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10piecechickenmcnugget · 2 months

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not to fall into fandom archetypes but c!oli is sooooooooo dog coded. loud. energetic. silly. makes fun noises. gets the zoomies. scurries around. trusting. maybe a little too trusting. very friendly. loyal. loyal to a fault. social, he doesn’t do very well left on his own. he doesn’t do very well in cages. doesn’t do very well with isolation. very social. he loves people, even if people don’t always love him. loyal to a fault. once he’s your friend, he’s your friend for life. even if he keeps getting hurt. even if he keeps getting left behind. he’ll stay and he’ll love you, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. because at least he isn’t alone, right? he stays around people, because he loves people. even if they’ve hurt him, cause it’s better than being alone. better than being in a cage. he’s trusting. he’s loyal. he probably sleeps on the floor

#10piecetalks #anywho.#do i maintag this or just leave it for the 3 c!oli girlies who follow me #drops this and leaves

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akisata-moved · 3 months

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it’s interesting how people will use the ova to justify portraying ryo as a ‘jealous crazy guy’ (that and one summers day, which i can’t argue with, i just don’t really consider it canon), when … in the first ova, miki is the one who is very clearly jealous of ryo? this is mostly a dub characterization— miki is really protective over her title as Akiras Best Friend. see: her being like ‘well that’s not true cause i’m your bestest friend’, and then her being all huffy and saying “well then you’d better go if he’s so important to you” when akira insists on going with ryo. idk . just interesting. miki is also portrayed as weirdly jealous in the manga too, so i’m not really sure why this characterization is applied to ryo all the time

#two sources of ryo jealousy i can think of are one summers day which i previously stated #and chibi ova which is VERY much not their real characterization #like that’s the whole point #louie.txt #anywho.

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andiwriteordie · 1 year

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Mike and Will get locked in the school library and have to wait until morning for the doors to open up, perhaps?

ok so not gonna lie, i am getting sleepy (lol me projecting by writing mike's sleepy self in the library), but listen, this one was SO fun. a little modern byler au here, set during their senior year of high school. featuring every byler's favorite poem by richard siken (starts at 19:54 on the link).

—

with a beautiful boy

“What if nobody finds us in here, Will?”

Will blinks, and he rolls over to look at his best friend in amusement. “There’s school tomorrow, Mike,” he reminds dryly. “First thing in the morning, Ms. Jean’s gonna come in and realize we’re in here, and we’ll get lectured or get detention or something for being stuck in here. But they’re gonna find us.”

Mike hums, and he lazily reaches for one of the books—one with a black and white picture of a man’s mouth and hand, titled CRUSH. He opens it up, absently thumbing through the pages; then, without saying another word, he sets the book on top of his face.

“Do you think if I just… let these books sit on my head I’ll absorb all their information through osmosis or something?” Mike asks, his voice muffled by the book on top of his face, and Will just snorts.

“I think you need to sleep,” Will corrects, nudging his best friend’s shoulder. “It’s 2 AM, Mike. If you’re tired, you should sleep. I told you I didn’t mind staying up alone.”

“And I told you,” Mike says stubbornly, “that if you’re staying up, then I’m staying up too. Besides, it’s kind of fun. You know I get stupid when I haven’t slept in a while.”

Once again, Will snorts, and he reaches over, lifting the book off Mike’s face. “You said it,” Will deadpans. “Not me.”

A soft laugh escapes Mike’s lips, and he closes his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice a little sleepy. “I know I did.”

“Mike,” Will laughs softly, nudging his best friend again. “If you’re tired, go to sleep.”

Mike lifts his middle finger up. “Don’t tell me what t’do, Byers,” he grumbles. “I’m fine.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

Mike just hums softly, and he taps his fingers absently against the carpeted floor of the library. “Hey, Will?”

“Hm?”

“Will you read to me?” Mike says, his voice soft, and Will blinks, looking at his best friend curiously.

“You want me to read to you?” Will repeats, just trying to make sure he heard Mike correctly.

“Mhm.” Mike nods.

“What, like a bedtime story or something?” Will asks dryly. “Is that what this is?”

“No,” Mike huffs, opening one eye and sticking his tongue out at Will. “I just… like your voice a lot. It’s pretty. So… you should read to me.”

Warmth rises to Will’s cheeks, and he looks away quickly, lest Mike see the stupid blush on his face. Yeah, Mike is definitely loopy right now, since he’s saying stuff like this. There’s no way in hell Mike would say any of this if he was in the right mind. He has no idea what he’s talking about.

Maybe a bedtime story would be good for him.

“Fine,” Will sighs reluctantly. “What do you want me to read?”

Once again, Mike hums. “Just read the book I grabbed,” he mumbles. “The one you’re holding right now.”

“Okay, okay,” Will sighs, and he sits up, absently flipping through the book and trying to find a poem that stands out to him.

Finally, one of the poems jumps out to him, and Will swallows the lump in his throat. He… he can’t help but think back to the summer road trip he and the other Party members had gone on, just a couple months ago. The memory of sneaking away in the morning before the others had woken up and riding in the passenger seat of Mike’s car along the coastline feels burned into Will’s memory, and this poem feels like that memory—as if the poet tore open Will’s heart and mind and used his thoughts as inspiration.

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,” Will begins to read softly, “and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired.”

Mike hums softly, and Will glances at his best friend, a tiny smile on his face. “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,” Will continues, “and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist…”

Will’s heart pounds inside his chest, and he takes a shaky breath, staring down at the words. “And you feel your heart taking root in your body,” he murmurs, “like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.”

Once Will finishes reading the poem, the library goes silent. Neither one of them says a word, and all Will can do is stare at the words, reading them over and over again.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.

…

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him.

...

And you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

“Hey, Will?” Mike murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

Will swallows the lump in his throat, and he lowers the book, so he can look at his best friend. “Yeah?” he whispers back.

Mike’s eyes are still close, and he absently traces his finger across the carpet. “Have you ever felt like that before?” he asks softly, and Will’s brow furrows.

“Like… what?” Will asks hesitantly.

“Like how the poet did when he wrote that,” Mike answers without hesitation. His voice is still soft, and it grows even softer when he adds, “‘Cause… ‘cause I have.”

Will’s breath catches. He glances back down at the book. The words jump off the page at him.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.

“Yeah,” Will whispers back, hesitantly looking back up. “I… I have too.”

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him.

A tiny smile forms on Mike’s face, and he opens his eyes, looking sleepily at Will. “You should tell me about it sometime,” he whispers. “And I’ll tell you too… when I’m less sleepy. ‘Cause I… I don’t wanna wake up and realize this was a dream.”

There’s something so tender in Mike’s eyes, and Will can’t help but smile. “Okay,” he says softly, nodding at his best friend. “We can tell each other about… about what we’re thinking about, when you’re less sleepy. Deal?”

“Deal,” Mike promises, yawning softly. “I… I’m gonna sleep now. ‘m sorry.”

Will can’t help but laugh. “It’s okay,” he reassures. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you up before school starts.”

The smile on Mike’s face grows. “G’night, Will,” he mumbles, and he closes his eyes once more.

“Goodnight, Mike,” Will whispers back.

Within moments, Mike is fast asleep, and Will exhales, looking back down at the poetry book in his hands. His eyes land on the last lines of the poem, and Will can’t help but smile.

And you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

#andi's asks #byler #byler ficlet #andi writes not dies #okay so my personal headcanon for this ficlet is that #mike intentionally grabbed this book #having already read this poem will reads #and he does it in hopes of will reading that poem too #bc mike has that same feeling that will does about their little summertime car ride #ANYWHO.

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lukeskqwalker · 7 months

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I just can't stop thinking of the part of bg3 where Orion takes one of your party members. for lae'zel and halsin, it's difficult to imagine them getting successfully kidnapped unless there's some extreme circumstances. Mostly because they'd put up a fight, and a loud one at that. They're both jacked and in a struggle they'd likely need several people and perhaps some drugs/magic in order to go down. But Gale..... yes he's one of the most powerful wizards of all time, but it's fairly easy to take down a wizard when you take away their ability to cast. A gag and a tight grasp on the wrists and he's suddenly completely helpless. Gale is the only one I can imagine getting taken while conscious the entire time. And you know Orion would try to taunt him, to humiliate him. His already fragile self-worth relies so terribly on his ability to be useful, to be impressive. So to be taken so easily and then forced to sit alone and helpless, relying only on the hope that someone could possibly care enough to get him out... it just sounds a bit like his worst nightmare.

#like. lae'zel just got kidnapped for me. and it's SO wild I'm like. HER?? you must have brought an army #anywho.#bg3 #gale dekarios

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happi-tree · 6 months

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hunter’s mark, reversed

You never forget your first kill, they always say.

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either.

Grant trudges to the master bathroom, attempting to muss his hair out of its unruly bedhead. He flicks on the lights, runs the water, lets the cool chill of it splash against his face and rouse him into a loose definition of wakefulness. Washes his face, turns off the water, looks in the mirror as he pats his face dry.

His own reflection stares at him, tired.

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back.

Or: Grant Wilson, and the things that haunt him.

ao3

This is my fic for @dndadsfanweeks' Halloween Week day 6: ghosts. Like previous days, this is part of the supernatural au @llumimoon, @kaseyskat, and I planned out together. Content warnings for blood, gore, death, and general angstiness.

Hunter’s Mark (reversed): You choose kill a creature you can see within range and it mystically marks it you as your its quarry. Until the spell ends, you it deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage to the target whenever you hit it with a weapon attack, and you have disadvantage on any Wisdom (Perception) or Wisdom (Survival) check you make to find it.

-Ranger Spell List, D&D 5th ed.

You never forget your first kill, they always say.

What the monster manuals and hunting guides and mentors forget to say is that sometimes, your first kill never forgets you, either.

His own reflection stares at him, tired.

His eyes veer to his right, where a pair of vacant, milky white eyes look back, expressionless, framed by dark locs and pallored skin.

“Hi, Yeet,” Grant says softly.

You never forget your first kill.

You never forget your first crush, either.

And for Grant Wilson, he’s unlucky enough that those two people ended up one and the same.

There is no response from the boy in the mirror, just a blank, glassy stare, like one of the taxidermied animal heads that had decorated the walls of his grandma’s house.

(As a little kid, he’d always thought their severed heads and marble eyes were a bit uncomfortable to look at, a bit creepy. He would make a game in his head of seeing how long he could be in the family room at night before he chickened out and turned the lights on. It was good, harmless fun, to look at the things Grandpa Frank had shot and convince himself that they were watching him from somewhere beyond the veil.)

(That was before he met Yeet, of course. Before his father had pulled him aside and told Grant what Grandpa Frank had told him.)

“Honey,” Marco calls from beyond the bathroom, and his husband’s soothing voice manages to pull him from his thoughts, just a little. His white-knuckle grip on the edge of the sink loosens (when had he grabbed it?).

“Hey, I’m headed out to work,” Marco says, poking his head in through the doorway.

The sight of Grant’s favorite person relaxes him further.

(He tries not to think about the way he had looked with a bullet wound between his eyes in his dream last night, his eyes fog-covered and glass-marbled, his jaw slack and dripping with gore.)

Grant feels Marco’s stubble brush along his cheekbone as his husband gives him a quick peck.

“Okay,” Grant hears himself say, although it feels like his head is underwater (it feels like his head is stuck twenty-five years in the past.) “Love you.”

Marco’s eyebrows knit together above his half-moon glasses. Grant hates and loves in equal measure the way that his husband can read him so well, even when he’s busy and frazzled from his morning routine. Some sort of witchy ability of his, he’s sure.

The concern in those onyx-flint eyes make Grant want to run and hide, sometimes, to cower and shy away like a prey animal under the weight of his affection.

Grant stays still, though. He’s gotten better at that (at least, that’s what Marco tells him).

“You sound awful.”

“Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” Grant says, trying to inject some lightheartedness into his voice.

“The adjustments I made to the sleeping draught didn’t work much, huh,” Marco frets.

Grant sighs. “Yeah.” Among other things.

His gaze slides to the mirror again: his warm, wonderful, magical husband on his left, a ghostly shade of a boy on his right. Grant in the middle, somewhere between living and dead, between predator and prey.

Marco follows his gaze, sees the way it lands on negative space.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I could always try an exorcism,” he muses, squinting at the silver-backed pane like he’s trying to force himself to see what Grant does.

“Too risky,” Grant says, like he has every other time Marco has offered. “He lashed out a lot, when I was younger. I wouldn’t want him to hurt you.”

It’s true. In the first few months - years - afterward, Yeet was a complete poltergeist. Gusts of wind would rip through every corridor of his childhood home, piercing shrieks and wordless screams echoing right next to his ears, those milky-white eyes narrowed in fury as wave upon wave of pity-disgust-betrayal-anger-fear reached through to his chest with icy cold fingers, emotions that were his burden but not his own siphoning between his ribs and pulling .

Phantom blood had drenched his teenage hands, red and sticky and awful but also strangely beautiful, congealing into chunks around shaking joints, caking into his fingernails, and Grant would pick at the skin there until it bled anew, as if disposing of the flaking crimson would absolve him of his sins.

Grant has long since rid himself of Catholic guilt. His own is more than any god could give him, now, and he watches as the red fills his peripheral vision, leaving gory smears on the countertop, worming its way into every line of his palm. Its counterpart blooms from Yeet’s chest, flowering and spreading outward, mesmerizing in a way that Grant knows he shouldn’t find pretty.

Marco exhales, places a hand atop his, unlatches it from the edge of the sink (fuck, he had been gripping it too hard again, hadn’t he), interlocks their fingers together. The red doesn’t spread to him.

(Grant hopes it never will. Grant hopes that, at the end of things, he will be buried, soaked in blood and gore, a sponge for all the violence so that his family, his friends, his pack, never have to live in fear again.)

“Okay,” Marco says, calmly, firmly.

Too many people have treated Grant like he is fragile, one moment away from breaking. Blessedly, Marco has never been one of them.

“I’m fine,” Grant says. “I’m fine, Marco.”

“It’s okay not to be,” Marco says, infuriatingly patient for someone who was about to rush out the door.

“You’re going to be late,” he evades.

“Time is relative, dear,” Marco responds, the air tingeing with a very specific mirage of color that Grant has long since learned to identify as his husband’s magic. There’s a slight upturn to his mouth, and Grant can’t help but lean into him and fit his lips to the seam of his smile.

Marco’s hands come to grasp at his waist, grounding, steadying, and the air smells less like a bloodstained forest night and more like clementines and jasmine.

When Grant pulls away, there is no blood where his fingers cup his husband’s jaw, nor where his hand fists in his clean shirt.

“There you are,” Marco murmurs, smiling gently, and fuck, Grant does not deserve him in the slightest.

(He doesn’t need the lone boy in the mirror, rigor-mortis-frozen at age thirteen, to tell him that. Although the phantasmal reminder certainly doesn’t hurt.)

“You sure you’re gonna be okay to drive Lincoln to school?” Marco asks.

At the edge of his hearing, Grant can hear the uncoordinated puttering of their son in the kitchen, attempting to prepare his breakfast with only his feet.

He smiles, and it feels a little less fake on his face. “Yeah, I can handle it. It’s his first day, I can’t not drive our little boy!”

“Alright,” Marco says, pecking him again on the cheek and turning to leave before pausing at the threshold.

“Oh,” he says. “Before I forget and you freak out, Lincoln and I did some arts and crafts yesterday.”

“Friendship bracelets?” Grant asks.

“Yep.”

There’s a cold breeze only he can feel. “And they work?”

Marco cocks his head to one side. “No reason why they shouldn’t. Iron to ward off fae, silver for werewolves, even soaked the strings in holy water to throw something anti-demonic in there,” he lists. “And of course, imbued with good intent.”

“Of course,” Grant echoes.

“I can tell you’re thinking,” his husband says.

Grant hums. “Public school’s gonna be good for Lincoln, it’s just - are we going too far with the precautions?” He frowns. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I mean, he’s going to find out eventually,” Marco says. “Whether or not he hears it from us.”

“I don’t want that to happen.”

“It’s going to, one way or another,” his husband asserts, frown clashing against his smile lines.

“I know, I know,” Grant sighs. “It’s just-”

There’s so much blood on Grant’s hands, passed down from his father and his father’s father, monster hunter to monster hunter to monster hunter. (Grant’s idea of a monster has shifted, as his father’s had, but the rush of the hunt remains regardless). The red will spread, as the red always does.

He can only hope it doesn’t stain his son’s hands. He can only hope it doesn’t ooze from his son’s ruptured heart.

Marco’s features soften. “I know,” he says. (He shouldn’t have to know.) “He’s growing up too fast.”

“Yeah,” Grant agrees.

“If you think the bracelets are too much, though, I don’t think he’s packed yet.”

Grant’s vision is drawn once more to the figure in the mirror. Yeet regards him silently, mouth agape in a silent scream of betrayal. His ghostly form still bears the marks of a witch hunter, wooden stakes and crucifixes and torches that Grant didn’t let him set ablaze.

He looks, and Yeet morphs before his eyes, locs shortening to dark, fluffy curls, close-cropped at the sides, freckles appearing on boyish, rounded cheeks and lanky limbs. The ghost looks a lot like Lincoln.

Yeet smiles wickedly, and blood pools from the corner of his mouth, runs down his spectral chin.

“No, no, the bracelets are a good idea,” Grant says, eyes not leaving the mirror. “Thank you for helping make them.”

“Not a problem, honey,” Marco says, squeezing his shoulder and dragging him back to the living “All good to go?”

“I need to get dressed, first,” Grant responds, gesturing at his loose t-shirt and boxers.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, I really do have to go,” He says. “I’m gonna wish Lincoln good luck, and then I’m off!”

“Okay,” Grant says, already moving to grab his sweater and slacks for his shift at the library later today. “Love you.”

“Love you, too!” Marco replies, immediate and ever-present, an answer to a question Grant doesn’t deserve to ask. “And Grant?”

“Hm?”

“Lincoln will be fine,” Marco reassures. “Trust me. I have a good feeling about this.”

“I hope so.”

The boy in the full-length mirror stares at him, hovering just at his right, and Grant avoids looking at him.

God, I really hope so.

#oh? a happi fic WITHOUT a song lyric title??? wuh oh it's getting serious!#got this in JUST under the wire but i really hope you guys enjoy it!#i've been keeping this one under wraps and being evil with nyx and cal about it and it's been very fun :]]]#anyway uh. grant wilson my beloved. babygirl is NOT doing well in this i fear </3 #i hope you know how ill the wilson family makes me. i hope this gives you a glimpse into my sick and twisted mind #ANYWHO.#dndads #fic #happi scribbles #dndads halloween week 2023 #ghosts #blood #gore #death #body horror #ask to tag

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silv3reyedstranger · 8 months

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Which wigs of Katie's are you talking about being party city ones? I've only seen things where her hair looks fine!

anon, you’re so lucky to have not seen the insane wig they had katie wear, but uh.

exhibit a:

need i say more?

#i defiled the sanctity of my camera roll for you #i hope this answers your question #this two dollar wig aint it #esp when they HAD HER PLAYING HER OWN MOTHER #anywho.#enjoy this cursed photo🤡#katie mcgrath #ask farren

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kristhekrispy · 2 months

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my guy is literally ecks deeing

#I’m going to kill this fag #Anywho.#pafl #nikita

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loki-ioki · 3 months

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part of the reason i realllyyy don't like emmet (besides Trainwreckshipping. i can't. i really can't. it makes me so mad/uncomfortable) is that i feel like the aftermath of PLA really did some weird shit to his (fanon) personality that i do not understand. i understand if he would be very upset over the loss of his brother and wanted to find him but also i am going to put a "he would not say/do this" card on the table. idk! i just. don't. like him

#i am fine with Ingo but i prefer him in his warden era.#also back on the volo part. some of the shit i've seen is like. weirdly violent and just rubs me the wrong way in all directions.#the man sucks and i know this and all of the shit he did but. idk. i don't like it.#anywho.

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10piecechickenmcnugget · 2 months

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little update cause i haven’t talked about this much here:

i recently found out i am apparently a system! so that’s. something 👍 add me to the list of mcytblr systems ig

i’ve been talking about it a LOT on my main (@thinkingabout-girls) so i thought i’d do a little update here. oli theorionsound from the empires smp lives in my brain and he’s making me british. modern day tragedy

so anyways yeah that’s it. i’ve literally known for like barely even two days so i’m still figuring shit our bear with me ;-; but y’all are welcome to ask me about it or talk to oli (he kinda dipped today but he likes to talk) or whatever just don’t be an asshole yknow

ok that’s it hopefully i’ll get the energy to draw soon byeeeeeeeeeee

#10piecetalks #anywho.#there may be more guys in there but hell if i know

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chenfordspiral · 1 year

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theory incoming.

Okay, hear me out.

We know Lucy goes undercover in 5x21. Based on that one BTS pic from a crew member a while ago, I think it might be Aaron who gets shot in 5x22. Now. What if...

Lucy and Aaron are partnered up, Aaron gets shot, they investigate a little, and because she shouldn't be alone after something like that, Lucy is always with others; they all end up getting hurt in some kind of way, and then they eventually realize that it's LUCY who's the target because every time something happens, Lucy is with the person getting hurt?

It's of course all tied back to the UC case in 5x21, we get a big ass cliffhanger at the end of 5x22 and we won't know what exactly happened until 6x01, ensuring a summer full of suffering.

BUT: it would be great to see worried Tim going feral.

#the rookie #chenford #theory for 5x22 #lucy chen #tim bradford #aaron thorsen #this theory won't leave me alone #i'd be surprised if it was anything like this though #because no way they won't find a way to make it about Nolan and/or Bailey #but a girl can dream #also: why am i thinking about the finale already when 5x20 & 5x21 haven't even aired yet?#i should be basking in the perfection that is domestic chenford #anywho.

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