#hes a very unlucky rabbit

[callmegaith]

"What's done is done and I can't go back

Seems like luck was not on my side this time"

[broken-clover]

Regularly frustrated by the fact that most of my fixations aren't mainstream enough to have much in the way of official merch, but for the sake of both my sanity and my wallet, that's probably a good thing

[werecreature-addicted]

I have been waiting for this! This has been stuck in my head since you mentioned how there's too many werewolf x bunny fics.

Imagine there's a village of prey hybrids. All the villagers that live there are some kind of prey animal.

The village is very peaceful, but is the target of a tribe of predator hybrids that dwell in the deepest part of the forest.

Every year, these predator hybrids would attack the prey village and would kidnap any villager unlucky enough to be caught.

These attacks typically happen around mid to late spring, from dusk to well into the night.

The prey villagers always hide around this time, but at least one to three people end up being taken.

Last year was one of the reader's friends. A sweet little sheep that was said to be taken by a large male black wolf. Poor girl was likely eaten by that horrible beast! (In a way she was eaten~)

This year, it is reader's turn.

Reader is a deer hybrid that got caught while out gathering food in the forest. Only to be jumped by a strong and handsome male mountain lion hybrid and taken back to his tribe.

There reader finds her friend as well as other people from her village, all well and alive and with large clearly pregnant bellies as well as a few children.

Turns out the predator tribe has been taking people from your village as their mates. Even treating their prey mates with the utmost care.

Something the reader will understand fully once she's been bred with her first litter of cubs.

your parents had always warned you to be careful when you left the safety of the village, especially during spring when nearby predators would go into heat and kill little deer girls like you to feed to keep up their strength. You were so careful, the fastest in the herd, the best at running away, no predator could ever catch you....other people weren't so lucky. Every year a few people would go missing, trail too close to the border, stay out foraging after sunset, and disappear.

Most of the time, you don't know the prey who gets taken, but sometimes you do, like when your best friend got dragged off by a horrifying wolf. You grieved the loss of your friend and redoubled your commitment to safety... but you got cocky. you were the fastest in your age group, no one could catch you, especially not some heavy, slow predator.

It's a warm spring evening, the breeze gentle and sweet, smelling like honeysuckle and green grass. the sunsets casting the valley in golden light, your basket is full of fat wild blackberries. how could anything go wrong on a day like this? A twig snaps to your right, and you turn and freeze, looking carefully at the tree line. you don't see anything... but your heart is still racing, by the time you spot the hungry green eyes peering up at you it's already too late. you take off running, but for once, you aren't fast enough.

The mountain lion pounces and lifts you off of your feet, throwing you easily over his broad shoulders, you freeze, your heart beating faster and faster, you need to think, he hasn't killed and eaten you yet- maybe you could escape, you just need to keep your head.

It's a much shorter journey to the preditor village than you would have thought, you'd never traveled far from home so you had no idea that they were so close this whole time. What's even more surprising is the amount of prey animals, wandering around town and looking happy. A rabbit boy with big floppy ears hanging off the arm of a buff-looking wolf, a deer hybrid like yourself flirting with two different lions, and a sheep- a sheep that you recognize. Your eyes go wide as it clicks into place. the people being taken weren't being killed at all.

The mountain lion puts you down and looks at you closely, evaluating you. "I wasn't too rough was I? You're not hurt?" he asks. you shake your head slowly

"n-no. I'm not hurt just- scared," you admit shyly. He nuzzles you comfortingly,

"awe, don't worry my mate, I'll keep you safe... I won't let anything happen to you, no one else will touch you while you're with me," he purrs and you shift, embarrassed to tell him that it was him you were afraid of. although you had to admit if this big scary mountain lion is guarding you, and claiming you as their mate, you do feel a little safer.

[myhappylittlesideblog]

Gotch-yer Back

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.5K

Warnings: Violence, Walker death, other TWD character death (Amy), Daryl being a bit of a jerk and then fixing it, let me know if there's anything else! Basically what seems to be regular TWD fanfic warnings. Also I believe this is only Fem!Reader because he calls Reader "girl."

Summary: A retelling of the night walkers attack at the quarry and how you and Daryl help each other deal with the aftermath.

You tried to remember the last time you’d eaten fish. It had been a while, a few weeks maybe? A few long weeks forcing yourself to eat squirrel or a rabbit if you were lucky. Or if you were unlucky, even snake. You’d eat whatever was caught if you were hungry enough, or simply to stay alive another day.

Fish was a delicacy these days. The girls- Amy and Andrea had caught a load of them in the quarry. It was white fish which had always been your favorite. It was easy to cook and fell apart in yummy flakes. Hell, you didn’t even need a fork.

It was hot in your mouth and the heat of the meal radiated in your belly. The group chewed and chattered while you were lost in your own thoughts. Your mother used to make a great dish when you lived with her. Cod with a breading on top that was made with Ritz crackers. You missed her. You missed her cooking. You wondered where she was now-

Everyone laughed suddenly and the sound made you jump.

“William Faukner,” Dale said, smiling.

Lori reached over Carl and rested a comforting hand on your arm. Understanding glowed in her eyes in the firelight. Loud noises always made you nervous these days.

By the time you saw the pan of fish that had been passed around, the last filet was being pulled out of it by a stabbing fork.

“Shouldn’t we save some?” you asked Lori. “The guys’ll be back soon.”

“We’ll catch some more tomorrow,” Andrea said to you, catching your attention from a few seats down.

“Yeah,” Amy said. “We’re pros.” 

Despite the light conversation, Lori looked grim. You and her seemed to be the only people worried about the men who’d gone off to find Merle and the bag of guns that was left in the street in Atlanta. She had her arm around Carl as he munched and grinned at Dale. You couldn’t imagine how she was feeling about her husband’s return, nevermind his volunteering to lead the charge back into one of the most dangerous places in this new age. He’d just gotten back. It was written all over her face as she gazed into the flames of the fire.

You weren’t a fan of Merle. In fact, you disliked him thoroughly. The pit in your gut surrounding his abandonment had nothing to do with his safety, or his life, but with Daryl’s. You weren’t even sure if you liked the younger Dixon either. He seemed to follow too closely in his brother’s footsteps to be safe or dependable. Or even nice. But you did respect him. After all, he’d helped to keep you safe and almost single handedly kept the group fed with his hunting and tracking skills. 

Still, no. He wasn’t very nice.

You had a feeling, however, that you had his respect in return. It only took a few crude remarks from Merle for you to fire back at him with enough force to keep him off your back for a few days. Daryl apparently hadn’t been too far away that day and had heard your reply to Merle’s degrading comments. 

“Impressive,” he’d said. “For a quiet girl.”

The next time Merle got colorful with his words towards you, Daryl was the one to take the heat for you. Told his brother to quit it. Since then, your relationship with the older Dixon was extremely minimal and even when it was forced, he left you alone.

Though you wouldn’t have missed Merle one bit, you watched Daryl take the news of his desertion when the cop- Rick- told him what had happened on the supply run. While you of course expected fury from Daryl, you hadn’t expected such emotion to fly out of him. He was a wrecking ball of threats and fists with tears running down his dirty cheeks. It was sad.

He must have seen the pity in your face then. When you called to him, tried to calm him down and move him away from Shane, he’d shoved you. “Get lost, girl.”

Needless to say, the men in this group were difficult. But at least the others were in the group. Daryl was on the outskirts of it and without his brother, it would be too easy for him to get thrust out. While you didn’t want that, you knew it was also vital for the survival of the group for him to stay. You had a feeling he wasn’t as impenetrable as the armor he wore.

You were worried about Daryl. You were also worried about Glenn and T-Dog, and Rick- Lori and Carl included. And as you sat there before the fire, you wondered what the hell would happen if Merle returned.

That was when you heard Amy scream. You didn’t recognize the sound at first, it was so sudden and so loud. It was a cry of anguish and fear. One that begged for help.

After that, it was chaos.

You turned over your shoulder, watching Amy and her assailant, even pondering for a split second who had snuck into the camp. What stranger would go after a girl just trying to go to the bathroom. But of course, it wasn’t a who. It was a what.

“Get behind me!” Shane roared. 

You knew there wasn’t time. Reaching into your pocket, you grabbed the unfamiliar hunting knife you had with you and unsheathed it. You stepped over the log you’d been sitting on, away from the fire, but also further away from Shane and the safety of his gun, towards one of the geeks. It wasn’t just ugly and rank and dead, it was terrifying. The look of it, the smell of it made your stomach sink so far, it felt like it’d fell out of your body.

It snarled and gnashed its mouth at you while its thin, wiry fingers reached for you, but all the while, you focused on its hair. It was the same in death as it was in life- long locks of protein that couldn’t hurt you. Harmless. So you aimed your knife there.

In the brain, in the brain, it has to be in the brain, don’t you know anything-

The thing stopped once your knife sunk into its skull. Its arms dropped to its hollow sides and its lifeless eyes looked at you, long enough to send a shudder through you before it dropped to the ground, taking your one and only weapon with it. 

“Get up here! Come to the RV!” you heard.

There were more screams, the thunk of childhood baseball bats slamming into hard skulls, the echoing sound of gunshots. Closer to you, though, and more urgently, there was deep guttural snarling, groaning and gurgling- the sound of the dead coming for you.

Shane had brought the children to the RV, safe, their backs leaning against the cold metal. Lori and Carol were there, Jim was at the treeline with his bat, Andrea on the ground with- with Amy. Amy’s body. You were alone. In the middle of the chaos, too far from any other living humans to take any aid.

“(Y/N)! Get up here! Jim!” Shane’s voice was hoarse.

You dove for your knife, yanking it out of the walker’s head with a squelch. You could only manage three or four steps up the hill before another undead was upon you. It was too close, its long nails a hair’s breadth away from your bare skin and its decaying teeth lunging closer with every stride. Again, you had to gather all your strength, grip your knife tight and focus- be calm enough to aim for the enemy’s brain. You had one chance, or you’d turn into one of them.

Carl would have to see it, Sophia, Lori. Daryl.

You grunted with the effort and the tip of the knife hit home and sunk into the geek’s head. This time you were able to free your knife before the thing fell to the ground. You scanned the land in front of you, looking for more threats. There were so many bodies on the ground. Bodies of people from your group, people that you’d gotten to know. They were lying still now. Leaking onto the dirt.

Then an arm wrapped around your middle and dragged you uphill. You screamed and thrashed, but whatever had you was strong.

“It’s me,” his voice rasped in your ear. 

It immediately calmed you. You held onto Daryl’s arm as if it were a buoy saving you from drowning in gray, storming waves of a murderous ocean. He led you to the others near the van and deposited you there before letting go of you.

He was back. You saw Rick, T-Dog and Glenn, all in various states of emotional disrepair, but Daryl just looked around, calmly taking in the carnage. 

“Daryl,” you said to him, “you okay?”

“Whaddah you think?” he snarled. “Ya see mah brother anywhere? Huh?”

So the moment was short lived. You ignored whatever he said next, running your hand along the outside of the RV, using it as a crutch as you moved to check on Carol and Sophia, then on Lori. You didn’t have it in you to survey much more than that. You trembled from the inside out and watched Rick hug his little boy as tears streamed down his face. 

At least they were back. 

It was somewhat painstakingly decided that you would all save the cleanup for tomorrow morning. The survivors had vans or tents to escape into. To leave the dead outside. Except for Andrea. One look at her- that was all you could handle- and you knew she wasn’t going to leave her sister any time soon.

You fell to your knees, jeans sinking into the soft dirt and stared into the flames of the campfire that was still burning strong. It was only then you found the hunting knife still in your tight grip, crusted over with brown, lumpy goo. At that point in the night, you couldn’t understand exactly what the remains were and for that, you were grateful. The bit of blade still showing reflected in the light coming from the pit, shades of orange and red glowing between your fingers. 

Shane crouched beside you and though his landing was silent and agile, you jumped.

“S’alright,” he said, taking the weapon out of your scrunched hand. “Lemme clean it.”

“I can clean it,” Daryl grumbled from above, snatching the knife from Shane. “S’mine anyway.”

Shane let it happen, concentrating on you. He carefully set a hand on your shoulder. “Ya did good,” he said.

“You too,” you answered, like a little league pitcher on the losing team. 

He stood and put his hands on his hips. “Try ta get some rest,” he said from the air.

You nodded.

Only when Shane was gone, did Daryl move closer to you. He sat on the ground and leaned back against the log the group had been using as dinner seats less than an hour ago. He sat back for a while, leaving you to watch the flames die down as he worked one of his rags into the crevices of the hunting knife. Slowly, you heard the others of the group- those living- say goodnight to each other and slide into their respective dwellings for what was left of the evening.

Distantly, though he sat just beside you, you heard Daryl speak. “S’right bout one thing.”

“Hm?”

“Ya did good. I saw ya when we were runnin’ up the hill. Doin’ what I told ya to do.”

You turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at you. Your feet stung under you, asleep after kneeling on them for so long, as you moved to sit on your bottom next to Daryl. He turned the cleaned knife in his hand before passing it you, handle out.

You shook your head. “It’s yours.”

He plopped it on your lap. “S’yours now. I gave it to ya. You’ll need it.”

You didn’t want to need it. He knew that too. All the same, it was a good thing he’d left it with you when he went to Atlanta. If he didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting next to him right now. Speaking to him. Feeling the heat that didn’t just emit from the fire, but from him by your side as well. 

“Thank you,” you said, sliding the knife back into its sheath and into your pocket, where you hoped it would stay, unneeded for a long time. Or at least for the rest of the night.

You turned to him, but again, he wasn’t looking at you. He rarely did. But you knew he was still there, still with you by the way his head tilted towards you. Like he was watching you out of the corner of his eye. As if you were a deer in the forest, ready to bolt away from him at any moment.

“I’m sorry you didn’t find Merle.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah right. You hate Merle.”

“Hate is a strong word,” you said.

He chuckled- a grim, gruff sound deep in his chest. 

You watched him, feeling free to do so since he so rarely looked you in the eye. He was biting the inside of his lip over and over and picking at his fingernails. 

You waited.

He peeked at you, inhaling deep. “Didn’ mean ta snap atcha. Earlier.”

When he yelled, you thought. By the RV, after he’d pulled you to safety. 

You nodded. “S’alright. It’s been a tough day all around.”

Humming in agreement, he turned back to the fire. You two were square now. But you also hoped he knew that if he snapped at you like that again, you wouldn’t be so quick to forgive. 

There was a flapping from above that shook the leaves in the trees. It was a soft, peaceful sound of nature, but after this night, in this new world, it startled you to your core.

“Just a bird,” Daryl said.

You sucked in a breath that made your lungs quake in your chest. “I’m sick of being so scared all the damn time,” you mumbled, tipping your head forward, holding your face in your hands. Things had only been like this for two months? Three? And you were already exhausted, tired of it all. How much longer could you take? Or, how much longer would it take for you to just-

Daryl stood. “Come on,” he said. He waved toward his tent. “Gotta getcha away from this damn bloodbath ‘er you’ll never calm down.”

You violently shook your head. “I can’t- I don’t wanna be alone-”

He was already walking toward the tent he shared with Merle. “Yer stayin’ with me. So I know where ya are.”

Your system went from fight or flight to frozen. He- Daryl- wanted you- where? After every shove and snap and swear towards you, now he wanted you to come with him? To be in his space? Overnight?

You stared at him. He tossed his crossbow into his tent, lifting the flap and heading inside when he turned back and saw you still on the ground in front of the fire.

“Or do ya wanna stay out here alone?”

“No.”

“Then get off yer ass.”

You scrambled to your feet and scurried to the tent’s flap. You felt like a scolded child, like your dignity had been left in the dirt, but you didn’t care. After the walker attack, you couldn’t be alone and you had been trusting Daryl with your life for weeks now, not that you’d ever tell anyone that. You felt the safest when you were with him. Tonight you needed that. Especially tonight. 

“Ya can take that side,” Daryl mumbled, pointing. 

The tent was small. Big enough to stand up in, but not very wide. There were two sleeping bags strewn out close to each other with a lumpy pillow on each. He tossed an extra blanket onto the side he told you to take. It was the one with the crossbow at its foot. And you recognized his cut off flannel shoved into the duffle beside it.

“I can’t take your bed.”

“Ain’t a bed,” he said, spreading the other sleeping bag open flat and sitting on it.

“Well, I can’t take your bag.”

“Would you rather stick your face in Merle’s pillow all night?”

You grimaced, thinking of the monster of a man and what he’d probably done to that innocent pillow.

“Thought not,” Daryl said. He grumbled it, but you heard the smirk in his voice.

“The definition of ‘pick your poison’,” you said, crouching to sit on the soft sleeping bag. 

“Girl-” Daryl said, swatting at you as he rolled over, putting his back to you.

You swung back, smacking his shoulder. “I was kidding.”

In answer, he gave another blind swat, making you giggle. 

You laid back into the double layer of sleeping bag, enjoying the way it was cool to the touch underneath you. The pillow, though thin, felt nice when you situated it under your head the way you liked it. Everything around you smelled like him- gas, grease, cigarettes- yes, but something else too. It wasn’t a bad smell, just a natural one. Just Daryl.

You were laying on your side, facing him. You watched him sink into the darkness as you spun the dial on the lantern until it turned off. Dark, though it was, you could still see his form clearly. Not sleeping yet. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” you said.

He grunted, flopping to lay on his back and folding one of his arms under his head. “Get some sleep.”

It was then you realized how small the tent really was. When he laid on his back, his leg could almost touch your knee as you curled up on your side. He was an enigma, alright, you thought. Couldn’t bear to look you in the eye, saved your life, snapped at you in front of everyone and now slept beside you like it was nothing.

You sighed, following suit and laying on your back too. “Don’t think I’m gonna be able to catch much of that,” you said.

His pillow rustled as he looked toward you. “What the hell happened there?” He took your hand from where it rested over your forehead and studied the angry red scrapes and purple bruising on your knuckles. “This happen tonight?”

“No,” you said, taking your hand from his grasp and tucking it under you, embarrassed. “Happened earlier.”

“How’d you bust it up like that?”

“I, um… I just hurt it. Against Ed’s face.”

Daryl gave a laughing hiss. “I saw his face. You did that?”

“Some of it. Shane did the rest.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“He had it comin’,” you said, barely finishing the last word and regretting saying anything at all. Ed may have deserved a few punches, hell, he deserved jail time. But what happened to him tonight- eaten alive, alone- you weren’t sure anyone deserved that. It made your stomach roll in your gut and you stung with shame.

“Fucking badass, girl,” Daryl said.

It was quiet in the dark for a long moment. 

“M’not, Daryl. I’m just fucking scared.”

There was more rustling beside you as Daryl shimmied around on his sleeping bag. 

“Turn over. That way,” he said.

You did as he told you, laying on your side with your back to him. His body moved up against yours, his heat blooming on your shoulders, bum, and the backs of your legs. A little too forcefully, he lifted your head to slide his arm underneath and cradle you close.

“Ain’t nothin’ gettin’ in this tent tonight. I gotch’yer back. You can handle your front.”

You nodded, feeling tears gather in your eyes. Your cheeks were hot, as though they were on fire as you cried, finally letting out the emotion of the evening. The death, the kills, the fear, and the relief all ran down your face and into your shirt or onto Daryl’s pillow or his arm supporting your head. As your breath caught, he reached around you with his free arm, hugging you close and rubbing his thumb on the skin of your injured hand. You grasped him hard. You needed to.

Before this night, you weren’t sure what you thought of the younger Dixon brother. He was rough and nasty and you wondered just how much he took after Merle. Before this moment, you thought he’d run for the hills if you ever touched him with one single finger, nevermind your whole body- your whole being like you were now. But he was there, still with you and unbothered. Safe.

“Sleep,” he mumbled.

You nodded, squeezing his hand again before letting it go and allowing your body to relax against his. And eventually, in his arms, listening to his steady breath, you slept.

[crucian-tador-hb]

let's talk about the main problems in all rings..

warning: these are all my theories and hcs

Pride: everything is quite obvious, but I have to say that Lilith is a very good ruler, if it weren't for the constant wars, this ring could be a good place to live. there is literally everything from all the other rings here

all the rings are economically connected to it

Wrath: the ring was unlucky with the location, it's very hot, but there's plenty of food thanks to the residents, by the way there are a lot of them, imps breed like rabbits, but it seems only they can survive here

economically, this ring clearly supplies food

I think life here is similar to life in the depths and outside the city where there is nothing, but you can safely live your rest old life on the farm

if you played rdr 2 you can imagine life here

Gluttony: ideal living conditions, the ring is located between the water and the desert, fruits are lying everywhere, the fauna of the jungle, it is an eternal ideal resort, but here the disgusting ruler

Bee can be very cute in appearance and seem to do everything for the good, but you can look at the life of its residents - hellhounds and immediately understand that besides parties this sin doesn't care about anything

economically, this ring also supplies food and fruits, as well as plants

hardly anyone lives here, mostly just having fun

Greed: we all know Mammon's problems, but let's face it, without this ring, the economy would have collapsed, he literally produces everything

yes, it would be more logical to install several factories on each ring so as not to spoil the environment, but we have what we have

the population here is small, few can survive, and it is not profitable to feed an extra mouth

Lust: I think Ozzie is a good ruler, but he completely killed his ecosystem

everything here is literally set up like a board in a computer

surely there are deserts and hurricanes with tornadoes everywhere, because skyscrapers are literally the reason for this, plus water is constantly dripping from above

but I don't know if we can blame him

compared to other rings, he is the only one who gives work to everyone and workers need to live somewhere, I think this ring is the second if not the first in terms of the number of population, second only to Wrath and Pride

(and no, it's not because everyone is "fuck" here, the residents here are developed enough to know what contraception is)

he is also a demon of passion and he does too many projects

I think he first built up the entire territory, and then began to build in height

Sloth: I think Belphegor is also a good ruler

here everything is like in "lazy europe" no one is in a hurry, works a little and mostly everything is slooooowwwww

because perhaps the ruler does not understand that not everyone is immortal

Envy: I left this ring for last because we don't know almost anything, only that the inhabitants of this ring are mostly at Greed, mostly because of the water

there must be a big fauna but only deep-sea creatures live here

If you've watched Bojack there's a city underwater, maybe here is the same

I think this ring is also a resort

[heartfullofleeches]

Sunday Broadcast Crew

A quick run through of the (existing) cast for Sunday Broadcast - a T.V Show in which Sunday (Clown Reader) is the star. Lemme know what y'all think-

Sunday the Clown/Clown Reader - Silly, Kind Hearted Clown. Only wants the best for everyone.

Telly (he/they/it) - Sunday's tag along and (second) best friend. A slightly mischievous television who always comes around when needed. Knows more than he's willing to tell, but as long as Sunday is safe he keeps his big mouth shut.

Gus (he/they) Sir (he/it) - A silly clown and his best friend, an anthropomorphic rabbit with a bad habit and a bad attitude. Sir can often be found chewing gum as smoking is forbidden during show hours. Low-key hates Gus, but is his best friend. Gus is unaware of his bed friends true feelings - loves everyone one and thing, but loves Sunday the most (please keep that a secret)

Melan (she/they) and Holly (she/her) - A sad jester and her best friend, a sweet housewife clown who tries her best to cheer her dear up. Melan is an unlucky girl who has little success with her tricks, often can be found sobbing in her room until Sunday, Holly or her siblings can convince her to come out.

Ventri (They/them) and Tres (they/it) - A playful mime and their.....friend? Pet? Ventri is a mime who doubles as a ventriloquist to some extent. Enjoys making hand puppets of their friends and can never be seen without one. "Speaks" solely through their puppets, their ability to mimic voices is scarily accurate. Tres is a giant wood puppet with a candy dispenser fitted into their stomach/chest. Gives candy to those who deserve it, bites those who don't.

Gus, Melan, and Ventri are all related. Sir, Holly, and Tres are their "imaginary friends" who are only visible to those who believe in them/they trust.

Thirteenth (they/them) and Wishbone (they/them) - An unlucky cat and a fortune rabbit shoved into a miserable companionship. The two cancel each other out in terms of their unnatural luck/unluck leading to them being unable to be apart for long. The two can hardly stand each other, their only common interests being Sunday. Wishbone has a permanent limp in their right leg following an accident they don't like to talk about. Thirteenth had their eye torn out by a broken shard of glass.

Margo Maggie (she/her) - An apple girl sweet as can be. Can easily be found in her garden tending to her crops. Her name is not "Margo Maggie" as much as it is Margo and Maggie as Maggie is her best friend abd biggest helper. Maggie has never been seen by anyone else due to how shy they are. If you happen to find a single tooth in an apple Margo gives you, please return it. It isn't not ripe yet.

Ferret (he/him) - A timid doll boy with an intense jealousy streak. Jealous of his peers for being able to feel and eat, and do everything else a normal human can do. The only reason he can "see" is because his eyes are glass. The empty cavity of his body is filled with fake organs and bones. If he is to ever loose a part of himself.... The best thing to do is hold your breath and hope he mistakes you for a doll like him.

The Handyman (It) - Keeps things in order, tolerates Sunday alone, very handy, likes balls of yarn.

Charlie - Charlotte? Charles? Charlene? Sunday's best and only friend :)

[oreosmama]

What's in a Virtue (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Gaz wants you, but the hotel bar you work at has rules; when a bartender calls dibs, all others have to back off. It's how the peace is kept, and as the new girl just trying to rack up some savings, you're not willing to rock the boat.

But Gaz doesn't take kindly to you avoiding him, and he's never been one to beat around the bush. From confessing his love on the first night you met to shouting your name seven times from across the bar, he's not letting you off the hook that easy. Not when he's seen the proof that you've fallen just as hard for him.

A/N: idk man i accidentally googled who ghost was like a week ago and fell so deep into the hot cod men rabbit hole so here we are. Enjoy!

Word count: 8261

Gaz is pretty sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a surprising discovery at 11 pm in an American hotel bar drinking the worst scotch he’s ever had. It’s even more surprising because he just discovered you existed all of thirty minutes ago. 

He’s got his glass swirling between two nimble fingers, trying to find that line between hating his drink and actually putting it down. And he’s watching you. 

You’re the same bartender who’d asked him (in a horrible imitation of his accent) if he’d wanted his neat scotch “shaken, not stirred.” You’d flushed after you said it and promised to leave him joke-free for the rest of the night. He’d laughed, a bit hollow from his circumstances, and told you it was all right. That he liked it, and that made you flush a little more. 

Now, you scuttle like an ant past the other worker, a blonde who’s been making eyes at him all night. Your face is split into this unabashed grin, grippable hips bouncing off the counter as you sweep by and reach below for a bottle, giving him a view of the enviable dip between your breasts. 

At first, he thinks it’s just that. Too much American booze, not enough inhibitions; both sending him into that post-mission spiral that makes him touchy and want to touch all at the same time. And he finds it’s nice to watch you rattling glasses and wiping up spills; it’s soothing, the way your eyes are alight with life in this ritzy place, seemingly unbothered by the high level of customers. He especially likes the way you mock the spoiled sods when you can get away with it. 

The hotel must be experiencing the perfect storm of weddings, proms, and business meetings—not to mention one very unfortunate layover for one very unlucky special forces sergeant. 

He watches as teens keep stumbling back to the counter with pink cheeks, flashing their IDs every time they ask for a new drink. Despite their prom getups and obvious ages, they swear they’re just guests from Mr. and Mrs. Weddington’s ceremony. 

The girl you’re with now, stumbling from her heels but selling it as though she’s tipsy, begs and begs for another lemon drop before she “goes back to work on Monday.”

You nod either way, and he watches as you make a display of pouring alcohol into one shaker and juice into another, swapping them out when the teen looks back towards her friends. 

You send her on her merry way with a sugared rim and a lemon rind, saying something like “Go easy” as she wanders back to her table. You smile to yourself, amused at this little game you’re playing with half the customers here. 

You must feel the heat of his gaze, because you glance at him then. He hopes it’s burning you up as much as it looks, that nervous pinkening of your face as you give him a shrug like what else was there to do?

And Gaz, again, thinks it’s just that. Lust. He thinks about wiping that small smile off your face with his lips, stumbling with you into his hotel room, frantic fingers peeling off clothes. He thinks about how it would be—giggly, probably, despite his surprising coordination when he’s plastered. It’d be you and him swapping words back and forth, back and forth the whole time, silence only filling the room when you’re kissing him and when you feel so fucking new it steals your and his words away. 

He doesn’t know why he latches more onto the idea of the moments afterward, the biggest thing being that you decide to stay. Then it’s more back and forth, hobbies and pet peeves and every little thing that’s been on your minds since the 2000s. He gets to know you inside and out, inside again a few more times even as your conversation runs on. 

It’s no longer lust at that point. He knows that. 

He’s ruthlessly torn from the fantasy by the blonde bartender who, judging by the looks you’re swapping with her, has gotten the entirely wrong idea about the direction of his stare. 

He swears to God he was being obvious about it. It was you—it was fucking you that whole time. 

But he’s noticed a couple things about you.

The first is that you’re quiet when your customers aren’t overwhelmingly sloshed; awkwardly so, for a bartender. You’re something of a mirror when they are, far more relaxed, laughing easy and cracking jokes, like you preferred your real self be forgotten the next morning. 

The second is that you’re soft. Around the edges, all pillowy at the hips and thighs, a sloping curve down each side. And you were soft with your words, no yelling, no arguing with customers, just easy little jabs that no drunk mind would ever cotton onto. 

You were only snappy with him the second his head started growing fuzzy. 

He wants more of it, even as the pretty bartender makes friendly conversation. 

She asks about his day, then his job, then his adventures. Three of the last things he wanted to think about tonight, let alone discuss with a stranger who wants in his pants. However, because she “loves a man with a British accent” and he’s too damn polite to give her the boot, he reveals a little. 

Yes, his job is hard. Yes, he’s jumped from an airplane. Yes, he’s killed someone. Of course they were bad.

Until they weren’t. But he won’t tell her that. 

However, above all things, Gaz is a planner. And though he’s caught the wrong fish with his bait, his plan B is working excellently. 

Gaz glances at you, brushing your hair behind your ear in the increasingly crowded room. The wide array of customers spread out among the limited seating are starting to flood the bar. You can’t pass out beers and shake cosmopolitans at the same time, and a wonderful warmth blossoms in his chest the second you glance at him too, growing desperate. 

There’s something like an apology in your eyes. You’re sad you have to ruin your friend’s chances; meanwhile, he thinks it may just be the best part of his night.

The third thing he discovers about you: you’re trying to be the wingwoman for your pretty friend here, and Gaz won’t have it. 

You’re going to have to come over here. Beg for help from your friend.

Ruin this little flirtation she’s got going on—what a shame. 

You’re too damn polite, just like him. The second he talks to you when you make your way over, you’ll think you have to stay. Humor him for a bit. He’ll ask you for a drink, forcing you to come back a second time around, when the bustle has slowed. He’ll rope you in for the rest of the night by then, and the wait’ll be over. 

He feels like a damn schoolboy when you take that first step toward him, and he’s practically vibrating when you get close enough that he can hear your voice for the second time today. It’s far less grating than your friend’s, he’s certain of it—he wouldn’t mind if it was you badgering him, is what he means.

After all, Gaz was on leave, and when Gaz was on leave, he liked things slow. Fresh off a mission, he liked to roll through the motions, order drinks and let the memories turn into static from the corner of the bar. He’d planned on calling Price and damning him for saying it was a blessing to get trapped in the US, set up at a posh hotel on the task force’s budget. 

But you stop before him, contrite eyes softening, and he’s getting better at seeing the upside of it all. 

“Hate to interrupt—I know you two are trying to get all cozy in the dark over here, but I could use your help, Jeanne. ‘Hugh Janus’ is asking for another beer and our non-alcoholic tap just ran dry.” You look off into the distance, frowning slightly. “I fear we may have genuinely drunk teens on our hands soon.”

Jesus, was her name Jeanne? Gaz hadn’t caught that. 

On the bright side, he’s able to confirm one of his sneaking suspicions. Your eyes really are fucking gorgeous up close, and they’re so expressive that he can read you like a book. 

But he hates the way you say “you two.” It’s so nonchalant. 

Was it too much to ask for a little envy? Just a hint of spite, to prove that some part of what he’s feeling, even a little speck of it, isn’t one-sided?

Your friend— Jeanne , apparently—gives him a disappointed sigh, looks at him like he and her are two conspirators planning on eloping any second. “Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”

He nods, trying to find that balance between polite understanding and absolute relief, but his head grows foggier by the minute and all he can manage is a “sounds good.”

You dive into an explanation when the pair of you are far enough away to inspect the taps, gesturing at a couple of them, and then discreetly at a group in the crowd. 

From here, he can see it a little more clearly. You’re younger than the blonde, probably just by a couple years, which means you’re newer here. Younger than him, too, since he pegs Jeanne at around his own age. 

The blonde disappears into a storage door wedged between two shelves loaded with glass bottles and illuminated white-blue. A manager, maybe.

Only thing he knows for certain from observing this quick interaction is that you’re finally alone. 

He flags you down, and his chest floods with that warm, fuzzy feeling all over again when you hustle over, genuine smile on your lips—because you’re so damn easy to read.

“Know you’re busy, ’nd I hate to bother you, darling, but can you get me another scotch? Shaken, this time, if you please.”

The pet name lands perfectly. Even through all the chatter and music, he can hear the quick stutter in your breath. Then you laugh at his joke, like you think he deserves it. 

It’s cheap of him to force that laugh out of you with a shitty joke like that, but he’s feeling a little needy. Wants a preview of what the real thing would sound like. 

Fucking music, surely. 

“I’ll go get it—”

Not yet. I need more time.

“Not right now. I’ll finish this one off while you work through that fresh hell–” he nods toward the anxious crowd “–then you can come back to me. You’ll find I’m pretty patient.”

A little less so, when it comes to you, but you don’t need to know that yet. 

The slight slur to his words must be comforting, because you give him that small smirk you’ve been conservative with all night. “I’ll hold you to that. I’ve heard Brits are perfect gentlemen; be a shame if you proved me wrong.”

“I’m all that and more, darling.” He winks. “You’ll see.”

He could be the bloody worst man on the planet, too, if you wanted. 

And he could come out and say that to you, all the things he could be for you tonight, if he wasn’t so keen on the instant change in you. 

Because here’s what he expected: a few more little flirtations back and forth, everything kept light and easy. He’d keep you smiling and smirking like that, comfortable in your own skin for just a little bit longer before you have to go back to the other customers and slither back into your shell. He’d get to see that breathtaking blush of yours, pink splotches that tell him he’s on the right track. And then he’d get your rapt attention for the remainder of your and his night, quite like he’s given you his. 

But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, you’re instantly sheepish, finding yourself leaning a little closer, so close he could reach out and run a finger along the back of your hand (a small touch, but it would certainly floor him). 

And then guilt. Pure, heart-wrenching guilt, like you’re taking every word of his to heart in the worst possible way.

Gaz panics. 

But you’re not wearing a ring, so no husband, no fiance. He guesses boyfriend or some long-standing crush he can’t—shouldn’t—burrow his way in front of. It’s a disappointing discovery, something he’ll be stewing on for the rest of the night or maybe week, depending on how long he’s stranded here. 

He’s not a fan of infidelity, and he sure as hell isn’t changing his opinion on that anytime soon. So he settles himself for a night at the bar cut short. Maybe he’ll order drinks up to his room from now on, praying the task force won’t try and shift the bill onto him. He can’t imagine coming down to the bar and seeing you will be nearly as satisfying anymore. 

“I shouldn—I mean, Jeanne really likes y—I mean, we kinda have this rule where we, um,” you fumble with the rag on the counter, suddenly invested in a stain he’s been avoiding all night. You swallow. “I’ll just, uh, bring you your drink later. As promised. I should go help her.”

And you dash off as fast as you can between the counter and the precarious wall decor, almost running into the storage door the other bartender whips open while dragging out a new keg for the tap. 

Meanwhile, Gaz… 

He has a question. 

Were you feeling all that guilt over some “dibs” rule at your bar?

He wants to laugh. The whole first-come, first-served thing makes you look as guilty as if you clubbed a baby seal. So what if Jeanne wants to ask him out? If he says no, does that mean he gets you?

Then he actually laughs a little, because it’s so ridiculous that it’s honestly cute. You care about and respect your coworkers, and support them when they’re hitting on guys at bars. So cute. You’re like the ultimate wingwoman, he’s sure, but that’s not going to change the fact that he wants you. 

But the night drags on, and this half hour of patience Gaz promised you becomes paper-slim when you pass off his drink to Jeanne and avoid his end of the bar for far longer than is acceptable. 

But you’re still giving her reassuring smiles and manning the bar as she lays her interest on thick, asking how long he’ll be staying and telling him when she gets off. 

Gaz isn’t laughing anymore. And that little thing you do where you back off and play wingwoman? Definitely not as sweet as he’d thought it was. 

Fuck, it might be the one thing he hates about you. 

Because you avoid him for the rest of the night, and he still can’t take his eyes off you. 

Not to worry, though. Gaz is a patient man. More importantly, he’s a planner. 

He’ll find a way. 

He always does. 

~~~~~~

Gaz barely sleep that night. Too busy thinking about the mission, the lives that were lost, all that blood that had coated his hands just three days ago. 

The way it bothers him comes and goes in phases. Some missions slip off him like rain water over a slick road, rivulets down drives, and he sleeps just fine. 

Others soak into him, further than skin deep, where his body becomes a subcutaneous cache of nightmares and gunpowder, and he wakes up choking, smoke filling his lungs, tearing at the tissue of his throat enough that water can’t soothe the burn. 

Mornings like this is where he fights fire with fire. 

The hotel bar is unsurprisingly destitute but still oddly open at 11 am on a Thursday morning, and he takes a seat more daringly center-staged than he had last night. He glances around, letting thoughts of you, a bartender whose biggest issue was a dibs rule on men, swathe around him. 

Admittedly, a lot of it is foggy. He remembers wanting you—a lot , actually. Too much, he might even say, but after all he drank he’s surprised he even found his way back to his room. But the place, a little more aglow with the open windows (that make his head fucking spin, by the way), looks the same as last night, which means he can still envision you wandering over every inch of it. 

And he thinks no, you probably weren’t that attractive. Maybe your snipes weren’t that funny, and he’d had no reason to get so upset with you over a rejection. And every little wish he’d had that you were the woman who could warm his bed while he was out on missions and greet him when he came home was a bit over the top, even for drunk Gaz. 

Sober Gaz knows better. Sober Gaz knows that no other human being can have that much of an effect on him anymore, because he’s had to rebuild himself after joining the military, after seeing the most honorable and dishonorable things humans can do, and he’s just not fit for something unconditional. 

Drunk Gaz, though….

Hammered and horny. That’s all it was. A terrible mixture, and he’s damn ashamed that an innocent girl like you became the target of it. God, did he even tell you his name? Or was it just instant come-on and creepy watching from the corner of the bar? 

Gaz notices he’s not alone as he lets his eyes wander; there’s a group of three elderly women jabbering in the corner, waving too-friendly when he spots them. He tosses them a dashing smile, the one that makes his grandmother’s friends burst into titters and giggles. 

It has the same effect. 

“Who knew you’d be just as charming sober?” a familiar voice rings out. 

Gaz’s heart thump-thump s forcefully.

“In all fairness, you do have a shot with them too, if you really wanted to take it.” You lean a little bit closer over the counter, one-ended smile pulling at your lips, and when he catches a trace of that same perfume, his chest twinges. 

Fuckin’ hell. 

“She’s newly widowed,” you nod to the gaggle again, demeanor conspiratorial, “and happy to be, apparently. Why am I not surprised you’re popular to all ages?”

He’s got no clue what you’re talking about. Damn, he’s not even listening. Your lips look too soft to him right now, and it’s downright unfair how domestic you look in morning light, placid and playful, like the last thing you were made for was exacerbating nightlife. 

“All ages?” he mumbles, because he can’t quite think straight, and the best thing he can do is repeat the last few words he’d heard you say before his train of thought had caught fire, derailed, and crashed explosively against brick wall. 

He’s struck still, is what he means. He can’t quite think past the idea of you, coming a little closer to him, letting him trap you against his chest. Letting him breathe in the scent of your hair as you tell him about your day—boring, maybe, if it wasn’t you who was telling the story. 

But your voice and tone, that playful edge that sounds like the sweetness of cotton candy and would taste like fucking everything to him, it draws him in. 

Gaz comes to the conclusion that not everything was a drunken haze last night. 

And he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite the fisherman he thought he was, trying to catch you. If anything, he was the fish snapping after your line, bait or no, wanting to be yanked out of the water and gutted until everything he ever was was bare for those pretty eyes. 

And he’s that very same fish this morning, gaping and blinking wide-eyed. 

Fuckin’. Hell. 

“My God, those teenagers last night? And then Jeanne, and the bridesmaids? And, okay, I shit you not, even the bride. You’re a menace in this bar, you know that?”

“Are you included in all that?”

If he remembers anything from the night before, it was the way you clammed up after he made his first move. You’re the spitting image of it now, pursed lips and antsy fingers, even after all that big talk. 

It’s an absent thought that flies past him in that moment, but he recalls that you were only loose enough to joke around with people already tipsy. He lets a small consideration tag along, a half-thought, really, that maybe you felt as comfortable around him as he did around you.

That, or he still looked smashed from last night.

You dodge his question completely.

“So what can I get you this morning…?” You let the tail end of the question drag on a bit, and he decides it’s because you can’t remember his name. He tries to stave off the gross pinch in his stomach by recalling there’s an all too real chance he never even told you. 

“Kyle.”

You shake your head quickly, mumbling, “No, I—I remember.”

Gaz, though he can’t help but feel like an asshole for it, grins at your stutter. 

“Surprise me, then.” He sits back, not remembering when he made the decision to lean a bit closer. “YN,” he tags on, smiling a bit more at your nervous laugh. 

You look him over, some short glance that stuffs his head full of cotton, and start working on a concoction with a small grin. 

He’s patient, minds his own business and fiddles with his phone as you shake and pour. 

No messages from Price, and Gaz shoves down any distant panic that he might have sent an aggravated text or two in his state last night. 

But no messages means no updates, which means it’s safe to assume he’ll be marooned at this hotel for another two weeks. 

Not as bad as he thought it would be, so far. 

You step away with a tray of drinks and return empty handed. Then you slip a glass in front of him, frosty and golden, slowly seeping red by a single maraschino cherry. 

He guffaws. “Mai Tai? What, no umbrella?”

You slip a mini umbrella into his drink. “You underestimate me.”

His headache is killing him. The sun’s too bright, and he’s thanking God that the music in here isn’t nearly as pounding as it was yesterday. The memories still haunt him, horizoning his mind. Every drop of blood, every plea, every blank-eyed stare. 

And then there’s you. Just you. You read like a sheet of paper, and you’re soft around the edges, and you couldn’t even comprehend half the things he’s seen. 

You spoon another maraschino cherry out of the cooling jar and pop it into your mouth, laving your tongue over it before biting down, the juices dying your tongue red. 

Fuck. 

Gaz wants to kiss you. 

He wants you to taste the Mai Tai on his tongue and sigh happily, eyes rolling the exact same way. He might die if you don’t.

“It’s on the house, only because you were true to your word.”

He gets peeks of that red tongue of yours and shifts in his seat. “What d’you mean?”

“You were patient, as promised, and I’m afraid I’ll need a little more of that today.”

Any of it. All of it, for you. Fuck, he could be so patient for you. 

Gaz furrows his brow anyway. “Didn’t know you were so greedy. Why d’you ask, love?”

“I guess you couldn’t tell from last night, but I’m a pretty shitty bartender. That’s why they got me working mornings.”

He glances at the Mai Tai. “So you’re sayin’ I’m shit outta luck.”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to let me pick your drink, you’re going to keep getting whatever’s left in the mixer from formerly Mrs. Jones’ group of three. I should warn you, they party hard.”

Gaz sighs. “What’s next on the menu?”

“More mimosas. That was their warm-up. You wanna catch up?” You frame a carton of orange juice in your hands enticingly. 

Fruity drinks from here on out. Gaz doesn’t exactly mind the idea, though he’d come down to the bar for something with more of a kick. But he’s wondering how long your shift runs if you’d worked the night before and the morning after. 

He’s got a chance here; without your friend present, your guilty conscience must feel balmed.

Gaz shakes his head, tearing a finger at the mini umbrella’s ridges. “I’ll stick to their schedule. Have a feeling I should be pacing myself with that crew.”

“Good feeling,” you nod. 

The air of silence that settles is comfortable. There’s the rattle of ice and champagne, the slow slosh of orange pooling in three going on four glasses, and Gaz watches you through it all. But he can see the way his gaze makes you nervous. Your movements are all rickety, and you can’t quite find that rhythm between shaking the mixer and making eye contact. 

Gaz wasn’t lying. Most if not all the women he’s met (sans a few of his targets) agree: he’s a kind man. Chivalrous, soothing, amiable. 

So he’s not sure why seeing your nerves gets a lovely thrill rattling its way down his spine. Sure, he wished you felt a smidge less timid, a lot more loose and sunny in his company. But, he guesses, it’s because with you, he’s willing to settle. Take what he can get; it’s not unlike a stakeout, really. He’s parked here, waiting for you to come out of your shell on your own time. 

Can’t really help that he’s greedy when it counts, though, and when you set the mimosa in front of him, he reaches before you can pull away, getting that warm slide of your fingers against his. 

“So what are you doin’ here, in a place like this, if you’re not a good bartender?”

He has to salvage your courage before you slip into the backroom for space to think. He can’t let that happen, overthinker that you are, and you’re too nice to abandon him mid-conversation. 

He’s okay with manipulating you that much. 

“Gap year. Several actually, but I don’t like to think about that.” You’re fidgeting with a rag, twisting it until the damp cotton creases under your fingers. 

“What are you gappin’ to?”

You huff out a laugh. “Med school, hopefully. Grad school, possibly. Just want to do something more, you know? Since apparently a bachelor’s gets you nowhere nowadays, and I’m just thirty grand in hole for nothing.”

“It’ll work itself out. For you, I’m certain of it.”

And he thinks he’s nailed it. 

Look. Look at all he can say and do to make you feel comfortable. And look! He can make you laugh and smile. And his touch was nice, right? Warm, gentle, everything you’d want. He’s got it right here. Waiting for you.

And then you blink, long and slow, eyes on the counter. Then…

“You know, I’m really jealous of Jeanne. I mean, she has it all figured out.”

Gaz fights the urge to grind his teeth, but he drops his elbows to the counter and cups at the mimosa. Not good enough, doesn’t burn enough. Too easy on the champagne, and he distantly wonders if you pull what you did last night all the time. 

That thing where you go easy on drinks by coming around less, or neutering them completely before you pass them out. 

That thing where you’re trying to do better for everyone , where you think you know better. He can only guess that it’s come so often with a cost to you that it’s all you know how to do anymore—giving, no taking. Helping always; never, ever hurting, no matter what you want. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, but you’re reaching for another red cherry. Chewing on it as it dyes your teeth pink. 

“She’s one of the managers here, did she tell you that? And she’s only a couple years older than me, and she’s just… she knows what she wants. And goes for it, too.”

Is that what it was? You weren’t willing to go for it? 

He’ll build that bridge for you, dammit. He’d hold you hand across the whole fucking way if you’d just let him. 

“She’s the only person in the whole area willing to give me a chance, even though I’d never bartended before.”

He lets you ramble, lets the sound of your voice sink into him, gives encouraging responses when he has to. 

Jeanne likes to go hiking. 

Jeanne likes to swim. 

Jeanne loves nights out. 

Sure, yeah, okay. But do you like any of that?

You don’t. You hate it all, actually. You even have a fear of drowning, heights, the whole works. You’re very much a homebody, curled up on your couch reading, drinking tea—not a huge fan of wine, or alcohol, actually, but don’t laugh! It was the highest paying job you could find, and yes, you do see the irony. Yes, you make a good cup of tea. Why?

Trying to find out even that much about you was like playing a damn tennis match. You won’t stop shoving the topic away, getting all insecure when he asks what you like. What you want. 

He plans to change that. 

But for now? Fine. You won’t talk about you. But he’s not going to let you talk about Jeanne. 

So you’re talking about him. 

“We don’t get much of your type around here.”

“Special forces?”

“British.” You give up on wiping the counter, instead leaning on two hands and watching him sip at the piña colada you’ve just made. He’d offered you the pineapple slice. After you’d said no, he watched you watch him bite in, wiping off the juice off his lips with his thumb. 

He had to remind himself that it was patience you were looking for, even with your lips parted in a daze like that. 

“Special forces, though, huh?” You glance around with faux wariness. “Should I be worried?” 

“Depends. How many people round here are up to no good?”

“I mean, there’s the occasional bad tipper but, between you and me,” you lean in, give a small shrug, “I deal with them in my own way.”

Gaz raises a brow, smile growing. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried.”

“Depends. Are you going to be rifling around for a five or a twenty-five dollar tip in that wallet of yours?”

Gaz sighs, “The best company always comes with the highest price, don’t it?”

“Not as high as you think,” you laugh. 

If there was ever a groove to find between you and him, he’s finally located it. 

Five minutes too late, it seems. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear rustling in the storage room, and the blonde bartender that’s bloody haunting him now pushes through the swinging door. 

 “Jeanne.” You voice is a wonderful mixture of fake enthusiasm and slight disappointment. “Look who’s here.”

Trapped. That’s what he is.

And you leave without a goodbye or a glance in his direction, too. 

He tells himself you’re shy, insecure, delicate little thing that he keeps pushing the boundaries of, trying to find the edge of having you and scaring you off completely. 

Like taming a wild animal. 

Fucking patience. For all his years, all his adventures, he never knew he’d run out of it in the most civilian of circumstances. 

He sticks around a while longer, humors Jeanne’s interest. Amazingly enough, they have so much in common, who would have thought?

And who would have thought that after last night, that was the last thing he’d ever want.

~~~~~~

You’re doing that thing again, where you ignore him. 

He’d think it’s cute, how shy you were, if you only didn’t sic your friend on him each time you did it. He’s fairly certain his interest is clear. 

He’s been going to the bar for the last few days. Sometimes he sees you, sometimes he doesn’t. He prefers the former, and when it’s the latter, he’s reminded of just how shitty the alcohol is in the US, and that he’s trapped here, and how it’s starting to become hell. 

But he won’t tell you that. That your home and this hotel are the last places he wants to be on the whole planet, present company excluded. 

Despite the fact that present company feels like she has to include her friend in every conversation. He loves how selfless you are, no man left behind and whatnot, but he wishes you could see the failing attraction right before your eyes. 

You try to slip off, leave the pair of them alone, but Gaz won’t have it. If you wander too close, he’ll drag you in, call your damn name across the bar if he has to, wrench on that ever-guilty, ever-pleasing heart of yours to go and answer him, talk to him, pay him the attention he needs nightly, apparently. 

As of late, you’ve started playing this game. Gaz’ll bring up a topic, anything from the horrors of war to butterflies. 

And you think there might be some upsides to the horrors of war, maybe. And butterflies are ugly and gross, always. 

Gaz loves how beautiful the mountains are up north; you despise them. They look cold. 

But he thought you loved cold weather?

Well, you don’t like cold weather when it’s… on mountains. You guess. 

 An interesting play, he quite thinks. Such odd tactics you have running in your mind. But you’re trying so hard to be this good, loyal friend. You want so badly to find the middle ground here, please Jeanne and Gaz, let them both be happy. 

But when push comes to shove, Jeanne had dibs. And Gaz has to bear the brunt of it. 

Two weeks have gone by before Price contacts Gaz again. Tells him the 141 had lain low long enough that he can come back home and get some well deserved leave. The news makes him fucking ecstatic when he first hears it. Thank fuck he’ll never have to use the launderettes here again, never have to listen to the damned click-click-click of the aircon or the mini fridge. 

He misses so many things from home. 

Shepherd’s pie. Good cigarettes and tea. A whiskey sour from that bar just three blocks down from his flat. 

And his flat. His bed. His sofa, the kitchen he barely uses, the door that whines because he can’t bring himself to oil it; gone too long, too often for it to really matter most days. The toaster he doesn’t plug in ever because it damn well almost burned down his flat last time he was out for two months. 

All of it empty. Cold and bare. Too unused to really miss. 

Gaz slows while packing his things. He stops, grabs his phone, then lowers to the bed. He stares at the recent calls list, Captain still at the top, call ended twenty minutes ago. 

Home has a different taste in his mouth than it used to. Not horribly bad, but different enough to notice. 

It’ll be quiet. Gaz used to love quiet. 

Being here has changed something in him. 

Nothing big—all small things, in fact. 

A pondering floats down on him, comes to his mind and makes the rest of his body tighten, a coiled spring waiting, wondering. It’s such a small question, too, but things with you always seemed so small and insignificant, until he got a moment of quiet to consider it. 

Do they sell your perfume in the UK?

It’s not a huge thing if they don't. 

Really, it’s not life-changing. He’s just trying to consider never having it again, never having it flood his senses when you get too close, lean a bit closer to slide him his drink. 

Then it’s you not leaning in close ever again. Then no you, ever again. 

Gaz can’t quite make it make sense. 

Home is good. Hell, he misses it. 

But home is no set place anymore. Home could be two poles repelling each other but attracting him, pulling at each half of him, waiting to tear him down the middle while he tries to decide. 

Two fucking weeks? Gaz has to check his phone to make sure. Has that really all it’s been?

Bullshit. 

Tell him why it feels like it’s been years. Tell him why he can’t imagine going home as anything other than a misstep, one bad fucking decision away from sealing his fate. 

A slice of shepherd’s pie and a nice cup of Earl Grey—it can wait. 

A little longer, at least. He needs some time to make certain on some things. A month, maybe. On his own dime now. After all, what’s four thousand dollars compared to a missed opportunity for something better?

…He’ll see if they have deals on extended stays. 

~~~~~~

“YN.”

Nothing.

“YN.”

Still nothing.

“YN!”

You’re avoiding eye contact and maintaining a six-foot radius at all times, like he’s got the damn plague. 

It’s been the same setting for the past four weeks; corner of the bar, closer to the same dark shit that swirls in his glass now, aiming for privacy and good company. 

He used to think he was a good shot, but his accuracy’s been bloody terrible as of late. 

Twelve times. He’s tried asking you out twelve times. 

After the most recent attempt crash-landed with you interrupting to tell him about your sister’s obsession with popping zits, he considered it. Oh boy, did he consider giving up, asking himself why the hell he ever got so desperate in the first place. 

Tonight was supposed to be some last hurrah of sorts. His flight leaves tomorrow morning, and his patience with you has become so thin it could snap with a single breath. 

But he gets here, sees you. 

Sees you bustling around the bar—which, in his mind’s eye, is his flat. And you look right at home, by the way. Wandering in and out of his room, his kitchen, the living room. Curled up on the settee, your soft thighs winking at him from beneath his own sweatshirt. Then you’re dancing in the same way, hips swaying to the obnoxious beat, leaning in closer instead of pulling away when he grabs onto you like he ought to. 

For all that’s good and pure, you never distance yourself like you do now.

There’s no easily spooking the you in his head that wants him just as badly as he does you.

Your name falls from his lips an unavoidable number of times from the corner of the bar, and you finally fold.

See—wasn’t so hard, was it?

Not so painful if you’d just give in and go on a date with him now, too. 

You saunter over, a world-weary sigh falling from your lips. “My God, Kyle, you sound like a damn cockatoo over here. Or my mom, which was a bit unsettling. Need I remind you I regret telling you my middle name.” 

“Then you won’t be surprised to know you’re getting a good scolding, with the way you’ve been avoiding me.”

That same look takes up your features, pouty lips and wrinkled brow, like he’s barking up the wrong tree all over again. Might be his favorite expression of yours, second only to that little grin when you see him each day. 

The same one that keeps him barking. 

“You know it’s for a good reason, Kyle. I’ve told you this.”

“Remind me again, darling. Is it a boyfriend?”

You huff a sigh. “No.”

“Husband?”

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Lesbian?”

“What?” You stare at him wide-eyed, and he shrugs. 

“Just makin’ sure my bases are covered. So what is it, then?”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m also dead fuckin’ serious,” his voice raises when you try to walk away. He can barely refrain from swatting out at your wrist, spinning you back around to look at him. Over the weeks, he’s discovered your biggest weakness is his eyes, and he puppy-dogs them now. “Out with it. Please.”

His white-knuckled hands ache from where they grip under the bar’s ledge, and he’s trying blessedly hard to keep still as you look him over. Every scar, every bag under his eyes, every premature wrinkle. You can see it all and more, probably even see the nightmare he had three days ago, where it was you tied up, enemy’s gun pointed at the pliable skin of your temple, your cries echoing in the empty warehouse.

Where, a building over, in sniper-position, Gaz’s frozen. His fucking trigger finger won’t twitch, and he can’t breathe, can’t move even as the gunshot lit up your skin, and he rolled out of the same hotel bed, coughing on the floor, wheezing. 

He tops off his eyes with a dashing smile, pleasant like his mind hadn’t painted the picture of you bloody and dying, still haunting him. 

Gaz isn’t as easy to read as you are. You wouldn’t be able to tell. 

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like I’m whipped?” As if he could look like anything else.

“No, like…” You bite your tongue, and Gaz would give anything to know what you’d planned on doing with the hand you’d raised toward him just then, only to let it drop down at your side. “Never mind.”

“C’mon.” God , his hands ache. “Just tell me. Thought we were friends?”

“We are friends, Kyle.” You ignore how smug he gets, fixing him with a look. “But that’s all we are.”

Gaz scoffs, “I don’t get it. Just because your friend has, what, a li’l crush on me, and she doesn’t even know me, this can’t happen?”

You know what this is. He knows you know what this is. And he knows you want it, too. 

“It’s…” you bite the inside of your cheek while avoiding his gaze, and he knows it’s because you can’t think when he looks at you like that. Pleading. Desperate. And so damn breathless at the sigh of you that it makes it that much harder for you to say you don’t want him. “It’s a whole big thing we agreed on when I started working here. It’s how the peace is kept, not just between Jeanne and me—but for everyone. That’s just how we do it.”

“YN…”

You ignore him. “And I like this job, Kyle. I do. I don’t care that I’m horrible at mixing drinks, and that I can’t handle drunk people to save my life. It feels good to have something to do when I don’t know what else to do with myself, and I can’t have some little lover’s quarrel ruin that.

“And Jeanne is a great person. And I know you don’t like it when I bring it up, but it’s true. She saw you first and called it. So I’m stepping back, not getting in the middle of it because I owe it to her, and I don’t get why you won’t just do me that solid and give her a chance. You two are a much better fit than you and I would ever be—”

“You hate camping.”

You fall silent, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

“You hate camping. And the woods. The outside, really. You told me that. Then you told me your daily circuit is the bar, then your home, sometimes to the café down the street from here, but that’s rare. And that you like books, but I know s’not the cute, adventure-y ones you pretend to like. I googled a few of yours, ones I caught you sneakin’ on your breaks—dirty little bird, you are, by the way. But I like that about you. All of it. Everything you think you have to keep under wraps.”

“Kyle…”

“I like the way you say my name, too. And how soft your skin looks, and those thighs—fuck me. Is your perfume cherries, by the way?”

“Peaches,” you mumble. He nods.

“That too. I mean, every little thing, darling. I swear, I want it. Don’t care that we’re complete opposites, that you’re scared of what I do, what I’m built for. I need you to know that I want you because of that, not in spite of. I don’t need you all the time, I promise. But I don’t think I could handle it if I didn’t have you at all.”

You want him. He can see it. You’re melting into a goddamn puddle before him, wandering nearer and nearer like you can’t help it. 

What else can he say? What the hell else does he have to do to prove that he wants you so bad it’s driving him up the walls? Gaz is wrenched so tight in his seat that he could snap and hurdle the counter, drag you out of here and show you everything he’s willing to give. 

He needs a promise before he leaves. Something. 

“God, Kyle, I didn’t…” your breath stutters, but you won’t pull your gaze from his. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were so serious about this.”

You didn’t know? You couldn’t fucking tell? After a month of him puttering around here, begging for your attention, doing anything he could to get you to look at him—

“I thought you were just…”

Fuck. 

Gaz shakes his head.

Fuck. 

Messing with you? Teasing you? That’s all you thought it was?

He tips his head back, locking onto the ceiling. 

What could he have said during the past five weeks that would make you think that?

He runs through every conversation, every interaction, every whipped, needy look he couldn’t hold back because he couldn’t stop them around you.

And then he thinks about Jeanne. How you’ve been pushing her on him. And how he’s a perfect fucking gentleman and entertained her interest with polite conversation. 

Then there’s you, his shy little rabbit watching from the other end of the bar, so damn skittish that he can only draw you back in after she’s long left him alone. Not even surveying or passively watching, but crafting wildly inaccurate conclusions in your little overthinking head.

No. 

No, no, no, because, fickle as you are, you’re a giver. 

And Gaz’s been stealing that role from you this whole time. 

He hasn’t let you show your worth. He doesn’t need to see it, no, but you think you have to prove it. You like your trials by fire. You don’t like winning by default. 

You don’t think you could be wanted for wanting’s sake. 

In all fairness, Gaz didn’t think he functioned like that either—unconditional terms and all that. So he thought he’d had to give back. Give back so much that it frightened you, and you couldn’t hold up what you thought was your end. 

A bloody fool. That’s what he is. 

His little American rabbit plays by different rules. In the UK, women in bars are so straightforward, so honest. 

What a fuckin’ sod he is. 

His flight leaves in nine hours, and he hasn’t packed, hasn’t slept. 

Too busy thinking about you. How much of a wrench you’ve been in his plans.

He didn’t think wanting you would be like asking the world to spin the other way. 

And, hell, what’s he supposed to do when he does leave, gone off on the mission Price’s hinted to him, the one that’s halfway across the globe, and you’re back here, trying and probably succeeding at forgetting he exists. 

Fuck.

You not knowing he exists. 

Him having never met you.

The ideas make him sick. 

But Gaz…

Gaz is a planner. Above all else. 

And if you want an opportunity to show what you can give him, he’ll give you just that. While he’s on a mission, mind on worse, far more horrible things, he’ll give you that chance you’ve been itching so hard for. 

“Your phone.”

You’ve been watching him go through phases, even refilled his glass while he was out. Scotch on the rocks, this time. Like you thought he had to start taking it easy from here on out, like you think he deserves it.  

“What?”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Kyle… that’s not a good idea.”

“Don’t care, love.”

To your credit, you have a healthy amount of wariness. In several jerky movements, you pull your phone from your pocket, open it to a new contact, and pass it to him, eyeing up every little thing he types. 

Kyle (Hot Guy from the Bar) Garrick. 

His phone number. 

Then he texts himself quickly, saves your number too, and holds your phone out. 

When you grab at it, he holds tight, tugging for your attention. 

Like he hasn’t, in a most wonderfully heady way, already got it. 

“No funny business with this, love.” His features turn grim. “No giving it to your friend so she can woo me—”

“Woo you?”

He gives you a stern look. “A phone call. A text. A fuckin’ pocket dial, I don’t care. But I want it from you, or no one, yeah?”

Only after you nod, slow and unsure, does he push himself out of the barstool for the last time, nodding to you. Eyes soft as he whispers, “Have a good night, darling.”

Your eyes don’t leave him as he walks away, phone still gripped tightly in your hand.

~~~~~~

Part 2

[bamsara]

Prompt Drabble: Stitched up wounds 🧵 🩹

Sun-Centric | Wordcount: 1,217 | AO3 Version

You weren't exactly the best coordinated or well organized person. Or maybe you were just super unlucky at times, it would explain all the instances of misfortune you've had, small or big injuries that shouldn't have happened but did so like the universe was just trying to spite you.

So you're not all that surprised when you stick your hand into the murky water of the kitchen sink to start doing the dishes, feel something a little weird, and pull it back out to see a steak knife hanging from the middle of your hand.

You hear Sun dropping the plates behind you on the table before the pain actaully reaches you. "Oh. Uh. Oops."

"Oops? You're 'oopsing' right now?" Sun's form is immediatly to your side, his job of collecting the remaining dishware forgotten as the animatronic grabs your wet wrist. Before he flips over your palm, the knife falls right out of your flesh, bits of blood falling with it, now a dark stain into the dirty water. "Oh, dear. Oh me oh my."

Sun's faceplate turns briefly to the car keys hanging on the hook by the front door, and you're quick to speak up. "We are not going to urgent care for something as small as this. I'm not footing that bill." The animatronic gains a sour look, but you're firm. "Not happening."

A disapproving pause, but the Sun looks back to your hand.

The pain is starting, and your mouth pressing into a line, sucking in a hiss through your teeth as the sting of the water forms a bloody ring around the wound. "Ah, fuck-"

"We told you-" He's tutting at you, flipping your palm upwards and holding it firmly with one hand, the other grabbing a paper towl and dabbing the wetness away. "I think I've told you several times that just throwing knifes into the sink for later was going to bite you!"

"Not my fault!" You flinch as he brings your hand down underneath the faucet, running clean water over the wound, "Knives just have it out for me! Remember that time-" He turns it off, and all but dragging you by the wrist to the bathroom, with your complaining all the while. "-the time with the rabbit?"

"Not a funny joke!" Sun sits you down on the closed toliet seat, a firm press on your shoulders as an unspoken 'stay put', turning on his heel and opening the medicine cabinet up. "Not funny! Very upsetting! And I'll be hearing none of it right now!"

The pain in your hand was spreading, but you're trying to laugh. "C'mon, it's-"

"Oh, would you look at that! It's our good friend, disinfectant!" He pulls the bottle out with purpose, a small first aid in his other hand, and holds it in the air with a tense smile. "Very important to use. Let's make sure that dish water doesn't make anything infected, shall we?"

You cringe in on yourself. "I think I'll be fine with a band-aid."

"Please." The Sun washes his hands, then lowers himself, setting the supplies to the side as he crouches in front of you. He holds your wrist again, turning it over, and the tutting as blood dribbles out from the small wound, sliding off your skin and dripping to the tile. Not the worst injury you've recieved, but definatly an annoyance. "I think you'll need a stitch or two. Maybe three. And wouldn't you know that robots tend to have very steady hands."

You wrinkle your nose as he pulls as he dips the bottle of disinfectant onto a gauze pad, and positions it over the wound. "Said the robot that was programmed to juggle-aUUUghhh Ow! Ow, fucking. Ow."

Sun uses his thumb to press the alcohol pad into your palm with a gentle firmness, and sends you a look when you try to jerk your arm backwards. "We have four arms! Do not make us use them."

"Unfair." You pout, watching as he pulls the gauze away now tainted with a slight color of red. A bead of wetness swells in your eye at the pain. "Mean."

"Hush." He speaks, and sounds like his other half coming in underneath his tone. Sun tosses the gauze, pulling out a small kit with one hand and thumbing away the single tear with the other. "This will hurt a little."

The pain is evident and not leaving soon, and the blood was no longer dribbling down your palm, so you look away as Sun threads the needle with careful percision, (large fingers are not, he does have steady hands) and lines it up carefully. You flinch at the first stitch.

He presses his fingers down onto your wrist, keeping it trapped against your own knee, and uses the thumb of that hand to keep your palm splayed open as the other worked. "Try not to move."

You breathe hotly through your nose. "I'm trying."

"And you're doing a very good job!" He's quick, focused. The wonders of expertise. He's not nervous because he's seen you survive worse, so the habit of speech comes naturally to him. "Good, good. There you go. Open your hand little more." A third stitch, and you groan at the realization you'll need a few more, but Sun keeps going.

"Almost done." Sun comes to the last one. "You're doing very good, sweetheart."

"Shut up." Your face is both hot in embarressment and in painful discomfort.

"Oh, you'd rather we'd be quiet?" Sun's smile is teasing, but comforting. He's probably trying to be distracting on purpose. "Cranky."

You open your mouth to retort, but the final stitch and knot is finished, and you fight to appear stoic at the sensation as Sun wipes the now-closed wound with a disinfected wipe again, pulling out another roll of gauze. "No more dishwashing for you, I'm afriad. You can leave those things to little-ole me!"

He wraps your hand gingerly, covering the cleaned and sutured wound with bandages to protect it's healing. You don't say anything, but you know he glances up every other second or so to see if you wince if the wrapping is too tight. The wrap is finished, a knot on the back of your hand, and you sigh. "I can just put a glove over it."

"How about you not do that?" The animatronic leans back, gathering the left-over supplies and storing them away back into the medical cabinet. You rise to stand, and he stops you before you can brush past him. "Hold on! We're not done here!"

You raise a brow, but you see it coming before he starts. Carefully, grabbing the wrist and not the hand, his takes a hold of the injured one, raising it slowly and gently up to his faceplate, leaning downwards until the bandage barely graces his teeth. "Mwau. It'll heal in no time."

You laugh. "That's so corny!"

"And it works! Scientifically proven!" He chuckles, turning to his side and gesturing for you to walk past him and out of the bathroom like a knight would welcome a charge into their castle. "Now! Dishes away! Not for you though. I ban you to couch duty."

"...What's couch duty?"

He winks at you. "It's the duty you do when you don't do anything."

"....Boo."

[bitethedevil]

omg care to explain the theory about cambions cumming?

Here’s my super scientific explanation about why cambions cum a lot (I’m not a biologist, I am an English major who is pulling stuff out of their ass and who is coping with my nastiness by rationalization. I still think I’m right though.):

Heat stress has a very negative effect on sperm in a lot of animals, even in animals that are dependent on heat, such as lizards and snakes n shit. Devils technically aren’t mammals, or even animals at all (that’s a whole other can of worms for another time), but humans obviously are.

Devils actually reproduce asexually often but we do know that they are capable of reproducing with other mortals, which is how we got cambions. I think it’s not unfair to think that the mortals that are unlucky enough to be impregnated by a devil, aren’t always super into the idea, so the devil have to shoot their best shot while they have the chance.

This leads me to believe that they are actually pretty fertile, and despite the fact that they shouldn’t be, they have evolved past the issue of heat stress on sperm cells in some capacity, because their blood runs so hot, and the climate of the Hells wildly varies. Natural selection and all that. We get the gist.

Now Raphael is a cambion. He is half devel and half mortal, so our boy should be heavily struggling heat stress because he is half human. In some of the earlier editions of DnD cambions were infertile, but they aren’t anymore. They can produce tieflings and in rare cases they can produce more cambions as well, so we know that they CAN reproduce.

“But how?” you ask to the mildly insane woman with too much time on her hands. I’m so glad you asked. Heat stress lowers sperm count and the motility of the cells. We know from Jurassic Park that “life finds a way”. Nature is a beautiful thing that evolves. So one should think that nature’s solution to this would be a couple of things:

Produce more sperm to compensate for the sperm count.

Naturally reduce the refractory period after orgasm.

So there we have it. Cambions cum a lot. It’s science, it’s not just me being gross.

(Thank you for the ask <3 My search history looks very interesting after that little rabbit hole lmao)

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Down the rabbit hole (dp x dc)

"Shit, shit, shit," Danny mumbled to himself as he frantically looked around to see if anybody had noticed the glowing green portal that had opened up underneath the giant overpass.

As he desperately tried to pull the dimensional hole closed, he couldn't help but curse his lack of sleep. If he hadn't gone to sleep so late because of the Doom event that was taking place on his server, he would've woken up in time for him to get to the airport to take his flight connection back to Amity.

Instead, he had woken up so late, his only chance of getting there on time was flying himself as Phantom. Apparently, a lack of sleep meant his control on his powers got a little wonky and he'd ended up face planting right into the overpass and through some sort of unlucky coincidence, as he instinctively grappled to catch himself from falling, he'd inadvertently clawed a rift right through to the ghost zone. Truly, this was the worst timing to discover what would otherwise be a very cool new power.

Danny grabbed at his hair desperately, as he walked to and fro, while still floating a few centimetres off the floor. On one hand, leaving an open portal to the ghost zone would be terribly irresponsible. On the other, he knew from experience these types of portals never lasted long by themselves, at most a quarter of an hour. But that was a quarter of an hour he did not have.

What to do, what to do? If he missed his plane, Jazz was going to kill him. Danny bit at his lips as he looked around to the deserted area. The chance of somebody finding the portal in the next ten minutes were astronomically low. Maybe if he put up a sign or something...

Looking around, Danny spotted an old piece of cardboard, just large enough to cover the portal. With a last look around, Danny got a sharpie from his bag.

Stephanie was about to turn in for the night. She grappled towards the Dini bridge, where she'd gone a few times to catch the first rays of light touching on the city. It usually made for a nice ending to some of her long nights, and Stephanie was due for a nice pick-me-up.

As she got there, she noticed a new feature that hadn't been there before. About five meters off the ground, there was a piece of cardboard, nailed to the bridge with what looked like a metal ruler. Stephanie squinted. In black sharpie, in an uneven calligraphy was written the following: "DANGER! PORTAL TO ANOTHER DIMENSION. DO NOT REMOVE"

Curiosity piqued, she shot a line up at the railing of the bridge, before starting to reel herself in until she was hanging in front of the cardboard. Attaching the line to her belt to free her hands, Stephanie grabbed the bottom of the cardboard and lifted it up. Her eyes widened as she came face-to-face with a whirling green portal.

"Ok," she whispered to herself a little bit uncertainly. "Guess the sign wasn't lying."

She was about to flip the cardboard back down and call Oracle for some backup, when the foothold she was using to push herself off the wall shifted and Stephanie felt herself swing right into the green gaping maw. With a cut-off scream she fell right into it, though luckily her grapple line was still tense and solidly anchored to the bridge's railing.

If Stephanie had been a bit luckier, this would have been an easy fix, as she would have swung right back out thanks to her momentum and the anchor up above.

Unfortunately, at this precise moment, the portal ran out of time, and closed just behind Stephanie, leaving behind a few strands of blonde hair, a cut grapple line and a hanging piece of cardboard behind with its ominous message on it.

[victimsofyaoipoll]

Round 2

Propaganda Under Cut

Elizabeth Midford

She started as just a cutie fiancée trying her best, turns out she's also a swordfighting genius, very under pressure to perform feminity in the Victorian Rose type of way. Fandom crucifies her bc she's Ciel's fiancée and they want him to be with his butler, Sebastian, the demon he sold his soul to for revenge

anime was a shitty canon divergent adaptation that butchered her character down to her "cutesy silly girly" persona, which obviously made the 2008 anime fans hate her with a passion (nothing wrong w being girly I'm just saying the adaptation made her super one dimensional) anyways fujoshis used to treat her as a villain because she's the fiance of Ciel,, who as u might know already was HEAVILY shipped with his butler, Sebastian back then (now it's kinda looked badly upon, nice tbh that ship sucks ass xD) She's a bit similar to Misa Amane from death note in the way she was treated. (Like an obstacle the yaoi ship must overcome rather than a person)

she's my silly little rabbit! i could gush about her character but i'll keep it short and just say that she's really well written and one of the best characters in the series. anyways she's ciel's fiance and she's like, rightfully annoying as any other 13 yr old girl would be but the fanbase fucking crucified her for even existing. she gets demonized for being 'annoying', but then ciel gets yaoishipped with an even more annoying guy. there is 100% an argument that lizzie/ciel is weird bc they're cousins (i personally don't ship it) but that falls flat when her detractors then ship the 13 yr old ciel with an eons old demon who Canonically looks like his father. the anime also never reached her main character development until years after its peak and that was only in a movie, so she really got the bad end of the stick here. not me though i had a giant crush on her when i was 12

Katara

Katara is constantly mistreated by the fans in favor of the Zukka ship (Zuko × Sokka.) They make her out to be mean, homophobic, and completely out of character just to add drama to the Zukka ship. In reality, Katara is very compassionate, and would never act that way toward anyone. 

Zutara was a popular ship but when zukka got popular over covid during the atla renaissance there were a million posts about how zutara was problematic while zukka was perfect usually for racist reasons. Meanwhile katara and sokka are siblings so it didn't even make sense. They did not have to be so illogically rude to her to ship zukka and it was weird

Katara is FANTASTIC I fucking love her to pieces she is so cool and yet the entirety of the ATLA fandom treats her like garbage because she “talks about her mom dying too much” (even though she BARELY does & also was parentified from a young age due to her mother’s death) and, of course, because she’s a more feminine women when compared to her counterparts. Even in the show itself she’s mistreated: she’s ALWAYS shown cooking for the rest of the gaang, doing their laundry, any ‘womanly’ task. She ends up with the guy who kissed her twice without her consent & who she never showed any real attraction to and apparently (despite being a badass warrior-doctor!!!) after the show ended she just… settled down in the South Pole and had a bunch of kids and never did anything else. She didn’t even get a statue :( Anyways during the ATLA renaissance, despite Zutara actually not being canon, people felt that Katara threatened the sanctity of the new almost entirely baseless yaoi ship, Zukka. Unfortunately for them, due to the fact that Katara and Sokka are siblings, the usual anti-Zutara arguments didn’t work as well. So they resorted to just… slaughtering her character. If she was lucky, they’d just make Katara a background character, wingwoman, &or throw her together with her canon love interest. If she was unlucky they’d do anything from make her homophobic (??) to killing her off! Fuck’s sake, she never even got a token spare-the-pairs wlw ship! Sorry for getting so heated, that whole debacle made me FUMING MAD.

[foryoupeko]

Danganronpa x Fairy Tail AU

Hajime (Rabbit Paw) – Magic Staves

Was originally from Edolas, Izuru is his Earthland counterpart

Had several Dragon Slayer lacrimas forced into his body, is currently trying to find new hosts for these lacrimas

While he can use these lacrimas, he can lose control of them very easily

Akane (Rabbit Paw) - Fire Dragon Slayer -> Purgatory Dragon Slayer

Took a lacrima from Hajime

Fuyuhiko (Gold Hydra)- Gold Demon Slayer -> Gold Dragon Slayer

Part of a Dark Guild

Took a lacrima from Hajime

Kazuichi (Rabbit Paw) – Iron Make -> Iron Dragon Slayer

Took a lacrima from Hajime

Sonia (Rabbit Paw) - Light God Slayer -> Spark Dragon Slayer

Took a lacrima from Hajime

Chiaki (Rabbit Paw) - Celestial Magic

Found Hajime after he escaped the dark guild that was experimenting on him

Nagito (Phoenix Grave)– Dark Ecriture

Part of a Dark Guild

Has a Zeref curse that makes him extremely lucky and unlucky at the same time

Teruteru (Blue Pegasus) – Fire Make

Imposter (Dullahan Head)– Copy

Part of a Dark Guild

Mahiru (Mermaid Heel) – Achieve Magic

Peko (Rabbit Paw*) - Requip Magic (Sword)

Officially part of Rabbit Paw, is actually a double agent for Gold Hydra

Joins Rabbit Paw in order to take down other guilds without affiliation to Gold Hydra

Ibuki (Mermaid Heel) – Sound

Hiyoko (Mermaid Heel) – Dancer

Mikan (Mermaid Heel) – Wind Magic

Nekomaru (Rabbit Paw) – Muscle Speak

Gundham (Rabbit Paw) – Take Over Magic (Beast Soul)

-They’re parts of different guilds at first but they all join Rabbit Paw in the end-

[chestcongestion]

HUSK SNZCANONS I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING

I am finally back from work/ getting my oil changed and here to deliver snzcanons for my favorite pretty kitty <333

Loud ass dad sneezer, sneezes with his entire head, if he was a weaker person he'd sneeze with so much force he'd knock himself over.

Very heavy on the "R"s, they're almost rolling sneezes.

Lots of "HRR'SssCHUHH!" "HRr'SsHOO!" and the occasional "HHNP'TSSHHUH!"

Usually sneezes in multiple singles spaced apart, doubles or more usually indicates that he isn't feeling well (allergies or illness...or both if he's so unlucky)

Allergic to cinnamon, roses, and the ingredients in a lot of mass-marketed forms of glitter (something he had to learn the hard way when he and An/gel were intimate while Ange was still decked out in full glam from work)

Covers pretty religiously, albeit with some sketchy technique. Tends to use the back of his wrist a lot which manages to cover sweet F.A. 80% of the time.

Is a very wet sneezer, every single one produces enough for a biohazard Jackson Pollock painting.

Can stifle, but it's both very uncomfortable and very obvious when he's doing it because he has to use his fingers and pinch them over his nostrils, and his fur stands on end with every sneeze.

Prone to his sinuses getting very congested, garbled consonants and a nerfed sense of smell, holding a cloth up to his nose to try and keep it from leaking. It almost always spreads to his ears, too.

Whenever his nose is itchy his precious little jellybean twitches and wiggles like a rabbit's nose, even as the skin around it turns pink from all of the pinching, wiping, and blowing.

Has no problem telling people when he isn't feeling well, but hates being fussed over so he usually downplays it.

Best cold remedy that isn't OTC meds: chewing on a piece of goldenrod and getting absolutely sloshed on tea with honey, lemon, ginger, and enough whiskey that it could be used as molotov fuel.

Very drowsy when he's sick, will fall asleep basically anywhere and has to be jostled pretty intensely to be woken up. Favorite place to fall asleep when he isn't feeling well is tucked between An/gel's legs.

Immune system is very good! But when sicknesses do hit, they hit hard in retaliation.

About 2/3 of the time he gets a cold he ends up with a lingering cough that annoys the shit out of him, but upon experimenting with treatments and different positions, they aren't nearly as insufferable as they used to be- coughing on your stomach while your boyfriend pats your back is apparently the prime spot for old grouchy catboys...who knew?!

Finds sneezing fascinating...unsure if it's in a kink way or not, but when the place is empty and he's bored, sometimes he induces either with a cinnamon stick or one of his feathers.

If you scratch a particular spot behind his left ear, he sneezes.

[theamityelf]

How does Hajime experience in undead AU and his dynamic with Makoto?

You know, I was hoping to write about this, because while I love the idea of Hajime getting caught in one of Nagito's traps, enemies to lovers, etc., I also love the idea of Hajime seeking refuge in Makoto's classroom, only to find it's even more infested with undead than the campus, and narrowly avoiding being eaten because Makoto jumps in the way.

I'm thinking we get both; Hajime gets caught in one of Nagito's traps, resulting in a lot of weird banter between the two. Nagito says that he actually doesn't have to kill him today, since he likes his vibes and anyway another one of his traps already caught someone, so Hajime's off the hook. And for a few days he manages to survive like that. Nagito keeps him in some closet or other, resolving that he'll feed him to the others when the traps don't catch anyone else and make conversation in the meantime.

Then one day, the traps are all empty, and Nagito sighs. He goes to Hajime's closet like, "Sorry. Today's your unlucky day."

Hajime breaks out running, and some unlucky thing prevents Nagito from catching him, so he lets Akane loose after him.

Hajime ducks into a room at random, and it's Makoto's class's room.

Everyone perks up. Fresh meat! And it means Makoto won't have to leave today and bring back a sack of rabbits!

I'm thinking there is some level of understanding that Makoto won't want them to eat this person, because they'll try to get it done quickly. After all, as long as they kill him before Makoto stops them, he won't prevent them from eating him.

Meaning Hajime is in a room with a class full of Ultimates who have all simultaneously reached the conclusion that they need to kill him as fast as possible.

(If he weren't a main character, he would absolutely just die before he could even make a sound. Makoto might not even notice a new person has entered the room before he's dead. That's the ideal outcome, in their eyes. They kill him quietly, eat him, and then cuddle with Makoto since he doesn't have to go hunting now.)

It's sheer luck that Mukuro's knife collides with Leon's projectile in midair and they both knock each other off-course, and fortunately Makoto is able to get in front of him by the time anyone else is ready to make a more direct attempt.

"Hey hey hey! Everyone stop! He's not for eating!"

And they back off, because he's throwing his full force of will into telling them to leave this guy alone. Very stern. Anyone who doesn't back off (for selfish reasons, like Junko, or misguided breadwinner reasons, like Mondo) gets restrained by the others because Makoto will be upset if they kill someone in front of him.

"I'm so sorry about that," Makoto says to Hajime. "Are you okay? Did anyone bite you?"

Hajime makes a bunch of noises that want to be words. He can't believe he ran from one human caretaker of a whole class of undead to another. Maybe he tries to just run back through the door, but Akane is right there, so he closes it again.

"Okay, this is bad," Makoto says. "Um, let's see. None of the other undead will follow you in here if they think you're my class's food, but I think some of my classmates still want to eat you."

"You think?!" Hajime finally says.

"We can probably just wait for Akane to leave, and then I can walk you back to the reserve course building."

Hajime spots Makoto's lunch on a nearby desk and loses his focus. "Is that food?"

"Huh? Oh man, you must be hungry, right? You can have this. Here."

Let's say there's some kind of body armor available to them. Either Makoto has been given some, to keep him safe when he goes out hunting, or Mukuro has some for Ultimate Soldier reasons, etc. I feel like, since it's Hope's Peak, I don't have to do too much to justify them just having some kind of body armor in a closet somewhere. So Makoto makes sure all of Hajime's exposed skin is instead protected with a material the undead can't bite through, and he gives him some of his lunch.

I'll even say Hajime is able to leave after that. Nothing else could ease his suspicions toward Makoto like being straight up allowed to leave. But eventually he finds his way back to Makoto's classroom, either out of a desperation similar to the first time or out of hunger.

The undead get used to him; it gets to the point where (as long as he has the armor on to protect him from bites) he doesn't mind when, for example, Chihiro happens to be clinging to Makoto's back while he talks to him.

They become friends. They feel a great deal of sympathy for each other– Hajime seeing how much Makoto cares for these people who have turned into monsters, and Makoto obviously knowing how dangerous the campus is for anyone who isn't main course.

I can see Hajime saying something like, "You talk to them like they're still people."

That would be an interesting conversation, because in Makoto's eyes his classmates definitely are still people, but they're also (just objectively) carnivorous beasts, and he's really shouldered that cognitive dissonance by making it his own responsibility that they not act like carnivorous beasts, and Hajime would see all of that very differently. He feels that Makoto is just being emotionally blackmailed by the school into caring for the monsters they created under the pretense that they're still the friends he knew.

One day, Makoto casually mentions that his friend Nagito is coming over later, which Hajime thinks nothing of. Nagito never told him his name.

But then when Nagito comes in and he and Hajime see each other, everything hits the fan.

Hajime jumps out of his seat like, "You!"

Nagito realizes that Makoto is about to find out about him trapping reserve students and tries to delay it, tries to calm Hajime down and diffuse things before he can say the thing that will rock Makoto's trust in him.

And then we get the Makoto-finding-out stuff that I find so thrilling. 😁

[tamurilofrivendell]

Sleeping Beauty | Chapter 3

Previous Chapters [1, 2] Read on AO3 [x]

Pairing: Thranduil/Fem. Reader Summary: A Sleeping Beauty inspired tale with Thranduil the Elvenking, and a female elf living in Mirkwood under the care of Radagast, who is actually the 'lost' daughter of the late High King Gil-Galad. Taglist: @hufflepuff1700​, @jinlizz-dragondrama​, @firelightinferno​, @bubbleyukismile, @coopsgirl​, @achromaticerebus​

Radagast had just put one foot on his rabbit sleigh when you came rushing round the corner. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, though his grim expression told you that he was more than just his usual amount of ruffled.

“There you are!” He huffed, shaking his head and waving his hands in the air in front of him as you came to a stop, looking suitably shamefaced.

“I’m sorry!” You blinked back at him with a frown. “I got... I lost track of time.” You told him, and it was at least half honest. You did not tell him about the stranger in the forest and neither did any of your little animal friends.

You had sworn them to secrecy on the run back to the cottage and, only because they recognised Thranduil Elvenking, did they agree not to tell Radagast. After all, what harm could come from you simply meeting the king of the wood himself?

“Hmph.” Radagast made a rumble of disapproval, freeing his rabbits to go back about their business in the grass around them. “Go on.” He gestured to the door of the cottage. “Inside with you. Now.”

Turning, you trailed away into the cottage, missing the look Radagast gave to the surrounding wood - the suspicious eye he cast over the forest to make sure nobody was lurking. Then he turned and followed you inside, firmly closing the door.

“Never!” The wizard began as you moved over to a counter and began to unpack the berries in your basket. “Are you to be gone for so long without my full permission!” And perhaps a cloaking spell, but he left that part unsaid. “I ask so little, Lothíriel.”

“I ask even less!” You exclaimed softly, turning to face him with another tiny frown.

His expression had already immediately softened at your mild outburst, for he knew what it was you meant. It was not fair, for you to be kept so isolated, he knew that. Radagast was very aware of it, of this way of life that probably felt so forced upon you. Especially now that you were so much older than you had been when he had smuggled you out of Lindon.

Yet it was the only way.

"I've told you-" He began, his voice gentle again.

"Yes, yes." You waved a hand, sighing as you turned back to your berry basket. The fight had gone out of you already as well. "It is unsafe. But how is it possible that everyone is not to be trusted?" You asked, gently moving a mouse from the counter.

"You know that's not exactly it." Radagast huffed as he moved to settle in his heavy armchair by the table. "But it is too difficult to distinguish the light from the dark when it is most necessary." And it would be necessary if you ever were unlucky enough to come across a certain darkness before the clock ran out, so to speak.

You turned to give him a look of exasperation. "Must you always speak in riddles?"

Radagast simply tapped his staff anxiously against the floor as he watched you turn back to your task. "As long as you are in the company of wizards, my girl, riddles are what you shall get."

"My king, a letter has arrived!" Feren cried as he flew into the throne room the very next day.

Thranduil looked up from the scroll in his hands with mild amusement. "And a mere letter requires my captain to come bounding into the room as though he is a chicken with its head cut off?"

Feren flushed but soon shook his head, holding the letter out to his lord. "It is from the lady Galadriel."

Thranduil raised a brow to the ceiling. "What a joy." He deadpanned.

Feren very nearly burst out into the most uproarious laughter but managed to hold himself back at the last moment. Though he was sure Thranduil could tell.

The king took the letter and opened it, reminding himself he was lucky the Noldor didn't simply push her way unwanted into his mind. They had already come to blows over this in the past and she had been thoroughly warned. A letter by raven was more than acceptable, he supposed.

However, the contents of the letter did nothing to soothe him, and he was soon on the move again. “How dare she!” He raged, though his ire was not directed towards the lady Galadriel as perhaps he might have thought. “Feren! Round up a group of archers. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

Feren jumped and hurried off to gather some soldiers, unsure what exactly the king had read in his letter but obviously trusting him enough to go without any details for the time being.

Thranduil hurried away to get himself ready, full of an unexplained grief that boiled over into rage.

How dare that witch come here?

How dare the Enchantress set foot in his forest!

Radagast felt it.

Standing at the door to the cottage in the very early morning, he peered out into the distance, through the trees.

Something was out there. Creeping beneath the leaves. His gaze narrowed as he listened, knuckles white with the grip he had upon his staff.

Suddenly, to the right, there was a great rush of sound. Hooves upon the dirt, someone travelling closer at speed.

He turned and stepped down from the doorway, swinging the door to the cottage shut behind him. You were fast asleep still, thankfully, though Radagast couldn’t have predicted the Elvenking himself would come charging through the undergrowth on his large elk.

The wizard lowered his staff when he saw it was only the king and he dipped his head briefly out of respect as Thranduil slowed his animal in front of him. A group of elven soldiers passed the king and continued on through the forest.

Radagast blinked up at him. “What brings you this way, lord?” He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating elves - travelling the direction that had so captured his own attention earlier - before turning back to Thranduil.

The Elvenking was surveying Radagast’s ramshackle little cottage before his gaze landed upon the wizard once more. “It is my duty to inform you that she is here.” He said simply.

Radagast’s bushy eyebrows furrowed into a deep frown. “She?”

Thranduil gave the wizard a look of irritation, which Radagast ignored with ease, before he elaborated. He wished for this to be a short interaction. “Gil-Galad’s bane.”

The air left the wizard’s lungs in a rush and, for a moment, it was as though he were completely underwater. Thranduil’s mouth was still moving but the words weren’t registering.

“The Enchantress?” The words slipped from Radagast’s mouth in a whisper and Thranduil nodded his head solemnly. “Here? Now?”

“Yes.”

Everybody knew the history, of course, but Thranduil was rather entangled in it in a way that not many others were. It did involve his parents, after all.

King Oropher and Gil-Galad had not always seen eye to eye, that much was not a secret. Oropher was quite notorious for disliking the Noldor in general. He was also reluctant to submit himself to Gil-Galad’s command in the Last Alliance. Though this event happened long after the beginning of the tale of the Enchantress... which occurred just over a hundred years before The War of the Elves and Sauron, when Gil-Galad’s daughter was born... and died.

“My people will drive her off for now but she will return.” Thranduil warned, giving the wizard a look.

Radagast nodded, turning his attention once more down the trail the elves had disappeared. “Thank you for the warning.” He muttered, his keen senses picking up the fact that you had awoken. His panic rose as he flicked his gaze to the king but he did not seem to notice, his attention far away.

“I must go.” Thranduil said then, before he urged his animal to move and he and the elk were disappearing into the distance just like his soldiers.

A moment later, the door opened and you peered out with a tired frown. Radagast turned and tutted at the state of your hair, like a birds nest, paying no mind to the fact his own was likely far worse. That was what hats were for.

“Was somebody here?” You asked, running your fingers through the tangles as a little robin flew out of a nearby bush and fluttered by your face, pecking your cheek gently in a hello.

Chuckling, you turned to look at the little creature, and Radagast smiled slightly. He shook his head as he stepped back towards the cottage, ushering you back inside where it was safe.

“Nobody, my dear. Nobody at all.”

[phoenixisobsessed]

You know I interest with scenario human and bots or cons sharing in a human body.

I will pick sam (because he unlucky top of list and easy pick ) when sam shove Allspark into Megatron chest Allspark decide to put Megatron spark into Sam's body and they forced to sharing same body.

The funny part in this scenario that sam must listen Megatron ranting about how weak and fragile sam body is and really questioning how human can survive with wak body.

I think we need more that scenario in fanfic because that is very rare. I have one story with that scenario

(Quickl disclaimer, sorry if this response is messy I am currently having a migraine. Don’t worry though, I just took my migraine medication. Should kick in soon and they make me extremely eepy so I’m trying to race them LMFAO.)

Transformers does have interesting concepts of like consciousness, especially between robot and human. Like for example in Transformers Prime, Bumblebee goes into Megatron’s head, but a part of Megatron stays in Bumblebee because they didn’t pull out in time, (I am hilarious) and in Cyberverse there’s the whole “Windblade entering Bumblebee’s head” and stuff. (Why is it always Bumblebee goddamn) But these (in a way) make sense since, yeah, they’re robots. Hooking yourself up to something, or in these cases, somebody else, makes sense to cause consciousnesses to kind of “merge” or I guess just link? Be together? I don’t know how to say it properly.

And then…they decide that the same now works on humans as well? I don’t know if this means that human souls are like canon or something. Like I guess there may be some kind of electrical current connection between the human and robot in those cases (Sam putting the Allspark to Megatron’s spark / Spike being connected to a machine(?), transferring his consciousness to a mechanical body in gen1) but still. Humans aren’t a bunch of complex code in the way that a transformer is, (I’m not certain about that but I am just writing my thoughts) and this implies that this relates back to sparks and souls. So, are human souls canon in transformers? Maybe. And if so, it’s interesting that a spark and a human soul are so similar so that they can transfer between species, at least to a point, pretty successfully.

Like clearly, even if it’s not as deep as a consciousness transfer, humans and transformers can work together (literally). Most recent example being Mirage and Noah in the end of the movie when they merge, going all the way back to some of the older Japanese series (not gonna go into alla that rn).

And don’t even get me STARTED on the kind of connections they have in Earthspark with the Terrans. That rock is doing some crazy shit, and I don’t remember the lore of it. No I’m not looking it up right now.

And I mean, with the existence of Maximals and Predacons, there’s clearly proof that transformers can work together with organic matter at least somewhat.

I got so off topic ngl. Started going down theorising lane here for a second while we were talking about fanfics. This rabbit-hole goes so deep and I do not have the brains to figure it all out. But I agree, fanfics with this would be hilarious. Would read.

(I haven’t researched this at all and just took what information I could remember so excuse if any of this is crazy inaccurate or if answers to my questions already exist. Just thought this was a very interesting topic)