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[farahfab]

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[cryptotheism]

The Bear: "Okay here, got another question from a caller...ahem. Howdy girls, love the show. I gotta ask. What rigs do you personally run?"

Lilly: "Well I run a-"

"Hold it Lil. Before you yap everyone's ears off, I got an idea. I know what you like. You know what I like. How's about I describe your rig, and you describe mine?"

"Oh but I wanna yap! It's the radio Bear, people tune in for the yappin."

"You can yap! Just not about your Mako. And just to torture ya, I'm gonna go first."

"Fine! Fine! You better make me look good though!"

"Lil here runs a Pointer&Short Mako S-610. For those that don't know, only about 3000 of these things exist. They were a sleek custom job for some fancy courier service that went belly up about a century ago. I don't even wanna know how much it's cost Lil to restore this thing-"

"The parts are all original-"

"Aht aht aht, it's my turn. But yeah, the parts are all original. Original hand-machined bioceramic plating. Original glossy red paint. Original custom fins and gilding. This thing even has custom vinyl upholstery. This nut learned upholstery for this rig."

"Tell em about the coat."

"The coat? Oh right. So, the Mako's bioceramic is an older formula. It's heavier than the modern stuff, heals slower, and it scars. But Lil's? Not a scratch on the damn thing. She moisturizes it folks. She moisturizes her rig."

"Damn right I do! You tell me a machine that pretty doesn't deserve it! And hey when's my go?"

"Oh by all means take the floor."

"The bear drives an Atlas P2. Now, some of you out there are thinkin' 'thats it? My dad has an AP2' Well you ever wonder why your dad has an AP2? There's a good reason for it."

"It is not a Dad Rig."

"Bearie, it's a Dad Rig. Just embrace it. Listen, three words. Ease of modification. There is not a single part in the AP2 that ain't cheap, available, and standard. It is the canvas upon which my lovely gearheaded obsessive of a co-host will paint."

"You're makin me sound like a weirdo!"

"Bearie I haven't even started."

"Now listen here!-"

"Nope! My turn! Listen, Bear here likes to futz. She would call it optimizing, or tinkering. But I call it futzing. I think she's tuned up every last damn nut and bolt in this thing. The AP2 is a general purpose work rig. But I think I could do brain surgery in this Rig."

"Well maybe not brain surgery.-"

"Will you shut up!" [The microphone picks up a playful batting noise.] It's a gorgeous piece of engineering. Brilliant! But you know what color she painted it?"

"Oh come on-"

"Grey! She painted the damn thing grey! Her co-host is a lifelong expert on bodywork detailing, and this bitch paints her rig grey!"

"Alright alright settle down! That's gonna do it for this episode of screw loose!"

[ninihousebears3000]

HR Department! reader X Alucard

A goodnight kiss.

Pulling an all-nighter causes you to hear strange things.

CW: No warnings!

It's quite late.

You had to agree with the voice in your head. Pulling overtime was necessary considering how your workload suddenly increased. Now you're bookkeeper another responsibility on your plate. Computerizing this ancient system that the organization was barely running on was your mission. But efficiency is your reputation and you wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that things were left in limbo.

Rest, work will be here tomorrow but you won't be here much longer if you keep going on like this.

Morbid but true. Maybe some coffee will give you clarity? After all your computer screen began looking less and less clear. You were certain it was working just fine a moment ago. Standing up you grab your favorite mug off your desk heading to your in-office coffee machine. Walter had refused to use k-cups opting to brew a fresh pot for you every day. But he would cut you off after two cups so for your third and fourth cups you used your K-cups from home.

You placed your mug on the machine instinctively reaching for the box of k-cups. Only to be met with empty space. "What the hell?" You had a full box where did it go? Checking in the cabinets, your bag, and drawers, not a single K-cup could be found. Even your coat pocket didn't have an emergency K-cup. "Perhaps there's some upstairs?" Thinking aloud was your tendency nowadays since this was your own private office. Although, a few more employees and an assistant would be very helpful. Being the head of the human resources department doesn't mean much if you're the only employee.

You thought to yourself as you left your office walking through the basement.

"An office near civilization would be nice."

You retorted walking past the many cells in the dungeon. You know Seras' room is near here. "I wonder what she's up to?" You appreciate her company she seems chipper than most considering her situation. At times you can tell she just wants another person to talk to. It does pain you that she pops in at the busiest of times. It's only been a few weeks since the Police Girl ‘joined’. You did try advocating for her to have a change of uniform and to be at least called by her real name. Those were still ongoing battles.

Then there was Alucard. You're still trying to get a one-on-one meeting about his workplace misconduct. It's difficult to arrange anything with him he has no email! An audible groaning sigh escaped you.

Your thoughts kept you entertained as you finally made it to the kitchen. Normally, there would be servants and other staff members but the only remaining people here were the residents and the perimeter guards. Of course, the ones in the surveillance room which felt weird to think about them watching you right now.

Of course, there was no leftover coffee left so you were having to pull off your lazy slacks and brew some yourself.

Coffee at this hour? Your sleep will surely be ruined. The sun rises in only a few hours. How about lemon ginger tea?

You took your mug and started rinsing out the old coffee stains. Possibly something else for a change?

When you were filling up your mug with cold water to get the last of the stains out. You jolted the mug towards your face splashing your face with cold water. The sensation still shocked you but woke you up for certain.

"My voice is deep but why is my thought voice that deep?" Was delirium setting in? Or was someone truly talking to you? You can see why Sir Penwood said this place can be maddening. Instead of coffee or tea, you opted for ice-cold orange juice and a leftover banana nut muffin. The sugar should help until you find a stopping point. Plus the leftover wetness on your shirt can help keep you awake. Seems like you would be spending the night Walter gave you a ride since your car was practically living in the shop at this point.

Almost three in the morning the voice in your head was right about it being very late. By the time you returned, you finished the muffin and chugged the juice as soon as you sat down. Just one more paragraph to type and you can call it a night.

You've had worse nights from your undergrad years!

Cracking your knuckles your nimble fingers went back to work.

Sugar can't stop sleep deprivation.

There it was again! You can ignore it! Fight on you're the head of the human resources department!

What's the harm?

Just close your eyes for a few minutes.

You never noticed how soothing the baritone voice was until now. An eye break couldn't hurt, right?

That's right little human. Just close those pretty eyes.

The computer screen was looking warped in ways you've never seen a screen do before. Your lids were heavier and you were leaning on your arms at this point.

"But I am not finished yet." Trying to fight this heavy exhaustion was increasingly difficult. Before you knew it your head was using your arms as a pillow and the desk was a bed.

Everything will be fine little human.

"I am six feet." Your eyes closed for the final time. The heat from the cardigan now placed on your shoulders reminded you of the blanket on your soft bed.

Shh, sleep little human.

Wait, your cardigan was on the back of your chair!

Now be a good little human and stay asleep.

Hot breath grazed your exposed neck along with a hissing noise. You reached for the pistol underneath your desk and fired a shot at the source of this strange body heat. To your surprise you found Hellsing's trump card sitting on the ground in the corner of your office. Thankfully, Walter gave you a pistol strangely you asked for a silencer.

"ALUCARD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY WORKPLACE MISCONDUCT VIOLATIONS YOU STACKED UP!" Panting and filled with rage you kept your gun aimed at him.

"You know those blessed bullets do hurt." He was bleeding out of his left shoulder. Despite that, his face held an awful grin.

"YOU WERE TRYING TO DRINK MY BLOOD! AND YOU HAVE BEEN IN MY HEAD!" You never thought your first meeting with Alucard was going to be him nearly drinking your blood.

"Shh, you're louder than Police Girl." His nonchalant attitude was getting on your nerves. "Consider it a goodnight kiss little human." Alucard stood to his full height seeing how he still regarded you as little.

"We need to address some misconduct violations." Was this going to be your only chance to talk to him?

"I don't think your department applies to me." He began to walk past you. "Now if you'll excuse me the sun will be rising soon." But your reflexes were being kind to you. Opening your drawer you pulled out a thick binder and flipped to the middle of it pointing at a document.

"You and Seras Victoria fall into this category of employee." He leaned down to read it. His crimson eyes bounced up to yours and then to the book again. "Did you just call me a police dog?" A hint of irritation was in his tone.

"Therefore you must follow the same guidelines as every employee here." You were the head of the human resources department you weren't going to let this misconduct run rampant anymore!

"Please have a seat Alucard." Alucard narrowed his eyes at you and then smirked. "Alright then HR." He smirked while sitting down crossing his legs in the seat in front of your desk. While you grabbed your chair that was pushed across the room after his initial introduction.

You weren’t expecting him to give in judging from what Seras and Walter had told you. But you can’t rest knowing you had the chance.

"Now shall we begin with boundaries."

[stupidlittlespirit]

THOUGHTS ON PANTY SNATCHER FORD [holds out mic]

yes.

but not 'intentionally'.

*puts on lab coat and taps clipboard*

I think purposefully stealing underwear is a Stan thing, but that Ford would accidentally seize the opportunity if it arose. (for some reason I think of both of them when I think of this one specific behaviour, idk why)

Ford considers himself to be above things like that. He tells himself he isn't weak of the flesh or however he wants to phrase it, and he wouldn't be caught dead engaging in something so perverted.... Except.....

I'm going to set this in the MTB au to illustrate what I mean.

Remember what I mentioned in Spores that Reader will take care of the house when Stan and Ford are away at sea? Well, perhaps they stay over for a night or two (normal, allowed, they're just keeping an eye on things) and they do some of their laundry there. Let's say they accidentally, carelessly, leave a pair of their underwear in the laundry room and don't even notice it.

So they go about their day-to-day none the wiser (it's just one pair, they're probably not gonna notice) and leave etc.

And eventually, Ford and Stan return home.

Ford goes to wash some of their clothes from the trip and uh oh! accidentally discovers Reader's underwear in the drum of the washing machine.

He's embarrassed, of course, and is initially like 'oh no, I'll have to expertly craft some kind of scenario where I can get these back into Reader's possession without them noticing'. And he means that, he really will try and return them to Reader, but then he holds them and feels them and studies them for maybe a little longer than he needs to..... He imagines things and then berates himself for doing so, and just as he's about to force himself to tuck them away somewhere and carry on with his task, Stan is shouldering his way into the laundry room to ask Ford something unrelated.

Panicking, Ford then pockets the underwear because he doesn't want his brother to see them and accuse him of something unsavoury or be gross himself about it.

They talk about whatever and Ford forgets all about it.... Until, that is, later that night.

Ford is locked away in his bedroom, undressing for the night, and as he takes off his jeans, the pair of underwear falls from the pocket of them and onto the floor.

He abruptly remembers and snatches them up, putting them on his nightstand and telling himself he'll return them first thing; he'll call by Reader's house or have them over for a 'welcome back' dinner or something and find an opportunity to slip them into their bag or whatever.

But once he's in bed, he just finds his eye drawn back to them time and time again. He can't help himself. He can't keep his mind off of them. It's driving him nuts.

So he gives in a bit. It's just curiosity, right? If he allows himself to look them over fully then it'll be sated and he can just forget it and move on. Except. Now that he's got them in his hands again....

Now he's wondering what they look like when they're on Reader.... Do the bands dig into the soft parts of Reader's hips? Do they ride up when they wear them? Whilst he's been at sea, have they wandered around the house in just these?

Have they gotten themselves off whilst wearing them?

And fuck fuck fuck, now he's hard. Great.

Cue twenty minutes of him arguing back and forth in his head about how this is wrong and weird, and he's not some creep or low life like his brother (affectionate), he's not going to jerk off over his housekeeper's underwear! Gross!

Unless....?

It's not like anyone will find out if he did, is it? He has plausible deniability ("no, I haven't seen any of your things laying around the house, I've been at sea for three months, why do you ask?") and it's unlikely Reader will come straight out and say they left their underwear here, so he's probably not going to be questioned on it.

So without even really being conscious about it, he sneaks a hand under the band of his briefs and leisurely, he starts to touch himself with them. He starts slow because he's still not sure if he wants to back out of it, but after a few minutes, he realises it feels too good to stop.

I mean, if he's been at sea with his brother for months, with no time to himself and no opportunity for privacy, he's probably fairly pent up and looking for release of some kind. Who can blame him if his thinking is a bit illogical, right?

The next thing he knows, he's ruining them completely and cumming so hard that he has to bite his pillow to keep himself quiet.

And the guilt eats him up afterwards, of course. He knows it's wrong and he can't believe he's done it, he feels terrible about it. He scrambles to clean up the evidence and dispose of any traces of his 'crimes', and he knows he'll need to deal with the underwear itself, too.

But he can't quite bring himself to get rid of them, either. After all, it's not like he can return them to Reader, even if he launders them, so his only option really is to throw them out.

Still, that seems like such a waste, doesn't it? They're perfectly good (once they're clean) and surely Stan would see them in the trash anyway.... So maybe he'll just have to keep them safe in the bottom of his dresser drawer....Maybe he'll have to make sure no real perverts get their hands on them if they go rifling through the garbage.... Really, he's doing this to protect Reader, you see. It's all for the greater good.

Little weirdo. I love him.

[teaboot]

How many things that they got at the hardware store can you name

soda machine, gum, yard nicknacks, snacks at the counter, lighters, keychains, key blanks, air conditioners, aluminum sheeting, awls, dremmel heads, dremmel, sander, sandpaper, metal polish, shammies , hammer, screwdriver, leather wipes, car wax, wood polish, wood wax, wood, copper, pipes, linoleum, paint, primer, sealant, caulk, caulking gun, drywall, spackle, brushes, nuts, bolts, screws, washers, nails, staples, staple guns, carpet tacks, eye hooks, locks, knobs, doorknobs, hinges, baseboard, seeds, sheeting, shovel, spade, rake, gloves, goggles, coveralls, coats, reflective vests, headlights, butane, propane, nozzles, hoses, rubber tubing, shower heads, faucets, light switches, outlets, wire, lightbulbs, wire stripper, pliers, electrical tape, soldier, soldiering iron, weed whacker, paracord, rope, stakes, bags, bug spray, chip board, saw, knives, wall screws

[bullet-prooflove]

Good People: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @lostinwonderland314 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219

Takes place after:

The Farm - Carmy recalls the day you met.

Prequel to:

Pears - It starts when Carmy makes an order he doesn't remember.

Mornings - Carmy sleeps better with you around.

Bubble - You have no idea that you saved Carmy's life.

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW) - Carmy tells you he lvoes you for the first time.

Everyone knows that Carmy has a thing for the farm girl. It’s the way his attention shifts when your name is mentioned, the fact it’s him that signs for the orders and no one else. They watch as he asks about your day and raise their eyebrows when he stands there and actually listens.

“You may as well be giving her fuck me eyes.” Richie says as he tries to wrestle The Beef t-shirt onto an inflatable hotdog in Jimmy’s backyard.

The two of them are setting up for that ridiculous kid’s party, hoping to knock a couple of grand off the debt Mikey owed him.

“I don’t have fuck me eyes.” Carmy mutters, focusing on slicing the oranges for the homemade Ectoplasm he’s made because Unc’s kid is nuts about Ghostbusters.

“Oh you do. You fucking do.” Richie argues as he pulls out the duct tape. “It’s probably the reason we’re getting such a discount, she likes the way you shake that pasty white ass underneath that little apron of yours.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” He snaps at Richie, launching a piece of fruit at the back of  Richie’s head. It smacks him right on the dome and the other man turns to face him furious.

“What the fuck is with you?” Richie retorts, throwing it back. “Last month you got the shit kicked out of you by a guy dressed like a carrot, now you’re whoring yourself out for cucumbers. You’ve got issues man, big ones.”

Carmen really has nothing to say to that because honestly if he had to whore himself out to keep this business going, he probably fucking would. That’s exactly where his self-respect is right now, rock fucking bottom. It’s the reason he’s out here in the fucking suburbs slinging gourmet hot dogs for little monsters have no fucking clue how the real world works.

“I hate you.” He tells Richie as he throws himself back into his work the same way he always does. “I fucking hate you.”

It’s an hour later that Richie does the uncharacteristic thing and apologizes. Carmy thinks it’s probably got something to do with the Xanex he took about an hour ago.

“I shouldn’t have said that about Alice.” Richie says, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “She’s good people.”  

“Yea she is.” Carmy responds as he starts to make up another hotdog. “She’s helping us out in a bind because she’s a good person. It’s got nothing to do with my ass.”

Richie tilts his head from side to side as he pulls the bottle of Xanax out of his coat pocket and spills another tablet into his palm.

“It’s a little to do with your ass.” Richie tells him as he takes the pill, washing it down with a cup of Ecto.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carmy asks as he puts the finishing touches on his masterpiece.

“It means for some fucked up reason she likes you.” Richie responds, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know why, you’re basically a fucking mop with eyes but she does and you should really do something about that.”

“Like what Richie?” Carmy retorts, turning to face him, his hands coming to rest on his hips. “I run a sandwich shop that’s failing so badly I had to pay for our meat order with change out the arcade machine thirty days ago, I’ve got jack shit to offer anyone right now.”

“I’m just saying you deserve to be happy.” Richie says as he leans back against the fold up table, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. “Mikey would have wanted you to be happy.”

Carmy doesn’t know what Mikey would have wanted because Mikey, he’s not here to tell him.

“That second Xanex just kicked in didn’t it?” Carmy remarks, changing the subject and Richie exhales, nodding his head.

“Oh yea, big time. I don’t feel a fucking thing.”

It’s on the way home, that Carmy starts to think about what Richie said, about you, about being happy.

Sitting in those fields at your farm on his days off, shooting the shit with you. It’s the closest thing to contentment he’s felt in years. If he was a better man, someone less mentally ill, he’d consider pursuing it but honestly he’s a fucking mess. He wouldn’t wish himself on any woman especially you.

“You’re punking out aren’t you?” Richie says from the passenger seat as he watches the world go by outside.

“No.” Carmy says, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “She just deserves better than an asshole like me.”

Love Carmy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[punk-in-docs]

‼️ LUST AT FIRST BITE: Part II ‼️

The Lost Boys AU, feat; Vamp Frances x Human Birdie

6k words

Summary: He’s tucked away where he usually is. Playing at the lie of life, watching on from the shadows, up on the roof of the tacky gift shop, puffing on a cigarette. A lone evil fiery eye cutting in the dark. Eyes scraping over every pretty person in this crowd, and seeing who, oh who, will be his dinner. Eeeny. Meenie. Miney. You-

(The awesome blood drip banner is not mine I found it on @riottsrph page. Thank you!)

Part I - Part II -

Your calls go unreturned. Messages you leave go right to his peppy answering machine.

You guilt yourself into silence for three days after leaving two messages on his machine, subsequently downing two glasses of red wine right after, to drown out your nagging neurosis. Maybe regret. You can’t be sure yet.

Eventually after four more angst-filled-nail-biting-days of no calls and still no show, you find yourself pacing up to the door of his neat little complex on chestnut street.

You remembered the address. 92 Chestnut Street. He’d offered to cook on your second date.

Recalled fondly that he made terrible baked ziti with too much salt, and you’d both joked about it. He bought fancy ice cream for dessert. Said with an air of bambi like bashfulness and lowering those long as sin lashes - that he’d wanted to impress you.

The flowers he’d had on the table in his enamel coffee mug, were poached from his neighbours garden.

You take a different bus and walk to his place after work. It’s a far nicer neighbourhood than your old place. That’s for certain.

The building is mushroom beige with white windows. All wood panelled. There’s a flag gently loping in the wind on the front lawn that’s lined with huge leafy trees. Theres a friendly Collie in the garden to the right who jumps up at the picket fence, tail wagging for head scritches. Tongue lolling. Silky coat and he keeps nudging your hand with his head for more.

In the garden of the house to the left, a plump middle-aged neighbour in a floppy sun hat, a yellow shirt and elastic waist-band jeans, is tending big fat pink flowers spilling over in their window boxes. Their sugary scent clouds the air in this small square garden.

Your heart clatters right down and shatters at your work shoes, when you see the mountain of flyers and envelopes left on his doormat. Heaped in their many.

You swallow down your throat which suddenly feels wool-thick. Approach the door anyway, and knock.

Maybe he’s out of town.

He did say he had parents. Divorced. But his mom lived out in Monta Loma.

You knock again, louder. Just in case. Nothing. Not even a twitch of the window blind slats.

In the end you left a note shoved in the mail slot. One of many with all the rest. Lost amongst paper.

“He ain’t in there honey.” Comes a monotone drawl from behind you. The plump neighbour tending her hot pink Lobelias. Her short nut-brown bob of hair swaying around her face.

You turn around and see her trimming dead heads with secateurs. Snip. Snip. Snip. Accompanied the woe in her words.

A soft little “Oh.” Comes out your mouth.

“No ones been home a while. Haven’t seen or heard a peep from the dear boy for almost a week now.” She says. Looking at you with an expression that spoke of fondness and curiosity as to who you where to be knocking on his door.

“We had a date the other night. I was just checking up. I hadn’t heard from him.” Your voice sounded frail. Even to your ears. Your hands nervously shifting on the strap of your purse over your shoulder.

The way you spoke - you could hear the tremulous nature seeping out in worry. Buoyant hope picking across wafer thin ice starting to see spiderweb cracks form.

You’re not feeding the biggest, most nervous fear that’s stuck in the lining of your head.

Maybe he just didn’t want to see you anymore. Taking the cowards way out.

“He’s a good egg that one. As nice a guy as you’d meet.” She says with a downturned joviality in her words.

You feel the hot nasty tickle of tears at the back of your throat. Spearing the back of your eyes. When you speak it sounds swamped - sticky like cobwebs and all caught in grief.

“Yeah. He is.” You agree glumly. You can’t say was yet. It’s too sad. Too much.

“Could you tell him to call me if he turns up. Just….” You swallow. Words elude you. The right ones anyway. They dissolve on your tongue.

“…Wanna know he’s alright…” You awkwardly shrug, stumble through your words.

She nods. It feels tragic. “Sure thing, honey.” Hands on her hips. Smell of sickly petals swilling around your back as you go.

You turn and walk away back down the neat picket fence path. The collie dog whines, tilts its head as you shut the gate. The sun burns on your back as you leave.

This nice place and this nice guy wasn’t meant for you.

Sweat gathers between your shoulder blades, enough for you to shed your work blazer and slump miserably against the bus stop. Another failure of a date chasing at your heels. Just when you thought hope had started to stick.

You go home to your small apartment, watch terrible tv, drink almost a whole bottle of wine, and talk to Sid. Your dying house plant.

You draw a bath. Tongue fuzzy from the wine. Limbs hazy. A few tears come, you can’t help it. You cry and mourn until your face stings with salt.

You go to bed, yet again, alone, with puffy eyes and a sore heart and a pounding head already. Wondering when your crappy luck will fucking change.

~

You cross into the Sunshine Villa lot from the street, the smell of summer and freshly mowed lawn ploughing you in the face. The gardeners milling around the clipped lawns Some old folk milling around on walkers or on their electric scooter carts. A few of them who know you coo out hello’s or just passing the time of day.

A bag of cold groceries is rustling in your arms. Stuff you often fetched for your great Aunt. She has a specific list.

Iced tea, fudge Boppers, hot pockets and Jell-O pudding pops. She survived on very little else. You don’t know how she manages to find such perpetual energy from junk food. But she seems to thrive on it. That and several of her home made tonics.

Always concocting strange tea with herbs from her wildly overgrown postage stamp sized garden. Recipes she’d claim were from the old country back home. Everything about her was a riot. Her apartment and garden both cluttered and calamitous. Garden stuffed with ornaments and clanging wind chimes. Borders overrun with strange weeds and plants you’ll never know the names of. She was always cooing, plucking at them and nurturing new things.

A fairly dodgy scheme when she was almost entirely blind. You’ve learned to refuse whatever home made tonic or remedy she pushes on you. The cure was usually worse than the affliction.

Her tiny boxy apartment was residually dotted with stray cats that seem to have adopted her, rather than the other way around. Her flowery pink pinstripe wallpaper is sun bleached and old, full of embroidery hoops, cross stitches, wooden and gold crosses.

So many Orthodox bible passages in her native Bulgarian, it almost felt like the sainted walls of a church staring back at you. Eyes arching over you in milky disappointment. Somewhere some saint casts doomed judgement on you, you’re sure. Though she never does.

Mahogany cabinets full of figurines and keepsakes and old faded photographs. Dried flower prints in frames that she’s collected. Mad houseplants growing out of control in every corner and on every windowsill. And then there’s her hobby of forever crocheting you doilies or scarves, or things that you accept without knowing what the hell they are - or what their intended use is.

You’re sure to always ring the doorbell. Announcing yourself, so she can hear you coming. Still makes it feel like her house rather than a living assisted home. You know how much she hates being barged in on. Interrupted, like her own space isn’t even hers.

You come in and wipe your feet on the doormat with a blessing scuffed on it. You call out to her.

“Only me.” You announce as you scoop up some of her post and bring it to hand. Walking down the hallway. Stepping over a black cat and a tabby. Putting her shopping on the kitchen counter. She likes to put it away so she knows where it all goes.

You can hear her folksy racket from the door. Some blaring chalga through her tinny radio speakers. When you get to her she’s feeling her away around a chopping board. Open tins and chopped diced little piles of vegetables scattered around. A huge steaming pot on her tiny stovetop. A sign she’s making another one of her concoctions.

“Ah skŭpa.” She greets you warmly. Dropping the small knife she held and turning and shuffling away from her gallon pot. Nobbled gnarled hands feeling for you where you stood.

She kisses you on the cheek. She always smells like powdery violets and hairspray. Hair it’s usual, white and coiled on her head in a set perm she has touched up every week without fail. Crack a hammer across those curls and they wouldn’t break.

She always wore a gold chain with a cross - so thin it was near translucent - winking in the light on her neck. It was a strange sight really next to her velour tracksuits and Velcro orthopaedic slippers she always has her feet stuffed into.

Your necklace was matching in silver. She bought it for you. It stayed forever linked on your neck. Your talisman. Your link to the one family member you have left, the one who gave a damn.

“Hey Baba.” You answer. Hugging her back gently. Bones frail as a baby bird under her powdery soft skin. Letting her fuss over you as she always does. She strokes your hair and pats your cheek.

“How are you, mila moya?” She seeks. “You sound glum today, No?” She frowns. All deep wrinkles round her eyes and cheeks. Skin so sagged with age and worry.

“I’m alright.” You try to perk up your words but she tears right through you. Making a sour face in your general direction. You sense it even through her dark glasses.

“I know I look young, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Spill. Now.” She orders crossly in a bark. Before tottering back over to feel for the counter and stir her pot. Grabs a ridiculously large chopping knife and continues dicing. The snip of her blade hitting the board over and over. The tied pink bow of her apron at her back wiggles as she moves.

You get told to sit down. Offered tea - an offer which you decline. There’s a fresh mason jar with picked greenery near her teakettle. No was always the safest option.

You go past the small pony wall that separates the kitchen from the dining table.

Sweeping a white cat, Penka, off a purple fabric chair, settling into your lap and probably getting all kinds of fur all over you. You sag against the cushion. Scratch Penka’s ears as she purrs and butts her little head to your hand.

“What is wrong?” She prods.

“It’s nothing. Just another crappy date. Someone I really liked.”

Another one bites the dust. Go fucking figure.

“With the pizza man?” She asks. Opening a can of beans as she shuffles around for the spices.

“Yeah. Him.” You sigh. Not a lot of other contenders were knocking down your door. Sadly. Penka nudges you for more pats. Or else.

“Well if he made you sad, then he’s not worth time or energy. So hard to be a woman when all men act like wolves on full moon.” She gestures wildly with her wooden spoon. Speaking to you. But facing the stove.

“He was… nice.” You admit. Your voice fading into glumness when you admit to it. Penka slinks off your lap to the floor. Even feline abandonment is the level you’ve sunk too.

“American men… they have such cheap respect…” She growls. Ready to launch into her arguments against him.

“In my old country….” She starts. How many of her stories start…

“Oh god no.” You sigh. She’s about to launch into a lecture. There’s no stopping her.

“….men are taught what is proper. Taught how to really sweep a lady off her feet. Not this lazy excuse they call dating. Maybe we need to find you a nice suitable Bulgarian man?” She seeks.

“I’ll phone my cousin - she has sons your age, you know. One of them owns a deli in Seabright. I think he still has his own hair.” She tries to recall.

“No.” You sigh. “Thank you, but please no.”

If you have to go on another date with one of her numerous cousins, or brothers sons, or distant nephew twice removed, you’d rather accept that tea and take your chances it was an accidentally lethal homemade poison.

“Nick was charming. I thought we clicked…we were getting along so well and then, he kinda stood me up. It’s just- confusing. Is all.”

“Again with my Cousins son, Yoan“ She pipes up.

“Really. Baba. I don’t want a date with your cousin’s son. Once was enough. You set me up with your cousin’s brother’s son and it was awful.” You lamented.

“And?” She barked.

“He smelled like beetroot, had three gold teeth, and sold snow shovels.”

“Stop your whining. They are very useful.” She wags a wise finger in your direction.

“Not in Santa Carla they’re not.” You sass.

“You’re too picky.” She scrunches her face up and waves at you. Light hearted.

The knife clatters suddenly as she sets it down. “Eh. Now where is my shopping?” She calls.

You smile. Shaking your head. “Countertop.”

“Hmmm. Ok. You’re forgiven.” She smiles as she rattles the bag and feels its contents. The shiny boxes of boppers and the cold cans of iced tea. She shoos a cat away from the countertop. Who’d hopped up to sniff at the grocery bag.

“You want something to eat? I’m making Bob Chorba? Good for strong women who’ve had bad dates, and need feeding up.” She offers sweetly.

Funny that.

“Sure.” You smile.

Hot bean soup. Not much she could do to that. You didn’t fancy eating alone tonight. You needed the company. She liked having you over too.

You sidle on into the kitchen to wash your hands, then fetch the placemats and set the table. She swatted at you with a dish cloth when you got in her way. Moaned about strangers in her kitchen. But it made you smile - you’d needed that.

However bad your dating life got. ‘Pits of Tartarus’ sub-zero levels of bad. It couldn’t sink much lower than her cousins son, Yoan.

A good reason to be hopeful perhaps-

⁃

Home was never a grand word to you. Something that didn’t easily come water-logged down with heavy meaning.

Home, to you, had always been followed by two trite words. For now.

It’s home for now.

Nestled in a part of town that was by no means grand. An old throwback. Your apartment building had once been a motor court hotel. The large U shaped parking lot bracketed on all sides by the old building.

It had once conjured up ideals of future and progress. Innovation. Back in the fifties. Now, it was a heaping, sagging place filled with crummy apartments, full with faded inhabitants and faded paint.

Neon sign on the entrance to the lot was perpetually on the blink. Had been since you moved in. A big hot pink arrow that twitched and promised rooms. Sunnydale Court Motel. With its charm of broken windows. Rusting railings and crabby neighbours on all sides. Punctuated with the noise of traffic from the street and drenched in eternal misery.

This place wasn’t ideal. But hopefully it wasn’t going to be forever.

This place was a necessity after a messy breakup with your ex, who decided for himself that you were a meagre 5 in a popping party city full of 9’s, and dumped you over $3 tacos. And left you to foot the bill.

Since then you wanted anywhere available, instantly, to get away from your shared apartment. It was cheap. But it would do.

A couple of months more and maybe you’ll have saved enough to move closer to the boardwalk. Some charming little sunny place you can make pretty, and cluttered all your own. Your own curtains. Less locks on the door. Wild art on the walls, earthy colours and living plants and wacky vases and plush rugs. Until then; this was your lot.

You walk across the larking lot. Seeing your neighbours pit bull - ironically named sweetie, because she was one - napping on her blanket folded to the curb as her owner enjoyed a cigarette.

Your neighbour, Ron, he was a stoner, woolly headed and harmless. Liked sitting out on his porch to smoke or drink in a cracked white plastic chair. Usually with a dwindling six pack or a slim Jim to hand. He was a real beach hippy. Always wore bandanas and cut off denim shorts.

Sweetie wags her tail when she sees you coming. Creaking up from her nap and expecting pats. You lean down and gladly oblige.

“Hey 8B.” Ron drawled through a silvery cloud mouthful of exhale. “How’s that date?”

You scratch sweetie under her skin. “Next question.” You answer glumly. Before adjusting your purse on your shoulder and making for the stairs. Ron never really talked for long. Chatting was more his thing.

“Uh oh.” He remarks. Dry wit as ever.

“My thoughts exactly.” You remark. As you make for the stairs.

You slump miserably up them as you fish in your purse for your keys. Unlocking the tatty old door. Kicking the bottom with your scuffed heels to get it to open.

You lock it after you. Put the chain on. And the bolt. The door was shoddy and someone across way had been burgled last week. Stereo and TV stolen. Better safe than sorry.

You flip your lights on in the kitchen. Grab a glass from the side and drink cold water standing at the sink til your belly feels full. Cool sliding down your throat.

You kick off your heels en-route to the bedroom. Feet squishing into the thick carpet. You brush your teeth. Eyes feeling bleary as you undress for bed. Work clothes hastily shoved in a hamper to wrinkle. Tomorrows problem.

You draw your curtains across, thick cheap and scratchy and not your taste, but they block light well from your windows. Which you made sure were locked.

Yawning as you smeared on face cream. Climbing into your bed with all the lights shut off. You say goodnight to Sid. Your houseplant. Who remained limp but standing sentry on a cardboard box you’d been meaning to unpack. Also tomorrow’s problem.

Where you’re situated on the end of the building the light creeps through early morning. Blazing golden sun across your bed every coppery Santa Carla morning. The fire escape winding to the ground floor slinks along outside your windows.

You fold yourself under cool sheets. Marshmallow pink silk nightie clasping your body as you settle. You twist on your side, eyeing the glowing red of your alarm clock numbers. Zero’s blinking, lining up, in digital bloody red.

You sigh. Shifting to hug a pillow to your chest. Closing your eyes and letting sleep veil your conscience. You run through things; you try not to dwell on pretty pizza boys and heartbreak. You turn to dry errands, grocery lists, work related items that are nagging in your mind until the exhaustion blankets you -

And then it doesn’t.

A cool pass of a shadow stripes across your window, when the numbers on your clock blaze crimson into 3am.

A shadow with golden eyes.

Were you cognisant, you’d have heard the gentle plunk of bikers boots picking along the metal fire escape. Closer and closer, prowling to your window. Creeping along the brick. Distorted figure that jangles with chains and buckles.

The panthers tread is on the stairs. Coming up and up the stairs.

A hunter. Alive with electric danger and the reek of engine exhaust, cotton candy, and old blood.

Fingerless gloved hands make a claw on your windowpane. Nails on squeaky glass. Teeth clenching squeaks. Fingers tap one by one in a rhythmic motion. Drumming.

“Let me in, little bird.”

A snide whisper from a smirking mouth. Fingers tapping. He’s speaking in a whisper but to your ears it may aswell be a roar of the ocean waves. Drowning and loud. Words crushed with honey and sugared with all things bad- feeding directly into your head.

“Come on baby. Let me in.”

He urges. Voice drawling, nearly whining as if in pleasure. Irresistible, falling on your ears like melted chocolate.

You twist and writhe in your sleep. Face rubbing into the pillow. A small whine slithering out your mouth. Brows crease. You’re fighting it. That’s not what he wants.

He can’t come in unless you ask him too.

He’s invading your head like toxic smoke, clouding, obscure. Making you foggy. Limbs leaden. Seeping like spilled poison into every synapse that pops and fires in your head. Replacing your wants with his own.

“Say it for me baby.”

“I’ll treat you so good.”

“You just gotta let me in. That’s all.”

“Three little words…”

You mumble again. “N-no.” As you twitch and kick at the sheets.

Sweat beading at the back of your neck, down your brow. Glistening on your sternum. That valley he wants to drag his tongue right down.

Bite his teeth over the thoracic space of your pumping heart to take its beat. Taste flesh and sweat. Be rewarded with the terrific copper punch of your blood. Smirk around a bite as you scream and arch your back. Push your blood smeared tits into his face. The mere thought makes his eyes roll back in ecstasy.

He can scent you from where he stands. Fingernails growing to sharp claws on the glass. The taps grow more sinister. Demanding. Scraping. It’s nails on chalkboard adjacent that makes your teeth itch in revulsion.

His eyes flip into neon yellow and heartthrob red. Twin fangs drip from his lips like ivory stalactites. Shining knives in the dark. Gleaming pearl of bone.

“Open up for me, Little bird…” He calls in a dreamy song like way. Voice luring like a siren.

You gasp in your sleep. You can’t see him. You can barely move. Barely able to thrash in your bed like you’d been bound tight and wedged down with rope. You squirm again. Neck glistening as your head is thrown back. Deep into the pillow. Throat straining. Pulse thundering.

He floods your mind. Indecent wants makes your veins throb. You’re trying harder to find your answer. You keep being steered toward one conclusion; he shutters any other illusion of choice from your mind.

“Let me in…. Do it…. Invite me in.”

Your words are dragged through a whisper. All breath and whine. You succumb helplessly; thrall entwines your mercury heavy limbs. Wrapped close and stuck to you like parasitic vines. Something that cannot be eradicated. Something that leeches, grips on.

He’s bewitched you fully. Placed his own words on your tongue, let them fall out, soft and airy like feathers, eager to hear them parroted back.

Your mouth forms the words before you can even register your lips moving. Frowning. Throat crackling from sleep. It’s a breathy whisper but it’s enough.

“Come in.”

His grin is lethal. A wolf scenting an ewe.

The window latch lifts, lock slid back, as if guided by a hand unseen. The shrill whine of the window as it swings back to whack against your curtain, that bubbled with bubblegum pink light against the thick cloth. Flickering neon washes inside like a dragon tongue from the parking lot.

Your drapes flutter on the warm night breeze, muggy scent of hot asphalt drifting in alongside him, as his shadow slips diagonal down your carpet and across your bed like dark tidal waters. Like the salt and that iodine citrus cling of sea that lives in his hair and clothes.

His eyes glow - acid hot - in the cloaking of your dark room as he prowls to your bed. Eases himself onto it. Noiseless. Hands climb for you. Pressed either side into the mattress. His necklaces dangle over you. Cold beads and leather and buckles from his jacket and belt. He’s all edges. Mean metal, sharp zippers, things with teeth.

A subtle creak of slats on the bed as he presses you down. But you don’t wake. You’re captured.

Your skin chills and prickles with cold. A spine crawling chill races through you as he raises a hand, curls his fingers towards your body so he can paw at your blankets. He takes them away. Falling to the floor with the fluidity of a serpent.

“Awh.” He tilts his head.

“There you are, baby.” He murmurs. More to himself than to you. Hungry lips wet. Need bunching up to swell in the pit of his stomach.

You twist your head away. Thrashing in your delirious dream.

He shushes you. Low and slow. Savouring the moment. Strokes his thumb down all those delicious cords, muscles and lovely warm pulses in your neck. Thumb nail threatening to pierce skin. Only just.

He dips his thumb into the neckline of your lacy nightie. Tugs it down to reveal the swell of your breasts. Just a hair shy of exposing your nipples. His eyes burned hotter. Redder.

“It’s alright pretty thing. I’m here now.” He soothed. “Sorry to keep you waitin.”

He’s losing his mind the way you’re splayed out for him. Tender fleshed prey caught in a snare. Pathetic scrap of a silk nightie barely covered your pebbled nipples. Skin all swept in goose pimples.

He chuckles darkly - a sound like gravel sluiced through communion wine, when he sees the dainty shimmer of something snaked around your neck. Dipping into the divot at the base of your throat.

A silver necklace with a little crucifix. In the gloom, it glimmers like a lone fish scale.

“Crosses don’t work on me, gorgeous. I’m too old for that shit.” He sneers.

One of his necklaces clacks around his neck where he leans. Metal and beads and chains rattling together. One of them is a set of rosary beads. Gilded with huge gothic thorns arced and weaving, adorning a chunky cross.

Wicked. He thought.

The word he’s heard screamed about him all his life. He plucked that word up. Pinned it on his chest like a badge. He dresses himself up in the curse of it.

An odd dyad symmetry for you both. His pious piss-take of wearing prayer beads, finding a twin in your safe little virtue of wearing a cross necklace.

He’d stolen his from some bible bashing freak back in the 1860’s. The one who’d shaken gods book at him and blasphemed him to hell and back. Scared words off a shivering fearful tongue as he cowered in the corner, the naked animalistic stench of terror and wide shining eyes, making Frances salivate all the more as he prowled closer.

Ironic. Didn’t make any difference. Didn’t save him. That bible lay matted together with gore by the time Frances was through with him. Holy words steeped in blood. He ripped the beads from blood flecked cold hands.

He turns his mind back to prettier things. To you. Thighs bared and spread on this cheap bed he’s definitely going to break one day. He can tell. He’s going to fuck you into this mattress til the slats splinter. Til the wall behind the headboard crumbles and cracks into spiderwebs. He’ll tongue fuck every hole til you’re sobbing.

You’re giving him a scant glimpse of your bush and glistening mound of your pussy hiding just beneath. The red light that slicks on your butter soft thighs, really looks like blood if he squints.

Turns him the fuck on. His lashes lower as he scans up and down.

That and the sweet sour spike of arousal blended with confusion in your blood. He can’t wait to savour the metal zing taste of it.

“And uh…” he grins. It could cut metal.

“Sorry about your little friend. But he was in my way… that’s not a good place to be.” He says like it should be a enough of a crime on its own. Like he was blameless for disposing of him.

Raking his long nails through your hair. Combing it out. Letting it settle across your pillow like splayed twisted roots. Moving it off your neck so he can whisper directly in your ear. Let the smell of your neck swim to his senses. Makes him high. Gets him hard.

Soap. Skin. A vague glimmer of sweat. Old perfume dried on your collarbones.

He moans. Dragging his nose down your throat. The taste of you and that neck had hounded him ever since he saw you on that boardwalk. The sea air whipping around you bringing your flavour to him - how could he resist?

“I won’t taste you there tonight, sweetness. I had another place in mind.” He informs you.

He slinks down your body with all the adroitness and grace of a snake. Hair brushing your belly. Curls made stiff and kinked with salt and the noxious stink of hairspray and engine smoke.

His fingers splay at your thighs. The creak of his leather gloves as he dips his fingers into them. Nose pressed deep to your bush. He inhales deeply. Scent of you flowing into his mouth. Wracking his spine. He’s drooling for you already like a horny mutt.

“I know what this pussy needs.” He chuckles. The sound is all sin. Draped in mocking and evil.

It needs me. You need me, Birdie.

He dips his tongue right into your cunt.

Messily lapping and slurping you up. Licking from the bottom of you right up to your clit. Before deciding to just slip his tongue into you to feel you tremble around him.

A succession of small moans and smacks of enjoyment from those plump lips. He had to watch his teeth didn’t prick your skin - the time for that is later.

You thrash like linen on a washing line snapping in a breeze. Tethered but resistant.

He’ll soon lap that disobedience right out of you. He’ll suck your damn brains out through your pussy til all your fight filters away.

You squirm under the press of his hands and under the slither of his tongue.

He dives right in. Circles your clit with his tongue. Captured the cradle of your hips in his hand. Ready to worship at the altar between these delicious soft thighs. Quivering for him already.

His body curls to the bed. Hard cock in his pants rubbing against your sheets already. Pussydrunk.

“Ohhhhh little bird.” He sighs. Half gone on delirium.

He’d snorted two lines before coming here. He closes his eyes. Drugged. Sighing in bliss.

He wants to chant your name til this fever breaks inside him. Birdie birdie birdie.

His tongue is drooling into your pussy. A long gelatinous string of it falls from his mouth to you. He pushes it around to indulge in your taste. He feels your wetness seep out. Wants to coat his face in it.

You were more potent than that angel dust he’d snorted off a filthy graffiti-scratched bathroom counter, in his favourite seedy strip club bar, not half an hour ago. Slammed down three tequilas. It’s all dull now.

You live brighter in his veins.

It was shards of glass living and shifting underneath his skin to see you flounce around with that useless pretty boy. Right under his nose. When his is the only tongue or cock you should be cumming and crying on. Only he could give you what you needed.

"So fucking tight, baby - bet that sweet little cunt will look so pretty stretched out on my tongue- be good and open up for me.”

He’s rabid. Feral. An animal between your legs. Feasting and sucking. Slurping. The edge of his teeth makes the pleasure turn darker, deeper. Savage.

“Now for my second feast…” He smiles up at you. Eager. Lips all slick. Tongue drunk off the flavour of your cunt. Drugs blowing his pupils wide. He slips lower. Focusing on the soft quivering meat of your thighs.

He’s peppering your legs with bites that will morph into bruises that take the shape of teeth by dawn. Lovely little purple vampire bites sprouting up all over your thighs. He’d see to it plant a fruitful crop.

You arch and thrash when he opens his jaw and bites cleanly into your thigh. Drool following his trail as he feeds. Slurping the taste of you down. Eyes rolling back. Hips thrusting his dick into your soft bed.

There’s the rattle of beads and buckles as he reaches his arm up and twirls his fingertips around your clit. Hearing the wet slick of your cunt - dripping all over this bed.

You moan and writhe under his hands. Pinned down as he suckled at your thigh. How cold thumb strumming patterns on your clit. Taking care not to cut you with his claws.

He grips your hips as he drank deeply. Slurping you down. The wet swilling sounds of your blood in his mouth filling the room. His tongue and fingers don’t stop their assault. He drinks. He feasts. He laps at your clit with bloodied tongue until you choke on moans. It delights him.

Sweat graces every inch of you. As he nudges you further into cumming. Taking his fill of you like some scavenger. The macabre slick white grin sluiced in red and your wetness as he grinned like the devil.

“Cum for me little bird.” Hissed a slithering whisper from his mouth. “Cum for me louder than you did with him.” He pants. Mouth full of copper and sweetness. Even though his words were sour.

There’s no escaping him. There’s no relief from the way your body arches and twists as you fall over that blissful edge. He sinks his tongue deep and gets high on the way you convulse and pulse around his tongue. His thumb never ceasing in your clit. Slicking you in blood as much as he is. He’ll paint you in it.

He drinks you down as much as he is able. Eyes heavy. Mind bewitched. Loving how he’s made you so tender and pliant.

“You’ll need me again. Baby. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll be aching and dripping for me. You won’t be able to resist. That’s what a thrall does.”

He dragged his bloodied fingers up your chest. Claws rasping silk. When he came to your sternum he stopped. Licking his lips as he hovered above you, like a predator. The taste of you, he’ll revel in for days.

“Sweet…little…bird.” He grins. Fresh blood drooling down his chin. Black-viscous.

With every word, he playfully walked his fingers up to your collarbones. He flicked the cross on your neck with his last word.

Your eyes shot open. You woke with a heart throbbing gasp.

You sat up in bed. Sweat cooling clammy all over you. Prickling at the back of your knees and your elbows. You pant like youv’e just run a four minute mile.

Your alarm clock is blaring loud. Daylight slices harsh at the tips of your curtains. Noise from the road signalling traffic. You peer around your room to see it still, lifeless. Stale as ever.

You feel off.

Like you’ve woken from a fever. Still basted in sweat and skin beating out heat. Something in you has changed. Or been changed. Your body has been turned inside out and put back in wrong. Nudged around and messed with. A strangers veins inhabit under your skin. Wrong.

Burning pains at your thighs take your attention downwards. You lift the covers off yourself and whimper, eyes tearful when you see the mess;

Bite and bruises litter your tender thighs. Bites marks so deep blood still rings them. Drying rusty with it.

Something wasn’t right.

~

tagging the usual babes

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @s-u-t @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @peachyproserpina @littlelioncub43 @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @heyndrix @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[sassy-radio-hazbin-queen]

Alastor and Charlie In Grinch scenes. ( He is definitely the Grinch and she is Cindy Lou)

Alastor in the mailroom switching the hell mail cause he can 😂

" This goes here, and this goes here".

Stands back and starts shooting the mail.

" and for everyone else. Jury duty. Bills. Jury duty. ( Can't remember the many times he said that 😂)

Meanwhile Charlie walks in and sees his mask and picks it up.

Alastor shadow sneezes ( don't ask how 😂)

Alastor " Gesundheit"

Charlie looks up and drops the mask in shock ( btw how the hell did Grinch stick to the wall 😂)

Alastor comes down.

Charlie " Your the the the".

Alastor " The the the THE RADIO DEMON"!.

Charlie screams and falls inside the machine I never knew what the heck it was. Alastor grimaces " Well that happened" goes to leave but his Shadow won't stop pulling him to save her. " Get off me you idiot my coat is not to be chewed on".

Meanwhile poor Charlie is about to be crushed. " Help please"

Alastor " Oh bleeding hearts of the underworld Unite" ( 😂) he pulls her out and grabs the mask.

" didn't anyone tell you not to takes things that don't belong to you. What are you some Of kind of animal"?!

Charlie shakes her head and Alastor starts to leave. " Thanks for saving me".

Alastor stops at the doorway" Saving you is that what you thought I was doing"?.

Charlie " Uh huh".

( love this 😂)

Alastor " Wrong-o"! I just noticed you weren't properly packaged my deer". Starts wrapping her up. " Can you put your finger there " ( 😂😂😂😂😂)

He leaves and slaps the mask back in his face " Ow".

Idk that scene always made me laugh.

Got a few more

_________________

Vox " Did I have a crush on Alastor"? He blushes " Well of course not".

Charlie " Uh I didn't ask you that"

Vox " Oh" 😂

______________

Charlie goes to the Radio Demon tower to invite him for the holiday who master thing?

Charlie " Mr. Alastor".

Alastor is for some reason letting a monkey hit his head with symbols.

Charlie " Mr. Alastor I need to speak with you".

Alastor stops and looks at her.

" How did you get here" ( not going to lie I don't remember the whole scene so I'm improvising ok)

Charlie " Your tower was unlocked".

Alastor looks at it " ah nuts ". He turns to Charlie. " You should get out while you still can I'm a dangerous beast".

He goes around doing idk what the Grinch was doing but it was hilarious 😂😂😂.

" I'm a psycho". Tears his shirt " Run for your life before I kill again".

Charlie just laughs. Alastor gets in her face and growls?

Charlie " I think you need a timeout".

Alastor moves up and looks at the camera. " Kids today, so desensitized by television" ( I don't think Jim was acting there btw he was spitting facts 😂)

" WHAT DO YOU WANT"!?

Charlie " I'm here to ask you to be holiday cheermeister".

Alastor " Holiday who now"?

That's it for that scene one more.

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

Alastor at the festival

Valentino " and now you get to say hello to the woman that helped you when you first arrived in this Hell".

Enter Susan ( Alastor would definitely say this)

Alastor " Are you still not exterminated"

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

-----

[princess-of-the-corner]

In regards to Miraculous Gaang animals:

-Sokka: I was thinking just Captain Beetle, especially since it sounds vaguely close to Captain Boomerang, which is an appropriate title for Sokka but also not because it's also the name of a DC villain who killed Tim Drake's dad (and it doesn't have ladybug theming). I definitely think use Captain though, because I am now attached to Sokka having Cap as a nickname.

-Katara: So there are actually several species of big cats that like and excel in the water. One of them is the jaguar, and black jaguars do exist. Jaguars also have lots of night and water symbolism associated with them. I'm not the best with names, but I think Midnight Jaguar, Black Jaguar, Painted Jaguar, or maybe Inky Jaguar could all work for her. (Also, look up fishing cats. They're useless for this au because they don't come in black, but they're a cross between otters and bobcats and they're insane).

-Suki: ML got it right here actually because very many species of vipers are blue or teal, so I'd stick with that. For some reason my brain is getting stuck on Viperious (instead of imperious), but some other half baked options could he Velvet Viper, Silk Viper, or Vypertime (instead of hypertime),

-Zuko: Seriyu is the blue dragon spirit of Japan that represents the east and springtime. Spring represents new beginnings which is fitting for Zuko, and could provide a fun connection/contrast with Iroh's whole Dragon of the West thing. Otherwise I got nothing.

-Toph: I like the Blind Tiger too much to come up with anything else, lol. My brain said "yup that's perfect the naming machine is now off for her." Sorry if you were hoping for more options.

-Azula: I think her blue flames are significant, so I think basing her off an arctic fox, a silver fox, a blue morph fox, or maybe even a cross fox. Actually, yeah screw it, cross fox Azula. Duality, being split between red and dark gray/blue coloring as she's conflicted with her loyalty to Ozai/the fire nation and her own unique individual wants and needs. Being part blue connects her to Blue Dragon!Zuko too. I'm thinking that her costume is similar to the one in the show but if it was more flowy and elegant and less armory and intimidating. So like, the layered panels thing she has going on can stay, but more thick cloth traveling layers and less rigid armor. Instead of the big leather flaps she has like a poncho or a shawl. She's already got the cross fox coloring motif of big black middle panel and red side panels, and we obviously have to add her skirt tunic being pulled back into a coat tail. Keep the loose pants and the pointed boots for the theatre vibes. I'm thinking her mask is sort of like a masquerade/theatrical fox mask that covers the whole top half of her face and has fox ears but leaves the bottom open. Names. . .uh? Yeah I'm bad with these. Vixen?

-Yue: Also nothing, so sorry.

-Jin: Homegirl appears in one episode, we can go hog wild with her (pun intended) and do whatever we want. I'm thinking basing her off a wild boar and not a farm pig. I want her whole "chipper jubilant" hero thing to be more "Feral joy that one gets from running through an open windy feild at night and screaming at the top of their lungs." I like the idea of keeping her spiky, messy, wild hair in her costume. Like, let that go nuts. Pigella also has ballet inspo, so I think Jin should get, like, festival revelry dancing inspired costume and makeup, but also in more muted earthy tones. Names. . .maybe Babirusa? Type of Indonesian wild boar. My only other ideas are just straight up using Wild Hog or Hogwild.

-Ty Lee: I like the idea of her costume being very circus themed. Like, she looks like a trapeze artist. Lots of glitter and "look at me" kind of details on her costume. Tight, but with just enough loose flowing bits to look cool when it moves around. You could even keep the crown thing because my girl is a queen after all. I think we name her something like Sticky Sweet, Sweet Stinger, or Honey Stinger. Something that emphasizes the "looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you" thing she has.

-Mai: Hear me out---rat instead of mouse. Mai is always down to pick a fight and is a lot meaner than your average mouse, and this way, her costume could have, like bandit/thug inspiration and she could just look so menacing. The only names that come to mind are Rat-Attack-Tat, which doesn't exactly roll of the tongue or Swarm, which brings more bug than rat.

Also. Eagle!Jet because Freedom Fighters and also Jet with guns sounds like a dangerous and amazing combination. That's it.

Anyway, I gotta go find everything on the Avatar!Ty Lee AU now because I didn't know you had that and HELL YEAH!

Oh! Okay so!

I love the Captain name for Sokka. Also I am double laughing at the Captain Boomerang reference because I have heard him called 'discount Sokka' once before. May have to hammer out the exact ladybug reference with it. A previous ask mentioned Harmonia and Harlequin.

Jaguar is perfect for Katara. I think I gotta go with Painted Jaguar because gotta love the reference.

Something viper themed is good, but I'm not sure exactly what. Vipertime makes me laugh but idk if it fits.

Seiryu is great actually.

Blind Tiger is also perfect lmao.

Okay so Azula! So like. Technically this is a no Bending au. Or else there'd be too much going on to have both atla's plots and the au's. So there's no reason to have a fire theme. BUT. I can't resist bringing back the wordplay that is Vulpyro.

rip Yue I got nothing either.

'looks like a cinnamon roll but will kill you' is the best description of Ty Lee. So yeah one of those Honey Stinger ones is great!

Rat time!! I like it. No idea on names.

Jet with the Eagle is a terrifying but perfect combination. Not sure what his plot will be in this au considering how different the plot is? Like obvs I want to parrallel ATLA's plots but I think a lot of him is hard to translate.

[wolfawaycamp]

I am humbly requesting LauraMax fluff, maybe including an ever growing number of pets because they keep bringing home strays? Y'all know where to find me if you have any questions 😂

🐰 Someday, Max told himself, he’d learn to say no.

To say no to a pair of sad puppy dog eyes, whether they were Laura’s or those of an actual, literal puppy dog. And Laura didn’t do sad eyes often, that was the thing that really got him about it. It was always a sneak attack when Max’s headstrong, self-assured girlfriend pulled out the big, sad baby blues, batted her eyelashes at him, and actually said, “please?” It was unfair, really, because it worked every single time. It was just giving Max the illusion of choice when he inevitably gave in and let Laura have whatever it was that she wanted.

That was how, across multiple separate occasions, they’d ended up with their current menagerie. Max had known that cohabiting with a veterinary student would expose him to a number of critters, but he hadn’t expected it to turn out quite like this. Certainly, Max hadn’t expected to turn into some kind of creature himself the summer before Laura embarked on her graduate school studies, but with what they now jokingly called ‘Wolf Boy Summer’ squared away (they had to laugh, you see, to keep from crying), the creatures had at least been smaller and more manageable.

They’d moved to San Francisco with only a tiny cage with two tiny mice inside, for their tiny apartment. The mice, which Laura had liberated from a science lab she’d worked a few shifts at in undergrad, were champion puzzle-solvers and cheese-finders named Trillian and Cashew. Max didn’t even get consulted about these guys, given that Laura had lived in her own dorm at the time she’d acquired them, but she did let him name one, which is how Trillian ended up named after a character in The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Laura named Cashew Cashew because that was the flavor of nut milk she was testing that week. (Max thought Cashew was lucky the two mice hadn’t shown up during pea protein milk week.) Laura was “pretty sure” they were both female, until Cashew ended up pregnant and blessed them with baby mice Frankie, Benjy, Ford, Hazel(nut), Almond, Pecan, and Peanut. Max told her this bode poorly for her career in animal care, but Laura took it in stride, saying she’d have to spend more time studying sex differences in mice in the future. They got two larger enclosures and separated everyone out by sex, properly this time, and now Max has to turn the sound up on their white noise machine when he and Laura snuggle up in bed, or else he hears the Galaxy-Nut siblings running in their wheels all night long.

Then, Laura fell in love with a stray cat with a severely matted coat that had been hanging around their doorstep for days, and Max found his loyalty to his mouse family strained. Should they really bring a predator into their happy little home? But Laura was absolutely certain she could make it work, even in the limited space their apartment provided, and the cat really was pitiful-looking. So Max capitulated and the Kearney-Brinly household expanded to include ten mice and one cat.

The pathetic ginger cat, Westley, luckily, turned out to be utterly uninterested in the mice. He got his name because he showed up for the final time on movie night and meowed pitifully through the first half of The Princess Bride (both Laura and Max’s favorite) until they brought him inside. Laura took him the next day to check for a microchip and, finding none, she had the matted orange furball completely shaved. In the middle of winter. And sure, it was a relatively mild San Francisco winter, but Max still thought Wes looked cold.

“I’ve already ordered him a sweater,” Laura said, “but I know you’ve been working on your knitting, maybe you can make him another?”

Max had scoffed at first. Then he’d taken a second look at his pitifully nude cat and stayed up late researching cat sweater patterns. Now Wes has an entire wardrobe of knitwear and Max, Laura, and Wes have matching Christmas sweaters for their Christmas card photos. Max drew Emma for the Hacketteer gift exchange, but he traded with Abi for Dylan and now he’s working on another set for Dylan, Ryan, and Schrödinger. (He knows Ryan will be especially delighted.)

Then it was Max’s turn. He found a large bedraggled dog of indeterminate breed tied to a stop sign in an abandoned parking lot and the dog let him know immediately that Max was his chosen father, riding home with his head in Max’s lap the entire way. Westley liked Laura best anyway, why shouldn’t Max have his own cuddle buddy (you know, other than Laura)? Laura agreed it was only fair, and now Inigo stretches out between them on movie night and he has to get his fill of both scritches and popcorn before he’ll allow them to cuddle with one another.

“Hon,” Max told Laura, who was sitting at her desk with Westley perched on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, “you know I love all our kids, but we really cannot have any more animals in this apartment. We might actually get evicted.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, honey,” Laura replied, and Max had thought that would be the end of their animal acquisition. He could admit that was pretty naive of him.

The next day, Laura had a list of rental houses for them to visit a little further from the city. Sure, she’d have a longer commute to her classes, and Max would to his job, but wouldn’t it be worth it for the ‘kids’ to have more space? Max couldn’t exactly argue with that, so they moved into a two-bed, two-bath with a small fenced yard.

And that was where Max was, cutting up a salad for dinner, when there was a knock at the door. Max answered to find Laura on their doorstep holding the saddest-looking beagle Max had ever seen, her own face mimicking its hangdog expression perfectly. They were both whimpering. “She was released from the surgical program at school and needed a home, I said we’d take her on a trial basis but baaaabe, just look at this faaaace.”

He sighed, but couldn’t help smiling a little, both at the wriggling dog and at his girlfriend. Her big pretend sad eyes, her genuinely huge heart.

Someday Max would learn to say no. But today was not that day.

[farahfab]

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[fantasyqueen502]

Jack and Dr. Cola

Summary: We meet Agent Dr. Cola, Statesman's attending physician meets her newest patient, Agent Whiskey.

Rated: PG-13 (Swearing)

“ ‘ey Cola.” Ginger greets through a mouthful of her chicken wrap. “Late start?” She questions looking at her watch. 

“Don't get me started.” Cola exhales, dumping her coat, shoulder bag and medical bag on the table. Using the shiny side of Ginger's clipboard as a mirror fixing her hair and any eye boogers she missed in her hurry. “I officially can't sleep on my stomach anymore without needing to puke.” She huffs. Ginger taking in her friend dressed in plum scrubs.  Her eyes shooting to her middle.

“You popped!” She exclaims with a grin at the now obvious bump.

“Slept through my alarm, didn't have time for breakfast, I forgot my lunch, my feet already hurt and I am starving.” She rants. 

“You can have my wrap.” She offers the other half. 

“Thank you, but I have something else in mind.” 

“I still can't understand how you can eat that stuff.” Ginger groans. 

“Sweet honey bourbon beef jerky strips.” She swoons searching the Vending machine assortments. “Something me and baked bean can agree on.” Three bags in all of their glory in C-4. 

“Agent Cola!” 

“Yes.” She sighs knowing her piece of heaven will have to wait. 

“All hands on deck, mission went sideways 36 agents have been admitted and it's only three of us today.” 

“Great.” She answers. Collecting her items. 

“I'll pray for you.” Ginger smirks.

“I'm gonna need it.” 

With six patients to go Cola had a few minutes to herself making her way to the break room. Her blood chills. C-4 was completely empty. “No.” She mumbles finding the entire supply untouched, but the sweet honey bourbon beef jerky was nowhere to be found. “Fuck.” She angrily pushes the buttons for a fruit, nut granola bar. 

“Agent Whiskey, I'm agent Cola, you may call me Dr. Cola not Dr. Pepper, which was never funny the first 30 times.” letting out an exasperated sigh functioning on autopilot. 

In the examination room the patient: agent Whiskey was laying on his stomach, head perched on his folded arms. He remained dressed from the waist up, with a sheet covering bare bottom, and socks. A nurse collecting bloody wood chips and a few screws into a metal bowl. 

“Well aren't you a peach.” he snickers. 

 “Altercation with assailants chased through a building under construction.” she reads his chips. “Fell through three floors, landing in a dump bin.” she reads not batting an eye. 

“Other than an ass full of wood chips, I'm aces.” he whines but smirks giving a thumbs up.

Washing her hands she slipped into a pair of gloves. Taking a seat in a rolling chair, rolling her way over with the effort of doing this many many times. 

"Let's see Nurse Cosmo's good work and get you outta here."

“Think that's all of them.” She announced dropping a bloody nail into the small metal dish with other bloody assortments of wood chips and splinters, small nails, and one alarmingly long one. “I'll clean you up and send you to get another scan to make sure nothing was left.” 

“Thank you Dr. Cola.” He says sitting up abruptly. 

“Agent Whi--” she sighs managing to keep her eyes up from her bare bottom half.

“Even though I wouldn't mind the touch of your angel hands a little while longer.” He flirts his mustache ticking upward with his crooked smirk. 

She goes unamused, having to look up from her still seated position. 

“You don't need to worry your pretty little head.” He assures hopping down from the bed. “I’ve been through worse nothing a---”  he slurs, taking a step, his knee buckling. 

“Godamnit.” She grumbles. “Jack, I need you to---” she shoots to her feet catching his shoulders on the way down, taking her down with him. 

“Ow!” She exclaims falling right on her tailbone. Groaning at the now unconscious agent, his head resting in her lap. 

“What happened?” He groans. 

“You fainted.” She informed. “Blood sugar and pressure was low, most likely from not eating, the pain, adrenaline running out, and blood loss.” she lists. 

“Eat this.” She hands him a granola bar. Her granola bar that she never had a moment to eat. He shakes his head pushing her hand away when she begins waving it for him to take already. 

“I’m not going to steal food from a pregnant lady.” 

“Get over yourself and take the goddamn granola bar.” she orders. A few beats pass. 

“A’ight.” He groans, taking the bar from her hold. Devouring the granola it two bites. 

“38 weeks.” She answers. “The glances. Get used to them once I…” she pops with his lips chuckling as she shifts left and right on her rolling chair. 

He glances at the clock, eyes widening as he does the math. She must have been on call for eight hours from the time with him at least, but with her being the head nurse she must have been here for more. In her condition. She is a lot smaller than Emily. He couldn't imagine letting his wife work a double in a high stress environment no less in this condition. 

“Yo, Whiskey!” Agent Tequila hollers strutting into the room interrupting his train of thought. 

“Dr. Cola.” He addresses tipping his hat to her. Stepping aside for the two to clasp hands giving each other a bro hug. “Tell me the truth Doctor, do we have to pull the plug.” getting choked up and quivering his bottom lip before bursting into laughter.

“If he follows doctor's orders.”

“Oh, I bought a little pick me up for Jackie boy.” reaching into his inner jacket pulling out three packets of beef jerk. Not just any beef jerky, her blessed “sweet honey bourbon” flavored beef jerky strips. 

“You.” Slips from her lips before she had time to stop them. “Those are mine.”

“What?” Tequila chuckles thinking the doctor had a sense of humor. Maybe. 

“Did you get those at the machine in the break room second floor Northside, the one closest to the door facing the window.” she lists as if she's given coordinates to a bomb.

“Jesus.” Tequila gawks. 

“Give it to her.” Whiskey grimaces. “For the granola bar and taking such good care of me.” He smiles. 

“I don't need your pity.” She objects. Pushing the offering of jerky out of her line of sight. “I don't even like jerky.” She adds. Both men's heads tilt downward at her stomach as an unmistakable gurgle of an empty stomach sounds in the room. She sighs, Tequila waves the bag within  her reach. She snatches it. Taking a seat again. 

“You're still here?” Whiskey exclaims having been given an all clear. Signing his discharge papers. Seeing Dr. Cola dressed in civilian wear. A simple overalls with a cartoon bear face on the front with the words mama over the top. 

“Yes, I had to finish up everyone's paperwork for the records, release forms,  then change out of my scrubs. For someone like me it takes a while.” she states. 

The two scroll down the hall to the main entrance leading out to the parking lot.

"I have a few words to who ever allowed you to work so hard in your condition."

"Thankfully there is no one." she smiles. "Donor 45002369z-whoever the fuck." she chuckles. "What few words you have to tell me?"

He's rendered speechless. "Just..." He exhales through his nose. "Go easy...for the little man."

She's taken aback. "How did you know---"

"My wife---" he swallows the frog in his throat. "---old wives tale, your carrying low and maintained your beauty." He recites words thick with melancholy.

"I don't wanna keep Mrs. Daniel's waiting."

He raises a hand. Her words driving to a halt so she could read him. His eyes. Void and hardness by loss, grief, and depression.

"I'm sorry." She couldn't help, but gift him.

He nods giving a forced tight lips smile. Walking at a steady pace into the humid early morning air. Walking along the bright lot lights. Coming to his trusty steed.

“Get home safe, Whiskey.” She bids turning on her heel. "If you have any redness and or tenderness that's normal, but any fever or pain above a level 5 feel free to call or come see us." Her doctor side instructs.

He tips his hat to her.

Opening the door to his Bronco Jack turns eyeing the woman as she continues to walk through the empty parking lot. Hopping in he pulls out, blinking his lights to not startle her with his horn that could be off putting. She turns as he drives beside her. 

“How are you getting home?” He asks. 

“Bus.” She answers pointing to the bus stop a few feet away. 

“No.” He shakes his head. 

“No?” She snorts. Giving him this look that he was starting to realize she only gifted him. Exasperation with a smidgen of annoyance. 

“I can't have that on my conscience if something---” 

“My hero!” she exclaims with sarcasm. “I'll have you know I can take care of myself thank you, I've been doing a helluva job before you and I'll continue to do so.” She assures, taking a seat. “I've been a field agent before I transferred to be a Statesman doctor.” opening the bus app on her phone. 

Delayed 

Bus reroute no busses after 3am will start back at 8am. 

It was 4:29 am.

“Shit!” she hissed. Looking up to find Whiskey. His bronco was still hummin’ waiting with a smug look she wanted to slap right off of his face. 

“Where to?” He asks, reaching over the console pulling the handle of the passenger side door pushing in open. 

Kingsman Masterlist

Masterlist, Imagines, and Miscellaneous Drabbles

[emeraldxphoenix]

YOUR MUSE'S AESTHETICS.

bold what applies to your muse and italicize what sometimes applies to them. please repost, don’t reblog !

colour : red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. magenta. pastels. bubblegum pink. blood red. ivory.

elements : fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

body : claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

weaponry : fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. peppersprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles. words

material : bronze. gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

nature :grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

animals : lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. centaurs.

foods and drinks : sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hardliquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

hobbies : music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

style : lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar.

misc : balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. family. friends. assistants.co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

tagged: @wcrriorhearts <3 tagging: @harmbidder , @tlmeagents , @othunderous , @theresastargirl , @wildcxrds & anyone else who wants <3

[altheia-featherstone]

OC aesthetic game

Thank you @anew-flame for the tag!

Rules: bold/color any which apply to your OC; remember to repost; feel free to add to the lists. 

Tagging: Anyone who wants to do it

*****

Altheia Featherstone

(The Arcana)

[ COLORS ]

red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige. turquoise.

[ ELEMENTS ]

fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset.

[ BODY ]

claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. sun-kissed. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. average. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

[ WEAPONS ]

fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. whips. knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

[ MATERIALS ]

gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. rubber. synthetics. jade.

[ NATURE ]

grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. dandelions. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

[ ANIMALS ]

lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. dragonflies.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]

sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey. cheese. pasta.

[ HOBBIES ]

music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. foraging. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. journaling. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. running. exploring. partying. yoga. potion making.

[ STYLE ]

lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. sandals. leggings. trousers. cargo pants. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

[ MISC ]

balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

[bullet-prooflove]

Started talking and the line went dead

Tagging: @kmc1989

Judd worries about the job you do, the cases you take on, the shit you deal with. He knows the stats when it comes to women in law enforcement, they face higher rates of violence, sexual assault, abuse. That’s not including the misogynistic crap you take from your less enlightened male colleagues, the ones that call you sweetheart, that ask you to fetch their coffee. You’re fighting a war on two fronts, both in the precinct and on the front lines and every day he’s in awe of you.

Which is why he tries not to worry when the solar storm hits, when the phone cuts off when you’re in the middle of explaining how you stopped a woman from killing her neighbour today because she thought she was a lizard person.

“Did she even resemble a lizard?” He’d asked you as he cradled the phone against his ear, fiddling with the dials on the coffee machine.

“Not even in the slightest.” You’d told him as you slammed your locker shut. “Think more like Judge Judy.”

“COVID’s made everyone freaking nuts.” He mumbles as he gives up on the machine and instead begins to fill the kettle. “You heading home?”

“Yea.” You’d told him and he hears the zip of your coat in the background. “The first thing I’m going to do is sink into a nice hot bath.”

His mind drifts to this morning, to you undressing for him, that cotton robe slipping from your shoulders until you were standing there in nothing but God’s own glory.

“I wish I was there to run it for you…”

It’s then that it happens. There’s a blast of static in his ear and his phone starts glitching out like it’s something out of The Matrix.

He spends the rest of his shift trying to get back in touch with you in between calls but there’s nothing. Dispatch can’t get a location and every other single line of communication is down. Judd has no illusions about what you’re up to. You’re out in the field, the same way he is, helping folk because that’s the job you do, that’s your calling.

It’s twenty four hours later he finally lays eyes on you. You step into the firehouse looking like complete hell. There’s Lord knows what in your hair, your APD windbreaker is a little torn and there’s a little dust smeared across your cheek and you’re still the most beautiful damn thing on God’s green earth.

He drops everything to go to you. The equipment he’s holding it crashes to the floor and he’s in motion, gathering you up into his arms, kissing your nose, your mouth, your cheeks, everywhere he can reach.

“Oh baby, I was so worried.” He murmurs, burying his face into your hair. “I thought the lizard people got you.”

You laugh then and that sound, it just lights up his entire world.

“Not today Judd.” You smile as his forehead comes to rest on yours. “Not today.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[jamcannibal]

My SunnySideUp design explained

Exhibit A:

This picture was the first time I ever drew Sunny. I was figuring out how rich people/modern princesses look in cartoons basically. Because she's a little kid and she's not gonna know how actual rich people dress. I was also looking at different Sunny fanarts and ultimately fell in love with the idea of her being black/mixed.

Exhibit B:

This is a colored version of the design i decided on. She does not have any "dragon" features here because I was lazy. I'm pretty sure her dress was pink and then I remembered that her color was orange. Note that she still has the clasic glasses here. (ignore them being purple on the left, that's just smth i do in my sketchbook)

Exhibit C:

It's my pinterest board for Sunny. I haven't been drawing for over a month when I made this (health issues) and I rlly wanted to draw Sunny again bcs QSMP being closed was driving me nuts. I actually researched protective hairstyles for this.

Exhibit D:

As you can see her outfit is pretty similar to the first one I decided on. The differences are: Different colors. Her sleeves aren't as poofy so they could be more practical. Glasses are star shaped. (She's a star!) Shoes. I originally drew her with ballet flats but here I gave her sneakers (specifically balenciaga bcs expensive) but ultimately decided to give her boots with butterfly wings. That's an omage to the cosmetic wings she wore on QSMP. (plus being around trains and machines it's more practical to wear boots) And of course the hair. She has mini twists tied into two buns. She has blonde kanekalon weaved into them. Considering coily hair is really dry bleaching is not always a good idea+she's literally a kid. (I know it's fiction, leave me and my brain rot about protective hairstyles and coily hair in general alone.) She also has a toolbelt. She only wears it when she helps her papa around, but it's still stylish and matches her outfit.

Exhibit E:

Drawing in procreate to try out different color combos. (I liked the left one the best, but still changed it, lol)

Exhibit F:

(I forgot about her tail pls don't point it out) She has cornrows here instead of twists. (I'm gonna be using both of these hairstyle for her) I turned her yellow glasses black to pay respect to her actualy egg form. (the glasses might be compltely different shade but at least they're black) and in the light of that i made her boots black instead of white. And I added diamond earrings bcs she needs to have diamonds in her design.

I really want her to have the vibe she wants to dress like a rich person but she's a kid so she doesn't really have a grasp onto how rich people dress so she resolves to princess, but her dad literally works on trains and other machines so having a big poofy skirt and fur coat and the feather thingy is not practical. So she still manages to dress like a princess while being semi-practical. I think she wore big skirts and feather thingies and white fancy gloves at the beginning, but stopped bcs practicality. And beinfg able to spend time with her pa is more important than looking like a princess. (I might draw that one day but rn my hands are dying.) If you got here I applaud you. This is more text than I have written for my seminar work so far-