#do you think they get caught in fishing lines sometimes

[puppetmaster13u]

Vibrates. Welcome to the unskippable cutscene. And of course this is just the closest some can recognize, doesn't mean it's exact. Like the lovecraftian description of it looked like (blank) but Not. :) Love that shit.

Joker definitely has vibes similar to a pufferfish and lionfish- and lionfish are incredibly invasive, which makes perfect sense with him. Very much green and white and purple colors, even if it's mostly muted. Maw more like a gulper-eel. B i g smile.

Harley deserves a hint of clownfish in patterning, and with a tail that's a mixture of a fish and an octopus of some sort. Mass of tendrils and bright bioluminescence that can make it look like a giant maw in the dark waters.

Ivy? Eel vibes. But like a mass of writhing eels and kelp, maybe a hint of leafy sea dragon when it comes to fin-shape. You can't tell if it's thrashing kelp or a creature twisting towards you until it's too late. Maybe a hint of stonefish vibes too.

Selina, I think catfish when it comes to whiskers and such. But? Give her hagfish vibes too. Slips through cracks and absolutely horrifying maw of teeth.

Bruce, you are so right in shark and whale vibes, but let me add in Manta Ray. Not only the smartest fish (at least thought to be currently) but also gives him his cape and cowl vibes even in the water. Rows of teeth like a shark, large maw of a whale all melding together on something vaguely humanoid.

Flying fish Dick is so right. Hint of sailfish too with the big fin being where he has most of the bioluminescence. But there's something off when you look closer, specklings that could be patterns or could be eyes, no one knows.

Anglerfish, yes. Duke deserves tendrils upon tendrils of glowing biolumnescent lures. But for extra spook? Deep sea spider vibes too. Limbs just a hint too long, scales shifting more into some sort of chitinous plates.

Jason? Give him a hint of jellyfish, (yes mostly for the immortal jellyfish but also the fact that at a distance it could look like innards of something) and frilled shark, and just a hint of lobster. A fish-esque body surrounded by stinging tendrils and skittering legs to dig through the sand.

Honestly, Cass also deserves jellyfish vibes, but instead? Blanket octopus or vampire squid. Tendrils that connect with sinews of flesh into a shadowy mass full of teeth. If you want jellyfish though? Comb jelly.

Tim. Now Tim is fun. Guppy and dolphin are his main inspirations, with teeth like needles. Looks friendly until you get closer enough to see the details. Maybe a hint of barreleye for fun.

Stephanie has viperfish vibes when it comes to the face and just how long her tail is. A bit of Frogfish too, with fins that are something between that and hands tipped in claws, and perhaps some deep sea skate.

Damian has a hint of scorpionfish, combined with lanternfish. Some stingray vibes too, including the stinger- even if it's more akin to a blade- in the tail.

Barbara also has a whale vibe, albeit probably smaller than Bruce's. Some searobin vibes when it comes to fin shape and maybe patterns, if not in color. Arms and fingers too long compared to the rest of her body.

Which Commissioner Gordon! Definitely has some dogfish vibes in body shape, maybe a hint of pleco or similar with spines a bit too thick. Maybe even a bit of walrus vibes when it comes to his mustache and with tusk-like fangs.

Riddler? I bet he has the most ridiculously colored or shaped fish, or the most normal at first glance, and there's no inbetween. He needs a long tail that he can curl into a question mark.

Scarecrow has to be the most horrific combination of deep sea abominations that would give heart attacks to anything other than another Gothamite at a glance.

Killer Croc still has crocodile vibes, of course. Maybe some knifefish vibes but otherwise Very heavily armoured from scales and scutes alone.

Mr Freeze? Give this man seal vibes- maybe mixed with some narwhale but jagged ice spikes. Body like a frozen corpse, bits partially see-through like chunks of ice.

I have so many thoughts :)

Also for those curious about aberrations:

Mermay Special Prompt 3

“Are you kidding? No one goes to Gotham, that place is like,” Aquaman made a motion with his hand, a not-quite grimace on his face. “Like things should not be living in the water, like it should be impossible, and things should be dead, but they aren’t and it’s like, like the equivalent of an undead apocalypse over there!” 

Bruce rolled his eyes behind his cowl, taking a sip of his coffee as the others continued drinking. Socialize, they said, it’ll be fine they said. Well excuse him, but the waters weren’t that bad. Sure there were always dumped bodies, and chemicals from the rogue attacks, but it was far worse at one point.

One thing he’ll always be relieved for is how the… curse (thank you broken statuette back in the beginning of his vigilante career that fused with the other many curses of Gotham) made the people of Gotham actually care about the waters around them. 

Though also, he couldn’t help but thank anything that might be listening for the fact that the curse only interacted with Gotham waters, because losing legs with any risk of a drop of water would be downright annoying. 

“No dude, you don’t understand, no one goes there for a reason! That shit is horrific- someone saw a big thing with bits of rebar stabbed straight through it and still chased after a big alligator-thing!” Oh. Oh that had been him. Oops. Hopefully his kids didn’t find out about this, but they were probably already on the cameras. Dammnit. 

[2soft2sensitive]

”we should plant fruit trees by the sidewalk” bro have you ever been within fifteen feet of a fruit tree on a hot summer day? the stench of rotting fruit is awful (and no, you can’t pick every single fruit off the thing, it will inevitably drop some of the fruit and it will not all be suitable to eat)

not to mention dropped fruit creates tripping hazards, and can be difficult for ppl with mobility aids to navigate.

and not to mention the bugs it attracts. stinging insects are not fun to have so close to where people are walking, especially when those insects include bees, since there are ppl that are deathly allergic

like. idk y’all. I know it sounds so nice on paper but you gotta think about this logistically. who is gonna clean up the rotting fruit? you can hire people, but they’re not always gonna be around all the time— and who is going to pay them?

you can have the locals clean it up, but inevitably people will shirk their duties— no one wants to clean up stinky ass fruit with bugs all over it, so they will put it off, hoping someone else will come in and do it for them

and then the fighting over whose job it is and who isn’t pulling their weight will be insane. people absolutely love getting in stupid fights for stupid reasons

because as much as people have the capacity to be kind and caring and take care of each other, they can also be petty and selfish and spiteful. you have to plan for both!!

so yeah, idk. anytime someone says that about the fruit trees I just kinda assume they haven’t really thought any of their ideas through. 😅

[jackmanwife]

You picked at the food on your plate with your fork, something your father cooked up a couple times a week—a pile of mashed potatoes that had long since gone cold, some roasted asparagus you hardly touched, and a piece of chicken that tasted bland after the first few bites. You weren’t even hungry, really—just wanted to get dinner over with.

Your father was going on about one of his favorite old stories—something about a fishing trip he’d taken a few summers ago, the same trip he brought up every chance he got. He told it the exact same way, too: the “massive fish” that got away to the epic battle with his fishing line. You nodded along and gave him the occasional “oh, really?” like the good daughter you were. Your mind, however, wasn’t on fishing—or the food.

You took a sip of water, looked down at your plate, then glanced up at the man sitting in front of you. There he was, Logan—and fuck, did he look good. He was patiently listening to your father, sometimes letting out a chuckle, drinking a little bit of beer from the bottle next to his plate—barely touched, too. You can tell he was just as bored as you were. Only difference was, he wore it better.

Then it came to you. You didn’t have to sit here quietly, bored out of your mind. Not when he was right there, so close, looking so put-together. No, you wanted to fuck with him a little, have some fun.

You took a quick look at your father, making sure he was still caught up in his stupid story, and after what felt like hours, he was. Good. You slipped off one shoe under the table, feeling the cool floor against your bare foot before reaching out, letting your toes brush Logan’s jeans—feather-light. Just a little something to get his attention without making it too obvious.

You stared at your plate, even though a smile tried to pull at the corner of your mouth. After a few seconds, you looked up at Logan, expecting him to be looking at you, too, but he wasn’t. He just continued to drink his beer, talk to your father, take a small bite of food from his plate. He wasn’t doing anything. Why wasn’t he doing anything?

Okay, maybe he didn’t really feel it. Beneath the table, you pressed your foot a little higher, up along his calf. Still, nothing. Logan barely blinked, even, he just leaned back with a small smile on his face as he listened to your father, bringing his bottle back to his mouth for another drink. Fine. You slid your foot higher, pressing along his thigh, harder this time. There was no way he wasn’t feeling this. And yet—he just went on, acting like he hadn’t noticed a thing, even though you knew he did.

But then, just when you were about to drop your foot, Logan casually reached under the table, catching your ankle in his hand. The move was so sudden you almost choked on the food you were keeping in your mouth. His fingers tightened around your ankle, holding you in place. Your hand tightened around your fork, trying to pull your foot back, but he wouldn’t let go. He made it clear that he was aware of your little game—and that he was going to win it.

You yanked your foot back hard enough to slip out of Logan’s grip, causing the table to shake. Your father paused mid-sentence, looking over at you.

“Oh, um—I think I’m full,” you forced a small laugh out, pushing your chair out from under the table as you got up.

Logan finally looked over at you, lips curling in the slightest smirk. You knew that look. “Leaving so soon, sweetheart?” He nodded toward your half-full plate, “Barely touched the food on your plate.”

Jesus Christ, was he going to be the death of you.

[innerfare]

Random Shanks Headcanons 

Summary: A random collection of Shanks headcanons

CW: None // SFW

———

Has a fake arm that he uses for gags. Only he and Yasopp find it funny. Beckman once tossed the arm overboard after Shanks ‘lost’ the arm in a pot of Lucky Roux’s stew, only for Shanks to enter the mess hall the next morning with another attached to his body. 

Can do magic tricks, especially good with coins and cards. A very skilled sleight of hand artist. Also not above using these tricks to cheat while playing cards. (Inspired by the coin game w/ Luffy flashback). Cheating is the only way he can beat Beckman, who’s by far the best player on the crew. But he doesn’t even cheat to win, he just likes the thrill of getting away with it; also enjoys the thrill of getting caught. There was a rabbit loose aboard the Red Force for a solid month after the captain tried to learn how to pull it out of a hat.

The best beer pong player in the New World, probably the entire world. Would challenge all of his enemies to a game of beer pong to settle their disputes if he thought they would respect the results of the game. Good at drinking games in general (has a little too much experience).

Is an infamous gossip. If a member of the crew wants word to get out about something, they just mention it to their captain. 

Enjoys playing matchmaker. Always acts as a wingman for his crew when there’s a pretty bar maid. The only one he never tried to fix up with one of his crew mates was his darling Makino. 

Are soap operas a thing in the One Piece universe? Because if so, he has a favorite that he never misses an episode of (fights hardest on Thursdays so he can be home in time to catch the latest episode of Search for One Piece, a pirate drama based loosely on Roger’s life. He particularly enjoys the harlequin character). 

Loves meddling in any drama that comes up aboard the ship. Sometimes even starts drama just for entertainment, like the time he told Lucky Roux that he saw Limejuice sneaking steaks from the freezer, or when he robbed Beckman blind and left traces of a turkey leg at the scene of the crime. 

Thinks childish pranks are the funniest thing in the world. Pranks prospective crew members to see how they respond; screens them based on whether they find his jokes funny. Beckman insists this is not the best way to do things but Shanks persists. But Shanks isn't just being childish. He's making sure everyone who joins his crew has a good nature as that is, in his opinion, the most important thing. If you can't trust your crew, you're dead in the water.

Was definitely posing when the government snapped the photo for his wanted poster but pretends it was completely candid. Has a habit of comparing his wanted poster to the posters of his enemies.

He also uses his wanted poster to fish for compliments, especially from his crew. “That’s a pretty good picture, isn’t it?” “I don’t look half bad in that, do I?” “The real reason the marines are hunting me- the sight of my wanted poster makes their wives swoon.”  

Refers to himself as, “that handsome devil.” 

Smells like body odor and weed, but in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way (that is to say, it works for him). 

Animals and babies always like him. He insists the trick is to act uninterested. 

He is genuinely good-natured, but he definitely uses his sense of humor to disguise how terrifying he truly is. Is a pro at lulling people into a false sense of security. Definitely slouches on purpose to seem less intimidating.

Secretly paid off Luffy's "treasure tab" at Makino's bar. Didn't do it just to be kind to the poor kid but actually because he believed Luffy when he said he'd pay it back in full and did it to annoy Luffy a decade or two down the line. (When Luffy finally goes back to pay Makino and she informs him Shanks already did, Luffy blows a gasket.)

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[pedge-page]

i was to late to vote in the poll (as if my one vote would have changed the results lol) but now i’m constantly thinking about sub! piss kink! joel aaaaaaa maybe like pee shy in public joel who needs assistance 👀

Don't Be Shy

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Notes: anon referring to a poll waaaaay long ago. But I'm happy that i was now finally able to write this!!!! Haru is BACK.

Warnings: piss kink, very slight piss drinking, subish!Joel, public assisted masturbation, oral m receiving, exhibitionism, getting caught

Check out Piss Kink section on my Masterlist for more

18+ ONLY

- - - -

He grumbled this morning about going for a walk around the local park, but you insisted it would be good idea to get some fresh air, work those joints.

Get some revenge.

“Ya happy gettin’ your sun like a goddamn plant?” He grunts as you sway his hand in yours.

You’ve found quickly that Joel is actually a homebody. He likes to stay in for everything : food, entertainment, comfort. So naturally anything that one can do in the privacy of your own home—should stay in the privacy of your own home.

The sun is shining bright as you squint and nod happily. He does look a bit out of place: such a pleasant atmosphere, hot as hell with clear skies and beautiful nature all around, while he wears a paint and hole ridden shirt and some thick jeans with boots. Perspiration bead at the edge of his hair line, and despite the creaks of his fine wrinkles, he doesn’t look that unhappy. He’s exaggerating most of it.

You carried along a large canteen of water as well—for special reasons.

You unscrew the cap and practically shove it in his mouth. “Drink up big boy. Don’t want you dehydrating.” 

“This the third time you have me ‘hydrating’ in fifteen minute,” he noses suspiciously, but still gulps the fresh water without hesitation. His wrist comes up to wipes the excess dripping from his lips. “Got a reason?”

“Depends. How are we feeling?”

He shrugs, though there is a little shift in his jeans. “Wouldn’t mind a bathroom sometime soon. They don’t got porta potties on this trail, do they?”

You giggle and kiss his scruffy cheek. “Ive got something better.” You grip his hand more firmly and rush over to a semi secluded water edge that has shrubbery and trees along either side of the clearing. There’s even a wooden bench settled facing the lake to enjoy the lush calm scenery of the still water.

Excitement rushes through your veins as you glance around to make sure no one else is coming before getting to your knees and undoing his pants.

Joel panics for a moment, his hands quickly going to scoop you back to your feet.

“Nononono, darlin’ this ain’t a ‘me’ thing this is a ‘you’ thing—“

you slap his bear paws away and continue your ministrations. “You always make me do it. It’s your turn.”

He hisses inwardly, looking around as well as you fish his soft cock out of his underwear. He peers down only to make contact with your doe eyes all big and seductive staring back at him. Your fingers wrap around his base before putting his tip into your mouth. Even soft, he’s got quick a package, but the feeling doesn’t last long as you quickly begin bobbing and sucking around his rapidly growing erection.

He tilts his head back and lets out a groan, hand coming over the back of your head. The warm wet sensation of your perfect lips suckling in his dick is almost enough to distract him from the fact that he’s got his jeans pooled by his leg in a public park with his girlfriend sucking him off.

Your hands glide along his thighs and over his ass, soothing his agitation. Reminding him that you’re here now, with his member deep in your throat. His insides unwind a little. Falling under your spell as you bring him pleasure.

When your palms begin to creep to his lower belly and push, he centers back to reality with a yelp. Startled, he instinctively pulls away from you, but the strength of your other hand wrapped around his ass reels him back in.

“Shhhhhhh,” you hum, grinding your fingers into his pelvis. “Didnt you say you needed to go? All that hydration a bit too much for you?”

His nose scrunches into an angered snarl. “I fucking kneeewwww…” he exhales through gritted teeth and a pointed finger down your way. He can’t even stay focused on scolding you as he anxiously checks behind him for any passersby. There was a host of walkers and joggers when the two of you started your walk. The idea that any of them, particularly the judgmental looking highty-tighty women, catching him right now makes the situation 10x worse.

100x times better for you, though. You can see the little crevices in his forehead each time he breathes shakily. His Adam's apple wobbling and the inward press of his knees. You know Joel lives to make you piss yourself anywhere and any time he commands it. Today, you wanted him to surrender control, something he seldom does. But you know he’d love it—he just needed some encouragement.

“You look so pretty, baby,” you tease. Your thumb circles his lower belly as you kiss his salty mushroom head.

He shakes his head with a throaty laugh. “Know what ya doin—shit—mmmmm!—ain't gonna work.”

But the signs are there: he’s crumbling, both brain and body. Lying through his teeth in the hopes you’ll stop and just tuck him back in and continue on.

Though if he doesn’t piss right now, he might just do so in his pants five minutes from now.

“Fuck,” he rasps, hunching over slightly with closed eyes. His lips are trembling as you take him deep, your tongue swirling on his underside before pulling out with a pop. You jerk him off with a smirk on your lips. 

“You wanna do it? Gonna piss in the middle of a fucking park, because you can’t hold it in your pants like a big boy?”

“Nnnmmm—y—yessss,” he whines. “Wanna—wanna go.”

 You shush him with a satisfied grin while lazily pumping his girth against your cheek. Standing up, you kiss the worry wrinkles on the crevice of his eye. "Don't be shy, Joel. Show everyone what this piss-hungry dick can do."

Desperate gasps escape his full lips as he can’t help but lean his head onto your shoulder, staring down at you jacking his cock off.

“You’re so good to me,” you coo, stroking the tense muscles of his back with your other hand. “Let me help you. Let it all go—“

No sooner that you had finished your words before Joel staggers a breath and begins unloading his bladder. He watches with parted lips and raised, relaxed brows as you hold his dick, the tip shooting out a strong stream of piss into the lake water where it splatters satisfyingly against the surface.

You giggle and press your face to his ear, kissing his pulse. “How’s that?”

“So—so good, baby,” he rasps with a throaty choke. You don’t miss the way he ever so slightly cants his hips forward, fucking your soft fist. “Shit.” He tosses his head back again and chuckles from deep within his chest. He’s very rarely felt this level unwinding totally, let alone in public. 

Joe’s cock is warm, undoubtedly from the hot piss he’s dumping like a beautiful fountain of yellow. 

“You’re so pretty when you let me help you. You like being a horny little boy, letting me suck you off till you’re peeing everywhere. It’s okay baby. I’m always going to take care of you. Need me to help you every minute, huh?”

His face unwinded in a drunken bliss. Pouty lips parted as he gazes upon you with hazy loving eyes. You continue to kiss between his jaw and lips, tongue teasingly wetting his skin though he doesn’t care. “Love—ugh fuck yeah—love pissing. Pissing for you, baby. Feels better when ya do it for me.”

You pumping his cock and bring your finger to his slit, just slightly interrupting the stream and getting your fingertip wet with his warm urine. His brain is so far gone, that when you slide it right along his lips, the rancid salty taste doesn’t phase him and he happily sucks your your piss-dripped finger into his mouth with a hum. You laugh and kiss him again, tonguing one along so you too can barely taste his pee on his lips. “You’re so bad, Joel Miller.”

If he had half his mind right now, he’d still be so worried about onlookers. And maybe you would be too, now seeing some movement coming from the trail behind you. He sees the change in your expression briefly, immediately turning to see a woman strolling along, not paying any mind until she hears the trickle of splashing water, sees the two of you standing so close, and a fat strip of urine shooting from Joel’s crotch that she gasps. 

Joel chokes when he makes eye contact with her, turning to push his red face into your chest as his piss stops and is replaced with thick shots of semen blasting from his dick.

You continue to watch the horrified women, your jaw dropping with a wildly sadistic grin as Joel stutters in your grasp, working his orgasm over and unable to really hide what’s happening from any crevice of the world. And he likes it, fucking hell. Whimpering pathetically like a hurt pup. He’s never cum so hard from a piss in his life. The embarrassment he should feel, being caught pissing in a lake with his girlfriend jerking him off in a public park, and then cumming as soon as he’s caught...

The two of you are equally in a state of shock and odd satisfied at the revelation. 

As a show of dominance, you maintain eye contact with the poor walker and kiss Joel’s fluffy head. The lady makes a disgusted sound and storm away, unable to bring her eyes to the sight before her any longer. 

Your boyfriend, however, is so drained of liquid from his body that, as the last little drips of his cum pebble out onto your fingers, still gliding over his over sensitive length, he huffs into your breasts and closes his eyes. His breath is hard, gulping his saliva trying to catch his breath.

“You’re amazing,” you whisper to him. He laughs a little, shivering. He feels good in your grasp, in your protection. Your arm protectively wrapped around his back his other shoulder, while your other hand strokes gently along his spent, wet cock. 

“‘M never comin’ on a walk with you again.” He finally stands up fully on his own and fists his softened dick back in his pants. Even as he glares at you, regaining his in-control composure, neither of you miss the little smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth. One that neither of you need to really verbally address again, but both still know his little newfound secret.

That Joel Miller would jump to do this again in a heartbeat.

- - - -

Taglist:

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[teeth-farie]

Restroom Rendezvous

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)/Reader

…: I’m back from the dead! I can’t guarantee that I’ll post often, but I at least wanted to share something I wrote. Deadpool has been my hyperfixation since I saw DP&W last summer, so this is set right after that. Thanks for reading!

~~

Wade totally wasn’t caught up on Vanessa’s rejection, not at all. Things don’t work out sometimes, and that was fine, really, it was. She let him down easy, he was thankful for that, at the very least. People change. She had and so had he. They simply weren’t what each other needed anymore. 

It hit him bitterly, that he can admit. He spent many long nights drowning his sorrows in ice cream cartons and reruns of the great British bake off, and a couple nights actually drowning himself in the bathtub. It was a rough period, but life goes on. 

He’s since come to terms that romance just isn’t in the cards for him, not when most people ended up nauseous after a first impression. However, that wouldn’t stop him from living vicariously through Logan’s love life. 

He’d put up a good fight so far, but Wade would be damned if he let all that go to waste because The Wolverine doesn’t know how to flirt with this universe's population. Seriously, he’s never seen someone be so politically incorrect and over correct in his life. 

It all leads them to a seedy little bar, but one with enough charm to know you probably won’t be getting an std. Probably.

He has to tug Logan away from the bar and to the pool table before he can get too shitfaced, sighing in exasperation. 

“It’s like you don’t even want to find anyone.”

“You said I’d be getting laid, not that I’d fall in love.”

“Oh, but don’t you just love the trope of strangers to fuck buddies to lovers?”

Logan snorts a puff of air from his nose as he grabs a pool stick and rubs the little thing of blue chalk on the end of it.  

Wade turns to scope the bar population, leaning up against the edge of the pool table as Logan lined up pole tip to white ball, cradled by his fingers. 

“At first I was like, ‘let him have some time, he’s new to this universe’, but now I’m like, ‘fuck it, he’s had enough time!’,” Wade begins, the sounds of pool balls clacking making him roll his eyes. 

“See, that’s exactly it! I took you here to mingle and now you’re huddled away playing fucking pool. Alone. You aren’t even playing with anyone.”

Clack. Roll. 

“I didn’t even think you could play pool alone, it seems like a very obvious two player game, but you do know best,” 

Clack. Thunk!

“OW!!” Wade turns dramatically, hand on his ass to face the other man with a look of betrayal. 

“Did you just hit my ass with a pool ball?”

“Shouldn’t be sittin’ on the table there then, bub.”

Wade frowns and Logan chuckles to himself, jaw flexing with his hidden grin. 

“You’re gonna make me do the work for you, huh? You big baby. You big 5’3 baby.”

SNIKT!

“YEESH, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m leavin!”

There’s that saying of ‘there’s always more fish in the sea’, but the fish out here look a little too dead eyed for his tastes. Well, Logie’s tastes. 

Just when he’s about to call it quits, he spots you (Duh, you know what you came here for). 

There’s nothing outright that he can pinpoint that draws him to you. Maybe it’s the way you dress, or the way you hold yourself, but something about you makes him feel just about as giddy as a kid in a candy shop. Part of him wonders if maybe he could snatch you for himself. 

Checking his breath in a cupped hand, he winces and shrugs. It’s not like the rest of him was all that better. 

Wade leans up against the bar next to you, dark hoodie shadowing his mottled face under the overhead lights. His smile still gleams, crooked lower teeth and blistered gums. 

“You’ve been looking over at me and my friend a lot, I noticed it.”

“Ah, guilty as charged.” You respond, a split smile, beer on your breath. “I’m sorry though, if it made you uncomfortable.”

“No! No no, the opposite, actually,” he sits down on the barstool, leaning on his elbows against the sticky countertop. “See, my friend over there,” he points over his shoulder, voice suddenly low and conspirative.

 You follow the point of his thumb to his friend, thick and burly, bent over the edge of the pool table to line up another shot. Truly a magnificent specimen, but your eyes don’t seem to be on that prize. 

“I’ve been trying to set him up for ages now, and between you and me, he thinks you’re real cute.”

“He does, does he?” 

“Oh yeah, super cute. He might seem like an asshole, but he’s a real softie at the center, all gooey and shit.”

“Mhm,”

“Ok, ok, I see I’m losing you a bit- but what’s the harm? Come on over, just don’t say I brought you over here.”

You sigh, resting your cheek on your palm, and he can’t help but feel a little scrutinized under your gaze. 

“You know, it wasn’t him I was staring at.”

“I…oh, pfft, yeah, this whole thing,” he gestures to his face, scarred and tumored flesh pulled taut and tender. “Wanted a ticket to the freak show?”

“No, not like that,” you say quickly, a little hot in embarrassment. “I meant, I think you’re…cute.”

Wade almost balks at you, silent before scoffing. “Cute? Pardon my French, but are you fucking blind?”

You laugh, and you’re a little worried that you probably shouldn't have. “Listen…”

“Wilson. Wade Wilson. Did that sound cool?”

“Wade,” you say, and the way you say it makes him feel all tingly at the base of his spine. “You seem like you really love your friend.”

“Totally! We’re BFF’s, best friends forever, we’ve got the matching necklaces, too.” He tugs on the thin chain dangled around his neck, a half heart charm jingling underneath his hoodie. 

You’re resting your hand on his thigh, a deliberate movement that makes his fingers twitch a little, necklace falling back under his shirt. You lick your lips a little, and he’s back under your spell.

“Wouldn’t your friend want you to…have a little fun?”

His mouth falls open to say something, then closes, then opens again. “F..fun? I like fun, what kinda fun are we talking about?”

Your head leans back with a laugh at his flustering, hand squeezing his thigh just a little tighter. He shifts in his seat and you notice it, of course you do. 

“The kind of fun where you follow me into the bathrooms and I,” you stop, fingers inching up just a little bit higher on his thigh, just shy of bumping this fic rating from mature up to explicit. “Well,” you sigh out, and move your hand away entirely. “I wouldn’t want to give it away, not when you can come see for yourself.”

“Yes,” he strains, leaning up in his seat like he was ready to jump you right then and there. “I want that, I wanna have some fun with you—if, if you still want it?”

“Honey, I’ve been groping you for the last minute, of course I still want to.”

“Right! Right, right, right,”

“Leave a bit of distance, don’t make it so obvious,” you say to him, getting up from your seat and nodding towards the bathrooms with a wink before you leave. 

Wade’s heart pounds in his ears almost louder than the bar's music. Surprisingly jazzy, they probably came on a themed night. In ways, he thinks his heart might be singing too. 

He looks over to Logan, finding him still at that damn table. At least this time it looks like someone’s joined him, or he hopes so. He really wants to be following you right now. 

Then, with a skittish bit of flair, Wade slinks away into the crowd. 

—

Wade’s tarnished skin feels impossibly hot when your mouth makes contact, lips and tongue over the length of his jugular. His hands wander, catching on your clothing, rumpling the fabric under his grip. Yeah, this fic is getting rated explicit. 

“This is fucked,” he huffs, head lolling back against the bathroom stall. You make a questioning sound against his neck and his whole body shivers. “S’posed to be hooking you up with Lo’, not…not…” you’ve found the tender little spot below his ear as he speaks, blunt teeth pressing firm and he hates how reactive he is to it. 

“God, you’re not playing fair, this isn’t fair,” he wheedles, tugging on your clothes. 

You laugh and wiggle your leg between his, hip pressing against his groin, and you’re pleased to find him half chubbed already. “If I were fair, I’d be talking to your friend right now instead of kissing a cutie in the bathroom.”

“I’m- am I the cutie?”

“Yes, you’re the cutie.”

You’re mouthing lower and Wade is sure his heart is going to burst from his chest Alien style. Your teeth catch on the chain of his necklace, a touch of your tongue against his skin and you tug, breathing out a laugh when he whimpers. 

“That shouldn’t have been so hot,”

“But aren’t you glad it was?” 

You’re only stopped by the neckline of his hoodie, lavishing your mouth over the exposed skin of his throat. He’s breathing heavy, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your teeth. 

He’d never thought anyone would want to be close to his cancer riddled skin, let alone kiss. The scabbing and sores of his skin don’t bother you, you devour him all the same. 

Just as he thinks it can’t get any better, he feels your fingers tug on the waistband of his jeans. 

“Is this ok?” You’re asking, all soft and hushed, like you haven’t unraveled him at the very seams. 

“Uh,” he stammers like an idiot, flushed red and sweating. “Yes, yes, it’s ok, it’s more than ok, actually! I’d really uh, it’d be totally cool, totally consensual—“

You cut him off with a kiss, fumbling with his buttons and pulling down the zipper with a huff puffed from your nose. 

His pants shuck down easily enough, caught around his thighs while your hand finds his erection. The first touch is like bliss, your fingers wrapping around his mottled cock and tugging, toying with the foreskin around the tender head. 

You make a pleased sound, reverberating into his mouth as you give him a testing squeeze, his hips canting forward. 

It feels better than he anticipated, much better, though he supposes it’s due to only having his right (and left) hand for a while. 

“No undies, huh?” You’re laughing, a sickly sweet sound that makes his knees feel weak. “And here I thought you were just trying to set your friend up. Were you hoping for this all along?”

He shakes his head, though it’s more like a frantic twitch. “Huuh, nuh-uh,” 

“No? I think you did,” his cock weeps enough to make the slide of your fist easy, the soft palm of your hand so much better than his own blistered one. “I think you were hoping I’d pick you, that I’d come kiss you all better, make you feel good.”

“Please,” is all he can muster, nosing against your head with a pitiful sound. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” you croon, letting go of his cock to put your cupped palm below his chin, expectant. “Come on, get it wet for me, Wade.”

It’s all but purred, the way you say it. Like butter and cotton candy had a baby and it was your voice. And he’s obeying, gathering the saliva in his mouth and spitting it into your palm, flushed red hot and wanting. 

“Good boy,” you whisper and he thinks he’s in love. 

Your wet hand is grabbing his cock again, slick and dripping. 

“Tell me what you like, cutie.”

“Tighter? Oof- not that tight, j-just kinda- ohhh,”

His body feels like it’s blooming, warmth flooding into his nerves different from the anxious, hormonal flush of his blood. He sucks his lip in between his teeth, eyes rolling when the web of your finger and thumb catch on the head.  

“Now that’s a pretty expression,” up and down, up and down, wet and messy. “I think it’s cool, how your dick is like the rest of you. Nice on the hands…” you thumb over the uneven skin, thumb pressing against the more tender and raw flesh, pulsing with his heartbeat. 

“Oh, ha..haha, r-ribbed for your pleasure, amiright?”

“Oh, Wade…” your tongue slides across the shell of his ear, saccharine voice a heady whisper. “I’m not the one that’s gonna be bent over.” 

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, hands shooting up to cover his face in near comedic embarrassment. 

You laugh in his ear and it sounds utterly mocking, your voice trailing off into a sigh of a moan (which isn’t helping him in the slightest- or it is, and that’s why he’s suffering).

“God, you’re wet, I don’t think I even needed you to spit at all.” You thumb over the head, a back and forth rub that gets your fingertips sticky with his pre. “Look at that, like a fucking garden hose.”

Wade huffs loudly through his hands, spreading his fingers to peek out, pupils dilated under the milky sheen of his eyes. “Don’t stop,” it comes out strained and weak when he says it. “K-keep talking, I need- I-I—“ 

His hips jerk in aborted thrusts, biting on his own tongue when his teeth clench. He whimpers, and you kiss him better, tongue against tongue. 

“Close,” he still tries to whimper anyway, his balls drawing up to his body in anticipation, the building of his orgasm festering in his gut. 

“Close? Alright, alright,” you start to shuffle him forward and he makes an indignant sound when he’s pulled away from your mouth. “Aw, don’t look at me like that, I’m just trying to avoid getting a stain on my clothes.”

You position him over the toilet and he grabs at the tank of it, your hand wrapping around him from behind and pointing his cock down to the bowl. It’s not the first time he's jerked off over a toilet, but this time is definitely more enjoyable. 

“There you go,” he can hear the smile in your voice, feel your hands wrapped tight around him. It makes him feel kinda jelly inside, soft and jiggly and vulnerable. 

He finds himself holding onto the hand on his stomach, your other making quick work of his erection, pumping quickly to push him right back to the edge again. 

“C-can you,” he swallows, tries to catch his bearings. 

“Can I what, sweetheart?” 

It only makes him whine, a gutteral noise from the back of his throat. “Say I’m good,”

“Ha, you want to be a good boy? Want me to call you that?”

“Please,” really, it’s all he wants. At least in the moment. Or maybe after too, think about the way he made you happy and apply that to himself so he doesn’t seem like that much of a fuck up anymore. 

You don’t notice his inner quarrels, of course you don’t, but you still squeeze his hand back, dig your thumb into just the right spots with your other to make him push back against you. It’s enough to tip him over from the edge where he teetered, down into the fallen abyss or whatever poetic shit his mind could conjure. 

You keep his cock aimed and he spills into the toilet, shuddering with the force of it. It’s the deep rooted kind of orgasm, the kind that makes your eyes roll and bones go gelatinous. Yeah, that kind. It’s honestly the best orgasm he’s had in months, he thinks he could actually cry. 

No, scratch that, it’s not hot to cry after sex, even if it’s a bathroom handy. 

He feels your hand move up and down against his stomach, petting him, such a soft action that he does sniffle a little. 

“Good boy,” you say to him, tender, kind. 

Oh boy, here comes the waterworks. 

—

Wade would have been an idiot not to have grabbed your number after that night. Actually, it’s more like you grabbed his phone and put your number in yourself, which made him fall just ever a little bit more in love. 

It’s scary, he thinks, to try again after so much heartbreak. Vanessa would always be his friend, even if at one point, he had still wished it to be more. Actually, he thinks she might be proud of him for making another new friend, and that thought does make him feel warm inside. 

He meets you today at a cute little coffee shop for a technical first date after the restroom rendezvous (which he’s still surprised got no knocks on the door, thanks author).

It’s cliche, sickeningly so, but it’s so healing to his mangled up little heart that he’s damn well bringing a bouquet with him, too.

He knows it’s your favorite spot, not because you told him, but because he did some light stalking on his own. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with doing a little research! He had to make sure you weren’t an ax murderer or something (which would have just been another score in his book). 

He watches you from the window of the shop for a minute, a certain type of nervousness gnawing in his chest, more so than he felt with you before. Maybe it’s because this time it’s more than just a mindless fling. Maybe he just really likes you. 

You catch him when you look up from your phone, giving him a wave through the window and he gathers himself up once more, and pushes open the door. 

[strawberrystepmom]

shifting sands and the fingers they fall through | one

cw: non-graphic discussion of an injury reader has. trafalgar law x fisherman f!reader. | word count: 1.7k, reading time: approx. 6 min.

note: this is the first part of a series. each post will contain warnings that pertain to that particular chapter. | part: two, three, four; five, six

The late morning sun beats hot overhead but you remain cool enough tucked beneath your fishmongering stall, humming to yourself while pouring more ice into the chests behind you that contain everything you caught last night and this morning.

So far everything has gone the same way it does, well, every day. You wake up, you fish, you clean, you put them on ice, you sell what you can. This is the rhythm of your life, never up or down or out of tune, just the way you think you like it. It has been this way for at least a decade so there’s no sense in complaining about it now, even while you notice the tune your humming feels off key. It must be the lingering heat.

It’s technically autumn although you’d never know it. Island life is perpetually sundrenched, the waters that provide your shelter and food thanks to their contents never cooling quite enough to keep you from doing the job. There’s always demand regardless, whether it be from small fleets that dock near your sleepy seaside hometown or your fellow inhabitants. The work is never quite all the way done.

You go back to humming, fixing your pitch, only to be interrupted by footsteps approaching the front of your stall.

“Good morning, flounder is the catch of the day. The fish comes cleaned and I’ll even throw in deboning for free if you’d like.”

Your spiel goes unanswered which is rare. It’s usually recited back to you by any one of your regular buyers, a smile on their face mirroring your own. This draws you to turn around and face whoever is standing in front of the stall, one of the few in town run by a woman.

The man standing there is a stranger.

Every person on this island knows one another, the various small fishing villages dotting the coastline deeply interconnected. You were an outsider once too. Granted, you tried a lot harder to fit in than this man standing in front of you, his clothes vastly different from the breezy linen and cotton worn by everyone else. His face is firm, mouth set in a line with dark hair that brushes the tops of his eyebrows and narrowed golden eyes.

At least he’s a handsome stranger, you reason. You smile and roll your shoulders forward slightly and he remains as you found him. Unmoved.

“The flounder is fine and so are the bones.”

In an instant, your expression turns from pleasant to puzzled. He doesn’t react, simply keeping his hands folded over his chest wordlessly and expressionless. Clearly this guy isn’t interested in small talk and that’s fine, you get to work and pull a piece of parchment from beneath the counter and open the ice chest behind you to pull out your largest catch.

A fruit of the sea, caught and processed lovingly by your hands. Sometimes you catch yourself softly smiling down at the faces of all the fish you catch, perhaps as a means to honor them or at least say you’re sorry. Today though, you keep the subtle smile to yourself and get to work.

“It’ll be 350 Belly,” you mutter while plopping the flounder down on the paper, folding the edge of the paper over the tail. This mysterious man says nothing but his gaze is heavy and is clearly pinned to your movements, your left arm specifically.

“Your stitches look like shit.”

A loud exhalation followed by a humorless laugh is your initial response, pausing your work and then resuming it for a moment to avoid saying something snarky to a man who is about to pay you. You pause again, tilting your head to the side to look up at this stranger who apparently believes insults are appropriate.

“Thanks, I did them myself,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes, proud of your ability to do so covertly enough he won’t even be able to tell.

He absolutely notices it, alongside the range of emotion you’ve let show all over your face in such a short span of time, and shifts his weight from foot to foot while folding his arms over his chest. Law isn’t trying to be an asshole. If you insist on taking his concern that way, it makes no difference to him. The bottom line is that he can see clear as the sky overhead that this wound was not properly tended to.

“You need to see a doctor about that.”

Still narrowed eyes dart down to inspect the jagged wound that will undoubtedly leave a scar if it doesn’t get infected and kill you first. You shake your head and shrug, back to work wrapping his fish. The wound aches if you’re honest. Thankfully you’ve been able to stay busy enough to ignore it although it’s an angry, screaming red and makes itself impossible to completely tune out.

Sighing again, you finish wrapping the fish and slide it across the countertop to the man still appraising your arm from afar. You have work to do and this conversation is preventing it from getting done. Why is he wasting your time with a lecture?

“When you find one, let me know. We don’t have one on the island.”

Hopefully your tone is dismissive enough that he gets the picture. You still feel him looking at you, which is frustrating. Law raises his brows, eyes finally shifting from your arm back to your face.

“Today must be your lucky day because there’s one right in front of you.”

You laugh again. It’s a bit more genuine sounding than the first, a confused smile spreading across your face. This man, the one with the ominously tattooed knuckles, is a doctor?

“What?” He asks, face as impassive as it has remained since the moment he arrived at your little stall.

What is he doing here to begin with? Fishing islands are no strangers to a range of visitors, some more nefarious than others, but it’s a surprise that anyone shows up here. Maybe he’s just like you and he’s running to find himself. Or hiding, that’s always a possibility.

Either way, your sleepy little life could be about to get more interesting. Thrusting your arm outward in his direction and raising your eyebrows expectantly, you see how he’ll react. If he’s going to brag about it, you may as well put him to work after all.

“I wasn’t offering to look at it for you,” he clarifies while reaching out to wrap his hand around your wrist.

He finds it slightly annoying that instinct kicked in before he could stop it, his earnest desire to help people buried deep enough he can ignore it most of the time. The touch makes you a little skittish, defying your boldness in offering the opportunity to begin with.

“I told you we don’t have a doctor here. Where else am I gonna find one?”

Sighing, he tugs you gently toward him. You bend at the waist, leaning over the counter, wincing when his thumb brushes against the sorest part of the wound - the skin directly on the edges of it. It’s hot to the touch, eliciting an annoyed glance in your direction. The wound is bad but you did your best with what was on hand which was nothing but a huge needle and durable thread meant for mending sails.

“It’s going to get infected if it isn’t already.”

This should scare you more than it does but you shrug flippantly, preparing to pull your arm back before being stopped with a firm but strangely gentle thumb on the outside of it. The doctor, as you know him now, leans in closer and really glances at the damage done, shaking his head so quickly you’d miss it if you blinked.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle under his gaze. This is far more attention than you’re used to even for being a somewhat attractive, single woman on an island mostly populated by men. Most of them are old and settled into their lives with wives or kids or partners or their own unconventionally formed families. Everyone just kind of sees you as friendly but odd, a reputation you’ve grown to appreciate.

So this, this attention, this heavy, searing pair of eyes belonging to not only a handsome stranger but a doctor no matter how bad his attitude may be, makes your face heat. You are ready to send him and his fish on their way, a stranger departing on the wind that brought him in.

“I’ll pop and re-do the stitches myself when I get home,” you assure him, even if it’s likely untrue. By the time you wrap up at the stall you will be too tired to do anything but drag yourself home, throw your dress over your head, and crash into bed to be up early enough to do it all in the morning.

Raising his eyebrows, he glowers down at you. “Make sure you clean it first.”

Nodding to indicate that you understand, you wait for his thumb to drop from your arm and pull it back as soon as he does. The wound aches even strongly now that it’s all you can focus on, painful enough that sweat prickles at your palms. All you want right now is for him to just go as quickly as he appeared so you can move on with your day.

“You got it, doc.”

Getting back to work, you quickly fold and wrap the fish up. Twine is tied into a bow to secure the parcel and it’s passed across the counter, your wide eyes gazing up at him. The way he meets them makes you shiver despite the warm, humid air of your home. Digging in his pocket he produces a few coins and places them down on the counter wordlessly, taking his bundle and turning his back to walk away.

“Hey,” you call, and he looks over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

That never changing expression remains but his voice, deep as it is, sounds quite nearly amused.

“Law.”

Law, Law, Law. You commit it to memory, notoriously bad with names as you are. Then you start to attempt to recall if you’ve ever heard it before, maybe having heard it muttered amongst the fisherman who help you at night during flounder season.

Nothing rings a bell. By the time you are no longer lost in your own reverie, Law has long gone and you look down at the counter where shiny gold coins sit.

He left you 500 Belly, more than he had to.

[rosenbergamot]

“You’re annoying me.” Gem says to the mysterious shape in the water that’s been watching her fish for the past… oh, I don’t know, five days. Usually the thing will swim away quickly, or sometimes it will disregard her ire and continue to sit there as if it relished in her annoyance. Today it slaps its tail against the water, sending waves towards her.

“That was childish.” She blows a raspberry at it because she herself is the pinnacle of maturity.

It slaps the water again, splashing her and giving her a mouthful of briny seawater. She spits it out, unamused. Its tail is large, with deep blue scales that sparkle in the morning sun. Whatever this thing is, it's big and it loves to watch her talk to herself.

“You know we’re on the same side here, right?” This is a lie and they both know it. Fisherman and fish could never be on the same side. “Hey, how about if I catch anything I’ll give you some of it. But you have to promise to stop scaring the fish away!”

The tail slowly raises out of the water. It does not slap down like it did before. Instead, slowly, so slowly, a head raises out as well. She sees two deep eyes stare back at her, a head of messy brown hair, a smile sharp and intelligent.

“What?!” She gawks.

“You promise, mate?” It has a playful voice, melodic and feminine, and when it speaks its gills flare at its neck. “I don’t take too kindly to people breaking their promises.”

“You’re a person?”

It purses its lips. “Not really? What, you think a person looks like this?” She unearths her fingers from the water. The sea drips off of her long sharp claws. “Couldn’t do much with these if I was a person.”

“Uh… yeah!” She recasts her line, her eyes wandering across the pale skin until she reaches the chest and— oh! The… person? Creature? Whatever it is, it’s shirtless, and Gem doesn’t want to be caught staring. That’s so rude! She fixes her gaze on her rod.

It swims closer to her. It gets so close she’d be able to touch if she wanted. It rests its head on the dock, stares up at her with vertical pupils. She’s got silvery patchings of scales on her face.

This is… only a little bit different from what they’d been doing before. She can still handle it. It’s just… right there instead of in the water. And instead of just being a fish it is a very pretty woman with very sharp teeth. That’s okay! Gem’s okay!

She goes back to fishing, those eyes still on her. Eventually she hooks a salmon and cheers. The creature blinks at her as she puts it in her bucket.

“None for me?” She pouts.

“Oh, no! You’ll just have to wait!” She grabs more bait. “I need to feed myself, after all. I’m a busy woman, can’t have some fish lady taking all my food!”

A miserable sigh. It bonks its head back down on the dock. “You’re lucky I think you’re pretty.”

That catches her off guard. She accidentally hooks a bit of her thumb as she’s trying to hook the worm. She curses and shakes the blood off. The creature’s eyes follow it.

“Uh-huh… and why’s that?”

When she responds, she’s not looking at Gem. She’s staring at her bleeding thumb. Her long tongue comes out to lick at her lips. She grins at her.

“‘Cause I’d have just eaten you already if I didn’t.”

When she swallows, it watches the way her throat moves with attentive eyes. They sit there in silence for the rest of the day.

It ends up swimming away with five whole fish in her grasp. As she’s disappearing, she yells back to Gem:

“See ya tomorrow, pretty fisher lady!” Her teeth reflect the sun. “I hope ya catch lots of stuff tomorrow! For both our sakes!”

Then it’s gone, tail the last thing to leave, and Gem is left to wonder if she’s just invited something horrible into her life…

And if so, why is she excited about it?

[buggitino]

more headcanons about sebastian solace from the hit game pressure roblox

back on my bullshit and i promise i only talk about The Situation a little bit

☆ his third arm is more sensitive than the other two (i'm thinking that either the USHD doctors fucked something up during the operation OR it grew in wrong, nerve endings closer to the epidermis and whatnot, something like that)

☆ just hates being touched in general, he’d rather initiate that contact (need an update where he gently —> not very gently shakes expendables off (depending on whether and how much they’ve annoyed/flashbanged him) when they climb him) ☆☆ part of this is due to trauma, he cant trust anyone to touch him without hurting him ☆☆ the other part is that he’s got that fucking dawg in him (i’ll get to this in a second)

☆ unlike what his new voice lines are starting to suggest about his character (i’m not gonna talk about zerum again because i think everyone knows what's happening at this point and ive already thrown in my two cents) he does NOT hate the expendables. literally his first line upon meeting him in his shop has him calling himself your friend (as strained of a connection as it may be, he could very easily not offer items, not share documentation/info, and just take the expendables data and hoard anything he picks up to make it harder for them to get to the crystal) (like yes, it's a mutually beneficial relationship but if sebastian didn't care about or sympathize with the expendables to some extent, it wouldn't be). i really do think he just has a short fuse (i'm not going to bring up trauma again, however-) and says things he doesn't mean (e.g. “they deserved it. and frankly so do the rest of you.” (im coping with the mischaracterization of these new lines leave me alone)) as a means of protecting himself and pushing the expendables further away (both physically and emotionally)

☆ he’ll act like a brat once they’re done, but he lets younger expendables sleep in his shop (he cares about them but would never in a million years let them know that) ☆☆ if a younger one comes in with a bunch of adult expendables, he’ll treat them all the same but will secretly slip the younger one some extra batteries, gauze, something unnoticeable (he feels especially responsible for the younger male expendables cause they remind him of his little brother)

☆ sometimes he thinks he can hear his family's voices on the radio, just under all the static, calling out for him like a search party would. he used to cry over this but he almost got caught once by an expendable coming into the shop so he does his best to tune it out. it’s hard. guilt pulls at his stomach every time he hears a clip of his family, begging for him to come home, to respond, something, anything, and he ignores it.

☆ autism (cause i said so) - i'm including this one for the sole reason that he does the dinosaur thing with his third arm and generally keeps his hands clasped together in the secret dinosaur position (he just like me fr) ☆☆ hates bright lights (the only light he uses/allows in his shop is the one he emits) (its a very soft/warm hue as opposed to the bright fluorescents throughout the rest of the facility) (not to bring up the flash beacon, obviously nobody likes getting flashbanged and he's got angler eyes but sTILL)

☆ he used to hate eating fish (pre-op) and now he’s pissed cause it’s all he has available and the DNA changes made it so fish is the yummiest tastiest thing in the world (i like imagining him actively fighting the urge to eat whatever fish he’s cooked in one bite cause he refuses to acknowledge that he's changed on a level that isn't physical/appearance-based)

☆ calls grown adults “kiddo” (even the ones that are older than him) ☆☆ he gets a certain kind of joy from seeing the 40/50/60 year old expendables try to figure out just how old he is after they get called “kiddo”. it’s extra fun for him when they’ve clearly already heard the rumors and/or gotten a glimpse of his file

☆ the ring is just an accessory, a bracelet on the floor or in a locker he found and liked. assumed nobody was gonna claim it and kept it (shoutout to @/lotus.eaterr on tik tok for this one!!!!)

[bloodyinkandquill]

Darkheart x autistic Reader

why is it called oven when you oven the cold food of out hot eat the food? hmm?

- Darkheart has a lot of quirks, that’s for sure, but you do too, so you too embrace each other’s unusualness and respect whatever ‘weird’ things you do

- He likes hearing you talk, though he does sometimes zone out you don’t mind since he doesn’t get annoyed with how much you talk to him about things, especially if you join him while he goes fishing he’s content to listen to you go on and on as he waits for a tug on the line, afterwards he tells you all about the fish he caught, so it’s a mutual thing

- If you like putting your weight on him he absolutely adores it, seeing your smaller self putting all of your weight on him makes him feel good, and if you wanna just lean some of your weight on him too he loves that, like resting your head on him while sitting on the little area he fishes on, however if your touch adverse he understands that and never initiates touch, so if you do touch him it makes him very happy but he would never force you if you dislike it

- Darkheart thinks watching you stim is very cute, especially happy stims, as long as it doesn’t hurt yourself he thinks watching you stim is so endearing, and you can always notice his smile becoming more genuine whenever you do it around him

- With his hat magically hiding his eyes you can’t exactly make eye contact with him and it’s great, he looks at your eyes but since you can’t really look at his back most of the time and you dislike looking at his eyes he understands and if you ask him to stop he will

- Darkheart’s clothes are so texture bro, they’re unfortunately not the softest but they aren’t a bad texture, and he doesn’t mind you fidgeting with the buttons on his coat, or the brim of his hat, as long as you don’t try and take any of it off, his hat catches on his horn and his coat catches on his wing

- Speaking of his wing if you’re ok with it that thing is around you whenever he’s nearby, and if he can’t be near you for whatever reason such as godly duties or he pissed Illumina off too much he gives you a small piece of wood that perfectly is shaped like his wing, he doesn’t mind if you turn it into a necklace or just keep it in your bag but it makes him feel like he’s got something protecting you at all times

- Darkheart’s way of speaking is odd but very endearing to you, the way he refers to himself plurally, the random breaks in his speech, his use of pronunciation, it’s strange but it make him him, you eventually learn how to differentiate things about his speech to help tell you his emotions and what not, you can’t tell if it was harder or easier than doing that for regular people’s way of speaking

- If you were to get overstimulated out in public he’d take his hat off carefully and put it over your face to block out light and some sound before carefully picking you up, with permission, and bringing you back to your home before leaving you alone for a while so you can calm down, he is always patient with you getting overstimulated, or having a melt down and you love him so much for being so understanding of everything

hope these were good! again like with the katana ones please let me know if you want general dating hcs like pet names and dates and more since again, these are specifically for autistic reader!

[ragingbookdragon]

Alejandro sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, tiredness pulling at his bones as he looked over the files and reports his men had compiled. “This isn’t enough,” he muttered, looking at Rudy who was just as tired.

“Ale, we don’t have the manpower to gather more intelligence. No one is opening their mouth on Valeria’s movements since she was released.”

“If she gets out of Las Almas, we’ll never find her.”

“What if she already is?”

He gazed at Rudy and let out another sigh as his phone started ringing. “Let’s pray she isn’t.” he raised the phone to his ear, a tired smile on his face as he answered, “Mi alma, how lovely it is to hear your voice. I’ve missed you today.”

A beat skipped over the line before a young woman’s voice followed. “Uh…Seño—Colonel Vargas?”

Immediately, the sleepiness was gone from his demeanor as he stood up and demanded, “Who is this? Where is my wife?”

“Oh, oh she’s right here, sir—Señora Vargas, say hi—HIIII—This is Nurse Lisa at Saint Maria’s, um, your wife is on some pretty heavy pain medication at the moment so she’s not fully here.”

“What happened?” Rudy was already rounding the table with his keys out.

“She had an unfortunate accident at work with a box cutter. Took a good chunk out of her hand, so we had to stitch her up. Legally, we can’t dismiss her given the amount of medication and local anesthesia we had to give her. Can you possibly come get her or send someone to release her?”

Alejandro let out a groan and waved Rudy to follow. “I’m on my way.”

“Good, we’ll just—wait! Señora Vargas you can’t eat that! Sir, I have to go!”

***

As he helped his wife into the backseat, he looked back at the nurse still giggling away at them. “How long until this wears off?”

“Oh, just an hour or so. Give her a hydro before she goes to sleep. She’ll be out like a baby.”

Before he could say anything, his wife poked her head from the side and pointed at Alejandro. “This is my baby,” she grinned, wide and toothy. “I caught this big fish all on my own. Didn’t even have to show my boobs either.”

“Mi alma!”

The nurse didn’t even seem to be fazed. “Really? Did you show your butt?”

She waggled her brows and pointer at him. “More like my pus—”

“OKAY GOODNIGHT!” Alejandro shouted and pushed her in the door, shutting it behind her. “Goodnight, Nurse Lisa, and thank you.”

She waved at them. “Come back in a week to check her stitches!”

***

“Rudy!” she shouted as she saw him in the driver’s seat, leaning up to hug him around the neck rather lopsidedly. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Rudy smiled and patted her arm. “As am I, Señora Vargas. How are you feeling?”

“Do not call me Señora Vargas. That’s what we call Mama Vargas.”

“What should I call you then?” he mused, and she winked.

“I dunno…what do you want to call me?”

“Hmm…” he pretended to think as he started driving around the bend. “How about… Señora Vargas?”

“Rudy!” she whined, laying her head on his shoulder. “‘s’not fair…you call Alejandro Ale sometimes…I want a nickname too.”

“How about bombón?”

She blinked. “Did you just call me baboon?”

He snickered. “No, bombón.”

“Bombón?”

“Mhm.”

“What does that mean?”

He looked at Alejandro who was grinning. “Oh, just sweet and soft.”

“I like it,” she smiled, kissing his cheek. “Se gracias, Rudy. Eres un amigo maravilloso.”

Rudy felt his cheeks warm, not at the kiss but at the affection in her voice, the real love. “De nada, bombón.”

She patted his head and turned her attention to Alejandro. “Mi amorrrrrrrr.”

“Mi almaaaaaaaa,” he cooed back and she tried to wiggle into the front seat and he held her upper body as she laid her head on his chest.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, kissing her head. “How do you feel?”

“Sleepy…and hungry.” She looked up at him. “You’re so beautiful, Alejandro.”

He chuckled. “Not as beautiful as you, mi alma.”

“Shut up, I’m being serious.” She lifted her bandaged hand and with her two fingers still poking out, gently touched his face. “I’m so lucky to have you. You mean the world to me and more. I could lose it all, be broke, homeless, and nowhere to go, and I’d be okay if it meant I still had you with me.” She smiled at him, hazy and drunk on pain medication and love. “Whenever I think about us growing old, I’m not scared of going before or after you. I know that wherever we end up next, we’ll be together. Every life, me and you. How it’ll always be.”

Alejandro felt the corner of his eyes begin to sting and he gently brushed her face and nuzzled his nose into her hair. “Mi alma, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, mi amor,” she whispered back and pressed her lips to his vest; for a moment she lay there, and Alejandro had figured she’d fallen asleep until she popped up and asked, “Will you make me a margarita when we get home?”

“Absolutamente no.”

“But Alejandrooooooooo!”

[marley-manson]

The wolf license at the end of Diefenbaker's Day Off is such a good Ray/Fraser thesis statement moment.

Fraser asks if Ray can get him one early on in the episode. Ray is like "Yeah, yeah, sure, leave it to me," while distracted by a basketball game at a bar, and Fraser's request isn't even entirely clear with the way he phrases it. Fraser can tell Ray's distracted and clearly thinks Ray's response is perfunctory rather than genuine.

The plot of the episode unfolds and this isn't brought up again until the end of the b-plot where Dief is caught by the dog catcher, and Ray presents the license right in time to save Dief. "Well he's mine now, because you sure as hell don't have a wolf license." "In fact, he does." <3

And Fraser's sheer delighted disbelief is just perfect. "I only asked you once, and you got it." "Of course I got it, you asked me for it, right?" It's not even a question for Ray, Fraser asked him to do something so it gets done. He 100% meant that "yeah yeah leave it to me" at the bar even if it didn't sound like it.

Like in terms of setting up their characters and the dynamic between them it's perfect. Ray is someone whose actions belie his words and tone. Not only will he do anything for Fraser, it's obvious to him that he would. He pays attention even when he doesn't seem like he is, he cares, and if Fraser asks him for a favour, that favour gets done, like basic cause and effect.

And Fraser is someone who's never had a person who was there for him the way Ray is. He's largely defined by the way his father put his job over his family and was never there for him, raised by his strict grandparents even though his dad was alive and well. As an adult he's a loner and a fish out of water, not just in Chicago but even back in the Canadian north, where his colleagues still saw him as an oddball.

He asks Ray for this favour not actually expecting it, especially not after one conversation. He expects to have to cajole Ray for a wolf license, or get one himself. But Ray gets it for him after one off-hand comment, and the framing of the license as episode bookends, as well as Fraser's reaction, make it very clear how deliberate this dynamic is as a significant aspect of their relationship and sets it up for further exploration down the line in episodes like North and Vault.

Honestly it's almost like Fraser starts making up for lost time in being able to depend on someone, the way he asks Ray for things after this, and relishes Ray's responsiveness lol. Like there's a joke about it in Chicago Holiday a few episodes later, when Fraser slyly says, "Sometimes when you stand still the world comes to you," as Ray brings him something he'd forgotten. Fraser takes to Ray's unwavering support like a duck to water.

Honestly it's no wonder I was immediately hooked when I happened to catch the last five minutes of Diefenbaker's Day Off way back in the day.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

could I request more teen reader with the proxies just like general HC or scenario of stuff the squad gets up too

You absolutely can, I love this stuff. Wholesome found family content is one of my favorites.

Squad cooking lessons. I don't know why this was the first thing that popped into my head, but it did. Tim is one of the best chefs in the mansion, and he already gives Toby lessons every now and then, so he's started doing group lessons with you, Brian, and Toby so that he can teach you all at once. He lets you guys choose what you want to learn how to make, and he'll step by step teach you how to make the recipe, and he goes as slow as you guys need. It doesn't matter how well your dish turns out because he's just so happy and proud that you were able to make something, and he'll ruffle your hair and congratulate you. He's the hardest on Toby though, you guys always tease him if something goes really wrong with his dish.

Squad t-shirts???? Like you know those shirts where one says "I'm with stupid" and the other one says "I'm stupid"??? You guys have equivalents to that. I didn't know where this headcanon was going so I don't know exactly what all four of the shirts would say, but you guys definitely have a shirt combination that works and you wear them whenever you go out in public as a squad. Also, once you get those shirts, Tim totally gets all of you matching flannels. Tim LOVES flannels, and right now since it's fall it's peak flannel season he wears them all the time, so he makes sure you all have nice, high-quality flannels that match the ones he likes. Don't point out to him how adorable of an idea that was, he gets very embarrassed and tries to deny it.

Tim also takes you out fishing with him. I've said before that the proxies go out fishing with each other once a week or like once every other week since fishing is Tim's favorite hobby (and the creeps view it as a high honor if he invites you), so you get to go fishing with Tim when he invites the other two. It's a time for relaxation and no phones (except for group photos and pictures of whatever fish you catch), where you all just enjoy the peace of nature and the lake. If you ask Tim for fishing tips (even if you already know how to fish please ask him), he gets so excited and he'll help you set up your rod and help teach you how to cast your line and how and when to real it in. This is PEAK bonding time for Tim, it makes him so overjoyed to be out there with all of you fishing and having a good time. Plus, if you catch anything he feels SO proud and he gives you a big hug and takes a picture of you holding your catch and probably adds it to a folder he has of everyone and anything they've caught.

Also??? Maybe an underrated squad thing, but just grocery shopping together. You guys put together the list as a group, and you go to the store and it's just such a generic family activity to do, but it's so enjoyable, especially since it's something that Toby never got to do growing up, so the four of you enjoy going together to have some nice domestic happiness with all the stress and chaos in your lives. Plus, with all of you there it makes it easier to beg Tim for extra things like chocolate milk, or pizza rolls, or candy, or whatever it was that Tim said definitely didn't need to be on the list in the first place. If you and Toby beg him for it enough, Brian will smile and insist that it couldn't hurt to get it, so he'll sigh dramatically and get it for you guys because he loves you and he's bad at saying no sometimes. Plus Tim likes it when you guys all come along because then it's easier to get people to help him carry in the fuck ton of groceries you need to feed over twenty people in the mansion. You and Toby usually turn it into a competition to see who can carry in the most at one time, and it makes Tim worry about you guys dropping things, but Brian thinks it's really cute and wholesome. He always cheers you on and hopes that you win.

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

—

next chapter >>

[incorrect-fnaf-quotes]

Mer springtrap x reader who scuba dives as a hobby? I think it'd be interesting to see your take on a mertrap :]

🐰|You’d gone scuba diving in several other areas before. However, you’d never seen anything like him before.|🌊

🐰|The day you plan to go scuba diving in this area? You hear some interesting tales about a creature that lurks down below.|🌊

🐰|You don’t think too much about any of that, and still go through with scuba diving. It’s a pretty fun hobby.|🌊

—

The fish scattered out of your line of sight as you swam further down. You were thankful that the water was pretty clear.

By the time you’d gotten this far, you knew you had about sixteen minutes of air. It wasn’t a problem—a lot could be seen in that time.

Just as you started to kick your feet, something grabbed ahold of one of them. Your eyes grew wide.

Head spinning around, you were greeted by the sight of... a rabbit? The creature resembled one enough, at least.

In the moment, as you were still processing the creature, the only thing you could think of doing was to wave.

He just stared, and tugged.

—

🐰|The first encounter with him results in him stealing your air tank, and you wonder about the creature’s reason.|🌊

🐰|After that, you try to learn more about him—and learn that everyone there refers to the creature as Springtrap.|🌊

🐰|It seems that he’s been in that water for a long time, but even then, nobody really knows too much.|🌊

🐰|With what reports there are, there’s always a 50/50 chance that he’ll be friendly, or aggressive. They say he’s a bit of a trickster.|🌊

—

You held the fish in one hand, scanning the area. This was where Springtrap was typically seen, wasn’t it? It was where you saw him?

Maybe you could get on his good side? ...Whatever that would take. Would giving him this be enough?

As you moved deeper into the water, a thought suddenly occurred. If lot’s of people knew of him... did anyone try to catch him?

Maybe if-

Your eyes widened as something swam straight in front of you—before suddenly curling around your body.

The creature kept you in place well enough, and you turned your head, being greeted by Springtrap’s glaring gray eyes.

Nervously, you managed to lift your hand up, and hold the fish out. You’d caught it earlier before diving into the water.

He stared, and inched a little closer to it.

—

🐰|He does speak, but not very often. The first time you heard Springtrap speak was during the third visit. It was just one word.|🌊

🐰|Giving Springtrap something to eat did seem to cause him to be a little friendly, and so on. It worked.|🌊

🐰|You do start to help him with the fish as you continue scuba diving, as well as generally trying to hang out with him.|🌊

🐰|He’s certainly interesting.|🌊

🐰|Sometimes, Springtrap still messes with you. He usually just steals something of yours.|🌊

🐰|...You have no clue where he takes practically any of the stuff.|🌊

🐰|But as much as he takes to mess with you, Springtrap, as time goes on, also begins to give you things.|🌊

—

You gave a wave as you saw Springtrap approaching. Recently, it seemed that he’d actually been waiting for your visits.

His ears twitched, and he seemed to mumble something, but you had zero clue as to what he could possibly have said.

You knew he didn’t speak often, but you wished he did. His voice was nice.

As he reached you, your hand lowered. However, Springtrap’s own hands raised.

They launched forwards, grabbing ahold of your mask. Your eyes widened as Springtrap removed the item from your face.

With it off your face, Springtrap moved closer, a grin quick to form.

He pressed his lips against your own.

—

I do think that this is a bit of an interesting AU- if you want anything else for Mer Springtrap—requests, or whatever else, you can ask :)

[uboat53]

Well, it's the Olympics in the age of trans panic and I'm sure you can guess what that means. With that in mind, a few thoughts about gender and sport.

Okay, let's talk about the specific event that touched this off, Italy's Angela Carini abandoned a boxing match with Algeria's Imane Khelif after only 46 seconds, citing Khelif's strength and power. Some of the less reputable people in politics and media then began to speculate that she had some gender advantage despite having passed a gender and drug test which would have discovered something.

Look, let's get this out of the way at the start, Imane Khelif is a woman. She was born a girl and matured into a woman. She lives in and competes for a country where gender transition is illegal and there's no indication to any reasonable person that she's anything other than a woman who is very good at boxing. Perhaps she has some genetics that help her but, let's face it, every single athlete capable of competing at the Olympic level does; no one complained that Michael Phelp's low production of lactic acid was an unfair advantage! The only reason that there's any "controversy" at all is that people have this ingrained idea that women should NOT be too good at boxing.

And, ultimately, that's the biggest problem with this whole gender panic. There are three (count 'em, three) transgender athletes in the Olympics this year, Canada's Quinn (soccer), New Zealand's Laurel Hubbard (weightlifting), and the US's Chelsea Wolfe (BMX Freestyle - Reserve). Every other athlete in the Olympics was born in their assigned gender and has been tested as such in order to compete.

So why are people panicking about trans athletes? Simple, because their ideas about gender do not match the reality. Not every woman is physically smaller and weaker than every man, not every man has a hulking physique, and there is no clear dividing line between the testosterone levels of women and men. There's also racism at work, African and Middle Eastern women tend to have facial features associated with masculinity in the west while Asian men tend to have facial features associated with femininity in the west making it easy for white audiences without exposure to minorities to assume the worst.

Ultimately, though, the problem is this idea of a sharp gender binary as if men and women were two clearly different species with no overlap between them. Let's say this as clearly as possible: there is no way to define "woman" in a way that excludes all trans women and includes all cisgender women. There is simply too much overlap between men and women; biologically speaking, mammals in general have very small gender differences compared to other groups of species such as insects or certain groups of fish (look up the differences between male and female spiders or anglerfish sometime, THAT'S a gender binary).

What that means is that, no matter how you try to define "woman" or "man", you will always end up with a category that includes some people who every reasonable person would consider to be the opposite.

So here's the question I think we all need to answer before we go any further: what is the purpose of separating sports by gender? Is it so that inferior female athletes can get medals that would be denied to them by superior male athletes? Is it to reinforce our cultural gender norms? Is it another way to divide the competition for fairness like weight classes in boxing?

I suspect that different people have different answers to that question and, until we settle on a universal answer, athletes (who, by the way, are pretty much all outside of the averages for their age and gender by definition) are going to continue to be caught in the crossfire of one of the worst arguments to dominate our society.