#they're both so stupid your honour

[lorienlady]

New headcannon for Nick coming out to Glenn unlocked:

[binch-i-might-be]

I made a meme for u <3

HEJSJDJSJSJ THANK YOU 😭😭😭 YOU'RE SO CORRECT

[hacash]

rewatching the old pink panther films and okay, so obviously, there are definitely Issues around cato's character and how clouseau treats him (as one would expect of a chinese character written for a british film in the 60/70s) but something I do love is that cato doesn't fall into the stereotype of a: stupid foreign servant to a genius white detective or b: intellectual foreign servant to manly and 'intuitive' white detective. they are both morons. there's no disparity here. it's just idiot4idiot round at clouseau's place.

[hotvintagepoll]

Charlie Chaplin and Paulette Goddard (Modern Times, The Great Dictator)—hollywood royalty and real life married, these two convey a real chumminess when they're onscreen together so you believe they're not just shippable, they're pals <3

Paul Newman and Robert Redford (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting)—My god, their chemistry. It's iconic. And very very sexy. They're kind of canonically in a throuple in the first one, so that's kind of like playing an actual romance. But also, they're the central relationships of both films and their inexplicable devotion to each other is a key driving force in them. Those blue eyed bastards. I love them.

This is round 1 of a mini Christmas tournament. Each poll lasts for three days. If you'd like to send additional propaganda supporting your favorite hot couple, you can reblog this post with your propaganda added, send it to my asks, or tag me in it. To vote in all the polls, click here. Happy holidays!

[additional sexy propaganda under the cut]

no additional propaganda submitted for Chaplin and Goddard

Redford and Newman:

The following propanda was submitted by the anon who lives in my vents:

[drags self out of the vents reeking of stale gasoline] SO ABOUT THAT NEW MINI POLL.......may i suggest: ROBERT REDFORD and PAUL NEWMAN in BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID. MY REASONING:

thagt was some of tha gayest shit i've ever seen in my entire life and i'm only 23

but for realsies, that movie was literally a love story between butch n sundance. every single thing they did, they did together

THEY'RE EVEN PERFECT OPPOSITES IN PERSONALITY—butch is the optimistic guy who never shuts up and is less intimidating than he looks; sundance is the pessimistic brooder who looks harmless because he's pretty, but is the most dangerous guy you'll ever meet

AND THEN,,,,,, EVEN WHEN THEY (SPOILERS) HAD THAT THROUPLEY THING GOING ON WITH ETTA IN BOLIVIA, AND ETTA EVENTUALLY WANTED TO LEAVE, SUNDANCE STILL CHOSE TO STAY WITH BUTCH AND DIE RATHER THAN LIVE A SEMI-SAFE LIFE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!! LIKE!!!!!! GIRL WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!

AND THE FINAL SCENE I—i need to stare at a WALL—

plus the fact that paul newman and robert redford were actually besties irl meant that their chemistry was OFF THE CHARTS. even when i was A VERY STUPID LITTLE KID and i watched that movie for the first time, i was like ".......so um... are they, like, in love with each other and that lady?"

PLUS THE FACT THAT THE MOVIE WAS DIRECTED BY THE SAME GUY WHO WOULD LATER DIRECT THE STING AND THAT MOVIE WAS JUST AS, IF NOT MORE GAY, I—

O-|-< (← me lying dead on the ground)

THE TRUST, THE INTIMACY, THE BANTER, THE LOYALTY, THE INHERENT HOMOEROTICISM OF DYING SIDE BY SIDE—

they're gay, your honour.

ergo, dear mod, i humbly ask that you consider two of my blorbos for the mini poll bracket <3 if you need more information, literally just dm me or tag me, i'll be hangin' out in the vents 😎🤙🏼 as usual (unless my house explodes into bats)

[pearlzier]

miscalcᅟᅟ꒰͡ ‎ ‎⭒۫ ‎ ‎ִ ‎ ‎͡꒱ᅟᅟulation

⠀⠀⠀⠀𝅄⠀⠀ㅤׂ ⠀from the inbox / ok kjnda self insert bc work is gonna kill mr but 18 y/o dean winchester pining after the loser/shy girl (reader) in class and goes to buy condoms before one of the hangouts/dates and sees them behind the counter (they work there) and have to cash him out. like reader is thinking that they were lowkey dating and didnt think anything was gonna happen so theyre like "hey whwt the hell man" until he has to be like "uhhhh they were supposed to be for us"

⠀⠀⠀⠀𝅄⠀⠀ㅤׂ ⠀warnings / loser!fem/afab!reader, smut, public sex kinda. they're in the back of a convenience store (real classy), virgin!reader, p in v, reader is wearing jean skirt, off the shoulder sweater, knee high socks and converse, THEY USED A CONDOM so proud, fingering

⠀⠀⠀⠀𝅄⠀⠀ㅤׂ ⠀author's notes / cringefail loser shy reader is so me + thank u to 💌 anon ilysm :3

YOU AND DEAN ARE PRETTY MUCH OPPOSITES. like, on the surface. dean is consider the absolute hottie mchotson of your class. girls would do fucking anything for him. all because he has pretty green eyes and a nice face and smooth voice and what the fuck—he's just the total package. it's not like he's a stupid jock or anything either, kid's pretty smart considering the fact he's been through more schools, towns and guns than one could count. despite being 'the new kid', he acts like he's been in the same class with everyone for the past.. forever.

which he hasn't.

but you have. you've been in the same grade as all of the kids in your class, the same elementary, middle, now, and most of them still can't remember your name. it would suck if you weren't used to it. you kept to yourself anyway, not really wanting to interact with the superifical people who populated your grade. having been given the title of a loser, you had taken it in stride and worn it likr a badge of honour. literally, who cared if everyone you saw for like the majority of your life thought you were weird.

a big issue though—dean really fucking likes you.

much to the absolute horror, mortification, whatever words would describe a hatred for the fact that dean had eyes for you, of your peers. the guy who was considered an absolute bombshell by near damn everyone in the vicinity was pining for you. you. like, even you thought it was a stupid joke, like the ones guys play to make their friends like them but really aren't funny whatsoever—but no, he really did like you.

his confession of the fact that he really does like you literally went like this:

"i like you," he told you. it had all started because he kept staring at you and you thought that was freaky and weird, but it also made you feel nice which was freaky and weird in its own right. you'd confronted him about it, in a movement of misplaced courage, and that was his response.

"what—" you thought it would've been some like—just, not this. not the fact he had the hots for you, because damn. it was no secret dean was hot as fuck, but, you never would've thought.. you—loser. him? bombshell. "you like me?"

he looked at you funny, but nodded. "yeah?"

the conversation was far too questioning than statement filled. it was more like who could ask the most questions in a minute. "oh," you said simply, displaying how inept at social interaction you are. was that what you were supposed to say when someone told you that they like you? probably not. but it simply fueled his attraction to you. "i mean, i like you too."

"you like me?" his words mirrored your own previously and you nod dumbly, blinking slowly for a moment as he processed your words. "cool," he says, simply. then he asks, "wanna go to the diner?" to which you swiftly agreed.

so the two of you would hang out often. it was like, a date, kind of. you considered it dating, what you two are doing. and dean does too, both of you are dating, in a relationship. you're his girlfriend, he's your boyfriend. but nothing had happened between you in terms of.. intimacy. you'd kissed a few times, cuddled at your place since his place was a so called 'no go zone' . and did all sorts of couply things. he'd recently taken you to a themepark and after doing all the sweet lovey dovey things you'd proceeded to throw up in a bush. you preferred getting to cuddle and watch a movie with him afterwards anyway.

you didn't think much of dean calling you the night prior to ask if he could come over the next day, wanting to visit you. "can i come over tomorrow?" he asked, voice low with sleep as he shifted in bed, the shifting of fabrics and pillows being heard over the landline.

"you're asking like i'd say no," was your retort, literally immediate. a chuckle bubbled from dean and he rolled his eyes at your sassy behaviour, "damn, alright, sweetheart, i'll see you tomorrow then." and the call ended. things between you and dean didn't have to be long winded, seeing as the two of you were so blunt in nature anyway. you went to bed happy knowing your boyfriend was gonna hang with you the next day.

unfortunately, a dearly beloved thing called work existed, and you had a shift to finish up before the bliss of being with dean hit you like a tsunami. your beloved place of work is a convenience store which so happens to be frequented by the majority of people who go to your school. thank god for a lack of uniform, you got to wear whatever you wanted as you dished out cigarettes and candy to someone who definitely wasn't old enough to buy the former. hey, you had a living to earn.

you're zoned out like crazy as some music plays in your headphones, no one having come up to the front to cash out anything they wanted in a while. faintly aware of the front door opening, hearing the bell chime, you simply wait for someone to come up to you rather than seek more work. you really don't get paid enough to do more than the bare minimum of cashing people out. soon, a figure appears infront of you and you process that first rather than the items being placed down on the counter. "dean!" your voice is excited, maybe you could go straight back to yours with him rather than trudge home on your own as you usually do.

"hey—" he looks like he'd been taken off guard by your presence. he blinks slowly, glancing down in a comically slow fashion and so your gaze follows his and you narrow your eyes for a moment. condoms. you look back ip and find his cheeks flushed, and the slightly irrational part of you jumps to the immediate thought that those condoms were in fact for some other chick.

"hey, what the fuck, dude," you frown, but you don't really want to jump to conclusions. a part of your mind thinks you should've expected this from a guy like dean but he seems so genuinely innocent and confused that you don't voice that thought and simply look at him expectantly with a narrowed gaze.

"it's not like that, it's—" dean doesn't know how to get what he means across without sounding weird which ends up having him sound like an absolute douchebag. he stares at you for a moment with those green eyes and he goes to speak, but you beat him to it.

"i know i'm not.. that cool, but what the hell, man—"

now he cuts you off, with an, "uhhhh, it was for us," which immediately shuts you the fuck up. you blink, staring at him, and he continues, "like, i know we haven't done anything.. but uh, i wanted to see—if we did, i wanted to be prepared, y'know, sweetheart? i sound insane, shit."

"no, you don't, that's actually really sweet," you mumble, embarassed that you'd jumped to conclusions so quickly. a soft smile adorns dean's lips and he leans against the counter, catching your attention with a little look. "so do i get these condoms for free, considering my reasons for purchase?"

"shut the fuck up," you grumble, unclipping your name tag as you'd decided to go on a self-proclaimed break. you wander around the counter and flip the sign on the door to the one with horribly scrawled—'gone 4 lunch, be back or something'—before you hear dean muse, "guess that's a yes then." he thinks you look adorable in your jean skirt and off the shoulder sweater—not to forget the knee highs and converse.

"you're not mad at me, are you?" dean decides to ask as he pockets the now free condoms, making his way over to you whilst you head into the backroom. his eyes flutter around for a moment before he sits himself down on a box, taking you in for a moment before he glances away, finding himself noticing a lot more than he usually does.

"no, m'not mad," your head shakes as you slide your headphones into your backpack, and the test of the stuff you'd brought with you to work to pass the time. you're about to speak about how dean's unusually quiet when you feel him behind you, his hands sliding to your hips gently. he gently sways you, and a laugh bubbles from your throat, "what are you doing?"

"trying to uhm.." he doesn't actually know, and he scratches the back of his head for a minute before he twirls you around into his body and a boyish grin adorns his handsome features. "seduce you," seduce you? nice going dean.

"seduce me, huh? real smooth," dean didn't want to scare you or like frighten you or anything but.. he wanted to go a little further than the simple kisses and cuddles the two of you were so prone to. it's almost like you can tell he's thinking this, but maybe that's because he's so close and you can feel his jeans start to tent a little bit at the front against your thighs. "are we gonna—"

"only if you want to," dean had been with a few girls in the past, but he never felt the way he feels about you towards them. you'd had partners before but you'd never been physical with anyone in your life. the most you'd done is kiss, and the most you'd done with dean is kiss too. "if it's okay with you, i don't wanna make you unco—"

you shut him up by pressing your lips to his, which dean graciously accepts, and returns the kiss. his hands slide over the curve of your thigh as he tugs you closer to him, his plush lips parting with a soft breath and to slip his tongue into your mouth. this isn't new for you guys, the whole kissing thing, but it feels charged differently. "always feel so good," he breaths gently into your mouth, grasping tightly at you.

the two of you pull apart for a moment. there's a moment of quiet between the two of you before dean grasps at your thighs and lifts you onto the couch. it's got questionable stains on it, and most likely isn't the dream place to lose your virginity on but with dean? it is a dream. it really does. "you touched yourself before?"

you practically splutter at the question, lashes fluttering at it. you nod meekly for a moment though, chest rising and falling in gentle breaths. your weight shifts on the couch and you mumble, "yeah, i have," he seems pleased with this fact, as he mutters, "makes my job easier."

"just relax for me," he says softly, pushing you back. he runs his eyes over your figure for a moment, taking you in before he starts hiking up your skirt. "you feelin' good still? okay?" he asks gently, wanting to know whether you're still comfortable with what he's doing.

"m'good, m'okay," you affirm, feeling a twitch in your thigh with his fingers brushing your soft skin. he's hiking your skirt up your thighs, bunching it up around your waist before he meets your gaze again. swallowing hard, your chest rises and falls in gentle breaths. "just.. feels different."

"good different?" dean cocks a brow as he meets your gaze, fingers curling into the side of your panties before he slid them down your thighs. a soft smirk plays on his lips, and he coos gently at the sight of your puffy, wet count without fabric covering it. he swallows hard, not wanting to get ahead of himself but practically straining against his jeans with every look at you he gets. it's not fair on his heart nor his dick.

you flinch a little at the cold air hitting your pussy, "what? yeah, yeah, good different," your words are mumbled out, mind a little fuzzy from his fingers brushing up over your inner thigh. you meet his gaze, swallowing thickly. "good different."

"good," dean says quietly, blue eyes fluttering over you for a moment before he runs his fingers through your folds gently, a soft groan slipping past his lips at the wet sounds made by the action. you squirm beneath his touch, eyes meeting his once more. he starts once more, "gotta get you ready for me, okay? don't want it to hurt. gotta get you nice 'n' ready," he explains what hes doing, thumb sliding to your clit to apply gentle pressured circles. "is that good? d'you like that?"

judging by the pretty sounds coming from you, you like it a lot. "feels.. uhm," you don't know how to describe it since it's so different. "really good," dean laughs at your words with a little shake of his head.

"just good, huh?" dean muses, "think i can do better than that," he circles his thumb over your clit in a tight circle once more before his fingers glide over your soaked entrance. he runs his free hand through his hair for a moment before he pushes his fingers slowly inside your hole, watching the way you let out a soft sound instinctively at the intrusion. dean seeks your hand at that moment, his fingers interlacing with yours so he can hold your hand tight.

returning the grip, you hold onto his hand tight with a shaky breath. your free hand cradles his hand as your fingers interlace with his own, and you bring it close to your chest for a second. "holy shit," his fingers are bigger than your own, fill you a little more than your own and just.. feel better than rubbing one out. honestly, you're glad this isn't like the most romantic thing ever because you probably would've started bawling your damn eyes out. because he was being so sweet.

"you like that?" dean asks gently, coaxing his fingers further within you before they go as far as he can push them. you're so tight around him, he has to wait a little before he can slip them back again. he repeats the motion a few times to fight against your warm resistance before he gains a gentle rhythm, "this good? still feels good?

you were almost getting annoyed with him asking if it felt okay because he knew damn well it did, but it meant a lot that he was caring so much for your wellbeing even when he really just wanted to get inside you. "still feels good," you affirm with a gentle squeeze of his hand, and dean smiles softly, nodding. he tugs you closer, pumping his fingers into your wet hole fervently. seeing the way your legs tremble, he decides to rub tight circles on your clit in the process of thrusting his fingers. he meets your gaze, and he nods, "i got you."

borderline overwhelmed, your grip tightens hard on his hand. but dean can take it, so he simply brings you closer, continuing his motions. "dean—" your words are practically a whine, eyes darting away for a second, almost embarassed that you're coming so early. but you're sensitive and have never felt this good in your life, so within seconds, your thighs are trembling around his hand, a building pressure in your abdomen growing.

"close, huh?" he asks gently, feeling how your walls tighten around his fingers. he keeps up the pace, even increasing it to get you over the edge. you whimper shakily, crying out as your climax hits you like a damn wave. you pant, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. dean's quiet for a moment, taking you in, in all your blissed out state. a soft, breathy chuckle slipping past his lips, he slowly eases his fingers from you. he watches how they glisten with your release, gently wiping it off on his jeans. "did amazin', shit," he's amazed by you, wholeheartedly. he'd dreamt, literally, of having you like this before and holy fucking shit, to have you like this, it makes his heart race.

"i feel like literal jelly," you breath out shakily, a breathless laugh escaping you. he smiles, sliding his hands to your hips and bringing you into his body once more. "is it like, time to—what do people even say when they have sex, i feel so stupid," dean laughs at that, shaking his head, "you sound fine, okay? and uh, yeah, i guess. i don't think i can wait anymore, s'practically killin' me."

shifting his weight, he lowers you back down against the couch and starting to unbutton his jeans, tugging down the zip afterwards. he tugs down the denim past his thighs, letting it pool around his ankles before he steps out of it. "damn," you mutter as you take him in, eyes dropping down to the bulge in his boxers before you meet his gaze, "need me to take care of that?" you joke, flashing a gentle smile before you giggle.

"you're such a fuckin' dork," dean rolls his eyes, watching you just for a second. his fingers curl into the waistband of his boxers, and he tugs them down over his thighs too. you instantly run your eyes over his cock, taking in the way his length hits against his abdomen, the precum oozing from the tip making it glisten slightly—you'd never seen a dick in person before but you were sure he had the prettiest one. "like what you see?" he can't help himself, flashing a gentle grin.

"looks like it, right?" you mutter, and he rolls his eyes, pumping his hand over his dick a few times, precum dripping over his hand for a moment. "gonna be smart with me, huh? after i've been so nice? breakin' my heart, babe," the two of you smile at eachother, and you shift your weight, a little apprehensive.

"what's it gonna feel like?" you wonder outloud, eyes meeting his. dean's quiet for a minute, grunting under his breath with a final pump of his dick before he rummages in his pocket for a moment. tugging out the condom packet, he tore it open with his teeth. he glanced at it for a moment before he slowly rolled it onto his cock, a breathy sound slipping past his lips. when he's done, he aligns himself with your entrance, smearing your juices around your hole once more as a precaution.

"full," dean knows what it'll feel like for him, tight, amazing, wet, the best feeling of his entire life. but for you? he'd never thought about it all that much. "good," he seems certain about that.

"you sure?" even you're a tiny bit sceptical.

"you don't believe me? you're gonna feel good, baby, i'll make sure of it," with that, dean slowly pushes the head of his cock into you, grunting almost immediately at how tight you are. his eyes roll back into his head a little, and you squeeze your eyes shut, lips parting with a soft breath. "see, feelin' good already and i haven't even fucked you yet," that's the side of dean you knew was hiding, from the moment he kissed you earlier. the cocky side of him, self assured, the one who knows that he's good in bed, the one who knows he can fuck a girl good.

"and why haven't you fucked me yet, dean?"

"tryna' be patient here, jesus. but you're beggin' me to fuck you? really fuck you? was gonna make love, but, y'know," he takes your words as an indication that you're ready. he bucks his hips a little more and he bottoms out within you, causing a sharp gasp to escape you. "and there we go, there she is. mm, feel so tight. so tight. been dreamin' 'bout this pussy since i met you," he's balls deep inside you, and you're proud of yourself for not cumming the moment he pushed into you. you grip his hands instantly, both of them this time, not wanting to let go. your eyes meet his and he looks proud of himself, self-assured, but so glad you're feeling good.

"please, uh, uh.. move," you say after you've adjusted to the size of him, your thighs drenched with your own juices already. dean nods his head gently, not before hiking your legs up around his waist to give him that leverage to thrust into you properly. "and if you ask me whether m'sure i swear to god de—"

he cuts you off by pulling out then thrusting back into you again, setting a quick pace. "you start gettin' mouthy with me, i gotta show you who's the expert, okay? i wanna hear those noises, 'cause i know they're pretty," his hips snap into yours, the sounds of skin smacking against skin ringing in your ears. you're dazed with the feeling of him pounding in and out of you, a feeling you've never felt before. but it feels so familiar, so right that it's like you've done this forever.

he was right, you do sound so pretty as he fucks into you again and again and again, showing that he does in fact know what he's doing and that he is in fact the expert here. not you. just watch and learn, is his point here. "i'm gonna, uh, fuck, come again—" you weren't gonna last long with him pounding into you like this, his balls smacking against your cunt only causing more pleasure and more wet, filthy sounds. "m'sorry.." you apologise, feeling a little pathetic for it.

"don't apologise," he mumbles, sliding his hand to your back and drawing you in closer, so he buries deeper inside you but also so he can hold you closer. "don't you apologise to me, babe, wanna feel it, wanna feel you come around me, that's all i ask." and you obliged, squeezing his hand tighter than ever as you gushed around his cock, making a mess of him. dean glanced down to see your juices practically spray out of you, and he smiles coyly, not slowing in his motions. you squirm, and he mutters gently, "just a little more, promise, just a little."

you relax, the faint feeling of overstimulation creeping up on you. however it doesn't last that long, as you feel dean's hip movements stutter then come to an end, buried inside you as he panted. his ropes of cum painted the inside of the condom white, a shaky whine slipping past his lips as he meets your gaze. "god, that was—"

"amazing," you breathed out, relaxing back against the couch. "i'd love to go again, but uhm, i—"

"s'alright, i get it," dean shifted, keeping himself within you. he maneuvers the both of you so you're on top of him. not for riding purposes, you guys could try that another time, but so he could hold him close. his hand cradles the back of your head gently, and he nuzzles you into him. "we should've done that earlier."

you mumble in agreement, "agreed," as you relax against him. "honestly, i was thinking of quitting this place but turns out it's a literal sex charm."

"we did not just fuck because you work at a convenience store, don't get that in your head, babe, i swear—"

𓈒⠀ ✧ @wi4hfulth1nking @t3l3vangelism @xoxotiffanysheree @https-roman @blue-d @lavieurs @drewstarkeyzwhore @a-cup-of-nightshade @1-read-the-hobbit-in-1937

[hauntingofhouses]

"why would you ship mizu and taigen together they're sooooo toxic ugh taigen is AWFUL and mizu should be with ME instead!!!"

of course they're toxic they're both deranged and terrible and that's why they're perfect for each other.

cuz like omg you think mizu would treat you well? mizu would abandon you. look at how she left ringo multiple times. ringo who treats her so well and is nothing but patient and caring and loyal. if you are insecure she will laugh at you because she has no social tact. look at how mikio said "it's a stupid dream" talking about his ambitions of regaining his honour and mizu straight up chuckles and tells him he's right because it IS a stupid dream. and at this point their relationship was cordial and she was even warming up to him!

like. arguably, taigen would be a better romantic partner (per the ideals of his time and culture of course), or at least he would be on paper. cuz i mean as a husband, as he is now, i think he'd be awful. but i'm talking about if you and him were dating or courting or just seeing each other romantically, he would be good to you. like we saw how he behaved with akemi and he was nothing but sweet and gentle. the very reason akemi wanted to marry him so bad was because she KNOWS without a doubt that he respects women and would treat her well. "oh but he cheated on her with the prostitutes while celebrating his engagement!" yeah but per the norms of the time and place, it was not considered cheating and akemi (as well as any wife or romantic partner of that period) would not have minded or even cared.

and yes taigen IS an asshole and he IS obnoxious but come on. so is mizu, if she is allowed to act like herself around you. mizu will tease you and mock you and challenge you and even poke at your insecurities (see:her goading mikio on even though he clearly did not view her teasing as light-hearted banter and took it all very personally). she would tell you to your face if she thinks you're being annoying (see:mizu rolling her eyes and telling akemi to straight up just "shut up" when she'd believed mizu had killed taigen).

mizu is not merely a hot and talented badass with a sword and the insane hyperfocus on her desire for revenge which literally drives her to withstand like, extreme amounts of damage and survive it. mizu is also flawed and the show does a good job at showcasing this, and showing us that she's not merely a victim but also a multilayered person. we see throughout that mizu is blunt and sarcastic and prideful.

oh what's that? oh right, very similar to taigen, who is also hot and talented with a sword and with insane hyperfocus on his desire to duel mizu and regain his honour. taigen who is also flawed (though, arguably, more so) as he is blunt and sarcastic and prideful.

the only thing that sets mizu and taigen apart is the fact that taigen is a man and is not mixed race, which thus affects their positions in society and how people perceive them. these are external factors. taigen being a boy who is not blue-eyed allowed him to easily mingle with the other kids in the village, all of whom were similarly fed the same prejudiced values which led them to gang up against mizu and bully her.

but take all that away. strip them down to the bare essentials. suddenly it's like they are the same person copy and pasted.

and that's what makes them even more interesting. yes absolutely they would be toxic. whatever souls are made of, mizu's and taigen's are the same (derogatory). and we literally see them fight all the time!!!! but the thing is they are both deranged when it comes to this.

do you get me. they both literally get turned on by sparring. mizu's whole spar with mikio was her way of flirting. just look at how she smirked at him and said "unsheathe it" like it's clear that this is an innuendo of not just unsheathing his weapon but also what's in his pants. then during the chopsticks fight with taigen in the snow, despite mizu literally being injured and taigen trying to attack her, mizu gets attracted to him. meanwhile taigen got a boner after wrestling with her in the forge.

taigen goes around saying he wants to kill mizu to regain his honour but he still literally risks life and limb for her constantly. mizu gives ringo stomach ulcers by going around flinging herself into near-death situations 24/7. she ups and leaves her beloved swordfather with barely a goodbye twice to pursue her batshit far-fetched quest for revenge (against people she doesn't even KNOW btw because she literally starts off with practically No Leads and not even knowing the NAMES of the white men who are her maybe-fathers).

these bitches are crazy and you know what good for them. that shit needs to be contained and quarantined though and that's why in that sense they would be good together.

i want to put them both in a jar and shake it very hard and see what happens. personally i think they will argue and insult each other while working perfectly in sync with each other to break out of the jar and then proceed to kill me and make out sloppy style over my dead body while they're both covered in blood.

like that's it that's the dynamic. send post.

[general-kalani]

He's not announcing what he's doing, but Jacob's thrown in an incendiary.

The wolves are just getting their meat extra crispy tonight.

There's a whistle. Easiest mission of his life.

"Jeffrey, feed this one to the wolves. After y'cut him up."

Reloads his pistol again casually.

"Gonna get more ammo, make sure he stays fuckin' dead."

[finnbin]

Kyborg headcanons because he has lived in my brain for over a year like a nasty little parasite. Casual warning that most of these will be pretty depressing cus that's just how my brain works LOL enjoy ;)

there's a lot have fun

- Gum-Gum reminds him of his cousins. He actually does keep up that offer from when they were in Evirwinter and teaches him how to shoot a bow. It was seen as a familial tradition back home, but Kyborg is more than happy at being able to share this.

- The first kill with your bow was a rite of passage, followed by gutting and cooking the meat, before preparing the pelt for the child. The meat was cooked, and presented to those most respected by the child. He gave it to his parents. It's up to the child what they make with it, but Kyborg chose to make his bracer (arm-guard) from the dire wolf pelt he gained. He made gloves with the rest of it, and gave it to his sister.

- Feels a crushing amount of pressure to preserve his culture, but he isn't very practiced in common. He can write in elven, but it's a dialect from his own village: Evirish, so no-one but him can clearly read it. He finds it hard to remember traditions, without the pressure of being unable to transcribe them anyway.

- The idea that his heritage, and bloodline will die with him eats him up at night.

- Instead of writing them down, Kyborg enlists Bart's help, with the halfling transcribing for him. Bart also decides to help teach him common, and in exchange Kyborg teaches Bart Evirish. They both look back on these lessons warmly.

- He hates silence. Like, he hates silence, so much so that he finds it really hard to sit in a quiet room, or to try and sleep. It reminds him of the solitude of his childhood. He rambles and talks a lot of shit to compensate for this. Dr Ahem made him a little clock that ticks to fill the silence.

- Found Mudd the hardest to bond with, because of his opposite view of quiet. Mudd relishes in the quiet, enjoying just sitting and thinking about life. This led to the two having a tense relationship until they understood how the other felt.

- Always smells of pine wood.

- He loves baths so much, but if asked, he'd say he prefers showers. No-one believes him.

- Absurdly clingy, and hates being consciously by himself with nothing to focus on. He sticks like glue to people he trusts, always making sure they're in his eye-line, or that he knows where they are 24/7. Some find this annoying, so he tries to limit physical closeness, but does keep a mental tracker on their position.

- Despite this, he usually fucks off to 'patrol the area' or scavenge for supplies because he's been conditioned into believing that where he lives cannot be safe without constant surveillance. This causes no small amount of panic for the others when their stupid elf man randomly disappears. Kyborg is confused about people being concerned about him.

- Cuts his hair as soon as he can after the Massacre. Hair was seen as a form of honour, reputation and respect. He didn't think he deserved any of that anymore. He can't bring himself to fully cut it again, after that, but sometimes - if he believes he's screwed something up - he'll trim handfuls to his skull.

- Hoards food. Rations food. Has a terrible relationship with food. There's not much to eat in a frozen wasteland, so the overwhelming amount of food that is available to him is so weird. His stomach literally cannot handle how much he eats when he first finds the infinight's pantry. He feels so so guilty at wasting it, and hides any evidence. He doesn't eat big meals after that moment.

- Keeps an absurd amount of rations, and other provisions on him at any possible time, just in case something bad happens.

- So many scars. So so many.

- Unconsciously slips back into 'feral mode' and doesn't speak, or actually like himself. Usually happens after he is injured, especially on his shoulders or arm. Churs and growls, and is overly protective of his found family during these moments, often a concerning amount. Locks them all in a room with him and paces around, checking for danger. Usually doesn't respond to talking, and can't easily distinguish friend from foe. Bites. He is humiliated every time this happens and usually hides away somewhere for the next couple of hours before acting like nothing happened.

- Has horribly graphic fantasies about Quadron. That thirst to avenge had been his only motivation to stay alive. Revenge burns hot in his veins, and he never wanted that drive to keep moving to leave. Secretly fears that, when he gets his revenge, that he won't be able to keep living.

- Has chronic, and phantom, pain in shoulder and 'arm'. Usually ignores it, until Mudd catches him curled in on himself and practically forces Kyborg to let him help.

- Doesn't actually hate Brink. He is freaked out by his short hair, though. What had he done to deserve such constant haircuts?

- Felt a horrible kind of empty after Quadron died. Was secretly jealous that Mudd killed him.

- Never fully forgave Dr Ahem for what he did. Feels terrible, because he's dead, but can't find it in him. Still feels anxious around the robot assistants.

- He eventually finds Quadron's prototype blueprints as he's preparing the infinight hall for his hospital. Can't feel angry at him. There's messy markings over odd, old papers near the prototype, and memories of the man Quadron had been before he went insane; of the relationship between him and Ahem. Kyborg burns them all.

- Scared of bugs. They don't really exist in a winter forest, so they really freak him out.

- After he gained the Source Diagem, he saw glimpses of his family out of the corner of his eyes. No matter how much he hoped, they never fully showed themselves like they had on the blood moon.

- After he lost the gem, again, it was like opening an infected, raw wound again. He grieved for them.

- Had a pet fox before joining the infinights. Fred reminds him of her.

- Terrified of commitment, because of how much the first death hurt. Despite this, he can't help but get attached to the party. Hates himself for it.

- Saw his own family, when he died in the finale. They gave him that hug he craved for so many years.

yeah I have so many more but this is already so long but thank you and congrats if you made it to the bottom, have an arrow 🏹

[wildwinterlunas]

Justice Siblings and the Shimada brothers are so interesting to me because of how they foil each other.

Cause it very obvious that Genji and Hanzo where never that close, or at least they weren't close going up towards Genji's "death". So they probably wouldn't act like regular siblings do.

Do you think that they would see Cassidy and Pharah get into a typical sibling fight and be really on guard? Because whenever they fought it was always a blow up fight, but with Cassidy and Pharah it's just something stupid that they make up for seconds later.

This obvious would effect Genji as much anymore since he's both moved past his past and has been integrated into Cassidy and Pharah's dynamic (they're found siblings your honour) but when he first joined Blackwatch I could seen him being very tense whenever Cassidy and Pharah fought, maybe even being a little protective of Pharah because of what happened to him.

With Hanzo I could see him being the same but being able to deal with it better since he wouldn't really be pushed into that dynamic like Genji was. He's had time to process his trauma a bit though it would still likely be jarring for him since he's not used to seeing this type of dynamic. Though he'd likely have the beginnings of it with Kiriko.

[heretyc]

Horror [Trager, Eddie Gluskin, Val]

Horror: A collection of small fics, consisting of Outlast's most iconic antagonists [in my opinion].

The poll I started isn't over, but "canonically" is winning and I love it. Dark shit here we come lol. I will be writing for my beloved Terror-iffic Trio [aka my favourite antagonists from each game]. A party with these 3 would be lit.

Drabble ideas here.

Content Warnings: Uhhh...Outlast Antagonists lol. That is your warning.

Trager: Gore, awful jokes, his bare ass.

Eddie: Gore, murder, injury, mentions of his...lovely little display, sexual assault [minor, just a slight touch, no penetration]. [Please lord don't let him teach an art class.]

Val: Sexual assault [slight penetration w/ fingers], gore, murder, mud, Val's bare ass, mud breasts and mudgina.

I mean it, this is pretty heavy shit. It isn't too graphic, but if SA triggers you...either look away or read with caution. Trager's section is safe. Unless you're afraid of his ass...cause me too, man.

MINORS GTFO. Miners can stay as long as they're not minor miners.

Read with caution, I condone none of this. Fics underneath the cut.

You/MC take the place of the protagonist. So...you are Miles/Waylon/Blake. Yayyyyy....? Or nay? Depends on how you feel. MC is gender neutral, but is referred to with fem pronouns in Eddie's section for obvious reasons. You do not talk in Trager or Eddie's sections as Miles and Waylon were "mute". You speak in Val's section, though. You are described as having breasts in Val's section as both sexes/all genders have breasts. Tiddies for everybody!!

Enjoy.

Drabble idea: "See, this place isn't haunted!"

Sometimes, a saving grace can be your one way ticket to hell. And this had been an excellent example of that. The angelic voice over the dumbwaiter was a dream come true; after running and hiding for so long, it was like you were granted a break.

Only for your face to fall as the scarred face of a man greeted you. The air around him reeked of danger.

This was not the haven you were lead to believe was waiting for you.

"You made the right choice here, buddy," he declared before punching you in the jaw, a pained yell leaving your throat, and he was quick to take advantage of your shocked state to haul you into a wheelchair.

He must have done this a dozen times, as he was quick to lock your wrists into the cuffs attached to the chair. They were tight, and he merely chuckled at seeing your attempts of getting out of them.

He looked fucked up.

He stood in front of you, hands behind his back, and his eyes were scanning you like a wolf scans its prey before it mauls it to bits, "You're not a variant...huh. Well, buddy...you can call me...Trager. Everyone else does, anyway."

As Trager made noises looking you up and down, you looked at his face. Coated by some half-assed attempt at a mask and some strange glasses upon his face, you come to the conclusion that he was some doctor here.

He clicks his tongue and smacks you on the back, "You've got a lot of things to learn here, buddy. I am honoured to be your teacher."

Teach you about what, exactly? You didn't want to know. But he started to push you forward, and you only questioned where your hell would be.

This place was already hell, but...at the hands of some crazed madman, it was different.

Trager hummed to himself, making jokes here and there, and he once grumbled when you didn't laugh at a stupid impression, before he finally made it to an elevator. It was...somewhat cleaner up here, for some reason.

However...

You could feel a breeze upon your skin, and upon hearing the howl of wind and torrential rain, you saw an exit. Pitch black and windy, yet so much more welcoming than in here. You questioned if there would be a tornado warning or something by how violent the wind seemed to be.

The rain out there was intense, torrential, heavy and oh so divine, and Trager only chuckled.

"You want to take a quick walk, bud?" He leaned down next to you, eyes looking into yours like he was an old friend, despite also looking feral. "Run free, like Forrest Gump? Unfortunately, we're running out of time." He clicked his tongue once more, pulling you into the elevator.

This was a cruel joke. Even the Elvis impression - awful impression, mind you - wasn't as bad as this.

Standing beside you, Trager pressed a simple button on the control pad before clasping his hands together behind his back. After a moment of movement, he looked back toward you, his voice a tone that suggested jest, "Did you know they call elevators a "shaft" in other places of the world?" He chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

Looking at him, you realized his skin looked...awful. Like he was a draugr from that video game you used to play.

His scalp was scarred, and after spending an hour in this place, you realize you're lucky your scalp was untouched.

Wires upon wires were wrapped along his arm, and upon closer inspection, you were horrified to notice that they weren't wires, they were tubes.

Of his own blood.

How did he not feel that?

A man like him probably enjoys that, to be honest.

His nails were quite long as well, albeit you couldn't blame him...hygiene in a place like this was laughable. He probably had to exert his inner wildcat to defend himself in this shit hole.

You nearly sobbed when the elevator came to its destination, and he took hold of the handles once more.

It smelled of death and lost hope up here.

Choruses of screams reached your ears and you flinched. He seemed to notice, as he violently shushed the poor bastards trying to break free of their confines, "Sh. Shshshsh...you weren't putting your tongue to good use anyway!"

Tongue...??

The man shrieking had a bloodied mouth, and he soon quieted after choking on, what you assume to be, his own blood. Trager only sighed, muttering to himself, "Really, I just needed something to lick my stamps."

This...was a cruel joke. Taking someone's tongue for stamps?? You were deep in thought, only for Trager to notice and grin evilly, "You should see what I do with the balls."

...Dear god.

"Yeah, this weird...cannibalistic guy downstairs begs for them...the guy knows what he wants, I gotta give him that. He reminds me of somebody...eh, buddy?"

He poked you in the shoulder as he pushed, and it appears he was referring to you.

"I saw your camcorder. You're some sort of journalist, here to...what, expose one of the biggest experiments in history?" He laughed at the notion, shaking his head. "I admire the bravery, really. Braving through disturbed masses...I have to admit, I'm impressed."

You only gulped.

"People love to say this place is...haunted." Trager noted, pushing you into a bathroom of some sort. Bloodied, smelled of decay and looked like a paradise for bugs and bacteria.

What had scared you the most was the array of torture devices he had laid out on a tray. This man was deranged, one way or another.

He continued his one-sided conversation, focusing on the aforementioned tray as he walked over to it, "I mean, who wouldn't? People love to paint asylums as haunted. They hear a ghastly noise or a terrified scream and immediately tell the papers that a house of human suffering is haunted."

Trager's hand hovered over each instrument of torture, trying to pick which one, but he hadn't stopped talking.

"And I am more than sure that's your entire...reason for coming here. Trying to prove it was haunted. But guess what, buddy?"

He finally picked up a blade, long and serrated, and he pressed it against a finger of yours, the edges sharp against your thin flesh. He leaned in close, his dry lips forming into a smile, "This place isn't haunted."

He moved away, the blade removed from your finger, and you breathed a sigh of relief as he placed it back down onto the tray.

"No, no. It's worse."

He finally picks up a gigantic pair of scissors, much like something you'd see picking away at a shrub, and he was more than eager to shut them and open them, metallic hisses invading your senses, much like the feeling of doom.

You will die here.

"This place is an example of human cruelty, my friend," he announced, voice loud and cheerful as if he wasn't about to maim you, and he placed the blades around some of your fingers. He cared not for your horrified shrieks and begs, he only leaned in once more and whispered,

"And you will be nothing but an example of what happened here."

Slice.

...

"Oh, come on, buddy...it's not like you needed your middle finger anyway. Now open up...I have some stamps to lick."

Drabble idea: "Oh my god, are you okay?!"

"Darling, please! You act as if I've done something rancid! What have I done to you to make you so afraid of me?!"

The bloodied behemoth on your tail was quick and hurried as he chased after you, his feet slamming against the rotting floorboards. You almost couldn't hear the music that played alongside the horrific display he handmade. The smell was awful, but the sight of it was enough to make you vomit.

You would not be the victim to the Groom. Not now. Not ever.

You would not have your pelvis slit, or your chest stuffed like you were a sex doll [ironically, that's all you would be to him], and you would not let him confess his undying love for you. It was fake and corrupt like this entire asylum.

Despite the smell of mildew and death, adrenaline filled your blood and you could tolerate the disgusting scents as you breathed in, your legs not yet faltering.

You've heard what he's done. The man who so giddily chased you rambled about it as you snuck around, and you were not pleased.

This was the only way out. Sometimes you have to take risks...right?

This wasn't worth it, though.

And sometimes, luck runs out. Like right now, as you are stuck in a dead end.

There was only an elevator. And it was not on your current floor.

Shit.

You could jump and risk a broken leg...or...

The emergency ladder. Broken and rusted, but it's tetanus over death.

You could explain all of this to the news with lockjaw.

"Wait, what are you doing?! Don't, don't-!"

You had leaped, gripping onto the ladder as your bottom half slammed against it. With a hiss you tried to pull yourself up, only for the ladder to break underneath you.

The top had snapped, and you tried to grab onto what remained on the wall, only to fall, your heart stopping.

Of all things to die from, it was a rusted ladder.

Oh well.

As your body slammed onto the top of the elevator, a sharp pang began to blossom from your ankle, and you look to see shards of glass sticking out of your flesh. Now coated in blood, you cried out and ripped the shards out, piece by piece. Blood pooled around your foot as you cradled it.

"Oh my god, are you okay?!"

The behemoth above looked down at you with a horrified expression, his hands out and wanting to hold you.

"I hate to see you suffering without me! Why would you do something like that to yourself?!"

His voice was full of panic and concern, and for a moment it seemed wholesome, until the panicked silence became one of anger. There was...tension.

"You would...rather die...than be with me...?"

His tone had shifted so quickly. He was unpredictable, and that's what had made him so...scary. In general, he had looked like he crawled from a 1940s horror series. Sweeney Todd had come to mind, actually...

"You're just another whore, aren't you?" He growled out, only to sigh, like this was a normal occurrence. "It's quite alright, darling. A good man can turn a whore into a house wife...and I have faith in us. Let me just..."

The elevator roared to life, and you panicked even more, now. Your poor heart would likely kill you before he had the chance to. But as you rose, he merely hummed to himself, waiting for the elevator to rise to his floor.

You had no chance at moving or escaping, as when you reached the proper floor, he was quick to grab you before you became sandwiched between the top of the elevator and the ceiling.

He dwarfed you. Instantly. He carried you bridal style, an eerie smile on his face, "Come, now. I must make sure you look perfect for our wedding."

You had no chance, now.

He clicked his tongue, footsteps hard against the rotting boards, and his voice was quieter as he spoke, "And I need to wrap up your foot...you are a silly one, darling."

It didn't feel silly. It felt like your ankle and foot were on fire, stinging like mad.

You had accepted your death already, but if there was also one thing you could accept, it's that he wasn't actually half bad.

Minus the...anger fits and the "whore" bit, he would have been wonderful. Looking up at him, you see a man soiled by corruption.

His eyes would have been a beautiful, shiny blue if not for the pools of hemorrhage. They had looked...empty. Dead. But whenever he looked at you, they shone like his soul had been revived.

Is this what he had wanted? Love?

Everyone in this hell hole had been deprived of it.

It was sad. Really fucking sad.

But you had read about what Eddie had done, and seen it too. And he was past the point of no return. He had done too much to be redeemed.

Dread made itself a home in your stomach as you were laid upon something cold and wet, and you were strapped in. Arms and legs spread, and your clothes were ripped off.

You were now nude, and being touched by the Groom himself.

His hands were gentle as he caressed a calf, "You have such soft skin...you will look absolutely beautiful," he cooed, hand gliding itself upwards toward your knee, then your thigh, and then...

You only flinched when you felt his hand begin to caress your genitals, as gentle as could be, as if he wasn't violating you. T'was the touch of a lover.

But he was no lover, no.

His fingertips merely grazed along your private flesh, rubbing it as if he had wanted to stimulate you, and you wanted to scream.

Eddie sighed dreamily, like he was a married man and his life would be filled with nothing but happiness, and he, luckily, let his hand glide up to your navel. "You look divine already, but when I'm finished with you? Oh, darling..."

He removed his hand, thankfully, but he was quick to turn on the saw, and all you could feel was cold air from its rapid movements and doom.

He gripped the sides of the table you were on, and he was smiling like this wasn't totally fucked up, "I know this will be hard..."

You felt the table move, slowly but surely, and you began to wriggle, but he continued, "You will have to deal with this...and then the conception, which I promise, will be wonderful," he winked as the saw came closer, "Then the pregnancy...and oh, I can just imagine the birthing. You will look so beautiful, darling...like a goddess. Mothers are goddesses in their own right."

And all you could feel was the sting of the saw, and your soul fading from your body.

...

"You're just like the rest. Filthy whore."

You're lucky you weren't alive to see your mangled body, tossed with the rest.

Ready to rot.

Drabble idea: "I want to go home..."

Val, in a sense, had been an angel to you.

They did not have a halo, made of purity and gold, or have pristine, white wings to wrap you and hold you close, no. They did not bear robes of white or play a golden harp or sing a divine chorus.

But they had wanted you all to themselves. And they would not let Knoth's guard dog, or his sickly bastards he called "friends", ruin you before they had a chance to.

Because unlike Knoth, or Marta, or Laird or Nick or whoever the fuck, Val would put you back together.

They are a loving mother, dedicated to spreading love.

It had been painted in blood on your way to the mines, 'LOVE SET US FREE'. Bottles encasing candles, bodies strewn up like Christmas decorations...

What were they trying to do, exactly? Make their cause look homey? Elegant? Acceptable?

You had felt oddly welcomed. Every single enemy in your way was slain, journals and notes left in your path to urge you to come to them.

"Come to me," the red ink beckoned you on the dirtied paper, "and I will show you my love."

They had been so kind as to leave batteries and bandages. Before you had taken the small, makeshift raft, a final note had been placed in one of the small shacks, the bed made and smelling of firewood,

"I am waiting for you."

You did not want this. But you needed to find a way out.

The mines were not welcoming. You were not alone. And you had been chased into the underground, where you are now; held down by Heretics as they muttered, "mother, burn..."

Like the fallen angel ready to relieve the sinners of their pain, their martyrdom, Val had approached, coated in mud and looking like the demon of the mountains.

In their hand was a torch, raging with fire, and it made their white eyes so much more intense.

They had hummed eagerly, the hum evolving into a laugh as the torch was placed down and the Heretics were shooed away. You were too afraid to move or notice their cold, dirtied hands leaving your flesh.

Their eyes were wide, pupils tiny, and they smiled as they strutted to you, "We are creatures of appetite..."

They moaned, feeling up their body and their fake breasts, like they were a porn star and giving you a show.

"I want to feel your hunger," their voice became quiet, something only you could hear, and they leaned close, your eyes staring frantically into theirs, searching for any fragment of humanity.

There was none. And you felt saddened, knowing that the Val in those journals was not this Val.

This was something different.

"I want to know your desires...and show you what true pleasure feels like," they rasped, pushing you down and straddling your hips, grinding against your clothed stomach. Your fear had aroused them.

"I want to go home..." you whispered, tears rushing from your eyes, and they only laughed, leaning close to your face and whispering, "This is your home, my love," a muddy hand came up to caress your cheek and wipe the tears away, "and I...will be doting."

You had no chance to respond or even acknowledge the powder blown into your senses, or the tongue forcing your mouth open, and immediately, they sought dominance over your own muscle, wrestling with it. It had ventured to each nook and cranny of your mouth, like they wanted to taste everything about you, and they eventually pulled away with a moan, saliva connecting you two.

They licked their lips, humming in delight as their hands rushed to push up your shirt and reveal your chest. "Your body...is delightful," they breathed out, squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipples with precision.

That powder did something to you. You had hated the feeling of their hands, but now you were overheating; desperate and quiet moans leaving your throat and making the cultist above you grin.

"I don't..." You couldn't even finish your sentence, as they pinched a nipple and made you shriek. It made them chuckle, and their hands moved south, ripping your zipper and breaking it. They got off for a second to completely rip your pants and undergarments off, and their naked thighs wrapped around your bare hips.

"Did you enjoy my gifts?" They questioned, hands now massaging your thighs, "You needed those batteries so badly...to document the lies of Sullivan, didn't you?" They purred, their hands tight and knowing just where to touch to get you to cry out in pleasure.

"That's why you came here. Fell from the sky, wrapped in flame..." they bit their lip, feeling aroused at the notion, "To record his bullshit."

You had even forgot about your camera, and you questioned where it was, until Val snorted, "It's gone, my love," their hands moved upwards to your genitals, "taken away...by my children. You won't need it anymore."

There was no pain when you felt their finger enter you. It was more pleasurable than anything you had ever felt, and it made you moan the loudest, and Val had revelled in this.

With precision their fingers located your pleasure spot, and sped up.

Your pleasure was their pleasure.

"God doesn't love you...not like I do."

And in time...you would know it to be true.

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood makes it through a late and relaxed morning, a leisurely afternoon well suited to reminiscing, and the earliest part of a normal evening before his luck runs out.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: They're idiots, your honour, unrequited pining (it's requited, they're just stupid), language, canon typical violence, only proof-read while sick

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I love me a good miscommunication trope, and coming up with ideas on how to make long-term mutual pining work is way too much fun, so finally figuring out both angles of what these two lovebird's dynamic was going to be was a major driving force behind this re-write hehehe I'm not sorry This chapter fought me every step of the way, and I had to split it into two parts so it wasn't outrageously long, but in the end I'm incredibly happy with the result! Chapter three will take place only a few minutes after the end of this.

Since this is where the 'slight au' part comes into play, I'm curious to see what you guys think of the world building in this one! Please feel free to leave any comments or questions if I was a bit vague on something, or if you just want to know more about this little headcanon universe of mine

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 5.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  The sun has only just begun its descent towards the horizon, but the chill on the wind already cuts to the bone.  In spite of the numerous layers of suit and coat, it bites into Anthony’s flesh.

 “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” a woman calls out to him, loud enough to be heard over the chorus of cafe patrons hiding from the cold behind steaming cups of tea and coffee.

  “I think I’d be better off not doing anything you would do, Luce,” he shoots a wink at her over his shoulder, holding the door open with his elbow to shoot a two-fingered salute at the ginger woman beside her laughing unabashedly at their playful bickering.

  Lucy mutters a retort under her breath, a particularly colourful string of insults if the swat on the arm it earns from her girlfriend is anything to go by.  

  The door swings shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of Norrie chastising her partner about ‘publicly decent language’ and leaving him with a pep in his step as he wanders towards Regent Street in the general direction of his favourite rapier shop.  

  Something about afternoon tea with his best friend and her girlfriend always leaves him feeling reminiscent, the water-colour splashes in soft shades of orange across the horizon only serve to heighten the feeling.  His short walk to Mullet and Sons allows him some time to indulge.

  A lot had changed in the six years since Lucy had joined himself and George at Lockwood & Co..  For one, they’d gained quite the reputation.  Fittes and Rotwell were still most people’s first choice, but now you’d be more likely to hear their little agency recommended than Bunchurch or Tendy’s.   He’ll admit, initially it seemed as though they were going to become infamous rather than renowned; between the disaster at Sheen Road, the disaster at Combe Carey, the disaster at–

  Well, you get the point.  It hadn’t looked promising.

  Their luck had begun to change with the case of the Bone Glass, then eventually Aickmere’s, but it hadn’t felt like nearly enough.   Those days had been filled with anxiety.   Worst of all was the fear of his Talent fading, the uncertainty of what his life would look like without the thing he’d based every choice he’d ever made on.  How was he supposed to survive in a world in which he couldn’t See?  He’d been terrified of running out of time to achieve his dreams, petrified he would fail his family by never achieving anything worthy of their name.  It was safe to say he hadn’t been in the best headspace.

  The fear almost overwhelmed him as time rushed on towards his eighteenth birthday, made all the more unignorable by his experience watching Quill Kipps lose his own Sight.  And while they’d found a solution for the retired Fittes agent in the form of Fairfax’s Ghost-Vision goggles, there was no replacement for the real thing.

  And then the daunting milestone had come and gone with no discernible difference.

  George was the next oldest.   Over the course of that year his Talent faded slowly, then all at once.  He hadn’t minded overmuch, the library had become preferable to being in the field somewhere around their fifth arson-related-incident.  In his defence, Mrs. Manfield flying across her lawn like a bat out of hell screaming about her antique doily collection being smoke-stained would have been enough to traumatise anyone.

  The following year had gone quite flawlessly, if he did say so himself.  With George as their dedicated researcher, and Lucy and Anthony’s competitive spirits driving them to never fall behind each other in skill, they were capable of taking on a significantly larger number of cases.  If they needed additional hands in the field for any particularly challenging jobs they’d enlist either George or Kipps with the aid of the goggles.

  But by her nineteenth birthday, Lucy actually seemed upset that her Talent refused to fade.  The boys had been confused by this at first, and while Lockwood had the sense to leave it alone, George had continued to question her.  They’d found out the full story of how she’d come to be an agent when she’d finally broken down.     She’d never chosen this life, and even though she loved her time with Lockwood & Co., she’d always been comforted by the notion that this life of fighting and fear had an expiration date.  In contrast to his own relief and excitement at the prospect of never losing his Talent, she felt nothing but trepidation.  George was watery eyed by the end of her confession, his lips pressed tightly into a thin line to prevent them trembling.   Anthony felt like he might be sick.   By the light of the numerous mismatched candles on Lucy’s lopsided birthday cake, they made a pact to pretend as though her Talent was fading, and phase her out of the agency within a year's time.

  A few short months later, the first headline popped up in a small gossip rag. It wasn’t even one of his top five.  Someone had taken notice of his remaining Sight at his advanced age, but hadn’t yet noticed their attempts to fake Lucy’s waning Listening.

  In the days after the first article's publication, the obnoxiously loud business phone began ringing more often.   Then, another article in a larger paper.  Followed by another, then several more.

  Anthony had to restrain George from ripping the phone’s cord out of the wall after one too many interrupted naps.  The researcher moved in with Flo not long after, but still kept his room mostly furnished for the evenings he worked far too late to make it to their flat safely.

  By the time their story had been told often enough for the media to lose interest, they had gone from having enough cases to keep them busy to too many to keep up with in what had to be some kind of record time.   In light of the extra attention they had considered hiring another agent, but their options were slim and the thought of bringing in a child to fight their battles was surprisingly difficult to stomach.  Anthony made a mental note to apologise to Barnes after that realisation, gaining some perspective on the man who’d tried so desperately to keep them away from the front lines.

  Time felt more like an undefeatable foe in the six months that followed than it had at any previous point in his life.  How was he supposed to keep taking on cases without anyone to watch his back in the field?  Would he end up alone in this bloody house yet again?   Despite the thoughts that haunted his darker moments, he knew he would let Lucy leave without any fuss.  Even in the last weeks of her employment he knew he could never be selfish enough to ask her to stay.   Though, had he known–

  A street sign reading ‘Half Moon Lane’ interrupts him from his stroll down memory lane, heralding the end of his journey.   The old building slumps under the weight of time.  Even the paint on the window is chipped, almost removing the ‘Sons’ in Mullet and Sons.   Although the storefront's outward appearance borders on decrepit, they have undeniably the highest quality rapier’s in London.  The hinges shriek as he pushes the door open, alerting the proprietor to the presence of a customer.

  “Ah, Mr. Lockwood!  A pleasure, as always.  How can I help you, my boy?” emerging from the back room, the white haired old man beams upon recognising him.  

  “Mr. Mullet, please, the pleasure is mine!  I believe one of my agents placed an order with you recently?  I’m here to pick up for her.”  

  After confirming her name and the details of the order, the old man teeters his way back into the room he’d just come from.  When he emerges again, he does so with empty hands and a deep frown upon his face.  

  “It appears one of my sons has caused a touch of a mixup and sent your employee’s rapier home with another agent.  I can place another order with our supplier, but I’m afraid it won’t arrive until the end of the month,” his tone is apologetic, but Anthony still has to fight the urge to groan in frustration.  

  “Mistakes happen, Mr. Mullet.  We’re only human after all,” thankfully, he’s had plenty of practice schooling his tone over the years, “that being said… we’ve made commitments for this evening.  I can’t very well ask one of my agents to walk into a haunted house unarmed.”

  “Of course, I understand completely.  Since you’ve been doing business with us for so long, I’m willing to offer a percentage off of any of our in stock models as a token of our apology.”  

  It’s a gracious offer, one Anthony is happy to accept.  He defers to the expertise of the older man, allowing him to lead them from option to option within the dimly lit store.  

  Trying to choose such an essential tool for her without her input is a surprisingly daunting task, and he finds himself quickly overwhelmed.   Searching for something to distract him until he can ground himself properly, he lets his eyes wander freely over the different kinds of metal glittering from mahogany shelves before they fix on a single standing display across the room.  Driven by curiosity, he approaches the case to inspect its contents.  What he finds nearly steals the breath from his lungs.    Laying on a scarlet velvet cushion is the most beautiful rapier he’s ever laid eyes on.  It has a fine silver blade, connected to an intricate swept hilt inlaid with gold leaves that wind around the counterguards and down the central ridge.  When his eyes travel to the pommel and find her birth stone caged within golden vines, he begins mental preparations to re-mortgage the house.   Thankfully, when Mr. Mullet wanders over to find him staring transfixed at the weapon, he gives him a knowing smile and cuts the younger man a deal he almost feels guilty accepting.  

  When he departs the shop, rapier tucked safely into a cloth wrap, the sun is dangerously close to the horizon.

  Uttering a quiet prayer to the powers-that-be, he scans the area for a payphone.  Luck is on his side today and he finds one rather quickly, tucked into a nook beside a cafe a few shops down.   As he makes a beeline for it with purpose, he comes aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing slowly to attention.  At first it’s easy to brush it off as a result of the temperature, but the closer he gets to the booth the more the sensation builds.  It feels like someone’s watching him.   Stepping into the silver-glass encased rectangle, he lifts the phone from the receiver before pausing.  Thinking quickly, he puts on his best thoughtful expression, pretending to have forgotten the number he needs to call as an excuse to let his eyes wander his surroundings.  The droning of the phone waiting for input makes the entire situation feel even more unnerving.  

  Nothing glaringly obvious jumps out at him; no nefarious stalker in a trench coat peers at him from some dark alley, no one stares at him over the top of an upside-down newspaper.  All his eyes can find is folks hurrying into their vehicles before the threat of darkness grows, shop workers locking their doors and flicking off their lights.

  Scoffing at himself for allowing his paranoia to get the best of him, he dials a night cab.  Though he’s quite certain he’d imagined the threat, he still refrains from mentioning his destination out loud.  He hadn’t made it as far as he had by throwing all caution to the wind.  Just… most of it.  Before he can waste too much time chastising himself any further, he slams the phone back into place and turns with purpose to wait for his ride in the safety of the cafe.  

  Honestly, it’s a good thing he’s so dramatic.  If he hadn’t insisted on doing the most theatrical spin, complete with the billowing of his coat as he exited the box, he wouldn’t have startled the man watching him from behind the corner of a nearby bookstore.     The balding head disappears as the body it’s attached to ducks behind the brick wall.  Anthony has several options, but very few of them are good.  He quickly decides his best course of action is to pretend to be unaware of the man’s presence, electing to continue on to grab himself a tea whilst he plans his next move.

  Watching the brilliant orange and scarlet glow of sunset, Anthony finds himself observing the comings and goings of vehicles outside the shop window.  There’s an unusual amount of traffic for this time of day.  He’d expect to see a large number flocking to their homes, seeking safety from the threats that come with darkness.  But to see even two or three vehicles stop to park alongside the road this time of night was unusual.

  The arrival of his cab shakes him from that train of thought, jumping the tracks straight to figuring out how to make it to Mrs. Roland’s house in decent time without being followed.  He hadn’t seen another sign of the man since, but he’s not convinced the danger has actually passed.  With a huff, he draws himself out of the comfortable chair.   The cold air is no more forgiving now than it had been before.  Allowing the warmth of the night cab to envelop him, he instructs the driver to begin a complex route to their destination in the hopes of losing those tailing him.  

  The sky is pitch black by the time they arrive, but his efforts seem to have been successful.  While he’d thought for a moment one of the cars that started up as he’d exited the cafe might have been following them at first, there’s no sign now of anyone suspicious following behind.

  Stepping out of the cab onto the curb, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort his thoughts before he dares to step foot into the house.  Why, precisely, would somebody have him under observation?  For once in his life, he can’t think of anyone who would have reason to.     Pulling up the sleeve of his coat to check the watch on his wrist, he curses under his breath at the time.  There’s going to be a lot of grovelling in his very near future.  It’s nearly thirty minutes past six.  She’s going to kill him, and he can’t even fault her for it.

  He’s about to rush into the house when a set of headlights comes into view at the top of the street, nearly blinding him before cutting to blackness at the sight of his silhouette.  

  Bloody hell, that is the final straw.  He’d done quite a fine job feigning ignorance until this point, but he has to draw the line at this level of obviously shady behaviour.  If they’re this incompetent he can get to the bottom of the matter without the need for secrecy or strategy.    He straightens to his full height, setting his jaw and turning to walk with confidence towards the sleek black car now parked roughly a hundred feet ahead of him.

  The sound of glass shattering fills the quiet night air before he can make it more than halfway, stopping him dead in his tracks as he listens for any further sign of danger.  Usually, the thought of his associate in any form of peril is more than enough to send him spiralling into an – admittedly unnecessary – protective frenzy.  However, considering all elements of the present situation, he finds himself torn.  Their interview with Mrs. Roland prior to the acceptance of the case had left them both confident the Visitor is a Type One, which she’s more than capable of handling herself, and if he doesn’t chase this lead down now–  

  An unholy shriek echoes down the street, sending chills down his spine.

  Sketchy stalker-mobile be damned.

  He turns on a dime, long legs carrying him across the lawn as if chasing his own shadow as the headlights behind him reignite and light his path.  The golden beams veer away, the car pulling a sharp u-turn to flee the scene.  If he wasn’t so worried, he’d probably be frustrated.   He almost can’t stop fast enough to prevent himself from running face-first into the door when the handle refuses to turn.  Swearing loudly, he jiggles it again to ensure it isn’t just stiff before he risks causing property damage.  The screaming is making it hard to think, but he can’t quite put his finger on what about it is making him feel so unnerved.  When it finally hits him, property damage is the least of his concerns.  Barely audible beneath the unnaturally shrill sound, her scream is hoarse and pained.

  He takes a full stride back, rocking his weight back on his left leg and lifting his right.  His foot hits its mark directly beside the lock, the full weight of his panic-aided-strength sending it flying open.  He can’t help but wince at the crunch of drywall, likely from the knob on the far side embedding itself in the wall, but he doesn’t waste any further time on it before striding into the house.   Dead ahead, an electric lantern sitting on the kitchen counter bounces light off of the shining tiles covering the majority of the space.  To his left is a small dining room with only a mid-sized table, four chairs, and a plethora of obnoxiously colourful paintings on the walls.  Deciding having both hands free will be more conducive to survival, he dumps the cloth bag containing her new rapier on the table and rushes towards the commotion.

  Between his relief at seeing her unharmed and the sheer comedic value of the expression on her face as she slides around the corner with arms flailing, he almost bursts into hysterical laughter.  Thankfully, his self preservation instinct is strong enough to encourage him to duck behind the wall while he gets himself under control.   Under normal circumstances he would let her exit the house rather than practically jumping out at her, but he can’t be sure there isn’t someone still waiting outside.  And as a small bonus, if she’s already mentally signing his death certificate, he can’t make it any worse by making an entrance.  He feels a grin spread across his features despite a valiant effort not to enjoy this too much.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious,” he has to bend to wrap an arm around her middle, but that doesn’t stop him.   Instead of lashing out or screaming again, she catches him off guard by completely relaxing into his hold.  A spark of protectiveness flares beneath his breast as the back of her head falls to rest on his collarbone and she lets out a shaking breath.  In stark contrast to her usually unflappable nature, she trembles like a leaf.  There’s no way a simple Type One put her in this state.

  It takes all of his willpower to peel his arm from her waist, to offer her the only shield he can by tucking her safely behind him.  He takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling slowly through pursed lips and drawing his rapier.  It’s not enough to eliminate the intoxicating effect of her proximity, but it dampens it enough he can think clearer.

    “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!” the rage in her tone fills him with relief, not even the impact of the flat of her hands against his back can take away from it.  He’d obviously prefer if she were calm, but he’ll take anger over despair any day.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?” he breezes past her outburst, not having to look over his shoulder to know if looks could kill he’d be dead on his feet.  

  He knew this routine like the back of his hand.  She’d be angry at first, call him every name in the book, and then they’d move past it and get the job done.

 Except there’s no scoff, no retort, no rapid fire insults, no reply of any kind.  The silence is deafening.  Taking back every scathing remark he’s ever made about Orpheus’ lack of restraint, he caves to the impulse and glances over his shoulder.   He’d been right about the look, at least.  The incredulous fury painted across her face might have been comical in another place, on another day.  But there, just beneath the surface, was something he hadn’t expected to find; betrayal.

  Shit.  He’s really fucked up this time.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself,” the venom dripping from her tone feels like knives in his chest, “you would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyways.”   Time comes shuddering to a halt.  His pulse is deafening as it thunders in his ears.  If he’d put her life in legitimate danger – regardless of the circumstances – he’d never forgive himself.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?” he manages to choke around the lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like his heart, turning to face her fully and reassure himself by searching every visible inch of her for any sign of injury.  The urge to reach out and touch her, to feel her body beneath his hands and know for sure she isn’t being stubborn enough to hide some kind of fatal wound from him, is so strong his fingers burn.

  After a few incidents involving him turning into a lovesick moron at the slightest touch from her early on in her employment, she’d gone to great lengths to avoid any form of contact with him.  He’d come to terms with this, resigning himself to the idea of a life spent admiring her from arms length.  So while she hadn’t seemed too opposed to having him in her personal space tonight, he had no intentions of pushing any farther and making her uncomfortable.

  That was the plan, at least.  But when screaming pierces the air once more, the colour drains from her face, and he watches her cave in on herself in an attempt to hide; he feels like this counts as extenuating circumstances.     He takes a single large step forward, arms reaching towards her in unison.  Her hands are over her ears, head tucked into her chest, elbows tight to her ribs.  He allows his upper body to curl at the edges and cage her against him, hugging her head to his chest to muffle the noise.

  Then, it stops.  It’s hard to decide if the ghostly howling or ensuing silence is louder.  

  “You okay?” he murmurs the question, reluctantly releasing her to rest his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to try to catch her gaze in the low light.   There’s merely inches between their faces when her unfocused eyes finally lock with his own.  It’s hard to breathe without acknowledging they’re breathing the same air, but he files that thought away for later.  He concentrates instead on tracing every one of her features with his gaze, every tensed muscle and line that may offer him some insight into her condition.   She squeezes her eyes shut, blinking like she’s just woken up.  When she finally focuses on him, her pupils blow wide as dinner plates.  Her lips part, her small gasp the only disturbance in the air as he involuntarily holds his breath.  

  A sharp stab of heartbreak courses through him as she steps back abruptly, raising her palms in surrender.  His poor heart stops dead for the umpteenth time today when he spots the dark spot on her hand.  She tries to drop her arms, to move to put more distance between them, but his sense of urgency outweighs his better judgement as he grasps her tightly by the wrist.  The chill of her skin beneath his does nothing to assuage his concerns as he pulls her across the kitchen to the light, ignorant to her protests through the haze of his anxiety.   Their proximity to the light confirms his fear, and the crimson red of fresh blood staining her skin has his stomach rebelling against him.  As soon as he drops her wrist she pulls it away and clutches it to her body, glaring daggers at him.    He makes a mental note to beg for her forgiveness later, reaching for her face and watching shades of red begin to decorate her flesh as she reaches new levels of infuriation.  Her skin is sinfully soft beneath the fingers that turn her towards the light and brush against her cheek, tucking the hair behind her ear to give him a better view.     A cold blanket of righteous fury settles over him at the sight of the narrow crimson river running sluggishly down her neck, using his thumb to swipe it away.  Murderous thoughts fill his head at the sight of the stain left in its wake, doubling in intensity at her expression when he shows her the smear of red highlighted by its contrast against his pale skin.

  “Now will you tell me about it?” any attempt at a playful tone is harshly undercut by the tremor of rage in his voice, but she still laughs with less nerves than he’d expected.  

  She studies him closely, but he stares right back, too focused on making the bloody thing pay for hurting her to be self-conscious under her scrutinous gaze.  After a short minute of this, understanding blossoms across her face.  

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  she pauses, lost in thought with her eyes fixed on the ground, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  He can feel the corners of his lips quirking up as she drops the stubborn attitude.

  ‘Good girl,’ he wants to say.

  “Your rapier is on the table,” he says instead, turning his back on her under the guise of watching the direction they’d heard the screaming from.  In reality, he’d just needed an excuse to hide his blush and re-centre himself.

  He’s so busy shaking the offending thoughts from his head and cursing himself out for allowing his mind to wander into unsafe territory that he’s completely blindsided by the burst of other-light lighting up the living room like a flash bang.  He’s still blinking the blind spots from his eyes when rapid movement in his peripherals alerts him to the potential danger.  The ringing of iron fills the air as he draws his rapier, muscle memory taking over despite his still spotty vision as he slices clean through the centre of the spectre mere inches from his face.

  Behind him, the sound of her drawing her own blade drains anxiety he wasn’t aware he’d been feeling.  As she takes her place beside him he admits to himself that nothing in this world feels more natural than having her at his side, trusting him to keep the Visitor at bay whilst he trusts her to strategize.

  Despite being the newest member of their agency, Anthony trusts her instincts more than even his own most of the time.   He’d figured out not long after she’d joined that she had a particular balance of empathy and intelligence - and a sixth sense he couldn’t really explain - that made her an asset in the field.  Of course he’d never been dense enough to phrase it like that to her face, not after sticking his foot in his mouth with Luce all those years ago.

  Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell him she’s finished piecing together a plan.  All he can do now is hope she’s feeling generous enough to let him in on it.

  The crisp clean sound of her new rapier sliding into its sheath suggests he might be out of luck.  He’s considering whether or not it’s worth asking her directly when his brain sputters, then stalls.   She steps back far enough he has no warning of her proximity until she presses herself completely against him, the surface area of her chest displacing against the back of his ribs in a way that leaves him feeling a little dizzy.  As much as he really, really enjoys her hands dancing along his sides and hips, he can’t help but question her truly terrible timing as he fights to keep his blade in the air to ward off their ‘friend’.

  “Follow my lead,” she says.  It takes a while to filter through the dial-up connection that is his mind at that moment.  He regains his composure just as she hurls the salt-bomb over his shoulder, realisation dawning on him in a flash similar to that of the silver fulminate as it collides with the ghost before him.  So that’s what she’d been up to.

  She’s off like a bullet the second the apparition dissipates, shooting past him and into the other  room.  In a rather impressive manoeuvre, she tucks and rolls to land on her side parallel to a horrifically sunny loveseat before shoving her arm beneath it as though searching for something.  Of all of the things he could possibly expect for her to retrieve, a silver-net was not one of them.  He adds that to the list of questions he has for her once they get this situation under control.

  She’s back on her face and hurdling across the house like a bat out of hell when Mr. Roland decides to make another appearance in the form of a pair of ghostly arms emerging from the white walls.  A stone drops in his gut when he realises there’s no way he can reach her before the grasping arms of the apparition wrap around her shoulders.

“DUCK!” he hollers, an iron taste filling his mouth.  She immediately dives for the floor and–

  He loses sight of her past the walls of the hallway.

  The pounding of his heart drowns out the noises that follow, his legs carrying him across the house on autopilot.  The cold air stings every inch of exposed skin as he closes the distance to the active haunting, but it’s not nearly as cold as the blood in his veins when he spots the telltale sparkle of silver on the rug outside the bedroom.     He ducks to grab the net and sweeps through the doorway just in time to watch her body fly across the room.

  Even the brutal screaming had paled in comparison to the sound of her head hitting the bed frame. 

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[rookinthecrownest]

"Yes your honour that's them, they're gonna keep dancing around their feelings for each other until the next Age bc they're both stupid, arrest them"

I have no idea when I'm going to finish Night 5, so here's an excerpt of what I've been working on so far. I desperately need to finish this second playthrough so I can see the end of Emmrich's romance.

[loquarocoeur]

HI! again sorry lmao i just read the latest one you put out about the trippel header and i loved it

now i got a question, as its november and during this time some men particpate in "no nut november"

would lestappen (yours verse)

a: do it

b: who would tease the other more c: who would break? WOuld they break?

and finally d: at the end if they made it through, with most likley alot of teasing and some close call

what would the reward be? would one (or both) be counting down the seconds until midnight until they finally fuck? or if they failed, who fault would it be and what would have caused said fail?? Sorry for the long one i am just so curious ❤️❤️❤️❤️

a) Probably not. They are stupid, but they are not that stupid. If there is one thing they know is that they are too horny to do something like that just for some misguided sense of honour and achievement.

If they ever did try it it would also probably last 5 days tops and they would never try it again

b) Charles would start off being the one teasing Max more, but as soon as Max realises he isn't the only one sexually frustrated he would totally do a full 180 and be such a little shit teasing Charles back, because we all know Max is weak, but Charles is weaker, Max wouldn't even have to do much, maybe just 'accidentally' lift his shirt a little, or show off a little too much thigh, maybe say 'please' in casual conversation in a tone that's a little too sexual and if that doesn't get Charles Max would not be above amusing himself by simply walking around the house in nothing but underwear and bending over a few more times in ten minutes than is strictly necessary just to see Charles dropping whatever he was holding and just like.. drooling

Charles would obviously fold first, Max has a lot more practice not getting to come than Charles does, let's remember that

d) Honestly I don't think they'd even think of a reward, they're very much boys will be boys doing it just to prove that they 'can', maybe just good old marathon sex

I'd say by day five they've both accepted that they aren't actually going to last the whole month and are now just trying to tease and torture each other into breaking, but Max has sooo much more practice than Charles and Charles really doesn't appreciate how subtle Max usually is with trying to get him to fuck him, bcs if it's about winning, Max will 100% put all his dignity aside and actively pout and whimper at Charles just for the sake of winning, which he does

[letsboldlygomotherfuckers]

please drop the cherik fic you mentioned on the wounded character post <3 <3 (and like... any other cherik recs on your mind lol please and thank you)

I'm so glad you asked lol

Rumor Has It by blueink3

Words: 166,073 Chapters: 47/47

Summary

"Did I hear the doorbell earlier?" "Yeah, but I'd steer clear if I were you. It seemed a little tense. I don't know what's going on, but there's a kid out there who looks freakily like the prof." Nearly six months after Cuba, Charles' life is turned upside down for the second time. Though he's slowly learning to adapt to the first, he's not sure he can handle the second. Luckily for him, there are a few people out there more than willing to help.

this fic is an absolute beast but god the domesticity, I'm not normally one for kidfics but this fic has me by the throat honestly, absolutely wonderful injured erik AND hurt charles. they take it in turns to get fucked up <3

The Last Love Song & Testament of Charles F. Xavier by midrashic

Words: 20,139 Chapters: 1/1

Summary

When Erik is accused of domestic terrorism, Charles has no choice but to marry him to keep him out of jail.

activist charles and erik!au, Erik gets arrested for "domestic terrorism" for protecting charles at a rally turned riot, charles will have to testify against him and decides marrying him is the only way out of that. the yearning in this is actually off the charts it's so insane they're both so fucking stupid

Idiot Control Now by cygnaut for QueenZenobia

Words: 3,941 Chapters: 1/1

Summary

Hank screws something up in the lab and everyone's powers increase tenfold. Not knowing how to control them like this, they all try to cope and not kill each other by mistake while Hank tries to find a way to reverse the effects. Charles has a particularly hard time of it.

this one is so soft, I love Charles completely out of his mind with his telepathy going haywire reaching for Erik's comfort

Five Nights In Nuremberg by FuryRed

Words: 26,138 Chapters: 5/5

Summary

When Charles escapes from the mutant prison he has been held in for the last two years he knows that he’s going to need help to avoid being recaptured. What he doesn’t expect is that help will come in the form of a mysterious German man who rescues Charles and takes him to his home; a handsome stranger who, frustratingly, doesn’t speak a single word of English…

this one is so gentle!!!!! erik looking after charles and charles learning to trust him despite temporarily not having his telepathy is so soft, and it's a really interesting character study with basically no dialogue used/dialogue where you and they can only understand half of it (unless you're a german speaker in which case I am jealous of you <3)

Blessed is the Match Consumed by cygnaut

Words: 19,705 Chapters: 1/1

Summary

"This isn't a concentration camp," Delta says, calm, like he's been rehearsing it. Erik looks at the gun on his hip, the guards behind him in the corridor, the bars between them. He smiles with a lot of teeth. "I think I'd know that better than you."

AU in which the beach divorce didn't happen and Erik decides to stay and help Charles start his school. But despite their clean break, the government isn't ready to let the mutants disappear into hiding.

this one isn't cherik but it is an absolutely wonderful Erik character study, dadneto vibes, the scene where he gets put in the same position his mother was in was insane

through your eyes I see by boldlytothestars

Words: 5,490 Chapters: 1/?

Summary

“He was connected to Shaw when he died,” Raven snarls, shoving at Erik's shoulder harshly. It’s not enough to break his concentration, but it wasn’t meant to be. “It’s blown his shields wide open, what do you think this will do to him? He’s inside the head of every last man in those ships. Fuck them, I don’t care whether they live or die, but do you really think he’ll survive that?” She gestures back to Charles’ broken form on the floor, a thousand men screaming in terror in his head. “Been an honour- oh god I didn’t say- I want to go home- oh fuck, oh fuck- they can’t- will it hurt- no, no, no- please god- let it be quick-” Charles has stopped shouting but his broken, terrified pleading is almost worse. And, oh god, it’s not an option at all. The missiles explode midair.

what if it was erik's choice to stop the missiles to protect charles rather than an accident distracting him? charles got real fucked up by being in shaws brain as he died, shameless self plug xo

[jjxkiaraxpopexcleoxjohnbxsarah]

Every detail of JB and JJ's friendship(not in order):

JB being the one to follow JJ in Barry's house in s1-the way after Kiara said someone should go and John B was like I know

JJ got the gun out to save JB from stupid topper-he did not hesitate and he had NO REGRETS 😭😭

THE WAY BOTH OF THEM WERE HOLDING IN THEIR SMILES WHEN JJ WENT TO VISIT JB IN JAIL AHDKFLGL BEFORE JUST LOSING IT

JJ reacted first when Shoupe said they lost JB and Sarah-Poor jjs life practically ended that night😭😭

JJ just walking up and hugging jb in midsummers-JB's little "fire, there's a fire" abdkfkf

JJ saying love you to John B before he leaves-THE CASUALNESS OF IT😭😭😭 it kills me

Them sitting near each other in class-they know the teacher hates it but they did it every time

John B texts the GC that he's alive and he says is JJ there-AHDJFKGLLGLGLGLG HIM ASKING FOR JJ!!! BC HE JUST KNOWS😭😭😭

JJ walking over to the tree when he sees jb looking at it, and trying to crack a joke before just hugging him so tight🥺🥺🥺

John B wrapping jjs arm over his shoulders in Poguelandia

JB and JJ saying the same exact thing about their fathers to each others face, the one about "you're gonna end up just like your father" -Those two scenes were sad but I feel like it hurt more for JJ because JJ always wants to believe that he's not like Luke and cos he trusts JB + when he said that I'm pretty sure it hurt

Okay S3 when the pogues have to leave JB behind and JJ says to Pope they can't split up again and they won't leave JB

Them hiding under the table like they're still kids😂😂

Their childish fight before Shoupe came-I strongly believe they both made a pact to never swing with the intention to actually hurt each other, especially JB since he knows what JJ goes through😔

JB casually pulling JJ in for a side hug in s2 when they were exchanging the key with limbrey-and jj does that nose scrunch

JJ says that he and John B have nothing to lose but Kie and Pope do-they are so intricately woven into each other's lives and their understanding of each other is insane

JJ slapping the step for jb to come and sit, and reassuring him they'll figure it out, and pulling him into his side😭😭-AND then JB rests his head on JJ's shoulder

The chateau burnt down and JJ places a hand on John Bs shoulder-The Chateau was JJ's home too

Jb being grossed out by the food in his fridge and then watching jj snack away ajfkfk

JJ and JB were with professor sowell I think that's the dudes name and John B pushes JJ down to protect him from the bullets/darts-Love a protective JB

JJ protecting jb from the cops in s1, lying to peterkin about them finding the boat

John B touching JJ's cheek and saying it's okay to stop JJ from making a stand

JJ being hellbent on getting JB outta jail, arguing with kie and pope on the porch before going off on his own to see JB and tell him his plan😭

JJ telling John B in court that he'll save him and being the first to say your honour he's seventeen

JJ listening to JB talk about stupid Topper as JB angstily rides his skateboard across the porch

JJ helping JB in midsummers it was so cute how John B was helping JJ wear his waiter uniform🥰🥰

JJ is the first to say to John B after they finish making the headstone on the tree-I would bet money the headstone was jjs idea😭😭😭

John B going to JJ first at the end of S2 to ask about surfing the waves in POGUELANDIA- And then he helps JJ walk

I'm sure there are even more out there but for now this is all I got.

Do comment what you think or if there's anything to add on

[overtake]

Not to be weird but I feel like I got zapped when I read your hockey snippet, how didn't I know that this existed? It's literally been living my brain for hours and I've not been able to stop re-reading it since 🙃 clearly you can take the girl out of toronto but you can't take toronto out the girl because im a changed person now. No pressure ofc I mean this in non-prodding way but praying and willing you to put your snippets together. If you never come around to it then I'm glad (and changed) for what you've shared with world regardless 🙏🏻🙏🏻

This is SO sweet 🥹 I love you so much. Just for this, please have a bit more hockey au. There's a tiny snippet after a media bit (Surprise, this fic is multi-media! Writing the social media parts has been my fave part of the entire process)

@.MapleLeafs on TikTok: | December 12, 2023

[Players walk by a whiteboard on their way into the practice rink. They're stopped to answer the question written on it as they enter. The caption written over their heads reads: "Who don’t your Leafs want to sit next to on a flight?"]

ALEX ALBON: Easy one. Esteban Ocon. He’ll bite your head off if you make a single noise. I think he’d get mad if the plane was going down and you tried to warn him. LOGAN SARGEANT: Gasly or Ocon. I don’t know if it’s a French thing, but they both get really annoyed if you talk to them on a plane. PIERRE GASLY: Danny Ric. He is the loudest person I’ve ever met in my life. ESTEBAN OCON: Daniel Ricciardo. Sorry, Daniel. DANIEL RICCIARDO: Gasly. Max and I were just having a conversation and he rose up behind us and nearly bit our heads off for laughing. I don’t know why he keeps sitting near us. MAX VERSTAPPEN: I don’t really mind sitting next to anyone. I usually sit next to Daniel, and we have a good time. He keeps movies downloaded for us. They're often not very good, but that's sometimes more fun, you know? YUKI TSUNODA: Daniel. VALTERRI BOTTAS: Daniel Ricciardo. ZHOU GUANYU: Daniel. He is very nice and fun, but sometimes you just want to relax on a flight. MARCUS ERICCSON: Surely everyone except Max picked Daniel, right? FERNANDO ALONSO: I don’t want to sit next to anyone.

Mara (DR’s Reputation Era) @.mv33fan: Fernando Alonso: I hate this entire team The entire team: We hate Daniel and the French Max and Daniel: Ask again later. Our mouths are occupied with each other’s dicks.

________

Theoretically, Daniel knew that his and Max's pre-game ritual could end up on the broadcast. Butt taps and silly handshakes in the tunnel inevitably end up on team Instagram stories even if they don't air on TV. It was to be expected, particularly on a Saturday night game against Ottawa.

Still, he didn’t exactly expect a whole montage. It's a nice little package, to be fair. It shows him and Max laughing next to each other in the tunnels and locker rooms before games, followed by their fingers interlocking in their usual drawn-out high five. Daniel prefers to fist bump the whole team and exit only before the goalies, but his routine with Max is always a bit of a production that holds up the line. It's only a surprise it hasn't been uploaded sooner.

After a game where Max scored two goals and Daniel threw his body in front of a rogue deflection and stopped the Sens from a late-third tie, the media naturally focuses on the montage. God forbid they talk about actual fucking hockey in the hockey interview.

“We call it tangled love,” he tells reporters in the press scrum after the game. “In honour of our artistic collision last game.”

It wasn’t a real collision. They’d just got tangled up together when things got chippy by the net. Their skates had collided and they'd taken each other out while trying to defend Esteban from some Habs players. It was all over social media, though, and Daniel knew they’d end up in some embarrassing NHL moments compilation.

They’d both laid on the ice, a little stunned and a lot stupid, before Daniel let out a giant laugh and broke the tension. Max had risen to his feet and tried to pull up Daniel, only for them both to fall right back down as if this was the first time they'd ever skated.

They’d actually been doing this little handshake all season, but reporters were always happy for a soundbite to latch onto and a joke they’d never let go. There's not much to work with in this league in the way of on-camera personality, so it’d probably be a story for the next week. The go-karting clips of the two of them were so popular than even Max mentioned he’d seen them on Reels, and he’d carefully curated his feed to show him anything but Leafs content.

Daniel can’t explain it, this warmth that makes him feel like he’s glowing from inside out all the time since the season started, but he knows he feels it most when he sees people write his name alongside Max’s like their togetherness is a given.