#hozier inspired fic

[mika-writes-fanfics]

As It Was

Dabi x Reader Angst

Warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, brief mentions of burns, major character death, pre-established relationship, reader cares for flowers

Synopsis: Dabi returns to you after completing his life's mission, his body now badly burned and damaged. He wonders, will you accept him with open arms? Will you take what is left of him?

Author's note: I've been on a Hozier binge. "As It Was" from Wasteland, Baby! was giving me major Dabi vibes. This is kind of different from the content I usually like to write and read, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it. Word count: 1.1K

He’s now thankful your home is on the outer reaches of the city, tucked in a secluded pocket between the border of the forest and the concrete hell of the city. After what he’s done, there’s not a person in Japan that wouldn’t recognize his face. Had you not lived in the middle of nowhere, he’d already be arrested by some weak police officer or jumped by some rookie hero. 

It’s ironic, the thinks, that his opinion has changed. He hated it, at one point. You lived so far away from his shitty apartment at the time, meaning that every time he wanted to see you, he had to take the agonizingly long train rides. It was like you lived in a fucking retirement community since all the elderly would take the same train, giving him judgemental stares all the while. It pissed him off to no end. And if that wasn’t enough, being in the forest always reminded him of Sekoto. 

But still, he bore it all for you, back before he let his rage consume him. 

Before he devoted himself entirely to revenge. 

Before he started burning himself all over again. 

Before he fucked it all up.

Despite the way he left you, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to him to accept his return, to not instantly slam the door in his face.

If he even makes it to your doorstep, that is.

Each step he takes feels like a battle between life and death. These heavy and labored movements exhaust him, made worse by the state your driveway is in. Of all the days for it to rain, it just had to be today. The torrential downpours make the path harder to traverse. Mud clings to his boots with every trudging step he takes, threatening to suck him into the earth, burying him at his final resting place. 

The puddles of water settling in the tire tracks of your car show him grim reminders of his appearance, showing him glimpses of just how ghastly he’s become.

He’s a burnt husk of what he once was.

Nothing is left of him now that he's achieved his life’s purpose. 

The only thing that remains of him is this homing instinct to return to you.

To go back to the start. 

To give you what’s left of him.

To feel his final sensation of comfort.

To feel loved again.

He’s faced with the reality of how long it’s been when he finally catches sight of your home. In the year he was by your side, he never saw those Foxgloves bloom once, as he met you in the late summer. But now, judging by the towering violet, bell-shaped flowers framing the sides of your window, it’s been three years.

It’s in this moment that his mind replays the memory of the following summer, the one in which he noticed you agonizing over the flowerless plant beds. He remembers it, with surprising clarity amongst the mental fog. 

“Why do you bother taking care of those stupid flowers if they never fucking bloom?” He asked you, critically. 

“They’re foxgloves,” you answered. 

“So?”

“So, they do bloom, just biennially, and their flowering season just passed. You’ll see why I keep ‘em around in another year,” you explained.

The fact you even implied he’d still be in your life a year from then filled him with a sense of security. Whether you meant it or not, he took it as a promise, and kept it tucked in the darker reaches of his heart. 

Three long years have passed since he left you, since he abandoned you without a word. But he has known you have a patient side to you, he’s seen it in the way you always gave him space in his darkest days, how you allowed him the time to come back to you when he was ready, how you never took his frustrating habit of pushing you away to heart, weathering his toxicity with love and carefulness. Maybe, since you’re so patient, you have been waiting for him. If you welcomed those flowers despite their long absence, maybe you’d accept him, too. 

Normally, he’d sneer at the thought of you turning him into such a hopeless romantic, a weaker version of himself, but considering how there’s nothing left of him anyways, he’s fine with the idea. Maybe the positivity you give him would turn him into something beautiful again. 

He finally climbs up to your doorstep and stumbles against the door. When his shaky and weak hands turn the knob, expecting to be met with a locked door, it turns easily without resistance. Your door is unlocked, which in his state of hopeful delusion, he interprets as you waiting for him.

Maybe you knew he would come back.

You had made it easy for him to crawl back into your life.

Or maybe you just forgot to lock it. 

He swings open the door as he leans against the door frame. Any other time, the sound of the groaning hinges would grate at his ears, but right now, the sound feels familiar and comforting. It feels like nothing has changed, everything is as it once was.

He trudges deeper into your home, shambling past your living room and tracking mud all over your floors. There’s a pit of anxiety forming in his stomach the longer he walks through your home without seeing a glimpse of you. But it’s when he approaches the kitchen that he hears you humming, the sound calming his mind. 

His boots thud on your tiled floor, loud, and uneven. He sways as he walks, bumping into one of your dining chairs, the movement scraping the chair against the floor. Your humming abruptly cuts off at the sound and you turn to the source, on high alert, only to see him propping himself up against the walls.

A sharp gasp escapes your lungs. 

All he can see is you as the edges of his vision grey out. Against your better judgment, you rush over to him as his legs start buckling underneath him.  

He starts to collapse on the spot. You close the distance and open your arms around him, catching his fall and attempting to bear the brunt of his weight. 

Despite what he’s done, despite how he left you so suddenly, he can still feel your love for him.

It’s in the way you try to make sure he doesn’t fall, despite tripping being the least concern to him given his injuries.

It’s how your voice sounds frantic as you ask him if he’s okay if he can hear you, if he’s still in there.

It’s how you start to sob at seeing the state he’s in. 

You’re so worried about getting him to lie on the ground safely and checking his pulse that you fail to see him softly smiling at how you fuss over him, what’s left of his burnt face forcing out a peaceful expression. 

The last thing he hears, the last thing he feels, the last thing he thinks about, is you.

#dabi angst #dabi fanfic #dabi x reader #dabi x reader angst #major character death #Major character injury #tw: mentions of burns #tw: death #hozier inspired fic #dabi x y/n #dabi x you #bnha dabi #mha dabi #dabi #reader insert #gender neutral reader #no pronouns mentioned for reader #dabi x gender neutral reader

[jackshiccup]

if i could hold you for a minute darling, i'd go through it again

inspired by chapter 42 of OTNWAS by @jjackfrost

#of the northmost wind and skies #otnwas #hijack #frostcup #jack frost #jackson overland #hiccup haddock #jackshiccup art #my art #hozier lyrics and hijack YOOO TURN THIS SHIT UP !!!!!!!! #every1 pls listen to francesca it's literally so them it hurts #i've been having that song on repeat while i bite my fist and cry #like i gotta be honest besties i rly can't read this ch without wanting to burst out into tears every 7 minutes it stings fr #this is also inspired by the lobster movie posters they slap u guys should check it out #anyway been wanting to make fanart for this fic for ages ;; <3!!

[tickle-bugs]

But You Were Mine

Summary: Still hung up on the fit of Bruce’s body against his, Clark attempts the oldest possible ritual: getting to know his pseudo-sweetheart. Too bad Bruce Wayne is the most unknowable man on Earth. Sequel to Chase the Memory of it Still.

Yet again, blame @fickle-tiction for this. Doing a midnight post and run so I don’t have to look at this in the morning lol. Also warning for mild barely even lukewarm makeouts. Probably tamer than Part 1 lol. 

Also also: the beginning scene with Clark and Lois works best if you imagine that Lois doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman but suspects him, all while thinking Clark doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman. So she’s trying to protect him from being lied to and Clark is like ‘but Lois I love him’

“Clark Joseph Kent, you’re a grade-A idiot.” Lois thwaps the back of his head with a rolled-up newspaper. 

“I know,” Clark groans into the surface of Lois’s desk. She thwaps him again. 

“So, let me get this straight.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You somehow conned your way into a fake relationship with Bruce Wayne of all people, and now you have feelings for him?” 

“I’ve always had feelings for him,” He mumbles, suddenly feeling very small in his seat. When he looks up at her, she’s glaring at him. Ah, he’s in trouble. 

“You don’t know him.” She spreads her hands on the surface of her desk, knocking aside a few Daily Planet pens. He picks them up and puts them back. 

“Yes I do.” Clark frowns. 

“He’s an airhead playboy with zero priorities. You deserve someone who’ll be honest—“

“Oh? Like Selina?” 

Lois gets very quiet. Her stare pierces like a fine needle through his throat. A few battered emotions flicker over her face, leaving in their wake a rare and unguarded Lois. Then, quicker than the cat that stole her heart, her face resigns into something sharp and deadly. 

“I’m sorry.” He circles the desk and pulls her into a hug. After a begrudging glare, she tips her head into his chest. They inhale and exhale together—a routine they’ve shared for years. She relaxes into him.

“No, you’re right.” She chuckles. “I fell for a thief. That’s on me.” 

“And I spent the night with the one guy I shouldn’t have. We can’t all be perfect.” Clark elbows her, looking for a smile. Lois’s eyes blow wide and she starts spluttering. 

“You hooked up with him?” She thankfully keeps to a hissing whisper, but he can tell she wants to shout. He contemplates flying around the Earth fast enough to undo the moment, but she’s gripping his shirt tight enough to stop him.

“Well, okay, we kissed a bunch but it didn’t go further—“ 

“Oh god, we’re both hopeless.” She groans into her hands.

“No, not hopeless. We can both have what we want. I’ll call Bruce if, and only if, you call Selina.” He pulls her hands away from her face. She huffs and smiles. 

“This optimism thing is going to bite you in the ass. How do you think you’re gonna maintain a relationship with someone who doesn’t know that you, uh, work two jobs?” She casts a weary glance towards the office door and drops her voice even lower.

“He gets me, Lois.” It’s all he can say. It’s the truth. 

“Alright.” She brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Then get to know him at least. Find out if he’s the kind of guy worth being around.”

“I know he's worth it. That’s not ever in question.” Clark can’t help but smile a little as he thinks of Bruce. “It’s an internal thing. He sees me. I see him. We don’t have to pretend with each other. It’s…just us.”

Her keen eyes scan every inch of his face, even as he trails off.

“You should tell him.” She squeezes his arm. 

“What? No. Absolutely not. I only said that because I know you won’t call her. C’mon, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason here.” He squints at her. She flicks him in the forehead. 

“Okay, well the ‘voice of reason’ thinks you should say something before you lose this…somehow healthy-sounding relationship you have. With Bruce Wayne, of all people,” She mutters that last part, but Clark both hears and ignores it. 

“We’re friends and it’s good. Really good. He trusts me at least a little. I don’t want him to think I have ulterior motives. If I could read him at all, figure out what he wants…but I can’t. I can’t lose him.” 

“This isn’t the healthiest advice, but…start a list. Treat him like a case. What are some things that draw you to him? Things he hides? Things he shows only to you? If it makes you do that dopey giggle thing you do, he’s probably worth it.” She leans against the edge of her desk and crosses her arm. 

“I don’t do a giggle…thing,” he mumbles, but his face is already heating up an incriminating amount. 

“It’s cute. He’ll probably like it.” She tweaks his nose. He swats her hand away, but his spirits are far lighter.  

His phone buzzes and he checks it as discreetly as possible. 

B: Free this afternoon?

Clark smiles. 

C: On my way. :)

“I’ve gotta go.” He stands and shrugs on his suit jacket. 

“Boyfriend awaits?” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

“Bye, Lois.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Tell him I’d love to do an exclusive with him.” She snickers. 

“I’ll tell him that when you call Selina.” He smirks. She gasps her way into laughter, her face blooming pink. Her hand comes up to play with a diamond necklace sitting on her collarbone--a cat-shaped pendant he’s never seen her wear before--and shakes her head fondly. 

“I will after you kiss your playboy. Again.” She raises her eyebrow. Checkmate. 

“Bye, Lois,” He says a little louder. She playfully shoos him from her office. He kisses her cheek.

Clark can only smile when he hears her phone ringing and the faint “Hey, kitty” through the glass. 

….

It’s apt that Gotham is as dark and segmented as its protector, Clark thinks, because he’s never in his life met anyone as fragmented as Bruce Wayne. Everyone in the League is broken in some way, battered by traumas that still threaten to crush them, but Bruce is markedly...different. He covers the cracks in his soul with masks. For every unveiling, six more facades lay below it. 

The reporter in him finds a dark fascination with it. The lost Kryptonian in him finds it…depressing. The human in him is currently bouncing on his heels in the lobby of Wayne Tower until Bruce finally meets him downstairs. 

Bruce glides off of one of the elevators and nods at a few hushed executives who scurry in behind him. He must come off so effortless to them—not a hair out of place, a new suit and coat every day, but Clark can see the exhaustion clouding his eyes. Bruce Wayne is put together. Bruce is tired. 

“You seem eager.” Bruce gives him a practiced small smile as they fall into step. 

“I’m having the slowest of slow days. This was a much needed adventure.” Clark stretches his spine. It gives a loud, much needed crack. He’s just a little too big for his chair at the Planet and it’s starting to take its toll. 

“We’re just walking down the street,” Bruce chuckles. He bumps the doors to the building open and Clark darts out. A light flurry of snow twirls through the air as they start their walk. He catches a snowflake on his tongue before he can think better of it. Bruce’s smile grows a little wider. 

“So? Every trip away from my desk is an adventure. C’mon, I know a spot.” Clark nods to the side and they hang a left, passing under a train overpass. 

“You know a spot in Gotham?” Bruce raises a brow. 

“I get around.” Clark grins. 

………………………………………………………………………………………….

They end up at a patisserie on the East side, a small family-run shop that deserves far more business than it gets. Clark can smell the wonders within from a good mile away.

Months ago, when he was helping Lois write a scathing exposé on Wayne Enterprises, this spot had served him well. Nothing better than a building full of sweets and a decent wifi connection to get you through betraying a good friend. Shredding that article was easily the best decision of Clark’s life, especially since Lois’s pivot towards flaying Lexcorp alive won her an award. 

He buys them both coffee—black for Bruce, vanilla for himself—and sets about the intricate ritual of sweetening his coffee to perfection. This is normalcy. Normalcy is good. 

“This is the only part of Gotham I like.” Clark steals little peeks at Bruce, waiting for him to inevitably make fun of him, but his eyes are elsewhere.

A refrigerated display tower of macarons stands proudly next to the register, boasting all sorts of delicious surprises. The splash of color is welcome among the somewhat dreary day outside. 

“Hm?” Bruce’s gaze struggles to find its way back to Clark. 

“You seem distracted.” Clark pops the stirring straw into his mouth and pulls the remaining coffee out with a little slurp. He pops the lid onto his cup much slower than necessary. The first time you crush a cup of boiling liquid in public tends to change you, after all. He’s grown since then. 

“Heavy work day.” For a man so difficult to read, Bruce has never clearly been more full of shit. He doesn’t even try to look away from the cookie display. 

“Do you…want a macaron?” Clark doesn’t bother trying to stifle his amusement. 

“What? No.” Bruce withdraws slightly. 

“What’s your favorite? My treat.” Clark jerks a thumb towards the display. 

“Money isn’t the problem.” Bruce scoffs, but not unkindly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Clark tries to ignore the still-fading lovebite on Bruce’s neck that he left. 

“Then what is?” Clark leans forward on his elbows. Surprise flickers across Bruce’s face for the slightest of moments. 

“…I’ve never had one,” Bruce mumbles, shuffling a bit in his seat. Clark beams. 

“First time for everything. C’mon.” Clark vigorously beckons him over to the line. Bruce trails behind with an endearing awkwardness that he’s learned to identify: slow steps, shifty eyes, and silence. 

Clark takes his time to point out his favorite flavors and make a few recommendations, but he feels like he’s stumbling around in the dark. His sweet tooth is only rivaled by Diana’s—even then, their tastes match so closely that he’s a little lost with someone like Bruce. 

Bruce stares deeply at him. Clark’s rambling stutters to a halt. He pulls on his collar a bit. Adjusts his glasses. 

Bruce’s eyes seem so warm. Must be the light. 

“If today was my last day to live and you had to give me a macaron, what would you choose?” Bruce leans close. His eyes are on the display, thank god, because Clark doesn’t know that he can handle more of that eye contact right about now. 

“It amazes me that you’re so committed to the dark and brooding thing.” Clark rolls his eyes, and after some thought: “Raspberry.” 

“Hm. Okay.” And that’s that. Bruce orders quickly and walks away with his prize, leaving Clark to scramble after him. They sit back down in their quiet little corner, the naturally-frosted window fogging slightly at their presence. 

Bruce opens his box of macarons clinically, like he’s stripping it for parts. He takes one out and admires the color, gives it a little test squish, sniffs it. Clark watches the process with vested interest until Bruce pulls out another box and slides it towards him. 

“What’s this?” Clark pulls the box close. 

“Strawberry Cheesecake macarons. I saw you eyeing them when we came in.” Bruce pokes the box again, sliding them just a little more forward. 

“I’m not subtle, am I?” Clark pushes his glasses up again. He cracks the box open and pops a cookie in his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut and he does a little dance in his chair. 

“It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” Bruce quirks a small, smug smile. 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark fake sniffles. The resulting eyeroll is incredibly satisfying. 

Bruce takes a mouse-like nibble of the macaron, catching maybe an atom of cookie and filling between his teeth. He chews thoughtfully. 

“So? Do we have a winner?” Clark rests his chin on his hand. 

“I think so. You have good taste,” Bruce hums, taking another tentative bite of the macaron. A gentle, genuine smile peaks on his lips like a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds. 

“That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark swipes a macaron from Bruce’s box fast enough to send a small breeze fluttering between them. 

“And it will never happen again.” Bruce peeks open one eye as he finishes his macaron. 

Okay, bumping shredding that Wayne Enterprises article down to number two. This, Clark thinks, watching Bruce smile to himself, this is easily top of the list. 

1 ) He likes raspberries. 

It takes later in the week until they have a moment to truly spend a bit of time together. Criminal roundups never leave much personal time, and Clark’s hearing has him near-constantly running to save lives. But, on a quiet Wednesday night, he has a moment. 

He loves visiting Wayne Manor. It’s been a while since he last swung by, but he adores the place. He could spend hours swooning over the architecture alone. It’s a beautiful place to disappear for a while, and he’s been doing that more and more lately. 

He gets buzzed into the gates easy enough with a lie about taking the bus, and then he’s standing in the massive foyer and hanging up his coat by the door. The manor smells of old wood and citrus. Clark draws in a big breath of it. 

He turns and jumps a bit when a flock of people are suddenly staring at him atop the stairs. Bruce’s kids, right. He knows Dick, Tim, and Jason. The others are still a bit fuzzy to him. They all leer from the landing like royalty watching a gladiator in the pit. 

“Hey there.” He waves at the smallest and angriest of the bunch. This is Damien, he’s pretty sure.

“So you’re the new guy.” A blonde—Steph, he remembers her from the Christmas card—leans on the railing with her forearms. 

“I wouldn’t mess with him, Steph. He’s tougher than he looks,” Dick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, trying his best to be subtle. Clark gives him a friendly wave. He returns it. 

“He looks like he wears a pocket protector. I could take him,” Steph whispers to Dick. Clark tries to rein in his expression so he doesn’t give himself away. 

“I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Clark. You’re all Bruce’s kids, right? It’s nice to meet you.” He tries to make himself look as friendly as possible. He gets a few waves, but mostly owlish stares. He sees where they get it from. 

“Is your father home?” Clark sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to kill the silence. 

“Bruce! Your boyfriend’s here!” Jason bellows. Clark bites his lip to hide his smile. 

“Clark?” Bruce peeks around the corner, then shuffles quickly down the stairs. 

“Hey. I, uh, had a few minutes. Just came by to see you before I went home.” Clark rubs the back of his neck with a smile, trying to kill the flutter in his chest. 

“Bruce, say something,” Tim hisses, crouching behind the banister as if Clark can’t see him. Bruce startles, glares at him, and then gestures for Clark to follow him. As they pass, all of the kids watch him go, whispering in a building flurry that he doesn’t bother dissecting. He tells himself it’s because they deserve their privacy, but really…he’s nervous. Severely. 

“I hope they didn’t make you uncomfortable. They can be a bit…eager.” Bruce’s smile is warm beneath the lights of the old manor. 

“They’re wonderful. Terrifying, but wonderful.” Clark chuckles and bumps their shoulders together while they walk. 

It’s these precious minutes that define their friendship more than anything. Clark tells Bruce all about his day, about his Lex Luthor exposé making the front page, about everything and nothing at all. He talks and Bruce listens, egging him on with gentle tilts of the head when he shyly falls into silence.

By the time they reach the gardens, it’s Clark’s turn to listen. Bruce tells him about the kids, occasionally stopping whenever he notices one lurking. He asks for his opinion on random scenarios. Clark can’t tell if they’re hypotheticals but he answers as truthfully as he can, chasing the little noises of appreciation that Bruce makes as he talks. 

Not only are Bruce’s masks interchangeable, taking him from Bruce to Batman to Bruce Wayne, they’re also removable. Clark doesn’t know when he was bestowed with the honor of being with Just Bruce, but he’s immensely grateful for it.  

“Good evening, Mr. Kent.” Alfred nods respectfully in his direction. “Master Bruce, you have a call from Mr. Fox. Line three, sir.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce squeezes Clark’s shoulder. “You can wait here, if you’d like.” 

“Am I allowed to touch anything?” Clark teases.

“Anything you want.” Bruce winks at him, completely straight-faced, and disappears into the corridors of the manor. Clark’s face grows embarrassingly hot and he reclines against the lip of the fountain. 

He birdwatches as he waits, counting which of Bruce’s kids make normal, completely non-suspicious trips through his personal space. Dick’s the least sneaky of the bunch, but it lends him a genuine quality. He sits and chats with Clark for a few minutes, asking him about work and the like. He asks about his relationship with Bruce and Clark mumbles something non-committal, cheeks warm. 

Bruce, uh, never put out that statement about them breaking up. Clark thinks he might be alright if it never gets published. 

As the hours draw on, he catalogs where the other Robins like to hide. Tim and Damien have an affinity for hiding in the massive hedges surrounding the gardens, while Steph takes to watching from the windows. Cass is the hardest to spot but he catches her on the roof a few times, perched and enjoying the warm dusk breeze. He sees Jason with her once too.

If he’s learned anything from their father, it’s that staring is caring. Probably.

When Alfred fetches him hours later, he arrives at a scene he wants to burn permanently into his memory. 

Bruce is seated at the beautiful. obnoxiously long table in the dining room. He’s got a knee hiked up on the chair, picking idly at the fabric of his pants. On the table, a black kitten rolls around and bats at a toy. It’s sweet and oddly domestic. 

“Hey.” Bruce doesn’t turn. 

“Hi. Who’s this?” Clark holds a hand out to the kitten and it drops its paw on top of his palm, mewing softly. The squeaky, deflating noise that leaves him is not one he’s proud of. It’s so sweet and small. 

“Nyx. She’s a stray. I give her food when I can.” Bruce scratches her head gently. Nyx purrs and lays down on the table, tucking her head into the attention. She’s a precious baby, is what she is. Clark has half a mind to take her home. 

That is, until Bruce sneezes loud enough to send poor Nyx running. She flings herself off the table and into one of the manor’s seemingly endless corridors. 

“Bless you.” Clark chuckles. Bruce pulls a face. 

“Master Bruce.” Alfred hands him a box of tissues. 

“I can hear you laughing, Alfred,” he sniffles, hair a bit ruffled from the sneeze. Clark purposefully averts his eyes. 

“I would never, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Kent.” Alfred bows his head, sharing that mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Goodnight, Alfred.” Clark grins, settling into the oversized chair beside Bruce. 

2 ) He’s got a cat allergy, but he feeds the strays anyway. Bruce = cat person?

“Stop it.” Hearing the Batman voice and knowing it’s mostly because Bruce is annoyed is truly golden. 

“Stop what?” Clark floats leisurely alongside Bruce, arms behind his head. Keeping pace with him isn’t hard--he’s fast for human standards, but not by Clark’s. He’s made it a habit anyways not to zip too far ahead as they’ve grown closer. It kills the banter. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that if Batman started flying, criminals would absolutely take the week off. If I was a criminal and I thought Batman had suddenly gotten superpowers, I’d simply leave Gotham.” Clark flips upside down and hangs in front of Bruce, still drifting backwards in pace with him. 

He can sense Bruce trying not to smile, but when he opens his mouth to tease, karma speaks instead. Clark smacks his head into the side of a building just as Bruce slips through a narrow space between it and its neighbor. Clark flies up over the building and catches up with Bruce again, scowling. 

“I know you’re laughing.” Clark crosses his arms. 

“Me? Never. Just thinking about how great it is to be grounded.” Bruce allows himself the tiniest of smirks, just enough to be infuriating, and it’s Clark’s turn to roll his eyes. 

3 ) He restrains his emotions. Even the good ones. 

Roaming the Hall of Justice late at night is a cultivated hobby of Clark’s. The best snacks hide in the dark, after all, and he knows that no one’s gonna come bother him about a missing bag of chips at this hour. He needs time to think and food to think with. 

Clark’s feelings for Bruce could both span and fill an ocean. He doesn’t know when this happened. As far as he can remember, there’s always been this beacon of warmth in his chest guiding him to Bruce. Through every late night and early morning, through hopelessness and joy, Bruce is a constant. It’s too much to put on one person. Too risky. 

The ‘l word’ pops into his head like a dark omen, and he skids to a halt. He glances around, listening for any league members skulking around. All he hears is his own thundering heartbeat. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He makes his way into the kitchen past a snoring Arthur, pausing to snatch the jumbo bag of cheese puffs from his limp grasp. He slips quietly out into the hall, passing by the lounge, where Bruce and Diana are laughing—

Clark backpedals, nearly tripping over his own feet, but god it’s worth it. Bruce is clutching Diana’s shoulder and giggling, stuck in the loop of overwhelming laughter that follows an unyielding barrage of jokes. 

They’re still suited up, probably fresh off a patrol, and Clark wonders how long they’ve been sitting here. A mountain of chocolates, the fancy ones, cover the surface of the table. Diana delicately sorts through and plucks the ones she wants from the pile as Bruce watches. 

“Diana’s the new team comedian. None of you are funny.” Bruce recovers from his laughter, but the smile stays, and Clark makes an active effort to be normal about it. The delirium of another late night in a row must have gotten to him. That’s the only explanation. 

“Barry will be devastated.” Clark chuckles. He leans in the doorframe and catches a cheese puff in his mouth. 

“He will survive.” The sparkle in Diana’s eye has him wishing he had tuned into their conversation. 

“If I had known y’all were partying in here, I would’ve come to hang out.” Clark crunches on another cheese puff, mostly to distract himself from the way Bruce’s eyes are sparkling. He didn’t know they could do that. 

“There’s no reason you can’t party with us now.” Diana gestures to the seat next to Bruce. 

Aw, what the hell? Eating junk food together couldn’t be much worse than doing it alone. 

4 ) Bruce can laugh--he just has to be caught off-guard. He likes to laugh (?) (who doesn’t?)

“When you said you needed help, I thought you meant with translating.” Clark wanders into the room. The concrete is irritatingly cold on his feet. 

Bruce types away wildly at a computer station with too many monitors. A pair of giant goggles on his head pull his hair out of his face. Clark leans over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, but the code flying across the screen is a nightmare. 

At the opposite end of the room, a mechanical rig sits primed on a set of rails. In the center, a gnarly looking gun barrel stares out into an empty expanse. 

“I’m trying to test new ammunition for the Batmobile, but my target system is down. Can’t reboot it.” Bruce clicks something else and the gun starts calibrating. A pathetic clicking sound picks up as targets struggle to ascend from the floor, twitching lifelessly in their compartments. 

“Do you want help?”

“With coding?” Bruce turns with an expression just shy of condescending.

“God no. I am bulletproof, if you remember.” Clark sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

“Doesn’t help. I need to study the impacts afterwards.” Bruce gestures to a massive chunk of concrete on a stand nearby. Clark hefts it into his arms with a quiet grunt. 

“Just...keep up with the gun. I prefer my walls without bullet holes.” Bruce quickly turns away from him. Clark can hear his heartbeat pounding. He starts to ask, but the gun rig starts warming up and he sacrifices his curiosity. 

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready.” Clark adjusts his stance to prep for the recoil. The machine whirrs and clicks as it loads itself with rounds. Bruce types in a few things on a nearby control panel and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. 

The gun barrel spins and whines as it gains force. Clark hovers a few inches off the ground and tenses. He lines the concrete up with his chest, his eyes just clearing over top of it. 

The machine fires quicker and lower than he anticipates. 

A sharp zing zips up Clark’s side, then another, then another, and he drops the concrete, instead covering his smile while forcing himself to stay still. That’s certainly not his best idea--no block means no cover, which subsequently means getting pelted with another wave of bullets. 

Clark crumples into a flurry of giggles before he can stop himself. He curls up as much as he can—partly to stop any new onslaughts, mostly to hide his reddening face. He’s been shot more than anything and it’s never bothered him. He didn’t know he could be ticklish to touch, let alone to goddamn bullets. 

“Clark! Are you okay?” Bruce leaps over the gun rig and pulls the safety goggles up onto his head. 

“Y-Yes. I’m fine. Your machine…thing packs a punch.” Clark clears his throat to stop the rogue snickers forming a conga line in his throat. 

“I thought you were supposed to be bulletproof.” Bruce huffs, kicking the pieces of shattered brick out of the way. He swipes at Clark’s torso, probably trying to brush away the dust on him. Clark flinches under the touch and coughs over a laugh. 

“I am. It just…felt…weird.” Clark snatches Bruce’s wrist a little too quickly. Bruce’s brow furrows and he leans close, eyes glued to Clark’s stomach with sheer worry. His face resolves into tense understanding. Clark lets his hand go. 

“What? What?” He tries to catch Bruce’s gaze. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. He feels fine. Nothing pierced. Definitely not bleeding—he learned what that feels like and he hates it. But Bruce has an eye for things that Clark could never dream of noticing, and right now he’s staring like Clark already has a foot in the grave. 

“Can’t believe you fell for that.” Bruce smirks. He pulls Clark close—hello—and kneads unhurried fingers into his stomach. 

No one will ever believe him. Bruce Wayne is tickling him and no one will ever believe him. 

“B-Bruce!” Clark strains out of Bruce’s grip as best as he can, trying not to break any useful bones, but his joints keep turning to jelly. His forehead collides with Bruce’s shoulder and he shimmies rather uselessly. 

“This is very entertaining, in case you were wondering.” Bruce hums and starts pinching up Clark’s sides. His warm breath sends goosebumps flaring over his throat. 

“I wasn’t!” It’s more of a squeak than words. Evil fingers manage to squeeze beneath his arms and Clark jumps directly into the air. 

“Did you just fly away?” A genuine laugh floats out of Bruce, warm and a bit scratchy. Clark wishes he could hear more of that instead of his own dorky laughter ringing in his ears. 

“Not on purpose—shut up!” Clark aims a half-hearted kick at Bruce’s shoulder. His face burns hotter than the sun and he hides in his hands. 

Bruce grabs his ankle and tries to reel him in like a lost balloon. Clark almost falls for it until suddenly calloused hands are scritching along the bottom of his foot. He giggle-snorts. Kryptonite through the chest would be a mercy, at this point. 

A hush falls over the room. Clark dares to peek through his fingers. 

“Oh.” Bruce blinks, then the most wicked grin overtakes his face. “Do that again.” 

“You’re the worst!” Clark pulls his leg towards his body and accidentally takes Bruce with it--who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, by the way. Every time he lowers his leg, Bruce doesn’t let go. 

“I don’t want to drop you!” Clark shrieks as if a bug is crawling on him, rather than a person. 

“Then don’t.” Bruce squeezes his calf and Clark whines his way into a fit of cackles. His body trembles with the effort to not fly directly through the ceiling. The illusion of escape makes it so much worse, especially with Bruce’s fingers worming behind his knee. 

“You coming down or am I gonna have to call the fire department?” Jesus, Bruce has a real talent for smirking out loud. Clark tries to shake him off without throwing him across the room. Bruce digs his fingers into Clark’s thigh like he’s climbing a tree and the resulting yelp has Clark resolving to flee the country. 

“Y-You’re not building a great case as to why I should!” He flinches after a flurry of giggles and slams his head into the ceiling. Plaster and dust rain down on the two of them. Clark tries to cover the crater he left behind with his hands and a bashful smile. 

“Alright, I’m done. I’d like to keep my ceiling in one piece.” Bruce pulls him down to Earth, only letting go when he’s sure that Clark won’t float away again. 

“Ticklish Superman. Who knew?” Bruce scritches beneath Clark’s chin, just like at the gala all those weeks ago, and Clark shoves his chin down with a snort. 

“No one, and I prefer it that way. Keep it quiet.” He can’t muster any severity in his voice and he’s not sure it would help if he could. The thought of Lois finding out--or worse, Diana--starts an inescapable loop of nervous smiles and a light fluttering in his chest. 

“No promises.” Bruce smirks. “I hear Lois wants an exclusive. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

“Don’t you dare. Bruce—“

He dials her office line, jogging towards the stairs. Clark shrieks and chases after him. 

5 ) He’s mischievous. Deathly so. 

…

After a long while of staring at his pitiful little list, Clark still finds himself restless. He has naught more than a skeleton, clinging scraps of Bruce’s infinite depths. The paper isn’t suited to contain him. He might actually know less than before.

Even as Bruce beats the shit out of him, he can’t think of anything else. 

“Why don’t you let anyone get to know you?” Clark frowns at Bruce across the sparring mats. Bruce runs and leaps onto his shoulders, executing a flawless scissor grip. Clark raises his hand to support his back and Bruce swats him away. 

“What?” Bruce grunts, bringing his elbows down onto Clark’s head. He barely notices. 

“You’re always so stoic. You never let anyone see you happy.” Clark flips Bruce off his shoulders and down onto his back. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at him. 

“No, I never let anyone see me vulnerable. There’s a difference.” Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s and takes him down, quickly rolling atop him. Within a second, Bruce unleashes a flurry of blows that, if Clark could feel more than dull impacts, he probably would fear.  

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable in front of your friends, Bruce. That’s what makes them friends, not coworkers.” Clark catches his fists and holds them. 

“I’ll pass along your suggestion. Are you going to fight back or should I go get Diana?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, breathing hard. Clark flips them both and pins Bruce down. 

“I just think—stop wiggling—we should bond more, y’know? Know thy enemy, and all that.” Clark keeps pressing down until Bruce sighs and goes still in his grip. He knows he’s defeated. Smart man. 

“That tends to apply to actual enemies, not coworkers.” Bruce sighs. 

“Well, we’re more than that, aren’t we?” Clark presses, searching Bruce’s eyes. Bruce nods, looking all for the world like he might bolt from the room. 

“Sooo, what’s your favorite color?” When Bruce is silent, Clark rolls his eyes and sits back. “Mine is yellow. Your turn.”

“…lavender.” Bruce eyes him warily. Clark helps him to his feet and they start the cycle again. The minute they stop fighting each other’s rhythm, they find a flawless sync. 

“Nice! Okay, uh…favorite food?” Clark ducks under Bruce’s left hook and shoves him back. 

“Alfred’s chicken noodle.” Bruce kicks Clark across the face and he lets himself go down. He brushes some of the dust off. 

“That sounds nice.” He grins up at Bruce from the mat. The light haloes behind his head so beautifully. 

“Yeah.” Bruce clears his throat. “And you…?” He pulls Clark to his feet and resets his stance. 

“Can’t go wrong with a slice of fresh apple pie.” Clark sweeps forward with a wink. 

Bruce shakes his head and snickers, then punches Clark hard enough in the ribs to crack his own knuckles. 

…

Two sharp knocks on the doorframe announce Bruce before his voice does. Clark looks up from the dull light of his laptop. 

“Got a second?” Bruce leans in the doorframe, cloaked in slight shadow. He’s dressed comfortably, surprisingly, in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that hug him well. It makes Clark wanna pull him close. 

“Always, yeah.” Clark sets his computer aside and sits up. Bruce leans against the edge of his desk and fishes something out of his pocket. 

“Found some intel. I could use a fresh set of eyes on it.” The moon casts loving light across his eyes and jaw.

“Of course.” Clark sits up more. 

“Found this nearby. I was hoping you could decipher it.” Bruce hands over a scrap of folded paper. Clark furrows his brow as he takes it, gingerly opening it up. He casts a curious glance at Bruce before he starts to read.

It’s his notes. His notes on Bruce. Shit.

He looks up slowly, horrified. Bruce smirks in full force, oozing mischief that Clark now knows is very much in character. 

“Normally, I’m not a fan of being watched. Try to avoid it as much as I can.” 

“You’re a hard man to read.” Clark clears his throat and folds the paper down to hide its contents further. 

“Yet it seems you’ve cracked the code,” Bruce hums. Clark catches the faint glimmer of that old playboy spark. Bruce’s lips tilt into a devilish smirk. 

“So, I’m right then? It’s important…for the record.” Clark scoots up against the headboard in an attempt to look casual. Bruce sits at the foot of the bed. Voluntarily. Clark stops breathing.

“I would say that parts are accurate.”

“Parts?” He clears his throat. Bruce snatches the paper from his grip. He starts murmuring as he skims the list. 

“Let’s see…I like raspberries but I’m allergic.”

“You’re what?” The color drains from Clark’s face. Bruce shrugs.

“What else? Oh—I’m a dog person. I have a soft spot for cats.”

“Huh.” 

“I am physically capable of laughter.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Proved that one already.” Clark smiles. Bruce scowls, then turns back to the paper. Clark remembers, in a terrible flash, the looping doodles of ‘Clark Kent-Wayne’ at the bottom of the page and chokes out a strangled scream. 

He disintegrates the paper with a precise blast of heat vision. He feels a little bad for scorching the wall, but not that bad. The evidence is gone. Plausible deniability. 

“Seriously?” He brushes the ash off his hands. 

“I gotta keep my secrets.” Clark shrugs, but his face is incandescent with heat. 

“What about that paper was so bad that it made Superman blush?” Bruce smirks. 

“There is nothing on God’s green earth that you could do to make me tell you.” Clark grins from atop the high ground. 

Bruce plucks his glasses off of his nose and sets them aside, careful not to touch the lenses. It’s a tender gesture for what is essentially a costume, but something in his heart flutters at the delicate care. 

“Are you sure?” He leans close—close enough for Clark to catch a whiff of cologne and the intoxicating sparkle in his eye, close enough for Clark to lean in on instinct, and close enough for Bruce to wrap his hands around Clark’s waist like he’d been wishing he would since that stupid gala. Clark’s lips part. 

“Okay, there might be a couple thi—“ Clark cuts himself off with a squeal, slamming his head into the headboard—the resulting crack speaks to a later promise of duct tape. As Bruce shoves his hands under his arms, Clark’s laughter bowls him over quicker than he can apologize. 

“You are such a kid!” He throws his head back and cackles, curling into the tightest possible ball that his hulking form could take. Bruce leans over him. 

“You have no grounds to call me that. You’re giggling.” Bruce raises an eyebrow, 

“Because you’re t-tickling—” Clark regretfully finishes his sentence with a snort. Bruce lights up and chases the sound, relentlessly working his fingers into the grooves of his ribs. Clark hits his head again--there goes the rest of the headboard. And part of the wall.

Between the buzz of being touched by Bruce and being unused to this kind of touch, Clark melts into a haphazard pile of Superman with embarrassing speed. Bruce manages to work his fingers up further, right into his top rib, and he punches a hole directly into the nightstand, sending the lamp toppling over. Bruce relents then, passively assessing the damage while Clark drags in a deep breath. 

“You really think it’s a good idea to tickle someone who could throw you into the sun?” Clark huffs, wobbling on a smile. Bruce smirks. 

“Never said it was a good idea. Just an alluring one.” 

“You find me alluring? Scandalous, Mr. Wayne.” Clark offers a teasing grin. Bruce’s brow crinkles with concern. He goes from fiddling with Clark’s waist to fiddling with his hands. 

Bruce gets tactile when he’s stressed. Or when something’s on his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Clark asks softly. He scoots just a bit closer. 

“The day after the gala, I had Vicki write up a piece about you and I splitting. Like I promised. It was never published.” 

“I noticed,” Clark says carefully, tracking every detail of Bruce’s face. 

“I asked her not to.” 

“Why?”

“I knew if the article went live, you would stop with the affection and the dates. I know it was only for appearances, but…I really enjoyed it. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I…care about you.” Bruce looks up at him, worry entrenched in the dips of his face. It slips to something resigned and neutral, a blank mask. 

Clark smiles like a lunatic, covering his mouth to hide it. He contains the desperate urge to take a lap around the manor. Months, years, of pining bloom into sweet possibility within him. The weight of guilt sloughs off his shoulders. Bruce likes him. 

“Y’know, for the smartest man in Gotham, you miss quite a lot.” Clark leans in and waits. Bruce’s eyes flick to Clark’s lips, and in a Batman-esque flash of motion, he swoops down and kisses him. Their bodies slot together almost magnetically. Clark flips them over and bears back down, swallowing Bruce’s gasp of surprise in his mouth. 

In an insane way, kissing Bruce is like coming home. 

He flings his arms around Clark’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Clark immediately, greedily, lets his lips travel along Bruce’s pulse point. He chases the memory of the gala, littering desperate bruises along the cologne-tinged skin. His hand lingers at the base of his throat, brushing reverent fingers as he marks every inch available to him. 

Bruce yelps into a giggle, breaking them apart. Clark blinks, processing, then grins with unbridled power. 

“This feels…counter-productive.” Bruce swallows, bobbing Clark’s hand. His skin is hot and red to the touch. 

“Nice try. You already enabled me—that was your first mistake.” Clark tickles him everywhere he can reach, dodging elbows and headbutts. Bruce cackles from his core, stumbling through a few high-pitched syllables of protest as he twists. He works so hard to force his voice back into its usual octave that it cracks. Clark snickers. 

“I am going to kill you,” Bruce growls, reaching back to return the favor. Clark slams his arm down on the mattress, caressing the back of his hand with immovable fingertips. 

“Then this is a wonderful last night on Earth.” Clark nibbles on his earlobe. Bruce’s giggly scream and the ensuing threats on his life are music to Clark’s ears.

#my fics #ticklish!bruce wayne #ticklish!clark kent #bruce wayne #clark kent #superbat #dc #ALRIGHT the lois/selina thing came from somewhere ok bc i know its a teeny ship #tbh im not sure it even exists #but my lois is inspired by lena luthor from the cw supergirl series bc lesbianism + superman makes me happy #but i felt like if lois was into kara (which originally she was) clark would be working around the clock to get them together #which derailed the scene. so i put lois and selina together #wlw mlm solidarity clark and lois both being head over heels for their respective creatures of the night speaks to me #they're besties your honor #sorry this is not what i said i would post next but its what i finished off my pile so #also titles from better love by hozier bc that song is superbat to me

[hoomandoescosplay]

Anyone Else Isn’t You | Jegulus Oneshot

Anyone Else Isn’t You

#fanfic #fanfiction #romance #light angst #angst #jegulus #harry potter #marauders era #marauders #band au #alternate universe #singer James Potter #songwriter Regulus Black #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #james potter x regulus black #oneshot fanfiction #oneshot fic #oneshot #cross posted on ao3 #cross posted on wattpad #hoizer #too sweet hozier #song inspired #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts au

[roxyrondell]

Just wanted to let y’all know that I am trying to get at least some of my OFMD modern au fic published soon. I’m dealing with some issues right now that are taking up quite a few of my spoons. This is on top of my frequent migraines, fibromyalgia, sleep disorders, chronic fatigue, and anxiety issues. I do have a few chapters worth already written but haven’t edited them yet. This would be my first published fanfic so there’s that intense anxiety as well. If you’ve been interested in what I’ve said about my fic I appreciate it. I’ve been listening to Hozier’s “NFWMB” and “Better Love” while writing. So do with that what you will. Crossing my fingers that I can get some of my fic out to y’all soon!

#our flag means death #ofmd fanfiction #chronic illness #anxiety is a bitch #fibromyalgia is a bitch #stede bonnet #edward teach #gentlebeard #ofmd my beloved #my fic writing #hozier #hozier is very inspiring for my writers heart #nfwmb #better love

[happiness-of-the-pursuit]

Inspiration Weekend

Worked way too hard on this for how it came out, lol—y'all have some serious talent. But, here's a mood board (and title reveal) for the birthday fic for @affectionatelyrs! I haven't been able to tease snippets because it's a surprise, so thought I'd share some this way. This is coming to screens near you February 1st :)

I shall return later this afternoon with Sunday Snippet!!!

Thanks for tags from @welcometololaland @affectionatelyrs @getmehighonmagic @cultofsappho @firenati0n @leaves-of-laurelin!!! Y'all's mood boards are so pretty.

Tagging (sorry if you already did this and I missed you) @littlemisskittentoes @inexplicablymine @read-and-write- @myheartalivewrites @14carrotghoul @whimsymanaged @rmd-writes @wordsofhoneydew @nocoastposts @rockyroadkylers @songliili @msmarvelouswinchester @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @daisymae-12 @getmehighonmagic @ssmtskw @matherines and open tag for the people I'm inevitably forgetting!

#red white and royal blue #rwrb fanfic #rwrb fic #firstprince #hozier lyrics as a title #inspiration weekend #moodboard

[noxemma]

(Not) Too Sweet for Me

Word Count: 2,376

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Fluff, Just all the fluff, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Inspired by Taylor Swift, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Scheming Sam Winchester, Idiots in Love, silly and sweet, Sam Winchester is a mastermind, Sam Winchester is So Done with Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Established Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Self-indulgent fluff, No Beta, my only excuse is that this started as an incoherent and semi-delirious text message

Summary: “Dude! How come Cas gets to pick the music?”

“Well, Sammy, he actually helped with dinner, so he gets a say and I happen to like a little Taylor every once in a while.” Dean retorts but he can’t quite meet his brother’s glare.

OR

Dean and Cas are listening to Taylor Swift as they make dinner. Sam complains and is subjected to even more Taylor Swift so he makes them listen to Too Sweet as revenge, although it doesn't have the results he thinks it will (or does it?).

“We’re back!” Sam shouts as he and Eileen make their way toward the bunker kitchen.

“You’re just in time, the burgers are almost done. Hunt went okay? No issues or anything?” Dean raises his voice to be heard over the music playing through the speaker on the counter.

“Yeah, it was just a vengeful spirit. An easy salt and burn cleared it right up.” Eileen answers while Sam rolls his eyes and throws a megawatt bitch face at Dean.

“Taylor Swift? Really, Dean?” Sam groans.

“Hey! The cook is like the driver, which means that I get to pick the music and you get to sit down and shut your cakehole,” Dean waves the knife he’s using to cut tomato menacingly across the metal counter. “Or you can make your own food and I can dump your southwest bean burgers in the trash where they belong.”

Sam turns an indignant face toward Eileen, but she just laughs.

“Sorry, Sam. I actually agree with Dean here. Plus, I like her songs too.” Dean gives her a wink and signs thank you while Sam huffs in frustration and slumps into a seat at the table across from Cas.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m the one who requested Taylor Swift. Jack and Claire have been listening to her a lot recently in preparation for the concert. I didn’t like it at first, but I must admit that some of the songs are very catchy and pleasing to listen to.”

“Dude! How come Cas gets to pick the music?”

“Well, Sammy, he actually helped with dinner, so he gets a say and I happen to like a little Taylor every once in a while.” Dean retorts but he can’t quite meet his brother’s glare.

Sam narrows his eyes, looking between Dean, clearly hard at work in the kitchen, and Cas, clearly just sitting at the table. “Oh yeah? How exactly did Cas help with dinner, ‘cause it looks like he’s just sitting around like the rest of us.”

“Dean, it’s okay. He’s right, I haven't really done anything to help.” Cas gets up and plucks Dean’s phone off the counter to switch the music. Before he can even get in the numbers of Dean’s passcode (222967) the phone is plucked from his hands and deposited into Dean’s pocket.

“He’s my emotional support since you two decided you wanted to go on a hunting date and didn’t invite us.” Dean emphasizes his point by sticking out his tongue. “So, we’re at least going to finish the songs Cas queued or I’ll purposely burn your bean patties, capiche?”

Cas shuffles awkwardly back to his seat.

"Ughhhhh, fine,” Sam groans, dropping his head to the table in resignation.

“Don’t let him fool you. He listens to Taylor Swift with me, and he enjoys it,” Eileen mouths to Dean.

“Oh, I know.” Dean mouths back with a grin and a wink.

After a few more songs, Dean finally tells Sam he can join the jam session and add songs to the queue. Sam thinks for a minute before he starts grinning and typing furiously.

“Hey, hey! Don’t make me revoke your privileges.”

“What? I haven’t done anything.” Sam blinks back at him, the picture of innocence, but Dean can practically hear the yet that Sam didn’t say.

“Uh, huh. Sure. Just for that: Cas you have another request?”

“Oh, uh,” Cas’ eyes dart toward Sam.

“Don’t worry about him, in fact, don't even look at him," Dean tells Cas over exasperated moose noises, "What do you want?”

“Would you mind listening to Shake It Off again?” Cas asks softly and Dean feels his heart melt a little. Cas has already queued that one several times today, but Dean finds that the repetition doesn’t bug him like it normally would, especially not when Cas begins dancing without realizing it.

“Not at all. I like that one too.” Dean knows his words come out too soft; he tries to recover before anyone else can notice, "You feel free to add stuff too, Eileen.”

“Thanks, but I’m actually enjoying your and Cas’ playlist,” Eileen admits, sticking her tongue out at Sam when he lets out a groan.

Sam’s pick begins playing as Dean preps the buns for when the patties get done. It starts out low and slow and folky and he’s sure he’s never heard it before but the singer sounds familiar. Dean sees Eileen and Sam signing back and forth but it’s too fast and beyond his limited ASL knowledge, so he just shrugs it off. He might have skipped the song if he’d known that Eileen was telling his brother You're the worst. You really shouldn’t push them or Sam’s reply It’s for their own good.

“Who sings this?”

“Hozier. It’s new.” Sam answers, giving him a strange look.

“Oh, I didn’t even realize he’d released new stuff.” Dean finds himself thinking it sounds more like Eileen’s taste in music than Sam’s, but it’s not bad. “What’s it called?”

“Too Sweet,” Sam replies casually. Dean’s too busy typing it in to notice the conspiratorial look that Eileen gives Sam.

Then the chorus hits and Dean stills for a moment.

I take my whiskey neat,

My coffee black and my bed …

Dean lets out a huff of laughter when he sees Cas whip his head toward Dean and raise his brow with amusement.

“Ha, same! Do-” Dean starts to jokingly ask Sam if he thinks the song was written about him but the next lyrics steal the words.

You’re too sweet for me,

You’re too sweet for me ...

Dean’s eyes immediately seek out Cas, who is looking right back at him with longing that he quickly tries to hide. Dean’s cheeks heat up and he can’t bring himself to look away even when Cas does.

“Dean! Careful the burgers are gonna burn!”

Sam's shout startles Dean into action and he flips them just in time. He quickly decides to focus entirely on serving up the food and avoiding blue eyes, which works until the middle of the second verse.  

You know you’re bright as the morning,

As soft as the rain,

Pretty as a vine,

As sweet as a grape

Once again, he’s compelled to lock eyes with his angel. His mouth opens to try and make a joke of it, but nothing comes out.

Sam and Eileen share a knowing look and begin signing again; Cas and Dean are too lost in each other’s eyes to notice.

The song ends and the room feels far too heavy for the upbeat sound of Shake It Off.

“So? How’d you like it? I thought it was kind of spot on for you, Dean.” Sam breaks the silence, an odd tone in his voice. He winces as Eileen shoots him a warning look and kicks him under the table. “Only about the whiskey and the coffee though, of course.”

“It, it was … good and the whiskey and coffee part are very me but uh,” Dean takes a shaky breath and stares directly at Cas with a shy smile, “I definitely like things that are probably too sweet for me.” 

Cas’ eyes go wide before dropping to his hands. 

Eileen’s mouth falls open as she looks between Dean and Cas before asking Sam, in sign, if this is actually happening.

Sam, looking equally surprised that his impromptu plot appears to have succeeded, just shrugs at her. No one says anything and another Taylor Swift song begins to play.

Eventually, Sam takes it upon himself to break the silence again. “Well, um, I think Eileen and I are going to work on some ... lore research. We’ll just take our plates to my room ‘cause it's pretty dry stuff and we don’t want to bore you.”

Eileen rolls her eyes at the lame excuse to give Cas and Dean some privacy but goes along anyway and grabs two of the bean burgers Dean has finished assembling.

Dean thinks he hears Eileen call Sam a coward as they exit into the hallway but he’s too hyperaware of Cas still avoiding his gaze to really care all that much. He silently begs the angel to look at him, to give him some glimpse of what is going on in his head. Dean needs something to reassure him that Cas isn’t avoiding looking at him because he is horrified by Dean’s attempt at flirting.

“Whelp I guess it’s just us for dinner then. Typical Sammy to bitch about the music then ditch.” Dean tries to break the tension and pretend he didn’t just flirt with his friend in front of his family. He sets their beef burgers down at the table.

“Thank you. It looks delicious, Dean.” Perpetually chapped lips curve into a small, lovely smile and blue eyes shine up at him. His heart starts pattering in a series of impossible acrobatics like it's going for a gold medal. His breath catches and he knows his face is a few seconds from telegraphing his feelings in bright pink. He quickly retreats back to the fridge to take some deep breaths. “Anyway, uh, you want a beer?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure. That would be nice. Are you ... are you going to have whiskey?” Cas tries to tease, but the words come out gentle. Dean turns and sees the smile falter as Cas mistakes his hope for confusion. Before he can get out even a fake laugh, Cas is shoving his burger into his mouth and averting his gaze.

Dean brings Cas his bottle of beer and sits down next to him. Cas may have started eating the burger as a distraction, but it now looks like he’s genuinely enjoying it. He’s making ridiculous happy little noises and Dean can’t bring himself to say anything that might ruin the moment. He’s about to take a bite of his own burger when Cas finally comes up for air after nearly inhaling three quarters of his burger. Dean's hands stop, his mouth hangs open, and he can’t do anything but stare at where Cas is trying to lick a bit of runaway ketchup off his chin as he reaches for the beer.

Can’t you see that I’m the one who understands you,

Been here all along so why can’t you see,

You belong with me

“You know, I think I really am in the mood for something sweet,” Dean finds himself saying; the words spilling out without his permission.

“Oh, um, I don’t know if we have anything...” Cas’ brow furrows as he tries to think if there are any sweets that might be hidden in the bunker’s pantry or fridge.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to ...” Dean trails off as he leans forward and plants a quick kiss at the corner of Cas’ mouth before he can chicken out. He sits back and begins to quietly panic when Cas simply stares back at him with surprise. When he can’t handle it anymore, Dean tears his gaze away and starts fiddling with a hole in his jeans. Discouraged and embarrassed he begins mentally cursing himself and Hozier and Taylor for giving him stupid ideas.

“Uh, sorry. You still had ketchup on your face and all these dumb songs… I thought it would be funny but it was stupid and rude and I’m sorry. If you want, we can just ... We can forget it ever happened,” Dean tells the table. He doesn’t notice that Cas’ fingers have crept up to rest on the side of his lips, like if he keeps them there, he might be able hold on to the sensation of Dean’s kiss.

At Cas’ lack of response, Dean starts eating his burger again, even if it tastes like ash and gets stuck in his throat.

Kiss me once ‘cause you know I had a long night

Cas tries to speak, tries to find the right way to tell Dean that it wasn’t stupid at all, to tell him that the last thing he wants to do is forget this happened. He desperately wants another kiss but he doesn’t how to ask and the words all get jumbled and scatter as soon as they form. So, he gives up on trying to think and just dips his finger into the ketchup still overflowing from his burger and wipes the red condiment on his bottom lip.

Kiss me twice ‘cause it’s gonna be alright

“Dean?”

Dean’s head shoots up at the breathless call.

Three times ‘cause I waited my whole life,

One, two, one, two three, four!

Once his gaze to breaks free from studying the soft hope in Cas’ eyes it drifts down to the ketchup smeared on his beautiful lips. 

I like shiny things but I’d marry you with paper rings, uh-huh

"You missed a spot.”

That’s right, darlin’, you’re the one I want

It’s all the invitation Dean needs. His hand goes to the back of Cas’ neck, thumb gently caressing his cheek as he slowly leans in again. Cas’ eyes flutter closed and his lips part slightly, breath coming out quick in anticipation as Dean’s lips hover over his. A gasp slips out when Dean’s tongue clears away the ketchup before delving deeper.

They kiss each other in a haze, eager exploration building into desperate passion. They come up for air not quite knowing how Cas ended up straddling Dean or when they’d given each other matching hickeys but not really caring either.

“We should probably move this to my room before Sam or Eileen bring their dishes out.” Dean murmurs, not really paying attention to his own words as he finds a spot on Cas’ jaw that he’s sure he hasn't kissed yet.

“That’s, mmmh, probably a good idea,” Cas replies, not making a single move to disentangle himself from Dean’s lap. After a few more slow kisses, Dean takes it upon himself to lift Cas up and carry him to his bed.

Neither one remembers to grab Dean’s phone or turn off the speaker and Taylor’s voice follows them down the hall.

Call my bluff, call you “Babe,”

Have my back, yeah, every day,

Feels like home, stay in bed,

The whole weekend,

It’s nice to have a friend,

It’s nice to have a friend,

It’s nice to have a friend.

Bonus:

“Do you think they’re getting suspicious?” Sam asks Eileen as he queues Love Story next.

“Of the fact that you’re still in the jam session and playing all of Taylor’s love songs or that you’re actually a closet Swifty?” Elieen quips before dissolving into laughter as she dodges the pillow and bitch face that Sam half-heartedly throws at her.

#surprise it’s another destiel fic #destiel fic #destiel #dean and cas #fluff #self indulgent writing #inspired by Hozier #inspired by taylor swift #they’re still idiots and still in love #fanfiction #whole fic under the cut because why not #supernatural #spn #spn fic

[khepiari]

Babe, There's Something Lonesome About You, Something So Wholesome About You! By KhepiAri

Luffy loved music like any other average person; when working out, studying, on the subway or just lost in thoughts on his bed while munching away snacks.

He never dug deep into the meaning of lyrics or the metaphors or symbolism in them. If it vibed with his mood it vibed. Though both his elder brothers took music seriously, Ace would learn to play any music he loved on his guitar and Sabo would remember each and every word of songs he loved. When that was not enough his brothers would go to the deeper end of obsession like reading between lines, covering their own renditions and forcing Luffy to endure the songs being played on loop on homeset. It only stopped when their parents would pull the plugs out!

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #luffy #one piece luffy #fanfiction #lawluffy #lawlu #trafalgar law #one piece lawlu #fan fiction #fanfics #writing fanfic #fanfic authors #fanfic #one piece fanfic #hozier #from eden #song fic #inspired by hozier #fic rec #fic promo #writing fanfiction #fan fic stuff #my fic #lulaw #op luffy #op law

[phyllisthefirst]

So, I finally made a moodboard/picset (what even is the difference?) for my George Luz x OC fic. The last chapter of it didn't even show up in the BoB-tag, I have no idea why.

As always, this fic is entirely about the fictionalized representations of the men of Easy Company that we see on the show. I mean no disrespect to the real men by writing this.

[Masterlist] [on ao3]

No tired sigh, no rolling eye, no irony - Part 3

Phyllis hasn’t noticed how starved she’s been for female company until a small group of nurses are billeted nearby. She hears about it from Mrs. Wright, who apparently met them at the greengrocers’ and invited them all over for tea the next day. The topic of Phyllis’ private life, or lack thereof, has come up several times, with Mrs. Wright of the firm opinion that it won’t do for her to spend too much time with the enlisted men but that there’s no harm in her going out with some upstanding women. Apparently, the old lady has now decided that if Phyllis isn’t going out and making friends, she’ll have to make them for her. 

And in all fairness, the women really are lovely. There’s Millicent, a no-nonsense Midwesterner who used to run her father’s hardware store with what Phyllis can only imagine was an iron fist. Vera, the youngest of the group who had just started training as a nurse when the war reached their shores. Corinne, a maths student at the University of California who runs track and field in her rare free time and is confident and energetic in a way Phyllis can’t help but admire. And lastly - though but generally the first in the room and the loudest in the conversation - there’s Bernice, a New Yorker who dreams of becoming a socialite while making a living as a singer at a nightclub. It’s certainly a diverse mix, which means they don’t run out of things to talk about for a long time. 

The women bring not only entertainment but a much-needed reassurance that her struggles aren’t imagined or self-caused, that all of them tend to run into similar hurdles all the time. 

“Last week, I was asked to give a talk to the ones training as medics,” Corinne tells animatedly, “and they kept questioning everything I said.” 

“What did you do?” Perhaps Phyllis can take some inspiration from the story. 

“I asked them to raise their hands if they were trained doctors, or at the very least medical students. Not a single one did.” Corinne grins, her teeth bared in an almost predatory manner. “They didn’t have as much to say afterwards.” 

Millicent shakes her head. 

“They keep telling those boys that they’re the most special ones around ‘cause they want them jumping out of planes, and now they think they can do anything and everything.”

Tea at Mrs. Wright’s soon becomes a regular occurrence, and as soon as Phyllis’ new friends hear that she’s never been to the pub even though she’s been invited there, immediate plans for a night at The Crown are made. 

The fact that one of the men invited her there is a little tidbit of information she drops by accident when the subject comes up. She hasn’t seen George in a few weeks but the strangest things have a way of reminding her of him. She only realises that perhaps mentioning him was a mistake when they’re already at The Crown, deep into their first ale, and the girls lean closer conspiratorially. 

“So, who was the soldier who invited you to come? Is he here tonight?” 

Phyllis turns a little in her seat and scans the room, glad for an excuse to try and hide the heat in her cheeks. The only familiar face she spots is that of Joe Liebgott, who seems wholly engrossed in trying to sweet-talk the busty barmaid. 

“No, I don’t see him.” She doesn't know if she's disappointed by that or relieved.

“Maybe he’ll show up later. And if not, there’s plenty of other choices.” Bernice lets her eyes roam over the room, takes a sip of her ale, and then licks her lips slowly with not at all disguised innuendo. “Just look around, ladies - it’s a whole buffet, and all for us.” 

Vera tuts disapprovingly. 

“Really, Bernie, that’s exactly the kind of attitude that almost made my parents forbid me to come here. They all think we’re only here looking for fun, and you play right into their hands when you act like that.” 

Bernice only shrugs. 

“How is that my problem? If they want to think this way about us, nothing I do is going to change their minds. I might as well have fun while I’m still young and everything’s in top shape.” One sideways look at her shy friend’s unhappy expression makes the predatory look drop from her face. “But if it eases your mind, I can act like at most we’re here to look for husbands. Fine, upstanding men who intend to make honourable women out of us.” 

“I’m not,” Phyllis blurts out. 

“Really? I mean not a husband, per se, but maybe a dance partner? Someone looking for a bit of a fling before they're shipped off?”

“I didn't come here to look for a husband, or anything else!”, Phyllis doubles down, a little too sharply perhaps, but none of the women take offense - they've all been confronted with the same claims that they're only here to look for a husband, or even worse, to seduce the men with no intention of marriage at all. She's tired of it, and therefore, perhaps a little too zealous in making sure none of the men can misinterpret her intentions. “I'm here to do my job and do it well, and I won't let anyone distract me, let alone some cocky soldier trying to impress his friends.”

Her exclamation is met with cheers and raised glasses that bring her attention to the fact that her own is almost empty, so she stands up to get another drink - only to turn around and be faced with George Luz, holding two beers and looking a little crestfallen. But only for a moment, then he holds out one of the glasses.

“Beer?”

She nods slowly, wondering if she only imagined that look on his face, the thought that it might have been caused by her ferocious speech. That was probably only wishful thinking on her part - after all, George might be the one man here for whom she'd make an exception from her rule, even if just for one dance. But there's no point to that kind of thinking, not when George is pointedly friendly and casual and steers clear of any and all attempts at flirting, let alone courting her. 

Besides, she's brought other women, and between Bernie’s red-as-sin lips, Vera's ethereal beauty and Corinne’s All-American glow, all long tanned limbs and golden curls, Phyllis has no doubt she'll soon be forgotten entirely. It always plays out like that: Even men who arrive at events as her date rarely leave with her, and Phyllis has started to get used to it. Now it's just a matter of waiting until George forgets about her too.

But he doesn't, at least not right away. Stepping up to their table, he lifts his glass in greeting at each of the women in turn, before he turns back to Phyllis. 

“So, our medic tells me they've moved to new facilities for their training and that they're “good” and “useful”.” He crooks his fingers to indicate air quotes. “He's a man of very few words, so you should take that as the highest compliment.”

Phyllis can't help it, she beams. When was the last time someone praised her for a job well done? But George is not done yet. To her complete shock, he puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer while addressing her friends. 

“She's a regular logistics wizard, this one - turned an old barn full of cr… full of junk into a working training facility, can you believe it?”

There's no hiding the blush on her face now.

“I couldn't have done it without your help,” she insists, but George waves his hand dismissively. The move means his arm drops from around her shoulder, which Phyllis registers with a pang of regret. It's stiflingly hot at the pub, but still the warm weight of his arm around her shoulder was pleasant. 

“We only lugged some tables around. You were the brains behind the operation.”

“Still, I've been meaning to thank you and your friends. Are they here tonight? I'd like to order them a round of drinks, on me.” 

“They should be around somewhere. But you don't need to bother with the drinks. You brought something even better,” he looks at the group of women sitting at the table, watching them with the expression of someone enjoying a new movie. “You brought female company.” 

The smile he throws at them shows he means it as a compliment, but her new friends are unimpressed.

“She didn't order us wholesale at the military supply office, you know. We came here very much on our own.” Millicent, whose fiance is in the Navy, seems to have the least patience for the men’s flirting, and not even George’s sunny smile makes it through to her. 

“And don't you forget about that anytime soon - otherwise we won't be gentle at your next inoculation,” Bernie piles on. 

George's face flashes momentary unease, but to his credit, he takes the reproach in stride. 

“I’ll remember it. Can I still get you ladies a round of drinks?” 

Bernice pretends to ponder the request for a moment, the others waiting for her verdict. Then, with the air of a queen deigning to address a peasant, she nods. 

“One round of beer. And if you happen to come across a supply of handsome servicemen who know how to dance, bring them along too.” 

George salutes jokingly, eyes glittering with mirth.

“Will do, Ma'am.” 

The moment he's left the table, all eyes turn to Phyllis. 

“Well, he's a charmer,” Bernice sums up accurately. 

“He seems very nice,” Vera adds, smiling gently. “And he seemed very impressed with you.”

“With my work.”

Millicent snorts. 

“Yes, that's why he bought you a drink, because he's so impressed with your work.”

Phyllis ignores the implication, and the flutter it stirs inside her. 

“He also helped me out the other day.” She fills them in on the whole adventure of the medics’ training facility, how George stepped up and saved her from certain failure. 

“So, he can do more than flirt and buy drinks,” Millicent sums up. “That's certainly a rare quality.”

“Which means, if you're interested, you have our blessing,” Connie declares solemnly. “He seems like a good one.”

Phyllis doesn't get around to answering, the girls already distracted by something else, and to her relief, the conversation moves on to other subjects. 

Before long, George returns with a tray of drinks and a whole gaggle of soldiers in tow. 

“Your ales and dance partners, as ordered,” he announces, setting down the drinks with a half-bow in Bernie’s direction, followed by a cheeky wink at Phyllis. “I got them wholesale, and pretty cheap.” 

She laughs out loud, both at the joke and at the expression of the men behind him, somewhere between confused and offended. 

They get to the task at hand with no further delay, asking the women to dance with varying degrees of politeness only to then notice that there isn’t really a dance floor. But George and his friends are determined not to let that stop them from having fun, instead clearing a space in the middle of the room by none-too-gently moving aside all the men standing there. Briefly, it looks like a fight might be breaking out, but George cleverly points out that the presence of a dance floor might increase their own chances at a dance, and their would-be opponents are appeased. 

Then he turns to Phyllis and whispers conspiratorially: “Those schmucks’ll believe anything. As if we’ll let any one of you dance with someone else tonight!” 

Then he holds out his hand and her laughter dies in shock. 

“Do me the honour of a dance?” 

Phyllis freezes, afraid that the moment she says yes it’ll turn out that she’s somehow misunderstood. But it must be true: George is really standing there, holding out his hand and smiling warmly, and she only has to get her brain to work again and remember what she’s supposed to do now. 

Then suddenly, someone jostles her, causing her to lose her balance and reach out to steady herself on George’s shoulder, and he takes up the opportunity with a beaming smile, taking her hand and pulling her into the fray. And just like that, Phyllis is dancing, for the first time in possibly months. 

The song is fast and animated and George an enthusiastic dancer, and between all the spinning and twirling he makes her do, there’s no opportunity to talk, which suits Phyllis just fine. But after a couple of fast songs, the pacing changes, the music turning slower and more intimate. 

George seems entirely unfazed, continuing to dance and only pulling her the slightest bit closer. 

Phyllis, already flushed and near-overheated from the exertion of their previous dances, feels her face heat up even more. 

“You know, it would be much easier to quickly clear the floor for dancing if they arranged the tables differently,” she blurts out, solely to have something to say. 

“Really?” George doesn’t laugh, doesn’t ask her where the hell that thought came from, and she feels a little less like wanting the floor to swallow her whole. 

“Move them further out, orient them all in the same direction so they can be pushed together. Oh, and put the dartboard in the corner opposite the door.” 

George’s eyes travel around the room to the things she points out. 

“That sounds pretty smart.” He looks from the dartboard back to her. “Do you always just think of stuff like this?”

She shrugs. 

“I guess I can’t help but notice when things aren’t done as practically as they could be.” She huffs, suddenly embarrassed - what kind of woman thinks of process optimization while she’s dancing? “I guess it’s a bad habit.” 

“I think it’s brilliant. All my brain comes up with are dumb jokes, and here you are rearranging the world to make it better.” 

“I don’t think your jokes are dumb.” Well, so much for not feeling mortified for five seconds. 

But George’s smile brightens even more. 

“Phyllis Baker, I think this is going to be a beautiful friendship.” 

And, quite without her own doing, Phyllis feels her own smile brighten too. 

She doesn’t get around to replying, because several of the Easy boys are appearing beside them with fresh drinks and she’s barely taken more than a few gulps before someone announces that the dance partners are about to be shuffled around, and then she’s taking off for another dance with someone she hasn’t even been introduced to yet, followed by another and another, until everything turns into a sort of blur. 

Still, every once in a while, George appears out of the blur, hands her water or beer and shoos off her current dance partner for a spin of his own, and Phyllis thinks that he might be right: This could be a beautiful friendship indeed. 

She doesn’t allow herself to think about what else it could be, if given the chance - neither of them are interested in that, she’s sure. The important thing is that, after feeling lonely and left out for weeks, she’s suddenly made not just one friend but a whole handful of them, and surely, that is the thing to focus on. 

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #george luz x oc #it only starts out with Phyllis and her new friends - George will make an appearance this chapter #No tired sigh no rolling eye no irony #title is of course inspired by Hozier #pics are screengrabs and one AI-generated image #they can do that now apparently

[navybrat817]

Excited for all the fics that will be inspired by Hozier's new single. 🔥

What Hozier songs make you lovelies go feral? Something about Be gets me. 🔥

#navybrat rambles #hozier #eat your young #be #this man #let your muse go wild #fic inspiration #excited for the fics

[freyaforestafay]

Hello everybody so it turns out once you post one fic the floodgates open and you cannot stop yourself from writing and posting another so Here is the first fic of my new series Hozier inspired fics (if anyone has a more creative name please tell me lmao) but check it out if you want!!

Louis blinks his eyes open, vision slowly focusing as he sits up and surveys the man in front of him. Chocolate curls spill over the pillow, long limbs splay over the bed, one thrown haphazardly over louis’ own thigh, an expanse of pale skin against paler sheets bunched up just under the sharp points of love handles.

He was ethereal.

#my fics #hozier inspired fics #this one is inspired by Too Sweet #i have a bit of a plan for the others but ideas and feedback are all very much appreciated

[siriusblack-the-third]

SHE TELLS ME, "WORSHIP IN THE BEDROOM"

.

Sirius thinks if anyone should be praying, it should be him, with James' name on his lips and James' skin under his fingers and James' warmth surrounding him.

He thinks if anyone deserves to be worshipped it is James, with his brilliant smile and his whip-swift tongue and his open, huge heart. James, with his deliberate and sure movements, his sharp and shrewd eyes and his mouth that utters the most beautiful sounds.

To Sirius, James is his God. He is the only one Sirius has ever loved, the only one to whom Sirius has given everything of himself. The only one Sirius will ever worship.

#james potter #sirius black #sirius x james #james x sirius #prongsfoot #bambibelle #ficlet #prongsfoot fic #drabble #microfic #snippets #marauders #the marauders #inspired by hozier lyrics #the title is from Take Me To Church #amrut writes

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Fics Inspired by Songs

Work Song (Hozier)

(I want to) Share Your Address (Ben Platt)

Cardigan (Taylor Swift)

Good Kisser (Lake Street Dive)

La Vie En Rose (Edith Piaf)

NFWMB (Hozier)

Lover (Taylor Swift)

Your Body is a Wonderland (John Mayer)

Delicate (Taylor Swift)

Keep Your Eyes Open (Needtobreathe)

(I Won't) Run Away (Ben Platt)

Arsonist's Lullaby (Hozier)

Bubbly (Colbie Callat)

It All Fades Away (Steven Pasquale)

Gorgeous (Taylor Swift)

#starting a new list since there are so many of them #fics inspired by songs #more to come i'm certain #also i just wrote one that wasn't prompted but Ben Platt is really it for me so (insert shrug emoji) #drarry #love #do not @me about the number of Hozier Songs on this list. He's really it for me in a way that I cannot explain logically.

[ambrosykim]

me making my helle x solas playlist

#going basic bitch mode by putting hozier on my helle x solas playlist #and yes. i thought of titling my solavellan breakup fic 'too sweet (for me)' please dont bully me #brb looking at silverflint amvs for inspiration bc thats the vibe i need #listened to hallelujah and broke down sobbing so its all going well for me #helle x solas #nett rambles #nett plays da

[athenashuntress]

to find what we were chasing after (I believe I found it here, in your love)

ao3

Summary:

He loved, and loved, and loved. He loved until his fingers were stained red and purple and splotchy green with it, loved until his heart only beat in tandem with another.

or

A few times Castiel felt love and all that entails.

Ship: Dean/Cas

Word count: 1,287

you called me Angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me

The first real emotion Castiel felt in his eons of existence was love. Love for Dean Winchester. It stung in his grace, burrowed it’s way down until it became a fundamental part of him, the pillar of his heart, that if one were to remove his love for a singular human, a speck on the earth and in all the years he has roamed the universe, he would crumble with it. He first felt it in a windswept barn, bloodstained and new to this vessel, new to this world. He felt it stab into his very core, burn him like acid, tear deep into him when the most wonderful soul he had ever seen told Castiel it didn’t deserve to be saved. He felt love wrench his heart open, but he did not know it was love. He thought perhaps it was pity, perhaps it was sympathy. He wrote it off as a single occurrence, a fluke in the fabric of the universe, a fluke in the fabric of him.

you smile now, I can still see it’s pieces stuck between your teeth. and what’s left of it, I listen to it tick. every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me

The second time Castiel felt love, it was on a windy park bench, invisible to all but himself. He mulled over Dean’s words, the ones calling him, no, accusing him of being a soldier, of not thinking before firing. Of not doubting an absent father, of not trying to rebel. He had doubts. He wondered, he theorized, he questioned. But never had he thought to directly disobey orders from heaven. He trusted their intentions, if not their methods. Dean had changed that, made him wonder, made him think things an Angel was never supposed to. He watched the children on the playground run and holler, watched one fall and another help her up. They did not know each other until ten minutes ago. Castiel had watched them meet, their tentative first conversation to their new invention of a game. He wondered if Dean ever got the be so carefree. He felt love in his fascination, in the pure beauty of human nature. That a child would so help another they barely knew. He was enraptured in the way this love seemed to lift him higher than his wings ever had, up, up, up, a balloon of sorts. He did not notice when Dean Winchester sat beside him. Instead, he thought, I can’t believe Uriel would destroy this town, destroy these children and these wonderful, amazing, beacons of humanity. And when he gazed around him, at the frolicking children and hovering parents, he turned and saw Dean. Dean, who had helped him realize just how amazing humans truly were, who had commanded him to keep this town, who had stood up to an angel of seemingly infinite power and that he had no way to harm, no way to kill, should Castiel turn. Dean, who still thought Castiel a simple tool of heaven. He suddenly felt the insatiable, unexplainable urge to let Dean know, that no, he was not simply a soldier following orders. He had his doubts, he had his faults. So he appeared and told him. When the conversation was seemingly over, he flapped his wings but did not leave. He stayed, invisible and instead of observing the park, he observed Dean. He watched the fondness and longing in his gaze as he scanned the park, the yearning. Castiel wondered what he yearned for. Was it a friend? Another accomplice? Perhaps Castiel could fill that gap for Dean, another way to protect him. He decided then that it would be his life mission too, the twin mantras of Protect Dean Winchester and Provide for Dean Winchester ringing in his bones. That was the third time he felt love, ringing in his skull and sanding down his battle-hewn edges, unknowing of the human before him but instinctually knowing he must provide, must protect.

you know the distance never made a difference to me. I swam a lake of fire, I’d have walked across the floor of any sea

And so it goes. Castiel loved humanity, Cas loved Dean. Cas. No longer a soldier of god, simply a shield. It took him years to finally recognize the love in him, the most foreign feeling he knew. It took until he had fallen twice, until he had experienced as much human emotion as he could, to finally pinpoint the strange flutter, lilt, or tug. Love was a tidal wave, hitting him with such force he feared he would drown. Love was a hurricane of cursed intent, the inane way he would tear apart the world for one soul. Love was Helios, so bright and burning Castiel feared that his wings would melt. Love was his trench coat, dry and smelling of Dean, taken back from the box in the upper right corner of the Impala’s trunk. The box where Dean placed his most important belongings, where he kept his whiskey-worn leather jacket and mother’s old oxidized jewelry, the objects he couldn’t bear to part with. Love was the Devil, but perhaps Lucifer had been more merciful than love ever could be. Castiel learned what love was from a broken man with a gleaming soul, who looked at you with shattered eyes and walked like he felt the burden of the world on his shoulders.

funny how true colors shine in darkness and in secrecy, if there were scarlet flags they washed down in the mind of me

Angels did not feel. Well, they did, but only ever the simple base emotions simpler creatures did. They did not love, they did not regret, they did not guilt. Most thought themselves simply unwilling to, some did not think angels were capable of love. None bothered to try. If they loved, what distinction would they have with measly humans? Power was not such a great divide as asininity and apathy was. They didn’t try to love because they didn’t want to love. All except Cas. He loved, and loved, and loved. He loved until his fingers were stained red and purple and splotchy green with it, loved until his heart only beat in tandem with another. He was awed by it, awed by all that love could do. He loved and loved and did not expect anything in return, how could he? The first thing all angels had been taught was to not be selfish. So he loved and did not know if the love was returned, did not know if Dean loved back. He never planned to find out. Not until he had been flayed open and laid bare and had no other choice. “I love you,” he had told Dean. But perhaps love was too small a word for all he felt. He felt no word would be able to communicate all he wanted to say, so instead he tried to tell his love in his eyes. The humans said they were the windows to the soul. They were correct. Dean had told him once that to know if someone was in love, you had to see their eyes. So Castiel poured all of his years and years and years of love into his gaze, the last one he would ever give Dean. And when the Empty took him, his last thought was I hope he understands the magnitude of my love.

do you know, I could break beneath the weight. of the goodness, love, I still carry for you. that I’d walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you

#destiel #deancas #supernatural #my writing #fanfic #destiel fic #inspired by hozier #castiel #dean winchester

[goldheartedsky]

New Hozier album is out and I apologize in advance for the person I’m about to become

#hozier #and I apologize for the fic it will inevitably inspire