#what a frickin mess

[royalarchivist]

Bad: I've been training my kid in the art of murder.

Fit: I can see that! Sheesh.

Bad: I'm gonna turn him into a little killing machine! >:D

Fit: Uh-huh. Yeah, Ramon's favorite activity is sleeping usually, so...

Bad: Really?

Fit: Yeah. He's uh, laid-back, I wouldn't say he's lazy, he's laid-back. Just like me.

Bad: Laid-back. Pretty chill, that's good. Oh, there's a village over there! I wonder if that'll have–

Chayanne: [Cucurucho voice] ʜᴀ ʜᴀ ʜᴀ

Bad: – one of the things I'm looking for. What was that?

Fit: You heard that too, right?

Chayanne: [Cucurucho voice] ɴᴏ.

Bad: What the fudge was that?

Fit: Wait, you just talk– Wait, Philza's kid just talked! Hello?

Bad: What. Is it learning how to speak??? Did you–? I literally heard that.

[ Transcript continued ↓ ]

—

Fit: Did- did– we– [He notices Phil logged back on] Oh, hold on, we gotta tell Philza we just witnessed his kid's first words!

Bad: We gotta– yeah. "Ha ha ha" and "no." Philza!

Fit: Phil Phil Phil!

Phil: There you are.

Fit: Your child spoke!

Bad: Literally!

Phil: [Laughs]

Fit: You missed its first words!

Phil: Oh my god, I just needed to go piss behind the bushes! I couldn't hold it anymore.

Fit: Just like real life, sometimes you miss out on those important moments.

Bad: Yeah...

[shikai-the-storyteller]

You ever have food so frickin good you can physically feel your stats being buffed

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two--you are here/ Part Three

Hellfire did in fact, have cookies to sell.

More than cookies, which Dustin practically preened over when Eddie dragged himself back to their table. 

The ornaments they had made were still there, but now the centerpiece was an array of baked goods. Spread out in a spiral, it started from the large cake in the center and spun out into miniature cookies held in tiny decorated bags, all while Harrington stood over them like a proud parent. 

It smelled mockingly delicious. 

Eddie glared at the display, resisting the urge to upend the whole thing onto the floor.

Cookies and cakes and (--was that frickin bread pudding?) whatever other treats Harrington had shown up with might look good, but Eddie didn’t trust it. 

Didn’t trust Harrington, even if the bastard had never really done anything himself--but then, he never had to, had he? 

That was the point of all that money, after all. So he could pay other people to do his dirty work while he kept his hands squeaky clean. 

“Inch a bit to the left--there, stop!” Harrington was saying, like the bossy asshole he was.

Like he thought he could just come in and expect everyone to follow his lead. 

“Perfect! Now don’t touch it.” 

God, Eddie had to nip this in the butt, now. Before King Horrorton harassed his sheep all day, and cemented the club's undeserved bad name in the minds of Hawkins.

“Dustin what did I just say--” 

Eddie stepped up to the front of their table, preparing himself for war.

Looked over to his friends knowing they'd likely need a nod of reassurance. A show from him that said he had this handled.

There was no cowering. 

No pleading, helpless, 'What do we do Eddie!?' gazes aimed his direction.

Hellfire wasn’t even looking at him, and not because they were all avoiding Harrington's line of sight.

No, the fucking traiters were flanking the King. Like they were buddies with the bastard instead of mortal enemies. 

“Hey, Ed’s, Harrington brought pies. Cakes too!” Gareth said around a mouthful of cookie when he noticed Eddie standing before him. 

It came out a garbled mess, but years of experience had Eddie understanding him anyway. 

Jeff was busy playing what sounded like twenty fucking questions regarding the setup, and even Grant appeared comfortable, happily letting Harrington order him around as they finished setting up. 

Like this was some kind of cutesy Disney movie where they all held hands and sang songs instead of a hostile takeover situation. 

Eddie’s eye twitched.

Sensing a disturbance in the force, Jeff looked up and immediately interrupted himself to point to a series of red and green cookies placed dead center, delighted. 

“Check it out man, Steve made some shaped like dice!” 

(And he did say ‘Steve.’ 

Not Harrington, or This Asshole, or The Invading Evil Forces of Darkness.

Just Steve, like Steve was someone Jeff hung out with everyday.

Jeff’s cleric was a dead elf walking.) 

Eddie took note of what was in fact, dice cookies. 

He hated how good they looked.

“There’s four flavors.” Steve told him, cocky little grin on his face as he observed his work.  “Chocolate chip, peanut butter, snickerdoodle--and the dice ones are sugar cookies.” 

He licked his lips before finally turning to look at Eddie, hair curling over his face and making him wave a hand to brush them out of his eyes. 

Eddie hated how good he looked too. 

‘Hate, hate, hate, absolutely loathe-’ 

“Great, sure, wonderful.” Eddie managed, though given the look Grant and Jeff both shot him it might have come out as more of a growl. 

Dustin rolled his eyes, and Eddie couldn’t help but notice that Hellfire’s other two youngest hadn’t dared to show their faces yet. 

Likely they knew Eddie was having an absolute meltdown over Steve’s presence and were waiting for his reaction to blow over. 

(Their characters were dead too.) 

“I have two full cakes--one chocolate, on vanilla--and a few individual slices we can sell.” Steve was continuing, as if Eddie wasn’t glaring a hole in his forehead. “Those did really well last year when I made them for the basketball team.” 

Insults fought for space on Eddie’s tongue, but he managed to roll a 20 to pick the best one, opening his mouth to let it fly.

"Harr-" is as far as he got before he was rudely interrupted.

“Steve? Is that you?” A woman Eddie didn’t recognize but was clearly someone's mom came up cautiously to the table, side eyeing the Hellfire banner like a nervous horse. “That can’t be your famous tiramisu, is it?”

Steve beamed at her. “Well hi Miss Carpenter. It is!” 

Eddie was bumped aside by a massive purse, the woman not even glancing in his direction as she stepped up to the table. 

With a sneer, he finally slumped to the back of their little spot as Miss Carpenter looked over all Steve’s (not Hellfire’s and absolutely not Eddie’s) offerings. 

Didn’t care to wipe it off right then, even if he knew he needed to if he wanted to make sales. 

Jeff sent him a look.

The same one he usually aimed Eddie’s way when he thought Eddie’s antics were going to cause problems. 

He ignored it, on grounds that traitors don’t get to be judgy. 

“Oh,” Miss Caprtender tittered, the draw of Harrington’s baked goods clearly overcoming whatever fear she had about Hellfire. “Well I just can’t pass that up. The swim team meets aren’t the same without you!”

Eddie pretended to gag.  

Waited for her to comment on Hellfire--their clothes, their music, hell even the length of Eddie’s hair--and found he was almost disappointed when there wasn't even a single question about why Hawkins precious golden child was slumming it with the weirdos. 

Instead, Miss Carpenter's hand went fishing in her purse for her wallet as she loudly called out over her shoulder, to, presumably another annoying woman; 

“Terry, Steve’s here! He’s been baking!” 

For two terrifying seconds, there was a notable dip in the conversations around them. 

Grant’s eyes went wide as several women responded to the announcement like dogs hearing food hit the floor, and within seconds their table was absolutely swarmed by the mothers of Hawkins.

Even Eddie was taken aback at the sheer number of them. 

“Hold, men, hold.” Dustin cautioned as Jeff and Grant both flinched. “Come on, we need to get our gold!” 

“They’re scary though.” Gareth whispered in horror as four women tried to talk at once, jostling each other so hard they shook the table menacingly. 

“Ladies, ladies there’s enough here for everyone!” Steve laughed, showing off his disgustingly cute dimples as he did, getting several of the mom’s to blush at their own behavior in the process. 

The sheer amount of attention of course, drew in even more people, and Dustin quickly took up directing, planting Jeff and Grant at either end of their table while he and Steve fended off the hoard from the front. 

(Given the way he and Steve were equally ordering Hellfire around, Eddie finally knew where the little shit had picked that attitude up from. He was going to have to cure Dustin of it, ASAP.  ) 

“Here you go Miss Harper.” Steve said sweetly, handing over yet another stack of baked goods.

Without turning his head, and in the tone of voice one used to warn a misbehaving dog, he added; “Gareth don’t think I can’t fucking see you, get back up here.” 

Caught trying to sink under the table with another cookie in his mouth, Gareth found himself hauled back to his feet by his collar, putting a snarl on Eddie’s face immediately. 

“Hey--” He started, defensive and more than ready to intercede, except Gareth wasn’t flinching or cursing or doing that thing he did with his mouth when he was desperately trying to hold in his temper. 

Instead he was giving a sheepish grin and a half-assed apology while he hung in Harrington’s grasp, before doing what the guy told him to do. 

(It did not help that Steve patted him on the shoulder when he released him, before handing Gareth a third fucking cookie.)

Eddie’s eye twitched a second time.

(He told it to knock it off.

It didn’t listen.) 

No one acknowledged Eddie or his outburst, which meant he was just skulking behind the boys while they all worked. 

Arms crossed, rings tapping a rhythm on his forearm, far too keyed up to do anything other than glare at the back of Harrington's skull.

The King seemed perfectly happy to ignore him.

Likewise, Gareth and Grant knew better than to bother him when he was in a snit. 

Henderson made the occasional snappy little comment, but the brat had mostly left him alone now that they were well into the swing of selling, chortling over the increasing stack of cash Steve kept trying to get him to put into a “safe place.” 

Eddie was seconds away from walking up and snatching the cash himself when Jeff decided it was on him to attempt the impossible. 

Get him to help Harrington. 

“More hands would be nice, Eddie!” Jeff called, looking more than a little harassed as the mom he was helping changed her order a second time, snaking out the last single slice of chocolate cake from another mom who was eyeing it. “Steve and I could really use your assistance over here!” 

Eddie’s glare, which had been doing its level best to try and vaporize the King’s brain, switched targets instantly. 

“I’m supervising.” 

Jeff made a face like he was about to argue, but the King beat him to it. 

“It must be tough,” Harrington said, tilting his head to look back towards Eddie, “to supervise people who are working so much harder than you.” 

Which promptly set the mood for the next full hour. 

xXx 

Harrington was matching him tit for tat.

Every shitty, sneered word out of Eddie’s mouth was met with an equally mean toned barb, though given the repeated looks everyone kept shooting him, Eddie was very much considered the aggressor here.

A fact he cannot believe is coming from his own friends.

What happened to comradery? To Eddie stepping in and protecting them, from the likes of people just like Harrington? 

But no, Eddie makes one fucking comment about how the cookies are probably half hair-spray and suddenly he’s the bad guy.

(Nevermind that Steve had fired right back, telling Eddie that any hair-spray taste was probably from all the drugs he did.)

Was somewhat, halfway--okay maybe amazing, Eddie might have snuck a cookie himself--food really all it took to get them all to turn on him like this?

Erase the years of Eddie being their shield? 

Act like Harrington wasn’t just as bitchy and awful as he had been in high school (even if he was, admittedly, being nicer about it all right now? Almost--aloof, like he couldn’t figure out why Eddie hated him so much, but likewise wasn’t going to take even one eye roll sitting down--and no, no, Eddie wasn't derailing this by thinking about Harrington's stupid eyes, he wasn't!) 

Frankly he would have flipped them all the bird and stormed off, if it weren’t for the increasingly weird little comments people were making. 

‘Oh Steve, it's a shock to see you here.’ 

‘Are you doing someone a favor?’ 

‘You know Pastor Jim said something about this game…’

The last one had put Eddie’s teeth on edge, even if Dustin had brushed it off. It hadn’t been aimed at Steve directly but the women saying it had absolutely been looking at the King, as if waiting for his reaction.

Not that Harrington would take the bait this soon, though. 

There were too many people buying fricken…cupcakes and shit, while Horrorton enjoyed the attention of the masses. 

Eventually this tiny crowd would die down though, and that’s when Steve would change his tune. Start answering some of the questions he seemed to be dodging as more and more people got braver about coming up to the table.

This whole thing was a ticking time bomb, and Eddie would be ready when it inevitably blew. 

To defend his table, his club, his friends. 

Even Henderson, who absolutely didn’t deserve it just then. 

“Dude perk up would you? You look like you’re going to stab somebody.” Jeff hissed at him ten minutes later, when there was finally a break in the flood. 

Eddie ignored him in place of taking stock of the table. (And maybe, sneaking another cookie.)

“Hope you brought more than this, Harrington.” He said, knowing he sounded like a stuck up ass and not feeling an iota of guilt about it. “Unless you plan to run home and bake more like a good little housewife.”  

“Dude.” Grant said, casting him a look like King Dick might leave and take the cookies with him.

“Oh I brought more.” Harrington dismissed, with a small flick of his fingers. “And I’ll have you know you’d never find a housewife more perfect than I am, Munson.” 

Then he turned to nail Eddie with the most shit eating grin he’d ever seen the King wear. 

Facing flaming a brilliant red, Eddie sputtered for a second before finally getting ahold of himself and spitting; 

“How delightful. I--” 

“Okay.” Jeff cut in, forever the mediator. “Gary, Dustin can you help Steve pull the extra stuff out from under the tables? While I go talk to Eddie?” 

“Can I try the tiramisu?” Gareth asked, inching hopefully towards the treat while keeping an eye on Harrington’s hands, lest he get smacked again. 

“Only if you’re a good boy.” Harrington told him sarcastically and goddammit why did that make Eddie blush harder!? 

Jeff sighed, before grabbing his arm and hauling Eddie back, away from the table, right as a younger man in some stupid sport’s jacket asked questions about one of the dice cookies.

“Look I get it man, I do,” Jeff started, voice talking in the sort of wheelding, pleading tone it did when he really wanted something and knew Eddie was opposed. “but Steve’s been super cool. We might actually make money off this, and he’s giving us all of it. Can you just… not antagonize him for five minutes?” 

Eddie stared at his best friend in abject horror. 

“You couldn’t have talked to him for more than twenty minutes total. Half of which he spent bitching that you were bagging a cake wrong! At what point was Harrington "being cool!?"

The asterisks were made by his fingers, which Eddie mockingly framed his face with. 

He got a flat, unimpressed stare in return. 

“It was a very informative twenty minutes and he was right about the cake. Now are you going to help or are you going to glower in the corner?” 

Eddie gaped. 

“I cannot believe you right now--”

Jeff didn’t even wait to hear him out.

 “You’ve chosen to glower. I can’t help you man, but we’d all have a much better day if you weren’t at Harrington’s throat every five seconds.” Jeff turned smoothly on his heel.

Over his shoulder he added; “Seriously, don’t come back until you’ve worked your way out of your snit.” 

Shocked, Eddie watched Jeff float back to the front, inserting himself easily between Grant and Steve and immediately striking up a conversation.

With the enemy. 

“I didn’t know you baked.” Jeff told Steve loudly (and very obviously, for Eddie to see.) 

Steve gave a bashful little smile, then shrugged. “It’s a hobby. Got into it back when the basketball team needed to fundraise a few years ago and Tommy’s mom got it in her head we should sell home baked goods. Turns out its kinda fun.” 

“Please never get out of it.” Gareth insisted, a piece of God knows what crammed in his mouth.

“Dude, how many of those have you gotten into!? Stop eating the merchandise!” Dustin commanded, smacking at Gareth’s shoulder. 

“I physically cannot stop man.” Gareth dodged, reaching out for another cookie. “I’m not sorry.” 

Steve just laughed. All charming and buddy-buddy, like it was natural for him to be here. 

Wearing a Hellfire shirt. Making jokes and teasing the guys. 

In Eddie’s fucking place. 

He seethed, fingers twitching, and envisioned the very unsexy murder of one Steve Harrington.  

Cartoon X’s for eyes and all. 

xXx

Trouble didn't hit the table.

It in fact, seemed to stay away as if on purpose, to shove in Eddie's face that he was the one in the wrong here.

Even the questions toned done as the second wave of moms showed up, this round prompted by some former teammate of Steve’s Eddie didn’t recognize yelling about his apple pie.

Instead, Eddie’s wayward sheep finally made their appearance Mike and Lucas trying to sneak in as if Eddie wouldn’t notice during the new rush.

(Eddie himself almost caused trouble when he realized Lucas was wearing a Not-A-Hellfire shirt, which solved the mystery of where Harrington had gotten his.

He was inching his way towards them, a snarky word on his tongue when he saw Sinclair said something about how he was “already on Eddie’s shitlist for joining the basketball team,” in relation to what must have been a question about his Hellfire shirt, that caused Eddie to freeze.

With the air of a sad, wet kitten, Lucas followed it with; “I’m sure it won’t be long before he kicks me out of Hellfire anyway.” 

Like he'd been punched in the gut, all the air left Eddie’s lungs.

Because before Lucas had said that, Eddie had been thinking it. 

Not really--he’d never kick anyone out of Hellfire.

It was more that he'd thought about it in the way one does when you know you're in the right, and are having to resort to underhanded tactics to force the other party to come to their senses.

Like a sort of shitty, angry “I should kick you out, let you see what happens when you don’t have us!” kind of intervention.

The same kind he had heard the jocks sling before, when they were mad at each other and--God he wasn’t--he couldn’t be, like them...could he?

Like fucking Harrington, who oh fuck, was patting Lucas sympathetically on the shoulder and giving him some kind of whispered advice. 

Sonovabitch. 

“I’m going for a smoke.” Eddie bit out, vision tunneling.

He knew he needed to go sit down somewhere, before he fucking lost it in front of Hawkins, Harrington and everyone. 

And wouldn’t that just be a treat for King Steve?

To watch Eddie realize he had turned into the very thing he hated, preached against, even? 

That Steve was, maybe, possibly, doing a better job of following Eddie’s own Munson Doctrine than he was?

Eddie barely saw the room anymore--waived off whatever Grant was trying to say to him as flew past, shaking hands fishing for a desperately needed cigarette.

Maybe a hope and a prayer too, because apparently he needed it.

How long had he been like this? 

Been a douchebag asshole? 

Was it the whole year? More than? Or was it just now, with stupid Steve involved? Could he trace this back to that stupidly cute--no, no, annoying, asshole?

Was this some fucked up way of coping with his growing crush!?

Lost in thought and growing self hatred he nearly careened right into Robin Buckley.

Her slightly bent paper reindeer ears marked her as a memeber of the high school band, who had been absolutely butchering ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ a few minutes earlier. 

Vaguely heard her yell Steve’s name as he ran off (because that’s what Eddie was doing. What he always did.

Run--from himself and his own fucking feelings, like a total cliche.)

--but didn’t take in that she was doing more than saying hi to, oh fuck him sideways--her friend.

Because she and Steve were friends now.

Good ones, if the freshmen were to be believed.

Rather than go outside and catastrophize in the cold, Eddie threw himself threw the doors at the end of the hall, then up the stairwell, to the second floor.

Tucked himself into a corner, right there by the stairs.

Sank down into a crouch, hands scrubbing up his face before tangling in his hair, head dropping between his knees, cigarette shoved into his mouth.

Somehow, Eddie decided, this was Steve’s fault. 

He'd have come up with a reason for that, he was sure. A good one even, except he forgot one of the key features of his life.

He was a Munson, and as a general rule of life, nice neat things did not happen to Munson's--but they did get kicked while they were down.

“Okay, what happened?” Steve fucking Harrington asked, voice loudly echoing up the stairwell from down below, and Eddie threw his head back, nearly slamming it against the wall. 

(Maybe he’d pissed off a witch. His life would make a lot more sense if someone had cursed it.)

“She gave me her number!”

That was Buckley, the shrill timber identifiable even as she whispered the words. 

Eddie can’t really see them without giving himself away--could probably make his escape if he got down and army-crawled past the railing he’s huddled by, but figured this is their fault anyway. 

Not his problem if he overhears a private conversation because they’re both too stupid to check to see if someone was seated literally right up above them.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?" Steve was saying. "That’s what we wanted!” 

“Is it!? What if she’s just, you know, giving it to me?” 

“...I’m not following.” 

“Like in a friend way. Not a--”

“Romantic way?”

Harrington has the smarts to say the words quietly.  So quietly in fact, that had Eddie not been in the exact right position he wouldn’t have heard--but he almost swallowed his unlit (he should have lit it, maybe they'd have smelled the smoke and fucked off) cigarette anyway. 

“Sssshh!” Robin hissed, and Eddie can’t see either of them but he imagined her jamming her hand over Harrington’s big fat mouth. 

“Not so loud, Steve!” 

“Sorry, God.” Sure enough, Harrington’s voice is muffled. “How did she give it to you? Did she say anything?” 

“She asked if I want to hang out after band, but because I have that stupid family thing, I told her I couldn’t today, but I can literally any other day, and she said she’d call me, and I said--” 

“Robs, breathe.” 

“Don’t interrupt me, Dingus!” Robin said, voice shrill again, before she clearly listened to Harrington and took a breath. 

 It was big, and deep, and she blasted it back out loud enough for the fucking birds on the roof to hear. 

In a calmer voice, Robin continued; “I said we never traded phone numbers so I didn’t have hers. She grabbed my arm and wrote her number on it. Look, she added a heart!” 

“Okay, here you go! A hearts a good sign!"  

And Harrington sounded--sounds happy for her, practically ecstatic, which doesn’t make much sense given Robin is talking about a ‘her’ and-

And-and-and--

Eddie’s always been quick to connect the dots. 

It’s something he inherited from his old man. A Munson trait he’s tried to make his own through being an excellent DM (and not by robbing people blind or boosting cars.) 

Here, the dots clearly screamed that Robin Buckley was trying to ask a woman out. 

You know, in a gay way. 

Which Harrington not only knew, but was supportive of. 

Steve Harrington, who famously called Jonathan Byers' a queer before smashing the guy's beloved camera into the ground. 

Eddie’s head exploded. 

Or was in the process of exploding--he’s not entirely sure given the tunnel vision was back and his soul felt like it had exited his body entirely. 

Just knew that his world was being remade for a second time in five minutes, and that he was dealing with it pretty damn poorly.

(Maybe God would be nice for once, and just give him the aneurism he clearly deserved.)

Which was of course, when trouble finally did decide to show face, in the form of Dustin Henderson barging through the doors and into Steve and Robin's little meeting.

Eddie knew, because Eddie could hear him.

“Steve! Steve we have a problem!” 

“I’m busy Dustin--”

“Be busy later, we have an emergency on our hands!” 

“And what, pray tell, do you think is an emergency?” 

Eddie, who had instantly latched onto the conversation by the sheer need to have something distract him from his own thoughts, wondered the very same.

“Jason Carver showed up at the table, with a priest. They’re trying to do some whole kind of crazy sermon--is that a good enough emergency for you!?” 

“Oh shit. ” Steve spat, at the same time Eddie yelled it from up high. 

He sprang up, all thoughts of Robin and Steve knowing he’d eavesdropped vanishing entirely from his head as he lunged for the stairs.

Flew down them, because the thing he'd been waiting all fucking day for had finally happened.

He nearly crashed into Robin once again as he blew through the barely closed doors, Steve and Dustin already far ahead of him.

“Eddie?” Robin asked, voice noticeably nervous. "Were you--"

"Not now Starbuck, but we can talk later." Eddie told her, flying right past.

After he saved Hellfire. 

[aluraveil]

yandere ex pm dazai x reader

im imagining a scenario where it turns out that pm dazai doesnt really love you and that you were just a toy for him to play around with..

you're angry and rightfully upset and you're in tears and sobbing. you thought dazai loved you and it turns out that he didnt? what a sick joke.

buuuut then dazai sort of realizes that he's alone without you. there's a sick feeling of regret crawling up his spine.

and once he starts to regret, it hits him hard. he went from not caring and then did a whole 180 and started to miss you a lot.

once hes in the phase where regret eats up at him, he's quite literally scary as fuck. all of a sudden he becomes more agitated, more selfish, and has less patience.

all of his subordinates and people working under him can tell that dazai is a time ticking bomb about to explode. when he regrets, dazai becomes more aggressive and downright scary. if his men fail a mission they are all getting severely punished. dazai just doesn't have the patience anymore.

it doesn't get any better when he becomes the port mafia's boss. if anything, he becomes even worse. if you thought mafia executive 'Demon Prodigy' dazai was scary, you haven't seen anything.

as the boss of the port mafia, dazai is naturally in charge of everything that happens as he quite literally is the highest ranking member of the mafia because he's the leader. during the time period he takes over as the boss, nobody even wants to mess with him.dazai has much more influence over everything during this time and you can bet that he has been watching over you for quite some time.

it doesn't take long for dazai to snatch you back up. he quite literally was 'suffering' and in so much 'pain' without you even when it was clearly his fault. you cant blame yourself for leaving him. who wants to be with someone who doesnt love you? nobody right?

during this time, he tries to run into you by coincidence. at this point he sometimes runs into you if you worked at a restaurant or something. he tries to play it cool but you both know what his true intentions are and it doesn't need to be said out loud.

you however, are downright terrified. this is literally the same guy who committed 625 counts of fraud. 625. not to mention he is the literal boss of the port mafia. the boss. the frickin boss.

you're scared because you dont believe he will show any mercy towards you. this is because the two of you arent 'lovers' (you don't know if the both of you ever were because dazai didnt hold any feelings for you) and he probably sees you as nothing more than a stupid idiot. this is not the same dazai you loved. this is the dazai that doesnt love you meaning that he doesnt care about you which in turn means that if something happened to you, he just straight up doesnt care.

he starts calling you 'belladonna' and 'darling' again which feels awkward and disgusting. whenever he calls you that you straight up wince and cringe and you don't even try to hide it. there's a whole wave of awkwardness that lingers in the air when you just reply back with a "..hi?.." dazai senses that the tension in the air is so thick that you could slice through it but him being him he just straight up dgaf.

you're not thrilled to see him whatsoever. when he comes here he doesn't even order any food and just tries to talk to you. he always leaves you a huge tip when he does leave though. you never take it though. you dont want his money. the next time he does come you give the money back to him and but he refuses to take it back saying "you've been working so hard belladonna, you deserve to treat yourself." again with the belladonna thing. it doesnt feel right for him to call you that at all.

dazai knows that youre refusing his advances but it doesnt stop him from trying. afterall you loved him once. thats all that matters. its only the results that matter in the end right?

right?

...

maybe.

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #5548:

Which one says more "groomer"?

"NSFW - Trigger warnings: age gap, noncon 18+ only, dead dove do not eat, minors keep out" "What you enjoy in fiction is mot necessarily what you think is acceptable or good in real life, and that's okay. Just be courteous and respect people's boundaries, tags, filters, and content warnings are useful tools. Fiction is a safe way of exploring unsafe concepts. Many people use fiction as a method to work through their traumas, but its okay even if that's not the reason they like it, some people are just drawn to taboo subjects, that's completely natural. Regardless we're not going to try to force people to open up about their past traumas, nor any other personal information. No story should be banned from being told just because it makes some people uncomfortable. Art is meant to provoke intense emotions, afterall. Even if I don't like something, it's not my business to tell someone else what they should or should not create. I'm an adult and its MY responsibility to manage my emotional responses, not anyone else's. If you find yourself unable to manage please remove yourself from this space and find somewhere more suitable.

or

"EVERY OTHER ADULT BUT ME is out to get you!! I'M the only one I can trust!! I only like WHOLESOME ships and WHOLESOME content!! Look at this GROSS NASTY PORN someone made!! They tried to hide it because they don't want anyone to know what a GROSS FUCK they are!! That's why I'm showing it to all of you!! I can't trust anyone unless you detail ALL of your privileges and your traumas! And if anyone steps one toe out of line by enjoying a problematic cartoon ship I'll publicly shame them and tell all my other 14 year old friends to bully harass cyberstalk and socially ostracize them as well and if they don't I'll make sure the same thing happens to them!! This is for the SAFETY of other minors and NOT because of any petty personal vendetta!! ALSO I think its a good idea to send specifically minors to mess with people who - I claim to truly believe are - ACTUAL REAL PEDOPHILES-- to totally frickin own them online!! Anyone who disagrees with me is a pdo and gromer!!! So ONLY LISTEN TO ME!!! NO opposing or outside perspectives allowed!! I'm a good, SAFE, HEALTHY, NORMAL ADULT!! PROSHITTERS KYS!!!!!!"

[marmarmiya]

mumbo frickin jumbo!!!! yeah!!!!!!! For 'Early', I saw someone headcanon that in earlier seasons the lag that messed with elytras was actually his homemade wings malfunctioning since it's an earlier design and I thought that was so cute so I gave him a steampunk inventor vibe to match Mumbo was the first hermit I watched, starting season 6, what a slippery slope

[themareverine]

Top Eight | worst!Logan x namelessfem!OC

warnings: mentions of sex, body insecurity, weightloss, confidence issues, domestic bliss and fluff, namelessOC has blue eyes.

a/n: in celebration of me discovering I've dropped eleven frickin' pounds off the BMI chart, I decided to share the news with Logan, and yourself. please enjoy my domestic fantasy. this really isn’t a drabble but I’m classifying it as such.

There’s little better God has created in the world than coming home to a house alive with music, laughs, and the thick swirl of joy chasing the air. Fall hangs out the window in a tapestry of orange leaves, skittering to the ground on chill winds, cluttering the sidewalk like ill-fitting, everyone’s-a-little-different puzzle pieces.

Blankets of fog have hung in the air every morning. Leaves and grass are wet, burdened with thick, cold mud that stings—the type of cold that sinks all the way down to bone, should you be standing between it. And Logan tries to remember a time when, as a child, he didn’t care about the frigid mud between his toes—didn’t mind the mess, innocence of childhood wrapped up in exploration and whimsy.

Simpler times. Suburban life greets him at the door of what, at one point in his life, would be knife’s edge unfathomable—a duplex. Butter yellow with little white trim around the windows. Big oaks in the front and back yard, primly divided by white privacy fences so tall they challenge heaven. Summer had proudly boasted a colorful troop of flowers in that window box facing the street, the one that allows for the smallest peek into his small kingdom, if you looked hard enough. Prepared for winter, adirondack chairs have been swept away into the garage, all traces of outside living shut up for the Goliath of winter that looms with each passing day. 

The corner of his mouth tips up at the arrangement proudly displayed on the front door. It’s Fall Y’all! hangs in his face, all domesticity. Glitter and pumpkins, a cute little red-and-white-pickup. Evidence of a woman’s touch, more and more. Bearing down on his life like Egyptians chariots forcing Moses against the sea, every day he approaches the house— there’s a little more charm. A little more whimsy, order. More color and life and more her, all things he never in his longest, maddest dreams would begin thinking were missing from him. But now they are so familiar, such welcome soldiers to his little army of living, that he can’t imagine going without. 

And Logan will never not love the fact he doesn’t have to knock on this door. He opens it, twisting the knob that’s cool against the thick callouse of his hand. Jacket heavily draped over his arm, habit knocks his boots against the doorframe, adding to the collection of scuffs already there from the hundred other times he’s done this same thing. And it is the same come-home routine, but he doesn’t mind. Shake his head at whatever seasonal decor greets him on the door. Slip in, knock his boots. Hang his jacket on the hook behind the door, with his keys–next to hers. Because she’s been home all day, working on that frickin’ computer, making her little creative world run in the little ways she does that he’ll never understand. 

About to shed his vest, Logan pauses. Claws on wooden floors from the 50s flick his attention down, to his feet. The ménage à trois of three scampering sets of paws tip up the corner of his mouth into a small smirk, watching the troop of hair, wagging tail and slobber all bull rushing him like cannonballs. And they are not small creatures, by any stretch—a bloodhound. St. Bernard. Doberman, all looking at him with bright eyes as if he’s the best thing they’ve seen all day. 

Which is the farthest thing from true, because she’s been here. Locked up in his Fort Knox all hours of sunshine, doing all the things he’d give his right arm to spend his days doing with her. Domestic bliss. It’s sick, really—kinda insane. For a man who has prided himself the last 200 years on destruction, a man who has traveled through time to claim a world that isn’t his, it’s disturbing that this idea of life is so…saccharine. Perfect. Eden. 

Scratching behind each set of ears, movement in the heart of the house triggers his gaze up. Down the corridor to the kitchen, where he cal all but taste what’s for dinner. It floods him with a warmth he can’t quite put a finger on, rousts something in his guts that is good. Fire that’s delicious, heat that promises. Standing, he manages off his boots, all three canines looking at him. Expressions cocked, they wait. Expectantly. 

“Where is she, fellas? Mama ‘round somewhere, huh?” A flick of his hand beyond them sends the troop off like a shot—slipping and sliding on the pretty rugs she’s laid out in the foyer, sending them against the walls in fat piles of fabric that makes his eyes roll. On socked feet, he fixes them. She likes them pretty and neat, and if she likes it, well—whatever his girlie wants, she gets. 

About to call for her, he doesn’t expect the slingshot of curl that attacks him from the front room, “Hi, babe!” Out the french doors like a racehorse, her girlish smile and bright eyes assault him less than seriously, bouncing laughter loud and fresh and strong, like mountains on an open-sky day. Very suddenly the events of his day are improved, work all but forgotten as she wraps her arms around his middle. Rests her chin against his chest, looking up at him with the full weight of the universe hanging in her eyes. In heartbeats, she manages to change another Thursday into the Thursday—the Thursday to challenge all others even known to his existence.  

And since he’s known her, that’s what she is–changing. A fresh wind, moving clouds and rearranging the sky. Rivers that carry him away to faraway lands, anywhere that isn’t the onyx abyss of his memories, which are so black and white and unalive without her. His hand moves to run fingers through curl, which are still damp from a late-afternoon shower. Color that lingers on her cheeks matches that barely-there smattering of that vanilla protein powder she loves on her lips when he kisses her. Means one thing, his favorite thing—the thing they’d been doing for nearly six months. 

Greeting her with a smile and a, “Hey, baby,” will never tire to infinity. Leaning back against his arms cradled around her midsection, pressing her close, Logan all but craves the sparkle of sapphire hanging out in her eyes. They catch his, holding him hostage—every day he has to rediscover how to breathe. Think, move past the ache in his cock that she somehow manages to produce at a subliminally level just by existing. 

And his lips part to ask her about her day, another part of this thing they call life. Until she reaches around to the back pocket of her jeans, her favorites, the one’s she won’t stop wearing and has at least three extras squirreled-away to that spot in the closet they don’t speak of. That spot next to the neon-colored heels he knows she thrifted but hasn’t ever shared, the lingerie she’s holding onto that’s been driving him itchin’ mad since he’d peeked at it. And while he adores everything about her, her ability to wait for just the right moment to share things she’s excited about has to be one of his favorite things on the planet. 

“So, before you speak,” her finger comes to press against the seal of his lips, other hand proudly producing a folded square of paperwork between her index and middle finger, “I have amazing news. The biggest news–the best news of the whole week.” Her brows bounce, emphasizing her excitement as her low lip curls in. Logan watches her bite the inside of her cheek, thinks it’s just about the sexiest thing in the world aside from the little scrunch of her nose, how her glasses sit a little lopsided from where she’s rested her forehead against his chest. 

Really all he could use right now is another taste of her to make his week, but, he plays the adjective game. “Oh yeah?” A chuckle rattles the adamantium of his ribs as she steps out of his arms, takes his hand to guide him into the kitchen. She releases him only when her socked feet hit the wooden floor, making a show of sliding to a stop opposite the island from him. 

Babytalking the dogs at her feet, his sweet little thing of a girl backs up against the sink, her tongue teasing the front of her bottom teeth as she unfolds the paper. It’s like magnetism, the way he wants her–he’s drawn, like creatures to fire, around the island. To her side. Touching her, breathing in her closeness. And he prays to God it will always be like this—he’ll always want her, she’ll always look at him like he has been carved from bronze. That this little life in Hoboken, New Jersey, never says die. 

“I had a doctor’s appointment today,” the little lilt in her tone is so clear, they’d hear it from Mars if anyone had the brains to listen, “and, I just have to say this, Logan—really. This has to be like, a top eight life moment for me, what I’m about to tell you.” Playing with a dog-eared corner of the paper, her eyes flick up to hold his in limbo, again. Smiling eyes have all but chiseled away any remaining stone of his heart, and he’d gladly carve whatever may remain out of his own ribs and give it to her, should she ask, “And I’ll say this as a warning. If you aren’t nearly as excited about this as me, well—I’ll be forced to divorce you and move in with Wade and Althea.” 

And he laughs at her. His single favorite quality of life since running into what’s-his-face-pool and saving this realm has been the rediscovery of laughing, of feeling beyond the numbness. She made him laugh the day he found her, discovered her like some fool digging around the dirt of the everyday, and she hadn’t stopped. And Logan Howlett has never taken pride in being a hardass, but—his ass is a little less hard, these days. How could it be. Her standing there, looking like she does? Wanting him, seeking him? Him? The damn Wolverine—the worst Wolverine. 

His brow pops to attention. “Is that right?” His finger crooks one of her belthoops, tugging her hip against his gently, “a little harsh, but, I accept your terms, taskmaster.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling and his chin gestures to the paper. After a second of weighing her words, he snags her chin between his fingers and gives her a Really? expression. “Hold the fuckin’ phone—a top eight? You have a top eight list of life events?” He snorts, “And I didn’t know about it?” 

Her eyes flash with brazen darkness enough to shame the witching hour. A firm nod, even between his fingers. Her hip pops out, just a little. “Mhm, eight.” Still holding the paper, she offers a blatantly over dramatic look of desire, her head tipping back just a little as she brushes close. Done-up nails gently graze through his facial hair, before she flashes him eight—a palm, thumb and index finger somehow still managing to hold the paper keeping him in suspense. 

Beginning to tick off fingers, he listens with amusement. Driver’s license, college. Her first publication as a freelancer. Her first car payment. Paying off her student debt, meeting her idol, Charles Xavier, a man who’s work on mutant and human coalitions she’d been devouring since forever. Meeting him, marrying him and buying a house. Technically that was nine, but, she explained—a bunch of life events landed under the Logan tab, which made him chuckle and shake his head. 

“Finished?” He nods to the paper again. “You gonna tell me this life changing, top-eight news or what?” For a second his heart does an all-stop as she nods, the corner of her lip tucking in under her teeth.

From here Logan can taste the adrenaline in her blood, the joy—the buzz of something pumping through her like a pistoning locomotive, charting new territories. And before he can think, before he can bridle his own wagging tongue, “You pregnant, darlin’?” punches off his tongue like a cage fighter.  

Two things he should’ve known off the shot—pregnancy announcements usually involved a piss stick, not paper. Two, that something so mountainous would not have waited for him to breeze through the door. Not her style, not by a country mile—she’d stopped off at his job site with lunch just to announce the last payment on her student debt, complete with cheesecake and those cute little pocket bottles of Jack Daniels. She made a big deal out of everything, and he wouldn’t have –could not survive– it any other damn way. 

Slackjaw, for a second he thinks the hinge of her jaw might start swinging before she hauls off to slap his shoulder, the rings on her fingers passing by in a blur of turquoises, yellows, oranges and silvers as a squealing, “Logan!” shoots out of her like the fountain of youth—makes him laugh, again, as he grabs her hand in his and hauls to his lips. Presses a kiss to the heel of her palm, “No, Wolvie—haven’t managed to knocked me up quite yet, thanking you.” And that name—it punches the wind right out of his lungs, sends every ounce of mutant fucking blood right to his cock, all at once. 

It’s not a serious thanks, he knows. Been off-the-cuff talking about getting pregant for a handful of months, tossing the idea back and forth. It was the reason behind the duplex, family planning—and he hadn’t fought the idea of redoing the spare room. Shoving her office into the corner of their suite. It’d been a year, she was thirty, now, had been ringing off these walls like a canyon echo. Biological clock ticking off the walls of her womb, apparently, even though she didn’t fucking age—thanks to mutation, his mutation left behind in her blood a lifetime ago. 

Source of one too many arguments back and forth, they hadn’t quite decided to make an effort not to get pregnant. An ugly IUD hung between them like unscalable Mount Olympus. Hands up in surrender, he tries not to chuckle as she plants the paper in between them, in both hands. Sapphire blues cast down to it, triggering his attention downward as well. A heartbeat before her head pops back up, all smiles and piglet pink cheeks. 

“Guess who just knocked eleven points off the BMI chart?” And there it is.

Certainly a different tone of subject than the one before, Logan can’t help the look of surprise that smacks across his face—she is all but giddy. Pressing the paper to her chest, she rising on toes and begins to bounce, like a rabbit, up and down in a way that springs her hair every direction. Her shrieks of excitement are loud enough to wake the dead, but, he’d have a better time freezing hell over, if he’d wanted to. Spinning in a exuberant circle, the ruckus sends all three of their dogs into the kitchen, bouncing around her like she’s deserving of worship. A goddess. His goddess. 

She’d only been killing herself in their garage gym since they’d bought the place a little over a year ago. Plagued with one of those New Year’s resolutions, she’d committed to exercise like a duck commits to water—and Logan hadn’t ever seen someone try to hard, not in a long time. Never one really faced with the issue of having to maintain physical maintenance, thanks to genetic mutation, a workout regiment hadn’t really ever crossed his mind—natural circumstances kept him lean. He’d been alive for 200 years, could abuse his body any way he wanted, and it just–was. A lucky son of a bitch, but, he’d never paused to consider that it wasn’t that way for everyone else. 

So when she’d all but pleaded for a home gym, he’d folded fast. Like a bad hand. Her body had certainly never been an issue between them—he worshiped every curve, could build monuments how often his mind drifted to just fucking her within an inch of sanity. Each scar, every single solitary divot, right down to the pores on her face. Not magazine beautiful or classically Hollywood, her own admission had almost gutted him. 

A girl-next-door, down-to-earth pretty sent him to pieces in ways that Logan would sooner carve out his open spine than share—she ravaged him. Like a dog, licking at the marrow of his bones. The weight of her eyes alone, cutting through his misgivings, trailblazing his insecurities as a man. She was perfect in every phenomena, every realm and bend of time. Designed for him, by Christ Himself—the most gorgeous fucking thing on two legs, he didn’t need billboards or Vogue or the silver screen to set standard yet untenable to the majority. Determined long ago that there’d never be another for him, that he could never love any other soul–worship anatomy—quite like he did her. 

He’d never complained. Hell thrived with such foolishness. He bought the gym equipment, though, mostly because he knew in the long run, it would be better. If not for him, then for her—he was happy. HEr happiness may as well have been the air his body craved. He’d set up the gym on a weekend, learned to park his Jeep outside. Had learned to help her bandage injuries and balance proteins and carbs, listened to her cry over numbers on a tiny scale that didn’t really matter. But, never complained. 

And Logan had noticed the change about her anatomy—the little definitions of curve, the way she moved. She didn’t always, but he knew—when he held her close, made love to her. Difference, even in its smallest form, was still changing. Lighter on her feet, stronger when it came to helping do whatever it was she determined to assist with. Her clothes fit a little differently, the line of her jaw a little sharper. But, skies above that was her confidence. 

Always had opposed his reserved and calculated stoicism, a spicy little firecracker of a thing that took what she wanted and could talk to fenceposts. But, she’d always sparkled differently. It was like weighing the moon against the sun—she just sparkled better. Moved a little sexier, blazes a little hotter. Not quite the North Star, but a close second—somewhere in his guts he feared she’d wake up one morning, realize she was hot as sin, and leave his ass for what’s-his-face from the Greatest Showman or someone on television. 

Her fingers curl into his arms as she bounces a little more on her toes, pride all but beaming from the pink dusting across the bridge of her nose. “Me, it’s me!” Childlike laughter bubbles out of her like a brook, hot and alive, and he can’t help the swell of pride. “After eight fricking months, it’s me,” she blows out a breath, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, “y’know, honestly, I didn’t think any of it was actually doing all that much—i’ve only dropped thirty pounds on the scale, which doesn’t seem like a lot in eight months, but–you were right, Lo! It turned to muscle, you were right!” 

He nods, smile growing to a painful wide that he isn’t sure is amusement, or pride. “‘Course I was right,” he stresses, his tone low as he dips his head to brush his nose against the end of hers. Smiling into the kiss she presses to his mouth, he lifts an arm into flex before grabbing her chin between his fingers and taking her full attention, “Don’t get definition like this not knowin’ what you’re talking about, baby.” Lies. Teasing lies. He hadn’t so much as thought of a fucking dumbbell since that time before some God-forsaken war. 

Pouty lips pull her eyes back to his, and he can see the muscle in her jaw tick with the effort not to grin. Heartbeats, and his arms snake around her middle again, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt. “I’m proud of you, kid,” and he hasn’t called her that since God knew, likes the way it darkens the little flush on her cheeks. “Guess I’d better work a little harder keeping you close to home. Can’t have you skippin’ out on this whole little domestic thing we’ve got going,” he shrugs a shoulder, “what would the dogs do without you?”

Giggling again, her shoulders pop up and down in a little happy shift, he takes her arms and guides them around his neck, “The dogs, huh? Is that right?” Her nose scrunches up again, eyes snapping to life as she steps onto his toes, enough for him to shuffle them out of the kitchen, towards the living space, “You think I’d leave you just because I get sexy?” It’s not a serious question, the flutter of low lashes testifies as he stops them in the middle of the living room, toes curling into the plush carpet as her head cants to the side, like a curious puppy. “And lose my bet with Wade? Don’t know me at all, do you, Wolverine?” 

God only wishes. He knew parts of her the world would never. And he smiles, snorting a little at the thought of their entire relationship hinging on a bet with Wilson, the fucking idiot he is. That feels like a lifetime ago, riding life out in a dingy apartment. Blind Al as company, Wilson as a fucking landlord. If he counted back every red cent he’d paid in rent, it wouldn’t be enough for a grocery run—small mercies. Lifting a hand between them, he crooks a finger, chuckling as she eyeballs it for a second, weighing her options. 

“I like to think I do,” and he does. She’s given him everything. And if she hasn’t—well. He can fix that. “You don’t got any secrets left, do you, darlin’? You’ve already seen my soul—only fair you let me see yours.” Tipping her chin up, he kisses her slowly. Angles his head for whatever depth he can pull her from, keens a little when her breathy moan chases the heat lighting up his adamantium skeleton like an inferno. Tasting the trace of that fucking protein mess on her tongue nearly brings him to his knees, fingers carding through her hair for as much purchase and possession he can find. 

“I do have one,” she manages, a little breathless between nipping at his bottom lip and fighting with the buckle of his belt. With a Jezebel shove of her hand, she sends him down to the cushions of the couch—it protests, accepting his weight.

From beneath low lashes, her ocean blues trace the details of his face as she knees onto the couch, swings a leg over him. Pelvis to pelvis, her weight is divine. Lights him up like a damn electric wire. He can feel heat in his chest chasing after the adrenaline in his blood, can taste her, even from here. 

Grabbing the front of her t-shirt between two fingers, he tugs her a little closer. 

“What’s that?” 

She chuckles, shifting a flirty shoulder. “My IUD? Gone,” she snaps her fingers, biting the corner of her lower lip. Eyes cutting to his mouth, she doesn’t hesitate–a heartbeat and she’s kissing him deeply, milking every little ache and moan creeping up the back of his throat. She sighs a little when his hand presses against her womb, thumb tracing the gentle spot beneath her belly button. “How’s that make you feel, Wolvie honey?” A light, flustered chuckle as he tucks hair behind her ear, rubs a curl between his fingers.

“Think you can handle a mini you making a mess of the world?” 

Knocking his head back over the edge of the couch, his hands find her waist. Stills her before he closes his eyes, relishes the way she lathes her tongue along his pulse. And he’ll never know how it really makes him feel, because feeling is all but a rush of adrenaline when it comes to her—everything and nothing, a floating abyss of pleasure and home that, from the beginning of time, man has tried to describe. It’s all wrapped up in limbo, though–limbo and his ribs, jeans and a pretty face. 

 “Not sure,” his hand tucks behind her head and he flips them, forcing her into the couch before she can protest—before she and her eleven-points-off-the-chart can challenge any idea other than what he’s about to do to her.

“”Think we should find out, darlin’.”

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[admiral-mason]

Hear me out... SAGAU! Genshin x Gn! Reader that also plays Sky: Children of Light...

Hi it's you again! I still need to remember to write that Forest Island thing you sent me

Also I'm addicted to it too lmfao

Anyways this is my reaction to learning about Sky: Children of Light

Why is the lore so frickin confusing

THEREFORE, I will probably screw up one thing or another when it comes to the game while writing this (you are not getting me addicted to any more mobile games*).

*games that I downloaded on my tablet and check in often with

To fix that, the reader will simply have similar powers akin to those from Sky: Children of the Light because understanding the lore of the actual game will kill me

Reader is Gender Neutral

Warning: Dead people everywhere

You're confused.

One moment you were messing around on Genshin Impact and Sky: Children of the Light...

And now, you're in Teyvat.

With the fricking cape you used in that latter game.

Based on your current position, you're likely near Mondstadt, which you later confirmed when you saw the city in the distance.

You initially wanted to try flying to the nation of freedom, but you stopped after realizing that flying in Sky: CotL is likely not flying in real life.

So before doing so, you decided to try attempting to fly with your cape. Making your way to an elevated hill, you jumped and leaned forward...

Then your cape automatically puts you in flying mode, allowing you to land safely at the bottom. Cool! You don't need to worry about any controls or whatever.

So you began flying to Mondstadt! But then you ran out of energy... so you had to walk the rest of the way there.

You decided to pull a trick on Swan and Lawrence at Mondstadt's front gates by flying right in front of them, and their jaws dropped.

"...Uh, are you two gonna respond-"

"YOUR GRACE!"

And then the two kneeled before rambling about how you had 'descended' and a bunch of other words you'd hear from a cult-like setting. And then you're just standing there wondering, "what the frick is going on"

And you're led to Jean, and this event attracts everyone in the city, and hoo-boy, now there's a massive party and festival.

Looking past the introductions, Amber is ecstatic about your gliding capabilities! She takes you on gliding trips and is slightly jealous that you can glide without a wind glider.

You tend to glide right into trees more often though.

Then there's Venti, who will hog your time spend his time with you propelling you up into the air. Sometimes, he'll use the wind to let you do various tricks you likely wouldn't be capable of performing in either Genshin Impact or Sky: CotL when you used to play them.

Most of your time in Mondstadt is you getting snatched away by Amber and/or Venti when no one is looking.

This creates clear-cut competition between your harem everyone. Different characters will utilize different strategies to get you to spend more time with them (i.e. Lisa offers rest, Kaeya seduces you whether it's effective or not you decide, etc).

Oh and for the more cheeky individuals, you sometimes decide to glide to lose... and then your acquaintances catch up quickly because of their training, much to your disappointment and your day is ruined.

After a while, you get adjusted to your life. Hostile animals and monsters don't even attack you, how nice!

And then, something happens.

You're on your way to Windrise, alone, to take a little walk. However, out of nowhere, a lyre begins to play.

Unlike Venti's music, what you're hearing right now is sorrowful and poignant, bearing a feeling of distant memories lost to time.

Attempting to find the source of the song, you finally stop in front of a translucent blue figure... a figure with a familiar look to a certain present-day Anemo archon.

"...I never knew you would descend so soon," he said, with a voice slightly deeper compared to Venti's. "Are you here to see me play?"

You didn't know how to respond, and he simply chuckled before his ghostly form approached you.

...Hang on. The Nameless Bard appears to bear qualities akin to a spirit in Sky: CotL, so can you view his memories??

And then you realized that you needed a flame to do so. Then, you felt something lay in your right hand. When you looked at it, you were somehow gripping a red candle.

And it turns out that when you held it to the Nameless Bard, it automatically lit up, and his spiritual form compressed into a spark, sending you on a goose chase after it throughout Mondstadt and leaving the locals wondering why the heck you're chasing after some strange light.

Unlike how Venti told his tale of his friend, most of these memories held a more personal tone to them. One of them detailed the bard sneezing in wisp Venti's face, while another one depicted him eating an apple.

Unlike the spirits in the original Sky: CotL, there were a lot more memories. You both ran and flew around everywhere in Mondstadt.

After the final memory, the spark took you to black figure in front of the statue of Barbatos, in a kneeling position. Holding your candle for it, it slowly cracked apart, revealing a golden spirit that everyone around, including Venti, could see.

"I'm... back. Thank you, your grace," the Nameless Bard said, and everyone just stared in silence much to the awkward tension you just created.

@floofeh-purpi Alright since I'm too tired to understand the rest of Sky: CotL lore have this schizophrenic version instead lmfao

And now I need to work on that Forest Island post

[crheativity]

Started thinking about what pet names all the boys would give you (excluding standard ones like babe/baby and darling and love and stuff) and this is what I came up with-

(Some of these have been in fics I've read bur I am currently sick as a dog and don't remember where, so credit where credit is due!)

Heartslabyul-

Riddle: His Rose/Rosebud/Petal. Might use Strawberry if he can not get flustered by using it

Ace: Cherry (he mentions liking cherries at some point)

Deuce: Bluebell/Bluebird (no clue why I thought of it but this is so frickin cuuute 🥺)

Cater: Presh (originally it was his Diamond, then his Precious, then Presh for short)

Trey: Honey or Sugar if he was feeling endeared, but if he was messing around he'd use different ingredients (egg, flour, butter, etc. Oyster sauce is one of his favourites when teasing too)

Savannaclaw-

Leona: I could only think of catnip, kitten or pillow so pick your poison 💀

Jack: His mate (most people think you are just homies at first bc of it but then they realise)

Ruggie: Sweetpea/Dandelion/other (edible) flowers

Octavinelle-

Azul: Angelfish

Jade: Pearl

Floyd: Shrimpy!!1!1!!

Scarabia-

Kalim: Princess/Sunflower

Jamil: Gem/Albibi (baby in Arabic. Idk much about that one, I've seen people say he'd use it though)

Pomefiore-

Vil: Sweet potato Fair one

Rook would have a new one every two minutes and each time it would be a paragraph in French describing how beautiful you are

Epel: Apple blossom (shortened to Apple or blossom)

Ignihyde-

Idia: Player 2 he'd also use discord kitten to tick you off

(Also Ortho will now call you Neesan)

Diasomnia-

Malleus: MY child of man

Lilia: Little bat

Sebek: TOLERABLE

Silver: Fawn

If you guys have any other thoughts lmk, I'm curious to see what others think 👀👀

[allhailthepandicorn]

Reasons I Ship Destiel

Literally the most evidence I have ever seen

It’s gay

Dean deserves to be happy and Cas makes him happy

Cas deserves to be happy and Dean makes him happy

I identify with Cas because I too question everything about myself, have no clue what I’m doing, and feel like I am always messing up and want him to find someone to tell him he’s perfect as is

I would like to date Dean

I identify with Dean because I am also an older sibling who feels responsible and pushes down my own insecurities because I’m not nearly as important as my little brother and Dean deserves to have someone who thinks he’s important

I would like to date Cas

it’s frickin adorable

the sexual tension is insane

they raise a kid together

Literally everyone knows

Despair. And Tombstone. And Free to be You and Me. And Goodbye Stranger. And Lazarus Rising.

Every other episode of the gd show

[jessource]

TRAP (2024) SENTENCE STARTERS.

we're not gonna break any laws.

you caught me. i admit it.

it is important that my hand stays on your shoulder at all times.

this is literally the best day of my life!

he was a man who had a scarring relationship with his mother.

don’t feel like you have to stay here to be polite.

can i visit your home?

i'm gonna be right back. i'm gonna try to get you help.

i used to be brave like the storm on a sea.

sorry. i didn't mean to upset you.

[name], listen to me. your husband is the butcher.

maybe you thought i was having an affair.

i'm not following you.

i specifically said i wanted honeysuckle sour kombucha, bitch.

must be something to be that loved, right?

what a mess we made.

what's the code?

i saw you make up a lie once.

what was it about it that didn’t feel right, [name]?

she could start a cult.

a bird belongs Anywhere but caged.

…i think you’re looking for me.

i'm not great at a lot of things [name], but keeping my two lives separate is not one of them.

can i talk to you alone for a moment?

i didn’t know what would happen.

i feel such rage towards you, [name].

maybe the trap wasn't set there at the concert. maybe it was set here.

i have a dark side. you don’t want to see it.

have you lost your mind?

let me see you one last time.

that's why it can be so very lethal in small spaces.

i wonder what's down there?

no, i'm not making it up. i'm not making it up.

you’re gonna sit in your seat or you’re gonna be punished.

you are not responsible for hurting me.

when i had a second to think about it, it kinda dawned on me how this might have happened.

she looks like someone that i used to know.

that frickin’ nutjob that goes around just chopping people up?

we should have come earlier.

my father left when i was seven.

you lied so convincingly…

tell me anything you remember to help me find you.

well… the reason i wanted to talk to you… is…

there's a ghost in my house.

i held that anger for a long time.

so, what does "crispy" mean?

i’ve never felt this before.

he’s here and he’s trying to figure out a way out.

they set up a trap for him.

i'm not someone to be provoked.

[name] was really hurt by all of this.

i'm sure they've made a mistake, [name].

that would be like the worst idea.

just in case we get separated, meet me at the orange drink stand right outside the tunnel.

who were you talking to?

you’re not squeamish, are you?

[name], you keep leaving.

we can talk about it later.

"hamilton".

don’t move! hands behind your head!

hey, maybe if we all scream his name, he might hear us.

maybe i'll be a singer.

it’s funny how we knew each other so well.

you want me to come? i feel bad.

i'm sure it's a misunderstanding.

it's not too late to take up the offer.

the hell are you doing out here?

don't mess with me, [name].

i'm really glad i saw you again. i can tell that you’re upset.

the reason i wanted to talk to you... is... i think you're looking for me.

this individual is not a projection of our fears.

we'll get there when you wanted to get there.

stop telling stories! monsters aren't real.

i guess we know things without knowing them.

it was who i was.

that could never be true, everyone's in pieces.

there’s no way to get out of here, except backstage, i guess.

i want you to try to forgive them.

what's going on with those girls at school?

[name], you wanna come dance with me?

um, so, i'm sure you know how this works, right?

what’s your code? i mean… if you can say. idon’t want you to get into trouble.

this whole concert, it's a trap.

here. let me help you with that.

did i tell you, you could talk back to me, [name]?

after this, i won't leave you.

i don't want to be around people.

what would i hear at one of your lectures?

hey. why don’t we go outside for a second?

remember what the profiler said.

they’re watching all the exits. they’re checking everyone that leaves.

just come see me in like… ten minutes. all right?

i'm not supposed to tell. don’t rat me out.

wait. wait, wait, wait, wait. i gotta tie my shoe.

they gave us a code to say in each section of the arena in case we got stopped by the police. real undercover stuff.

that's unfair, i'm twelve.

wait, isn’t this one of the songs you always play?

hey, what's with all the police trucks outside and the cameras everywhere, jamie?

if we get into a confrontation with our unsub, our job is to get him alone, away from civilians as quickly as possible.

pass it forward, as they say.

they wouldn’t be real, honey. don’t let people fool you.

hey, we should climb down and see where it leads.

no dad jokes, this is serious.

we're late, this is frustrating.

i am upset. my daughter was hurt.

bro! you're strong.

let’s keep it clear who we’re dealing with.

you know, i'm kind of obsessed with him.

i don't really wanna talk about it.

she waved at me.

put me down.

you're acting strange.

i think i got a good photo.

here, you can use my stash.

[lets-try-some-writing]

So what's your opinions about a very poorly TFP fan- film called Galvatron's Revenge? This was created after 10 years in making and it has some very controversial stuff last year. People are not liking it after it had finally released last friday

Setting aside the controversy of the whole affair for the sake of fair analysis, the production was a hot mess. Now, I will state this before I get into things. I have exactly nothing against the people who worked on the project (again, not talking about the controversy. I don't know these folks personally so I've got no beef). And honestly good on them for thugging it out and finishing the thing if only because I find that level of dedication noteworthy.

That said, I have exactly zero good things to say about the film. Normally I wouldn't get on the case of fans animating things on their own time and a limited budget. But this film had $8000 and TEN YEARS to work with. With that kind of time and effort, the guy who made the LEGENDARY Astartes short film all by himself could have made an entire series. With that budget the folks who made those banger stop motions with the TF models could make an entire Amazon funded TV series. I get that the folks working on it have lives and all that, but I've seen dedicated folks on twitter make better stuff in like, two weeks. The time and money were absolutely wasted on the film. I mean ten whole years and there was not even an increase in quality as the film progressed? I would be willing to have mercy if the film got better the longer you watched, evidencing the growth of the team working on it.

But it didn't. There were so many animation errors I wanted to die inside. None of the fights felt interesting and had no impact, especially with the pathetic hits. Every single character was brutalized and butchered (what the heck happened to Arcee and Ratchet???). Honesty I've seen better writing on Wattpad of all places. The plot was a crazy mess of unfinished concepts and half planned character arcs. Optimus was brought back for reasons??? There were some sort of weird racist undertones with the blue optic red optic nonsense. Too much exposition dumping in the middle of important scenes. The audio was horrific at best and soul crushing at worst. I think the only voice I liked was Ultra Magnus and maybe Galvatron. But still, it was stupidly hard to care when the writing made me want to beat my head against a wall.

I'm not claiming to be a pro, and I don't expect other fans to be masters of their craft. But come on guys. If the animation sucks, make the story good. Maybe the story made sense on paper at one point, but emotions of words do not transfer over well unless the animation and setting make sense and look decent. The whole thing was a nightmare and I would prefer to be forced to watch Beast Wars on repeat, if only so the frickin animation would be ever so slightly less painful to watch. The film desperately needed a script overall and at least two competent editors along with one half decent animator. Ten years and 8k is far too long and too much to come out with the dumpster fire we got.

[moltenisnotreal]

I have some....colorful things to say rn

WTF?! THE WAY THE WHOLE CELESTIAL FAMILY TREATED LUNAR. IN THIS RECENT EPISODE IS SO MESSED UP. MOON IS ONE TO TALK ABOUT NOT HAVING A CONTROL OVER EMOTIONS LIKE WHAT THE F***

AND CAN WE STOP SAYING "oh poor sun! Omg I feel bad for sun" LIKE SHUT THE F*** UP LUNAR HAS BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH AND I FEEL SO BAD AND THE WAY EVERYONE HAS BEEN TREATING HIM. THIS IS INCLUDING THE WHOLE FANDOM AND HIS FAMILY, IT IS NOT OKAY TO TREAT HIM LIKE THAT, BECAUSE TELL ME WHY SON OR MOON OR MONTE OR EARTH OR JACK OR DAZEL, OR ANY OF THEM CAN DO SOMETHING AND F*** UP OR SOMETHING?AND THE WHOLE FANDOM DOESN'T GIVE A F***, BUT THEN LUNAR DOES SOMETHING?OH, YEAH, LET'S ALL FRICKIN'.JUMP ON THE TRAIN OF HATE LUNAR,

ALSO, ANOTHER THING. I HATE THAT NO ONE GIVES A F*** THAT LUNAR STILL HAS EMOTIONS ABOUT HIM. DYING LIKE WHAT THE F*** AND EVERYONE'S LIKE. OH, BUT HE NEEDS TO GET OVER IT. NO, THE F*** HE DOES NOT LUNAR. DOES NOT NEED TO GET OVER HIS OWN BROTHER, KILLING HIM. HELL, I'D BE P***** TOO ECLIPSE. HAS DONE SO MUCH ROCK AND HURT SO MANY PEOPLE. AND YET THE WHOLE PHANTOM STILL LOVES HIM, AND YET, THE WHOLE CELESTIAL FAMILY DOESN'T GIVE A F*** AND ALSO I DON'T BLAME LUNAR FOR BEING UPSET SHAY, IF MY WHOLE FAMILY WAS BEING ALL BUDDY, BUDDY AND DIDN'T CARE THAT I WAS MAD ABOUT THE GUY WHO KILLED ME. SHH I'D BE FURIOUS.

ALSO LET ME SAY RN

solar k!!ed : his monty and moon

Moon k!!ed : endless people

Sun k!!ed : blood moon twins and nexus

Monty k!!ed : endless people

Jack hurt : endless people and things

ALSO what's with the celestial family adopting people, especially bad people and then getting angry when they do something bad again?!

But I really hope lunar doesn't die, or anything else like that, I really hope things will go better for him.

[madam-o]

Re the weird divide in the Beetlejuice fandom, which I really don't get

Fandom is so strange. Just liking Beetlejuice himself as a character has invited all manner of unusual kinks and personal interests into the fandom, and hey, the more the merrier. Beetlefans and netherlings are an assembly of interesting weirdos, so like, you do you. And obviously, this means that you should try not to judge or make assumptions about others based on your own feelings about their interests. Riiiight?

So, Beetlebabes as a ship has been around since the beginning of the fandom, and it certainly seems likely not to be going anywhere with the sequel. Now, my own personal stance on the pairing lies straight in the middle. I think Lydia and Beej have a beautiful friendship in the animated series and musical. They're such a great comedic duo and there's something very pure and sweet about this girl and her bug-man. Their relationship in the musical IS colored by the fact that they're both using and tricking each other a lot of the time, but they seem to have a mutual respect on this point and don't let it ruin their friendship, well until the topic of moms comes up, anyway.

In the movie, it's more complicated. BJ is motivated primarily by his desire to be free and couldn't care less about Lydia's problems. He also gets just a tad creepy with Lydia, though he's not over the top about it. He claims that he thinks that she "really understands me", which is a frickin weird thing to say about a kid who you talked to for like five minutes. But the pervy implications are kept to a minimum so as not to drive the movie into darker territory. His motivations are still kept as primarily a green card thing, although the viewer is still pretty grossed out by the forced, child-bride marriage.

Re BJ, I don't see him as a human or someone who really follows human rules. He's a supernatural creature who has a vague, outsider's understanding of what being human means. Even interpreting him as a ghost and not a demon, he's too different from a human to remember what being one is like. In the musical and cartoon, he relates to Lydia from a child's pov, but tries to behave like an adult with the Maitlands. He's neither, though. He's an unliving, essentially immortal Thing. And while Lydia clearly has a lot of affection for "her monster", she's not exactly into this gross, stinky, creepy old guy. As for BJ, he's very attached to Lydia, perhaps unhealthily so, but he's not being a sexual predator with her.

However, as a Beetlefan, I've seen that it's pretty natural to pair the two up romantically. I certainly shipped them as a kid. And yeah, it's kind of a weird ship, but Beetlejuice as a concept is just weird, period. Weirdness and age gaps are hardly anything new or unique in any part of the internet. Teen fans ship characters their own age with much older characters all the time, and it's not usually frowned upon. But in the Beetlejuice fandom, there appears to be a lot of ship-shaming and accusations of p3d0ph1lia when it comes to this teen/ancient monster pairing, which I'm guessing is a lot more of an internet drama thing than about the actual pairing itself.

Now to be clear, I don't ship teen Lydia with anyone, but I also acknowledge that she's not gonna stay a kid and that things could change between them.

Personally I like the idea of Lydia and BJ being reunited after spending several years apart and things being super weird and tense based on their history. I've become primarily a fan of the relationship dynamic they have in the musical, so I see them as being distrustful of each other and competitive about getting one over the other. But they still gel in a unique way, and they can't help but enjoy their messed-up frenemy thing. And I think the awkwardness of the teen bride thing should be leaned into rather than forgotten or brushed away.

Lydia (to BJ): You really fucked me up, you know. I was just a sad kid who you manipulated. You fuckin creep.

BJ (to Lydia): Yeah but at least I didn't literally STAB YOU THROUGH THE HEART, so...point to me, there.

This type of prickly, antagonistic relationship is like catnip to me, honestly. So it's pretty disappointing and sad that all this fandom drama crap can and probably will affect my ability to share and enjoy beetlebabes content because "beetlebabes dni" appears on so many profiles and posts. It's the kinda thing that makes fandom culture such a double-edged freaking sword. Why can't people ever just let people enjoy the thing they like and try to be respectful of each other, ya know?

[raccoonfallsharder]

heartspur.⋆☁︎ :･꧂

a scene from cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ pearl portrait | the runabout | rocket fanart masterlist let me love your OCs masterlist | main masterlist

only a couple chapters until rocket gets a whole new ship and i finally have this scene from chapter thirteen done. let it be known i have almost every gun in mcu-rocket's arsenal in here except like, katie and vicki. (excerpt + feather-free version below too!). now time to get back to the OC doodle queue!

He wakes up with claws already hooked, ready to rend — ribs tight, lungs heaving ��� teeth bared and eyes wide, darting, scraping over every shadow and bright hot light — he looks for cinders, for sparks, nostrils flared and searching for any shred of smoke — for fur, for blood, for the burnt smell of the laser pistol— “—only you and me. I’m here — it’s just me.” The voice is a caress. “Herb— Sire is far away, and so are the Recorders. It’s only you and me.” He rakes in another scorched lungful of air, and the burnt scent in his nose suddenly seems dampened, softened by clear water and dewdrops and lilies. Pearl. “Did I scratch you?” he pants. “Did I hurt you?” Her eyes are big and careful on him, shifting from his own stare toward something just a little below his left ear. Unassuming, nonthreatening. “Not at all,” she soothes, and her voice is the softest little brush along his senses. “I’m fine.” “I can’t—” he seethes, peering around the bunk. It’s still swaying recklessly on the straps that suspend it from the ceiling, and the pillow is hemorrhaging feathers: a soft spill of downy guts, scattered across the mattress between them like a silk sacrifice. He reaches out — the fabric that had been underneath her head is in slivers. “I shouldn’t frickin’—“ —be here.

Her thumbs dip below his collar and he freezes — suddenly terrified of her feeling his scars and metal bits, even though he knows she’d caught glances of them on the Arete; suddenly terrified she’ll dig her digits into his swollen, sore tissue and hurt him. But she pauses when she feels him stiffen — so quickly that it almost feels like she noticed his fear before it even rose to the surface. Then the delicate touch shifts safely back outside his shirt, coasting tenderly over his clothed shoulders and then back to his neck. His muscles stay strung-tight — cinched up under the memory of what he’d done the last time he’d had his hands on her throat — but her thumbs just stroke lingeringly along either side of his spine, then up to the base of his skull. She dips them into the fur there, below the surface layers and into his plush undercoat, rolling the pads of her thumbs carefully over the bone. It’s like she’s found a dial he hadn’t known was there. His heart and lungs are still pummeling his bones, too much momentum to slow them down — but his shoulders go molten, becoming flux under her ministrations, and his head tilts forward, suddenly too heavy to hold up. Her fingertips float to the sides of his face — light as Foresterian moonmoths brushing against his whiskers and fur — while her thumbs continue to stroke up from the nape of his neck to the crown of his skull. They rove against his head in petal-like ovals, and then slide back down again. Circs and circs before, trapped on HalfWorld, the muscles in Rocket’s neck and shoulders had been manipulated into new shapes: shortened, lengthened, split; twisted into tendons. They force himself to hold his shoulders broad and his head upright. He’s pretty sure there’s no name for any of the stuff he’s got going on in his body. But it’s here — in these strange manmade muscles between his neck and his shoulders — that pearl carefully kneads her thumbs. Her fingertips are still stretched upward, cradling his jaw like he’s— Like he’s something precious. Fragile. His breath hitches on a strangled sound. His ribs spasm upward, eyes suddenly wet and burning. “Drink,” she murmurs, gliding her thumbs deep into whatever agonized mess has been made of his trapezii. He grips the straw with his teeth, and takes a long pull of the water. It floods his mouth, cool and sweet and clear, and his eyes flicker closed — just for a second. The tears on his lower lids spill over and river into his fur. (from cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter thirteen. heartspur.)

pearl portrait | the runabout | rocket fanart masterlist let me love your OCs masterlist | main masterlist

[themareverine]

Until We Fall ▹masterlist | worst!Logan x mutant!fem!OC

summary: DP&W AU. It's been God knows how many years after Logan's death in North Dakota—and this wouldn't be much of a story without a shiny new villain with a hot new plan, or someone to save the world. Well, maybe two someones. Ok, you win, three. But first, you have track down that said someone—the Wolverine. And who better to do that than the girl who found him the first time? Logan/OC

a/n: *knocks on glass, looks confused* hi, anyone still here? If so, welcome in! here's my DP& W AU. i have no idea what I'm doing. this is a sequel that i'm writing kinda-sorta at the same time as my main series, Mare & the Wolverine, and yes, please know, this is kinda self-insert-y. let me live, will you? reposting from my old account, OC is a mutant.

series masterlist | nav | | next

It's Called an Intro, Motherf******

Hi, welcome to the fuc–I mean freak, show. Don't want to blow the whole damn budget on the first 2.5 seconds of page time, right? Critics, good God–they're the worst. One sentence in and they'll judge the whole effin' book, hook line and sinker without even getting to the plot. Frickin' internet has made everyonea literary genius. Not.

ANYWAY—you're probably wondering what the eff I'm doing in the middle of this shitshow, huh? A story that isn't mine, hell—a story that isn't even technically writtenyet. That's a Fox thing. Or an MCU thing. Or a….thing, I guess? Dunno, this habit of timelines and then redoing and undoing them like a nun unbuckling a priests robes in a spittin' hurry after church is getting old—nobody really knows what the heck is going on. But, that's showbiz, right?

Rabbit trail, sorry. Frickin' brain. Anyway, yes–here. Ahem.

Well, really, we've got ourselves a Code Redpool (see what I did there?) with this one—someone trying to take over the world, rattle some cages, all that jazz. And if you didn't already know, such sticky little cumsucking messes requires a little bit more than a mercenary with a mouth. We already know I can't—don't—save the world. Despite what the box office may lend. It's above my paygrade, my hero tier. This rated R mothereffer hasn't gotten there yet, not on his own. Maybe another million or fifty.

Could be different this go around, though. Who effin' knows. All I know is that to save a world, to make a story, you need a couple of things—a smashin' budget, a whole helluva lot of copyright law, and a hero. An "anchor being," because Marvel has to be frickin' special. Sometimes two when the situation is Redpool, like it is. Maybe three, because I'll be EFFED if I'm not part of this one. Earnin' my stripes, going all Tony the Tiger and shit. You know the drill.

To help me out, I need the big guy. Yeah. Not Jesus, though it could be argued He's a factor, here. Very non denominational, very off script, very demure. Think more…yellow. Feral, as it were. Canadian. Yeah, dumbass—we need the Wolverine. The guy with the forks, the mutton chops from the 70s that were definitely a…choice. Logan. Yeah, him. Mr. Feral Forest Weasel himself.

And we'll probably need someone who can help us get to Logan, since he wouldn't know me from fresh effin' ADAM. If you saw Logan, you'll understand. Though it didn't happen exactly that way, because this is an AU—that fanfiction shit, you know. Sigh. We need someone who's tamed the beast, has clawed under all that adamantium and seen the hero where a trainwreck of a multiple-movies-gone-bad guy has stood.

A girl, genius. We need a girl. And lucky for you, delightful little fourth-wallians, I've got just the one.

Buckle up, mothereffer's—shit's about to get Wolverine-d.

Contents ➳❥ somewhere in the past, north dakota (in other words, the prologue) ➳❥ always sinners, rarely saints