#also yes i do have wips why do you ask of course i do they haunt me

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Itcha gurl, back at it again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The doctor checks the chart then glances at the machine with your father’s vitals. Today, you’re father’s awake. He has been for a few days but today he’s alert. You know because he told you the jello was disgusting. Those are the first and only words he’s said to you in more than two weeks.

“You’re very lucky to have a daughter who knows what she’s doing,” Dr. Shearer remarks.

Your father grumbles, scowling as he doesn’t offer much else to the doctor.

“You must be happy to have her around,” Shearer continues, “it is time to start considering your discharge. You’re stable, breathing on your own again, your heartbeat is within a normal range.” You watch your father as he stares past the doctor. It’s as if he refuses to acknowledge that this is real. “You’ll have a few new meds to add to your day but with normal check-ups I think we can be optimistic.”

A grunt. You fold your hands and stand up, “thank you, doctor. Erm, could someone explain the new medicines to me?”

“Yes, of course. That’ll be in the discharge paperwork but I’ll have a Nurse Practitioner come to discuss with both of you,” he assures, “and some resources on quitting. The cigarettes can’t continue.”

“I’ll smoke if I goddamn want,” your dad snarls, breaking his shield of indifference.

The doctor gives him a sharp look but doesn’t argue, “I’m only here to diagnose and give me treatment suggestions. But you keep smoking, sir, and next time, you won’t make it to the hospital.”

“Good,” your dad sneers defiantly.

The doctor nods and his mouth seals grimly. He turns back to you, “let us know if you need anything else. We have some support groups and resources, I’ll make sure that info is also sent off with you.”

“Thanks so much, Doctor,” you squeeze your hands tighter. You want to apologise for your father but you know he’ll only get worse if you do.

“It’s alright,” Shearer says as if reading your mind, “these things are stressful. For everyone. Couple more days and he’ll be free to go.”

You try to smile but your cheeks can only tremble. The doctor leaves you with your father and you peek over at him. He grimaces at the ceiling.

“That’s good news, dad,” you say as you near the foot of his bed.

“Is it? You shoulda left me to die,” he barks.

You flinch, not once, twice. A chirp in your pocket further jars you as it shrilly erupts in the buzzing silence. You reach into the pocket of your hoodie and clutch your flip phone as it bings even louder. The little digital display shows the agency’s number.

“Sorry,” you apologise and flip it open, turning away to scurry out and answer, “hello?”

You hold your breath. Why are they calling? You didn’t have a job today and you only really get emails regarding clients. It must be very serious.

“It’s Clara,” your boss begins in her terse way. “Have you seen my email?”

She sighs, “you should be checking daily. Got a job today. You want it?”

You blink. This is the first time you’ve been asked to come in for an extra shift. You could use the money desperately. When your dad is discharged, he’ll be sent off with another invoice.

“Yes,” you accept without hesitation, “I’ll take it.”

“Great. Check your email. Details are there,” she sniffs.

“Alright, tha-nks,” your voice cracks as she hangs up in the middle of your last word. She must be busy, surely more busy than you, the lowest rung on the ladder she has to keep from falling over.

You close the phone and put it back in your pocket. You shuffle back into the room and find your father with his eyes closed. The machine continues to beep in time with his pulse.

“I gotta work,” you say, “that was my boss–”

“Then leave me alone,” he snaps without opening his eyes, “can’t you see I’m tryna sleep?”

“Sorry, I–”

“Go and don’t come back,” he growls, “I don’t need you crowding this shit hole.”

“Um, dad, I–”

He coughs and hacks and waves you off, swallowing thickly, “I said go.”

You dip your head down. You can’t imagine being in his position. Stuck in a hospital bed on the other side of near-death. You might not be very nice yourself.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t care,” he turns his head and wiggles his shoulders as he tries to get comfortable.

You swallow down the hurt. You didn’t expect him to thank you for what you did. Not for anything. That’s just what you do for someone you love. Yet, you hoped he might have woken up a little bit nicer than before.

“Love you, Dad,” you murmur.

He grumbles. That’s all you get. You suck in a breath and hold it in, trying to keep from crumbling long enough to get out of that room.

🧹

At first, you’re not certain the information in the email is correct. You’re to return to Mr. Laufeyson’s house for the second time that week, but it’s a Friday night. In your days at the hospital, the calendar lines skewed between the alarms you kept in your phone for sanity. The return to reality is just as disjointing as the descent away from it.

You go home and change into your typical cleaning attire. All black. Plain. Clothes meant for getting dirty. Not that any of your wardrobe is particularly spectacular.

You grab your kit and your water bottle and rush out to catch the bus. You’re not used to being on transit near-dark. The prospect of getting home comes to mind as you cling to a pole amidst the crowded vehicle. It makes you nervous but you’re certain it will be okay. Mr. Laufeyson lives in a nice neighbourhood.

You get off the bus and bring your phone out. As you approach the house, it is lively with bodies milling in and out. You let yourself through the gate and peer over at the two cube vans near the front entrance. A white jacket, pristine uniforms, you can only assume they are some sort of catering company. The type you’ve seen on TV in those reality shows with women drinking wine.

You watch them for a moment. They are orderly and determined. What’s more, they work together in perfect harmony, words passing quietly and easily, trays moving smoothly between hands and set onto carts. It’s a shining contrast to your dim and lonely work.

You make yourself turn away and continue around the back of the house. You stop short of the rear corner and a gasp bubbles up. You watch a hummingbird buzzing over the bed of flowers. It’s so small and green and cute. You wince as it flits up towards the window, your cheeks bulbing to the smile as your gaze follows it. 

In a moment, it wings away, shyly retreating from your admiration. Your eyes fall to the window as you sense a shift on the other side. Just between the edges of the half-drawn drapes you meet a pair of green eyes over a long and cynical nose. Your smile dissolves as you recognise Mr. Laufeyson and his stony observation. You touch your fingertips to your mouth in self-reproach and tuck your chin down, turning back onto the path.

You go to the back door but it’s already unlocked. You let the handle go and linger outside. You noticed the email is shorter than usual. This isn’t your typical rote with Mr. Laufeyson.

‘Cleaner to be at standby for guests and cook…’

You glance down the paragraph. You’re to stay until after the ‘event’ so that you may tidy up. Your curiosity sparks but quickly fizzles. It’s best not to be too concerned. Just focus on what you need to do.

You let yourself in but forego the shoe covers and gloves as specified in the email. You hang your hoodie in the closet along with your kit. As you hook the strap of your water bottle over your head, a glimmer passes down the end of the hall and the lighting shifts. You look up as Mr. Laufeyson approaches.

He always dresses finely but he looks particularly put together. His hair is tidy and neat and he wears a velvet jacket in a deep shade of violet over a black collared shirt and matching trousers. His tie is narrow and blends into the fabric of his shirt. He keeps his hands behind him as he holds his chin up.

“I trust you understand your assignment,” he prompts as he stops a foot away, cornering you in the back hallway.

You nod. He tilts his head but his veneer does not break.

“Not that,” he points to the water bottle, “you may ask one of the cook’s assistants for a glass should you require it, but be rid of that ugly thing.”

“Oh–” you gulp back your voice and bow your head again. 

You untangle the trap from your torso and open the closet, tucking it away with your sweater and bag. You shut the door and find him closer than before, his hand on the door frame as he looms over you. His other wanders down the trim of his jacket.

“You are to keep yourself unseen. You tend to messes and that’s it. The rules remain. Are we understood?” He asks.

You look at him and nod. He sighs and stands straight, a deep breath rising in his chest. 

“You may answer aloud so I know we are clear,” he says.

“I understand, Mr. Laufeyson,” you eke out.

“Mmm,” his gaze lingers on you in unreadable consideration. Dressed in plain cotton, you feel wholly insignificant before him. “Go on, you will keep your vigil in the kitchen. They would require most of your assistance.” He backs away and buttons the front of his jacket, “you will not disturb my guests. Not a look, not a word.”

You know your turn to talk is over. You merely nod and he seems pleased by your deference. Not openly, he shows a hint of a smile nor does he praise you. But he is not unhappy and you know that is a feat.

🧹

The cook’s name is Corissa. She has spiraled red hair and pretty gold-green eyes. As you enter, she introduces herself and asks your name.

“I’m just here to clean,” you explain. “So if you need me–”

“Oh, hon, no need ta be shy,” she says in her wolfish voice, “we’re all in this togetha.”

You smile and stand against the wall, waiting to be told what to do next. She gives you a lingering glance but doesn’t comment. You see a question woven in her brow. She begins her work, directing her assistants at saucepan and cutting board alike, all while falling into a raucous rapport.

“Theo say ‘ma, did ya have ta tell that story?’” She cackles midway through a tale you lost track of, her hands moving expertly at her work, “and I say, ‘the gal deserves ta know, ‘specially if ya mean to burden her’.”

You bite into your lower lip. It’s like there’s an invisible wall in front of you. It’s been there your whole life. That one that separates you from others. You’re always on the outside watching. Just like in the schoolyard when the girls wouldn’t let you play with them. Or when your dad has his buddies over and told you to ‘piss off to your room’.

The first course is served on sleek black trays. As you watch the servers carry them out, Corissa calls your name. She makes you lurch in surprise as you’d be convinced you blend right into the plaster.

“Come have a taste,” she insists, “this one’s a bit mussed up.”

“Um, er, it’s okay, I’m not hungry–”

“Bah, come on, have some. I hate ta toss it in the bin.”

You don’t want to argue. That would be rude. So you come forward and accept the crumbly pastry with an ugly tear in the top, the filling bulging out.

“Lobster croquette,” she explains, “you’re not allergic, are ya?”

You shake your head and thank her as you back up to the wall again. You cup your hand under the misshapen ball as you bite into it. You could hum at the taste. It’s delicious and rich and savoury. You’ve never had anything like it. You’ve never even tasted lobster before.

“You like it?” She asks as you swallow your mouthful. You nod. “Quiet one, you.” She points at you.

You don’t answer. What can you say? You are quiet. You finish the croquette and go to dust the crumbs off your hand over the bin. You slide your foot off the pedal and let the lid drop. You take the cloth from your waistband and near the counter, going to work at tidying up the remnants of her work.

“Eh, look at you, busy little bee,” she chuckles, “I was gettin’ ta tha.”

“My job,” you insist.

“Maid,” a snap of the fingers draws your head up as Corissa sprinkles seasoning into a new pan.

Mr. Laufeyson offers only a curled finger. Your eyes round and cross to him, tucking the cloth into your pants again. He’s already striding away as you get to the door. You trail him, uncertain at what he needs. 

He leads you to the dining room, the garble of voices and clinking of glasses preceding your arrival. He enters ahead of you and claims the seat at the head of the table. The serves pass you with empty trays and you gape around in confusion.

“Oh my, look at me,” a woman giggles as she uses a cloth napkin to pat along her collarbone. Thin straps cling to her delicate shoulders as her skin glistens beneath the golden chain strung around her throat, “making a scene already.”

You see the wine glass on its side and hear the contents dripping onto the floor. You put your head down and hurry over. The dinner guests laugh and are quickly onto their next topic, about some coast they plan to vacation at once the summer comes. You try not to eavesdrop as you sop up the puddle of wine on the table and get down to wipe clean the floor.

As you do, you feel a tickle on the back of your neck. You don’t let it stop you. It must be an accident. You’re so cramped between the woman’s seat and the next that you must be in the way. The fingertips remain and brush more firmly as you hear a low, gritty exhale. 

You ball up the damped cloth and stand, daring a glance at the man as he draws his hand back into his lap. His broad shoulders make the back of the tall chair seem small and his blonde hair is twisted into a low tight bun. He guffaws loudly at the table, seemingly unfazed by his own wandering touch. It must’ve been an accident.

You back up and peer towards the head of the table. Laufeyson’s eyes are slits as he stares in your direction. Surely, he’s not watching you. You’re supposed to be unseen. Get out of there.

You retreat quickly, the din thundering louder and louder at your back, rumbling behind you into the hall. You wring the cloth, now stained and stinking of wine. You hope you didn’t upset Mr. Laufeyson, you only did as you were told.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #dirty work #maid au #au #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones (yes, including the supervillain one).

“Why does Superman have civilian clothes?” Match asks instead. Thirteen–pauses, then just shrugs. 

“Ask him,” he says, which means he knows and is just being an asshole. Figures.

“More thorough scans would be helpful,” Jor-El says as they approach a very large . . . well, Match genuinely doesn’t know. It might be a computer. There’s a screen involved, at least. The rows of crystals underneath said screen are definitely not a part of any kind of “computer” he’s ever seen before, but it’s still the likeliest theory he’s got. “The infirmary is not currently optimized for cloned lifeforms, but we should be capable of extrapolation where necessary. And the Fortress’s programming is certainly familiar with Kryptonian-human hybrids, at this point.” 

Match doesn’t respond, considering how obvious a statement that was. His genes are functionally identical to Thirteen’s, after all, so of course Superman’s already familiar with his physiology. Well–of course he’d have access to Thirteen’s files, more accurately. 

“Um,” Thirteen says, frowning in confusion. “It is?” 

Match cannot believe how incredibly stupid his gene donor is. Is Thirteen somehow under the impression that advanced alien technology can't access Cadmus’s files? Hell, the Agenda can get into those with minimal effort. Cadmus’s lab security is not impressive. He's walked right in the front door enough times at this point. 

“It is, yes,” Jor-El agrees. “If you could hold still for a moment, please. Both of you, ideally. We may as well scan you as well, Kon-El.” 

Match–frowns. 

Wait. If the Fortress already has Thirteen's files, then why . . . 

A pale blue-white light materializes from the crystals beneath the screen and pans over both him and Thirteen. He doesn't feel any hint of warmth from the light or hear anything, and there's no pain. 

In addition to the pain he's already in, he means. Obviously. 

The whole process seems very . . . simple, for a DNA scan. Not involved enough. 

Not–what he would've expected. 

That's all. 

He assumes this is just a first step, and the actual analysis will involve something more invasive or–

“Scan complete,” Jor-El announces as the light flicks off. “Genetic profiles now on file for Kon-El and the as yet unnamed new member of the House of El currently classified as ‘Match’. Proper name impending.” 

Match has absolutely no idea what to say to any of that. 

“I think the AI is malfunctioning,” he says to Thirteen, who scowls at him. 

“Rude much?” he says. 

“It just called me a ‘member of the House of El’,” Match reminds him dubiously. 

“. . . maybe Kal can run a virus scan or something,” Thirteen mutters under his breath with a grimace. Match resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's a gesture he only ever started doing to impersonate Thirteen anyway. 

“All Fortress systems are currently running at peak performance,” Jor-El says like a malfunctioning AI would even be an accurate source, then gestures off to the side. “The basic medical supplies are this way. Please follow me.” 

“The damage is minimal,” Match says. He's healed from worse without wasting medical supplies. The burns aren't even third-degree. Superman can't possibly want to spend actual resources on him, much less anything that would presumably need to be replaced or recharged later. 

“Then treatment will also be minimal,” Jor-El replies matter-of-factly before heading off. “This way.” 

He's definitely malfunctioning. 

Thirteen follows Jor-El, though, and Match doesn’t know what else to do, so he does too. Either way he doesn’t want Superman to catch up when he’s by himself, so . . . 

He doesn’t even know what Superman is doing right now, aside from presumably making whatever call he needed to make, and who knows what that’s about or for. Maybe he’s warning the Justice League about the likelihood of the Agenda causing problems for them, publicity-wise. Or . . . something to that effect, anyway. 

They’ll take the opportunity to, he’s sure. The Agenda doesn’t miss opportunities like that. 

The infirmary is sparse and open and both laboratory-bright and laboratory-sterile, but still . . . off, somehow. Something about it just seems . . . off. 

Match isn’t sure what, exactly. 

Maybe it’s just that he can’t smell blood or bleach. 

Jor-El instructs him through using the cleaning wipes and disinfectant spray and strange alien bandages from the supplies–Match, like usual, uses his tactile telekinesis to keep himself from flinching when it hurts–and Thirteen tries to help, which is irritating. Match glowers at him until he backs off, which takes twice as long as it should. 

Superman probably wouldn’t appreciate him killing Thirteen, after all the fuss. And Superman’s . . . in charge of him now, he thinks. Technically. Probably. 

For now, at least. 

The Agenda will want him back, so . . . 

So for now, yes. Until the Agenda reclaims him and disposes of him as a failed experiment. 

Superman would be–harder to reclaim him from, though. Harder than government custody. Maybe even harder than the Justice League in general, because Superman by himself doesn’t necessarily have to answer to the same specific pressures the whole League altogether would. 

So if he does . . . whatever Superman wants him to do, exactly–if he does whatever makes Superman want to keep him, for whatever reason Superman decided he wanted to keep him to begin with . . . 

He won’t be disposed of as soon, if he does that. Eventually Superman will change his mind and the Agenda will take him back, but–only eventually. 

Not yet. 

So he just needs to do that. 

Match can do that. Superman can't be any harder to please than the Agenda. He . . . thinks he can't, anyway. 

Superman tolerates Thirteen, so . . .

#wip: clark panic-adopts his teenage clones

[hardly-an-escape]

Fluffbruary Days 14-17

gonna try to do a little daily drabble just to get the creative juices going while I work on longer WIPs. no guarantees that it'll be every day.

Dream/Hob • rated M • phone | bubble bath | doll & cord | bakery | honey & neighbour | desire | horse & magazine | tactile | curtains

Hob sighs and leans back in the hotel bathroom tub. At least it’s deep. He’s got a glass of whiskey, which tomorrow Hob will probably regret – not due to the alcohol, just the fact that it’s from the room minibar and costs three times what it’s actually worth – and he’s dumped what might be legally considered a ‘metric shitload’ of bubbles into the hot water, and he can finally, finally relax.

He likes these conferences; he honestly does. It’s refreshing, to connect with people in his field and both commiserate and be reminded why they do what they do.

They’re just also exhausting – even for an extrovert like Hob.

His limbs are feeling pleasantly warm and heavy and he’s halfway through his whiskey when the phone rings.

For some ungodly reason the hotel has put a phone in the bloody bathroom, so at least he doesn’t have to get up, just haul himself far enough out of the water to reach the counter.

“Hello?” he says irritably.

“Hob?” says the voice on the other end of the line. “I have a question about one of your citations in the paper you presented this morning. I was…”

“Morpheus?”

“Obviously. I was wondering about –”

“Morpheus, it’s –” Hob tries to break in.

“– about the research on Jonson that you cite in –”

“Morpheus, it’s after nine o’clock in the evening.”

There’s a long pause.

“Is it?” the other man says uncertainly.

“Yes, you absolute walnut.”

“I… was working. I must have lost track of time.”

“Why on earth are you still working? Don’t you have a flight in the morning?”

“I suppose I have. Nothing better to do.”

Hob doesn’t know Morpheus all that well; they see one another a few times a year, at seminars and conferences. They argue cheerfully about the merits of various Elizabethan playwrights, they – yes, fine, they flirt over cocktails at receptions, occasionally – but they don’t really talk. And yet he can see Morpheus, curled up in an uncomfortable desk chair at the cramped little hotel room desk, papers spread in front of him. The man has a memorable presence and a genius mind. And thin, elegant, fidgety fingers, which Hob imagines wrapped up in the phone cord.

And a dark, velvety voice, which is currently pouring into Hob’s ear.

“I apologize for disturbing your evening, Hob.”

“That’s alright. But you ought to find some way to relax tonight, for goodness’ sake.”

“Oh, ought I?” Morpheus sounds – amused? “And how would you suggest I do that?”

“Well, I for one am drinking a whiskey and having a very nice bubble bath.” Hob splashes deliberately. “And I can only recommend that course of action.”

“From an academic standpoint, Dr. Gadling?” Morpheus asks dryly.

Hob sinks a little deeper into the hot water. “Naturally, Dr. Murphy. From what other standpoint might I recommend it?”

Desire swells and pools in his belly. He can’t help it, with Morpheus’s voice in his ear bringing the man’s image so vividly to his mind’s eye. The sharp grey-blue eyes and even sharper cheekbones, which contrast soft lips.

“I’m sure I couldn’t even begin to guess.” Lord, but that voice is smoother than the whiskey Hob has just polished off.

“Perhaps sometime I’ll have the opportunity to enlighten you,” he says boldly.

“Perhaps.” Hob thinks he can hear a smile. “Good night, Hob.”

“Night, Morpheus.”

A click, and the line goes dead. Hob leans up to hang up his own handset and recedes back into the bubbles.

Morpheus would be a tactile lover, he’s sure of it. His hands prove it; that nervous, artistic elegance. Hob’s own hands drift lower, slip between his legs.

Perhaps sometime he’ll have an opportunity, indeed.

prompt list!

#my writing #dreamling #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #the sandman #oh my god it's a human au where they're both academics HOW REVOLUTIONARY lol #be the fanfic you want to see in the world

[wolfjackle-creates]

WIP Wednesday

So I'll be sharing a snippet from a different fic today! If I share anymore of Bring Me Home, I may as well just post the entire first chapter. (Which, I will be looking for a new job and hopefully moving in 2 months or so, so I'll probably try and start posting after that. Get another chapter or two written in the meantime.)

This fic is also from a prompt that was submitted by @regonold to @stealingyourbones. I did part of a collab fill previously, but the idea has been living in my mind rent free and I couldn't help but want to take it on more fully. I've written 5.5k and this snippet is just under 900 words.

----------

The formal gardens beyond the iron gate filled Danny with dread. Vlad’s mansion had looked like this, too. But Jazz had promised him, over and over again, that the Waynes were nothing like the Fruit Loop while begging him to come. Besides, he’d spent weeks making sure his schedule was clear and making deals to prevent any interruptions. No backing out now. With a sigh, he pressed the button for the intercom.

“Good evening, may I ask your business?” asked a man with a British accent.

“Um, yeah. Good evening.” Why was it so much harder to communicate with other people as human Danny than ghost Phantom? “Um, I’m Danny. Jazz’s brother?”

“Ah, yes. Of course. We’ve been expecting you. Follow the drive up to the house and welcome.”

Motors activated and the gates slowly opened. Danny started the trek up the long driveway. His anxiety wasn’t relived when he saw the manor with it’s dark stone facade and literal tower. If it was made of lighter stones, it could have been a copy of Vlad’s castle.

“This is for Jazz,” he muttered under his breath as he walked up the stairs. Before he could knock on the doors, they opened and Jazz ran out to hug him.

“Danny! Thank you so much for coming! How’ve you been? I know you’re busy, but you need to call me more often.”

Danny hugged her back tightly. “Sorry, Jazz. You know how I lose track of time. So where’s this famous Jason?”

A man stepped forward and started speaking, but hanging off his back was a ghost. The ghost of the dead Robin, to be exact. Shit.

At least the position of the ghost meant he appeared to be looking at probably-Jason. Even if he didn’t hear a word the man said. To make it worse, Robin realized he could see him and was sending out help-me trills.

Danny had to bite hard on his tongue to keep from vocalizing his own comforting chirps.

He was so focused on Robin that he almost didn’t notice probably-Jason holding out his hand to shake. Laughing self-consciously, he took it. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

The other man hesitated a moment and asked, “Is everything all right?”

But all Danny could focus on was Robin hanging off Jason’s shoulders and sending out happy-sad-helpless feelings. Danny relaxed the hold he had on his ghost self and tried to sense what was going on. But he had to reassure the human, too. “Yeah, I’m fine.” But wow, was Jason not. Where had he come into contact with such weird ectoplasm? It seemed to twist every emotion into anger and fear and violence.

Even worse was Robin. He was barely perceptible even to Danny’s enhanced senses.

Of course, Jazz was liminal enough to realize he was doing something. Quietly, she chirped a question.

Danny just shook his head and pulled back his power. “Later,” he murmured.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said back, just as quietly.

Louder, Danny said, “Sorry. I just have bad memories about large manors like this. Has Jazz told you about Vlad?”

“He’s come up a time or two. With the black hair and blue eyes, someone will probably make an adoption joke at you before the night is over. But I’ll stab them if they do.”

Danny's laugh would have been much less forced had he not just felt the twisted anger inside probably-Jason. “Just don’t hit anything vital,” he said, hoping it sounded like a joke.

Robin rolled his eyes—and how could he do that so obviously with a mask on?—and tried to pull on Jason to lead him inside.

“Well, it might be summer, but Gotham is never warm. Come on in and I’ll introduce you to everyone,” said Jason.

Jazz grabbed his hand as they made their way inside where they were greeted warmly by an elderly gentleman.

“You must be Mr. Danny. Welcome to the Manor. I’m Alfred. Dinner will be served in one hour and please let me know if you need anything. Your sister stated you didn’t have any dietary restrictions?”

“What’s that?” Danny was trying not to stare at Robin who was now hugging the older man. Before Alfred could repeat himself, however, Danny’s brain caught up to the human conversation. “Oh, uh, no. I don’t. Jazz is right.”

“Very good. Can I take your coat and bag?”

Danny did shrug off his backpack, but only so he could also take off his coat. “Can I keep the bag? I don’t feel comfortable without it on me.”

“Very well.” Alfred hung the coat up on a rack right next to the door. “Master Jason, be sure to show him where the bathroom is on your way to join the others. Mr. Danny, there are plenty of drinks in the sitting room where everyone is relaxing should you need a refreshment.” And he finally had confirmation that this was Jason!

“’Course I will, Alfie.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, though he was more focused on the desperate chirps Robin was sending out.

I’m here-notice me-I love you.

Looks like he was breaking his promise to Jazz to not do any ghostly business tonight. Of course Jazz’s boyfriend would be haunted by a ghost that needed help. Why was he even surprised?

---------

As far as I know, there hasn't been a lot of requests for a tag list on this one. @addie-lover-of-stories is the only one I noticed. But let me know and I'll start one!

Next Part

#dp x dc #danny fenton #jazz fenton #jason todd #anger management #alfred pennyworth #i reread everything ive written today for the first time in a week or two #and theres some scenes i cant wait to share with others #it'll be fun #for danny at least #the bats not so much

[mrsshabana]

PLEASE QUEEN, I need answers, in your post talking about some wip's that you were thinking about, I saw "shark", I hope I'm not hallucinating, but please, can you tell me a little about it??🏃🏃🏃

Omg yes! I'm so happy you asked about this one! The shark au is something me and @lilliumteaandbeez came up with. We have a ton of lore we came up with together, though I don't have much written for it. I believe I wrote this in February, and it isn't much but I'll share what I have!

More about Sharktaro though, he is also a siren! So, for the people that have been asking me for a siren au, this is the start of it.*･♡

✧:･ﾟ→ My WIP's

𝑺𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒏!𝑮𝒚𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒐 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Your motion sensored camera got activated last night.

That’s why you find yourself trudging through a light rain shower, stepping through heaps of wet sand and over slippery rocks. 

The camera had been set up in an alcove seated on the beach. A small cave sits on the edge of the ocean, with a deep pool of water seated in the middle of it. But deeper into the cave, the water becomes more shallow, and there is a rocky ledge circling the edge of the water, perfect for you to set up your camera to observe the unusual alcove.

It was for research of course. As a marine biologist you are always searching for unique phenomena. With this particular experiment, you were hoping to catch seals using this alcove as a shelter when hiding from circling sharks. But instead you were notified in the middle of the night by a strange photo being captured.

You couldn’t quite make out what it was. It was blurry and dark. The creature looked long like a seal but it almost appeared as though it had sharp claws. Having no idea what it could be, you are filled with anxiety and curiosity as you arrive at the cave.

Sounds of distant thunder echo in the distance.

You turn the corner and step into the darkness. The approaching storm blocking any sunlight that may have illuminated your path.

Flickering on your flashlight, you point it towards the shallow end of the cave.

Before you lies a humanoid figure. Laying on its side, back facing towards you.

The bottom half of its body resembles a shark. A long blue-green tail littered with dark spots. The spots cover his entire body, even the upper half which resembles a human man. The creature has a large fin on its back and pointed ears. Its body looks emaciated, ribs moving with each shallow breath that he takes. And a mess of black and green hair sits atop his head.

The water surrounding his body is bloody, and his tail seems to have gotten tangled in a net.

“Oh my god…” you gasp under your breath. The small sound is enough to startle the creature, quickly turning around, staring right at you.

His eyes glow yellow, slit pupils dilate from the bright light. He opens his mouth to show rows of dagger sharp teeth.

A high pitched, rattling screech echos from his mouth. Hissing at you with every ounce of energy he has left, you know this is a warning. But you can’t stop yourself from walking closer to him, you want to help him. It’s in your nature to help and rehabilitate injured marine life, and a mythical merman is no exception.

As you get closer he starts to panic. Flailing his tail, showing his teeth, hissing loudly. He tries to get away but he is too tangled up. It doesn’t take long before more blood spills out of him, and he can’t muster enough energy to continue.

His eyes get heavy and his breathing becomes more shallow but his hissing persists as you stand a few feet in front of him.

“I-It’s ok,” you mutter, taking a few steps closer to him, “I’m going to try to help you.”

Throwing your backpack to the ground, you take a seat in front of him, rummaging through your bag to find any supplies that may be able to help this poor creature. You always make sure to come prepared, because out in the field accidents happen all of the time. So luckily you have an emergency medkit. It’s meant for humans but you are sure it will do the trick for the time being.

When you reach out to him he snaps at you, almost biting your arm.

“Hey! I’m trying to help you! I know you are scared, but I promise I won’t hurt you.”

You can see the hurt and fear in his eyes when he looks at you. He has no idea that you are trying to help him. But the blood spilling from his wounds is too much and he loses the ability to care. He knows that he will die soon, so he stops fighting you.

The largest wound is on his tail, near his hip. It’s a deep laceration of some kind. 

Cutting part of the net, to give you enough room to tend to his wound. You decide that stopping the bleeding is more important, and you will work on untangling him afterwards.

There is no time to waste so you hurry and disinfect the area and prep your needle. With trembling hands you begin to suture the large wound, resulting in a low, painful whimper coming from him.

“I know it hurts, but I have to do this or you will bleed out,” you console him but don’t stop stitching him up.

The skin on his tail is thick and tough, taking a lot of effort to get the needle to go through. But after lots of struggling, you manage to get the wound sutured. Taking some gauze and holding it to the wound to soak up some of the blood.

Scanning over the rest of his body, he has lots of smaller lacerations. They look like claw marks. But you can’t think of any sea creature that would have claws like that…

Once the bleeding mostly stops on the larger wound, you go to care for the other wounds. Disinfecting, covering with bandages, and suturing a few that are particularly deep. You run out of gauze pretty quickly, as he has many wounds and the moisture of his skin combined with the humidity in the air quickly dampens them.

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro x y/n #siren au #replies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

How about dreary?

Nedcan break up fighttttt lmao. This one is also complete.

Amsterdam, 1990.

Jan opened the front door to the dreary day and the nation of Canada standing on his stoop with a shy, hopeful smile.

"I wasn't expecting you!" Jan blurted, taken on the back foot. "You're a surprise!"

"A good one, I hope," Matt smiled. He was dressed warmer than required for the weather, wrapped in his good winter coat, gloves and hat and standing in the drizzle, one hand above his face to keep it dry. Jan stood there, gawking. "Can't I come in?"

"Of course!" Jan said, shaking himself loose of his thoughts and flinging the door open.

Matt stepped inside, peeling off his hat and gloves and moving to give Jan a kiss once inside the privacy of the house.

"What are you doing here?" Jan asked. Matt's lips were fish-cold, and Jan shivered a little before he took his coat.

"I was in Kyiv," Matt said. "And I was feeling a bit more myself, so I called your office, and they said you didn't have anything booked, so I got my connecting flight to Rotterdam."

"Oh," Jan said.

"Is it a bad time?" Matt asked.

"No, no. Just… I've got a flight in a few hours."

"Where too?"

"First leg is DC,"

"Oh?" Matt asked, and they moved toward the living room, Matt's suitcase in the foyer and coat hanging on the rack like a guest. "What's in DC?"

"A layover and a few hours at the Dutch Embassy. They're giving a dinner for the Queen."

"Ah, very official. And then?"

"Another flight."

"Where too?" Matt asked, putting his arms around Jan and smiling. "Where have they sent you off to now?"

"Nowhere," Jan said, kissing his hair. Matt dropped his head on Jan's shoulder. "I took vacation time."

"Did I pre-empt a surprise visit? Matt smiled, kissing him, full of promise. He was still cold, and Jan could only let it happen, full of sadness.

Jan was silent for a moment. "Tokyo, actually."

"Oh," Matt dropped his arms. "Well, that's not great timing on my part; I'm sorry. I must have called before you put it on your schedule."

"It's not scheduled," Jan said. "Personal."

Matthew disengaged. "Again?"

"I haven't been there in months."

"A month," Matt said. "You were there in December, and it's not even February."

"I have something I want to be there for."

"Something?" Matt said.

"A gift. A windmill is going up in Sakura."

"A windmill. Goodness." Matt said. "Does that require you?"

"It's my design, so yes, I supposed it does. I based it on one I had in the 18th century. It's quite a fine design.

Matt huffed. "Lucky Sakura."

"Kiku has been looking forward to it.

"You have to, by the sounds of it."

"I have."

Matt nodded, collapsing onto the sofa. He looked off somehow, something more shadowed about his eyes than usual, his face thinner—probably jet lag.

"Do you want to get some lunch?" Jan asked. "Before I go?"

Matt looked at his hands and swallowed. "Jan, If I asked you to stay, would you?"

"Is there a reason I should?" Jan raised a brow.

"I miss you, love you, and want to spend time with you."

"My flights booked, Matt."

"Right." Matt shut his eyes and exhaled. "Okay. That was bad timing on my part. I'm sorry I dropped in unannounced. I really thought you were free."

"Why don't we get lunch and figure out another time."

"I'm not hungry," Matt said. His jaw tensed, and he looked up at Jan. "When can I expect a visit from you?"

"I'll be over with the tulips, like usual."

"Could you take some time before then? Or could I pop over?"

"Can't it wait until May?"

Matt flexed his hands in his lap. "Does it have to? I miss you."

"I don't think I can take any more time for a few months, but I'll call when I get back."

"Do you miss me when I'm not here?"

"I'm always happy to see you."

"That's not what I asked." Matt returned. "Do you miss me? Because it feels like I haven't seen much of you in a long time."

"I'll be there in May. A whole week."

"How long in Japan?"

'Fourteen days."

"Fourteen days," Matt repeated. "Another fourteen days?"

"December was only 10."

"Only?" Matt spat back and then shut his eyes, exhaling. "Sorry."

"That was for a whole different thing. This is official."

"You just said it was personal!"

"It is! But it's for an event!" Jan said, running his hand over Matt's arm to take his hand. "Come on, let's get some food before I have to go. I'll call you when I get back and I'll see you in May."

"Do you even want to see me in May?"

"I always come in May."

"Do you want to though? You're not beholden to me." Matt stared at his hand, supporting him against the wall rather than at Jan. "We're not married; we're not human. You can do whatever you like."

Jan frowned. "Matt— you didn't even mention you wanted company before dumping yourself on my doorstep. I'm not a mind reader."

Matt squeezed his eyes shut against some sort of pain.

"Matthew, be reasonable. I can't do anything if you don't talk to me."

"You aren't listening anymore when I try. Even when I'm here, you're elsewhere. You had a life before me. You still have a life without me. It's fine. Do whatever or whomever you want."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means there were no honorifics when he talked to you. And you still use the formal case when talking to me in public. Because I'm not imp— it's fine. You should go. I'll talk to you when I'm in a fit state."

"You could just talk to me now!" Jan said. "I'm listening now."

"You're already packed," Matt said. "It's fine. I'll go to my Dad's."

"I'm sorry this time didn't work out," Jan said, scrubbing his face. "But you didn't tell me you wanted to see me until 10 minutes ago."

"I tried in December. You were in Japan." Matt smiled wanly, and Jan wasn't sure he'd ever seen him look so hollow. "I tried. I tried talking to you. But you don't return my calls, and that time you were unreachable and in Japan, and now you're on your way there again."

"Matt. There's only a competition where you go and make one. The world's changed, and times change. You have your place with me sometimes, and I have mine with him sometimes. It's not a competition. Just compartments."

"So you can put me in a little box and take me out when you're bored?" Matt sighed through his nose and rubbed his temples. "Just like that?"

"That's not what I said."

"Isn't it?" Matt shot back. "Isn't that what you're doing exactly? I was place holder while you waited for something better! Fifty years ago, you kissed me on VJ day with almost as much relief as VE Day. You kissed me both times. I didn't expect anything from you. But you made me love you. And now you throw that in my face by telling me nothing changed?"

"It hasn't!" Jan shouted. "I love you!"

"Then why aren't you actually here when you lay next to me?" Matt shouted. "Where the fuck are you when I try to talk to you and get only grunts? Why are we always playing phone tag? When I'm trying to make love, and you're closing your eyes? Where the fuck are you, and who are you thinking about? Because in fifty years, we haven't been monogamous, but you never used to close your eyes!

"I buy you flowers every year. I pay attention to you when we're together. But it's not as if we live together. Our lives are long. And complicated. I have feelings for you, for him, for a lot of people. Same as you. Don't begrudge me my life, Matt, Fuck! Its not my fault you're such a fucking child you can't understand this!"

"Oh, I'm a child now?" Matt stood. "It makes me a child that I don't understand how you can do this with him? Of all people?"

"It does! You are a fucking child if you can't understand that. And a hypocrite. Your parents have done far more to each other than Kiku and I ever did."

"How the fuck does that make this okay?"

"Because there was a single war between Kiku and me. One! A single war in 400 years."

"It was the largest conflict the world's ever seen! Ludwig nearly killed you, and Kiku allied with him and they both tried to bring the world to heel. Tell me, should I fuck Ludwig? No!"

"You can if you want! Go, fuck him, love him, let him love you, change! Maybe you'd understand some fucking sense."

Matthew's eyes widened. Jan exhaled and saw his breath. The room had dropped twenty degrees around the personification of Canada.

"Do… do you love him?"

"I did."

"Thats not what I'm asking. Do you love him now? At this moment."

"Yes."

"Fine." Matt exhaled, and the room's temperature rose again. "Fine. Go."

"Matt, don't play the jealous wife. It's beneath you."

"Who the fuck said I was? I just said you were free to do as you liked, didn't I?" Matt smiled again, bitter and fragile like shards of porcelain. "Enjoy your time, Jan."

"…. Will I see you in May?"

"I don't think so."

Send me a word, if it’s in one of my wip documents I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in

#the ask box || probis pateo #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #Jan and Matt || the bells of liberation echo into eternity #hws netherlands #hws canada

[chicgeekgirl89]

Fandom: 911 Lone Star Summary: When Carlos receives a late night call from one of his sisters who is worried about the health of his nephew, T.K. doesn't hesitate to jump in and show the entire family why he's worthy of Carlos' love. Thanks to @carlos-tk, @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @whatsintheboxmh, @lemonlyman-dotcom, @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut, @strandnreyes, @carlos-in-glasses, and @bonheur-cafe for the WIP Wednesday tags. I hope you will accept this instead, belated as it is! A/N: This is my 100th fic on AO3!! 🍾🍾🍾 (Not my 100th fic ever, many of them never made the transfer from ff.net, but still!) I've been sitting on this one for a while and seeing T.K. shine feels like it's worthy of being #100. Also Adriana and Francesca weren't supposed to be in this one, but they literally barged through those hospital doors and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I couldn't love them more!

Read on AO3

“Sooo…never again, right?” Carlos asks.

“Oh my god never again,” T.K. agrees fervently. “Why were the plates so weird? Some of them weren’t even plates at all. And the food was…bad.”

“So bad,” Carlos says. “Tiny and bad.”

“Three hours. We were there three hours,” T.K. says in disbelief as he slows down at a stoplight. “Why did we have to wait like thirty minutes between courses?”

“The menu said it was to give us time to renew our digestive energies and be more present in the dining experience,” Carlos says.

“I didn’t know my digestive energies needed to be renewed.”

“Me neither.”

It had taken them months to get a reservation at the trendiest new restaurant in town and they’d both been excited for the occasion. The menu promised a foodie paradise with unique dishes, creative presentation, and an emphasis on sustainability. They’d gotten dressed up and ready for a fun date night out only to be disappointed the moment they’d walked in the door. 

The place had been crowded, they were practically elbow to elbow with the tables next to them. Carlos had learned the intimate details of one couple’s fertility issues and another couple’s trouble with their neighbors.

Then the food had started coming and been a complete disaster. Carlos considered himself something of a foodie, and T.K.’s New Yorker palate had sampled a number of cuisines over the years, but this had been the worst food Carlos had ever eaten. He hadn’t been able to identify a single item on any of his plates and his tongue longed for something with even a hint of flavor. The plate that held a single, lukewarm radish had nearly been his undoing.

Overall it had been three hours of bland food, awkward company, and not at all what either of them had imagined.

“I’m starving. Can we please pick up something on the way home?” T.K. asks, his stomach letting out a gurgle as if to affirm his statement.

“God yes. I think Chu’s is still open, right?” 

Carlos pulls out his phone, but it lights up with a call before he can check to see Chu’s hours. “Why’s my sister calling?”

T.K. glances over at him. “Which one?”

“Lucía,” Carlos says. It’s not typical of his sister to call at this hour out of the blue and he feels his internal warning bells activate as he picks up the call. “Luci? Que pasó?”

“Hey Carlos,” she says, sounding tired and stressed. “Sorry for calling, I know it’s late.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “We’re just on our way home from dinner. What’s going on?”

“I don’t—I’m probably overreacting,” she says. “It’s just that Justin is out of town for work and I’m—“

Now he’s really worried. “Lucí, it’s okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Sebastian woke up sick a couple days. I didn’t think it was a big deal, both boys are sick all the time from daycare and school, but he wasn’t any better today, so I took him to the doctor. They said he’s fine, likely just a virus or something, but…his fever won’t break and he keeps saying his belly hurts.” 

Carlos can hear the deep seated worry in his sister’s voice and it rocks him to his core. His sister is an amazing mom, fearless and sure. To hear her so uncertain is throwing him off.

“I didn’t know if maybe T.K. could just give me some advice or something?” she says, ending it like a question.

He looks over at his fiancé. “What’s going on?” T.K. asks,.

“Sebastian’s sick,” Carlos says. “Do you mind?”

“No, no, put her on speaker,” T.K. says immediately, turning his eyes back to the road as the light changes.“Hey Lucía,” he says loudly so she can hear him.

“Hey T.K.,” she says. “I’m so sorry, I know people probably ask you for medical help all the time.”

“It’s not a problem. Tell me what’s going on,” T.K. says.

“He won’t eat, he’s barely drinking. His fever had been holding steady at around a hundred, but it just spiked up to one oh two. I’ve given him medicine, done cold washcloths, I don’t know what else to try.”

“And the doctor said what exactly?”

“That it’s probably a stomach virus,” Lucía says.

T.K. mulls that over for a minute. “Aren’t we like fifteen minutes from their place?” he asks Carlos.

Carlos nods. 

“Okay, Lucía we’re going to swing by, all right?” T.K. says, flipping his blinker on to get them turned around back the way they’d just come.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that—“

“We’re coming Luci,” Carlos says. “We’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, thank you,” she says, relief flooding her voice and loosening the knot of fear in Carlos’ chest.

He hangs up and looks at T.K. “It’s probably just a stomach bug.”

“Probably,” T.K. agrees. “But if it makes her feel better to have someone give her advice it’s worth going over.”

Carlos’ heart goes soft at those words. He’d never imagined he’d be with someone like T.K. Someone so kind and good, someone who would drive to his sister’s house at nine o’clock at night just to assuage her fears. It’s beyond his wildest dreams.

They pull into the driveway of the ranch style home about ten minutes later, T.K.’s ambulance driving having shaved a few minutes off their time and a few years off of Carlos’ life. At least they’re not driving the Camaro tonight so Carlos didn’t have to fear for the safety of his baby as they sped through yellow lights and weaved in and out of traffic.

Lucía opens the door before they even knock and the relief Carlos felt a few minutes ago evaporates at the sight of her worried face. She was holding back on the phone; in person she looks even more terrified and exhausted than she sounded. “Hey guys,” she says. “I’m so sorry to drag you all the way over here.”

“Stop apologizing,” Carlos admonishes her immediately as they step inside. “That’s what family is for.”

Sebastian lays on the couch in the living, looking younger and tinier than his six years, his face pale and drawn. There’s an episode of Paw Patrol playing on the television mounted above the fireplace and he has a blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. Carlos can see Fuzzy, his comfort bear, peeking out over the top. 

“Hey buddy,” he says, crouching down and giving his nephew a smile. “Tummy bothering you?”

Sebastian nods but doesn’t say anything, another sign that something is wrong. Usually he’s a chatterbox, happy to talk about school or his friends or soccer. Carlos smiles wider, despite the worry swirling in his gut, trying for calm and reassuring uncle. “Do you remember my boyfriend T.K.? From the party at Abuela and Abuelo’s house?” Carlos asks and Sebastian’s eyes move over his shoulder to where T.K. is standing behind him. He gets another nod.

“He’s going to take a look at you, okay?” Carlos says, standing up and moving back to where Lucía is anxiously hovering behind the couch so that T.K. has space to work.

“Hey Sebastian,” T.K. says as he takes Carlos’ spot. “You know I’m a paramedic, right?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, his voice small.

“Do you know what a paramedic does?”

“Help people feel better?”

T.K. smiles and nods. “That’s right. So let’s see if I can help you feel better, sound good?”

“Mhmm.”

“Awesome. Okay, I’m going to pull down the blanket and take a look. You tell me if anything hurts, all right?”

He gently pulls down the blanket and places his fingers on Sebastian’s wrist, looking at his watch while he does it. He pulls out a stethoscope he had in the car and listens to the little boy’s lungs, then takes his temperature with the thermometer Lucía has on the coffee table. He narrates quietly the entire time, letting Sebastian know what he’s doing as he does it.

“Okay, let’s see that belly,” he finally says with a smile.

He pulls up the top of Sebastian’s Power Rangers pajamas, talking to him softly while his hands palpate his abdomen. “You like Power Rangers huh? Which one is your favorite?”

“Red,” Sebastian says immediately. “He’s the head guy.”

“He is,” T.K. says. “I always liked the Green one though.”

Sebastian winces and makes a noise that breaks Carlos’ heart in half. T.K.’s hands immediately immediately stop. “Sorry buddy,” he says. “That hurt?”

Sebastian nods and T.K. gently puts his pajama shirt back into place. “I’m going to go talk to your mom and tío. You stay right here and make sure this couch doesn’t go anywhere, okay?”

He gets to his feet and nods toward the hallway where Carlos and Lucía follow him out of Sebastian’s earshot. “His pulse is a little fast and there is some tenderness in his abdomen,” T.K. says quietly. “That coupled with the fever and the lethargy is definitely concerning.”

Lucía puts her hand on Carlos’ arm and he covers it with his own in an attempt at reassurance. “So what should I do? Wait until the morning and see how he is? Give him more meds?” she asks.

“Considering his symptoms, I would recommend you take him to the ER,” T.K. says gently.

She blows out a breath as Carlos’ stomach drops. “Okay,” she says. “Okay um, okay. I’ll just wake up Nicholas and…”

“No, no, no,” Carlos says quickly. “No I’ll call Mom and ask her to come be with Nicky. I’ll stay until she gets here.”

“And I’ll go with you to the ER,” T.K. offers. “I can walk you through all the paperwork, field questions from the doctors, whatever you need.”

“Seriously?” Lucía looks teary eyed. “You’ll come?”

“Of course,” T.K. says. “Why don’t you go grab whatever might help keep him calm while we’re there? iPad or a book maybe. It could be a long wait.”

“Okay, right. Yes. Give me like five minutes and I’ll be ready,” she says, rushing off to go gather supplies.

“What are you thinking?” Carlos asks immediately.

T.K. has his neutral paramedic face on, but Carlos has learned to read between the lines. “I’m thinking it could be a number of things,” T.K. says. “Just a stomach bug maybe, but even if it is I think he’s dehydrated. And given his symptoms and the decline, I’m also worried about an impacted or perfed bowel or maybe even appendicitis.”

“How worried?” 

T.K. blows out a breath. “Worried enough that I wouldn’t wait until the morning to try and get him some treatment.”

His words unlock a whole new level of fear that Carlos has never experienced before, and it takes a lot for him to stay calm as he calls his mom and explains the situation. Lucía returns with a tote bag full of supplies and T.K. scoops up Sebastian, carrying him out to the car with Lucía on his heels. 

“Mom says she’ll be here in fifteen minutes. I’ll be right behind you,” Carlos promises as T.K. sets Sebastian gently in the backseat, pillowing his head on Lucía’s lap.

“Can you call Justin?” Lucía asks, looking like she’s barely holding it together. “He knows Sebby’s sick but I want him to know we’re heading to the ER.”

“Yes,” Carlos says. “I’ll call him as soon as I’m back inside.”

“Hey,” T.K. catches his eye as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “I’ve got them, okay?”

“I know you do,” Carlos says and then the door is shut and they’re gone, leaving him standing in the driveway, his heart in his stomach.

He trudges back into the house and sinks onto the couch, eyes glued to Nicholas’ sleeping form on the baby monitor. He’s not a parent, so why does this feel so awful?

It takes him a minute to emotionally prepare for this phone call and he has to take a deep breath before tapping Justin’s name on his screen. 

It rings and rings and then sends him to voicemail, so he tries again. And again. The third time, Justin finally picks up.

“Dude, if this is a butt dial I’m going to kill you,” his brother-in-law says groggily.

Carlos forgot that it’s nearly midnight on the east coast right now. “Justin,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“What’s wrong? Are Lucía and the boys okay?” Justin immediately sounds more awake now that he’s heard Carlos’ voice.

“Everyone’s safe,” Carlos tells him quickly. “I’m at your place with Nicholas because Sebastian’s feeling worse. She and T.K. are on the way to the ER with him.”

There’s a pause, Carlos can practically feel Justin’s panic through the phone. “Okay, um, okay,” he finally says. “Shit, I’m in Atlanta. There won’t be any flights for hours…”

“My mom’s on her way here to stay with Nicholas,” Carlos says. “I’ll head to the hospital and keep you updated, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, um, thanks Carlos,” Justin says, sounding a little hoarse. “Please um, please tell them I love them, okay? And that I’ll be on the first flight out I can get.”

“I will.”

He hangs up just as the front door opens and his mom comes in. “Carlitos,” she says softly and he immediately gets up to hug her. “How is Sebby?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. They probably just got to the ER, it could be hours before we know anything.”

“And Lucía?”

“She’s worried,” he says. 

“As are we all,” she says, empathy all over her face. “T.K. went with her?”

“Yeah, he said he’d help with things there.”

She smiles softly and touches his face. “You picked a good one mijo. Not every man would drop everything to help his boyfriend’s family.”

There’s a lump in Carlos throat and he struggles to speak past it. “I know.”

“You should get going.”

“Okay. Nicholas is asleep in his crib. I called Justin, he’s working on getting a flight back.”

She nods. “Keep me posted.”

“I will.”

The drive to the hospital is so lonely and silent that it makes each minute feel even longer beneath the glow of the streetlights. How on earth did he go from having dinner with his boyfriend to taking his nephew to the ER? It’s ridiculous. They should be home right now, cuddling on the couch or the bed, watching some stupid show that neither of them really cares about because what they’re actually interested in is making out with each other.

Instead he’s about to spend hours in a hard plastic chair praying that a six year old he loves dearly is going to be all right.

He’s so anxious to get there that he doesn’t realize until he’s through the doors that he has no idea where he’s going. Or even if they’re gong to let him stay. Surely they’re not going to let three adults hang out in the ER in the middle of the night when one would suffice. 

He forgot he has T.K. Strand in his corner.

“How can I help you?” the nurse asks when he steps up to the counter.

“I’m here for my nephew? Sebastian Bryant? He came in with my sister,” Carlos says, feeling awkward.

“Oh you’re Carlos,” she says immediately. “T.K.’s boyfriend.”

“I—yeah,” Carlos says, surprised by her familiarity.

“I’m Stella. It’s so nice to finally meet you, although I wish it wasn’t because your nephew’s in here. T.K. talks about you all the time.”

“He does?”

“Oh my god, try getting him to stop. Carlos this, my boyfriend that, and now I see why. You two are gorgeous together,” she says, flashing him a smile. “Here come with me. I’ll take you to them. Darlene? Can you cover the desk?”

Stella takes him down a hall, past the general area of the ER to a more closed off section. It’s not a room, but it’s quieter here, and Carlos can hear T.K.’s voice even before Stella pulls back the curtain to reveal him.

“Found someone who belongs to you,” Stella says.

T.K.’s eyes find him, soft and relieved. “Hey, I was just about to text you an update. Thanks so much Stella.”

“No problem. I’m going to check and see where we’re at with the tests and then I’ll be back.”

“How’s it going?” Carlos asks quietly.

Sebastian is asleep in the bed, an IV in his arm and Fuzzy tucked in beside him. Lucía is sitting in a chair next to him, his little fingers curled around hers.

“They’re going to take him for a CT as soon as one opens up,” she says quietly. “He was crying when we got here, but they gave him some pain medication and he fell asleep like ten minutes ago.”

“Good,” Carlos says in relief. It feels so much better to know that there are people actively working to help Sebastian. “Nicholas is with Mom, he was still asleep when I left. And Justin’s getting on the first flight he can in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Lucía’s face crumples and she immediately puts her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob. T.K. looks at Carlos. “I’m going to go grab us some coffee,” he says, slipping discreetly out of the room.

Carlos squats down by his sister’s chair and puts a hand on her knee. She immediately covers it with her own and squeezes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “He just—he’s so little. He was so scared when we got here, it’s so bright and they put in the IV and he cried and I just, I need Justin to be here, because I am not strong enough for this.”

“He’s coming,” Carlos says. “He’s coming as fast as he can. And until he does I’m here, all right? I’m here with you and Mom is with Nicholas. Sebastian is going to be fine. He’s scared, but you’re taking such great care of him. You are an amazing mom. You’re doing everything right.”

She nods a couple times, clearly trying to internalize his words before taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes. “You know um, T.K. is pretty amazing too,” she tells him, wiping at her eyes. “I thought we’d be here for hours before we got answers, but he called ahead in the car and that nurse, Stella, was waiting for us. As soon as we were in the door they were drawing blood and starting tests. It’s like they rolled out the red carpet.” She nods toward the doorway. “Not everyone would do that kind of thing for someone they barely know.”

“That’s T.K.,” Carlos says, warmth blooming through his chest at her words. “He’s…incredible.”

“You know, I already liked him a lot, but now…” She quirks a smile. “You’d better hold onto him.”

Carlos nods, heart fluttering away in his chest. “That’s the plan.”

T.K. comes back with coffee right about the same time someone shows up to take Sebastian for his CT scan. He’s unhappy to be woken up, but mollified when Carlos promises to take him for ice cream once a week for the next month. 

The nurse is incredible, telling Sebastian he’s going to go on a ride in a spaceship, although that does nothing to help Carlos’ heart when they start the sedation and he watches Sebastian’s eyelids flutter shut, his body going limp in a weirdly unnatural way. He’s gone for over an hour, all of them sipping tepid hospital coffee in a desperate attempt not to fall asleep as the clock ticks later and later. 

When the orderly returns with him he’s completely zonked out and Carlos hopes he’ll stay that way. It’s not long after that an ER doctor shows up and informs them that the CT scan is indicating appendicitis, despite Sebastian’s slightly atypical presentation of symptoms. Lucía takes the news better than Carlos thought she might, she’s clearly relieved to have an answer and a defined course of action, even if it does mean a surgery they’re told is being scheduled for the early hours of the morning. Someone will be by soon to get them admitted and transferred to a room for the night.

“You guys should go home” she says. “You’ve done more than enough, really. He’s just going to sleep until it’s time for surgery and they’re not going to let you come into the room with us anyway.”

“Don’t worry about them kicking us out,” T.K. says immediately. “If you want us to stay that won’t be a problem.”

She smiles at him. “You’ve done more than enough tonight. I’ll be fine. I promise. Go home and get some sleep.”

Carlos is reluctant to leave her, but she’s right. There’s no point in staying when it’s so late and nothing is going to happen until morning anyway. The moment of crisis is past and now there’s nothing to do but wait.

“I’ll come back in the morning for his surgery,” Carlos says.

“You don’t have to—“ She must catch the look of determination in his eyes because she cuts herself off and nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

He stands and she meets him with a brief hug before she turns to T.K. “I really can’t thank you enough. I don’t think I would have made it tonight without you T.K.,” she says.

“Yes you would have,” he says graciously. “But I’m glad I could help. If anything changes in the night you have my number, don’t be afraid to call.”

“I will.” 

Carlos can’t help but notice that T.K. gets a slightly longer hug than he did and the warm feeling in his chest only intensifies. He reaches for T.K.’s hand as they head out into the hall and T.K. gives him a tired smile in return. “Oh, hang on one second,” he says as they pass the nurses station, letting go of Carlos’ hand. “I’ll be right back.”

He jogs over and flashes that winning smile again at the nurse who’s there, not Stella this time, and chats with her for a minute before returning to Carlos��� side. “What was that about?” Carlos asks, interlacing their fingers together again.

“I just wanted to make sure they put Sebastian in a private room,” T.K. says. “They have the space, Natalie says it won’t be a problem.”

“Natalie huh?” Carlos says as they exit the automatic doors and head for the darkened parking structure. “She also falls victim to your beautiful eyes and charming smile?”

“Victim?” T.K. scoffs. “No one is a victim. I have paid for these hospital perks with dozens of coffees and donuts and muffins and even the occasional Target run. This is just good natured southern kindness being returned.”

Carlos laughs out loud. “Right. Not a single bit of it has to do with your innate charm and that smile that brings people to their knees and makes them feel like they’re only person you’ve ever cared about.”

“I mean, it had to start somewhere,” T.K. says, flashing him that exact smile. “But we’ve come a long way since then.”

“Well thank you,” Carlos says, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. “I honestly I don’t how to say thank you enough. My family is…they’re so important to me and I…”

“Hey.” T.K. tugs him to a stop and meets his gaze under the half light of the parking garage. “They’re important to me too.”

The drive home is blessedly short and they fall into bed exhausted at around midnight only to wake up again at five to head back over to the hospital. Carlos tells T.K. he doesn’t have to come, but the look he gets shuts him up immediately. T.K. is clearly invested. 

They stop for coffee on the way, real, decent coffee, and some bagels, plus a cake pop for Sebastian after surgery. 

He gets a text update as they’re pulling up to the hospital again; Justin is on a flight and should get there by the time the surgery is over. It’s a relief to know his sister will have her support to lean on again in the near future. 

Once they arrive Carlos sits back and watches in wonder as T.K. works his magic. Someone shows up to give Sebastian not one, not two, but three different stuffed toys along with a coloring pack and some Hot Wheels cars. T.K. sits down on his bed and explains the whole surgery in terms a six year old an understand, and when the time comes, Sebastian is whisked off without a single tear.

He’s seen T.K. at work before, but this is an entirely different level of incredible. He knows almost every nurse, every doctor, every orderly that they see, and if he doesn’t, by the time they leave he’s made them feel like an old friend. People can’t seem to do enough for him. 

Justin gets there about twenty minutes after the surgery starts, exhausted and haggard looking, his collared shirt buttoned the wrong way and his hair looking like he didn’t even comb it. T.K. somehow procures fresh, non-cafeteria coffee for him, whispering something about the doctor’s lounge, as well as a banana and a granola bar. 

Everything goes exactly as expected and soon enough the doctor is back to let them know that Sebastian was a champ during surgery and they expect a quick recovery. Lucía and Justin head back to wait with him until the sedation wears off, while Carlos and T.K. continue hanging out in the waiting room until Sebastian can have more visitors.

When Carlos hears a loud commotion behind him, he knows without even looking that reinforcements have arrived. Adriana and Francesca have shown up with more balloons than a circus, a gigantic stuffed bear, and several bags of god only knows what else. “Oh my god, Cesca don’t let them float away,” Adriana is saying as they try and get through the automatic doors that keep closing before all the balloons can make it through.

“I’m not!” Francesca snaps back. “It’s the stupid doors! You could like try to help!”

“With what hands?” Adriana cries, her arms full of stuffed bear.

“Ah, perfect,” Carlos says weakly, looking at T.K. who is already smiling at his sister and cousin’s antics.

“Carlos! Get over here!” Francesca barks and he stands with a sigh, going to help her get in the doorway. 

“Hello, good morning, how are you guys doing?” Carlos prompts as he grabs the brightly colored strings and yanks them inside, the balloons bopping along behind and nearly smacking an elderly woman in the face.

“I mean you’re both awake and have coffee, so I assume you’re fine,” she tells him as she plonks into a seat across from T.K.

“Yeah, geez, way to make our nephew’s surgery about you,” Adriana says with a roll of her eyes. 

Carlos doesn’t bother to remind her that technically Sebastian is a cousin to her, not a nephew; labels other than “familia” ceased to have any meaning to them long ago. “So what’s the deal? Is he okay?” Francesca asks.

“The surgery went well,” T.K. says. “Sebastian’s appendix didn’t rupture, so the chances of infection are low. He should be able to head home in a day or so.”

“Phew. Poor little dude. This sucks,” Francesca says.

“But he’s okay,” Adriana says. “That’s what’s important. Everyone is okay. And all his friends are going to be very jealous when he gets back to school.”

She opens one of the bags and pulls out a tray of something that immediately fills the air with the scent of tomatoes and cheese. “Why do you have tamales?” Carlos asks. “It’s ten am.”

“Because Mom told us to go by the house and bring them over,” Francesca says. “She doesn’t, and I quote, ‘want anyone eating that hospital garbage, it will rot their stomachs.’”

“Sounds like your mom,” T.K. says with a cheeky smile as he reaches for one of the tamales. 

“We also have…taquitos, mac and cheese for Sebastian, and…arroz con pollo,” Francesca says, checking the other bags. 

“Your mom just had this all on hand?” T.K. asks, his mouth full.

“Tía Andrea always has everything on hand,” Adriana says.

Despite his initial scoffing, by the time Justin comes back an hour later to tell them Sebastian is up for visitors, Carlos has eaten three tamales, half a dozen taquitos, and a plateful of arroz con pollo. Apparently hospitals make him hungry. They’ve also fed four nurses and an orderly that T.K. knows, and they haven’t even put a dent in what’s there. 

Justin looks a little less of a mess now, he’s clearly spent some time in front of a mirror and his shirt is buttoned the right way now. He’s smiling in spite of the tiredness in his eyes, which widen in delight at the sight of the food. “Oh thank god for Andrea,” he says, immediately reaching for a taquito. 

“Hey, how do you know it wasn’t us?” Adriana asks, clearly offended.

Justin fixes her with a look and she shrugs. “I mean, yeah it was Tía Andrea, but we’re the ones that brought it over here,” she says.

“Thank you for your service,” Justin says around a mouthful.

“How’s Sebastian?” Francesca asks.

“Better than Lucía or me,” he says. “He says it barely hurts and he’s very excited to have a cool scar.” He looks at T.K. “Apparently you’ve really made this hospital experience feel like a vacation T.K.”

“I’m just glad he’s doing all right,” T.K. says. 

“Can we see him?” Carlos asks. 

“Yeah,” Justin says. “Lucí sent me to get you all.”

“Well then let’s get this party moved!” Francesca says, closing up the tupperware with incredible speed built from years of cleaning up house parties and hiding the evidence before their parents got home.

They make quite a parade marching through the pediatric wing of the hospital with balloons and bears and food galore. But then, the Reyes clan usually does. They’re not exactly known for being a calm and quiet bunch.

Sebastian is sitting up in bed eating a popsicle, looking like the happiest human alive even with an IV in his arm and stitches in his side. “Sebby!” Francesca says happily. “You’re looking good there buddy!”

“You brought me balloons?” he asks as Lucía quickly rescues his popsicle, which is in danger of falling to the floor.

“We brought you balloons and a bear and macaroni and cheese from Abuela,” Adriana tells him.

“Can I have mac and cheese right now?” he asks Lucía.

“Let’s maybe wait until after the doctor comes by again,” she says.

“But then I can have it? And the ice cream Tío Carlos promised me?”

It gets a chuckle from everyone in the room. 

The women start to fuss, setting up the balloons and bear in the best possible place, but Carlos’ eyes are on T.K. who is not-so-subtly checking out all the monitors and lines, ensuring that things are exactly as they should be. God, he loves this man. He loves him more than he thought he could ever love a human being.

“Well this looks like a party!” A man whose name tag identifies him as Dr. Nguyen, comes into the room, iPad in hand. Carlos assumes this must be the surgeon. “Sebastian who are all these fine people who came to visit you?”

“This is my Tía Cesca and my Tía Adriana. They brought me balloons,” Sebastian says, pointing to them in turn. 

“Well that’s very nice.”

“And that’s my Tío Carlos,” Sebastian says.

“Oh, is this the Tío you were telling me about? The one who’s a paramedic and helped you feel better?”

“No, my Tío Carlos is just a police officer,” Sebastian says. “My Tío T.K. is the one who’s a paramedic.” He turns his head to look at where T.K. is standing next to his IV pole. “Paramedics help people feel better. Right Tío?”

T.K. freezes for a second, his eyes locking with Carlos’. “Um, yeah,” he says finally. “Yes, that’s right. Paramedics help people. And then doctors help them even more.”

“Yeah, Dr. Nguyen took my appendix out,” Sebastian says. He looks the doctor square in the face. “My mom says you have to tell me if I can have mac and cheese or not.”

Dr. Nguyen laughs. “I can do that. Let’s give you a little check up and see.”

“We’ll give you some privacy,” Francesca says, which is hilarious given that she hasn’t let anyone have a single minute of privacy since the day she was born.

They step out into the hall, Adriana and Francesca immediately abandoning T.K. and Carlos to go look for hot doctors. Carlos runs a hand through his curls and looks at where his boyfriend is leaning up against the wall. “Well I guess we know who his new favorite tío is,” he says.

T.K. looks up, uncharacteristically nervous. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that. You’re not just a police officer.”

Carlos chuckles. “Oh I’m sure he meant it exactly like that. Tío Carlos is just a tío who wrestles and gives him ice cream. Tío T.K. saves lives. You made an impression.”

T.K. blushes. “I’m glad I could help.” His gaze softens. “I can’t believe he called me tío.”

And despite the fact that no one in the family has ever referred to T.K. that way before, Carlos isn’t surprised in the least. “Is that okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” T.K. says quickly. “Yeah I—as long as you and your family are okay with it. I don’t…I wouldn’t want him to be confused.”

“He’s not confused.” Carlos’ words are soft and he reaches down, intertwining their fingers. “I don’t think anybody is confused anymore about why you’re so important to me.”

T.K. meets his gaze and Carlos feels like he can see all the way into the vulnerability at the core of this man who came here so broken and lost, and is just starting to figure out how vital he is to everyone around him. Carlos leans in and their lips meet, soft and sweet. It’s not enough to really say thank you, he’s not sure he can ever truly find a way, but in this moment he knows he’ll try. Everyday for the rest of his life if he needs to.

The door to Sebastian’s room opens and Carlos reluctantly pulls back, keeping their hands firmly clasped even when T.K. starts to pull away a little. “Bad news,” Lucía says. “Mac and cheese is off the table until tomorrow. T.K., he would like to know if you have any connections that can get him jello instead. But only the red kind. Not the green.”

“Absolutely,” T.K. says, already pulling out his phone to send a text. “Red jello coming right up.”

Carlos shakes his head and smiles as they reenter the room, Sebastian’s face lighting up when he sees T.K. again. Carlos has always thought T.K. seemed like magic. And now everyone else can see it too.

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #911lsfic #Tarlos Fic #The Reyes Family (My Version) #Adriana and Francesca #Whump of a minor #Appendicitis #Family #Competent T.K. Strand #T.K. shows off his paramedic skills

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday (More MLC)

Have some more Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng interactions from my long fic as they try to figure out how to cooperate.

(You can find earlier excerpts here.)

“How’s your headache?” Fang Duobing asked.

There was a long pause. “Better,” was the curt reply.

Well, that was progress. At least he wasn’t pretending he had always been fine. And now, for the matter at hand. “Better enough that we could talk?” 

A-Fei huffed an amused breath. “Does my answer make a difference?”

Ouch. Alright, maybe he deserved that. “Yes. If you say no, I’ll shut up.”

A-Fei raised an eyebrow. “Really.” 

Fang Duobing nodded.

A-Fei closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and sighed it out. “Alright. Talk.”

Here it was. Now or never. “Ok.” He cleared his throat. “First of all: I’m sorry.” Hopefully a-Fei would be impressed with his maturity and responsibility.

There was a long pause. “For what?” a-Fei asked, his face devoid of emotion and his eyes still closed.

What on Earth did that reaction mean? Did he think the apology was beneath his notice? Fang Duobing swallowed back the desire to demand an explanation, took a calming breath, and continued. “I wasn’t listening to you. Either of you. You were right: I kept pushing on lots of things when you both told me to stop. And it hurt both of you, and Li Lianhua is only still alive because you were here to save him. I’ve learned my lesson, though. And I promise I’ll do better from now on.” To show that at least one of them knew something about etiquette, he also bowed. 

There was an even longer pause. Fang Duobing broke form to glance up. A-Fei had opened his eyes at some point during the bow, and was watching him with the most neutral expression Duobing had ever seen. 

“Alright,” a-Fei said with a clipped nod of his head, and closed his eyes again. “What do you want?”

“An apology isn’t about—“

“What. Do. You. Want?” a-Fei asked again, revealing the edge of his tone like he’d unsheathe his dao. 

“An acknowledgment of what I just said would be a good place to start,” he grumbled. “But fine.” He took a deep breath. Wuyan told him to try following a-Fei’s commands. Now was as good a time as any to start. “Since you asked—even though it’s unrelated to the apology—I want answers.”

Even with a-Fei’s eyes closed, Fang Duobing could see how hard he rolled them. “Of course.”

“You and Li Lianhua are both keeping things from me again, just like you used to. And because I can’t read minds, I keep accidentally hitting tripwires because I didn’t even know there were traps to look out for.”

“There are always traps,” a-Fei said, the hint of a sardonic twist raising the corners of his lips.

“No, that’s not—” Fang Duobing shook his head and tried again. “Imagine we were attacking a fortress. I study traps, so I can usually identify and disarm them without a problem. But in this fortress, for some reason, all traps are completely invisible to me, but you somehow have a map showing which spots trigger arrow formations and which ones are rigged with gunpowder to explode. And instead of sharing the map with me or telling me what to look out for, you’re just yelling at me once I’ve stepped wrong and blown everyone up. And I’m really, really tired of hurting everyone because of something I can’t see.” 

A-Fei shook his head and slowly ran his index finger along the inside of Li Lianhua’s wrist. “I don’t have a map.”

“You have more of one than I do.” Fang Duobing watched a-Fei’s finger move along Li Lianhua’s pulse point and decided to test a theory. “And I don’t just mean monitoring his heart rate.”

Another almost smile flickered on a-Fei’s lips. “Then what do you mean?”

That was one theory validated. Back to the matter at hand. “You already knew something more than what you shared. I don’t know what, but it has to do with why you wanted to heal the pericardium meridian rather than the lung meridian, even though he was wheezing, and how you knew he had shattered his own heart meridian, and that he did it while being immobilized, so immobilization would be dangerous for him. Something must connect them all. So what aren’t you telling me?” 

A-Fei dragged his finger back along Li Lianhua’s wrist to its starting point. “You want to not set off traps? Don’t immobilize him. Stop qi transfers when he or I say. Don’t ask him what happened.”

Fang Duobing’s mouth fell open. “That’s it? That’s all you’ll tell me?”

A-Fei opened his eyes to pierce him with a glare. “It’s enough.” 

“You always do this!” Fang Duobing said, throwing his hands into the air. “Why are you so committed to keeping people in the dark? Like with the ice planks, when you pretended to work with Shan Gudao.”

A-Fei’s free hand clenched into a fist. “That was my business. Not yours.”

 “Bullshit!” Fang Duobing snapped. “It affected us, too! Your snatching my xiao-yi got her stabbed, remember?” A-Fei’s finger hitched in its path on Li Lianhua’s wrist. “Anyway, you didn’t see Li Lianhua’s face once you left that day, when he thought you might have betrayed him like Shan Gudao did.” A-Fei’s finger stilled. “Why didn’t you just tell us, tell him, that you were doing it to get rid of the mind control bugs? Did you really think we wouldn’t help you, if we’d known? And instead, you tried to do it on your own and got kidnapped and Li Lianhua had to rescue you–”

A-Fei stopped moving entirely.

#mysterious lotus casebook #mlc fic #my fic #Di feisheng #Fang Duobing #Li Lianhua #Difang #Lianhua Lou #lhl #wip wednesday #it’s still a massive case of competing needs #and they’re still struggling to communicate succesfully #but they’re trying

[shootingstarpilot]

☔

for the wip ask game!

ask game

my FAVE <333

ok so this is a fic i might actually write at some point, because i have Feelings about the jedi being a family and anakin's apparent insistence that biological ties overrule all.

(also mace is still obi-wan's finder in this because I LOVE HIM)

so. obi-wan's from stewjon. we know very little about stewjon canonically, so for the sake of this fic, it's an isolationist planet that is extremely hostile to force-sensitives. mace rescued toddler obi-wan from an attempt by town elders to drown him. obi-wan's the only stewjoni jedi in the order. they don't know if this is because stewjon doesn't have a high percentage of force-sensitives or if it's because those who are born force-sensitive don't usually make it off the planet.

but mace has his suspicions.

which is why he's really, really not pleased when the senate forwards orders a request for a jedi to wrangle separatist sentiment on stewjon. they will only accept a stewjoni jedi. if they must have one of those demons on planet, then they want someone who's at least tentatively connected to the planet. it's meant to be a diplomatic mission. but it's one of those diplomatic missions that seems like it will end in blasterfire.

so both the 501st and 212th both end up heading to stewjon.

cody and the 212th are slightly twitchy. their general has a really bad habit of getting kidnapped / horrifically injured / running off so they can't watch his back, and he's told them about stewjon and his particular background with the planet, so they're... hm. ready for anything.

(also ofc this is codywan because i am who i am.)

anakin is a whole other story.

he is simply thrilled, and he makes no secret of it. he can't wait to meet obi-wan's real family, he keeps saying. wonder if they're as stubborn as you, right, obi-wan? is this where you got your love of tea from? i can't wait to meet your real parents, obi-wan- do you have siblings, do you know?

obi-wan, meanwhile-

i don't know if they're stubborn, he says. i don't remember them.

i got my love of tea from master qui-gon, he says. he taught me how to brew and how long to steep and brought me to the best shops on the lower levels.

i do have siblings, he says. you've met them. you've met quinlan and bant and luminara and-

anakin won't hear it.

ahsoka starts spending more time around obi-wan. she asks him more questions about his padawanship. about master qui-gon. about his crechemates. all in an effort to ease some of the tension from his shoulders. and it works! he tells her, and anyone else who wants to listen, and the room is filled with disbelieving laughter and i have to ask general vos for pictures, sir, i won't believe this without proof-

and then they arrive on stewjon.

blah blah plot happens, anakin is stubbornly ignoring everything obi-wan says about the jedi being his family because, well, of course he would say that, he doesn't know what it's like to have a proper family, a real family-

then, a few days after their arrival, an elderly couple approach anakin.

they're obi-wan's parents, they tell him. they've been looking for him for ages. he clearly loves you, young man- well, as much as he can, we know what those jedi are like- could you please help us set up a meeting with him?

and anakin thinks-

i knew it.

of COURSE they were looking for him. of COURSE they still wanted him, of COURSE they still loved him- obi-wan simply didn't know, or maybe he'd been misinformed, but no one should ever have to live without the love of a parent-

so he says yes.

when he brings the matter up to obi-wan, obi-wan tells him absolutely not.

(but obviously, obviously, he just doesn't know-)

so he sets up a meeting anyway. lies to obi-wan, lies to the others, and tells the parents the truth. they clasp his hands, teary-eyed with gratitude- thank you, thank you, they tell him, we just want our son back, and anakin walks away feeling so supremely pleased with himself-

a couple of hours later, cody asks him if he's seen obi-wan.

he's not picking up his comm, cody says, brow furrowed. we'll be late for the next meeting.

anakin tells him, then. reassures him. leave them alone for a bit, will you? they haven't spoken to each other in years. it's bound to be emotional.

cody stares at him.

yes, sir, he says. of course, sir.

anakin claps him on the shoulder and walks off. cody watches him go.

then he turns around and breaks into a run.

the room is empty, when he arrives, and there are broken needles on the floor.

cody doesn't need to have them tested to know he'll find traces of force suppressants.

(like poison, his general had told him, and being blinded all at once. like having your heart torn clean out of your chest.)

he has them tested anyway.

he's right.

cody, technically, outranks general skywalker. this is the first time he's ever taken advantage of the fact.

stuff happens. they find him. he is...

Not In Good Shape.

(the demon must be torn out by force. drowned out. beaten out. they only wanted their son back.)

do you understand? they cry, as troopers force them to their knees, as doors are blown open, searching- we only wanted our son back!

anakin holds his saber to their throats and snarls you lied, you lied, you told me you loved him-

of course we do, they say. of course we do. we're his family.

obi-wan doesn't want to talk to anakin, when he wakes up three days later in the medbay. he doesn't even want to see him.

he wants his family. he wants to go home.

#pro jedi #the jedi are a family #this is not up for debate on this blog #in which i accidentally basically end up writing the fic anyway #haha whoops #ask game #my writing

[heich0e]

liv... do you have smth for oikawa perhaps? 👉👈

[yes ofc!! here's a wip that features a very small reference my fav HC aka iwa being half filipino]

He’s not a university student. 

And if he is, he’s either completely brilliant or the laziest academic you’ve ever seen.

He shows up a few times a week with some variation of the same three friends: the one with strawberry coloured hair whose standing order is a white chocolate mocha with no espresso (which makes it a white hot chocolate, though you never correct him); the second a tall, dark-haired young man with a smooth voice and expressive eyebrows that betray his impassive stare, who usually orders just a medium latte made extra hot and who sips it over a long period of time, never asking for a refill even though you’d be happy to give him one on the house; and the third is Iwaizumi Hajime. 

You know Iwaizumi from school, he’s a student in the same Intro to Basic Human Anatomy course as you are, and you recognize him the first time he comes into the cafe you work in, a few weeks into the school year. He doesn’t introduce you to his friends, but you learn their names thanks to taking their orders enough times: white chocolate mocha (no mocha) for Makki, extra hot latte for Mattsun, small dark roast for Iwa.

And a caramel macchiato for Oikawa.

Oikawa is the aforementioned worst (possible) student in the world.

You know this because while he might show up with some or all of the other three boys, he is the only one you’ve never seen crack a textbook while they sit at their table in the cafe. No, he generally is leaning back casually in his chair, talking for hours while the other boys work, even though they don’t seem to be paying much (if any) attention to him. 

So either he is the type of smart that means he doesn’t have to study, he’s the type of stupid who thinks he doesn’t need to, or he’s just not a student at all.

He doesn’t seem overly bothered by the fact that his friends aren’t paying attention to him, even when Mattsun puts his headphones in right next to him, even when Makki slumps down in his seat to hide (poorly) his face from his friend. Iwa seems to be the one most bothered by it though, and you overhear him threatening violence on more than one occasion if Oikawa doesn’t ‘shut the fuck up’ while he’s trying to study.

It all comes to a head right around midterm season. The four boys are at their usual table, and have been for most of the day, and you overhear an outburst. You peek you head around the espresso machine to catch a glimpse, and find Oikawa rubbing his forehead tenderly, Iwaizumi clutching a heavy kinesiology textbook in his hands which (you can only assume) he just used to bludgeon him.

“You’re so mean, Iwa!” Oikawa whines, nursing his wound. “Who else am I supposed to talk to?” 

“Literally anyone else! Unless you want me to fail this midterm and flunk the course and you can explain to my nanay why I have to repeat it next summer and also pay the tuition fees.”

Oikawa pouts, standing up from the table dramatically with his empty macchiato glass and stalking towards the counter.

Towards you.

And that’s where it all starts.

#liv got mail #WIP

[suzukiblu]

For Wip Wednesday is it possible to request one of each? Or would you prefer individual asks for different wipes?

the Gotham Kid

Trauma can do a lot to a person, though, and it’s not like the Alley isn’t spoiled for it. Kid’s only been here a few months, and he’s seen way worse than something a cheap dye job could cover up. 

Way, way worse. 

“Should it be, pretty boy?” Trish asks the guy, her smile pleasantly poisonous and familiarly shit-starting. Kid might have to rough up a couple guys before they're done here, he notes in mild resignation. Not that he blames her for wanting to make it clear that this isn't the time or place for outsiders to be fucking with anybody, but these guys haven't actually done any fucking with anybody yet. 

Though he does know better than to give anybody in Gotham too much benefit of the doubt, especially in Crime Alley. 

Superman would, but Superman would do a lot of things Kid can't afford to.

Could never afford to.

the one where Kon isn't the father

Tim cries all over himself and also Kon for way, way too long, but it’s–fine. It’s fine. He can explain looking like he cried to the Kents, because crying over his dead boyfriend coming back to life is a perfectly normal emotional response. 

And Kon is, technically, his dead boyfriend now. Or–not the dead part anymore, obviously, but–

“The cover’s good as-is,” Kon murmurs quietly as they’re sitting together in the far corner of the nursery. She’s still asleep. Tim couldn’t bring himself to leave her and go upstairs, though. “Like–what everybody assumed, I mean. They already all think it anyway, right? Like, they’re all already convinced. So coming up with a different lie might just make ‘em reexamine shit and maybe notice something, and that’d be a problem.” 

“It would,” Tim agrees in relief, glad that Kon understands that. But also . . . “But you want to tell them–you want to pretend about us, too?” 

“I don’t want anybody to have a single reason to doubt who Kyra’s other dad is,” Kon says. “Ever.” 

“You don’t have to do this,” Tim says, although if Kon doesn’t it's going to ruin his life. 

Ruin Kyra’s life, more importantly. 

“Fuck off, Rob, don’t tell me what to do,” Kon snorts the exact same way he used to in their Young Justice days, and Tim chokes on a sob of a laugh. Fuck, he’s missed him. 

He’s missed him so, so much.

Match technically is also a Luthor

Match finds that response . . . strange. Strange in several ways, in fact, because it almost sounded like Luthor was actually listening to what he said. 

Almost. 

“I take it there isn’t something less idiotic than ‘Subject Match’ to be calling you, then?” Luthor says. 

“No,” Match says. He doesn’t particularly care what anyone thinks of his designation–it’s perfectly serviceable–but he doesn’t know what he thinks of the way Luthor’s commenting on it. Like he thinks the Agenda should’ve . . . tried harder or something. 

That can’t be right, Match thinks. 

“Of course there’s not,” Luthor snorts dubiously. “Fine, I’ll come up with something bearable in the car. Now come along, I wasn’t actually joking about that meeting I have to terrorize. The board members have been getting ideas again, suicidal little optimists that they are.” 

“In the . . . car?” Match asks incredibly. What, did he just drive here? 

“That is what I said, yes,” Luthor says, then snaps his fingers impatiently beore turning back towards the door. “Keep up.” 

And Match doesn’t understand what the hell is happening here or even why it’s happening at all, but he doesn’t have orders and Luthor definitely does have kryptonite, or at least an Amazon or two, so Match just . . . 

Follows him.

weird Kryptonian bonding rituals

“Huh?” Clark startles, and they all look over at Lois. She looks triumphant, waving her phone. 

“Conner,” she repeats matter-of-factly. “It’s easy to pronounce, common enough he won’t constantly be having to spell it, but still uncommon enough there won’t be twelve other ones everywhere he goes. Also it means ‘lover of hounds’, so we have to get him a dog now. Do you want a dog, Conner? And, uh, also the name. Also do you want the name.” 

“. . . maybe?” Superboy looks curious, floating over to peer at the phone screen. “What’s having a dog like?” 

“It's nice, if you get one who's right for you and take good care of them,” Clark says, immediately resolving to find an apartment that allows pets. He’ll pay the pet fee. He’ll pay a monthly pet fee if he has to. Superboy can have all the dogs he wants. “It's rewarding. And, well–nice, again. Dogs are great, and they love people. Man’s best friend and all that, you know? Not that we necessarily count as that kind of ‘man’ because of the whole alien definitely-not-biological-weapons issue but–look, it’s fine, dogs are great! They don’t even get weird about us being the wrong species! Um. Not the wrong species, just . . .”

“A dog would love me?” Superboy tilts his head, then . . . blinks, very slowly. “Like–how much?” 

“Almost as much as we're going to,” Clark says, his chest clenching tightly.

the last son of Krypton meets Hypertime Kon

“We’ll help you however we can,” Clark promises again, slightly rephrased, and Kon looks surprised. 

“Um–you sure it's not a problem?” he hedges awkwardly. “I can, like, go bother somebody who’s less busy . . .” 

Clark cannot imagine ever being busy enough to ignore this kid, much less pawn him off on someone else. That is not a thing that he is ever going to do, no matter how long it takes to get Kon home. He’s another Kryptonian, and one who’s proudly wearing the El crest and carrying both genes and a name from a version of him. How could he do anything less than his best for him? 

“It’s not a problem at all,” he says firmly, giving Kon’s shoulder another squeeze before dropping his hand away. 

“Certainly not,” Diana agrees. 

“It’s definitely a problem,” Bruce mutters under his breath, like he’s never picked up a random stray kid who he doesn’t know anything about except how much they needed his help. Hypocrite, Clark thinks both wryly and fondly.

#anonymous #wip: the gotham kid #wip: the one where kon isn't the father #wip: match is technically also a luthor #wip: weird kryptonian bonding rituals #wip: the last son of krypton meets hypertime kon #long post

[steves-strapcollection]

Can I braid your hair? For Wip!!

Thank you so much for the ask! Also special thanks to @stobinesque @patchworkgargoyle @thefreakandthehair @vecnuthy @starryeyedjanai @steddieas-shegoes and @legitcookie for your asks!!

This fic is now posted!!! I didn't wanna deal with it in the morning especially since it's good to go.

But here, a snippet!

Steve found out back when Eddie had just barely woken up from his coma and was so high on pain medications, it was doubtful he really registered that he had company, let alone what he was saying to them. It made for some really funny moments that had Steve wishing he had some way to record them.

Then one day, Steve had been helping Wayne while he practiced redressing Eddie’s healing injuries. Mostly, Steve’s job was to keep Eddie sitting up and make sure his hands stayed put and didn’t get in his uncle’s way. When the bandages were pulled away from the the stitched-together skin of his midriff, Eddie looked down with an exaggerated grimace.

“What the fuck, I lost three tattoos and a nipple?” Eddie whined, like he always did when the bandages came off. Steve usually just snorted and listened to his complaints, but there was something extra to Eddie’s tone that he didn’t like.

“I mean, yeah, but you’re gonna have sick scars, dude,” Steve said with a winning smile when Eddie lifted his pout to look at him. Winking, Steve added, “Chicks dig scars, the whole bad boy look. Seriously, trust me.”

“If you say so,” Eddie sighed, still pouting dejectedly and Steve frowned. Then Eddie said, “Don’t really care what girls like, though.”

At the time, Steve didn’t really register the way Wayne had fumbled the roll of medical tape, too caught up in getting Eddie to smile again. “Of course, you don’t,” Steve teased, winking at Eddie.

Eddie giggled. “Stop that, why are you winking? You look dumb,” he laughed, and Steve felt like he won something. Still smiling, his dimples out in full force, Eddie leaned closer to his face and asked, “What about dudes, though?”

The hospital room went very quiet as Wayne sucked in a sharp breath. Steve just blinked at Eddie, their eyes locked while he processed the question slowly. “What?” he asked dumbly after a few moments.

“I think that’s enough of this conversation—” Wayne started to say.

“I said!” Eddie interjected loudly, glaring almost childishly at his uncle before his attention returned to Steve. “What about dudes? Men? Boys? What do they think of scars?”

It was a bit embarrassing how long it still took for the dots to connect for Steve, but once they did, he blushed and glanced at Wayne nervously. The man was watching Steve with that hawkish stare of his and Steve had to look away. He could still feel Wayne’s stare burning holes into the side of his head and God he just hoped this wasn’t the first Wayne was hearing about this, too.

“Y-yeah, dudes dig scars, too,” he finally stammered out, meeting Eddie’s gaze once again. Eddie was squinting at him almost suspiciously, so Steve added a quiet, “A lot.”

Eddie’s expression split back into his goofy grin and Steve’s stomach did a little somersault. “What about you, big boy?” he pushed, his tone strange as if he had attempted to purr or something. If the moment wasn’t so whatever this was, Steve would’ve laughed.

“What about me?” Steve asked stupidly. He knew exactly what Eddie was asking.

With the biggest eyeroll, Eddie asked, “Do you like scars, Stevie?”

That was the question of the century, at least it was for Steve because the moment it left Eddie’s mouth, three things immediately clicked into place in Steve’s head.

The first being that yes, Steve was absolutely into scars. He didn’t have much experience really seeing scars on anyone else other than himself, but he still knew. The second was that he knew he was going to like Eddie’s scars, a part of him liking that some of their scars would match even. And third, there was a part of him that was hungry, possessive even, at the thought of Eddie with scars, especially Eddie with scars that matched his.

“Y-yeah, Eds, I like scars,” he managed to say, but he was nearly bowled over at the intensity of Eddie’s grin when it widened even further.

“Do you think they’re sexy?” Eddie asked, and Wayne sucked his teeth.

“Boys—”

“Yeah, I do,” Steve answered, taking a page from Eddie’s book and tried to ignore Wayne. It was a little hard to do when the man was packing up the gauze and medical tape quickly.

Eddie’s grin shifted into a smirk as he leaned so close to Steve’s face. “How sexy—?”

A surprisingly big and strong hand fell heavily on Steve’s shoulder, startling him.

“Alright, boys, that’s quite enough,” Wayne said sternly, and Eddie just laid back on the bed and giggled loudly up at the ceiling. Steve’s stomach had felt squeamish, especially when Wayne’s eyes met his with something fierce and angry in them. “Harrington, a word outside. Now.”

#wip wedneseekend #wip weekend

[writingfool001]

No Difference

 

Author’s Note: Hi, it's been a while since I update. My google doc I had full of some of my WIPs got deleted so I lost some of the previous request.

Request:

 Due to the culture of looking down on half-bloods in the wizarding world, I can picture Newt!MC sympathizing with Sebek about his internalized racism as they had seen multiple Slytherins act the way he does in order to hide the fact that they're either a half-blood or a muggle born. It'll be touching if while Newt!MC is explaining their world to Sebek they touch upon the blood status subject and bring up example of half-bloods being just as exceptional as any regular magician.

Pairing: Newt!MC x Sebek (Platonic or romantic)

Warning: Newt!MC is based off of Newt Scamander, mostly dialogue, short.

You've met many people on your travels, different races, ethnicities, and so on. Compared to your fellow wizard, you would treat everyone you met with decency unless you saw a valid reason not to. Ever since you arrived at NRC, there were few who didn't let anyone doubt their magical abilities due to their background. Yet there was a certain first year, in your flying class, who often called you human and would talk about humans or about Malleus being superior. Overtime, you learned more about his lineage and how he himself was half human himself which made you thought perhaps that is what fed into his usual behavior. 

“Sebek, I didn’t know your dad was a dentist?” I started out as we were studying. 

“Why would that be important as of right now?” he stated, looking up from his homework. 

“You always ask me questions; wouldn’t it be fair if I could not do the same to you?” 

He glared a bit before speaking with a slight hesitation and suspicious tone. 

“...yes, he is.” 

“Such a fascinating job, he must be quite special.” 

“He’s just a magic-less human dentist.” 

"So what, his magical ability does not change the fact that he is special. I presume your mother hold him in a high regard." 

"She does, though I do not entirely understand why/" He grumbled as he wrote out his notes. 

"She likely saw him for who he was rather than the lack of magic." I suggested, only for him to scoff at it. 

"That does not take away from the fact tha he does not have magic." 

"That does not make him any less important besides, do you care about having magic that much?" 

"Yes, or else I would be weak, it would've been easier if my father wasn't magicless." 

It was a little surprising to hear Sebek be somewhat open with you considering how he's usually yelling at you and such throughout the day, but it was nice. It also sowed some of his insecurities about himself. 

"There have been many extraordinarily talented people I have met. Many of them being half-blooded magicians that have been more exceptional than the sum purebloods magicians." You start "I do not judge on one's magical capability or who they're related to which you should learn to do as well. Each to their own." 

“You won’t see me differently for my blood?” He asked as you shook head before he let out a hearty loud laugh. “Of course not, for I am Sebek, skilled magician and retainer of the great Malleus Draconia!" 

It's good to see somethings don't change. We went back to studying and later on, you saw Sebek still prideful and his loud self, but shown a little brighter.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x mc #twst x reader #newt!mc #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek

[rosieblogstuff]

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

44 😲 in my main AO3 account. 2 others in my older account = 46!

I didn't realize I had that many things!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

270,883

3. What fandoms do you write for?

All 44 of those works in my main AO3 are MacGyver 2016. One is a crossover with The Rookie. The other two at Star Trek TOS and Star Wars fics.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Table + Flashlight + IEDs

Mac + (Wilderness + Training + Survival) + Jack

Lost Causes

Lake + Stick + Fever

4 Times the LAPD Didn’t Pull Jack Over + 1 Time They Did 

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! I often respond to a chapter's comments when I post the next chapter of a longfic. And sometimes I just space on it and respond a year later when I notice I failed to respond.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh definitely my X-ray + Penny flashfic, Bad Penny. Most of the comments are variations on HOW DARE YOU!!!

There are a couple other flashfics with pretty ambiguous endings, too.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

That's a hard one. Most of my fics have a happy or at least comforty ending. Maybe... uhh.... Electricity + Combustion ? which I literally labeled "whump with a fluffy ending". I also have two Jack Lives fics so that's always a happy situation at the end...

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I haven't. A few weird comments but I mostly scratch my head and ignore them. Anybody who hates on my fics will be getting a very long and nasty reply, followed by their comment being deleted.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope, no smutty fanfics here. I did have a romance I posted for another fandom awhile back (and never finished), and I've written fade-to-black stuff in my orig fic novels.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Just one! My Macgyver 2016+The Rookie cops-vs-spies crossover, in which some LAPD officers keep coming across a black GTO involved in shenangains around LA: 4 Times the LAPD Didn’t Pull Jack Over + 1 Time They Did

It's probably the funniest thing I've ever written, and the ending is one of my very favorites. Also possibly the only gen fic ever posted in The Rookie fandom, although I don't look over there much.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes. Somebody stole all my completed fics from FF.net last year. There was a big Tumblr post about some site full of stolen fics, and sure enough, there mine were. I asked to have them remove, got not reply. I haven't posted anything to FF.net since then.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, but not for a long time. I used to frequently co-write fics in my first fandom.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

I'm going to go with Washington State Ferry M/V Wenatchee. Who doesn't love a good ferry boat? It's an irconic style, fun if you're walking on, handy if you need to drive on, saves you hours of driving around Puget Sound by land. Also just a very nice-looking ship.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Ugh, wow. I have a couple dozen things I kinda like but might never finish. My favorite, and least likely because I've made the least progress on it, is a MacGyver fic about Patti having plotted out her revenge better, and tring to fuck over the team by having listed Jack as her replacement... which of course gives him access to high-level secrets like Oversight's identity. Much drama ensues.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Ramping a story up. Characters. Make a story fully story-shaped.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Endings. 😫

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Hmmm I don't think I've ever needed to. Like most things in writing, I'm not against it in theory, but it can be done well or badly.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Anne McCaffrey's Pern, back in the paper fanzine days. Prior to joining AO3 in like 2019, I had 0 fanfics posted on the internet but a few in zines listed on Ebay. 😂

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

This is IMPOSSIBLE to answer. I could answer it differently every day for the next couple weeks. Anything I already mentions plus a couple more!

#ask games #asks answered #fanfiction #macgyver 2016

[forestshadow-wolf]

HI

I've just seen your wip game thing and I'm asking everyone stuff because I love asking questions

Anyway

The soap vocal dysphoria thing really piqued my interest (totally can't relate) so I'm going to randomly tap my keyboard and hope these questions come out in a semi understandable form

What sort of dysphoria does he have relating to his voice? Is it all the time or is it just when he notices? Or does he compare his voice to others (eg: "Gaz has a nice voice, why don't I sound like him?" Or "Price and Ghost have such deep voices why does mine sound squeaky?" Or "my Da is scottish but noone asks him to repeat what he said")

Do the others find out about it or does he suffer in silence? Does he fight them on helping? Do they shower him in compliments and cause his face to go red because he's not used to getting compliements (maybe leading for more angst if he ends up liking his voice but then fixates on the things about him they don't compliment?) Does he end up not answering comms on a mission due to a flare up? Causing one of his teammates to get captured and making him hate his voice more? (Or it might lead to him being captured )

That is all :]

YIPPIE!! I love when people ask me about my writing! Also I'm totally projecting onto hom for this lmfao.

Idk if you've seen this snippet that I posted but anyway!! So this is gonna be soapghost (bc they're apparently the only ship I can write lol)

Ok so- what kind? It's less of one specific thing like "I wish My voice was deeper" and more of a general distaste for his own voice (and the amount that he speaks (eg. "Gaz has a nice voice, I should let him speak more." Or "shut-up, Mactavish, let Price and/or Ghost speak for once." Or "I talk so much. I bet everyone is tired of hearing me by now."))

I think yes the others do end up realizing, but definitely not for awhile. I think after the do realize he would deny that he was acting and different until he's blue in the face. But he will 100% go tomato red at any compliment, and try to redirect the conversation. I think he definitely would overthink it a bunch too (like you said), but I also think that Gaz, Price and Ghost would know him well enough to see him get in his own head about it and say something along the lines of "hey, I can see you thinking too hard about it, stop it. I like when you talk, okay?" And I don't wanna say he'd immediately believe them, but it would put a halt to the spiraling thoughts.

On missions I don't think he'd go as far as not responding on comms (mostly because I think he knows that would possibly put his team members/other people in danger), but he wouldn't banter as much, and keep all responses short and curt.

If, on a mission, he got captured for a different reason (that wasn't him not responding on comms) he would definitely use his voice to annoy his captors (eg. Talking nonstop, singing, humming, joking, ect.). Of course when he does get rescued he's talked himself hoarse, much to his relief because he doesn't think he'd be able to shut himself up after being so loose lipped about anything and everything (that isn't confidential), and he wouldn't want to annoy his team so soon after they rescued him.

I think ghost would help him slowly learn to love his voice again. Now ghost isn't usually the kne that talks a lot, but for soap he would. For soap he'd sing their favorite song from the rooftops if it made soap sing with him. I think he'd lay his head on soap's chest, and ask him questions just to get him to speak. I think he could fall asleep like that and mindlessly murmur "i love your voice", and I think It'd be such a tiny comment, so mindless, but it would do wonders for soap.

#vocal dysphoria #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #wip #wip snippet #lovely ask #follow asks #el rambles