#h: zero

[melymigo]

Don't make me tap the sign

Please be kind to my boys; they have suffered enough.

[pngheavy]

[firecooking]

Did this little number recently. Thinking about a modern human au where all the tugs are human, so of course I did some stuff with the Z stacks.

I think it’d be an interesting au to do something like modern harbour in port tugging systems, having a captain and a deckhand on a ship, maybe Zero Marine has 5 ships but only three ever get used at a time, maybe they have only three, or two even, but the job requires complexity. Maybe the Z names are nicknames, they dont even think of their real names anymore. Lots to think about.

This was me thinking about a smoke break, maybe the AU is in the early 2010s? Late 2000s? The main harbour tugs are all more oldschool still, enjoying a smoke break to take the stress and edge off the paeing of this job. Zips young, fresh outta school probably and the first new blood they’ve gotten in a while, with it he’s ready for his smoke break with his new fangles vape that smells like sugar and will probably give him popcorn lung within the decade. Zug meanwhile hates smoking but needs his break all the same, so slots on his phone is where he breaks his time. Zero’s a little less receptive to that break, but aslong as he doenst look down Zug’s not getting caught.

Even beyound that, The three harbour tugs deff have their own prefrences they argue about. Zorran winging on about how he rolls his own cigarettes at the end of a long week to destress, and how they are so much smoother and taste better than that shit the other two smoke. Zebedee doesnt give a flying fuck about his cigs as long as they do the job, and he only smoke a two packs a week so it’s no big deal what he gets. Meanwhile Zak Carries around a custom cigarette box but is clearly smoking premade cigs, only for them to eventually discover he smokes untralight slims, misty rose’s type deal, because he’s asthmatic as hell and in denial.

Zero thinks they are all stupid but goes through a pot of coffee an hour while managing the office, that or worse there is a convience store near by and he’s hyped on 128oz fountain drinks and slurpies and is actively melting his organs with energy drinks and sugar. He can’t smoke he has a kid at home to live for but doenst realize his resting heart rate is 120 and he’s going to have a stroke from all the caffiene. No rest for the wicked of course.

[shevr]

she killed a chicken in your bedroom (cute)

[theotherhalfoftheshell]

Dabi and Hawks coming in from an obvious downpour soaking wet.

Twice: Gasp! I didn't know you two showered together!

Dabi: fuck off no we don't.

Hawks: oh, no way.

Toga: that's a double negative, that means they totally do shower together!!

[nguyetdahuong]

They would be bestie is all im saying 🫣

Oh wait 🫷hear me out actually🤌

Cardinal Lawrence resigns, just as he wanted after ****** becomes the new pope. Now no more cardinal Lawrence, only Thomas (doubting™). He travels to Zubrowka and stays at a nice hotel for once (his friend Aldo insists "God forbid you to enjoy the luxury of a real vacation").

Thomas loves the Grand Budapest Hotel at first sight: the alluring building reminds him of some prestigious dollhouse come to life. Not to mention there's a church nearby, convenient to drop by and light some candles.

He's welcomed by a well-mannered blonde man. The man looks like in his forties and oh he aged well, in fact he aged like fine wine. Blonde hair styled neatly. Kinda makes Thomas miss his younger days with full hair on his head, oh he wishes he had those hair. The man wears a purple suit tailored perfectly to his body, really compliments his waist (thank God that waist hasn't been tampered by wine yet). The bow tie stays neatly on his neck. What can he say, "neat" is the best described word about this alluring man. There's something fresh about him, Thomas concentrates on the air. Oh right, the man uses perfume, something Thomas can't name.

"Your eminence, it's our pleasure to serve you here. I'm Gustave, if you need anything please let me know".

NOTE: Oh fuck it we ball, I'm just trying to shove some ideas for the crossover and here I am writing a ficlet 🤦 whatever here's my 3 cents 💡

Thomas and Gustave recite poems together. They become poem-friends (idk is that what they call?). Occasionally Thomas would reference something from the Bible.

Gustave accompanies Thomas to the church. They pray together.

Zero (our beloved lobby boy) sees them spend too much time together and wondering if Mr. Gustave has changed his type. Since the new guest is neither blonde nor superficial 👀

Aldo frequently calls to check on his friend, sometimes bitching about his colleagues but most of the time insinuates that he misses his friend (very much) and hope they can have juicy tea like the old time 🫖

Too bad now Thomas has a new bestie who is so charming, has a sweet mouth that always knows what to say ☺️

Do they have a fling or not? 🚬 well let's look at the canon to decide. Mr. Gustave "I go to bed with all my friends" or Mr. Lawrence who sleeps like a vampire to keep celibate 👀 idk I'm curious af too 😭

[xzcopycat]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN CISCO DIDN’T GET TO SAY GOODBYE TO HARRY WHEN NASH DIED—

[avakkins-alter]

湿度高め | 花橋ばがら

[that-gay-guy-from-hell]

A tragedy in two parts:

Don't worry, Rust gives some head pets later as a "good boy" without actually calling Zero a "good boy".

TLT MASTERLIST

Forgot to post this here lmao (also sorry if the layout is strange, I'm on my cellphone not my PC lmao). I have more Zero x Rust brainrot art coming soon and maybe some other stuff..? Tbh Zero and Rust have consumed my time and I've not worked on anything else lmfaoooo.

Zero throwing it back thing is in reference to this video:

Original:

[rebelkelley0219]

[magellanica]

My two favourite blorbos because I love their dynamic

[f3llow-colbaltblu3-d3mon]

So I caved, and I drew him :]

[damthosefandoms]

I can take or leave it if I please

(ao3 link) (based on these posts)

Summary:

“You’re lucky you had Dr. Allen on the case,” the nurse continues. “He’s the best doctor at our field hospital—the man works miracles in meatball surgery. You’ll be up on your feet again in no time!”

Up on his feet again, with a gun in his hands, and sent on his way. Soda prays she is wrong.

-----

Sodapop feels like he is in a sitcom. His life must be some kind of joke. They say there’s only so much tragedy a person can go through before their luck turns, and it seems to him that cannot be true.

Everything seems like a blur; from running through the jungle with the sound of gunshots and last words echoing in his ears, the feeling of something ripping through his skin and tasting grass and mud when he falls. He barely remembers being lifted into the shoddy excuse for an army ambulance, or the concerned-but-stern voices surrounding him during triage when they get to the camp. 

He knows there was a blonde woman in army-green kneeling over him and calling for a doctor to help. Someone’s pulling at the dog tags around his neck and in his feverish mind, he decides it must be his mother, and though his voice doesn’t seem to work right, he desperately tries to remind her that they’re his, that they’re dad’s, she can’t have them. He’s always worn dad’s dog tags, since the day the man came home. 

They’re his now for the same reason he’s closer to his Mama and that his name is Sodapop; his dad was set to ship off to Korea just a few days after he was born and Mama figured the least she could do was allow him to name their baby whatever he wanted, in case he never came back. Calling his little brother Ponyboy was like a victory lap. Now Soda’s following his dad’s footsteps, laying here in the dirt on the other side of the world. Dad got to go home eventually. Soda isn’t too sure he will.

The woman easily pushes his hands away—Soda can’t understand why his arms aren’t pushing back, he thinks he’s trying, but with shock things start to become numb—and everything’s blurry through the tears and the haze in his mind, but he does hear her, somewhat.

“…kinda name is that? Christ, you’re just a kid. Hey, Allen, I want you on this one!”

Soda doesn’t remember much after that, except that his knee felt like it was on fire, and he thinks his Mama was calling him home. 

-----

“The bullet went straight through your knee,” the nurse tells him as she fluffs his pillow. He’s still groggy from the painkillers after surgery. The thought of painkillers makes his mind wander thousands of miles across the planet, back home to Tulsa. He wonders if Pony’s still popping aspirin to get through the day. He hopes not. He and Darry were working on getting their brother to kick that habit. Soda hopes he isn’t next to climb on that wagon.

“You’re lucky you had Dr. Allen on the case,” she continues. “He’s the best doctor at our field hospital—the man works miracles in meatball surgery. You’ll be up on your feet again in no time!”

Up on his feet again, with a gun in his hands, and sent on his way. Soda prays she is wrong, and wonders if that little pocket bible is still there tucked into his boot, with a sole cherry blossom flower pressed between the pages, a decision made on a whim to try to remind him this is all worth it. All he wants anymore is to make it home alive. 

-----

Soda doesn’t know how long he lays there in that hospital bed (a glorified cot). He stopped counting after a week, when he decided he didn’t want to know. At some point, he starts to wish he was back on the front, because at least he���d have adrenaline coursing through his veins to keep him distracted. All he has now is people laying sick or dying next to him, and nurses frowning at him, fully immune to his charm. One of them called him a child a few days ago and it’s starting to hit him that maybe he is. That this, this is war, and he shouldn’t be here.

When he was younger and more naive, he thought Tulsa was at war, but here, Soda’s realized that just isn’t true. Greasers, socs, east and west… money or nothing, it never meant anything. All that fighting, all the time spent hating each other and picking fights and hoping for something they could never quite reach—it’s pointless. All the fighting is pointless. Everything is war and nothing is war and Soda? He just wants to go home.

Nine months ago Soda was still dreading letting Ponyboy walk out the door knowing the socs still had it out for him, even then, a year after they lost Johnny and Dallas. Nine months ago the so-called Great Tulsa Divide felt like something no one would ever overcome. Like there was nothing bigger in the world. Nine months ago, Soda was just a kid, getting a letter that changed everything at a time when he thought there was nothing left that could.

It’s funny now, with everything he’s seen—what he’s done, whether he wanted to or not, whether he was ordered to or had done it in self-defense—it’s funny how now he thinks he never wants to raise a fist again when nine months ago he would’ve started a fight just to feel something, because that was just how kids like him lived their lives. Violence was a fact of like and now Soda can’t stomach the idea of it. It’s funny what fear and loss can do to a person.

Losing Mickey Mouse, his torn ACL they couldn’t afford to have fixed right, his parents, Sandy, Johnny and Dally… Soda wants to believe that at some point the bad luck has to end. 

Dr. Allen walks in, and he’s got a clipboard in his hands and a strange look on his face. For once in his life, Soda can’t read the expression. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s the fear of god this stupid war drilled into him. Maybe he’s just tired.

The doctor starts to walk over towards Soda, but the head nurse grabs him by the arm and pulls him to the side. They have a quiet argument there on the other side of the room, and he can just barely make out what she says: “This is a bad idea, Henry. You’ll get court-martialed. Or worse.”

“I don’t care.”

It doesn’t fill him with confidence to hear that, especially not when the doctor in question comes up to him and pulls up a chair. 

“I just got your post-op x-rays back, son,” he says, with almost no emotion in his voice. “Your knee isn’t looking too good. There’s damage in there we didn’t expect.”

Soda blinks. 

“I tore my ACL when I was thirteen,” he offers. “I got bucked off a horse and, well, we couldn’t afford a great doctor, and the doctor we could afford to fix me up botched the surgery. That could be why. It was bad enough my dad wouldn’t let me do the rodeo no more, but I guess the Army didn’t seem to mind that I got a bit of a limp when they dragged me out here.” 

But Dr. Allen doesn’t meet his eyes, and Soda briefly wonders if his previous injuries actually have anything to do with this conversation. He looks back at the nurse, who is watching them with her arms crossed and a very disapproving look on her face, then he sighs. He turns back to Soda.

“What do you want more than anything in the world right now, son?”

“To go home and hug my brothers, doc.”

There’s no hesitation. Of course there isn’t. His brothers are all he has, they’re everything he holds dear. He would give up anything and everything. He would move mountains to be home with them again. 

“Whatever it takes, I have to get home to them. I promised them no more funerals and I’m going to keep that promise.”

Dr. Allen nods, like he gets it. Soda thinks maybe he actually does. 

“You remind me of my wife,” he says, and it’s kind of sudden, like this is the first part of this conversation he didn’t rehearse. “All filled with love for your family and hope beyond belief.”

Soda can do nothing but nod. Dr. Allen gets a distant look in his eyes, and for the first time since he’s gotten to this godforsaken jungle, he’s starting to feel like there’s still good in the world. The doctor, he realizes, is young too; older than Darry but probably not by much, and even with the little pin on his collar with the two snakes twisted around a winged staff—Pony would know what it’s actually called, Soda thinks—protecting him from the line of fire, he’s not safe from the horrors that await them outside the hospital camp’s walls. 

And there’s something else going on here too, Soda is sure of it. Something the doctor isn’t telling him in so many words, something off about this conversation. There’s work being done behind the scenes he isn’t supposed to know about, stuff that could probably screw them both over if it ever gets out. Soda knows he’s never been the smart one; all of this medical talk goes over his head. All he knows is what he feels, and he can feel his knee is getting better and stronger every day. Soon he’ll be sent back to the front lines and he won’t get lucky a second time.

“Look, Sodapop, I’m going to be honest here with you—” the nurse watching them narrows her eyes and steps out of the room, “—your knee’s in bad shape. There’s an operation I can do to save it, but there’s a lot of things that can go wrong. You’ll likely never be able to walk the same again.”

Soda sits up and looks the man in the eyes. He is being blatantly lied to, and he knows it. But he means every word of what he says next with his whole being:

“Doc, you could cut my leg off if it means I get to go home.”

-----

The nurse called Dr. Allen the best in the business. If that was true, Soda probably wouldn’t have ended up back in that goddamn field hospital cot, being handed a pair of crutches and told he’ll never walk the same. But… he doesn’t know.

“A surgical complication,” he’s been told. “It couldn’t have been avoided. The damage was already done. Kid, you’re lucky you still have a leg.”

Dr. Allen might be the best doctor Soda’s ever had, actually. He owes him everything. A surgical complication. Right.

For years he’s heard his friends and family talking about getting a ticket out of Tulsa, but now he has his ticket back; and his medical discharge papers, and a small case holding his Purple Heart medal, and he’s got his crutches under his arms as he stands there, breathing in the dusty air and waiting for the army jeep that’s going to take him to the nearest airport to get him home.

As he helps Soda climb into the jeep, Dr. Allen hands him a letter, and asks him quietly if he could deliver it to his wife back home in Kansas City. Soda’s got his own letters tucked into his duffle bag, unsent. He gets to deliver them himself now. He’s got that pocket bible with the cherry blossom in it tucked back into his boot. 

It is the least Soda can do. In the grand scheme of things, Missouri isn’t too far from Oklahoma, and maybe Mrs. Allen will be so grateful she’ll give Soda the cash for the bus ride home.

[tccpapapals]

I was the one who created all these, by the way!

[shesmyscar]

i need a fic where tonight’s trial is a non-magical au where agatha’s having her first sleepover as a teen and similarish events happen (obvi mom isn’t a ghost) and she gets comforted by everyone because i want my heart BROKEN MORE

[the-fact-of-the-matter]

If you haven’t seen @PENTAELZEROM’s debut on #RawOnNetflix I’ve only got two words for ya…CERO MIEDO! #WWERAW tonight at 8/7c on @netflix.