hand going up to cup her cheek, and suddenly the fact that her sweater was cashmere didn’t matter at all, he just wanted it off. On the table, in the floor, anywhere not on her.

A baby. With blue eyes and blonde hair, just like Diane, perfect in every way.

Come September, he was reminding her of that, telling her his dream, their dream as he drove her to the hospital, her breath fast and ragged, forehead beaded with sweat, clenching his hand in a vice-like grip.

“Some Christmas present, huh,” he made the mistake of commenting, turning to her with a forced smile, and she tore her hand away at that.

“Just drive, James.”

James. Ah, he was in trouble, then. She never used his real name unless she was upset at him, or on other very, very special occasions. One like the one that had tears starting to his eyes some hours later as the nurses placed a very small bundle of pink blanket into his arms, tiny breaths shuddering her little body against him, eyes murky and blinking, looking into his own.

“Hey, little one,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Hey, baby girl. What’re you lookin’ at, huh. Big scary man? I’m your dad, little one. Your dad.”

“She’s beautiful, James,” Diane breathed, and reached for him, taking his hand, a faint smile tugging her lips. “Some Christmas present.”

__________________________________

January, 1967

Joyce pressed her eyes shut at the approach of footsteps outside the bathroom and steeled herself for the verbal onslaught. You’re taking fucking forever, what kind of issue do you have, locking yourself in there for hours at a time, hogging the entire goddamn bathroom because god forbid anyone else in this house have to take a piss while you’re in there doing your hair or whatever shit -

“Almost finished,” she called, not waiting this time, hearing his impatient breath on the other side of the door. “You should just go without me.”

“You’re coming with me. I’m meeting a potential agent, and I don’t wanna look like a fool who couldn’t get his wife to go and be social.”

“What kinda agent is this now?” Joyce managed, voice thin, fighting off another wave of nausea and hardly daring to look at the typed report on the counter, courtesy of the doctor’s office in Larrabee. If only there was some simple way of doing the same tests they did there from home, of checking this yourself, then one could avoid the embarrassment, the exertion, the expense…

She’d demanded a copy of the lab report anyway, and irritated, the girl with red nails had typed it up for her and yanked it from the typewriter. It was only because Joyce had proudly gotten an A in biology that she even knew the significance of hGC at all. Why the x-ed out upper-case H irritated her so much before the proper typing of the lab result was something that even good grades could not explain.

“Joyce.” The doorknob rattled and she grit her teeth against the jolt it gave her pulse. She’d locked it; short of forcing the door, he wasn’t coming in, though that had happened before. “Hurry the fuck up. What in the hell is taking -”

“Lonnie, I’m sick. I don’t wanna go.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“What’d they say?”

“That I’m sick.”

More muttered curses. “Of course they did. Tryin’ to get money from you, they’re never gonna turn someone away and say you’re fine now, are they. Use your head, Joyce. You’ve been sick for days, I’m done with your damn excuses.”

“Lonnie.” Joyce steeled herself, eyes pressed shut from her seat on the edge of the tub. “Go to your meeting. I’ll see you later.”

“And leave you to sleep or watch TV while I work to get the pro-ball career that I’ve been after for years? No, you’re comin’. If I have to do this, so do you.” As if she didn’t spend entire weeks working at Melvald’s and coming home to an empty house, cooking actual food every night anyway on the off chance he should come home from whatever dive bar he was in this time, networking and schmoozing, all so he could have the pro-ball career he insisted was still coming to him. As if anyone else paid the bills to this house, as if he’d ever done a single thing for her other than order her around and wear her on his arm like some kind of gaudy watch.

The last jibe had her on her feet, steadying herself and yanking open the door, letting the full effect of her appearance sink in. Dark hair tumbled, face paler than a ghost, she simply stood there and met his eye for a long moment, before thrusting the typed paper towards him. Brow lowering, he grappled it and fumbled it open, peering in the shadow of the corridor before pushing past her into the bathroom to use the light of the high-set window.

“The hell is this?”

“My report from the doctor.”

“Did you get an A,” he jeered, and Joyce didn’t even bother responding, waiting for him to peruse the typed lines and thrust it back at her. “What’s that supposed to mean anyway. You dying? You have cancer?” Is it gonna be expensive, she could all but hear the unspoken accusation.

“There.” She poked the corrected hGH line, the reading stating simply P. Positive.

“Okay?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Lonnie’s response was immediate, a muttered curse, a long scrutinizing look toward her midsection, and then an accusatory stare at the paper. As if he didn’t trust it.

“And how’s that supposed to prove anything?”

“It’s a hormone,” Joyce explained wearily. “You either have it in your blood or you don’t, and I did.”

“And that means you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Lonnie, that’s how it works. I’ve been throwing up, feeling awful -”

“This is it, then.” He flung the paper to the bathroom counter. “The gig’s up. How’d this happen?”

She didn’t even bother asking what he meant by the gig being up, he meant, however he decided to express it, that he had to face responsibility now. To at least be present, if not contribute. Somehow she doubted that was gonna happen.

“I figure it happened one of those times you came home drunk,” Joyce drawled and Lonnie fixed her with a warning glare.

“You’re blamin’ this on me?”

“You’re the one running the show when that kind of thing happens, so yeah, I’m blaming it on you.”

The sound of a resounding slap, skin on skin echoed through the hollow of the bathroom, and in the mirror, Joyce saw her own cheek flare red.

“This is your deal,” Lonnie threatened, voice low. “You deal with this, and it better not put you out of a job. That’s all we got until I can land this gig, and this better not derail the whole fucking plan.”

“’S not gonna derail anything,” Joyce mumbled, and her hand, instead of going to her cheek, went to her middle. As if by his blow he’d insulted not her, but one innocent in all of this. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“You better. Lay down, I guess.” The nicety flung over the shoulder was all she got as he made for the front door and grabbed his coat. “I’ll make some kind of excuse for you.”

“Thanks,” Joyce muttered, her voice barely audible as she made her way gingerly to the couch and curled up there.

“And Joyce?” His voice, calling back through the cold air of the open door had her lift her head. “If it’s a boy he’s gonna learn to play ball.”

Then the door slammed, and she was left in quiet. Some say that when you bring a kid into a marriage, it can serve as a saving grace in the eleventh hour, bringing couples back together again. But in that moment Joyce Byers was never more sure – that one day, as soon as she could save up enough money, pay off the house herself and get it transferred to her name – one day, this was going to be her home, her life. Hers, and the tiny life inside her. And if he didn’t want to play baseball, she wasn’t going to make him play goddamn baseball.

#joyce byers #ask joyce byers #jopper #drabble #fic #fanfic #ask #rp #stranger things #jim hopper #sara hopper #jonathan byers #lonnie byers

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bestillmyslashyheart · 5 years

Note

So i have this prompt idea if you're still taking prompts where Alex basically shuts down after knowing about Michael's plan to leave the planet and so he exiles himself in the cabin and turns his phone off and this sparks everyone's worry and Michael panics until he finds out his place, it's sort of angst/ hurt comfort

Michael startled at the banging on the door. He thought briefly about ignoring it but just as he started to hope that whoever it was would leave, they started yelling.

“I can see your truck, Guerin! Open up!” Maria’s voice carried through the thin walls.

Michael rolled his eyes and got out of bed. He scrounged on the floor for his pants and slipped them on as he shoved open the door. Maria had to take a step back to avoid getting hit but Michael wasn’t in the mood to care.

“What are you doing here, Maria?” She’d made it clear that their relationship was purely professional. He wanted booze and she supplied it. Nothing more to it than that. Surely not house calls without any alcohol in tow.

Maria glanced at his bare chest before looking away. Michael cleared his throat when she didn’t speak and she turned back to him.

“Where’s Alex?”

Michael stifled his flinch. At first it was surprise, and a tiny thrill - no one had ever come to him looking for Alex before. No one had ever known that he might be someone who knew Alex’s whereabouts. But then the worry hit.

“Why are you asking me?” If Maria was desperate enough to come to him herself, then she was seriously worried.

She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Cut the shit, Guerin. I know about you two remember? Just please tell me where he is so I can talk to him.”

“I haven’t seen Alex in days. And I don’t know what you think you know about us but he wouldn’t be here.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

“How long exactly?” Maria asked. If anything, her already tense body was even more wound up. But her face was creased with worry. Michael took a step closer, his own worry creeping out.

“Three days.” Michael told her. “You?”

“Uh at the Pony. About three days ago. When we talked about you.” She grabbed at her hair. “I thought he was avoiding me - he wasn’t answering my calls or responding to my texts. But then Kyle said he hasn’t seen him and he wasn’t at his cabin when he went by to talk to him. So I had Liz call him but she got nothing too. I figured maybe you two were holed up together or something.”

Michael ignored that last bit, not deigning to argue the point any further. “So no one’s seen or heard from in three days? And he’s not at his place?”

“No.” Maria shook her head as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Where the hell could he be?”

“Where’s his father?” Michael asked.

Maria furrowed her brow. “I think I heard something about him getting transferred? To somewhere in Africa, I think. He hasn’t been around Roswell for the last couple of months. Why?”

Michael shrugged the question off. He wasn’t sure what Maria knew about Alex’s childhood and either way, it wasn’t his story to tell. “So what are you doing to find him?”

Maria glared at him. “Coming here.”

Michael huffed. “And when this didn’t work? What’s the next step?”

Maria shrugged. “We hadn’t gotten that far. Cameron’s calling the base to see if he’s there but we don’t think he’s been to work.”

Michael shook his head, something niggling at the back of his head. “Look, just- call me if you hear anything, yeah?” He asked, finally.

Maria dropped her arms and glared at him. “You’re not going to help? Alex is missing, Guerin!”

“I understand that, DeLuca! But I don’t know what you think I can do about it when you and Liz are on it and you’ve got the cops looking for him!”

Maria scoffed. “I thought maybe you’d give a shit.”

She turned and left without waiting for an answer, not that Michael had one to give her. This whole thing with Alex was a mess and he had no idea where he stood with the man. All he knew was that he loved him. And like hell was he going to sit on his ass and wait for other people to find him.

A quick detour into the trailer for a shirt and his shoes later, Michael was driving out of the junkyard and headed towards down. He drove the streets aimlessly for a while until he started down a street he was intimately familiar with. He slowed to a crawl as he approached the neat, ramshackle house at the end of the lane and sure enough, Alex’s car was parked around the corner.

Michael shook his head and swung into the driveway. He pulled his phone out to text Liz but put it away before he did, some sense staying his hand. Taking slow, careful steps, Michael made his way to the front door and twisted the knob. The door swung open on well oiled hinges instantly.

Michael stepped inside and eased the door shut behind him as he took in his surroundings. It looked like a bomb had gone off. The furniture appeared mostly in tact but everything else was gone. Broken knickknacks littered the floor and as he moved further into the house he spotted various awards and medals resting in the shattered glass of their protective casings. The kitchen had evidently born witness to a similar fate - dishes and china lay in pieces on the floor, the shards blending in with the tiles.

He stepped carefully through the wreckage as he made his way to the staircase and upstairs. The first room he came to was even more of a wreck - clothes and bedding lay shredded across the room. Michael checked each room carefully but no other room was touched. Finding the upstairs empty, Michael ventured back down to the main floor and carefully searched every room. When he found no one, he sucked in a breath and headed out the back door.

He knew the steps like the back of his mangled hand. Thirteen steps from the door to the edge of the patio. Nine from the patio to the fence. Turn left. Sixteen more steps to the door.

Michael rested his hand on the door for a long moment. It was irrational to be scared of a tiny structure and yet.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open. Sunlight streamed through the doorway to illuminate Alex curled up on the floor at the foot of the old mattress. His eyes were puffy and his face had dried tears on it but what scared Michael most was the utter stillness of his face.

Michael stepped inside the shed and settled next to Alex, aching to check on him but scared to say a word and disturb him.

“I thought it would feel better,” Alex admitted quietly, his voice echoing in the silence.

“The house?” Michael asked. Alex gave him a curt nod.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that since I was 13. Since I realized why my dad was so mean to me. He was always obsessing over the house, about how he needed to project an image to the world and a man’s home was a man’s domain. If he couldn’t show that he controlled his own domain, how would anyone respect him? He would say it over and over again and I just- I wanted to take that from him.”

Michael didn’t say anything.

“It’s so stupid. I’m an adult, I should be above shit like this but I don’t know. I just- really needed to do it.”

Alex fell silent and didn’t speak for a long time.

“It’s been three days, Alex. Have you been out here the whole time?”

Alex shook his head before pausing. “Has it really been three days?”

Michael nodded, unable to trust his voice.

“Huh. I guess maybe? I left Kyle at the bunker and I went home to drink. At some point I ended up in the house but I don’t really remember getting there. Or deciding to go. But once I was here, well with my father in Niger there was really nothing stopping me, right?” Alex let out a harsh laugh. Michael tried very hard not to think about how Alex had driven the 40 minutes it took to get here from his cabin completely hammered. “I went through the house until this was the only place left.”

Michael glanced around. Everything in here was in tact - Alex hadn’t given the tool shed the same treatment as the house for some reason. He turned back to Alex.

“C’mon. We need to get you out of here. You need to eat and drink some water. And call Maria and Liz, they’re worried about you.” Micheal stood up and reached down a hand to tug Alex up but Alex refused to budge.

“Alex, come on.” He urged again but Alex wouldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the floor and his whole body was still.

Michael huffed in frustration and ran a hand through his curls. He looked around idly before his whole body froze. Suddenly, he understood. He understood why Alex’s alcohol infused rage got him this far and he understood what had him transfixed.

On the floor by the work bench under the window lay a large, rust colored stain. Michael thumped down next to Alex, his eyes fixed on the spot.

“The fucker didn’t clean it in 10 years?” He breathed out.

“Looks like he missed a spot.”

Michael didn’t remember much in the aftermath of the hammer hitting his hand but he remembered that it was a long while before he could move. That he sat there under the bench cradling his mangled hand as it bled out onto the floor. Somehow, he hadn’t realized how much it had bled. But that stain was large. And it was still there all these years later. He felt sick to his stomach.

“I don’t want you to leave.” Michael turned to stare at Alex. He opened his mouth but nothing came out and Alex just continued. “I know that’s impossibly unfair of me to say but it’s true. I don’t want you to leave me. All these years, everything my dad has thrown at me,” he paused and shook his head, a hand rubbing at his eyes. “I could deal with, knowing you were safe. Knowing that you were in Roswell. That when I finally got my shit together and stopped being so goddamn scared, I would be able to come back to you and you’d still be here. But then you told me you were planning on leaving. That you’ve been working towards it your whole life and I just-I don’t know. It felt like the last sure thing in my life was slipping away.”

“Alex, I’m not going anywhere.” Michael quietly assured him.

“I have the last piece of your ship or console or whatever it is. I have it, Guerin. And once I give it to you, there’s nothing to keep you here. You’ll leave. For good. And I’ll never get to see you again.”

“Look at me.” Michael ordered softly, his hand gripping Alex’s chin and turning him to face him. “I’m not leaving. Believe it or not, I have people here who still need me and who I can’t bear to leave behind. It’s been a pipe dream, Alex. Something for me to work on and keep me focused when the chaos got too loud in my head. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going to lose me.” He rested his forehead against Alex’s. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave you, Alex, so don’t worry about that, okay?”

He waited until Alex nodded to pull away and stand up. This time, when he tugged at Alex, the other man went willingly and together they got Alex to his feet. He stumbled a bit, his body weak from not eating for days but Michael was there to support him. Slowly, they made their way out of that godforsaken tool shed and out to the cars. Michael poured Alex into the passenger seat of his truck and buckled him in, the other man limp as a ragdoll as he passed out.

Shooting off a quick text to Liz to let them know Alex had been found, Michael slid behind the wheel and started up the truck. They needed to talk more, he knew, but right now, he needed to get Alex well.

#malex fic #malex #roswell new mexico #rnm #my fic #so this got long #and i changed the location #but i hope you like it!#Anonymous

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toggot · 5 years

Text

The Floor Is Lava (A Lesson in Team Building)

Read it on AO3!

Tony hasn’t lived a normal day in his life. He’s certain of it.

Usually by this hour he’s dealt with an intergalactic emergency or gotten his head nearly blown off by a god (or Pepper, but at the same time Tony is convinced that Pepper is a god herself so). But he hasn’t had so much as a whiff of anything violent or alien-like, a visit from any gods or super-soldiers, or the government breaking down his front door with a warrant for his arrest. It’s the most peaceful morning he’s had in 40-some years.

Which is why he’s on edge.

Tony nearly drops his cup of coffee as someone taps on his back, the hot liquid sloshing over his hand.

“What the hell, kid?”

He wants to be angry—he can practically see a stain forming in the area rug beneath him, but damn it just seeing the kid’s smiling face is enough to forget whatever semblance of anger that was previously growing.

He doesn’t even bother to scold him anymore for hanging upside-down from the ceiling. The kid is just about as stubborn as he is.

“Mr. Stark! You’re just in time! Watch this,” he’s got a shit eating grin that looks more mischievous with each passing day he spends at the compound. Tony raises an eyebrow and decides to humor him for a moment, curiosity getting the best of him.

“ATTENTION,” he bellows, mouth cupped with his hands. The rest of the avengers, who were peacefully lounging in the common room and neighboring kitchen are now watching the kid with rapt attention (and Tony holds back a laugh because hah, he’s not the only one wrapped around the kid’s finger).

“The floor is lava!” and before Tony can even manage the 14 questions that pop into his head, there's a blur of bodies moving as if they were being called to assemble. He vaguely processes Clint abandoning his food to jump into the air vent above the kitchen island, Natasha suspending her body in the air in the doorway leading to the hallway, and Sam standing on top of Bucky’s prone body on the living room floor.

“Bucky, I said the floor is lava. You’re not supposed to be on the ground.” Peter frowns at the super-soldier, but Bucky remains face down in the ground, not even fighting against Sam.

“My only request is that death takes me quickly.” he mumbles into the carpet, which earns him a horrified look from Tony and a laugh out of Peter.

“Same,” Peter says before landing on his feet and facing Tony properly. Tony swivels from Bucky to Peter and he can feel the vein in his forehead throbbing.

“No one is dying today!” it sounds as exasperated as he feels. He makes his way to the kitchen, wiping off the coffee on his hand and grabbing a broom from the corner of the room to swat at Clint’s feet from the air vent.

“Alright bird brain, out. They’re called air vents for a reason.” Clint yelps as the broom handle hits his ankles, and he scurries further up like the goddamn animal he is.

“Why’d you reinforce them to hold my weight then?” he grumbles, completely out of sight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tony says, “and even if I did, I reinforced them for Natasha, not you. Speaking of,” he swivels towards the woman who is still holding herself up in the doorframe, “feet. On the floor. Now. The kid already leaves footprints on the ceiling and I don’t need them on the walls too.”

“Hey! I don’t leave footprints.” Tony only raises an eyebrow at Peter before he cracks. “Okay, maybe once or twice. But I mop the ceiling every time, I swear.” Tony can only shake his head (because when did his life become scolding superheroes about hiding in air vents and leaving footprints in places feet should never be in the first place?).

“Sam, really?” and Sam shrugs at him before stepping off of Bucky’s back.

“It’s a good teambuilding activity.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll make sure to mention it to Cap for our next team training session.” Tony says before he leaves for the safety and calm of his workshop.

###

It keeps happening.

He learns to spend the least amount of time in the shared spaces when more than Peter and himself are around. He’s incredibly fond over the kid (yes, he’s finally admit that to himself. It’s a matter of time before he accidentally confesses it verbally and is teased for the rest of his life by his teammates), but his caffeinated and sleep deprived body can’t handle the random and frequent adrenaline rushes that this “game” produces.

“C’mon Mr. Stark. Even Captain thinks it’s fun.” he pouts, and Tony has half a mind to throw a paper bag over the kids head before he succumbs to his pleading face, the other half telling him to scold the kid for hanging upside down from the ceiling again.

“Captain America thinks mowing grass is fun.” Tony says, making a beeline for the elevator. He passes underneath a levitating Wanda and sidesteps around Bucky’s prone form, mentally reminding himself to call a few psychologists for the man.

“I’m right here, Tony.” Tony looks up to where Steve is hanging from a bookshelf by one hand and reading a book in the other.

And he is the one who has no manners?

“See, he didn’t even deny it.”

“Tony,”

“Steve.”

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling rewarded by completing a job well done!”

“God Steve you know you might be 90 years old but that doesn’t mean you have to act like it.”

“O-kay.” Peter drawls out. There’s no real heat behind their words but Tony drops it.

“I’m all for fun kid, but I’m not about to trapeze myself around the tower and break my neck in the process.”

“That’s the closest he’s ever going to come to admitting he’s old, Peter.” Steve casually says from behind his book. Tony's mouth actually falls open in disbelief, and glares daggers at the super-soldier. He doesn’t even try to hide the smile on his face.

“You can hop on my back, Mr. Stark. I won’t let you melt in the lava.” The kid sounds a little too earnest for the mischievous grin on his face (Tony doesn’t know if he should praise the kid, defend himself, or punch Steve in the face).

“Someone get Bucky off the floor.” Tony huffs out before stepping into the elevator.

###

“-and I woke up the other night to screaming and nearly had a heart attack, thinking someone was being murdered, but it was Clint on the ground pretending he was melting and Ned and Pete were laughing! I could have blasted their heads off if I had the suit on!” Tony says, going shrill at the end of his sentence. T’Challa offers a sympathetic and tired smile to Tony from the other side of the screen.

“You’ll get used to it. Shuri and Peter are not unlike in their…ideas of fun.”

“Remind me to never let them in the same room.”

“A wise decision.”

###

“This stops now.” Tony grumbles to himself.

Three weeks. Three weeks of dodging this stupid game was enough already, but bringing it into team training? Tony was done.

He flies over to Thor and flips his faceplate up to face the god.

“Hey Sparkles, wanna help me out with something?” Thor looks at him for a second before nodding with a smile. Mischief might be his brother’s forte, but Tony could always rely on Thor to cause a little chaos. He directs Thor to follow his lead before zooming off towards the swinging form of Spiderman.

“I’m glad you’re finally joining in Mr. Star-HEY!” Tony grabs the kid midair and drags him to the floor. He quickly presses on the center of the kid’s suit to deactivate it and hold the loose fabric away from his body. He nods to Thor who meets them on the ground and places the Mjolnir on the stretched out suit.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! What gives?” Peter yells out in a mix of confusion and curiosity. He tries to get up, but Mjolnir keeps the suit in place and leaves him with two options: stay and remain mostly covered, or leave in just his underwear (and Tony knows the kid would never live down the embarrassment of Black Widow or Captain America seeing him in his tighty-whities).

“I’ve had it with this lava thing, so I’m getting rid of the source.” Tony says. Peter blinks up at him for a second, genuinely surprised and assessing the situation at hand before he busts out laughing, and a beat later starts screaming like a madman.

“Agh! Iron Man has gone rouge! I repeat, Iron Man has fallen to the dark side!” he half laughs, half screams into the comms.

“Avengers…avenge me!” he wails dramatically with his ‘last dying breath’, thrashing around for a few seconds before going limp on the floor.

Tony can’t help but laugh while the rest of the Avengers abandon whatever semblance of proper training they were doing and converge on Tony. They chase him around the training room for a minute before they start turning on each other. Peter’s back from the dead after Thor takes back his hammer and joins Tony at his side in the air, watching the chaos ensue.

“Oh this is so going to trend on Twitter later.” Peter laughs out, “You’re catching all this, right Karen?” he asks his AI. Tony shakes his head with a chuckle before grabbing hold of the kid’s ankles and dangling him above the floor.

“Don’t make me throw you into the lava again, Underoos.”

###

Tony later saves the video that mysteriously leaks on twitter of the Avengers taking part of what he now knows is (and deeply hates loves finds really entertaining) The Floor Is Lava challenge.

#fanfic #iron dad #iron dad and spider son #fluff #oneshot #tony stark #peter parker

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doug2134 · 5 years

Text

They came from the deep.

Part 1 – first meeting.

Alternative Universe.

1957 year, USSR won Nazi Germany but war between USA and Japan still going on.

Somewhere in Pacific ocean.

14:47.

American battleship Alaska is patrolling sector. Suddenly, pilot from reconnaissance aircraft that flying in couple kilometres front of Alaska start reporting that he sees a Japanese destroyer. Alaska changing course on coordinates that pilot said.

I was a steerman of our battleship and say that when you feel this big and heavy ship is under your control isn't cool, it will be a lie, but I got use to say true, so it was a great honor to control this ship. I guess you don't know who I'm at all, right? I'm standart man, from standart family, but I've decided military career, because then I thought that it will be cool, but now I see, it's very dangerous, you almost don't have time for family if war is going on, because if you're a pilot, mechanic-driver of tank or steerman, your commander always will have some orders for you. But you might heard that war is very profitable, if to talk about money and yes, that's true. Ok about me – my name is Brett Sweet, yeah and don't laugh at my surename, sometimes even fate loves to joke. My age is 40, my family is on Hawaii now, yep, right next to Pearl harbor. That's all what I can to tell about me.

Ok, let's come back to story.

Ship already got closer to place what pilot of reconnaissance plane said, now captain sees enemy's destroyer and radiomens "hear" it. Everybody taking them places on ship, and in couple moments this silence before storm has come, you can to hear as big metal hull of ship is cutting ocean waves, as drops of water are falling on the deck of ship, and you see tiny body of enemy ship at 3 am. In couple seconds you hear orders of captain to radio, he's ordering to turn turrets on 87° from nose of the ship and move them to 30° up from horizon and again... This silence and order – "Fire!" Moment of silence, everything getting very slow and... shots that make you hear only tinnitus, but by some way, you still can hear orders of captain. In a second you hear captain says – "Hold tight!" You hear this annoying and horrible whistle – shells from enemy ship is flying to you and they getting closer and closer and... explosions, you can't hear anything again, you see that somebody is in blood laying down on floor, you feel the smell of smoke, we all knew, if we're getting into fight, first thing – do not panicking. Second thing – fight till last drop of blood.

I know one thing, I'm a steerman and I shouldn't turn my head away from course that ship is keeping, no metter what will happen, my ship should to survive, by any cost. In couple seconds you hear this whistle again, explosions, smoke, fire, blood. You swear on guns of your battleship – "Damn guns reload too long" but when you said it, you hear as guns of your ship are shooting, yes they make tinnitus but at least you know that now you maybe will make enemy's ship to shut up. You hear order from captain – "Turn ship on 9 hours, keep speed." Suddenly you hear explosions and feel some pain in body, you quick look down at your body and see the blood on hands and shoulders, you cannot feel that pain, you can only swear – "Goddamn glass." In the moment you hear from somebody – "I see the white flag! White flag! They surrounding!" After this you breathing out, look around and notice... Captain laying down in blood, with opened eyes that don't have fear pupils, you see that those eyes didn't understood what happend, somebody from crew touching captain's neck and says – "Dead..." I'm stopping ship. Somebody closed captains eyes and start reading the pray. I'm standing with guys and holding my cap on my chest. When reading of pray is done, somebody says – "Hey guys, what the hell with Japaneese ship?" He's giving binoculars to me, I'm watching at ship and see that it suddenly jumped out from water a bit and land back, in moment you see that ship seems like something grabbed it bottom and holding, one more moment and ship is cut on four parts, I numbed and keep watching, in moment some horrible head is appear from water and grabbed middle part of ship with most big part of crew and got it under water. All our crew can to hear people screams from ship, they didn't want to die by this way. I shacked my head and turn to crew – I don't know how you guys, but I don't want repeat fate of Japanese ship, let's move and turn back turrets on 6. I start spinning helm for turn my ship away from this monster, thanks to Japanese, they are giving to us some time to get the hell out of here. I order to my old friend Scott – "Man, check this thing with binoculars and inform me, got it?" I didn't even take a look at him, but I saw by side vision that he nod to me and went on his post. In couple minutes our ship already was holding course back to home, but I still could to hear this horrible screams of Japanese crew, these screams were making my soul numb. In some time Scott ran up to me and told me – "I see some waves that seems like made by torpedo, but I don't think that torpedo can be SO huge." I looked at him, turn my head to spotter and said – "Check how far that thing is and give this info to our gunners, also tell them to turn turrets on 9." Spotter quickly made a nod and start checking distance between our ship and this monster. In couple seconds he ran up to radio and said – "Aim, in 23 km right behind the ship, turn turrets in 9 and be ready to fire to command." I've got a signal that I was waiting for and said to guys on captain's bridge – "Hold tight" I've turned helm on left side till it will stop turning. Ship start turning very quickly and everybody and everything in ship have leaned on right side, while it was turning I've took a binoculars and got monster in my view and when it got right on 9 hours I've ordered – "Fire!"

#the story #monster of a deep

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count-demonlord-of-decadence · 5 years

Text

THE NEW GIRL (She’s a Natural)

Ishtar Knoxville sat on the walkway one floor above and perpendicular to her family's three bedroom condo. Here she could observe her family's comings and goings discreetly. Not that her family took any notice of her except for when she was in trouble. But she learned early that the lack of attention provided ample opportunities to observe and learn. Ishtar wasn't like the other girls that attended her public high school. All they cared about was clothes, Instagram likes and what kind of cars people drove. When Ishtar was seven, her little brother Giuseppe Jr was born, erasing any presence she had in the family. Her school life was painfully ordinary until middle school when her friends wanted to act all grown. They were suddenly immersed in makeup, boys and social media. Ishtar tried to keep up but her “friends” quickly made it clear she was cramping their style. Ishtar rejected the conformist matriarchy her ”friends” embraced and they made her an object of mockery and ridicule. Ishtar took refuge in the school library, the last place any “cool kid” would be seen.

The last day before winter break of her seventh grade year, Ishtar was exploring a box of used books donated to the school when she discovered a copy of Justine by Marquis de Sade. The librarian told her it was inappropriate for school but didn't mind if she took it home. She read the whole book that very night. She was enamored with the philosophy, violence and sex. For the first time in her life she saw a world free from the superficial bullshit and embraced a life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure. Of course at age 11 her pleasures consisted of reading, candy and masturbation. And read she did. By her first day of high school she'd read every book deemed pornographic and subversive she could download. Her parents were all too happy to get her gift cards as gifts because it was relatively inexpensive and readily available. When her family asked what she was reading she just responded with the current most popular young adult novel. She was packing a bowl of the low quality high priced weed 14 year old girls have to buy when a strange little man knocked on her family's door.

His facial features made him look like a rat, a rat wearing an expensive suit. He seemed out of place in a suit to Ishtar, more of a blue collar man. The cigarette he was smoking didn't seem out of place. Her father, Giuseppe opened the door recognized the man and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

“You outta your fucking mind coming here!?” He exclaimed in hushed tones, unaware that his voice echoed of the walls. “I got kids in there.”

“Oh sorry bother you at your home Giuseppe,” the French accent and added sarcasm made the man's voice slightly more pleasant than nails on a chalkboard, “But you don't return my calls, texts, e-mail or faxes.” Ishtar swallowed a chuckle at that line. “And we need to talk. We've gotten some complaints about your high prices. The Syndicate doesn't mind if you skim a little here and there but you've been marking up the prices and pocketing the difference. Other dealers do the same. And that was cool but now your prices are so high customers are thinking about going to other suppliers. Now the competition knows they could potentially corner the market by simply lowering their prices. Imma tell you the same thing I told the other guys,” he handed him a slip of paper “these are the new prices. Be a good boy and stick to them, or else.”

Giuseppe Knoxville being half black half Italian suffered no disrespect, especially from a man a foot shorter and 75 pounds lighter than himself. But it was the pat on the cheek that set Giuseppe off. He grabbed the little man by the throat and balls, threatening to toss him over the rail snarling, “Who the fuck you think you are? Come to my house, disrespect me, in front of my kids! You fucking worm! You're just a goddamn go for! A fucking bell boy! I've taken shits with bigger balls than you! Don't ever come at me with no disrespect! Next time your candy ass will be flying to the ground floor!” Giuseppe released the man and stormed back into the condo. The man took 70 seconds to massage his balls and throat before leaving. Ishtar noted it was the coolest thing she'd ever seen her father do.

A week later, Ishtar was sitting in the same spot when the same rat looking man appeared. He wore the “Canadian tuxedo” comfortably with a Dallas Cowboys hat on backwards. Behind him were four eccentrically dressed individuals. The first was an African American wearing a burgundy top hat, tailcoat, dark glasses, and cotton plugs in the nostrils, as if to resemble a corpse dressed and prepared for burial in the Haitian style. The grouped stopped so a rubenesque Asian woman cosplaying as Saya from Blood-C could paint an ornate skull on the Black man’s face. A 6'1" natural blonde woman wearing a Pocahontas costume watched the painting with visible signs of impatience. Ishtar mused that her breast had to be fake. Last was an is immensely tall and and bulky man. He has long, powerful arms and legs, massive hands and feet. He has shoulder-length slick black hair and imposing facial features. He was dressed like pro wrestler Pete Dunne. The face painting completed, the Big guy turned the knob and opened the door. Ishtar knew the door was locked, having locked it nine minutes prior behind her, and surmised he broke the knob with his hand. The five entered and closed the door behind them. Ishtar dashed home. The doorknob was indeed borken when she entered. Before she could take in the scene, the blonde woman closed the the door and stood guard in front of it. Ishtar noted the woman appeared to be in her 40’s and clearly worked out. The big guy had his foot on her fathers left cheek, pinning his face to the floor. He had her father’s arm left torqued up in a such a manner that guaranteed damage. Her mother, Jessie was holding eight year old Giuseppe Jr., covering his eyes and ears. Isis, her older sister had her face pinned against the refrigerator. A kunai pointed at her throat kept her docile.

The Black man squatted, his crotch inches from Giuseppe's face and spoke with an Eastern European accent, “Permit me to introduce myself; my name is Count Demon Lord, leader of the Black Magick Syndicate. It seems you ignored my instructions and disrespected one of my men.”

The big guy released some of the pressure on Guiseppe’s arm so he could speak rationally.

“Please I can get you the money! I’ll apologize! I’ll do anything you say, just don’t hurt my family!”

Demon Lord rolled his eyes and stood up, the big guy added more pressure to the arm until Giuseppe was silent.

“OH, please er… what was his name le Fou?”

“Giuseppe Knoxville” the French rat looking guy replied.

“Right. Now see here Giuseppe this isn’t about the money. We have plenty of that. Hell this isn’t even about the thievery or the disrespect. We’re big fans of that kind of behavior. The truth is we have money and power beyond your wildest dreams. and the boredom that comes along with it. So when le Fou told us of your altercation, we found what we always seek, a flimsy excuse to act on our most deviant desires. So spare us the pleading and begging, we’re not interested. We’re not here to scare you or teach you a lesson. You all are our prey, and no amount of money or words will change that. Accept your fate so that you might entertain us a bit. Teah…”

The big guy took his queue and loudly broke Giuseppe’s humerus. His scream was drowned out by the laughter of the eccentrics.

“le Fou, search this hovel for anything of merit. Teah, break his legs. Zara, bring me that girl.” The rubenesque Asian woman dragged Isis by her dyed blonde hair to Demon Lord. Isis was 20 years old and had the kind of body other women slave in the gym for. Her face has always been described as angelic. She had her own room, but was suppose to move out and college so Ishtar and Giuseppe Jr. wouldn’t have to share. Their parents never pressured her to do so though. Demon Lord had Isis down to her bra and panties with seven strokes of a karambit he had secreted on his person. Giuseppe had his protests silenced by Teah loudly breaking his left tibia, much to the delight of the eccentrics. Giuseppe groaned an idle threat which provoked Teah to break his right femur. Demon Lord was roughly fondling Iris while Jesse, their mother, continued to cover Giuseppe Jr’s eyes and ears; begging for God to deliver them from this ordeal. Isis took this moment to resist, clawing at Demon Lord’s face. His response was a right hook that landed just under her left eye. Isis hit the carpet barely conscious, the bruise already starting to form under her tears. He then sliced off her bra and panties and raped her. Teah held Giuseppe's head, forcing his eyes open so he could watch.

Before he could discharge, le Fou returned with a pillowcase full of items in one hand and a book in the other. Ishtar could see it was her copy of Justine. From the sudden tension in the room Ishtar assumed interrupting Demon Lord’s raping had dire consequences for the interrupting party. Le Fou apologized saying, “Please forgive my rude interruption but I thought you’d find this of merit.” and handed him the book. Demon Lord took the book, his face expressed shock as he stared at the cover. He stood, his erection pointed directly at Ishtar, still staring at the book, “Which one of you animals reads this filth?!” he venomously demanded. The only person who spoke was Jessie, reciting the book of psalms from memory. “Brynhild!” Demon Lord was enraged “Cut pieces off that little boy until I get an answer!”

The blonde woman moved, but Zara grabbed Ishtar by the back of her neck so she couldn’t escape. Brynhild snatched Giuseppe from his mother’s arms effortlessly. She produced a balisong and threatened to cut off the crying boy’s middle finger. Giuseppe was having his broken arm manhandled by Teah. When Demon Lord started to sodomize Iris with his lizard skin shoe did Ishtar proclaim the book was her’s. Demon Lord approached Ishtar, kneeling in front of her asking, “This is your book?”

“Yes.” Ishtar murmured.

“You’ve actually read this?”

“Twice.” she nodded.

“What did you think about it?”

“Well, I like how the characters do whatever they want without fear of any consequences.”

“Have you read the sequel? Juliette, or Vice Amply Rewarded?”

“Yes, I finished it about a month ago.”

“What is your name Child?”

“Ishtar.”

“After a goddess of sex, desire, justice, and political power; perfection. Ishtar, our syndicate is full of libertines who follow the treatises outlined in de Sade’s books. Our money and power allow any action to go unpunished by law enforcement. That’s why no police are coming, none of your neighbors will check on you. I offer you an invitation into our syndicate, and a life of vice amply rewarded. Or you can watch us rape, torture and murder your family and luxuriate in it. But know that revenge and justice belong to the rich and powerful and none are as rich and powerful as us. We’ll never be arrested or tried for this. No one would deign to take our lives on your behalf.”

Ishtar thought it over. Her father was a successful contractor out of high school until three years ago, when he injured his back on the job. But because Giuseppe wasn’t following established safety protocols, the company refused to pay his medical bills. He exhausted their savings on a lawsuit he lost. All because he wanted the world to understand he was a real man, full of arrogance and machismo. In the seven years since Giuseppe Jr was born, Ishtar could count on one hand the number of times her father had a meaningful conversation with her; save holidays, birthdays, and half assed parenting during the commercials of baseball games. His son was the focus of his love and affection. Why should she act in the interests of such a man?

Jessie Knoxville wasn’t Ishtar or Isis’ biological mother. That honor belonged to Isabelle Flores-Knoxville, currently known as Prisoner #97S444. She was convicted 12 years ago for arson in the second degree and two counts of attempted murder for fire bombing a warehouse owned by an alleged racist. Two security guards were present with one dying, though she was found not guilty of one count of murder in the first degree. Sentence: 18 years, eligible for parole in five which was denied for amassing other charges while incarcerated. Jessie Knoxville was a woman who assumed her first two marriages to abusive douchebags were due to her lack of faith in God. Every ill and woe in this world was due one’s poor relationship with God, according to her. She became devout and seven months later she meets Giuseppe Knoxville. After a 298 day courtship they were married, which Jessie believed was God’s blessing on her. Ten months later Giuseppe Jr was born, another miracle she attributed to God because her first two marriages produced no children. God didn’t keep her from gaining 65 lbs from an increasingly sedentary lifestyle since becoming pregnant.

Ishtar wished her sister refused to move about just to spite her, knowing once her room became Ishtar’s, she’d never get it back. But the truth was Giuseppe squandered their college fund on that failed lawsuit, and Isis would throw this in their father’s face whenever Jessie wasn’t in earshot. But that was a smokescreen for Isis did not talent of any kind. Her grades have always been poor, since kindergarten. Jessie and Ishtar have openly pondered if she has an undiagnosed learning deficiency. She couldn’t learn high school cheerleading routines, sing to save her life or act her way through a high school play. She couldn’t paint, draw, sculpt or weave.

She could barely add an app to her phone without assistance.

Giuseppe Jr was only seven and understood his parents would never believe he could sin. Twice his school accused him of vandalism and both times they denied he was capable of such behaviour. Ishtar once accused him of stealing a pair of her panties, but their parents assumed she’d misplaced them. Isis accused him of stealing some money from her and nothing was done. He acted with impunity and at that thought Ishtar had her answer. Thinking upon characters from the books she’d read, she put her hands on her hips and replied, “Vice amply rewarded please.” earning an applause and cheers from the eccentrics.

“Excellent!” Demon Lord mused, “You may have the honor of orchestrating their fates.”

“Do we have to kill them?” Ishtar asked.

“Only if you desire it child. Some fates are worse than death”

“Good. I really want them to suffer and go on suffering. I assume no act is taboo?”

“My child, if one here will not commit the act you envision, we can have someone here who will in thirty minutes.”

“In that case, I want one of you to sodomize my little brother.” Ishtar chose her words so the Giuseppe Jr wouldn’t understand. The eccentrics all looked to Teah, who released the father, licked his lips and took hold of the son. Brynhild took over the job of guarding the father while Demon Lord resumed his raping of Isis. Jessie became hysterical and tried to rush Teah, but Zara stopped her with a quick kick to her liver. By then Teah had the boy naked and on the carpet in front of his father. Teah removed his own clothing, revealing an uncircumcised member as large as Ishtar’s forearm. Using only his spittle as lubricant, Teah violently forced his prick into the boy, pulling his hair to keep his face in his father’s line of sight.

Jessie began to scream about the wrath of God and how vengeance will be his and how they’re all going to Hell. “Le Fou was it?” Ishtar asked of the little man to which he nodded, “Go into my bitch sister’s room, find her dildo and stuff it into my STEP mother’s mouth.”

“I thought these would come in handy.” Le Fou replied producing Isis’ John Holmes Realistic Dildo and a roll of duct tape from the pillow case. Zara zip tied Jessie’s hand behind her back as Le Fou approached. Between the two of them, it only took 50 seconds to get the dildo secured in her mouth.

Ishtar used the basting brush from the kitchen to paint an inverted pentagram on her father’s face with the blood leaking from her brother’s continually violated anus. She then kicked him in the ribs six times before asking someone to castrate him. Brynhild was happy to oblige. Le Fou brought her a fillet knife from the kitchen and helped Ishtar strip and restrain Giuseppe while Brynhild did the deed. Ishtar took her father’s genitalia and put them in the microwave and set it to cook on full power for 29 minutes. Giuseppe fainted from the pain, much to the disgust of the eccentrics.

Ishtar then approached Teah, staring at Jessie as she said, “I want you to discharge in my mouth so I can show these cunts I’m in for well more than a pound.” Teah intensified his thrusting to expedite orgasam. When on the verge, he pulled out so swiftly splattered wherever possible. Ishtar aimed the blood and shit covered member to her mouth. Ishtar was startled by the kinetic energy of the discharge; it’s thickness made it impossible to swallow in two gulps. What she couldn't swallow, she spat in her little brother’s face. Taking this cue, Demon Lord pulled out and discharged his thin, yet plentiful semen all over Giuseppe Jr’s face; the eccentrics applauded.

Ishtar went to the kitchen and returned with a can of insecticide. She handed it to Brynhild and ordered her to shove it in Jessie cunt. Upon hearing this, Jessie offered the fiercest resistance she could, which was futile given her condition. Brynhild laughed as dodged and blocked Jessie’s kicking as a diversion, Teah grabbed her by the neck, picked her up and slammed her back into the armchair only Giuseppe was allowed to sit in. Before she could recover, Brynhild tore her cheap sweat pants and cheap panties off and Teah grabbed her heels and spread her legs as wide as possible. Ishtar took the cap off and opened her mother’s vagina for penetration. Brynhild lubricated the spray can with juices fingered out of Jessie and herself and used both hands to shove it in. She simply whimpered through the ordeal, until the spray activated; then she screamed and thrashed about as best she could. This amused the eccentrics. Teah and Brynhild released her so she could fall to the floor and give birth to the spray can.

Isis began to stir and at Ishtar's command Zara stood her up by her hair and cuffed her behind the back. Ishtar caressed her sister's smooth skin with the flat of the fillet knife as she spoke, “How many times did you call me lesbian, dyke, creep and retarded?”

“Please Ish…”

“How many times did you punch, kick and slap me? Why did you hate me just for being your sister?”

“I'm sorry Ishtar. Please stop…”

“YOU'RE ONLY SORRY TO SAVE YOUR MISERABLE LIFE YOU STUPID FUCKING COW! But I have no plans to murder you, yet. I want you to experience the lesbianism that disgusts you so. Zara, can you make this bitch cum like she never came before?”

“Not my bag babe, but Brynhild can.” Zara shoved Isis into the armchair and spread her legs like Teah had done Jessie as Brynhild knelt and began cunnilingus. Meanwhile Jessie began to make coughing and choking noises in between random spasms. Demon Lord lacerated her left cheek while cutting the tape. He removed the dildo from her mouth and she vomited violently. This brought Giuseppe back to consciousness, who could only wail in pain and despair.

“Yes! Oh my gods yes!” Ishtar shouted. “That sound is what I wanted to hear! The sound of a man being devoured by is despair, his anguish!” Ishtar stripped off her clothing and began frigging her hairy cunt. “Teah,” she commanded, “fuck my father up the ass. Lube it with his whore’s vomit. Le Fou, fuck his whore up the ass. Have them face to face so they can kiss each other. I wish to discharge my fuck upon their faces.” Demon Lord to position behind Zara adding, “This cunt craves prick, and prick it shall have!”

It was arranged and performed as described.

When all save Giuseppe and Jessie had discharged, Ishtar packed a suitcase with her meager belongings. She dressed and departed with the eccentrics. Teah Demon Lord, and Le Fou were in one car, Zara, Brynhild and Ishtar in another. Demon Lord’s group had sped off ahead, and as Ishtar’s group followed the spotted Giuseppe Jr three blocks away. He walked like a zombie, naked and dripping blood from his rectum. Ishtar bade Brynhild pull over and she opened her door saying, “Junior! Thank God you got out of there too! Quickly, get in before they find out we’re gone.” Giuseppe Jr was apprehensive, also seven and in a lot of pain. No one answered any door he knocked on, no passerby offered him help or listened to his pleas. This was the only help offered him since leaving the condo. He took Ishtar’s hand and got in the car. Ishtar closed the door behind him and told Brynhild to drive. The doors loudly locked and they sped to catch up to the other car.

“Relax little brother, everything is gonna be alright from now on.” Ishtar smiled. This brought a cackle from the driver seat. Giuseppe Jr got a good look at Brynhild in the driver seat and panicked. He tried to open the door but couldn’t, the doors had childproof locks.

#Evilcorey's pointless fiction #fiction #pointless fiction

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queerofcups · 6 years

Text

giving the people what they want timestamps

my fingers slipped?

00:00 - I know some people feel like the thumbnail is a little clickbait (not queerbaity, don’t make me fight y’all about this) and I don’t necessarily disagree but goddamn did it work on me. I don’t think we’ll ever see them hug, which is fine, its not something I personally need, but it definitely makes stuff like this feel like a Big Deal. But also, less sappy, where the hell is Phil looking.

00:07 - 1. They’re fucking creepers who read every too deep post we’ve ever written about them. 2. They look, So! Fucking! Good! I enjoy Phil Lester, Adult Man with an Adult Haircut so much more than I ever realized and I just stan down for Dan and his Connor McDavid Franta cosplay. They look like real human adults who are in love and I just. Yes. Also, love seeing more of the flat.

00:28 - This post is gonna be long as fuck. I’m really fascinated with the PR work happening here to push us away from thinking of Dan and Phil as characters when they very clearly think of Dan and Phil as characters. It came through A Lot during TATINOF and if they’re trying to get away from that particular branding I think its super smart of them to address it head on (even if I feel like its bullshit personally)

1:00 - Every time they say something about giving the people what they want I think about the Janelle Monae song Given Em What They Love, which neither of them know because that’s way too cool a reference for them but its very distracting for me.

2:13 - Hey so can we talk about Dan straight up acknowledging that people were requesting they fuck and just…leaving that out there on the floor? Oh, no? We’re gonna let him have that one? Fair enough.

2:20 - This has got to be deeply uncomfortable for them.

2:36 - And now 30 full seconds of them discussing their hair, vain bitiches

3:18 - “Kissing the lion”, mhm, your face/mouth region isn’t directly next to Dan’s crotch, we’re totally paying attention to the lion kissing.

3:20 - Jesus. The fucking cuddle that launched two careers and a billion words. Precious, awkward babies.

4:13 - So the choice. To include not one but both of the cuddles in PINOF 1 in a current day video when its entirely likely that there are people who haven’t bothered to go back and watch the other PINOFs is just. Their construction of their glass closet is sort of breathtaking? Because they just put it out there! They put it right in our hands. But then they just. Talk about something else. Because what this? Oh this isn’t a big deal, but I could have hit my head!!

5:08 - Finally! A flaw in this video! Give us Dan in the ice cream shirt, goddamnit!

5:39 - I don’t…have anything to say about this, they both wear clothes very well.

6:14 - Dan, baby. One, read better fic, because these descriptions are rough. But two, that’s literally not what monochrome means.

6:27 - Dan looks like the worst fucking hipster in the ladybird/bug shirt. Like he only reads what Pitchfork has to say about rap albums bad. Like he unironically quotes reviews from The AV Club bad. He only drinks IPAs and describes himself as a “sapiosexual”.

6:36 - “Everything is improved with a bit of glitter”. Gay! So gay. I love him.

7:01 - Plz stop calling Phil’s thighs thick. Please. I’m begging you.

7:43 - Y’all know they did a DITL in Manchester so you motherfuckers wouldn’t stalk them and find their apartment right? I just want us to all acknowledge that. And yes, you should feel bad.

7:56 - Real, sincere question for anyone who hasn’t seen the V-Day Video. Were you VERY confused about them talking about this damn wheel?

8:15 - Ah yes. A Manchester macchiato. That’s totally a thing outside of one very specific context. Ahaha. Hah. Hah. Everybody just be cool for one second.

8:22 - Phil……..is hot. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.

9:16 - If you exchange “challenge” with “discourse”, you basically get my and Mandy’s chats about Fandom These Days. But also give me more of Dan and Phil being the old farts on youtube who have Seen Things Change forever.

9:55 - “I’m just going to put my ass in the air and hope for the best”, sure, sure. But also, as he gets into downward dog, yelling about dogging. Phil is fucking filthy, y’all can’t take this from me.

10:13 - Dan’s shirt is v translucent. This is also not what I meant when I requested a yoga video but I’ll accept this.

10:21 - I was uh, genuinely concerned Dan was going to pass out. Y’all know he got a condition!!

10:32 - SO LETS TALK ABOUT THIS MOMENT. Phil is lovely and glowing and giggly. But Dan? Dan is down with your shit, my shit, our shit, he is d o n e in the way that only queers are done with your heterosexual bullshit. Stop asking who the woman is, Dan’s face says. Stop worrying about our sex life/ves, Dan’s face says. That shrug says I fucked asked, are you happy now you fucking creepers. I love it. I love him.

10:42 - But also, back on my bullshit, look at those clasped hands.

11:08 - If you showed any of this footage a year ago, we would have called bullshit and photoshopping and also magic.

11:15 - [redacted]

11:17 - [wow also redacted]

11:40 - I don’t care about dogs but I’m so happy for all of you

13:25 - “filling the hole with dogs”. Ah yes, that well known kink meme prompt. Or so I’ve heard. Listen fandom used to be a Wild West.

13:38 - I’m certain this is partly scripted or at least prepared for but I’m still so charmed by both Phil and Dan’s little “talk to me, Phillip Lester”. I really do genuinely appreciate Phil talking about why he doesn’t swear.

13:51 - I’m also utterly charmed by the image of Phil just randomly coming up to Dan and being like “CUNTS”

14:41 - You know that scene in Lion King where the lady hyena is like Don’t say Mufasa, just hearing his name gives me chills, and then the other hyenas do and she’s all *shudders and groans*. Its just relatable is all I’m saying. But also? What is this jump cut.

14:55 - Can we get Phil to say cunt now. Is that the next level up? I don’t have any emotional reaction to the word but I’ve been told its worse? Or maybe that’s just in America. Maybe I just wanna hear Phil curse, some more, don’t judge me.

15:10 - They’re sponning but friends. Countrymen. We gotta figure out how we’re going to record and document the events of every show. We need to get on our shit *now*. I lived through the summer of Glee Live, this could be so good if we just make it work.

16:19 - “We’re gonna talk about funny times in our lives” “and we’ll be on the road so I’m sure there’ll be plenty of stories we’ll be desperate to tell” I am so fucking glad we decided to do two rounds of tour fic prompts over at @phandomficfests. We’re going to have so much content to play with, I’m so pumped.

#phandom

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thedappleddragon · 3 years

Text

last night I dreamed that I was an archeologist tortoise and I was looking at dozens of “human” skeletons in Buckingham palace that was also my backyard. the skeletons all looked like combo human and turtle because the whole torso looked basically like the first google image result for sea turtle skeleton. then my sister woke me up, giving me a comforter and telling me my mom need help with some things. cleaned up around the living room and did some laundry and boiled some eggs and made meatloaf and swept the floor. the meatloaf turned out surprisingly good, idk what I did differently. I evemtually went back to my room and tried to remember what I wanted to do today. last night as I was falling asleep I told myself that I was gonna clear off my desk so I could finally use it, so I moved some stuff around and set up my laptop. I havent been able to sit at a real actual desk in SO LONG and its SO NICE to have just like a space where I can sit down and work and have a chair that will support my back instead of sitting cross legged on my bed or laying down while doing stuff on my laptop. it almost makes me feel productive even I'm just playing the sims. I feel especially cool when im just typing out whatever bullshit because it makes me feel like im at an office job typing up ~important documents~ :) idk man I think quarantine has changed me lmao. if im getting this many emotions from just being able to sit down at a desk and do ANYTHING idk how im gonna handle collage. I keep calling whetever im doing (playing the sims, scrolling through Tumblr, typing up this summary of the day) work because it just. feels nice sitting at a desk and typing. even if it’s dumb bullshit!! idk how to describe it I just feel amazing. it makes me feel like im writing a paper with all the horrible parts like research and thinking. the sound of typing on my MacBook makes me feel like im in school again, but without the horrible stressful parts. idk mn I know I've been going on about this desk and stuff for too long and im gonna hate it if I eventually read back through these daily logs but I just feel so nice. ill change topics anyway. I hung up my calendar again! I literally didn't have any open wall space aside from maybe the wall behind my bed but why the hell would I put a calendar where I can't see it. instead its kind of hanging above my closet. I pinned it to the wooden board in the “doorway” (idk what other word to use) where there would normally be sliding doors that open and shut if they hadn't been taken off YEARS ago. I also played a lot of the sims 4, juggling aspirations for 5 sims. I quit because I got frustrated that all my sims are dumb and the ai Is buggy and doesn't let me do what I want them to do. I also plopped in a house on my family’s old lot and spent some time adjusting the colors and the trees and adding those paper craft cieling things that can either have stars or leaves or snowflakes that came in the free winter holiday stuff pack and holy shit as soon as I found those I think they became my new favorite decoration item. I threw them everywhere but eventually took down most of them, leaving some leaf ones in the bedroom. I was gonna move in a family of a bunch of young adults and children to help with the first kid’s serial romantic aspiration and one of the twin’s social butterfly aspiration, but I ended up not doing that in favor of just decorating more and playing with the family some more. one thing I realized while playing is that there are fucking MICE in my CIELING. well not really in the cieling, in the attic, but I can hear them chewing on shit and its sucks. I would turn on a fan to drown out the noise but my room is fucking FREEZING. I threw the blanket back over my window hoping that it would keep heat from escaping but I don't think that really did anything. so after freezing my ass off I got fed up and put on fluffy socks under normal socks, wore my owl onesie as pants over my shorts, put on my comfy (oversized hoodie), and threw a fluffy blanket over my shoulders. thankfully I was pretty cozy after that, but as I type this after taking off the cosy and blanket, I can feel my toes getting cold again. damnit. ANYWAY after quitting the sims for the night I ate some salad and got a heart shaped crouton :) and I scrolled through Tumblr for a bit. then I decided to finally work on the paws my friend wanted. but I couldn't find the pattern so I instead worked on the brown paws instead. I could only work on them so much, since I still have to finish the lining before I can do much else. I attached the backs of the fingers to the back of the hand. I didnt get much down but what matters is that I did SOMETHING. I'm gonna keep an eye out for that pattern that I need, and if I cant find it, I'll just make a new pattern. tbh I think thad’s be the better way to go anyway since I wouldn't have to figure out how the fuck the old one goes together and I can also have a pattern that perfectly fits the foam underneath. also tbh i have mixed feeling about the white paws my friend wants. I like how dextrous they are and how easily you can emote and move your fingers, but I dont like how ovular I made the paw pads and the hints of black thread peaking out where I sewed the pads from the back. I WOULD just remake them with the free curl works pattern im using for the brown paws but I figure I might as well finish this pair since there’s already one done and the foam interior is already made. whatever. I dont wanna think about it too much. I also dont like the head that goes with the paws, it was a fish job in comparison to my first head and I kinda hate it. but I think I'll eventually get some longer fur for the neck and a hair poof and cheeks (maybe) and do a little refurbishing and give it to my friend if she ever wants it, since it matches the paws and all. I have lots of plans for my 2 WIP heads but not all the materials/motivation. plus I just need to let the ideas stir before I do unything, making sure they’re goof before I act on them. I'm exited that I can shave down fur relativey easily and evenly without an electric dog shaver, which opens up a lot of opportunities. anyway as I was working on the brown paws I had TAZ on in the background and it still baffles me a little bit how different griffin and Matt mercer operate as dms like holy shit. its really funny. and it got me thinking about how I wouldn't mind dming for my friend group if he chance ever arose. I DO have the forgotten realms campaign setting book. I haven't actually looked at it but I assume it has a few pre-built quests and plot lines n stuff in it. I'll probably take a better look at in the morning when it’s not 1:40 am. dang now I'm thinking about my Minecraft dnd idea again. I think the real problem keeping me from being a dm is that I CANNOT keep a straight face when doing improv/roleplaying, so I dont know how well I could hold together a world for them to play in. I would love to give it a try tho. not with the Minecraft idea at the same time, fuck no. I would need to do like. a classic vanilla dnd experience the first time, maybe even using our tiefling family characters since I'm at least a little familiar with them. can you dm and also play your own character? is that fair? is that a think you can do? I think that could be fun but also hard to juggle and also maybe kinda suck because you’d already know all the answers to all the puzzles. meh. actually now I kind of really want to look through thet book tonight instead of in the morning. also I mentioned overnight oats a few days ago I think, and the first morning it was kinda gross, the second time I ate it was still a little gross texture wise, but I finished it off tonight and it was pretty good. maybe next time I'll try it without the banana and a little less milk and maybe slice up an apple into little cubes for texture. hell yeah peanut butter apple cinnamon brown sugar overnight oats. that sound pretty dang good actually. I'll try that some time, but I dont think I can right now because I dont think we have any apples in the house. phooey. I should also probably put this oatmeal cp in the sink before it becomes impossible to clean. holy shit how long have I been writing? SEE THE DESK MAKES ME JUST WANNA KEEP WRITING AND WRITING FOREVER I FEEL SO PRODUCTIVE EVEN IF IM NOT DOING ANYTHING PRODUCTIVE!! I love just typing and typing forever its so soothing just hearing the tapping of the keyboard and getting my thought out without actually having to think that hard about it. goddamn im never gonna read back through this this is a nightmare lmao. no paragraph breaks no capitalization no nothin. I dont even wanna stop typing even though my arm is starting to hurt a little but from leaning the edge of the desk. now im thinking about the movie soul again and the cat as it rides on the escalator to the great beyond and how that dude in the band was the main characters student and how that scene with the girl trying to quit music and then immediately changed her mind didnt make any sense. like what the hell I dont understand that scene at all. also thinking about the transition where he’s like “ok repeat after me” as he’s in the cat and the camera goes over the mom’s shoulder and it’s just him talking, I like how they did that instead of doing dialouge between him and the cat. idk man. I think maybe I should stop typing now since my body is starting to hurt. sorry for putting this H U G E wall of text on your dash but I just like typing out my thoughts :) goodnight!

edit: OH I forgot to talk about something else!! last night I was thinking about valentines day and how cute it would be to have a little overall dress in the pattern on one of my childhood blankets, its like a light pink with white hearts on it so I looked up some fabrics and none of them were the right pattern. I also looked up a sewing pattern that I think would look nice and its on sale right now! I totally want to try and make it, but fabric is expensive so I think I might look at dollar tree for fleece baby blankets because I know they have them there, I bought a few a while ago for some plush sewing projects. they’re decently sized so I think I could do it.idk how many I would need to buy tho. or I might go to goodwill and look for a pink sheet? I have a thin pink blanket that could theoretically work but I want to use a planet im not attached to. or even just find a few big shirts in the same shade of pink? then I could maybe line it with something. I have red purple and white satin but that’s literally the worst fuckin fabric in the world to work with. my first experience with sewing was trying to make plushies out of satin and holy hell idk how I did it. anyway even though I literally never wear dresses I think it would be a fun project to try and make myself a cute little valentines dress. :) I could even give myself POCKETS >:)))

#thanks for coming to my ted talk #long post #I think maybe I should tag my daily shit with something like 2021 journal? idk im lazy so we'll see #January 2021 daily #2021 daily

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hermitologist · 6 years

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My 17 Favorite Records of 2017

Hello, Internet. Yet another year has passed, and because I’ve made a habit of making year-end lists, this old man has gone and done it again.

I listened to a veritable buttload of music this year on my morning runs, which I decided to post about on Instagram most days in a concerted effort to keep myself accountable bore every last one of my followers to death. I think it’s working.

What follows, is my list of favorites. Not “best”. “Favorite”. *My* favorite. So, spare me the “Your list sucks. WTF. I can’t believe “A Vest For Jerome” by Turd Circus isn’t on there!” comments. I’m sorry we don’t have the exact same taste in music. :)

As usual, I feel like the top 5 or 6 here are pretty carved in stone, but the last 12 and some of the honorable mentions could totally be flip-flopped depending on which side of the bed I woke up on. I actually fiddled with a few spots five minutes before posting this, which is either a testament to that or Exhibit 4,923 in my undiagnosed OCD case.

Anyways ... TL;DR. Here’s what I was into this year. I hope you find something you enjoy.

IMPORTANT: Please let me know what I might missed out on (as I’m sure there’s a ton of it), and share some of your favorites in the comments below. Thanks!

17) Japandroids - Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

This didn’t quite grab me the way Celebration Rock did, but it’s got a good number of super infectious earworms that got stuck in my brain at the top of the year.

Listen here.

16) Sorority Noise - You’re Not As ____ You Think

Excellent “emo”with that feels like it could very easily fit into Brand New’s discography (and I mean that in a very complimentary way). Highly recommended if you’re looking for something to fill that void.

Listen here.

15) Queens of the Stone Age - Villains

This took a little while for this record to sink its teeth into me, but once it did, it didn’t let go. The arrangements are so nuanced that I’ve found little bits of ear candy each time I’ve listened to it, and while the mix is not my favorite, the songs are so brilliantly catchy and drumming so monstrous, I’m hooked. And Jon Theodore is the best drummer on Earth. That’s not debatable either. It’s fact.

Listen here.

14) David Bazan - Care

It’s no secret that I’m a sucker for anything and everything Bazan. His lyrics and the timbre of his voice cut to my core, and the songs on Care are no exception -- even when they’re delivered over minimalist electronica (which is not my favorite vehicle by any stretch). Another Bazan masterpiece.

Listen here.

13) Glassjaw - Material Control

This record is perfect in that it is exactly what it needs to be. It’s Glassjaw doing what they do best -- intense, vibey, groovy, heavy post-hardcore that is a logical follow-up to Worship & Tribute, while flexing and pushing enough to make it feel fresh. A tremendous return to form, and a record that was well worth the wait.

Listen here.

12) Julien Baker - Turn Out The Lights

Sprained Ankle blew me away and knocked me on my ass, and somehow, some way, Baker has leveled up and topped that. The stripped-down “artist + guitar” intimacy is still there, but the heavy moments hit even harder because of the additional orchestration on this record. Such a promising future for her.

Listen here.

11) The Life & Times - S/T

Another excellent record from some of one of Kansas City’s best bands. There are few who do airy, melancholic, spacey, dynamic rock better than these guys. And Chris Metcalf is one of the best drummers on the planet right now -- so pockety, tasteful, and effortless. Highly recommended if you dig Failure, Shiner, Hum, Antenna-era Cave In, et al.

Listen here.

10) METZ - Strange Peace

This beast is 36 minutes of noisy, nasty, heavy post-punk with stellar guitar and bass tones, and badass drumming that sounds like the best parts of Nirvana and Young Widows had a perfect lovechild. I dare you to listen to this record and not have an overwhelming urge to play it as loud as you possibly can and headbang until your eyes fall out of your skull.

Listen here.

9) CHON - Homey

I really enjoyed this when it came out, but it wasn’t until we spent five weeks on tour with them and got to see them shred a handful of these songs on a nightly basis that it really grabbed ahold of me. This record is stellar. Sure there are a ton of notes, but they’re all tasteful, never bogged down in painfully long prog opuses, and there’s so much feel here ... which is so rare in the new world of insanely chopped, gridded and sampled prog. The splashes of hip-hop and glitchy Prefuse 73 style electronica are a killer addition to the mix as well. This is the feel good record of the year for me.

Listen here.

8) Kendrick Lamar - DAMN.

There really isn’t another rapper who holds a candle to Kendrick at the moment, and this might be the best work of his career. I haven’t had a hip-hop record hit me like this in at least a decade. I was hooked from the second the beat dropped in DNA., got roped in even more by the slow jam LOVE., and HUMBLE. sealed the deal. What a beast.

Listen here.

7) Cloud Nothings - Life Without Sound

This record rules, but I’m not sure I can put my finger on exactly why I like it so much. It’s got tiny elements of so many bands I love or used to love without being overly referential. It’s got a melancholic vibe but never lacks energy. And it is packed with really, really well written and catchy songs without full-blown pop circus. You know you’re listening to a great record when you’re playing a deep cut and uncontrollably blurt, “Fuck, this song is good.”

Listen here.

6) Converge - The Dusk In Us

Nobody does it better than these dudes, and it’s been that way for the better part of two decades. The Dusk In Us is yet another record a discography full of bar-setting hardcore/metal/noise records that elevate the ceiling of the genre and make everyone else sound/look bland in comparison. This one slides right into the #3 or #4 spot in that storied discography. So great.

Listen here.

5) Manchester Orchestra - A Black Mile To The Surface

This is one of those rare records that blows you away on first listen, and gets better with each subsequent listen. The former happens when the songs --stripped to their bones -- are stellar, and the latter happens when the arrangements and mix are somehow even more stellar. ABMTTS checks the shit outta both of those boxes and then some. Aaaand it was made with multiple producers, but doesn’t sound disjointed in the slightest, which seems damn near impossible. It’s the perfect Manchester Orchestra record ... “The Gold” was stuck pleasantly in my head for a majority of the year.

Listen here.

4) Pile - A Hairshirt Of Purpose

Disclaimer: I am a late adopter of the majesty of Pile, but I am happy to announce that I am hopelessly hooked on their soulful, noisy, schizophrenic, (occasionally) dreamy, fusion of post-punk, blues, and all sorts of other good things. My entry point was Dripping, but A Hairshirt ... cemented my love for this band. It’s weird, it’s beautiful, it’s energetic, it’s heavy, it’s ethereal, and the musicianship is frustratingly good. If you know, you know ... if you don’t, just trust me. Spin it with an open mind and meet one of your new favorite bands.

Listen here.

3) Propagandhi - Victory Lap

I grew up on Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords punk rock in the 90s, and these guys (and gal) are legitimately the only band of that era that continue to excite and inspire me. I look forward to every release, and they manage to deliver every. single. time. It’s not a nostalgia thing with Propagandhi. Chris Hannah’s lyrics, melodies, and guitar playing continue to push the boundaries of what can be done in that genre. You might expect a group of 40-year-old punks to decline or at least plateau, but they’re still on an upward trajectory and it’s inspiring as hell. Bonus points if you’re a parent and can listen to “Adventures In Zoochosis” without tearing up. Victory Lap is outstanding -- one of their three best records without question.

Listen here.

2) Cloakroom - Time Well

If you’ve been following me here, on Twitter, or Instagram, it’s no secret that I’ve got a massive soft spot in my heart for bummer jams -- especially bummer jams of the heavy variety. Time Well is a damn near perfect in those regards. It’s shoegazey without being tired or overly jangly, mildly doomy without being mind-numbingly boring, and fuzzy without sounding like it was recorded inside a sleeping bag. I’m pretty sure I listened to this record more than anything else this year, and after probably a hundred spins, it hasn’t lost any of its luster. It’s outstanding (and it’s got some damn tasty drumming on it too).

Listen here.

1) Elder - Reflections Of A Floating World

My buddy Scott Evans (Kowloon Walled City vocalist/guitarist, Antisleep recording engineer/producer, multi-talented human, generally outstanding dude, recommender of many amazing bands) turned me on to these guys earlier this year by sharing 2015′s Lore with me. That record f-ing floored me. Riffs for days. Heaviness. Prog vibes. Stoner rock goodness. Dynamics. Space. Sabbath-y vocals. It checked all of the boxes. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to hear Reflections Of A Floating World.

ROAFW dropped in June, and it’s even better than I could have imagined. I’d wager that there are more sick riffs on this record than your favorite band has in their entire discography. I dare you to listen to this and not get a twitch to start a play air guitar. Also: How the shit do you write 15-minute songs that don’t bore people into catatonia? This is how. Just like this. Parts never drag, parts never feel like they’re just filler, and there isn’t a wasted moment in 64 minutes of music. That’s a remarkable feat in and of itself. This is a goddamn timeless record, and there’s no doubt I’ll have it in heavy rotation for the rest of my life.

Listen here.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

The Effects - Eyes To The Light

Brutus - Burst

Nate Smith - KINFOLK: Postcards From The Edge

Employed To Serve - Warmth of A Dying Sun

God Mother - Vilseledd

Slowdive - Sugar For The Pill

Hundredth - RARE

Mutoid Man - War Moans

Grizzly Bear - Painted Ruins

Quicksand - Interiors

Death From Above - Outrage! Is Now

Power Trip - Nightmare Logic

Health - DISCO3

Vince Staples - Big Fish Theory

All Them Witches - Sleeping Through The War

Code Orange - Forever

Blis - No One Likes You

Bjork - Utopia

Less Art - Strangled Light ;)

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2015 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

Town Portal - The Occident

MY FAVORITE RECORD OF 2004 THAT I DIDN’T HEAR UNTIL 2017

The Stella Link - Mystic Jaguar... Attack!!!

CURRENT PODCAST QUEUE

Chapo Trap House (Grey Wolf Feed)

The Trap Set

Song Exploder

Slate’s The Gist

Slate’s Hang Up & Listen

INTERCEPTED

The FilmDrunk Frotcast

Deadcast

How I Built This

Freakonomics Radio

Radiolab

This American Life

#music #musician #year end lists #top 17 #thrice #riley breckenridge #hermitology

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unheathyseoulfood · 7 years

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Aphrodisiac pt1

Description :After exhausting all of your financial resources, you end up resorting to donating blood just so you can get by. It turned out well until you found yourself faced with the question of whether or not you wanted to become a personal blood bank to someone who has possibly become addicted

Pairing : Vampire Jin x Reader

Word Count : 1,608

Genre : angst, humour,

a/n : Welcome to hearing any feedback you guys have :)

You sat there anxiously, anxiously adjusting the neckline of your sweater, much too aware of the way it kept shifting to expose the gauntness of your collar bones. The silence in the room appeared to be soothing to those around you but for you it was hell. It left you alone with nothing but your booming thoughts on whether or not you were actually this desperate for money.

To any normal person you may look like any other 23 year old girl sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s office for an appointment. However, you weren’t. In fact here you were, the epitome of the broke and low-key starving art student trope from that one low budget Lifetime movie, sitting in the room of a blood bank for vampires, waiting to see if your blood was clean enough to donate. All this just to get some money to pay your rent because life’s a bitch, and you’d prefer to not be eating out of a garbage bin.

It’s been a trying 2 years to say the least. Balancing work and school to pay your tuition was not easy task but somehow you’d been getting by relatively fine.

Until about 3 months ago, when your former boss had offered you a raise if you’d blow him in the supplies closet, then proceeded to fire you after you punched him in the dick so there’s that.

Now here you were, behind on your rent, empty cupboards and not knowing where to even start. You’d been scanning the newspaper trying to find another job when you first saw the advertisement.

Admittedly, the advertisement appeared little absurd to you at first glance, with elegant bold letters saying you could donate a pint of blood to help feed the city’s thriving vampire population and get paid for your donation.

You knew next to nothing about vampires, apart from the basic knowledge that they drank human blood. The thought was a bit off putting to you at first, but after about a week of contemplation, fueled by the gnawing hunger and multiple threats from your (understandably) impatient landlord, anxiety outweighed uncertainty.

A pleasant nurse had taken a sample of your blood for testing to see if it was fit for donation. Depending on your results, they would class your blood based on its quality and pay you according to which class you fell in.

You’d read multiple stories of persons who had gotten up to 5 grand for a pint of blood because of how high quality it was. Which was utterly mind blowing to you. You hoped that the rather questionable diet you’d been sustaining hadn’t messed with your health too much. It was a guarantee that if you got like $50 for your blood the subsequent plan involved you, the asphalt and some good ole rush hour traffic.

“Ms. y/l/n?”

You flinched slightly as you heard your name being called, head snapping up to meet the steady gaze of the receptionist as she indicated for you to come over. She smiled softly at you as she held out a slip of paper and a pen.

“Congratulations you’ve been approved for donation. You just have to complete the consent form and then go to the white door on your left and you’ll be given further instructions from there” she stated, as she began indicating to specific parts of the paper and explaining them to you.

Within the span of the next 4 hours you were back into your apartment, curled up under a blanket and eating actual food. The procedure itself wasn’t bad. You were jabbed by a slightly concerned nurse who became a fully concerned nurse once she saw the way you began to sway as more blood was pulled from your body But it really do be like that sometimes.

Before you knew it, it was over and you were walking (sorta...) towards the bank with a check for $3000 clutched in your hands and a lingering weakness deep in your bones. You’d had enough to pay for the rent you’d owed and to buy food to last for at least a month.

For the first time in months you didn’t have a massive dark cloud of anxiety looming over your head. You didn’t even realize how stressed you were until your weren’t. As soon, as the high from this wore off you knew you’d be back to anxious, depressed mess as you searched for a job. You’d spent the last of your savings to make the deadline for the tuition payments for the semester so at least that was out of the way. But you still needed supplies, food and rent money for the rest of the year. Working at your last job may have been shit but the pay was decent and it had been enough to let u live somewhat comfortably (a relative term) . It wasn’t going to be easy finding another one that paid so well.

The thought made your head throb (or maybe that was the blood loss) so you just left it for another time.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Unfortunately, it was just your luck that every single goddamn place worth working at in your vicinity either had no vacancies or was sleezy to the point that starvation was better. It was getting closer to the beginning of your semester and you were this close to just donating more blood. You were less than 2 weeks away and you had no books, no supplies, nothing.

Your parents were full of shit so they were out of the question. They’d been adamant about disowning you if you went into anything outside of business field. They told you that you wouldn’t survive without their support and you weren’t about to let 2 years worth of proving them wrong go down the drain.

You grunted burying your face in the pillows and hoping the lack of oxygen would just take you out.

Sadly, you were only slightly light headed when you were interrupted by the vibrations from you phone. You blindly hit the accept button.

“Hello?”

“Ms.Y/L/N,?” you heard the familiar voice of the receptionist from the clinic say. You instantly shot up, every possible worst case scenario flitting through your brain. She hadn’t even said anything and you losing your shit over absolutely nothing.

“I’m calling on behalf of Dr. Choi, the head of the clinic. There are a few things he’d like to discuss with you regarding the donation you made and the client who received it. He’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Do you have any time this week that you could drop by the clinic?” she inquired. You eyed the clock on the wall across from you. It was just a little after 1.

“I’m free at the moment actually. I could come now, I mean if it’s ok with him” You hoped she said yes, if you didn’t see him today, all the possible reasons why he wanted to speak to you would have kept you wide awake all night. And you already had enough of those under your belt.

You could hear her fingers vigorously tapping against the keys of the keyboard as she paused, telling you to hold for a minute while she checked his schedule.

“That would be perfect actually. He has a free slot at 2:45.” You thanked her for calling you and hung up, assuring her you’d be there.

You quickly got dressed and took a short walk to the bus stop. The whole time you were in the bus your brain started coming up with all the possible ways you could have fucked this one up. Maybe they wanted their money back because your blood poisoned someone. Could you even poison a vampire? But if you killed someone, that technically makes you a murderer and murderers go to prison.

…

Fuck.

You weren’t cut out for prison. You weren’t even cut out for life to be completely honest. You buried your face in your palms in an attempt to calm your erratic thoughts.. All of those reasons were dumb. There was nothing to be worried about because there’s a logical reason you were being called. They didn’t want the money back, you hadn’t killed anyone and you weren’t going to prison.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

It was easier to convince yourself once you were seated across from Dr.Choi in his office.

He was a stately man in his early 40′s, his neatly cut black hair littered with patches of white and grey, tall and broad shouldered with sharp eyes that still somehow held enough warmth to silence the thoughts bouncing around in your head.

“I’m glad you were able to meet with me this quickly despite the short notice. You must be wondering why you were summoned so suddenly “. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. You tapped your foot against the mahogany floor boards, waiting for what he had to say.

”As you know, we are a blood clinic who’s sole purpose is to keep the vampire population well fed. The blood is distributed randomly to the population based on the class of blood they order. Therefore every time they get a supply it’s from a completely different person. However, there are specific instances in which a vampire receives a very special bag of blood, and they find it particularly… enticing, we’ll go with that for lack of a better word. It awakens something in them that makes them want more from that source. They become addicted in a sense. So they request a blood bond contract with the individual who donated the blood. It’s a very common occurrence actually.” he paused, leveling you with a calm stare.

“You’ve been requested for a blood bond contract"

#kim seokjin #bts #bangtan boys #bantansonyeondan #bangtan #bts scenarios #bts jin scenario #bts smut #bts jin smut #bangtan smut #bts jin #bts suga #bts jhope #bts namjoon #bts jimin #bts v #bts jungkook #bts vampire au #jin vampire au

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