Imagine being the waypoint operator for the 141s comms, in charge of directing their chatter to the correct channels when needed, right?
Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.
One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.
Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.
Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'
Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.
Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—
Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.
Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.
But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.
Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!
Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.
Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?
There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—
Soap: our waypoint.
You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself
Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—
Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?
Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?
....silence
Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"
You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.
All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...
You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.
I'm thinking of some crazy situation where trinity realises dennis's love for older men who are big and hairy (she knows about his crush on robby), and so as a gag gift she buys him a gay bear calendar, so he can look at a new older guy's body on his wall every month.
dennis goes bright red, but hangs it up and looks through it anyway. he won't say no to being provided some eye candy- and these guys are *very* hot, after all...
unbeknownst to them, robby had ended up, a few months back, doing some amateur modelling for one of his friends who did photography in the local queer scene. apparently the photos were going towards fun projects to raise money for the local clubs and centres, and he hadn't minded so much- no one would see his face anyway.
dennis's heart starts to pick up when he flips the calendar to october, and despite the fact the photos cut off at the neck and the guys faces aren't in view, there's something *very* familiar about the set of this guys posture and the shape of his belly... dennis was going to write it off as lucky coincidence that he'd been provided with shockingly robby-esque wank material, but then his eyes land on the guys arms. and see the tattoos.
oh. oh yeah. that's robby, attending physician of the ptmc emergency department, pictured half naked in high-res and hanging on his bedroom wall. dennis was fucking screwed.
alright I've got to do some quick math to explain attitudes towards AI to my boss.
we're looking to create an AI policy, and when we were talking about this, my boss (older millennial) was genuinely shocked to hear that younger people do not (seem) to view AI positively (a la the recent commencement speakers being booed)
please rb for larger sample size!
Question 1/3
What is your age, and do you feel AI is a net positive or net negative in our lives today?
as much as I love the concept of dennis sleeping in robby's bed while he's away my dennis is far too polite. he feels weird about it, too weird. he ends up curled fetal on robby's couch, holding himself, shivering a little. he doesn't even bother with a blanket.
robby gets home early. two months early and 2am early. it's dark out, and he's tired— he's never not tired. a bone-deep exhaustion he just can't shake. couldn't shake it on the road, couldn't work up the courage to hurl himself off a roof or a cliff or something that would end this endless exhaustion for good. he did something he's gotten embarrassingly good at, he gave up.
he assumes dennis is sleeping at the very least, most likely not even there. dennis probably stops by once a day to water a couple of dying plants, make sure no one has broken in overnight. easy enough. of course, dennis was welcome to stay. welcome to anything, his food, (not that there's much of it) his bed, anything he wanted. robby half-expected him to get the house. half-expected himself to never come home.
knew that he was never gonna do it. too pussy, too weak, maybe. he'll make excuses, say PTMC needs him, (what a joke..) that his colleagues would miss him, something, anything. but the damned truth is he just couldn't fucking do it.
robby eases his front door shut, toes out of his boots, sighs heavy through his nose. when he pads into the living room he's shocked to make out a form in the dim light, the rise and fall of breathing, dennis. god, of course. robby should've given him some sort of express permission, do whatever you want, sleep in my bed, wear my clothes, use my shower.
not like— not like that. even though robby's chest feels weird at the thought of it, dennis in his clothes... smelling of him... nuzzling into sheets he's slept in. fuck. robby's always been a fucking pervert when it comes to his adorable intern with the biggest, saddest eyes, but knowing it feels a little better. self-awareness and all that. the kid is just so sweet, so eager, so... he looks up at robby like robby means something to him.
just— dennis should've been comfortable. he knows the kid, always scared of imposing, taking up too much space, being too much. a tendency to curl into himself, even months later with a new edge of confidence. robby knows his mattress is a hell of a lot nicer than his couch, at least.
for a moment he considers if he should leave the little thing all curled up, sleeping, unaware. but robby is a selfish man. and he'll pretend that it's for dennis, that he's thinking about how achy the poor kid will get from sleeping on the couch, but he knows it's not true. robby is fucking tired. and he wants. he wants dennis in his bed, in his arms, sleepy and sweet, something whole, something innocent. someone who likes him. who cares about his opinions and his praises, craves them, even. fuck, yeah, robby's a selfish man. but he knows it. he's aware.
ignoring the protest in his back and knees, he scoops dennis up in the cradle of his arms, grunting at the muscled weight. dennis is short, compared to him at least, and robby fucking loves that more than he should— how small dennis can seem in comparison to him— but he's not exactly tiny. especially not since his return from rotations, with those pretty, sculpted arms robby keeps peeking at every time he offers a job-well-done fistbump.
fucking pervert.
dennis stirs a little, snuffles in the crook of his neck, and robby feels like crying. it's the most intimate he's been with someone in years, it feels like, even though he picked up a girl in a bar on the road just a week ago, gave her a good night. picked up a guy, just a couple days before that. robby's good at flirting, good at sex, good at impersonal.
this feels different. dennis's warm weight, the gentle smell of coconut shampoo, the softness of the dirty blond curls against his chin. this is someone he cares about. and dennis is clinging to him in his sleep, whining a little in the back of his throat as he's laid down on robby's bed. yeah. robby feels like fucking crying, even though he'd never just let himself. he spends most of his time trying not to cry.
but, he lets himself have this. shushes dennis's soft whines, crawls into bed and curls up close, gritting his teeth as dennis takes so easily to it. nuzzles up like he's trying to burrow into robby, shuddering like he's unused to touch, unused to the warmth of another body. robby squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself drop a kiss to the top of dennis's head, breathing him in deep til his shoulders loosen a bit. god, how long has he wanted this? feels like forever. maybe always, in some capacity. someone sweet and forgiving, warm and soft, cuddling up into his chest like robby could ever be considered "safe."
someone staying, as if robby could ever be anything but abandoned.
dennis whispers robby? against his throat and robby tenses up, scared that this safety bubble is popped, that everything's broken, that he's fucked it. that he only had paradise for a moment before it's snatched from his grip all over again.
he might as well give into it while he can. talk to dennis like he does in his head, treat dennis like he fantasizes about on lonely nights. so he hums soft, starts rubbing circles on dennis's back, cuddling him somehow closer as he coos shh, you're okay, baby, you're alright. you're safe, sweetheart. go back to sleep.
robby resigns himself, waits for the other shoe to drop. waits for dennis to realize what's happening, to wrench out of his grasp, maybe yell at robby for holding him, touching him like this without even asking. innocent, maybe, but intimate, too intimate. inappropriate. so robby waits.
dennis only rubs his cheek against robby's shoulder, tucks his face into robby's neck, body going lax with an adorable little yawn. mm, he murmurs, soft, sleepy. your bed's nice. I missed you.
You can be talking to someone and she'll be like, "Oh I made a silly mistake. Women don't deserve voting rights teehee." And you'll be like, "What." And she'll be like, "Oh I'm sorry! That must sound so bad out of context. No it's this Tiktok meme where, if you're a girl and you do something dumb, you say 'Women don't deserve voting rights teehee.'"
And you'll be like, "That sounds bad." And she'll be like, "No no. It's totally not that bad. It's just a meme. Men say it too. Like if a man does something silly he'll be like, 'I am like those women who do not deserve to vote.'" And you'll be like, "Does that make it better?" And she'll be like, "Well there was one guy who tried to make 'Men shouldn't vote' a popular meme. But it never caught on and also he got yelled at a lot."
And then you drop it there because like, you're harshing the vibe.
ive been talking to Amy all day about the knight and im OBSESSED with the idea she had about you, being highborn, being your husband's guide through the political and social aspects of the court.
one day you block him from the front door.
"You are forbidden from going to the capital."
the knight reaches to stroke your cheek. "It's only a day's journey, lamb. I will be back within a week."
"I am not allowing you to leave to see the king's court dressed like that!" you point to his cloak and garments. your husband furrows his brow hard, inspecting himself. "They are stained and ripped!"
"My appearance doesn't matter, my performance is battle does." Clothing wont fix his face or scars.
"Nonsense." Clothing has always been important to you; half of the gowns you wear are made by your own hand, the fabric supplied by your father. There's been a pile of things set aside for your hubsand, but he refuses to stay still enough for you to measure. "I am coming with. There are clothes I have half sewn for you that I can finish. The rest we will buy when we arrive."
"We will be late to the council meeting-"
"And then you can blame your wife."
usually your husband rides a horse to the capital, but you have forced him into the carriage with you.
"You look regal in a high collar," you say and you work a hem. "Why are you even being summoned?"
The knight adjusts uncomfortably, looking out the window to avoid your focused expression.
"They wish to move troops back into the north in case of uprising," he whispers, voice low. "It's a terrible idea. Forcing already exhausted men to march hundreds of miles before the cold season ends is just going to lead to illness, infighting, and death."
"They don't listen to you when you tell them these things?"
"Rarely."
"Well, then make them listen. Why have a commander if they insist on ignoring him? You have earned their respect."
at the capital, you stand up for him in ways he didnt know he needed. Another member of the council greets him coldly, biting his name out with an overly polite statement that might be a jab-
"Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but you must not have heard," you say, hand coming to rest on your husbands chest, your mdoest ring glittering on your finger. "My husband has been titled as Lord of The Ironhills because of his actions as Commander of The Royal Legion."
The man blinks slowly, one eye slower than the other. "I am very aware, miss."
"Oh, forgive me! You didn't use either title, so I assumed you did not know better," you laugh. The joyous air you keep has this deeper, more pointed undertone. Many of the spots he overhears in the capital have this rhythm to them, but he never has the ability to bit back in the same way. "And you may refer to me as lady."
The man is clearly unhappy, but he turns back to your husband. "Forgive me, my lord."
and the knight realizes that his position here may grant him more power that he thought.
Watching the new Spider-Noir show, and I gotta say, I love everything about the secretary character Janet. Easily my favorite character so far. First of all, that they'd include a fat character in a show set in the thirties at all is awesome because media likes to pretend fat people didn't exist until the 90s. Secondly that they let her be pretty and have fashionable hair and clothes and makeup. Not to mention the fact that she's confident and sexy, when she walks into the police station all eyes are on her. She's smart, she's a baddie, she takes no shit from anyone. 10/10 character.
let's talk about historical accuracies that I noticed.
Telephones! Hell yeah. Ben has a newer model than Joseph because of course! Even if Ben hasn't been getting jobs for months he's still in a job that overall pays more and he's GOOD at what he does. (Not to talk about the obvious racial pay inequality)
Joseph uses one that was far more common in the early 1900s to 1910! That's OLD by then. Ben has one that's average, (thus expensive), typical rotatory.
Now. Something far more interesting.
Nail polish! 💅✨
I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw this:
You see??? Half-moons, clean edge nails! Even if it first appeared in the 20s, this design was super popular in 1930 especially! Many theorize it was so chipping wouldn't be as noticeable, which makes sense!
It's trendy and practical at the same time which makes sense for a character like Vera Addison! She doesn't come from money nor socializes with the upper class of society, naturally, she is using what Hollywood stars use! Not to say it also saves money on nail polish itself, which might've been an instinct at that point. She's the newest money there is and styles herself like so
And we see Janet using the same design! See!? Popular. It's a very practical design as I said.
Quick detour about Mrs. Addison and her coat: at this point, even the fur in women's clothes were taxed! At the same time, Vogue said fur tells “the kind of woman you are and the kind of life you lead”. So hey, look! She got a fur coat! It's so slightly matted yet silly, uneven, tapered, in other words, EXPENSIVE
On the other hand... (Pun intended)
We see Cat having fully painted nails.
She doesn't have to save on nail polish! Nope. She appeals to another echelon entirely. She's not a person as much as she's a doll, entertainment– this is what her appearance says about her.
Her hair is always neatly pinned. Perfect. Always. Using a cig holder so ash doesn't fall on her clothing or stain her gloves/fingers. It tells a completely different story.
I also loved noticing how we don't see the ladies using their hairs down! We see the history so perfectly in this lady who has less than three minutes of screen
Hat hooked to her hair, the updo curls pinned and sprayed into perfection. The jacket shoulders, the ornament buttons! High arched dramatic eyebrows, smoky eyeshadows and powdery makeup!!
I just loved having that much realism. It really pulled you into the era and that's because I am not a historian at all! I'm sure it has its far amount of inaccuracies including those made to appeal to the modern viewer! But it's still.... So yummy
Anyway, I was listening to Telephone by Lady Gaga and it got me thinking about HuckleAbbot meeting at a club or dive bar. A little HuckleRobby, too. Like, Dennis going to the bar after Robby told him they're just "being casual" and Dennis gets mad and is feeling a little self-destructive. If they're just "being casual" then Dennis can go out and hook up or make-out with whoever he wants, right? He just didn't expect the night shift attending to be there, too and...
It's a dark corner in a seedy place and Dennis kissed two other men before he saw Abbot. At first, he panicked. A few drinks and some fun on the dance floor should be fine. It's his life. He can do whatever he wants, but he also knows doctor's are meant to be reputable. It's stupid because they should get a life too.
The panic only grew when Abbot approached him and pulled him away from the third guy Dennis only kind of wanted to make-out with. Dennis didn't argue, a million excuses on his tongue, ready to explain that it wasn't cheating if Robby didn't even want to be exclusive. Dennis is a grown man. He can do what he wants with who he wants and--
And Abbot's arm is around his waist and Dennis is pressed up against a wall.
"Here I was thinking someone had a claim on you," Abbot mutters. His face is right against Dennis' neck and he cranes his chin up to let Abbot have more access. His breath is hot and Dennis kind of wants to taste whatever he may have ordered from the bar. The last few guys made fun of the fruity drink Dennis had bought, but he had enough beers in his youth with his brothers to know he didn't like them.
"No one claims me," Dennis grumbles, "I'm an adult."
"Oh, I'm sure," Abbot says, licking against the sweat at Dennis' collar and Dennis shivers. His voice a condescending tone and Dennis kind of likes it. "If you weren't one, you wouldn't be buying your own drinks." Dennis flushes because... well, he'd maybe gotten the last two guys to buy his drinks and with the way Abbot laughs, he knows.
Dennis isn't able to respond, because Abbot has an open mouth against his neck, and Dennis' knees go weak and then there's a thigh between his legs. Dennis lets it happen, moans a little at how good it feels. Someone with more experience than the wandering hands that seemed to stutter at his waist and hips that were different than they seemed to expect.
There's a buzzing in his back pocket and Dennis huffs as Abbot continues to kiss and suck and grind his thigh up which his only becoming harder to pretend to ignore.
The phone stops ringing and Dennis hums in delight, deciding it might just be a one time thing. Maybe it's not even Robby.
It starts again and this time, Dennis manages to fishes the phone out before it goes to voicemail.
"I don't mind," Abbot says, nipping at his earlobe, "Kinda having fun playing with you like this, anyway." Dennis snorts and meets his eyes.
"Like what?" he says.
"You're not very receptive. Just letting me do what I want... kinda like a doll." Dennis grows hotter at that. He answers the phone and Abbot grins before paying attention to the other side of Dennis' neck and he doesn't mean to outright moan into the receiver, but Abbot found this place closer to the nape of his neck at the same time his hands went under his shirt--
"Where are you?" Robby asks. His voice is strained.
"Why?" Dennis says. Abbot's hands are squeezing and pinching. Dennis let's his head fully fall back against the wall and sighs.
"Why... I thought we talked about you coming over tonight?"
"Yeah, but I decided I don't want to." Abbot pulls back to snort at Dennis' answer. Dennis is sure he can't hear Robby over the music and everything else happening. It doesn't matter because Dennis outright giggles at the laugh from Abbot. It's something he doesn't do anymore, not after how much he got teased about being girly, but right now he likes it. Plus, Abbot's stubble kinda tickles when he just nuzzles against Dennis' neck like that.
He forgets Robby's on the phone until he talks again several seconds later.
"Are you with someone?" he asks. If Dennis were more sober, he might've heard the small hurt in his voice. Right now, though, he's focused on his free hand grabbing at Abbot's bicep and feeling it up a little. It's only fair.
"Kinda," Dennis says, "'M at... Honestly it might be a gay bar."
"You don't know where you are?" Dennis scoffs then grins as Abbot pumps his bicep for Dennis to press harder into. One of his nails scrapes just under his nipple and Dennis stifles a moan.
"'Course I know where I am," he says, "I'm with Jack."
"You're with--!"
"I gotta go." He pulls the phone away from his ear and doesn't look as he (hopefully) hangs up and shoves his phone back into his pocket. It's much easier to pull Abbot into a proper kiss without it.
Imagine joining an online chatroom because you struggle meeting people in real life, but god do you want to lose your virginity, right?
Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.
Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.
The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.
But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.
You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?
You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.
Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.
You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—
...no. no way.
The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.
You swallow thickly, glance up at him.
The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."
( best listened with headphones, full playlist link here )
Carmy’s been wiping down the front counter for the past five minutes. At least. He’s more distracted by your figure across the room, sitting at the table in front of the large window, staring through the glass like you’re waiting to see something on the other side. You’ve been in the same spot for half an hour now, and that something hasn’t come yet.
Something about it is impossible to look away from. Like a car crash or something equally as harrowing. There’s something heartbreaking about your lonely form that breaks his own heart right back.
“You gonna tell her to get the hell outta here, cousin, or are you gonna keep ogling like a creep?” Richie wonders suddenly, leaning over Carmy’s shoulder to whisper obnoxiously close to his ear.
Carmy flinches. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks with his face screwed, lifting his elbow to nudge the taller man away.
“I said, are you gonna—”
“No, I— I heard you, Richie.”
“Then why’d you say ‘what?’”
“‘Cause you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why,” Carmy snaps and turns away. He tosses his dry rag over his shoulder and ducks past Richie to chuck the wet one in the sink. The older man follows behind him, hardly bothering to spare more than an inch of personal space between them.
“She’s taking up space here, cousin.”
“What are you even talking about? There’s nobody else in here.”
He steps to the side. Richie’s quick to block his path. His icy gaze hardens into a more serious look as he points a stern finger at the boy’s chest. Carmy’s eyes flit back and forth between his hand and his face, hardly intimidated.
“Tell her to leave,” the man instructs in a strangely even voice. “Or I’m gonna make a fuckin’ scene.”
Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I mean it, cousin,” Richie continues, faltering when he realizes Carmy isn’t taking his authority seriously — and hasn’t since he was thirteen. He pokes the younger boy hard in the chest to prove a point. “I mean it,” the man echoes, all dramatic, before turning on his sneakers to head back into the kitchen.
Carmy rubs at his aching sternum with a tattooed hand and watches Richie leave — jostling the heavy mixer, the napkin tins, and the stainless steel cups as he goes. Creating as much noise as humanly possible. Making an entire fucking scene.
Carmy huffs when the silence finds him again, filled only by the radio Tina’s got playing. An unfamiliar song croons faintly overhead, soft and folksy. “I’m coming to the brink of a great disaster, the end just has to be near—”
The quiet is deafening still.
The urge to say something to you weighs heavily upon him, and he isn’t quite sure why. He’s never felt quite so compelled to talk to anyone, much less a pretty stranger sitting by herself in his restaurant. But there’s something about you and your loneliness that threatens to drag the words out of him.
He’s walking to your table before he realizes his feet are moving. He finds himself looming awkwardly at your table until he finds the courage to speak. Even then, all he can manage is a mumbled, “Hey,” as he twists the rag in his anxious hands.
You whip your head to face him and blink hard, like his presence has knocked you from the depths of your own mind.
“Oh. Hi…” you waver, face screwed with something short of worry. You don’t realize until then how long you’ve been sitting alone in this restaurant — or how big of an idiot you are for waiting on someone who was never going to come.
“Sorry to, uh, to bother you,” Carmy mumbles, with his gaze pointed everywhere but at you. “But I— I noticed you’ve been here for a while and—”
“I’m sorry,” you squeak before he’s finished. “I’m waiting for someone— was waiting for someone, but… I’m pretty sure they aren’t gonna show, so…”
You laugh awkwardly at yourself in a feeble attempt to relieve the pressure in your chest, then cower under the stranger’s sympathetic, ocean-eyed stare.
Carmy nods slowly with understanding, chestnut curls wild on his head. He forgets to show the emotion on his face, though. He just crosses his golden, tattooed arms over his chest and wonders bluntly, “Do you wanna order something?”
He doesn’t realize how curt he sounds until you flinch at his words, like they’ve hit you physically somehow. “No, it’s okay,” you decline with a pretty smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’ll just— I can just go— Sorry for wasting your time—”
You collect your belongings with panicked hands, your phone on the table and your tote bag propped on the chair beside you. You swing the strap over your shoulder and rise to full height, standing before the tall stranger. He towers over you still, and from the proximity, you can smell the cigarette and nicotine mixed on his breath. There’s musky cologne spritzed on his neck and something savory stained on his apron that makes you hungry.
Carmy holds his hands between you in surrender, light eyes going wide in a similar panic. “No, it’s— it’s okay, just— Let me get you some water before you go,” he offers kindly, remembering to smile this time, even though it wavers at the edges. “It’s fuckin’ hot out there, you know?” he chuckles awkwardly.
You hesitate for a moment, feeling too much like a burden to say yes.
“C’mon,” the stranger presses gently, with something pretty glittering in his crystalline eyes. “It’s free. And it’ll take me, like, two seconds tops. You’ll be outta here in no time.”
You take in a deep, trembling breath, then nod with a smile despite yourself. “Okay,” you murmur and sit down again.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” Carmy promises as he walks backwards towards the kitchen. “Don’t go anywhere—”
Hidden in the depths of the kitchen, he works with fast and practiced hands. He attempts to make you a sandwich in the time it’d take him to bring you water — an impossible feat, even for the best chef this side of Chicago has ever seen. He works on autopilot and tries to remember the recipe off the top of his head, something Mikey had made a thousand lightyears ago that’s plagued him ever since.
He races for the ciabatta, passing Richie without realizing. “She finally order?” the man calls across the station.
Carmy barely hears him. “Mhm,” he mumbles vaguely, reaching frantically for the needed ingredients — salami, provolone, tomatoes, peppers, the whole nine. He packs them into the sandwich and glances at the clock every other second, praying you haven’t left yet.
“Good,” Richie nods, arms crossed as he leans against the counter. He feigns an air of authority and says, “Soliciting’s illegal, cousin. We need to put a sign on the door or some shit.”
“Loitering,” Carmy corrects distantly, slicing the sandwich into halves.
“Same difference,” Richie laughs. “Who gives a shit?”
Carmy shakes his head and plates the sandwich into a to-go tray, resting one half over the other for a little extra flair. “Idiot,” the boy mumbles to Richie as he walks by him and out of the kitchen. The song follows him as he goes. “—Can you save her? Now she’s in the air, radical and free...”
He exhales a sigh of relief when he finds you sitting in the same spot he left you in, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. It’s his first good breath in several minutes. “Sorry it took me so long,” he pants as the double doors swing shut behind him. “Ice machine’s fucking up.”
“It’s okay,” you assure with a polite smile that ebbs slightly when he sets the plate of food in front of you — a sandwich, but not the kind you’re used to making, all lifeless with the cheapest ingredients you can muster. This one looks good, gourmet even, like he put a lot of care into such a simple thing.
Your eyes widen briefly in surprise as you peer at the boy from beneath your lashes. “You didn’t have to…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Carmy shrugs, pretending to be casual about the whole thing despite his racing heart. He crosses his arms over his chest like it’ll slow his pulse. “On the house.”
“…Really?”
“Really,” Carmy nods with a breathy laugh. “C’mon. Try it. Before you break my heart.”
He smiles down at you, all shy and lopsided and half-hidden behind the hand he rubs over his chin. Something funny swirls in your stomach accordingly, which you’ll blame on the hunger instead, as you take the halved sandwich in hesitant hands.
You bite gingerly in the corner, prepared to hate it and compliment it anyway. Then it melts effortlessly into your mouth, a symphony of differing tastes that somehow work perfectly together. You deflate with a contented sigh, making a concerted effort not to moan when it hits your grumbling stomach.
Carmy watches with wide, attentive eyes and tries to gauge your reaction. “Good?” he wonders anxiously.
You nod slowly with the bite still wadded in your cheek. “Really good,” you correct with your hand over your mouth.
He exhales a relieved sigh, nodding to himself with his hands on his hips. “Good… I’ve been wanting to put it on the menu so… That makes me feel better.”
“Seriously?” you blurt.
“Seriously,” Carmy echoes. “I just thought that, you know, you could use somethin’ a little special, all things considered…”
He watches his attempt to comfort you crash and burn right in front of him. Your small smile fades at the reminder of being stood up. You swallow hard and deflate with a heavy breath. Carmy stumbles over himself as he rushes to apologize.
“Shit. Sorry. I was— I was trying to make you feel better, and I… I just totally fucked it up, didn’t I? Shit...”
He gets all regretful in a way that makes his face twist like a puppy. Something about his tenderness quells the tight feeling in your chest.
“It’s okay. Really. I usually hate dates anyway, but, uh…” you trail off, grimacing when you decide to be honest. “My entire paycheck went to bills, and I thought I could score some free food out of it.”
The brunette boy smiles all over again. “Guess it still worked out for you, huh?”
“Guess so…” you hum and smile at his smiling, cheeks burning under his gaze. “It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything, you know, getting stood up. Not really— Well, it kinda did, but… I’ll get over it… Probably.”
“Well, whoever left you at this shithole’s an idiot,” Carmy tells you, only partly joking when he says, “Matter of fact, give me a name, and I’ll ban ‘em for life.”
He means every word, but it makes you laugh anyway. The light and airy, sunshine-incarnate sound makes his chest go fuzzy. “I’m serious,” Carmy insists with his own laugh. “Fuck that guy.”
You feel oddly comforted by this stranger and the kindness in his words. Maybe because he’s far kinder than the idiot you were planning on seeing today — and far prettier, too, but that goes without saying.
“Well, thanks for the gesture. And the free sandwich— which should definitely be on the menu, by the way.”
Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “Yeah, well, tell my cousin that,” he jokes and tosses a brief glance over his shoulder. He does a double-take when he catches Richie peeking through the window behind the double doors, trying to be inconspicuous and failing. “What the hell are you doing?” Carmy calls to him.
Richie falters, realizing he’d been caught. “You wanna stop makin’ moves on our customers and do your job, cousin?” he calls back, half-muffled in the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ,” Carmy huffs, then turns back around to you, softening with a heavy sigh. “Sorry— I’m sorry about him. He’s… an idiot.”
“It’s okay,” you grin. “He seems nice.”
“He isn’t,” he deadpans.
You laugh again. “I should probably go, anyway,” you murmur and rise to collect your things. You swing your tote bag over your shoulder with one hand and balance the to-go tray in the other. “Thanks for the food. And for being so nice.”
Carmy ducks away from your tender gaze. His chestnut curls fall over his forehead as his golden skin glows red. “Don’t mention it,” he mumbles politely and walks with you towards the entrance. The door dings over his head when he opens it for you. “Come back, alright?” he tells you plainly, though it feels more like a plea.
“Only if you get this sandwich on the menu,” you quip.
Carmy nods once. “On it.”
You part from him with a pretty smile. Carmy stands in the open door and watches you stroll down the worn sidewalk. He cranes his head when you threaten to disappear in the bustling crowd, praying silently that you’ll turn around to look at him again.
He barely realizes when Richie appears at his side. “What are you so goddamn weepy about over here?” the man laughs, following his gaze down the road. Richie catches you nearing the corner and tilts his head with a slow nod. “Damn. I’d cry about an ass like that, too, cousin.”
Carmy nudges him away with his elbow. “Get— Get the fuck off of me, Richie,” he snaps.
Richie only laughs harder. “What?!” he exclaims, taking an obvious pleasure in annoying the younger boy.
That’s when you look back — right before you turn the corner, right when Carmy’s shoving Richie away like a child.
There’s something magnetic in your gaze that pulls Carmy’s eyes right towards you. He falters under the glimmer in your eye and the wide smile you cage between your teeth. It makes his stomach do a backflip and the rest of the world slow around him. He isn’t sure if he deserves to be looked at so tenderly, but he warms under your gaze nonetheless.
He blinks, and you’re gone again. He feels your absence like a punch to the stomach, or a missed meal that’s left him achingly empty. He isn’t sure why. He only knows that there is something unavoidably special about you.
The first time the team meets ironclad beetle!reader, they think you're a fucking idiot.
"Why the hell is the sergeant not wearing a plate carrier?" Gaz glances at you across the lot of humvees and trucks, talking with your own captain and helping organize the groups "we leave in ten. Everyone should be ready."
Price glances up from his watch, raises a brow at the sheer stupidity, then shrugs "not my jurisdiction, garrick. Let's go."
It just so happens that said dumbass ends up in the same place as them, somehow still alive and not wearing any fucking plate carrier—
"Sir! I've got two down, but I'm good! Join you, then?" You ask, already falling into line across from ghost and soap. You offer them both a nod, antenna twitching.
Before any of them can pull you back until you're properly protected under plate, you rush forward directly into gunfire holy shIT—
Gaz jolts as the sudden, brutal bang of a bullet hits your chest, ready to rush foreward and pull you to safety at a moments notice. His team not far behind.
Except, you...don't collapse. No blood spatters the ground and no one yells in pain.
You simply note the shock of momentum, raise your gun, and shoot the enemy. Again, and again. You take bullet after bullet without so much as a flinch, smiling damn wide like this is just a game to you. A machine made to withstand anything.
....it's not until everyone is piled back into a humvee, you having joined the 141 on exfil, that you delightfully show-off the hard plated carapace alone your check and back.
"You could shoot me point blank and I'd be fine." You giddily tell the team, still covered in blood and guts.
Not an hour later price has already pulled strings to transfer you to the task force.
The diabolical ironclad beetle is a real beetle that can withstand the weight of a fucking car and not die.
Jack Abbot isn't usually a man who takes bets, but when the other doctors out on "guys night" say that he couldn't get a girl's number if he tried, he gladly puts one hundred dollars on the line.
the only trouble is that he wakes up with: a hungover to hell, no memory, and a phone number sprawled across his forearm. when he manages to check his phone, he finds himself $300 richer.
and he finds that he's already texted that mystery number
Summary: A one-shot of Severus Snape being an absolute yearner for you
~2k words
Cold. Intimidating. Surly.
Those were the words commonly used to describe Severus Snape.
So imagine one’s surprise when it was found out he was married.
“What?”
“You’re barkin’…”
“There’s no way anyone would marry that git.’
How could anyone marry, let alone tolerate someone with his personality? Could such a person really exist?
Well…yes.
You, his former classmate and someone he hadn’t reconnected with until ten years after graduation, had managed it. His friend, one of the few classmates at Hogwarts he tolerated, who had been there for his trials and triumphs, who still made time for him despite their nearly opposite schedules, managed to chip away at the ice and severity he projected towards those he was wary of. His mask. His protection.
And beneath it, he was a certified yearner.
It felt like an invisible, aching pull toward you when you were in the room that made his hands clench and unclench in desperation. And it drove him mad.
His eyes would lock onto you like you were a crystal ball that could tell him all the secrets of the universe. They’d trace your face, your fingers, the curve of your clothed back, memorizing every inch of your being. The things he wanted to touch. Hold. Kiss.
But he never allowed himself the luxury so easily. That is to say, he never initiated.
If you had ever come up behind him and wrapped your arms around him or placed a kiss on his cheek while he was making tea, then by all means, he would return it tenfold. But taking the initial step to begin with was something he never did.
Severus had the lesson beaten, quite literally, into his head that men who showed vulnerability and a need for the softer things made them weak. Made them pathetic. That it didn’t make him a man. It was a different story with sex. Society perpetuated that demanding and taking it, as dubious as that was, attributed masculine value to him. Of course, he never exercised such brutish behavior, nor agreed with it.
When it came to wanting your affections in general, however, the shame he had learned from a young age had always overpowered his want for it. He often suffered in silence, vibrating with the desire to swaddle you in his cloak-clad arms and litter your face and neck with kisses. So when you’d floo into his office to stay with him in the evenings and on the weekends, he felt he was forced to stand there and wait for you to give him that lovely smile, set your things down, and draw him into a hug and a kiss rather than approach you himself.
Then, it happened.
A business excursion.
You weren’t originally meant to go, but someone had fallen ill, and you were their substitute. You’d be gone for a week in Italy. Italy. A country where men were raised to be very demonstrative with their affections. Where you could, quite possibly, be stolen away from him by someone with well-groomed hair and sinful compliments. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was see you off and murmur words of encouragement to you before he would be officially deprived of your presence for seven gruelling days.
***
The shift was immediate.
Severus was more curt to his colleagues and harsher in his classes, his frustration mounting with every day that passed. Dumbledore had assumed something had happened between the two of you, a disagreement or fight of some kind that left him more brooding than usual. When Severus was questioned on it and answered that you were to be away in a different country for a week, the two older staff members shared a knowing look of amusement. The man was merely missing you.
Every evening, by himself, he spent in front of the fireplace, a book he would attempt to read discarded in his lap, and his head propped up on his fist, staring into the flames. You being gone forced him to think about how many moments in the span of your relationship he had wasted when he could’ve pressed his lips to yours or when you had finished organizing a cabinet, and he could’ve turned you around and slipped his arms between yours and held you close. He would never tell you this, but he missed you so badly that by day two, he had enlarged a pillow to be your size, wrapped it with one of your cloaks you had left behind that smelled strongly of you, and spooned it at night during the entirety of your absence.
On the last day of your planned trip, he had spent the entire evening after his final class pacing about his office, unnecessarily rearranging books and decorations for the millionth time, anything to keep his mind off the impatience that ate at him like termites on wood. He was acting ridiculously, and he knew it. Surely, he was not this needy, that he wasn’t creating indents in the stone floors from how intensely agitated his footfalls were. But he was at his breaking point.
Damn propriety. He needed you.
When his floo crackled with green sparks, his head snapped toward the childed masonry. There were a few more firm pops, and suddenly, WHOOSH! Green fire erupted upwards for just a second before vanishing, and in its place stood you.
It took him no longer than two seconds to cross the room.
You stepped out of the floo, hardly having a moment to set your suitcase down and look for your partner, before you were wrapped in warm black cloth and a pair of lips pressed firmly against yours.
You gasped against the kiss, taken aback by the abruptness of it until you realized it was Severus, but then your brain short-circuited further, that this was also Severus initiating. You had never minded that he didn’t, as he was always receptive to you, and his nature with most other people was more reserved, but this was still a pleasant surprise.
His mouth moved against yours passionately, his movements desperate, yet devastatingly precise in how his lips molded against yours. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand pressing your back and the other threading in your hair, keeping you right where he wanted for now. You melted cooperatively against him, a fact that greatly relieved Severus as you matched his mouth with pleasurable hums, arms looping around his neck.
After a good minute or two, you just barely managed to separate from him to get a few gulps of much-needed air, pink-faced and panting the first syllable of his name before his mouth was back on yours, unwilling to separate for longer than even a moment. This time, while keeping his lips on you, his hands grabbed your waist and guided you hurriedly to the couch, where he hit the edge of the cushion and plopped down, dragging you with him, and manhandling your body to straddle his lap with your torso, pressing against his.
You were stunned by this sudden bout of forwardness from him and subtly wondered if this would turn sexual at all, but his hands travelled no lower than your waist, and to your relief, as you were a bit tired and just wanted to relax despite missing him.
You did your best to keep up with the way his mouth worked against yours, intoxicated by this desperate version of him that sought you without hesitation. You had noticed in the past the way he always seemed to wait for you to hug or kiss him, and not always easily; sometimes with great, visible restraint; his hands flexing at his sides were always the sign that he was trying very hard to contain the yearner in him he tried to hide deep down. But he wasn’t hiding it now.
The next time you separated, it was he who eased you back by your shoulders. Both of you were practically heaving, pink in the face as you attempted to catch your breath.
“That was a nice welcome home,” you chuckled breathlessly, cupping his face. It was an innocent statement, and really, just slipped out. Using humor to break the tension was always your go-to. However, it had the opposite effect.
Severus made an expression you could only label as him “clamming up.” His breath stilled, jaw tightening, and his eyes flicked down and away at some unknown point. It was the face he made when he was confronted over something he knew was his fault when the two of you argued. His throat bobbed a little, and his hands jumped from your shoulders to your waist with, you assumed, the intention of moving you off him.
Well, you weren’t going to have that.
Before he could apply any pressure, you caught him off guard and surged forward, pressing your body fully to his, your weight making him sink deeper back against the couch cushions as you tucked your head into the crook of his neck.
He froze.
“I missed you,” you had decidedly murmured into his ear, one arm resting on his shoulder, the other looping up so your fingers travelled up the base of his skull and scratched soothingly on his scalp, a move that never failed to make him relax.
The tension in his body from his own self-doubt began to ease somewhat, his arms coming to hesitantly wrap around you once more.
“I thought about you every day,” you continued. “And uhm…I’m sorry if you missed any of your cloaks for the week.”
Severus found his voice again. “My cloaks?”
“Yes. I…I took one from your wardrobe before I left. Just to have at night.” You blushed furiously and added far more quietly. “It was awful not being able to feel you in the bed.”
Inside, he melted at the fact that you had missed him to such a degree. That the pull toward one another was very much reciprocated. He buried his nose into your hair, sighing and tightening his hold on you.
“I missed you as well. Your absence at night was…similarly torturous.”
“Oh? Did you do anything similar to what I did?” you asked jokingly. And yet, you had felt him flinch. It was subtle, but there. Enough to tell you the truth in place of his lack of response.
You began to lean back up. “Severus, if I go to your bedroom, will I find—” Your face met his shoulder again as your head was pressed unceremoniously back into place.
“Don’t,” Severus grunted, and you could feel the heat that blazed up his neck against your forehead. He was embarrassed enough as it is. “You already know. Just…stay here,” he beseeched quietly. “Please…”
“Of course,” you whispered, with a slight laugh. “At least until my knees go numb.”
You had meant it as a joke, but Severus took such things very seriously, especially if he intended to keep you pressed against him for as long as he could. He encouraged you to sit back a little before helping you move into a more comfortable position with you sitting sideways in his lap with your head still coming to rest in the crook of his neck. Your fingers played with his hand, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing his knuckles individually.
“I know it was torturous for you,” you said quietly. “I know you have these…reservations when you want to love up on me physically. That you feel the need to wait until I do it to you.” You kissed the back of his palm and let his hand come to rest in your grasp. “And that’s alright, if it’s nerves…or you’re just self-conscious. I get it. I still love you all the same. As long as I never make you uncomfortable with my spontaneity—”
“You don’t,” Severus muttered against your hair, placing a soft kiss on your head. “You never do. Don’t ever stop. Otherwise…”
He leaned his chin against your head.
“I might go mad.”
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