#right now it is prompt fodder

[cinlat]

“Help me understand.” The woman’s voice is calm, barely above a whisper but, Caldus feels it in his soul. She emanates peace and serenity, two things he’s been seeking for the better part of three years. Maybe his entire life.

The young Cathar sitting to Caldus’s left fidgets, then seems to remember himself and goes still. He’s a skinny thing, all arms and spindly limbs compared to Caldus’s bulk. There’s a gleam in the boy’s flame colored eyes that warns Caldus that he might not be as young as he looks.

“Let’s start with your name.” Hers is Jedi Master Notiac Carlo. She is soft, colored like a summer sunset of Caldus’s homeworld. Her curls drape gracefully over slim shoulders, but there is an air of power about her. It’s different from the Sith. They are bravado and rage. The Force presence that Caldus senses in Master Carlo is like a warm breeze over a field of flowers. It could gust into violence, but for now, it is calm.

“My name is Caldus,” he begins, staring down at the helmet in his hands. It was all he managed to grab before fleeing Korriban. He couldn’t bear to part with it, nor could he put it on. This helmet, with its artfully swept forward tusks and intimidating crest symbolizes everything he hates; that he’s afraid of. It also symbolizes friendship born in the fires of trauma and inside jokes; a small kindness in a sea of madness. He is proud to own it, but he’s ashamed that he left the giver behind.

Taking a shuddering breath, Caldus forges on. “I am—was—a Sith acolyte awaiting to be chosen by a master. They found me on a docking platform at the edge of the galaxy and stole me for their own. When I met the Jedi captive, my task was to feed him information that would influence the positioning of Republic military forces to open the way for a Sith invasion.”

“You didn’t do that,” Master Carlo says, her head tilted to one side. She wears a mask over her eyes. It’s simple, yet elegant, with pearls and beads accentuating the lines of her face.

Caldus can’t hold her gaze. Though her eyes remain hidden from him, he can feel her attention. Instead, he rubs his thumb over a scratch in his hamlet’s surface. He wonders idly why they let him keep this one, with it’s sharp points and menacing edges, but took the other. “I did. Then, I decided to go with him.”

Events had moved quickly after that. Caldus and the Jedi prisoner snuck onto a transport under the guise of an escort mission. Then found an escape pod, and the Jedi activated a beacon after they had drifted far enough. Master Carlo and her Padawan had answered the call with a contingency of political statesmen and a full platoon of special forces soldiers. Caldus had not resisted when they surrounded him.

“Do you wish to join the Jedi?” She asks.

It’s the question Caldus knew would come, yet he still doesn’t have an answer. He had joined the docking crews who flew merchants to distant colonies to pedal their wares to get away from Orsimer Prime. He can’t crawl back to his tribe as a failure. They would accept him, but Caldus’s pride would forever keep his eyes to the ground. Better to stay out here and find his way. At least with the Jedi, he wouldn’t be forced to murder innocents to cater the favor of madmen.

Caldus tucks the helmet into his lap and looks up at the woman. His half-helm had been confiscated upon his arrest, leaving his unique features exposed. Neither the woman nor the Cathar appeared concerned by the tusks jutting from his lower lip or the claws tipping his fingers. He supposed the Cathar, at least, wasn’t intimidated by those.

“Would I be welcome?” Caldus counters after the silence drags on for too long. “I was trained to be Sith, and I am liable to stand out in your ranks.”

“Would you prefer not to?” Master Carlo holds out one hand to her Padawan, Caldus’s half-helm appearing seemingly from nowhere. His fingers itch to grab it as it hovers into her waiting grasp. A test, most likely.

Clearing his throat, Caldus nods. “I prefer a certain level of anonymity.”

“Then you’ll have it.” The woman holds out the helm.

Caldus hesitates, reaching out with his senses for any sign of a trap. When he finds none, he carefully lifts it from her hand and places it over his head. The familiar brush of fabric against the bridge of his nose eases some of the dread sitting in his chest. With his eyes and large ears hidden, he could pass for any number of large species known to the greater galaxy.

“I will not murder with the Force,” Caldus states, emboldened by the return of his flimsy shield. Before the Sith, he used his abilities to make work easier on the dock. He shifted heavy cargo and performed amusing tricks. The Sith wanted him to turn that gift into a weapon against nulls. There was no honor in it. Caldus would fight with his sword, a blaster, or his fists. But he refuses to wield against another living being ever again.

“We would not presume to infringe on your religious customs.” This from the Padawan who now leaned forward with his forearms braced on his thighs. An intricate pattern of darker lines marks the fur around his eyes, nose, and mouth. Perhaps, after some time around beings less humanoid than the ones in the Sith ranks, Caldus might be comfortable baring his uniqueness to the galaxy too.

Even with most of his face covered, Caldus’s surprise must be evident because Master Carlo chuckles and Caldus is momentarily distracted by the beauty of the sound. There is no malice in it, just the amusement of a woman who has seen far stranger things than him. “Kadu has made a point to research our more obscure neighbors. He wishes to be a healer, and thus he learns everything he can about the races he might encounter. Your kind is known to us, Caldus. You are welcome and safe.”

Caldus nods, his throat suddenly too tight to speak. Only one person has taken the time to learn about him in recent years, and he isn’t sure whether it is because she was working an angle or because they are friends—were friends, he supposes. It is unlikely that she’ll forgive him for abandoning her.

The woman stands from the stool she’d placed in front of Caldus for their conversation and stretches her back. From this angle, he sees the signs of age around her mouth and under her chin. She too is older than she appears. “If you do not wish to be the aggressor,” she begins, tipping the mask in his direction. “How do you feel about being the shield?”

“Like, protecting people?” It’s a stupid question, but Caldus needs a clear answer before he agrees.

Master Carlo nods, a smile pulling at her lips like he will be a particularly fascinating puzzle. It’s Kadu who speaks, though. “Who do you think would be best to teach him?” Those flame bright eyes turn towards Caldus, weighing him with experience that Kadu looks too young to have. “Shielding is tricky, but if you are willing to put in the work—”

“I will,” Master Carlo answers before Kadu finishes his sentence. “You will soon be leaving me to practice with the medical universities. I have the flexibility for a second Padawan if we play our cards right.”

Caldus’s attention bounces back and forth between his new allies while they discuss his future. Hope tugs at his ribs, urging him to take this chance. He’s escaped the Sith, if things turn sour, he can escape the Jedi as well. “I agree,” Caldus blurts into their conversation before he can talk himself out of it. He’s lost out here with nowhere else to go anyway. Maybe this can be the way he atones for the wrongs he’s committed.

The Sith taught him to destroy. Now, Caldus will learn to preserve.

*Caldus is my new guy based on a fanmade race called Orcolans. I didn’t make them, but so much work and love obviously went into their creation that it felt wrong not to use it after I stumbled across them. Obviously, swtor doesn’t have that option, so Caldus got a fancy half-helm so that he could still show off his lovely beard. Eventually, he’ll move to a full helmet to avoid stares and awkward conversations.

**He was 19 years old when he escaped the Sith and fell into the Barsen’thor’s lap quite literally. This probably won’t turn into a full story, but be a fun little world for me to play in. It’s an offshoot of the Sith Fynta AU. So…and AU of an AU?

***This was meant to be a 500 word quick drabble….it grew.

[ragingbookdragon]

It comes as somewhat a surprise when the others realize that something has obviously happened between their resident Lieutenant and Private, as she’s quick to fall silent whenever he appears, and even more so make herself scare when she can when he’s around. It’s only the third time that Soap sees it that he says something, because if he doesn’t no one else will, and where’s the fun in that?

He watches her duck her head and leave the break room, Gaz, Soap, Price, and Ghost sitting alone at the breakfast table conversing over soggy cereal and cooling tea; Soap pushes a piece of bacon on his plate and asks, “Trouble in paradise, Lt?” the corner of his mouth arches with a slight grin when he hears the warning grunt come from Ghost.

“No.”

“Seems like it,” he retorts, taking a sip of his coffee. “What’d ya do? Tell her ta fuck off?”

“Drop it, MacTavish,” Ghost warns darkly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

This time, Gaz jumps in. “C’mon, Lt., it’s obvious that something’s wrong. I mean, she won’t even look at you, let alone say anything unless you speak first.”

“An’ she’s callin’ ‘im ‘sir.’” Soap adds, pointing at him. “Christ, Lt., ya musta done a number on ‘er. Poor Puffin. So sweet and kind. Broke ‘er heart ya did.”

Price can tell that Ghost is close to snapping at the both of them but gets to it before he does. “Soap, Gaz, go catalogue our inventory for the mission next week.”

“Aw, but we already d—” Soap falls silent when Price shoots him a look and quietly grumbles to himself as he grabs his plate and cup, Gaz following in suit.

It’s only until the two soldiers are alone that Price asks, “What did happen, Simon?”

Ghost lets out a long sigh and rolls his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Pretty much told ‘er to fuck off.”

Price watches quietly as Ghost begins rattling to himself—he’s never really had to ask the man to explain himself. All he’s gotta do is prompt him to do so and Ghost does the rest.

“I just got mad. She’s always ‘round and practically up my arse, and I got caught up and instead of ‘andlin’ it properly, I shoved my fucking foot in my mouth and scalped her.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I meant to be gentler but once I started, I couldn’t stop. It just kept comin’ out. And now she fuckin’ hates me.”

He pulls his hand down and looks up at Price with a scowl—the man is smiling at him, but it’s that stupid smile that means more than Ghost wants to admit it does.

“Quit that.”

“You care about her,” Price murmurs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, though his admonish is still harsh. “And instead of telling her how you felt like a grown adult, you took the ten-year-old way out and decided to be a cunt to her.”

“I didn’t mean to be such a cunt.”

“But the fact of the matter is that you did, and you’ve screwed up team fluidity and cohesion.” He looks at him. “You know a team divided—”

“Can’t stand,” Ghost finishes with an even worse scowl. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He looks away. “I just don’t know how to even start tryin’ to fix it.”

“Well, apologizing might be a good start,” Price rumbles with a grin. “She’s a good kid, Simon. Her heart’s in the right place, even if it’s a bit much at times. Shows she cares. More than most do in our line of work. She’s a rare one.”

“I know,” he admits in a much, much softer tone. “I just don’t want her to lose that doin’ this.” His eyes meet Price’s, and they hold such a misery. “Look at us, Price,” he mutters, gesturing between them. “Middle age, unmarried, no kids, too fucked up for anything like that. She doesn’t…” he clenches his jaw. “She deserves a better path, a safer path, than this life. She deserves to go out and have a life where she comes home to a family.”

“That’s not your choice to make, son,” he replies gently, but there’s a firmness to it. “If this is what she wants to do, then she will. We can’t make her get out of service.”

Ghost growls low in his throat. “She has so much more potential than being cannon fodder. She could do somethin’ with her life. Somethin’ good. Somethin’ that won’t have her dying face down in the sand with a bullet wound in the back.”

Price simply watches him.

“But she’s so fuckin’ stupid. She wants to be here. She wants to spend whatever time she has dodgin’ bullets and wakin’ up every night in sweat ‘cause she can’t escape the dreams. No one wants to do this. We don’t want to do this. We do this because we have to. But her? She’s happy here.” He lowers his voice, it’s as if he’s in disbelief. “She’s happy here.” He looks at Price. “Why? Why is she so happy here?”

It's another long moment before Price speaks.

“You hear, son, but you don’t listen.” He moves the cup on the saucer. “She bounced around homes growing up, scraped by on the skin of her teeth. She has no one. But here, she has something. She has people who care for her, if nothing else, they won’t let her die alone.”

“Oh what? So, it’s found family bullshit?” Ghost spits. “If she dies, at least the team would mourn her?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve done too?” he replies, and Ghost falls silent. “People like Gaz, Soap, and myself are different than you and she are, Simon. We have homes. We’ve had families that have loved us, that do love us. But you two? Simon, you’ve made a home where you’ve had to. Made a family out of people you’ve bled for, would gladly bleed for. You’ve made something that’s yours. You made a family for yourself. And so did she. She’s made us her family. The one she never had the privilege to call her own.”

Price lets out a quiet hum, and pats his thighs, standing up and pushing his chair in.

“Think on what I’ve said, son. And if nothing else, apologize and leave it at that. Put the ball in her court and let her make the next move.”

As he walks off, he hears, “And if she doesn’t want it?”

He tosses a knowing look over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll take it.” His eyes twinkle as he adds, “Takes an awful strong woman to care about a man like you.”

[ellipsus-writes]

Ellipsus Digest: April 2

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. This week:

Meta trained on pirated books—and writers are not having it

ICYMI: Meta has forever earned a spot as the archetype for Shadowy Corporate Baddie in speculative fiction by training its LLMs on pirated books from LibGen. You're pissed, we're pissed—here's what you can do:

The Author’s Guild of America—longtime champions of authors’ rights and probably very tired of cleaning up this kind of mess (see its high-profile ongoing lawsuits, and January’s campaign to credit human authors over “AI-authored” work)—has released a new summary of what’s going on. They’ve also provided a plug-and-play template for contacting AI companies directly, because right now, “sincerely, a furious novelist” just doesn’t feel like enough.

No strangers to spilling the tea, the UK’s Society of Authors is also stepping up with its roundup of actions to raise awareness and fight back against the unlicensed scraping of creative work. (If you’re across the pond, we also recommend checking out the Creative Rights in AI Coalition campaign—it’s doing solid work to stop the extraction economy from feeding on artists’ work.)

Museums and libraries: fodder for the new culture war

Not to be outdone by Florida school boards and That Aunt's Facebook feed, MAGA’s nascent cultural revolution has turned its attention to museums and libraries. A new executive order (in that big boi font) is targeting funding for any program daring to tell a “divisive narrative” or acknowledge “improper ideology” (translation: anything involving actual history).

The first target is D.C.’s own Smithsonian. The newly restructured federal board has set its sights on “cleansing” the Institution’s 21 museums of “divisive, race-centered ideology.” (couch-enthusiast J.D. Vance snagged himself a board seat.) (Oh, and they’ve appointed a Trump-aligned lawyer to vet museum content.) The second seems to be the Institute of Museum and Library Services, a 70-person department (now placed on administrative leave) in charge of institutional funding. As we wrote last week, this isn’t isolated—far-right influence overmuseums and libraries means this kind of ideological takeover will seep into every corner of the country’s cultural life.

Meanwhile, the GOP is (once again) trying to defund PBS for its “Communist agenda.” It’s part of a larger crusade that’s banned picture books with LGBTQ+ characters, erased anti-racist history, and treated educators like enemies—all in the name of “protecting the children,” of course.

NaNoWriMo is no more; long live NaNo

When we initially signed on as sponsors in 2024, we really, really hoped NaNoWriMo could pull it together—but its support for generative AI and dismissiveness toward its own audience prompted us to withdraw our sponsorship, and many Wrimos to leave an institution that helped cultivate creativity and community for a near-quarter century. Now it seems NaNo has shuttered permanently, leaving the community confused, if not betrayed. But when an organization treats its community poorly and fumbles its ethics, people notice. (You can watch the official explainer here.)

Still, writers are resilient, and the rise of many independent writing groups and community-led challenges proves that creatives will always find spaces to connect and write—and the desire to write 50k words in the month of November isn’t going anywhere. Just maybe... somewhere better.

The continued attack on campus speech

The Trump administration continues its campaign against universities for perceived anti-conservative bias, gutting federal research budgets, and pressuring schools to abandon any trace of DEI (or, as we wrote on the blog, extremely common and important words). In short: If a school won’t conform to MAGA ideology, it doesn’t deserve federal money—or academic freedom.

Higher education is being pressured to excise entire frameworks and language in an effort to avoid becoming the next target of partisan outrage. Across the U.S., universities are bracing for politically motivated budget cuts, especially in departments tied to research, diversity, or anything remotely inclusive. Conservative watchdogs have made it their mission to root out “woke depravity”—one school confirmed it received emails offering payment in exchange for students to act as informants, or ghostwrite articles to “expose the liberal bias that occurs on college campuses across the nation.”

In a country where op-eds in student newspapers are grounds for deportation, what part of “free speech” is actually free?

We now live in knockoff Miyazaki hellscape

If you’ve been online lately (sorry), you’ve probably seen a flood of vaguely whimsical, oddly sterile, faux-hand-drawn illustrations popping up everywhere. That’s because OpenAI just launched a new image generator—and CEO Sam Altman couldn’t wait to brag that it was so popular their servers started “melting.” (Apparently, melting the climate is fine too, despite Miyazaki’s lifelong environmental themes.) (Nausicaa is our favorite at Ellipsus.)

This might be OpenAI’s attempt to “honor” Hayao Miyazaki, who once declared that AI-generated animation was “an insult to life itself.” Meanwhile, the meme lifecycle went into warp speed, since AI doesn't require actual human creativity—speed-running from personal exploration, to corporate slop, to 9/11 memes, to a supremely cruel take from The White House.

“People are going to create some really amazing stuff and some stuff that may offend people,” Altman said in a post on X. “What we'd like to aim for is that the tool doesn't create offensive stuff unless you want it to, in which case within reason it does.”

Still, the people must meme. And while cottagecore fox girls are fine, we suggest skipping straight to the truly cursed (and far more creative) J.D. Vance memes instead.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!)

- The Ellipsus Team xo

[erosiism]

GAP MOE | YANDERE DUKE X M!READER

prompt: in which the reader is isekai’d to a novel where he’s supposed to be cannon fodder, but his supposed murderous husband is sweet, doting, and loving. the worst case of gap moe.

character(s): duke (altair), you

warnings(s): none [except the chance that i might have used the term wrongly lol still an enjoyable read, i promise]

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read, will probably have a part two

other(s): alternative title: help, i got transmigrated as cannon fodder and now i am the murderous duke’s husband | meaning of gap moe: affection born of inconsistency between different aspects of the character

So, you’ve been isekai’d to a novel. A novel where the Grand Duke is supposed to kill you. He hits every cliche: Altair Ornaria is red eyed, black haired, and he has the smoldering, sharp kind of beauty that you only see in Dukes. The Northern Duke, to be exact.

The situation isn’t looking good. As far as you know, you’ve been isekai’d into a novel called The Villianess’s Revenge, where you are a plot point. Canon fodder. Where you’re the background character who happens to die in an event that the main character will shine. And specifically: you’ll die by your husband’s hands.

You like to think that you could’ve avoided your fate, but it’s bad, because you woke up to wedding preparations—the first time you open your eyes in a foreign world, there’s a burst of chatter and activity in a luxurious room, and you see white everywhere. Memories of your past life whizz past you in a frantic blur and your head is still muddled: oh, right. You got hit by a truck. Memories of the novel follows, and you can only blink as you realize the stupid coincidence that you share the same name as the character you had possessed.

Your fate remains: you’re  getting married.

To the Grand Duke of…the Northern Kingdom.

Admittedly, you don’t know how to feel. There’s the obvious fear that you’ll be walking right to death’s door, but again, you don’t exactly die during the wedding. You only die months after that. So you don’t really need to worry about anything yet right? The Duke will be cold towards you, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a stranger to you, too, and you plan on kissing him for as little as you can.

 And, you think, it certainly didn’t help it that the Grand Duke is devastatingly handsome. You can see his looks working its spell on you—you can see yourself simpering, your eyes going wide eyed. You’re trying to steel yourself. You’re trying to make yourself immune to Altair’s beauty. 

Fast forward: you’re walking down the aisle, aghast at the sight of your weeping mother and your crying father who just look so proud of you. They seem like decent parents, which is…strange. So—

—Oh. The [Name] in the original story did have three lines of description. One, that he was a spoiled brat, pampered by his parents, and two, he has a fucking crush on the Grand Duke. Hence a strategic alliance placed confidently for [Name] to get his wish.

…Asshole, you think. The veil is covering your face and you’re dressed in a white suit adorned with flowers. You can feel your throat dry up, all the moistness leaving your lips and instead churning down your throat. You wrinkle your nose, before you try to swallow down profanities. The music behind you almost seems taunting.

You stop in front of the groom.

Standing there in all his resplendent glory is none other than your soon to be husband, whose face is unreadable. You can’t see him, only smudges and smears. After all, the veil is covering his face—but gloom settles in you.

He’s going to be disappointed, you think glumly. His face seems vaguely familiar, probably because you do know how he looks, tangentially, but your thoughts are a hot mess right now. You can’t find the power within you to place a finger on it: so instead of bothering over it, you stand in front of the Duke in trepidation.

The Duke slowly lifts up the veil — gently and slowly, and you can swear emotion flits across his face as he gazes at you. You blink owlishly at him, at a loss of words. This is their first time meeting, and you two are about to lock lips. Or perhaps lock lips is an exaggeration—it will be nothing but a useless peck. But thankfully, though indiscernible, his face not one of disappointment.

Almost..fond? You think, then there is belated horror: wait, what? 

You ignore that. And then when your thoughts subside, you realize how ridiculously hot he is. 

“[Name],” he whispers, Altair, the cold, heartless, murderer of a Duke whispers, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s not even the expression on his face that knocks the wind out of your chest: it’s the way he calls out your name. Carefully, like he’s savoring the taste of the name on his tongue, like deja vu. But then again, perhaps it helps that you have read this scene. And the scene, though very—different—is unfolding in front of your very eyes.

This is your murderer, you think, don’t look at his face, [Name]!

You start to lower your head meekly, but Altair tips your head back up.

“How,” there is a teasing tone to his voice—teasing, like this is so funny to him—“how, do you expect me to kiss you?”

Your jaw drops. Then it closes. You are well aware of the blush around your cheeks that has betrayed you. 

.

.

What?

.

.

Seriously, is he programmed wrong? Why is Altair OOC? You coined enough fanfiction terms to label everything wrong with this. There’s a proper term for this, but you can’t seem to remember it. You do notice the way that Altair glowers at everyone else, before his expression smoothens when he faces you.

You close your eyes to give out a sigh. You forget this is a marriage. So you forget what happens when you get married.

A kiss.

You startle when you feel lips—firm but soft at the same time, pressing against your own. It’s tender, sweet, loving, and you practically melt against it. When you break away, the taste of Altair’s—your husband’s lips still linger on your own.

This defies all the rumors about the Duke, who supposedly was a cold hearted bastard who killed his advisors for speaking out of turn. No, this man is tender and gentle, and his delicate touch is nothing short of sweet. 

Before you can retort, or before your lagging brain can even comprehend this—the guests burst into cheers. You just feel numb as Altair guides you slowly down the aisle, ready to board the carriage into the manor. Mansion. Whatever. Your new home.

Your…

Altair presses a kiss to your forehead before he whispers in your ear. “I cannot wait for our wedding night, Y/n.”

You freeze.

The term starts to arise in your head.

Gap Moe, you think, this is fucking gap moe.

likes/reblogs would be so appreciated! and so will comments :) don’t mind me haha im tryna figure tumblr’s algorithm out which might explain my varied content || this oneshot will probably have a part two or three because there’s actually a reason behind everything. I’ll see how this does first

[orangez3st]

How Delta Squad boys confess their feelings for you

Delta Squad x GN!Reader

This one's in a different format than usual—it's in bullet points! Respect to the people who are more talented in writing bullets points/headcanons style bcs it's more difficult than I thought 🤝🏼 (as you can tell this is a little messy)

Enjoy this one, vode! 💛

Also this is for the talented @i-willstealyourtoes 🫶🏼

For @deltasquadweek | Alt. Prompt Day 7: "I Love You."

Masterlist | Delta Squad (in-header image)

Boss

You and Boss are running on a really casual relationship.

Everything's just been really nice in your own pace, and you don't want to pressure him into anything he's not ready for yet.

It's like you're the literal embodiment of patience and he loves you for it, he can't ever have enough thanking you.

You know what this relationship eventually entails—because honestly, he's just a soldier of the Republic, and both of you know well what that means.

And you never seem to mind that, every time you two meet to catch up you always have that smile and your eyes are sparkling at all times.

It'd be cruel, but Boss is a leader; he worries about every kind of scenario and he has to be ready for it, including the ones that scream every kind of ‘what if?’ in the back of his mind.

“You know that I could die out there, right?” he then asks you.

“I know,” you say with a smile, “But I don't want you to go out there with that kind of mindset, Boss.”

It's like his own nature of being an expendable soldier gnaws at his conscience, enough to make him realize that maybe he's not ready to die at all.

“Careful,” Fixer warns him, not hostile, but reminding him of what's drilled into them; that attachment could be weakness. In the corner, Sev is just shrugging and Scorch is examining his fingernails.

Boss keeps that in mind.

But he can't keep it anymore (his brothers aren't stopping him anyway).

He decides he's not going to die any time soon, and for the sake of fairness, he vows to be a better soldier, covering his squad more often on the field so no one's dying in the future.

And so he could come back home to you.

This is all happening inside his mind, so when he comes up to your door before the shuttle that’d take him to deployment leaves, you're surprised that he's there as he pulls you into his chest.

Your forehead bonks against the plastoid armor but you don't mind, laughing it off and your arms snaking around his huge frame upon instinct.

“Listen, cyare.” He can't be long, but he's using all his time by looking into your eyes, and you swear you can see the stars in the dark honey desert color of his own. “Can I make a promise to you?’

“I… Of course. What is it?”

“I’ll try. I promise I'll try,” Boss says, gently taking your hands in his gloved ones. “I’ll try not to die out there. I'll always make it home to you. Come back for you. I'd understand if that's some lesser thing for you to worry about because I'm the best kind of cannon fodder, but… I just want you to know. Think about it, perhaps. It should be something that you can’t possibly ignore when you're dating someone like me. I promise. You'll always have me back with you mission after mission. Okay?”

There's sincerity in his words. You've formed your own opinion about this matter some time ago, but Boss' promise to you scrambles what you've got, what once was standing firm in your grasp as a belief now bends to his promise—his declaration—to you.

“Okay,” you nod, eyes stinging with tears that obviously aren't out of misery. Your smile is shaky. “I heard you.”

Boss sighs softly. “Good.” The moment he hugs you tight, his armored arms wrapping around your form just as your limbs around his neck… everything becomes so clear to you like some divine revelation. You really don't want to lose him.

“Can't promise that I won't come back without scars, though,” he mutters close to your ear.

“That's fine,” you huff a laugh, pressing a kiss to his hair above his ear. “Just as long as you're alive. I'll be waiting until you're back home safe.”

Home. Safe.

Yes, that sounds about right. That sounds like he deserves that. Comfort. Quiet moments. Hugs, just like this. Everything that you've got to offer to each other in these trying times; your love.

Fixer 

Everyone knows Fixer worships regulations.

I mean, he calls his brothers by their numbers over the comms during active ops because a) as it should be and b) it's their real name.

But hey, he's melted a long time ago and resorted to call them by their nicknames when there's no officers around that he needs to worry about.

So yeah, everyone knows that, and so are you.

And you? You're the worst match ever for Fixer.

You break rules for fun, but enough not to cause permanent harm, and really, it's not big stuff like vandalism or something else that would end your day in Republic penitentiary, but still.

They're all harmless. Hiding one's jacket. Changing their ringtones. Talking to someone long enough while they're dipping their cookies so it would fall off. Turning off the light while someone's in the bathroom.

Fixer pretends not to acknowledge whatever the hell you've been doing because he's been trying to ignore that troublemaker trait of you so much (how did he end up with you?).

(Honestly, good question. No one knows.)

“Cyare, would you please stop?”

“That should violate about 28 rules, cyare.”

“No one's ever done that because they have brains and you don't.”

Oh he loves to bully you alright, but 100% out of affection. He really would hide a body for you if you've ever accidentally killed someone.

Also no, you don't know what cyare means. It sounds like a language he'd picked up, or taught

Fixer calls you that only because he doesn't know what to call you besides your name.

It just… came out.

You've tried to ask Scorch what it means but all he did was giggling and the next thing you know he was practically gossipping with Sev.

It has to mean something… mean.

Whatever it is, it's consuming your thoughts in the worst ways. They're making fun out of you. So one day when you're being particularly sulky and salty to everyone you know, Fixer's concerns take the best of him and steps in to inquire about your behavior.

“Cyare, wanna tell me what's wrong?”

“Don't call me that!” you snap.

Fixer’s brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean,” you mock, “What I meant is everybody and I mean everybody in your kriffing squad seems to make fun of me.” You roughly jab a finger into his chest. “Including you.”

“Make fun of you?”

“Are you deaf or something?”

“No,” he answers firmly, his teeth gritting. You don't even notice that his fists are clenching. “Tell me who made fun of you. What did they do?”

“It’s Scorch.” You don't waste time. Your eyes sting from unshed tears and when you wipe them with the back of your hand it's like popping water balloons—they stream down your face. “I just asked about that word you say often and he just laughed in my face like he's won candies or something.”

It's quiet for a while and you both stand there, Fixer's thoughts are growing louder. “What word?”

“One that you use to call me.”

He tilts his head. “‘Cyare’?”

You nod weakly, your tears still spilling out.

There's quiet, and Fixer bites his tongue to prevent a snort. Then he exhales instead, pulling himself together not to laugh and make worse of your overthinking.

“That chakaar,” you hear him mutter, stepping closer into your space and tenderly pulling you into his chest, as if you're a fragile piece of vase. “He could've answered it and you wouldn't have to shed dumb tears like this.”

And just like that you're broken. You're confused as kark that you're caught between snapping yet again, your mouth parted, and your hands firm on his chest to angrily push him away.

“What?” is all you can manage.

“It means…” Fixer’s gaze drift away from you, but you can see his neck and cheeks darkening with color. “It means darling. Beloved.”

“....Oh…”

“Yeah,” Fixer dismisses, looking rather shy with his eyes constantly glancing away from you as the colors in his cheeks make him look even more flushed. “So please don't fuss over it?”

“Say it,” you challenge.

“Say what?”

“The word.”

“I adore you.”

“No, I mean not—hhhggggghh…” You're cut off as Fixer squeezes you so tightly that your lungs probably shrink. You kick his foot.

Yeah. You know what he means. He'll come around with the balls to actually say it.

Scorch

You're not the first to discover that Scorch loves to talk.

And I mean, that man loves to talk.

He's always the first to engage in a conversation as if a dictionary of conversation starters was programmed into him when he'd been in the tube.

He's probably the most expressive person you've ever met and you adore him dearly for it.

Especially when he just leans on the kitchen counter, chin in palm, looking at you with the biggest heart eyes ever.

You know he's just teasing.

He always makes time to come by your home and stay over.

And you as a host are always ready to cook some hearty meal for him—when you learned the fact that they don't eat anything but protein sludge and plain carbohydrate blocks you couldn't take it.

Scorch doesn't want to make you fuss all over just for him, but you insist.

One day he's thinking about it. Does that mean something?

He knows he's been hiding his feelings for a bit too long—even Boss sternly reprimanded him once when Scorch was unable to focus during an op.

He's been thinking about you.

And now as he eats dinner with you, he's lost in his own thoughts and good food.

And by the time dessert comes in, he melts entirely at your great efforts to make him comfortable.

As he enjoys dessert he doesn't even realize that he says, “You know I love you, right?”

It hits you like a damn speeder that you lock gaze with him, Scorch is seemingly as surprised as you are.

“Y-you do?”

“I—I mean,” Scorch deflects, a wave of heat sliding into his cheeks. “I was… talking to the cheesecake.”

That was TERRIBLE.

To be fair it's a really great strawberry cheesecake.

“Oh,” you sulk, forcing a smile to your lips as you pick up your fork again, “Thought I misheard.”

If only you could hear Scorch's heart breaking in that exact moment.

“No, you didn't mishear,” Scorch hurriedly says. He takes your hand without thinking, and the heat in his stomach is bubbling over as he looks into your eyes. “It's um… You know that I've liked you for a really long time, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, and it shows.” Smiling a bit, you lace your fingers with his. “Consistently.”

“Yeah,” he huffs a chuckle. “And now I just really really really like you and everything you've done for me. I know it's just dinner but all this… it means a lot to me.”

Before you can say anything, he scoots his chair closer to you. It scrapes across the floor noisily in the midst of the silence of your home. He plops back down, his thigh touching yours.

“One question though,” Scorch cheekily says, “Did you put love potion in this thing?”

Your giggles are everything to him. “What for?”

“Uh-huh, that's right,” he grins widely, gently cupping your face. “You don't need to put love potion inside your finely-cooked dinner. I'm already in love with you.”

Scorch’s eyes map all over your face, his warm brown eyes glimmering in the romantic candlelight. “You have a strawberry jam in the corner of your mouth, though.”

“No I don't,” you chuckle.

“Mm, wanna prove it? If I kiss you right here,” he boops the spot, “And I taste strawberry jam, you owe me an actual kiss.”

“And if you're wrong?”

“I still get that kiss. I'm trying to woo you here, baby. Wanna appreciate my efforts?”

Eventually he throws the strawberry jam motive out of the airlock and places a cheeky yet long-awaited kiss on your lips. You can feel his smile, even.

Sev

Your relationship with Sev started quite strangely.

The two of you met in some rundown speakeasy in the lower levels of Coruscant, and both claim the ale that everybody says taste like gundark piss your favorite.

And then the talk spans to your favorite Huttese heavy metal band—his favorite too.

Your favorite limmie team—which is also his favorite (he also mentioned that he often played limmie when he was a cadet and he was a mean forward).

There's too many similarities between you already.

Okay well yes, besides breathing gore thriller holofilms, you have nothing else to compare against his dark sadistic humor.

But there's this new thriller movie you really wanna see already in theaters and instinctively, you ask Sev if he's down.

Naturally, with the duties of a soldier and the oftentimes-unexpected demands that entails, he turned down your offer.

You withdraw. Yeah, it was silly anyway.

But at least he insisted walking you home afterward.

Sev could see your disappointment. Days later it's gnawing at him, and Scorch that cheeky bastard notices.

“So you wanna tell me what's going on or would you like me to shove Fixer to have a go at you?”

“Don't drag me into this,” Fixer sighs from the other side of the room.

Scorch grins. “No, you said you wanted to know, so I'm extracting the intel straight from the source.”

“I didn't say that.”

Scorch turns back to Sev. “Now tell us or I'm betting your entire tenday stipend if Fixer pins you down next spar. We'll split, Fix. Don't worry.”

“Fine. I'm in.”

Sev grunts, already losing it. “Should I feel guilty for rejecting a date?”

“You fekking what?” Boss pipes in, this time.

Scorch claps loudly. “Alright vode, it's time for flash training for our psycho brother here, welcome to Dating 101. Guest lecturer Null-7 isn't available at the moment so you should feel lucky, Oh-Seven.”

He gave it all out.

Your shared favorites, things you have in common, stories traded over ales and a few things stronger—both of you were at that bar for five hours just talking.

Sev isn't sure if Scorch's been drilling the term ‘love at first sight’ too often and too much that it's eating him alive, but he's sure that's how he feels about you.

So he comms you, asking if you’ve watched that movie yet.

“Actually, yeah,” you answer, hope surging inside your chest. “But um, I've got loads of thriller holos, if you wanna come by. We could have a movie night, if you're up for it.”

By the time you've finished talking, Scorch smacks him in the back a couple of times, Boss pushes him towards the door, and Fixer is already tossing Sev his go bag.

That night, two days before his leave ends, Sev is settled with you on your couch, the glow from the holoscreen reflecting on your faces.

You notice Sev is sitting so stiff, so you nudge his elbow asking if he's okay.

He looks at you longer than he should—he’d be lying if he's not feeling everything so intensely all at once, especially when you're nearly pressed up against his side.

He’s attentive. He knows it's not casual. It's intentional from you. You want to be close to him, but without a little booze encouragement, he isn't sure how to proceed.

Then he remembers what Scorch said and decides to execute (with a little alteration).

Sev moves his arm up, but he's not looking at you (he tries to cover his blushing cheeks, okay, give him time).

You take his invitation and lean heavily against him to absorb his warmth.

Sev smells like fresh aftershave and something else (it's blaster cleaning solution) tried to be covered by modest convenience store perfume.

You commit that scent to memory and snuggle even closer to him. The tip of your finger is tracing the fabric lining on his shirt, and soon your focus is no longer on the movie.

“Do you let anyone you just met be this close?” you ask, curious about his change of mind.

“No,” Sev replies firmly.

“Then what changes?”

Sev takes a deep breath. “Couldn't stop thinking about you,” he mumbles lowly into your hair, movie be damned. “Felt bad for turning down when you asked. Truth to be told, it felt like I'm leaving someone behind in a crossfire.”

“But…” You raise your head to meet his intense gaze. “We've only just met.”

“Yeah,” Sev says carefully, “But we have a lot in common, it feels like I've known you a long time, too.”

You don't hesitate—you raise further to cup the side of his face and pull him down so you can press your lips against his. Sev's reflex kicks in rapidly, kissing you as well while grabbing you closer to his body.

It isn't said, but whatever it is, whatever you're feeling; it's blossoming, too.

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika @hellfiresky @leiopython-rat

Dividers by yours truly!

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Do you still do pickup lines? If so “Call me bunny cuz I wanna bounce on your lap” to Gaz or Price? Perchance

hell yeah i always love the little quote prompts/starters!! they make great warm-ups and fodder for the daily wordcount. send them, character/situation/au specified or not. pick-up lines are always super fun <3

44 / 1.1k

...

"Call me bunny, cause I wanna bounce on your lap."

Gaz smirks. "And why do you want to hop into my lap, bunny?”

"Cause you look like a good time."

“And you look like you’d be trouble.”

“You don’t think you can handle it?”

“Easy, now,” he drawls, letting his gaze rake over you shamelessly. “I never said that. A little trouble keeps things interesting."

You step closer, nudging his knees apart so you can stand between him, looking down at him on his bar stool. He automatically spreads his thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world to make room for you there. And he keeps eye contact with you as he runs a hand up your leg, ghosting past the hem of your skirt and brushing the underside of your ass so lightly he could claim it was a mistake if you called him on it.

When you don’t, he hums in surprise. “You don’t seem like trouble to me.”

You sense his overconfidence and smile. Men like him—they’re easy. "That's what everyone thinks. Do you plan to feel me up in this bar all night or are you gonna take me home?”

"I'd love to, but I'm here with a buddy. I drove."

"So leave him here."

Huh. It's one thing to banter and tease, but he's not accustomed to that brand of… command. Especially not by some bossy little bunny who sauntered over to claim his lap. Or so you say. "Just ditch my mate and go off with you? That'd be a bit cold."

You lean closer, resting your hand on his chest. When you feel how firm he is, you can't help but squeeze. He must be a soldier at the base nearby. Jackpot. You know how to talk to those types. "It's decisive," you breathe out, your mouth hovering just shy of his. "Shows initiative."

He flexes his pectoral with a lopsided grin. He can play this game too. "Let me guess. You like a man who takes charge?"

You open your mouth to tell him yes, you do, and you don't appreciate being made to wait. Before you can say that, though, his hand catches the back of your thigh and he pulls you right into his lap.

“Hey—!”

He situates your legs perpendicular to his until you get the hint and settle in, leaning against his shoulder.

"Like this?" He gives your thigh a good squeeze—teasing you. Getting under your skin because he’s already starting to feel like you might be fun when you're not getting your way about it.

You huff, cross your legs, and pull the hem of your skirt down as it rides up. "Not what I had in mind, actually, no."

He keeps his hand on your thigh and rubs your soft skin with his calloused fingertips even as you pull your skirt down over them. “Yeah? Then what did you have in mind, bunny?”

"I told you."

"You said you wanted in my lap, and here you are."

Ugh. Whatever. "Fine, be obtuse." You grab his drink and take a swig of it just to spite him.

His grip on you tightens a bit at the casual gesture. He assumes it’s meant to tease him. There’s a glint in his eyes as he watches you dab at the corner of your mouth with his bar napkin like he’s mentally calculating what it will cost you later.

He can’t deny how he’s more interested in you than before. You're rude and it's kinda hot. He wonders what it’d take to make you soft and pliant rather than stubborn and cutting. On the other hand, something about your haughtiness makes him want to press you up against the wall right now and see if he can make you snap at him again.

He signals for the bartender to bring another drink for both of you. Then he leans in, letting his lips brush the back of your ear. "I think you're just impatient to get me into bed."

You glance down to watch his hand edge up your thigh. The buzz of the alcohol in your system isn't much, but it does intensify the heat between your legs at the sight. "I already told you that. You're the one not getting with the program."

"I am,” he counters in a murmur, “but I’m not just going to leave my mate here all alone.” When you look away, he shamelessly lets his hand slide further up. He rubs his thumb up and down, then lets his fingers dig in a bit and give it a good squeeze, just to make you squirm a bit. “Can’t you wait a little while?”

The bartender slides your drinks over. Your eyes light up with interest. "Maybe. If you keep buying me drinks."

“Yeah?” He grabs your drink and takes a sip, just so you’ll have to reach for it when you want it. Work a little harder. If you want to tease him, he’ll tease you back. “And what happens if I don’t? You gonna hop on out of my lap?"

You want to call his bluff so bad. But he's smirking. He has that dimple on one side. And goddamn, if he isn't the hottest guy you've seen here in ages. What's a guy like him even doing in a place like this?

You wipe the expression off your face and ignore how he's holding your drink. "Maybe. Maybe not."

He sees it, though. That squared, petulant set of your shoulders that makes him think you would absolutely leave him here if he pissed you off enough. And he can see why you might be worth the trouble he’d get in if he left his mate here just to take you home. If you got up and walked out the door right now, who knows. Maybe he'd be helpless to resist following you.

But he smiles and plays it cool. They always love a smile. "Be nice to me and I'll buy you the whole bottle, yeah?"

"We'll see."

"Yeah, we will." He pulls you tighter against him and his hand drifts up a bit further under your skirt, high enough to let you know he’s getting bolder. “You know, I never got your name, by the way."

You take the opportunity to steal your drink back from him. "So?"

"So now’s your chance to give it to me."

"Mm, no."

"Come on. That's no fun."

"Too bad. I'll still have plenty of fun."

"You're a rude little thing, aren’t you." He gives your thigh another squeeze. Things will get rougher if you keep being difficult. "Got a mouth on you."

You laugh to yourself as you bring your cocktail to your lips. "You'll see, won't you?"

“Yeah," he mutters, watching you wrap your lips around the straw of your drink and take a sip.

...

follow-up smut/part 2 here <3

more Gaz / masterlist

[gerec]

hi gerec! do you have any actor aus?

Hi Anon! I love actor aus!!! Here are some favourites:

The Proper Care of Actors by afrocurl, Clear_Liqueur, Clocks, Etharei (first of a series)

Erik is an A-list action star who is notoriously difficult to work with, until the day he gets cast alongside Charles Xavier, rom-com darling who can charm the pants off movie audiences the world over and apparently even one Erik Lehnsherr. The paparazzi catch them out and about soon enough, and their real-life Hollywood movie romance becomes instant tabloid fodder.

to put the world between us by populuxe

Erik Lehnsherr is one of the hottest actors in Hollywood: fresh off an Academy Award nomination, he’s about to star in HBO’s most anticipated show of the year. And even though online chatter about his recent string of queer roles keeps getting louder, his personal life remains personal—just as it always has, and just as his manager and publicist continue to advise.

But when he winds up at the same wedding as his college best friend, Charles Xavier—and when they quickly fall into bed together—he’s forced to revisit the past he’s been trying to get away from for years. The pull between them has always been magnetic, but so has the weight of secrecy. Can they keep from repeating the same mistakes, or will the price of the truth be too high?

An Exercise in Frustration by ikeracity

Erik Lehnsherr's latest critically-acclaimed film Shame features a full-frontal nudity scene. His long-suffering husband Charles is really very peeved about it.

This Is Not Comedy by baehj2915

Written for amarriageoftrueminds' prompt for a Cherik version of Louis CK's tangent about the fuckability of Ewan McGregor.

Naturally the similarities end there. I made this about Erik's full on public lust-filled gay revelation, and the chaos that spirals from there.

dogbirded by ikeracity Charles has been talking to a guy on the Mutant & Proud dating site for the last two months. He's fairly certain he's being catfished because the guy's profile picture is Erik Lehnsherr, famous actor and A-list celebrity, but he's enjoying their conversations all the same.

Never in a million years would he ever imagine that he's actually been flirting with Erik Lehnsherr, and that Erik Lehnsherr is actually into him. Because that would never, ever happen in real life...right?

Work/Life Balance by pocky_slash (first of a series)

Alex is pretty sure his weird, anti-social boss is a robot. Right up until the guy's adorable husband shows up. His adorable husband who happens to be a famous actor. His adorable husband who happens to be the very same famous actor who was the source of many of Alex's teenage fantasies.

we might just be hollywood material, baby by ikeracity, midrashic (series)

Greenkeep was an American animated television series created by Logan Howlett for Toon TV. The series follows mouse scholar Jess (Charles Xavier); his rival, the otter warrior Miska (Erik Lehnsherr); and their cohort of friends and allies as they fight to overthrow the Kingdom of Crows which has occupied their homeland. It aired for six seasons, from February 2003 to June 2009.

Greenkeep received critical acclaim for its characters, soundtrack, and exploration of complex themes such as war and free will. It was the first significant project of several prominent actors, including Sean Cassidy, Alex Summers, and Raven Darkhölme, and is also known for its role in introducing Academy Award-winning actor Charles Xavier and his now-husband, director and producer Erik Lehnsherr. A Very Special Episode by winterhill (part of a series)

“The Secret of Dragon Ranch” is the first prime-time gay cartoon to be made specifically for children’s TV, and Erik wants in. The last person he’s expecting to see when he shows up for work is Charles Xavier, and given how badly they parted, he’s going to take this chance to mend things between them. Warnings for homophobia, some ableism. Stand-alone companion piece to "The Secret of Dragon Ranch", with no particular reading order necessary.

Brought to You by Professor Smut by Sophia_Bee

By day Charles is a professor of English Literature. When he goes home, he becomes Professor Smut, a fanfic writer who is obsessed with the BBC drama Bent. Erik Lehnsherr is the actor who plays John Bent. One day his agent makes him aware there is this entire world on the internet of people obsessed with his TV show and the relationship between John Bent and his partner, played by Sean Cassidy, Kennedy Watson. Against his better judgement, he checks out some of the fanfic. He finds Professor Smut and moved by his portrayal of John Bent, becomes his biggest fan.

The Thing that Happens between Us by stlkrchck Charles is an actor and media darling. Erik is a grumpy photographer.

A September as Sunny as Spring by Black_Betty, ikeracity, keire_ke Charles Xavier was part of a famous vaudeville act before an accident cost him his career and his ability to walk. He's pulled together a new life as a musician in Hollywood, but is finding it difficult to navigate his feelings for his old friend and partner, Erik Lehnsherr, the most sought after matinee idol of their generation.

Famous film duo Frost and Lehnsherr are two of the most well-known and admired mutants in the public eye, having built their fame and fortune on silent film blockbusters.When the rise of the new "talking pictures" phenomenon threatens all their careers, they must band together to try to prove that their days of stardom are far from over.

----

Most people who ask for recs aren't really interested in any pairings outside of cherik, but if you are, here's one I wrote for Xavierine (with background cherik) :D

From Lovers to Friends and Back Again by Gerec

Logan Howlett meets Charles Xavier on one of his first real auditions, for a T.V. series about World War II. Charles gets a part; Logan does not. They also agree to go out on a date.

Somehow it takes them ten years to make it happen.

[b1rds3ye]

Task Force 141 but it's Battlefield's Bad Company - a unit of disgraced soldiers who are valued no higher than cannon fodder but who are also too skilled to simply get the boot. Despite being thrown at the most devastating threats, they are low on resources and lack respect from the rest of the military. No one bothers learning their names, they're not expected to last more than a week. But a small unit of them always manage to pull through.

Captain John Price says he only took up Bad Company because he was given an offer of early retirement if he survived leading the dredges of the military. In truth, he's gone off the books one too many times, his last mission had him temporarily A.W.O.L. as he pursued what he believed was right. If the military can't silence him with retirement, they'll silence him with Bad Company where they'll throw every mission under the sun at him until he inevitably falls. He doesn't comment on how his last official mission went, but if you ever bring up General Shepherd he says he has a special bullet reserved for that bastard.

No one knows exactly why Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley got into Bad Company, he doesn't say. In fact, no one knows shit about him. All anyone knows is that he's a damn good soldier, the longest lasting in Bad Company - he transferred even earlier than Price. Simon says he willingly transferred here because he thrives with the freedom and informality compared to the standard military and no one dares comment on how utterly unhinged that sounds. Still, his personality seems to fit the story; he's not afraid to go off the beaten path to reach the mission objective which seems to have taken out everyone but him.

Sergeant Johnny "Soap" MacTavish is just a menace, but a crafty one which is a problem for the military. He enjoys being demolitions expert and one day got too bored and a little too curious. Destroying physical objects would be too obvious but he may or may not have infected the military system with a virus to see what sort of information he could extract. He learnt the hard and very expensive way that he has a knack for hacking. Perhaps that's why they transferred him to Bad Company, with trash-quality guns, outdated tech and precisely negative ammo, there's not much destruction he can wreak. Well, that was likely the thought process but Johnny's always loved a challenge.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick was framed - he presumes. He excels in all the drills, his performance is promising, he follows all the orders, and yet he's here. What he doesn't know is that he doesn't have the personality superiors desire. He questions too much, he's far too open minded, he can't be molded like other soldiers. He's stubborn - they transferred him because he filed one too many complaints of inefficient directives that could be boiled down into polite military speak of "screw you and your orders, I have a better way (P.S. may your tea always be lukewarm)". He's annoyed the big bad men at the round-table and now he's paying the price. Fortunately, those are the traits that thrive in Bad Company and the exact traits that prompted Price to take him under his wing.

And that just leaves you, the newest member on the brink of promotion to sergeant until you were transferred into Bad Company. You're jittery, you've heard of the nightmare that is Bad Company, how it contains the worst of the worst (and yes you are aware that it apparently includes you now). When you step off the helicopter, you repeat your simple goal - to survive this one mission with Bad Company so that you can go back to your squadron and get your damn promotion.

But as the mission progresses you find yourself getting closer to all the members of Bad Company. You look back fondly at the memory of Price forcing the rest of you to run back into gunfire to retrieve his stupid bucket hat, the same hat he plops on your head if you're ever too on edge. You can only feel thankful for Ghost's unconventional medical advice - you have to give it to him, this discount Bear Grylls has saved your life more times than you can count. You look forward to the new creative ways Soap will blow up an enemy cache, or watch as Gaz hilariously tries to mimic your direct superiors with an overly high-pitched voice as Price begrudgingly talks to them over comms.

And that's when you realise that there will be a day where the mission is inevitably over. And instead of looking forward to your transfer back, you find yourself wanting to risk your life every day with your beloved bunch of military misfits, the group of you against the rest of the world, than whatever stuffy perks come with being sergeant.

Call of Duty Masterlist

[finniestoncrane]

Something horny with State Farm Riddler? 👀

State Farm!Riddler x GN!Reader, word count: 1k anon you are KILLING me lmao you were in there QUICK with this!! he's a good riddler, i don't blame you!! so i spun the wheel and got degradation which... yeah... and then i picked some of my own prompts to fill it out!! just a silly little thing for you!! 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: degradation, humiliation, boot licking, cane licking, acts of services

"Don't rush this. You want to get it right, not just stand there making pathetic attempts, each of which are further away from the correct response than the last."

He was right. You had to do this correctly, and first time at that. No point in offering him more fodder for his canon already loaded with stinging, tantalising insults.

"And I want you to take your time, to really appreciate how this makes you feel. Let it seep into your bones, bruise your dulled psyche. You're pathetic. Worthless. And you like it like that."

"Eddie, I-"

The end of his cane, cool and curved, slid under your chin, tilting your head up to look towards him. There was a slight smile on his lips, creases forming as it spread into his cheeks.

"Now, now. Don't get too familiar. I don't want you thinking that you're anything more than what you really are. And on that note, shall we begin?"

His free hand gestured widely to the space before you, inviting you into it, close to him, to begin your task.

"I need to see my face in those. Quickly."

Lowering your upper half, you leaned into his shoes, noting the way your warmth breath formed a light cloud against the patent leather. With your tongue outstretched, you made contact, trying to ignore the taste and focusing more on the action, the way this levelled act of servitude made you warm between your legs. But you quickly deterred by him shaking his leg.

"Come on now, you're just slobbering over them. Terrible attempt. And now they look worse than before. That's just... awesome."

He sighed, sliding his dark glasses down his bridge before pinching between his brows, shaking his head, and then tidying himself up again. You were a disappointment, but he could see something in you, at least. Room for improvement, if you could just get it together.

"I suppose we know that you're only good for one thing then. So why don't you press out that tongue, open your mouth wide, and try and not get too distracted by your desperate, aching hole. Ok?"

The smile he wore was so genuine it didn't even strike you as facetious, and it enthused you, a little bit of encouragement to get back on track. So, with your tongue pointed out once more, you ran it up along the length of his cane, struggling to reach at the last few inches and spluttering as you tried to ease yourself up while maintaining as much of a sensual demeanour as possible.

"Really? At your limit already?"

"No! No, I can-"

"One. More. Try."

You shuffled closer on the floor, letting your legs suround the cane as you pulled it into you. For a few minute it went well, your tongue flicking over the long handle, soft kisses placed against it to break up the ministrations. But before long you were feeling the effects of his gaze, the way those blacked out glasses stared at you, into you. Guess work just to figure out if he was actually paying attention, and yet still feeling like he was looking straight into your soul.

And that smile. Ever present, charming, demanding, in on the punchline long before you in a way that only caused paranoid suspense to choke you. Alluring enough that you could pretend he was pleased with you, pleased enough that he was enjoying himself. The idea of that alone...

Of course, he noticed long before you that you had begun grinding, almost unnoticeable, pressing his cane between your legs and soaking in the feeling of arousal that the hard, firm length sent through your body. Distracting enough that you forgot what you were actually there for. Tongue hanging from your mouth as you sighed breathily in your own masturbatory black hole.

"And here I was thinking you could take this chance and do something with it. It's difficult to admit when I'm wrong, but there's a first time for everything, I suppose. You should be ashamed of how easy it was to wipe you out. To have you so flustered that you couldn't perform one simple task."

"Fuck."

"Indeed. Stand up. And come here."

Whatever that meant, you were in. You stood before him, eyes focused on your own reflection in his dark glasses when you realised that you couldn't see through the tint to his own. He inched closer to you, and you to him, mirroring as a response to the tension. But you were left humiliated when you reached your lips out to what you had thought was an invitation to kiss, left falling ever so slightly forwards as he pulled away with a chuckle and a mischievous smirk.

"Uh-uh-uh. This isn't a reward. This is a punishment. Did you really think you'd be in receipt of something so sweet?"

"I thought maybe- I can do better! I'd love to show-"

"No. No. Wrong again! This is... This isn't a space to even utter the word love. It's the opposite! What isn't love? This, pet. This is what love isn't. Now, back on your knees and try again. We'll keep going until you can do a good enough job."

With a fresh flush of embarrassment across your cheeks, you eased yourself back into the starting position, poised and ready for him, gaze averted in an attempt to hide your bashfulness. But he had already noted it.

"Wow. You really are weak for this. Is the rest of you blushing this violent shade of red? Shall we take a look?"

It was another trap, obviously. Another attempt to lure you into a flase sense of security, where you knew what his intentions were with you. But of course, it was a trick. You weren't going to get what you wanted out of this, not until he had gotten his. Still, you moved your hands to the buttons of your shirt, dropping them to your pants when he shook his head, and eventually letting them fall to your side as he slid his glasses down to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh.

"Amazing. Really! I might keep you around, if only for the entertainment value."

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Blast to the past

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 15

Prompt: Time travel

Rated: T

CW: Mild blood and gore; Mild horror; Monsters

Tags: Steve Harrington whump; Magic; Time travel (duh); Royal Eddie Munson; Steve Harrington needs a break

Notes: Some days, you get up, think of nothing bad, and you check your phone and your artist buddy @house-of-the-moving-image has sent you the most incredible mini comic in the world and the brainworms go crazy and you bash out 990 words in a weird fugue. We mayyy have been screaming about this to each other a bit too excessively. It may have grown a back story. I may wanna write 100k of this. Help.

“Oh, Steven, let's go to Europe, they said,” Steve grouses. “There’s culture and shit, they said. We can visit the castles. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, they said.” 

Well, it damn well is turning out to be one hell of an experience! 

His side is on fire, his ankle stings with every step he hobbles, and he’s starting to bleed through his clothes. Just what he needs! Leave a warm, coppery trail to lead these things right to him. 

While he drags himself down the dark corridor, he wonders if he can sue. The guides did warn against leaving the travel group, on the one hand. 

On the other, they should probably have detailed the possible consequences. Like getting lost in the ruins and being chased by monsters with rotting grey skin and maws full of fangs, and fucking claws that slice through clothes and skin like a knife through butter.

This kind of shit never happens in Hawkins. He’s never going on holiday with his parents again.

Something behind him clatters. When he whips around, the shadows at the end of the corridor move. He hears snarls and sniffing, the tick of claws against stone. They’re coming closer. 

“Shit,” Steve swears, forces himself to go faster, using one hand against the wall for support. “Shit, shit, shit, c’mon!” 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, just that he needs to get away if he doesn’t want to be monster fodder. 

His fingers catch on something. 

There’s … a narrow doorway in the wall, half hidden by a tangle of thick vines. A sliver of silver light is falling through it. 

“What the-” 

Something behind him shrieks triumphantly. 

Steve doesn’t think for another second, just ducks through the doorway. 

He finds himself in a cavernous room, moonlight trickling in through arched windows. Right in the middle, on a dais, is a throne carved from solid stone. On it is a tall, hooded figure. 

Except that isn’t true. As his eyes adjust to the light, he realizes that the throne is covered in what looks like an old shroud, tattered and torn with age and vaguely human-shaped. It’s overgrown by more vines, like it has been here for a very long time. 

And that is the moment the monsters slam into the doorway behind him. 

He yelps and stumbles further into the room, trips on the first steps of the dais and lands square on his ass. The monsters snarl and snap at him, and for a blissful second, he thinks they won’t fit through the doorway. 

But then the first distorts its body like a snake’s jaw and squeezes through. Steve watches in horror as they trickle inside, surrounding the dais like a pack of feral dogs. One of them swipes at him with its claw, and he instinctively shuffles up the stairs, backwards and on all fours. The monster lunges after him-

-and hesitates at the foot of the dais.

Like it’s afraid, like there’s some invisible barrier. 

It’s only now that he realizes the steps are inlaid with an intricate pattern of symbols, shining in the moonlight like liquid silver. The monsters try to get at him, but every time they touch the symbols, they recoil as if burned. 

“Ha!” Steve’s mouth tugs into a hysterical grin. “Can’t cross, huh? Well, too bad, you ugly-” 

The largest of the monsters steps over the barrier. A sizzle of silver sparks runs over its form as it does and it jowls like an injured cat, but it still advances. Steve swears and skitters further back, until his back hits something solid. The throne. 

The creatures are moving slowly, like something is physically holding them back, but they are gaining on him inch by inch. There’s no escape, except … 

Steve clambers onto the throne with clumsy limbs. The shroud is cold and brittle under his hands and the vines tear into his bleeding skin, but it’s the only place he can still go. If the monsters are afraid of the dais, maybe the throne will be enough to deter them. Maybe he’ll be safe here, maybe he can wait until help arrives, maybe- 

And then it happens. 

A sound booms through the silence, rattles his bones. A sound like the chime of a clock. 

Then another. 

And another. 

Steve yelps and covers his ears, screws his eyes shut. The light of the sigils on the ground seems blinding all of a sudden. 

The creatures howl. 

And then everything goes quiet. 

Steve waits with baited breath for the feeling of claws tearing at his legs, but nothing happens. The snarls and growls are gone. 

Instead, birdsong fills his ears. The faint sound of footsteps and voices, hooves on cobblestone and the clang of metal against metal. Instead of dust and decay, the room suddenly smells like wood and smoke and forest. The light shining through his eyelids isn’t silver anymore, but golden. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “The hell was all that?” 

“Oh, those?” somebody chuckles. Somebody very close by. “Those were wraiths. Scary little fuckers, aren’t they?” 

Steve swears his heart misses a beat. Because upon closer inspection, the roughness of the vines and shroud against his skin is gone. Instead, there’s a body under his, a hand running idly down his side, all the way down to his ass. He’s sitting in someone’s lap. 

Steve snaps his eyes open. There’s a guy looking back at him, a guy with a shit-eating grin set in a handsome, dimpled face, framed by a spill of dark curls. There’s a crown on his head. 

“Now what I’d like to know,” says the guy, and gives Steve’s ass a hearty squeeze. “Is what I did to deserve getting a pretty little thing like you dropped in my lap. Not that I’m complaining.” 

Steve does what any sensible person would do in his situation. 

He faints. 

And that’s his first encounter with King Edward the Banished. 

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

[yanderes-galore]

23.) "You're crying... come a little closer, I'll make it all go away." As romantic With Overwatch's Soldier76 and gn reader?

Sure! I didn't realize how... terrifying he actually is until I looked at his cinematics.

Yandere! Soldier 76/Jack Morrison Prompt 23

"You're crying... come a little closer, I'll make it all go away."

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Blood, Murder, Kidnapping (Surprisingly not by Soldier), Isolation, Dark themes, Disturbing descriptions, Dubious turned forced relationship.

Jack always told you he did what he did to protect the innocent. His vigilante behavior was to make the world a better place from the shadows. It's what he's been doing for years since the fall of Overwatch.

Jack wanted to make a safer world because he not only felt it was for justice... but you.

You're his beloved, his partner. Someone he managed to win over even in his old age. He loves you... He wants to protect you.

Surely you know that means he'll do anything to keep you safe, right?

You can't quite suffocate your fear when you see Jack's actions. You hear screaming, the sound of gunfire, and hear blood hit the floor. There isn't much you can do... tied to a chair and forced to see the carnage play out.

You had been kidnapped for ransom. Your kidnappers were gang members who were no doubt connected to Talon. They knew of your connections to Jack... They were most likely in it for the money.

Now they were being shredded through like cannon fodder.

You weren't sure who you're more scared of. The gang members... or your boyfriend who's shredding through them with an animalistic fury. Seeing this... He almost looks feral.

You hear Helix Rockets go off along with the sound of bullets tearing through flesh. You hear some beg for mercy, only to have their throat slit. The metallic smell of blood fills your nose... you feel sick.

You freeze when you see a gang member go to run to your room but is quickly taken down. Jack is quick to take him out... right in front of you. You shake... You've never seen such a side in him.

Yet you freeze when Jack's visor meets you.

You can't help but sob when you see Jack approach you, seeing your boyfriend covered head-to-toe in blood. He stares down at you from his visor. You can see the adrenaline make him shudder.

Why were you crying? Was it due to the whole situation? Was it because you were scared of the gang?

Or were you scared of Jack after seeing what he's done...?

"You're crying... come a little closer, I'll make it all go away." Jack answers in a gruff tone, approaching you as though he didn't create a massacre in front of you. You feel... sick upon seeing the blood on his clothes. You quickly shake your head.

"N-No... No, I'm okay, I-" Jack doesn't listen to your sobbing pleas, quickly embracing you as he fidgets with your ropes. You feel him remove the bottom of his visor, kissing your forehead as he releases you from the binds.

You're struggling to hold down the vomit that bubbles in your throat as you feel the warm blood coat your own skin.

"It's alright... I'm here now, baby..." Jack murmurs, keeping you close against his chest even when you're free. You still sob, your tears mingling with the metallic red substance staining your skin. "We can go home...."

You feel relieved yet sick when he lets you out of his embrace, only to pick you up to carry you in his arms. He acts as though you can't defend yourself without him. You wonder if he even cares that you're now also covered in blood.

"Knew I should've locked you at home..." Jack murmurs, grip tight on you as you continue to sob. "It's not safe out here... you can't live without me."

You hear him sigh, walking you towards his motorcycle. You don't even know if you want to go home. Will you even be able to leave?

"You can't even leave the house without me, baby..." Jack murmurs. "It's alright... no one will hurt you now."

Jack seems to act like what he's done is some big heroic act. He acts like he didn't slaughter people simply because they were desperate enough to take you. Your boyfriend showed no mercy... no empathy...

He simply insists they were hurting you, they were evil...He had to get rid of them because they took you away... That he must lock you away at home to protect you...

You're scared of him... he only holds you tighter...

You have no idea if he's oblivious... or just doesn't care when you tremble in his arms... the thought of going home and being locked away with HIM more terrifying than anything else.

[scarletknightreterns]

Trophies

Spelunking the head-canon caves off to find diamonds~~

Amazing prompt @darkdemeter threw at me at Mach 5 and slapped me right in the face so hard I now have brainrot of the entire scenario ehehehhehehe No warnings I don't think? A dead monster, that's about it :)

——-

You could only wrap up the same gift in different packaging so far before the meaning behind it stared to rot and decay like soggy bones set out in the sun for too long. It dried out.

She felt like it was the same shit all over again, just presented in a different form that, honestly, she saw right through merely due to the amount of disinterest palpitating within the very walls of her heart, twisting and writhing with such sheer disgust she could taste it on the tip of her tongue when he tried to, again, swoon and woo her with his attempts at courtship; so foul that, they might as well have been a mockery of how angels appealed to their desired partners.

This entire thing was a joke.

“Absalom, this never was flattering to begin with, but now it’s getting to be way too much. You know I’m not interested in being your spouse, right?” She expected the answer to be more then disappointing, so much so to the point that seeing his expression both validated and proved her point exactly.

Instead of the rational, normal course of action expected of someone, that being to accept the losses and just move on, what she was met with was an inferno so hot and explosive, it could melt the stone bricks of hell’s finest manor off their foundations. And even for that, it was still a quiet reaction.

“What do you mean?” the growl of frustration was cut short only for the brief moment it took for him to nudge the weapon closer towards her. “Is it not fine enough for you? This is the best weapon the forge can make, it’s very nature and battle prowess is revered by my people! It’s matched by no rival when it comes to bloodshed and gore capabilities! Your foes will be left more then dead in your wake-“ he was grinning proudly in the way that managed to unnerve her. “Dismembered and spewed about in little pathetic pieces they will be, like seeds tossed on a plot of land!”

Reserved was she still, but had to take a step back. Being in the face of such love for bloodshed was equivalent to leeches crawling over her skin; the tingles, sheer discomfort, and ick of being covered in filth, visible or not, was very tangible to her senses right now. Or, maybe, it was more the fact that she felt as though such was being forced upon her, ideologies she refused to adopt.

The weapon was gorgeous fundamentally speaking, yes. The craftsmanship was on par with that of angels with the silver and steel, decorated with purposefully-tattered banners of purple and black, but the maliciousness and dark energies crackling and rolling off of the metal-hooked blades of the prongs screamed of it’s birthplace in Hell, some trench far beneath the infernal surface. It pulsed and writhed with an obscenity that tickled her flesh as though it had a conscious and was trying to worm it’s way into her mind.

Cinder knew what such an abhorrent thing was. It was an Abomination; Nephilim craftsmanship... forged with the resources from... once living... or legitimately living sources. People, animals, slaves and fodder used to craft weapons; quite literally crafted into, weapons.

She killed, yes. But never had that been done with disrespect, before or after the fact, and never did she use her fallen victims to..... further some sort of sick agenda. She slew an enemy to sometimes make a pact with it and hold as a summon- always achieved by the spirits free will and choice.

“I will say it only once more, no,” she shook her head, feeling like turning away was the only thing that could truly shield her from the worst of what rejection could have to throw at her in the moment, busying herself with picking back up the cloth she’d been using to polish her armour, intending to continue where she’d left off when interrupted.

Absalom simply stood there, fuming silently while staring at her. Back straight and like he faced a battle strategy that eluded his intelegence, he could not come to understand why she had rejected his every attempts at courtship. For months he had tried, and every time he heard that word, just the one, 'no'.

Nobody else had these issues from what he’d seen; and he’d seen how she fought. To have her by his side on the field of battle would truly be remarkable and a turning point for the Nephilim. They could storm Heaven, conquer Hell, and own REALMS. So then, why did she choose to sit there, polishing her gear and otherwise not do anything worthy of her life? Everywhere he looked, he gazed to seek some truth, some revelation, but each path turned back around to the one he’d been on before, with no closure, no understanding, and not a step forward.

Perpetually out of reach she was, but she was right there in his view! He could touch her, if he so wanted to! But... to ruin the potential of having her? The thought of finally touching that pale flesh with his fingertips, to hear her soothing voice in the middle of the night when his mind was restless, and to feel the raw power rolling off her during battle, her beside him tearing creatures apart... and so much more? It almost drove him mad.

She was his prize, his grand achievement waiting for him, Hell, she was even in the spotlight, so why then was everything blocking him??

And why the Hell was someone else stealing the show...?!

“I think it would be wise of you to back off before she emasculates you.” Oh that familiar voice of gravel, young but tall a mountain; steep were it's sides, and strong it's form. It was one to both love and hate, and respectively, it wasn't hard to understand who felt which aforementioned emotions. Cinder's head and attention snapped over to the sound of heavy footsteps all too eagerly, Absalom's simply being that of irritation to being interrupted which swiftly morphed into surprised anger at the sight of what the young Nephilim hailed over his shoulders. Death had been impressive before, but never had he stolen the breath right out of Cinder's lungs by merely being a sight to behold, let alone a clear force to be reckoned with. His gait was broad, but nothing was more so in size then the behemoth of a head slung over his shoulders, hefted by arms of muscle which rippled and flexed with the smallest of movements. It was massive compare to Death, yet he didn't appear to break a sweat at all. Almost giddily she abandoned her things to hurry over, a sight which left Absalom seething quietly, but also in disbelief. "Is this what you meant when you said you were going hunting for something worthy?" Those fiery eyes were both calm and gentle while also gleaming with pride of such recognition from her. Her merely impressed with a victory in and of itself to him, but still. He glanced silently to the side in a way of telling her to move out of the way a little, which he was thankful she was astute enough to notice, and moved out of his way enough for him to safely remove himself from under the hulking trophy. "Yes. I sought a worthy gift for you. Out of the multiple I slew, this one I deemed the best, he was also quite the foe." "You fought, decapitated and brought back a Leviathan for me??" Oh, her tone did not reveal anything in the way of displeasure or disbelief. In fact, she could believe it, but she did not believe he knew just how much this meant to her. The masked man simply puffed his chest out proudly, momentarily baffled by the bubbly noise that filled his ears, only to find out it was her giggles of what he might call being elated. And because of him. Oh it stirred something strong and warm in his chest, something that wrapped and pulled on heart, and ignited a fire in his gut. She stepped up closer to the frightening creature who made it's home between the plains of existence, The Abyss, and Void realms. Never had she seen it in such broad daylight, although many had she seen from a distance in her life save for one she long called friend. It's sharp and jagged scales glinted like emeralds tainted by the ink of a Kraken, running her fingers over them threatened to pierce skin. In it's skull were eyeballs that had long glossed over like milky frost, pearly and dead. It's fangs were sharp and foul with gunk and gingivitis, but if cleaned and polished, those serrated edges would make a fine sword or weapon of any sort. The hide was also of prime interest, ebbing with such energies of prime magical affiliation. There was much she could do with this. Not to mention the tethers of a soul she could still sense woven like threads through it's scales, the very essence could be pulled out and woven back into something more useful; like a summon.

And the skull? She knew the perfect place for it- the pond, home to all her fish and critters, would make a fine home for it when she was finally done. It would grow over with algae and moss, become one with nature again. She simply could not wait!

Cinder was more then amazed, she felt a certain way that she couldn't accurately put a name to, nor would anything justify how these feelings felt but... pleased, if that was one word to use. Death's eyes did not leave hers when they met, their attentions focused on one another, and the words that he heard her say both burned his ears and made his chest swell with so much pride he was convinced he might pop.

"I accept your gift, Death. It's spectacular in my eyes, and you've more then proven yourself as worthy." Absalom... could not believe that she was accepting Death as a spouse-- surely she knew that, right?! She knew what she was doing, but how could she accept something so useless? What could one do with a SKULL-- a trophy, yes, he understood, but something this large? And had it been that simple this entire TIME?? "Have you ever had Leviathan grilled meat before?" Cinder asked Death, forgetting the other man was even there to begin with.

Death had not forgotten, however, and felt proud to show the older one up by leaps and bounds. It reflected in his eyes, the fiery glint of knowing his victory without words. "I have not~" he turned back towards her. "Well, you are about to~!" She giggled and rubbed her hands together. "I'll be right back, time to skin this bad boy-" and she ran off inside her cabin to fetch several things for, presumably, the skinning and cooking.

That, understandably, left both men alone. One seething and the other proud of his accomplishments.

"How?" Absalom's voice was calm but visibly bubbling with rage. "You won her over so easily by a corpse, yet she despised the weapon I presented to her?" The older Nephilim's only eye bore deeply into Death's skull, almost as though he'd wished the other didn't exist at all, but also held a firm amount of respect. He had to give it to the young man; he'd pulled off the impossible. Death, unimpeded while waiting for his spouse's return, simply stared back for a few moments long enough Absalom was certain he wouldn't get a reply at all.

Then, "I did not win her over. I gave her what I knew she liked," Death said matter-a-fact. "Turns out, it actually pays to get to know someone."

"....You two have been courting already before this..." that explained a few things. The way she always seemed to glow like the sun whenever Death was around, how much they spent time together, and how close they acted already. Like best friends, but more. "And I made it official. And now that I have..." Death turned more fully towards Absalom, that pride and joy replaced by a fierce protectiveness accompanied by a chill that seeped into the air like growing frost. "Leave her be."

[depressedhouseplant]

Cops & Robbers Read Along: Chapter 5

You can read the chapter here

This chapter had the first true “on screen” violence. I could’ve gone way harder with it and chose to keep it toned down to increase the impact of a later scene (and if you’ve read the fic you know which scene I’m talking about). I also introduce Stray Kids in this chapter. Sorry Stays, someone had to be my cannon fodder for real and they lost. 

Younghoon needed to focus. He needed to find something identifiable about them. They were still wearing ski masks, but their hands were uncovered. One had a star tattooed on his right ring finger. They both had brown eyes, but the one without the tattoo had eyes that were closer together than the other’s. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Sorry for the uncharitable description of Jisung, but you knew who I was talking about, right? I know Changbin doesn’t have tattoos on his hands, but “short” wouldn’t have been very descriptive now would it?

“That’s enough!” The voice from the doorway made them all stop. Pinched Eyes dropped him back onto the floor. The two stood at attention. A smaller blonde about the same size as Chanhee walked in. The lower part of his face was covered by a mask, but his eyes and forehead were exposed. He had blue eyes, but Younghoon suspected they were colored contacts.

“You’re the boss?” Younghoon asked.

“I am,” he replied. His voice was shockingly deep for his size. Another trait Younghoon filed away for later.

I tried to make it pretty obvious this was Felix. Blonde hair? Deep voice? Felix is another character who is easy for me to write so including him wasn’t nearly as much of a struggle as it was with some other characters.

The boss flicked his wrist and Younghoon twisted out of the way. A searing pain shot through his chest as his body rebounded. He gasped to try and catch his breath. It took a few seconds to realize the knife had broken the skin.

This is based on an actual injury I had. I used to do aerial silks (think Cirque du Soleil) and when I was coming out of an inversion, I thought the floor was closer than it was so my legs ended up swinging backwards and I twisted, tearing all the tiny muscles in my chest wall. It hurt like hell. The worst part is there was nothing that could be done except pain management and trying not to breathe. Years later my orthopedist would inform me I actually cracked a rib in the process. Thanks bro.

“We found a body. Well, we found a report of a body found in an alley near the club,” Sunwoo explained.

“Is it Chanhee?” Juyeon asked.

“Description doesn’t match, but it sounded a lot like one of the guys who kidnapped them. We’re about to go check for ourselves,” Hyunjae added.

“You’re going to break into the morgue?” Juyeon stared at them.

“Would you rather we rob a grave?” Changmin asked. 

“Well?” Sunwoo prompted.

“Fine. Sunwoo, stay here and see if there are any other reports related to the body,” Juyeon said. He turned his attention to Hyunjae and Changmin. “Just don’t get caught.”

“We won’t,” Hyunjae smirked.

I thought the rob a grave line was funny. What can I say? I have a dark sense of humor.

“Looks like the right one,” Changmin said as he put on gloves. The body was a male in his late 20s. The most notable thing was his eyes appeared almost too close together. 

“Did the report have a COD?” Hyunjae asked.

“No, but I think I know what it is. Help me roll him,” Changmin replied. They rolled the body onto its side and Changmin probed the base of the skull. “Yup. Bullet wound.”

Again, sorry for the uncharitable description of Jisung. Also sorry for killing him off so fast. Maybe.

“Then why kill him?” Hyunjae carefully cleaned off the corpse’s finger after taking a fingerprint.

“Why’d they kill Chanhee? Nothing about this gang makes any sense,” Changmin replied as he closed the compartment again. Hyunjae sealed the fingerprint in a bag and shoved it in his pocket.

Nothing about this whole fic makes sense. Thanks for breaking the fourth wall, Changmin. I hope y’all are enjoying me roasting myself in the process of this read along. Only 11 more chapters to go!

[vesanal]

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊The 5th Day of Writemas₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Howdy again y’all! You know the drill. Here is the invite post! And here are the prompts for Day 5! 20 more days to go! It feels like I just started this (because I did). Also! I made the title pretty. Hope y'all like it. <3

Prompts used:

Setting: A balcony

Feeling: The whispers of the wind + Sobbing

Dialogue: "...What have you done?"

Next character that gets a spotlight is going to be Perci!! Yay! 

Read about the WIP here!!

Enjoy! <3

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

The bitter winds of an especially cold, dark night whispered around Perci, tousling his hair and coat about. It was gossiping to itself as if he couldn’t hear it mutter awful things about him. Why did you do this....What have you done? How could you do this to her?, He could hear it say. His face hardened, overlooking the balcony’s ledge and out into the open white infinity beyond him, desperately trying to unhear the wind’s voice. Uneasiness settled within him. What else could be out there? Perci sighed, watching his breath freeze into white air. This was the last taste of home he will get for a long while. It was a strange feeling. One that turned and burned in his stomach, morphing into fears and anxieties about whatever the hell the future had in mind for him. It felt like he was at home one day, all snuggled up in bed, and the next, out in some unknown place, following orders under a Queensmen like some kind of dog. “Perci?” a woman's voice sounded as the door behind him unlatched, “What are you doing?” “Mom—” Perci swiftly turned around to face his mother.

“Perci, why are you out here? We must conserve the heat in the house. Son, close the balcony doors for me, please?” 

Perci sighed, “Mom. Please.”

“You will get the household sick, dear. We do not have the means anymore for sufficient heat, you know that. We can’t afford to get anyone ill right now, either.”

Perci turned back to stare back at the haunting hail storm raging outside, an anguished feeling filling him,“With one less person in the household, you can. It’s my grand reward for going to the Academy, anyway. If I never went, they wouldn’t have drafted me. You deserve the break anyways. That’s what you get with a talented son.”

She hurried over to him and grabbed his shoulder. Rubbing his arm, she started to warm up the icy exterior of his jacket from the long exposure to the winter storm. She looked at his face and let go of him, analyzing the expression on his face, the mixture of repressed sadness and anger forming its base. Perci took a small glance over and noticed the strong look of worry overcoming her overworked face as she feared what he was thinking about and agonizing over.

He looked back down and fidgeted with his hands, focussed entirely on them as he spoke, “Do you ever feel scared of something, something that’s out of your reach? Something unknown? Like it’s going to creep up on you when you aren’t looking and get you? And that all you worked for is just taken from you in an instant?” 

“I don’t know. I really don’t know, Perce. I can’t know everything that’s going to happen”, his mother started, tears welling up in her eyes, falling within the instant they formed, “I need you to be strong for me. Oh, how I despise that you were conscripted, like you were nothing to them, just another body for the fodder. I would give up a thousand lifetimes before I had you sent out against my will. Oh, my boy, please come here, this is the last I’ll ever hug you for a while, come.” 

She pulled him in, her droplets of tears turning into taps of sorrow. Wailing into his shoulder, she tightly grips the rest of him in her embrace. As she held Perci, he began to give in to his own despair. Soon, sobs filled the room as they did little to hide them, just as they could do little to stop the causes of the sobs.

“Oh, Perce, I wish you don’t meet your father again so soon.”

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

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[pigeonwhumps]

Guilt

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

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@augustofwhump

August of Whump bonus prompt: guilt

Aaron is refused permission to join the search for Phoenix when they're crucified, and they're declared dead. This is the next six months for Aaron.

First scene is canon, everything after that is set in the Gemma saves Phoenix AU, where Gemma saves Phoenix after they've been crucified continuously for 6 months.

2k words

CWs: immortal whumpee, presumed dead, guilt, grief, transphobia, ableism (both very brief), low self-worth

"I'm joining the search party for Phoenix Costello."

"No, you're not."

Aaron blinks and balls his fists. "What? They're on my team, they're my responsibility!"

Their boss, the head of the medical bay, sighs. "You're needed here. The rest of their team are capable of searching, and if they need a medic they'll bring them back here or you can join them in the field then. There's no use you being on the other side of the city when they're found."

There's multiple flaws there, and he catches the implications of the 'if'. They might be dead. They might be gone. They might just have left, although Aaron doesn't believe that at all. If they were just leaving they wouldn't have taken their tracker.

That's not important though.

"There's a gang of serial killers out there!" he yells, voice cracking.

"That's exactly why I need you to stay here. We're overloaded as it is, and I can't lose you. You're one of our best."

"But–"

"Look. They're immortal, right?" Aaron nods stiffly. "Chances are, they're just trapped. The rest of the team will find them, and they'll be back in no time, traumatised and injured possibly but alive. Let them search and do your job, okay?" He nods again, unsure what else he can do now, and his boss smiles wearily. "Thank you. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

Aaron shakes their head. They don't know what else to do.

_

One week passes.

_

Two weeks.

_

A month.

_

Two.

_

Three months with no sign. No-one on the medical staff has had so much as a chance to breathe in that time. Due to how high the rate of injuries and deaths has been, and the presence of The Chosen Ones still out there, Phoenix is declared dead.

Probably dead.

Aaron is numb. He... he barely even knew Phoenix (he should have, he should have gotten to know them better), but they were his responsibility, on his team, the few times he has seen them... and he just can't believe that they're dead.

They're 18. Still a child, really.

Maybe they're not. It's always possible. Sure, nobody knows how their immortality works, if they really will resurrect forever, but again: nobody knows how their immortality works.

He does his duties as he should, but he can't feel anything. They're dead. His boss tries to give him time off but it doesn't work, he has to do something.

He just... how did he let it all go so wrong?

_

Phoenix's family's house is a terraced house on a quiet street. Three bedrooms at a guess. Nice, neat front lawn, nice neat painting. Boring. Not Phoenix.

Aaron glances at Aisling, who gestures for him to head down the path first. He needs to tell Phoenix's family about their death. Apparent death. He volunteered, and is very grateful that Aisling agreed to come with him because no-one else on Phoenix's team would.

They didn't seem very upset either.

Will Phoenix's parents be? Joseph told him of the campaign group they're in charge of, but he's not sure how extreme their views are. Whether they extend to their eldest child.

He rings the shiny doorbell. A few seconds, and then a teenager answers. They look very like Phoenix, although with shorter, curlier hair, and with a sinking sensation Aaron realises this is probably their sister.

"Are you Alicia?" She nods. "I'm Aaron, and this is Aisling. We're from HAL, and we need to talk to you about Phoenix. Can we come in?"

Alicia nods, leading them to the front room and gesturing for them to sit, before she holds up a finger and dashes upstairs. Aaron looks around. The place looks more like a showroom than anything. You'd never know a teenager lived here, and the only sign of children once having been here is the posed photo on the mantelpiece. Aaron isn't an expert, but he's pretty sure Alicia's smile is forced. There's no sign of Phoenix ever having existed.

Alicia returns with a tablet in hand and sits down on the sofa opposite, typing. "Sorry. What about Phoenix? Are they okay?"

Aaron swallows. "I– Phoenix– Alicia, I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head. "No."

"They were– it was–" They had a whole speech planned about what probably happened but they can't get it out. Not with Alicia watching them, eyes begging, pleading, for him not to say it. "We didn't find a body. But with the serial killers out there and deaths piling up, we don't think..."

Alicia's shaking her head fiercely now, and she drops her tablet, starting to rock. And she wails.

Aaron isn't sure what to do. He's not leaving, not now, he wouldn't even if he didn't need to wait for her parents. But he doesn't know what he can do except let her process.

"I'm sorry," Aisling whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Alicia covers her ears and continues to wail.

After a time, the lock rattles on the front door and it opens.

"Stop making that awful noise, Alicia," says a woman sharply. "I've told you before, if you can't stop– oh." She stops in the entrance to the living room. "Who do you think you are, sitting in our house and upsetting our daughter like this?"

They both stand, Aisling holding out a hand.

"Hello. I'm Aisling O'Connor, and this is Aaron Thomas, from HAL. We have some sad news about your child, Phoenix."

A man enters the room, raising an eyebrow. This must be Mr Costello. They're both very standoffish, which Aaron supposes is fair.

"Fiona? She's still going by that foolishness? What has she done now?"

So, they're transphobic as well as running a hate campaign.

"I'm afraid they're dead, Mr Costello. We believe they were killed by members of The Chosen Ones. I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Yes. Well. Thank you." Both of the older Costellos look stunned, and Aaron could almost feel satisfied about that. Almost. In other circumstances. "We will, of course, inform your organisation of the funeral arrangements if you would like to send representatives. Will you leave us to grieve in private?"

"Of course." They both rise, and Aaron slips the piece of paper he's been scribbling on with both his and Aisling's phone numbers into Alicia's hand. Just in case she needs someone. "Apologies again for your loss."

And he walks out the door. He has, at least, resisted the urge to punch either member of the couple, so at least that's something.

He wonders if he'll be allowed to attend the funeral. He hopes so.

_

The funeral is held the next week. Thankfully there's no open casket with no body, but it's still a bit strange to him. Phoenix's parents are clearly very religious, where he never has been so much, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Not to mention the consistent misgendering. Even in death, Phoenix's parents won't respect them.

Aaron's never felt so grateful for their own family.

There's so many dry eyes here today. So much performance. Aaron gets the feeling that Abbie, Indigo and Segun didn't really care about Phoenix at all, and it makes them regret their lack of knowing Phoenix all the more.

Except Alicia's speech. That's beautiful, and heartbreaking, and she doesn't misgender her sibling once. She's been moving her belongings into Aisling's flat gradually for weeks, and Aaron can see that what she feared will likely come true – despite the shining eyes and crying throughout the audience, Alicia's father's face is turning puce.

(She explains, later, that it's not just the speech, or the respect for Phoenix, but the use of her AAC app at all, and Aaron has to use all of his strength not to turn around and murder her parents for that.)

_

"I hear you're thinking of quitting," is how Joseph announces himself at the table in the diner.

Aaron saw him coming, of course, they wouldn't sit with their back to the door, but they didn't register it. He sets the pizzas down on the table – one spicy vegetable, one sausage and pepperoni, and a little tub of mozzarella sticks to share.

"How do you know that?"

Joseph sighs. "You texted me last night. Drunk, I think. You don't usually drink and you're the last person I'd expect to quit. What's going on? Is this about Phoenix?"

Aaron nods, taking a large bite of pizza to hide their emotions. "What's the point of being a hero if I'm just going to obey orders that get people killed?"

"You didn't kill Phoenix."

Aaron shakes their head. "If I'd searched too, I might have found them, they might still be alive."

"Aaron. Listen to me. You didn't kill them. Or get them killed, for that matter. You saved people. You told me your boss didn't let you go because you're one of his best medics. It's true. Please, Aaron, think about this. Don't quit."

"I still got them killed. Heroes don't do that."

Joseph reaches across and squeezes their arm. "Nobody can be perfect all the time. It was their murderers who killed them, not you. You do so much good, and I, for one, would be devastated if you left because you made one mistake that might not even have led to anything."

"But they're still dead."

That's the crux of the matter. They're dead, they were on his team, and it's his fault. And he had to sit through a whole funeral service of them being misgendered, and he can't help thinking he should've gotten to know them, should've given them someone else who cared. God knows no-one else seems to.

If he'd known them, if he'd searched, would they still be alive? But instead he just followed orders and let them die.

He sobs.

Joseph comes around the table and pulls them into his arms.

"Give yourself a few months, 'kay? Don't make this decision on the spur of the moment, when you're so emotional. Wait until you can think again."

Aaron nods into Joseph's warm, soft arms. He can try.

_

Aaron is fetching a plate of biscuits from the kitchen when Gemma enters the flat.

He always feels a little uncomfortable with this team on his own. It's not his team, or his flat, he's intruding. It wasn't their idea to invite him. Sometimes Alicia comes too but not today, she doesn't feel up to meeting this new person that Gemma's saved and he doesn't blame her.

He's happy for them. Really. But Aaron can't help wishing he had done the same for Phoenix.

"Hi Gemma! And this must be Phoenix."

No. No, he must've misheard Kai, he must've... is this why they've all been giving him weird looks since he arrived? It has to be a different Phoenix, surely.

They step out of the kitchen, hands trembling, and feel the blood drain from their face. There's a shattering sound beneath their feet but they barely register it.

There, wringing their hands together, looking a little older and more traumatised but still recognisably them, is Phoenix.

"Phoenix? You're alive?"

Phoenix turns to look at them, the same shock mirrored on their face.

"Aaron?"

"I'm sorry," they whisper, "I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me on the search and rescue mission but I should have anyway, I'm so sorry. How did you– why are you–"

At some point they've moved forward, and Phoenix is within touching distance, looking startled, tears in their eyes.

"Can I give you a hug?"

Phoenix nods, almost falling into their arms. He hugs them tightly.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry."

"'s okay. I didn't deserve to be rescued anyway."

He squeezes them tighter. "That's bullshit, kid." Phoenix shakes their head. "Your sister misses you desperately."

"She, um, she does? Why?"

"Because she loves you."

"Oh."

Aaron has learned various things over the past six months about how they've been treated over their life, and their rock-bottom self-esteem shouldn't shock him but it does.

"People care about you, Phoenix. Don't ever forget that."

[thelemoncoffee]

my brain is empty right now, but i must prompt.

uuuuh- fuck it, using a meme as prompt fodder. ya know the mlp "the bride and the ugly ass groom" meme that's being going around? you can saiouma that if you aren't a coward

Shuichi's pretty as fuck and well kempt and polite and the son of a fucking movie actor, dude's got it all. and then there's Kokichi's scruffy ass, all wild and scraggly and nobody likes him cause of his behavior- beautiful detective and his ugly ass clown.

man i don't know i'm tired and brain dead. someone play with this