#the terror fanfiction

[littlelouprophetjohn]

Queering the Arctic: the Newly Found Franklin Expedition’s Letters

The papers are unidentifiable–there is no personal name attributed to any of the pages, and, although there are references to a ‘James’, the commonality of the name (especially within the context of the expedition) makes it so that it is uncertain whom the papers both belong and refer to....

a fake academic essay about a short collection of journal entries unearthed from nunavut.

read it here

new fic out! not too sure how to explain but it’s an academic essay about fitzier (the tv show ones, i mean) in an au of our world but where they found a collection of someone’s love letters/journal entries. and that someone is of course our dear frmc writing about jfj. pls enjoy

[itosevenito]

Tell me you're a terror fic writer without telling me your a terror fic writer:

[leadandblood]

*vibrating* hello :) would you like... some more jopzier :) I swear i'm a normal guy :)

[notkingyet2]

hey do you remember my Jopson/Tozer manifesto?

yeah, some kind soul made a fic of it.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

Whist and Whiskey

Wilbur/Ere plays a round of cards with Blanky and Crozier. Some awkward love confessions though refusing to say it outright. Lots of dialogue. Crozier is told how much his crew loves him. Teaser. Unfinished currently. Content Warnings: Alcohol (casual) Word Count: 2,081 (super short)

“Yer bad at this, lad,” And Blanky laughed, busting into a hearty snickering that bordered on drunken amusement. Wilbur leaned back, heavy in the seat. The Wardroom’s patented Illuminator dangled loosely overhead, a sickly orange and yellow glow blossomed around them leaving the Wardroom Cabin’s corners steeped in an auburn shadow. Francis Crozier was, indeed, quite several cards ahead in the game. Each round being played was mercilessly a jagged cut into Wilbur’ ineptitude as he fumbled with the rules and tactics of winning this game. It seemed he was fated to be stuck between the Terror’s Captain and her Icemaster. 

“So it seems,” he confessed, sipping from his own glass, brow furrowed at his paltry hand. He was not grasping this as well as he thought he would. Nonetheless his heart was light with amusement at his expense. The flustered fluttering of his body was alight with embarrassment as Crozier watched him squirm in his seat. “Alas, you’ve cornered me right good, Captain.” He flashed a grin that was met in equal measure around the table. “I might have to ask Jopson to play in my stead,” he sighed wistfully at this, shifting again under the keen watch as he adjusted the cards in his hand.

“Are y’going to play a hand or are you going to fold out on us, lad?” Crozier teased. Impulsively, Wilbur played his hand with quick and confident movements which startled both the Icemaster and the Captain.

“Oohohoho?” Blanky chortled drunkenly, his body canting to one side as he half slid out of his seat. “Looks like the lad is trying his hand against ye. That’s a personal insult, Francis,” he drew a card for himself then and then played it out immediately, shifting his hand a little between his fingers.

Francis said nothing to this, simply furrowed his brow and hummed as he was squeezed into a delicate position in their game of cards. “You’ve never played whist is what y’said,” his slur was coming in and out as he teetered on sobriety and tipsy-drunk. He had almost forgotten his drink entirely in his focus; the game slowly turned into a dealing of cards where Wilbur was frantic to keep up. “Oh no, I won’t be letting ye get away so easily,” Crozier challenged. “Ye asked for this, lad. Don’t challenge an Irishman against his own hand of cards.” He was grinning with a mischievous and toothy thing that sent a chilling and knowing light into his eye. 

Wilbur felt he had, perhaps, bitten off more than he could chew for some time as he was catching up to Blanky in his hand enough to feel that he may be worth something in this game of cards. “You’ve done it now, lad,” Blanky played his dealt cards between Crozier and Wilbur, an amused look growing on his face as he watched the two of them hash it out between one another. He threw them both for a loop here and there, shifting the tides of either Crozier’s hand or Wilbur’ hand. Eventually he was putting the both of them behind until he was left with the winning hand and he played the highest card in the line. Both Wilbur and Crozier were stunned as Blanky proudly looked at the line and laid down his hands. “Well that’s game, men,” Blanky seemed pleased. “One more round and we’ll see who wins. One for me. One for Wilbur and Francis is also at one. This next round determines the sorry sod that’s groomin’ the dog.”

The joyous pleasantries about the table returned to another ease of shoulders as they shuffled and redistributed amongst themselves. Blanky began. Crozier followed. Wilbur towed. A few hands in and Crozier was behind. Not something unusual per-se but nonetheless Wilbur plucked that cord, “I thought y’said you were good at this game, Captain?” He tested the man. Poking gently as he watched Francis take a very careful sip of his whiskey and pressed his lips together. The glass was half full. The evening was drawing to a close.

“Good with cards, aye,” his brogue drawled a little heavily, “bad with women. Good with cards.” He seemed to recoil in on himself at this, a reflexive thing that had his closest friend glancing at him with a concerned furrow as the air shifted in a way that felt like a downwards drop of self deprecation. 

Wilbur looked at Francis. Without thinking, he spoke. “I doubt that. How could you be bad with women?”

There was a terse silence that dipped for that moment and Wilbur realised he had tread where he ought not have. But Francis had opened that door and now it could not shut with the younger Captain’s proverbial foot there. It was too late now and Crozier’s hands laid out his two of clubs with a sharp sound against the wood of the table. “It’s of no matter,” he began before he took a drink, “I have had not much good luck or favour in my recent endeavours,” he smiled painfully. It was a pressed thing full of pain and pity and apology for having even spoken. “I am, as Sir John put it quite cleanly, “Difficult to Love,” so it seems.” 

“Nonsense. There’s plenty of men here that love you,” Wilbur shushed him. He was partially drunk himself. “Goodness I don’t doubt Mr. Blanky here has quaked one or two out to ye himself for Christ’s sakes, Captain. Goodness knows that darling Jopson probably is smothering your shirts into his face late at night with how the man looks at you,” he was startling both Blanky and Crozier. Both were beginning to glow a soft ember red from the collar up. Within all lapse of inhibitions, he was quite dead serious as he spoke, smiling, even through his honesty. “I’ve hardly known you for more than a few months here, Captain and I myself-” the fibres of his being seized violently as he caught his tipsy tongue just in time. He froze, pausing heavy in his fluid gesture across the table as he went to play his own card. Wilbur’s flesh flushed brilliantly as he then cleared his throat and sat back nice and slowly. Crozier was fixated heavily on him. “Have…” he was stalling, “seen the way some men look at you. Rich with adoration, Captain,” he took his drink to swallow the awkward slip of his tongue into something more pragmatic. 

“Is that so…” 

Wilbur coughed out a bitter shift in subject, “Irregardless,” he shifted in his seat the wood creaking gently, “You’ve a good eye I hear. Perhaps you can find love in other avenues, aye? Not all pretty palaces are places we should be, Captain…” He half whispered and watched Blanky play his own hand. The rotation resumed with a terse silence. Wilbur was distinctly aware of the intensity with which Francis Crozier kept flickering his gaze to the younger captain, watching him and weighing him. Distance of sound in the room was filled with the shuffling of cards and the patterned tap of wood they made. 

It was their final round and for the mercy of it all, Wilbur shuttering himself against the curious glances. It was Blanky that broke the silence as it was clear the man was going to win between Crozier and Wilbur. “In my defence, Francis,” he played an eight and the addressed man groaned lowly at, a pitiful stare at his own hand. “It’s only been a handful o’ times. You know…”

“Does your wife know, Thomas?” Francis’ face lit up in a cheeky grin, his cheeks suddenly pink and warm in that light of playful talk, “that she’s competin’ with a cantankerous sailor?”

Crozier dealt out a rather paltry card by comparison and glanced politely into Wilbur’s direction to cue him for his turn. “You’ve met her, Francis,” Blanky’s reply was heartfelt and warm, a fond memory pressing into his tone, “She makes you look like a brick with the mouth on her.” Crozier’s grin did not falter as he watched Wilbur mindfully, his hands tucking his cards down a little as he watched the younger man mull his hand. In a sharp moment he glanced to Crozier, meeting the other’s gaze before he shamefully looked down and back to his hand, quickly playing his card of choice. The warmth crawled up his neck a little. His mind worried that he had spoken too much and left himself far too open. His mind struggled to rationalise it under the weight of the alcohol. Crozier’s only glass remained rather topped whilst Wilbur had somehow managed to pour almost all but the bottom down his throat. His hand was a losing one. He knew that. He had all but resigned.

“That, I believe, would be the end of this game, lads,” Blanky grinned widely from his comfortable lean. He threw down his final card running the row to its highest line. Leaning back he planted his hands over his belly quite proudly as the other two examined the board for a moment. 

“Christ, Thomas,” Francis’ tone was exasperated. “Were y’holding these out on me?” There was a richness to the two that had Wilbur grinning at their little exchanges, pleased and warmed by their bond as he imagined the years that the two have spent together. 

“Course not, Francis. I just know when you’re too bloody hellbent in whatever strange fixation you had with Ere. I bid my good time,” he seemed proud of himself, his broad toothy grin and laugher shaking his whole body. The two losers stared at Blanky and allowed him his victory for a moment until the Icemaster stood, pleased and threw down his remaining hand. “And that, my lovelies, is all I have for ye. Don’t be staying up too late now,” he pushed his chair in and saw himself out after downing the last of his drink.

“So,” Wilbur had begun to clean up the card game, tucking each thing nice and neatly away. Each card was slowly and meticulously plucked from the table. Truthfully he felt a tad topsy with the warmth in his body seeping through his bones. He could feel the buzz and the drink weighing in his mind. His tongue wetted his lips as Francis spoke, “Did y’mean what you said?” the question sat heavily in the air as Wilbur paused. 

He gauged Francis carefully. “Bout there being a broader avenue of romantic pursuits? Aye,” he slurred a little. “I meant it. I’m no fool. I have…” He straightened his back, praying his tongue was not too loose in this moment, “I have a sense for these things, you could say. I can… feel it out, if you catch my meaning, Captain.”

“Like an instinct.” It was a statement and not a question but Wilbur nodded regardless, “You have instincts about who’d be privy to unseemly matches and be interested in less than regarded partners?”

“Aye. It comes with the territory. All sorts with pirating folks,” He played it as smoothly as he could, mindful of his actions as he returned the cards to their wooden case. “Why d’ask, if I may?”

“Curious. And yourself?” Crozier gave him the space then and there and Wilbur flushed brilliantly.

“I-... I b-beg your pardon, sir?” He stammered out, eyes searching for something that might be a jest.

“I mean… Oh… Christ, what sort of figures do you see bout the ships… Save for of course both o’my Thomases.” He rubbed his face, fatigue clearly etching itself into the lines on his face.

“Of course!” Wilbur laughed, a terrified thing with wide eyes threatening to go watery in the relief that flooded him. “Ah… M’mind’s not as clear as it could be. I’d have to give that a bit more scrutiny. I spoke my peace for what my memory serves right now. All I’m sayin’ is that there’s people here that do love you. The love is there. I promise. Y’just…” Wilbur offered a vague amount of gestures, “If yer the sort of man to, that is, I suppose. Just… Let it in. Recognise you’re loved. I promise you are. Yer not hard to love, Captain, Sir, you’re not. You’re terrifyingly easy to love, actually, if I may say so.”

“Is that a confession I hear on your lips?” He accentuated that statement with his hands folding over his chest a little as he watched the other closely. Wilbur almost fell over.

[charliemack]

Purple

Somerset House Ch2

Thomas, devious seducer, has the members of Somerset House over for drinks. He has every intention of placing the idea of leaving their talent agency into their heads - if he can get them to stop whining and complaining long enough to get a word in edgewise. His plans are ruined by the appearance of an ambulance, bringing John's boyfriend Malcolm and also Ned, who has once again been taken out by one of the Teras' pranks.

Read it now on AO3!

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny was livid.

The Guys In White had been following Phantom around constantly and while they weren't much of a threat, they were a massive nuisance. They had shot him down on Thursday and caused him to crash into some poor kids birthday cake in the park.

On Friday they had accidentally released ghost rats into the school.

On Saturday they had somehow managed to turn Paulinas hair ectoplasm green. She refused to leave her bedroom until it was reversed

On Sunday they tried to commandeer his parents GAV and earned the ire of his mom. They found out exactly why that was a bad idea.

On Monday they bardged into Danny's classroom, interrupting his math test because they were looking for a ghost parrot. It was mostly harmless but kept insulting them in a cheery tone. Danny decided he liked that bird.

We won't speak about what happened on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, he scowled at an agent that had accidentally blasted him and his friends with liquid ectoplasm while they were sitting and eating lunch. It was then that Danny began plotting his revenge.

That night he when ghost and lead the GIW on a while goose chase. Did danny take them across state lines? Yes. Did he manage to pull a massive following of these creeps? Also yes.

Did he plan for his target-the guy he had been leading them to- to already be in cuffs when he arrived in Gotham? No. Not at all.

"Hey, uh..." the words died on his tongue as Batman- The Batman- turned to him with narrowed eyes. Mustering his will, he started again, "Could you let him out? Just for a little bit?"

"No."

"Aw, Cmon!"

Condiment King began raving about something, but Danny didn't particularly care to pay attention. "If you're not going to let him out, then can you at least call the rest of the paw patrol? I wanna ask if they wanna throw mud at evil secret organization people. For enrichment." Danny gave his best, most cheeky smile for extra measure.

"Hn."

[justaz]

lol arthur realizes with the other knights after watching merlin flirt and being hit with a wave of deja vu: holy shit you asked me out

merlin and the rest of the knights around a campfire after leaving a village bc lancelot and leon somehow started a brawl in the tavern: ???

arthur points at merlin: after valiant! you asked me to buy you a drink! you were asking me out!

merlin is busy cooking dinner and confused out of his fucking mind: what???…..valiant….oh the knight with the snakes.

gwaine who was slightly tipsy now stone cold sober and sitting up straight against a tree: wait. explain. what do you mean merlin asked you out??

arthur snaps his fingers as he recalls the memory: i apologized for sacking you and you said that if i bought you a drink we’d be even.

merlin now remembering how he had stumbled into camelot, picked a fight with a pigheaded bully which quickly turned homoerotic and flirtatious, and continued their teasing-flirting for days before merlin shot his shot and asked the prince out only to be rejected: oh yeah, i forgot i did that…..wait, you mean you didnt realize what i was asking?

arthur: no?? we argued everyday, how was i supposed to realize you were asking me out??

merlin now abandoning the dinner and staring across the camp at arthur while the rest of the knights watch their back and forth like a game of tennis: to you we were arguing, to me that was very much flirting. i thought you were flirting back so i decided to ask you. then you rejected me

arthur, mentally beating his past self up for fucking up their chance: i didn’t reject you!!! i just didn’t realize what you were asking me. how was i meant to? we fought every chance we got

leon, nudging elyan, glee and excitement riling through him: its happening!!! its finally happening!!! seven long, grueling years is finally paying off!!!

merlin, realizing the misunderstanding and acknowledging the fact that he wasn’t rejected, his flirtations just weren’t noticed - realizing he still has a chance: oh…oh i see. arthur, my dear, our fights were extremely flirtatious. need i remind you of what you said? “do you know how to walk on your knees? would you like me to teach you?” or “i could take you apart with one blow”

arthur, mental capabilities at an all time low: m…my dear….?????????

merlin grinning devilishly as he realizes that his flirtatious persona he had hidden away after falling head over heels for arthur can make a come back: that is what i called you. should i call you something else? say…mine?

percival gags in elyan’s ear: cheesy

elyan hides a laugh: at least they’re finally getting somewhere. better than the hopeless pining

arthur, flushed from head to toe: ah uh no um im uh

merlin thoroughly enjoying himself: oh come now, your majesty. use your words.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[sixxrock666]

…let’s just say I wanted to share my Pinterest adventures with you (っ- ‸ -)っ

[keekee-23]

Daddy Tag Team

A Y/N X Damian Priest Fluff Fanfiction

Summary: Damian Priest tackles his biggest challenge yet – caring for his daughter, Luna, while Y/N is away. Through diaper changes and sleepless nights, Damian discovers that being a dad is the most rewarding match of them all.

Damian Priest stood in the doorway of their home, Luna cradled in his strong arms, as Y/N zipped up her suitcase one last time. The look on her face was a mix of determination and unease. This was her first time leaving Damian alone with their baby girl for 2 days, and though she trusted him completely, there was still that lingering doubt.

"You sure you’re going to be okay?" Y/N asked, her voice laced with concern as she straightened up, her eyes flicking between Damian and Luna.

Damian chuckled, his deep voice full of reassurance. "Babe, I’ve faced steel cages, ladders, and even Gunther. I think I can handle our little princesa for a few days."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “You do realize she’s teething, right? And she’s been extra fussy these past few days.”

Damian nodded, shifting Luna to his other arm. “We’ve got this, haven’t we, princesa?” he cooed at his daughter, who responded by drooling on his shirt.

Y/N tried to smile, but the worry lines on her forehead didn’t quite smooth out. "I know, I know… it’s just, you’ve never been alone with her for this long before. If you need anything, just—"

"—call you," Damian finished for her, leaning in to press a kiss on her lips. "I’ve got this, Y/N. “Go, save the world or whatever it is you do,” Damian teased. “We’ll be here when you get back. Hopefully, with the house still standing.”

Y/N laughed softly, still hesitant, but she knew she had to trust Damian. He was her rock, after all. She turned her attention to Luna, who was happily tugging at Damian’s long hair with a tight grip, her tiny face full of curiosity.

"Mama’s gonna miss you, sweet girl," Y/N cooed, leaning in to kiss Luna’s chubby cheek. Luna gurgled in response, her big eyes lighting up as she reached for her mother’s face.

Y/N reluctantly pulled away, feeling the sting of leaving her baby, but knowing that her work demanded it. As she slid into the waiting Uber, she looked back at Damian and Luna, both waving at her from the doorway. She forced herself to smile and gave them a little wave back before the car pulled away.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Luna’s face scrunched up, and her lower lip began to quiver. Damian looked down at her, already feeling a pang of worry. “Uh-oh. No need to cry, sweetheart. Daddy’s here.”

The lip quiver quickly escalated into a full-blown wail. Damian’s eyes widened. “Okay, okay, we can handle this.” He began to pace the room, gently bouncing her in his arms like he’d seen Y/N do countless times before. “You’re okay, Luna. We’re just going to have some fun today, right? Just Daddy and his little girl.”

After a few more laps around the living room, Luna finally calmed down, her big brown eyes staring up at Damian as if to say, I’m watching you, Dad. Damian took a deep breath. “Alright, first things first—diaper change.”

What should have been a simple task turned into a comedy of errors. Damian laid Luna on the changing table and began to undo her onesie, but the tiny snaps on the fabric seemed to defy him at every turn. “Come on, it’s just a snap,” he muttered, finally getting it open only for Luna to kick her legs and send a tiny sock flying across the room.

“Alright, you’re feisty today, huh?” Damian said with a laugh, retrieving the sock and placing it back on her foot. But the real challenge began when he opened the diaper. “Oh, man. How does something so small make such a big mess?”

He carefully wiped her clean, trying to keep everything under control, but Luna was in no mood to cooperate. She wriggled and squirmed, nearly kicking the wipes out of his hand. When it came time to put the fresh diaper on, Damian struggled to keep her still. The result was a slightly crooked diaper, but after a few attempts to adjust it, he decided it was good enough. “There we go, all clean. Let’s see your mom do better than that,” he joked, holding her up proudly.

The rest of the morning went by in a blur of tiny challenges. Feeding time was a mix of sweet moments and sticky chaos. Damian thought he had the bottle’s temperature just right, but when he went to test it, he ended up spilling milk down the front of his shirt. “Okay, so maybe I should’ve worn a bib too,” he chuckled, wiping it off.

Luna, for her part, seemed more interested in gnawing on the bottle’s nipple than actually drinking from it, which led to a minor battle of wills. “Come on, Luna, you’ve got to eat,” Damian coaxed, trying to gently guide the bottle into her mouth. After some persistence, she finally latched on, and Damian couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride. “That’s my girl. We’re getting the hang of this.”

Nap time, however, was a different story. Luna had always been a light sleeper, and today was no exception. Damian tried everything—rocking her in his arms, walking around the house, even playing soft music on his phone. But each time he laid her in the crib, her eyes would pop open, and she’d start fussing again.

“Come on, princesa, you need to sleep,” Damian whispered, exhausted but determined. Eventually, after what felt like hours of rocking and shushing, Luna finally dozed off. Damian carefully placed her in the crib, holding his breath as he slowly backed out of the room. The moment he stepped on a creaky floorboard, her eyes fluttered open. Damian froze, holding his breath, but to his relief, Luna let out a tiny sigh and fell back asleep.

Damian tiptoed out of the room, collapsing onto the couch with a sigh of relief. “This is tougher than a ladder match,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He pulled out his phone to check the time and noticed a message from Y/N: How’s everything going?

He couldn’t help but smile as he typed back: We’re surviving. No major disasters yet. He added a winking emoji for good measure before setting his phone down and closing his eyes for just a moment.

He was startled awake by the sound of the baby monitor crackling to life. Luna was awake again. “Already?” he groaned, dragging himself off the couch and heading back to her room. He found her sitting up in the crib, wide awake and looking as bright-eyed as ever.

“You know, it’s supposed to be nap time,” Damian said, scooping her up and holding her close. She responded by grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging, which made him wince but also laugh. “You’ve got a strong grip, just like your dad.”

He spent the next few hours trying to keep Luna entertained. He tried singing to her, but his deep, gravelly voice only made her stare at him in confusion. He brought out her favorite toys, only to find that she was more interested in chewing on anything within reach—including his championship belt, which he quickly had to rescue from her tiny grasp. “Not a teething toy, sweetheart,” he said, holding it up out of her reach.

He tried reading her a story, but Luna seemed more interested in the sound of his voice than the actual words. She cooed and babbled back at him as if trying to have a conversation. “Yeah? Is that right?” Damian played along, nodding seriously as if he understood every word. “You’re already smarter than your old man.”

The hours passed, and soon it was time for Luna’s evening routine. Damian managed to give her a bath without too much water ending up on the floor, though she did manage to splash him a few times. “You’re a little troublemaker, aren’t you?” he said, wrapping her in a fluffy towel and drying her off.

Getting her dressed in her pajamas was another challenge. Luna was wriggly, and every time Damian tried to get her tiny arms through the sleeves, she’d pull them back out. “This is definitely harder than a chokehold,” he muttered, finally succeeding and zipping up the onesie.

Finally, it was bedtime. Damian settled into the rocking chair with Luna, cradling her gently in his arms. He tried to hum a lullaby—one he remembered his own mother singing to him when he was little. Luna’s eyes grew heavy, and after a few minutes, she was fast asleep.

Damian looked down at her, feeling a wave of love and pride wash over him. “We did it, princesa,” he whispered, carefully placing her in the crib and brushing a kiss against her forehead. “You and me—we make a pretty good team.”

He tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t help but smile as he collapsed onto the couch once more. It had been a challenging day, but also one filled with sweet, unexpected moments that he knew he’d cherish forever.

Just as he closed his eyes, his phone buzzed. It was Y/N, checking in again. Damian grinned as he typed back: Survived the day. House still standing. Princesa asleep. I think I deserve a championship belt for this.

He hit send, leaning back on the couch and finally allowing himself to relax. Y/N’s response came quickly: I’m so proud of you. Can’t wait to be back with my two favorite people.

Damian smiled, feeling a warmth in his chest that was different from the thrill of any wrestling match or victory in the ring. It was the simple, undeniable joy of being a dad, and he knew he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The next morning, when Y/N walked through the door, she was greeted by the sight of Damian asleep on the couch with Luna curled up on his chest, both of them snoring softly.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile as she set down her bags and walked over to them. She gently brushed a kiss on Damian’s forehead, then Luna's. "Looks like you did just fine," she whispered, feeling a warmth in her heart.

Everything really had turned out okay—better than okay. It was perfect.

[theboarsbride]

The Ballad of Sir John and the Dragon - A Dark Fantasy Terror AU🐉🏰⚔🩸

Knights Sir John, Sir James, and Sir Francis are tasked to explore - and bring the holy light of their god - to the dark, mysterious Northwest Wood, a realm of crooked trees, unending snow, and beasts with blood-stained teeth.

My silly, self indulgent medieval dark fantasy AU for The Terror where the captains are knights heehee!

Can be read on ao3, and is inspired by both my love for 80s fantasy movies and Misanthrop by Blod Besvimelse (and uhhhhhh Ciarán Hinds simping but what else is new tbh?).

Also doodle concepts for this AU!👇

[itosevenito]

No matter how many times I explain to people that the terror is set in the Arctic in the mid 1800s they will always tell me to send the men to therapy.

I AM PHYSICALLY UNABLE TO!!

[leadandblood]

I am incredibly sorry for the finger licking to those who don't like it, but I know some of you will, in fact, enjoy it, so...

I really don't know what happened here, don't ask me about it. I barely convinced myself to publish it.

[starryeyeddreamer21]

Hazbin Hotel Incorrect Quotes

Lucifer: *walks into the room covered in lipstick marks* Hey... why is everyone looking at me like that?

Vaggie: Um, Sir, you've got a little something... everywhere

Charlie: Mom WHY

Lilith: *puzzled* It wasn't me

Angel: Than who-

Alastor: *walks in with smudged lipstick* What's going on in here?

[gaunt-and-hungry]

Okay. Honest inquiry.

What Reader X Character should I work on next?