#but he is just a weird little guy i can say that emphatically. have a weird guy.

[wraithsoutlaws]

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk photomode #hm who is it :> #i wasnt going to post these because like eh. but i guess i like them #so. i was trying to recreate my young dum dum design but that's hard. #i dont know if i can justify enough resemblance to post that confidently #but i do like him either way. #he might be. an idea i had a long time ago that i never acted on. still dum dum adjacent. we'll see. #dunno yet #but he is just a weird little guy i can say that emphatically. have a weird guy.

[luveline]

hiiiiiiiii jade! <3

would you be willing to write a fic about girl dad!spencer x bombshell!reader? i can only imagine what an adorable riot their daughter would be!!!

tysm!

ty for requesting!! mom!reader

Spencer always thought you were too beautiful for him. Too funny, too brave, too confident. For years he feared he’d never be anyone you could love; he was the opposite of all your best parts, he talked too much about the wrong things, he went red whenever you so much as looked at him, and he couldn’t flirt back, not for anything. 

But it’s been a very long time since he felt that way. What good is a father who doesn’t believe in being yourself? Amanda deserved to be loved from the moment she drew breath, and he shouldn’t have been any different. 

Now, though, he’s wondering if he shouldn’t be so accepting of all her whims. “I am not wearing that, daddy,” she says. 

She’s just old enough to put together sentences but young enough that the individual words sound like building blocks, chunky and clumsy on her little mouth. Her lips are yours, her smiles and frowns one hundred percent you. (Though you argue with him often that the quizzical pout she does is all his.)

“What do you mean, angel?” he asks, bent over her sock drawer looking for a matching pair. 

“This is pink, and this is purple.” She points. 

“Yes, and you like pink and purple!” 

“I like pink… and I like purple,” she says. 

“But not together?” he asks knowingly. “You want them at different times, is that it?” 

She runs for his legs, hugging them tightly. “Thank you.” 

“You’re so much like your mommy it’s scary,” he whispers playfully, leaning down to pat her small back. “Okay, angel. I’ll find you a different dress to wear. Or maybe the dungarees!”

She lifts her chin up to smile at him. “Y’okay.” 

“Spencer, Amy!” you call, voice carrying from the kitchen. “Are you guys ready? We have to go soon and you haven’t even eaten!” 

Spencer used to sit at his desk daydreaming about you. He’d drink five cups of tea a day to get to walk past you for the kitchenette, hoping you’d be making a coffee, that you’d flirt with him over corporate rewarded donuts. Now you’re making him breakfast as he persuades your daughter into jelly shoes because she wants tall shoes like mommy. They compromise —Any will wear the wrong shoes if Spencer agrees to carry her to the kitchen table. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says as he pushes open the door into the kitchen. He's trying to be the best dad he can be all the time, but he doesn’t have a knack for the mornings like you do. “We won’t be late.” 

“That depends on how agreeable my lovely girl is feeling today.” You pick up the pink plastic plate you’ve filled with eggs, toast, and a mix of washed berries. “What do you think, Amy? Looks nummy?”

“Chocolate chip?” she asks, eyes already widening. 

“It’s breakfast, honey,” you say, scooping her out of Spencer’s arm to carry her to the table. “Chocolate chips are for dinner.” 

“Please?”

“If you promise to be really super duper good at Uncle Derek’s, then yes, you can have some chocolate chips,” you say, tucking her chair in, and kissing her chubby cheek. “You want me to make you milk or juice, mm?”

Spencer spots the two plates you’ve made up for you and him on the counter and quickly brings them to the table, sliding yours in front of you with a long-pronged fork, his hand on your shoulder to keep you in your seat. “I’ll get it,” he says, ducking down to kiss you on the side of the mouth. 

You turn to Amy. “See that, sweetheart? See how nice and kind your daddy is to me? He’s soooo nice. This is why we love him so much, and we appreciate him so much.” 

Amy nods emphatically, blueberries tumbling off of her plastic fork. “So much,” she echoes, her voice like melting sugar. 

He has a weird moment by the fridge where he has to grip the handle. “You know I used to dream about making you a cup of coffee in the mornings?” he asks. 

“Spencer, come over here and kiss me again, please,” you say, sympathetic and fond.

“Me too!” Amy says through fruit. “Me first.” 

“Oh, gosh, this is one of the hardest decisions of my life,” he says, sweeping in to dot your cheeks with kisses, hers then yours, three apiece.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

[honestlyvan]

ALAN WAKE 2 ANNOTATED: WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT WEIRD FINNISH GUY SAYING

(This post is also available on Dreamwidth)

Preamble: What is this?

There’s a lot of Finnish shit in Alan Wake 2. I speak Finnish. I’m really annoyed about how wrong about some of the things that are in Finnish in the game people actually are. @drdarling is an Ahti fan. We’re mutually annoyed about how wrong about Ahti people are, because in general the trend is people thinking Ahti is spooky and mysterious because they don’t know what he’s saying, rather than thinking he’s spooky and mysterious because of the things he’s saying.

So Autumn went through the entire game, transcribing Ahti’s dialogue, and I went through the transcript, translating everything untranslated in the game, and providing cultural context for the rest of it (with some saves from @saikkunen, @rhpurasu-blog, and my mum), because truly this dude is not nearly as cryptic as people make him out to be, and is actually twice as weird as people think he is as a result.

Disclaimer: Finnish is very regional, and even with people from all over pitching in, some of the shit Ahti says might still be idioms we’re not familiar with. If you’re a Finnish person reading this going “HOW DID YOU NOT KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS”, trust me that I had many moments like that while putting this together, and please leave a comment so I can add your insight :D

This post is going to go through all of Initiation, followed by all of Return. There's unmarked spoilers past the cut -- enter at your own risk.

INITIATION 1: LATE NIGHT

First meeting with Ahti as Alan:

Ah, (no niin) there you are, Tom. Not so much evil that not a bit of good as well. Not one without the other. Good to see you.

“No niin” -- utterance, roughly the same as “alright” or “now then”. “No” is a common filler word like “well.”

“Not so much evil that not a bit of good as well.” – “ei niin paljon pahaa ettei jotain hyvääkin”, a common Finnish turn of phrase. Broadly has the same meaning as “silver linings.”

Alan asks Ahti to point him towards the exit:

(No totta helvetissä.) Of course, Tom. The work will instruct its maker. I was gonna get something from the basement for you, but you can get it yourself now. The more cooks the worse the soup.

“No totta helvetissä” – “(in Hell), of course”, a variation on the phrase “totta kai”, meaning “certainly” or “of course”

“The work will instructs its maker” – “työ tekijäänsä opettaa”, common proverb. “You learn things by doing them.”

“The more cooks the worse the soup” – “mitä useampi kokki, sitä huonompi soppa”, common proverb, same as “too many cooks spoils the broth”

Alan asks Ahti what Ahti wants him to get from the basement and clarifies that his name is Alan, not Tom:

(No joo, mutta katopa kun) a man’s a man but a man with a tool makes two, Tom. (Eikö niin?) And a man with a tool can build his own exit. It’s in a shoebox in the basement where you left it. Safe as in the Lord’s purse. Here’s the key.

“No joo, mutta katopa kun” – “see, here’s the thing (with that) is”

“a man’s a man but a man with a tool makes two” – this may be an obscure saying, my whole gaggle of Finnish friends were equally stumped by it. Entirely possible it’s just those little shits from Espoo fucking with us, entirely possible that it’s a variation on a saying that we’re just not picking up on.

“Eikö niin?” – “isn’t it so?”/”Right?” a filler phrase. (It is very common for people to say this right after saying something that makes no fucking sense.)

“Safe as in the Lord’s purse.” – idiomatic, comes from the Bible (1 Samuel 25:29)

Alan asks Ahti if they have met before:

You remember Ahti. The janitor. You can’t be lost if you don’t worry about where you are headed. So don’t worry Tom, the sun will shine even into a heap of twigs. Just remember to turn on the lights. It won’t take long when you get to work.

“You remember Ahti. The janitor.” – the intonation of this line implies to me that in Finnish he’d be using emphatic -han/-hän for it

“You can’t be lost if you don’t worry about where you are headed.” – may be an obscure saying, none of us recognised it.

“the sun will shine even into a heap of twigs” – “paistaa se päivä risukasaankin”, everyone has their little successes, “every dog has its day”

“It won’t take long when you get to work” – “ei mene kauaa kunhan pääsee alkuun”, “as long as you get started it won’t take long (for the matter to resolve)”

Alan asks Ahti if he knows a way to escape The Dark Place:

He who moans about his troubles, is the prisoner of his troubles. It’s not easy to get out. But don’t you worry, Tom, the home is still there, where the heart is. I often think about it when I mop the floor and look into the puddle. Water is the memory of the world. Water finds its way.

“He who moans about his troubles, is the prisoner of his troubles.“ – “Joka murheistaan valittaa, on murheidensa vanki”, common proverb. Finnish people love telling other people to stop complaining.

INITIATION 4: WE SING

After the musical sequence, when you walk past Ahti in the studio:

My Swedish brothers, (perkele). (Ai että nyt on kyllä joo). (Lattoi pojat jenkkakoneet soimaan, saatana).

“Perkele” – “(by) the Devil”, one of the most common Finnish swear words.

“Ai että nyt on kyllä joo” – Untranslatable, can be approximated as “now we’re talking”, “that’s more like it”, or “a hell of a thing”. I love this phrase because it means fuck-all even in Finnish, and conveys a sense of deep appreciation regardless.

“Lattoi pojat jenkkakoneet soimaan, saatana” – literally “Those boys really made the jenkka machine ring, (by) Satan.” “Jenkkakone” refers to the band, playing a song for people to dance “jenkka”, a fast-paced folk dance to. (Addition from @sluiba: jenkkakone is a colloquial term for a jukebox, nowadays more commonly used to refer to audio equipment more broadly e.g. speakers; so he's basically saying, "those boys really turned it up to eleven".)

INITIATION 7: MASKS

When Alan runs into the janitor’s closet:

Hurry, Tom! Here is the light at the end of the tunnel. (Jumalauta), that held you close, Tom. (Ei muuta kun) onwards, said the granny in the snow. When the panic is biggest, the help is also near.

“Jumalauta” – “god help us/you”, a common swear word

“that held you close” – “otti läheltä”, meaning about the same as “a close call”. A more literal translation would be “that took close”.

“Ei muuta kun” – “nothing else to do about it, but”

“onwards, said the granny in the snow.” – “eteenpäin, sanoi mummo lumessa”, a common turn of phrase, an motivational expression of perseverance and sisu

“When the panic is biggest, the help is also near” – “kun hätä on suurin, on apukin lähellä”, a common turn of phrase, broadly means the same thing as “there is light at the end of the tunnel”, can be thought of as a more optimistic companion to “things will get worse before they get better”

(I like this block of dialogue a lot because it demonstrates that a lot of Ahti’s Finnish is just filler words and a tonal component to what he is actually saying.)

Alan mentions that Door didn’t seem happy to see him this time:

Fearing the master is the root of wisdom. But don’t let the game get you down. He is playing his role. Maybe put him in your films, Tom, like you have put me. (Perkele! Sehän olisikin).

“Fearing the master is the root of wisdom.” – “herran pelko on viisauden alku”, the fear of the lord (or rather, The Lord) is the beginning of wisdom. It’s an interesting choice to omit the reference to the Christian god, because it’s preserved in other phrases.

“Perkele! Sehän olisikin” – “(by) the Devil! Wouldn’t that be something.”

Alan asks what films Ahti is talking about:

I’m a fan of your masterworks. There is “Tom the Poet”, my favorite. And “Yötön Yö” is the most famous one, of course. And is it true what I hear, that it’s coming back to cinemas soon? Is there a bottom to this rumor?

“Is there a bottom to this rumor?” – “olla pohjaa”, to have a bottom, means “to have a factual basis”.

Alan says he needs to get back to his apartment, asks if Ahti can help:

Well-planned is half-done. You asked me to make sure you won’t forget the… (mikä se valokuva oli) light pictures, the photos that your artist wife took. They are waiting in the shoebox in the basement. What you leave behind, you find in front of you.

“Well-planned is half-done” – “hyvin suunniteltu on puoliksi tehty”, a common turn of phrase. What it says on the tin.

“mikä se valokuva oli” – “what was the word for ‘valokuva’ again”, a relatable bilingual moment. The Finnish word for photograph is literally just a compound word that directly translates to “light picture”.

“What you leave behind, you find in front of you.” – “minkä taakseen jättää, sen edestään löytää”, what goes around comes around.

He also has incidental dialogue, if you hang around after the conversation

I am looking forward to seeing “Yötön Yö” in the cinema, but first I work. And the work won’t end even when you do it (perkele). (No ei siinä), one potato at a time. Just remember, Tom - the brave will eat the pea soup.

“No ei siinä” – “well, nothing else to it”

“the work won’t end even when you do it” – “ei työ tekemällä lopu”, common proverb, warning against rushing and working too hard (because you won’t run out of work through hard work)

“one potato at a time” – “yksi peruna kerrallaan”. This one is so funny to me because he could have just said “one thing at a time”, since that phrase translates literally, and instead he says this just so sound slightly more Finnish.

“the brave will eat the pea soup” – “rohkea rokan syö”, a common proverb, used the same way as “fortune favours the bold”

RETURN 5: OLD GODS

At Valhalla Nursing Home, after Rose tells Ahti that he doesn’t need to clean, this is his home, and threatens to take his mop away even though she knows he would just find it again:

(Kyllä, kyllä mutta) once after being told no. Why rest, when you are born to work. (Eikö niin?)

“Kyllä, kyllä mutta” – “yeah, yeah, but”, exactly as “yeah yeah whatever” as you’d think it is.

“once after being told no.” – “kerta kiellon päälle”, a common idiom, to do something one last time before stopping for good. “One for the road”

“Why rest, when you are born to work” – possibly an obscure saying, the version I grew up with is “why rest when you are born to work hard (like a farmhand)”.

Rose tells Ahti to go pick a song from the jukebox, as a treat:

Yes box, holiday. Just thinking about it makes my dance foot waggle. (Kyllä näin on).

“Yes box, holiday” – This is a reference to Pirkka-Pekka Petelius, a Finnish sketch comedian from the Eighties. “Jees” is a loanword from the English “yes”, meaning “good, decent, alright”. The original append was far more vulgar, translating more properly to “yes box, dick face”

“makes my dance foot waggle” – “tanssijalka vipattamaan”, a common turn of phrase, means “makes you want to dance/makes you start dancing” depending on the context.

“Kyllä näin on.” – “That’s the way it is”, common filler phrase.

Saga introduces herself:

(No eipä siinä). Name won’t make the man worse, even a Swedish name. I’m Ahti.

“No eipä siinä” – filler phrase, same as “No ei siinä”

“Name won’t make the man worse” – “ei nimi miestä pahenna”, a common proverb, similar in meaning as “don’t judge a book by its cover”

Saga asks if there’s anything good on the jukebox:

We try to do good, but only prime comes out. Music from my Swedish brothers, Old Gods of Asgard. My pals, the (perkeleen) vikings, (perkele).

“We try to do good, but only prime comes out.” – “Hyvää koitetaan tehä mut priimaa tuloo”. This is a very specifically Bothnian turn of phrase, he’s just bragging about the Old Gods making good music.

“(perkeleen) vikings” – “Perkele” being used as an adjective for emphasis.

Saga asks where to find the Andersons:

You can never know where. Only a seaman can know that, but even the seaman can’t know everything.

“Only a seaman can know that” – this is also an honest to god pop culture reference, to a song called “Vain merimies voi tietää” (“Only the sailor knows”) by Tapio Rautavaara.

Saga asks if Ahti was in the band:

(Minäkö?) No no. (Perkele, saatana, en ollu en). Not so much sweet that it fills the whole stomach. But we have shared a stage or two.

“Minäkö? Perkele, saatana, en ollu en.” – “Me? (Perkele, saatana), absolutely not.” “Me” in the interrogative has a slightly dismissive/diminutive vibe in Finnish.

“Not so much sweet that it fills the whole stomach.” – “ei makiaa mahan täydeltä”, a classic turn of phrase about not overindulging.

Ahti’s incidental dialogue, hanging out by the jukebox as Saga:

Rain is coming down like from the ass of Esteri. (Vaikka vettähän ne kyllä lupasikin, että…)

“Rain is coming down like from the ass of Esteri” – “vettä tulee kuin Esterin perseestä”, same as “raining cats and dogs”

“Vaikka vettähän ne kyllä lupasikin, että…” – “Although (they, the weather forecast) did promise it would rain, so…”

Rushing is not good for you and hurry is not an honor. (Lietkö olet tämmöistä kuullut.)

“Rushing is not good for you and hurry is not an honor” – “ei ole hoppu hyväksi eikä kiire kunniaksi”, a very common idiom. What it says on the tin.

“Lietkö olet tämmöistä kuullut” – “I wonder if you’ve heard (of) such a thing”, he’s just making fun of Saga for being “hasty.”

(Joo näinhän se menee, että…) the lazy man gets sweaty when he eats and gets chilly when he works. (Se oli kyllä hyvin sanottu.) The song revives the soul.

“Joo näinhän se menee, että” – a filler phrase, similar meaning as saying “as they say”.

“the lazy man gets sweaty when he eats and gets chilly when he works” – “hiki laiskan syödessä, vilu työtä tehdessä”, a common proverb excoriating people for laziness.

“Se oli kyllä hyvin sanottu” – “That was well said”. This whole exchange comes across as Ahti trying to impart some words of wisdom to Saga.

After the power goes out, Ahti has dialogue upstairs:

No use crying in the dark place. What has been, has gone. But trouble doesn’t look like this! You can go to the basement and check the generator. But look out - you can never know in which tree the devil sits.

“No use crying in the dark place.” – This is most likely a deliberate play on words from Ahti. The relevant Finnish proverb is “ei auta itku markkinoilla” (there’s no use crying at the marketplace) which means it’s pointless to waste time feeling sorry for yourself.

“What has been, has gone.” – “ollutta ja mennyttä”, usually this phrase is used the same way as “water under the bridge”

“But trouble doesn’t look like this!” – “ei hätä ole tämän näköinen”, common turn of phrase communicating that the situation is not as bad as it seems.

“you can never know in which tree the devil sits.” – “ei sitä koskaan tiedä missä puussa piru istuu”, common proverb. The word used for devil, “piru”, refers to a folk devil or an evil spirit rather than a capital-letter Devil the way “Saatana” and “Perkele” do.

Ahti jumpscare at the Spiral door:

Getting in is forbidden, for your own safety. Time is long for those who wait. But in the end, stand the thanks.

“Time is long for those who wait” – “odottavan aika on pitkä”, common turn of phrase. Same meaning as “time is slow for those who wait”.

“in the end, stand the thanks.” – “lopussa kiitos seisoo”, common turn of phrase. Similar meaning as “good things come to those who wait.” The word for “thanks” can also be used to mean “reward”.

Saga asks Ahti is he knows anything about the Cult of the Tree:

Yes, yes! He who reaches for a spruce tree will stumble into a juniper. Blum was one of them. He has kicked empty. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. But I like his shoes.

“He who reaches for a spruce tree will stumble into a juniper.” – “joka kuuseen kurkottaa se katajaan kapsahtaa”, a common proverb about (edited by suggestion from Sluiba again) the dangers of excessive ambition and greed.

“He has kicked empty.” – “potkaissut tyhjää”, common idiom, "kicked the bucket"

Saga asks Ahti how he knows Blum was in the Cult:

A fox never runs out of tricks. Tease a crazy man and he will show his ways. Blum liked to talk.

“A fox never runs out of tricks “ – “ei ketulta keinot lopu”, proverb. Foxes are traditionally tricksters in Finnish folklore.

“Tease a crazy man and he will show his ways “ – “härnää hullua, saat tapansa tietää”, proverb. In essence, “fuck around and find out.”

Saga asks Ahti if he knows where Anger’s Remorse is, after finding the empty record sleeve:

The matter is not my business, (mutta niin, sanotaanko vaikka, että) but she who steals a needle, steals a nail. Wonders of the modern world - music captured on vinyl, on tape. What will they come up with next? (Mitähän ne vielä keksii) I’m a man of the old union.

“mutta niin, sanotaanko vaikka, että” – “but, yeah, let’s just say”

“but she who steals a needle, steals a nail.” – “Joka varastaa neulan, varastaa naulan”, an old proverb. I’d like to note that Finnish does not have gendered pronouns, so Ahti is deliberately giving a hint here. (Addition from @sluiba: "[the proverb] suggests that someone unscrupulous enough to steal small things will likely also steal something bigger.")

“Mitähän ne vielä keksii” – “what (else) are they going to come up with”

“I’m a man of the old union.” – “Vanhan liiton mies”, a biblical reference to the covenant in the Old Testament. He’s basically calling himself older than Christ. The phrase itself is used to mean "old-fashioned" in a positive sense.

Weird idle dialogue in Ahti’s room after this:

There are pieces of george on the floor everywhere. The black stuff. Shitty thing. Very bad. I need to clean it all away. (Perkele, kun sotketaan joka paikka)!

“pieces of george” – very sneaky, he’s saying it look like someone threw up (yrjötä, the name “Yrjö” being a Finnish form of George) on the floor.

“Perkele, kun sotketaan joka paikka” – “(Perkele), what a mess they’ve made of everything!”

(Kulkaapa nyt, mikä…) (Mitäs, mikä paikka tämä on?) (Voi helvetti soikoon). Where am I? (Tämä ei ole minun koti). This is not my home. (Minä haluan…) I want to go home now. What is this place? (Ei saatana. Ei saatana!) How did I get here? I’m lost… lost at sea. No lighthouse anywhere, and a storm is coming. (Voi jumalauta).

“Kulkaapa nyt, mikä… Mitäs, mikä paikka tämä on?” – “listen here, what… Where, what is this place?”

“Voi helvetti soikoon” – cursing, literally translates to “oh, how Hell rings (like a bell)”

“Tämä ei ole minun koti. Minä haluan…” – “This is not my home. I want…”

RETURN 8: DEERFEST

Alan goes to the Spiral Door in the Dark Place and sees Ahti there:

We loop around, and come together, Tom. I have put everything ready for the visitors. I’ll come to wash the floor of your room next. All you need is water and Vileda. Water is the oldest balm. Water finds its way. What water brings, it takes away. It can be clean or dirty, it can give life or drown it.

“We loop around, and come together” – “ympäri käydään, yhteen tullaan”, a common turn of phrase. “What goes around comes around.”

“All you need is water and Vileda.” – Vileda is a popular cleaning supplies brand. He’s quoting an advertisement.

“Water is the oldest balm.” – “vesi vanhin voitehista”, from Kalevala. What it says on the tin.

Alan asks if Ahti can help him find his way one last time:

Now there’s a devil in the fish trap. Don’t be spooked by it so that shit won’t start beating your underpants. Okay, I’ll get the door open for you, Tom. There you go. The matter is a steak. Now comes the end of the rhyme.”

“there’s a devil in the fish trap” – “olla piru merrassa”, an idiom. It means that there’s unfortunate consequences for something you did, similar to “a devil to pay”

“Don’t be spooked by it so that shit won’t start beating your underpants” – “älä säiky ettei lyö paskat housuihin”, would be more properly translated as “so that shit doesn’t drop hard into your pants”. Means the same thing as it does in English.

“The matter is a steak.” – “asia on pihvi”, idiom meaning that something has been exhaustively dealt with, the way you make steak out of a cow.

“Now comes the end of the rhyme” – “tuli lorun loppu”, idiom with a similar meaning and implication as “end of the line”, the expected end of the current circumstances.

And that’s a wrap! If there’s interest, and if I can get an assist from Autumn again, I might go back to Control and do the same thing for Ahti there. The point is to do justice to our collective weird uncle from the Remedy Connected Universe. Hope you had fun and learned something new :D

#Alan Wake 2 #Remedy Entertainment #Ahti the janitor #AW2 spoilers #Alan Wake (Remedy)

[esamastation]

Part fifty-four of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three

-

Now, Reno could be an impartial observer about this. He probably should be. Just do his job, sign his report, hand over his duty to someone else, and wash his hands of the whole mess.

But on the other hand, "So. Flying, huh?"

Sephiroth has the gall to look sheepish about it. He is actually fucking blushing. "Well. That's not exactly it, but, yes? Is that a problem?"

Reno eyes him flatly for a moment. Then he shrugs. "Hell if I know. You know, for a while there I thought you were actually trying to keep your magical metamorphosis thing down low, but you just don't give a fuck, do you?" It's kinda impressive, really.

"Um," Sephiroth answers, and takes a dainty little sip of his tea.

Reno snorts. "You're something else," he says and falls to sit across from him on the other side of the tiny little tea table. Then he looks around.

They're alone in the main hall of the safehouse. Hewley and Rude are out picking up Tseng from the town, and it's just him and Mr. No Gravity, and Reno doesn't mind admitting he might actually miss the place. It's still hilarious that Sephiroth turns into a prissy princess when it comes to decor, but Reno can't say he doesn't know what he's on about.

He actually made the place really nice, for an abandoned house. As safehouses went, it was up there.

Sephiroth watches him curiously. "Looking forward to returning to Midgar?"

"God, yes," Reno says emphatically. "I'm going to find the nearest Pilferer's, and I'm going to forget all about your… everything."

"Pilferer's?"

"It's a chain of pubs," Reno explains, waving a hand. "Shit beer for cheap, good for one thing only."

"Ah," Sephiroth huffs in amused offence. "I'm not that bad, surely."

Well, no. Reno once had to act as Scarlet's bodyguard - that is still the worst assignment he's ever had. This doesn't come even close. But… "I don't know, man. You're kinda weird."

Sephiroth blinks at that, and Reno grimaces looking away. Sephiroth it's also kinda terrifying, even like this. Actually maybe especially like this. After his training sessions and meditations Sephiroth is all relaxed and cosy - it's probably the safest he is to be around, but it's weird.

It really brings home the fact that the guy is different from what he was. Even without Hewley there to react to it, you can tell. Sephiroth is someone else these days, and his shitty lying aside, none of them actually know him. And the guy isn't that keen on explaining.

… You know what, fuck it. Reno's out of here by the end of the evening anyway. "Are you ever going to explain what the hell is going on to anyone, or are we going to have to keep on guessing?" he asks.

Sephiroth hums, noncommittal.

"Because dude, it's going to have consequences in the long run. If not for you, then for the other SOLDIERs," Reno points out. "You know that, right?"

That makes the guy react with more than demure deflection, and Sephiroth lowers his cup. "Consequences like what?"

"Oh, you know, life-altering experiments in all the worst ways?" Reno asks and points a finger at him. "You realise what this all looks like from the outside, right? You get a deadly dose of Mako and boom, new abilities? You can be sure they're going to try to recreate those results."

Sephiroth frowns at that, looking down. He taps his finger against the tea cup for a moment and then shrugs. "I don't see what there is that I can do about that," he says and looks up at Reno pointedly. "First sign of trouble, and you ferried me out of Midgar, I assumed it was to get me out of the way."

"Well, yeah. For a reason," Reno shrugs and leans back a little. Fuck, the Mako shine is spooky when it's aimed at you like this, in dim light where you can tell the guy's eyes are actually emitting their own glow. "Seemed kinda necessary to keep you from going berserk again and killing someone important. Like Professor Hojo."

Sephiroth makes a funny sort of face at that, and sips his tea. From scary to embarrassed. Yay.

Never mind, Reno isn't going to miss this place at all. "Fuck it, whatever. I don't care," he decides. "Soon you'll be Tseng's problem, and I won't waste another moment thinking about you."

"I am hurt and heartbroken," Sephiroth says blandly and snorts at the face Reno makes at him. "You have been a most pleasant babysitter, Reno of the Turks. I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you."

"Oh, put a cork in it."

"No, I'm serious," Sephiroth says. "I've always found the Turks to be intriguing. Your… work ethics are almost admirable."

Reno eyes him dubiously. "You're fucking with me."

Sephiroth grins, clasping the little tea cup loosely between both hands. "Not at all. There's a core of morals that runs through your agency that I find fascinating. The scary, underhanded enforcers and spies of Shinra - hiding just enough of a shred of decency to make you… rational. Practical and yet, strangely, sympathetic."

Reno gapes at him. What the fuck - where the hell did that come from?

Sephiroth chuckles at his expression. "I think I would quite like you, if the circumstances were different," he muses and pours himself another cup of tea.

Reno feels like objecting. He can feel his cheeks heating up. "You are absolutely fucking with me."

Sephiroth grins a little wider at that, and - damn, the guy's smiles are kinda devastating. Reno had been carefully not noticing, because, hello, job, but damn. Who the hell made this guy so hot? His lips are insanely pretty.

Reno is suddenly very aware that it's been a while since he last got laid and that he really desperately needs a drink. 

"Tseng is originally from Wutai, isn't he?"

"Wha?"

Sephiroth arches his brows and tilts his head. A stand of silver hair slides across his shoulder. "Tseng. Is he from Wutai?"

Reno thought he'd gotten used to the fancy dress shirts - and hell, Sephiroth had his chest pretty much completely bared before! Why the hell are just two buttons undone so sexy all of a sudden?!

"Oh, um. Yeah?" Reno agrees and clears his throat, shaking his head. Don't look at his collarbones. "He knows the lay of the land better anyway, so, you know, if your little soiree with the Wutai Captain has a follow up, he'll probably know what's up." … Uh.

Sephiroth gives him that slow blink again, and Reno doesn't blame him - it sounds like complete nonsense to him too.

Damn it, get it together, man, the guy isn't that fuckable!

… Except that he really, really is, and Reno wishes he could go back to professionally not noticing it.

"That's good, I suppose," Sephiroth says slowly. "I'll be looking forward to hearing his insights."

"Yeah, yeah, sure…" Tseng also knows more about Ancients than anyone not dead or in the Science Department, so whatever is going on with Sephiroth, Tseng would be able to figure it out. Probably.

Reno looks at Sephiroth's stupidly pretty face and then clears his throat. "Well, it's been - different. Let's never do it again. Try not to go nuts and kill any important scientists in the future, okay?"

Sephiroth looks away, his eyes going a little distant. "... No promises," he murmurs. Except coming from him, it's more of a purr, isn't it?

Fuuuck, Reno really needs to get out of here.

It's probably a good thing Tseng seems to kinda dislike Sephiroth for some reason. He wouldn't have this problem.

-

Get **** beamed.

#fanfiction #ff7 #svsss #reno of the turks #sephiroth #shen qingqiu #shen yuan

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Anyone seen Lance?” Shiro asks, checking his watch. “We have to suit up in an hour, but I haven’t heard anything from him.”

No sooner do the words come out of his mouth does the man in question stroll into the kitchen, pausing in front of the table where everyone is gathered and clearing his throat.

“I will not be accompanying you guys on the mission,” he announces.

It takes everyone a moment to process that one. Hunk is the first to react, something clicking in his expression before he groans, resting his forehead on the table.

“Here we go,” he mutters tiredly.

Lance happily ignores him, pouring himself some food goo and taking a seat next to Keith.

“Are you ill?” Allura asks, when Lance fails to provide any further context.

“Nope! I’m just going to hang back from this mission because I Saw what’s going to happen last night and no part of me is interested in crawling through sewage. Y’all have fun, though.”

“Why the hell do you think we’ll be crawling through sewage?” Keith asks. “All the Yuvleans want us to do is find some crystal for them.”

“And I’m telling you it’s going to involve crawling through the sewage system,” Lance insists. “I’m not doing that. I’ll stay on the castle with Coran and do chores, or something.”

Shiro looks pleadingly to Hunk.

“Please translate,” he asks.

This is not unusual. Lance and Hunk frequently have to explain each other’s trains of thought to the team at large.

“Lance thinks he can see the future,” Hunk explains tiredly. “He is not a Seer. He just gets lucky, occasionally, and he’s observant. There is nothing I can do to convince him otherwise.”

“That’s because you’re wrong,” Lance says patiently. “I do so get visions. I told you about the mermaid planet when we were fifteen, remember?”

“Lance, you dreamed once about alien mermaids and the universe is so batshit insane that it ended up being true. That is not predicting the future.”

“Mhm, sure. And the fact that I knew the names of the mermaids we could trust was coincidence.”

“Exactly!”

Hunk and Pidge both look exasperated, but Keith looks intrigued.

“You can really tell the future?”

“Please tell me you don’t believe in that shit too,” Pidge groans.

Both paladins ignore her.

“Not as clearly as you’re thinking,” Lance says, making a so-so motion with his hand. “I don’t usually get full detailed visions, although I do occasionally. Usually I get bits and pieces, right before something happens. Like, if we’re on an infiltration mission and we don’t know which hallway to take to escape, I usually get a flash of images that tell me what’s down each one.”

Shiro, who had been eyeing Lance warily for the most part, tilts his head in consideration. “You do manage to lead us out of ships when everything goes to shit.”

Hunk looks at him incredulously. “You too?! What part of ‘Lance has good instincts and is crazy observant’ am I making unclear? Science, people!”

“I’m not saying I think he can see in the future,” Shiro says hastily. “But I’m not saying he can’t, either.”

“Thank you,” Lance says emphatically. “Finally, someone believes me.”

“Hey,” Keith protests. “I believed you the whole time!”

“‘Course, Mullet,” Lance says with a grin and a wink. Keith goes a little red. “I appreciate it.”

“I also believe you!” Allura says excitedly. “One of my mother’s handmaidens also spoke of an ability to see forward in time, and she often made excellent predictions about future trades!”

“Ha,” Lance says, pointing his spork triumphantly at his best friends. Both of them roll their eyes in tandem. “Coran believes me, too. Said he can feel it in my quintessence, or something. You guys are outnumbered.”

“Whatever,” Pidge mutters, but she doesn’t really look all that annoyed. “I can’t believe you’re skipping the chance to flirt with pretty aliens just because you had a weird dream. I can’t believe you’re staying back to do chores instead of prancing around the planet’s canals and comparing the water to beaches back home.”

Lance shrugs, standing up to dunk his empty bowl in the sink. “Like I said, I’m not crawling through the sewer,” he says, heading for the doors. “But y’all have fun. Let me know if you meet the ninja turtles.”

———

Hours later, five very grumpy, very dirty paladins stomp their way back to the castle. Lance and Coran meet them at the decontamination chamber.

“Have a shitty time?” Lance asks smugly.

“Dollar in the bad pun jar,” Keith says immediately, just as Hunk says: “Can it, Cassandra.”

Hunk sounds cranky as he says it, but instead of being offended, Lance only laughs.

“Fitting,” he taunts, “since no one believed Cassandra and she ended up being right. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Hunky?”

Hunk levels him with a glare, but only lasts about three seconds before a reluctant smile spreads across his face.

“Alright, alright, touché. I still think you just made an educated guess. But I’ll give you that one.”

“Sure thing, bud. I’ve Seen the day you and Pidge believe me, you know. I’m going to be very smug.”

“More smug than right now?” Allura asks.

Lance smirks. “Exponentially.”

———

Shiro doesn’t let Lance skip any more missions because of his Sight. “If a mission is going to suck, then we get to suffer as a group. Team building,” he reasons.

He still doesn’t quite believe that Lance can See the future. But he does start to take Lance’s input in mission planning, so long as Lance can actually rationalize his predictions.

“That’s not going to work,” Lance says firmly, tapping the path Shiro has drawn down a hallway on the blueprints of the Galran cruiser they’re planning to infiltrate. “If we split up, Allura is going to get ambushed and hurt.”

Shiro inclines his head. “Reasoning?”

Lance pauses for a moment to study the blueprints further, trying to figure out why he knows that to be true. He saw the altercation in a vision, of course, but over the weeks of planning with Shiro he’s found that his divinations often follow a largely logical path of reasonings, Sherlock-style.

“This is a Druid-heavy cruiser,” he says finally. “See how the energy systems are rerouted to neutralize more power outbursts than usual? That means a lot of raw quintessence outside of its usual transport containers, which means Druids. And you know how freaky they are about trying to isolate Allura and take her for her quintessence abilities. She shouldn’t spend a second on this ship alone, and especially not down the corridors that are most heavily fortified and monitored. She’s our strongest, but in this case it will only make her a target.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shiro says, placing a proud hand on Lance’s shoulder. “We’ll work out something better, huh?”

———

It’s no secret that Lance spends at least two nights a week at the observation deck; missing his family and falling asleep to the projection of Earth’s steady turn. The team has quietly worked out something like a schedule, making sure he’s never there alone, and everyone makes sure he knows he knows they love him and are there for him.

Lance pretends to be oblivious to the schedule. He saw it in a dream before he’d even met most of the team, but he likes that they try so hard to keep it quiet anyway. It’s sweet.

“Do you know why I’m like this?” he asks one night, when Coran is the one to follow him in.

The advisor takes a moment to consider the question carefully, humming softly.

“I felt something different about you the second I saw you,” he says eventually. He huffs a laugh. “That’s half the reason I was so defensive of you.”

Lance snorts, remembering Coran’s flailing and threats. “I thought it was because I made eyes at Allura.”

Coran grins, checking him gently across the shoulders. “That, too, lad.” His expression turns more serious, pondering. “But I’ve always been very in tune with the energies of the universe, the balance of quintessence in every single thing that takes space. My father taught me to sit quietly with the space between things, to feel how they fit together. You, my dear —” he shifts to look at Lance directly, jewelled eyes meeting deep brown — “your quintessence reaches farther than most. For whatever reason, your soul is stretched wide, across space and time. Everyone’s is, to some degree, but yours more so. For whatever reason, when you came to be, the universe saw fit to grant you the burden of Knowing.”

He takes one of Lance’s hands in his, squeezing gently. “It’s a lot of responsibility, child. But there’s no one I would trust more to shoulder it with grace.”

———

Usually, Lance’s Gift is harmless. It doesn’t matter who on the team does or does not believe — it never has a great enough bearing on their life and mission to make a massive decision.

Until it does.

Until Lance stops mid-attack, freezing in his lion, shout ringing through the comms.

“Lance, come in,” Shiro demands. “What’s wrong?”

Everyone’s screen flickers for a moment before Lance’s comm feed pulls up, brown eyes wide and panicked, terror written all across his face.

“We need to pull back!” he says frantically. “Now, now, now!”

“We can’t pull back now!” Pidge protests. “That ship has the closest guarantee to finding Matt than any other we’ve found so far, and our intel guarantees we outmatch them!”

“I Saw differently, they have —”

Pidge bares her teeth at him. “If you think I’m giving up on my brother because you think you can tell the future —”

“You have to trust me,” Lance begs. “The entire fleet is a setup. All the fighter jets are manned by sentries, there’s not a single soldier on board the commanding ship. It’s a giant bomb. The second we touch it it’s going to blow so big it’ll start a new solar system. Please.”

“Lance, now is not the time —” Shiro interjects.

“I know, but —”

“We have every guarantee from the Blades that my brother may very well be on that ship!” Pidge says shrilly. “I know you think you can see the future Lance, but I just can’t trust that!”

“I’m not asking you to trust it,” Lance says again, more and more desperate by the second. “I’m asking you to trust me. And I promise you, Pidge, if we move forward than every single one of us is going to die.”

Tears drip from Pidge’s eyes. Her face crumples.

“Why are you making me choose between my brother and the team?” she sobs.

“Please trust me,” Lance begs again.

She swipes a hand across her eyes.

“If you’re wrong, I’m never going to forgive you.”

As soon as she says the words, Lance is yelling for everyone to pull back. Shiro echoes him, and the retreat back to the castle. As Allura opens a wormhole, the entire fleet starts to blow, every explosion tripping the ship next to it, until the entirety of the blackness of space is ignited in bright white flame and incinerating debris.

They barely make it through the wormhole in one piece.

———

“I still don’t believe you,” Pidge says stubbornly, once her tears have dried and they’re all safe in their hangars.

Lance smiles softly. “Thank you for trusting me anyway.”

———

Hours after everyone else has fallen asleep, after the last movie for movie night has ended, Keith and Lance sit facing each other on a mound of blankets, knees pulled up their their chins and arms held tightly around their legs.

“Your turn,” Keith whispers.

Lance hums. “How many questions do I have left?”

“We passed twenty forever ago. I think we’re just getting to know each other, now.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

Lance hides a grin in his pajama-covered knees. “Yeah.”

“Good. Ask your question, doofus. You’re taking forever.”

“‘Kay. How come you pretended not to recognize me when we were rescuing Shiro?”

Keith’s face flames. “I really didn’t recognize you!” he insists.

Lance shakes his head. “We had four group projects together, and you smirked at me after no less than twelve flight sims. I’m not buying it, Samurai.”

Keith holds his gaze for several minutes, glaring stubbornly. But finally he deflates.

“Fine,” he concedes. “I remember you. But if I tell you why I pretended to forget, you have to promise not to get mad, okay?”

“Fine, fine. Just tell me already.”

Keith looks away. He’s quiet for long enough that Lance reaches over to pinch him for not answering.

“Jesus, okay! I’m getting there.” He bites his lip. “Do you remember that dumbass line you used to say? About threading the needle?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Uh. I didn’t get it for a long time. I thought —” he grimaces, accepting Lance’s oncoming diva fit — “I thought your name was Taylor. So.”

To his surprise, Lance bursts out laughing.

“You dumbass! Did you really?”

“It was a valid assumption!” Keith defends. “You said that people called you tailor! What was I supposed to think?”

“Our names are right next to each other on roll call,” Lance chokes out, wiping a tear from his eye. He flashes a teasing grin as he slowly starts to calm down. “Guess there’s I reason I usually did better on the practicals, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” Keith says, scowling. “You barely did better.”

“Neck and neck,” Lance teases.

“Yeah, yeah, cargo pilot. Whatever you say.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, silence interrupted only by Shiro’s horrible snoring and Lance’s occasional giggle.

“It’s your turn,” he says, once he’s finally gotten himself under control. Keith rolls his eyes, but asks anyway.

“How come you don’t flirt with random aliens anymore?”

To his surprise, the question makes Lance flush darkly. He looks away, picking at his nails.

“I, uh, Saw that I end up with someone soon. Feels disrespectful to flirt knowing I’m gonna be with him any time now.”

Keith’s breath hitches. “Him?”

“Them,” Lance corrects hastily, but the damage is already done.

“Who is he? Do I —”

“Game’s over,” Lance says hastily. “I just had a vision. If we keep playing you’re going to choke to death and die after I make an excellent joke, so. Better safe than sorry.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Keith accuses, but Lance has never been wrong before, so he hesitates.

Lance notices, doubling down. “Yep. I try to give you the Heimlich and everything, but it doesn’t work. You die in minutes. Gotta prevent that.”

“Fine,” Keith says sullenly. “I guess we should go to sleep then.”

“Probably,” Lance agrees, audibly relieved. “Don’t want you to die or anything.”

His face is red until the second he falls asleep.

———

Lance has his impulsive moments, sure. But the real impulsive members of the team are Keith or Pidge, no question about it. They are the king and queen of dumbass, split-second decisions.

When Lance gets a vision, mid-fight, on a planet so overrun with Galran soldiers that ‘outnumbered’ does not begin to cover it, he kicks both of those losers off their thrones by a goddamn mile.

“Lance!” Allura yells, once she realizes he’s breaking formation. “What the quiznack are you doing?”

“The witch controls it all,” he gasps out, to quiet for anyone to hear. He ignores the shouts of his team, ignores their questions, ignores his own guilt for leaving them so abruptly, and books it, as fast as he can, straight towards the cluster of Druids. They stand in a perfect circle, all perfectly still, tendrils of lightning quintessence pouring out of them faster than Lance can track, all tunnelling towards where Zarkon stands suspended above them all, sending deadly bolts of attack at Voltron and their scrambling allies down below. Every time a Druid drops, their very life force drained from them, a new one fills their place, as quickly as possible.

But Lance doesn’t need to see what’s in the centre of their circle with his eyes. He’s Seen it. He knows who lies in the middle of the cluster, who is pulling the strings between the entire empire, who has been this entire time.

As he runs, he feels his bayard warm in his hand, feels the form change from the barrel of his beloved gun to something sturdy, smooth, curved. When he glances down, he sees the familiar contour of a bow.

It’s too simple.

Far too simple.

But Lance trusts himself. He trusts the universe, and the responsibility Coran says it has granted him. He knows it would not lie to him.

He stops hundreds of feet before the cluster of Druids, standing firm as they all turn to face him in unison. He does not flinch when they raise their arms towards him, does not move when Zarkon turns to face him, raw quintessence lighting up his arms as he takes aim directly where Lance stands.

Lance breathes in. He aims the bow high in the sky, not at the Druids, not at Zarkon, but where he knows the arrow will arch gracefully, and make it’s deadly decent: landing dead in the centre of the Druids, where Haggar stands, unfocused on the sky above her.

Lance exhales.

He fires.

He hears a wicked shriek echo louder than any person every could, just as Zarkon’s final blast hits him square in the chest.

His own agonized screams drown out the terrified yells of his team.

———

You’d think it would be quiet, death. It’s the absence of life, after all. The cease of all movement. The end of one’s time.

It’s not.

Lance feels every one of his cells as they sizzle and fry, his very molecules tearing themselves apart as the blast of quintessence breaks easily through his armour. He feels every part of his body and soul incinerate out of existence.

It sounds like one long, shrill screech of brakes stopping abruptly.

It hurts.

———

“There’s no way he’s going to survive that! It’s a waste of time to hope!”

“How can you say that? How dare you say that?

“You think I want to? You think I want this? His very soul was fried, Keith! He is my best friend, he is my brother, but I am not going to put myself or anyone else through the pain of hoping!”

“The pain of hoping is the only thing that can make the pain of giving up feel better!”

———

Coming back to life is shockingly silent, in contrast. Still, too. He knows he’s not dead — he can’t be, if he’s thinking — but he can’t feel any further than that.

Everything is quiet.

———

It’s barely noticeable, when he can finally feel again. The faintest brush of a hand through his hair, a whisper, the press of lips to his forehead.

Then nothing, again.

———

“You’re going to make it, Lance. I’ll kill you if you don’t, you dumbass, selfless bastard.”

———

By the time he can finally move again, he feels like he’s lived four thousand lives. It’s the barest twitch of his finger, but it makes someone gasp, and then there’s a hand grasping his.

“C’mon, Lance,” it says quietly. “Prove me wrong, okay? About Seeing and living and everything. Please. Show me how wrong I was. I’ll even let you gloat forever, okay? I’ll never complain again. I’m sorry.”

Lance tries his hardest to move further, to squeeze Hunk’s hand; hell, even to twitch his finger again.

Nothing.

“That’s okay,” Hunk assures quietly. There’s a slight pressure on his head, briefly, and the scent of Hunk’s face cream and motor oil, and then it’s gone.

“Take your time, okay? I’ll be here. We all will.”

———

The first person Lance sees when he finally opens his eyes again is Allura. He can’t make his mouth move, can’t call out, but he doesn’t have to — she smiles softly at him, never moving her hand from his hair.

“It’s good to see those eyes again,” she whispers. “We’ve missed you, Lance. You think you can try moving your hand? I’ll help you, if you like.”

Lance screws his eyes shut — not because he wants to, he doesn’t, he’s only just opened them, he never wants to close them again — but he can’t seem to stop himself. It takes so much effort just to lift his hand a millimeter up from the mattress it rests on.

“Good!” Allura says, and when Lance forces his eyes open again he sees that she’s smiling much brighter, now, although tears drip down her cheeks.

“You’re so much closer every day, asteraki. In a couple weeks you’ll be all healed up, I’m sure. Okay?”

Lance still can’t make his mouth move, but he manages a hum. That makes her smile wider.

———

Allura is not entirely correct. He is not entirely healed in a couple weeks. But he gets closer and closer every day. After one week, he can move his hands, even though they shake. After two, he can speak, although his voice is raspier than the desert.

The first thing he asks for is an update — did he do it? Did it work?

“Zarkon and Haggar crumbled to dust,” Shiro assures him. “The second your arrow struck. Ten thousand years caught up to them, I guess. The Druids died, too. The Empire hasn’t really gone anywhere, but it’s in chaos. No one knows what to do. Planets are revolting left and right.”

He squeezes Lance’s hands, lifting one up to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“You did it, kiddo. You and that goddamned gift of yours.”

———

It takes months. Months of physical therapy, if speech therapy, of disgusting nutrient-rich diets and fine-motor training that frustrates Lance to tears.

It works, though. Over time, he starts to come back to himself. Not everything is fixed — he needs hearing aids, now, because he was so close to Haggar’s final scream that it shattered his ear drums. His hair is bleached white, too, and lightning-shaped scars run up and down his skin — Shiro jokes that they should start a club. He’s unbelievably lucky that he regains all the mobility in his hands. He still speaks in a stutter, and he likely will for the rest of his life.

But he’s fuckin’ alive, goddamnit, so he’s sure as shit not complaining.

His visions stop coming, too.

He doesn’t mind.

“You were right, though,” Hunk says.

As promised.

“You really could see the fuckin’ future. I’ll be damned.”

“This moment was slightly less depressing in my vision,” Lance says, grinning wryly. “All I got were those two sentences. Who know I almost had to die to get ‘em.”

Hunk glares, flicking him lightly in the forehead. “Too soon, buddy.”

“It’s been half a goddamn year since I got nuked!”

“It will be too soon for the rest of our lives. Your lucky I didn’t build you the safety bubble I wanted to build you, you menace.”

“He really was going to,” Pidge pipes up. “I had to pry the blueprints from his hands.”

Lance tips an imaginary hat. “And I thank you for your service.”

“Whatever, goober,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling.

———

There’s nothing strange about the knock on his door. Keith knocks as he always does: just one singular knock, to make people on edge, because he thinks it’s funny.

But Lance freezes.

Because he recognises this feeling, the intense feeling of déjà vù mixed with clear memory — one of his old visions is playing out.

And there’s only one outstanding vision of his that takes place in his bedroom, with Keith, as he’s folding laundry.

“Come in,” he squeaks, desperately trying to compose himself and fight the blush off his face and failing horribly.

Keith steps in and immediately starts helping Lance with the laundry, even though he’s horrible at it and always insists that closets have more space if you roll up clothes instead of folding them.

Menace boy.

He’s quiet for a long moment, rolling laundry until Lance smacks him, and then begrudgingly folding it.

“Did you See this?” he asks eventually.

“Yes,” Lance admits, because he sees no reason to lie.

“Then you know what I’m going to say.”

“I do.”

Keith’s hands finally still, and he sighs, finally looking over at Lance with a smile that shows the barest peek of his crooked incisors. “That doesn’t make it easier, somehow.”

Lance’s belly curls, like he always does when Keith smiles at him like that. He tries to remind himself that he is a grown ass man and he does not need to swoon like a preteen when his crush looks at him, thanks. He forces himself to set the laundry down and take a step towards Keith.

“You should say it anyway.”

Keith hums, closing the distance between them and placing on hand on Lance’s hip.

“Is that how we’re gonna play it, Sharpshooter? You’re not gonna have mercy on me?”

Lance’s breath hitches. “Not for a second.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Keith mumbles, and then his other hand cups Lance’s cheek and he doesn’t waste a second before pressing their lips together, firmly, like he knows Lance can take it.

“I’m in love with you, Lance. I want to be yours. Sound alright?”

“I suppose I could live with it,” Lance rasps, completely unable to dodge the flick that Keith aims for his head when they stand so close.

He decides he doesn’t mind, though, not when Keith shuts up any further teasing with another press of their lips together.

And another.

And another.

It’s just as good as Lance knew it would be.

#vld #voltron #lance #lance mcclain #seer lance #keith #keith kogane #klance #hunk #hunk garrett #hunk & lance #pidge #pidge holt #pidge & lance #shiro #takashi shirogane #shiro & lance #allura #princess allura #allura & lance #coran #coran & lance #bamf lance #smart lance #langst #brown-eyed lance #psychic lance #team as family #longpost #my writing

[mamawasatesttube]

6 & 29 for the ask game? i love your work!!

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

not "all the time" per se but i've definitely gone back to both fill in the blanks by @mindshelter and blush by @misspickman a few times. what can i say, i love it when tim is besotted and kon gets loved <3

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

okay i DO plan to post this.. eventually... when i finish the other 5 chapters of it... but given that i have no idea when that will be, here's a bit of the "jon's friends keep thinking his big brother is hot and he's in hell about it" wip sfdkjh (under the cut for length!!)

fanfic writer asks!

Any thoughts Yichen had about going to the skate park tomorrow get zapped clean out of his head as an engine purrs, and a sleek, sexy as hell motorcycle peels into the parking lot.

It’s a gorgeous dark red color, with black accents, exposed chrome exhaust pipes, and a front light and handlebars to match. It’s not obnoxiously loud, but its thrum is powerful and satisfying. It sounds expensive, if that’s even possible.

The sexy bike rolls to a stop right in front of the three of them, and the rider rests his foot on the ground for support. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket covered in patches and studs—the shoulders are spiked, and a little chain dangles from one of the pockets.

Yichen identifies a few hero logoes among the patches on both the back and front; there’s the Superman family crest, obviously, on one shoulder, and then Wonder Woman’s winged W on a trapezoid. One of the Flash lightning bolts, too, in red and white—Yichen isn’t good at remembering which hero is which, outside of Metropolis. Is that… no, Kid Flash is yellow. Oh well. There’s others he doesn’t recognize at all, like a round yellow-and-black one right over the rider’s heart with a weird… bird-shaped thing, maybe?

Man, he really oughtta brush up on his heroes.

But that’s beside the point, because holy shit. This guy—this is the coolest guy he’s ever seen in his life! That jacket, the boots—chunky, thick-soled, covered in belts and buckles—and the ripped jeans, with barely-visible fishnets peeking out through the tears. This guy has fashion! Ho-lee shit, what is someone like that doing here?

Jon hops down from the brick fence with a sigh. “Alright,” he says, and leans down to pick up his backpack. “Well, I’ll see you guys.”

“Wait,” Priya says. “That’s your ride?”

Jon blinks. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

The cool as hell motorcyclist pulls off his helmet. Yichen’s jaw drops.

It’s like seeing Jon’s dad’s face transplanted onto a guy half his age and so much hotter. He’s got high cheekbones and a square jaw ever-so-slightly dotted with stubble, and piercing blue eyes just like Jon’s dad, and his hair falls in curls that should be crushed and flattened from the helmet but somehow still look amazing.

“Yo, Jonno!” Conner calls. “C’mon, we’re gonna hold up traffic!”

“I’m coming!” Jon hollers back. “I’m just saying bye, jeez!”

Yichen finally remembers how to close his mouth and does so. He doesn’t feel cold anymore—his face is on fire. “Dude.”

Jon tilts his head quizzically. “Yeah?”

“Dude,” Yichen repeats.

“What, Yichen?” Jon glances at Priya for clarification, but doesn’t seem to find any. What the hell does he need clarified here?

“Dude!” Yichen clutches at his hair. “Duuuude!”

“What!” Jon hefts his backpack onto his shoulders. “Stop ‘dude’ing at me and say it already!”

Yichen jumps down from the brick wall and grabs Jon by the shoulders. How does he not get it? How does he not get it?!

“Dude,” he says, as intense and emphatic as he can hope to get. He shakes Jon slightly, then points at Conner. “That is your brother?”

“Uh… yes?” Jon squints at him. “Is that, uh… a problem?”

Yichen clutches at his hair again. “Dude!” he exclaims in consternation. Grabs at Jon’s shoulders again. “Oh my god. Dude! Dude! You never told me your brother is hot!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yichen almost thinks he sees Conner laugh. Except that’s not possible, because the engine definitely drowned out his words—they’re not that close to the roadside. Priya definitely laughs, though, covering her mouth with one hand.

Jon, meanwhile, wrinkles his nose. “…Ew.”

#answers #bandanabiel #rimi writes #just a lil bit hehe #and thank you!!!!!!

[weebsinstash]

so with a platonic yandere (or yanderes) how does it work, do you just never get the chance to have a romantic relationship, do they force/encourage you into one with someone 'approved' like a family friend or someone 'in the know' sort of thing, or do their feelings change or border on the romantic side as well?

Well, I find for me personally it often depends on the character themselves for like, what kind of relationship im looking for, or, yeah sometimes i just switch it up based on concept, sometimes i get a real specific idea that stays in my brain and I can go back and forth depending on, I guess, preference. It's kind of a recent-ish development for me to think of platonic yandere AT ALL since like 99% of the time my brain goes "well if they don't love you romantically or want to fuck you what is THE POINT"

And it kind of took me a while to realize that sometimes "the point" of platonic yandere can be that they technically "don't get anything back". If they scoop you up and force therapy on you, it's because they want to legitimately help you, not to say a romantic/sexual yandere wouldn't, but for a platonic one it's more I guess "selfless" because they aren't like, getting a spouse or a fuck buddy out of it. With a platonic yandere, they don't want you to hook up with that guy because, yeah they're jealous you're not spending time with THEM but its like, spending time watching movies or going to the park or playing video games, spending time with you as you, doing potentially anything, but also they have you up on this pedestal and the guy is just an insignificant little worm to them. He thinks he can date THEIR sister? Creep creep go to jail eat dirt go six feet under here's a shovel start digging

I can be so moody and contextual about the whole thing, like for example, I've been making a lotta posts about a purely platonic yandere Batfamily with Bruce as you know the patriarch and all that, basically becoming a father figure to you even if you're already an adult, where he is like emphatically "no, Reader is your sibling, S I B L I N G" and getting out the batbottle and spraying them like cats any time he may notice anyone in his house catching feelings for you, but i also thought about, (this is kind of an AFAB specific idea sorry) what if Damian specifically developed one of those weird "big sister when i grow up im gonna marry you" complexes and Bruce is NOT having it when suddenly Damian hits him with "but FATHER, if I'M Reader's husband when I come of age, then our offspring will be YOUR biological grandchildren" and Bruce finds himself sitting there suddenly vividly picturing you holding a fat little newborn with a big head of black hair and smiling up at him "dad come hold your grandson 🥰" and he's. He's gone, like, suddenly he can't see it any other way. OBVIOUSLY Damian is the perfect husband for you, Bruce is helping raise him? Who would make a better spouse for his adopted daughter than his ACTUAL son? Talk about keeping it in the family

In his eyes, his son would make a more than competent husband once he comes of age, especially considering not only is Damian his son but, extremely similar to Bruce himself; broody angsty genius with superhuman skills, intelligence, athleticism, etc. And if not Damian, isn't Dick lowkey his favorite child, and also, you know. Already an adult and not nearly as emotionally constipated 😅 Bruce can trust either one of them to take care of you, building off of a paranoia that any place outside his family and his home is fraught with danger and anyone who hasn't been explicitly vetted by him suddenly cannot be trusted in your presence

I keep finding myself drifting back to platonic yandere but only in like, almost extremely specific circumstances, like for real those age regression ideas i realized are coming from like DEEP places of trauma and rejection for me and feeling like I'm so permanantly damaged i literally need a do over and need to be all but remade from scratch, being helped when i was younger and at my lowest points in childhood, and I'll admit I've noticed most of these platonic yandere ideas usually revolves around aspects of family, fatherhood, childhood, etc. Like literally right off the top of my head, two characters who kind of got the platonic yan ball rolling were Stolas from Helluva Boss and Nolan Grayson from Invincible, both of them fathers. Of course I would absolutely let Nolan tear this ass up too though as you guys have seen, like i find the Viltrumite Reader concepts kind of keep fluctuating between "he wants to mentor you and then catches feelings" to "no he just wants to be your dad and Viltrum mentor and after your real family dies during some kind of monster attack he just straight up adopts you and moves you into his house and the government lets him bc, i mean, they need to keep an eye on you as a Viltrumite"

Of course I also like the idea of sort of a middle ground. You know, like, the yandere begins purely platonic without any sort of intentions but it develops into something deeper after they've already come to know you and you trust them, or even, they're actually totally 100% "a normal person" and something happens to you or them where they suddenly become yandere. Like imagine you know someone for like a couple years and then all of a sudden, they're acting differently. So I've also thought about, Bruce and Reader are work friends in the Justice League and his feelings begin as purely protective and platonic and he knows you for a decent chunk of time but when he starts getting to know you more personally, more details about you the person under the costume, maybe he eventually realizes he's getting extremely jealous watching you interact with other men and, maybe in the process of taking care of you his feelings change. You get wounded on the job and you don't have any family to help provide any care while you're still extremely weak and recovering and he's helping you and that's when he suddenly realizes "oh shit this line of work is so dangerous, he doesn't want you to die, he doesn't want anyone to die but like you most specifically, he doesnt want you doing this anymore" and maybe he brings you to the manor for recovery and you never wind up leaving

But typically yes, as you suggested, usually when I've picked a character to be a platonic yandere it's because I can see them being overly protective to the point they won't let you date at all, even if the specific reasons for WHY may change. Like hypothetically for some of the ideas I've had, Stolas doesn't want you to date or have sex period because he's kind of Goin Through Some Shit and this is kind of like his second go around of being a dad and him expressing some sort of trauma or guilt over Octavia and he sees you as His Extra Special Little Girl and you don't get so much as a kiss on the cheek with another person until like, he's had enough years with you to be satisfied with "your childhood" kwim. Or a yandere who declares themselves as your sibling not completely against you dating or all that but they just have EXTREMELY high standards. like lmao imagine, like, someone like Deku basically inserting himself in your life as your brother and you're like "ok fuck dude, who do you think WOULD be worthy of dating me" and he's just like "I guess someone like All Might!" Like bro that platonic obsessive little twink is NEVER letting you get laid, you suck off ONE dick and he's holing up in his room CRYING because "someone's defiled his baby sister and made her dirty" not in the sense that he like doesn't like you anymore or he's judging YOU but in his mind your "purity" has been tainted by someone else and the only solution is to like, kill/get rid of that person and "atone" by never letting it happen again, cause obviously by letting you suck that guy off Izuku FAILED YOU, and maybe at some point he snaps and you wake up from one of your mandatory sibling cuddle sessions and he's pressed way too closely to you as he declares he's the only one worthy of you and he's sorry he didn't realize HE'S the husband you needed

Really I'm just a creepy little freak and it can depend on how I'm needing or craving to feel accepted in that particular moment in time 😅

#GOD am i on this batman justice league shit so hard #i grew up with shows like teen titans and spiderman and jla #like god if yall follow my main blog weve been discussing how i probably have a cluster b personality disorder #and ive felt. so extremelt sad and broken. bc those can form from early childhood trauma #so lmao i keeo finding mysekf drift8ng back to thise age regression ideas where. i get fixed #i either get the care i needed as a kid or i get completely reset back to before anything ever happened #and raised in you know. a questionably psychotic protective little bubble #i have issues and apparently i will always have issues lmaoooi #yandere stuff #sinprompts

[cuprohastes]

The Trouble with Pebbles Pt 2

So to set the scene:

Dave the human, actual human of indeterminate ethnic and cultural origin, who has never done anything wrong, or more accurately he's never done anything wrong that anyone cared to find out about has been given a really good rock by a small alien lizard who has an unfortunate speech impediment.

This means exactly what you think it means.

Garfield, Gondy and Rax, Two large and a Medium Atrix are swinging between delight, bewilderment and anxiety. Un-Named male, Garf's little Guy, hasn't woken up form a nap and is at this point, not really a stakeholder.

The Station chiefs, an Atrix called Don't Make Me come Down There AKA Big Ma, and her human counterpart, Chief O'Patel are locked in their office with a half dozen pet rats, some good moss and the emergency biscuit supply trying to figure out how not to get yelled at by Homeworld & Homeworld.

EVA 43 is currently conniving with Humanity's smartest person, which has around 18 different government groups from seven species taking terror shits.

Trashdancer is just having a shitty day because to paraphrase St. Marvin: Here I am with a brain the size of a planet and you want me to Wiki that for you.

Dave The Human is just keeping the plumbing working and singing along to a Human musical, re-written and re-scored for Tsin. It's Squeap!: The Musical.

The Von Neumann Space Squid aren't in this story.

Now: On with the show:

Dave the human is being fired.

"This is not how I thought my day was going to go." he says. He's holding the rock that was given to him my the small Atrix a few hours earlier. He's turning it over in his palm, feeling the smoothness and the roughness.

O'Patel is doing something bizarre with his face an Big Ma is maintining what can only be described as a Poker face. For a species that talks wit chromatophores splayed across their cheeks, muzzle and forehead, Dave can only deduce that he should never play cards with her, or possiby she's under near fatal amounts of sedation.

Slowly Dave starts to realise that O'Patel is trying to tell him something that he doesn't want officially recorded and starts to pay serious attention. Atrix Stare levels of analysis are going on here.

"Unfortuntely [Wink] due to the diplomatic [Eyebrows go up] realities of the situation [Grimace], we are unable to maintain your contract [Slight hunch of hte shoulders, headbob, are you following yet?] as one of the human specialists on this station. "[Pointed eye swivelling at Big Ma].

Dave has now developed telepathy. Let's re-run that with context.

"Oh shit homeworld is being dicks. We have to think fast, and we have to show we dealt with the situation. We have a plan, play along, over to you Big Ma"

"Coincidentally, your job has been allocated to the Atrix." says Big Ma, poking her tablet.

Dave's tablet vibrates and he looks up to see both Station Chiefts making emphatic Answer The Phone motions.

Dave pulls the tablet out, reads the message. He thumb-prints it and sits down hard.

"Oh look at that. Fortunately we were able to..." she says as she smacks a few on-screen buttons and makes Dave the Human vanish. "... find someone who is not only Atrix..." she says pausing.

O'Patel lurches across his desk and thumbprints about 9000 documents that scream across his display, in a performance of button mashing that will never be properly appreciated outside this office.

"... but has exactly the right qualifications. Graak. And... is getting a signing bonus for speedy... application." she says and countersigns about as many documents with the biometrics of her chromatophore pattern.

"Well." says O'Patel. "I'll miss Dave. Good chep, not his fault, good technician, crap taste in music."

"Even so," says Big Ma, "I'm sure you'll be happy to welcome Dave the Atrix, our new technician."

"My life is taking turns for the weird." says Dave and O'Patel slides the biscuits over sympathetically.

A little later on...

Dave the Atrix has a fresh set of work clothes in the Atrix pattern and is sitting on a work table while Dave The Human is working on a helmet with a UV visor.

Dave has a cloth bag lined with a fuzzy blanket, out of which is peeking Dave's little Guy.

The little Guy is a bit traumatised. He kind of assumed that Bad things were happening when Gony, Garf and Rax had ploughed into the common area, dredged the ferns sending kids and Little Guys scattering and then grabbed him specifically and lumbered at tooth rattling speed out of the nice bright Atrix wing of the Station and hauled him through terrifying corridoors.

Dave had been there, the lynchpin of the Little Guy's plan to Get out, and he had said an apologetic Graak, assuming they were both being thrown into space (though rumour has it that humans find this annoying then come back in and bitch about it).

It'd been a bewildering though pleasant surprise when the worst that'd happened was he was stuffed into a weird furry bag, and then Dave had said something about clothes and... now he was here watching the four armed Tsin, who probably ate small Atrix, adding ossicones to a lightweight helmet with a flip up faceplate of some nearly opaque material.

Dave the Atrix on the other hand was watching his friend add an arrangement of knobs to his UV helmet which had a nice buttery yellow visor, that blocked UV.

"Check this out." said Dave The Human. She toggled her tablet and a grid of hexagons on the faceplate rippled up and down in a colourful wave."

"Oh wow." said Dave A. "Does that actually work?"

"Not really." Dave H said regretfully. "There's a lot of research but right now it can approximate a name pattern, and repeat one back if the cameras catch it. Otherwise it uses the standard Atrix Icons, the ones they use as emoji."

"Well better than nothing. Uh, chunky pixels because... "

"Yeah. The Uncanny Valley. CG looks weird."

Dave A nods and looks over into the laundry bag at his Little Guy. "You ok?" he asks again.

The little guy just stares, but there's no ripples of colour and he says "grak."

Dave reaches in and pulls him out, sits him on his lap. "Come on little dude. Lets figure some stuff out. This is my friend, Dave the Human. She's not human but that's what she's called." he says, "And now they call me Dave the Atrix. I'm not an Atrix but I'm going to play one for a while." Dave says.

Every time Dave says Atric, the little guy looks up at Dave's forehead.

"You get used to it. Anyway. Rock accepted. Congrats, you escaped and that's big." he says.

"Grak?"

"Nah I'm not mad. I'd have helped anyway. I think you just startled a lot of people who are now having to answer some questions they needed to hear. So to speak."

"Graak?"

"No. And if anyone tries anything I will get very human about it." Dave says.

"So will I to the best of my abilities." says Dave H. "Hey, the cloth printer is finished..." she says and pulls out a slightly dusty set of clothes. She scrunches them and concertinas them to get the fibres supple and knock out all the cloth dust from the Maker.

Between the two Daves they get the Little guy into a quilted jacket with a hood, and a sarong.

The little guy is initially skeptical because clothes are not very normal for a Tsin of his size but after a minute, he stops feeling so cold and itchily dry and that sitting down on the cloth is a lot more comfortable - and the weird little socks with the silicone dots mean his feet are no longer aching or sliding around, and he starts to come around to maybe there's a use for this.

Then he discovers pockets and his horizons are expanded.

"Graak!!"

"Yeah. Like.. so good." Dave H says. "They're yours. Dave will show you how to wash them."

"You need a name." says Dave A.

"Grak?"

"No not everyone is actually called Dave." he says. "Hang on..."

Dave A motions for the helmet and he and Dave H fuss with it. Dave A puts it on and drops the visor. Now it's being worn, the little guy can more appreciate the dumb friendly expression it seems to have. "Atrix." says Dave A and the hex grid lights up in a pleasing blue and gold pattern that the little guy immediately associates with his new friend.

Dave flips up the visor and pulls the chin peice down. "Oh yeah that really is more comfortable." he tells Dave H and they do some sort of complex hand/claw tap.

"OK. Name time."

They both look at the little guy who up until now has not had an actual name, and has mostly inf act had people try hard not to look at him or refer to him. Hmm. A name like the face patterns he always wanted, but could never have. the tip of his tail starts vibrating.

"Cat." says Dave A. "Cat... Fantastic."

"Really?" says Dave H. "No, let me re-phrase that. Really. hey, Cat, if you don't take the name, can I have it?"

"Grak!" says Cat.

"That's it bud." says Dave H, "That's your name, nobody gets to take it away. If they try, Kick their ass." and proffers a claw. Cat eyes it and tentatively bumps it with a tiny hand.

"So... finally got married. Like... pebble married." says Dave H and Dave A laughs. "I guess. But hey, I'm a modern progressive, non-biological Atrix..."

Cat looks up at everyone's foreheads.

"... But i have been told that I will be in trouble - All the trouble - if I decide to lay an egg."

"Better not do that then." says Dave The Human.

"No promises." says Dave the Atrix and flips down his visor. It's showing cartoon face that from this angle, somehow seems to have a wink for Cat.

#Station Stories #Dave the Human #Dave the Atric #Cat Fantastic #Big Ma #O'Patel #Atrix #Tsin #humans are space orcs #Humans being weird little guys #The Trouble with Pebbles

[scintillyyy]

"Dickie," Mr. Haly says as they shake hands, "I don't know--you've saved us again. I don't know how we'll ever repay you." Dick shakes his head.

"You're family," he says emphatically. Maybe his only family right now. And isn't that his own fault? He's the one who's pushing everyone else away right now, can't even bear to be around them. Not when they're so worried and keep trying to get him to talk about Bruce and how he feels about everything with Bruce right now. He just can't, not after Bruce--not after his confrontation with Bruce in the Batcave. And everything Bruce said. And everything Bruce didn't say. And everything he refused to say. A sharp pang rises in his chest as he forcefully puts any stray thoughts of Bruce out of his mind. "I can't just sit and watch you guys fall apart when I know I can help," he finishes. Back to the matter on hand. That's a much easier topic to deal with right now. 

"Well, I'll have the papers drawn up and sent over to your lawyers." 

As if Dick can afford a lawyer right now, not after promising the vast majority of his funds to the circus. Not that he can tell Mr. Haly that. "Don't be silly," he says instead, forcing out a laugh, "I'll take care of it myself."

The kid is thankfully still waiting outside by his bike when Dick leaves the trailer. He's looking down at the ground and digging his toe into the dirt, clearly bored with waiting. He looks up and his face brightens when he sees Dick, though it falls a little when Dick doesn't smile back. 

"Okay," Dick says gruffly, "I think we need to clear a few things up. Who are you and what are you doing here?" Why are you bothering me, specifically? How do you even know me?

The kid's mouth opens before he snaps it shut. There's something calculating in his eyes, something a little desperate. It puts Dick a little on edge. 

"Um, I, um," he stammers out. For a kid who had so much to say earlier, he suddenly can't seem to put a sentence together. Dick can feel his irritation rise. It must show on his face because the kid gulps, "This was probably a dumb idea. I shouldn't have come. But I didn't know what else to do, there's just something weird going on with my parent's company and I thought maybe you could help-"

His parent's company? What on earth does Dick have to do anything with this nonsense? For god's sake, what is going on? Maybe he should have asked Mr. Haly if he had any Tylenol. "Kid," he says, frustration bleeding through, "I don't know who you think I am, but I can promise you, I don't know anything about any companies. You might want to call the police."

"No, that's just it," the kid says, "I can't trust the police. I think they're in on it. I think I might get arrested soon. I need--I think I need Nightwing's help."

Well. That complicates things.

#my bad idea train running at full speed ahead #extremely rough drafts #i only started this because i got a good chunk of janet fic done last night #this will only ever turn into a one shot that says eff the timeline and mashes together alpod + tim's parents deaths #so they can connect again <3 #dick and tim #this will never turn into a full retelling of canon im too busy with that already with janet

[loverontheleft]

Finally (revised)

Original request: Could we just get a separate imagine or whatever, where Brendon is just super protective of the reader. she has been his best friend for so long and he doesn’t like when anyone treats her like she isn’t worth a thing. She wants to thank him for standing up for her and it just leads to some very sexual things. i even maybe during the sexual things it comes out that he has loved her since high school? i would forever be grateful Cece. 💜

Brendon x reader

Warnings: drinking, dirty talk and language, oral (both), rough sex, spanking, arguable exhibition, and I think that’s everything.

Word count: 5.1k➡️8.4k

-||-

Brendon leans against the bar, facing you and making the most appalled faces. “No. No way,” he mouths over Darren’s shoulder, who is standing in between the two of you. You ignore him and focus on Darren. Brendon’s finally successful in getting your attention when he says your name; your head snaps up, and he emphatically mouths, “This guy sucks. Walk away.” You roll your eyes.

“So I was hoping I could take you out tomorrow night,” Darren murmurs as he reaches for your hand, and you feel a rush of excitement wash over you. “And I’ll take care of your drinks tonight,” he says casually, turning to the bartender, who looks between the two of you and nods disinterestedly.

Brendon protests from behind Darren. “She’s already on my tab.”

“It’s fine, Brendon,” you say, raising your eyebrows trying to give him a look to chill out. You turn back to Darren. “Thank you. And I’d love to do something tomorrow night.”

Brendon throws his hands in the air in exasperation before turning to face the bar fully and downing the rest of his beer. Darren dips his head toward yours to murmur that Brendon’s being weird, and you laugh, touching Darren’s arm. “He’s just sulking; don’t mind him.”

And with that, Brendon walks away. You do feel a little bad; you did come here with Brendon after all. But, in your defense, he’s your best friend and this is your regular Friday meeting point for all of your friends. Brendon just happened to offer to drive you. You didn’t know Darren, the new guy at your office, would be here. He’s cute, funny, and generous; you’re not going to turn down a date with him if he’s interested.

Brendon can get over it, you think to yourself. It’s been twelve years of friendship, and you’ve pretty much given up on anything happening between the two of you, no matter how much you want it. He’s not interested, but Darren apparently is.

-||-

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Darren is by your side and replacing your drink often; Brendon is with your other friends, and they’re all sending Darren dirty looks from across the bar. “You okay?” Darren is peering in your eyes, and you giggle, gripping his arm.

“Yeah. I don’t normally drink this much—Brendon usually makes sure I don’t get carried away. I get tipsy but I don’t get drunk. That’s the rule. Tipsy, not drunk.” Darren nods slowly, taking your empty glass as he passes you a new vodka and cranberry juice.

“Are you drunk?”

You nod vigorously, hiccuping a little. “B would never let me have—is this my fifth drink? Sixth?”

Instead of answering your question, he studies the ceiling. “Brendon is pretty controlling, isn’t he?” Darren finally muses aloud, and you glance at him, ready to defend your best friend. Darren seems to realize he’s crossed some line, and he backtracks. “I just mean that he doesn’t seem to like you spending time with me, and he doesn’t let you drink…and he’s still staring at us…” he trails off.

“I never thought about it that way,” you say. Sure enough, Brendon’s eyes are on the two of you, and he’s not making any effort to hide the fact that he’s looking. A warm feeling spreads through your body as you watch Brendon watch you. You love that he seems jealous, even though you know that’s not mature.

You attempt to distract Darren and, admittedly, yourself; you gesture to the drink in your hand. “This is really good.” If Darren heard the slight slur of your words, he doesn’t say anything; he just smiles and holds out his hand to you when you exclaim a moment later, “I fucking love this song!”

No one ever dances in this bar—the music is for ambience. But sure enough, Darren is leading you to an open spot on the floor, and you’re faithfully following when your vision tilts. Before you can fully process what’s happening and grab onto one of the cocktail tables, you stumble, laughing when you hit the floor. There’s broken glass all around you, and your cranberry-tinted vodka is spreading across the floor, soaking into your jeans. Darren’s reaching a hand down to you, but Brendon swoops in, brushing his hand aside.

“And this is my cue,” Brendon says, lifting you from the floor. He murmurs your name as his arms circle your waist, and you lean against his chest as you find stable footing. “You’ve had enough. Let’s get you home.”

Darren protests that he was going to take you home later, and you’re trying to tell Brendon this too, but Brendon silences you with a look. You like when he’s assertive like this; it’s reassuring and, if you’re being honest, pretty sexy. You slump against him, stroking the soft cotton of his shirt and closing your eyes. All of your lighthearted, flirty energy is gone; you’re drained. He turns his attention to Darren as he holds you close. “Y/n is very drunk; she needs to go home, and she’s not leaving with a guy she barely knows. She’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I think going home is her call to make, not yours, dude. If she wants to go home with me, that’s her choice,” Darren says casually, and you open your eyes now to see Darren staring between you and Brendon. Darren does make a good point about it being your choice, you think, but you’re not sure you want to go home with him, back to his house.

You hadn’t realized that’s what he meant, but hearing it now, you’re sure you don’t want that. It is your choice after all, so you’d like to choose Brendon’s house. You’re about to say this, when Darren keeps talking. “You’re not her keeper, bro.”

Brendon stiffens, and his arm around your waist tightens. Oh. That feels good. You’ve always known that Brendon’s protective, and you love when you become the focus of his protective instincts. It’s as close as you’ve ever been to feeling like he wants you, and you try to savor it every time. Now, you stare up at him happily through your vodka haze.

“Okay, first of all, I’m not your ‘bro.’ Second, I’m not her ‘keeper’ either,” Brendon agrees in a tight voice, “but I am her best friend. We take care of each other, and I know her far better than you do. She needs to go home.” He looks down at you softly, tenderly, while his fingers stroke your hip, making you melt into him more. “Hey, Y/n. I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink. You ready to go home?”

“Yes, please,” you groan, wrapping your other arm around Brendon. “Drank too much. Need to go home.”

“We can go home. I can make that happen for you. You want me to take you to your place?”

You’re crashing hard, and home sounds good. You nod sleepily, then look up at him intently when you process the question he just asked. “Wait. No. Not my house. Take me to your house, B. Not my house. Want to go to your house with you.” You drop your head on his shoulder again. He has nice shoulders. You tell him this, and he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement before turning to give Darren a triumphant smirk.

“Right. You’ll need to excuse us, because she’s chosen for me to take her back to my house.”

-||-

“Oh fucking fuck,” you groan, and Brendon rubs your back soothingly, kneeling beside you in his bathroom. “Oh god, I’m gonna—” you cut yourself off with a retching noise, and Brendon scoops your hair up, wrapping it around his hand while the other moves in circles over your back.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “Just let it come. You’ll feel better.” You shake your head, moaning before throwing up again and apologizing, and Brendon tells you not to worry about it. This is a reversal of roles; you’re never the drunk, irresponsible one. Granted, he thinks, you don’t have to hold his hair back, but you do always lean in the doorway, telling him encouraging things and holding a plate of saltines and a Gatorade. Speaking of which. “Y/n, I’m out of Gatorade, but I have Pedialyte. Is that okay?”

You nod and wipe a hand across the back of your mouth, cursing as you try to stand up. “Okay, hang on, don’t try to stand just yet. Let me think. I really don’t want to leave you here unsupervised; don’t want you to bash your head against the toilet or floor. Hang on one sec.” You groan, listening as Brendon rummages around his bathroom closet. “Got it. Extra trash can. Here we go, Y/n. Take this trash can, okay?” You grip the plastic tightly, whining when Brendon lifts you up. “Can’t leave you alone, but I don’t want you to try to walk when you don’t feel good. We’re going to go grab the Pedialyte and then we’ll get you to bed, yeah?”

You moan your agreement, resting your head on his shoulder. “Hang tight,” he says softly, moving slowly to the kitchen. “You’re doing so good.”

When he gets to the kitchen, he carefully places you on the floor, letting you lean against the oven while he searches his fridge. “Here we are,” Brendon murmurs, cracking open the cold bottle of Pedialyte and passing it to you. “Small sips.” You drink from it hesitantly, grimacing at the salty, fruit-adjacent taste but drink steadily anyway. You know it’ll help.

Brendon settles himself on the floor opposite you, and he thinks from the way you’re leaning toward him that you desperately want to curl up against him. He definitely wouldn’t mind, and he extends a hand. “Come here, Y/n.”

You crawl over and drop your head down onto his thigh. “Don’t mind you getting comfy, but you’ve gotta keep drinking,” he murmurs, stroking your hair. You groan, and he smiles, stretching a hand over his head to the drawer where he keeps the straws. “Here we go.” He places the bottle of Pedialyte between his knees, slides a silicone straw into it, and angles the straw toward your mouth. “Now you can have both.”

“You’re the best,” you mumble, sucking diligently at the straw.

“Oh yeah?” Brendon pauses, internally debating his next question. “Better than Darren?”

“Much,” you tell him, yawning. “You’re my favorite.”

Brendon leans back against his kitchen island, grinning to himself as his fingers play with your hair. He knows it’s not a huge victory because you’re still drunk, but he’ll take what he can get. And there’s also the fact that you wanted to go home with him, so he’s feeling pretty good. Being able to take care of you like this almost makes up for the fact that his plan to confess how he feels about you was ruined by Darren and his never-ending supply of vodka and cranberry juice.

When you yawn again, Brendon glances down at you and sees you’ve finished more than half the bottle. “Good girl. That should help with the nausea and hopefully avoid a bad hangover. Ready for bed?” When you nod, he carefully maneuvers himself out from under you so he can stand and lift you back into his arms.

“I can walk,” you mumble, going limp against him anyway.

“You can,” Brendon agrees. “But as previously determined, you don’t feel good, so I’m gonna carry you.” You bury your face in the curve of his neck, and his fingers flex against the underside of your thighs. Your sleepy breaths are soft against his skin, and he can feel how your lips have parted, practically caressing his neck—these things are more arousing than they should be right now, and Brendon knows he’s got to stay on task. You’re very drunk, and he’s now remembering that you tend to get promiscuous when you’ve had even a little bit too much. He needs to get you into his bed and then give you space, because he knows there’s a very real chance he will not be able to resist you.

Still, Brendon knows he absolutely has to resist you. You’re drunk, and you’re not fully aware of what’s going on; he wants and needs you to be completely coherent when he tells you how he feels. Now is decidedly not the time to make any kind of move or confession if he wants something real, something lasting with you—and he desperately does.

Brendon places you on his bed once back in his bedroom, and he studies your cranberry- and vodka-spattered clothes. You’re in skin-tight jeans and a shirt with a plunging neckline. He’s been trying not to look all night, but you’ve got a significant amount of cleavage showing. That, Brendon realizes, probably means you’re in a push-up bra of some kind.

He closes his eyes, trying not to visualize you in said bra. He’d planned on you sleeping in his bed while he took the couch, but he hadn’t considered what you’d actually wear to sleep. Clearly you can’t sleep in what you’ve got on. Not comfortably, anyway.

“Do you want a t-shirt or something? You know, for pajamas?” He makes the offer casually, though he’s trying not to get turned on by the mental image of you in his clothes, tangled in his bedsheets. You yawn and nod, stretching your arms and blinking hard.

“Do you have a t-shirt preference?” You shake your head, slumping over on his bed, and he grabs one at random to pass to you. “You gonna be able to get changed?”

“Uh huh. I’m really good at getting undressed,” you mumble, setting the Pedialyte on his bedside table, and Brendon laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “No really,” you protest with a small hiccup, “I’m so good at taking my clothes off.” You meet his eyes. “It’s the putting clothes on part—anyway, I’m real good at getting them off, watch.”

Brendon presses a hand to his face; every word out of your mouth is teasing explicit thoughts out of his subconscious. He’s got to get out of here if he’s going to avoid kissing you.

“Okay, well I’m gonna go crash on the couch; you yell if you need any help. Keep drinking the Pedialyte. Don’t fall off this bed,” Brendon warns, and you shake your head seriously.

“Stay.” He falters in the doorway, and you point to the space beside you. “Stay. It’s your bed.” He looks unsure, and you pat the bed. “You always make me stay in bed with you when you get super drunk and crash at my place in my bed,” you point out, sounding strangely sober for a moment. “Stay.” You stand on shaky legs and start pushing at your jeans. “Help me get my pants off and stay,” you order.

“Thought you were good at taking your clothes off,” Brendon murmurs, leaning against the door and turning his head to not look at you. He can’t help but wonder if you’ve been reading into him requesting you stay in your bed when he’s drunk at your house; that answer determines if he should read into you demanding he stay in his bed with you tonight. “You’re a bit bossy when you’re drunk, huh?”

“Shut up. I am good at getting undressed. But I need help. So come help me, and then get in bed.” He doesn’t move, and you pout. “Brendonnnnn, take my clothes off.”

“Fuck, Y/n, you’re really drunk.” Brendon can hear the defeat in his voice, and he crosses the room. Standing in front of you, his eyes on yours, not looking down, he unbuttons your jeans and unzips them. “Better?”

You nod and shove your jeans down. Brendon groans softly, his eyes on his ceiling fan. “I’m trying so hard to be respectful,” he says aloud. “You’re killing me.” He offers you a pair of sweatpants from his dresser now, still making a pointed effort to not look at you in your underwear.

“No sweatpants,” you tell him, hiccuping again. Brendon sighs and crosses to the other side of the bed with the sweatpants still in his hand. “You’re staying, right?”

“I’m staying,” Brendon says. “Against my better judgment, I’m staying.” He kicks off his own jeans and pulls the sweatpants on.

Meanwhile, you’ve fallen onto the bed trying to wiggle out of your jeans, and, finally successful, you strip your shirt and bra off before tugging on the t-shirt Brendon handed you. You work your way under the pile of blankets, rest your head on the pillow and sigh, curling into the fetal position.

“Come to bed, B,” you murmur as you stretch out a hand, and he’s once again struck by how sober you sound at this moment. He’s also trying not to imagine those exact words from you in a sexual context, but when you’re in his bed, reaching for him, stripped down to nothing but a pair of panties and one of his shirts, it’s hard.

Speaking of hard, he thinks to himself, with a small groan. His hand falls just below his waistline, willing himself to not get any harder than he already is. Your voice startles him. “Get comfy, Bren. You never sleep with your shirt on at my place. Take it off, or I’ll take it off for you.”

He hesitates, and you groan and shift onto your knees on the bed. You’re a little unsteady, and you reach for him. You both inhale sharply when your hands make contact with his stomach; you slip your hands under his shirt and start sliding it up. You can’t help it; you rotate your hands slightly to caress the warmth of his body. You can both feel him tense under your touch; you whine a little and stare at him.

“I’ll do it; fuck, I’ll do it,” Brendon chokes out, stumbling back from you. “I’m—I’ll—you don’t need to—”

You’re still staring at him, and he’s only half-aware of the apology slipping from your mouth; he’s distracted by the sensation of your fingers tracing his stomach. So much for not getting any harder, he thinks to himself.

Shirt off and abandoned, Brendon sighs and crawls into bed: he’s making a conscious choice to stay close to the edge. Right now you’re too drunk and he’s too tired, but he can very easily see himself reaching for you in the night.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” Brendon murmurs as he faces away from you, and you promise. You squirm, sighing a little and then moaning as you stretch out your legs. A soft whimper slips free when your head finds a good place on the pillow.

A minute ticks by. Two. Three. Brendon’s laying beside you and counting silently, because he knows there’s no way he’ll actually get good rest when you’re practically naked in his bed making those sounds. Even with his choice to lay near the edge of the bed, he’s still deeply aware of your presence.

All Brendon can think about is rolling on top of you and silencing you with a deep kiss before coaxing louder whimpers from you with his fingers, then his mouth, and maybe even his cock. He feels his dick twitch, and he rolls onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow. He wants you so badly, but he wants you to be hyper-aware of your circumstances and know exactly who’s bringing you to the edge of ecstasy and driving you wild. The cool softness of his pillowcase rubs against his cheeks as he presses his face into the pillow more firmly; he can’t help but imagine the same cool softness of your inner thighs as he presses his face to—you reach out and touch his shoulder, giggling when he flinches.

“Bren, I’m cold,” you whisper. There’s a beat of silence between you as Brendon debates what the right answer is here. He’s in a lust fog, and he would love to take you in his arms and keep you warm, which means that’s exactly what he shouldn’t do—so he starts to get up to get another blanket. “Nooooo, you donhave to do that,” you say, tripping over your words in your rush. “Will you just hold me?”

Brendon turns to look at you, wondering briefly if you can read minds. “Are you sure you don’t just want another blanket?” You shake your head and smile at him innocently. He sighs and crawls back into bed, facing you this time. He looks at you carefully, trying to prepare himself. Fuck, he thinks. You look so damn good in his t-shirt, and now he’s going to have you in his arms.

You scoot over, and he holds out an arm; even with the invitation, he’s still surprised when you press yourself flush against him. “Y/n, you are so drunk,” he sighs, feeling the swell of your breasts through the shirt and your bare legs brushing against his sweatpants before you hitch a leg over his waist to press even closer. The smooth skin of your inner thigh slides against his hip, and he groans inwardly, almost choking on his tongue when you rub against him with a low, satisfied sound. Your underwear is so thin; he swears he can feel the heat of your body radiating through the fabric. He wants to die and kiss you and shove his face between your thighs all at the same time. He knows he can’t do any of that.

“Goodnigh’ Bren; I love you,” you mumble, eyes closing as his arm tightens around you; he wills himself to fall asleep after telling you he loves you too. You doze off quickly, but Brendon lays there with you in his arms, replaying the moment you told him you loved him. He knows you meant it in a best friend sort of way, but that knowledge isn’t transmitting fully to his body.

You sigh in your sleep against his bare chest and stroke a hand down his stomach, and Brendon wonders briefly if you can feel his erection pressing against your inner thigh, given the way you've got your leg draped over his waist. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Instinct tells him to let one rest on your thigh, but a voice in the back of his head tells him not to open that can of temptation. It’s going to be a long night, and if your hand wanders any lower, it’s all over for him. He knows it.

-||-

“Ugh,” you groan, burying your face in Brendon’s chest, trying to block out the light. “Too bright.”

“I’ll tell the sun to knock it off,” Brendon murmurs, fatigue evident in his voice, and you laugh. “Any other requests?” You’re about to request bacon, when his fingers trace little circles on the small of your back before dancing idly up and back down your spine. You’ve watched him play guitar, and you’ve always fantasized about what his hands would be like moving over you in a similar fashion. Now you know that his touch is absolutely electrifying.

You’re lost in the ecstasy of his stroking fingertips when it hits you: there’s nothing between his fingers and your back. He’s caressing your bare skin.

You look down—you didn’t really think you were naked, but you’re still relieved to see clothes. Then, you process the fact that you’re in a pair of panties and one of his very thin t-shirts, which his hand is currently under. That, plus you can feel that you’re not wearing a bra, all means you’re deeply aware of how you’re pressed to him. “Fuck, sorry,” you blurt, scooting away from him and rolling onto your back.

“No, I’m sor—I shouldn’t have touched—” Brendon falters, and you shake your head, repeating your apology for clinging to him. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I intended to sleep on the couch but…you were really drunk and determined to keep me in bed.”

“That does sound on brand for drunk me. Shit, I’m sorry, Bren,” you moan, and he shakes his head. “God, did I—what else did drunk me get me into last night? Did I do anything stupid?”

Knowing yourself, you probably tried to make out with him. Or—fuck, you think, did you try to blow him? Your mind is racing. You can’t trust your drunk persona, which is a large reason why you’re so glad Brendon keeps you in the tipsy zone. You want him so badly. You’d drop to your knees for him if he ever asked, and if you’ve got too much alcohol in your system, you know you’d do it even if he didn’t ask. You wonder briefly if it’s still slut-shaming if you’re talking about yourself, but Brendon brings you back to the present.

“Nothing stupid, besides agreeing to go out with Darren.” You freeze. Brendon looks like he almost regrets it for a moment before he sits up and crosses his arms, defiant.

“Considering I wasn’t drunk when I agreed, I’m going to say that doesn’t actually count as a stupid decision.”

“It’s the mother of all your stupid decisions last night,” Brendon scoffs. “You let him get you drunk, and then he almost wouldn’t let me take you home. He didn’t give a shit about you or how you felt; he just wanted you there to fuck with. Y/n, you cannot go out with him.”

“Wanted me there to fuck with?” You repeat in a low voice, your head pounding. “Is it so hard to believe that he might actually, genuinely like me and want to spend time with me?” You stand on shaking legs and stalk out of the room, not even caring about your state of undress.

Brendon follows you into the living room. “It is hard to believe when he was getting you wasted! He didn’t want to spend time with you—he wanted to get you drunk and away from your friends.”

“Maybe because my friends hover and try to control me! All of you spent last night just watching us. You need to get a life, Brendon; Darren was exactly right—you’re too busy trying to control me!” You wince; you didn’t mean to shout. Brendon’s eyes narrow, and you almost feel bad.

“Yeah, we were all watching. To make sure the guy you hardly knew who was getting you drunk didn’t pull any shit or try to take advantage of you. But sure, it was about control. So, if I was trying to control you by picking you up off the floor when you were too drunk to stand, I’m sorry. If me telling him he absolutely wasn’t about to take you back to his place was trying to control you, I’m sorry. If I was trying to control you by taking you here and making sure you were safe like you requested, I’m sorry.”

You can feel the flush of shame through your whole body; you know he’s right. You’re about to apologize, but Brendon keeps talking. “If I was trying to control you when I held your hair back while you threw up, I’m sorry. If I was trying to control you when I brought you Pedialyte to make sure you were hydrated, I’m so sorry. If I was trying to control you when I held you all night while you slept because you were cold, I’m really fucking sorry, Y/n.”

He’s pissed; you feel sick, and it isn’t hangover-related. You protest that that isn’t what you meant but— “No? Well let’s be perfectly clear: here’s me trying to control you—I don’t want you seeing him again.” You can feel the tension roiling off of his body, and you understand. He’s not pissed; he’s furious. Still, you can’t let his last comment go without an answer.

“I don’t think that’s your choice to make, or your place to voice an opinion,” you snap, and Brendon laughs.

“Really? You really don’t think I get to give my opinion on who you date?”

“No Brendon, I don’t think you do! You’re not my dad!” You’re yelling now, and you know you’ve already lost this argument if you’ve resorted to ‘you’re not my dad’—especially since your dad doesn’t get a vote either. Your head hurts; you just want to go back to his bed and start over. It was so good waking up in his arms, feeling his fingers trace your body. You want to go back to that moment and live in it a bit longer.

Brendon’s eyes are wild, and he tugs at his hair. “You’re goddamn right I’m not your dad. I’m your—” and he stops.

You know exactly what he’s going to say, and it makes you so angry. The anger is coming from so many different places, and you know each is a little irrational, but each is real nonetheless. You’re angry he doesn’t want you the way you want him, you’re angry he makes you feel like he does and then slips back into ‘best friend’ mode, you’re angry that he’s right in this moment, and you’re angry at yourself for letting Darren get so close to taking advantage of you.

“You’re my what?” You lob the words at him like a challenge. “Best friend?” You laugh bitterly. That’s all he’ll ever see himself as in your life. You’ve accepted that, but you don’t have to be happy about it. “Sure. My best friend. But you don’t get to decide who I date! You don’t get to make those calls! Now, if you were actually interested in m—” and you freeze. You’ve gone too far, said too much, and Brendon’s staring at you with wide eyes and a heaving chest.

“If I was—? Y/n, you seriously don’t know that I’m—goddamnit!” He’s collapsed on his couch, his head in his hands, and you’re actually a bit concerned.

“What? What’s wrong?” Your head is spinning and you need to lie down, but you don’t see that happening any time soon. “Brendon, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re my best friend, and I’m so sorry. We’re both tired and—fuck, can we just go back to sleep and—” Brendon looks up at you, and the look in his eyes silences you. You feel pinned to the spot under his gaze, and you remember how he silenced you with one look last night too; you can’t stop the flood of arousal moving through your body. Wordlessly, he stands, crosses the room, and delves a hand into your hair; subconsciously you know what’s coming, so you tilt your head up to meet his rough embrace. You think your brain is going to explode, either with shock or joy—or both.

“What are you—” you manage, even though it’s pretty obvious what he’s doing.

“Shut up,” he tells you in a hoarse voice, the hand not in your hair moving down your back to press you against him. You moan into his mouth, and his fingers flex against your ass, making you rock your hips forward. You gasp his name, wrenching your mouth away from his. You never want to stop, but you also need to hear him say it. You meet his eyes, silently begging.

Brendon is staring at you, breathing hard. “I’m your best friend, but fuck, Y/n, I have loved you since freshman year. Since goddamn freshman orientation at that stupid hellhole of a high school, you’ve been the only woman for me; I love you. I love you so damn much.”

Finally. Fucking finally.

But—his voice is anguished, he’s backing away, and he can barely meet your eyes now. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucki—”

You can’t let him be sorry for this. Can’t let this devolve any further. “Shut up,” you command, crushing your mouth back over his. “Just shut up.” You pull his hair hard, and he grabs your waist, lifting your legs as your tongue tangles with his. “I love you, Brendon. God, I fucking love you too. I want you. Take me back to bed? Please?”

He nods desperately, kissing you deeply. He’s just holding you, and as much as you’re enjoying it, you need him to walk, to get you to bed. “Bed, Brendon,” you plead, and he groans, carrying you back to his bedroom. Once in there, Brendon places you gently on his bed and crawls over you, kissing your lips briefly before working his way down your neck. You’re squirming under him, and he lays flush on top of you, holding you in place with his body weight. He groans your name, and you give his hair a sharp tug. “Have wanted you for so long. Kiss me,” you say softly, wrapping your legs around his waist and bucking up against him. He’s shirtless and in a pair of light gray sweatpants; you can feel his erection straining against the thick material. You’re not sure how far this is about to go, but your whole body is tense with need. “Fuck, Bren—you’re this hard for me?”

He nods, eyes closed and face flushed as his lips move back over yours. You can’t help it; you rock up against him, seeking more pressure. Once your hips move, he takes it as permission for him to move too, and then he’s grinding into you, moaning and gasping against your mouth. His hand in your hair is tugging steadily while his other is squeezing your ass, making you rub back against him. “So fucking hard for you,” Brendon groans in your ear, and you whimper happily. “Y/n, I gotta—I need to ge—I’m sorry—I need like five minutes—God, not even that many probably, and I’ll go to the bathroom—I’ve just wanted you for so long too, and—fuck, you were in my bed last night pressed against me all over me; I couldn’t stop thinking about you—I’m so fucking hard for you, and I don’t want to—while we’re kis—god, I’m so damn into you. Just give me a few minutes; I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Wait, wait, hang on,” you pant, your head resting in his hand against the pillow. You try to catch your breath while you process everything he just said. You need to be sure you’re understanding him before you make your offer. “Are you asking to go to your bathroom to jerk off, so you don’t come in your pants while we’re making out?”

Brendon stares at you. “That about sums it up, yeah,” he says finally. “God, when you say it like that, I sound like such a—”

“B. You don’t have to go masturbate in your bathroom,” you tell him with a small smile. “I’d actually prefer you didn’t. Since you need to come, I can think of much more enjoyable ways that involve me.”

He looks at you blankly, and you reach down to grab his erection through his sweatpants. “I’ve wanted to suck your cock for the longest time,” you admit. His mouth falls open, and you giggle, pushing on his shoulder to get him flat on his back. “Is that okay? I can blow you, can’t I, Bren?” You pause to evaluate. You’re sober. Hungover, but sober. This isn’t Drunk Y/n just trying to get some dick. This is you and Brendon, finally. Finally.

“Jesus,” he groans and nods, his eyes closing as you curl up between his legs and yank his sweatpants down. “God, yeah, you can—oh shit,” he gasps when you give the tip of his cock a soft kiss before licking over your palm sloppily and wrapping your hand around him. You give him a few short strokes and slide him into your mouth, suckling at the head. “Y/n,” he whispers, stroking your hair. “You’re so damn sexy; your mouth feels so good—”

“You taste good,” you tell him, kissing over his thighs and lower stomach, dragging your tongue along the defined V you’ve always tried to ignore on pool days but usually failed. “I knew you’d taste good.” He groans helplessly and bucks into your hand, whispering about how wonderful you are for doing this for him. “I am pretty wonderful, and I trust you’ll reciprocate at some point,” you tell him, and his eyes flutter closed as he moans happily and nods, already mumbling about how badly he wants to get his tongue in you, how he would’ve started there if he’d thought he’d be able to make you come without losing control and coming too.

“I can be patient,” you tease. “Besides, I’ve got your dick to keep me occupied while I wait. You’ve got such a great cock, Brendon. You’re the perfect length; I can tell you’re gonna fill my cunt just right, and you’re so nice and thick—fuck, it’s gonna feel so good for you when my lips are stretched around you, working hard to get you to come in my mouth.” You keep stroking him before licking up his length and taking the head in your mouth again, sucking eagerly at the slit to collect his pre-cum.

“I should warn you,” you gasp after a moment. “I’m greedy. I want to get all of your cock in my mouth and I want to swallow for you. I don’t like being called a cock or cumslut, but…” you shrug helplessly with a small grin. “I’ve wanted this—you—for so long.”

Brendon groans and promises he would never call you either name and fists your hair, not forcing you down but just holding on for dear life.

You grin to yourself and slide your lips down to take him fully, moaning because you know it’ll feel good for him, but also because his cock in your mouth is so nice. He really is the perfect length; the heavy weight of his cock pressing on your tongue is satisfying as your lips stretch around him. He grunts when you moan around him again, and his hand curls in your hair as he praises you.

You pull back and then take him deeper, gagging a little before breathing carefully, adjusting. The tightening of your throat when you gagged must have felt good, because you can tell he’s fighting hard to not thrust into your mouth. You don’t mind at all if that’s what he needs; you just need to change positions. You let his cock fall from your mouth, and you scramble off of the bed, kneeling beside the edge. “Come here,” you beckon, and he shifts, feet settling on the floor. “Fuck my mouth,” you tell him, hands sliding over his thighs. “I know you want to. Tangle your hands in my hair, slide your cock across my tongue, and fuck my mouth until you come. I’ll swallow, don’t worry.” He groans and you stroke him tenderly, sliding him back between your lips.

He’s reluctant, murmuring something about not wanting to be rough, and you realize you’re going to need to convince him. You meet his eyes and give him your most desperate look; you grip his thighs as you start rocking your head back and forth, relaxing so that when he hits the back of your throat, you don’t gag and the tip of his cock can slip down. “Holy fuck,” Brendon moans, his hips starting to move in short thrusts. Finally.

“Baby, your mouth, your fucking mouth—” he picks up his pace, and you let one of your hands slip down between your legs to rub at your clit. You love knowing he’s getting off on the feeling of your mouth, the sight of you begging for more with your eyes. “Gonna come,” he whispers helplessly after what feels like no time at all, biting his lip briefly. “Wanted this for so long, you’re so fucking hot, I’m gonna come—oh fuck—now, now—fuck! Yes! God!”

And he comes, warm and salty, down your throat. There’s so much of it, and you’re swallowing hard to keep up with him; he’s moaning and fucking your mouth with deep, desperate thrusts through his climax, watching in amazement as his slick cock slides effortlessly between your lips. You’re moaning too—you love how he’s lost control—and gripping his thighs, pressing closer, with your lips at the base of his cock and your nose pressed to his pelvis. You’re trying to focus on swallowing, not gagging or coughing—you don’t want to waste any of his cum, but you can feel smears of it on your chin and around your mouth. When his hips go still and his cock slips from your mouth, he stares down at you in awe.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he says quietly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re incredible.” You’re both breathing hard, and he looks down at you, nipples visibly hard through his t-shirt, your panties dark at your core, hair messy, eyes fully dilated, and his spent cock twitches again. “My god, you are fucking incredible,” he mumbles, falling back on the bed. “Come up here, please, baby.”

You scramble up on the bed and you straddle him, gasping in pleasure as his cock presses against you through your soaked panties. He doesn’t even need to be hard for it to feel good; you could come just from grinding against him like this. “All the way up,” he urges softly. “Gotta get hard again. Need to get you off. I know a way to do both.” You cock your head, curious and hopeful, and he smiles.

“Come sit on my face.”

Fucking finally. You’ve brought yourself to a screaming orgasm by imagining those very words too many times to count. But now, it won’t be your fingers rubbing your clit, your mind piecing together what those words would sound like from him. It’ll just be him. Finally.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, crawling up over him and settling on your knees above him. “Let me take these off,” you murmur, standing on his bed a bit unsteadily as you shove your panties down your legs and kick them off the bed.

“Shit, baby, you are so damn gorgeous. Come here, come sit right on my face,” Brendon groans from under you. He’s already wrapping a hand around his cock, stroking and squeezing. You know he’s not hard again—not yet, not after coming like that—but you love that he’s so desperate to fuck you that he’s trying to get himself to full hardness so quickly. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat through your body; you whimper and feel yourself get even wetter. You need him; you realize he’s staring up at you expectantly.

“Love hearing you call me ‘baby,’” you whisper. “But you know we’ve got to talk about this—about us, right?” You ask, dropping back to your knees as his hands grab your ass.

“We do. But right now, my mouth has a far more important job,” he tells you, licking over you and smiling to himself when you let out a soft moan and settle down onto his tongue. “Ride my tongue,” he says, and it’s a bit muffled, but you do as he says, rocking back and forth, whimpering when he snakes two fingers up inside you and adjusts so his tongue is over your clit. You’re gasping and panting and you tug at your—his—shirt to get it off, hands flying to your nipples as you pinch, squeeze, and roll them between your fingers.

“Fuck, Brendon,” you whine, rocking harder. He nods, tongue rubbing gently over your clit while his fingers inside you curl and press and rub. “Oh fuck,” you groan, hips shifting from small circles to rapid back and forth thrusts. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—now! Holy shit, now! Fucking—coming! Yes!”

His fingers press firmly as his tongue works over your entrance; you know he’s tasting you from the way he’s moaning and closing his eyes. After a moment, he drops his head back so he can lick his lips and look up at you with longing. “That’s right, play with your tits, tease your nipples, let me watch you drive yourself crazy as you rub your hot, wet cunt all over your man’s face. Come for me again; let me taste you, please,” Brendon practically begs, and you whimper, one hand leaving your chest so you can reach back and grasp his cock. “Shit,” Brendon grunts. “Your hand feels so good, Y/n. Feel how hard I am for you already? Fuck,” he whispers helplessly. “I want you.”

“Make me come once more like this. I’ve wanted you so badly, still want you—want your cock, but need your mouth once more,” you beg, “and then I’ll slide back and ride you until neither of us can take it.” Brendon groans, murmuring how much he loves you and how much he loves you on his face, and then his mouth is moving over you again, fingers thrusting rapidly and tongue lapping insistently.

“Oh Christ,” you whimper. “Oh dear God in heaven; I love you, I love you so much and I’m gonna come from your mouth. Fuck, Brendon, hearing you call yourself my man—finally, fucking finally—makes me fucking wild; fuck yes, lick my clit, eat my pussy, that’s it—eat it, eat it!” You spread your legs wider over his face and rock back and forth; you’re so close.

He flicks his tongue against your clit and spanks you firmly with his free hand; you shriek, your eyes rolling back. You fall apart, bucking over his mouth, and his hands encircle your waist to hold you in place while he licks you over and over again, moaning in pleasure.

“Okay, baby,” he finally sighs, licking his lips. “I’m rock hard for you; if you still want it, you can sink this hot cunt down on my cock.” He gives your ass another sharp slap, and you cry out happily, crawling backwards to sink down onto his length. Finally.

“Oh,” you gasp, shifting to adjust. “I want it. Want you. You feel so good.” You lean forward and kiss him longingly, moaning when you taste yourself on his slick lips. “You’re—god, you feel huge,” you whimper, gripping his shoulders as your hips roll to help your body accommodate him. “Fuck, this is so good; I’m stretched so full from your cock,” you whisper, kissing him again, whimpering a little. Brendon looks worried, and he asks if you’re okay; he’s throbbing inside you, and you just want to ride him hard.

“I’m great,” you say with a breathless laugh. “Fuck, your cock is perfect. I’ve wanted this for so long. Feels so good to just have you inside me. Fucking finally.” You raise your hips and sink back down on his length slowly, both of you moaning. He grabs your hair and pulls your mouth down to his so he can kiss you roughly as your hips rock. “You’re—damn, Brendon, I can feel every inch of you.”

“Yeah? Your pussy is so hot and wet and slick and tight, Y/n, I may not last long.”

“I’m gonna make sure you do,” you counter with a smile. “We’re gonna make this first time last.” You concentrate on the pulsing of his cock inside you, and you find a good rhythm, sliding up gently before grinding down. His breath catches, and his hands fly to your waist; you grin, pausing in your upwards movement, so just the tip of his cock is in you. “Don’t come,” you tell him breathlessly. “Do not come.”

He nods, shuddering in pleasure under you, and you hold your breath to stay still. His breathing evens out, and you sink back down onto him firmly. “That’s my man, not coming in me yet,” you murmur, and he groans, grabbing your ass. You repeat this torture several times, watching him longingly. “Hang on for me. Don’t come. I haven’t come yet either, but I promise I’ll let you come in me,” you tell him, and he nods, reaching up to touch your breasts.

“So beautiful,” he sighs, and you feel his dick throb inside you. You smack his hand away lightly, grinning when he groans. “I wasn’t gonna come yet,” he protests, and you shrug.

“Just making sure,” you say softly, grinding slowly. “We’re getting close though, I can tell. We’re both gonna need to come soon, yeah?” Brendon moans his agreement, watching you roll in his lap on his cock. You’re both lost in the other’s eyes, panting and praising each other, when your phone rings. Brendon gropes for it on the bedside table and passes it to you.

You’re about to tell him to ignore it when you glance at the caller ID. “It’s Darren,” you manage, passing the phone back to him, and Brendon’s eyes light up.

“I’m gonna answer,” Brendon groans. “Is that okay?” You laugh and shrug, because you assume he’s kidding. However, no sooner have you shrugged than Brendon’s thumb is sliding across the phone screen to pick up. “Good morning Darren,” Brendon says in a rough, obviously sex-fueled voice. “Yeah, she spent the night. How is Y/n feeling?” He repeats the question for your benefit as his hips snap up and press the head of his cock right to your G-spot.

“Brendon,” you hiss, a little horrified but mostly amused. You know you could tell him to hang up and he would, but you’re actually interested in seeing how this will play out. You have always loved when he’s protective and possessive of you. So, instead of telling him to hang up, you cry out in pleasure while Brendon, with his free hand, rubs at your clit. “Oh Brendon, yes, touch me right there,” you whine; you’ve realized suddenly that you don’t care if Darren hears. There’s actually a part of you that wants him to hear, just so he’ll fully understand that you’re not even a little bit available.

“She feels…tight and hot and wet and slick and fucking perfect on my cock,” Brendon says clearly into the phone. “But I knew she had a phenomenal cunt even before I got my dick in her; you see, I ate this perfect woman’s gorgeous pussy for breakfast earlier. I got her coming all over my face and tongue, and she tastes so damn sweet.”

You moan and ride him harder, gripping his shoulders and bouncing urgently. You want to come all over him while Darren listens. You’ve never been into exhibitionism before, but something about Brendon’s cock deep in you and the way he’s bragging about how good you feel on him and how much he loved tasting you makes you want to show off even more.

“But that’s just physically,” Brendon manages. Oh, I shouldn’t forget—her mouth is phenomenal too; it was so damn good, seeing her perfect mouth full of my cock, having her fucking beg to swallow for me—But if her whimpering of my name or the way she keeps kissing me now is any indication, she’s feeling emotionally pretty good too.” Hell yes you are, and you groan this in the background. Brendon laughs breathlessly; he hangs up and drops your phone off to his side.

“That was not nice,” you say with a short laugh, gripping his shoulders and riding him harder. “Hilarious, and unexpectedly hot as hell, having you brag about the ways we’re fucking, but not nice. What if he calls back?”

“Let him,” Brendon counters. “What will we let him hear next? He thinks I try to control you? Maybe we let him hear me fuck you hard from behind. Would you like that?” You nod desperately, and Brendon groans. “Let’s make him understand what happens when I’m really in control. I’ll get you on your hands and knees, pull you back so I can fill you up with my thick cock and fuck you hard; I’ll pull your hair, smack your ass, and rub your clit til you’re screaming my name, begging me to take you even harder, begging me to let you come on my cock. Let him call back; I want him to hear us—want him to hear the moment we fucking ruin these sheets.”

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, biting at his shoulder. “God, that sounds so good.” Brendon chuckles and tugs at your hair playfully.

“Which part? Stupid Darren hearing me fuck you, or how I plan to fuck you?”

“Mostly your plan, but both, honestly,” you tell him, blushing. “Want people to hear us. Want people to know I’m yours.”

“God, Y/n,” Brendon says breathlessly, “you are mine, aren’t you?” You grin and shrug, biting your lip. “Don’t fucking tease me,” he warns with a small smile, and you giggle. “Okay, you asked for it.”

He lifts you off of him and flips you over with ease, crawling behind you and smacking your ass hard as he rocks into you. “Oh fuck yes!” You yelp, and he bites your shoulder and pulls your hair; he dips his head down to ask if this is okay, if you want to be fucked like this. “Brendon, yes—shit, just like this, fuck me like this; oh god!”

“Whose are you?” His voice is low and tight and his hips are slamming into you from behind. “Say it. Say my name.”

“I’m yours,” you moan loudly, dropping your face into the pillow. He grabs your hair and guides your head up, telling you to let him hear you. “I’m yours, I’m yours, Brendon; fuck, I’m all yours,” you chant, rocking back against him.

“Damn right,” he says with a short laugh. “Mine. Say my name.”

“Brendon,” you moan. “Oh god, Brendon, fuck me, fuck my pussy, fuck my wet cunt; I’m all yours.”

You’re beginning to think Darren’s not going to call back, but you do want him to hear this—so you decide to take matters into your own hands. You reach for your phone as Brendon fucks you desperately, clicking Darren’s name on the call list and letting the phone drop next to your pillow. “I’m yours, Brendon, I’m all yours.”

He glances down, sees the call connect, and laughs appreciatively. You’re moaning and whimpering and thrusting back against him hard, gasping as his cock fills you. “Mine, finally,” he murmurs, pulling your hair.

“Yours,” you agree. “Fuck, Brendon, I’m finally yours. Fuck me good, take me from behind, make me come. You’re gonna make me come all over your thick cock; shit, I’m gonna lose control, can’t take it, gotta—oh fuck, Brendon!” He grunts in your ear that you’re going to come, and you let out a shrill moan when his two fingers find your clit. “Yes,” you shriek, hips spasming as you come hard. “Yes, play with my clit, fuck me! Brendon, yes, yes, yes!”

“You feel so good on my cock,” Brendon manages. “I’m gonna come. Can I come in you? Know you said I could, but need to hear it—can I come in you, give you all my cum?”

“Please,” you moan, fingers tangled in his sheets as he pounds into you relentlessly. “Please, claim me, take me, come in me, come in my hot, wet cunt. Give me your cum; I want it all.”

He comes with a sharp moan, his hips losing their rhythm as his cock throbs and pulses inside of you. “Oh fuck,” Brendon groans when he thrusts toward once more. “God, I fucking love coming in you.”

He pulls out of you and falls onto his back, reaching for you. “Come here, my love.” You roll over, squeezing your thighs together, and burrow your face in his chest. He pulls you firmly against him and kisses the top of your head. “So…you know you can’t go on a date with Darren tonight, right?” He grins at you as you both brush the other’s sweat-dampened hair out of each other’s eyes.

“Yeah,” you agree, giggling.

“And why is that?” Brendon asks, raising an eyebrow.

You’re still laughing when you pull him in for a long kiss. “Because,” you murmur against his lips, “my super controlling boyfriend that I’m wildly in love with said so.” You grin, and he smacks your ass, laughing. “Because I’m fucking finally yours.”

“Damn right. Finally.” His lips capture yours again and you fumble with the phone, hanging up.

#brendon urie #brendon urie smut #brendon urie imagine #brendon x reader #my work #fanfic #he could fuck me any way he wanted #imagine #brendon urie fanfiction #panic! at the disco

[quiet-compassion]

OFMD Fluffvember Day 8: Sunset

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51585355

By the time he heads outside, Stede’s ready to drop. He can’t remember ever being this tired in his life, which, contrary to what one might assume, is saying a lot. The grueling labor and long hours that have gone into taking their property from “technically a house” to “functional inn” have been exhausting. 

But it’s also been wonderful. He and Ed. Ed and him. Amidst all the hard work they’ve been having so much fun. They laugh a lot and pitch each other crazy ideas. They talk, not just about the silly things but the big things too. It’s just the two of them and that means they can just be. Be entirely, genuinely themselves.

…Up until last night when their first-ever guest had shown up. Stede supposes he shouldn’t have been so surprised. They’re innkeepers after all. This is what all the hard work has been for. And they’ve been putting out the “Vacancy” sign for a fortnight now. 

But.

Damn it all if his first response when a man had walked through their front door, bag in hand, inquiring after a room hadn’t been one of supreme annoyance at having their little haven intruded upon. Of course, he’d immediately recalibrated, putting on his cheery “customer service” voice and welcoming the man, Charles apparently, to their establishment.

They’ve been going all out, he and Ed, trying to ensure that their guest had the best possible stay. Now, supper done and dusted, he’s anxious for a taste of his usual routine and makes his way past the porch and onto the beach to enjoy the sunset. After a minute or two he hears the front door open and shut followed by the tell-tale sound of Ed’s footsteps as his partner comes to join him for their evening ritual. 

Ed sits down next to him in the sand, instinctually throwing an arm around Stede’s shoulders as he does so. “This might sound weird,” he says, foregoing any greeting or preamble, “but I get the sense Charles isn’t enjoying his stay.”

Stede frowns. “What? Really? What makes you say that?”

Ed shrugs. “Just a vibe, I guess. Like, for starters, I invited him out to come watch the sunset and he said no.”

“Did you tell him how good the view was?” Stede asks, turning to look back over his shoulder at the inn. “Did you mention that it would be extra colorful tonight after the storm?”

“Course I did!” Ed nods emphatically. “It didn’t sway him. Said he just wanted to lie down for a bit.”

Stede snaps his head back around to Ed, eyes wide in disbelief. “Lie down? But, surely he’s not turning in for the night! We haven’t had storytime yet!”

Ed grimaces. “I know, mate. I think he’s passing on storytime too.”

“But I was in such good form last night! I pulled out all the stops to be sure to impress him on his first night here. It must have been half a dozen voices I was juggling!”

“It was bloody impressive, babe. Maybe your best storytime ever,” Ed assures him, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “That bit where the witch revealed she’d been the queen all along? What a twist!”

Stede gives a nod of agreement, “High drama for sure.” Shoulders slumping in disappointment he asks, “Doesn’t he even want to know how it ends?”

“Ungrateful guy, if you ask me,” Ed sighs. “Doesn’t appreciate storytime, misses the sunset, didn’t finish the cake I made for dessert.”

“It really was a fine cake, Edward. Lots of icing.”

“I know. Plus I added loads of extra sugar, so you know it was gonna be good.”

They fall into silence for a while, watching the sky burn with color before slowly beginning to darken into night. Eventually, Stede shoots a quick glance at Ed’s face from the corner of his eye.

“You know, it felt weird today. Having him here.”

Ed gives an inquisitive sound which Stede understands to mean go on.

“I mean that’s the goal obviously, to have guests at our inn. But, I’ve gotten used to it being just us. I like it being just us. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be around someone else. Someone I’m not fully comfortable with.” Stede lets out a little sigh. “I feel a bit like I’ve been performing all day.”

Ed blows out a big breath. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Plus, I hated not being able to joke around like we usually do. We had to be all professional and shit,” he grumbles.

Stede lets out a sympathetic hum. There’s another beat of silence until Stede smiles coyly. “It was strange not being able to kiss you.”

Ed snorts out a laugh and leans his head onto Stede’s shoulder. “Babe, you can kiss me anytime you want.”

“Not in front of the guests,” he pouts.

“Guest.” Ed corrects teasingly. “Well, would you look at that? There’s no guests around right now.”

Stede looks down at Ed with a smile before leaning in to give him a kiss. When they pull back from each other Stede returns Ed’s head to its resting place on his shoulder, hand lightly combing through his silvery hair. 

“Are we cut out to be innkeepers, do you think? If we resent the people who show up at the inn?” he ponders.

“Maybe we’re a new kind of innkeeper,” Ed suggests. “I mean, you turned piracy on its head with your steady wages and safe space ship. Stands to reason that with our combined lunacy we could revolutionize the hospitality industry.”

Stede chuckles at that. “Seriously though, Ed.”

Ed sighs. “Seriously, this is our first go. It’s bound to take a little practice. Maybe we get better. But. If not…then we close up shop. Take the vacancy sign down. Leave the extra rooms until the crew comes to visit. If we want, it can just be us.”

The moon’s high in the sky now, the sunset long since passed. They sit quietly together for a little longer, basking in its glow. 

“Well, I suppose we ought to turn in then,” Stede whispers reluctant to shatter the stillness of the moment. “Since there’s no storytime.”

“Oh fuck that!” Ed exclaims. “If Charles is too stupid to appreciate storytime, that’s his loss. I want to know what happens to the prince!”

Stede smiles, getting to his feet and grabbing Ed’s hand to pull him up too. “Of course, of course. It was quite a cliffhanger last night, wasn’t it?”

They walk hand in hand the short way back to the house. The front room is warm and glowing as the fireplace burns bright. Their guest is, sure enough, nowhere to be seen.

“You know what I think? You should do the voices extra loud tonight. Let Charlie hear what he’s missing and maybe then he’ll come join us.”

Stede shakes his head calmly, crossing the room to pick up the book from the table he’d left it on before plopping himself down on the couch next to Ed. “That’s alright, darling. As you say, it’s his loss. Besides, I’m perfectly happy with just the two of us.”

#ofmd #ofmd fluffvember #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #stuff i write

[veliseraptor]

Thoughts on Jin Guangyao/Su She?

hmmmm this is another weird one because it's not that I don't ship it, I do in fact feel like it's a solid dynamic and a very important one for both characters, it is just that I personally am not drawn toward, like, thinking or writing about it. it falls in that vague middle ground where it's like... "yeah, I see it, it makes sense to me, I'm definitely not hostile but it's not my thing, I'm glad other people are having fun with it though!"

which as I express it I guess means "don't ship" but that just feels so much more emphatic than my actual feelings.

Why don’t you ship it?

I feel like some kind of a traitor saying this, but - I just don't care enough about Su She to get invested in shipping a pairing with him in it in any concerted way. I have come to appreciate him more thanks to the Su Minshan enjoyers in my community, and certainly I think that people get very weird about him and he deserves better than the treatment he often gets, he just doesn't quite hit me in the right place/way for us to vibe. Lack of investment in one half of a ship is pretty much always going to kill my interest in shipping it myself, even if I can see how it would work and am not, like, objecting to its existence.

I am, in fact, in favor of its existence as a thing. I feel a lot of solidarity with Su Minshan enjoyers.

What would have made you like it?

Probably if I liked Su She more, honestly. As far as what would have made me like Su She more...honestly him having more story space to himself probably would've gone a long way, since a lot of the seeds are there in the story and just not really...brought into focus so much. He is also just a little to the left of my type, though, in ways I can't quite articulate.

But the lack of story focus is probably a lot of it, tbh.

Despite not shipping it, do you have anything positive to say about it?

As I said I feel a lot of solidarity with the people who ship it, and I think objectively as a ship it is delightful! I also find the mental image of a Su She who is hopelessly hung up on Jin Guangyao but trying not to make a thing out of it, and a Xue Yang who gives him shit about it at every possible opportunity, personally really funny.

Especially because later on when Xue Yang is hopelessly hung up on a dead guy who was supposed to be his nemesis Su She gets the last laugh. Not that he's probably actually laughing out loud but he can have a little schadenfreude about it, as a treat.

#conversating #anonymous #suyao #su she #jin guangyao #ship opinions meme #the sad queer cultivators show

[gins-potter]

🖊 Romitri, bakery

This ended up double the length it was supposed to be because i couldn't stop writing... whoops? Enjoy x

The moan Rose lets out as she steps into the bakery and inhales the aroma of delicious scents is practically indecent if the judgemental looks from the people waiting in line are any indication.  But she ignores them, along with their grumbling, as she skips past on her way to the counter where she boosts herself right up onto it.

“Olena,” she sings, receiving an indulgent smile in return as she leans in to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Hello, Roza.”  Olena peers past her.  “No Lissa today?”

“Nah, she had an early class.”

Rose waits, somewhat impatiently, as Olena takes an order, ringing it through the register and accepting the customer’s money, before throwing her a pleading look, the silent question accentuated by a loud growl from her stomach.

It makes Olena laugh as she gestures behind her.  “Go, your breakfast is waiting.”

“I love you,” Rose declares, sliding off the counter and leaving her to her next impatient customer.  

She squeezes past Sonya behind the coffee machine, calling a hello as she does, and receives something mumbled in return, a response that’s practically friendly coming from her so early in the morning.  She’s forced to dodge Yeva, who’s coming the opposite way with a tray of hot blini and who snaps something distinctly less friendly in Russian, before she can finally throw herself at the waiting plate of bread with another borderline lewd moan.  To watch Rose take her first bite of the black bread, that’s so fresh it's still steaming, one might think it’s a heavenly experience, what with the way she closes her eyes and tilts her head back.

“Roza!” Viktoria calls, coming out from the kitchen.  “I thought I heard you.”

Rose waves at her friend, savouring the mouthful of bread, but her chewing slows and her nose crinkles as she notices something.

“It’s different,” she says without swallowing, and it all comes out a little garbled.  “The bread tastes different.”

Olena hands the last customer their order in a brown paper bag and bids them a good day before turning to Rose with a raised eyebrow.  Rose is half expecting her to chastise her for talking with her mouth full - something so motherly that Rose still isn’t quite used to it - but instead Olena just asks curiously, “Bad?”

Rose shoots her an indignant look in return and swallows.  “Of course not bad, it could never be bad, just different.  Did you change the recipe or something?” she asks, knowing full well Olena doesn’t follow recipes.

“No.  My son baked the bread this morning.”

Rose, in the process of taking another bite, pauses, and feels her eyebrows rise.  She knows of the Belikov’s only son of course, but in the year she’s become a permanent fixture in their bakery, she’s never laid eyes on him.  She thinks she remembers hearing once that he’s away at school in New York.

Rose’s thoughtful hum turns delighted as she bites into the bread again; she would never admit it to Olena but she thinks she might almost enjoy the tangier flavour of today’s bread more than she usually does.

She hears the door to the kitchen swing open again and Viktoria lets out a crow of laughter.  “Hey Dimka, apparently your bread tastes weird.”

Rose swallows roughly and gestures in surrender so emphatically that she almost loses the rest of her breakfast.  “Woah, hey, I did not say it was weird, I said it was diff-”  Her words die in her throat as she turns to the newcomer and catches sight of quite possibly the hottest guy she’s ever laid eyes on.

Olena’s son has to have nearly a foot of height on Rose, his arms, exposed by his rolled up sleeves, are corded with muscle, and his shoulder-length hair is tied back in a ponytail that Rose has a wild urge to free from its band and runs her fingers through.

“I’ve never had anyone describe my bread as weird before,” he says, cocking his head with a slight smirk.

Rose ignores the cute dimple that’s appeared in his cheek and levels him with a pointed finger, followed by a glare at Viktoria.  “Different, not weird,” she reiterates.

“Different good?”  He folds his arm across his chest and Rose forcibly drags her eyes away from them.

“That’s yet to be determined,” she shoots back coyly.

“You must be the infamous Roza.”  He offers her a hand to shake.  “Dimitri.”

Rose isn’t too sure about the use of the word ‘infamous’ but accepts the proffered hand regardless; it’s big, and callused, and warm, and she doesn’t want to let go.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dimitri.  And I guess I’ll just have to try your bread again tomorrow to decide.”

“Yes,” Dimitri says, with a slight chuckle, finally, regrettably, releasing her hand.  “I’ve already been told to expect you most mornings.”

Rose levels a glare around at the Belikova women who are watching their exchange with thinly veiled amusement; even Karolina has appeared in the kitchen doorway to observe.  Dimitri moves to his mother’s side and ducks to press a kiss to her cheek.

“I’m going to meet Ivan for a couple hours, Mama, but I’ll be back for the lunch rush.”

Olena reaches up and pats his cheek, smoothing away a stray streak of flour that’s found its way there.

“It was nice to meet you, Roza,” Dimitri says, before lifting his hand in farewell to his family as he heads for the door.

“He called me Roza,” Rose says faintly, once he’s out of earshot.

Viktoria shoots her a bemused look.  “We all call you Roza.”

“Yeah, but not like that.”  Rose snatches up her breakfast and hurries after him, ignoring Yeva’s bark of Russian that follows her, no doubt a warning of the perils she’ll face if she doesn’t return her plate.  “Hey,” she says, catching up with Dimitri at the door.

Dimitri looks amused to see her, but holds the door open for her to step through.

“So, when are you heading back to New York?”

“I’m not.  I finished my degree last semester, I’d moved back home to help out for a few months before I worked out my next move, but…”

“But…” Rose prods.

Dimitri’s eyes trace over her face.  “But maybe there’s more here for me than I thought.  I’ll see you around, Roza.”

Rose grins, “See ya, comrade.”

#vampire academy #va #mywriting #romitri #rose hathaway #dimitri belikov #ft. a healthy dose of the belikov fam #olena belikova #yeva belikova #viktoria belikova #karolina belikova #sonya belikova #their bakery is like a pseudo cafe for the purposes of this fic #answered #1k follower celebration #thanks for celebrating 1k followers with me x

[daisychainsandbowties]

how did you figure out that you’re nonbinary and that you specifically use they/them pronouns? /genq

oh okay so figuring out gender was a ‘casper is stupid for 17 entire years’ situation.

i basically came out of the cradle insisting that it was cringe and terrible of my parents to think of me as a girl. i was, emphatically, a Pokémon obsessed little guy since i could form entire sentences. but it was 2002, and frankly i was more concerned with how far i could spit and collecting spiders off the bushes to be worried about it. my parents (bless) were 100% cool with getting my clothes in the boys section & letting me do whatever i wanted (except get ice cream from the ice cream van every day. their one and only instance of homophobia 😔) so i didn’t really suffer, especially, beyond scowling at people in school when they dared to refer to me. 

it was pretty clear to me when i was 11 that having a cursed body was, indeed, going to be a curse. not worth mentioning how terrible and evil 11-14 was for me physically, tho to be fair i also took up swordfighting then so swings and roundabouts.

but yeah, around when i was 9 i knew there was a huge massive problem but then my mom got cancer (multiple myeloma) and… yeah gender crisis took a backseat while we watched her almost die about three times (pulmonory embolism, stem-cell transplant, getting shingles with no immune system bc chemo). my grandmother looked after me while Hospital.

unhelpful to the anti-trans-kids-existing demons bc she was also like intensely indulgent of my refusal to wear anything but my brazil football jersey. she let me eat nothing but artificial cheese slices put on a single slice of white bread and then microwaved because i had the massive trump card of not being allowed to see my mother for almost six months. i think she was grateful that i seemed to find the whole situation too serious to cry over. my best friend was a boy & he was pretty willing to be like ‘ok cool. ur not a girl. can we go on the trampoline?’ 

& then, when things calmed down & i was about 16/17, i had come out as gay (good for me) about two years before & then i realised i was oh fuck A Bit More Complicated than that i spent a while agonising over it. really a long walks on the beach pondering my gay ass type deal.

but then, just when i was kind of starting to vibe with being enby, I got really really sick, which lasted aboooout 5/6 years where it was just an old school platforming game but titled ‘casper tries not to die while trying to get a degree & two masters’). very do not pass go do not collect 200 of the universe to Do That. but hey. 

so it was around Pandemic when i finally got the brainspace to actually think, & i realised that i was definitely trans, probably nonbinary. i experimented for a while with different pronouns. realised my ‘dumbass nickname everyone has to call me’ was my ACTUAL NAME (never underestimate my stupidity and ignorance) & yeah at first i was thinking of going the hormones path (do not ever please god don’t get me started on how hard that is in this stupid bastard country. 5 years waiting period, on average. have to get diagnosed formally by a team of psychiatrists with what is characterised as a ‘mental illness’. have to ‘live’ - as Some Fucker sees it - as your ‘chosen’ gender for like two years AND be out to basically everybody - realistic and safe i say sarcastically i say while looking into the camera like i'm on the office - oh look i got started. anyway. bullshittery)

but eventually i realised huh nope i just wanted top surgery (same fucking deal with the health service tho) & for people to use they/them generally (i am not too fussed w/ pronouns for myself tho. like, a lot of my friends use he/him because frankly i deserve it most of the time with the himbo behaviour. professionally i insist on they/them for consistency. i get congnitive dissonance with she/her as in i get a weird shock & want to laugh & wonder who the fuck they’re talking about for a sec before i realise it’s me. but like, miffed too much i am not).

also gender is a big pendulum for me it’s an elliptic orbit sometimes for a few weeks i’m like a feminine guy and other times i feel like a masculine gay & sometimes i feel like the autism creature (bc i AM an autism creature, always). 

but i have, essentially, felt nonbinary always. trust me i have a pic of blue-eyed blond 5y/o me sitting on my bed in my Pokemon-themed room wearing a Manchester United jersey and holding my PS2 controller in my hands with a profoundly vacant and himboish expression on my face. it did fully take me 17 whole years to have my ‘oh’ moment about it, but a lot of that was profoundly indulgent parents who were you can’t even imagine how determined to not raise me the way they were raised - which meant, apparently, that if i wanted to be a spider-collecting, bug obsessed pokémon-fixated little guy who kept snapping branches off the bamboo and fashioning makeshift swords out of them - well then that was the creature they’d send to school every day. 

i think the tldr here is: casper stupid. gender a concept. 

#anon #'gender' i don't know her #casper lore dump

[autisticlancemcclain]

“Oh, please,” Lance scoffs, not even looking up from the stitch he’s making. “You’re so full of bullshit. Keith is the biggest baby in the world.”

“I am not,” Keith protests.

“Are too.”

Keith pouts. “Am not. You’re just mean to me.”

Lance finally looks up for the first time in a while, for the sole reason of raising an eyebrow at Keith.

“Is that so, Mr. I Cried During High School Musical 2?”

Keith flushes from his forehead to his neck. “The break-up scene is really emotional, okay? It’s moving!”

Lance laughs. “Please, it’s hilarious —”

“It is not! They’re both breaking each other’s hearts!”

“Keith, you dweeb, they’re so dramatic and ridiculous —”

“Heartbreak, Lance, heartbreak!”

“Time out,” Pidge calls, holding her hands up in a T. “Time fucking out. Lance, you’ve seen Keith cry?”

“Uh, no shit,” Lance says, with no small amount of attitude. “He is literally the loudest crier in the world. How could I not?”

Keith rolls his eyes, kicking Lance in the ribs. “I am not.”

Lance gapes at him. “Who do you think you are, you gangrenous shitdick? Come back here —”

Lance makes a valiant attempt to drag Keith over to him for revenge, but since Keith is a literal, actual ninja, he fails. (Also, Keith runs and hides behind his brother like a fucking coward, so there’s not much Lance can do.)

“I feel like we kind of brushed over the fact that you’ve seen Keith cry, Lance. Like, with your actual eyes.”

Once again, Lance gives everyone a weird look. “Uh, yeah,” he says, like everyone is a total dumbass. “Like I said. He’s a baby. He cries all the time.”

Keith sticks out his tongue over Shiro’s shoulder, then throwing himself backwards with a shriek as Lance lunges forward. Shiro is too stunned to move, not even flinching when Lance’s pointy elbow accidentally clips him in the ear.

“Does he really?” Shiro asks. He’s almost breathless, staring at Lance in wide-eyed shock.

“Yes,” Lance repeats as emphatically as he can while Keith has him in a chokehold. He wraps his fingers around Keith’s forearms and jerks his torso forward, flipping Keith right over. He hits the floor with a loud groan. “I honestly don’t know why you guys are so shocked. Does he not cry around you? Really?”

“I have never, not once in our time in space, heard Keith cry,” Hunk says solemnly. Pidge nods in agreement.

“Well, that’s weird,” Lance says, darting forward to sit on Keith’s chest before he recovers from being bodyslammed. He sits criss-cross-applesauce once he situates himself, looking serene. Occasionally Keith makes a half-hearted attempt to throw Lance off, but he looks to have mostly given up and accepted his fate.

Suddenly, the sound of a sniffle fills the room. Everyone whips around to look at Shiro, who is visibly weeping.

“Jesus, Shiro, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just so happy that Keith trusts someone enough to let his guard down fully,” he sobs.

Keith goes red. Again.

“Fuck off! It’s not like that!”

Lance gasps delightedly, shifting so he’s no longer sitting on Keith’s chest but straddling it, hands on either side of Keith’s head and leaning in close.

“Keithy-kat! No way! Is that true? You love me the most?”

“No,” Keith says, but it’s a little weak. The blush on his face has not lessened at all.

If anything, really, it’s worse.

“Aw, come on. Tell me the truth.”

“No.”

“You love me. You think I’m the best person on Earth,” Lance teases.

“We’re not even on Earth,” Keith complains, but notably stops denying anything.

“Aw, Keith!” Lance exclaims, and finally leans down to press a kiss to Keith’s forehead with a loud ‘mwah!’ noise.

Shiro sobs again. Someone hands him a tissue.

“Ew,” Keith complains again. “Germy.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “You had no problems with my germs earlier this morning.”

“You were less annoying this morning.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“True. You’re always annoying.”

“Mhm. You love me though.”

“I guess so,” Keith grumbles, but a smile pulls up the corner of his lips.

“Hold the motherfucking phone,” Pidge says, with the air of someone who has just discovered that Santa isn’t real. “Are you two dating?”

“How many stupid things are you going to ask us today?” Lance asks, squinting at her. “We’ve been together for months!”

“No the fuck you haven’t!” Hunk squeaks. “I would have known!”

It’s Keith who looks confused, now. “I tell you how much I want to marry Lance like, every day, dude.”

“I thought you were just pining!”

“Who the hell pines that badly without doing anything?!”

“I dunno! You!”

“No way! That would be humiliating!”

“You’re humiliating!”

“That family is a mess,” Lance says with great fondness. “I love it here.”

“I love all of you so much,” Shiro wails, blowing his nose. “I’m so proud of you.”

Keith sighs, reaching over blindly to pat Shiro on the leg. “There, there, you big baby.”

“I heard Shiro sobbing and came as quickly as I could,” comes a new voice. Allura pokes her head into the room, hair half-braided and sticking up everywhere (but somehow still looking more elegant than anyone else in the room). She blinks as she takes in the room at large. Then she sighs, stepping into the room fully to give them all her patented Oldest Sibling Look Of Judgement, pinching the bridge of her nose and everything. “Why is it that whenever I leave you humans alone for more than one hour, I come back to chaos? And, Lance, I swear on the entropy of the universe that every time I see you, you are inches away from another man’s face. Usually Keith’s. Why are you like this?”

Hunk answers for the human population. “Human’s natural inclination for drama and conflict?”

Lance answers for himself. “Whore tendencies?”

Pidge, still incredulous, does not answer at all. “Did you know Keith and Lance are dating?”

To her credit, Allura accepts the subject change with grace. For all her grumbling, she has learnt to handle humans very well. “Obviously. They can’t take their hands off each other.”

“Maybe I’m secretly a dumbass,” Pidge says to no one, bewildered.

“Quite possibly,” Lance agrees, because there’s a fair amount of distance between him and Pidge and he’s closer to the door, so he can’t get mauled. Plus, she’s distracted, and if things get messy he can always sacrifice Keith.

“Shiro, darling, pull yourself together.” Allura has a gentle hand on his back, looking at him in concern. “You are going to dehydrate yourself.”

“I’m trying,” Shiro says, still a little teary, “but Keith’s growing up. I’m emotional.”

Allura does her best to hide a smile. “I see.”

“I’m twenty goddamn years old,” Keith grumbles. “Stop being surprised that I’m grown up.”

“Let him be,” Allura scolds. “I’m sure when you and Lance have a child you will be much worse than Shiro.”

At the mention of his and Lance’s hypothetical future child, Keith begins sniffle.

“No way,” Hunk says. He and Pidge stare at Keith with wide eyes.

Keith’s face crumples, and then he’s crying just as much as Shiro (who started up again when Keith teared up). “It’s just — you and me — one day we’re gonna —”

“Aw, babe,” Lance coos, grinning. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

Keith does, getting much louder than Shiro, as Lance hugs him tightly and rubs gentle hands on his back.

“We’re gonna be family,” Keith wails.

Lance kisses his temple. “We already are, sweetheart.”

Keith cries harder.

“Damn,” Pidge mutters. “He really is the loudest crier in the world.”

#this is so stupid abahabahab 💀💀 #like there’s zero plot just banter. exactly how i like it #lance #lance mcclain #keith #keith kogane #pidge #pidge holt #shiro #takashi shirogane #hunk #hunk garrett #allura #princess allura #broganes #dorky shiro #dorky keith #klance #established klance #voltron #vld #teasing #my writing #fic

[solkimcowell]

Indigo Cheese Melt

Wrangle Hall is haunted at night. Or, not haunted, but close to it — half drunk ghosts wandering up and down, first year banshees gripping scuffed heels in one hand and gently smoking joints in the other. I didn’t work my ass off to get here just to throw it away on late nights and socials, but my roommate — her name is Cherry, after the icecream flavour from Baskin Robbins, and emphatically not the one from Ben & Jerry’s — seems to think it’s a great idea to spend all her time with her new boyfriend, which results in me being exiled more than I’d like.

I’ve told her about a million and one times that he’s only in it because he’s got a terminal case of yellow fever, but I think she’s still flying high on the thrill of being wanted. I’m just waiting for her to be replaced by a fresher with double lids so I can perform the ritual of talking her out of plastic surgery yet again.

Until then, I’m forced to stalk the hallways on my own. It’s fine, I was planning on an all-nighter anyway; essays don’t write themselves, but now I’ll be forced to do it sitting in the kitchen instead of the comfort of my own room. Which is okay. It really, really is.

I shoulder the door to the kitchen open roughly, headphones pumping Placebo into my ears, and am immediately greeted by a crowd of people bustling their way out. High, horselike laughter from a white guy with awful teeth pierces my skull and I plaster myself against the wall, because this is exactly why it’s not okay. But Cherry’s been tolerable, so I need to tolerate. An anorexic elbow knocks my binder free from my clawed grip and suddenly my notes are everywhere, all over the floor. Of course, the ghosts barely acknowledge that — they seldom have time for the living — and are swept away by the midnight airs, so I stumble to my knees and start to clean up.

“Need help with that?”

God, I jump about twenty feet into the air. I thought the kitchen was empty, but judging by the blue smile of the girl perched on the counter, I was sorely mistaken. Literally blue, as well; she’s eating some sort of sandwich that’s staining her fingertips purple, like bruises. Even if she’s trying to be nice, which the ghosts never are, I don’t want purple notes, so I do this twitchy motion that usually gets people to shut up.

It doesn’t work. She hops off the counter and shuffles over, squatting in front of me with one wrinkled boot cleanly situated on top of one of my pages.

“Never seen you around before,” she says, clearly prompting. When I don’t respond, she holds out one purpled hand and smiles wider. She introduces herself, but ghosts don’t have names, so I don’t bother paying attention.

I forgo the handshake. “I’ve got a paper due on Monday, so if you could…”

Up close, she’s got very pale blue eyes. I thought they were grey, from a distance, but I realise now that they’re more like a pair of mackerel sky marbles. Her pupils are big and dark, a stark contrast to her stringy white blonde hair, which seems to be her natural colour given that her eyebrows are nonexistent. She kind of reminds me of my pet cat back home, the way her eyes blow big and wide when she’s in hunting mode.

“Yeah, sure, dude.” Her teeth are pointy, little needles. She takes another bite of her weird purple sandwich and gets up. “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

Talking is tiring, so I just finish collecting the scattered sheets of paper and make my way to the corner seat, which is the only place I feel sane in this hellscape. My back has to be against a wall, preferably two, or I can’t concentrate because I’m too busy glancing over my shoulder. It very quickly becomes apparent that this girl is incapable of being quiet, but not because she’s making any noise in particular; no, her presence is insufferably loud. Cherry would have pulled some four letter acronym out of her ass — some MBTI drivel — if she were here. But she’s not.

I can’t stop noticing this girl — this ghost, and it’s severely interfering with the sanctity of my workflow. I don’t care about the ghosts. That’s why they’re ghosts to begin with. And I don’t care about her, but I don’t… not care. I’m not apathetic, is what I mean, and that’s already a step too far.

It’s then that the toaster pings. Shattered focus. I can’t do this, not here, not with her taking up all this space, not with this infernal toaster—

“Want one?”

A deep sigh. I shut my laptop with the restrained force of my very pent up frustration, and find myself turning to the girl and pushing my glasses up my nose reflexively. Nervous habit, my mother says, inherited from my dad. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that right now.

Nevertheless, I peer over at the freshly made sandwich in her hand. It’s messy, purple-blue goop dripping onto her hand, and the distinct pungency of mature cheddar radiates from it like a warning. Ordinarily, I would have declined. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have deigned to acknowledge her presence to begin with. This is not an ordinary night.

“What… is it?” I venture tentatively, clearing my throat awkwardly when my voice comes out hoarse. This seems to be the right thing to say, however, because she responds with a grin and slides into the seat next to me, her former perch on the counter abandoned.

“So glad you asked! It’s an Indigo Cheese Melt.” She says it like a proper noun, like it’s a landmark or the name of a person or an indie band. Indigo Cheese Melt, The Band! Her response doesn’t really answer my question.

“Okay. Okay,” I sigh again, just as deeply. And then, steeling myself, I say, “Hand it over.”

I’m expecting her to give me the new one, hot from the toaster, but she passes over the one she’s been munching on since before I entered the kitchen. Or, not really — she just holds it out in my direction, as if I’m going to eat out of her hand like an animal. And, really, this night is already so many things that I do not do, ever, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to stop.

I don’t do mystery food. Every time I go to a restaurant, I order the same thing. Every time I cook a meal, I have to measure out the ingredients with teaspoons or I’ll go crazy. I don’t share food, not even with Cherry. I can’t bring myself to share a straw, let alone a whole sandwich, with my own family. And I absolutely do not ever get this close to the ghosts.

Somehow, I find myself leaning forward and taking a bite.

Immediately, flavour bursts on my tongue. The goop is some kind of sweet and sour jam, I realise, and it has such a strong taste that it really doesn’t have any business being anywhere near something as powerful as cheddar. I don’t have words to describe how it tastes, though — in all the millions of years of humanity, this girl has created a completely new flavour. I didn’t think it was possible. I mean, look how batshit crazy the western culinary world went when they discovered that umami was a thing. I think this would break Gordon Ramsay’s mind like an eldritch horror in an H. P. Lovecraft book.

The filling oozes out between her fingers. It should be disgusting, but it’s not — in fact, some weird part of me is tempted to lick it off her hand. I don’t, of course, because I may be making some exceptions tonight, but I’m not insane.

Then, quietly, like a whisper: “Good?”

Suddenly, a thought comes to me unbidden. I wish I were having this strange, inexplicable moment with someone else. I wish I weren’t eating this enigma of a sandwich with a stranger whose name I don’t even know. Most of all, I wish Cherry’s asshole boyfriend would leave so I could go back upstairs and—

Too far. I shove my glasses up against my nose again, partly because they’re slipping and partly because I can feel myself shaking a little, the way I usually do before I start to cry. Usually, I don’t care what the ghosts witness, because they don’t care.  Another thought comes to me: I don’t want her to see me cry.

I stand abruptly, gathering my things. She’s a little confused, but I’m too in my head to hear much apart from her asking if I’m okay, and that withered lonely soul within me for once doesn’t cry out in protest when I pull away. Everything’s blurry, after that: me mumbling something dismissive, me shoving everything back into my binder out of order, me fumbling with my laptop until it fits inside my too full backpack.

As I stumble out of the kitchen, heavy door swinging, I find myself wishing I had bothered paying attention to her name. Cherry’s not in our room when I get back, but her things lie strewn across both of our beds. The space is lived in — no, I’m lived in. I try to hate that she lives in me. The next day, after I’ve lulled myself to sleep on pills, I open my binder and see a crisp footprint on the first page — the only proof that anything happened that night at all.

[ Published in Powders Press, January 2023 ]

#skcwrites #fiction