#bomb wisp

[mynders-universe]

Got some silly doodles I’ve made of Jasper over the past few weeks. Mostly involving Jasper becoming a parent to just about anything that comes within a ten foot radius of them. Axle doesn’t seem to mind being a big brother at least.

Still trying to figure out how I wanna handle his hood and neck. I’ll get it eventually~

#my art #my ocs #jasper the cobra #dark chao #lyka the stoat #fiora the phoenix #drill wisp #cube wisp #bomb wisp #axle the dark chao

[nooooough]

#let’s say that Ori has the sword from the second game #little pale beings #one coughing baby and two hydrogen bombs #vs #poll #who wins #little ghost hollow knight #slugcat rainworld #the survivor rainworld #ori and the blind forest #ori and the will of the wisps #metroidvania

[crispywisp]

good lord re4 is so much more stressful to play than re2

#girl help there's like a hundred bomb traps and bear traps here #the wisp whispers

[howwnowbrowncoww]

anyways, can you guys believe Cream and Cheese are the best TSR characters?

#if they had made the cut they'd absolutely be mowing everyone else down with their barbie jeep #power types amirite? #cheese would be in charge of launching the wisps and he would use the bombs with no remorse #i'm still mourning what could have been #team sonic racing #sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sth #cream and cheese #howw draws

[highonakuweeds]

POV: Your Alastor's wife and it's October

(A/N: I didn't read anything beforehand, so if you see any weird mix ups of whatever, I'm sure your brain can ignore it thank you <3)

“My dear!” Alastor exclaimed towards you, who was at the bar, conversing with Husk. Your attention changed so that Alastor had it fully, which made Husk roll his eyes and chug a drink down. “Mon amour! How are you this hellish evening? I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Ah, yes well,” Alastor tugged on his coat, his grin somewhat strained. It wasn’t obvious for the majority of the others, but it was to his wife. “Just some irritating demons on the streets, is all; nothing to worry about.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Alastor, I know what that face means.” 

He raised a curious brow. “Do you, now?”

“Mhm.” You sipped the last of your champagne, and thanked Husk for the drink, earning a nod from him. “It means you’re horny.”

…

…

…

“What? Noo!” Alastor attempted to brush off, his eyebrows stitched with disbelief. “You know how I am about anything sexual, dear. I—” “Yes, yes, it’s not really your thing; we all know that. However,” light flickered through your gaze as you bore into Alastor’s eyes. “That doesn’t mean you can’t escape that month you hate so much.”

Alastor remained quiet, his eye twitching. You shrugged. “I mean, hey, if you want to wait it out, suit yourself. People will ask where you’ve gone, and you don’t want them to give in to curiosity, do you?”

He hesitated before grunting, grabbing your wrist, causing you to yelp. “Fine.” 

As your giggles of amusement echoed in the halls, Charlie tilted her head. “What’s he going to do to her? Oh, no, I hope it isn’t anything horrible…”

Angeldust snorted, swirling his pink cocktail before sipping. “Nah, he’s probably gonna fuck’er.”

“What!?”

“Angeldust!” Vaggie exclaimed, causing the spider demon to look at her in surprise. “What? You saw the way he looked at her, plus the way she was teasin’. I thought it was obvious.”

Cherri bomb grinned. “No shit they’re gonna fuck. But it’s kinda weird, don’t cha think? The edgelord finally wants to bang someone.”

Charlie thought about it. “Well, they are married.”

“Wait, they’re fuckin’ what now?”

“Wow, is this month that tough you gotta drag me to your room, Alastor?” You teased, causing him to groan. “You don’t even want to know how much I had to endure for the past couple of days.” He replied. 

Your brows furrowed. “Honey, if it was hurting you, you could’ve asked me way sooner. You know I would’ve been more than happy to help you.”

Alastor laughed, locking his door, and whisking the swamp side of his room away to not let anything disturb them. “Of course, you would’ve been, darling; you’re always so willing to help. Speaking of which, would you be a doll and soundproof the area?”

You cocked an eyebrow, obliging nonetheless. With a flick of your wrist, blue wisps coated his bedroom, leaving some sort of shiny residue scattered in the room. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was going to be a rough night for the both of us…”

“Oh, shut it.” Alastor mumbled before walking towards you. He crashed his lips onto yours, cupping your cheeks with fervor and slight desperation. You let out a noise of surprise before giggling and allowing your husband to do whatever he needed to do. You snaked your arms around Alastor’s neck, scratching the base of his ears, just how he liked it.

He let out a soft sigh of bliss, his steps making the both of them stumble onto the bed, with him on top of your. Before, Alastor normally just locked himself somewhere private, usually his radio tower, until this stupid cycle wore off. But now that his wife, his technical mate, was right where he was currently residing, it was way more difficult than it was before to be cooped up.

He had attempted to take matters into his own hands, both literally and figuratively, and the only thing it gave him was sheer shame and embarrassment, so he had stopped trying. So, to have you below him was such a relief.

And yet, he wanted more. He needed more. 

He needed to taste you, and mark you, and show every single demon that came your way that you were his wife. No one else’s.

Alastor pulled back from the kiss, planting small yet precise marks on your jaw, causing you to softly moan so quietly it riled him up even more. 

He tried his best to keep his composure calm, to hold himself back. But he truly couldn’t with how foggy his mind made everything become. Alastor sunk his teeth into your neck, right below your pulse. You let out an animalistic groan, your back off of the mattress already. “Alastor, love, calm down—”

“Apologies, my dear, but I don’t think I can.” He responded tightly, licking the wound he inflicted fervently, shuddering as the metallic taste hit his tongue. You chuckled, sweeping his hair away from his face. “Alright, then. Do whatever you need to, sweetheart.”

Alastor tried to think clearly, to regain any sort of control he had in his sexual desires, but he so miserably failed. The urge to bite you and mark you and make everyone know that you were his overruled his mind. It was the only thing he could ever think straight at that moment.

“Mine…” He muttered, kissing and sucking on almost every single part of your neck. His hand had other plans, though, as it traced your figure until it reached your hips, and it squeezed hard. 

You let out a yelp and a moan, your breath practically nonexistent as you chuckled. “I’m yours, darling.”

His hand, even if it was just one, grounded you to the bed. You found yourself unable to move, not that you cared, anyway. Alastor rarely needed you in this sort of way, and to have him like this, so desperate, so needy, it made you feel things.

You were not quite sure what was going on hearing-wise, but you felt yourself saying Alastor’s name as a plea. He groaned, pulling himself away from your neck with a strained struggle. He drank you in, his smile still present. You almost laughed as his eyes didn’t match that, though, since they were looking at your outfit in disgust. He adjusted his position to balance himself before snapping it away, leaving you bare.

You gasped at the drop of temperature, causing you to scoff. “Alastor! At least warn a demon.” His deer ears twitched as he descended onto your collarbone, peppering kisses everywhere. “I apologize again, (name). I just…” He took a deep breath in and felt his eyelids fall heavy. “You’re intoxicating…”

At the mention of your name, you stirred slightly, feeling the heat pool down to your core. Alastor must have noticed this, however, since he started trailing kisses around your chest, his favorite part being the underside of it. He nipped at the skin and sucked like a dog in heat.

Well, a deer in rut, but one must digress.

You squirmed in your position as he bit down right before he resumed his trail of kisses down to your stomach. He could feel your arousal like it was his own, and that put him in quite the predicament.

“Aren’t you going to take care of yourself first, Al? You’re practically bursting.” You quietly asked, a hand running through red tufts of hair that was tickling your torso. A low growl escaped Alastor’s throat. “I will; have some patience, love.” Me? You’re literally bulging. “But right now, I need a taste of you…”

Your eyebrows twitched as they creased together. “What are you trying to do—” You cut yourself off with a yelp as Alastor planted a soft kiss on your clit, making your jump. “If I go too far,” Alastor started, gazing up at you through his bangs. “Tell me.”

You nodded, knowing that he never would go too far, and if he did, he would be too busy enjoying his meal to understand that. 

Alastor’s grin just stretched wider before probing his tongue into you, causing you to shudder with a groan at the feeling. You played with his ears, your breath being stolen away. Honestly, if it weren’t for his cannibalistic and homicidal instincts, he would’ve landed a spot in Heaven with how gentlemanly he was, giving you pleasure before indulging in his own.

Alastor was fully aware of the growing tent in his pants, but he paid it no mind, which he was glad he was at least able to do. With that, he knew his mind hadn’t succumbed to the worse thoughts that he dreaded the most.

He lapped and sucked up all of the juices you had to offer, his pace unforgiving and sloppy. You could feel your own claws puncture the mattress with how tight your grip was on it, but you were sure Alastor wouldn’t care later on. He doesn’t really…sleep.

With how quickly Alastor was working against you, you felt that knot in your stomach appear just as fast, making you curse under your breath. For someone who doesn’t really like anything inherently sexual, he sure is a master at it.

Alastor felt it. He felt you getting closer, and he wanted nothing more than to see you writhe in pleasure all because of him, and nothing, or no one, else. The hand that was gripping your thigh to the point of wounds hooked your leg onto his shoulder for the time being, holding it in place as he quickened his pace.

The only thing you could do was whimper and plead and whine. And every single syllable that dropped from your mouth went straight to his arousal, and he cursed internally. A string of violent curses escaped his wife’s lips as you tugged on Alastor’s hair, which led him to hiss in both the pain and pleasure it shamefully gave him. 

“Close—Alastor, wait—!” You managed to cry before snapping, waves of pleasure crashing into you intensely. You let out a demonic groan as Alastor drank you until your high faded.

Your head flopped onto the fluffy pillows of Alastor’s bed, staring at the red head of hair just where your abdomen started. The radio demon rested his head on the inner side of your thigh, catching his breath slightly, which caused a bit of feedback from the voice effect he always had on.

“Are you satisfied?” You asked, tilting your head. Despite the fact that Alastor kept smiling, his brows twitched. He was far from satisfied. 

You laughed, and Alastor could hear a bit of nervousness laced into it. Not that kind that was associated with fear, but the kind that was associated with excitement. 

It’s going to be a long night for the both of them.

You sat up properly before crawling to be in front of Alastor. “It’s quite unfair that I’m the only one bare right now.” You teased, undoing the buttons of his coat. Though, even as you did, he knew how much you enjoyed that power difference.

Alastor didn’t resist as you unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt underneath. You had stopped undressing him when his shirt hit the strain in his pants, and he felt an annoyed grunt scratching his throat at the lack of friction. “(Name), dear.”

“Hm?”

“You have to stop teasing…”

You scoffed out a laugh. “Is the radio demon attempting to beg right now?” Alastor’s face immediately turned bright red, the cold air that was hitting his bare chest not helping him, either. “Chérie, don’t make me do this—” “What, beg?”

You had figured out how to make it more fun for you, and more cruel for him.

It made him so embarrassingly hard.

Your positions were now flipped, since Alastor had tried (and failed) to cage you in, and so when he crawled towards you, you swiftly went behind him. So now, his back was towards the headboard, his ears pinned back slightly. Without his coat, you could really have a nice view of his small deer tail which was currently tucked in between his legs, barely covering the bulge in front of his pants.

His grin twitched. “So, how are you planning on taking advantage of our current situation?”

You laughed, a finger to his lips to shush him, which made an irk mark appear on his forehead. “Oh, dear Alastor, have some patience! You wanted me to have the same thing just minutes before, right?” Your finger swept to his chin to lift it up as you leaned in closer. So close Alastor heard your pulse.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your lips mere centimeters apart. Alastor sighed, ready to feel the sensation of your soft lips against his, but he only felt the cold air hit it instead. He opened his eyes to find you grinning with an eyebrow raised. His brows dropped as his smile strained, just as much as his pants were. Alastor cleared his throat before giving you an amused gaze. “Do you really think that would work on me?”

You shrugged, leaning forward to straddle yourself on him. He cursed under his breath (a rare scene, honestly. You savored every moment) as he felt himself buck against you. “Well, it did; there’s no real debate about it, hun.” You cupped one of his cheeks, in which he melted into, while tracing the outline of his deer ears with your other hand. You laughed breathlessly. “I’m sorry, your ears are just…absolutely divine.”

Alastor fought back every single moan and whine that you were pulling out of him from playing with his ears. “The things you do to me…” He whispered as he grinded against you slightly, that needed friction making him see stars. 

You almost lost self control at that statement. Just the way Alastor was slowly breaking under you purely because you were touching and prodding at his ears gave you such a power surge. Your hands made their way to his pants, where they undid them and freed Alastor, who had just hissed at the cold air hitting his cock.

You stared and ogled at the sight before you, your hand wrapping itself around it. Alastor tensed, his shoulders raised slightly. He let out a shaky breath, watching his own chest rise and fall to calm him down.

He was already leaking, and you used that to your advantage. You stroked painfully slowly, causing him to shiver. You glanced at Alastor’s expression with a sly smirk. “You’re enjoying this a lot, dear.”

Your tone was mocking; Alastor heard it. He tightly chuckled. “How would you know?”

“Alastor. You’re so hard right now.”

“Oh.” 

You snorted before increasing your pace against his cock. Alastor cleared his throat, feeling his mind fog with desire and lust, the two things he really wished hadn’t plagued his mind too much.

You felt a tentacle wrap around your left thigh, and your breath hitched. “Al?-” It started to massage your pussy, making you gasp and grip Alastor’s cock a bit too tightly.

He grunted in both pain and pleasure, that brief moment of extreme bliss washing away again. “(Name), love, I think you should calm down this time.”

“Well, it’s not my fault your stupid tentacles start to just—” You cut yourself by sighing in relief, the same tentacle you were referring to going in circles against your already sensitive clit. “I swear.” You muttered, quickening your pace against Alastor.

Suddenly, you stopped your hand, cursing when the tentacle wouldn’t do the same. At that lack of motion, Alastor swore under his breath, his grin showing annoyance as he grunted. Yet even with shocks of pleasure spreading across you body, you kept a steady face, the smile on your face absolutely shit-eating. “Is someone annoyed already? Doesn’t feel good when pleasure’s just taken from you, does it?” You swiped you thumb against his tip which made Alastor stir. He let out a low, dragged-out moan at the sensation. you repeated the motion, amused at the way Alastor took a sharp inhale and exhale, as if regulating his senses.

Alastor hated the way you pouted at him as if he were some pitiful creature. “Awh, does someone crave what he wants?” You scoffed, swallowing a gulp of saliva as the tentacle on your pussy quickened its pace. you attempted to think of something, anything, that could postpone your orgasm.

Ah, you knew.

Angeldust said something about Valentino having a waterboarding kink. Honestly, the thought of Valentino was enough.

You grinned, tilting your head as you set your pace to be irregular. When you knew Alastor was at the edge, you stopped, then when you knew that it subsided, you would continue. “You thought I wouldn’t make you beg for it?”

Alastor couldn’t help the lewd noises he was making, letting out strangled moans and whines and huffs. Just who do you think you are, making the radio demon beg for you?

Well, you are his wife.

Alastor tried to fight the urge to give in, but the way you were teasing him and playing with his pleasure made him want to snap. He averted your gaze as he muttered something incoherent, but you knew what it was.

You slowed your pace on his cock again, tilting your head in feigned innocence. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t catch that. You better speak up.” Immediately after you spoke, you bit your lip and cursed internally. You were so desperately close because of what Alastor’s tentacles were doing to you. Hell, you weren't even sure if Alastor knew that his tentacles were pleasing you to the brink of insanity.

Alastor’s pride and ego got the better of him, though, as he mumbled it again, just a bit louder.

“Alastor.” You warned. “Speak. Up.” You quickened your strokes before slowing them down again, smiling as you got the reaction you wanted from Alastor.

“Hhngh, please, darling…” He moaned, his eyelids heavy. Alastor’s grin twitched once more in annoyance. “Please, finish what you started…”

You were going to say something before you felt you coming close. you cursed under your breath, something you didn’t know if Alastor heard you or not. And just as you was about to reach the highest peak, 

The tentacle against your pussy stopped its rubbing, and you whined, arching you back. You were grateful for it, though. You could tease Alastor even more.

“Awh, Alastor,” you taunted. “Surely you can do better than that…right?” You placed a kiss beside the tip, and Alastor suppressed (but horribly failed) the need to moan. “Beg like you mean it.” 

Alastor accidentally whined, his eyebrow twitching once he heard himself. “Please, darling… don’t tease me like this…” You gazed into Alastor’s eyes, a look of mischief on your face as you stroked quicker. 

He moaned heavily, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. “Fuck, please let me finish already…!”

Your eyebrows shot up at that crisp swear, you grin stretching from ear to ear. “You’re getting there, love.” The speed of your strokes gradually increased. Suddenly, you felt the tentacles again, but this time, it was just one. It was two.

You discreetly attempted to glance back, getting interrupted by the thicker one prodding your entrance. you gasped, trying to regain your composure and control over him. You tried your best to focus on Alastor instead. “You’re so cute when you beg; you know that, right?” You propped yourself on your elbows instead of having your other hand support you to play with Alastor’s cock more.

More quickly than he would have wanted, Alastor felt himself losing control. He let out an animalistic groan, gritting his teeth. His shoulders tensed once more as he felt himself getting close. He bucked his hips into your hands, the friction making him whimper ever so slightly. “Please…please, please, please please…”

You had never heard Alastor so whiny, so helpless. It was unlike him, just allowing you to assert yourself in this kind of situation. But hey, you didn’t mind. In fact, you loved it.

You should visit more often.

The hand closer to his tip massaged it with the thumb, making Alastor cry out in response. His breath was shallow and ragged, and his voice was breaking. His radio filter was long gone, and just the sound of his real voice made you go crazy.

You felt yourself nearing your climax, too. With how quickly the two tentacles were either massaging or pumping into you, you realized it was inevitable.

You decided it would be ideal if you came together.

You immediately quickened your pace against him, the fact his whole intimidating facade was gone with how he was muttering pleas made your heart pump, if undead hearts could do so.

Alastor felt kisses against his inner thigh, and that was what sent him over the edge. With a cry of your name, strings and strings of white translucent fluid released itself from his cock. His hearing was compromised with a ringing sound, but he heard you moan his name out just a couple of seconds after him, your grip against him tightening as you never stopped stroking.

His breath hitched as he realized that you weren't going to stop. “Wait, (Name)—” He whined, his head hitting the pillow behind him. It was too much; the feeling, the pleasure, just everything. He hadn’t even touched himself in decades, so to just have someone stroking him even after he came felt painfully pleasurable.

Thankfully, you stopped after some time, your grip loosening as you caught your breath. Somewhere during that time frame, your right hand made its way to his thigh, acting as a pillow for your cheek. your eyes trailed down Alastor’s twitching cock, and you grinned, liking a stripe from base to tip.

He shivered, his eyes closed as he held his forehead. He placed his hand down onto the mattress and… Why were there punctures in it?

Just as Alastor was about to ask, he noticed movement behind you, his brows furrowed. Then, he saw it. He saw the shadowy tentacles he knew were his.

His eyes widened slightly as he looked at the now flushed out you who was half-lidded with your ass in the air. “My dear?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Why are my tentacles…out?”

“Huh?” You glanced back and sweatdropped as you finally realized just how thick they were. No wonder You felt full. “Oh, they–” You cleared your throat. “They were…fucking me. I thought you knew that.”

Alastor’s eye twitched before he let out a chuckle. “Well, I apologize for that, dear. Though, I hope you can still take more, since,” he sat up straight, helping you fix your posture before picking you up by your hips and straddling you against him, your pussy just mere centimeters on top of his cock. “I’ll be handling you now.” Alastor glanced up to look you in the eyes. “Do you consent?”

“You know I always do.”

Alastor huffed out a laugh. “Whatever you say, darling.” He strained himself as he held every ounce of the animalistic urge that he had kept constrained as he made you sink down onto him. A guttural moan forced itself out and he started to grip your hips tighter, using that as a way to bounce you on his cock.

You always knew and understood how mating seasons work, from their cycles to the subject’s attitude during. Well, you needed to read about it; one can never have too much knowledge, right?

You weren't sure about one thing, though: if demons experienced the same kind of cycle that their animal counterpart did. Well, this explains it.

It was obvious that Alastor was attempting to help you adjust to his throbbing dick but just the idea of being inside you drove him towards the edge. He bucked his hips at the same rhythm you bounced on him.

Your mind was clouded with lust and pure bliss. Alastor’s cock was kissing your cervix one too many times, and it sent you to absolute ecstasy. your lips formed a lazy grin as you kissed him hungrily, causing his hips to stutter.

With no ounce of shame left in his body, he allowed himself to groan and whine at every thrust he did in you, savoring how warm everything felt. How ironically heavenly you made him feel. 

The only unfortunate thing in Alastor’s mind was the desire to breed. To fill you up until his cum splattered onto his mattress. He wanted to make a mess of you, and possibly himself in the process. Alastor needed to make sure you knew that you were his, and his alone.

Somehow his lips made their way to your neck, savagely nipping and sinking his teeth into your flesh until he tasted metal. That sweet intoxicating flavor that always drove him wild.

you dug your nails into Alastor’s back, feeling your climax rising up again. It wasn’t long until you were spewing curse words that would make a normal man break down and cry as you felt the cord in your stomach violently snap again. 

But Alastor wasn’t stopping. He started to prioritize his release the moment he slipped inside of you. His pace never faltered; in fact, it quickened at an inhuman speed, causing your gasps of air to be just hiccups.

“You’re making me see stars.” He whispered into your ear, desperate and whiny. He could feel that build up happening again, and this time, he was going to get what he wanted as quickly as possible.

Fuck, just the idea of him cumming inside of you almost broke him. He knew that since you were both sinners, you could no longer have children, but it would never hurt to try, right?

His grip against your hips tightened to ground you in place as moaned as loudly as you had ever heard him. He pumped inside of you, thrusting harshly yet slowly until he felt himself fully inside you. you gasped, feeling your pussy stretch until something absolutely huge squeezed itself inside you.

Wait, did Alastor just–

Loads and loads of cum painted your walls, filling you up to the brim. Alastor’s teeth bit your shoulder as he released inside of you. you felt your mouth dry as you finally gasped for air, involuntary moans coming out for you.

You stayed like that for a minute or two, chests heaving as you caught their breath. Alastor’s knot finally deflated, yet it felt like he didn’t want to leave the position. However, you were still at the hotel, and the others might probably be looking for them.

Even worse, they might think they did something steamy.

Well, you did, but Alastor didn’t want that thought in their heads.

He planted a kiss on your forehead, his lips slightly burning from your skin. “We should get going, my dear.” He whispered, his radio filter back on.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“Do what, love?”

you looked at him through lazy eyes. But even if you did, he could practically feel the mischief beaming through them. “Knot.”

Alastor stitched his eyebrows together, confused. “What’s…knotting?”

you tilted your head. “You don’t know how your cycles work?” He averted your gaze, his ears flopping down in embarrassment. “I’ve never really done this before, dear.”

Your grin turned devilish. “Well…”

Oh, deer (hah). It’s going to be a long night for them.

“Where is Alastor?” Charlie asked, looking around. “I’ve been trying to call him for an hour or so but I haven’t seen him.”

Angeldust snorted before it turned into a cackle. “Like I said, toots! He’s probably in his room, fuckin’ the shit outta (Name).”

“I really doubt tha–” “Good evening, everyone!” Alastor exclaimed, his usual outfit now on. His grin remained constant as he wrapped an arm around your waist. “I do apologize for not being present for the past couple of hours. I had some business to do.”

“Yeah, her.” Angeldust mumbled, a smirk on his face. He lifted his face to look at you. “How was it?”

You just smiled, tilting your head. At that, the whole crew saw what you were trying to show.

Marks and marks of bites all over your neck, bruising it a little. They were surprised that it wasn’t bleeding with how wounded it was. 

Angeldust’s mouth went agape with a smile. He wasn’t entirely serious about that statement, but for it to actually be true? This was a day he never saw coming. “Ho-holy shit!” He exclaimed with a laugh. “I didn’t realize it was actually true!” 

#alastor smut #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor #rut season #the way I got slightly interest in a deer's rut season #dear god what am I doing with my life #reader is alastor's wife #reader can kind of manipulate sound #lord have mercy on all of our souls

[son1c]

amy and knuckles from my original shatterspace! they're from the lava half, "heatwave hearth."

in this universe, ardent embodies amy's passion and burning anger! she's a real feisty gal. (and she REALLY hates that she keeps losing in the wisp races to alabaster.) blister, on the other hand, is pretty level-headed. he takes his responsibilities to the hearth seriously, and is more "rock" than lava, if we're still thinking in terms of a volcano.

their wisps are blue cube and black bomb, respectively. ardent's cube wisp is named piko piko, and when combined with her wispon, it becomes a hammer! blister's bomb wisp originally didn't have a name, but ardent convinced him to give it a name after much pestering. at her suggestion, its name is bom bom lol.

oh, and one more thing about the world! it's not split in half for no reason. in this timeline, the unleashed event still happened. however, it wasn't because of eggman waking up dark gaia early (since eggman doesn't exist in this world). it was simply Time for it to happen. so it did. and now, the planet is fragmented. it's a good thing everyone has a wisp to help them get around, huh?

#sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic prime #amy rose #knuckles the echidna #sonic au #scribbles #this took so long. working all day every day drains my energy sooooooo much #BUT!!!! IT'S DONE #10verse

[ghcstao3]

johnny likes mornings.

he likes mornings because he gets to see rays of golden sunlight catch on simon’s eyelashes and wisps of blond curls. he likes mornings because he gets to hear simon’s sleep-ridden voice as he wakes, stretches, then shuffles to the kitchen to make his tea and johnny’s coffee, humming under his breath as he goes through familiar motions.

johnny likes afternoons.

he likes afternoons because it’s when he runs errands with simon. it’s when they get to be a proper couple out in the world, celebrating their retirement and new life without the racket of guns and bombs and the static of comms in their ears. he likes afternoons because he gets to feel productive again, healing and learning alongside simon.

johnny likes evenings.

he likes evenings because he gets to show his love in all of the ways he knows simon deserves. he gets to show his love through cooking, through massages and warm baths, through laying simon into their mattress with all the care and tenderness that rough and calloused and war-stricken hands can manage.

and johnny likes nights.

he likes nights because it means a promise of another day of their new, comfortable life; another day of living they life neither of them ever thought they’d achieve. he likes nights because it means burrowing himself into simon’s side and inhaling his scent until sleep finds them both, easy or not, breath and heartbeats in sync as they live and love a while longer.

#john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x soap #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #writing

[fancy-fangs]

I love shipping in JRWI especially because somehow they keep creating the most gut wrenching romantic plot lines you have ever seen, without even trying.

We have FNC, literally the sun and the moon, the gods chosen one and a bastard pirate. The symbolism is right there and the further their journey goes the more tragic it becomes. They are best friends and one of them will have to save the world. They were both raised to be weapons, but all they want to do is hold each other. "I would fight the world for you" "I wouldn't want you to"

Angelstone, the love story of all. Yes EP 11 is funny, but goddamn they ripped my heart out starting episode two. Two god slayers, one of them meant to take the gods place, the other not meant for anything at all. The powerful demigod and a loser of a man. They're about humanity and devotion in a way that goes beyond religion. Hozier is jealous of what they have. Their entire story is about "whats god to your love? What can all the power in the world give me that I don't have sitting by your side?"

(I go crazy over Angelstone do not test me I have religious trauma)

And yes I am bringing Ghostknife into this because fuck you I'm the William wisp guy how could I not? The guy who never belonged and the guy from another world? Just teenagers finding comfort in each other during the worst? Movie nights and shared homework. Ten months in a bombed shelter that used to be your home. "I don't know who I am but I feel it when I look in your eyes" "you're my best friend, I wish the world was easy and I wish I could kiss you". Having an unrequited crush on your best friend but you'll never get over it because how could you after everything you've been through.

#im insane #im actually going insane #i need to talk about them so bad #jrwi #just roll with it #angelstone #jrwi fnc #fish n chips #ghostknife

[mylove-iv]

❝could have had it all.❞

ʚ aged up! twilight x fem! reader ɞ

synopsis: the ghost of his past always seems to loom over the hero of twilight's heart and he is forced to look it in its eye yet again. as retribution, he is offered another chance to prevent the untimely death of the ghost in his past that continues to haunt him: the ghost of you.

genres: angst, romance. | mentions an established relationship.

reader specifications: none, no pronouns are used but was written with a female reader in mind.

content warnings: spoilers for twilight princess! mentions of injuries (twilight being hit on head like the in-game event and bomb arrow explosions), time and dimension travel, and implied death.

word count: 1.6k words.

―originally posted on @mydarling-iv, jun. 26. 2023

ʚ masterlist ɞ

The barren and war-torn earth was a strong indication of whose Hyrule they were all thrown in. The Captain needn’t say a word to the rest of them before he’s ushering them away from the castle, which promptly raised a few eyebrows.

“The castle’s that way, Captain.” Legend teasingly murmurs, a smirk tugging his lips as he recalls of the freakishly obsessive women the said reincarnation encountered.

But before Warriors could retort, a gasp leaves some of the member’s lips as they’re suddenly thrown into another portal.

It’s odd this time. Instead of feeling ominous and dark, the gateway within the portal felt wide and open, the space within it constricting while stretching simultaneously.

They catch whispers of places far beyond, unfamiliar and familiar sights flash past members of the chain before it’s only a wisp of color and their feet suddenly touch on solid land.

Confused glances are exchanged as a feeling of deep, foreboding anxiety settles in the pit of Twilight’s gut, almost urging him to throw up his stomach’s contents as he takes in the familiar flora and fauna around the group.

He doesn’t register what the Captain had been saying before Wild elbows his arm softly, snapping him out of his trance before whispering, “You’ve been distracted.”

Twilight blinks at him before nodding, “Have I?” He mutters, tone sounding apologetic causing his successor to give him a small, lopsided grin before motioning his head to the Captain.

“The sands of time within my Hyrule billowed differently before..” He continues but it all clicks for them.

They weren’t only thrown into a different Hyrule, they also traveled back in time.

Those who dealt with the complexities of time inwardly grimaced. Yet Twilight is eerily quiet, the Captain’s words confirming his thoughts while also worsening his dread.

The ranchhand goes silent, an air of unease leaking into the space around him. His eyes reflect a skittish gleam as if anything could set him off anytime soon.

The time and memory of the forest made him anxious, almost mirroring the memory that haunts his dreams—the very last memory he holds of you.

Judging from where they stand, Twilight knows he’s near the scene of the incident—your death—and the realization makes him wince uncomfortably.

His skin tingles from the sun’s hot rays just like it had been years ago on this wretched day. Twilight bristles as his enhanced sense of hearing picks up on the familiar cries and roars of that cursed day.

A painful ache spreads throughout Twilight’s body as his mind wanders to you, and Goddesses, the painful memory intensifies the ache he feels. Sky takes notice of his odd, seemingly pained demeanor and moves his hand to place it on Twilight’s shoulder but it’s only met with air.

He bolts, weaving through the group from his spot at the very back before his silhouette starts to become a wisp of dark fur amongst the shrubbery.

“Twilight!” Sky shouts, starting to give chase after the said man. A split second hasn’t even passed before Twilight’s fellow brothers-in-arms follow his lead, confusion starting to fill their veins as their guards are raised and strengthened.

┊ ੈ✩‧₊*°࿐ྂ。

It’s odd, the forest is quiet. Birds no longer sang nor trees danced with the wind’s embrace and the wild, erratic beat of his heart is the only sound that fills Twilight’s ears.

His mind drifts to you and an all too familiar ache starts to grow in his chest, one that he’s tried to ignore but is always incessantly lingering.

His childhood best friend, who smiled at everything he’d say regardless of how dumb it was, the very best friend whom he had developed a strong love for and gradually transformed into his childhood lover accompanying him from their halcyon days of their youth to their late teens.

Twilight’s body aches as he reaches the clearing before the bridge and he’s taken to the day you were taken from him.

Hours before he was transformed into a beast of twilight, his village had been attacked by armed bulbins who wracked up a storm of chaos before closing in on the spirit residing in Ordon Spring, effectively throwing the area at the mercy of the twilight that befell upon it.

It was only when you both came back from the woods, hand in hand with Twilight as love-struck grins dotted your faces, that you crossed paths with the bulbins riding atop a giant wild boar, one having an explosive arrow readily nocked.

Twilight had pushed you behind him but the beasts were faster as they took advantage of Epona bolting due to the sudden panic. Being separated by mere meters, he had felt a painful pressure against the back of his head as the world around Twilight became a muddled canvas of colors bleeding into each other.

But before the world had gone dark, an explosion of yellow and red rips out before his eyes. He electric blue orbs catch onto your figure flying backwards, being blown over and into the ravine by the explosion, a scream ripping itself from your throat as you fell.

He now experiences the whole ordeal over again, only now conscious and fully prepared. But time was unkind and mercilessly slipped through his fingers quickly like fine sand. 

He was late by a few minutes and as punishment, Twilight is forced to relive the very moment that kills him inside.

Twilight sees the same bulblin swing its club at his younger self but ignores it as his body carries him farther. He hears the Captain’s shouts of him to come back and regroup as his brothers quickly tear down the foes, but it’s all muffled and drowned out to the Hero of Twilight as his eyes latch onto you.

Confusion filled murmurs reach his sharp ears but he pains no mind, choosing to keep his pale blue eyes steadily fixated on you.

You’re the only thing Twilight could focus on.

But it’s too late.

The very same flurry of red and yellow flashes before his eyes and your pained scream deafens his ears, the heat from the explosion hot against his skin yet why does he burn when your eyes meet his so briefly?

You’re free falling to your death, the very same death he’s lived through and haunts him when the moon rises.

He had lost you before and he might lose you once more.

Hands shifting with the grapple connected to his arm guard, Twilight picks up the pace before he throws himself over the cliff.

The roar of the wind running past his ears deafens Time’s shout and the screams of worry from his fellow warriors of courage, but none of that mattered to him.

Twilight’s focus was solely on you.

And as the wind runs past him, he’s ripped from reality as his thoughts envelope him in a bitter embrace.

He wanted it all—everything related to you; a future together, a simple and safe life together.

Was it such a greedy wish of his?

Mercifully, time seems to slow and his heart breaks at the tears flying from your eyes as your limbs flail wildly against the wind rushing past you.

A flurry of thoughts rushes through his head once more yet one stands out from the rest: what were you thinking of as you fell? 

Did you ever hope he’d come save you? Were you disappointed when you realized he wasn’t coming? Did you ever wish you had never met him? 

The last thought is haunting, pain and anxiety prickling at him as he realized that it was he who insisted for you to come with him on that fateful day.

Twilight’s mind blanks as his fingers brush against yours and the contact alone sends bolts of electricity running atop his skin and all over his body.

It’s a familiar feeling Twilight had been yearning to feel again.

Your eyes snap open, riddled with unshed tears as they blearily focus on his blue seafoam colored eyes.

The eye contact ignites a fire in his heart and Twilight allows himself to finally admit that he misses staring into your eyes which twinkled with delight and love whenever they would meet his.

It’s a familiar occurrence that Twilight repeatedly wished for to happen again.

Twilight’s left arm wraps itself around your waist, pulling your body flush against his causing his heart to bloom at the contact and it sets off a chain reaction.

He catches a faint whiff of your scent and it throws him into the heartwarming memories of your halcyon days filled with obvious pining and poorly hidden love-struck gazes.

It’s a familiar scent that sends him reeling into memories of him placing soft kisses atop your head, interlacing your hands that always seemed to send sparks flying down his spine, and embracing you whenever he’d catch you after a game of tag with the younger village children.

Those memories—the scars of your love—left him breathless as he so badly wished for things to have happened differently.

Twilight had lost you before.

He’ll be damned if he did again. 

Liftings his right arm, Twilight fires the hook before he tightens his grip around your waist.

A grunt tumbles from his lips as the grapple harshly tugs you both, finally latching onto something solid and only does he lower his guard slightly.

His heart stutters before a phantom pain fills his chest as you tightly wrap your arms around his neck, face buried securely in the juncture of his neck.

The smallest of touches causes tremors of lightning to dance on Twilight’s skin and when your eyes meet his, the eye contact alone lights his heart ablaze. 

Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the shocking effect you've always held over him, the ever so comforting smell of you leaves him relaxed.

Experiencing the things Twilight has repeatedly yearned for felt like a dream and now that you’re in his embrace, alive, deepens the scars of your love forever etched into his heart and the very being of his soul.

Twilight couldn’t help but feel that he could have had it all.

© 2024 𝐌𝐘𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄-𝐈𝐕. do not copy, repost, share, or translate any of my works to tumblr, social media, and any other websites/platforms.

#𝐢𝐯'𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.°♡༉‧₊ #legend of zelda: gallery of twilight ༉‧₊˚✧ #legend of zelda #linked universe #twilight princess #loz #tp #lu #legend of zelda link x reader #twilight princess link x reader #linked universe twilight x reader #lu twilight x reader #tp link x reader #lu twilight #linked universe twilight #twilight x reader #twilight x fem reader #linked universe x reader #lu x reader #link x reader #lu angst #linked universe angst #reader insert #twilight angst #lu twilight angst

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Guurll I saw your requests are open and 1. I LOVE YOUR STUFF (esp. Aemond related but I sort of became an Aegon girlie thx to u). and 2. I love me some Aemond angst so here's my idea, I know is not original and probably there is something similar out there but hey, it is original in my head and I'm sure your talented hands will turn it into a bomb as always :)) - Aemond is married to this badass, sarcastic but super loving woman who loved him from the first glance and would do anything for him. Problem is, the war came, he left for Harrenhal and while he's away she finds out she pregnant; but what she also finds is about his whereabouts with Alys and she literally turns crazy heartbroken and angry, loses the child (if you're not ok with this please leave it out) but still informs her family they need to support him and this is how he survives the "dance". Aemond finds out about the shit he caused and feels shitty to say the least. He comes back home, his wife doesn't want to have anything to do with him and he tries to make amends and put the pieces back together. So basically angst lvl 9000 with slight fluff at the end. Please feel free to play with this as you see fit and remember I just gave you my heart for giving me the chance to send this in!!:X:X

The Spoils of Lies

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Wife!Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers [implied]

WORDS: 1,863.

WARNINGS: mentions of adultery, mentions of pregnancy/miscarriage, mentions of grief/mourning, brief reference to suicidal thoughts.

A/N - ugh I am a sucker for angst, nonnie!!! this concept makes me so wild for Aemond, cause he’s always presenting himself as a dutiful, loyal being. but he fucked up big time here 👀 also thank you x my agenda is to make people feral over both Targ boys! and thank you for the kind words nonnie, hope I did your request justice ♥️

If there was an earthly possibility you could rewind the clock, turn back time itself with your bare hands, to a moment you were the happiest, you would in a heartbeat. A moment in time where you found yourself in the warm, familiar embrace of your devoted husband, Aemond Targaryen, the intense feeling of your heart being full of sheer affection and love.

Although, many would agree, mixed with the fate of the Targaryens, good things could never truly last… And that was no exception to your marriage with the Prince Regent.

Aemond made no hesitation in deciding to fight the resistance against his elder brother’s throne, often declaring and meeting such treachery, punishable by death. With much inevitability, Aemond would be absent, gone for months on end, away from your company with nothing but lengthy distance separating you both.

And much to your luck, a few months prior to Aemond having to leave, the Gods had blessed you dearly with the heartfelt news that you were with child... Aemond had always been eager to start his own family, especially after being betrothed to you.

"Our child shall be blessed with his or her father's resilience and its mother's grace and wit... Rest assured, my love, I shall return for the birth. What kind of a father would I be to miss the birth of their firstborn, let alone not be present to hold you?"

Aemond had you strategically relocated and confined under secure protection of some desolate keep in the Reach, not even your relatives being aware of your whereabouts.

Yet as the arduous days lingered on, the small talk of warfare that would often waft into your listening ear, began to dissolve with soft wisps of a young Prince taking the favour of some woman began to stir. Initially, you presumed the Prince in discussion could practically be anyone… Prince Daemon, Prince Jacerys, mayhaps even Prince Daeron. Aemond’s involvement was the least of your concern, that was until someone had mentioned in conjunction to such gossip, that the woman in reference, had resided in Harrenhal.

Harrenhal, where Aemond himself, as far as you had been informed, was his current whereabouts, where he was supposed to find himself undertaking decree over the hostage traitors.

Such rumours, the vile accusations [or so you had naively convinced yourself to believe] had spread to the concerned ears of your immediate relatives. Immediately you were determined to set the record straight, sending ravens with letters, adamant on reassuring your relatives, that your solid stance as well as theirs was to remain faithful to Aemond and the succession of his elder.

"Do not to indulge in the horrendous lies, spread about by the foes, themselves."

Little did you know, your words would come to haunt you with the terrible truth, and consequences with it...

"Just tell me the truth of it, Aemond. You need not deny what others have confirmed."

Sighing, Aemond shook his head incessantly, looking down at his shuffling feet against the solid concrete, leaning himself defeatedly over the creaking, wooden chair.

"Just have the decency to speak the truth!" Infuriated and exhausted, one hand resting over the slight curve of your once prominent, rounded belly, now aching with a dull pain, the other slamming against the oak desk of some private, council chamber.

"I-I... I cannot."

The swell of hot tears begin to cloud your clear vision, as your face grimaces in a fusion of rage, sorrow and grief... As the gossip began to churn from whispers to outright concern, many lords and ladies in calling, had reluctantly granted your persistent questioning with their own testimonies. Each testimony, aligned with the other, and you spared yourself knowing any further beyond the truth that Aemond had bedded a strange woman, by the name Alys... That he had fallen for her, sparring her from death, only to remain by her side, than yours...

You found yourself, constantly enraged and stricken with the raw agony of heartache, clutching at your breast, and another at your belly, where your once growing babe was protected inside. Constant tears falling across your cheek, as you struggled to breath, incompetent to find rest. Your body grew weaker without the slumber, your appetite diminished or repressed, you could not say, yet you found yourself scarcely replenished. That was until the dreadful night, you felt a hot ooze, pooling from between your inner thighs. Hiking your modest gown up, only to find your fingers glazed with a crimson red, a sharp lightening of pain shooting from your stomach towards your bloodied entrance.

"Th-The baby-"

That night was a gruesome one indeed, that only ended with greater devastation. You did not think your heart could take any more anguish, hoping that the torturous labour would end your own meaningless life in the process. Yet, the Gods willing, you found yourself awake by dawn. With only having spent a day to recover and recuperate, you made the sole decision to seek Aemond out for yourself. Against the wise advice of the maesters and your ladies, they had succumbed to your wishes, only implying they arrange the travels for you, as means to lessen the burden.

During the journey, you found yourself soaked in your own thoughts, with moments of silence and numbness in between, to spare you from the hurt. In time, you had safely arrived, only to be met with Aemond's shock and false excitement.

Sparing no time for him to devise a plan, you spat of what you knew, with Aemond harshly ushering you to where you stood now.

"Ahh- So the husband who spoke of honour and duty, seems to have his tongue tied, just as a coward would incline to denial..."

"Y/N- m-my love, ñ-ñuha ōños [my light]-" Aemond's blatant stutter on his low words, was a sight you had never witnessed before, plucking at your heartstrings.

"Sh-She is a renowned witch. One that had deceived me so. I-I did what I did, not out of love but of craft... Deceit. M-My true love, Y/N-"

He strides over to you with a swiftness that caught you off-guard, too late to back away in defence. His calloused hand reaches over, gripping your soft palm tightly, his thumb stroking your skin.

"It has always been you, ābrazȳrys [wife]. I need you to believe me, just this once, even if it is against the world, I ask too much of you, I know."

"A-Aem please, you have no idea-"

"You came all this way in your condition to see me, to hear the truth... This is my truth, Y/N."

Aemond promptly fell to his knees, tugging your arm towards him, you weakly tried to resist, yet failed to pull away. His defined lips instinctively kissed over your tender skin, trailing up your arm ever so slowly, sending chills to coarse through your spine.

"Aem-"

"Please Y/N... I wouldn't dare to live with myself if it meant you alone in the world, you alone hating me for the troubles I have done untoward you and our precious babe."

The babe... Your mind caught in a haste with Aemond's overwhelming presence, drifted from the fact you were no longer with child.

"I-I lost the babe, Aem... Last night. I-I bled-"

Halting in his affections, Aemond's viable eye remained fixated onto your stomach, as your hand instinctively planted itself against the silk fabric, rubbing at your empty womb. Silence drowned the room, only the faint depth of Aemond's staggering, dense breath could be heard.

"A-Aemond-" You breathlessly whimper, pulling your hand away from his loosened grip, as your fingers reassuringly comb through his delicate, neat strands.

"Y-You lost the babe... W-Was it because of- Me?"

You took a few sparing seconds to decipher whether to respond truthfully or to sugar-coat your response. In the moment of hearing the cold, hard truth, you wanted nothing more than to rid yourself free of Aemond and his cruelty. At one point in your trek, you felt the slightest temptation to disappear, bribing the driver to take the wrong turn only to cease your existence in Aemond's life altogether. Although considering the rawness of the situation, the truth was what you came for, and was what you intended to speak of.

"Th-The maesters believe, it was the-ugh- strain of the spoils of the war. They believe that I-I was under great stress, the babe simply could not cope."

Aemond's handsome face fell towards the floor, the swaying of his hair in motion to the shaking of his head, in utter disbelief. The stinging tears once more existent, streaked across your flustered face.

No further words echoed through Aemond, nor could you endorse the courage in yourself to speak. His lean arms snaked around your waist firmly, pulling your feeble frame closer towards him, burying his face against you.

Although muffled, you could discern the sobbing cries of Aemond's pain, triggering your own mournful cries once more. A few minutes passed, until he could gather himself, persistently pleading his apology to you, over and over again.

"It is all my fault. I-I had neglected you for far too long, failing my duty to devote myself to you, Y/N as a husband and as a father. I failed to uphold the vows I spoke of to you. Because of my weak mind, I killed our child."

The brutality in his words, his whimpering tone, and shaken hands as you released his embrace, cupping his wet cheeks, as you leaned towards him.

"You did not kill our child, Aem... The Gods can be cruel, just as they can be merciful... I, too, can be merciless. I could ask that you bid me free from the clutches of duty as your wife. And yet... I can be just as forgiving-"

"Tell me the truth of it, Aemond... Do you wish to keep me as your wife? To never again leave me to ponder and suffer in the whirlpool of vicious lies and gossip."

Aemond's doeful eye eagerly gazes up towards, a fleeting shimmer of yearning glistened across his blackened pupil.

"Yes, yes, of course, ābrazȳrys [wife]. You bless me once again with your everlasting kindness. A kindness that I am undeserving of. Ride with me on dragon-back. I want to go home, I want to be with you now."

"And what of the witch? What if she tempts you again? I cannot bear to go through this again, Aemond. Spare me that."

Proudly standing once more to his sturdy feet, his fingers now interlocked with yours lovingly.

"I shall have her head, if it pleases you my dearest. Punishment by death on the account that she con a royal Prince into adultery."

The familiar, stern tone that would adorn your ears like sweet honey to your lips, finally returned, subtly easing the ache in your heart. Earning a faint, warm smile scorned across your pretty face, Aemond lowered his head towards your height, planting a soft kiss across your forehead.

"I promised my sword to you, I promised my love to you, I promised my life to you. I intend to keep those promises till the end of my days."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @evenstaris @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1

Aemond taglist - @megatardisbaby @harrypotteranna23-blog

credit for dividers - @/firefly-graphics

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen angst #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagines #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction

[mads-nixon]

100th Bomber Boys: Major John 'Bucky' Egan

Here is a little bit about Major John 'Bucky' Egan (played by Callum Turner) from the prologue of Masters of the Air by Donald L. Miller (pg. 3, 7-8)!

John Egan was commander of a squadron of B-17 Flying Fortresses, one of the most fearsome killing machines in the world at that time. He was a bomber boy; destruction was his occupation. And like most other bomber crewmen, he went about his work without a quiver of conscience, convinced he was fighting for a noble cause. He also killed in order not to be killed. Egan had been flying combat missions for five months in the most dangerous air theater of the war, the "Big Leagues," the men called it; and this was his first extended leave from the fight although it hardly felt like a reprieve. That night, the German air force, the Luftwaffe, plastered the city, setting off fires all around his hotel. It was his first time under the bombs and he found it impossible to sleep, with the screaming sirens and the thundering concussions. Egan was attached to the Eighth Air Force, a bomber command formed at Savannah Army Air Base in Georgia in the month after Pearl Harbor to deliver America's first blow against the Nazi homeland. From its unpromising beginnings, it was fast becoming one of the greatest striking forces in history. Egan had arrived in England in the spring of 1943, a year after the first men and machines of the Eighth had begun occupying bases handed over to them by the RAF-the Royal Air Force-whose bombers had been hammering German cities since 1940. Each numbered Bombardment Group (BG)-his was the 100th-was made up of four squadrons of eight to twelve four-engine bombers, called "heavies," and occupied its own air station, either in East Anglia or the Midlands, directly north of London, around the town of Bedford.

pg. 7-8

As commander of the Hundredth's 418th Squadron, Johnny Egan flew with his men on all the tough missions. When his boys went into danger, he wanted to face it with them. "Anyone who flies operationally is crazy," Egan confided to Sgt. Saul Levitt, a radioman in his squadron who was later injured in a base accident and transferred to the staff of Yank magazine, an army publication. "And then," says Levitt, "he proceeded to be crazy and fly operationally. And no milk runs..." When his "boy-men," as Egan called them, went down in flaming planes, he wrote home to their wives and mothers. "These were not file letters," Levitt remembered. "It was the Major's idea they should be written in long-hand to indicate a personal touch, and there are no copies of these letters. He never said anything much about that. The letters were between him and the families involved." Major Egan was short and skinny as a stick, barely 140 pounds, with thick black hair, combed into a pompadour, black eyes, and a pencil-thin mustache. His trademarks were a white fleece-lined flying jacket and an idiomatic manner of speaking, a street-wise style borrowed from writer Damon Runyon. At twenty-seven, he was one of the "ancients" of the outfit, but "I can out-drink any of you children,'" he would tease the fresh-faced members of his squadron. On nights that he wasn't scheduled to fly the next day, he would jump into a jeep and head for his "local," where he'd gather at the bar with a gang of Irish laborers and sing ballads until the taps ran dry or the tired publican tossed them out."

In Master's of the Air, Major John Egan is sometimes called, "Bucky," "Honest John," and "Johnny." The men of his squadrons loved his leadership style, which was leading by example, as seen in the excerpt above.

John Archer, a long-time British friend of the 100th & its veterans, described Egan in his story, One Man and His Dog:

"The Major was a lean, dark young man with a wisp of moustache. He was 27, but looked older. He could turn on the charm and turn it off whenever he liked. It’s the kind of thing one experiences in foreman of construction gangs and traffic managers at airports, in jobs where contact and participation with the men is the prime factor." Major Egan was involved in the case of “Meatball vs the Pullet” a few days before he went down on a raid over Germany. Now Meatball was a half-grown husky dog which the crew of the B-17 brought over from Labrador on their way to Thorpe Abbotts during the summer of 1943. It seemed that Meatball was a bad dog, and all of a sudden turned into a chicken killer. And when did he decide to become a chicken killer? At a time when the personnel were involved in the toughest flying missions the group had yet undertaken. Deep raids as far as Danzig against desperate opposition. And in this tense atmosphere Meatball got playful one morning and mangled a chicken dead. The nearby farmer went bustling up to the orderly room to see the Major. Major Egan was sitting in with his pilots having an informal briefing with the men about new tactics in aerial combat. It was the afternoon following a raid on Emden, October 3, 1943. The farmer from down the road described “a light brown dog” that had killed a pullet. “Light brown. That’s Meatball, all right,” said the Major. “And you say he got a pullet?” asked the Major sympathetically. “Well, a pullet is pretty important, isn’t it?” “It is,” said the farmer, calming down by this time. Where did you ever hear of a Major who knew anything about pullets, and what is more, who would talk about loss sympathetically in the middle of a grim military operation? Clearly the Major was now pulling out the charm act. He could, of course, have turned the whole matter of Meatball, pullet and payment over to the Adjutant. But the affair seemed right down the Major’s alley. All the new crews who had just arrived at Thorpe Abbotts were by that time listening with amazement. “That pullet, did she look like a layer?” asked the Major. You could see by his face that he was rather tired, after all, it was only an hour or so since the raid was over. “She did, Sir, for a fact,” said the farmer.

“Well, what would you say she’s worth?” asked the Major. “Twenty bob,” said the farmer. “All right,” said the Major. “I think that’s a pretty reasonable sum for a good pullet, don’t you?” he inquired looking around at the crews who flew the big bombers. They looked at him quite dumbfounded, not quite figuring it out, and wondering who was pulling whose leg. And the Major was aware he had everyone right there in front of him. He was the actor and the rest were the audience. The farmer had departed by this time, very pleased, and the Major was rocking back and forth on his chair and looking around. And from the subject of the Germans using rockets and guns, the conversation was not on pullets. One of the young officers piped up and remarked, “A pullet, isn’t that some kind of… a rooster… like…” The Major glared at him and the officer’s face grew red. By now the class was sitting quite quietly. “A pullet,” said the Major patiently, “is a half-grown female chicken which lays a small egg with a very small yolk.” And he showed them just how big with his fingers. “Then,” continued the Major, “the machinery inside the pullet goes to work and all of a sudden – one fine day it lays an egg twice as big as the usual and it is no longer a pullet.” The briefing closed at that point. A few days later, Major Egan said goodbye for the last time to Meatball before climbing into his B-17. On October 10th, during a raid on Munster, the Major became a guest of the German forces, spending the rest of the war in a prison camp.

There was a certain pub in Dickleburgh that missed Major Egan. Sometimes he drove down in a jeep and sang songs in the bar with the locals and Irish laborers. With the affair of Meatball and the pullet, and the grim task of flying missions, Major Egan rounds out into a real example of an American who once walked the lonely lanes at Thorpe Abbotts. Egan served as Air Exec for the 100th, as Commander of the 418th Squadron, and on the Munster raid flew as Command Pilot on John Brady’s lead crew. After being shot down, all but one of Brady’s crew survived as POWs. (you can find more about this story here)

Egan was best friends with fellow 100th Bomb Group squadron commander, Maj. Gale "Buck" Cleven, whom he went to flight school with back in the States. The pair were roommates back in training, and little did they know they'd be roommates once again when they became German POWs in October of 1943. Buck after getting shot down over Bremen, and Egan in a retaliatory raid to get back at the Germans after they shot down his friend.

Egan was leaving for his first leave to London from Thorpe-Abbotts on October 8th when Buck Cleven and the rest of the 13th Combat Wing took off for Bremen. The next morning over breakfast, Egan saw the London Times headline: Eighth Air Force Loses 30 Fortresses Over Bremen," and sprang out of his chair to a phone. Due to wartime security, he had to speak in code.

Masters of the Air, pg. 10:

"How did the game go," he asked. Cleven had gone down swinging, he was told. Silence. Pulling himself together, Egan asked, "Does the team have a game scheduled for tomorrow?" "Yes," came the reply. "I want to pitch." He was back at Thorpe Abbotts that afternoon in time to "sweat out" a long mission the group flew to Marienburg, a combat strike led by the Hundredth's Commander, Col. Neil B. "Chick" Harding, a former West Point football hero. As soon as the squadrons returned, Egan got Harding's permission to lead the Hundredth's formation on the next day's mission.

This mission was set for Münster, just southwest of Bremen where Buck was shot down. Egan flew with Captain John D. Brady on the M’lle Zig Zig to Münster, and the heavy, along with all other planes but Royal Flush (Rosenthal's replacement B-17) in the 100th went down over the target. The crew of the M'lle Zig Zig bailed, parachuting through the flack-filled air. Hambone Hamilton was among the 'Zig's crew, and suffered multiple wounds from shrapnel. When found by Germans, he was taken to the hospital and stayed there recovering for a good while.

Egan, unlike the rest of the 'Zig's crew, was able to evade capture a few days before finally being taken prisoner. The aviators were first sent to Dulag Luft, the Luftwaffe's POW transit center. Egan and the other officers were kept separate from their men in cold and flea-infested solitary cells. Egan and Cleven were just a few cells apart, but neither knew the other was there. After a few weeks, Cleven and the men who were brought in with him were sent to Stalag Luft III, another POW camp just outside the town of Sagan, some 300 miles from their previous location. They were transported by train cars used for livestock, and they reported that "the smell of manure was overwhelming (Miller, 2007, pg. 23)." The trip took them three days. Three days after Cleven got to Stalag Luft III, Egan and his men arrived.

Masters of the Air, pg. 23:

Cleven watched them file into a neighboring stockade. Spotting Johnny Egan, he called out to him, "What the hell took you so long?" "Well, that's what you get for being sentimental," Egan shouted back.

Both Egan and Cleven remained POWs until the end of the war. Cleven, however, managed to escape on a march in 1945. The pair remained good friends until John's death from a sudden heart attack in 1961. Egan served as Buck's best man in his wedding when he married his sweetheart Marge in 1945 once they returned home.

John married his own sweetheart, Lt Josephine "Doty" Pitz (WASP) in late 1945. They had two beautiful daughters together.

tag list: @lena-basilone @luckynumber4

let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!!

#masters of the air #this is for everyone who doesn't have access to the book but wants more info on the guys!!! #major john egan #100 bombardment group #bloody hundredth #major gale cleven #donald miller #mota #hbo war #hbowar #callum turner #austin butler

[mynders-universe]

Oh right! I got a couple commissions I did, along with the various doodles that accrued while I was working on them. I call it the pontato style, cause.... tiny. 

SEE GUYS, I STILL WORK.... Sometimes.

#my little pony friendship is magic #unicorn #changeling #changedling #bendy and the dark revival #bomb wisp #my art #my ocs #art's desire

[puffein]

i'll be with you, someday

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader summary: even though you and wanda are continually entangled by fate while being in two distinct worlds, life and the challenges of dating a superhero outweighed fate's favors. warnings: fluff, angst word count: 3722 a/n: kaowjwekakak i am so nervous posting this. help, but i hope u enjoy reading this!! my first ficcc post :D

general masterlist

The first time you had met Wanda Maximoff was in the harsh breezy air of Europe, particularly a country located in the central-southeast. A small eastern country called Sokovia, tucked between Slovakia and Czech Republic, despite the country being small, the remnants of the bombings that happened years ago, were big enough to make the country gain attention from different countries especially their loud voices and public outcry in the streets of the country's capital city Novi Grad. 

The country was small but it gained the attention of every news network, particularly, yours. As a news reporter, life is not all about being shoved in a studio, making up a firm smile, and reading fast blurry lines on a small monitor. No, it's much more than that, it also means to get yourself shoved in dangerous matters. 

You wouldn't call the protests dangerous but as time passed by the cries were getting heated, louder, and the smoke was getting thick.

However, you cannot be phased by this. Not when a camera is steadily situated right in front of your face. 

"... organized protests on the streets of Novi Grad, the capital city of the country, Sokovia has been—" 

A fast whirring object flies past your shoulders as you flinch hard enough to toss yourself to the side. The object steadily launches itself on the big camera, glasses flying everywhere. Biting your lip to cut off whatever scream is bubbling in your chest, a gasp makes out of your trembling lips as a hand clasp tightly on your wrist. 

A girl–no, definitely a woman. The woman walks fast and hurriedly, she shoves you into an alleyway so far away from the crowd, the loud bearing of your chest was indescribable and suffocating.

"Why are Westerners so idiotic." her accented voice made your form straightened. 

Your brows furrowed rightfully at hers, "I am not—"

She puts up a hand, her brown hair tightly secured and gathered away from the curves of her face, you can see the sharp arches of her features, the prominent cheekbones sitting right on her cheeks going downwards. She glowers at you, "Get you and your camera away from here. If you want news, do it from a distance." 

You didn't know the woman you had met in Sokovia would stick up on your being for so long, but she did save you even after her blatant insults of you being careless and idiotic, which by the way is true. 

You didn't know that woman would shake the world with a much bigger coverage. 

Years later, you found yourself again in the country of Sokovia. A tip was passed by at your news network that something big will happen in the country and as the ever-loving favorite of your boss. He tossed you again in Europe, not caring if this tip was something like throwing you as a snack in a cage full of hungry wolves or in a simpler thought if it was even real.

But oh boy, you were wrong.

The tip was real. 

You would rather have yourself as a snack in a cage full of wolves than see yourself meters away from the ground. 

The capital city of Sokovia lifted itself off from the ground, screaming citizens blur the panic settling in your loud beating chest and the microphone you held against your chest trembles as it falls below you. A mistake was made when you looked down, the remaining parts of the city were no longer visible as clouds cleared off any vision of the city from below, the slight shaking of the ground pushed your weakened knees, shoving you face-front in the blue sky. 

Your voice reverberates loudly throughout the flying city, before you could fully fall and meet the end of your life, a wisping red smoke wraps itself on your hips pulling you far away from the edge of the city. 

The woman huffs out a breath, "You again?" 

"I don't —" 

And off she goes, running towards the panicking crowds, leaving your heaving chest and the shaking bones of your being in an alleyway. 

You thought that was the end of it all. 

It was the second time you have met her, and it was the second time you have come to learn her name. The name Wanda Maximoff.

The major event in Sokovia prompted you to shove a resignation letter to your fuming boss. Just a year after the traumatic event you had endured and the abuse you had experienced in your workplace, you are now a diligent owner of a small coffee shop.

Tucked between the nicely scented flower shop and an old apartment, your coffee shop was the only source of income you have. After resigning and possibly giving up the dream of becoming a news anchor, you had hoped this coffee shop would be enough to feed the starving energy of your impossible dream. 

"Hello, what can I do—"

Green eyes stared right at your soul, her eyes darted away to read the menu placed at the top of your head, a tinge of red blossoms at her cheeks, "What can you recommend?"

Clearing your throat, you shoved down the squeal bubbling in the depth of your chest, "Our cinnamon coffee has well-received feedbacks."

It's been a year since she saved you for the second time, you badly want to say your gratitude to her. To form coherent thoughts with words full of appreciation for her works and her bravery.

She nods, the dark green cap she's wearing hides half of her face but you see the slight twitch of the corners of her mouth. Her hand full of rings taps lightly on her thighs as she awaits for the coffee to go. 

When her coffee arrived, your breathing quickens at the brisk touch of her thumbs over the side of your fingers. She mutters a small thank you and you are faced with the fleeing form of a woman called Wanda Maximoff.

That should be the end, right? Meeting a superhero so frequently as you had met her is not normal. 

Not when she frequently buys coffee in your coffee shop, the same order she had brought when she very first set foot on your small premises. 

The frequent visit she had made you confused about the blossoming crush you are having with the Sokovian. Your interactions with her are no longer than 30 seconds, it consisted of asking what she wants, you would ask her how she was and she would curtly reply with a one-liner and it made you awkward. You are just doing your job. Why are you being awkward when it comes to her?

When she would come on her fifth visit, you promised yourself to take the courage to finally talk to her for longer than 30 seconds. So, when she comes in the early mornings of New York, wearing a cap over her head, and a coat that works wonders on her overall appearance, your courage wavers slightly. 

And it wavers greatly when a redhead trails behind the brown-haired woman.

The black widow flickers her eyes on your gaping form, a slight twitch of a grin plasters on her face as she walks beside Wanda towards you, carrying an aura no one could top off. 

"Hello," you cursed yourself for making your voice shake in a very obvious manner. "What can I get for you today?"

The redhead glances at the younger woman beside her, and a smirk beams out of the sharp edges of her face, "Oh, we are not here to order." the widow casually says. 

Bumping the back of her hand to the sides of a silent woman beside her, the widow only gives you a smile as she shoves Wanda painfully close to the counter. 

Wanda curses, "How are you?" she winces at the word.

You look between the grinning redhead and the woman who has a red face, you give out a confused smile, "I am good, Wanda. How are you?"

"Jesus." the widow curses under her breath, gliding her feet towards Wanda's as she kicks it in passion. 

Knees wavering from the sudden kick, Wanda exclaims the words, "Fuc— Can I take you out on a date?" 

And that's how you got yourself a superhero girlfriend. 

It's been months since Wanda started dating you, you were everything she could have asked for, you bring out the radiant glow of the sun, your love is like a breeze tinged with the smell of the sea, and the touches you had made with her are anchors of her shaking boats. You calm the crashing waves of her life.

She knew what she was bringing to you after she had asked you out on a date. But she wants to have something, she wants to be selfish just this once. 

"What are you cooking?" your voice made its way into her ears, a big grin plaster automatically on her face.

Wanda turns her head over her shoulders, lowering herself slightly to catch the height of your lips. She hears the humming of your voice as her tongue darts leisurely on your bottom lip.

You grin, pulling away to wrap your hands around her middle section, "Smells good by the way." you mutter, kissing her shoulder. 

Wanda laughs, "I am only heating the food Nat brought last night, is that okay?" 

She feels the nod of your head against her shoulder, your cheeks pressed up tightly against it as she sighs at the comforts of your warm body. 

"How was the interview?" she finally asks.

You were silent for the first few seconds, "It was fine, I think."

Wanda can hear the doubt in your voice and the loud ringing of your thoughts, she fully turns herself to look at you. Her hands placed tenderly on your cheeks, "I just knew you rocked that interview."

After months of pondering if you should continue the dream you had thrown for the safety of your being, you had concluded that one bad news network is not equal to all of them. So, you prompted yourself in an interview to get the dreams you had let go.

"Rocked.." you ponder on the word, Wanda rolls her eyes with fondness pooling deep in her chest. "Definitely."

"But seriously, you will get this job. I just knew it. You are passionate and hardworking. Any news network would be lucky to have you, baby, you should know that." you beamed at her words, tiptoeing to kiss her properly.

"What would I do without you?" you quietly said between the kisses.

"Probably alone and starving, detka." she grins, biting playfully on your lip as you groan at the stinging pain. 

Relationship with Wanda was beautiful, like the scenery out of a postcard. But not everything is beautiful, every relationship passes by a rocky road that will either tumble the couple down or help them grow. 

So, when the absence of her presence in your life became more prominent as days passed by into months, you knew something was wrong. 

You are clearly informed of her work, of how everything was confidential but that did not stop the constricting pain your heart felt when she would go like a ghost and would come back like nothing had happened. Like she didn't just leave you all alone with no words.

You do not know where you and Wanda are placed. 

Are you two being tumbled down? or is this another thing that would help build the bonded relationship you two have?

When you woke up in the middle of the night only to have your eyes focused on a slumped form in the middle of the kitchen, the words came blaring down like an ambulance. 

"Jesus, are you okay?" kneeling in front of her, you tuck your hands in her arms to pull her up. 

Your hands go limp as she pushes you away, "Hurts, let me be here. It'll pass." she croaks out, eyes closed tightly. 

Your eyes scan the heavy movement of her chest, the stained shirt she wore does not make your chest calm. You lean in again, your hands hovering over the blood pooling at the side of her body, she grabs your wrist tightly, "I told you, it will pass."

When she opened her eyes to see the glistening eyes of yours, filled with unshed tears, her heart broke. She forces herself to sit up, biting her tongue hard to keep the scream of pain for herself. "Detka, I promise. I will be fine. I had it checked before coming here, just forgot to change, okay?" 

You nod at her words, blinking a few times to calm the beating of your heart.

"But you have to rest on the bed, not here." 

"I know, baby. Just give me a few minutes, hm? And I'll be there beside you, go." 

When you didn't move after her words, Wanda smiled at you, "I'll be with you, I promise. Please." 

And you left her alone with her pain, just like every other night.

Wanda would rather suffer in silence than make you see the pain scattering all over her body. She does not want your eyes to scan her battered body, it will break her to see you sob just because she has been careless on a mission. 

It was not worth it.

Her actions shouldn't weigh down on your stability and as every mission piles one after another, it becomes more dangerous, more eye-opening. 

She didn't want to admit it but what she has been asking from you was unfair. Asking you to leave her alone after making you see the bruises on her face or the remnants of the mission was unfair to you. She cannot just let you see she's suffering and pushes you away. 

But that was the only thing she could do. She would rather be choosing that option over and over again than choosing the choice of completely leaving you. No more sights of bruises, no more her and you.

Wanda lets herself be selfish once more.

When the light rays of the sun push itselves through the windows of your small apartment, you wake up with the soft lips of your significant other. 

Peppering your face with soft kisses, Wanda kneels at the side of your bed, leaning down once more to kiss your forehead, "Wake up, detka. I made breakfast." 

You stirred in your sleep, hands reaching out to touch the cheeks of Wanda but hovered on top of it, halting your movements.

Wanda frowns. 

You opened your eyes, "Is it gonna hurt if I touch it?" you point out a bruise on her cheekbones, Wanda stills at your question. Her heart plummeted at your fragile quiet voice. 

She nods slowly, "You can touch anywhere, sweetheart. I am fine now, I visited the med bay while you slept, everything is fine." 

You sit up on your bed, shaking off the sleep in your eyes, you stare at her. "Can I kiss you?"

Wanda smiles, leaning in, "You don't have to ask." 

Meeting your lips halfway with the warm feeling of the cascading sunlight on her back was something Wanda wants to have for the rest of her life. The soft feeling of your lips against her, the smell of coffee, you. Everything is perfect for her.

And she knows a perfect person like you wouldn't last with a person so imperfect like her.

The bruises on Wanda's face were not halfway cured when she was asked again to go on a mission. It was still purple and swollen when she heard the call from Steve. A mission to infiltrate a newly discovered base of Hydra. It was located somewhere in Europe, it was miles away from New York, miles away from you.

It was just another day of you and Wanda lounging in the walls of your apartment, the chilling icy-cold air of the night felt sharp on your skin, her face was still healing from her past mission when she suddenly excuses herself to answer the taunting ringing of her phone. 

She had kissed your forehead before walking away to give herself privacy and the kiss that felt comforting before weighs down indescribably in the depths of your chest.

You watch the frowning of her brows, how she nibbles her bottom lip to how the muscle in her jaw twitches as her head bobs in something that was being discussed on her phone.

You look away, eyeing the show you two have been watching, the voices on it fading out. You knew what was coming and you should be accustomed to it by how frequently she leaves for her job but it did not make it easier for you, it just became harder. 

Her presence came like a tidal wave, scooting herself closer to your form as her hand snaked around your waist pulling you flushed on her. She kisses the side of your head slowly, her lips lingering on your warm skin.

You sigh, leaden feelings set heavily on your chest, "You're leaving, again?"

Wanda gulps the remaining bitter taste in her mouth, nudging your cheeks with her nose, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." you snap. You didn't mean to make your voice let out the feelings you have thrust down on your chest. But it did and it's like the small crack of an incoming big wave from a dam that's been left too full.

Wanda grips your waist, resting her forehead on your shoulders, she breathes in the scent you had emitted, "I'll be back before you'll know it, baby."

"You always say that and yet, you always come home months after." you ground your jaw hard and painful as Wanda snapped her mouth shut. 

She lets you hear the silence of her essence, the slow breathing from her lungs, the flowery scent she has. She lets you have it, for she knows the truth of your words. 

"I'm sorry," she starts, smoothing the skin on your waist. "I'll be back." 

"How long do I have to believe that?" your voice wavered, any control you have left for clutching your feelings in your grasp is now gone. The feelings you had been feeling ran out of your mouth fast and heavy. 

"I'll always be back, when did I lie, Y/N?" Wanda replies.

"How long till you just finally don't? I have seen you hurt so many times, Wanda. I don't want to see your dead body or– or do I even have the right to see it if it happens or will it be confidential?" you moved away from her, hugging yourself as you felt the heavy material of her sweater, making you feel more miserable.

"Don't think that." Wanda's voice was firm and hardened. 

"I always think that! What do you think my thoughts will be after you have walked away to offer yourself in such dangerous missions." your throat closes up instantly, a sob breaking out of your mouth, 

"You– you, you can read minds, how come you have never known I was hurting?" 

Wanda's green eyes gleamed with sadness at your outburst. Do you have to ask such an obvious question?

Of course, she had known. She had always known how much she was weighing you down, how these frequent absences of hers are taking a toll on you mentally and emotionally. She does not want to acknowledge how she's taking the life out of you, how day by day your eyes have lost their light, just because of her. 

She turns a blind eye to all of that. She always did.

She deserves to be a little more selfish, right?

So, she cradles your cheeks tenderly, your eyes burning with grief at a loss that you know will happen.

"It's gonna be fine, I will be back, I promise. Please, stop crying." she wipes your tears gently, the padding of her thumbs gliding smoothly below your eyes. She leans in to kiss it, shuddering at the wetness she felt on her lips.

"I'll be with you, baby. Please, stop. I'll be—" Wanda's lips instantly pressed together as you yank your figure away from her tight grasp. 

Pacing away from her, your brows creased in apprehension, "It's either be with me or le— work." the timbres of your voice falters.

"I can't be here, with you. You had lost everything, Wanda. Why do you want to lose yourself? You have saved many, it's okay to stop." your voice pleaded.

Wanda's eyes swam with tears as she finally felt the cracking of the ground, the awareness of the reality that was unfolding before her eyes didn't feel real. 

She didn't want it to feel real yet as her eyes settled on your dishevelled state everything came crashing down on her hard and excruciatingly painful.

She took a step forward, and with her shaky hands, she took your cold ones and brought it to her trembling lips. "Everything will be fine, please don't do this," she begged.

"I am so tired of crying myself to sleep. I have forgotten what it's like to have a mind so peaceful, Wanda. But my mind is far from peace if you are away from me," the vision you had before is long gone, replaced by a blurry sight of tears and heartbreak. "I am just asking you to stay. To choose yourself, to choose us and stay." 

"Please, don't make me choose."

"Then, leave." 

The hands grasped tightly on yours stilled. Wanda froze in front of you, her wide eyes staring directly at yours, she looks for a sign that you're gonna take back the words you have sputtered, that everything is just a mistake on your part but when you remained grounded, and when you let her hear the loudness of your silence, her face contorted in pain at your words. 

She felt the walls closing in on her.

"Baby, detka, I have no—"

"You have asked me to not let you choose. That is an answer, Wanda." your voice quivered, and you whisk your hands away from her hold.

"Leave, I'm sure Steve will appreciate your early arrival." you turned your back to the woman you will be mourning, chest leaden with grief-stricken feelings as you grieve for the loss of your love.

And you left her alone with her pain, just like every other night.

general masterlist

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff oneshot #wanda maximoff fanfic #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel fanfiction #mcu oneshot #wanda maximoff x gender neutral reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you

[crispywisp]

girl help !!

#this didn't happen in my last playthru wtf !! #the panic i felt when it wouldn't let me throw away the bomb at first LOL #the wisp whispers #video

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert

[raccoonfallsharder]

˚₊‧✶ headcanon 21 ✶‧₊˚

i write about raccoon sense of touch a lot [this kinda spicy rumination] and i think about it a lot

like two-thirds of a raccoon’s sensory perception area in the cerebral cortex is just… focused entirely on interpreting tactile data. their fingers have whiskers (okay, vibrissae) so they can identify objects without even making paw-contact. their hands become hypersensitive when wet (lord). if they identify things with their paws, they can remember them for up to/around a year without touching them again.

so yeah, when you press a kiss to rocket’s palm, it damn near lights up his whole brain. holding hands? palm-to-palm? it’s so intimate that he’s probably absolutely scarlet under all that fur. he probably thinks it feels like you might as well be reading his mind. he memorizes you the same way he memorizes every gun he takes apart and every bomb he puts together.

i suppose this means he thinks mostly in tactile sensation, too. when he’s imagining you, it’s less about the color of your hair (assuming the high evolutionary’s made sure he can see the same color-range as humans, anyway). it’s not about the clarity of your eyes, or how you’d looked with the sun haloing you that morning on xandar when he’d first let you touch his shoulder. nope. when rocket thinks about you, it’s how warm your hands are, every little soft pillow and rasping callus on your palm and fingertips. the brush of them through his fur, every one of his little hairs standing on end in its follicle. it's the shape of the bones in your wrists from that time he traced them into memory.

similarly, rocket doesn’t remember lylla’s liquid-dark eyes so much as the silkiness of her pelt, the cool graze of her vibranium-alloy hands. the delicate touch of the damp fabric on his forehead that very first day, and the squeeze of her arms on the very last.

and so, the natural outcome of all this is that he dreams in touch, too. it’s not the silver flash of scalpels and the blood on the ground — it’s not even the gunshots and floor’s desperate pleading and his own wails, or the scent of laser-burnt fur and blood — though of course those are all there too. it’s the pain he dreams of: feeling it fresh in his body, every incision and broken bone and careless laser-stitch, every screw and metal plate soldered in. it’s not the lights for their white-brightness; it’s the tearful squinting squeeze of his eyes, the burning in his pinpoint-pupils. it’s the way lylla’s body had buckled and loosened, and pulled from his arms to the ground by gravity — the last of her warmth wisping through his fingers, already a ghost between the cold arête cages. it’s the plummet in his own belly — that terrible twisting knot that dropped when his first family did, and never ever stopped.

all that pain. it’s so much. it’s so much to make up for.

it’s so much to make up for.

but you’ll get started.

headcanons & imagines masterlist

#rfh headcanons #rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #rocket raccoon headcanon #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket gotg #gotg rocket #gotg fanfiction #gotg rocket x reader #reader x rocket #rocket x reader #gotg x reader #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket racoon x reader #gn reader