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steviewashere · 1 month

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My Boy

Rating: GeneralCW: Minor mention of homophobia/slur (not said)Pairings: Eddie Munson & Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson (minor)Tags: Pre-Canon, Relationship Study, Gay Eddie Munson, Coming Out, Supportive Wayne Munson, Good Parent Wayne Munson, Ally Wayne Munson, Southern (adjacent) Wayne Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Wayne Munson is a Sweetheart, Mentions of Eddie's Shitty Dad, Post Canon

Quick little thing here: crawdads are crayfish (I call 'em crawdaddies), jambalaya is a Louisiana dish containing rice meat and other fixings, skeeter is a mosquito, maw-maw is a grandmother, and lightning bugs are fireflies.

🏳️‍🌈—————🏳️‍🌈 Eddie has always been a whirlwind of movement and words and voices. Even in his most dire, most embarrassing, or even most depressing moments—he’s never been one to be unlike himself. He’s like an early morning Saturday cartoon come to life. Not a single moment in Wayne’s new life with this kid has been drought dry, silent, and still.

Tonight it is. Which is odd.

He made a damn good jambalaya tonight. Went out of his way to go a little bit outside of Hawkins. Picked up the juiciest looking pack of sausage he could find. Even bought a batch of fresh crawdads, none of that frozen crap. Spiced it with devil’s intuition and his maw-maw's guiding hands. And served it up all nice in his favorite deep bowls. Usually, the reaction to a part of Wayne’s soul, bared mixed up and spiced to the nine hells, is an excited little wiggle at the table, maybe some comment about how Eddie’s been having dreams about the dish for weeks, maybe even a good natured moan.

However, when Wayne sits his bottom down on one of the rickety dining chairs, Eddie’s stoic in his spot. Spoon fisted in hand, yes, like it always is. But he’s taking pathetic bites. The damned utensil’s not even full. Isn’t spilling over.

Wayne looks to him, then. Pinched eyebrows. Squinted eyes. A purse to his bottom lip. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” He eloquently asks. “Did a skeeter bite you on the bottom or somethin’? Eat up.”

Eddie’s eyes rocket up from his bowl. Big and brown, almost too big for his little face. He’s frowning down to Satan’s feet. Eyebrows, that are still growing in and too dark for his pale skin, bunched. He’s wearing an ill fitting Johnny Cash t-shirt that Wayne knows was stolen straight from his dresser drawers. It’s stretched around the collar, revealing Eddie’s scrawny shoulders and all the freckles he got from being kissed by the Tennessee sun as a little boy. There’s something about him, though. Sure, he’s a little boy—sort of. Fourteen years old and a hell of a lot taller than Wayne has seen for a boy his age. But his face reads maturity. Like he’s been drowned in it. Aged beyond his years. If the fear in his eyes has anything to say about it.

“Bubba,” Wayne sighs. “You been in my home for a little over a year now, what’s got you lookin’ at me like I’m huntin’ you down for sport? Like a damn deer, boy.”

“It’s nothing, Uncle Wayne.”

“It’s something if you ain’t eating you’re favorite dish I make.” Wayne sets his own spoon back down on the table. Leaning a bit on the surface, arms crossed and lax in front of him. He lowers his head to be eye-to-eye with Eddie. Murmurs, “You don’t gotta fear me, kiddo. What’s going on, Ed?”

He’s never seen a little boy take a grievance gulp. A swallow the size of a tennis ball. Out of his beer drinking buddies, sure. And the men he served alongside back in the seventies before he was honorably discharged. But a kid? No way.

“I—“ Eddie’s eyes prematurely fill with tears. And Wayne’s never been privy to something like this either. He’s a happy kid. A kid with a terrible upbringing, but that’s never stopped him from having fun and laughing loud and being a little bit too obnoxious. Wayne misses his kid. His stomach churns. “I kissed a boy today,” Eddie weakly mumbles. His throat is thick with tears and his tongue is three sizes too big for his mouth, but Wayne hears him clearly despite it all.

Wayne nods carefully. Small, but there. “Okay, Ed. You kissed a boy. That’s alright, Bubba. I ain’t mad. It ain’t my business to be mad,” he murmurs.

“Really?” Eddie’s voice squeaks. “You ain’t mad at me? Even though I—Daddy told me it was sinful. Told me that I—That I was going to—“

“Your daddy had his head up his own ass. And he hasn’t been inside a church since he was an awful little boy. God knows he needs to go,” Wayne is quick to reassure. “He ain’t got two words in your business, kid. Besides, you ain’t with your daddy anymore.”

Eddie nods. His eyes point down to his cooling jambalaya. He scoots his spoon around in the few straggler pieces of rice that fell from his utensil. “The boy called me a bad word. I won’t say it, but it felt bad when it left his mouth. Will it always…Will people always think of me like that?” His voice is small, unlike himself, too serious. It’s nearly lost in the wood of the table.

Wayne shrugs in response. Because he truly isn’t sure. “You think you’ll always kiss boys? It’s alright if you do, but is that…”

He nods again. Fast and so sure of himself. A part of Wayne is shining like a diamond at the confidence in this kid. “I liked it before he ran away. I want to do it again.”

“Okay, Ed. Then, you’ll do it again. And maybe it’ll be bad and maybe people will be mean. But you’ll always be Eddie. You ain’t got nothing on the other kids in the world, y’know that?” Eddie just shrugs. Wayne leans back in his chair and briefly looks out of the window above the table. At the warm lights filling the trailer park. The setting sun playing hide-and-seek beyond the homes here. He sighs carefully through his nose. “When you came ‘ere seekin’ a bed, I wasn’t too sure about this little arrangement. I knew you’d be a little rowdy. A lot of a stubborn ass, because you’re like your mama. And may she rest in peace, but she was always playing my temper like a damn fiddle.”

Eddie laughs warmly. Giggling enough to jolt his body into movement. Wayne smiles, still peering out the window.

He continues, “So I wasn’t too sure about you, at first. Knew that I loved you, that’s damn sure. Knew it the moment your daddy showed you to me. Cooing about your mama’s eyes and your curly hair and your ruddy little cheeks. When I got to hold ya for the first time, you latched onto my thumb and refused to let go. Thought I’d have to take ya home right then and there.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and shakes his head in false disappointment. “Shame I couldn’t, tell you that. But look at cha now. Sitting here in my home, wearing my shirt—even though I told ya to quit that and ask me first—“

“Sorry, Wayne,” Eddie mutters.

“It’s alright, kiddo. I was just playin’ witcha. But you’re here now, that’s all that matters. You got warm food on the table. And you got your dragon game and your funny talkin’ books about elves and whatnot. You got enough energy to light every house in the world. How I ain’t worn out and completely bald yet, I ain’t sure, but I like what you got, kid. Moxie, I think that’s what it’s called.” He chuckles. Glows with pride as Eddie finally smiles, sticking it to his face and not letting it peel off. “But I love you, Ed. You’re my boy. I know damn and true that every part of you is good. You do as you please, but you be safe about it. There are risks. A conversation when we ain’t eating. But, you be Ed and I’ll be here.”

He leans back over the table, reaches out a hand and ruffles Eddie’s short tufts of curly hair. Eddie squawks. He tries to shimmy away, but gives up on it when he looks up to Wayne. Eyes alight with pride and giddiness. Something like contentment and comfort. There’s a flush to his cheeks from the laughter that spills out of him. Warm like the soft glow of lightning bugs. Wayne scoots his palm down the side of Eddie’s face and cups his palm. Cherishes the way Eddie leans into it.

“You promise me that, Ed? Promise you never change.”

“Promise, Wayne,” Eddie murmurs. “Now leave me alone with your sap, I’m hungry.” And he promptly scoops up too much to fit in his mouth. Shown in the way his shirt is stained with the droppings.

Wayne chuckles again and goes back to his food. The damn gall on this kid, he thinks.

——— And sure, over the years, Eddie makes some damn poor choices when it comes to messing around with boys. Forgets to check-in about when Wayne will be home from work, always loud and proud about who he is when Wayne wants to sleep for the next century. Sticks his tongue down throats for long enough that Wayne always worries that the other boy swallowed him up. But he’s still Eddie.

He’s still Eddie when he introduces Steve Harrington. Who’s on par with Wayne in a lot of ways. Loves to cook. Loves to watch football. Likes to take care of his car and the people around him. Is a little bitchy. Likes gossiping about the neighbors and getting on Eddie’s nerves. He’s perceptive about “his boy”—words straight from Steve’s mouth—and knows just how to take care of him.

A part of Wayne wonders what great force brought them together. Something to do with the age in their eyes and the scars on their sides and the jumps at flickering lights. But he won’t question it.

Because they got their boy.

And Eddie Munson is one hell of a spirit.

🏳️‍🌈—————🏳️‍🌈 Hope y'all enjoyed. I had an idea really late and just needed to write this really quick. Also, I'm so rusty on my Southern bullshit. I haven't been back in Louisiana in over a decade. But I did grow up with somebody Southern in my home, and admittedly have picked up the smallest twinge in my voice as well as the weirdest wordage, but whatever.

#stranger things #eddie munson #wayne munson #wayne munson & eddie munson #gay eddie munson #coming out #minor steddie #steddie

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aguineapigcouldntdothis · 21 days

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Im diasporic and i get so worried about my israeli friends whenever there's any rockets being fired at them and they're so calm and in like "how can you be calm there are rockets being fired at you im scared and im not even there" but also I've said shit like this before:

"I'm gonna sit outside and watch the hurricane come in its fine its only a category 2 or 3 or whatever"

"it's almost flash flooding season does anyone know where the raft is i wanna see if I can float down the street"

"oooh there's a huge lightning storm anyone wanna eat dinner outside. the mosquitoes are fucking horrible but its so pretty here oh shit that one was close"

"yall there's another fucking active shooter threat thank g-d I heard about it before leaving home. i wasn't even gonna skip class today how bad are these guys at scheduling their gun violence"

anyway perspective and experiences are important! still gonna be worried though

#jewish #jumblr

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captain-price-unofficially · 1 month

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A De Havilland Mosquito FB Mark VI of 'A' Flight, No. 143 Squadron RAF, firing on two moored merchant vessels with rocket and cannon fire, during an attack by the Banff Strike Wing on concentrations of enemy shipping in Sandefjord, Norway. 2nd April 1945.

#axis occupation of Norway #western front #aviation #wwii #April

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twst-drabbles · 1 year

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Ace, Deuce and Jamil 1

Summary: You were relaxing in the garden with Jamil sunbathing on your shoulder when a bug landed on his tail. A large jade green beetle.

You remember reading a little note about how important it is to receive at least some sun every day. Honestly, you had a hard time following it, mostly because the sun would make you so groggy and you’d struggle to finish your day. In fact, you’re fighting to keep your eyes open.

But, with you sitting on a chair with no back, and Jamil lazily wrapping himself around your neck while perched on your head, you can’t fall asleep without falling over. You can’t see him but you can imagine Jamil braiding his hair. He’s moving a little too much to tell otherwise.

Below, towards your feet, you saw Ace and Deuce doing their rounds, running to and fro from one side of the garden to the other. You don’t understand the path they’re taking but they seem to remember well enough. They’re marching, like little soldiers but as soon as Ace thought you were out of sight—they weren’t, the bush did little to hide their colors—Ace slumped and dragged his feet against the ground.

Slacker.

A buzzing came to the right of you. Instinctively, you swatted out, you hated mosquitoes with a passion but you missed. It flew over your hand, arcing before it landed right on Jamil’s tail. A large, fat, jade green bug who’s shell almost blinded you with it’s reflection. The little antennas twitched at you.

You felt him stiffen.

“Jamil…” you warned, and gave a reminder, “you’re on my neck…”

Do not choke me.

Of course, you can’t reason with fear. A high pitched shriek bordering on a whistle punched out of Jamil. You made to swat the beetle off but his tail went wild and struck against your collar bone. It stung, like you’d imagine Divus’s whip would whenever he used it.

“Jamil! Ow, Jamil!” He needs to hold still if he wants the bug off. “Hold still!”

In a flash of blue, red and green, Deuce and Ace burst from the bushes, but Deuce used Ace as an non-consenting trampoline and jumped, spring-boarded off of your thigh and tackled the bug in one shot. A high screaming tackle, fists out, ready to pummel this bug to death. Like a rubber ball, he bounced off the floor and into the next bush in his path. A grand scuffle was heard, the bush shuddering as twigs broke and Deuce yelled.

Then it was silent. Deuce came out, all scratched up and covered in dirt as though he had the fight of his life. Then, he puffed up in pride right before your eyes.

“Huh,” You didn’t know bugs could put up such a fight, “Nice job.”

Ace, on the other hand, was still faced down on the floor, rag doll style.

Jamil slide off your shoulders, slowly as his limbs were weak from all the tight panic, and poked Ace as though to make sure he’s alive. He is. You can tell. Ace just doesn’t want to face the embarrassment of Deuce stealing his spotlight.

When you noticed Jamil's tongue flick in and out, you said, "Jamil, stop that. He's not food."

Only then did Ace rocket up and away from all of you, leaving a dust cloud in his wake.

Wow, that worked. You were kidding, honestly. You know Ace would never meet Jamil's food standards. Too unseasoned.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #twst-drabbles exclusive #drabble #heartslabyul #ace #ace trappola #deuce #deuce spade #scarabia #jamil #jamil viper #house pet au #reader insert

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entomolog-t · 7 months

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The Shadow We Cast - 3

The boys are back with two more Prompts down! Delight and Linger ! I love writing these boys so much- just the goofiest vibes.

How long before I make it angsty?

- - - -

Previous Chapter: Chapter 2

Next Chapter: Chapter 4

Word count: 2332

CW: Adult language, substances (beer/drinking)

Man, the food was great. Never in my life had I tasted anything like the weird paste Mark had made- and to put it on meat?? Some crazy part of my was compelled to howl with joy. While the glass bucket Mark had given me to use as a cup proved progressively harder to grip with more and more of the sauce covering my hands, I was plenty fine with the extra effort just for another sip of the cool golden drink- Beer went incredible with hawk wings.

Leaning back, I groaned as I stretched out, stomach aching.

I’d more than eaten my fill, but it's not like it was everyday that I had such a mouthwatering feast to myself. My eyes flickered to Mark. Both in my own eager hunger and out of a slight unease, I’d been avoiding watching him eat. There was something both ridiculously impressive and deeply unsettling about watching another being consume many times more than my weight in food. Inarguably cool- but the spectacle left me feeling… less.

My eyes met his own. Though, as soon as my gaze met his, he looked away- quickly focusing on taking another drink. I felt a grin tug at the corners of my mouth. Looks like I caught him staring. I wait until he puts the can to his lips before I speak,

“See something you like, big man?”

Mark chokes on his drink- a strangled sound escaping him as his hand shoots up to cover his mouth as he sputters. I can’t help but laugh at the sight of him desperately trying to hold in his drink - his sputtering turning to coughing. The mix of the panicked look on his face and the pitiful sounds are just too much, and I find myself wincing at a sharp pain biting at my sides from the laughter.

Catching his breath, Mark chuckles. He waves a dismissive hand,

“Man, I’m just shocked at how much you ate.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Dude, you’re what? Ten times my size?” I gesture to the pile of bones on his plate, “How do you think I feel?”

Mark rolls his eyes,

“Relatively.” He points to the section of meat I’d claimed for myself, “Like, holy shit dude. It looks like you ate one of your legs worth of meat.”

I shrug.

“You could have eaten more if you hadn’t filled up by drinking so much.”

He chuckles- but his laugh is cut short as he jerks. The flinch is all the warning I get before a massive hand is sent rocketing toward his opposite arm. A thunderous clap breaks through the evening air. I feel the blood drain from my face, and I can’t tell if it's the sound echoing in my ears or if it's my heart thrumming in my chest. I hadn’t even flinched- a thought that I wanted to be able to revel in- to tell myself it was because I wasn’t so easily cowed… but there was no lying to myself.

I didn’t even have time to flinch.

The thought sent a chill through me.

Mark, unaware of my racing heart, sighed.

“Ugh, the mosquitoes are coming out.” He shot me a nervous smile, “You, uh, wanna head inside and have a few more drinks?” Pausing, he adds “And maybe put a shirt on?”

I chuckle, though it feels more forced than moments ago,

“And why would I do that?” As I say the words, sing songy and teasing, I feel the tension inside me ease. I stand, my body feeling sluggish- heavy with the weight of a good meal. Stretching, I meander over to his waiting hand, making sure he knows I’m turning down the suggestion to get dressed rather than the invitation for more beers.

Mark rolls his eyes,

“I mean, you’re wearing enough of the sauce that it might as well count as a shirt.”

I narrow my eyes at him for a moment before looking down.

Eesh. He… Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Stomach to chest, I was covered in splatterings and smears of the dark red sauce. My pants were decorated with various stains, some smaller, like where I’d wiped off my hands, and one particularly large spot of sauce where I’d rested the massive hunk of meat against my legs.

Using my forearm, I haphazardly wiped across my chest, clearing off a decent volume of sauce.

“DUDE!” I jump at his exclamation, frozen in place with my tongue still dragging along the sauce smeared skin of my arm. I furrow my brow. What was his problem now?

“Wash off properly before you get in my hand” He scolds. I mimic his exasperated expression and roll my eyes. He tears off another piece of napkin and hands it to me in response. Taking it, I double back towards my drink-bucket.

“What are you- SAL!” I tip the bucket over my head and feel a wash of cool liquid pour over me- a momentary respite from the overbearing heat of the day. The chill combined with the strange bubbles in the drink are a bit jarring, but in a way that’s invigorating- refreshing even.

Above me, I can hear Mark sputtering- a mix of “Dudes” and “whys” and other half finished questions. I throw up my hands, confused and frustrated. This guy’s impossible! I cleaned off?? What did he want from me??

“Dude! Come on…” The exclamation is chastising in its tone. “Why would you-” Before he can continue I interject,

“But you said-” An exasperated sigh interrupts my very valid point. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he speaks.

“You know what? It's fine.” His tone suggests it's anything but, yet the smile he gives me feels genuine- as if he’s the one being patient and I’m the one being unreasonable. In a slow and careful movement, Mark once again offers me his hand.

There's a slight, but not unnoticed, chill that grips me- a little shot of adrenaline at the sight of his incoming hand. A faint tremor in my legs, and a pounding in my heart accompanying a stray thought at the back of my mind that wants me to hesitate- to back out. The thought reminds me almost of getting into cold water; that anticipation of shock making you move slower, as if your brain is trying to persuade you away from that unwanted discomfort.

I set my jaw.

Well, fuck that.

If I didn’t feel comfortable, I would make myself comfortable. My thoughts are mine to control- not there to control me.

As if his hand were a body of water, I dove in. His hands were soft as I landed, much more so than my own. It wasn’t the first time it had crossed my mind how comfortable it felt- how warm.

I flopped to my back and patted the meat of his thumb, coaxing him to move. I don’t miss the way his fingers curl in, or how his other hand comes up to support the first. I can’t help but roll my eyes. Those subtle gestures leave me a bit conflicted- stuck in a middle ground between finding it endearing and finding it patronising. The care to use a delicate hand with me was… nice, yet the thought that I needed to be handled with a delicate hand was bordering on insulting.

The warmth of his hand and the rhythmic rise and fall with his steps seemed to lull me away from my irritation. Closing my eyes, I let myself relax to the steady sway of his steps. I liked Mark. He was nice. He had good food. He was fun to rile up. I felt my cheeks burning from a goofy smile that wouldn’t seem to falter. This was real. After all these years, I had someone to talk to! Someone to spend time with! There was a giddiness in my chest that just seemed to build- a dizzying surge of wild energy that felt like the room was spinning-

Wait. Was the room spinning??

I felt my stomach lurch, a weird feeling of vertigo prompting me to open my eyes trying to ground myself. The spinning sensation eased to a stop as I sat up. Seemingly right on cue, Mark lowered his hand to the table.

As soon as I dismount from his hand, Mark’s massive frame turns away from me, rushing toward the sink. I frown as he washes his hands. I’d washed off for him, and yet he was acting as if he’d just handled something foul. As he returns to the table he seems to catch my glare.

He raises his hands as if surrendering,

“Dude, you’re sticky.”

I snort.

“I am not.”

I patted my skin. Sure, it was a little tacky to the touch, but that was hardly anything to wash up over. I’d just doused myself off in front of him- what more did he want?

While I had no clue what he wanted from me, I knew what I wanted- and that was another drink.

Eyeing my glass bucket, I meandered over to wear he’d set his drink down. Each step was off- just a little, almost as if it was… Delayed? I took a long blink, trying to orient myself. Was I swaying?

I stumbled, catching myself on Mark’s arm. He flinched under my touch and my scowl returned.

“Ew, dude, don’t touch me. You’re all sticky.”

With a glare, I let my body collapse against his arm limply laying over it. He stiffens under my touch, and I feel the strangest sensation of goosebumps forming on his skin beneath me. I keep my head buried against his arm as my scowl is pulled up into a grin. This guy was really something else. Spiders, first aid, and slightly tacky skin?? I bet his own shadow could get a rise out of him.

I chuckled at my own thought, laughing into his arm as he squirmed beneath me. Mark titled his arm in an attempt to push me back onto my feet, but rather than let him guide me back into a stand, I pulled myself up - stradling the width of his forearm.

“Oh- Dude, come on. Get off.” He whines, twisting his arm, carefully trying to force me to dismount. His kindness is his own downfall, as the slow and gentle movements are easy to correct against- leaning my weight this way and that to compensate. Above me, he groans. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as his free hand reaches up, prompting me to spring up into a stand- feeling oddly dizzy at the sudden movement.

He hesitates- hand hovering at my side - either waiting to catch me or unwilling to touch me. Before he can reconsider I spring into action. In one bound I’m at the crook of his elbow. Without pausing I leap, clearing the small gap between his arm and torso as I throw myself at the fabric of his shirt.

Mark does nothing more than flinch- making a strangled noise as he jerks bolt upright in his seat, hands stiffly to each side of me yet making no move to touch me. I can’t stop laughing, My cheeks burn, my sides ache, yet my arms feel light as I pull myself up the length of his shirt. Mark leans back, craning his neck and tilting his chin away in the most futile attempt to distance himself from me. Stitches form in my sides as I nearly wheeze at the sight.

Gripping the collar of his shirt I heave myself onto his shoulder, letting out a sigh as I try to quell my laughter.

“Is something wrong, Big Guy?” I tease,stifling a giggle while leaning my apparently sticky self onto his neck. The sensation of his warm skin shuddering under my touch is bizarre, “Afraid I’ll-” I pause. His skin is more than just warm, it's hot. I crane my neck, awkwardly trying to look at his face from the odd vantage point.

His face is red- his mouth a thin line and his eyes are anywhere but on me.

Oh.

This was too much, wasn’t it?

I was too much.

I clear my throat, wracking my brain for anything to fill the now very noticeably awkward silence.

“You, um, mind refilling my drink?”

A little puff of air escapes him, and I watch as a smile pulls at the edge of his lips. Slowly, he turns his head towards me, and all at once I’m reminded of just how massive he is. On his shoulder I’m eye level with him- Mark meeting my gaze out of the corner of his eye… and eye roughly the size of my head. I stagger back a half step, careful to mind my footing. Something about seeing an eye so closely was off-putting, the depth of the brown looking too deep- like something I could fall into; the colour like good healthy dirt.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Mind getting off?”

With an exaggerated hop, I let myself drop down the steep slope of his arm, half sliding half falling to his forearm. Mark lets out a yelp at the motion- as if a fall from that height was anything to worry about.

I step down from his arm, my gait still feeling not quite right- each step somewhat unsteady, as if the table swayed beneath my feet. It wasn’t only my gait- my skin felt strange. Almost numb but not really? It was… buzzing? Yet despite all the strangeness, there was a warmth in my chest that seemed to spread over into my mind. A light fuzziness that softens the edge of my thoughts. There was an ease- a comfort- that seemed to coat my mind, like a paradoxically warm blanket of snow.

Maybe a little too warm?

I knit my brow.

I could fix that.

I looked up, craning my neck to meet Marks gaze,

“So, how about another drink?”

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foodsies4me · 20 days

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The Two Runaways + Sarah

Grace Lyliane Thornfield (She/her, 8 years old)

nicknames: Lills, Gracie, Racie, gummy worm

physical description: scraggly & shaggy dirty blond hair (the dirty often doesn’t only relate to the colour), green-ish eyes, thin scar on her cheek that reaches down to tip of her nose, 4 ft (122 cm)

personality and tidbits: in the running for most likely trainee to get it trouble along with William and the Fearsome Four, not because they’re menaces like the other four but because they get easily distracted and end up wandering off. Loves running and has the title of most won races hence the nickname racie. She’s the youngest of four children and has lost her parents at a young age.Her older siblings still haven’t caught on to the fact that the Alec she’s talking about in all of her letters is also the HOTI that is writing her progress reports. Mostly because her reports shouldn’t be as complimentary and glowing as they are given they know how often she gets in trouble from her own letters.

Extra info: She has a frog backpack. The frog’s spots are a mishmash of rainbows, candies, cookies and emojis. Yes it can hop back to her, a fail safe Magnus incorporated given her tendency to forget her backpack everywhere.

William Conner Whitelaw (he/they 8 years old)

nicknames: Liam, Illi, Yammie, little mosquito

physical description: short, tousled, curly hair that is often tangled. Brown eyes and chubby cheeks, 3 ft 11 (120 cm)

personality and tidbits: in the running for most likely trainee to get it trouble - trouble finds them any time of the day even when he isn’t looking for it. Tendency to wander off like Grace hence the nickname of being one of the two runaways. Orphaned and has a bad relationship with their aunt and uncle on their mother’s side, who shipped him off to the NYI pretty much as soon as Willia came in their custody. Is sworn siblings with Oliver and the Rebecca’s and adores Alec.

Extra info: has a rocket backpack that had all kinds of molecule structures drawn over it. The backpack will fly after him whenever he loses it given his proclivity of losing it.

Sarah Julie Mayweather (she/her, 8 years old)

nicknames: Sa-sa, Hummingbird,Sarie

physical description: shoulder-length blond hair usually tied into twin pigtails. Blue eyes and 3 ft 9 (114 cm)

personality and tidbits: energetic (and very autistic), stims a lot, friendly with everyone but sticks the closest to Linette, Julian, Cristina and Oliver. The epitome of a girly-girl, loves all things bright, bubbly and pink. Her mom works and lives at the institute which means she can see all of the shenanigans Sarah gets I to, she’s not sure it’s a good thing. Once came back to the institute with a pony, nobody knew where she got it from. Extra info: has a glittery, purple button mushroom for a backpack though she can change the colour and the type of mushroom by tapping on the bottom of the stem.

#The trainees #Foodsies rambles

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prt-razorfuck · 29 days

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This ship was never meant to be a weapon, but she got Taylor'd to death. This is the Skitter, formerly the Scarab, captained by Taylor Hebert. This ship carries about fifty fighters, mostly non-jet fighters and a few f-16s that the Chair Force 'lost' just like the Chair Force Commander that lost his nice office chair, the same one in Taylor's office aboard the Skitter.

The Scarab (in this AU) was the ship sunk to Doom the Boat Graveyard in Brockton Bay, and Taylor triggers after learning about why the Scarab was sunk, and how her hometown was abandoned to its fate.

She later wakes from a Tinker fugue with a sore back, aching hands, and a killer headache, but hey, she's got a boat now.

The Skitter would be roughly the same size as a Yorktown class carrier from ww2, and I chose that for symbolic reasons. The Yorktowns were fucking tough old ladies, and those girls did their duty to the utmost, even if Big E was scrapped instead of preserved like she should have been.

Time and again, the Japanese thought they had destroyed the last Yorktown, that they'd slain the grey ghost, but Enterprise survived, becoming the symbol of American resilience against the Japanese and eventually, the most decorated ship of the war.

You know how else kept getting back up, kept fighting on and on until she had given up everything she had? Taylor. I think she deserves a Yorktown, and I even gave her a little buddy.

I doubt it's visible, but it's Atlas as a fighter jet with a picture of a man holding up the world (the origin of the name) drawn on the back for good measure.

The yellow-black square left of the tower are drone chambers, which the Yorktown's didn't have obviously but the ships only loosely based on them so it's fine, it's not that unusual considering New Jersey had rockets back in Desert Storm. I wanted Taylor to still have her swarm, and so she does in the form of thousands of highly explosive drones shaped like mosquitoes.

#worm #wormblr #parahumans #brockton bay #taylor hebert #my art #boats #Yorktown class

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bedlamsbard · 3 months

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“The soldier,” Thanos said. He flinched a little as one of Natasha’s widow’s stings hit him in the side of the head, but brushed it off as if it was nothing more than a mosquito bite. “The man out of…time.”

Thanos let the last word linger there between them. The Stones set across his knuckles glittered in the fading sunlight as he turned his left hand over, thoughtful.

He was a kid playing with a new toy, the kind of boy who burned the wings off flies with a magnifying glass and a sunbeam. Steve knew the exact instant Thanos realized he could use more than one of the Stones at the same time.

March 1945: With the deaths of Johann Schmidt and Steve Rogers only a month old, the SSR has spent the intervening weeks hunting down the last of Hydra’s holdouts. When Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos are unexpectedly called back to London, however, the return of Steve Rogers from beyond the grave raises more questions than it answers – and draws the attention of a dangerous new enemy. (Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)

Previous: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

13: Good Old Days 161K, AU, WIP

Chapter preview:

The glow was fading from Carol Danvers as a hatch clunked open on the spaceship, which huddled on the lawn like a broken-winged bird. The gangway creaked as it descended, a visible dent in it, and it stopped about two feet off the ground, tilting to the left. The woman who appeared at its top had to stomp her foot against it several times to get it to descend the rest of the way. If Bucky hadn’t been having what was easily the worst three weeks of his life – which was saying something – he might have been more surprised at her appearance; she was bald-headed, blue-skinned, and with metallic implants on her skull and a prosthetic left arm that made him feel a little less self-conscious about his own. Her gaze swept around them, searching, then focused on Rocket, who had started running when the hatch had opened. He stopped at its base, looking up at her. She shook her head a little and his whole body slumped, his ears and tail going slack with disappointment and dashed hopes. The blue-skinned woman ducked briefly out of sight and reemerged an instant later, supporting a gaunt man who leaned heavily on her shoulder as she helped him down the metal steps. Pepper Potts cried out, breaking into a run, but it was Rhodes who got there first, taking Tony Stark’s weight from the strange woman and saying something to him. Stark’s shoulders went slack with relief as he saw Rhodes and Potts, relaxing for a moment into their arms before he straightened up enough to look around. His gaze tracked Banner and Barton, then Sam, which got a slight frown, and Yelena, whom he looked at without recognition. Then he saw Bucky. He went tense, almost surging forward despite Rhodes’s restraining hand against his shoulder. He looked past Bucky, searching, then around again, looking for someone who wasn’t there. “Who’s dead?” he said. “Tony –” Rhodes began. “Let’s get inside –” “Who’s dead?” Stark insisted. “Steve’s dead,” Bucky said flatly. “So is Romanoff.”

#my fic #of home near #iw time travel concept #as always comments are appreciated

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franki-lew-yo · 2 months

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Animals and things we still don't have (properly) as Pokemon:

Cockroaches

Waterdeer and Pudu

Llamas

Tanuki

Hummingbirds

Chihuahuas

Olms

Kiwi birds

Sea monkey shrimp

Lemmings

Chess Pieces

Naked Mole Rats

Thylacine

Shoebill Storks

Mothman

Car/Automobile

Kachina

Cuckoo Birds

Mosquitos

Slinky

Capybaras

Dodos

Griffon

Pegasus

Jackalope

Rocket/Toy Rocket

Vampires and Jiangshi

Telephones

Centaurs

Flags

Dice

Krampus

We need more:

hyenas

gazelles and antellope

sloths

dolphins

COWS

goats

#franki's features #pokemon #pkmn #things that aren't pokemon yet

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wistfulpoltergeist · 1 year

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And while The Sims team is testing ways to fix... The Sims, let's try to investigate in what EA investing our money. (Obviously NOT in game development) Considering how much Sims games cost in compare with others I believe the sum must be enormous!

#the sims 4 #sims 4 #ts4 #sarcasm #polls

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gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot · 9 months

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Paulatim sed Firmiter (Slowly but surely) - Thursday

Warning: first part is a flashback and mentions someone's death

Tag (because they asked): @glitterypirateduck

I want to finish this damned week, geez...

Previous / Masterlist / Next

‘‘Situation has changed, Phoenix. A rocket was deployed forty seconds ago. Impending impact’’

‘‘YOU FUCKING…’’

No no no no no nonononoNO

‘‘OUT’’ She didn’t care if the separatists heard her. Her only concern was getting her team out of there. Deep down she knew it was too late. ‘‘Out of the fucking building!’’

She saw the light before she heard it. Standing on the stair landing to have privacy to contact their Overwatch, she had been looking up, and saw the sudden flash and the subsequent shock wave some floors above her.

Realistically speaking, she saw nothing. One second she was standing on the landing, the next she woke up beneath the debris.

But in her dreams, she always watched in horror how the upper floors started to crumble and collapse, hearing her team’s screaming in her ears.

She usually woke up at that point. Panting, sometimes screaming.

When she opened her eyes she could see nothing, but felt the dust in the air, filling her lungs as she tried to breathe in. Coughing, she tried to move, and could only use one of her hands to switch on the torch on her shoulder. The dim, white light illuminated large concrete blocks above and around her, and between them, a faint breeze and smoky smell.

‘‘Joder (Fuck)’’ She covered her nose and mouth the best she could with the collar of her combat shirt, trying to get air in her lungs more than dust. Her fingers reached her comm. ‘‘Phoenix Squad, status report’’

If she was alive, someone else must have survived too, right?

Only static answered, and she tried to move from below the blocks, but there was nowhere to crawl to. She was able to wiggle her toes in her boots, to move her legs and make her knee pads scrap against the concrete, her pinned arm hurt, but she could move her fingers. She wasn’t crushed, just trapped.

‘‘Phoenix Squad, status report’’ She repeated into the comm, a bit more desperate. Please, PLEASE. ‘‘Someone say something, please. Norry, Emil, Delvin, Miguel. Please, guys’’

Please don’t leave me alone in here

It seemed like ages, but finally, someone answered.

‘‘… Vega’’

Mosquito. God, he sounded very weak.

‘‘¿Cómo estás, pendejo? (How are you, motherfucker?)’’ She asked, pathetically relieved, still trying to move. Miguel Ramírez always giggled like a little kid when she used his own insults on him, her Castilian accent way different from his Mexican one. He barked a laugh.

‘‘Bien jodido (Quite fucked)’’ More static before he continued, his voice even more strained. ‘‘I can’t move. I don’t feel half of my body, güera (blondie)’’

Well, shit.

‘‘I’ll think of something, just you wait’’

‘‘I don’t think we have time for that’’ He coughed, and his cough sounded horrid. Wet. ‘‘Do me a favor, Vega’’

‘‘Ask me when we’re out of here, Ramírez’’ She grunted, still trying to do something, feeling pain everywhere, in every limb, but too stubborn to just accept it and lay there waiting for the end.

‘‘We are not getting out, jefa (boss)’’ Ramírez kept coughing, for a longer time, and her heart skipped a couple of beats meanwhile, listening to him and not being able to do anything.

‘‘What do you want, cabrón? (asshole)’’

‘‘Pray with me’’ He coughed again, gasping for air. ‘‘Ave María (Hail Mary prayer)’’

She wasn’t religious. She was baptized Roman Catholic, she’d gone to mass with her grandmother while growing up, she’d done her First Communion with her tiny, silly white dress and flower crown. If she ever had any serious faith, she had lost it years ago.

‘‘Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo…’’ She started, listening to him following her words weakly. ‘‘Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito sea el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús’’

He started coughing again, and she stopped for a second, feeling a lump in her throat and the tingle of tears in her eyes, or maybe it was just the dust.

‘‘Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores…’’ She sobbed. She couldn’t help it, hearing him gasp for air and coughing. And she couldn’t even hold his hand. ‘‘… ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte… Amén’’

Silence. He had stopped coughing. There wasn’t even static.

‘‘Miguel?’’

Still silence.

Thursday lunchtime

‘‘You look like shite’’ Soap poked Riot’s side with his elbow, worried. He hadn’t seen her at breakfast, as she had gone directly to the training drill, and now at lunch was the first moment they could speak. She had started the day by wearing her mask, but after a couple of hours she had stuffed it in her pocket.

‘‘I love you too’’ She answered dryly. Big, dark circles under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep, or the quality of it. She was even eating the horrid mashed potatoes with gravy without complaints, but had gifted the sausages to Soap and Gaz. ‘‘Someone told me during the drill that Robinson is losing his mind’’

‘‘What did you hear? ’’Gaz smiled beatifically, apparently innocent.

‘‘That he yelled at IT because his laptop has a virus or something and is receiving a lot of spam he didn’t sign up to, or something like that’’ She shrugged, with a tired smile when he winked at her. ‘‘Porn sites, religious sites, conspiracy sites… all sorts. Even flat-earther ones’’

‘‘My, my, how could that have happened?’’ Soap laughed, already devouring his dessert. Gaz’s smiled turned mischievous, trying to steal a bite from Soap’s pudding.

‘‘I’m sure he did something he shouldn’t have…’’ Laughing, he swatted Soap’s hand away when the Scot tried to steal his spoon back. ‘‘I also heard that he’s been rising hell every day because when he arrives at his office there’s glue in his lock’’

‘‘He must have pissed someone’’ Soap cackled, while Riot shook her head.

‘‘You’re going to get in trouble, big trouble, if you get caught’’

‘‘Nah, as long as we don’t touch him we’re fine’’ Gaz looked around, leaning forward on the table and lowering his voice, still smiling. ‘‘Bullies must be dealt with’’

‘‘I agree, but…’’ She started, but seeing a known face, a known frown, stopped her in her tracks. ‘‘Price’s coming, behave’’

The Captain approached the table with his three disasters, carrying a tray with his food, and set it down next to Gaz, sighing when he saw they had already finished eating or were about to.

‘‘The bloody meeting took more time than I expected. Sorry for being late’’ Price sat down, nodding gratefully when Soap pushed an unopened beer bottle in his direction. ‘‘Thank you. I was hoping to catch you here’’

‘‘We were waiting for you’’ Gaz patted his shoulder, and Price nodded again before starting to eat. ‘‘Any news that we should know?’’

‘‘Not yet, but shit’s brewing. We might deploy in the near future… God, this gravy tastes like shite’’ He grumbled, and then pointed with his fork at Riot. ‘‘Laswell has called me. Again. Will you just answer her calls, please?’’

She rolled her eyes, huffing and leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms. Price stared at her, frowning, even waving his fork at her.

‘‘Do not pout and fucking answer her calls, will you?’’

‘‘I’m not pouting’’ Riot grumbled, kicking Soap’s shin when he started to laugh. Price shook his head, continuing to eat.

‘‘Another thing. I have on my desk another petition from the privates, asking for permission for you lot to go with them to the town pub tomorrow’s evening’’ He eyed them up and down suspiciously. ‘‘Whose idea was it to take the babies to the pub, hmm?’’

The three Sergeants looked at each other, reluctant to be the first to speak. Soap started to twiddle his thumbs, grinning, while Riot was still sulking.

‘‘They asked us this morning, Cap’’ Gaz smiled brightly, completely innocent. ‘‘We told them we could only do that with your written permission’’

Price narrowed his eyes while looking at the wide, genuine smile on Garrick’s face. He smelled bullshit. His blue eyes slowly turned to look at Soap, who was still grinning, and then to Riot, whose blue-grey eyes were fixed on him.

‘‘Could be a good bonding experience’’ She shrugged, her expression neutral.

Captain Johnathan Price prided himself on being an observant and insightful individual, qualities that had helped him in his career. He could smell bullshit from a mile.

There, somewhere, was a trap. He could smell it.

‘‘Granted’’ Price shrugged, finishing the last of his mashed potatoes and starting with the pudding. He’d know about it, eventually. ‘‘Are you aware there’s a private in the infirmary? I’ve been told next week he’ll be able to rejoin, at a lesser pace’’

‘‘Davies, yes’’ Riot nodded, still calm, but her right knee was jumping under the table, bumping into Soap’s thigh.

‘‘Do you have any idea of what happened? The report mentions a beating’’

‘‘We do’’

‘‘Are you… going to do anything about it?’’

‘‘Yes’’

Price sighed, deeply, and looked at her directly.

‘‘Am I going to like it?’’

She kept staring at him, still neutral.

‘‘Probably not’’

The Captain nodded, absently noticing how Gaz and Soap exchanged looks. These three muppets would be the death of him. But if they truly had something planned to put a stop to whatever shit was happening at base… well. He’d allow it. Within reasonable limits.

‘‘Don’t get caught’’

The three sly, wolvish grins he got back did nothing to reassure him.

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thecreaturecodex · 9 months

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Dahlia Damutamu

[I've been statting up a fair amount of my own OCs as characters for Monster Girl Summer, as well as a few belonging to other folks I've become friends with over the course of my time running the Codex. This is the latter, being an OC belonging to @arachcobra. They sponsored me covering some of the Crimson Court, after all, so what better way to expand on that than a mosquito anthro with a rocket launcher?

BTW, if you're interested in Arachcobra's world building and characters, they've started a side blog for their original writing @weavercobra. ]

Dahlia Damutamu CR 13 CN Aberration This creature appears to be a humanoid mosquito, with a needle-sharp proboscis and clawed hands. Her carapace is black, and her swollen abdomen and the veins in her wings are a lurid red. She wears tight fitting leather armor, and has daggers hanging from her belt.

Dahlia Damutamu is an inhuman hedonist, always looking for her next thrill. She is amoral rather than immoral, having grown out of the petty evil that characterizes most of her fellow crimson courtiers, but still primarily concerned with filling her belly and entertaining herself. Although her heroic deeds have saved lives and averted catastrophes, Dahlia was more motivated by the challenge than by any thoughts of helping others. Only if the people she cares about are threatened will she do anything remotely selfless.

In her centuries of existence, Dahlia feels that her mind has gone a bit stale. She is an avid reader, and has quite the collection of rare books, but is more inclined these days to read old favorites rather than learning anything new. This frustrates her as much as anything, and pushing herself out of her comfort zones is Dahlia’s primary goal. She is, however, flighty and scatterbrained, especially once blood has been spilled—the smell of her favorite food drives her to distraction and violence.

In combat, Dahlia fights with a mixture of her natural weapons and enchanted daggers. She is an excellent marksman, and her favorite strategy is to weaken foes with thrown daggers before closing in to feed. The more blood she drinks, the more durable Dahlia grows, and most combats end with her swollen and her foe dead and desiccated. One of Dahlia’s newest toys is a rocket launcher, stolen from a Technic League wizard she killed and ate; she isn’t proficient in heavy weaponry but still enjoys and uses its explosive firepower.

Dahlia Damutamu CR 13 XP 25,600 Variant crimson courtier fighter 9 (Calistrian hunter) Init +6; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +9, scent Defense AC 24, touch 17, flat-footed 17 (+6 Dex, +1 dodge, +2 natural, +5 armor) hp 118 (5d8+9d10+42) Fort +11, Ref +11, Will +7 Immune disease Defensive Abilities darting riposte (6/day) Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 50 ft. (good) Melee +1 dagger +20/+15/+10 (1d4+8/17-20), +1 claw +14 (1d8+3), +1 bite +14 (1d6+3 plus bleed and sip blood) or 2 +1 claws +19 (1d8+6), +1 bite +18 (1d6+6 plus bleed plus sip blood) Ranged +1 daggers +20/+15 (1d4+8/17-20), dagger +9 (1d4+7/17-20) or +1 daggers +18/+18 (1d4+8/17-20) and daggers +12/+7 (1d4+7/17-20) or rocket launcher +14 touch (12d6) Special Attacks bleed (1), powerful charge (claw, 2d8+7), vengeance (1d6) Statistics Str 20, Dex 22, Con 16, Int 15, Wis 8, Cha 16 Base Atk +12; CMB +17; CMD 34 Feats Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Exotic Weapon Proficiency (firearms) (B), Flyby Attack, Improved Critical (dagger), Mobility, Point Blank Shot, Precise Shot, Quick Draw, Rapid Shot, Weapon Finesse, Weapon Focus (dagger), Weapon Specialization (dagger) Skills Acrobatics +16, Bluff +10, Diplomacy +10 (+12 gathering information), Disguise +10, Fly +20, Knowledge (local) +12, Knowledge (nobility) +12, Perception +9, Sense Motive +4, Stealth +22, Survival +9 (+11 following tracks) Languages Aquan, Common, Necril SQ armor training 2, crimson noble, savor the sting, tenacious tracker +2 Gear +1 dagger (x2), blinkback belt, +2 studded leather armor, cloak of resistance +1, amulet of mighty fists +1, potion of cure serious wounds, potion of cat’s grace (x2), rocket launcher (5 charges), 4 daggers, 473 gp Special Abilities Crimson Noble (Ex) As an ancient and practiced crimson courtier, Dahlia does not have the humanoid form weakness of an ordinary crimson courtier; she can make claw attacks and weapon attacks without changing form, although she does only have two legs and a 30 foot movement speed on land. Dahlia has wings, unlike a typical crimson courtier, granting her a fly speed of 50 feet with good maneuverability. She also gains a +2 racial bonus on all ability scores. This ability increases her CR by +1. Darting Riposte (Ex) As an immediate action, Dahlia may attempt to make a melee attack against a creature that makes a melee attack against it. If she hits, it can move up to half its speed without provoking an attack of opportunity, although the attack made against it resolves as normal. A crimson courtier may use this ability a number of times a day equal to its Dexterity modifier (3/day for the average specimen, 6/day for Dahlia) Savor the Sting (Ex): Whenever a target takes bleed damage from Dahlia’s vengeance ability, she gains an equal number of temporary hit points. These temporary hit points last for 1 minute and do not stack with each other. Sip Blood (Su) Whenever Dahlia deals damage to a living creature with its bite attack, she gains 5 temporary hit points. These hit points are lost in 1 hour if not expended. Tenacious Tracker (Ex): Dahlia gains a +2 bonus on Diplomacy checks to gather information and on Survival checks made to identify or follow tracks. Vengeance (Ex): Dahlia deals 1d6 points of bleed damage when he damages a creature that has damaged him since the beginning of his last turn. Whenever a creature takes bleed damage from this effect, it also takes a –1 penalty on attack rolls, weapon damage rolls, saving throws, skill checks, and ability checks for 1 round. This penalty is a pain effect and does not stack with the effects of the sickened condition.

#pathfinder 1e #pathfinder rpg #monster girl #monster girl summer #dahlia damutamu #crimson court #mosquito #furry

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pinturas-sgm-aviacion · 1 year

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1945 03 Strike and Strike Again - Robert Taylor

By the spring of 1945, Germany’s once all-conquering submarine fleet, driven by allied forces from its bases in western France, had fled to the relative safety of the Norwegian fjords. In one of Hitler’s last stands, more than 100 U-Boats, flakships and other military vessels were gathered in the narrow fjords, laying up by day and sailing under the cover of darkness.Tasked with the difficult job of eliminating this force were the Beaufighters and Mosquitos of RAF Coastal Command’s Strike Wingsbased in Scotland.Piloting the twin engine Beaufighter through the narrow fjords, hugging the cliff face at close to 300 mph and, with every enemy gun that could be brought to bear throwing up a wall of lead, these shipping strikes were not for the faint hearted. Shown here are Beaufighters of No 455 Squadron RAAF from the Dallachy Strike Wing as they skim the rugged rock face, exiting the target area after a successful rocket attack on shipping deep in a Norwegian fjord.Throughout the last weeks of World War II the aircrews of 455 Squadron continued to pound the elusive enemy with great courage and determination, upholding their squadron motto – Strike and Strike Again.

#robert taylor

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howl-fantasies · 2 years

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A/N - Hello everyone, I hope you had a wonderful summer ♥️ hope you enjoyed the sun, the beach and those awful mosquitoes bites like I did. Take care 💐

-------------- 1 New Message ----------

Oswald Crybblepot

Need you and your guns. Now.

Y/N

Oswald it's 4 AM.

...

I'm in a middle of a spectacular beheading. What do you want?

Oswald Crybblepot

Who cares! I am you boss when I call you, you have to come harlot!

Y/N

That's your dog's job. And Victor's. Sometimes. When he's not tied to our bed with me on top, I mean. As a consulting assassin, I would only come if the pay is more important than any actual contract I'm dealing with. We discussed this.

Oswald Crybblepot

You're disgusting. And I. DON'T. CARE. COME Y/N. NOW. I'm being attacked and need your guns!

Y/N

By whom?

Where is Victor?

Oswald Crybblepot

Victor isn't able to protect me. They got him. The arms. And the neck. He's worthless.

Y/N

Congrats Penguin, your status changed. You have my full attention.

...

Who did this?

Oswald Crybblepot

What

Y/N

Are you blind? WHO THE FUCK DO I HAVE TO SHOOT IMBECILE?!

Oswald Crybblepot

DON'T USE CAPITALS WITH ME HARLOT!

It's not a who but a what.

Y/N

What?

Oswald Crybblepot

Yes, a what. You're beau and me were attacked in the middle of the night by rogue mosquitoes. Got me on the nose, forehead, arms and legs. Victor shot a few but they were too many. He's on his side, clutching his arms and howling in pain let me tell you!

Y/N

You interrupted the beheading of the century for a freaking bunch of mosquitoes.

...

I'm gonna end you. Both of you actually.

...

And sorry to kill your little tragedy, but either you're messing with me about Victor crying in pain, or you're a fucking idiot not even able to recognize one of your goons slacking. Because the beast never makes a sound, Oswald. Even when I kicked him at full force in the nuts once.

Oswald Cretinbblepot

...

Wait a minute.

...

The little rat! He was scrolling on his phone!

...

Nevermind, come here this instant, even now I blew up his cover, Victor can't take all of them down.

Y/N

Oswald.

Remember when you contacted me about a "ghost" disturbing your precious beauty sleep?

Oswald Cretinbblepot

Yes. I'm not gonna blow my mansion with a bazooka Y/N.

Y/N

Not a bazooka no.

Under your bed.

First drawer.

The rocket launcher.

Be a dear and take this opportunity to make me a widow.

Ideally, make me also lose one of my most annoying client.

Enjoy.

Oswald Cretinbblepot

NO FREAKING WAY!

...

DON'T YOU DARE BLOCK ME Y/N

------- Y/N BLOCAPITALLED YOU -------

#gotham #gotham imagine #gotham x reader #gotham fox #victor zsasz #victor zsasz imagine #victor zsasz x reader #gotham fandom #gotham villains #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald x reader #oswald cobblepot imagine #oswald cobblepot #gotham villain x reader #i'm back from the dead

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