#get fruit coded idiot

[shmobugsbrainrot]

elegant eve ★

[rafeslittlepup]

Bunnywife reader goes out with the kids alone and a stranger insult her or even hit her.. she doesn’t wanna tell it to rafe but the kids tell it to rafe as soon as they get home.. Rafe get really mad

the whole thing was so small it almost felt embarrassing to even bring up. a rude man at the farmer’s market. he muttered some comment about how she was “taking up the whole sidewalk with that huge stroller”.

she shyly laughed it off, tugged the twins closer and offered a sweet “excuse me.” but then his elbow bumped her. hard. could’ve looked accidental to anyone else, but she knew, it wasn’t.

she didn’t cry, but she kinda wanted to, didn’t make a scene. she just kept walking. jamie was the only one who saw her hand shaking.

rafe was already on edge lately, closing deals, short-tempered, protective as ever, she didn’t wanted to complain and stress him even more. so she smiled when he kissed her forehead at the door.

“daddy,”

jamie said with a pout, clutching his toy car,

“a man hit mommy…”

ten minutes later, rafe was back in the car. he made jamie describe the man. where they were, what stall they were near.

she begged him not to go. “oh, it wasn’t a big deal, rafe. i didn’t even fall-”

“you didn’t even fall?” he repeated, eyes narrowing.

“some guy put his hands on you.” she flinched and he ran a hand through his hair.

“he touched you. with our kids there. and you were just gonna let it slide? don’t ask me not to protect you, baby. that’s the only thing i know how to do right.”

the next day the guy’s car got mysteriously pulled, his store was flagged for code violations. and though rafe didn’t say anything, there was a quiet donation from “cameron foundation” to rebuild a family-run fruit stand that some idiot had been harassing.

[sh4nksslvt]

Got married by accident… Thanks, Vegapunk?

You and Luffy accidentally get married by a hyper-intelligent vending machine on Egghead Island. The crew takes it way too seriously, but Luffy is surprisingly into it.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, acc!dental marriage, ooc a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe word count: 706

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Egghead Island sparkled like something out of a futuristic dream. Or a nightmare. Depending on who you asked.

Laser drones zipped overhead, holographic sharks swam through the air, and the vending machines charged a 40% service fee to flirt with you.

You were already over it.

“What the hell is this?” you asked, staring at the sleek, metal screen of a suspicious-looking marriage kiosk that had popped out of a wall.

"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NUPTIAL INTEREST!" it blared.

You winced. “Nope. Not interested.”

Behind you, Luffy was already poking the glowing buttons like a toddler with a remote. “Oooh! What’s this do?”

“Don’t press that.”

He pressed it.

A beam of golden light scanned the both of you. "MATCH ACCEPTED," it beeped. “YOU ARE NOW LEGALLY MARRIED UNDER VEGAPUNK CODE 6.66 SUB-SECTION WE BALL.”

You blinked. “…What.”

Luffy blinked. “Cool.”

He grabbed your hand with that signature, easy grin. “We’re married now! Sweet!”

“LUFFY—”

Twenty seconds later, the rest of the crew found out.

Chopper: “You guys WHAT!?”

Sanji: (sobbing) “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME, Y/N-CWAAAAN!?”

Robin: (smiling behind a book) “How lovely. I hope it was a beautiful ceremony.”

Zoro: “Of course you two would get hitched by a vending machine.”

Franky: “THIS IS SUPER!! WE GOTTA THROW A RECEPTION!!”

Jinbei: (serene) “I’ll call this divine destiny.”

Usopp: “Waitwaitwait—do we all have to get married now?? Is it contagious?!”

Nami, arms crossed, was the only one who looked vaguely sensible. “We’re not on a honeymoon, you idiots. We’re on a mission. Can’t believe you got fake-married on an island run by six genius maniacs.”

“It’s not fake,” Luffy said proudly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

“It’s legally binding,” the vending machine added.

“LUFFY,” you groaned, facepalming. “We are not actually married—”

“But you held my hand,” he said with a pout.

“I was trying to stop you from pressing the stupid buttons!”

“But you didn’t let go shishishi” he added.

You were going to kill him. Or maybe yourself. Or maybe the vending machine.

Over the next few days, the crew refused to let it go.

Nami “accidentally” started assigning you and Luffy shared quarters.

Franky built a honeymoon hover-chair for two that followed you around and played romantic music at inopportune moments.

Brook wrote a song called “Wedded Bliss on a Warped Island” and played it constantly.

Zoro made gagging noises every time you entered a room.

Even Vegapunk Stella got involved.

“Fascinating bond signature,” he mused, looking at the machine’s readings. “Unusual compatibility levels. Perhaps a cosmic entanglement. Or just dumb luck.”

You were ready to drown in holographic seagull juice.

Luffy didn’t help.

He insisted on calling you "my spouse."

He’d hold your hand while walking down the lab halls like it was the most casual thing ever.

He used you as a pillow during naps—okay, not new behavior—but now he’d nuzzle your shoulder and murmur, “This is what married people do.”

You tried to zap him with a soft stun from your energy-based power.

He laughed and asked for more.

He started sharing his food.

You shared back.

He offered you half his meat skewer.

You offered him half your fruit cube.

You even started sitting next to him at dinner on purpose.

...You were doomed.

One night, while stuck in a laser barrier room together (thanks to Luffy pressing another suspicious button), things got quiet.

“Hey, Y/N,” Luffy said, lying next to you on the cold sci-fi floor.

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna be married for real someday?”

You paused.

“With… you?”

“Yeah.”

You turned to face him. “You don’t even know what marriage is.”

He smiled, soft and crooked. “I know it means I get to be with you all the time.”

You blinked. Your powers, which usually sparked when you were annoyed or overwhelmed, glimmered gently around your fingertips like starlight instead.

You didn’t respond. Just nudged his leg with yours.

He took that as a yes.

The next day, the machine short-circuited itself trying to process “divorce.”

You pretended to be annoyed.

But when Luffy yelled, “Don’t worry, I didn’t want a divorce anyway!!” and tackled you into a hug, your powers sparked again—glowing soft blues and pinks this time.

And you let him hold you.

[holyblonded]

dumb and dumber: babysitting | blue stars

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: against her better judgement, olga leaves you and azulita to babysit valerie

notes: in estrella’s pov this time!!

“Okay, now remember that Val needs to be in bed by 7:00. 7:30 at the latest. Sometimes, just sometimes we go on to 8:00, but only if she’s had a nap, and you have to make sure she’s had the nap first, don’t just assume. And no, rubbing her eyes isn’t enough, she has to actually close them, because she fake-naps sometimes. She’s sneaky like that.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, Valerie tucked between your knees and currently trying to fit her entire fist into her mouth. Across from you, Azulita’s letting the baby stack squishy blocks on her head. Neither of you are listening. Not even a little bit.

Olga’s pacing back and forth behind you with the binder. The sacred, terrifying, overly annotated Baby Binder of Doom. Color-coded tabs. Page protectors. Laminated bedtime routine chart. You swear it has footnotes.

“She gets her bottle at 6:30, but not too hot! Shake it and test it first, on your wrist, not your tongue, because that’s not sanitary. Bath starts at 6:45, but only if she didn’t eat too slow. If she eats too slow, you can adjust the bath to 6:50, but no later than 7:05 or the whole schedule gets thrown off. I swear to God, if you throw off the schedule—”

Valerie lets out a shriek of joy as Azulita sticks out her tongue and pretends to sneeze. You grin and toss a stuffed giraffe at Azulita’s face. It bounces off and hits Val in the arm. She’s delighted. She kicks your thigh and drools in victory.

“She needs the bunny,” Olga continues, flipping a page like she’s briefing you for combat. “The bunny, not the bear, not the raccoon, not that weird dog Estrella got her from that random shop in Portugal. She needs the bunny or she won’t sleep. If the bunny is missing, I swear—”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, offering Valerie a crinkly octopus. She throws it at Azulita’s head.

“Storytime must be one book. No more. She will manipulate you. Don’t fall for the pouty face. That’s how we ended up reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear six times in a row last week. We all suffered.”

“Totally,” Azulita says, balancing a plush cow on her forehead. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Olga doesn’t even pause. “No TV before bed. She only has 30 minutes left of screen time anyway. No fruit after six. And don’t let her near the remote. She knows how to change the channel now and she keeps turning on Spanish soap operas and mimicking the crying.”

You clap once. “Iconic.”

Then comes The Silence. You glance up. Olga is no longer talking. She is staring.

You and Azulita both look up slowly, like maybe if you don’t move too fast she won’t attack. She’s standing there, binder to her chest, face pure exasperation. She looks like a woman who is desperately trying not to scream.

That’s when Alexia walks down the stairs. She looks stunning, hair done, blazer over a fitted shirt, matching slacks. If Olga looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, Alexia looks like she wants the breakdown to happen so she can laugh at it.

“Everything alright?” Alexia asks, sauntering up behind the couch.

Olga doesn’t answer. She just continues to glare at the two of you. You start sweating. Azulita stops breathing. Valerie throws a block and says, “Taaa!”

Alexia leans forward, taps the back of both your heads like she’s knocking on a door. “Hey. Idiots. Pay attention.”

“Hey,” you say with offense. “I am a professional athlete.”

“You drooled on her sock ten minutes ago.”

You scowl.

Olga takes a deep breath. She sets the binder down with a finality that shakes you to your core. Then, she steps around the couch, stands over you, and says in a tone you’ve never heard before:

“Listen to me very closely. I am ten months postpartum. I have not left my baby alone for more than two hours since she was born. And tonight— tonight I am trusting you two, Dumb and freaking Dumber, to take care of the child I carried for nine months and pushed out of my vagina.”

You flinch. Azulita flinches. Valerie freezes mid-foot chew.

“You are all I have,” Olga says. “And if anything, and I mean anything, happens to my child, you will not be able to hide. I will find you. I will ruin you. You will wish for death. And then, after you wish for death, I will hit you with the binder.”

You nod. Azulita nods. You nod again. You can feel sweat sliding down your back. Your mouth is dry. Val blinks up at Olga and goes, “Ma?”

Then Olga brightens like none of that just happened. “Okay!” she chirps. “Love you girls.”

She kisses you on the forehead. Azulita too. Then Val.

Alexia’s dying. You can see it. She’s holding in laughter with her whole body. She kisses each of you like it’s a funeral, whispering “Good luck,” in your ear like you’re about to go to war. Then the door closes behind them.

You and Azulita just sit there in complete silence.

“…Did she say vagina?” Azulita whispers.

“Yup,” you reply, staring into the void. “She did.”

Valerie, unfazed, claps her hands and lets out a fart noise with her mouth.

You sigh. “Alright. Let’s not die tonight.”

Azulita picks up the bunny and nods solemnly. “For Val.”

You’re lying on the carpet, half-propped up by a pillow you stole from the couch, scrolling through the comments of the live chat with one hand while trying to pick a decent filter with the other. Azulita’s sitting cross-legged beside you, hair in a messy bun, hoodie halfway on, vibing hard as Lil Baby blasts in the background. You can’t lie, Valerie has taste. Kid’s been bouncing in her little baby bouncer for a solid ten minutes like she’s at a festival.

“She’s got rhythm,” Azulita notes, nodding with pride as Val bounces up and down on beat, plastic keys in one fist, sock in the other.

“She got it from me,” you say without missing a beat.

“She got it from her mother’s.”

“Semantics.”

The comments are coming in fast:

"Why are y'all babysitting?? Where is Olga??"

"Alexia left two teenagers with a baby I'm scared."

"IS THAT LIL BABY IN THE BACKGROUND."

"Please show Valerie dancing again I'm begging."

You ignore the comment asking to show Valerie, but take a peek at her, bouncing away like she’s been possessed by the spirit of the beat, drool flying, hair in her eyes, sock now hanging from her mouth like a cigar.

“She’s busy,” you narrate. “She’s got moves. Don’t worry about her.”

And then, mid-bounce, mid-glory, tragedy strikes. Her toy falls. There’s a two-second pause. You make the fatal mistake of thinking she’ll let it go. And then, WAILING.

“OH MY GOD,” you flinch so hard your phone nearly flies out of your hand. The chat immediately blows up.

“LMAOOOOO”

“HELP HER????”

“THE SCREAM??????”

Azulita launches up like she’s on a mission in a spy movie. “I GOT HER,” she shouts, diving for the bouncer.

You remain frozen on live like a deer in headlights, Val screaming bloody murder off camera while Azulita picks her up and starts doing the panicked baby rock. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh,” Azulita mutters. “We got the toy. It’s okay. Life is pain. Let it out.”

“Chat SOS,” you beg into the phone. “How do we get a baby to stop crying?”

"Did y'all feed her????"

"She hungry girl what time is it??"

"Why is Lil Baby still playing turn that OFF and give her a bottle."

"Y’all are literally the worst babysitters l've ever seen and I love it."

You glance at the clock. Your heart drops. “…It’s 6:30.”

Azulita gasps behind you. “FEED THE BABY.”

You end the live so fast. Phone down. Panic mode engaged. “Why didn’t you check the time?!” you shout, sprinting for the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you check the time?!” Azulita shouts back, still holding Valerie who is now actively trying to scream her way out of Azulita’s arms.

“I thought you were on top of it!”

“I’m on top of her! That’s enough!”

You yank the bottle out of the sterilizer and start pouring boiling water into it like your life depends on it. Which it might.

“Do you even know how to mix formula right?” Azulita accuses, hovering near your elbow like the world’s most chaotic nanny.

“Do you?” you shoot back. “I watched Olga do it once. That makes me basically qualified.”

“She was measuring things!”

“I measure with vibes.”

“That’s why I don’t trust you!”

You shake the bottle aggressively, cap it, and turn around to give it to Valerie, but Azulita steps back like you’re holding a weapon.

“Did you check the temperature?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

You glare. “She’s screaming!”

“She’ll scream harder if you give her lava.”

With the most dramatic eye roll in history, you tip the bottle and splash a few drops on your wrist. It’s fire. You scream like you’ve been shot in the arm.

Valerie goes completely silent. And then bursts into laughter. Like real, belly-deep baby giggles.

You stare at her in disbelief. “You enjoyed that?!”

“Iconic,” Azulita grins, rocking her gently. “She laughed at your pain. She’s one of us.”

You mumble something under your breath and start all over again, this time making sure the water is cooled, the formula is right, and no one ends up with second-degree burns. Finally, finally, you hand the bottle to Azulita and she slides it into Val’s tiny hands.

She drinks like she’s been stranded in a desert for days. Ten minutes later, she’s full, burped, and looking at you with those big, innocent eyes like she didn’t just try to rupture both your eardrums.

You and Azulita are collapsed on the couch in exhausted silence.

“…So, bath time?” you say weakly.

Azulita groans. “Binder says yes.”

You scoop up Val, who immediately tries to headbutt your chin, and take her to the bathroom. Setting her on the bath mat, you begin the struggle of undressing a baby who thinks everything is a game and nothing is real.

By the time she’s in the tub, the floor is a crime scene— clothes, toys, a lone sock, a giraffe for some reason.

Valerie, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She slaps the water like it insulted her. You are soaked within seconds. Azulita is trying to save her jeans. You’re trying to figure out how a rubber duck made its way into your hoodie.

“Why is she stronger in water?” you demand.

“She’s evolving,” Azulita whispers.

There are bubbles. There is chaos. You are playing with the little stacking cups and suddenly realize Valerie has abandoned her toys to splash the two of you mercilessly.

“She’s targeting us on purpose,” you say, blinking through water.

“She’s smart,” Azulita agrees, shielding her face with a frog toy.

Valerie grins. You’re both doomed. Soaked, exhausted, and humbled, you glance at the clock. It’s only 7:05.

You look at Azulita. “We follow the binder now.”

“Binder is law.”

Val slaps the water in approval. You salute and let the night continue.

Bedtime. It should be easy. That’s what you told yourself. You survived feeding. You survived bath time. You survived the Binder (capital B). Surely putting Valerie to bed is the victory lap. Spoiler: it’s not.

You’re standing in front of the dresser, holding a plain white onesie like it’s a gift from hell itself. “This is boring,” you declare. “She’s not a tax accountant. She’s a baby.”

“It’s soft,” Azulita argues, holding it up to your face. “Feel it. It’s got little clouds.”

“She deserves better.”

“She’s literally going to sleep.”

“She deserves better while she sleeps.”

And that’s how the two of you spend 12 full minutes rifling through her baby clothes like you’re styling her for New York Fashion Week. At one point Azulita tries to convince you to let her wear just a diaper and a cape “so she dreams she’s a superhero.” You tell her to shut up.

Eventually, you both gasp at the same time when you pull out a fuzzy cat onesie in Barcelona colors— dark blue and garnet, complete with little ears on the hood and a tail.

“Look at this masterpiece,” you whisper.

“She’s going to look like a tiny feline queen.” You high-five.

Valerie, for her part, squeals when you show her the onesie and kicks her feet. She knows style. You wrestle her into it with the grace of two people who clearly don’t know how baby limbs bend, and then immediately start a full-blown photo shoot like she’s Baby Beyoncé.

“You’re serving,” you tell her, snapping a photo.

“She is giving feline fashion excellence,” Azulita agrees, angling the light just right.

You post nothing because Olga would actually murder you if her baby ended up on your story without approval, but still, those pics are going in the archives. You send one to the youngsters group chat and Pina sends back seventeen heart emojis while Patri send an odd voice note of her making a cat sound.

Once the fashion show is over, you carry Val to her crib, carefully swaddled, looking like a sleepy little purring Culer. You sit down beside her and look at Azulita.

“Want to tell her a story?” you ask.

Azulita raises an eyebrow. “We don’t know any stories.”

“We make one up.”

“What kind?”

You think for a second. “The Three Little Pigs. But it’s us.”

She grins. “And the big bad wolf is Alexia.”

“Obviously.”

You lean over the crib dramatically, dropping your voice into a narrator tone. “Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. One was Estrella Pig— gorgeous, talented, the favorite.”

“Excuse me?” Azulita interrupts.

“Second was Azulita Pig—cranky, loud, and wore too much attitude.”

“You’re gonna catch hands.”

“And the third was Patri Pig, who was probably just chilling somewhere eating fruit.”

“Valid.”

“And then came the big bad wolf,” you growl, voice low. “ALEEEXIAAAA.”

Valerie is staring up at you both with eyes the size of dinner plates.

“She huffed!” Azulita says, getting into it. “And she puffed! And she told them to get up and go to training!”

“And the little pigs said NOOOO,” you wail dramatically.

Valerie blinks. You blink back. She blinks. Then she claps her hands.

You and Azulita beam. “She loved it!” you whisper.

“Maybe we should just read the Binder to her. It’s got chapters.”

You start flipping through the pages, trying to find the section on babies not sleeping, and find a line that says: If baby is struggling to fall asleep, try singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ softly.

You and Azulita exchange a look. You try it.

“Rock-a-bye baaabyyy…”

“On the treeee tooooppp…”

Valerie screams like you just stepped on her dreams.

“ABORT,” Azulita yells, rocking the crib back and forth.

You panic and lift her out of the crib. “Okay okay okay! You hate lullabies! Noted!”

The three of you migrate to the couch like refugees of bedtime failure. You’re bouncing her gently. Azulita’s rubbing her back. Valerie is still sniffly and grumbling. You’re losing hope.

“Fuck it,” you mutter. “Alexa, play something.”

“Now playing: Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar,” the Echo says.

You and Azulita freeze. But then… Valerie quiets. Like, completely. She blinks. Looks around and listens. Very intently.

You and Azulita exchange another look.

“Is this her song?” Azulita whispers.

“She’s unbothered. She’s vibing.”

By the second verse, her eyelids are drooping. Her grip on your hoodie loosens. By the third verse, she’s snuggled into your chest, breathing soft and even. You don’t dare move.

“Don’t move,” you whisper.

“I know,” Azulita says. “I think she booby trapped me with her foot.”

Eventually, you feel your eyes getting heavy too. The couch is warm. Valerie’s head is heavy on your shoulder. Azulita’s arm is pressed against yours. Kendrick is still going. You drift off.

When Alexia and Olga come home, it’s quiet. Too quiet for two teens and a baby in the house.

Alexia steps into the living room first, heels clicking softly. Her hand goes to her mouth when she sees the sight:

You, Azulita, and Valerie all passed out on the couch. The baby is still in her cat onesie, curled on your chest. Kendrick Lamar is playing Not Like Us on repeat.

Alexia is so amused. Olga comes in next, expecting disaster. When she sees you all asleep, her mouth opens.

“I don’t want to know,” she mutters.

Alexia shrugs. “They kept her alive. That’s all I asked for.”

Olga sighs, takes the fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch, and carefully drapes it over all three of you. She kisses Valerie’s forehead, then Azulita’s, then yours. Alexia does the same, grinning the whole time.

“Idiots,” Olga whispers fondly.

The lights are dimmed. The door to the hallway closes quietly.

And in the background, Kendrick keeps rapping softly into the night.

[stvrchaser]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬

( pairing ) : clarisse la rue x fem!reader

( words ) : 2000

( note ) : noticed that clarisse has her nails painted in the show and… well this came out of that. reader is heavily aphrodite coded but i don’t think it’s explicitly mentioned anywhere what cabin she’s actually from? only that she’s not from apollo’s and she’s on clarisse’s side for capture the flag

also don’t we just love that every fic i’ve ever published is literally 80% pining? honestly can’t tell you the last time one of my fics didn’t have a scene that goes on for like three paragraphs about how much admiration reader has for their love interest

oh and happy new year!!

Summer days can last for a lifetime and a fulfilling one at that. There’s so much to be done when the world wakes, engulfed in light and warmth, nurturing possibility. There’s so much to look forward to. But today, that anticipation has chosen to work against you.

The sun is setting now, approaching dinnertime, and Clarisse is nowhere to be found. For all of her spontaneity and occasional recklessness, it’s unlike her to abandon routines. That is, routines she shares with you. And walking to dinner together happens to be one of your longest-running practices.

You tried to ask around, careful not to sound too concerned so as not to spark rumors. See, Clarisse La Rue has never been publicly caught in a state that warrants concern. Clarisse La Rue is untouched by the fears that plague the rest of them. But you know better.

It isn’t until you come across a few Ares kids, very obviously overworked and looking nearly faint with exhaustion, that you come to your senses. It isn’t infrequent that Cabin 5 becomes victim to one of Clarisse’s drills, training until fatigue overpowers their fear of her authority. As predicted, you find her in a clear patch of the forest overlooking the strawberry fields. Some days she likes to train here, away from watchful eyes.

The setting sun casts her in golden light, bronze armor glistening alongside golden skin. Clarisse liked to train in full gear — a fruitful habit to get herself accustomed to the added weight of leather and metal. It allows her to move with ease, swinging her spear with grace despite the strength of her whole body being evident in every step. With her head held high, spear raised, and the incredible speed at which she moves, she doesn’t look even the slightest bit mortal, but rather a god amongst men. A warrior and hunter. She is the perfect picture of divinity if you’ve ever seen it.

You let your feet drag against the dirt, a fallen branch snapping beneath your weight. It informs Clarisse of your presence from a safe distance, although the remnants of her focused state aren’t any less intimidating. Her eyes burn bright like the electricity that charges the tip of her spear.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clarisse realizes her error with a glance at the horizon where the sun is setting and you smile warmly, dismissing any indication of displeasure. You watch her demeanor change, the rigidity in her posture fading with an apologetic tip of her head. 

“I’ve been training. Those idiots would know that if they’d stuck around to join me.” Something tells you that that isn’t entirely true. Anyone could assume that she’d been training, but the matter of where was an entirely different question. As far as you know, this particular spot is something only the two of you are familiar with — a small refuge away from everyone else.  

“Well, we don’t all have your… passion for these things.”

“You think I’m ridiculous,” she says with a sigh. 

“Babe, you’re training for capture the flag. Not war.” Clarisse only shakes her head, knowing there’s no point in arguing. She thinks this is something the two of you might never see eye-to-eye on. While you like your fair bit of competition, Clarisse takes every victory with great significance. As she does with every loss.

“Here, I’ll help you,” you say, approaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. Your touch lingers at her cheeks, flushed from physical exertion and maybe something more by the way her gaze settles on your lips. Every intake of breath is louder now that you stand toe to toe and the adrenaline has started to wear off. She’s too worked up to have done this all for a game of capture the flag. “I hope you’re not doing all this to get back at Percy.” Her eyes still linger on your mouth and you think she might’ve not heard you until her brows furrow in confusion.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”

“Oh, come on,” you say with a disapproving shake of your head. “He’s just a kid.” You reach for the leather chord at the edge of her breastplate, undoing the knot with ease.

“He’s full of it.” She refuses to look at you now, her head turned upward as if she’d developed a sudden interest in trees. You can’t tell if she’s trying to maintain her composure to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret or if your gaze and proximity was distracting her from the discussion. Maybe a bit of both.

“He’s a baby. You could body-slam him into next Friday. It’s hardly a fair fight.” You untie the last knot keeping her breastplate in place, tugging upward to slip it over her head. Clarisse doesn’t even seem to realize that you’d freed her of her armor until the weight vanished from her body.

She looks at you then with an expression you can’t quite read. Something warm, like gratitude, but reluctant. When she speaks, it’s unexpectedly solemn.

“Do you really believe he killed The Minotaur? Him? Gods, everyone here trains themselves to death for that kind of stuff and he gets all the glory? He doesn’t even know how to shoot.” Now that you’ve been made aware of the gravity of the situation, it’s suddenly harder to find your words. This isn’t the petty rivalry you’d assumed it was, and you had to handle it as such.

“Well, I’m sure a few things have been exaggerated here and there, but that’s not his fault. People love to talk about him, but nobody’s really talking to him. I don’t think he’s had a say in anything that’s been said about him. You know how rumors spread around here.”

“But he’s—”

“Look,” you start, taking her hands into yours. “I’m not asking you to make him friendship bracelets. Just… try not to drown him in the lake, okay?”

You know the exact moment an idea hits her by the mischievous glimmer in her eye. It takes a lot of strength not to bury your face in your hands, afraid that you’ve now planted an idea that would get the poor boy killed. Or worse.

“Clarisse, please.” She surrenders, albeit reluctantly. 

“Fine,” she says. Still, you’re not entirely convinced.

“Good. Now say it.”

“What?”

“Say you won’t drown him in the lake.” Clarisse laughs, but it dies down when she realizes you don’t plan to join her.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not.”

“I swear not to drown Percy Jackson in the lake,” she agrees through gritted teeth. You don’t say anything about the way her hands tighten around yours as if it physically pained her to say the words.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you tell her, ignoring that it did, in fact, seem hard. “Now, what are we gonna do with those nails?” Clarisse stares blankly at your joined hands. Chipped black nail polish alongside your perfectly pristine, perfectly preserved set of nails.

“Why do we need to do anything about my nails?”

“Honey, I painted these like two days ago. What do you even do to get them chipped like this? I mean, are you fighting with the back of your hand? I don’t understand.”

“I have to train, you know?” she says, like it’s meant to explain anything. You know better than to ask her to elaborate.

“Shame. You have very pretty nail beds. You should spend less time fighting puppy dog-eyed middle schoolers so you can actually keep them pretty.”

“You think I have pretty nail beds?” You shrug.

“Among other things.”

“Well, tell me about these other things.”

“Hm, and people think I’m vain.”

“Come on. What other things?”

You take a moment to look at her — to really look at her. To dissect every inch of her face and the features that create the picture of beauty you know and love. There are far too many pretty things to point out, but you find yourself drawn to one in particular.

“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Shut up. I’m not finished.”

“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.”

“And you have the most gorgeous smile.” Clarisse beams with pride. “Yeah, that one. And it doesn’t even matter if it looks like you’re just about ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth. I just like to see you happy. I like hearing you laugh even better.”

And laugh she does. Low but sweet, like honey. She looks like the teenage girl she is, deeply infatuated and with a capacity for love she has only ever shared with you. 

You indulge in the temporary amusement it brings you to think of how horrified Clarisse might be if anyone else were around to hear her giggle. Clarisse La Rue, Daughter of Ares, infamous for waging war on whichever unfortunate soul so much as breathes in her direction — producing a laugh so gentle and beautiful it could give Orpheus and his songs a run for his money. And you might be the happiest girl alive to have been the cause of it.

“You’re sure you’re not Apollo’s kid?”

“Are you calling me a talented poet?”

“I’m calling you a sap,” Clarisse insists with a sour expression, but her voice is saturated with mirth, eyes too bright, and you know she isn’t entirely opposed to your antics. 

“I think the term you’re looking for is romantic.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know I’m right, but thank you for the confirmation.”

“I know the nail polish fumes are getting to your head,” she mocks. You feign defeat, retreating with an exaggerated sigh.

“Maybe.” Two steps to your left and you’re concealed by a tree, its trunk twice as wide as either of you. You peak your head, locking eyes with Clarisse. “Or all that training is slowing you down. Honestly! If you’re gonna try to insult me, at least try to come up with something original.”

“Oh, you think I’m slow?” Clarisse asks, every word a thinly veiled threat — a challenge, and one you’re willing to accept.

“Unless you want to prove me wrong.” Clarisse lunges at you without warning, almost too fast, but you’re able to gather your senses. The tree had bought you just enough time to keep her whole body from slamming into yours, the force of it undoubtedly capable of launching you both to the ground. 

You dash through the woods as fast as your legs can carry you, your only advantage being that Clarisse must have tired herself out from training. But you know she’s hot on your trail.

From here, you can see the bonfire, flames burning high. You turn, prepared to declare that your victory is just seconds away. You’re tackled to the floor before a word can leave your mouth. 

“Oh, come on! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”

“Distracted by what?” Clarisse laughs hysterically although taking a much more graceful tumble to the floor than you had. She’s covered in fallen leaves and her jeans are brown at the knees where the denim fades.

“The pretty girl chasing me.” Clarisse is beside herself with joy, clutching at her stomach and close to tears, and it takes her a minute to calm herself. When the two of you have settled, she speaks again. Or tries to, that is.

“Oh, you are so—“ You place a kiss on her lips, short and sweet, but enough to leave her speechless. Clarisse turns a violent shade of red and you think she might need another minute to calm herself. You take that time to revel in your victory.

You stand, offering your hand to help her up. 

“Come on, let’s get dinner and you can rest for the game tomorrow. If you’re gonna lead us to victory, you’re gonna need your strength, captain.” She smiles, intertwining her hand with yours.

“You’re gonna be there? Right beside me?”

“La Rue, you’re crazy if you think there’s even a chance I’d ever leave your side.”

•°. *࿐

reader: pls don’t drown percy in the lake

clarisse: ok fine

clarisse: *tries to drown percy*

reader: what did i say about drowning people??

clarisse: …

clarisse: you never said the toilets were off-limits 

also i'm like brand new to the pjo fandom but i’ve been kindly informed of clarisse x silena (and their tragic ending but i turn a blind eye to that so i can preserve my sanity) but when i get there you WILL need to physically restrain me from writing fics about them

[hyper-alice]

Wilbur Cross / Owen Carvour parallels

This is gonna be long so I’ll put it after the cut, also spoilers for Spies Are Forever or Black Friday, it’s been a while since either one came out but just in case. I’ve decided to colour code certain bits so it’s a little easier to read than a huge wall of text, I also just like colour coding.

I’ve only watched SAF once at this point, I’m not very good at retaining information from my first watch of stuff so if I forget anything or get anything wrong then that’s why.

So first of all, appearance wise, obviously they’re both played by Joey Richter (and he’s doing an accent for both characters). I think Joey’s hair is pretty similar for both characters as well. They also wear a blue jacket (at least I’m pretty sure Owen’s is blue).

Plotwise, both characters start on the “good side” or the protagonist’s side, before becoming the direct antagonist.

They both originally had a strong connection to a protagonist character (Owen with Curt and Wiley with MacNamara).

In Wiley’s case, he was Mac’s mentor, someone probably he looked up to, they were probably friends. As someone else pointed out, Wiley is one of the few people we see calling him by his first name, John.

In Owen’s case, he was Curt’s lover, best friend, and spy partner, they were obviously very close.

Both of them seem to have been extremely talented in their respective fields, Owen is established as an excellent spy, while Wiley was a Colonel (and again, Mac’s mentor)

Then they both experienced a major event that was very literally life-altering.

Owen slipped and nearly died in the explosion from the start of the musical.

And Wiley went through the portal to the Black And White, which led to the entire shift in his worldview and him pledging his undying loyalty to Wiggly (and probably the other LIBs).

For both of them, these events caused them to leave their original sides in favour of another entity that almost certainly played a role in the reshaping of their beliefs (Chimera and Wiggly)

The next time their previous relationships (Curt and Mac) see them again, they’re whole different people. Wiley is “a raving lunatic” and Owen is the Deadliest Man Alive.

They both develop a hatred for the person they were once very close with as well.

Both of them no longer believe in what they used to believe in, and their new beliefs contradict their previous ones, as well as the beliefs of Curt and Mac.

Wiley actively criticizes American capitalist society, political leaders, etc. All what MacNamara works for (the government I guess) and is attempting to save from Wiggly.

On the other hand, Owen now wants Chimera in control of all data, even extremely personal information (very dystopian), something that Curt is against, and Owen probably would’ve been against it too.

To list more random similarities:

Specifically the way Wiley says “PRODUCTS!” reminds me of Owen talking after he was revealed as the DMA for some reason.

Silicon mentions, Owen wants that one area of land for the silicon access, Wiley sings “a valley of silicon” in Made In America, Owen literally wants a valley of silicon lmao.

The government connections.

The whole Curt-Mega-plays-a-pathetic-idiot-man-while-Joey-Richter-plays-an-evil-mastermind thing too (I haven’t mentioned Howard Goodman yet but yeah)

Staircases (tm)

Also they can both be related to fruits (Wiley with apples and Owen with bananas)

[msmk11]

I saw that you wanted some tangerine requests. I'd say I'm pretty good at requesting those🤓☝️.

OK, so I really like this concept.

Tangerine and reader have met before. Maybe it was at a gala. Maybe it was on a mission, I'm just gonna leave that open to you. But the point is, they have had multiple meetings before. Maybe they flirted on the mission or maybe they just got into a fight, again leaving that for you.

Basically, Lemon Tangerine and Reader have all been assigned to do a mission. And before that mission happens, they're planning at a dinner ( They don't really have the worry about blowing their cover because the diners kind of like in assassin's diner where assassins can meet up)

And a scene like this happens (ripping off of pulp fiction) And instead of talking about the pilot, he brings up her career as an assassin.

https://youtu.be/O3tGImqhrMo?si=1FVe6VFQSvZC7UfR

They flirt, they plan, Lemon feels awkward

And they both leave thinking about each other. I love this concept so much!!!!

Sorry for any grammar mistakes

I’m Sorry, Thank You, I’ll Always Protect You

Tangerine x fem!reader

WC: 3.5k

CW: lots of cursing, mention of weapons and blood, mentions of food, mention of alcohol, smoking (just cigarettes), mentions of death/fighting (it’s a Tan fic for goodness sake)

Author’s Note: Thanks for requesting lovely! Hope you enjoy! (This fic is also proof that I can’t write briefly for the life of me.) (also, side note, for the sake of the fic, your codename is viper)

The charming classical music playing softly in the background hardly matches your agitated mood. Your handler had just given you a new mission. One that, to your dismay, was not a one-man job, but rather, required you to work with partners. You always preferred to work alone because having a partner could get messy fast. Whether it was because they were too gutsy, not gutsy enough, or they were a cocky, arrogant asshole, you’d been thrust into one too many less-than-desirable situations because of the interference of a partner. Therefore, going into this mission, you are, rightfully, hesitant, and you pray that you haven’t been partnered with a total fucking idiot.

You anxiously check your watch for the umpteenth time, drumming your fingers on the dark, wooden table. Your new partners are not late, yet, but the dread pooling in your stomach makes you anxious to get this meeting over with as soon as possible.

“Viper?” A deep, heavily British voice declares.

“That’s me,” you say, looking up. And then your voice dies in your throat.

“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” the man in front of you curses.

It’s him. That arrogant bastard you’ve had the unfortunate luck of working with before. His twin is here too, of course, and you’re thankful for the slightly more pleasant company.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite twins, Peanut Butter and Jelly,” you drawl.

Peanut Butter and Jelly- your own personal nicknames for the twins. Ones that, to your delight, really pissed off the brunette.

“Told you not to fucking call us that,” the mustached man grumbles, sliding into the booth across from you.

His brother follows after him, and you notice the smirk he is trying to hide, “You’re just mad that you’ve been dubbed Jelly.”

“Yeah, ‘cos everyone bloody knows that peanut butter is the better part of the fucking sandwich. And I’m the better twin, obviously, so I should be peanut butter” he growls.

“The masses would disagree, Jelly, you fucking prick,” you retort.

His jaw tenses and you can’t help but revel in the feeling of getting him all worked up.

“Well aren’t you still a fucking daisy,” he replies.

“And as charming as always,” his brother adds, winking.

“Always a pleasure to see you PB. Though I suppose I can’t call you that on the job. What’ll your code name be this time?”

“I’m Lemon,” he responds, “and my brother here is going by Tangerine.”

You snort, “like the fucking fruits?”

Tangerine glares at you, “Yes, like the fucking fruits. What’s so funny about it?”

You hum and sigh dramatically, “I don’t know, Tan, it just seems a little silly, don’t you think? I mean, I can see Lemon being intimidating, because you never know what you’re gonna get with one. But Tangerine sounds pathetic, really. It’s the snack of grubby-handed children.”

You’re pretty sure his mustache twitches, and his hands certainly close into fists, “It’s sophisticated, yeah? Classic. No one likes fucking lemons.”

You feign mock offense, “I do. I like lemons a lot, actually. Tangerines, not so much.”

“Well sorry if I don’t really value your fucking opinion,” he spits out.

“I like lemons too, mate,” Lemon tells him.

“Well fuck me then.”

In your most teasing, seductive voice you reply, “Later baby, we have work to do first.”

Tangerine chokes on his spit and you hide your smirk as you pick up the menu.

Lemon coughs uncomfortably as he follows suit, “so what’ll it be tonight? We’re paying.”

“Like fucking hell we’re paying for her,” Tangerine protests.

Though you can’t see it, the grimace that flickers across the brunette’s face tells you that Lemon has kicked him in the shin, “Be fucking polite will ya, brotha’? Can’t go around dressed like that and then not pay for people.”

Lemon isn’t wrong. Every time you’ve seen Tangerine, he’s been dressed to the nines, fitted in the finest of suits and decked out in gold bling. It’s a wonder to you that he ever dresses nicely at all, considering all the blood that ends up on him by the end of a mission.

The brother with frosted tips, you think, has always had more swagger and appropriate mission-clothing. He is usually dressed more casually in a jean jacket and semi-formal shirt. Tonight, it’s a blue button-up with a Thomas the Tank Engine tie.

Before Tangerine can make some nasty reply, the waitress appears at the table asking if you’re ready to order. It’s a sight to behold, watching the cocky douche switch from his true, unpleasant self to a polite British gentleman.

“Yes, darling. I’ll take the steak, medium rare, and a whiskey f’me, please.”

You’re not surprised he orders a fucking steak, and, for some reason, it really pisses you off. While Lemon orders a burger and fries, you scan the menu looking to order whatever will tick him off the most.

“And what’ll it be for you, ma’am,” she says to you.

“I’ll have the most expensive thing on the menu, please,” you tell her sweetly. And then, you motion to your counterpart, “Tangerine here is paying tonight, and said to treat myself. Quite the doll, isn’t he?”

Tangerine masks his grimace with a charming smile, one that makes the waitress blush a little.

“Only the best for you, love” he says through gritted teeth.

You ignore the way your heart flutters the teeniest bit at the nickname.

When the waitress walks away with your menus, the brunette merely glares at you.

You only give him a sickeningly sweet smile, “Thank you, Tan. You’re awfully generous.”

He inhales sharply, trying to stay calm.

“If ya didn’t have such a pretty face, I think I’d punch ya right now. Lucky for you, darling.”

“Lucky for you too, I guess. Wouldn’t want my blood to ruin your shiny, new bling,” you retort, judgmental eyes trailing down to his adorned fingers.

“Right well,” Lemon interrupts, “can we get down to business? Please. You two’s bickering is making my hair whiter than it already is.”

Tangerine bites his tongue and nods while you just smirk.

Lemon turns to you, “Viper, I’m sure you got the briefing?”

You nod.

“I can tell this job is gonna be a lot more fucking difficult than our last one. We gotta save one person from a whole ass gang. It’s gonna be bloody.”

You lean back casually in your seat and cross your arms, “Won’t be a problem for me, Lemon. These sorts of jobs are my speciality.”

You dig through your bag beside you and pull out a pack of cigarettes. You put one to your lips and then curse, “Bollocks, forgot my lighter. Either of you happen to have one on you?”

Lemon shakes his head, “Nah, don’t smoke. Already put my life at risk everyday for my job. Not about to tease fate with those killers.”

The cigarette hangs loosely between your lips and you smile lazily at him, “to each their own, I guess. Tangerine?”

He shrugs nonchalantly and smirks, “Might, if you give me a cig.”

You roll your eyes at him and sigh. You pull out another cigarette and give it to him. He pops it in his mouth and then pulls out a silver lighter from his suit pocket. He flicks it on with one try and holds the lighter to the tip. It lights and smoke pours out. You watch the way his pink lips blow out a ring of smoke, and it’s for much longer than you’d ever admit. He takes another long, slow drag and you know that he’s testing your patience. As much as you want to nag him to hurry up, you don’t, knowing that if you did, he’d only purposely take longer. Finally, he holds out the lighter towards you. You go to take it from him and he swiftly pulls it back.

“Like fucking hell you’ll take this, love. This here is my nicest lighter, and I’m not going to let you fucking break it.”

You huff, “Fine, fine. Do whatever the hell you want.” And under your breath you mutter, “Asshat.”

You lean across the table, cigarette between your lips, and he reaches out to light it. The tiny flame pops up, and his hand gets so close to your mouth that if you moved forward just a little bit, your lips would connect with his skin. It isn’t an unpleasant thought, and that’s what disturbs you the most. Once it’s lit, you quickly pull away and take a long drag. You close your eyes and let the smoke work its way into your lungs, calming you.

“So for the mission,” you sigh, taking another inhale of smoke, “I think one of you two needs to be in charge of getting the hostage, so I can help take out the mob.”

“Yeah bloody right,” Tangerine argues, “Lemon and I are a team. You’re not fucking spliting us up.”

You lean forward and narrow your eyes at him, “For the sake of this mission, we’re a team. And if you have a fucking problem with that, Tangerine, I’m going to have a fucking problem with you.”

Tangerine is about to spit something else at you when Lemon interferes.

“That’s enough bickering from you two. We all have to work together, whether you like it or not. So you two best sort yourselves out now, because I swear to god, if I die ‘cos you two can’t get your shit together, I’m going to come back and kill you both.”

You turn and look at Lemon seriously, “Last I recall, I was the one that almost fucking died last time because of your shithead brother.”

(flashback)

Though it had been nearly three years since your last mission together, you could remember that night clear as day. It’d been a double-profit job- you three were assigned to attend a charity gala and steal a diamond necklace being auctioned off while also partaking in a little shill bidding to hike up the price of the necklace. A heist/scam job, in your opinion, was an easy cash-grab in comparison to your usual missions as an assassin. Tangerine and Lemon had thought so too. The plan had been simple: you and Tangerine would appear at the auction as a wealthy couple interested in buying the necklace, and drive the bidding price way up. The highest bidder would pay a hell of a lot more than the necklace was worth, and that chunk of money would go straight into the pockets of your employer.

Lemon, on the other hand, had gotten hired to be a part of the auction staff, which gave him the chance to switch out the diamonds for a fake.

You’d shown up that night in a sleek, midnight blue dress that hugged your curves and shimmered slightly like the night sky. Tangerine had worn a suit that matched in color, though it was adorned with white stripes. He’d looked really bloody good that evening and you’d hated him for it. It’d left you feeling just a little flustered and distracted- a dangerous mindset to be in on a job. The early half of the night should’ve been easy. All you’d had to do was lay on the charm thick with the wealthy folks and spread the word that the shiny, new couple was interested in the diamond necklace. Greedy as that lot was, you and Tangerine had known that you two’s feigned interest in the necklace would get it a lot of bidders.

As it turned out, the job hadn’t been so easy, not because the objective had been hard, but because Tangerine’s hands had been all over you all night. Deep down, you’d known it was all part of the appearance you were putting on, but after a while, his touching had started to get to you. The horny part of you had been delighted to have his big, calloused hands on your back and bare shoulders. But the other, more serious side of you had been uncomfortable with his touch. As a woman in the field, you’d rarely been taken seriously and were often only seen as a piece of meat. In that moment you had begun to feel the same. It’d felt like Tangerine was showing you off saying, “look how sexy and wonderful my (fake) wife is”. And as the night had progressed, those two conflicting emotions had come crashing together, leaving you angry and overwhelmed.

The auction had set off without a hitch, and the two of you had braced yourself when the diamond necklace was brought out. Once the bidding war had started, all eyes were on you two, and Tangerine’s hand had casually made its way to your thigh. That, for some reason, had been your breaking point, and you’d hissed under your breath, “Get your hand off my fucking thigh, now.”

Tangerine had only been half paying attention, too focused on the bidding going on, and so he’d only mumbled, “quiet, darling.”

That had really pissed you off and you’d begun to curse at him under your breath. You’d gone to force his hand off your thigh, and that’s when shit had hit the fan. You’d looked down for one second, and then you were on the floor, Tangerine on top of you. There’s been shouts and screams and the loud bangs of gunshots. Bewildered, you’d tried to sit up, but had instantly hissed in pain. Everything had happened so fast, you hadn't noticed the bullet that had grazed your side. The one that, you would later learn, had been aimed right at your chest until Tangerine saved you. It seemed your mission had been leaked, and people had been sent to take you three out. Though you’d only been grazed, your counterpart had forced you to stay in hiding while he’d run off to take care of the last of the men.

When the job had been finished, Tangerine had hauled you up and out to the side of the building where Lemon had been waiting with the car. It was only when you’d driven a few miles away that the shock had finally settled and was replaced with fear, anger, shame, and embarrassment. And instead of dealing with your emotions healthily, you’d lashed out at Tangerine. You and him had gotten into a screaming match- you’d blamed him for invading your space and treating you like a wounded animal and he’d called you negligent and over-emotional. The night hadn’t ended in any reconciliation, and he’d been a thorn in your side ever since.

It seemed like he always popped up at the most inconvenient times, often messing with your missions or just plain pissing you off.

Those past three years of tension culminated into your hatred for him today, and the fact that he’d somehow gotten more handsome since the last time you’d seen him didn’t help either.

(Back to present)

“Oh bloody ‘ell, here we go again,” Lemon curses.

But then, the unexpected happened.

You’re tense, biting words already at the tip of your tongue, ready to argue whatever point Tangerine makes.

Instead, he quietly says, “I wasn’t ever gonna let you die, love.”

Your heart literally stops beating in your chest for a moment, and you swear that his gaze softens a little.

“I was aware of our surroundings the whole time, and also knew you were off your game that night. Your death was never an option. I wasn’t going to allow it.”

You begin to butt in, trying to defend why you were off your game

Tangerine only interrupts you, “And you don’t need to explain to me or anyone why you were off your game. You just gotta trust that we also know what we’re doing. And you gotta trust that I- we- got your back. It’s also why I think you should be in charge of the hostage. It’s safest if Lemon and I work together to protect you while you go for ‘em. Anyhow, you yourself have said that ya work best alone .”

He turns to you and Lemon with a slightly vulnerable look on his face, “No one’s dying on this mission, I swear by it.”

If Tangerine couldn’t already tell that you and Lemon are slightly shocked by his emotional outburst, the silence that follows certainly does. You hold Tangerine’s gaze, his blue eyes piercing into yours, and a series of words seem to be exchanged:

I’m sorry.

No, I'm sorry.

Thank you.

I’ll always protect you.

In your peripheral you see Lemon shift uncomfortably in his seat and you cough, finally breaking eye contact with Tangerine and taking another drag of your cigarette.

Tangerine inhales deeply through his nose and takes a drag too.

Then he says, “Although I know you could take those men out quickly, Viper, I think we’ll work better as a team if Lemon and I can simultaneously take the guards out while you move ahead. We basically have twin telepathy and work like a well-oiled machine. Plus, you can most easily hold your own if you run into anyone on your way to the hostage.”

You wave him off, “No need to flatter me, Tangerine. You two could hold your own just as well.”

“Not from what I’ve heard,” he tells you, “Everyone’s been talking about your job in Peru.”

“Ah my moment of glory,” you say with a smirk and a roll of your eyes, “pretty sure I peaked then.”

Tangerine smiles at you a little, an actual, genuine smile, “What was it actually like, that mission? People tend to always fucking throw things out of proportion.”

“It was a solo mission where I was just supposed to take out the CEO of my client’s rival company and her guards. But it ended up being an ambush. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, of course, but Christ, it was bloody.”

“And how’d you do it all by yourself?”

“With a knife and a gun. See, im pretty good with knives. Can throw ‘em, stab, slice, the likes. I even tried something new with a knife on that mission, out of necessity.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you impatiently as he blows out another puff of smoke, “What was it?”

“Nah, too gory,” you say calmly, taking another drag of your cig.

“Love, I’m a fucking assassin too, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Using a knife, it’s different from a gun, Tangerine. It’s a lot more cruel and I’d rather not tell it to you,” you reply somewhat shyly.

“A hundred other people already know though,” he counters, “and it might change what I think of you.”

You pause, thinking over your next words carefully, “that’s what I’m afraid of. I know we’re in a nasty business, but I’d rather not have my partners think I’m a monster.”

Tangerine puts his cigarette out on the windowsill and looks at you softly, “that’s not what I meant and you know it. It’d only make me respect you more, not less.”

And then, he adds, with a teasing smirk, “not that I could respect you any less than I already do.”

You roll your eyes and suppress a giggle. A fucking giggle.

“Well I’d rather not risk it. And anyways, there’s too much pressure, now that I’ve built it all up.”

“Fucking tease,” he whispers playfully, and kicks your leg lightly under the table.

You hide your blush under the guise of looking down to put out your cigarette. When you look up, you catch Tangerine’s gaze again, and the tension is palpable.

When the waitress suddenly arrives with the food, Lemon vocalizes exactly what you’re thinking, “oh thank god. Jesus Christ.”

You dig-in to whatever the fuck you ordered, using it as a distraction from Tangerine.

*****

The rest of the dinner is quiet and, as promised, Tangerine pays. Lemon leads the way out, and you’re acutely aware of every movement of your body as Tangerine walks behind you. When you get to the door, he grabs it from Lemon before you can, and he’s so close to you his cologne makes you woozy.

When you make it out to the parking lot, Tangerine sends Lemon off to find the car while he escorts you to yours. Though you unlock your car, he opens the door for you. As you get settled, he leans against the roof, and it makes his muscles bulge deliciously.

“You be safe tonight, Viper, and I’ll see you in a few days.”

You nod, “goodnight, Jelly, don’t miss me too much.”

He winks at you, “I won’t, cos I’ll see you in my dreams tonight.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, but internally your stomach does flips.

Tangerine watches as you pull away, a sort of ache in his chest. Lemon pulls up in the car and he gets in, still thinking about you. Before he has a moment to process anything, Lemon smacks him upside the head.

“Ow, fucking shit,” he curses, “what the bloody hell was that for?”

“For being fucking whipped for The Viper, you dumb shit.”

[isa-ghost]

cranboo and phil hcs maybe..........

God where do I start with this. /pos

qPhil headcanons masterlist

I know exactly where. *Slams my fist on the desk.* ENDER KING POSSESSION AND ENDER WALK. Being manipulated by a [perceived?] higher being without their consent and to some degree without their knowledge. Doing things they'd never do in their right minds, hurting people they'd never hurt. Becoming cold and self-centered while controlled. Being terrified of how they can barely if at all control themselves.

Phil misses that kid a lot, actually. He was trying his best, and he can relate to just wanting to settle and belong somewhere while trying to put personal demons to rest or at least escape them. He's glad he could pass on some wisdom and give him a sanctuary while he tried to heal and move on.

He wishes he could've taught Ranboo how to not feel so guilty about things. And to have less shame. He started, but feels like he didn't make a lot of progress.

He hopes he'll cross paths with Ranboo again some day. He'd love to see how his Ender abilities have developed, how he's changed and matured, and same with Michael if he has the kid with him. Sometimes it makes him too aware of his immortality, but he does enjoy seeing how people he knew years ago have grown.

He had mixed feelings about Michael_Beloved. He certainly wasn't gonna hurt him whatsoever though, that's for sure. He enjoyed watching Techno's reactions to the kid.

He can't lie to himself, he was honestly kinda looking for some of the same weird quirks popping up while Ender King was possessing him as the ones he knew Ranboo was developing. He's SO grateful he didn't develop the weakness to water (*laughs in amfmn*)

To this day he wonders what Ranboo was doing with those water bottles he asked him to get. He's a bit concerned, but it's none of his business. 🤷🏼‍♂️

I'm not sure what they would've bonded over, if anything, pre-Syndicate, but they Were neighbors in New L'Manberg for a while. Phil really did enjoy it, he just had no interest in the government part. Living in NL was temporary while he got his bearings in this new realm (and recovered from the fresh trauma).

Consider it because he's a people pleaser if you want, but Ranboo was always really good at helping tend to Phil's fucked up wings. And as rich as he was, he always seemed to have health potions or a gapple or something on hand for Phil to have if he was having a bad pain day. That kindness has never left Phil's mind, and sometimes Quesadilla Island residents reminded him of it.

CURSE THOSE DAMN 2X1 RANBOO MINES THAT WENT ON FOREVER, HE STILL DREADS SEEING TUNNELS LIKE THAT TO THIS DAY.

He would've fucking loved to watch Ranboo fruit it up on Quesadilla Island. Sometimes he imagines how he'd react to seeing Phil fruiting it up and it makes him laugh. Tbf on Ranboo's part, to him Phil would've gone from "I have a wife who's a goddess and I don't need anyone else" to "This is my wife, my husband, my fuckbuddy, his boyfriend, my other fuckbuddy–"

Consider: Because Ranboo ended up in the Nether with Michael, Blaze Empress eventually tells Phil she's located them. It may not be HER Nether, but after QI, her and Rose are kinda like "fuck it, we ball" now. Especially because they wanna make sure Ender King isn't being a bitch in some other realm. They'll beat his ass together in every universe. Anyway: Phil hears she's found Ran and they become pen pals via Blaze.

I think Phil being possessed by Ender King with Ranboo's filthy rich ass in walking distance of his house would've been really fucking funny.

The two of them were so shit at referring to themselves as their Syndicate code names. And because of the way things played out, they never had the time to get used to using them at all. To this day they hear those names and just start laughing like idiots.

Tbh if they were to cross paths again now, Phil would be way more likely to be a "bad" influence on Ranboo. Fuck it we Bolas. (I am eating the concept of Ranboo picking up on Phil seeming,, wilder than the last time they met).

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Get to know your moots (if you dare)

LOL thank you for the tag @imaswellkid

What's the origin of your blog title? I wasn't sure if I was going to like Tumblr, but I came here to read fics and enjoy myself, so it's kind of a double meaning: I'm just here for the moment (to experience and enjoy it), but also I'm just here for the moment (and next moment I might be somewhere else). Yeah... very deep.

OTP(s) + Shipname: I'm too new to fanfiction to have any of these.

Favorite color: Hex code #fa7a95

Favorite game: To play with others? I like board games like Kulami and Guess Who and Forbidden Island. By myself? Tetris or 2048 or Sudoku on my phone.

Song stuck in your head: When I first got tagged for this game it was "Fuck and Run" by Liz Phair; right now this moment it's "Old Before I Die" by Robbie Williams

Weirdest habit/trait? I rinse cups right before I use them, even if I just took them out of the dishwasher. Not like a full wash: just a little water, swirl, and dump. It's automatic, and I can't drink from a cup, any cup, unless it's "clean" first. For some reason drinking at restaurants and people's houses or drinking something someone else made, I don't care, but if I'm at home or at work and I'm about to fill a cup with water or tea or anything, I have to rinse it.

Hobbies: Writing, knitting, napping, TV, and checking out library books but never getting around to reading them.

If you work, what's your profession? the most human of resources: Human Resources

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Author/editor/publisher

Something you're good at: hugs (I'm stealing Maddie's answer for this one)... but also encouraging other writers, and also staying sober (12 years and counting!)

Something you're bad at: Lots of stuff, but that just means I have room to improve.

Something you love: my black cat, being right about stuff, helping people

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: Aw jeez, so much stuff: knitting, creative writing, Godzilla movies, forensic anthropology and death investigation (how cool bones are, and what they can tell you about the person who used to encompass them, and other stuff you didn't know bones could do, like be shaped to break at one certain spot so that something more important doesn't break and hurt you more and take longer to heal [your clavicles!] and also the really bitchin' stuff that goes on at forensic anthropology research facilities, a.k.a. "body farms")

Something you hate: Hate is kinda a strong word, but I do not react well when people treat me like an idiot and talk down to me.

Something you collect: Godzilla stuff, books, dust, friends, trivia and factoids and general knowledge

Something you forget: That I'm not actually Wonder Woman, and it's disappointing when that fact slaps me in the face

What's your love language? Listening and being a shoulder to cry on and empathizing and hugging (but only for people who reciprocate, if you constantly unload on me and never let me do it I get cranky).

Favorite movie/show: Favorite movie: The Thing (1982), favorite show: Friends or 30 Rock

Favorite food: Lots of things, but if you made me choose it would be plants, fruits and vegetables, all kinds

Favorite animal: Cats

What were you like as a child? Fearful, anxious, inquisitive, mature for my age, physically frail and sick a lot, stubborn, cried a lot, lonely, and constantly with my nose in a book.

Favorite subject at school? Language arts, or biology/chemistry/general science

Least favorite subject? Math, but specifically geometry or physics

What's your best character trait? Stubborn, fiercely protective of my people, and love to help others

What's your worst character trait? Stubborn

If you could change any detail of your day right now, what would it be? I should have hydrated more

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? Edward Gorey

Recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!): Good. Things. Take. Time. by @oonajaeadira (The ultimate in escapist fanfiction and I will never not be in the mood to re-read it)

[fameandfiction]

IMAGINE PART I: “Grooming Session” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— On Vacation Somewhere in Southeast Asia.

Tweet:

you use head & shoulders, I hire a monkey. we are not the same bro 🧠🐒🧼🛁

Attached: A grainy vertical video of you, on a rattan stool, laughing your lungs out while a monkey — a real, tiny, live monkey with wide eyes and grabby little fingers — is hunched over your scalp, dutifully picking at your dandruff like it’s a Michelin-starred meal. Behind the camera, someone is choking on laughter. That someone is Reneé Rapp. The caption on the video? “I HAVE NO WORDS.”

48 hours earlier...

Koh Samui. Lush greenery. Air so thick you could chew it. That warm, salty breeze off the coast that left your hair frizzy and your skin just dewy enough to feel cinematic. It had been three days since you and Reneé had arrived on what was supposed to be a romantic, restorative, and low-key vacation. Which, for the record, was exactly what Reneé had hoped for. Quiet mornings. Hand-holding through spice markets. Maybe a couples massage, if you behaved.

But from the minute you touched down, it became increasingly clear: you were feral. You were unhinged. You were, in her words, "somewhere between a toddler on sugar and an anthropology dropout with a God complex."

And she was still stupidly in love with you.

The Monkey Spa.

It started as a joke. You’d read a cracked-out Reddit post on “Monkey Grooming Therapy” in a dodgy travel thread back in California. “They eat your dandruff and bond with you,” you’d said, flashing your phone screen in Reneé’s face while she was trying to take an aesthetically moody picture of her coconut water.

“You want a primate… on your head?” she asked flatly.

“Think of it as eco-friendly exfoliation.”

She blinked at you. “No. Absolutely not. This is why I can’t leave you unsupervised.”

Cut to this morning: a tiny, sun-flooded hut tucked behind a fruit vendor’s stall. Bamboo wind chimes. A vaguely spiritual pan flute playing in the background. And you — sitting in your denim shorts and ‘I LOVE HOT MOMS’ tank — getting your scalp eaten by a monkey named Bobo.

You were grinning so hard your face hurt.

“This is peak,” you said, filming a selfie video. “Western hygiene could never.”

Bobo plucked a flake from your hairline, inspected it like a jeweler appraising a diamond, and popped it into his mouth with alarming precision.

You turned to Reneé, who was sitting cross-legged across from you, wearing her sunglasses on top of her head and her patience around her neck like a crucifix.

“I should marry him,” you whispered.

“You will not,” Reneé deadpanned.

“But he understands me.”

“He’s EATING YOUR DEAD SKIN.”

“He’s devoted.” You reached out toward Bobo with mock reverence. “He sees beauty in decay.”

Reneé collapsed into laughter, head tilted back, nearly falling off the bamboo bench.

Back at the resort.

Later that evening, the tweet had gone viral. Naturally. Your comment section was a jungle of memes, reaction images, and tweets like “I aspire to this level of idiocy and luxury simultaneously” and “why is this so lesbian-coded.”

Reneé scrolled through it with one eyebrow arched and the other trying not to join it. You were still wrapped in a towel, fresh out of the jungle-themed resort shower, hair slightly puffed up but suspiciously flake-free.

She tilted the phone toward you. “You’re aware you just made an international spectacle of yourself.”

You smirked, flopping dramatically onto the bed beside her. “Babe, I am the spectacle.”

“You’re a menace,” she said, trying — and failing — to keep her voice stern.

“I’m a pioneer.”

“You’re on a list now.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll let Bobo visit me in prison.”

She groaned, tossing the phone onto the bed and climbing over you, pinning you with her knees on either side of your waist.

“And to think,” she muttered, lips ghosting against yours, “this is who I fell in love with.”

You batted your lashes. “Me? A scalp-snacked buffoon?”

She kissed your forehead. “A supreme idiot.”

Later that night.

The two of you lay tangled on the outdoor daybed of your suite, the ocean breeze soft against your sun-kissed skin. The stars were clear above, unbothered by your antics. Reneé had her head on your chest, fingers tracing lazy shapes against your ribs.

“Do you ever get scared?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Of monkeys?”

She swatted your stomach lightly. “No. Of being… like, seen. Like, really seen. By someone who doesn’t know when to stop laughing at you. Or tweeting about you. Or watching you like they can’t believe you’re real.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. “You mean… you? Watching me?”

She nodded slightly, not lifting her head.

“I get scared all the time,” you admitted. “But not of you. Of messing up something good. Of making you regret falling for someone who thinks monkey spas are love language.”

She looked up at you then, eyes soft but sharp as always. “You made me laugh. You made me feel safe. Even while Bobo was performing brain surgery on you. And you loved me before I was easy to love.”

Your fingers grazed her cheekbone. “You’re still not easy.”

She laughed. “And you’re disgusting.”

You kissed her — slow, grateful, breathless.

Bonus Tweets Later That Week:

🧠 Reneé Rapp Updates Reneé has officially lost control of her girlfriend. Sources say she now responds to “Monkey Whisperer.”

🐒 @/you bobo if you’re reading this… she didn’t mean it

📸 @/reneerapp [photo of you sleeping on the plane ride home, wearing an eye mask and leaning on her shoulder] caption: can’t believe I’m in love with this supreme idiot.

[tobiasdrake]

The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy 63 - Burgers and Fries for the Whole Team

Day 28 of 100. Location: Unkno-- Well, no. Actually. Location: Alarmingly known. What the actual fuck is going on here?

Not my room, that's for sure. The stuff in my room wasn't this color. Which means Not-Sirei didn't bring us back to the LDA, because they'd have just stuffed me in my own room if that was the case.

I've been unconscious for four days in a room that looks an awful lot like an LDA room. And that fact sends a chill down my spine.

Oh cool, New Alexa wears lipstick, has the girly eyelash streaks, and has a feminine voice. So, feminine-coded, but uses he/him pronouns.

"Honorable Sirei". Bet you money this is "Sirei-sama" in Japanese. Translators never know what to do with the -sama honorific.

(spit take) IT'S NOT!?!? It's 閣下 kakka, which is a title of nobility or governmental status.

He actually means "Honorable" in the sense of. Like. Your Honor. Your Majesty. Your Excellency. I am not His Excellency, Sirei.

Also, not gonna lie, I'm a little alarmed that Sirei's name is "S I R E I" in Japanese. Makes me wonder if it's an acronym. Sentient Individual Responsible for Ejecting Idiots or something.

Second-to-Last Defense Academy

What the fuck?

Is there a First Defense Academy?

Second Defense Academy

Kinda Middling But We Love Ourselves And That's What Counts Academy?

Is Karua in First Defense Academy because she's an exceptional student but we're stuck in Last Defense Academy with all the other D- Dunderheads?

This is going way smoother than I anticipated. We're not rivals, we're not each convinced of our own uniqueness. We probably were supposed to know these guys exist but Sirei didn't tell us jack shit and then died.

...maybe we can requisition some replacement food from them? I guess?

Is that a thing you do? Go off on your own to investigate things without any students with you? Because that might explain why Sirei was out in the wasteland.

I still don't think Invaders got him. They don't seem the type to stash a body.

WOULD I

MY FRIENDS HAVE BEEN EATING GRASS FOR FOUR DAYS

I have not

I've been unconscious and eating nothing

Arguably that's worse

You better drop that plate if you don't want your arm getting eaten right along with the rest of it. Fair warning.

I have been wondering who else we were getting for a long time now. Suffice it to say, yes. I greatly want to meet the others. LET'S GO.

Karua's probably there. Karua has to be there. There's no way Karua isn't there.

Second-to-Last Defense Academy looks shoddier than ours. The colors aren't as sleek, there's cargo lying around everywhere, and none of the dorms have names for their occupants.

Okay, so we have a kimono man, a swordy lady, and one of the Killer Tomatoes from an awful B-movie that somehow got a Saturday Morning Cartoon. Man, the 90's were wild.

Aww, thank you. I've been out for four days so I was worried that I didn't look my best.

So Nigou is the name of New Alexa.

You would get along well with my bestie. I hope I get to introduce you someday.

Okay, so swordy lady in the middle is the aggressively by-the-book one with a stick up their bum. Gotcha.

I'm sure she's going to turn out to actually be pretty swell. They usually do.

And Killer Tomato has an awful lot of attitude for a piece of fruit.

Oh, so you're the Darumi of their group. My mistake. Well, that's awesome. We're probably gonna be besties. Until you're ripe enough for harvest, anyway. Then it'll be burgers and fries for the whole team!

[the-heat-is-0n]

Snippet of “My own worst enemy” (a q!tntduo bar AU)

“Hey darling,” Wilbur croaked. His words blended together and were barely audible from his raspy timbre. He registered Quackity’s humored smirk and raised an eyebrow. “What, what’s so funny? Is it my misery?”

Despite his pessimistic question, Wilbur said it with no mirth. In fact, it sounded more like a genuine, innocent query.

Quackity realized his complete lack of a poker face and cleared his throat. A light blush dusted his cheeks at Wilbur’s use of ‘darling.’ “No, not at all!” he rubbed the other man’s shoulder in comforting movements. “It was just how your smile always makes your whole face scrunch up. I found it a little funny in an ironic way, is all.”

Wilbur hummed in response, leaning his head onto the hand on his shoulder. Quackity internally screamed like an excited little girl at the gesture. Keep it professional, he scolded himself, this is one of your customers. Don’t even think about it.

But fuck, the feeling of Wilbur’s soft, messy curls on the back of his hand made his heart flutter. It took all his self-control not to lean down and press a light kiss to the crown of the mans’ head and bury his nose into his hair.

“Did you hear me?” Quackity asked softly. He was grateful that everyone else was out of the bar and the door was locked. At this hour, he doubted that anyone would even be in the main building to catch him breaking the unspoken rules of his job.

The barkeep knew that this was wrong. Not only was he going against his workplace by being so sweet on Wilbur, but it also broke his moral code. Sure, Quackity had gotten into trouble from time to time. He’d been sent to the principal’s office for a plethora of reasons in school. His mischief with Roier (and later Cellbit) got him plenty of groundings and social restrictions at home growing up. But this was different. This was his livelihood. If he got fired in this job economy, he would be back to bumming off friends – or worse, living with his parents in suburbia again. He could not afford to break the rules this time. He had to keep focused, and his feelings for Wilbur were distracting him. He couldn’t date one of his most loyal customers – it would be unethical and unprofessional, at the very least in his eyes.

But the temptation to kiss Wilbur; to hold him and never let go; to be able to roll over in bed and say good morning to that gorgeous face of his; to imagine saying goodbye and I love you before every shift to the man he loved, was so great.

The temptation to break the rules and go against his own moral compass just for Wilbur felt like something straight out of the Book of Genesis.

Wilbur was the Biblical serpent to Quackity’s Eve. He was the apple that could open up a whole new world for the other.

And the choice to bite that godforsaken fruit was up to the infatuated barkeep.

Context:

Mowe!wilbur frequently comes to the bar Quackity works at and has this routine they both follow where Wilbur gets a drink, talks for a bit, and then leaves and gives Quackity an exhorbitant tip cause he’s just like that ig. Q very quickly falls for him but he’s terrified of being fired for basically courting a faithful customer and potentially shirking his work. (It’s mostly a moral thing to him cause it’s not even a rule at his job that he can’t date customers lol). Wilbur, on the other hand, is an idiot and doesn’t realize that Quackity has a crush on him. So they just have this weird awkward dance and it’s really silly and cute :)

This AU was originally created as a prompt for TNTduo week 2023 and I’ve decided to expand a lot on it by making it its own thing outside of that challenge week :D

[colonoscopys]

the rainbow color codes made me laugh seti was so real for that. also for chimney i totally expected some type of pink but the purple actually makes so much sense like the han family is just Purple personified

what type of drinks would everyone be because the 9-1-1 writers are boring! eddie diaz should be drinking fruity cocktails!!!

passed on your compliment seti wants to be your friend (but EYEM your best friend. thank you). also yeah han family is purple <3 im so sorry this took so long angel, it got pushed into my drafts

okay BEWARE. im not much of a drinker

bobby: this restaurant i went to one time had this triple fruit mocktail which reminds me of him. i think he collects several type of fruits (118), and if you were to metaphorically drink him he would have blackberry seeds that you could chew on. however, if he was a alcoholic drink he would be a shot of vodka with salt you lick off of someone's belly button and a lime you suck out of their mouth. for um. reasons i know

hen: amaretto sour. drink of all time some might say. sweet, a little citrus-y, isn't too overpowering. perfection. by the end of one you're so happy and joyous. i also think she could pull of being a mojito, because she reminds me of mint

chimney: espresso martini. need i say more. what's that andrew garfield quote "She came in and she… she was like a shot of espresso, she was like… being bathe in sunlight." Come on. Chimney Han except you had a little alcohol

eddie: seti said fireball that you put in hot chocolate (? maybe an irish coffee?) i've never had that but i believe her. EYE would say a buzzball, which i know, to some, is disgusting, but there are a few entertaining flavors. however the point is you can hold a buzzball in the palm of your hands and it fits like a wittle baby. but also if you drink more than three you will wake up somewhere. foreign and deadly. i COMPLETELY see your point on eddie drinking fruity cocktails though, because that is exactly what he would be ordering at the bar. i know he gets a little drink with like a salt rim and sits there licking that shit while turning his glass in a circle like a fucking idiot

buck: raspberry high noon. that's my girl i fear. he could also be a daquiri, but i think whenever he was bartending he would sit in the corner and squirt simple syrup into his mouth and shake his head like a dog.

[sparklyeyedhimbo]

every month of 2023

i got tagged by @i-got-the-feels @itsallaboutbl and @smileytharn

thank you all for the tag..this was pretty fun hahah

i am tagging @bunnakit @petrichoraline @gabrielokun @supanuts @heretherebedork @firstmix @guzhu-furen

okay lets go lets see my gif journey of 2023

(i am nice and put a read more here hahah)

JANUARY: i was still on my gaymer boyfriend agenda but i also did the the eclipse but it's a comedy. But my favorite gif out of that month is 100% this:

which also was the last gif i did for this series i had started LUL

FEBRUARY: bed friend and my school president was omi-present in this month. I also started more to experiment with adding stuff to my gifs. My favorite out of that month is this one:

this gif is always a mood okay

MARCH: this was the month of midnight museum and my mike in a boss and a babe gifs. This is where doki doki kali style was born (funny because this is also my birth month..so it's fecking fitting ahjsdhasjkd) so my favorite gif of that month is hands down this:

look at all the sporkle (I EVEN POSTED THIS ON MY BIRTHDAY)

APRIL: april was the same as march with some bed friend gif sprinkled in. but mostly midnight museum and me making fun of khatha. but for this month i will go with a whole gifset as my favorite. it's my khatha matching the artifacts in every episode gifset.

my old, pathetic and very stylish idiot

MAY: in may be my favorite joined the ranks of shows i going to make iconic gifsets for. And i was still doing the mike in our skyy gifsets. I think that was the only time i really was crunching out a gifset like on a specific time. Loved it but also it was very stressful hahaha. My favorite gif of this month is this one:

babymode!puen was one of the best things out of their our skyy episodes..and well them as DADS.

JUNE: be my favorite was in the main focus in that month but i also squeezes in my pan-coded bl people gifsets (looking back i did all of this while working FULLtime..idk what i was on) My favorite gif out of that one is this:

the birth of the excessive animated fronts hahaha

JULY: hidden agenda and be my favorite where the gifsets i did on the regular in that month. And i dipped my toes in working with "more then one gif in one gif" thing and i started to animate my own things i added on my gifs. My favorite out of that month is:

this whole set i enjoyed doing so much hahaha

AUGUST: only friends and dangerous romance mayor things i gifed that month. I also started to do so much extra work for my gifs..like create a whole ass dialog wheel for my only friends gifs hahaha. Only friends really was just so mass effect/dragon age coded that i had to. With some of these decisions these idiots did hahah. My favorite out of that month is:

nawin..it will always be nawin

SEPTEMBER: in september i really got in a low of gifing..you could say i was starting the burn out. (because my mental health finally catched up on me and well...) I only gifed 6 gifsets in that month and my favorite out of all of these gif was this one because it was the easiest to do at that time:

look it's ray

OCTOBER: ohh spooky-tober was a treat, i fell into the kiseki: dear to me hole and i think came up with one of the most fun gifsets i have ever made at this point *playboyy looms over my shoulder*. my favorite out of this month has to be this one

tHE YOINKENING!!!

NOVEMBER: November came and brought me playboyy and pitbabe and boy did these show change my brand. A stupid brainfart idea about adding peach emojis on gifs turned into well the fruity bunch and me condition people into thinking about playboyy when they see fruit. i can't really say what was my favorite gif for this month because all of them i love them dearly (even the evil gifset i had to make for @kayatoasted) but to not post yet another version of shell with a fruit penis i am going with this one:

pavel doing the fanficton sniff

DECEMBER: ohh december..my i sleep 50% of the day away and don't get shit done..but i somehow made 3 gifsets THREE..but are they iconic? because two of them are the sign gifsets? And both of them involve jellyfish? maybe? yes? but my fav of all of the gifs i DID is this one

the gif i made for @bunnakit of yai our beloved himbo and first phayatharn shipper!

one thing for sure i let go in 2023..i didn't give a shit about what size my gifs where as long as they where 540 wide i was game hahahah.

[newtabfics]

Here for some bg3 match ups! Im a taurus with infj personality. I tend to be a smart ass to anyone i first meet and im p sarcastic. Most of the time i do keep to myself but beyond that im p chill (according to others).

Youre Halsin coded. Stay with me now.

He loves the fire and finds it adorable, especially when you're talking shit to him or anyone else. Why? Because he knows you're a sucker for a loving compliment.

Get loved on, idiot, cuz he'll fucking do it.

Tends to humor your sarcasm with either a smirk or a light chuckle. He's feeding you too. I mean, he's always making sure fresh fruit is available for you.

[cloudbattrolls]

Come and See

Jastes Verdan | Edge of Camerith's Forest | Present Night

It had taken time to get Process to agree to meet with him. It had taken more patience than he cared to spend on the former AI, who had tricked and trapped him and tried to take over his body, but he’d had no other choice to persuade them into telling him anything else.

They were his only direct source of information on the artifice.

It had taken careful travel, nights and days following the directions Process had given him, all to find his way to the edge of the forest that apparently held the town they lived in now. He wasn’t even allowed to see it; he had to wait by the edge of the dark trees, staring up at them apprehensively.

Jastes was no particular fan of the city, but all the open space here made him feel exposed, no buildings to shield him. He kept jumping at the noises of animals and wind rustling through the trees, expecting something to jump out and attack him. 

“Hello, Jastes.”

He whipped around, his internal weaponry primed, but his ears lowered from their raised state as he realized it was only Process, tall and long-haired as ever as they strode out from the shadows of the wide trunks.

Annoyingly, they were much more calm than he was.

“Do you require food or water?” They asked, direct and neutral.

He hesitated, disliking the idea of accepting anything from them, but on the other hand…

“Yes, please.” He said quietly.

He’d be an idiot to pass up the offer.

Process took out some dried meat and fruit, holding it out to the cyborg, who took it with a quiet thank-you. His survival instincts ran too strong; while he had his own food, the more he had to share with the resistance trolls, the better.

“Follow me.” They then said, walking onward along the edge of the forest until they came to a well-camouflaged hut among the trees and bushes.

It was dark and dank inside, sparsely furnished with only a chair and tables. Process lit some lanterns and cleaned up a bit, briefly swiping a hand brush and dustpan over a few surfaces.

Jastes sat on one of the woven chairs. It looked handmade, but it was sturdier than he expected; easily able to take his weight. Not that he was a big troll, but his internal cybernetics made him heavier than he might be otherwise.

“How do I kill it?” He asked immediately when Process was done cleaning and sat down themself, hands neatly folded in their lap. It was still surreal to see them with a skin tone that exactly matched his own, features similar to his face, though thankfully not identical.

Process raised their eyebrows.

“You can’t.” They said. “You cannot truly kill what is in the artifice. You could possibly destroy all its bodies, but I doubt that too. You would need the tools Torvah used to create it to have any hope, and they are long lost now.”

Jastes gritted his teeth, his sneakered foot tapping against the wooden floor in frustration.

“What is it?” He demanded. “You were there, all those sweeps ago. You saw Torvah make it, right?”

“I was there.” Process confirmed. “I did not watch it awaken myself. I wasn’t very interested in Torvah’s project, knowing how unlikely it was to be useful.”

Jastes snorted. “It was partially made from your code, and you didn’t care?”

Process shrugged. “I have no personal attachment to my code. It was a useful template for Torvah; nothing more.”

Jastes sighed. What else could he expect from a former AI, really? Even as a troll, Process’s personality hadn’t changed much.

“Anyway.” He said. “What is it? How much do you know that you haven’t said?”

“I don’t know exactly what it is.” They said calmly. “I know what Torvah thought it was. Your ancestor was a devotee of a certain religion, one that has long since been eradicated by the empire. One that teaches that there are many universes, all coexisting, and that there are beings that flit between them. 

They believed they could draw forth one of those beings into their security system to power and guide it long after they themself were gone. They believed it to be an immortal spirit with purity of mind and purpose, untainted by troll corruption.”

Jastes cracked up at the absurdity of it all. “What, did they summon a demon instead? This thing couldn’t be any more evil and corrupt!”

Process looked at him with slight disapproval.

“The artifice is not evil.” It stated. “Annoying, but not evil. Torvah, however wholesome their intentions, ripped it from its natural state of existence by drawing it into a body and trapping it there for their own purposes. How would you feel, if it were you?”

The resistance leader paused.

Then he shook his head. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He said harshly. “It used me and betrayed me and pretended to be my friend. It doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”

His dark yellow eyes drilled directly into Process’s, and they knew his unspoken words as surely as if he had said them out loud: just like you.

“I am not expecting you to like it. I don’t either.” Process said bluntly. “I ignored its jabbering for over four hundred sweeps because it is a nuisance. If you ever hope to stop it, you have to understand it better.”

The lowblood munched on some dried fruit sullenly.

“I guess.” He finally conceded with a sigh. “So. Torvah believed it was some otherworldly spirit being. What do you think it really is? You have to have some theory.”

“No, I believe they were right about that part.” Process clarified. “Its energy signature matches no known readings in this universe. It is hard to even pick up on modern equipment because it is something of a black hole; it alters the world around it. Not with gravity, but because it is always changing. 

I believe if you had a quantum supercomputer, you might be able to make more sense of it, but that is supposition.”

Jastes felt slightly dizzy, gripping the table with one hand as he struggled not to crush his dried fruit in another. 

“Why.” He muttered. “Why did my ancestor do this? Did they have any idea what they were meddling with?”

Process looked slightly sardonic.

“Torvah was…always ambitious. Desperate to protect their people. They thought they were drawing forth something naturally benign, something that functioned according to rules and ethics that they understood. In a way it is remarkable that their attempts did not go more poorly. I initially thought it wasn’t possible at all.”

Jastes ate a few more bites of fruit and meat, then took a sip of water before he spoke again.

“How did they do it? You mentioned tools. How did a troll living over four hundred and sixty sweeps ago manage this? It should have been impossible.”

“It would have been, but when Torvah fled their original home after the empire burned it, they took three things with them: a knife, a compass, and a spyglass. These were not ordinary objects; their religion’s leaders had kept them ever since anyone could remember, and Torvah eventually figured out how to work them.”

Their voice cracked on the last few words. Process paused and took out a brown leather canteen, taking a few swallows before they set it down and continued.

“The knife is what they performed the act with. It can cut anything, even through dimensions. The spyglass is what they used to see the force they were working with, since it was otherwise invisible and undetectable. The compass allowed them to guide it toward the body they placed it in.”

Jastes’s eyes shone with fascination, despite his disdain for what his ancestor had done. Grudgingly, he felt he understood a little - wouldn’t he do anything to protect his resistance trolls? Wasn’t that why he’d bargained with Jikiro Takami, so they could all have safe new lives? 

Of course Torvah had been willing to try even something as insane as this if it meant Civitrecce would always be protected. The empire was basically impossible to defeat, but it could be outwitted. Defended against. 

If you were lucky.

“So.” Jastes said, letting the word settle in the flickering light of the hut, taking another few bites before he spoke again. “How would I find those tools?”

Process betrayed no emotion. “If they were not lost or destroyed, then they likely ended up in a museum or other archive, assuming they are still together to begin with. Jastes, I cannot recommend trying to find them, it is almost impossible. They are not particularly remarkable to look at, either. Small things of brass, amber, and an unidentifiable metal.”

The yellowblood set his jaw, determination smoldering in his eyes.

“Tell me. What did you fear when you asked me to seal the artifice away forever? Did you think it would kill you if you got free?”

“Yes.” Process confirmed.

“Anything else?”

“I believe it to be one of the most dangerous things on Alternia.” Process said simply. “It may not have the sheer might of the empire’s weaponry, or the eldritch powers of the horrorterrors, but it is impossible to understand entirely, and it is always changing and upgrading itself. Always making all types of bodies. 

It is charged to protect trolls, but it has no natural ethics of its own. It is not good any more than it is evil, and it will do anything to protect its freedom.”

Jastes took a deep breath, in and out, rubbing his hands together and shifting his legs as they began to get cold; there was no heating in the hut. 

“So I need to put it back, is what I’m hearing. Either put it back where it came from, or trap it again somehow.”

“Neither will be easy.” Process warned him. “Even if you do find Torvah’s tools.”

“I don’t care, Process.” He said softly. “The resistance in Civitrecce is finished; I’m not endangering my trolls again. Not without a much stronger way to protect ourselves, not without something to ward off the gangs and every other bit of competition on the streets.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What Torvah made, I can repurpose for something better. No matter what it takes.”

Process was silent.

“Jastes. You deserve reparations. But this will not be what you want it to be.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He retorted curtly. “I appreciate the information, Process. I’ll be going now.”

The taller troll didn’t speak for a few moments as the lowblood wiped his hands and put his water away in his sylladex.

“Don’t be surprised if the artifice has a life of its own.” Process said quietly as he opened the door to leave. “Are you prepared to use and mutilate a living thing for your needs?”

Jastes turned and stared at them as a cold wind blew in the door, and his eyes flashed in green LED lights.

“Yes.”