#Protector of Humanity queue

[eternalstarlights]

[fanaroff]

Dp x DC Prompt: Space Like An Ocean

An alien had taken up residence outside of the Watchtower. Its first appearance immediately started a panic with most of the heroes that could survive in space converging on the station to see whether it was friend or foe. In the end, it did not seem either.

In fact, it seemed fine with just basking and napping wrapped around parts of the Watchtower that made up the outside. It wasn’t the size of the Watchtower, but off and on it was a very near thing.

Humanoid, yet distinctly inhuman. White whispy hair sat atop its head, pointed ears, and the only feature that could be made out of its face were two bright green glowing eyes. A color that sent Batman into a research frenzy. Its skin was void-dark. Almost looking as if a piece of space itself had separated from the cosmos and took and almost snake-like form. Or maybe an eel?

The most notable thing about the creature were its injuries. Multiple lacerations covered it, leaking a green that never touched the Watchtower and seemed to evaporate not long after leaving its body. Any silent attempts to collect it for study and to figure out what it was were met with emotionless green eyes and a bare hint of fang. They backed off quickly.

Flash liked to call it a mer-eel. “Cause it’s got an almost human torso, two arms, and the rest just kind of curls up!”

Wonder Woman was unimpressed with this. “That would suggest it is more like a naga.”

To which Green Lantern replied, “No, no, he’s right. There’s an almost white fin-like bit that goes down the tail like an eel’s does.”

Any more attempts to identify the creature led to nothing and soon the “eel” became a silent fixture of the Watchtower.

It was ages later when Zatanna entered the Watchtower to discuss a completely non-connected case when she stumbled immediately upon leaving the Zeta Tube and had to lean against a wall, breathing heavily.

“Something feels like Death.” Was all she could get out before her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she dropped to the ground. She wouldn’t wake up, dead asleep. Immediate worry all around lead to Justice League Dark being contacted in full.

Constantine with Deadman in tow were ultimately the ones to solve the mystery. It took but a moment for Deadman to be seen thanks to Constantine’s “magic” and awe was the first thing apparent on his face. Deadman didn’t even need to leave the Watchtower to know what it was.

“Oh,” he whispered like a prayer. “So that’s where he goes when he takes a break.”

Queue questioning.

“He” turned out to be Phantom, the Ghost King who had apparently decided the Watchtower was a perfect basking spot. Confusion was abound at this.

“No, see,” Deadman tried to explain. “He has two Obsessions and the Watchtower feeds into both. Heroes who protect, as he is a protector spirit himself and probably feels a kinship, and space.”

Constantine and Deadman explained as best as they could, but when the questions finally settled, the last was “Why isn’t Constantine affected like Zatanna? Why aren’t the rest of them affected like Zatanna?”

“That’s easy!” Deadman piped. “None of you are attuned to death magic! I’m a ghost, he’s my King. Zatanna is a magician with experience in most magics. And Constantine doesn’t own enough of his soul to feel the death!”

In the end, a request from Deadman was all it took for things to change. With barely a rumble, Phantom pulled himself from the Watchtower and drifted far enough away for his aura to no longer affect Zatanna. The heroes could only watch in awe as the eel-like god returned to the open ocean of space.

Addition:

There were a giant green eyes observing the conference room. Every hero inside was frozen in place, staring back at the eyes and trying their best not to move a muscle. Phantom had moved from atop the station. Phantom had acknowledged them. Phantom was staring at them from a window of the Watchtower.

No one knew why he was there. Just that suddenly he was. The bright green lighting the entire room with its shine was the only warning they got. They stared. He stared.

Slowly, he moved. A hand-shape pointed with a claw. They were confused. The hand made a pointing motion again.

The table?

Ah. Several shards of kryptonite sat on the table. The topic of the discussion as someone had somehow gotten ahold of the shards and used them against Superman. They needed to know who supplied them.

The hand pointed again.

Why did Phantom want the shards?

Apparently, it wasn’t up to them to question as the pointing hand phased into the room, palm up. Waiting. No one moved for a moment until a white narrowed slit formed in Phantom’s eyes.

Green Lantern was quick to grab the shards (Batman made a token protest, those were his damn it) and placed them in the palm. He shivered as his finger brushed the skin, ice cold washing up and down his spine.

The hand closed, retracted and approached the face. The eyes stared as a large mouth opened (fangs, sharp sharp fangs laid in green) and a tongue popped out. The shards were placed on the tongue and the mouth closed with a sharp crunch.

Phantom grinned almost smugly before he drifted away from the window and back to the top of the Watchtower.

“Did- Did Phantom just ask for a snack?”

[shaiyasstuff]

pretend | zayne

synopsis : In a tale of academic burnout, fried chicken, and poor impulse control, chaos incarnate—that’s you—somehow convinces your emotionally constipated med-student best friend to drink half a beer—which, shockingly, nearly kills him. Queue: slow realization that maybe, just maybe, you’ve both been idiots in love this whole time. content : fluff, drunk zayne, i wrote this with absolute zeal in mind, college!au

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air like you just won an Oscar for Most Sleep-Deprived Human Alive.

Across the table, Zayne lifts a brow and smirks—annoyingly composed for someone who just witnessed you spiral through caffeine-fueled thesis chaos.

“I’m finally done,” you announce dramatically, like you just ended a war. “Let’s go out tonight. I need meat on sticks and bad decisions.”

Zayne closes his book with a soft thud, taking off his glasses in that maddeningly slow, deliberate way—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure.

“I pity the skewers who will die by your hand tonight,” he deadpans.

You snort. “I pity you, who’ll have to witness me demolish a six-pack like a college frat bro on a redemption arc.”

It wasn’t a dig. It was a fact.

Zayne doesn’t drink—ever.

You’re convinced his blood is 80% black coffee and quiet judgment.

So, naturally, you’d assigned him the title of Sir Zayne, Protector of Drunk Y/N, a role he never officially accepted but continues to perform with the patience of a long-suffering saint and the sighs of a man who has seen too much.

Honestly? If that’s not love, you don’t know what is.

But you and Zayne never crossed the line.

Not because he didn’t want to—at least, you hoped that was the case—but because you never let it happen.

Courtesy of your own sparkling cocktail of overthinking, self-doubt, and the lingering fear of ruining something good.

Zayne was tall, handsome, smart—the kind of man who made professors nod in approval and grandmothers sigh wistfully.

And you? You were the chaotic best friend with a penchant for questionable snack combos and emotional repression.

You’d watched him grow up beside you, shedding his shy, bookish shell to become the quietly confident man sitting across from you now.

The same man who still gave you his hoodie when you complained about the cold and remembered your coffee order down to the sugar granules.

And sure, you said you loved each other. Threw it around between jokes and “don’t die today” texts.

But it was always buffered by a safe, platonic bubble wrap. You never dared to mean it the way your heart did—aching and wistful, quietly begging for something more.

Because admitting it out loud?

That would change everything.

And some things felt too fragile to risk breaking.

“I’m gonna take one very relaxing shower and meet you there, cool?” you say, slinging your backpack over your shoulder like the protagonist of a teen drama walking off into the sunset—except sweatier and more sleep-deprived.

Zayne gives you a look, all cool and composed as usual. “Don’t make me wait again.”

You gasp, offended. “It was one time!”

But he’s already walking off like he just won that round—he probably did, and you’re left chasing after him, muttering something about false accusations and revisionist history.

Back at your dorm, you kick the door shut with your foot, strip off the layers of thesis-fueled misery, and step into the shower.

The hot water hits your skin, and for the first time in weeks, your shoulders unclench.

Your body, a battlefield of all-nighters, instant noodles, and bad posture, finally starts to forgive you.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t just be about beer and skewers.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself hope for something more.

You step out into the cool night air, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your hands and rubbing them together like a gremlin summoning warmth.

The city hums quietly around you—streetlights flickering, distant honks, the occasional bark of a dog that clearly has beef with the moon.

It doesn’t take long to reach the barbecue stall, that familiar greasy heaven you and Zayne have treated like your unofficial therapy spot for years.

And there he is, already seated inside, calm and collected like he hadn’t just been abandoned seventeen minutes ago. Your favorite order of fried chicken sits next to him, still warm.

Because of course it does.

You beam, tapping him on the shoulder before plopping down beside him. “Was I late?”

He doesn’t even look at you. “By 17 minutes, yes.”

You snort, already digging into the chicken like a woman possessed. “Big deal,” you mutter through a mouthful of food, completely unapologetic.

Zayne simply shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile.

You were chaos, and somehow, he always made room for it.

“So, what are your grand post-thesis plans, Doctor Zayne?” you ask, popping open a can with a dramatic pshhht that echoes like a battle cry into the night.

Zayne glances at you, then at the can in your hand like it personally offended his morals. “Hopefully not babysitting a tipsy gremlin.”

You raise your can in mock salute. “Too late. You signed up for this the day you let me copy your homework in seventh grade.”

He exhales through his nose, which is Zayne-speak for you’re unbearable, but I’ve made peace with it. “I’m thinking of applying for that research position at the hospital. Maybe specialize in cardiac surgery.”

You pause mid-sip, impressed. “Heart guy, huh? Makes sense. You’ve already stolen mine.”

He gives you a slow, pointed look.

You grin. “Kidding. Kind of.”

He doesn’t reply, just leans back and sips his coffee—the man’s choice of poison—and you wonder, just for a second, if maybe your heart wasn’t the only one on the table tonight.

Who were you kidding? Of course it isn’t.

If there was anything Zayne was good at—aside from saving lives, surviving on black coffee, and giving you judgmental looks—it was being honest. Blunt, even.

The guy didn’t know how to sugarcoat if his life depended on it.

So if he felt anything beyond friendship, he would’ve said something… right?

He wouldn’t just sit across from you night after night, remembering your order, walking you home, and quietly watching over you like some emotionally constipated guardian angel—unless it really was just friendship.

Right?

You shove another piece of chicken into your mouth, suddenly feeling very attacked by your own thoughts.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe the long stares and rare half-smiles meant nothing.

Maybe he looked at everyone like that.

…Or maybe he didn’t.

But knowing Zayne?

If he wanted something more, he would’ve told you.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

You finish your chicken in record time, like a seasoned warrior who’s trained her whole life for this exact moment.

Zayne watches you with the mild horror of someone witnessing a natural disaster unfold in slow motion.

“With all that grease you eat,” he scoffs, sipping his drink with far too much elegance, “it’s a wonder you’re still so thin.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin and flash him a smug, greasy-lipped grin. “Courtesy of late-night study marathons and crippling stress. Better than any diet plan.”

He shakes his head, muttering something about clogged arteries and self-destruction, but the corners of his mouth twitch in that way that tells you he’s more amused than annoyed.

You lean back, arms stretched, feeling the food coma start to settle in. The air between you buzzes with something unspoken—comfortable, familiar, and maybe just a little tragic.

Like always.

You take a long sip from your beer can, eyes narrowing playfully at him over the rim. “You know, you should really start seeing someone.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. He just turns his head, gives you that pointed, deadpan look—the one that says I’m humoring you, but only barely. “I am perfectly fine, single.”

You snort. “Yeah, perfectly fine sitting alone in your apartment reading medical journals and judging me for my life choices.”

He raises a brow. “Someone has to.”

You laugh, nudging his leg under the table. “Seriously, though. You’re handsome, smart, stable. Tragic levels of emotionally unavailable, but that’s practically a dating app requirement these days.”

Zayne doesn’t respond right away. Just takes a calm sip of his coffee, gaze lingering on you a second too long.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right kind of chaos,” he murmurs.

And just like that, you forget how to breathe.

You quickly look away, composing yourself with the grace of someone pretending not to be internally combusting.

The heat crawling up your neck? Yeah, definitely the alcohol. Totally not because of that look or that line.

You take another sip, stalling. “Seriously? I always thought you’d go for the quiet, put-together type. You know, the kind who alphabetizes her spice rack and drinks herbal tea.”

Zayne hums, eyes still on you. “I already have enough order in my life. Why would I want more of that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “So… chaos is the goal?”

He tilts his head slightly, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze. “Not chaos. Just… someone who makes life feel a little less dull. Someone who challenges me. Keeps me on my toes.”

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure if it’s the beer, the tension, or just him.

“Sounds exhausting,” you mutter.

He smiles. “Not if it’s the right person.”

And suddenly, you’re not so sure you can blame the warmth in your chest on the alcohol anymore.

You push all your thoughts aside—shove them into that dark mental closet labeled Feelings: Do Not Open.

With a practiced grin, you raise your can in mock toast. “Well, be sure to send me an invitation to the wedding,” you quip, voice light, smile lighter.

For someone who lives and breathes chaos, you’ve gotten remarkably good at pretending things don’t get to you.

Zayne just smirks, as if he sees right through the performance. And then—without a word—he reaches for a can of beer.

Pop.

The sound cuts through the air like a record scratch. You freeze, staring at him like he just broke the laws of physics.

“Wait, are you—what—you’re drinking?”

He shrugs, raising the can to his lips. “It’s just one.”

You gape. “You’ve lectured me for years about alcohol rotting brains.”

He glances at you, his voice calm. “Maybe I just needed a reason.”

And this time, it’s not just your cheeks that feel warm. It’s everything.

You cough, almost choking on your drink. “Are you sure?”

Zayne glances at the can in his hand, then back at you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. “What, afraid I’ll lose my sense of control?”

You blink. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Who are you and what have you done with ‘water-only’ Zayne?”

He takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “It’s just beer.”

“You say that like I didn’t once watch you refuse soda because it had too many bubbles.”

He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Or maybe you’re trying to impress someone.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his seat, eyes still on you—calm, unreadable, dangerous in the way that makes your heart skip.

And now you’re the one who needs another drink.

Soon enough, Zayne learns the harsh truth of his choices.

Because not even halfway through the can, the damage is done—his face flushed a deep, telltale red, his breath coming in shallow little huffs like he’s just walked through a wind tunnel.

You glance over at him mid-sip, eyebrows shooting up.

“…You good?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice stiff and defensive—classic Zayne—but he’s blinking too much, his back too straight, like he’s focusing really, really hard on staying upright.

You stare. “You’ve had half a can.”

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if the night air suddenly turned tropical. “I didn’t eat much today,” he mutters, clearly struggling to save face. “Also, the ground feels… uneven.”

You nearly snort beer up your nose. “The ground is fine. You are uneven.”

His glare is valiant, but his ears are glowing, and he’s gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I told you this would happen,” you say, half-concerned, half-delighted. “You’re like a lightweight legend.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “Remind me never to do this again.”

You lean your cheek into your palm, grinning. “Remind me to never let you not do this again.”

He exhales sharply—half sigh, half chuckle—and despite the mess he’s in, there’s still that look in his eyes.

Soft. Open. A little reckless.

And God help you, it suits him.

The night carries on, as nights with you usually do—spiraling steadily into chaos.

One of your many bad decisions includes convincing Zayne to finish the rest of that cursed can. He protests, of course—weakly, half-heartedly, with the conviction of a man who already knows he’s lost.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Just a little more,” you grin, shoving it toward him like it’s a dare and not a crime against his entire system.

He sighs, long and resigned, then tips the can back with the tragic acceptance of someone walking into a trap they dug themselves.

Moments later, he’s slumped over the table, forehead resting on his arm, a soft groan escaping him. “I think I’m dying.”

You? You’re no help.

You’re already tipsy, which means your moral compass has long since clocked out. You’re doubled over with laughter, wheezing uncontrollably at the sight of composed, stoic, impossible-to-rattle Zayne looking one sip away from meeting God.

“You look like a Victorian lady with the vapors,” you cackle.

“I hate you,” he mumbles into the table.

“This is love,” you giggle, nearly falling off your stool.

And despite the headache he’ll definitely have tomorrow, he doesn’t argue. Not really.

After a few more cans—questionable choices all around—you find yourself leaning back in your seat, finishing the last of your skewers with drunken determination.

The stall’s almost empty now, the night stretching quiet and still around you, save for the low hum of streetlights and the occasional car passing by.

Zayne, meanwhile, is completely knocked out beside you.

Head lolled to the side, glasses tucked away somewhere, lips parted slightly as he breathes slow and deep.

His usually sharp features are softened, flushed, and peaceful in a way that makes your chest squeeze a little too tightly.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked cute like this.

But you do know better, so you just shake your head and smirk at the very real mess you helped create.

Tossing the empty skewer stick aside, you slide off your seat with a wobble, then crouch beside him.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go,” you whisper, voice low, a little fond, a little guilty.

He doesn’t budge.

Just lets out a tiny groan, eyelids fluttering like he’s having an incredibly dramatic dream about betrayal and liver damage.

You sigh, laughing under your breath. “This is what I get for enabling you, huh?”

Still, you loop an arm under his and begin to help him up—because even if he’s heavier than you remember and absolutely no help at all, he’s still your idiot to carry home.

And for once, he lets you.

You somehow manage to haul him upright—well, half-upright—his arm slung over your shoulders as he leans most of his weight on you.

He mumbles something incoherent against your hair, something that sounds like “never again” but could also be “chicken skewers are evil.” Hard to tell.

His dorm’s way too far, and in his current state, he’d probably collapse somewhere tragic and inconvenient—like the middle of the sidewalk or a bush with questionable origins.

So, you make the executive decision.

“My place it is,” you mutter, shifting his weight and starting the slow, awkward shuffle back toward your dorm.

He stumbles once or twice, groaning like a disgruntled old man, and you stifle a laugh.

“This is karma,” you tell him, breathless from both the effort and the ridiculousness of it all. “For every time you judged my life choices.”

He doesn’t respond, just leans more heavily into you—like he knows you’ll carry him anyway.

And you do.

Step by step, wordlessly and willingly, until your dorm door finally clicks open and you ease him inside, one breath, one stubborn heartbeat at a time.

You finally manage to plop him down onto your bed with the grace of someone who’s done this exact thing zero times and is running purely on muscle memory and spite.

Zayne flops back like a ragdoll, one arm splayed dramatically over his eyes, as if the sheer emotional weight of the night has bested him.

You shake your head, chest heaving, cheeks still warm from your own drinks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Crossing the room, you grab your water bottle—your trusty, slightly dented savior—and take several deep gulps yourself before crouching at the edge of the bed.

Then, without thinking twice, you press it gently to his lips.

“Here,” you say, voice softer now. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Zayne makes a vague, pitiful noise. But he drinks, eyes still closed, brows faintly scrunched like he’s never tasted water before in his life.

You hold it steady, watching him carefully, your expression torn between amused and quietly tender.

It’s such a stupid, intimate moment.

And somehow, it feels like more than it should.

To your horror, he downs the entire bottle. Every last drop.

“Hey—hey! That’s mine!” you protest, trying to pry it from his hands, but Zayne holds it like a lifeline, drinking until it gives a dramatic little hollow gulp at the end.

He sets it down with an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against your pillows like he just climbed a mountain.

“You have legs,” you grumble, snatching the empty bottle. “The water dispenser is literally down the hall.”

“It’s too far,” he mumbles, eyes closed again. “Your bed is nice. I’m dying. Let me die hydrated.”

You roll your eyes, turning to set the bottle aside—and then pause when you feel the weight shift beside you.

Zayne suddenly sits up.

You glance over and freeze. He’s staring at you.

Not blinking. Not swaying. Just… staring.

A little too intently. A little too seriously.

“…What?” you squeak, completely thrown.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking at you like you’ve said something outrageous.

Or like he just realized something important.

And suddenly, the room feels a little too quiet.

A little too close.

He stares into your eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades—the buzz of alcohol, the low hum of the city outside, even the dull ache in your limbs.

Then, slowly, his hands reach out and grasp your arms—not rough, not urgent, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. Before you can say a word, he pulls himself to his feet, swaying just slightly, and starts walking.

Pushing you back with each quiet, deliberate step.

You move without thinking, heart hammering in your chest as your knees bump into the edge of your desk.

You’re trapped between the wood at your back and the look in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, burning through the haze of the night.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re warning him or yourself.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, too close, the heat of him bleeding into your skin, his hands still lingering on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And in that moment, you swear the entire world narrows to the space between you.

And whether it’s the alcohol or the truth breaking free—

You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Uhm… are you okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain, breath catching in your throat as you stare up at him.

Zayne shakes his head, just once. “No.”

You blink, concern flaring. “What’s wro—”

But you don’t get to finish.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, hands moving to cradle your face as his lips crash against yours.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant.

It’s hungry.

Like he’s been holding it back for far too long. Like something inside him finally snapped loose.

Your back presses harder against the desk as he leans in, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip away if he doesn’t take all of it now.

And for a second—just a second—you forget everything else.

The drinks. The laughter. The years of pretending.

All that exists is the heat of his mouth on yours and the staggering, undeniable truth of it.

His lips crash into yours before you can even finish your sentence—urgent, messy, filled with too much longing and too little clarity. It catches you off guard, your breath stolen, your thoughts scattering like the loose papers on your desk.

At first, you freeze.

Then your hands move to his chest, trying to push him back. “Zayne—wait—”

But he’s already pulling you closer, an arm slipping around your waist, the other sweeping across your desk in one rushed, careless motion—books, pens, everything clattering to the floor.

He grabs your hips and lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the desk like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head.

“Zayne, stop!” you protest, voice sharp now, your palms pressed firmly against him.

And just like that, he halts—everything in him going still.

His breath is ragged, face flushed, eyes wide with a dawning realization as he looks at you—really looks.

Silence stretches between you.

Then he slowly steps back, as if waking from something he didn’t mean to fall into.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, shaken. “I shouldn’t have—”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still feeling the echo of what just happened.

Because part of you is furious.

And part of you is trembling.

And somewhere, buried beneath it all, part of you wanted it.

But not like this.

Not drunk.

Not blurred.

And certainly not like something he’ll regret in the morning.

You try to steady the shaking in your voice, the racing in your chest, and force out a laugh—thin, awkward, strained.

“See?” you say, trying to make light of it, to patch over the tension like you always do. “This is exactly why you should get a girlfriend. Someone to… I don’t know, handle all that bottled-up intensity.”

But he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Instead, his gaze sharpens—sober, unwavering, cutting right through your joke like it never existed.

“I don’t want one,” he says.

Simple. Final.

The room falls quiet again. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expect.

Your smile fades a little, the humor faltering on your lips. “Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But his eyes never leave yours.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

“I want you,” he says quietly, each word deliberate, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he takes a step closer.

“Only you.”

Your breath catches—completely, helplessly.

There’s no teasing in his tone, no drunken slur, no hesitation.

Just the raw, unfiltered truth of it. It lands in your chest like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast and uncontrollably.

You should say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, swallowed by the weight of his words and the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth reaching for.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that he didn’t feel this. That he couldn’t.

But now?

He’s standing in front of you like he’s known all along.

And like he’s finally tired of pretending he doesn’t.

You open your mouth, stammering, grasping for something logical to say—anything to bring the air back into your lungs, to slow your racing heart.

“Zayne, you’re—this is just the alcohol talking, you don’t mean—”

But he cuts you off, his voice low and steady.

“I’m done pretending.”

The words hit you like a sudden shift in gravity.

There’s no hesitation in him now.

No trace of the usual restraint he always wore like armor. He’s standing there—bare, honest, and dangerously close.

You search his face for some sign of doubt, some crack you can cling to. But there’s nothing.

Just the truth laid out between you, heavy and real.

And your heart doesn’t know whether to run or leap.

“I don’t want this to happen just because you’re drunk,” you whisper, barely able to look at him.

It comes out softer than you mean it to—fragile, almost trembling—because beneath all the banter, beneath all the years of pretending, you’ve always been afraid of this exact moment.

Of wanting it too much and it not being real.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—his gaze steady, clear, unwavering.

“I’m not drunk enough to forget this,” he says quietly. “And definitely not drunk enough to lie.”

You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you don’t see the walls he always kept between you. They’re gone. Just like that.

What’s left is him.

And the truth you’d both been trying so hard not to touch.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing against your skin as he gently tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch is careful—soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

“It’s hard to see you trying to push me away,” he says, voice low and raw. “All the time.”

Your eyes widen, guilt and surprise rushing in at once. “I just thought…”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your lips, eyes searching yours like he’s waiting for you to see what he’s been trying to show you all along.

“No more thinking,” he murmurs.

Then he kisses you again—but this time, it’s slow.

Careful. Like he’s trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, the space between you now completely, irreversibly gone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “about earlier.”

A pause.

“But I’m not sorry for this.”

And just like that, you close your eyes and let it all fall away—the fear, the doubt, the need to overthink every moment.

Because for once, the truth is simple.

He’s here.

He chose you.

And despite everything you tried to convince yourself, despite all the ways you kept your heart guarded—you want him too.

You exhale, slow and shaky, forehead still pressed to his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

No more pretending.

No more running.

You let yourself fall—not blindly, but willingly. Into him.

Into this.

Into whatever comes next.

masterlist

[yanderes-galore]

Oooh what if wild Toothless who never got shot down by hiccup , toothless who can still fly , toothless who got attached very quickly to a injured human who stuck in his cove/nest❄️anon (yandere pet like concept/hcs/thoughts pretty please ) 

Yesss, here's what I got!

Yandere! Feral/Wild! Toothless Concept

Pairing: Animal/Pet-Like

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Kidnapping, Violence, Blood, Dragons killing dragons, Forced/Dubious companionship.

I really like the idea of the roles being switched!

Instead of an injured dragon befriending a human, an injured human befriends a dragon.

This no doubt takes place during the times where humans and dragons are still fighting.

Toothless is still the last of his kind, an elusive species.

You've heard of dragons, you've seen what they can do.

Many vikings tell you to fear them.

You didn't believe them until you were attacked.

You met Toothless as you were hiding from dragons who attacked you.

The Night Fury no doubt smelled your blood from your wounds.

You aren't injured too bad but certainly can't make it back home.

Not with the dragons in the area.

You aren't sure what to think when you see a Night Fury attack the dragons around you.

Toothless sustains some injuries but for the most part is fine.

You fear for your life when the Night Fury approaches you.

Both of you are covered in blood, the attackers are gone.

His eyes are in slits for a moment but he notices you're harmless.

Weak, even.

You could be easy prey.

Instead, the Night Fury doesn't kill you.

Instead he nudges you softly, maybe even tries to clean your wounds.

This Night Fury would be more scared of you than you are of him.

He isn't hungry, he isn't scared, he just seems curious... concerned.

You keep staying still, even as the dragon lays beside you to watch you.

Since Hiccup didn't find Toothless in this you would be the one to give him such a name.

Maybe as you heal more you fed him, allowing Toothless to show his retractable teeth.

The cool thing about this version of Toothless is definitely his flight.

He doesn't need anyone to fly, he's a regular Night Fury.

Yet despite this the dragon befriends you, an injured human.

He doesn't eat humans, it's actually not in the Night Fury diet (Look at the Night Fury article on the wiki)

So he isn't interested in eating you.

This would explain why he chooses to protect you instead.

The fact you're both "harmless" is what makes you able to relax.

That is until Toothless decides to take you away.

After all, you can't be safe here.

Toothless means well when he tosses you onto his back and flies to the cave he usually resides in.

The dragon hates that you give him the cold shoulder afterwards.

He brings you back all sorts of food to care for you.

He wants his human friend to heal.

He feels you're being hunted just as much as him.

You don't harm him because of a few reasons.

You wouldn't be able to go home... and you are admittedly attached to this dragon as your only friend and savior.

This is what makes you accept the supplies you're given.

You even allow Toothless to cuddle around you.

The issue is the dragon never lets you leave.

Nothing gets in the den, nothing gets out.

Toothless has taken the role of your protector.

Your family may think you've been killed.

You haven't.

In fact, you're really safe.

Toothless, as a Night Fury, is intelligent and powerful.

He understands your social queues and gets you what you need.

If you tried to leave then the dragon forces you back in the den.

If he lets you go... you'll die.

Dragons who try to sneak up on you are quickly attacked by Toothless.

Night Furies don't eat other dragons, but that doesn't stop Toothless from tearing into them.

Toothless washes off the blood of his kills before bounding to you.

Yet you know what he's done as you can smell the metallic smell on his scales and breath.

Toothless is loyal and will protect you no matter what it takes.

Why should you even go home? Home won't accept you anymore for having a dragon...

It's just you and Toothless now.

[2-dsimp]

I made some more fanart 💕

Imagine this, Wifey and Miki are at a work trip around a port.

Miki, who was normally attached to Wifey by the hip, was teared away by the group manager for some menial task. Begrudgingly, and with a lot of nagging from his work wife, he goes and tries to get it done quickly (and make Wifey proud).

Wifey was carrying some files for the manager, walking alongside the border and reading over the papers. Sumerged in the stream of words, she didn't notice a local walking in her direction. What she did notice was how she lost her balance, and soon enough, her footing. The papers flew upwards unto the port's walkway, unlike her, who fell right into the water with a loud splash.

Wifey desperately tried to get ahold of herself and try to swim. But to no alas, for she never learnt how. She hated the situation. She felt embarrassed, humiliated, cold, and most of all, scared.

Miki, having heard the splash and her pleas, didn't think twice, and after taking off his shirt, jumped in and saved wifey.

Queue in, Miki being worried, clingy, and angry at the same time. He demanded that he take his wife home to change. As work was already over, he got the approval (he did not really care, though) and rushed his wifey home. Got her into one of his shirts and learnt how to use a hair dryer.

♡♡♡

I hope its not very OOC, I've done what I could with the Miki info I got from Tumblr haha.

I can imagine Miki the Himbo Coworker getting spooked from feeling hot air blowing in his face for the first time. And wondering if this contraption is actually safe to use. With humans being as fragile as they are in his own opinion. Then being amazed at how human’s can tolerate being assaulted with hot air that makes his gills get dry.

Newfound respect has been achieved.

If he had just fished out his work wife then he’d settle them on a rock slab. After stripping them of all their clothes since he picked up from a random conversation somewhere that wet clothes on a human. Could potentially make them get sick or die from the cold temperatures.

Sure you might curse at him for stripping you naked on a public beach. But he’d ignore it since it’s all for your own good. He’d no later have you laid out to sunbathe in the most hottest spot he knows around the coast.

And watch over you as you air dry with his shark tail wagging in the water. Wondering if he did a good job as your protector.

[final-bae-stination]

Fight Me For His Health (Avatar: The Way Of Water)

This is the only picture I could find, for some reason, of both of them hurt. Please, though, imagine them as their real selves, not human like in the picture, okay?

The second photo is the room mentioned with Lo'ak.

Prompt: Let's pretend that on the SeaDragon, which is the tulkun hunting ship, Neteyam does get shot, but let's say he survives (because, as always, in my stories, he lives). Lo'ak, who was being...erm, tortured (A/N: Because your author wants as much angst as possible) freaks out and basically annihilates the soldiers for hurting his brother, his protector.

This gets bloody. And violent, like, really quickly, so please be warned.

I believe I wrote a scene/one shot where Neteyam lost control and like...tore someone's throat out. Now, we're going to see Lo'ak's way of doing it, which is almost the same but...well, just read. GORE WARNING!

*********************************************************************

Third Person POV

Neteyam knew his siblings and Tsireya were in trouble. He felt it, the same way Neytiri had once known without being there that Kiri had broken her arm when she was ten from falling out of a tree and had run to get her. He knew it the same way he knew Lo'ak would run to warn Payakan about the charges. He knew it the same time that his siblings and Tsireya didn't return home, and he had to go get them.

He knew it, deep in his bones, and he was going to fix it.

Lo'ak's Perspective

The ship, called the SeaDragon, was a tulkun hunting ship commandeered by Miles Quaritch, Spider's real dad and Jake's enemy since the Pandoran War fifteen years ago. Tsireya and Tuk were tied with restraints slapped to the bars. Tuk growled, tugging uselessly at them, but it was no use.

Quaritch stopped his Recom solider as the girl with tattoos over her blue skin went to tie Lo'ak up. "Put him in the Room." He snarled, his gold eyes filled with hate. Lo'ak glared right back as he was marched away to a white room with only a table in it. Lo'ak turned, trying to suddenly attack, and was backhanded so hard he fell to the floor, groaning in pain, glaring. The Recom woman just snickered, shutting the door and disappearing.

Warning: Trigger For Torture!

He sat in there for ten minutes, wondering what was happening, what was going to happen, when the door opened again. Quaritch bent, coming in the doorway, and Lo'ak hissed, backing up. Quaritch didn't flinch.

He carefully walked to the table, as close as he dared to get. "Where's your father and mother?" Quaritch asked. "Kä ne kllte, teylupil! Kalweyeveng!" Lo'ak hissed, which was Na'vi for Go to the ground, teylu-face! Son of a bitch! He glared hotly as Quaritch's face twisted. "I don't think you want to test me, kid." He snarled, but Lo'ak wasn't budging. "Kalweyev--" He didn't get to finish before Quaritch hit him, so hard his ears rang, as his head snapped back, slamming against the glass behind him. Lo'ak cried out, knees crumpling, and heard Quaritch snarl, "Where are they?!" "Fuck off!" Lo'ak shouted, in English, and was rewarded with a sharp kick to the ribs, making him yelp. Quaritch yanked him up by the base of his queue, making Lo'ak scream, clawing at his hands, but Quaritch wasn't letting go. "I have no qualms about killin' a bunch of blue rats," Quaritch spits. "Don't make me." He dropped Lo'ak, and Lo'ak coughed, groaning softly.

Neteyam POV

Neteyam was on an ilu, talking to Aonung and Rotxo. "They must've been caught," Rotxo says, his blue eyes wide with fear. "What will they do?" "It doesn't matter!" Aonung snarled, ears flat. "That is my sister, we are going!" he shouted.

Neteyam shared a look with Rotxo. "I am going, for that's my family." Neteyam whispered. Rotxo's eyes hardened like blue gems, and he climbed on his ilu. "Stick together," he said, which was a phrase often used by the Sully kids. Neteyam blinked, surprised that he'd picked it up, but then all three turned, racing for sea.

Back To Lo'ak...

!! Torture warning, tried not to make it too descriptive !!

He was in the room still, but was by no means able to currently rise. That woman, the one with the tattoos, seemed to love hurting him under Quaritch's orders. "Just don't kill him" was all Quaritch had said before leaving, and she hadn't, just beat him to the point he was tired of moving, even to twitch his fingers. She smirked down at him now. "What's wrong, baby?" She giggled. "Too tired?"

His hiss was like a tiny puff of air, not threatening at all. She snorted, kicking him in the face. His head snapped back, but he didn't even have the energy to scream anymore. He could only lay there, bleeding and broken. His breath rattled in his chest, and he found himself thinking of home, of his mom and Dad, no matter how rocky their relationship was. He found himself thinking of baby Tuk, of Kiri in the jungle, asleep as the wood sprites drifted over her. Of Neteyam, telling him not to go down to the battlefield as they scouted, and he wondered where Tsireya was. Is she hurt? Are they hurting her? But he didn't---couldn't---think of that too long, because any thought of her in pain hurt him, too.

The woman's boot landed painfully on his ribs, and this time, he screamed, writhing, as something snapped. "I'm talking to you!" She shouted over his cries. He turned, trying to be fast, and sank his teeth into her ankle. She yelped, her fist landing on his face, three times before she could make him let go, and her hits were not soft. Fresh blood spilled from his nose and lips until he was forced to let her go. In retaliation, she became reckless and just started kicking the shit out of him, and he heard several sickening snaps before Quaritch was shouting at her to stop. "He's no use to me dead, Z!" He yelled. She was breathing hard, eyes flat and dark gold, her ankle gushing blood. "Out." Quaritch growled, and she stormed out, muttering under her breath. Quaritch merely glanced at Lo'ak's broken and bruised body before leaving. Lo'ak wasn't sure how much more he could take.

NETEYAM

Neteyam pushed his ilu as close as it could get to the hull, slipping his queue from the neural queue of his ilu. Aonung and Rotxo did the same. "Follow me, do not make a sound," Neteyam hissed, reaching for the side of the low ship. Aonung and Rotxo climbed after him, all three boys slipping behind huge crates as someone walked by. "Yeah," The voice, a woman, was saying. "Hey, that blue boy?" She laughed, and Neteyam, Aonung, and Rotxo shared a glance. Lo'ak? Rotxo mouthed, and Neteyam nodded.

"What about him?" A male voice asked, slightly deep and raspy. "Well, after I got done with him, he was more red than blue." Cold laughter. Neteyam's brain seemed to short-circuit. He was more red than blue...red is blood...

What has she done to my brother? He snarled in his head.

The two voices faded, two blue smears walking inside, and Neteyam saw them: the girls, Tuk and Tsireya, bawling against the railing, and he was shook. Tuk looked fine, physically, if not a little shaken up, but he was the eldest brother. He noticed a scratch on her face, a bruise on her cheek. If that wasn't enough, Tsireya's cheek was covered in blood from what looked like a knife slash, and she had bruises on her throat, arms, and face.

Aonung saw red.

"Don't!" Rotxo shouted, but it was too late.

With a shriek, Aonung threw himself at the nearest Recom, fingers spasming into claws and grabbing the guy around the throat before he could even squeak. Both toppled to the ground, and surprisingly, no one came running as Aonung slammed the guy's face into the deck, once, twice---crack! Snap!---three times before dropping him. "Nung!" Tsireya cried, tears falling down her cheeks as the three boys rushed over.

"Tuk-Tuk," Neteyam breathed, sawing with his blade at the restraints with his knife. He gulped, "Where's Lo'ak?"

She looked at him, her eyes full of tears, breaking Neteyam's heart. "T-they said the wh-white room..." She bawled. Neteyam glanced at Rotxo. "Can you get her to safety?" He asked sharply. Rotxo nodded. "Come," He told Tuk, who obediently climbed in his arms, and he slung her on his back as Aonung, helping Tsireya, called the ilu. As the creatures appeared, Aonung whispered, "Come back, okay?" He nodded once at Neteyam and helped his sister down, then joined her. Rotxo climbed over the railing carefully, Tuk glancing at Neteyam once more before she was gone.

Neteyam snuck through the ship, ducking behind crates and whatever was available when someone came around. He kept his ears and eyes open, moved as silently as possible, and wasn't caught, luckily. He made it around a bend and saw the white room, through two doorways, which made him curse. He'd have to either risk it and sneak in, or wait until the two Avatars currently in there left. But...he couldn't see Lo'ak. Where is that skxawng? He wondered.

Then, he saw him, and his world stopped, broke, and crashed. Lo'ak was being yanked up by he queue, which made Neteyam wince just watching it, and his face was bloody, bruises coloring his skin like a fucking ink splatter of blood and different shades of black, blue, and purple...and red, of course. His left arm looked broken, and his eyes were slipping shut. "Let's go," A heavily tattooed Na'vi Recom said, and the man dropped Lo'ak. Even out here, Neteyam could hear the thud his body made, and it made him cringe away. The Recoms exited the white room, stalking down the hall, laughing, like they didn't just beat the shit out of a kid with his (pissed, protective) brother watching. The moment they were gone, Neteyam bolted inside...

And nearly fell backwards, shocked, eyes wide. Blood covered the floor in thin streaks, clearly done by Lo'ak, presumably, dragging himself across the floor the way he was now, without even turning, like he was terrified Neteyam was one of the Recoms come to hurt him. "Lo!" He shouted, and Lo'ak went tense, then suddenly limp, and Neteyam heard him crying against the floor.

Neteyam rushed over, hands fluttering, unsure of where the fuck he could touch Lo'ak without hurting him. "They're...coming back," Lo'ak whispered, and glanced up. Neteyam recoiled at the bruises on his baby brother's face. "Just...just go. Quaritch won't let them kill me, not without Dad." "I'm not leaving you!" Neteyam screamed.

A door slammed. "There he is!" He turned, snarling.

Quaritch raised his hands. "Easy, kid. I won't kill you or your brother, alright?" He grinned, but Neteyam wasn't fazed. He stood, muscles tense, and as Quaritch took a step forward, hissed, to the point where Quaritch blinked, stepping back again. "Alright, alright," He said, raising his hands. "I get it, don't come close." He nodded. "I can do that. However, I need him." He smirked. "Your father's here. I made a deal, and he accepted: his sons for his life." No. Neteyam didn't want to believe it. But that was his dad, he'd do anything for his sons. Even die? What about Mom, or Tuk and Kiri and me and Lo'ak? He wondered. "Let us go, then." "Ah, it's...not exactly that easy. But!" He said as Neteyam's ears started flattening. "I can tell you, the moment he steps onboard, you're free." Neteyam paused. He wanted to rip this guy's fucking throat out, and it grew stronger when he glanced at Lo'ak, crumpled, bruised, bloody, and broken, in the corner, eyes foggy. "Don't, Teyam..." He whispered, the energy to speak leaving him. Neteyam glanced back at Quaritch. "Then let us go." Quaritch waved a hand. "I will. Don't fight," He said as four Recoms came in, two grabbing Lo'ak and two restraining Neteyam. He stayed still, knowing it would be worse, at least right now, to fight.

ON THE DECK

Neteyam saw them first: The Olo'eyktan, Tonowari, with his mate, Ronal. Then, his mother, her eyes hard and dark gold. His heart jumped into his throat, seeing Kiri beside her, her hand on her knife. Thankfully, Rotxo, Tuk, Aonung, and Tsireya were not there. "Mama," He heard Lo'ak wheeze, and it broke Neteyam's heart.

"Jake," Quaritch called. "Come on down," He laughed. Neteyam saw his father kiss his mother, saw him kiss Kiri's head, then come in on a skimwing. "NO!" He screamed suddenly, thrashing. "No, Dad, don't---Ah!" He yelped as something slammed into his face, knocking him to the ground. He was yanked up immediately by his queue, making him scream in pain until that was all he could hear. "Stop, stop it!" Jake was suddenly on the deck. Looking at Lo'ak, Neteyam realized, and he was horrified. "What have you done to my son?" Jake breathed, his eyes darkening. "What I had to." Quaritch snarled.

"Dad..." Lo'ak mumbled, his lips swelling from the bruises. The tattooed lady holding him snarled, "Shut up," her (actually pretty) blue face twisted in rage. Lo'ak ignored her. "Dad, I'm sorry--" He yelped, high and piercing, as the woman slammed her pistol into his already busted nose. That was the last straw for Neteyam.

He shrieked, a weird sort of scream that belonged to a demon, and twisted as the man holding him tried to regain a grip. He swung without really looking, hearing a sickening crunch as chaos exploded around the ship. Jake lunged, the other Na'vi came running (or gliding on ilu and whatnot), and the battle begun. He fought his way towards Lo'ak, who was crumpled on the ground, eyes shut. No, no, please, Eywa, don't take him, Neteyam thought, blindly punching someone else. He heard a sudden shriek and turned, seeing his dad with a knife in his shoulder.

Neteyam was tackled before he could open his mouth.

It was the tattooed lady, snarling as her hands wrapped around his throat. Jake was still in a struggle with three others, the other Na'vi distracted and Lo'ak out for the count, so he was on his own. He choked, tail slapping thickly against the metal deck, and scrabbled for his knife sheath, finally unclipping it and yanking out his blade, but she saw that, smacking his hand. Neteyam's knife slid over the deck, rattling against the metal, and was flung over the side of the ship, lost in the sea. His heart ached almost as much as his lungs. His grandmother, Mo'at, had given him the knife, saying she was proud of him. It was like she was gone, now, too.

The woman laughed, her canines flashing in the sun. "After I kill you, baby blue," She mocked. "I'm killing the other." Her gold eyes flicked to Lo'ak, still unmoving, and that. Was. It. He screamed, his hands flying to her face, and dug his nails into her flesh, her cheeks, the only thing he could think of to get her far enough away. She howled in pain, letting go to clasp her cheeks, and Neteyam, moving on survival instinct, lunged, his mouth open, and sank his canines into her throat.

Her blood spurted from her neck, where Neteyam's canines were lodged up to the gums, and he wasn't letting go. She screamed, gurgling, as he pushed her back, teeth still firm, and jerked back, tearing her throat open, blood gushing from her neck all over Neteyam's mouth and chin, down his chest, and dripping to the metal deck like water. She gasped, gurgling wetly, eyes wide, blood staining both her and Neteyam, before she seized and went still. He was breathing hard, blood covering most of his front and his hands, and turned, eyes wild. Kiri, Jake, Neytiri, and Ronal were staring at him, and he wasn't totally sure if they were horrified or not. "Holy, shit," Kiri said. A groan interrupted them, and Lo'ak blinked, coming to. "Lo--" Neteyam froze, about to run over, but...but he was covered in blood. He couldn't see his brother. He backed up, eyes on Lo'ak, who was shaking his head. Kiri, always so understanding, put a hand on his arm, moving past him to Lo'ak. Lo'ak was staring at Neteyam, and Neteyam...he felt, for the first time in his life, like a monster. Like the demon everyone thought his father was. "I'm so sorry," He whispered, his voice loud like a gunshot in the silence. Lo'ak stood with Kiri's help and stumbled over. He kneeled, grasping a dead recom's shirt and ripping it in half before his fingers, five instead of four, touched Neteyam's cheek, soft as a feather, and wiped the blood away, all without a word. Finally, he spoke. "You're my brother, my tsmukan. Don't act like I'm scared of you," Lo'ak snapped, throwing the cloth, now stained red, to the side. "Oel ngati kameie, tsmukan."

"Oel ngati kameie," Neteyam whispered, tears filling his eyes. *******************************************************************

Glossary: Tsmukan = Brother. Oel ngati kameie = I See You.

[steal-a-headmate]

Could we maybe get a general protector that also will note shady folks to tell others about later on (hope thats not too specific)? Preferably nonhuman of some variety, but really would be happy with anyone!

Hi!! So sorry for the wait on this; we had it drafted and just... forgot to queue it! :/

Anyway! This is Raphael; he's our 'chillest' protector, which means ae's less likely to mark someone as a red flag who doesn't deserve it. While making note of people isn't an explicit role of hers, he's generally someone we turn to when we can't tell/if we need calm conflict resolution. He demanded (lighthearted) I include an exomemories section, so that's also here! Warning for Christian themes (he's an angel, though his exomemories aren't very compliant with existing theology).

Full Name – Raphael

Other Names – Raph

Species – Seraphim (takes human form)

Age – Ageless

Sign-Off – 🚬🪽

Gender – Unlabelled

Orientation – Unlabelled

Pronouns/Terms – He/any / any terms

Roles �� Protector (especially social)

Front Triggers – Social conflicts, overly aggressive protectors (xe can usually mellow them out), suspicious people

Music Taste – Punk rock, metal, goth

Likes & Dislikes – Raphael likes space, celestial aesthetics, grunge-y aesthetics, the color white, smoking (if the system does), and plants/gardening. He doesn't dislike much, beyond standard threats—as I said, fae's very chill.

Exomemories – Raphael was created as one half of a whole (his other half being Azael). He was at the right hand of his Mother when She created the universe. His and Azael's younger siblings, the other angels, were jealous of them and how close they were to Mother. They through them down to the Earth, freshly created, into boiling oceans of sulfur. They were joined together when this happened, and drained of all of their color. When they separated, Raphael's wings, hair, and eyes were pure white, while Azael's were pure black.

image sources: 1 - 2 - 3

@thebaharchivist

[distorted-creations]

Posting this outside of queue cuz it's a special present for an irl who I love very much <3

Your Doorway to Molly's Game

🌀 Name(s): Molly Bloom

🌀 Pronouns: she/her, ae/aer, ny/nym/nyr, chip/chips, bet/bets, law/laws, snow/snows, ski/skis,

🌀 Age: 27 years old

🌀 Species: Human

🌀 Gender(s): evoic paragirl

🌀 Xeno(s): gambling, knowledge

🌀 Sexuality: bi-oriented aroace

🌀 Role(s): Organizer, Protector, Assudimate

🌀 Faceclaim:

🌀 Sign Offs: 🎲🎿

🌀 Likes:

card games

snow

spending her free time learning

🌀 Dislikes:

people making assumptions about her

surprises

promises not being kept

🌀 Aesthetics: chaotic academia, winter, casino

🌀 Personality: clever, quick, intelligent, strong-willed, caring, strong morals, competitive

🌀 Kintype(s): black cat, screech owl

🌀 Moodboard:

🌀 Extras:

Packs can be edited as needed; and alters might not turn out exactly as described.

[xxjazzxx]

Okie here we go:

I'll start with Mhin. Looking at their eyes alone, nothing else about their face always makes me feel like there's a clear boundary and/or brick wall that's unspoken. Surely, they haven't even said anything to you yet, but it's still evident. At the same time, there's an eerie sense of calm before the storm. Recommended to not piss them off at any point. If you've established a relationship with them platonic or otherwise, you'll gradually see a shift in how their gaze resonates with you (for the better ofcourse).

Vere is next! Fiery, flirty, sharp and intelligent. There's no pulling the wool over this fox's eyes at all. He's already done that the minute he locked eyes with you. There's also something there that gives one a sense of "I don't bite I swear" in terms of trust but that's to distract you from that smile and his "crossed-fingers" that could be behind his back. If his eyes weren't so busy tempting you, his body language could be read or how his tail swishes or if it's fluffed out, pointed a certain way or how his ears are placed or positioned.

Hmmm for Elyon, it's tricky because I only know a small tidbit. But right off the bat, his eyes tell me depending on how his mood is and how useful I am to him will determine whether or not I'm safe around him. Not that he's dangerous, but as any business owner...I can assume that he's not to played around with unless you like suffering the consequences of your actions.

(i'm only skipping Kuras for now because his is long)

Ais, oh boy. Am I annoying him? Is he watching me? Is he watching something behind me? Those bright red peepers are alarming and enticing, unreadable as far as what he thinks about you. Even worse when he speaks to you with very little emotion showing. It's almost as if he's trying to warn you about something, or pull you in without trying. Either way, you're stuck in his gaze and he's waiting to see what you're going to do about it.

Sen, lovely, beautiful, breath-taking. Independent, searching, and somewhat longing. All of these I can feel when I stare at her eyes, trying to see if I can figure out more about her without saying much. In fact, I could probably get lost in them but then trip over myself when she finally meets my gaze. I wish I could ease whatever uncomfortable emotions she seems to try and hide.

Oh Leander...sweet or sour man that you are. Immediately his eyes are inviting, playful, cool, romantic, and full of whimsy. Just as charming as any other feature on that face. But the longer you stare, the more ominous he seems. What's up with this charismatic attitude that seems to just be so natural and on queue? What do you want from me sir?

Finally, Kuras. The reason his would be particuarly long in detail is mostly of bias because he's the fave. But other than that I'm sure you all see how magnificently gorgeous those eyes are. An intense heat of warmth, as if you're being hugged by his wings that aren't there. Frozen in your steps, thinking back to when you first noticed him from afar, or even further when you took your first breath. Crazy, how just a simple gaze makes you feel this way. But what his eyes say mostly about him, is how unapologetically kind and gentle he is. Humanity has been around a short time compared to his lifespan, and he just can't help but extend a hand out. A protector, a lover whether it's platonic or romantic. Honest, trustworthy. Of course an angel displays this, but at the same time...he's a challenge. Do you want to know more about him? Tap into his true nature and true feelings without prying too hard that requires him to shut down? Patience. He teaches you that, he is patience in fact. He waited so long to meet someone to cross his path that's like you...millions of faces and yet it's you that catches his interest. All of this in just one look at his eyes? Foreal? Well...yes honestly. Very much a big fucking yes.

@harmlessghosty i promised you a tag, bestie

What do you think each character’s eye design says about them? 👁️

[xasha777]

In the sprawling metropolis of Neo-Brattleboro, where spires scraped the stratosphere and neon lights flickered like stars fallen to earth, the Brattleboro Typographic Company stood as an anachronism. It was a place where old-world craftsmanship met the edge of technology, nestled in the shadow of towering skyscrapers.

They said the founder had been a lover of words, a keeper of history in a world racing towards the future. The company specialized in creating fonts that evoked emotions and encapsulated eras long gone. But as the digital age progressed, the demand for such novelty had waned, and the company had been on the brink of closure.

That was until the day the Colossus came.

No one knew from where the massive robot had emerged, but it stood sentinel-like beside the company's building, a guardian of iron and steel. Its single blue eye seemed to gaze wistfully at the flow of air-cars and the distant ant-like figures of people who scurried through the streets.

Then came the whispers of a secret deep within the company's vaults—a lost font said to unlock the language of the machines. It was a typeface that bridged the divide between humanity and the mechanical beings that had become their partners and protectors.

As the legend grew, so did the queues outside the Brattleboro Typographic Company, with beings of all kinds seeking to unlock communication with the Colossus. It became a symbol of hope, a convergence of past and future, and a beacon for unity between organic and synthetic life.

The Colossus, once seen as an oddity, was now the heart of a tale that spanned the city. Its presence had breathed new life into the company, transforming it from a relic into a hub of innovation and cultural exchange.

And amidst it all, the old fonts held their ground, telling stories that transcended time, while the city throbbed with life around them, a testament to the enduring power of language and the bonds it could forge, even across the vast expanse of stars and steel.

[eternalstarlights]

[lostaroace]

Cats

Day 12 of the 30-days short story challenge

Today's topic is cats. Do you remember my Anders Johnson x Fem!Hades fanfic made for the #Deanobingo2023 hosted by @deanobingo?? Well, I decided to take a peek at Anubis' cats.

CW: different takes on actual and antient religions. Words: 1037

Here it goes:

Anubis had been a growing god since the beginning of times. He started his existence as the protector of graves, embalmer, and guide to the netherworld. Among humans, however, Osiris gained popularity just because he resurrected, Osiris took Anubis's job as lord of the netherworld, god of life, the dead, and the afterlife. That rubbed on Anubis the wrong way, especially since there was nothing he could do because Osiris was one of the most popular gods among Egyptians.

Tables turned when Egyptian religion declined. Monotheism took place and all the false dogma spread like a plague. Just as the Ancient Greek gods had done, the Egyptian ones left the human realm abandoning them without looking back. Osiris was expected to remain in the netherworld and attend to his duties, however, humans didn't respect him anymore which plied up with the notion that he felt the netherworld suffocating. Anubis, who had never dreamt of taking his rightful place once again, suggested to Osiris that it would be good for him to get some fresh air from the gods' realm. Sooner than expected Osiris sent Anubis a missive informing him that he refused to go back and that all his duties were now Anubis'.

Luckily Anubis had left his jackal body behind because if his tail was still in place it would have waged with renewed energy; just the notion was mortifying.

As time went by, his relations with other Mediterranean gods became stronger. In the end, they all had the same issue: humans didn't believe in them anymore which made most of the gods leave the mortal realm leaving behind the gods of the dead and the afterlife to take care of the poor mortal souls that piled up in their thresholds. The holy wars were a nasty business for them. Fighting for a non-exiting almighty god, humans had killed and gotten killed, and now their souls found themselves lost as they all expected to be gathered into some sort of Heaven.

One rule that one has to take into account is that, wherever one dies, one's soul belongs to the local god. Only Hades and Anubis kept working as gods of the dead, thus they divided the Mediterranean area between them. They both worked hand in hand to take care of all the holy wars' souls which wasn't a piece of cake; the fact that both sides found themselves sharing the exact same queue to have their souls weighed or tested was a big shock for them.

Nasty thing monotheism. And to think that the whole thing started just because Loki was sent to Earth and was getting bored…

Hades did something unprecedented at some point. She packed her things needing a change and, of course, to seize Loki and make him pay for all the paperwork he provoked them to do. Apparently, the northern gods had had to run away due to the ferocity of monotheism in those lands; they set themselves in New Zealand, blending their souls into human vessels to regenerate every human life until Odin completed a quest that would take them all to Asgard.

Despite the fact that Hades had changed her realm for New Zealand, she kept doing her work efficiently, and so did Anubis. However, more times than necessary, he found himself looking through the veil to the human realm. After Hades made up her mind and decided to stay in New Zealand as long as her new partner was mortal Anubis knew the human realm was his only chance to keep his sanity.

Copying Hades' actions, Anubis changed his godly appearance in favor of more human traces. He became a tall man with wide shoulders and firm muscles, black eyes, and strong black hair modernly styled in perfect harmony with a well-kept puffy beard. Not only that, he also copied Hades inserting himself in the law business in Egypt. In the end, as gods of the dead, they seemed to gain pleasure in applying laws and doing paperwork —to some extent, of course.

Hence his current position eying some of the latest paperwork Hades had sent him, written in ancient Greek, in his very luxurious law firm.

Silently, Mummy jumped on his desk blinking at him once he looked at her. The white cat was sensing his distress. Leaving his stylus aside, Anubis pulled away from the desk taking a deep breath. Mummy moved carefully on top of his documents before letting herself drop into his lap. She stretched herself before hitting Anubis' chin with her head while purring. The god surrounded the cat with his big arms and walked with her against his chest making a beeline to the Chesterfield sofa that was awaiting him for a moment of relaxation. As he launched at it, Mummy left out a little meow before resuming her work.

Implementing the use of cats as emotional-support pets instead of just guards of the dead was a very good idea. Anubis and Hades were drinking their miseries away several centuries ago when they came to the conclusion that their souls were terrified of both, Greek three-headed dogs and furless cats. They trained their animals to be soul keepers for millennia, but a change was needed thus they started the new training with the new litters.

Hades had accomplished a great deal by allowing her three-headed dogs to transform into cute normal dogs, especially golden retrievers. Her souls felt more at ease when the emotional support beast was cute and ready to cuddle.

Anubis did the same, only with the difficulty that cats were more independent than dogs yet they needed more attention somehow. Only a cat wasn't enough to keep his stressed souls happy, he had to lend his cats in pairs.

There was also the issue of those people in his realm who didn't like cats. Anubis and Hades signed a collaboration treat in which they were going to share cats and dogs when necessary. There has not been a problem since.

Flail jumped into his stomach claiming her own time smoothing Anubis' emotions. Mummy allowed her sister a spot reluctantly leaving Anubis with no other choice but to scratch each cat with one of his hands, the paperwork could wait.

The end.

[dedicatedfollower467]

actually, no, @screechthemighty, congratulations, you're peer reviewed.

#so true!!!#like I've been thinking about this. in the stampede timeline knives was more in danger from humans than vash ever was#at least he was when they were kids#because it was knives who had working plant powers. knives was the one who had to hide.#vash was the one who was practically human#yes they might have still poked at him a bit but there was MUCH more incentive to do unethical science on knives#so if anything had gone wrong and humanity had decided to do round 2 on the fun new plant subtype#it would've been HIM getting cancer and being kept dismantled in suspended animation#BUT. if he convinces himself that he's stronger. that he has his weapons his powers#(and yes millions knives is objectively a very silly name#but it's kind of sad when you think of it as like. his reminder to himself that he has options#that he has something that means nothing can touch him unless he allows it)#then that means he was never in danger. VASH was. he can shove all fear for himself onto his brother#the weak one the powerless one#and then it's okay because that makes him a protector and a hero#the gunslinger who fights the bad guys#not the man who's slowly ruining his brother's life#...sorry for the tag essay I've just been holding onto that thought for weeks for fic reasons#anyways this plant would break every therapist he spoke to fr#trigun#tristamp#a queue? in my blog? (more likely than you think)

Ok but I don't actually think Knives is telling the truth when he says he did it All for Vash. He WANTS it to be true, he NEEDS it to be true, in order to manipulate Vash and also for his own peace of mind. Really, I think he made an emotionally-charged decision fueled by rage at what they did to Tesla and terrible fear that they would do the same- yes, to Vash, but also to him. It was for himself just as much as it was for Vash. But he's retroactively creating a narrative where he was motivated solely by love and made a perfectly logical decision. One, so that he can make Vash feel culpable and therefore like he has no choice but to be on Knives side- since his decision has effectively already been made for him. But two, also because he doesn't want to face the fact that he hurt Vash (and maybe humanity, idk if he actually hates us or is just telling himself that yet) out of fear and anger and that he may have made a mistake. In a sense, incredibly, he's attempting to shift the blame for his own actions onto Vash as the supposed reason for those actions.

[aercnaut-archived]

@manaborn said: “ will you quit talking like that?! i’m not leaving you behind! “

" 'preciate the thought, kid, but i think we both know how this is gonna end. "

with him dead in a world far from his own because of his own stubbornness -- why didn't he just let the witches help? -- leaving another child alone and defenseless. he hasn't known the redhead long, but gwen has proven herself just as fearless as lyra, with all the audacity that came with it. funny how he keeps finding precocious teenagers with such intense need to save everyone.

hester raises her little head, giving him a look with pained, fading gold irises. remind you of anyone? she still doesn't speak, but it hardly seems to matter now.

" i just got one request for ya, gwen: when you see my friend -- and you'll know its him, he's missing a few fingers -- tell him to tell lyra i tried. "

[survivingnightbyday]

the amount of attention part one of my Context/marvel-danny phantom WIP received makes me feel very emotional, thank you.

In that same sentence, I have more motivation to not put it down! Yay! So.

I have headcanons. Or kinda notes about what was going on.

Edit I meant to put this in a queue, crap.

So! Most of the time, Danny phantom is placed in like early EARLY 2000s right? Marvel is ever so slightly ahead of that. So... I'm skewing the timeline! Anything that's Avengers takes place AFTER individual movies (so Iron Man the trilogy are before the first movie) because I despise the time gaps and I would rather not write about those (unless I fill it with drama about Danny trying to get Amity Park back under control and Ghost Politics)

I mean, my general sense for both (no matter how many times I watch marvel, I always space out smh) of the timelines are already murky. But this'll take place like a year after the accident I think, and a week before summer break. I just got out of highschool, I do Not Want To Write About It.

So Danny's still pretty young. Anyways. The chitauri invasion is a couple of days after Part 1. Not many, but like one or two. Yeah... uh... Danny's getting out of school early. His family are Freaking Out. As is the rest of Amity Park. Phantom is gone, and the ghosts are ALSO freaking out because their resident playmate and territory protector is GONE so new not so nice murdery ghosts are starting to be a bit... attracted to the resident town with a hole in reality in it.

So, Strange and Wong are the ones who summoned Danny. They don't know everything about the future, but they know enough that they need backup. Stuff is going to go Down, and that's kinnnda scary. So they want to get the Ghost King to make a deal with them. If it gets too bad, the Ghost King can put the people in the GZ or help out in general.

The thing is... Pariah Dark is a known cruel king. The order (i forgot what they were called ;-;) have dealt with him before, and they are Not keen to do it again. However, Strange being Strange decides that future events are more dangerous than a pissy ghost king.

...they aren't expecting a pint-sized baby-face ghost. Who talks about Pariah like he's a toddler throwing a tantrum.

And who can break out of ghost barriers and time-pauses, apparently.

Danny's had enough close encounters with timelines and time magic/energy stuff to build up a bit of a... resistance. Add to his halfa status and general overpoweredness, and he can do a LOT of reality breaking. If he leans into one side more though, he can mess himself up. Like if he's being Danny Fenton and is showing off ghost powers, he could end up puking ectoplasm as a sign of straining himself. If he's Danny Phantom (only Amity people know him as Danny Phantom though) and straining his more human qualities, his core starts hurting. Badly. (This leads into smth else that I have a plan in mind for but I'm not getting into.)

Back to Strange's and Wong's POV. So, they tried to catch him when he broke the barrier via utilizing timepausing (i cannot for the life of me remember the actual term), but as most know that doesn't work. Danny gets out of the house, and vanishes.

...Strange and Wong are having both an argument and a mental breakdown at the same time. Did they just accidently unleash some new overpowered ghost or-?

Who even WAS that and WHY did he show up when they summoned the Ghost King?

Unless...

[therealvinelle]

how do you think book 3 of breaking dawn would have gone if bella had stayed dead?

Well, Renesmée is traumatized, for starters. There was one person in the universe who loved her more than anything, and she killed her. Thanks to her hybrid memory being perfect, she won’t forget a moment of that awful birth either.

Rosalie would swoop in, be a very performative Stepford mother who ultimately isn’t that good at it, and in the long run make Renesmée feel all the lonelier.

I’d imagine her relationship with Edward would be much more fraught. He couldn’t save Mother. Edward would blame himself too, of course, he’d be devastated by grief, and the knowledge that Bella’s daughter felt the same would make it even worse. It’d be a mess, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the family to grieve and to spare his daughter from growing up around her mother’s killer (which is how he’d come to view things).

I imagine Jake would try to get custody. Her mother is dead, her father is a wreck who may or may not have fucked off to Rio, really the best place for Renesmée is with him. Rosalie nearly commits manslaughter, while Carlisle puts on his best upside down smiley face, “no.”

Carlisle would be a much bigger part of Renesmée’s life, because there’s not a lot of options. He cringes the first time Renesmée calls him “Papa”.

Apart from that, the story stays the same.

Irina still goes to visit the Cullens, and she still spots Renesmée. She narks to the Volturi, and Carlisle has to frantically gather his army witnesses. The showdown still happens.

And this time there’s no shield.

Aro no longer has reason to execute them.

The Cullens and their witnesses aren’t threats, as proven by the fact that Alec uses his power on them and they drop like flies. The Volturi are in complete control of the situation.

Now, why would they execute the Cullens?

They haven’t broken any laws. 

Some of the witnesses present, like the Romanians, are there because they want to see the Volturi fall, but the Volturi are as supreme as ever. Even if Caius pushes through on executing them, it’s no reason to kill Carlisle.

I don’t think Aro was lying that day when he said he didn’t want to kill everyone. He didn’t know at the time that Bella could protect everybody, so there was no point in going «hope you haven’t broken the law so you won’t die. Oh, you haven’t, well, psyche! You’re all gonna die anyway.»

As it was, Aro had witnesses of his own, and the Cullens had created a huge splash already insisting they were innocent. Killing 20-something (I forget how many people Carlisle had) vampires would damage the Volturi’s reputation as fair rulers and murdering his best friend would be Aro cutting off his nose to spite his face. I don’t think he was queueing up to wipe out a newly discovered, exciting species, either, though Caius would be on the yes-side for that one.

Point is, I think the reasons not to kill the Cullens outweigh the reasons to kill them by far. Aro’s had his show of power, now he can show mercy and get to preserve his best friend’s life and come out looking like a fair and wise leader.

I think he’d ask that Renesmée come to Volterra for observation, which would be a de facto invite for all the Cullens to come.

From there it’s smooth sailing for Aro, not so smooth for the Cullens. Or Caius, for that matter, his palace is full of Carlisle wannabes and the OG himself, and there’s an abomination running around.

Aro is able to fix his relationship with Carlisle, much of the plot of Twilight is fuelled by miscommunications and character assassinations, now they could talk it out. His decision to spare Carlisle’s family would give him credence, and there’s always Chelsea.

In Volterra the Cullens would implode, as they always do. 

If Alice and Jasper came along in the first place (I’m on the fence on them. They’re loyal to their family, and would know that neglecting to come along, and so soon after ditching them once already, would effectively be leaving the coven for good. On the other hand, Alice would be very paranoid about not being allowed to leave. With Renesmée in the mix her visions wouldn’t be able to help her, so... yeah, she wouldn’t come along. Carlisle forgave Edward’s rebel years, she’d count on him accepting this too. And he would, he’d be entirely understanding, even as they were both standing there talking about meeting up in ten years knowing it’s not going to happen) they’d be the first to go. Edward would go into protector of the family mode and try to play political games with Aro, it would be embarrassing for everyone. 

Renesmée would have it better there.

Here would be a home with no reminders of her dead mother, a home not heaved down by constant grief and with a gaping wound in its core. She’d have new people, a lot of them. It’d be very healing for her.

Rosalie would double down on trying to mother here before realizing that Renesmée doesn’t need her, and now that the Cullens aren’t doing the human lifestyle she needs (Carlisle would bat his eyelashes at Aro so he could do night shifts at the local hospital, but that would be it) there would really be nothing for her in Volterra.

Edward would leave, and while Esme’s been having a great time redecorating the tower, she would not bear him going off on his own.

The Cullens leave Volterra one by one.

In the end there’s only Carlisle and Renesmée, and Aro high-fives imself.