#Jesus Christ what’s wrong with me

[chonideno]

literally where can the zelda franchise go after totk. this is it. we've reached it. the pinnacle of video game entertainment. the whole dev team should just pack their stuff and enjoy a long and comfortable retirement. whoever decides their team has to follow-up on that with the next zelda game should answer for their crimes at the hague. what the fuck. I haven't even beat the game yet but what the fuck.

and how are AAA video game devs everywhere not losing their minds. how the hell did nintendo do any of that? and on that console?? you mean to tell me I can stack 15 differently shaped objects on top of each other and they don't vibrate violently into the skybox?? you mean to tell me the physics engine gladly accepts whatever I throw at it and holds it all together without dropping a frame while running on a machine that was outclassed two generations ago??? this is not witchcraft it's a grandiose demonstration of mastery over every aspect of game development that casts an immense shadow over every other AAA studio. fuck. fuck!!!!

everything about this game is crazy to me. the visuals are crazy. the soudtrack is crazy. the complexity of all systems and how they interact is crazy. the sheer amount of non-repeating content, NPCs, quests, dialogue, puzzles, environment variety - all crazy to me. every time I boot up this game I am humbled by the monumental effort and obvious love that went into every facet of the resulting experience. no cut corners anywhere. mirror-perfect chrome polish.

it's so rare we get something like that, in any field. I'd understand if nintendo never made a zelda game ever again because how do you follow that. god I hope everyone who worked on this game got the fattest check and the sloppiest head. I'm so happy I get to live in shigeru miyamoto's world

[houseofanticipation]

You wake because a shifting balance of weight on your bed has caused your mattress to shake. For a moment you think it must be Christmas morning—that'll be your little brother, jumping on your bed to wake you up—but your room is still dark, and the clock on your bedside table reads 12:00 exactly. You squint at the person sitting on your bed. Definitely too old to be your brother...maybe your dad? But no, this person's frame is too wide, too bulky. The figure leans forward, and it suddenly occurs to you to be afraid, but all he does is pull the chain on your bedside lamp.

The man in your room is Santa Claus.

It doesn't occur to you to think this is a man dressed as Santa. One of your classmates might; you know most people your age don't believe in him, and you've learned to hide your own belief, lest you embarrass yourself, but you've never stopped believing privately. You know this man is Santa Claus in the same way you've always known Santa Claus was real: it's a feeling in your heart, a knowledge that you are loved, no matter what. You get that same feeling from this man.

"Santa?"

"Little Susie Summers," he says, brushing a lock of hair away from your eyes. "It's so wonderful to finally see you in person. You know you're one of my favorites?"

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

He nods. "I mean it. You've kept me in your heart all these years, long after most children abandon me. I've so loved watching you grow into this beautiful, confident woman I see before me." His voice deep and warm and smooth, like hot chocolate. His eyes glitter behind half-moon glasses, and his enormous white mustache only accentuates his fatherly smile.

"I always knew you were real," you say, breathlessly, eager to impress. "Even when everyone called me names, I kept believing. I always stayed on my best behavior for you."

"I know you did," he says. "I have your list right here." Seemingly from nowhere, he produces a length of rolled up parchment, which he begins to unfurl as he reads. "All those times you helped young Cristopher with his homework, even when you wanted to go out with your friends...the way you check in on old Mrs. Rasherton every week...you're a real paragon of your community."

Your chest swells with pride. You'd do those things anyway, of course; goodness is its own reward. But it feels so wonderful to have your good deeds recognized by this man you so idolize.

"Of course, you've had some encounters with the naughty list, too. What child doesn't? That time at camp, for instance, when you allowed Trent Lipski to touch you under your underwear?"

You can feel your cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Santa. I tried to be extra good to make up for it."

"Or those times in the bathtub, when you put your private parts under the faucet?"

You look away. You can't stand the disappointment in his eyes. "I'm so sorry Santa."

You feel his hand on your cheek, gently pulling your gaze back to meet his. "Don't worry, Susie. No one can be perfectly good all the time, and your good deeds have vastly outweighed the bad. You are a good girl, Susie Summers, and that's why I'm here."

"Really?"

"Yes, my dear girl. You see, you're eighteen now and—"

"Almost eighteen," you say helpfully. Your birthday is January 7th.

"Close enough," he says. "You're growing into a woman, which means this is the last year I'll be able to bring you presents."

This comes as a surprise. You always known Santa Claus brought presents to children, but it never quite occurred to you that that meant he didn't bring presents to adults. "You mean...you'll never come here for me again?"

"I'm afraid so," he says sadly. "This will have to be goodbye. But because you've been such a good girl all these years, I've brought you one final parting gift, in addition to the ones below the tree downstairs."

"Really? What is it?"

His hand is on your thigh, caressing you gently. "You've been so good for me, Susie," he says. "I want to make you feel good. I want you to be extra good for me, one last time." His other hand is on your stomach now, furry white glove slipping under your sleep shirt. You're starting to be unsure if you want this gift, but you know it's rude to act ungrateful. "Can you be good for me, Susie?"

You nod nervously.

Slowly, one finger at a time, Santa slips the gloves off his hands. The skin underneath is like aged leather, wrinkly and soft. You gasp when he lifts up your shirt. "Look at this," he says, fondling your nipples. "Already so hard. I knew you had a naughty side to you."

No. You can't. You push his hands away, gently as you can. "I'm sorry Santa, I'm flattered, really, but I can't—"

Santa makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and all of a sudden your hands are being yanked back, toward the headboard. Some kind of cuffs clamp around your wrists, holding your arms far away from Santa's creeping, explorative hands. You look to your left and right, and see that they're not cuffs at all, but arms; thin, sinewy arms attached to a pair of thin, sinewy people no bigger than your forearm. They stare at you with large, unblinking eyes, and grin with mouths full of pointy teeth. They're strong, in spite of their size. You struggle against them with all your might, but neither seems remotely phased.

"You're a lucky girl, Susie," he says, playfully circling your areola with his thumb. "Most boys and girls never get to see a genuine Christmas elf. Meet Pepper and Ginger, two of my most trusted lieutenants. I could never do my job without their help."

The elf called Ginger—you can tell which is which because they wear name tags reading G. BREAD and P. MINT—pins your hand to the bed and sits on your wrist. She closes her eyes and begins grinding against the nub of your wrist bone.

Santa chuckles. "Of course, I make sure they get to enjoy themselves. I think that's the hallmark of any good boss, don't you?" He bends down and wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and nibbling and groping at your other breast while he does it. You're afraid, but it feels kind of good, too. And you know Santa has your best interests at heart...doesn't he? When he comes up for air, Santa sees the tears running down your cheeks. "Oh, hush now, my dear, don't cry." He lays a tender hand on your face, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "I promise I'll be gentle with you. I'll make you feel good." He gets up on his knees and unbuckles his belt, pulling down his red pants to reveal white thermal underwear. This he unbuttons, and out comes...

You've seen a penis once before. Earlier this year, Daryl Dennis let you touch his at a party. You held it in your hand and stroked it up and down, delighting in the way he moaned and kissed you and told you how good it felt. When he came on your hand it snapped you out of whatever madness had taken you over, and you fled the room to wash it off. You hated yourself for weeks after that, tried to work extra hard to earn your place on the good list.

Suffice it to say, Santa's cock is about three times the size as the only other cock you've ever seen. It stands up so stiff that it actually touches his overhanging belly, and defined veins pulse up and down its length. He smiles when he sees you looking at it. "You came so close to letting Mr. Dennis be the first cock you ever felt inside you. I wish you could stay pure forever, but you're becoming a woman now. You should at least know what a real cock is like, so you have something to compare against."

He hooks his fingers under your waistband and pulls off your pajama bottoms and you panties all in one go. You're too afraid to fight back; those elves' teeth are sharp, and besides, you've spent so long trying to stay off the naughty list. A good girl would lie back and take it. You are a good girl. You are a good girl.

Santa's head is between your legs now. He's kissing your thighs, sniffing deeply, running his tongue along the outside edges of your crotch. One hand strokes his cock, and you can see he speeds up when his nose gets close to your pussy. "You know, Susie, I've found in all my years of life that the sweetest girls have the sweetest cunts. Did you know that?"

You shake your head.

"It's true. And you just might be the sweetest girl I've ever seen. So you can imagine how eager I've been to get a taste of this perfect, beautiful cunt. Let's get your juices flowing, shall we?" You gasp as his leathery fingers pinch the hood of your clitoris and pull it back, and a sound you didn't expect escapes your lips when his wet, warm tongue flicks across your exposed clit. He starts to trace slow, steady circles around it, taking his time, letting the desire build until your clit is throbbing with need. His moustache tickles your pubis as he closes his lips around your clit and begins sucking, first in long, slow pulls, and ramping up into quick, agonizing pulses. You begin to feel that feeling in your groin, the one you felt when you touched Daryl Dennis's cock, or when Trent Lipski put his hand in your pants, or when you hold your privates under the bathtub faucet. It's a tightness, a warmth, a wetness, and Santa must notice it too, because he smiles up at you. "Good girl. Let's find out what you taste like."

Suddenly his tongue is inside you, and you're moaning and arching your back and crying a little bit, because you're so scared but it feels so good. The elves grin and give you little kisses on your arms. Somewhere along the way Ginger has removed her pants, and she moans as her little elf pussy glides across your wrist. On the other side, Pepper's hands are on your pinky, lining it up with her exposed cunt, drooling as she pushes it inside.

When Santa comes up for air his glasses hang crooked on his face. "Hoooh, Susie, you must have the sweetest cunt I've ever tasted. Like caramel apples and candy canes. You really are one of the nicest girls who's ever lived."

You can't help but swell with pride at this praise. You've tried, really tried, and to know that it's paid off...it makes everything worth it. All the work, all the self-sacrifice, it wasn't for nothing. It's left a real, detectable mark on your body, and Santa can taste it in you. "Thank you, Santa," you manage to say.

"You're very welcome, Susie," says Santa. "And now that you're ready for me, I think it's time I made use of you." He straightens up, and flops his cock down on your stomach. It feels even bigger against your skin. You're afraid again. You know what's about to happen, and you're afraid it's going to hurt.

He throws his head back and moans with pleasure as the head of his cock parts your pussy lips. Your teeth grit and your heart pounds as you brace yourself for the pain, but it doesn't come. When he begins to push inside you, it's like he's stretching you out from the inside. There's no pain, only pressure, and increasingly, pleasure. He fills you up an inch at a time, expanding inside you, making you feel full in a way you never knew you could. You never should have doubted Santa. He knows what's best for you. He knows what you need.

"Ooohoho god, Susie," he says, picking up the pace now. "I knew you'd be worth it. I always know which good little girls will have the most delectable cunts. Girls like you, natural whores who make the choice to be nice, deny their nature to be sweet just for me...saving yourself for me...you know, somewhere deep down, that your little cunt is mine for the taking..."

He's right. He's completely right. When you fled the room after Daryl Dennis came in your hand. When you felt so guilty after Trent Lipski. What were you saying, implicitly? My holes are not for him. My holes are for Santa. You're moaning indiscriminately now, arching your back, your eyes rolling back in your head. The elves seem to be enjoying themselves, too; they moan squeakily as they ride your hands, apparently no longer worried about you trying to fight back. Santa's belly rolls across you with each thrust, and the heft of it is like a weighted blanket, comfortingly immobilizing. He grunts and moans with each thrust, the ball on his hat bouncing haphazardly. You feel something growing inside you, something wonderful and intense, something far better than the faucet on your clit, or Trent Lipski's fingers in your cunt. Your body is beginning to tremble, your legs bending and your toes flexing involuntarily. Suddenly you're afraid again; the sensation is too much, you can't handle it, you need to get away. Some animal part of your brain takes over; you're wrenching your hands free of the distracted elves, pulling yourself away from Santa's relentless cock, flailing your legs, kicking Santa in the solar plexus as he tries to grab at you. He doubles over, wheezing, and you know instantly you've done something terrible.

For a long moment the room is stock still. The elves seem just as frozen in fear as you are. Santa coughs, steadies himself against the bed. When he looks up, there's a darkness behind his eyes that wasn't there before. He clicks his tongue again, and the elves spring into action, grabbing you by the hair and turning you around so that your head hangs backward over the edge of the bed.

"I was going to give you a special present," says Santa, upside-down over you. There's a sick mirth in his voice that makes you shiver. "A Christmas present like no one's ever gotten before. But you had to go and be naughty." He says the word like it's the most vulgar epithet he can think of. "I was going to give you a son. My son. My heir. But my seed can't grow in a womb despoiled by filth." You feel a pressure inside you; it feels sort of like Santa's cock did, only harder, rounder, and growing. You lift your head to see what's going on down there, but it's all internal. It's getting painful now; you start straining to push it out. "The only thing your cunt is good for now," says Santa, a merciless twinkle in his eye, "is coal."

With a painful stretching sensation, a black mass crowns out of your cunt, spreading your pussy lips and stretching them wide as it pops out of you. It's a smooth, roughly spherical lump of coal, about the size of a baseball.

A leathery hand cups your chin and pushes your head back down. Santa's cock is inches from your face. "You're not going cocktease me, naughty girl. I'll get mine, one way or another."

Tears well up in your eyes as his cock parts your lips. You've never gotten coal in your stocking before, not once. You've spent your entire life being the nicest you could possibly be, and you had to go and ruin everything. You imagine what it would have been like to have Santa's seed growing inside you, your belly swelling with his son, your breasts inflating with peppermint-flavored milk. Instead you have his wrinkly, low-hanging scrotum slapping your face, and another lump of coal already forming inside your stupid, naughty cunt.

Santa forces his cock past your tongue, down your open throat. You gag, convulse involuntarily, but the elves hold you down, not to be caught slacking again. His belly drags across your face as he pulls back, and you spend a few seconds coughing and sputtering before he forces himself back down your throat again. Again, you gag, and when he pulls out this time you spit out a globule of thick saliva that collects around your nose and runs down your cheek. It goes like this for several more pumps: you gagging, struggling, crying, and him continuing to rape your throat anyway.

No, you think. Enough crying. You did something naughty, and now you pay for it. What do you always do when you catch yourself slipping into naughtiness? You're extra good to make up for it.

You steady yourself. Relax your throat. Santa is your king. Your god. Your everything. Your whole life, everything you do has been to please Santa. Now is no different. You start licking his shaft as it pounds away at your mouth. You can't see his face past his belly, but you can tell he likes it: the veins on his cock bulge under your tongue, and he groans with pleasure. Slowly, making sure the elves know you're not trying to fight, you lift your arms and grab the backs of his thighs, pulling him into you with each thrust. He takes the encouragement, picking up speed and enthusiasm. With one hand you begin to tenderly massage his balls, and with the other you stroke the base of his cock, the part that can't fit all the way down your throat. This is right. This is correct. My holes are for Santa, you think again. It's not for you to choose how he uses them.

You pop out another two lumps of coal, though you find that if you don't let them get too big it can be a somewhat pleasurable experience. You wonder how many nice things you'll have to do to stop them coming. You hope it isn't too easy. You moan as another one presses against your clit on its way out of you. You're desperate to rub yourself, but you can't take any attention away from Santa's beautiful, enormous, swollen, throbbing cock. That is your purpose.

With a long, shuddering groan, Santa presses his cock as deep as it will go. You feel hot cum shooting down your throat, collecting in your esophagus. He holds you there for a long time, your face in his overhanging belly, coal growing in your cunt. When he finally retreats you cough a huge glob of cum into your mouth. It tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg.

"Oh, little Susie," says Santa admiringly. "Even when you're being punished, you try your best to be nice." He sits next to you on the bed and begins gently massaging your throat. "It isn't enough to put you back on the nice list, but it's a start." He seems to think long and hard about something. "I'm a believer in second chances, Susie. I'll have to come back to this house next year for your brother anyway. Maybe I'll check in on you, and if you've been extra good..." he shoots you a twinkling wink. "I just might give you your special present after all."

Your head falls back in relief. You haven't squandered your chance! Santa is a merciful and loving god! The elves lay their heads on your breasts, petting your skin and cooing approvingly. The next thing you know, Santa is pulling up his pants, tucking in his undershirt, buckling his belt. He puts his hand on the knob of your bedroom door, but he turns back over his shoulder before he goes.

"Susie...you were right. Your holes are mine. No other cock, nor finger or tongue or any part of another person may penetrate them. But now that you're a woman...I believe it would be alright if you touched yourself, if you like. And know that I'll be watching." With that he's out the door, Pepper and Ginger in tow.

You get into a comfortable position in bed, head on your pillows, legs spread. You're slowly amassing a small pile of coal on your bedspread, and you're ready to go for another. You let this one grow a little while inside you, expanding until you can't take it anymore, then arch your back and close your eyes and furiously rub your clit as you birth it.

As a ball of coal the size of a small cantaloupe rolls to a stop on your sheets, your bedside clock clicks over to 12:01.

[lunarrolls]

i still cannot fucking believe the audacity of ludinus da’leth to see that bells hells has some of his old shit from molaesmyr, realize that this means they must have done some digging on what he did to molaesmyr (aka BLOW UP THE ENTIRE CITY TRYING TO USE IT AS A GOD KILLING BATTERY and fucking up so badly that it CORRUPTS THE SAVALIRWOOD FOR CENTURIES AFTERWARD), and then say, with his full chest, “good you’ve done your homework surely you know i’m based as hell and we can stop fighting :^)” like sir WHAT do you mean. they fought a GIANT WORM WOLF. it was MELTED TOGETHER. like a fucking GUMMY WORM. YOU DID THAT! WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN, MY GUY!

[piratewinzer]

This season is insane. They cat-girled Edward Teach and it's somehow not the only single thing occupying my brain. They put a literal collar and bell on him and I still have other things to think about, somehow.

[sageyxbabey]

Whiskers & Wishes - Gaz x Reader (1)

jesus christ, i can't believe i'm doing this...

two of the images used are renders done by loneghostwolf88 (@loneghostwolf ) and BettyBRenders3D

Gaz x F!Reader, eventual smut (final chapter only).

this is: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | (TBA)

Summary:

Gaz knows you very well - he's been in love with you for the better part of a year. So when he jilts the wrong woman and ends up being turned into a cat for his troubles, surely the person who knows him best will recognise him, even like this... right?

You know Gaz very well - you've been pining over him for the past year. So when he disappears without a trace and a strange cat appears at your apartment, the little coincidences that remind you of Kyle are just your anxious mind making false connections... right?

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

Kyle kept his head down as he made his way to the pub near your apartment, rain slipping down the slope of his nose. 

This was his last night of leave, and he had spent the entire day with you, the same way he had for each time off he’d had for the past year of his life. Outside of his task force, you had become his closest friend. To his heart, you had become something more. You were the lightness in his chest, threatening to float away with his heart in tow every time you smiled. You were the warmth that settled over his skin when you hugged him hello and laughed at his quips. You were safety and peace. You were still and mundane compared to his working life. And with a job like his, God only knows how magical the mundane could be.

But he could never tell you this. He couldn’t tell you this because you were his best friend, and you had been for a year now. A year spent spinning in your orbit and eclipsing you in sweet, soft moments. He had flirted, he had touched, he had watched. And now, in this dance of yours, he had spun you out and waited for you to keep the waltz going, but the longer he stood with arms outstretched, the less likely it seemed you would spin back into him. Being with you but not being with you was the sweetest torture. Your blade was carving him up, but all he wanted was to kiss the hand that held it. 

Sergeant Garrick was trained to hold up under pressure, but Kyle was about to crack. He knew he had to move on for his and your sakes. For better or for worse, Kyle needed you in his life now, and if the only way he’d get to keep you was as a friend, so be it. So, he pushed open the door of the Crossroads Hotel and bought himself a goddamned drink. 

And when he finished that one, he bought another.

And another. 

A hand grazed his wrist when he raised the bottle to his full lips for one last swig. 

“You’re drinking awfully quickly there, handsome.” Kyle turned to find the owner of the voice. She was nothing like you.

Maybe that would make it easier.

He leaned one hip against the bar and grinned, “Is this you offering to get my next one?” 

“Maybe, what are you offering me in return?” The woman purred.

“Hmm… Where to start? I have several talents, you know.” Kyle moved in closer as the stranger laughed. This was why he was here. He needed to try to shift his attention to people who would want him back. This bout of flirting went back and forth like a tennis match, and felt like one, too. It was performative, a hollow game. When she excused herself to the bathroom, Kyle was on his sixth drink and still just as drunk on thoughts of you. 

When he turned to scan the bar (hypervigilance was a serious work hazard), he spotted someone else who looked so similar to you… How could he resist? It was a terrible idea, but he was already feeling terrible. He approached this new player and started the same kind of game as he had before. His only prize was frustration at himself.

“Well, you don’t waste time,” a sharp voice groused – the woman from earlier.

In his self-pity and irritation, he said the words that he would both curse and praise himself for later. “No offence, but I don’t exactly owe you anything, do I?”

The woman cocked her head to the side, her smile just on the wrong side of inhuman. When her grey eyes locked onto his, he felt a shiver down his spine. “Fine. Since you’re so concerned with getting pussy, maybe you’d enjoy being one instead.” 

Gaz let out a grunt as the woman’s palm smacked into the centre of his chest, an odd sensation spreading out from his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes. By the time he collected himself, both women he’d been speaking to were gone.

He was alone. Wonderful…

With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, he closed his tab for the evening.

Shuffling back out into the cold and biting night air, Kyle made his way towards the end of the block. Nausea was setting in. God, how hard did that woman hit him? ‘ Clearly, the alcohol isn’t helping ,’ he thought, as an aching started in his head and joints.

Then, there was nothing but excruciating pain. If Gaz could’ve screamed, he would. But he could not breathe. He could not think. He felt like his bones were being pushed to breaking, like his skin was tightening in on itself.

Snap.

Now he screamed.

Crack, snap.

Holy shit, his bones were breaking. They must be because he knew that sound all too well. What the bloody hell was going on? Gaz moaned out in pain, shaky breaths getting smaller and tighter as he closed his eyes to try and brace through it.

As suddenly as it had started, it was over. 

When he opened his eyes, everything looked… wrong. Colours were not what they should be, and things were too clear for this time of night. That streetlamp was also… a lot bigger than it had been a moment ago. Kyle went to stand before freezing when he caught a glimpse of himself.

Was that a fucking paw ? Why was it moving when he tried to move his left arm? Kyle swung his head around to see not his torso and two legs but a cat's body and a full, long-haired tail. A glossy brown-black coat of thick fur.

‘I didn’t think I’d had that much to drink…’ Kyle thought. He was dreaming. He must be dreaming. But he felt very much awake, very much in pain, and he knew he had not made it home yet. Oh God, home. How the fuck was he supposed to get home? His clothes and belongings were not lying around after his… episode? Transformation? The half-an-hour taxi back to his place was now out of the question, and – assuming this was real and he wasn’t just having a fit in the gutter – he was not about to get very far on foot. On paw?  

“Shit…” Kyle tried to mutter.

“Meow…” was what he heard. 

Oh… you’ve got to be having a fucking laugh.

He was a soldier, a problem-solver. He just needed to think and find a way out of this. He needed help. He needed…

You. 

He’d come from your apartment, not two blocks away. Your building was pet-friendly, and he remembered the little dog door leading onto your balcony. Bless you – even when you didn’t know it, you were helping him. If he could get to your apartment, get inside, and figure out how to convince you who he really is, you could help him.

If this were all a dream, he would wake up in his bed tomorrow morning and laugh it off. 

If this was real, you were his only shot at getting out of this mess.

Moving was strange. Kyle’s brain was thinking about moving his limbs the same way he usually would, but the sensations he was getting back were all wrong: the strange tingling from the wind  moving in his fur and whiskers, the lightness of his body, and his shifted centre of gravity. 

He was grateful for how easily he could jump once he reached your block – scaling up the tree to your balcony with sharp claws. In one leap, he landed at the glass door. He ducked his head into the plastic dog door…

It did not budge. Locked. Shit . 

‘Hey!’ Kyle called out in his head. A loud ‘mrrow’ came out instead.

– – – – –

You startled at a strange flurry of taps and yowls as you tugged on your sleep shorts. You followed the noise with cautious steps out into your living room and breathed a sigh of relief when you spotted the culprit. The cutest little long-haired cat with wide hazel eyes stood on its hind legs, tail swishing eagerly with front paws pressed into your sliding balcony door. 

“Aww! Hi there, kitty!” you cooed. In response, you received a string of pathetic meows. 

“Do you live here? Did you get stuck outside, silly?” 

Your building was pet-friendly. You had a few neighbours with cats who liked to laze around outside on the warm pavement. The cat batted a paw at the small dog door. “Demanding little thing,” you laughed and reached down to unlock the flap. As soon as you did, your new guest darted through in a chocolate-coloured blur. The cat’s fur was shiny, and it looked well-fed. It was definitely not a street cat. ‘No collar…’ you thought, ‘Odd.’ You sent a quick message to your building tenants' group chat to see whose cat you’d accidentally acquired. 

In the meantime, your fluffy friend was mrow -ing up a storm as though you’d personally offended them. You knelt down on the carpet and offered your hand for a sniff. “Hi, baby,” you cooed. The cat stopped meowing and stared at you, blinking. You gently scratched behind their ears, watching how their eyes closed and head tilted in pleasure.

— — —

He knew you didn’t realise it was him, but hearing you call him ‘baby’ in that soft voice had floored him for a moment. 

He’d been chatting your ear off, hoping that something vaguely human-sounding would get through, to no avail. He was going to start thinking up Plan B, he swore, but then you’d kept cooing at him and scratching behind his ears – Oh, that feels very good, thank you – and before Kyle knew it, he’d leaned so far into your touch, he was flopped on his back, purring. You giggled sweetly, and Kyle felt his heart melting in his chest. 

“Oh, what a sweet baby! You’re such a pretty girl,” you fussed.

Kyle’s eyes opened, and he let out an indignant chirp. 

“Hang on, are you a girl?” He watched you lean forward with a surreptitious gaze before realising your intent. Kyle yowled and flailed away, but you had seen enough. “Oh, pretty boy. My mistake.”

You were completely unfazed. 

This was the most mortifying moment of Kyle’s life. 

In all the ways he’d imagined you seeing him naked for the first time, this was never one of them. Oh, God… was he technically walking around naked the whole time? No… ‘The fur counts as clothing! The fur counts as clothing! ’ he thought. That was the only way to stop himself from curling up into a ball and dying of embarrassment.

You’d gone back to patting him at some point during his existential crisis, complimenting his fluffy tail and chest. “What a handsome little man!” You praised, stroking a gentle finger down his nose. 

He was going into cardiac arrest. He just knew it. 

“Where do you live, little guy?”

Your question snapped Kyle back into action. With a chirp, he was up and running across your living room.

— — — 

You watched the cat bound past your couch to sit in front of your TV console, right next to the framed picture of you and Kyle from the day you’d helped him move into his apartment. The cat just flicked his tail, looking at you almost expectantly. 

“What?” 

“Meow!”

“What!?”

He sniffed at the picture before turning back to you.

“That still doesn’t answer my question, mister.”

This time, the cat turned to paw at the photo of you and Kyle, and you jolted upright.

“No, no, no, we don’t touch that!” You took him into your arms and carried him back to your couch. He meowed in protest the entire time. “That’s a very special picture, pretty baby, so you leave that alone.” He flopped onto his side, the image of dejection at being denied the chance to cause chaos. You checked your phone to see responses from most of your neighbours; no one recognised the cat. “Well buddy,” you sigh, “Looks like you’re stuck with me for the moment. How do you feel about chicken for dinner?”

“Mrrp!” His tail twitched. 

You narrated your cooking process to him, picking him up to show him the pans on the stove. Your little sous chef sniffed the air before giving his approval, but complained the second you put him back down. “What’s the matter?” you whispered. His pleading eyes bore into yours as he pawed at your calf. “You wanna come back up? Okay, you big baby.” You supported his weight with one arm, his front legs resting on your shoulder while he watched you cook, tail swishing lazily. Now and then, you pulled a strip of chicken off the grilled fillets and fed it to him, laughing as he licked your fingers clean. You ate your dinner on the couch as he sat beside you, staring at your face the whole time – strange cat…

You may as well enjoy this little fluffball before sending him on his way. 

Your new friend gave a quiet chirp and nudged your hand where you had been absentmindedly scratching his chin. He rolled over to show you his belly when you looked down, blinking up at you expectantly. 

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “I see how it is. You’re just using me for cuddles, huh?” You hesitantly ran your hand down his tummy, barely brushing the soft fur. You’ve had one too many cats lure you in with this trick, only to scratch and bite you when you give in and pat the sensitive spot. You pulled your hand away from his belly, not wanting to risk a finger. He wiggled and meowed at you – almost petulant in tone – and you returned your hand to his stomach, feeling a purr vibrate against your fingertips. 

This odd fellow was changing your perception of the typical cat. “You are such a weird little guy!” He mrrped back at you and stretched out lazily, presenting more of his belly to you. You couldn't  help but laugh. “Cheeky little bugger,” you muttered before pressing your face into the long fur of his chest, dropping obnoxiously loud kisses there whilst you scratched his sides. You reached up to rub behind his ears before sitting up to grab your phone. 

“I’ve got to tell Kyle about you; he’s never going to believe this!” You starte dtyping out a message, but soon, a chocolate-coloured tail obscured your vision. Your new friend frantically meowed, demanding your attention. 

You hushed him, stroking his back with a soothing hand until his cries ceased. You briefly re-read your texts with Kyle. Normally, he’d have told you he was home by now and maybe sent you a meme or two before heading to sleep. You hope he’s just knocked out after packing his bags to leave tomorrow morning. This deployment wasn’t supposed to be a long one, thank God. 

You’d already started missing him before he left your apartment earlier today. You used his goodbye visits as an excuse to hold him tighter, like you could press him into your chest and keep him there if you tried hard enough. 

Your eyes flicked to the time. It was getting late.

“Alright, pretty baby, I think it’s time for you to go home.” You picked up the cat and walked towards your balcony door, but he wriggles out of your grasp for the first time tonight, darting back to the couch. You kneeled next to the small cat flap, holding it open. 

“Come on,” you coaxed. “You need to go home, little kitty. Your people will miss you!” The cat kept staring, unmoved, even as you pspsps to try and get him closer. You sighed, resigning yourself to leave the little plastic covering unlocked. “Fine, I guess you’ll leave on your own at some point.” You stand and make your way towards your bedroom before freezing in your tracks. You turned back to point a stern finger at your feline friend. “Do not. Shit. In my apartment.” You stared each other down in silence. Satisfied with your quiet agreement, you turned and crawled into bed. 

Half an hour later, you were fast asleep when silent paws padded into your room and leapt onto your bed. You didn't feel it when a gentle weight sank into the pillow next to you, one paw stretched out towards your face.

[obrother1976]

sorry for being crazy. but somehow two of us (2000) is a literal, actual movie that exists. insane to me. it sounds made up if u even say any part of the plot out loud. like "oh yeah basically it ends with john talking paul into performing on snl, but then paul gets his guitar from the car and when he comes back john's on the phone with yoko, telling her he loves her and that she's the only thing that keeps him from disappearing, so paul leaves again, calls his wife and tells her he loves her. also after he hangs up he stops smiling immediately and just sort of stares into space. also did i mention that this is the only time either of them ever call their wives the entire movie? yeah right at the end when they separate again." like. what.

[byfulcrums]

i cannot stop thinking about anissa and marky though [COMIC SPOILERS]

how did he react when he learned what his mother did? just like mark, he lived a lie. he thought his mother was kind and nice — the only thing that is true is that she loved him, but now, he has no idea if he should believe it

and. you've grown up being conditioned to believe that violence is peace, and that kindness is a lie and a weakness. you hurt people. by hurting a person, by destroying him irreparably, you found the boy you love most: your son. and you don't regret it. you hope one day, once he sees him, he'll get it. but you still don't regret it. you can't say you're sorry

marky will grow up without his biological father, because when mark hugs him he can only remember his mother and what she did to him. your father can't love you the way your mom did. you can't love your mother the way your father loved his

the worst part is, that it she hadn't done it, you wouldn't have existed. you wouldn't be here. your father will grow to love you. you will grow to accept each other. but you tend to wonder — if he never sees you as anything else other than your mother's son, then who will you have when everyone else you know dies?

[familyagrestefanblog]

You know, thinking about it. In the Paris special it was a pretty selfish dick-move from Hesperia to show up and ask for Ladybug and Chat Noir's help to redeem ToxiGriffe

And yet he never offered the same thing in return. As if Ladybug and Chat Noir DON'T need help with Monarque. As of Hesperia couldn't have been asked to at least TRY (maybe even with good ToxiGriffe helping out too) to also help his evil version see the light.

It's irrelevant that Hesperia "didn't necessarily know" that his other universe self (our Gabriel) is Monarque, neither did Ladybug and Chat Noir initially for their counterparts and yet they put in the work.

And concidering that this is exactly were Marinette failed so bitterly against Gabriel in the season 5 finale, this is so not a nitpick. Gabriel Agreste could still be alive now and the Butterfly save in the Miracle Box.

Adrien didn't HAD to be an orphan now.

Marinette tried talking Gabriel into redemption the way they did with ToxiGriffe, only massive problem was that Hesperia came into our universe BECAUSE he himself couldn't talk them into it. It had to be their own counterparts.

So the same logic proceeded to apply to Marinette of course. She tried taking a place that wasn't hers so of course it failed spectacularly. But in the end, she only saw herself in the need to try and fill that place because Alt Gabriel fucked off without trying to help first.

He really just showed up in our universe, asked for help for his own problems, and then left Ladynoir to their own evil grown up butterfly, huh?

Jep, that man absolutely was a variation of Gabriel Agreste...

[sanshinexx]

Here's part two of drawing my family pictures as the Bad Batch because I can and you can't stop me

[introspectivememories]

four months into getting to know each other, shouto finds him by touya-nii's shrine. his little brother gently sits down beside him and offers a small prayer.

"yumi-nee-san," natsuo wonders if his little brother will ever drop the second honorific, "said you were the closest to him," shouto says quietly.

after all these years and the use of past tense still makes his heart break. 'you are the closest to him' he wants to correct but that wouldn't make sense anymore. touya-nii hasn't been talked about in the present tense since before middle school. does shouto even remember a time before nii-san's dea-, disappearance?

"yeah, i was," he says, eyes never leaving the photo. it's the one nii-san took for sixth-grade picture day. kaa-san had got him all dressed up and he had hated it. somedays he thinks if he looks close enough, he'll see the displeased pout on nii-san face. "why?"

his little brother says nothing for a long time, back ramrod straight. natsuo has no idea what's going on in that head of his. shouto has so few tells that he's practically a blank slate. natsuo hates his father.

then slowly and so quietly, he has to strain his ears to catch it, shouto stammers out, "do-, do you think he would have liked me?"

natsuo's immediate reaction is to say 'yes'. yes, of course, touya-nii would've loved you. yes, of course, touya-nii would've crossed the heavens for you. yes, of course, he would've loved you shouto; you're his precious younger brother.

but he remembers the way nii-san used to spit out shouto's name when he was a kid. the way his brother's mouth wrapped around it, the face he made, like he had just eaten something disgusting. he remembers the way touya-nii had become almost crazed by the end, hellbent on proving himself the rightful heir to their shitty father's legacy. he remembers the way touya-nii had said, "i just need to prove that i'm better than him,"; the 'him' said with such bitterness and contempt.

he knows instantly that touya-nii would not have liked shouto. that this house and his father would have twisted any ounce of love, nii-san would've held towards shouto, into jealousy and hatred.

(this house may have ruined all of them but it only ever broke two of them.)

natsuo can't say any of that to shouto. his kind little brother who forgave him for not being there. his amazing little brother who falls in love with every cat he sees. his wonderful little brother who has a wickedly dry sense of humor. his soft baby brother who loves him and yumi-nee with a passion. his tender-hearted baby brother who still worries if his long-gone older brother would've liked him.

no, natsuo can't tell shouto that nii-san wouldn't have like him. shouto will internalize it like he does with everything else that hurts him. and there is already so much that hurts shouto, he will not add to that list. his baby brother smiles these days, nothing big like his green-haired friend, but quiet, lovely, ones all the same. shouto talks more these days. they have dinner together when natsuo is home. his baby brother laughs now. it's a miracle like nothing else in this world.

shouto is the best thing to come out of their house and natsuo will die before he ever hurts his little brother. so instead, he curls an arm around shouto's shoulders and pulls him into a loose side-hug.

"of course!" he lies cheerfully, ignoring the ache in his chest, "touya-nii would've loved you. you're his — and our —precious little brother after all. there is no universe in which he wouldn't have loved you."

the tips of his baby brother's ears go red and his pleased little answering smile makes the ache of lie go away. natsuo will tell a thousand more lies if it means shouto never stops smiling like that.

[whollyjoly]

for some reason i can't explain i know saint peter won't call my name

nothing that lives, lives forever - an immortal soldier!alton more au

(1.1k of snippets from my old guard(ish) au where alton more is old, too old, and has been living and fighting far longer than anyone should. full description/other thoughts at the bottom. tw: blood, violence, mentions of death)

Alton clicked the lighter closed, running a thumb over the silver case. The night was warm, sticky in a way that he never could get used to. He sucked in a breath from the cheap cigarette, letting his head fall back against the rough side of the barracks.

It was quiet. Typically, there would be no end to the commotion coming from the small building, one of many that littered Camp Toccoa. The wall of sound was ever-present, no matter if it was shouting or laughing or snoring. But whatever the cause, there was always noise. 

No matter if it was a blanket of noise he knew well, unchanging except for the language and the scenery. Soldiers are soldiers, and some things are a constant. It could almost be comforting, if it didn’t also mean that the need for soldiers was a constant as well.

However, tonight was a Saturday, and it was one of the few weekends that Sobel had allowed Easy the use of their weekend passes. Almost every man in the company had jumped at the chance to get off base, to travel home if they could and spend time with loved ones. The ones with farther-flung hometowns had spirited off to Atlanta, happy to spend their time drinking and dancing and fucking instead of slogging through another run, three miles up, three miles down.

Normally, Alton would have joined them in their carousing - it was easier to pass the time with the effortless camaraderie built during a training camp than bored and alone. 

But today had been a bad day. The sound of swords and the shift of sand beneath his feet followed him out of his nightmares, the humid summer of Georgia morphing itself into the baking, dry heat of the desert. 

His shouts must have been real, because when a hand came to shake him out of his dream, the first face he saw was not that of a grouchy NCO, but of a blood-caked Saracen, eyes alight with righteous fury. 

Alton didn’t think. He had grabbed the knife from under his pillow, an old thing that had been sharpened more times than he could begin to count, and was on the man in less than a breath, pressing the blade into the side of his neck. The familiar thrum of blood beat against his fingertips, the grit of sand scratched his gums. He knew what he had to do, had done it a thousand times, a thousand thousand times, what was a little more bloodshed spilled across his feet-

Alton had blinked, and came to himself in a rush.

Instead of an unnamed Saracen, the ashen face of Johnny Martin stared up at him, eyes wide behind the knife.

Alton drew back his hand, retreating almost as quick as he had lunged earlier. He mumbled a quick curse and apology as he stepped out of arm’s reach from the man. It wasn’t until Martin’s eyes widened even farther that Alton realized his tongue was slipping out Arabic of all things.

Usually, Alton was better about remembering himself, who he was almost as important as where he was. But for whatever reason, his demons had decided to catch up with him that night.

After a quick smile and some quip about the Krauts in his dreams, he managed to wave an only-slightly-mollified Martin off. The shorter man apparently hadn’t forgotten it though, if his watchful eyes during chow that morning were anything to go by.

Alton was just glad that no one else was awake to see it, at least. That was the last thing he needed.

And so, instead of joining in on a weekend of broads and booze, Alton found himself waving away the invitation by an eager Smokey and bemused Alley. When the horde made their way out of the barracks, fantasizing in bawdy terms about their planned misadventures, he felt like he could breathe easy.

Fucking finally.

~~

Alton took another drag from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl, up and up until it faded into nothing amongst the darkening sky.

The lighter was a welcome weight in his hand, grounding him to this time, this life.

The design was worn by now, details barely visible after a half century of worrying. It still managed to amaze him, sometimes, what people could do with the smallest of canvases. Alton didn’t feel the same wonder however, wasn’t as mesmerized by the beauty man could create as he once was.

But in the quiet moments, he could still appreciate the time some French craftsman took to transform a hunk of metal into a small token carried around by a dead man.

Luz had spied the lighter one weekend, and laughed at him for using something so old-fashioned. Alton just shrugged, not caring to admit that he was still getting used to having a light at his fingertips. It wasn’t all that long ago when he was still lighting a pipe with a flintlock pistol, and not so long before that when he would carry around a flint and steel.

Time was passing all the more quickly these days, technologies changing and advancing, and everyone was obsessed with needing things to be quicker, cheaper, simpler. Alton scoffed. He could hardly find it in him to care.

He glanced down at the lighter in his hand, shifting it back and forth in a practiced motion and watched as the light skittered across the sides. 

It had shown flowers, once. A veritable garden of carnations, daffodils, and lilies of the valley, with leaves spilling across the front panel onto the back. They represent good fortune, he was told. Good fortune, luck, and hope. 

When the merchant described it to him, eyes ablaze with a passion known only to those with wares to sell, Alton didn’t try to hide the snort that escaped his throat. 

Fortune and Luck had abandoned him long ago, and hadn’t returned since waking up in a battlefield abandoned by all but the dead, sword in his chest and blood in his mouth. 

And what the fuck was Alton supposed to do with hope?

It was the quote on the back that had caught his eye, all those years ago in a street market in Reims. The beveled edges had faded with time, the familiar letters Alton traced were more memory by now than any physical mark. Une vie honorable est une vie éternelle.

An honorable life is an eternal life.

Alton couldn’t help but stare at the message, both then and now. He hated that goddamn word. Immortal. Unending. Eternal. 

They were such flowery words, used by people who craved what they couldn’t have, what they shouldn’t. The romanticized idea of the everlasting, the fountain of youth, the gift of life! Alton was sick of it.

This wasn’t life. He was a fucking dead man walking. And he sure as hell didn’t do anything honorable to deserve it.

months ago, while thinking about the absolute insanity of the almost...cavalier? attitude we see alton more have over the course of the series, an idea hit my brain: what if there was a reason nothing seemed to phase him - not panzers, not being a breath away from a car wreck, not bastogne, not speirs? what if this wasn't his first war? that thought spiraled me into a minor insanity that is this: my immortal soldier!alton more au, loosely inspired by the movie the old guard (2020). the idea is that, once upon a time, there was a soldier in a land many centuries ago. one day, he died in battle. and then, he woke up. and then he died. and then he woke up. over, and over. drawn to countless battles, conflicts, and wars, each one etching itself into the core of his soul. a never-ending cycle...until one sweltering summer, where he found himself at a training camp at the foot of a mountain. anyways. at some point, i plan on writing this as a full story, but that is admittedly a long ways away. however, in celebration of alton more's birthday today, i wanted to post my favorite scene that i've written for this au! it's set sometime at the beginning of the story, in the early days of camp toccoa. mostly, it's just a character study of this version of alton more. hope you enjoyed! and of course - happy birthday alton more!

(song insp.)

taglist: @sweetxvanixlla @coco-bean-1218 @bucky32557038ww2 @georgieluz @samwinchesterslostshoe @xxluckystrike @next-autopsy @ronald-speirs @land-sh @ronsparky @panzershrike-pretz @theredrenard @kyellin

[crunchycrystals]

still can't get over the stupid goddamn anthpo video. genuinely fucking disgusted thinking ab it

[todayisafridaynight]

sometimes i get nishiki i really do

[max-nico]

AND ANOTHER THING WHILE IM ON THE TOPIC

I feel like Knuckles the series is another one of those times that Tails was right there, and what I mean by this, is Wade should not have been in the focus of the show, sorry don't care lol. He's a fine side character, incompetent white man who doesn't do anything well and never gets consequences for it is fine, but we didn't need another show centered around that topic.

Now, I may be biased bc Tails is my favorite but if we needed to give Knuckles a journey about learning to find home and we needed to give him a powerful sidekick who also learns a lesson, Tails is right there. Tails, who grew up without a family entirely/a family who hated him is learning to accept a new family, and Knuckles, who had an entire family but lost them all is accepting that it's okay to find a new one. That literally could've been the plot and we could've kept all the shenanigans that happened, minus the Wade Whipple bowling tournament plot, and the copaganda.

The elder guardians would've loved for Tails (or even Sonic, or ffs MADDIE) to be the newest successors of their tribe, and he would've been perfect for it. A young, hopeful, bright mind, still malleable to learn the ways of the tribe and no ego to get in the way, and an overall good kid.

Plus I feel like what most of us want is to see the boys interact, not some random white guy.

[nothingheregonowplz]

This goddamn season of Dimension 20 is going to kill me I swear

The Bad Kids really are heros, and they continue to prove it at every opportunity. They survived the Last Stand, made it through without dropping, and aced it. By all accounts, they absolutely succeeded in every way.

And yet they still aren't done. Someone still died. Something still threatens them, and the world. THERE IS STILL MORE WORK TO DO.

My heart broke so many times, but it broke especially when the Proctor kept trying to convince them they were safe and that STILL WASNT ENOUGH. They STILL dont feel safe. These poor kids did what no one has ever been able to, and fought tooth and nail to keep what they have been building for years now, and somehow, THERE IS MORE WORK TO BE DONE.

And they still want to save their enemies. They still want to save Buddy. They already saved Rueben, and they tried to save Buddy, and I know they will do all they can to save Lucy as well. They are heros, and by god do I just want them to be able to rest.

[tokagrem]

Might actually kill myself if that guy wins and i get hrt taken away and/or it becomes harder/impossible to get top surgery