#this uhhh.. got away from me

[fuupan]

drew these for heart pirates day and uhhhh ep1115

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY ITS THE SURGERY EPISODE BABY!!! ME AND THE HOMIES NEED SOME NEW FACES FOR OUR NEW PLAN, AND WHO BETTER TO GET THE JOB DONE THAN THE TWO MOST EVIL PEOPLE WE'VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF HAVING OUR LIVES VIOLATED BY? I MEAN IT WOULD BE FUNNY. IT WOULD BE FUNNY.

[murdleandmarot]

Gets bored. Posts old tugger design. You know how it is

[starscelly]

your dallas stars …. wanna fuck?

or, a bunch of boys set to “they wanna fuck” by kim petras

[jack-kellys]

okay my second attempt was 'retail au' and 'hitman/assassin au' which isnt much better than my first attempt but. i want to see a newsie kill an exploitative manager - @pigeonwit

im doing this one cause the other one is cool but This Is Big-Brained.

"While the terms "hitman" and "assassin" are often used interchangeably, the difference lies in the motivation behind the killing. Hitmen are motivated by money, while assassins are motivated by politics or ideology."

David's accepted what he does, by now. Mostly he's accepted that it does indeed pay, but the other benefits are far greater- he only takes the jobs he wants to now, his family stays safe, and he's travelled all over the world. He's never had to stick around if he doesn't want to, and he's never seen a reason to.

This hit's a lower rate, sure, but it's for a good cause. David's good at taking down bosses of any kind, criminal or not, and he figures... an abusive retail boss is something close to criminal. He worked retail as a young teen, and all he remembers is the genuine hell of it all.

Ten minutes before closing, David slips inside the store unseen, pulling out his phone to glance over the reference image one final time. Stalking quietly through the rows of hangers and millennial fashions, he spies his target. He lays low.

The sweep through the store before lock-up is mediocre at best, and David quite easily evades employees' gazes as they do a final look through the store. He's ducked down between a few racks, his own gaze raising every once and while to keep eyes on the target-

-of, whom, has disappeared.

David frowns to himself, watching the few other employees head out so their boss can lock up... but as the minutes pass by, it's clear to David that he'll hopefully get to do the hit without hassle in a back room. Eyes sweeping, he stands and creeps out of hiding, hand gripped tight on his gun. It's clear he's alone in the main area, though, so he makes his way toward the back.

David comes upon an 'employees only' door, and gently rests his hand on the doorknob. His eyebrows shoot up- he's able to push it down. It's unlocked. David's lips press together as he enters with wary care, knees bent.

A strangled noise pricks his ears, and his head swivels as he tries to see the source.

He doesn't need to for long- the flash of a phone camera illuminates the room, and in the brief flash of light David can see his target lying on the floor, throat slit, blood laced like decoration along someone's hands. David pulls his gun.

"Don't-! Do that," a voice says, likely the murder-photographer. The person sighs. "You ain't look like a cop, man, put the gun away and this'll be easier. I got no issue with you."

"Name, or I shoot," David says cooly.

"Shoot how? You ain't even know where the light switch is."

"I have enough bullets in here to spray the wall you're right by. You're bound to take a few."

The voice huffs a laugh. "It's ah, Jack. Happy?"

Not David's client's name. He narrows his eyes, still firmly positioned to shoot if need be.

"Not happy, I guess," 'Jack' mutters. "You should be, I mean. Pretty sure I did your job for ya."

"How would you know about that?" David snaps. "I could easily be here for you."

"Not with that silencer," Jack snorts. "Nah, you're... If I had to guess. This's a hit, ain't it. You're getting paid."

David's eyes widen, though not at Jack's accurate guess. If there was no pay, and David could be secure and keep his family safe any other way, no way in hell would he be killing people for a living.

"You're not?" he can't help and blurt.

The lights go on, blinding David for a moment. He steps back, gun still trained on where Jack is. In the split second his gaze clears, there's another fucking person in the room, and Jack is wearing a red bandana on the lower half of his face and a tan cowboy hat on his head. David stares. Recognizing him from late-night news reports.

"You're the New York assassin," he whispers, half to himself. Jack looks up, eyes and skin dark as the room had been moments ago. His eyes roll.

"Vigilante," the man uselessly corrects. "And no, I ain't get paid off. Crutchie here didn't pay a cent."

The man who'd turned the lights on, who'd (correctly) stiffened and stayed quiet, gives a small wave, grip tight around the crutch under his arm.

"My boss was gonna fire me for needing to go to a doctor's appointment I'd scheduled weeks ago," Crutchie says, shrugging. "He's called me some pretty bad shit behind my back, too."

Fair enough- oddly fair enough. How is this guy not David's client?

"Crutchie- you shouldn't be- be...here."

"Man," Jack says, and David can tell he's grinning by the way his eyes crinkle, "this is a fuckin' party, ain't it."

A goddamn fourth person speeds into the room, eyes huge.

"Racetrack, I presume," David says. His client. The new man nods slowly, but turns to Crutchie.

"You should not be here," Race says again. "You need to get out-"

"Did you hire this guy? For me?" Crutchie says.

Race glances over to David, before looking back to Crutchie. "Well, yeah, I mean, Wiesel's been treating you like fucking shit. I couldn't just- not do anything, anymore."

"I couldn't either, obviously," Crutchie says, glancing at Jack, "but, um.. that's... kind of sweet of you."

David's neutral expression drops for a brief second as he resists the urge to turn the gun on himself. What the fuck is going on right now.

He instead raises his gun toward the pair of employees.

"Get out. Throw out the shoes you're wearing," David demands calmly. "And pay me within twelve hours. I have your address."

Race's eyes widen again, and he flashes a panicked smile as he nods, forcing Crutchie out of the room as well. Jack remains, arms crossed and head tilted.

"That was real sweet, actually," Jack hums. "If only you beat me to it, then your client woulda actually got to say he killed someone for his boyfriend." And he narrows his eyes at David in away that makes him flush with anger. He raises his gun again.

"You're right, I didn't kill him. You did," David says. "And I can have you in police custody in minutes."

"Oh, but that's no fun," Jack replies, raising an eyebrow. "Look, I did a good thing here. Just as you were about to. All I happened to do was beat a trained hitter as his own damn game, damn."

Jack laughs, shaking his head. "God I'm gettin' good."

Good at what, David wants to scoff. Killing? Killing is easy. It's simple- primal. All this 'Jack' is doing is giving in.

"I'd like to see you try that against five armed security guards, but yes, sure. Getting good," David mutters, turning around. He has to get out of here to save his own skin, anyway, which is a priority over determining Jack's fate.

"You'd like to see me try?" Jack says behind him. Closer now. David reaches behind him, grip closing around Jack's forearm and tugging the assassin close enough for his gun to rest under his jaw.

"If I let you live, yeah," David nods.

"You're one to talk," Jack drawls, and David glances down to see Jack has a blade right by David's thigh. His gaze finds the other's again. Jack's is bright, hungry. David can see his pulse, rapid on his neck. "And if you'd like to 'see me' try, you could at least unmask me."

David frowns, but can't resist the temptation- especially with the barrel of his gun still poking into the other man. Carefully, he lowers Jack's bandana to reveal a wide nose, a dark birthmark, and soft lips.

He's smiling. Of course.

"You're telling me you'd shoot this pretty face off?" Jack murmurs.

"Maybe," is David's strong reply. Jack nods, eyes flicking across David's face. Observing him, perhaps.

"I'll put my faith in a maybe," Jack says, and before David can even think to squeeze the trigger, the vigilante's lips are on his own.

David can barely comprehend what's happening, besides Jack's warm touch, the glint in the man's eye, and the anchor to reality that brushes against his thigh every other second. David's gun hasn't left Jack's throat, either. An odd kind of mutually assured destruction, somehow at the back of David's mind.

Jack's kiss is.. forbidden, in a way he hasn't experienced in far too long. David's life is a river run by rules, codes, consequences, and so far he's safely steered himself through, going with the flow. But this is a sudden waterfall, and unforeseen drop, and David can't control this part of the river. Not really, not besides how he falls down it.

But Jack goes in for another kiss, and David falls the hell down it, returning it, quick breaths mingling and brain turning off as he lets himself take the easy road. Gives in, letting this primal desire take hold of him for the moment. Jack seems to want it more, at least, so if they are free falling down the roaring water, David'll let Jack hit the hard waves first.

Slowly, David pulls back, looking down at the other, doing his best not to smirk to himself. The blade is missing from by his thigh, and after a moment, David removes his gun.

"You have a safe house nearby?" David inquires. Jack's gaze his awestruck- he must be surprised to still be alive, let alone kissed back. He nods, putting his bandana up before taking David's hand, sprinting out of the store.

[spotaus]

Thinking about Orchid and her connection to my take on Gender (because this was meant to be about her and the Crew but it just devolved into a character analysis kinda??? More trauma-dumping maybe???) This is very much an oc/personal rant so feel free to ignore it 🫡

So, Orchid started off as a character I didn't really think much of (hear me out this is going to be relevant) because I wanted to add a 'girl' character but didn't know what to *do* with her, y'know? She was always going to be the strongest one there, she had the odds stacked in her favor with her parents. She was always going to be the gloomy side-character to match Reset's energy. But I think she's gone through every stage of Generic Woman I could possibly find.

At first she was angry and abrasive (think Fell!Sans) where every other word was a curse and she was likely to throw the first punch then laugh as she kicks her enemy while they're down. This was when Reset was a cartoonishly self-centered villain whose goal was simply to prove others wrong. Then Orchid became a sort of sisterly figure. This was short-lived, but she was the one comforting people who Reset would torment, but would ultimately follow his orders, because at this point he was actually a danger and sadistic. And then there was the phase where the story mellowed out and she became the token Goth Girl who, yes she was strong, but was heavy on the 'whatever' energy. Then there was her Era of deep self-loathing and anxiety about her worth that held her back and made her a much more timid and meek character who would only lash out on occasion.

Now, Orchid is the best of those iterations I've written yet. She's calm, level-headed, and a natural leader. Her father raised those traits into her. But she's very reactive, and can be silly, and when she's comfortable it's likely that air of importance transforms into something more comfortable and familiar. She laughs loudly and grins wide, she likes loud video-games but loves to read in the quiet. She's extremely disciplined, and normally no one can get through her tough exterior besides her best friend, Reset. She does what she does for her own enjoyment, sure, but she's thought of every angle and makes her choice to help Reset and control the others with her whole chest. She still worries she won't live up to her invisible expectations, and that and her loyalty are her two driving forces.

I know that Orchid is important to me because she's the longest-running female oc I've had. I have a rough relationship with womanhood/girlhood and I know looking back that Orchid recieved every ounce of my distaste for being a woman that I could shovel into her. That never made her less of a character, she was actually always one of my favorites, and rarely was she a 'punching bag oc'. I just... projected onto her a lot. And she's a good sign of how I've learned who I am. I've decided that my own femininity is something I could live without. I'd rather not associate myself with it, and I'd like to leave it in my past, focusing on a future where I'm not tied down with any gender roles or expectations. That won't happen, but I've come to terms with it myself. Orchid though? I figured out through her that I don't have to hate women characters. My own distaste for my circumstances doesn't mean I have to push it onto my characters (on God I've never expressed anything rude to actual people, that'd be rude as hell and uncalled for, but I have a bad habit of disliking fictional women in media). So, Orchid is a well-roubded character finally. She has motivations abd goals and a *lot* more depth than I ever expected her to. She's happy with being a woman, she's content. She's not treated differently for it in unfair ways by those she cares about, so she doesn't mind it. She likes to wear pretty outfits and lets Reset add bows to her ribbons. She doesn't let being a woman hold her back in the slightest.

So, yeah. Orchid is one of my babies. If I ever leave this Fandom behind for good, she's one that's coming with (Ichor, Orchid, and Pretender all have human designs I can use elsewhere lol-) but in the meantime I'll just rotate her around in my brain for a while longer.

If I'm right, she's been with me for nearly 5-6 years and I went through a *lot* with her as an outlet. So, she's kinda just like an old stuffed animal. A lil ripped, matted fur, maybe a stain or two, but there's a story there and that makes it important beyond belief.

[alfheimr]

where a heart once was

[ssruis]

Platinum ranked title finally secured I can’t wait to lose this rank within days

[nervocat]

Guys I'm in a mood rn where I just wanna like. Go out into this stereotypical ethereal comforting forest and just walk around and collect rocks and stuff.. bring some binoculars for birdwatching perhaps as well!!

[tathrin]

6... on a falling tear and 38... because they're running out of time （＾ω＾）

Oh how lovely and tragic, very nice choices! Thank you very much for the ask. I'll split them up into two separate posts because I'm incapable of ever writing anything succinct though, sigh! Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

#38....because they’re running out of time. [mood music anyone?]

“Never thought I’d die as a diversion,” Gimli muttered, watching as Sauron’s army poured out of the Black Gates and surrounded the two small hills on which Aragorn had arrayed their forces.

Gimli could not count the teeming numbers of the enemy that stood before him—they were too many, too foul—but Legolas had the keen eyes of the elves, and he had told Gimli that their force of six thousand was outnumbered at least ten-to-one. They were not all orcs, either, which would have been bad enough; for surely each troll should be counted six or seven times at least.

The hills would help, Gimli thought numbly, at least a little; the incline would grant the defenders an advantage over the enemy that would have to scramble to climb up at them, and the slag pools of fetid Mordor that surrounded the low hillocks would be another impediment—but it would not be enough.

They had known it would not be enough even before they set out for the Black Gates, and they had all of them come anyway. Gimli did not regret his choice to follow his friends into doom, no; but that did not make the moment of the end any less bitter. And that moment was almost here, now; they were running out of time.

The enemy paused at the feet of the hills, hissing and cursing and some of them even spitting, and Gimli spun his axe to stretch his shoulders in anticipation of the battle to come.

He stood near the front, with Aragorn and Legolas and most of the mightiest of their fighters, where the attack would surely be the thickest. He eyed one lumbering troll that was pushing its way through the milling ranks of orcs, an ugly line of drool hanging off one side of its jaw where broken teeth distorted its already ugly grin into something macabre and ghoulish.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing so close beside him, his voice light with echoes of distant birdsong, and Gimli could feel himself smiling in instinctive response even as his heart twisted in sorrow at the thought of what was soon to come for them both. “Gimli,” Legolas said, “may I—I would ask a very great favor of you, my friend, if you would indulge me, please.”

“Of course,” Gimli said immediately. He turned to look up at the elf beside him, standing like a slender ray of sunlight in that bleak land, and tried to hide his breaking heart behind his smile. He could not imagine what sort of favor Legolas might ask at this late juncture—or if he could, then it was a favor that need not be spoken aloud, for Gimli had already vowed to himself that he would not allow the enemy to take this elf alive for torment when the battle ended and their defeat enfolded them.

“Anything, Legolas, you know that.”

Legolas gave a strange, half-choked laugh, and pressed his free hand to his face as though smother some strong feeling; with his other, of course, he held the mighty bow of the Galadhrim that the Lady had given him, and Gimli’s heart gave another pang at the thought of three golden strands tucked away safely behind white walls far away, waiting for a dwarf who would never return to reclaim them—but then Legolas moved, and Gimli’s eyes were drawn instead to tight golden braids that swayed before him as the slender Wood-elf suddenly swayed like a falling sapling and bent down close to Gimli’s face.

He caught Gimli’s bearded cheek with his hand and turned the dwarf’s face up to meet him, and then—oh, and then Legolas was kissing him and Gimli’s mind seemed to dissolve in a blaze of starlight. His whole world narrowed down to those smooth lips pressed so tight and hungry to his own; those long fingers twined so gently through his beard to cup his chin in their narrow palm; the brush of heavy golden braids against Gimli’s shoulders as Legolas bent low over him...

Belatedly, Gimli realized that he had reached up to press his hand to the elf’s face as well; he only noticed when the pad of his thumb brushed against the tip of one long pointed ear and Legolas’s breath hitched in both their mouths.

The drew apart, Legolas swaying back upright with a last lingering flutter of his fingers against Gimli’s beard before he pulled away. Gimli’s jaw worked soundlessly around words that would not come,his wide eyes fixed so fervently on the beautiful, beardless face before him that he almost forgot the stink of the orcs and the jeers of their ugly voices in his ears.

“Forgive me the liberty, I pray,” Legolas rasped. His mithril-bright eyes shimmered with unshed tears, in that moment looking suddenly so like the pool of the Mirrormere that Gimli almost felt as though he had been transported somehow back to the hills outside Khazad-dûm, and this desperate death at the doors of Mordor made into naught but a terrible dream.

But the creeping tendrils of fear that marked the approach of the Nazgûl was no dream; nor were the thundering steps of the trolls as they began to scale the hills, nor the shouts of the orcs as they struggled to follow. In moments, the enemy would be upon them. There was so much Gimli wanted, needed, to say; but they were running out of time.

“There is—there is nothing to forgive, Legolas,” he managed to croak.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Legolas replied. “For I could not bear to die without ever kissing you, Gimli.”

Gimli reached up for those golden braids and bright eyes again. “Legolas—!”

Legolas flashed him a brief, bright, heartbroken smile, and then turned away to face the enemy as the orcs rushed towards them. Gimli raised his axe more out of habit than intention and stepped up beside the elf. “Legolas...” he tried again, but his head was reeling and he could not find the words he wished to craft; they all slipped through his mental fingers, like he was trying to scoop cave-cold water with naught but his bare hands.

Then the first troll reached them, bellowing as it knocked three soldiers of Gondor off their feet to tumble down the hill towards the waiting blades of the orcs below. Gimli growled and gripped his axe, and then suddenly Legolas was scaling the troll, blasted fool of an elf that he was!

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted again, and raced to follow him into the fight.

The troll was too slow to catch the nimble elf, but its attempts to do so blunted its attention to the axe in Gimli’s hand as he hacked at its knees. The creature roared belatedly in anger, even as thick blood wept down its legs. It reached down to try and swat Gimli away, and Legolas scampered across its shoulders and drove his long knife in deep into the troll’s eye. Even that was not enough to kill the beast, but when two Rohirrim came up with long spears the troll was too woozy with pain and blood-loss to bat the weapons away from its throat.

It went down with a thud and a cry of rage rose from the orcs in response. Legolas skipped away from the body and landed on the ground again at Gimli’s side. Shaking with fear, anger, and adrenaline, Gimli caught him by the wrist and gave the elf a shake. “Don’t do that again!” he shouted. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Legolas laughed, fey and unfettered, his merriment as sharp and keen as his arrows. He slashed his knife through the throat of a climbing orc and twisted easily away from the resulting spray of black blood. “Gimli, we are all going to die here,” he said, wiping the blade clean on the skirt of his tunic before sheathing it and drawing his bow once more. “Put aside your fears, my dear; we have moved beyond that now. All that is left to us is to make our deaths worthy of those that came before us, and to sell our lives dearly enough that we might hope to buy enough time for others to save all those who may come after from this Shadow.”

His arrows flew true, burying themselves in throats and eyes and black-blooded hearts even as he looked back at the dwarf more often than he did at the oncoming orcs. In Legolas’s eyes, Gimli could see the glimmer of all the years together they would never have; could see the crumbling eternity of an immortal life cut short and the unscalable chasm that lay forever between the fates of elves and dwarves, sundering them from one another for all time even unto the breaking of the world.

This, he realized, was all the time they were ever going to have.

Tears stung his eyes, hot and bitter. It was not enough. It would never, ever be enough—and it did not matter, because there was no more to be had.

Gimli shook his head, swallowing down the urge to weep; he had to focus on the orcs. There were too many coming up the sides of the hill now, too fierce; it was all Gimli could do to swing his axe in time to block their blows and cut them down. It was all he could do to keep close to Legolas’s side, the elf now reduced to fighting with nothing but his long white knife. There were maybe half a handful of arrows in his quiver yet, but even elvish speed was insufficient to allow for proper archery at sight a tight distance in this tumult.

Oh, why had Gimli not seen to it that his elf was better armed before they rode off to this final battle? Legolas was deadly with that little knife, yes, but oh it seemed so short in his long fingers. Why had Gimli not sought the armories of Gondor, and borrowed some mightier blade for his friend? Why had he not sought the forges, and made him one to suit his lanky frame?

He was such a fool. What had he been wasting his time on instead, when he could have—should have—been seeing to Legolas’s safety?

When he could have been kissing him?

Gimli growled, and swung his axe harder, and watched one burly uruk go down gurgling and clutching at its guts. Gimli swung again, and its head toppled free and he could turn to the next enemy, the next threat. Beside him, Legolas whirled and slashed in a flurry of golden braids and a black-blooded blade. He lunged over Gimli’s head to slit the throat of an orc that was angling a spear towards Gimli’s ribs as Gimli kicked-out low and took the feet out from under another orc that had managed to get a grimy hand around one of those bright braids.

“Away from him!” Gimli bellowed, and the orc feel back squealing over the stump of its arm. Gimli stepped closer to the elf—his elf—and they ended up fighting back-to-back, or back-to-shoulders at least; their disparate heights should have made them terrible battle-partners, but it was so easy to fall into a rhythm with Legolas, a balancing of their skills and statures. Legolas spun high with his short knife and Gimli swung low with his broad axe, and the enemy gave way before them.

But more came, replacing those that fell. Always more came, and the fight went on. Gimli could feel his limbs tiring, his bones aching from the weight of his blade and the blows that had glanced off his mail. A dozen small cuts he could not remember taking bled sluggishly, adding a dull sheen of red to the viscous black liquid that splattered his armor and his skin.

More came, and the Nazgûl followed, and all around them men shrieked and cowered beneath that mindless fear. Gimli fought on, so numb with grief that he barely startled at the cry that the eagles had come. That felt unreal, like something out of some other story; one that had a better ending than theirs. Despair rolled thick across the Host of the West and even Gimli, stout-hearted dwarf that he was, faltered for a moment before it—

And then Legolas laughed.

There was nothing merry in that sound, and the only brightness was the sharp brightness of a pale blade flashing out of the shadows of tall black trees. It was a laugh full of teeth, and claws, and all the dark and dangerous things that lurk within a wood. It was the sort of laugh that would send wise folk fleeing for strong walls and sturdy doors; the sort of laugh that might send children shivering to hide under their beds and wait for dawn. It was the laugh of a wild thing, untamed and dangerous, and it rang out light and sharp-edged above the gutteral shouts and screams of the orcs and the roaring bellows of the trolls.

Legolas laughed, and Gimli smiled to hear it. He lifted his head high against the weight of Mordor’s bleak despair and raised his axe high once more. Legolas was right; there was no longer any cause for fear. They had faced the end already, and the end was here; there was no sense cowering before it. Better to stand tall, and die fighting proud and unbowed, defying the power of the Dark Lord to the last.

And then—and then, on the other side of fear, after all hope seemed so long lost it was little more than a memory, everything changed.

The Nazguûl fled; the army crumbled; the towers fell.

Sauron was destroyed. And they had lived.

They lived.

Gimli could hardly process it. He turned to Legolas, still at his side, the both of them weary and blood-stained and heartsick from the tangled mingling of hope and despair, and he opened his mouth to speak—but no words came out.

He saw all their tomorrows flow suddenly back into Legolas’s bright eyes and the elf swayed, as though the sudden lifting of the Shadow had left him unsteady on his light feet. Gimli caught his hand and held him steady.

“Legolas—” Gimli began.

“Tomorrow,” Legolas interrupted him with a smile. “Let us help the wounded now, Gimli; we will talk on other things tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Gimli said, rolling the taste of the word around in his mouth; rolling the feel of it around in his mind. “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow. To think that there will be such a thing!” He laughed from bewildered joy and squeezed his elf’s hand once, tightly, before letting go and turning back to the grim battlefield. “Tomorrow. We will talk on all things then.”

Legolas bent and pressed a light kiss to Gimli’s cheek. “Tomorrow,” he said again, the word heavy with promise, and then they walked off together into the carnage of hopes renewed and deaths well-fought.

“Tomorrow,” Gimli murmured once more to himself, and there on the bloodstained soil of the Black Land, he smiled.

[dan-crimes]

I love it when I'm not actually as invested in something as others are yet I'll still spend. 10+ hours just watching content about it cuz I still have to know about it like I might not have brain rot or anything but I gotta have that info in my brain

[slashingdisneypasta]

Hm... Ok I know you said you've been craving Greasy smut this week... Buuuut

Imagine seeing Wheezy all pissed off. Not just annoyed or frustrated. So you offer to distract him from whatever got him so riled up. Either you or he makes the suggestion of making him feel better in ~other ways~

Or, for the Y/N's with an angry sex kink or a brat tamer kink. Imagine purposefully getting him riled up. Not in extreme ways necessarily, cause if it did you know he's just going to leave you alone. But eventually, either you find the right time to strike or Wheezy finds out what you're trying to do and decides 'Fuck it. You owe me anyway.' And takes his frustrations out on you like you wanted.

Ok bye now-

'Fuck it. You owe me anyway'

UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH i need a moment.

Okay okay I didn't know how to respond to this, because anything Wheezy related makes me combust a little, but I thought it would be fun to do a little excerpt of reader suggesting he take it out on them and also one of him asking to do it, like you said. So that's below. ^^

Wheezy Weasel x Reader || Excerpts

Plot: One where reader suggests Wheezy take his frustrations out on them and he agrees, and one where he asks them to help him. (Though the first one kinda encases both of those right off the bat- the second one is kind of like a bonus I guess XD )

Warnings: Wheezy being very very upset and sexual references. Some touching. Unedited.

It was very evident that Wheezy had reached the end of his tether. His smokes had done everything they could do for him, he had sucked every last modicum of calm from them already dealing with Smartass and Greasy all day being particularly frustrating and now he was just ticking bomb covered in jitters and plagued with a racing mind. He was silent, but the way he was staring at the wall and clenching his jaw around 3 cigarettes told you everything you needed to know.

"-Wheezy, come on. You're done today." You say gently, touching his hand gently and guiding him carefully away from the group- away to the quiet sanctuary of his room. Luckily for you, he followed you without a word, eyes downcast and still silent.

You always worry about him when he gets like this, especially since Wheezy is not unthreatening. He's tall and his muscles may not be swollen but they're tough like stone, and when he clenches his fists like he is you can see the tendons in his forearms- you get the terrible, grim feeling that if he punched someone, their was a good chance they would not get up again.

Wheezy does not look any more relaxed when the door closes behind his back, no relieved puff of smoke breathed out; he just stands in middle of the room and when you creep around him and peer at his eyes you can see he's so pent-up he cant even keep his gaze straight. His head isn't moving but his steely eyes flicker restlessly in the dark all over the floor, searching for something to stare at and calm down, and you swear a muscle in his jaw is going to pop.

"Wheezy?... "

He doesn't respond. He doesn't even glance at you- which is bad. Even when Wheezy has been madder then mad, almost losing his shit entirely, he would give you a glance to reassure you. He would be careful to spare you a second's consideration before he disappeared into his mind. But right now...

"... Okay- Wheezy?" Taking a step forward into him, you put your hands on his upper arms and hold him firmly; tilting your head to still see his eyes. "What can I do? Do you want me to go?"

He budges then, terrifying glacier-eyes flashing up to you and looking furious. No, then. That would be a no. He wants you- needs you, to stay. Carefully, ever-so-softly, you reach up and lovingly lay your knuckles along either side of his jaw. You feel like you're trying to calm a wild boar, the look in his eyes are wild. "... I wanna help you so bad, love, but I don't kn- "

As you stare deeply into your usually-chill (Albeit-really-anxious)-seeming lover, you have an idea dawn on you. Wheezy has never really been one for physical affection, he prefers to show he cares through actions- doing the right thing by you- but you think... maybe... right now, this man needs an outlet for his feelings. The smokes aren't doing it right now, so...

When you take your hands off of him, take a deep breath, and slip your fingers into the waistband of his pants then, testing the waters, he actually flinches. The first unprompted, non-monotonous movement he's made for the past 2 hours since he snapped during the last job- and you think you've done something wrong. That was the wrong move. Quickly you slip your hands away and raise them by your head like I'm sorry, my bad, I wont touch you I promise. "Sorry- "

"Don't." His voice is without tone and sits at a reasonable volume that you truly do not expect and so almost miss it. But its the first thing he's said since he fell into this state, and to your further surprise Wheezy reaches for one of your wrists and very purposefully, full of determination, carries it back down. Right to his crotch though this time, and he presses your palm into his bulge which you're surprised to feel is hot and throbbing under your touch. "... I need you."

Quickly nodding, you lean over carefully and graze your lips against his cheek; applying pressure to his cock that makes him sigh.

All damn day, these fucking assholes have been out of line. Completely out of- fuck. Wheezy cant even think, he's so pissed. Cant put together simple sentences in his head, much less outload. Smartass says something to him, he heard it (As a muffled garble through his raging thoughts and the blood pumping extra fucken loud inside his ears rather then actual words) but he's plain just not interested.

He needs to find- he's gotta see-

The only thing that doesn't feel like its setting Wheezy's lungs on fire right now is thinking about you- your skin, your weight, your lips on him. If he stops picturing you squeezing his cock like a wrench he's going to explode- he might, anyway, if he doesn't find your ass. Where the fuck are you right now??

He doesn't want to be this way with you, he sure as hell doesn't want you to feel intimidated into having sex with him, and he has tried to stay away. Leave you alone. Wait until he's a little more in control. But he made the mistake of remembering how it feels to be sunk in you and now he has to at least try to ask.

When he finally storms down the hallway and finds you in his room (Why didn't he fucken check here before?), Wheezy feels actual relief rush through him just seeing you- like a ton of bricks. Its not gonna be enough, but it feels good for a second. Your eyes lift from the book you're looking through and fuck they drive him mad, especially when you tilt your head to the side all-cute like that and ask him if he's okay? cuz he must look insane right fucken now.

He closes the door but he doesn't take his hand off the doorknob, clenching it in his fist like it could hold him back off you while he just asks. You repeat yourself for him, laying your book down next to you on the bed, and then say his name in that sweet voice, Wheezy, and he has to close his eyes. Squeeze them shut a moment, gather is thoughts. His control.

"Doll... "

"Mm?"

"... I don' wantya to feel l'ke ya don' have a choice, but I-... " He takes a deep breath through his nose, letting his eyes open up again but just looking at the ground in front of him. Not you. You'll set him off and he doesn't wanna scare you. "I've hadda... pr'tty long day... " Yeah, 'long'. That'll work. "And... "

He makes the mistake of looking up, because he can't help himself he's gotta look at you, and damnit you look so worried. Sweet thing- you don't deserve this shit. "Wheezy?... " You say it again, and he grits his teeth so hard he hears it.

"Babydoll I needta fuck you. Rough. Please- just- " He huffs out a sigh, really stuggling to stay where he is and not just throw you over the side of his bed and hold you there. Your pretty eyes widen and your eyebrows shoot up, fully intrigued, and he tries not to smirk (A feat that's only possible due to the turmoil brewing inside him right now). He does. But goddamn- Thank god you're such a little freak. "Couldja... couldja be up, for that?"

"Come over here already, Wheezy."

He's across the room in two seconds flat.

[void-occupation]

Ok, hear me out (angst, bc of course)

I've been having these thoughts bounce around my head for about a week and I finally decided to post them. I don't know who's going to see this, but whoever sees it needed to. I guess this is for an AU rather than a headcanon, but whatever, just hear me out. I was inspired by The Owl House, specifically Hunter, so maybe that will spark some interest. This is about to be a rant, so I'll go ahead and add the read more thing

Okay, now that I have your attention, time for angst.

SO, in The Owl House, we learn in season 2 that (SPOILER ALERT) Hunter is a grimwalker (a clone of someone who died for those of you who don't know), and that before him, there were TONS of other grimwalkers that Belos murdered for "choosing to betray him" AKA realizing that Belos was an evil psychotic bitch. Also, that Hunter looked the most like Caleb (the dead guy he was cloned of) out of all the other grimwalkers, but he didn't KNOW that he was a grimwalker until a very angsty reveal by his abuser (Belos) who then immediately tried to murder his ass.

ANYWAYS, obviously, as the angst-lover I am, I think about this literally all the time. Then. I started thinking. I absolutely love Alastor, he's such a blorbo. And what do I do to my blorbos? I give them immeasurable amounts of trauma, c'mon, keep up.

What do we know about Alastor? Well, someone owns his soul. He disappeared for unknown reasons for seven years. He is INCREDIBLY anxious about whoever owns his soul - or at least the deal itself (as evidenced by his musical breakdown where he literally TEARS HIS OWN HAIR OUT FROM THE STRESS), and that he's probably going to use the deal with Charlie either for nefarious purposes, or to escape his deal.

Which brings us to the point of this post in the first place (kind of???? I might have just been mindlessly rambling there), and the start of my AU. I'm not going to pretend I know who owns Alastor's soul, but I really vibe with the idea of it being either Lilith or Roo, so that's who I'll be thinking of for the majority of this post. What if the person who owns his soul made a deal with him when he first got to hell (or it could be one of those versions where someone sold his soul before he was even born [a sort of "I want your first-born kinda deal] and they let him know when he got to hell which is how he got all his power so quickly), but he managed to either tick them off or get really close to escaping the deal, which lead to them killing Alastor.

Then, the contract-owner realizes, "Oh shit, I kind of need him," and finds out how to make whatever the hell equivalent of a grimwalker is. Thus, Alastor 2.0 is born. However, they can't have him knowing he's a clone - he might find a loophole in the deal that way. So they find a way to control which memories he has. They replace all of the memories the OG Alastor had up until whatever it was he did to get killed in the first place - don't want him getting any ideas after all.

This works fine for the contract-holder for a while, but then Alastor is back on the same shit - trying to find loopholes, backdoors, ticking them off, whatever, and oops, there goes another one. Well shit. Guess it's time to make another clone. So, the process is repeated, and the song and dance continues. However, it always concludes the same way - with Alastor's inevitable "betrayal". Also, none of the clones ever seem to look quite right - sometimes the eye color is wrong, or the height, the cheekbones, or the nose shape - whatever it is, something is always off

So, after many failed attempts, they decide to take a different approach. When they make the new clone, they give them the same memories, everything is the same as the previous attempts, except they don't turn him loose right away. Instead, they keep him under their thumb for seven years - really just until there was something they needed him for. Those seven years were spent conditioning him. They were determined to make him perfect. After all, this clone was the one that looked the most like the original Alastor, there was no way they would let him go like the others.

In his time at their side, Alastor endured unspeakable cruelties - beatings, torture, extreme sensory deprivation, emotional manipulation, sleep deprivation, total isolation - you name it, it was almost certainly done during that time. This is also when his smile was sewn on because the contract holder wanted him to smile more, and used his defense mechanism to torture him (smiled to hide weakness, forced to smile against his will, making the smile itself a constant reminder of how powerless he really is). There was rarely an action Alastor did that provoked his contract holder, but that didn't matter. They convinced him that each "punishment" was earned, that they were simply trying to help him see his own shortcomings and failures, and to make him better. Obviously, this is complete bullshit. However, when you live like that long enough, with no other influences, you become conditioned to believe it.

Eventually, for whatever reason, the contract holder released Alastor on strict orders to go to Charlie's hotel, and Alastor is doing exactly what they told him because he's terrified of the idea of being summoned back to their side. He hates his contract holder, but at the same time craves their approval, because if they're happy with him, then he won't be in pain. However, Alastor has to Alastor, and once he's on his own, he starts looking for ways to escape his deal - but he's sneaky about it. Years of constant conditioning made him cautious. He has no memory of ever searching for loopholes before - a least not successfully (bc the contract holder doesn't let the clones remember those things), so he does the best thing he can think of: he makes a deal with the Princess of Hell herself.

I'm definitely going to make another post about this, probably detailing the reveal. Not right now though because I have homework to do, and this is getting to ungodly lengths

(if you want to see the next part when I post it, keep an eye on the '#grimwalker alastor au' tag. I might just make this a whole thing if anyone is interested. I'll make it a whole thing anyways because I feel like it and deep down I post for myself, but if you're interested, I highly encourage you to ask about it [I don't bite!!])

[pikkish]

idk if this is a good prompt but put doomguy in myhouse.wad I think he would find it enriching

Right, so I've been mulling on this one for a little bit now, n I'm not opposed to writing something for you, I'm just not... entirely sure what to write? Because the thing is, myhouse.wad doesn't actually really have anything to do with Doom as a story. Sure, Doom is important in that it's the vessel through which the story is told and one of the connections between the narrator and his dead companion. But as far as Doom itself goes, and the story about a man who was too angry/stupid to die, fighting demons and saving earth, none of that is at all relevant to myhouse.wad and its story. For all intents and purposes, Doomguy isn't actually a character in myhouse.wad. So I'm not really sure how exactly to fit him in there.

[thepirateandhisson]

do you ever think about the fact that henry’s probably super comfortable on the jolly roger like so much so that it’s like another home for himself?

based on the fact him and killian have regular sword fighting lessons on the jolly roger and that they regularly go sailing together (both canon events), henry’s probably spent as much time there as he has at the other homes (regina’s, emma’s, snowing’s, etc.) and he probably knows the place as intimately as he knows the others.

getting into headcanon territory here, i don’t care, but henry and killian have probably done sails overnight/multiple days (both with emma and without) and henry’s probably declared the lieutenant’s cabin or they do sleepovers in the bunks and henry’s got a favorite bunk. he probably knows the ship almost as well as killian, knows which floorboard will come up and which stairs creak. he probably has killer hiding spots.

i didn’t watch s7 but it’s probably why he jumps into navigating wish!hook’s jolly roger with such ease and knowledge — because he knows killian’s jolly roger so well.

and that’s just really important to me. :’)

[radioiaci]

⧐ @alastors-mom-rp

Sentiment is not often a word that Alastor considers to be in his vocabulary. Even when it is clearly something he still harbors somewhere in the muck and bile of his ever-tainted Soul. When memories trudge their way up and into the forefronts of his mind, he actively pushes them aside - they will do him no good, on most days. But sometimes, they are pervasive: the thoughts of an old friend lost, the grief given to missed opportunities, and the subtle reminders that he had once been human. Given life, given connection, given family.

His father now was of no consequence, divorced entirely from even the very concept of family and thought of as nothing more than a sickening display of humanity's worst. An example to be made. But his mother...? Another fact and figure entire.

Alastor had spent the better part of his childhood glued to her side, an ever present and doting son by any measure. Well behaved and proper, though he'd always had an issue with her insistence on pulling him into the musty old churches filled with proselytizing simpletons in an attempt to convince him to cement his Soul as one meant to eventually traverse past the pearly gates. He was certain she would be disappointed that he'd never bothered to follow the rites and rituals.

But she had other reasons to be disappointed in him. Since the taking of his own familial fate in his hands - the sharpened kitchen knife being thrust so artfully and purposefully into his father's rather pliant and aged flesh (ahh, such a sweet, uniquely heinous display) - she had grown so distant as to be nearly unrecognizable. Or maybe it was he himself who was unrecognizable.

That oh-so-blessed dance of Death that he began to fall into step with had all but eluded her until he was more than an adult - and thriving, to boot. It had only been his sloppy confidence that had resulted in her discovery of his acts at all.

And then she no longer looked at him. Did not call on him. No longer opened the door to him when he made attempts to see her. Continually, he lied to himself. Perhaps she would see reason eventually.

At least, he'd thought, she had not betrayed him to the authorities. Not that it mattered much when he took the bullet to the brain only a few months later. Her fate remained a mystery. Surely, she'd gone to Heaven. She'd always been religious. And so Alastor resigned himself to never being given the opportunity to apologize - to tell her the things he should have in their life together.

But, as he stood with umbrella in hand, unfocused gaze drifting somewhere vaguely upwards at some of the gaudier signs that decorating the buildings in the Pride ring's busier districts that continued to flicker despite the acid rain, he did not think that he would have been able to find the strength to apologize anyway. Or the introspection.

Alastor did not regret his kills. Not a single one. Whether innocent or otherwise. It had all been in pursuit of the craft. Justified, in his mind, because who among them had not Sinned? Not he, and certainly not any of the collective of bodies he'd masterfully subjected to his own machinations and eventual disposal among the murky waters of the Louisiana bayou. All to serve their purpose. A noble cause for any man or woman.

A foolish thought, he decided, to think that his mother would ever consider him any more than what he was.

Perhaps he'd always known.