#it's actually funny how much better the last one turned out with the color filtering than the other ones I have no idea why

[onlyfifteenpercent]

🌈 a friend relationship ✨

#succession #successionedit #lisa arthur #shiv roy #shivlisa #happy pride #sorry for making shiv piss green it's unfortunately what she deserves 💔 #also if you noticed how bad these are no you didn't #it's actually funny how much better the last one turned out with the color filtering than the other ones I have no idea why #anyway this is not just a gay shiv moment in gaystar themco history but also a notable bratty shiv moment #perhaps even a top ten bratty shiv moment

[mizunetzu]

Mr Mizunetzu’s secret Santa! Kita x reader - cold, cold observations (he loves me so it’s okay)

( @luv-hqs hi HAHA!! I was ur secret Santa >:) Funny story, I accidentally deleted the ask you gave me that had your preferences, but I vaguely remember there being a “Kita” and “angst” LMAO SO I ROLLED WITH THAT TELL ME IF I GOT IT WRONG BUT HEY YALL GET UR FIRST INARIZAKI FIC FROM ME )

⚠️warnings - ANGST? Unintentionally cold Kita baby doesn’t mean it I swear, sad ending

Pronouns - male, he/him

you can find part two here!

——————

“I like you, Kita-kun! Please, please go out with me!”

(Y/n) thrusted himself into a sharp, 90 degree bow, squeezing his eyes shut and balling his hands up into fists, planted firmly against his sides. Kita looked down at him.

“Sure.”

“Wh-“ (Y/n’s) head tossed up, his (h/c)-colored hair whipping back as he did so. “Really?”

Kita nodded. “I like you too, so I don’t see why you’re so surprised. People date people who they like, right?”

A wide smile stretched across (Y/n’s) face, illuminating it just enough to catch the pretty cherry blossom petals fluttering around him. His face shone like the sun, even daring to put the big ball of light to shame. He stood back up, his smile still noticeably big and happy.

“Please take care of me then, Kita-kun.” (Y/n) stepped forward and sheepishly brushed his fingers against Kita’s shoulder.

‘He loves me...’

——

Please take care of me.

It was a simple request. A simple phrase. “Please take care of me,” not in a babied, maternal way, but in the way that (Y/n) hoped him and Kita would be as a lovey-dovey couple you see in romance manga. The kind you see and can’t help but coo at.

“You need to stop flailing your arms around. You’re weakening your spike, (L/n)-kun.”

Kita called out so suddenly, (Y/n) mid-spike, making him sputter and land awkwardly. The ball hit the net with a thud, before landing on the same side of the court it came from. Kita looked at (Y/n) skeptically. It was his normal, straight-laced face, but everyone in the gym could sense the intimidating aura Kita was projecting.

No one wanted to be on the receiving end of that aura, to be cornered by Kita’s judgementful gaze. Yet here (Y/n) was. How unlucky.

“I’m...I’ll do it better next time, Shicchan.”

“Shicchan?”

“W-well...you don’t mind it when I call you that in private, Sh-“

“This isn’t private, (L/n)-kun. We’re in practice.” Kita bore holes into (Y/n’s) skull, who was desperately trying to look anywhere but Kita. Aran scratched the back of his neck.

“Uh-it’s just a nickname dude, plus, you guys are dating, right? So it’s natural that (L/n)-san would call you that.”

“That doesn’t distract from the fact you need to get your spikes over the net, (L/n)-kun. Not on it.” Kita paid Aran no mind, and continued staring down (Y/n) with a heavy, emotionless gaze.

“S-sorry...” (Y/n) shrank back into himself. Everyone who was staring immediately scrambled to look away once Kita looked back. Kita wordlessly walked away.

“Damn, I’m sorry man.” Aran’s eyebrows contorted into a look of pity, while (Y/n) awkwardly chuckled.

“S’fine. He was...probably just having a bad day s’all.” (Y/n) brushed off Kita’s cold judgment faster than Aran expected. He smiled.

“He loves me, so it’s okay.”

——

Today is a good day. (Y/n) hummed as he strolled down the path to practice. In fact, today is a great day. (Y/n) didn’t know why, but it was a great day.

(Y/n) strut into the gym, carrying bag of steamed pork buns he’d bought at the convenience store a few minutes ago. The gyms inhabitants stopped one by one, their focuses shifting from their individual practice to (Y/n) and his bag of food.

Hungry players, especially Atsumu and Osamu, flocked towards (Y/n) with hungry stomachs or a sense of curiousness. Kita caught the ball he was tossing in the air and looked at (Y/n) with blank eyes.

“You’re disrupting practice.” Kita said, not moving an inch from where he was standing. (Y/n’s) smile faltered a bit.

“W-well I just felt like buying the team some food-I feel like we’ve been working hard and we deserve it-“

“You came to practice late to buy food that you could’ve bought after practice?” Kita’s question felt more like a jab at (Y/n’s) chest. Everyone crowding around (Y/n) froze up, a sudden icy-cold shooting down their spines. Kita’s unwanted, scary aura was back.

“I...”

“Why would you do that?” Kita cocked his head to the side. “You’re late to practice-you don’t even have your gym clothes on-and since you have food it’s either we eat it now and can’t practice-because we might get stomachaches-or we eat it after and it gets cold and you waste your money.”

The once bright smile caused by (Y/n’s) ‘good day’ finally cracked. He looked at Kita with embarrassment, trying to play it off with a less cheery, forced smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat closed up and no words came out.

Kita sighed. “Well I don’t want you to waste your money. I guess we’re eating (L/n)-sans steamed buns now.” He turned to the coach. “Is it ok if we take a break from practice? (L/n)-kun brought steamed buns. If we’re lucky we can practice at the end of our practice time once we digest.”

Coach nodded awkwardly. Kita walked up to (Y/n), whose bag of food was being shared and distributed amongst Inarizaki. (Y/n) pressed his lips into a fine line.

“I’m...I’m sorry Shinsuke-kun.” (Y/n’s) happy day was weathered down and left with empty sadness in seconds. He felt so proud and courteous for buying his team a treat purely out of impulse, but now he just felt guilty for disturbing practice.

“It’s alright, I guess.” Kita’s words held no value, as he pecked (Y/n) on the cheek lovelessly. (Y/n) shot him a weak smile, cupping the cheek whom he had kissed gently.

‘He...loves me...so it’s okay.’

‘So it’s okay...’

——

It was such a small gesture. The small act of Kita drawing his hand away when (Y/n) reached out to hold it, him bringing his hand up to lock away in his pocket as they walked through the schools hallways. It was such a small, infinitesimal detail that (Y/n) should’ve brushed off with ease. Y’know, maybe his hand was just cold.

But he couldn’t.

He hesitantly slowed to a stop. “Shin...Kita-kun.”

Kita looked back, a blank look laced with the tiniest amount of confusion weaved inside. “Did something happen?”

“Do you love me?”

Kita dropped his voice down to a whisper. “Of course I do.” It came out his mouth no more than an automated machine would, as he dragged (Y/n) gently to the side of the hallway. “Be careful next time. We’re lucky not much people were around. Someone could’ve heard you.”

‘Heard you?’ (Y/n) furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn’t angry. No, no he wasn’t angry. He just felt like someone hollowed out his insides.

“Is it so bad if people heard me? That I love you and wanna know if you love me too?”

“Yes.”

Kita had no filter. He announced it like saying ‘The sky is blue’, stating it like a fact he expected (Y/n) to know. And he wasn’t even adorning a stern or intentionally harsh face while he said it. Though, it was the way Kita said it so bluntly and emotionlessly that made it hurt the most.

But now that (Y/n) thought about it, when was the last time Kita smiled because of him?

Has he ever even seen him smile?

Has he ever seen, touched, or heard any sort of proof of his love?

Of Kita Shinsuke’s love?

(Y/n) downcast his face. “I just wanted to hold your hand.”

“You know how people feel about gay relationships. Not even my baa-san knows yet. So what if one of our classmates see-“

“-but the whole team knows-!”

“-and I trust the team. They won’t say a word until we’re sure and ready to tell everyone.”

(Y/n) stayed silent after that. Then, he opened his mouth.

“...Then do you trust me?”

It came out like a cracked, hoarse whisper. Kita, for once, look stunned. His eyebrows raised slightly and his eyes widened, even if it were just a little bit.

“Of course I do.”

Another automated response.

(Y/n) nodded, letting Kita lead them back to the middle of the hallway to walk to practice. (Y/n) gave up on trying to hold Kita’s cold, cold hands, and instead thought solemnly to himself.

‘He...he loves...’

He paused. He looked over at Kita, who was looking straight ahead. He looked back down to his walking feet.

‘Does he love me?’

——

Kita looked around the gym. He saw Atsumu and Osamu yelling at each other about something he couldn’t quite make out, Suna fishing out his phone from his pocket, and Ginjima chatting and peppering a volleyball back and forth with Aran.

But no (Y/n).

Kita tapped Suna on the shoulder, who was zooming in and taking pictures of Osamu’s disgusted face. He hummed in acknowledgement, now trying to zoom in on Atsumu on the ground.

“Have you seen (L/n)-kun today?”

“In class, yeah. At practice, no.” Suna murmured. Kita nodded and thanked him for the info. That meant he was at school today, at least.

Excusing himself from practice, Kita stepped out of the gym. I mean, why wouldn’t he be worried about the whereabouts of his boyfriend? Especially with how odd he’s been acting, Kita couldn’t help but worry just a smidge.

After what seemed like hours of pointless searching, he eventually found a mop of (h/c)-hair sitting on a stone bench under the same cherry tree (Y/n) had confessed to him to. Kita had checked the place on impulse, not actually expecting to see someone there, but it was better than nothing. Kita walked up to the boy sitting with his back faced to him, and without even saying anything, (Y/n) gave a small hum.

“Mm.” Was all he said. His back was slouched, and he was still in his school uniform. His school bag laid pathetically strewn on the grass next to him, and if Kita could see his expression, it was probably unreadable.

“Practice is going on.”

“Mhm.”

“You should be at practice.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why aren’t you going to practice?”

“Is everything about practice with you?” (Y/n) lifted his head. His voice was still calm, but it raised in volume ever so slightly. “Practice, practice, practice. What about how I feel?”

Kita opened his mouth to say something, but for the first time, nothing came out. He didn’t know what to do. Was he mad at him? Did he do something wrong?

“I...” (Y/n) choked back his words, letting out a sigh and slumping down on the stone bench once more. He flicked a fallen cherry blossom petal off his shoulder. “Never mind. I don’t feel like going to practice, tell coach th-“

“Is there something wrong?”

Kita question had come out of nowhere. (Y/n) bunched his hands into fists. “...now you notice?” He turned around, red in the face and tears falling freely in unison with the bittersweet cherry blossoms falling mockingly around them. “Tell me, Kita,”

“Do you love me?”

Kita furrowed his eyebrows. “...of course I-“

“”of course I do.” That’s what you always say..! Say something else, dammit! Say you love me!”

(Y/n) abruptly rose from his seat, stepping over the bench and grabbing Kita by the collar. He pulled him closer to his face, shaking him by the shirt with knuckles that almost turned white.

“M-Make me believe that you love me!” (Y/n’s) tears cascaded down his face, flinging in the air as he whipped his head down so suddenly. Small, choked sobs ripped through (Y/n), yet all Kita could do was stare. Stare with his blank, emotionless face. (Y/n) took his silence as his answer. The silence was so loud.

“...I think we should break up.” Kita’s eyes widened.

“Why?”

(Y/n’s) iron clad grip on Kita’s shirt loosened, he stepped back, face feeling raw after crying. “I don’t want to be with someone who can’t tell me they love me. Once you can tell me you love me, and mean it, I’m all ears.”

“(L/n)-kun-“

(Y/n) reached over the bench and pulled his school bag up, dusting off the stupid pink petals that littered around his bag. He slung it over his shoulder numbly, and shot a curt “See you tomorrow.” At Kita.

All Kita could do was stare. With the emotionless face he now wished held more vibrancy.

“...I love you, (Y/n).”

It came out foreign on his lips. It was the first time he’d said those words, hadn’t it? I love you. A cracked whisper, and even then it sounded like it held no value. Kita took one last linger at the now-empty schoolyard, and walked back to practice.

——

When Kita came back to the gym, everyone was sitting in a semi-circle surrounding a whiteboard. Various lineups and positions were drawn hastily on the board, and everyone looked towards the gym door which Kita had come in through. He silently dragged his feet over to the circle of players, and took a seat behind Aran.

“Where were you?” Aran whispered. Kita ignored him, the lump in his throat stinging and bloating his vocal cords up to the point he couldn’t talk.

Every moment, every interaction, every cold, cold observation Kita ever had with (Y/n) flashed before his eyes. The coach’s voice and the squeak of the whiteboard marker melded together as memories of how kind (Y/n) had been played like a dvd in his mind. He’s been so warm. So, so fucking warm. Every piece of warmth (Y/n) shared with him, he took for granted when he told himself he wouldn’t. He wasn’t normally like that. But he’s been so, so cold.

Silent, hot tears blurred Kita’s vision. They fell slowly, and dripped onto the hardwood floor with no meaning whatsoever. He was so cold. He clasped his hands together, shaking, and trying to hush his ragged breathing and sniffles. He felt so cold. Eventually, the coach stopped talking, and one by one players started turning around, asking if Kita was ok.

But he wasn’t. He was so cold.

——————

Kokoro is brokoro in Mr Mizunetzu’s Christmas event

#kita x reader #kita shinsuke #shinsuke kita x reader #haikyuu shinsuke #hq shinsuke #kita x male reader #kita x y/n #kita x you #Kita x m reader #kita shinsuke x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu boys #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu angst #kita angst #mr Mizunetzu’s secret Santa

[lexosaurus]

How do you get people to follow you and your schedule??? How to make a fandom schedule??? How are you so influential??

i could answer this sort of meme-y like "lol i post stupid things" but if u actually wanna know how to throw a proper event, here are some tips:

---

1. if you're a small blog, collaborate with other blogs. the first time i picked up an event, i probably only had like half the followers i do now. so i buddied up with multiple blogs to get as much reach as possible. it can be fun to work with other people!

---

2. make your shit look nice. if you're making an actual calendar, make sure it's colorful and fun, but also legible. this is actually hard to do, especially if it's a 31 day calendar. when in doubt, post the prompts again below the image calendar.

also, this is kinda an aside, but if you wanna make a fun calendar using images online, make sure you filter your google searches by the image copyright. dont be that asshole who makes an art event and...accidentally steals art to promote it.

if you're lazy and are just making a post, still organize the post in a way that's fun. whether that's using emojis, paragraph lines, etc., have your post be pleasing to the eye. if it's just a bunch of walls of text, people aren't gonna read it.

---

3. make an event that's unique. the classic dannymay calendar event is cool and fun, but it can be oversaturated. i think events work best when you take that prompt-style familiarity and find a twist or niche to it.

---

4. give people an easy way to engage in the event. whether you make a discord, make a separate blog for it, or just throw up a hashtag and pin the post to your blog. it doesn't matter so long as the event has its own easy way for people to find the content. ---

5. establish in writing the level of participation required. whenever i throw events i CONSTANTLY get asks/DMs of people worried that they won't be able to participate every day and can't do the event, or they're posting late, etc. if your event is like invisobang and is very intensive, say so. but if it's like dannymay or side hoes week and is pretty much a "do what you want," say it and reiterate it every time someone asks. because you never know who's lurking and may want to post something but doesn't think they're "good enough."

(funny story, i actually never tried phic phight till this year because i knew i couldn't make more than 1 or 2 fics for it. turns out u can literally not write anything and still score points for your team, and even if you don't get points, you're not shamed or banned from future phights. so that made me really excited to try the event out, and i loved it!)

---

6. engage with people's content during the event. i make a queue system, i read and comment on fics, i follow blogs, i reblog stuff all the time, i always try to leave nice comments in the tags at the very least. i like to let people know that i see the effort they're putting in and i love and support it. positive encouragement is one helluva drug.

---

anddd yeah that's all i can think of. keep in mind that different types of events require different amounts of work. i prefer to run "hands-off" types of events where i do a bunch of prep beforehand, but then once the event actually starts, aside from checking the tag every day, i don't do much. but some events, like phic phight or truce, require a LOT of work before, during, and after the event. so if you know that you can't handle that, then just don't do it. it's the exact reason why i had to step away from truce last year, and honestly it's better to pull away before than to get into an event and realize you're in over your head (which has happened to me before and it's no fun i promise).

#danny phantom #phandom #event stuff

[casifer-is-king]

I'd Never

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

Summary: It’s not that Javier isn’t interested in you, but there are some lines that can’t be crossed. Especially when you’re his partner’s wife’s best friend in Bogatá and he’s a DEA agent with a bad track record with relationships. But there has to come a breaking point, and this is it.

Rating: M

Warnings: curse words, alcohol and cigarettes (don't smoke kids), jealousy, a tiny bit of fem!receiving oral. If there's anything else I missed call me out.

A/N: This started as a simple little thing about why Javi avoids relationships. Then it turned into a "what would be the breaking point of that avoidance, though?" And it turned into this whole big thing lol. No beta we die like men. Please leave me feedback and reblog if you like 🥺💖

It’s been two hours since Steve called Javier and told him Connie was dragging him out to the bar and Javier was coming too. Steve told him exactly when to be there and Javier showed up only five minutes late. That was an hour ago and he was currently wishing he had just stayed in his own apartment…

Finally, the bedroom door opened and Connie stepped out. She had on a short dress and some strappy heels, her hair curled and makeup done to perfection in dark, smokey colors.

“Can we leave yet? The bars are gonna be closed by the time you’re ready,” Javier quipped.

“Sorry to keep you from your drinks, Javi, but this woman’s hair would not cooperate.

It was only then that Javier saw you, stepping out behind Connie and dressed up similarly. Your dress was black, strapless and fitted at the waist, then flowing out into an a-line skirt that accented the curve of your hip. Your makeup was lighter than Connie’s, but the bright red lipstick brought attention to your mouth and had Javier licking his own lips.

“Sooo, are we ready or what?” Connie pulled Javier out of his reverie. She already had Steve by her side, helping her into her jacket by the door.

“Ready,” rasped the brunette, pulling a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt. He escorted you and Connie to the front of the building while Steve went to bring the car around.

“Can I have one?” You asked from Javier’s right.

He immediately offered you the one he had lit and watched as your much smaller fingers took the cig from between his, brought it to your crimson lips and inhaled. You let the smoke roll out of your mouth before handing it over to him again. Taking it back, his dark chocolate eyes observed the red stain on the filter before he inhaled the last drag. Dropping the butt to the ground, he dug for another, lit it then handed it off to you immediately.

It was a practiced action between the two of you by this point. Ever since Connie brought you over for one of those weekly dinners she insisted Steve invite him to - “or he’ll never have a good meal, Stephen” - almost three months ago now. Javier wasn’t sure if you never actually had cigarettes of your own, or if you just made it a habit of stealing from him specifically, but you always asked for one and he never said no. At this point, he was certain he wouldn’t say no if you asked him for most anything.

***

At the bar, Steve and Connie go to find a table while Javier and you go up for the first round of drinks. The bar is crowded, but Javier easily carves out a spot for the two of you to wait for one of the bartenders.

It’s only a few minutes before a guy sidles up to your side and begins a conversation with you. Javier tenses, but the bartender distracts him for the moment as he gets everyone’s order in and waits. When he turns to hand you your drink, the guy is still there and you seem to be happily having a conversation, letting him lean in close to your ear so you can hear him over the music. With your drink in hand you give the stranger a smile and a nod before turning to Javier.

“I’m gonna go dance,” you say over the music.

Javier nods, but his mouth is curved down into a frown as he juggles three full drinks to the table that Steve and Connie claimed. He sits and glares out across the dance floor while the married couple next to him have a quiet conversation all their own.

He watches you as you dance with the stranger, his hand on your waste and head ducked toward your neck. He’s obviously saying something into your ear, and whatever it is makes you smile. As the guy turns your body so your back is pressed to his front, Javier feels a rolling, burning feeling in his stomach. He has no right to feel this way, he tells himself. You aren’t his to be possessive over.

It’s not that Javier isn’t interested in you, but there are some lines that can’t be crossed. Especially when you’re his partner’s wife’s best friend in Bogatá and he’s a DEA agent with a bad track record with relationships.

Javier isn’t good at long term relationships. He knows this well. It's the reason that he keeps his interactions with women strictly business, both professionally and sexually (though sometimes those two things can be one in the same in his job). It’s the reason he left Lorraine on the day they were to be married and ran away to Columbia. And it’s the reason he keeps you at a distance when all he wants is to hold you in his arms and smudge your lipstick across your lips as he kisses you. Because you deserve better than a fast burn relationship that leaves you broken, and he knows better than to think he can get it right this time.

Instead, he watches your body as it melts into this random, watches as your hips meet his and you both move in time to the tempo of the song. And he glares. It isn’t a conscious action, but he glares across the room as he absently drinks his beer.

"If you glare hard enough maybe the whole place will burn down," comments Steve with a knowing smirk. “Or maybe he’ll just disappear and you can finally just make a move.”

Javier turns his glare to his partner. “Very funny, Murphy.”

Connie stands and places an arm on his shoulder. “Just go out there, Javi. Dance with her,” she urges him before turning to her husband. “Come on, babe. Buy me another drink and come dance with me.”

Steve turns blue eyes to meet brown. “Meet ya out there?” he asks Javier with a snarky little smile.

“Yeah fucking right,” Javier mutters to Steve’s retreating back, eyes quickly finding their way back to you. He watches you. Watches as you embrace Connie and pull her in to dance. Watches as that stranger’s hand finds it’s way over your stomach and up, up, up until he’s grazing the bottom of your breasts. Watches as he finds himself pushing through the crowd, getting closer and closer to you, and as his own hand engulfs your wrist and pulls you away from the asshole.

“What the hell, Javi?” you exclaim, spilling a bit of your second drink between the two of you.

Javier doesn’t answer; he silently accepts the car keys from Steve and nods at his partner's brief, “we’ll catch a cab home, man.” Then he leads you through the bar, draping his leather jacket across your bare shoulders before you even hit the doors, and continues to lead you to the car.

“Javier! What the hell?” you reiterate. You don’t fight him, though, and you accept his chivalry when he opens the passenger door and helps you into the seat.

He mutters some excuse that you barely hear before he shuts the door and jogs over to get in the driver’s seat. He pulls out of the parking lot with only a muttered, “I’ll drive you home,” but stays quiet other than that. He barely remembers walking out onto that dance floor, doesn't know why he dragged you away, and has no words to explain himself to you. He knows he owes you more than that, owes you some sort of excuse that he can’t give. Not without opening a door to something that he’d never be able to take back.

He tries not to look at you sitting next to him, swamped in his coat with confused eyes and a pout on your painted lips. Instead, he focuses on his driving, focuses on the dark streets in front of him, and focuses on bringing his emotions back in check. Building his walls back up so that he doesn’t hurt you.

He lights a cigarette, taking two drags before silently handing it to you. You accept the smoke, finishing half of it before passing it back without a word. You both smoke two more cigarettes like this before Javier pulls up to your building.

“I’ll walk you up,” he finally breaks the silence. And so he escorts you all the way up to your door without so much as another word. In the harsh fluorescent lights, he can feel you observing him, knowing you can see the hardening of his brow over his stormy eyes, the way his mouth is turned down into a pouty frown and the hunch of his broad shoulders.

At your door, you pause and Javier knows you want him to say something. Anything at all to make you understand. But when he doesn't, you unlock your door, hand resting on the doorknob.

“You know what? No, Javi. I’m not going to let you just leave me here like this without an explanation,” you finally explode. “What was that about back there? Why did we leave early?”

Javier huffs, but his eyes refuse to meet yours. You won’t back down, though. “Please talk to me,” you practically begged now.

He has thought about this moment a lot, how he would respond if you finally confronted him about this push and pull that you both engaged in. The light flirtations that he allows himself to indulge in without ever letting it advance to the next step. Light touches as you pass the cigarette back and forth between quiet banter, eyes meeting across Steve and Connie’s dinner table, a fluttering of your lashes and the twist of his lips into a grin just for you.

Javier makes the mistake of meeting your eyes. “I didn’t like seeing that cabrón all over you,” he finally spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t like seeing any man looking at you the way he was, or dancing with you the way I should be.”

“The way you should be...?” you trail off, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“The way I want to be,” Javier adds.

There is a heavy pause between the two of you for a long moment, then you’re in Javier’s arms, eyes searching his expressive ones and looking for a sign that it’s ok to move forward. Javier answers that question by leaning down and capturing your lips with his - tentative, waiting to see where it goes. Wanting to see if he was really going to take this step after talking himself out of it for so long now.

You don’t give him too long to think about it, pressing into his chest and deepening the kiss. Javier pushes back, feeling your curves pressed into his torso as your back hits the door behind you. Your mouth tastes like tobacco with faint undertones of the alcohol you had been drinking and Javier finds himself falling into it. Any reason he has created to convince himself to keep you at arms length is crashing down around him.

Breaking the kiss when air becomes a necessity, Javier grasps your chin where your lipstick is smeared, wiping along the red stain before bringing his lips to yours again. Then it’s the fumbling to get into your apartment, the frantic removal of shoes and hands roaming skin. Making your way through the dark apartment, lit only by the orange streetlights filtering through the windows, Javier kisses every bit of skin he can find from your face to your shoulders. He takes note of all the noises you make, from the quiet gasp when he finds the soft spot behind your ear, to the giggle from that spot on your shoulder where his mustache tickles you.

Javier is pushing up the skirt of your dress, caressing your sides as he explores with his mouth, fingers dropping under the band of your panties and beginning to ease them down. Halfway down your thighs, Javier grasps your hips again and lifts until you are seated on one of the stools at your kitchen counter.

Kneeling between your legs, Javi looked up at you, eyes reflecting black with lust. “I want this all for myself,” he rasps out.

“It’s yours,” is your response, voice husky and dark.

At your word, Javier wastes no time latching his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thighs, exploring this new expanse of skin slowly. By the time he reaches his intended destination, he has you squirming in the seat, leaking onto the fabric beneath you and begging him to hurry up. And being the weak man that he is when it comes to you, he gives in easily and finally delves into the sweetness of your core.

He tries to take his time still, savoring in the moment. But you are impatient now, bucking into his face and letting out a constant stream of commentary, “please, Javie. So close. Please don’t stop.” And how could he stop when he finally had you here? Finally gets to hear your moans and taste you on his tongue. By the time your first orgasm has washed over you, he has already decided to see how many times he can make you beg in one night. How many times he can say yes to you and earn his name on your lips.

By the time you are both spent, he's lying with you in the crumpled sheets of your bed. He basks in the afterglow as you cuddle into his side, head resting on his chest and his arm around your shoulders tracing patterns across soft skin. Once he is sure you have fallen asleep, he begins to ease his way from under you. He doesn’t get far though, as your hand reaches out to grasp his larger one.

“Please say you’ll stay,” you whisper sleepily. Javier instantly relaxes back into your pillows, hand shifting to encase your much smaller one in his.

“I’d never say no.”

#narcos #narcos fanfic #Javier Peña #Javier Peña x Reader #Javier Peña x You #pedro pascal characters #Pedro Pascal character fic

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Like You, Say It Back.

Ao3,   MasterPost

Wow, Same ship twice in a row? Fuckin sue me, it’s underrated. Plus it’s short so it doesn’t count. 

Relationships: Dukexiety/Intruxiety

Warnings: Crying, perceived one-sided relationship (it isn’t!! he was Mistaken), Mentions of some Remus-y thoughts/ideas/habits, hurt/comfort, Remus angst, brief miscommunication, cursing. Short and Sweet, for the most part :3. One kissy ^x^

Word Count: 1,585

Remus stilled in shock, his hands tensed up against his partner’s back. 

“What did you just say?”

Virgil shifted back from their close embrace, eyes wide and nervous. Remus was too busy losing his mind to be concerned about his boyfriend’s mounting distress, unfortunately. What had Virgil said? He must've misheard, surely.

“That I love you? You- uh, you don't have to say it back, if it's, like, too soon, or whatever,” Virgil rambled, confirming that yep, nope, Remus hadn't misheard anything.

Too soon! Now, that was the furthest thing from the issue. They'd been dating for two months, after all. Though Remus didn't typically prescribe to social standards, that was probably more than enough time to use the L-word. In fact, there were plenty of times where the Creative facet himself had to actively prevent himself from blurting it out (be it by swallowing cement or suturing his mouth shut, and various other means). 

Remus’ brand of affection did not mesh well with someone as easily spooked as his partner. But God, he tried to get it under control, because Virgil was worth it. Virgil was worth patience and gentleness and holding his breath, waiting and waiting. He’d even waited until he was 100% sure his and Virgil's fractured friendship was fully mended to attempt to ask the trait out, despite having been in love with him since they were young. Very few things scared Remus- really scared him, to the point of breaking his pledge of constant bluntness and honesty- but losing the people he cared about easily made that short list. 

But Virgil had agreed to go out with him. 'Yeah, sure,' he'd muttered, face a little pinker and back a little straighter than normal, 'Sounds fun, I guess.' 

To anyone else, it would've sounded noncommittal, lackluster, but to Remus- fuck, it was the best thing in the world. Virgil was really going to give him a chance! 

Remus never expected it to last long. One date, maybe. When said date had actually gone really well (Vee had even let him kiss him!), he'd amended that they might have a week in them. Lo and behold, ten weeks later, and Virgil had yet to dump him.

The end, Remus had assumed, was going to come soon. He was okay with that- don't get him wrong! He adored his boyfriend, reveled in their time together, but he'd already gotten so much further than ever thought he would. It only made sense that Anxiety would eventually get frustrated and fed up with humoring him. Remus had made peace with that, long since appeased with whatever he’d already gotten out of this.

At least, he had thought he was at peace. Now there was this fucking curveball. 

“You love me? Like, actually?”

The nervousness dropped from Virgil’s face, replaced by bemusement. Remus got a close view of it from his seat on the other’s lap. His favorite place to be, typically, but at that moment the proximity bordered on overwhelming. Not like he was going to move, though.

“Ye- yeah? Is that a surprise to you?”

Remus barked out a laugh, throwing his head back to distract from the slight stinging he felt at the corners of his eyes. A surprise? That was one hell of an understatement! Virgil was so cavalier about it, too, like it wasn’t the strangest thing Remus had ever heard. Like it didn’t make his heart leap up into his throat, and not even in the cool, literal way. 

“You love me! Two months of-” he made a sharp gesture between them, “-this and you’ve come to the conclusion that you love me,” it wasn't quite believable in Remus’ mind. His face was splitting in a grin, but he shook as he grasped at Virgil’s shoulders, tears steadily clouding his vision. It felt like his insides were exploding, and not at all in a bad way. Like someone had pumped his chest full of Build-A-Bear stuffing and bright-colored candy, his skin splitting at the seams to try and hold it all. Which was unequivocally fun and amazing, of course.

Virgil, for one, seemed floored by that reaction.

“Okay, I'll be honest, I had no idea how you were gonna react- I never do, really, but- you're laughing?”

Remus leaned his head back down, more cackles escaping him. The look on Virgil’s face was a mask of shock, from what he could make out through his haze. Oh, he was crying in earnest now, for sure. Big, gloopy streams of salt-water pouring down from his ruby-red eyes.

“I never, ever thought that you would say it,” he made a noise between a snort and a sob, “And you did!”

Suddenly, Remus was jostled from his boyfriend’s lap. Virgil had his back pressed against the arm of the couch, one leg stuck out to maintain distance between them. Remus went silent instantly, the only noises left from him being soft hiccups from his ugly crying. 

“What the hell is this- us- then? Why are we together if you think this isn't- fuck, wait, you’re crying now? What is happening?!” 

Remus gawked, watching his boyfriend coil up with anger across from him. He scrambled for what to say, and for once found it to be a struggle. He scooted forward, fully aware that he was probably cornering Virgil but too frantic to be concerned about it. 

“No- no, I wasn't laughing at you, Vee, I didn’t mean it to look like I was!”

Virgil was wary. Remus didn't blame him; he knew his little Jack-O-Lantern wasn’t very good at reading people. 

“What’s funny, then?”

“It isn't,” he struggled, “I was- surprised? I just never thought you’d be saying- saying that,” Remus cringed internally at his wording, because wow this was not coming across right. Frustrated, he tangled a hand in his hair, wishing he could just pluck out his eyes to stop the crying. That probably would only freak Virgil out more, though. 

Or perhaps not, given that he didn’t seem like he could get much more distressed. There was an uncomfortably quiet moment where he seemed to be carefully analyzing what Remus meant- which made it all the more relieving when it did click for him. Remus was sure he couldn’t explain any better in the state he was in.

“You-” Virgil’s expression turned to dismay, “Oh, fuck, did you mean… you thought that I just… didn't?” 

Opening his mouth to speak, Remus found all he could manage was a small nod.

Without further warning, Virgil jolted across the small distance between them and crushed Remus in a hug. The Duke reeled, his hands just barely ghosting over the other's arms. He must have been off his game, letting so much sentimentality get to him. He was the most unshakeable being in the whole MindPalace!

“It- it just didn't make sense, ya know? When you agreed to go out with me. I was basically 100% sure you'd be grossed out, or just ignore me- I only really asked because I couldn't not. You know how I am with filters! And you were so- so you,” his ramble started softly, growing steadily louder and more pitchy.

Virgil didn't respond more than tightening his grip around Remus, resting his chin on Remus’ head. The side carried on anyway.

“I knew we were friends, I knew you cared about me- I'm not the sharpest scalpel in the patient, but I don't hate myself nearly enough to tell myself that you still hated me- so I figured you were just humoring me. Obviously, I'm like ‘hell yeah, let's see how long it takes for him to get sick of this’,” it wasn't funny, but Remus laughed again anyway, “Which I guess will take a little longer than I thought, huh?”

Virgil pulled his head back, fixing Remus with an intense gaze. The eye shadow beneath his eyes had sunken and darkened, creeping down his face in inky spiderlegs of ‘makeup’.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he hissed, “You’re the most annoying person I've ever met, and I’m never getting sick of you,” he slid one of his hands down to where Remus was barely resting his own on Virgil's waist, twining their fingers together. “And if you think for even a second otherwise, then you're also the dumbest person I've ever met.”

A fresh wave of tears ran down Remus’ cheeks, the saline taste creeping into his mouth. He squeezed Virgil's hand once, then twice, just to bring himself to some semblance of stability. Eventually, though, he caved into what his mind was really screaming to do, shifting forwards to kiss his boyfriend. It was messy, salty, and broken up by bouts of Remus' relieved giggling. Regardless, neither side let the other go for minutes on end, until both were breathless and light-headed.

“Hey, Scarecrow?” Remus’ breathing was shaky in the way it only gets after settling down from a good cry, not to mention shallow from the kissing. Virgil's two-tone eyes met his, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Mhmm?”

Virgil was wrapped around him with all his limbs, surprisingly clingy. The presence was warm, something he hadn’t expected when they first got close. Virgil was always cozy like a fire, one that you’d be happy to burn to death in. Remus nuzzled into the anxious trait’s shoulder, tired and excited all at the same time. 

“I almost forgot to say,” he traced his claws, gently, up Virgil’s arm, “That I love you, too.”

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu

#i have one trick and its this #character laughs cuz they r surprised and other character thinks they r laughing at them #its my one think i do #u could also call it #lackluster writing devices #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides #ts #tss #dukexiety #intruxiety #virgil #remus #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

loved your previous fic with dick & gar for the "hand-holding" prompt. if you're still taking prompts, then please do #12 - "pushing a strand of hair behind their ear" with dick and gar

Fandom: DC Titans

Title: Good Men and Women NOT Doing Nothing

Pairings/Relationships: Dick Grayson & Gar Logan, Dick Grayson & Rachel Roth

Summary: There's something different about Gar when he walks into the kitchen one morning and the reason behind it is deeper than Dick initially thought.

Touching | 12. pushing a strand of hair behind their ear, Dick & Gar - for @wanderingroundwonderland

Also tagging my besties @undertheknightwing and @wonderbatwayne 😘😘😘 and now I'm going to sleep 😂

____________________________________________

Dick liked getting up along with the sun, especially on a day like this when warm rays of sunshine filtered through the wide windows, coloring the inside of the Tower with a soft golden glow. It filled his body with much needed energy for the day and brightened his mind like not many other things could.

He was just flipping another pancake over when his attention was distracted by a long, loud yawn.

"Good morning." Rachel mumbled at him as she entered the kitchen, all messy hair and cute pajamas, heading straight for the coffee pot he had prepared for her beforehand.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He replied cheerfully, placing the pancake on the plate beside him. He reached for a can of whipped cream and squeezed a little on top of it, then decorated the meal with fresh strawberries - the way Rachel liked best. "How'd you sleep?" rolled off his tongue with ease as he offered her a portion while she sat down on the stool across from him, holding her favorite mug full of caffeine drink in her hand.

Rachel, rubbing her eyes to get rid of the rest of sleepiness, gave him a lazy smile and pulled the stack of pancakes towards her. "Fine." she shrugged and eagerly got to eating. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste, which caused a wave of warmth swarming Dick's chest and made him smile to himself, pleased with both his growing cooking skills and her reaction. "But do you really have to kick us out of bed so early? I need my beauty sleep, Kory says it's very important."

"Of course she does." Dick muttered under his breath, trying not to pay attention to the fact that his heart twitched as if it was electrocuted at the mention of Kory. "Early morning means you have more time during the day."

"So what if we have more time when we can't even move after early training." a new voice joined their conversation, making Dick and Rachel simultaneously turn their heads in the direction it was coming from.

And Dick fell speechless, frozen with a pancake on a spatula in one hand and a plate in the other.

Gar walked in, stretching with his arms raised behind his head, fingers tangled together tightly. It wouldn't be anything unusual, that was a part of his morning routine, but what threw Dick off guard was that Gar looked… different.

"Good morning to you, too." Dick told him with a grin plastered to his face to mask his confusion when the boy dropped down next to Rachel, eyeing her pancakes longingly. The girl snickered and elbowed him in the arm, seemingly not surprised nor bothered by the sudden change.

Gar must have felt Dick's eyes boring into him because he stilled suddenly and turned to the older man.

"What?"

"Nothing, just…" Dick paused for a moment, not exactly sure what to say. "Uh, what's with the new haircut?" he finally blurted after handing the boy his own plate of pancakes.

Gar's eyes grew large like he just turned into a night owl - or more like one eye, the one Dick could see, because the other one was covered by a curtain of his green hair, brushed down on the side of his forehead. He blinked twice and just kept staring back until Rachel shoved her elbow in his side, harder this time.

"Ow! Uh, yeah… that." the boy stuttered, rubbing the hurting spot while shooting Rachel an annoyed glare. "I, uh… I decided to change things up a bit, experiment… yeah…" his words trailed off into an awkward silence and Gar shoved a big piece of pancake into his mouth to avoid talking. As he reached for a strawberry from a bowl on the counter, he didn't meet Dick's eyes.

He's embarrassed, Dick figured as he watched the boy putting all his focus on eating his breakfast to avoid going more into the topic. Rachel kept observing him as well, her stare warm and sympathetic, though Dick couldn't help but notice a hint of worry behind her eyes.

"Looks good to me." Dick commented finally, earnest and true. The change was unexpected, yes, but if Gar felt like wanting to change something about himself then he had every right to do it. And it really didn't look bad. His words got the boy to lift his eyes back up and he sent him a sheepish grin.

"What's up, people?" Jason announced his presence with an unnecessarily loud shout, making Rachel flinch in response.

"Damn it, Jason. It's 7 am, keep it down, would you?" she grumbled at him when he slid into a free seat on her other side.

He threw a glance at her coffee mug, then almost obnoxiously pushed it closer to her with his index finger "Looks like someone is in desperate need of more caffeine."

Dick couldn't resist a chuckle when she rolled her eyes so hard she must have seen the back of her skull.

"Shut up." she huffed as Jason stole a strawberry from her plate and threw it into his mouth, but then his eyes set on Gar.

"Cool haircut, bro." he said, his lips stretching into a smirk. "But that emo punk fringe was cool back in like 2009, y'know?"

Gar sent a death glare his way. "Very funny, Jason."

"Hey, it looks dope!" The other boy raised his hands in defence, but then leaned in closer again, eyes squinting mischievously. "It makes you look… mysterious. Like you got something to… hide."

This time it was Jason's side that became a target of Rachel's elbow and that plus the way he said it made Dick do a double take. There was an undertone to Jason's voice, an insinuation of a deeper meaning. Gar froze for a moment, unsure how to react. Eventually he opted to end the conversation by throwing Jason an awkward smile and got up from his seat, taking the empty plate with him and rounded the kitchen island to put it in the sink.

"You know, Dick," he started, inching closer to his side. "I checked out online this fighting style you mentioned during our last training, the uh… Okichitaw, yeah. And I'd really like to learn it. Some basics at least."

Dick put the last portion of pancakes - his own - on the plate and turned to the boy with a smile, feeling excitement rising slowly in his chest. He knew what Gar was really trying to do right now - change the course of the conversation, turn it away from him and his hair. Dick couldn't blame him for that. But Gar also wasn't lying, he really was eager to learn and Dick appreciated the fact that he even did a bit of his own research.

"Sure, buddy. We can start right away." he replied instantly and Gar beamed at him, buzzing with happiness. His head twitched in an attempt to get the hair out of his eye. It was clear getting accustomed to that new hairstyle is gonna take longer than the boy expected. Dick chuckled at his annoyed frown when the hair fell back on his face. "Now go get ready, we'll start in an hour."

He reached out to playfully ruffle the boy's hair but when he did, Gar unexpectedly flinched. He froze, his body taut as a string, jaw clenched to bite back a groan of pain. The kitchen suddenly became very quiet, no clattering of cutlery, not even breathing. Dick's hand stilled on the boy's head and he slowly took it away, looking at Gar who again was trying to avoid his eyes. Dick looked back at the other two teens, who sat still as statues in their seats, both nervous and waiting - Rachel was biting her lower lip nervously while Jason's eyes jumped between Dick and Gar, smirk tugging at his lips.

At first he hesitated, but eventually Dick reached out again, slowly and carefully this time and pushed the strand of hair out of the boy's face, tucking what he could behind his ear. The green curtain revealed a nasty long cut travelling in line with his hairline, held together by two small dressing plasters. It already stopped bleeding but it looked deep and was inflamed, the area around it red and swollen.

"Holy shit, Gar! When did this happen?" The man's voice rang out with worry as he stepped closer to take a better look. He brushed his fingers over the wound, his touch feather-light but Gar still twitched a little, face twisting in a grimace. He didn't answer, just looked to the side - right at Rachel - pleading for help with his eyes. Dick followed his gaze.

The girl sighed as she put her fork down and shook her head.

"I told you he was gonna notice." she told her friend. What was even more strange was that Jason actually agreed with her, nodding eagerly.

Confusion is not strong enough of a word to describe what was going on inside Dick's mind right now. How the hell did this happen? Was that during yesterday's training? No, he would notice. After? They had a free evening and he let the kids go out to have some fun in the city. A surge of fierce protectiveness washed over him as his eyes went back to Gar who looked so miserable Dick's heart almost broke on the spot. He let his hand slide under the boy's chin and he gently lifted his face up so their eyes could meet.

"What happened, Gar?" he asked, his voice calm and soft, but not without the tense undertone of someone who is ready to throw some punches with the reason behind that wound. "Who did this to you?"

Gar gulped down, eyes wide in fear and mouth dry, and looked at Rachel again - just a glance, but she noticed anyway.

"Tell him." she encouraged him softly. Gar nodded once and took a deep breath, bracing himself.

"Um, yesterday when… when we were at the mall, me and Rach passed by these guys in SFSU jerseys. Six of them, I think." he started, stumbling through the words. His fingers fumbled nervously with the hem of his t-shirt but he bravely held Dick's gaze as he spoke. "They started catcalling Rachel, saying some gross stuff I am not willing to ever repeat and… and I had to step in."

At first all Dick could hear was static after what he just heard. Then the sense of Gar's words slowly started coming to him and he staggered back.

"What?"

Now it wasn't just protectiveness, it was pure fire raging through Dick's veins. Rachel… getting catcalled? That was unacceptable. Unfathomable. It wasn't just crossing the line, it was breaking it like a dry twig and setting it on fire and whoever did that was really fucking lucky Dick wasn't there to hear it. He let go of Gar's chin and set his hand on his shoulder instead, trying to keep himself from shaking. His other hand already formed into a fist, fingers curled so tightly his knuckles turned white. He instantly looked at Rachel, searching for any signs of something being wrong, a series of questions already forming on his tongue, but she beat him to it and quickly shook her head.

"I'm okay, I swear. Nothing happened."

"You sure?" he insisted, his gut gnawing at him to learn more because maybe they are not telling him everything. "They didn't do anything? You're not hurt? Because I swear to God, if-"

"Dick, I'm okay." was her only reply, soft, quiet and calming.

"She wanted me to ignore them but they were very pushy." Gar continued, his gaze darting between her and Dick. "They surrounded us, one of them got too close to her and got… grabby, so to speak so I punched him."

Grabby? As in… no, that was too much. His fists were now itching to meet that person's face. To rip their insides out and wrap them around their neck. No one dares to lay a damn finger on her. No one.

"Fucking assholes." Jason muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He sent Rachel a sympathetic look and she smiled back at him, thanking silently.

"I would have been fine, I know how to handle myself." she insisted to Gar as she got up from her seat and walked up to him to lay a hand on his shoulder. He instantly turned to her.

"I know, but what was I supposed to do? Just stand there and do nothing? We're Titans now, remember? Men and women not doing nothing."

Dick honestly wanted to hug Gar in that moment, his chest filling with an insane amount of pride. He stood up for her, protected her, even if he got his ass kicked in the end. They can work on that and after what Dick just learned he will make damn sure that they will, but the intention was what mattered the most right now.

He squeezed Gar's shoulder gently and when the boy turned back to him, Dick leaned in to look him in the eyes.

"That was very brave of you, thank you. I'm proud of you, buddy." he said, noticing how Gar's eyes glazed over with tears after hearing the words. The boy chuckled softly, nodding in response. "But how did you get this?" He asked, pointing at his forehead.

"Well, that asshole punched back." Gar stated bluntly, his hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. "He knocked me down pretty hard, I hit my head on the edge of a fountain, y'know that giant one in the main hall. I saw stars, for a moment I couldn't move-"

"You scared the hell out of me." Rachel whispered, sliding her arm around his shoulders.

"Sorry." Gar replied, bumping his head with hers. And immediately regretted it, flinching at the pain it caused to his forehead. "Anyway, after that they left us alone, walked away laughing. And before you ask-" he pointed his finger at Dick, seeing that the man was already gearing up to ask questions. "No, I don't know their names and no, you can't go find them and beat the shit out of them. I know you want to."

Dick snickered and shook his forehead.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Dude, you're basically vibrating with fury right now." Jason told him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ooof, I wouldn't want to be on the other end of that wrath."

Dick decided to ignore his younger brother's remark, but couldn't deny the truth behind it - the fury he felt right now, if unleashed, could be deadly. It pulled a delicate string, knocked on a door he locked when he brought these three kids to San Francisco. It reminded him of the rage and violence of his Robin days. Dick wanted to put it away for good but to be honest it would really come in handy right now.

"I'm sorry," Gar suddenly whispered, which brought Dick back to the present - and caught completely off guard. The boy bowed his head down, letting the hair fall back on his forehead and cover the cut.

"For what?" Dick asked softly, moving his hand to the nape of Gar's neck.

"I should have done more. I would have but the Tiger started showing and… I couldn't risk it so I had to back down."

At first Dick just stared at him, same as Rachel, completely taken aback. Then he opened his arms and smiled at the two teenagers.

"Come here, you two."

He pulled them into his arms, pressing them tightly to his chest. Gar froze at first, surprised but then tucked his face into his shoulder and breathed deeply. Rachel nestled into his other side, he could feel her smiling against his neck when her arms circled his middle. He put his hands in their hair, cradling their heads and pulling them closer as he spoke.

"Gar, you have nothing to apologize for, okay?" he insisted, turning his face to the boy. "You did the right thing. I'm proud of you and you have no idea how happy I am that you were with her back then." When Gar nodded, Dick turned to Rachel and she lifted her head to look at him. "And you. I'm glad you're okay. To be honest, I was scared something like this would happen someday but thankfully Gar was with you. But if it ever happens again, you go straight to me, got it? You shout, you call, whatever means necessary. I'll be there in a heartbeat."

Rachel gave him a single nod, a soft smile turning her lips upwards.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Dick sighed, finally feeling his anger subsiding and disappearing completely. He pulled back, brushing his palms over the kids' cheeks. He turned to Gar, who again was fiddling with his bangs and reached out to tuck it behind the boy's ear, laughing. "Alright, now let's get you properly patched up, huh? I'm sorry, but whoever did this-" he pointed at the plasters that were barely holding onto the skin. "-did a terrible job."

Jason scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Ouch, harsh."

#dc titans #dick grayson #rachel roth #garfield logan #jason todd #graysonfam #titans #titans season 3 #dcu titans

[mandaloriandragontrainer]

Can’t Breathe

AO3 link

Bill still haunts the twins’ dreams.

TW: panic attack

It was completely dark. No. Not completely. Thin slits of light filtered in, as though through someone’s fingers.

“Mabel,” Dipper groaned. “Stop doing that.” He reached up to pull her arms down, but found them stiff and unyielding.

“Wowee, you really do have noodle arms, Pine Tree.”

Dipper’s stomach fell to the floor. Not again. Not another dream. Why did they always seem so real?

“G-g-get away from me, B-Bill,” he demanded through chattering teeth. “You’re not real. You’re just-just another dream.”

“You think I don’t know that!? Stupid kid. And here I thought you were smart. I’m a dream demon, Pine Tree. Dreams are where I’m the most real.”

“Go away! You can’t do anything to me! You’re not here! You’re dead!”

Dipper’s feet were pulled out from underneath him. He was staring down at a black abyss, suspending by blue chains. “Look at you up there! Like a little piñata!”

“Leave me alone!” Dipper demanded, flinging his head back and forth searching for the demon. “Where are you!?”

“What kind of question is that, kiddo? You know exactly where I am.���

Hesitantly, Dipper let his gaze wander up... or down... to the abyss. He realized how it reflected like darkened glass. Two yellow eyes stared back, red-rimmed and psychotic.

His own eyes.

***

“You can’t have him!”

Mabel dug her feet into the ground, pushing back her brother’s body. Their whole life, they’d been equally matched. Why was he so much stronger now?

“This was his choice, Shooting Star! You think he’s so smart, dontcha? He should’ve known better than to trust me!”

Bipper flung Mabel back against the ground. “Face it, Shooting Star, your brother is mine. Just like you’re about to be.” He grinned maliciously. “Stanley will never be able to hurt his sweet little pumpkin pie.”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

“It’s like this, sweet’ums,” Bipper bent over and flicked Mabel’s chin. “You and your brother are my slaves now. Either you do exactly what I say when I say it or you’re dead. Worse than dead. Oh-ho, so much worse. Now shake my hand if you ever want to see your brother alive again, honeybun.”

“N-no!” Mabel put her hands to her ears. “This isn’t real, it’s all pretend! It’s just a dream!”

“Funny, your bro-bro said the same thing.” Her hands did nothing to drown out Bill’s maniacal voice. “Why do you fleshbags think a dream makes anything less real? You can’t escape me, babycakes. Even if you.... WAKE UP.”

Mabel screamed and flew up right. A dream. It was just a dream. She was here, in the Shack, in her bed with her purple nightgown and Sev’ral Timez pillowcase and stuffed pony and Waddles sleeping on the rug beside her. No evil laughter. Nothing to hear but her pig’s soft snoring and the buzz of the air conditioner and Dipper’s frantic panting.

Wait.

“Dipper? Are-are you okay?” She whispered.

Nothing but pained wheezes in response.

“Dipper?” She hopped from the bed, socked feet padding across the floor to her brother’s side. “Dipper, what’s wrong?”

Her twin was sitting up, one hand clutching his heart and the other steadying himself on the nightstand. “I-I-I can’t-I can’t-I can’t breathe...” he gasped. “I can’t breathe. Mabel. I can’t-I can’t!”

“Just-just try to slow it down,” she pleaded. “You’re hypervent-hypervent... that word! You’re breathing too fast!”

“Mabel, I’m gonna die,” Dipper choked. “Oh, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die...”

“Don’t say that!” Mabel wailed, tears springing to her eyes. “You’re not! Why are you saying that?”

Dipper fumbled for her hand. He was shaking so much. It terrified her.

“Grunkle Stan!!!” she bawled. “Grunkle Ford!!! Help, please help!!!”

Only a few moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs in response. The door was kicked open and her grunkles burst into the room in their sleepwear, Stan wielding his brass knuckles and Ford pointing his gun at an invisible threat.

“What is it, Mabel, where’d he go?!” Stan exclaimed, furiously surveying the room.

“It’s Dipper!” She wailed, running to her grunkle and throwing her arms around him. “He can’t breathe and he’s dying!”

Ford quickly holstered his gun and knelt at Dipper’s side. “Mason, look at me. Look me in the eyes.”

“I-I can’t breathe, Gr-Grunkle Ford,” Dipper grabbed his hand in terror. “I’m d-dying.”

“Listen to me, Mason. You’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack. Look at me. I know it’s frightening, but you’re safe. I’m right here with you. You’re not going to die.”

“I-I can’t.... I can’t...”

“What’s 2 times 3?”

“Wha-what?”

“2 times 3, my boy.”

“S-s-six.”

“Very good. What about 28 divided by 7?”

“F-four.”

Mabel glanced back at her brother from Stan’s hug. “Why is he making him do math?”

“I think he’s trying to calm him down, sweetie. Must be a nerd thing.”

“Very good job,” Ford gently rubbed Dipper’s back. “See? Your breathing is already slowing down. Can you breathe in through your nose?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Excellent. Breathe in deeply and hold it if you can. Out through the mouth.”

Dipper obeyed, although his breath wobbled. Stan flipped on the light, and Mabel could see her brother’s sleep shirt was completely soaked through with sweat.

“I couldn’t breathe,” he mumbled, clutching his uncle’s fingers like a lifeline.

“Shhh, boy. Just focus on breathing. We need to bring your heart rate down.”

“See, pumpkin?” Stan kneeled to eye level with his niece and gave her a hug. “Your brother’s just fine. He’s not goin anywhere.”

“It was Bill,” Dipper whimpered. “He was in my dream. He stole my body again, but-but it was like I was still in it too.” He looked at Ford, brown eyes wide and afraid. “Was it just a dream, Grunkle Ford? What if he’s really there?”

“Bill’s astral form was destroyed, my boy,” Ford assured. “But even if he were able to piece himself back together enough to enter your dreams, you have to remember he can’t hurt you there.”

“It-it felt like he could...” Tears started to roll down Dipper’s cheeks. He buried his face in his knees, unable to keep his shoulders from shuddering. “I could feel everything and-and I couldn’t make it stop. Not like when we were in Stan’s head.”

“He said we were his slaves.”

“What?” Ford turned to Mabel, surprised by her statement.

“He-he was in my dream, too,” Mabel ducked her head under Stan’s arm, feeling as though Bipper could pounce her again if she didn’t stay hidden. “He was in Dipper’s body like he was at the puppet show. And-and he said me and Dipper were his and-and if we didn’t do what he said he’d hurt us really bad. And before I woke up he said that dreams were just as real as being awake.”

Ford was silent for a moment. “Come over here, Mabel.” She shuffled to him and let him lift her onto Dipper’s bed. “I promise you two are completely safe here. Stan and I will never let any harm come to you, understand?”

The twins nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“I wish I could tell you for sure that it wasn’t actually Bill you encountered. I wish I could tell you it was nothing more than a dream. But the truth is, I don’t know. It was foolish of me to be so certain he was gone for good. I promise you, I’ll find out for sure if he’s back, and if he is, together we will find a way to destroy him once and for all. But in the meantime, I’ll teach you how to combat him in your dreams.”

“What about tonight?” Mabel asked quietly, leaning against her brother’s shoulder. “I always sleep with Mom and Dad when I have a nightmare.”

“You-you can sleep with me,” Dipper offered.

“Why don’t both of you sleep in our room tonight?” Stan interjected. “Sixer and I will get started in the lab.”

“Your room?” Dipper wrinkled his nose. “Can we change the sheets first?”

“You wanna sleep outside, kid?”

“Maybe we could make a fort,” Mabel suggested. “I taped some extra unicorn hair in my scrapbook. We could use it to protect the fort.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea,” Ford smiled. “You feel up to it, Dipper?”

“Yeah.” He slid down from the bed. “I’ll definitely sleep better.”

Stan watched the kids disappear down the stairs. “You really think you’ll be able to do something, Poindexter?”

Ford sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I’m still hoping these really are only just dreams. But you can never tell for sure when it comes to Bill.”

“Ah, if he shows up, I’ll just whallop him again. Didn’t hold up well against it last time.”

Ford shook his head. “Let’s make sure the kids are getting along all right.”

In their room, the grunkles found a lean-to of couch cushions covered with a sheet, unicorn hair pasted at the base. A crayon-colored sign stating “UNDER CONSTRUCTION” was taped at the top. Inside, the twins were collapsed in a heap, exhausted from the ordeal.

“They’re safe, Stanley.”

His brother smiled at him. “And we’ll keep it that way.”

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fanfic #pines family #dipper pines #mabel pines #ford pines #stan pines #stanford pines #stanley pines #bill cipher #bipper #tw: panic attack #mason pines #hurt/comfort #mando writes

[caitlesshea]

the way you showed me you care

“Shit.”

Booker jumps about a half foot in the air and almost falls off the couch at the sound of his phone ringing. It’s been months since anyone has contacted him, so long that he was beginning to wonder why he even kept it charged. 

In some self sacrificial moments he thought about changing his number so they couldn’t contact him, tricking himself into thinking they would. 

He fumbles forward and goes to answer when it blessedly stops ringing. Just because it takes an insane amount of alcohol for him to get drunk doesn’t mean he hasn’t spent the last couple of months trying. 

Just as he lays back down on the couch it rings again and when he goes to answer it his stomach sinks. 

Copley. 

“What?” Booker growls into the phone and the voice on the other end just sighs.

“How soon can you get to London?”

“Why? Is Andy?” 

“Everyone’s fine.”

Booker releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and rubs his forehead until he calms down.

“Then why?”

“London. How long?”

Booker holds his phone in front of him, trying to figure out the time and what day it is.

“Give me a couple of hours.”

“Fine. You remember how to get to my place?”

“How could I forget?” Booker responds dryly and he’s only slightly disappointed when Copley doesn’t say anything back. 

“Do you need anything? Money?”

Booker swallows at the softness in Copley’s voice. They’ve always had a friendly enough relationship, one doesn’t get to the point of asking someone to help you end it all without being somewhat close. They always understood each other in that regard.

“That’s the last thing I need. I’ll see you tonight.”

Booker hangs up before Copley can say anything and he smiles as his email pings with a train ticket to London and a rental car reservation. 

He takes one last look at his shitty apartment and grabs the duffel bag he’s had packed since he first got to Paris. 

At the last minute he picks up the copy of Don Quixote that Andy gave him and shoves it into his bag before grabbing his keys and his current passport, a French one, for once. 

Something about being exiled for a hundred years makes him want to be sentimental. And drunk. But he figures he can drink on the train. 

In what feels like no time at all he’s pulling up to Copley’s weirdly modern house in the outskirts of London. Booker tries not to think about what Copley could possibly want, especially considering he dragged Booker to London for it. Before he even turns off the engine Copley is outside waiting for him. 

“You made it.”

“Very astute of you.”

Copley rolls his eyes and Booker follows Copley into his house, setting his bag down on the couch. 

“Gonna tell me why I’m here?”

“I need your help.”

“My help?” Booker asks as Copley hands him a glass of scotch. 

Booker looks around Copley’s office, weird detective board still firmly in place, and waits for Copley to answer. 

When it seems like Copley isn’t going to say anything anytime soon, Booker walks over to the board, heart clenching at seeing Andy’s, Nicky’s, and Joe’s faces reflected back at him.

“None of me?”

“You told me you were immortal. I didn’t really need to do any research on you.”

“Mmm.” Booker swirls the drink in his glass and smirks.

“Couldn’t figure out my real name could you?”

Copley smiles and Booker shakes his head as he laughs.

“You’re very good.”

“Oh, I know.”

Copley smirks at him and Booker feels himself relax for the first time in months.

“So, my help?”

“There’s a job.” Copley hands him an iPad and Booker looks it over. “Andy agreed, but I need supplies and I don’t want to put them on the radar of any of my contacts.”

Booker raises an eyebrow at that and he swears he can see regret in Copley’s eyes.

“Joe and Nicky can get them. They know who we used.”

“Joe and Nicky?”

“Just because they’re super old doesn’t mean they can’t use a computer.”

“But Andy?”

“Oh, yeah, Andy’s terrible.” Booker walks over to sit in one of the chairs as Copley takes the other. “But Joe and Nicky aren’t half bad and I’m sure Nile is even better.”

“Nile. A millennial she is.”

Booker laughs and hands back the iPad. “She giving you trouble?”

“She just wants to have social media, wants to see her family, the usual.”

“Well, Nicky and Joe have an Instagram.”

“They what?” Copley looks like his eyes are going to bug out of his head and Booker rolls his eyes as he opens his phone.

“Not in their names or anything. It’s one of those couple’s accounts. They never show their faces and Nicky thinks he’s funny, posting old photos of them, making people think it’s a filter instead of a yellowed Polaroid.”

“Jesus.”

“Just give Nile some ground rules.”

“And the family part?”

“Ah, yeah, I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask.”

“Why?”

Booker looks up at Copley and realizes he’s genuinely curious. Booker takes a moment to spin his wedding ring that he stills wears and notices Copley still wears his as well. It makes something clench in his chest that he can’t really describe.

“Nothing good will come from her seeing them.” Booker ends up saying quietly and Copley nods. 

Booker doesn’t know what to do with the look on Copley’s face. It’s not pity, or even understanding, but it’s something close, and that makes his heart hurt. 

“Here.” Booker emails Copley the contacts and supplies he’d use for this mission and he waits for Copley to read it before getting up to leave.

“Stay.” Copley says as Booker walks past him. “For dinner I mean, and you can go back to Paris tomorrow.”

“Dinner.” Booker says, even though he packed for at least a week, and doesn’t want to look too closely at why he doesn’t want to leave.

“You cook?” Copley jokes. “You’ve had what, two hundred years to learn?”

“Nice try.” Booker walks into the kitchen with Copley behind him and takes a seat at the bar as Copley pulls out some food.

“Are you ever going to tell me how old you are?” Copley asks as he cuts up some veggies for what looks like a stir fry. “None of you have, actually.”

Booker swallows roughly at the mention of everyone else and he wishes he refilled his scotch before coming out here. One appears in front of his view and Copley gives him a wry smile.

“We don’t really talk about these things.”

“What things?”

“You know.” Booker waves in the general direction of Copley’s office. “Immortality, with anyone who’s not…”

“Ah.” Copley nods and throws the veggies and chicken he pulled out of the fridge into a wok. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” Copley turns to look at Booker and Booker can’t explain it but he feels seen like he never has before. “Doesn’t that get lonely?”

“I think you know the answer to that already, James.”

Copley nods and they sit in companionable silence while the food cooks. Booker wishes he had more to say, but the sting of losing his friends, his family, sits heavy in his throat. 

There’s no Nicky to bet if Andy will guess all the flavors in the latest baklava. There’s no Joe to watch football with and cheer for any team who’s wearing the color green because ‘Nicolò’s eyes.’ There’s no Andy to…

He’s brought out of his musings by Copley’s shout. 

“They have almost a million followers!” 

Booker can’t help it, he throws his head back and laughs, really laughs, for the first time in months. 

~~~ 

Booker was supposed to go home the next day. But it’s been almost three weeks and he hasn’t left. 

It’s not that he wants to stay, that’s a lie, but Copley keeps asking for help on jobs or how to deal with the team and Booker, the martyr, can’t stop himself from asking for more information. 

It’s not like he can’t figure out where they are. He helped them disappear in the world for almost two hundred years, he knows how they operate, but that feels a little too invasive, even for him. 

“They want to take a break for a little while.” Copley sits down next to him with coffee and passes one to Booker.

That’s another thing. Booker isn’t drinking as much and his flask is in his bag. Copley brings him coffee, tea, water. Almost anytime Booker sees the man drinking something, he brings something for Booker, as well. Booker knows it’s a tactic to get him to stop drinking as much, but he finds that he doesn’t care. 

“They do that.”

Copley just looks at him and Booker is reminded of the CIA Agent he met nearly nine years prior. 

“When you’re as old…” Booker smiles at Copley’s look of interest. “Nice try. But breaks are good. And Nile is still new.”

“When will she stop being new?”

“When Andy thinks she’s ready.”

“For?”

“Honestly? Probably never now that Andy’s…”

“Mortal?”

Booker swallows and looks up at Copley. The storm brewing in his own eyes is met with a compassion he doesn’t deserve. He looks away before he does something ridiculous like cry but not soon enough for Copley to notice.

“Booker.”  Copley breathes deeply, almost like it pains him that Booker is hurting. “How long is your exile?”

“A hundred years.”

“A hundred years?”

“Yeah.” Booker doesn’t even realize he’s saying the next part until Copley’s gasp. “A third of my life.”

“A third? So you’re two hundred?”

Booker sighs and figures if the man is letting him live in his house then he might as well be honest with him. 

“I turned two hundred and fifty this past May.”

“Two hundred fifty…” Copley trails off with a look of concentration. “Seventeen seventy?”

“Got it in one.”

“Well, shit.”

Booker laughs at the look on Copley’s face. “You have a board of over a hundred and fifty years of photos of us and my actual age surprises you?”

“Well yeah, especially considering you’re the baby.”

“I am not the baby.” Booker glares at Copley without heat.

“Right. Right, it’s Nile. You’ve definitely got middle kid syndrome.”

“I resent that.”

Copley shrugs and it’s such an odd thing for him to do that Booker smiles. 

“Forty two.” Booker says unprompted. 

“Huh?”

“I’m forty two, give or take a few years.” 

Copley turns his head to the side like he’s studying Booker and likes what he finds. “I’m forty three.”

“I know.” 

Copley rolls his eyes. “So how did you die?”

“The first time?”

Copley nods and Booker thinks about telling him the glorified version of the truth or the actual truth and finds that he actually wants to tell him.

“Army deserter, fighting with Napoleon.”

“Huh?”

“What?” 

“Nothing, just don’t see you as an army guy.”

“It was the thing to do.”

Copley raises an eyebrow at him and Booker sighs. 

“Alright fine, I was a forger, got caught, sent to war…”

“Booker.”

Booker shakes his head. “It wasn’t the last time I saw my family, although...”

“Family?”

“Wife, three sons.” Booker spins his wedding ring, watching as Copley’s eyes follow the movement. 

“I never…”

“My youngest son died at forty two, cancer. I can still remember everything he said to me, screaming that I wouldn’t share my gift with him to help him.”

Booker startles as Copley’s hand comes down on top of his own, squeezing tightly. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Booker turns his hand over in a moment of bravery and squeezes back.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Copley sits back for a moment, seemingly contemplating something, then shakes his head as he gets up to grab a binder on his desk.

“What are you?” 

“Here.”

Copley places the binder down on the table and Booker looks at it like it might bite him.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Booker opens it and sees pages of photos of himself. The photos that should be on the wall with the others.

“So you did have photos of me?”

“Just those and the few that are already on the wall. You’ve been with them a long time.”

“Not that long.”

“Longer than most people will ever get.”

Booker nods at that, thinking back to the time he had with his family, the time Copley had with his wife. It makes his heart hurt, when he thinks about everything he’s done.

“If I had your names I could find more.”

“Sébastien.”

“What?”

“My name, it’s Sébastien Le Livre.”

Copley smiles and the way it lights up his whole face is beautiful. The thought stops Booker’s heart for a moment, but then he lets it wash over him. For once, his attraction to someone else doesn’t feel like a betrayal.

“Booker makes sense now.” Copley smirks. “Although I think I like Sébastien better.”

Yeah, this man is going to be the death of him.

~~~

Booker should really admit that he’s not leaving Copley’s house. They’ve traveled to a few places and Booker’s taken a couple of solo jobs and gone to some of his safe houses to get some of his things but it’s been three months of him living with Copley and helping him with the team's jobs and he can feel himself slipping into a dangerous normalcy. 

You can also cut the tension between them with a knife. Booker doesn’t think he’s ever wanted someone as badly as he wants James Copley, but here he is three months into the first solid home he’s had in over two hundred years, and all he wants is Copley. 

Which is to say, he’s a little miserable. He can’t mess this up. He can’t mess up the one friendship that’s become as vital to him as breathing, he can’t mess up the chance to help his family, even if they don’t know it, and he can’t mess up the chance to spend at least some of his hundred year exile with this man. 

Booker’s trying to figure out how to at least see if Copley’s interested in maybe making their relationship something more when he hears a loud crash from the kitchen. 

“Shit.”

“You okay?” Booker looks around at the mess in the kitchen, a little shocked to see any part of the house in such disarray. 

“Yeah, sorry. I was looking for something.”

“What?”

“A cookbook. My wife’s.”

Booker’s heart seizes at the mention of Copley’s wife. It’s not that they haven’t talked about her, hell Booker’s seen more pictures of her than he’s ever seen of another person, but something twists in his gut, burning hot like jealousy, and he hates it. 

“What were you trying to cook?”

“Huh?” Copley’s looking around frantically and not really paying attention and Booker puts his hand on his arm to stop him.

“James.”

Copley looks at him and visibly relaxes as Booker bends down to look in the cabinet Copley was cleaning out. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Booker finds what he thinks Copley is looking for and stands up to hand him a small book that has pretty cursive writing on the front.

“Here.”

Booker looks into Copley’s eyes as he takes the book. Their hands brush and Booker swears the butterflies he feels make him feel like a teenager again, which is honestly impressive. 

“Sébastien.” Copley says in his infuriatingly elegant accent and Booker feels himself moving closer, so close that he can feel Copley’s breath against his own lips. 

It only takes a second, and then Booker is surging forward and kissing Copley, who drops the book and wraps his hands around Booker’s waist. 

Booker reluctantly breaks the kiss when the need to breathe becomes too much. He looks into Copley’s eyes and is pleased to see a similar look of want reflected back at him. 

“What are we doing?” Copley whispers as Booker presses up against him and pushes them into the counter. 

“Whatever you want.” 

Copley takes that as an invitation and he surges forward, Booker grabbing onto his hips to stop the momentum as he feels Copley’s tongue seek entrance into his mouth.

Booker gets so lost in the kiss, so lost in pulling Copley’s shirt from his pants and undoing the buttons to his shirt that he’s pretty sure he’s never been kissed like this before, and that’s saying something. 

Before Booker gets what he really wants, which is Copley somewhere horizontal, Copley breaks the kiss with a shout.

“Shit.”

“What happened?” Booker’s looking frantically at Copley. “James!” 

“Cut myself.” Copley looks at him as he pulls his hand in front of him to show the bleeding the knife that was on the counter behind Booker caused. 

Booker helps him bring his hand under the water as he grabs a towel. As soon as the blood washes away Booker turns his hand over looking for the cut and doesn’t see any.

“Where’d you cut your hand?”

“I, I don’t know.” Copley’s looking at his hand like he’s never seen it before and Booker doesn’t think, he just grabs the knife and slices Copley’s hand again and then his own.

“Sébastien!”

“Just look.” Booker wipes the blood away from his own hand and Copley’s and places them next to each other as they watch both wounds heal. 

“Holy shit.”

“Does this mean?”

“I don’t know what it means. Usually a person has to die for us to figure it out.”

“Uhh, about that.”

“We can deal with this later?”

Booker leans in closer to Copley and kisses him again, magically healing immortal hands long forgotten.

~~~

Except, not so forgotten, when Copley shoots awake in the middle of the night, grabbing his head and nearly throwing Booker out of bed.

“James?” 

“Sorry, nightmare.” Copley looks over at him and then turns on the light and Booker can see the worry lines on his face.

“Tell me.” Booker says as he reaches up to cup Copley’s cheek as Copley leans into him. 

“It was nothing.” Copley shakes his head as he scoots closer to Booker. “The team.”

“What about the team?” 

“Nothing, probably just nerves for the next job.”

“James. Tell me what you saw.” 

Copley sighs as he lays back down and Booker hooks his leg over Copley’s as he waits for him to speak.

“I don’t want…”

“I’ll be fine.” Booker says as he leans in to kiss Copley. “Tell me.”

“Andy and Nile were training, Joe was sketching something and Nicky was cooking.” 

“Shit.” Booker lays back down and rubs his hands over his eyes. “We dream each other.”

“We?”

“When there’s a new immortal.”

“So you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. This hasn’t happened before.”

Booker looks over at Copley and sees that his eyes have gone wide and he has a panicked expression in his face. 

“Hey.” Booker turns on his side so he can pull Copley closer. “We’ll figure this out.”

Copley nods just as his phone starts ringing. They both jump at the noise as Copley shows him the caller is Andy. 

Booker tries not to listen but it’s kinda hard when he’s hugging Copley and he misses the sound of Andy’s voice.

“They’ll be here tomorrow.” Copley says as he drops his phone on the nightstand.

“Alright. I can get out of your hair.”

“What? Sébastien, no.”

“I’m not supposed to see them. Hell, I’m probably not supposed to even be speaking to you.”

“Sébastien.” Copley runs his fingers through Booker’s hair. “This is your home. I want you to be here.” 

Booker can’t help it, he kisses Copley like he’s never going to be able to again, as he reaches over and turns off the light. 

~~~ 

Morning comes all too soon and Booker hates it. This sanctuary he’s built, his home, according to James, is about to be overcome with people who hate him.

“I can meet them somewhere else.” Copley says as if he can read Booker’s mind. Wouldn’t that be something. 

“No. They’re probably almost here anyways.” Booker would know, as he broke his own vow and tracked them, just so he knew how much time he’d need to prepare.

“Do I even want to know?”

“No.” Booker smiles and Copley leans down to kiss him just as the doorbell rings. 

Booker holds tighter to his coffee cup as Copley lets them in and for the first time in almost a year he’s looking directly at Nile, Andy, Joe, and Nicky.

“Booker!” Nile says delightedly as she practically skips over to hug him. He sinks into the hug, grateful to at least not have burned this bridge.

“Hey, Nile.”

Nile pulls back and Booker looks over to Andy, who looks the same, if not well rested, and he hugs her, too.

“Book.” 

Book squeezes her again as he steps back. Booker looks at Joe and Nicky, who stand formidable and together but with their heads tilted to the side like they’re trying to figure something out. 

“Did you dream of Copley, too?” Nile asks him and before Booker or Copley can answer Andy gasps as she looks across the living room.

Everyone turns toward her and Booker instantly realizes what she’s looking at and so does Copley. It’s Booker’s copy of Don Quixote that Andy gifted him last year. 

But that’s not all, no, she’s going to notice Booker’s boots by the door, his laptop on the table, his sunglasses and motorcycle helmet on the shelf. It looks like he lives here, because he does. 

“You didn’t just get here today, did you?” Joe asks him as Andy looks at him smiling. 

“No.” Copley answers as he comes up to Booker and places a hand on the small of his back. 

Booker can’t help it, he leans into the touch and turns towards Copley to give him a small smile. 

Booker chances a look back at the others and feels warm at the sight of Nile, Andy, Joe, and Nicky all smiling at him. 

Nicky walks over to him and pulls both Booker and Copley into a quick hug. 

“It’s destiny.”

#the old guard #booker x copley #bopley #booker accidentally on purpose moves in with copley #mentions of alcoholism

[something-fanfiction-ie]

Rough Drafts

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Explicit descriptions of a murder scene, argument, angst, and cursing.

A/N: Okay, so I know I said I was gonna publish this yesterday but I got Cassandra Clare’s newest book and I couldn’t put it down. I seriously love that lady. Omg. Anyways, it’s here now! And it’s angsty! And there’s gonna be a fourth part soon I promise! For real. Don’t forget to reblog, comment, send me an ask or a message and overall just adore me so that I may continue to feel good about myself. As always thank you for supporting me and I hope you enjoy!!!

[ Part One | Part Two ]

___

An incredulous laugh bursts from your lips, your nails cutting crescent moons into the palms of your hands as you try and convince yourself that this isn’t actually happening.

“Do you have alibis for your whereabouts on Monday, June eighth, Saturday, June thirteenth, and Thursday, June eighteenth?” Spencer can see your leg bouncing rapidly under the table, your eyes flying over the pictures and the expression of Emily Prentiss. You seem genuine, but he can’t trust himself to get an accurate read of you anymore.

“I, uhm, I- I wouldn’t know off the top of my head. I keep a planner, I’ll forget things otherwise.” The burst of iron in your mouth is not something you’re unused to, having chewed your cheek so badly that the skin there has broken under your teeth.

“We’ll need to see that.” Emily isn’t sure whether or not she believes that you’re guilty, watching the way you seem to unravel before her. When you look at the crime scene photos, it isn't with any pleasure, but with disgust. Your nose wrinkles a little at the bridge and you keep looking away as the blood from your face starts to drain. 

Either you’re a really good actress or you aren’t the unsub.

Emily says as much as she flips through the small teal planner that you’d willingly given them. Due dates for chapters, publishing events, book signings and days for book tours fill most of the pages in your most neat handwriting. Dates you plan to go visit your mother, grocery shop, doctor’s appointments, even plans to go somewhere and write.

Everything is explicitly stated, that way you’re never unsure of what you meant to tell yourself. That is, until around three weeks ago when a handful of days are notated with an ‘S,’ followed by a random doodle. Sometimes it’s a tiny heart drawn absentmindedly while you discuss the plans over the phone, other times it’s a cartoon bunny or a top hat.

Garcia is the first to take notice of it, her fingers faltering in their constant thrum against the keyboard in front of her. She glances out of the side of her glasses, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

“Looks like lonely girl found herself a boo.” 

“That makes sense,” JJ says from the chair she’s pulled into Penelope’s office from the bullpen. A pen is stretched between her hands, her posture relaxed into the curve of the stiff, government-issued rolly chair.

All the girls have gathered into the tech analyst’s room while the men take turns interrogating you. Well, all except Spencer. He just stands behind that window watching your every move with eyes like a hawk. “What doesn’t make sense is why she keeps it secret even in her personal planner.”

“Maybe she has a stalker? That could be who is doing all this?” 

“Then she wouldn’t keep careful notation of everything else going on in her life. A stalker would follow her every move, not just her romantic interests. Even if he is in love with her.”

“A partner, maybe? Like the days they planned the murders or days they were acted out?”

“None of the days line up with the crimes, save for this one,” Emily leans the book toward the two women with her finger just underneath June fifth, the day Alison Crane was abducted from outside her campus dorm room. It’s the third ‘S’ scribbled into the corner of a day in the entire book.

“And there is nothing else written in relation to this ‘S’ character?” JJ shakes her head, looking for any clues that could be nestled among the loops and curls of your writing. Reid would be better at this, he was the graphology expert among them. So why wasn’t he back here helping?

“Then I guess we better try and get her to talk about it. Meanwhile Garcia, we’ll get Rossi and Reid to head over to her apartment and you can hack into her computer?” Penelope spins the chair, a flash of bright colors and blond hair. She clicks her tongue in response, throwing up a fingers gun and winking.

“Whatever you need me to do, I’m on it like sexy on Derek Morgan stepping out of the shower in a towel.”

After some arguing, and maybe just a little bit of pleading, they manage to convince Reid to join Rossi on a trip to your apartment. He can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, standing in your living room. Not because he’d been here before, but because he’d never been here before.

The empty mugs that litter every surface, smelling of old coffee and your favorite coffee creamer (he only knows it’s your favorite because you explicitly ask for that creamer at every coffee shop the two of you have ever gone to), is unfamiliar to him. He’s invited you to his apartment at least three times. How come he had never been to yours?

Small pages and notebooks of scribbled ideas and dialogues cover just as many areas as the coffee cups do, your handwriting messy and cramped in every note. It’s almost like you couldn’t get the idea out of your head fast enough.

The bed in your room is meticulously made without a wrinkle in sight, but that could be because of the obvious bed you’ve made yourself along the salmon pink couch that stretches out in front of your TV. A multicolored crochet blanket is thrown haphazardly over the back, a pillow still slightly squished against the arm.

On the coffee table is a half opened laptop, a notebook with red and black ink scribbled in the lines, and a still full cup of coffee. Rossi makes quick work of calling Garcia and helping her get patched into your computer. It’s strange, watching her move the mouse on your screen from miles away.

Reid never stops moving, walking the length of your studio apartment with his eyes peeled for any kind of information he could find. It’s obvious that you spend most of your time in the main room, which houses the kitchen, a small dining area, and the living room. A door leading into your room branches off to a small bathroom which is just as disorganized as everything else in your house.

Hair products, skin washes, and all kinds of makeup are scattered across the sink and back of your toilet. It’s funny because every time he’s ever met up with you, you’re bare faced and your hair is still drying from the shower you took before leaving your house. The tube of lipstick he picks up makes him think he doesn’t really know you at all.

On the nightstand in your room is a bottle of water with the label ripped off and the two Rossi books you’d bought that fateful day in the bookstore. The label from the water bottle is stuck between the middle pages of one of the books. The passages in question don’t lend anything to connecting you as a homicidal maniac, let alone a serial killer.

Back in the living room, Garcia is snooping through every aspect of your computer.

“I don’t know whether or not the be freaked out by her web history. There’s a lot of murder-y questions here. ‘Signs of a post mortem amputation,’ ‘How much blood can you lose and still live?,’ ‘Most brutal ways to be killed.’ It’s creepy.” Rossi is flicking through the notebook from the table, his eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of the abbreviations and scribblings of another writer.

“She writes crime novels so it isn’t entirely strange for her to be looking at those types of things.” Thankfully, the defense of your web search history comes from the older man who looks up as Garcia delves deeper and deeper. Spencer had thought it first, but hadn’t said anything to avoid suspicion. He’s smart enough to know that the truth has to come out eventually, but he wants to be sure of your innocence (or guilt, he reminds himself a bit glumly) before he reveals your link to him.

“I’m not seeing anything she could be using to contact a partner unless her partner is one of the publishing people she’s constantly messaging via email.” At this Spencer stops, leaning against the back of the couch with his weight resting on the heels of his hands. The stance appears relaxed. He is anything but.

“Why do we assume she has a partner?” Reid asks, impatiently pushing a stray curl away from his face. Rossi glances at him curiously, otherwise undistracted from the shake the movement gives the couch.

“Oh, Prentiss, JJ, and I were looking through her little teal book earlier and the only thing not explicitly stated was just the letter ‘S.’ It’s why they came back to interrogate and they sent you guys to her house. I thought they told you.”

Spencer wants to beat his head against the wall.

“That isn’t a lead, Garcia. You have to tell them that ‘S’ isn’t her partner.” The mouse on the computer screen falters, several saved documents for different rough drafts of books or drabbles are pulled up the way you might have papers scattered about in front of you.

“What is it? Do you know who ‘S’ is?” Rossi is turned sideways on the couch, looking over the back and up at the distressed man in front of him. It doesn’t take him long to connect the dots when they make eye contact. Penelope impatiently whines over the phone.

“I’m ‘S,’ I’ve been seeing her for the last three weeks. I’m sure if you tell me the dates then every single one of them will be days that we’ve had plans together.”

“I’m sorry, what?!” Before anyone has the chance to say anything else, the door to Garcia’s office opens and a second voice filters through Rossi’s phone speaker. It’s JJ.

“Let Reid and Rossi know there’s just been another murder.”

This time it’s a fifteen year old girl. Her hair is black and wet, her lips are as blue as the sky, and she’s naked. Water droplets from her skin have soaked into the sheet of paper that was layed over her chest. The bathtub she’s in is completely empty, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that she was drowned there. The bruises on her shoulders from the force the unsub used to pin her down are dark against the contrast of her already pale skin.

...The man leaned over the tub, his eyes squinted in thought and his lips skewed a little to the side. Ryder stayed focused on the crime scene, for the most part. But even detectives of her caliber, and higher, could easily get lost in the eyes that look up at her from beneath long golden-brown lashes.

“Detective?” She blinks the distraction away, looking back at the girl, her black hair wet and spiraling like the snakes on Medusa’s head against the ivory siding of the drained tub. Ryder can’t help but wish the girl had been lucky enough to turn her killer to stone. Maybe it would have saved her.

“Agent.” She crosses her arms, looking anywhere but at the man across from her, pretending to look for any useful clues. Ryder had gotten to the crime scene fourty-five minutes before the pair of FBI Agents had walked in. The man, who had introduced himself as Supervisory Special Agent Matthew Gray, had decided to join her in the second floor bathroom. His partner, a woman named Katherine Swift, had taken to looking for clues through the rest of the house.

Agent Gray is beautiful. It’s the only adjective that seems to stick to him with certainty, every other aspect of his personality just as elusive as the exact color of those eyes. Even as short as his hair is, the golden brown tendrils are unkempt and curl every which way. Ryder has to force her hand to stay at her side and not reach up to smooth an alfalfa that does nothing for the serious expression on his face.

She keeps imagining what it would feel like if he reached out to kiss her, curling his fingers into her hair and bringing her unworthy lips up to meet his. He’s tall so she would probably have to stretch a little, but she wouldn’t mind. Not when his hands are tangled in her hair and he’s giving her the kiss she’s been silently begging for since the moment he flashed that crooked grin at her.

The imagination is so vivid that she jumps when her own partner, Detective Russo, comes around the corner of the hallway and straight into the bathroom...

The paper crinkles in the evidence bag as Morgan places it on the table, trying to ignore the daggers being glared into him on the other side of the mirror.

Nobody on the team had been very happy with Spencer when they heard the news about your relationship, Hotch had nearly snatched him by the scruff of his neck when he made to go into the interrogation room. But after several minutes of thoroughly explaining himself, Hotch had sent Morgan in. To say Spencer was infuriated was an understatement.

“Do you know what this is, (Y/N)?” You look down at it, twisting the evidence bag so that you could read the Times New Roman font you always wrote in when writing in Microsoft Word. The words cover the front and back of the copy paper, but you don’t have to read it through all the way before you know what it is.

“It’s a page from my newest book.” The bag scratches against the tabletop as you push it away from you, crossing your arms over your chest. Your face is stoplight red with embarrassment at the thought of Spencer reading this page, mostly because you had pulled so heavily from your own thoughts when first meeting Spencer to write Ryder and Gray’s first meeting. You created Matthew Gray to write about Spencer Reid in a way that felt less ‘high school diary entry.’

“More specifically, it’s from the book you just started working on about a month ago. The one that only you and your agent have access to.” Finally, Morgan sits. Before, he’d just been pacing around you the way a lioness might stalk around her prey before she launches an attack. It made you uneasy, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“Do you know where we found it, (Y/N)?” His muscles bulge against his shirtsleeves when he leans them up on the table. Derek Morgan is a very attractive man, you’ll give him that, but if making you uneasy and putting you in the room with a attractive man to fluster you was their strategy then they should have sent in Spencer.

“My computer.”

“We found it on the body of a dead girl.” Another picture joins the ones already shuffled around the table. You can barely look at it, nausea and tears building in your throat at the sight of another person dying the same way you’d written in a story. When you don’t respond, Morgan continues.

“‘She was found at the bottom of an empty bathtub, a pale leg hooked over the edge of the porcelain siding, and her arms pinned to her sides in death. Bruises discolored the skin at her shoulders, and Ryder knew at first glance that her cause of death would be asphyxiation by drowning.’” He drops the paper back to the table, having picked it up to read the passage from the end of the page.

“That’s wrong,” You say, leaning back over the table to look at the paper again. Derek looks down, like the words might have changed in the moment he looked away, but the text stays exactly the same as before.

“That’s exactly what is written here.” You shake your head, pulling the bag back to you and wrinkling your forehead in thought.

“I don’t doubt that is what you read, Agent Morgan,” Your eyes fly over the page, reading the end of the excerpt with overwhelming relief. The bag sticks a little to the pad of your index finger as you tap over the paragraph in question. “But I rewrote this scene only two nights ago. It’s on my computer, I’m sure your tech analyst can confirm my claim. This girl, Bella, she doesn’t die from drowning anymore. Her hands are tied above her head to the faucet and she’s strangled. I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to be by her sister or her girlfriend.”

JJ rushes back to Penelope’s office, on a mission to confirm your statement just as you had suggested. Meanwhile, Morgan’s mind is rushing to figure out the mess he is currently sat in. You lean back in your chair now, unsure if the dizziness you feel is from lack of food or the sudden realization that they couldn’t pin this to you anymore.

“I’m not your bad guy. If I was doing this to prove to my mother that my writing is good, that I chose the right career, as your profile says, I wouldn’t change the scene in my book and not change the murder.” In Morgan’s earpiece, Hotch tells him that you were telling the truth about editing the scene two nights ago.

“Unless you planned it to throw us off track. We know about your relationship with Spencer, you’ve probably found out all kinds of things to do to keep us from catching you.”

You clench your teeth, straightening into your chair and pinning Derek down with a look you’d learned from your mother. It makes him think of his mom, your eyes narrowed and your gaze so cold that it could cause frostbite. He watches curiosily as you tilt your chin up a little, trying to hide the pricks behind your eyes and the wobble of your lip. Derek notices them, the entire team notices. They’re trained to notice.

“I want a lawyer.” You say simply, you voice is sharp and quiet but it does the job of slicing through the tension already building in the room.

“Come on, you don’t need a lawyer.”

“That’s where you’re wrong again, Agent Morgan. I do need a lawyer. Because even though I have full-heartedly trusted the justice system since I was in diapers, and even though I came to these offices willing to help your team in any way that I could, you are still trying to use me as a scapegoat instead of actually doing your fucking job and finding the bastard who is killing people in my name.

“A study from criminal law bulletin says that 10,000 people are wrongfully convicted of serious crimes every year. One in every twenty-five people sentenced to death are innocent, Agent Morgan. Just since 1973, more than 160 people were exonerated from the death penalty. That’s not even counting the people who were killed. But you sure as hell aren’t about to make me apart of that statistic because you want to waste your time trying to piece an investigation around me. That’s not how you’re supposed to do your job. So until you can remember how to do it correctly, I do need a lawyer. Thank you.”

By the time you finish you’ve leaned over the table, your index finger jammed into the wood to make your point. It feels like your chest is on fire as you slam back into your seat and cross your arms, determined to keep your silence for the rest of the time you were forced to sit here.

Everyone on the opposite side of the mirror is stunned into silence, their eyes focused on you even as Derek gathers all the things from the desk and walks out looking a little flustered himself. If Spencer was totally honest, your outburst was actually kind of hot. He has to remind himself that you may have killed eight people in cold blood.

Your lawyer makes it to the BAU in record time, his red hair expertly gelled back from his face. His icy blue eyes only cracking when he sees you sitting by yourself in the interrogation room. Spencer can tell by the way that he lowers himself on the balls of his feet to talk to you, reaching out to touch the hand that sits on your thigh, that he knows you personally. He likes you, actually. Spencer tried to tell himself that it doesn’t make him glad when you pull your hand out of his and awkwardly pat his arm.

He’s been lying to himself a lot today.

Hotch is the one to go back in the room, he was the best at dealing with lawyers. Unfortunately his best wasn’t enough to keep you in custody and soon your lawyer, who Spencer learned was named Jeremy, was walking you out of the room for the first time in six hours.

Your back cracks when you stand, your shoulders rolling back to try and ease some of the stress you’d been holding there since this morning. The sound of the door swinging open for you is almost heavenly, the feel of the air outside of the room is damn near enough to make you cry.

When you look to the side, ready to leave out the second door that leads into the hallway and away from this mess, you meet eyes with the only profiler of the BAU that you hadn’t seen that day. Spencer looks back at you with an expression that you find hard to put into words.

He almost looks sorry, the regret evident in the slight widening of his eyes, but at the same time his chin is tilted up like he is facing an enemy he has vowed to take down no matter the cost. His shoulders are squared, but his arms are uncrossed and his palms are open.

And even though you knew you wouldn’t be there without him knowing, the reassurance that Spencer knew and even suspected you is like a blow to the chest and stomach. It robs you of air, causing you to stumble.

Jeremy reaches to steady you. You shake him off, pulling your eyes from the young doctor and focusing all of your attention on the door knob.

“I’m fine, Jeremy.” Your tone of voice is more harsh than you intended but you’re still struggling to collect oxygen, even when you slide into your car by yourself, it feels like you can’t get enough air. The walk from the BAU offices to the parking lot had passed in a blur. Jeremy’s talk about staying at home and keeping your head low had gone by even faster, and now that you have time to truly be by yourself, everything hits like a ton of bricks thrown at you from a speeding train.

In the midst of your panic attack, gasping for air into the palms of your shaking hands, questioning everything about yourself and your career, you don’t register the shuffle of movement in your backseat. You’re so deep in your mind that you almost don’t notice the cool press of a gun barrel against the back of your neck until a familiar voice lifts your head from your hands.

“Drive.”

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #dr spence reid #spence reid #criminal mind imagine #criminal minds

[themysteriousauthor18]

So I saw this post, and I thought the idea was really cool. Truth be told I am a wee bit uncomfortable with seeing Alastor being sexual, but that's just because I'm somewhere on the asexual spectrum. But that's just my personal opinion, but I do like the idea of regular Angel dropping into an AU were Alastor is a pimp.

I think it be cute and funny to see Angel’s reaction to this version of Alastor.

So being somewhat of a writer I couldn't help myself but try to write a one-shot of this. Hope you'll enjoy it. I don't really know anything else of how Angel got there or what the rest of the word is like in terms of the hotel or anything so, I'm just relying on my own head cannons for that and going off the artwork.

Artist of work above:

@staticapplesin​​ 

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Normally waking up, for Angel Dust, would always involve something that was the cause of disturbing his sleep in the first place. In the past, it had been his regular johns that left or the pain they inflicted on the night prior. But recently it was either Vaggie yelling in the lobby or the princess of hell herself knocking on his door. And sometimes if he was unlucky, it would be Valentino calling.

Those were the wost.

But this morning, when Angel awoke, he heard something he thought he'd never hear.

Silence.

It had taken him a few moments to register that it was in fact quiet in his room. And he assumed that perhaps he'd woken up in the night again and that was the reasoning. But the small bit of hells light peaking through his blinds and into his room suggested otherwise. It was always a little brighter out when it was daylight out in Hell.

His room was still a little dark though because of the blinds. And as Angel sat up he couldn't help but notice another thing.

It smelled weird.

Not weird in the sense that the room was old, hadn't been tended two in who knows how long. Or even that mild odor that always lingered. That would always make Angel's nose scrunch up.

No, it smelled....sweet? Almost like strawberries.

Unable to lay there a minute longer Angel pushed himself up in his bed. Finding that it was more comfortable than usual. Something didn't feel right..something felt, off.

He pressed the ball of his palm to his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. Realizing his head did hurt just enough to call it a headache. Was he hungover? A fever dream maybe?

Angel pushed the thought aside, he was too tired for this shit. He needed food at the very least. And if the hotel was quiet? Well, it just meant he could ease this headache away until Vaggie woke up trying to chew his head off.

Pushing off the bed, Angel's feet stepped over anything that could be cluttering the floors per usual. Although nothing did. As he opened the door to his bedroom, allowing the hallway light to fill his room he briefly caught his pig sleeping in his bed in front of his own.

When had he'd bought nuggets that?

Another stray thought to be pushed aside.

With his head hurting too much and his eyes heavy with the aftermath of sleep, he failed to notice the decor and layout of the building he was in. Heading down the hall to the left, he did not come to stairs but just into a decently sized living room.

As he rubbed his eyes, taking in the room he realized this wasn't the hotel.

"Musta ended up at someone's house.." He reasoned himself with. But that didn't explain fat nuggets being in that room. Or the lack therefor of a random john.

He didn't care right now. At the very least he needed coffee. His feet managed to carry him over to the kitchen separated only by the counters. Something that actually looked better than it sounded.

Tired mismatched eyes looked around for the coffee machine. As they landed on the pink and white-colored machine there was a small sticky note attached to the front of it. He leaned in, his squinting at the note to read it.

'Hey, Angie I know you'll be a little tired after last night. Shit was wild! I gotta head out because some of us have boring jobs. But I prepped the coffee just press the button. See you later, have fun. Good luck ;) '

Angel knit his brows at the note. So he was at Cherri's house? That explained things a little better. But he didn't see how her job was boring. The headache was probably due to last night. Whatever had happened.

He looked over the six buttons on the top of the coffee machine. Finally, pressing the 'begin brewing' button, he sighed in relief.

As he leaned against the opposite counter of the coffee machine he crossed his arms. He glanced down at himself briefly, noting he was still in his usual suit. One of which was a little torn in some places. None of them looked to be claw marks though, rather...burn marks.

The spider settled for holding off any questions until he got his caffeine. He closed his eyes once again, ignoring the mild pounding of his head. So much so that he was practically deaf to the footsteps coming near him.

And with the beeping of the coffee machine Angel's eyes jolted open once again. But as his gaze wandered, in the corner of his eye something caught his attention. He turned his head in that direction and immediately stumbled back, falling into the floor.

Out of everything that could ever happen in his afterlife. Seeing the radio demon, standing in front of him in only his boxers was certainly not something he expected.

His face burned with the color red. Okay, this had to be a fever dream now. There was no way Alastor would even come close enough to allowing something like this.

Angel remained on the floor, staring at the redhead. The demon in question only remained leaning his arm on the wall as he looked at Angel as if he were the crazy one.

"I'm surprised to see you up," the demon paused. His eyes tracing up and down Angel's body for a moment. "And fully dressed at that."

His voice...what happened to his voice?! There was no radio filter on it at all. He just sounded, normal. But to Angel, it sounded weird.

A million thoughts raced through Angel's head as he continued to stare at the redhead. The deer demon rolled his eyes pushing off the wall, and as he approached his hand moved prompting Angel to immediately cover his face.

He waited for something, anything. To be punished for whatever he'd done yesterday because dammit he couldn't remember!

But none of that happened.

"Angel darling, what are you doing?" Came Alastor's confused voice. And with the lack of a radio filter, he could actually hear the confusion in it.

Slowly Angel opened an eye, still finding that confused smile. At least he was still smiling, otherwise, he may have lost his sanity entirely. "Come on now, you can’t stay there all day." A laugh escaped him although it hardly sounded like Alastor's laugh. "Unless you'd rather go again?"

Go again? What?

Angel took Alastor's hand, assuming that this was Alastor and Angel hadn't finally gone insane.

With ease, the redhead pulled Angel up. It seemed his physical strength was still there. He watched the redheads eyes scan his body again. When had he ever looked anywhere but his face?

"What are you wearing?" He heard the man ask. Angel wasn't looking at him. He couldn't. "This certainly isn't one of my works. Well, so long as you change once we head to work."

We?

‘My works’?

"I can't have my darling wearing something as hideous as that." Angel huffed, he actually liked his suit. It was one of the first things he'd gotten from Valentino once arriving in hell. Back when the man wasn't using him as a punching bag.

Angel finally chanced a glance at Alastor who was pouring the coffee. The longer Angel stared, the redder his face got. The colors going even as far as the pink on his chest.

He's shirtless. He's pants-less! He's almost fucking naked!

His thoughts ran wild, and when Alastor looked over his shoulder he couldn't help the blood suddenly leaking from his nose. (He has a nose it's just very very tiny and hidden.) He turned away, trying to cover it.

All the while the redhead looked at him, confused but amused all the same.

"You are acting very strange today. I don’t think I’ve seen you that red since our first meeting." He said as he added some milk into Angel's coffee before handing it to the spider.

Still holding his hand over his bleeding nose, Angel took the cup but refused to look anymore at Alastor. He heard the redhead humming in front of him.

"Sorry to leave the bed this morning but you usually take very long to wake up." A low chuckle. "Not that I blame you."

Angel choked on his coffee. His heart was racing in his chest and ears. This wasn't real right? And if it was, what the fuck happened.

"I have to say though--" he heard Alastor beside him suddenly and the soft clank of a coffee cup being placed down. Before he knew it a claw was guiding his chin over to the redheads gaze. The look in his eyes, was that..lust?

"--While waking up to you in clothes is certainly a surprise." He pulled the spiders face closer. "I like you better without them."

Without much of a warning, the deer's lips were pressed hard against his. Angel's eyes grew wide as the gears tried to process it. But when the demon's tongue slipped into his mouth the gears broke.

Angel was stiff against the kiss as Alastor pulled back leaving a red-faced spider. His eyes curiously searched Angel's as he wiped a strain of saliva from Angel's agape mouth.

"Strange, that little trick usually has you back in bed with me for at least another hour." Before Angel could question anything the redhead's hand pulled away, claw lingered there teasingly.

"Well, if you wish to head to work earlier today than that is fine. I do have a few things I need to get done at the studio. Unfortunately, the day after New Year doesn't grant us the day off."

Alastor called, as he walked off towards the room Angel had woken up in. As he nonchalantly disappeared into that room Angel just stared.

He stared as his head pounded in pain at trying to process everything that had just happened.

"What the fuck.."

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I think I'm going to end it there. I honestly don't know what to think when writing pimp Alastor. Also with the morning scene I wasn’t implying that  Angel is dating Alastor but rather (since Alastor is in Valentino’s place) that Alastor fools around with whoever he pleases. This includes Angel Dust. And safe to say it isn't the first time Alastor’s slept with Angel dust in that Au (Again just my personal head cannon.)

There were a few things I had to just guess on, since he's filling in the spot for Valentino I wasn't sure if he had his radio voice anymore. Or his shadows? I knew for a fact that he probably didn't care about walking around in his boxers but I wasn't sure if he had some humility of walking around just newd. Also, I wasn't sure my mild asexual heart could write that and not die with Angel.

Thanks for reading!

#radiodust #angel dust #alastor #au #pimp alastor #oneshots #fanfiction

[occult-castiel]

A thread with no end

Cool metal lighter in hand, he finally takes a glance at the reason for all of this. 

It's small, swallowed whole by the thick yellow clothes Sam has it in. It yawns, puppy-like, and fixes his wide eyes on Dean.

Blue. Big and impossibly blue. Its shades too light, closer to ice than ocean, but it pulls something loose in him. It's — it's almost like —

When Jack is born, he doesn't come out fully grown.

[Part One]

[Ao3]

Chapter 2

When the sharp edges of adrenaline settle, the last couple of days are a blur to think about. The absence of it is always its own kind of tired — aches become apparent again. His temples sting. All thoughts are filtered through sludge. His stomach gurgles out loud groans. The reminder is a desperate attempt to make bodily functions matter again, but the desire for food is numb. If anything it makes him sick.

He shakes his head, uses his free hand to blanket his face, pinch the bridge. Trapped under the rough pressure, his tear ducts throb. But it’s all right. It’s fine.

Fucking peachy. 

Sloppy and mechanical, as Dean pulls the two of them off the ground. He doesn't look at the embers. The ash. His joins cry against all movement, each jagged step a chore. What should be solid ground slips loose under his boots. He has to catch himself with each half-stumble towards the house. Little snivels turn to full body whines, and Dean doesn't blame the kid. It can't be fun to get jerked around by some idiot that forgot how to walk right. 

The door juts open with a creak, and whatever course of action he might've tried to take vanishes. 

Unfiltered sunlight glimmers in through the curtainless window. Dust particles dance in yellow above the table where it's — it’s just empty now. His last pitstop. The last place Dean would ever get to look. To touch. Legs on autopilot, he trudges over. 

Light glistens off the table's glossy finish. Glints against the discarded keyring Sam somehow remembered to salvage. Carefully, he skims the tips of his fingers over the cool surface, and dread sits like a rock in his stomach. It was warm, right after. But the air has long since leeched any heat Cas left behind. 

Throat tense, he cups the keyring under his palm. Tightens his fist around it until the metal digs in and his arm trembles. 

It's not fair. None of this is fair. They used to have more allies. Friends. Something they could fall back on after so long of having nothing, but none of it even lasts. Like the universe has decided The Sam and Dean Adventure just ain't multiplayer. 

"Dean?" 

He shoves the keys in his pocket. "Yeah. Down here." 

Sam clunks down the steps and gives Dean a tight smile. Grey bags under his eyes highlight the bloodshot tendrils. His whole body slumped in on itself, the exhaustion of the last however-the-fuck long hitting him like a brick. Maybe he looks that bad too. 

Over one shoulder Sam has the world's largest baby bag — lime green and burgeoning with diapers. The zippers stuck halfway around. It thunks when it hits the floor, and Sam shakes a bottle. "Made some formula. There's an extra in the side pocket." 

"Thanks." Dean takes it. "Gonna have to toss the other one. Stuff can only sit out an hour." 

Sam doesn't say anything to that, just scrapes a chair to the table, plops down, and buries his face in his hands. That's okay. Silence suits Dean just fine. 

He repositions the baby in his arms, cradles the head against his shoulder so he's more upright. The kid latches on to the plastic nipple with ease. 

The last time he fee a baby was a lifetime ago in some stranger’s home, babysitting with an ex-angel post attempted-murder. He and Cas had straightened out his not-dates house, and the baby started fussing. The bottle was already made. He didn’t think about it when he started feeding the kid. When Cas saw him, he gave Dean a pleased smile and said you're good at this. 

It jolted his pulse. Compliments had a way of hitting him funny, but right then? In the low light of a picture-perfect suburban home? Right from the very human Cas who has sex and goes on dates and looks at Dean like he’s worth something? 

Neck warm and mind blank, he offered to help Cas do it right without thinking. 

And it was good, the light touches, soft adjustments that weren't necessary. But Cas never dressed down that much, so it was better than good. Dean spent the whole time thinking about how thin his cotton shirt was. Cas was smaller without the layers, and the warmth of him unfiltered. He tried to peel his hands away, but it was like he couldn't stop. Angel or mud-monkey, Cas felt strong and whole. 

The comfort of the words stuck with him for days. The feel of Cas underneath him never left. 

God, he should be here now. 

The baby’s pudgy face grimaces, and Dean moves the bottle back until it evens out again. 

"We need to figure out what we're doing." Sam's palms muffle his voice. 

"We're going home. Welcome to the joys of parenthood. Here’s to hoping it doesn't kill us during puberty." 

"It has a name." Sam drops his arms to his sides. "Jack. Kelly made videos on her laptop for him." 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well ain't that just lovely?" 

Sam's jaw drops. "Dean."  

He's two steps away from being the spitting image of some scandalized Victorian chick, and it crawls under Dean's skin. 

"What? Jack here is the son of Satan, Sam. Fucking pardon me for not caring about mommy’s little home videos," Dean says. The baby — Jack, whatever — whimpers. Body tense, Dean slowly slides the bottle from his mouth. 

"He's a baby, not a monster. And I'm just saying we don't have to — to tuck our tails and go home." 

White spit-like liquid dribbles from Jack's mouth. Dean sighs. 

"Fan-freakin'-tastic. I forgot babies did this crap." Dean sighs, storms over to the table, and places the bottle down with a hard clank. "I'm not seeing an array of options here. We can't exactly put a Nephilim up for adoption. Or hire a babysitter." Carefully, he brushes off Jack's mouth with the color of his onesie. It’s probably the cleanest thing they have to do it with.

"There's Mom. If the portal was opened once, there's gotta be a way to do it again. Maybe the Book of the Damned, or the Demon Tablet..." Sam perks up. "We could try and get Donatello to help —” 

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you there." Dean lays Jack flat against his shoulder and pats his back. "First of all, you really want a soulless dude and Lucifer's kid bumping shoulders? Don't think they could be, I dunno, a bad influence on each other?" Jack releases a puff of air and Dean adjusts him back down. He levels a hard stare at Sam. "Second of all: Moms dead. Nothings gonna help that." 

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "You don't know that." 

Buzzing vibrates from Dean's pocket. He yanks it from his pocket for it. "Pretty sure I do. Lucifer ganked her the minute the portal closed." 

"You can't —" 

Unknown. He sends the asshole to voicemail. 

Sam shakes his head. Sighs. "Whatever. Who was that?" 

"Not Donatello." Well, it could've been. But whatever. He grabs the baby bag, then slings the lime green wrecking ball of a bag over his shoulder. "You've got Baby's keys. I'm taking the truck." 

The coach squeaks. Before Dean can make it out the door, Sam grabs the strap. The force yanks him in place. Dean swivels around and glares. Sam drops his hand and gives Dean a weary look. 

"Can we just talk about this?" 

Dean swivels around. "I don't know what you want from me. Crowley's dead. Kelly's dead. Cas is —" Pain pangs his chest, a little twinge that sends pin-pricks through his torso, down his arms. His eyes dart away and land on the table. The discarded, half-finished bottle sits just outside of the sunlight’s path. "Mom’s gone. We even lost Rowena. So I'm gonna take the kid, find a motel the next state over, and put up whatever sigils I can to let the dick brigade know they aren't welcome. Rinse and repeat until we’re back home." 

Sam scoffs, but whatever energy he had left is burned out. "Whatever. We'll talk later." 

"Unlikely." 

By the time Dean walks over to the table and grabs the bottle, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Dean pushes past Sam and grabs the bottle. By the time he walks through the door, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Ash has blown around the yard, smeared it in grey. Eyes downcast, pointedly away from the remnants, he beeline for the truck. Wind whistles by and smears ash across the lawn. Dean stares at the mustard-colored wet spots on Jack's clothes instead. 

Cars are like a testament to the owner. The truck is immaculate. The burgundy shines — there’s not a spec of dirt marring the strips of pearl-white. 

Dean doesn't bat an eye at the car seat. It’s green. Of course it’s green. His breath doesn't catch at the stupid cartoon bee sticker smiling at him on the car seat’s side.  And he doesn't think about Cas. 

Not him stumbling through a Walmart visit to buy the thing. God, he bets the nerdy little guy compared brands, sifted through online reviews in the middle of the aisle. He doesn’t picture how pleased Cas must've been at finding a pack of sticks, of all things. How the rest of them are most likely sitting in the glovebox. How it was probably the last enjoyable moment he had. Dean doesn't think — he doesn't. Merely shrugs the baby bag off onto the floorboard, buckles Jack in, and clicks the door closed. 

Sweat slick forehead pressed against the doorframe, Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

The last conversation he had with Cas is a blur. An actual conversation, not stress-filled bickering over the newest pile of shit dumped on their doorstep. 

Dean tries to swallow, but the motion stops halfway through, and there’s nothing there to force down. 

The last movie night he'd managed to drag Cas into was over a month ago. It might’ve been the last time where either of them were reasonably happy. The last time his lips would tilt up in that small way that knots Dean's stomach. It isn’t fair. It's all wrong, and there’s no way to fix it. No magic is strong enough to bring an angel back, The only witch that could’ve tried is dead too. And any power Heaven could spare wouldn’t be used to help him. There’s only one shot to take, and it's the same useless one everyone’s thought of trying at some point. 

Dean grabs the side of the truck bed and turns his head towards the sky. He sighs. Here goes nothing. "Okay, Chuck. Or God, whatever. We need your help. You said — you said the world would be fine with us. It isn't. We've lost everything." 

He takes a deep breath, rocks his head to the ground. "You left. And I've never asked you for anything. Never begged. But now you're gonna bring him back. Cas. Mom. Hell, even Crowley." His hand tightens. "You owe us, you son of a bitch." 

"Please." It's begging. He knows it is and doesn't care. He’d beg for weeks straight if it wasn’t useless. "Please help us." 

A beat passes. Nothing happens. He didn’t expect it to work. God's never really gave a shit before, has he? 

It's fine. All fine. 

Jack cries when Dean slams the door. He strangles the steering wheel between his hands, hands that itch to inflict. Hit. Destroy. Sure as fuck not to nurture, not to quell the newborn screams, because Cas was wrong. Dean isn’t good at this.

A handful of deep breaths later, he leans down and fishes out a pink pacifier from the bag. Jack latches onto it, his pudgy face relaxed. Blue eyes float up to Dean. Innocent, full. It stings, and Dean turns away before his body uses whatever scraps of water it has left to make him cry again. 

When he brings the engine to life, Zeppelin creeps through the speakers, one track after the next in an order he memorized long before Cas got the chance. 

He plays it front to back on repeat until hunger and exhaustion win out, and he finds a motel.

#destiel #deancas #not sure if ill post eevery chapter on here #cause i have the feeling this us gunna be longer than i originally anticipated #and having a 30+ series on tumbkr seems messy #but ill at least out this one up here too #destiel fanfic #a thread with no end

[ezzydean]

018: “I want to hear you sing.” Kuroo and Oikawa.

Definitely under a cut because this wound up being 2400 words.

(click here to read on my blog and not the dash)

Tooru hums as he tucks himself against Tetsurou.  It’s still early, not even noon yet, but Tetsurou can feel sleep creeping in on him.  It might be because of the warmth of the sunlight they’re laying in.  It might be the long night of research they had just finished.  It might be Tooru content and solid and warm against his side.  It’s probably a combination of them all but he doesn’t really care at all.

“Hey Tooru,” he says softly.  Tooru hums in response and Tetsurou smiles sleepily.  “Sing to me?  I want to hear your voice.”

“Oh?”  Tooru shuffles them a little until he’s draped over Tetsurou, smiling down at him.  Tetsurou can feel Tooru’s heart beating steadily against his chest and he reaches up to run his hand through Tooru’s fluffy hair.  “Just for you, love.  Just for you.”

Tooru takes a deep breath and lets his eyes flutter close as his lips part.  The softest, sweetest song fills Tetsurou’s ears and he struggles to keep his eyes open as Tooru’s voice washes over him and gently pulls at him.  He wants to give in, to fall asleep here and now, but he doesn’t want to stop listening to Tooru.

“Stop fighting it, love.  You’ll be awake again and grumbling at me to keep quiet before you know it.”

“I like listening to you,” he admits, sleep dropping his walls and his filters like anchors into the sea.

“I know you do,” Tooru whispers, breath ghosting across his cheek.  Tooru presses a kiss to both of his cheeks and then brushes his lips so gently he’d swear he imagined it.  “That’s why I never take offense when you tell me to shut up.”

Tetsurou laughs and when Tooru’s song reaches for him again he goes without resistance.

—

He wakes with a groan.  The sun is still fairly high so he didn’t sleep too long.  A quick glance around the room shows him a distinct lack of Tooru so he was clearly asleep long enough for Tooru to get bored of napping and wander elsewhere.  He shouldn’t be hard to find.  They’re literally the only people in this abandoned shell of a village.  Have been since they got here a few days ago.

Tetsurou stretches and rolls out of bed.  He wobbles for a moment — the biggest downside to asking Tooru to put him to sleep with his songs is how unsteady he feels when he first wakes back up — and shuffles out of the bedroom, snatching some bread and dried meat on his way across the main room.  Tooru isn’t here either which means he either found something in one of the other, less habitable destroyed homes, or he’s in the stream that’s just outside the village fences.  

Tetsurou is betting on the stream.

He still pokes his head in the other buildings as he wanders through village, enjoying the early afternoon sun while he still can.  Only a few more weeks before the chill of autumn started to settle over the land.  He wonders if Tooru has figured out where he wants to head this autumn yet or if he’ll just throw a knife at a map like he did last year.

Tetsurou is still shaking his head at the memory of Tooru trying to back out of his own rules in regards to the whole ‘knife at the map’ thing as he pushes through the branches and steps to the edge of the stream.

“Tooru,” he calls out.  “I hope you’re decent.”  He glances up and down the stream.  “Tooru?”

Dumbass is probably planning on trying to jump out and scare him like last week.  He rolls his eyes.  Eventually you would think Tooru would learn that he can’t sneak up on Tetsurou, no matter how much supernatural blood is flowing through his veins.  But nope.  He still tries.  Every few weeks.

“If you’re trying to play hide and seek Tooru you know you’re going to lose.”  He cocks his head to listen to the woods around him.

It’s quiet.

No.  It’s damn near silent.  No birds.  No animals.  No insects.

No Tooru.

“Tooru!”  He scrambles as best as he can upstream a bit and then back down, nearly tumbling into the stream in his haste.  “Tooru!  This isn’t funny!” he calls out as he hurries back to the village, letting his anger color his voice.  Better anger than the cold shiver of fear oozing down his spine.

He throws open the door of the house they’ve been staying in, barely even wincing when the hinges finally give up and the door slams against the wall and then topples to the side.

“Seriously Tooru this isn’t funny.”  No one answers him, not even a cricket.

He feels so stupid.  Of course Tooru left.  Tooru never stays put for long.  Never has and never will.  He should have learned that years ago when they first met.  He just thought that maybe… maybe…

He stomps to the bedroom to grab his things; there’s not much point in staying if Tooru isn’t here.  The research he needed to do is complete.  The only reason they had stayed was because Tooru had insisted.  Said he didn’t want to go back to the bustle and crowds of the living quite yet.

Tetsurou scoffs and starts shoving things into his pack.  First his clothes.  Then his various oils and potions.  His notes.  His bedroll.  Tooru’s notes.  Tooru’s cloak.

He stares down at the cloak.  It’s Tooru’s favorite.  He had actually made them turn around and travel two days back when they had left it behind at an inn a couple months ago.  It was, apparently, one of the only things Tooru had left of his home.  Tooru would not have left it behind.

Not willingly.

—

It takes four villages, three innkeepers who are probably mentally scarred for life, a half dozen threats of testing out his newest potion experiments, and seven assholes stabbed  — why everyone is so surprised to see a mage with a dagger he still doesn’t understand, a sword he would see the surprise, but a dagger?  Come on — within an inch of their life.  But he finds out where Tooru is being held.

And why.

“Shit,” he sighs.  The mansion Tooru’s being kept is isn’t all that heavily guarded.  But it’s heavily guarded enough that one mage is going to have trouble getting in by themselves.

He slips back into the darkness of the forest at the back of the mansion, hand already slipping into his pack to pull out the pendant and potion he needs.  It’s a full moon which will make the whole thing easier to do.  In theory.

He downs the potion and smashes the pendant against the biggest tree he can find.  He can feel the potion sluggishly fighting through his body, fingers going icy cold as the shadows around him grow and twist.  Inky blackness seeps from the tree and he takes a deep breath, bracing himself before he shoves his hands into the darkness.

A leather gloved hand slips into his left hand.  Fiery hot fingers take his right wrist.

He takes another deep breath and pulls.

Two figures, one taller than him and one shorter than him, come stumbling out, inky tendrils of blackness sliding from them as they catch themselves and stretch in the moonlight.

“What did you do this time?”  Yaku glares up at him from his left.

“Why do you assume I did anything?”

“Because,” Mattsun says from his right, “the last time you summoned both of us at the same time I almost got eaten.  And not in the sexy way.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

Mattsun shrugs and peers over Tetsurou’s shoulder.  “I dunno.  Just saying.”

Tetsurou rubs at his face tiredly.  “So.  Short version.  The guy in the mansion back there kidnapped Tooru and is trying to find a way to harness powers so he can make Tooru sing at will.”  He opens his eyes and gives them both a pleading look.  “And I can’t get in there on my own.”

Yaku tilts his head and starts crackling his fingers, cracks loud even through his leather gloves.

“Whatever the cost of your help for this.  I’ll pay it.”  Mattsun’s eyes narrow dangerously as he considers Tetsurou for a moment before he pushes past Tetsurou’s shoulder and heads towards the mansion without another word.

—

“Sing for me.”  

Tetsurou creeps through the shadowy corridor.  Yaku and Mattsun have cleared out every living creature in this entire mansion save for the two in the room he’s approaching.  He’s pretty sure he’s figured out how they’ve been trying to harness Tooru’s power.  If he understood the messy scrawls on the notes in the lab in the basement.  He’s also pretty sure it’s not going to work for the asshole in the room with Tooru.

Pretty sure isn’t entirely sure and he prays to all the gods above and below that he’s right or he’s going to step into the room and the man inside is going to order Tooru to use his voice to kill Tetsurou.

“Sing the song damn you.”

Tetsurou can just barely make out Tooru’s voice and he sounds so tired, so worn down, so close to breaking, that he shoves through the door without a second thought and barrels into the room.

Tooru is chained in the corner and the man who had him kidnapped, the man who had him experimented on, the man who caused him so much pain and exhaustion and stole the light from his eyes is standing mere steps in front of Tetsurou.  He’s clutching a glowing amulet in his hand that he points towards Tooru.

“Sing,” he demands.  Tooru’s eyes water.  He clenches his jaw and shakes his head desperately.  “And end him.”

Tetsurou leaps for the amulet as Tooru’s lips part.  He struggles to wrestle it from the other man’s fingers even as the first whispers of Tooru’s song wash over him.  The man gasps softly as Tooru’s voice reaches him, body going limp as he collapses to the ground.  Tetsurou struggles against the voice, like he does every time, just wanting to hear it a little bit longer.

He meets Tooru’s eyes, watery and apologetic; Tooru can’t stop singing until the song is complete or he’s given a new command.

Tetsurou’s fingers inch towards the amulet.  So close and so, so far away.

Tooru’s voice is a warm blanket on a cold night.  A crackling fire in the darkness.  A comforting embrace after a nightmare.

His fingers brush the amulet.

“Tooru,” he whispers sleepily.  “Can I hear your voice?  I want to hear you sing.”

—

Tetsurou groans as he wakes up.  It’s cold, his entire right side is numb where he’s laying against the stone floor, and there’s a stream of moonlight shining on his face.  His arm’s asleep, there’s a warm weight against his chest, and someone’s hair is tickling his nose.

“Tooru?” he mumbles.

“I’m here,” Tooru whispers against his chest.  His arm is on fire with pins and needles but he curls it up and hugs Tooru even tighter against his chest.  “You dummy.”

“’m not a dummy.”

“You are too.  You charged in, knowing full well what that asshole was trying to do, and didn’t even have anything to guard yourself from my song.”

Tooru’s voice is gravelly and Tetsurou wants to tell him to stay quiet, to let himself have a break, but he knows that it’s pointless to try.

“I knew it wouldn’t work.”  Tooru tilts his head and Tetsurou can feel his questioning gaze before he even opens his eyes.  “I read the notes in the lab.  Saw what they were doing.”

“How did you know it wouldn’t work?”

Yaku clears his throat and oozes out of the shadows to sit next to them.  Mattsun settles behind Yaku and wraps his arms around him.

“Yeah, Tetsurou,” Yaku says blandly.  “How did you know?”

“You can make a siren sing, eventually.  If you have the right spellwork and rules and objects,” Mattsun says.  “So how did you know it wouldn’t work?”  

Tetsurou smiles.  “Yes.  You can.  If you have the right research and enough coin anyone can make them sing.  But you can’t pick their song.  Well one person can, technically.”  Tooru freezes in his arms.  “But the siren  has to choose them.  And you can’t tell them to sing.”  He looks down into Tooru’s wide eyes.  “You have to ask.”

He stares into Tooru’s eyes until he sees Yaku shifting around out of the corner of his eye.  He drags his gaze away from Tooru to watch as Yaku and Mattsun have some kind of silent conversation with their eyes and eyebrows.  Finally Mattsun huffs and leans back on his hands, legs still bracing Yaku’s, and stares up at the ceiling.

“So?”  He asks when neither of them say anything.  “What’ll be?”

“You said you’d give anything.  Whatever the cost, you’d pay it.”

Tooru gasps and tries to pull away from Tetsurou but Tetsurou just holds him as close as he can.  If these were to be his last moments on earth then he wanted to spend them with Tooru in his arms.

“I did.”

“Tetsurou no,” Tooru hisses.  “I’m not worth—”

“You are worth everything to me Tooru.  The air I breathe.  The sun on my face.  The blood in my veins.  The magic under my skin.  I would give any and all of it to see you safe.”  Tooru stills in his arms and Tetsurou takes the moment to press a kiss to Tooru’s forehead.  “All of it and more.”

Mattsun gets to his feet and looks down at him.  “If that’s the case,” he says as he leans towards them, eyes flickering with light.

“No.”  Mattsun pauses at Tooru’s voice.

“No?”

“No.”  

Mattsun stares down at Tooru, eyes flickering.  Tooru stares right back until Mattsun looks away with a shrug.

“I wasn’t gonna take anything anyway.”  Tooru blinks in surprise at Mattsun’s statement.  “I mean.  He just saved my brother.  How can I accept payment for that?”

“Aww,” Tooru coos, “Mattsun you do love me!”

Yaku rolls out of the way when Tooru scrambles to his knees and throws himself at Mattsun, cooing and laughing as he knocks the other man over.

“So, seriously.  What do I owe you?”  

Yaku glances at him and then looks back at the other two.  He shakes his head.  “It was Matsukawa’s call.  So.  You don’t owe us for this one.”

—

Tooru hums as he tucks himself against Tetsurou’s side.

“Do you ever shut up?” Tetsurou murmurs sleepily.

“Nope.”

“Lucky me.”

Tooru laughs and kisses Tetsurou’s chin.  “Yep.  Lucky you.”

Tetsurou laughs and pulls Tooru tight against him.  “Well if you’re going to be noisy will you sing to me?  Please?”

“For you, love, any time.”

#haikyuu #OiKuro #oikawa tooru #kuroo tetsurou #OiKuro fic #hq writing #prompt #notsuchasecret

[hyuckcherie]

l.donghyuck || good morning

» genre : fluff

» prompt : just some morning fluff with zero plot

» warnings : switching between past and present tense😔, literally zero plot, the ending feels kind of abrupt

on mornings that neither of you have anything planned

at least for a few hours

waking up happens naturally

the sunshine filtering through the curtains you picked out to match your room rouses you

the want to sleep more is always there, but the need to see your personal sunshine is greater

so you turn in his embrace

his arm hooked around your waist and the leg wrapped over near your hip make it a little difficult

such a koala :(

but you manage after a couple years of practice

your warm hands cup his face delicately, so as not to wake him

you like just studying his face in the morning

it helps you prepare for the day and tells you everything will be okay

but after a couple minutes you start pressing kisses all over

and he slowly starts to wake up

his eyelids flutter like gentle butterfly wings

and as he feels you pressing kisses with your lips or nose

a sleepy smile grows on his lips

“morning,” he whispers, his voice deeper from sleep

his eyes finally open to behold the sight of you

he may be your and everyone’s sun,, but you’re his

his sun, moon, and stars.

and he thinks you’re most beautiful when you’re barely awake, face inches from his own

you wrap your arms around his torso and he pulls you in closer

“good morning,” you say back, a blissful smile of your own

“how did you sleep”

“good. i dreamt we went on a picnic by the river. it was really nice.”

haechan hums

“how about we do that?”

“really?”

despite the new plans you stay there in each other’s arms, talking about the dreams you had and catching up on notifications.

once you’d both woken up sufficiently, it was time to get ready for the day

the first thing you did on slow mornings was take a shower together

haechan poured some shampoo in his palm and began lathering your wet hair

while you grabbed the loofa and honey and vanilla body wash

haechan giggled as he tried to make your hair stand with the shampoo still in

you roll your eyes but soon your giggles join his.

he sings off and on to random songs popping into his head

sometimes asking you to sing along with him if you know the song.

once your hair is rinsed out and the conditioner is in, you repeat the process on haechan

you like making his hair spiky, always surprised by how good it looks on him.

you give him an extra long scalp massage as you do his hair

for all his hard work,

and wet kisses pressed between bouts of giggling.

with you both rinsed off and wrapped in fluffy towels

and after a five minute hug because y’all clingy

you pull out the blow dryer.

haechan starts on your hair first because it’s longer and takes a while to dry compared to his

you sit on the bathroom counter just staring into his sparkly eyes

they’re the most beautiful you’ve ever seen

they’re deep and hold so much within them.

the color of his eyes in the bathroom lighting is different from any other and you love them even more.

haechan stands between your legs

your fingers brushing his bare skin at the top of his towel

when your hair has been mostly dried, you let haechan clip it out of your face

you asked him before why he doesn’t just let you do it

he ignored your question with just a soft smile

so you let him do it, which gives you a chance to sneak a couple kisses to his cheek.

haechan remained standing before you as you did his hair, your fingers ruffling his thick locks while the hot air dried them.

it was his turn to stare at you,

the way you bite the inside of your bottom lip with concentration

the way your eyes occasionally flicker around the room before focusing back on your task

he loves it. he loves you. you and your habits that make his heart go wild.

-

you brush your teeth next

“it’s almost time to go visit the dentist,” you mention while it’s on your mind

haechan is quiet for a moment while he rinses his mouth out

“why did the king go to the dentist?”

you roll your eyes, knowing there’s a joke coming

“because that’s you and it’s time for you to go back,” you somehow manage to say around the toothbrush in your mouth

haechan skips over your comment about him being compared to a king

“to get a new crown”

he immediately dissolves into loud giggles, totally absorbed in his own joke

you choke, coughing and spitting out the toothpaste into the sink

this of course makes you laugh and him laugh harder, him sinking to the floor with one arm barely hanging onto the counter

you kick him

not enough to hurt him in any way though

“it wasn’t even that funny,” you whine, pushing him with your toes

“get up before your towel falls off”

he takes a breath long enough to say “wouldn’t you love that”

you smack him this time.

-

your tummy is growling by the time you finish applying your moisturizer

“time for breakfast i guess,” haechan chuckles

he’s pulling you out of the bathroom and bedroom before you can blink

“wait, baby. i need clothes” you laugh

“why? it’s just us”

“babe. i’m not going without clothes”

haechan pouts and sulks to the closet to pull out a shirt for you and a pair of sweatpants for himself, a pair of boxers for each of you

“there. better?” he asks once you’re both dressed

“i’d prefer a bra”

“nope”

he pulls you out of the room and to the kitchen

-

one of haechans absolute favorite things to do for you is cook

he’s already the type of person to express his love through actions

like cuddles and kisses and random gifts

but cooking for you is a whole new level

he loves when you’re attached to him while he’s cooking

so that’s what you do.

your hands rest on his tummy and your cheek is pressed against the back of his shoulder

you graze your lips across his skin occasionally as you sway to the music playing from haechan’s phone

you speak over the low music, talking about things that are happening in your workplace, or even about the dog you saw when you went to lunch the other day

“are you almost done?” you piped up, poking him in the side

he caves away from the prodding touch

“almost, baby”

you sigh and tilt your head back so it’s your chin resting against his back

your hands run up and down his chest, patting every couple seconds as you heave out another sigh

haechan shivers at your touch, making you giggle

you switch to tickling him

“yah! babyy” he whines

when you don’t stop, he turns around in your arms

his hands grip your shoulders as he leads you backwards until you’re pressed against the counter

you look up at him, wondering what he’s going to do

if you were expecting a kiss, it ain’t it.

instead, his hands fall to your waist and he hoists you up to sit on the counter

“you stay, before i burn the food”

you pout of course

because now what :(

but you sit there like a good girl

watching as he cooks

you think it’s taking forever but you don’t mind.

and each time he passes by

you manage to wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in

with him standing right before you, your legs still hooked around his torso

you kiss his nose once before moving straight to his lips

you cut it short reluctantly, but knowing full well it leaves haechan wanting more than it does you

so he’s whining and chasing after your lips when you pull back

“ah ah, the foods going to burn,” you say cheekily, realeasing him

haechan levels a glare at you but the food really is about to burn so he has to go

so he begrudgingly turns away

you do it a couple more times, knowing that your teasing is frustrating him

until your breakfast (which consists of several dishes) is done

and he’s turning the stove off and returning to your arms

where he kisses you softly

like you might shatter,

taking you by surprise.

you gasp when he hooks his hands under you legs and picks you up

he sets you down on a chair at the dining room table

kissing your cheeks a few times before returning to the kitchen

he comes back with dishes of food, taking two or three trips to bring them all

your stomach growls again at the sight

“wow baby, you made a lot”

haechan seats himself next to you

“i figured what we don’t eat, we can bring to the picnic with us”

-

with bellies full and happy

it’s time to actually get dressed for the day

the weather is really nice with spring in full bloom

so the flowy skirt you bought last week is perfect.

you hum as you pull the items from the closet, haechan still choosing between two shirts

“which one do you think?”

you look over your shoulder, shirt halfway off

“the white one. it does wonders for your skin tone”

“you think?”

“i know”

when you’re both dressed you start on your makeup

while haechan comes behind you to drape his arms over your shoulders

“can i do your hair?”

you look up at him through the mirror

“you want to?” he nods. “sure baby ^^”

his gentle fingers pull off the headband you’d put on to keep your hair out of your face

and gathers your strands.

“is a braid okay?”

“it’s whatever you want to do”

so while you’re finishing your makeup, haechan’s nimble fingers twist your hair into a simple plait

“so pretty” he breathes when he’s done

he presses a few kisses to your shoulder

“i should have you do my hair more often” you say, seeing how well he did it

“maybe you should”

#yuck i dont know about the ending #but anyway im whipped for this boy 😔 #haechan #lee donghyuck #lee haechan #haechan x reader #haechan x you #donghyuck #donghyuck x reader #donghyuck x you #haechan fanfic #donghyuck fanfic #haechan fluff #donghyuck fluff #nct #nct x reader #nct haechan #nct fluff #haechan imagines #donghyuck imagines #nct dream #nct dream x reader #nct dream fluff #puffpuff #my writing

[zhydoesart]

Laughter is Better Together

First Next

Warnings: food, mentions of eating

Relationships: romantic LAMP, familial DLAMP, parental Moceit

Word count: 2.9K

AO3

Summary: Thanks to Logan, his husbands have realized that they want to adopt a kid. Patton's nervous, and stress-cooking commences, which leads to pancakes. A LOT of pancakes.

a/n: there’s a second part to this! the series is called Love Ties a Family Together, so that’s what the tag is going to be

"I want a kid," blurts Logan, and all of his husbands turn to look at him. Out of all of them, Logan should have been the least likely to admit this—in theory, Patton or Roman would have been the ones to bring up the idea, especially with the way Patton has always wanted a family. But it's Logan who admits this first to himself and his husbands, and he instantly blushes. "Is... is that... alright?" he adds, much quieter this time.

Patton takes Logan's hands. "Of course it is! We've been married for three years already, and I think we're definitely settled in, so that won't be a problem. Between the four of us, we've got three jobs, so we have the money." He absently strokes the back of Logan's hand with his thumb. "All that's left is, well, us wanting a kid."

"I'm not so sure about adoption," Virgil mumbles, fidgeting with his headphones he wears loose around his neck when he's not listening to music or calming ambient sounds.

Roman watches him, a soft concerned look in his green eyes. "Why not, mi cielo?" He gives Virgil a look that asks if he can touch Virgil, and when Virgil shakes his head, Roman backs off.

"I just... have had bad experiences with the system." He refuses to make eye contact, but his husbands recall when he told them about the many incidents he'd had over the years in foster care.

"Virgil," says Logan carefully. "I believe that would only be an issue if... the caregivers were the ones with..." He doesn't finish, but Virgil finally glances up. He nods stiffly at Logan, and he knows his point has been understood.

"Besides, there are other options aside from adoption!" Patton beams at the prospect.

"Well, yeah, but adoption is the most straightforward." Roman looks to Logan to confirm that his counterargument is, indeed, correct, and Logan simply raises an eyebrow. Roman rolls his eyes.

"I guess that's true." Patton's thumb has stopped rubbing circles against Logan's hand and is now still as he thinks, and Logan squeezes his hand. Patton doesn't respond right away, but when he does, he smiles.

"So we're gonna adopt, then. We're gonna have a kid." He sounds slightly awed, and now Logan is incredibly grateful he brought it up, if only to see Patton so amazed. "We're gonna be dads! I've only been waiting for this for... huh, my entire life!"

He jumps up off the couch, unable to contain his energy, and Roman stands with ease, sweeping Patton into the air in a graceful 360° spin. Patton giggles as Roman sets him down, and Roman grins, tucking a piece of Patton's hair behind his ear that had fallen into his face before gently pressing his lips to Patton's forehead. Patton is, of course, very ticklish, and so this only serves to make him giggle even more.

"Hey, c'mere, Lo, Vee! Come join us! This is a happy occasion!" Patton wiggles his fingers and then his eyebrows at them invitingly, and they both mock sigh but soon join their husbands doing whatever Patton considers a celebration. They sneak little smiles, but can't help themselves and break out into grins.

-----

Virgil is sure that he'd been holding Patton in his arms when he'd fallen asleep, but when he wakes up, Patton's not there. Virgil sits up slowly, smiling because of Roman's groaned half-asleep protests when Virgil moves Roman's arms from where they were tightly wrapped around his waist. He trudges down into the kitchen, and there he finds Patton.

Stacked on the counter is a huge pile of pancakes teetering on its plate, and Virgil is sure that if Patton hadn't been stress-cooking, he'd have been pacing again.

Patton brightens when he sees Virgil, and then looks guiltily at the giant pile of pancakes. "Oops?" He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, at least we'll have reheated food to last us a couple of days, and with any luck, our… our kid will enjoy pancakes." The word "kid" is barely uttered, each syllable soft and light on Patton's tongue as if he's afraid to say it.

"Why are you stress-cooking?" Virgil grabs a plate, loading it up with a surplus of pancakes. (While he loves Patton's pancakes—they all do, somehow he always makes them so light and fluffy yet also so rich in flavor—he won't be able to eat all of this, but he might as well humor his husband for the time being and pretend that this is actually a perfectly normal amount of pancakes.)

Patton lifts one of the pancakes still cooking with his spatula to peek underneath. "I'm not stressed, Virge, not really. I'm just…"

"Nervous?" suggests Logan from the doorway. "You've been stress-cooking again, whatever you may call it. This is an unusual amount of pancakes, Patton."

"Yeah, nervous, that's it." Patton flips over a pancake. "And it's really not that many, Logan." Logan catches Virgil's eye and he mouths Falsehood, which almost catches Virgil off guard but he remembers to stifle his chuckle in time.

Roman strolls casually into the kitchen. "I see we have a large breakfast today, but that's all well and good when the only things here I want to eat are the three of you." He winks.

The three husbands have three very different responses.

Patton turns red, his entire face roughly the color of a strawberry. He's got figurative steam coming out of his ears, and he mumbles something as he flips another pancake.

Logan is mildly flustered, letting out a few sighs and sharp exhales as well as taking in a few sharp inhales. He straightens his shoulders and shakes his head at Roman, but there's a hint of a smirk in his eyes, and Roman can clearly tell.

Virgil flushes from the tip of his nose to his ears. His eyes widen, and he quickly re-balances his plate in his hands before he sends a pile of pancakes spilling onto the kitchen floor. He glares vehemently at Roman, who just looks back at him with an innocent smile.

"Anyway, Pat, flirting aside, it smells delicious." Roman samples a pancake from the top of the pile instead of sliding some off onto a plate.

"About your flirting, Roman," begins Logan. "It is… borderline acceptable when we are alone, but we are going to have a child starting today, and I don't want to hear you making crude comments like that with a kid around. Also, Patton." He rounds on Patton next, but Patton pulls back, clearly still nervous. Logan takes a deep breath, reeling in his Business Voice and letting out his Husband Voice. "No swearing."

"Hey, I don't swear that much more than you guys!" protests Patton.

"Not true. Remember when you dropped the chocolate chips?" suggests Virgil.

"And that time you realized you had an overdue library book because it was hidden under the bed and you refused to check because you were convinced there was a demon under there out to get you?" Roman reminds casually.

Patton deflates. "Okay, yeah, that… yeah. Okay. I do swear a lot, but I promise I have a filter! Don't worry."

Logan still looks worried, and Patton opens a cupboard under the sink. He pulls out a jar of what could only be one thing, and Logan's eyes light up like a child on Christmas.

"Crofter's?" he asks, the pure excitement in his voice reminding Patton of a puppy about to play fetch.

"We're all going to be a little stressed with inviting a new member into our family and adjusting to that, and I'm sorry to say this, but you are the easiest to please." Patton chuckles as Logan practically tears the lid off and it goes bouncing across the floor. "I can get you some toast, or…?" But Logan's already stacking pancakes on a plate, and Patton has a stinking suspicion that maybe Crofter's doesn't taste so bad on pancakes…?

Maybe.

He and Logan were both wrong. It's not a pleasant texture. It's not a terrible texture either, but now they know better. Never again.

"Alright, are we ready to go?" Logan asks once they're all in the car. They all nod, and he starts the car.

Patton is lost in thought for the entire drive. In the back seat, Virgil and Roman are bantering, and usually he'd be pretending he doesn't think it's funny, but he can't bring himself to listen today. He's just too nervous.

"We're here." Logan lightly touches Patton's shoulder, and he jumps. "I hope I didn't startle you too much." Patton shakes his head and unbuckles. This is fine, Patton. It's fine.

They're taken into a room to wait, and Virgil massages Patton's shoulders. He's got a few knots, but he's never complained about it so he's not sure how Virgil knows—but he's grateful that Virgil knows.

"Thanks."

"You looked tense," Virgil says in answer to Patton's questioning look. "Usually, when someone's tense, the best place to start is the shoulders."

The door opens, and it takes all of Patton's self-control not to immediately shoot up onto his feet. He takes a few deep breaths.

A woman sticks her head through the now open door. "The Sanders, correct?" When Roman nods, she opens the door the rest of the way. "I'm Sasha. It looks like all of your paperwork is properly completed, so I've brought Janus to meet you."

There's a boy standing behind the woman. He's not cowering behind her, but he isn't entirely dauntless either. He mostly seems curious.

Patton takes a closer look. The boy, whose name must be Janus, has two differently-colored eyes. His right eye is a shade of green not unlike Roman's and his left eye is a shade of brown not unlike Virgil's. His hair is a little long and fluffy, and Patton wonders what it would feel like to brush it. His skin is darker than Roman's, but there's a few patches of lighter skin on one side of his face.

Janus catches Patton staring at him and kind of shrugs, and Patton isn't sure why he was ever nervous. He is adorable. This is the one. This boy is going to be his son if he has anything at all to say about it.

Roman's watching Patton, and he sighs slightly. He knows what Patton's thinking. Patton gets this look on his face whenever he's decided something belongs to him. He's seen it many times before, and he knows what's going to happen next.

"Hi." Patton smiles at Janus, and Janus hesitantly smiles back. Patton's instantly filled with a warm and fuzzy feeling. "My name's Patton! I like your name. Janus is a really cool name." He cautiously approaches the boy, who doesn't try to step away from Patton, although he doesn't step closer. "Can you talk?"

"Yes," Janus says, and Patton nearly squeals right then and there. His voice is a little raspy but tiny just like the rest of him.

"Well, I'm gonna be your dad." Patton's beaming and he swears if anything else happens, if he gets any happier, he will explode.

"Okay, dad." Janus smirks at him, and that's Patton's last straw. He is now internally screaming.

"Patton, are you ok?" Roman asks.

"Oh, yeah, completely fine." When Patton turns, he's crying, but smiling.

"Sorry I made you cry." Janus is now panicking. He's already made his new dad cry and they've only been in the same room for three minutes. Did he say something wrong?

"Nonono you're fine sweetheart." Patton still has tears dripping down his face, but he takes Janus' hand, and Janus finds that it's much easier to ground himself with the aid of physical contact. "I'm just… happy." Oh. Well, good, he didn’t actually upset his new dad. "Can I… hug you?" Janus nods—he misses hugs—and Patton kneels fully, enveloping the small boy in a hug. Janus inhales, taking in Patton's scent—smells like cookies, maybe?

"If you're my dad, then what are they?" Janus asks once his dad has stopped crying, nodding to the other men.

"They're my husbands!" Patton informs him.

His brow furrows. "All of them?"

"Yes. I love them."

"Oh." Janus thinks silently for a minute. "What do I call them, then? Are they my dads too?"

"You can call me papa," Roman cuts in. He'd thought about this in advance, and so had the other two, but they'd never discussed it, only separately considered it.

"I'm your tati." Virgil smiles at Janus.

"And Logan's gonna be your baba, right Logan?" Patton winks at him 

Logan splutters. He'd never told Patton what he'd picked, but Patton is somehow correct. "Yes." He adjusts his glasses, as is his habit when he needs something to do with his hands.

"Cool." Janus looks around at all of them. "So I have four dads now. Which one tells dad jokes?" They all point at Patton, and he laughs.

"That'll be me, kiddo. Say, what's something you like?"

"I like snakes." Janus doesn't know why Patton's asking, but he seems nice, so he'll go along with it.

"Hm, okay." Patton thinks. "Oh! Okay. Kiddo, I think you're hiss-terical. You remind me of Virgil but on a smaller scale. It'll be cool to have a kid around the house, we can snake it up a bit." He's chuckling at his own jokes. None of the other men seem very amused, but Janus laughs, and Patton's eyes light up. He can get used to this.

The next morning Janus wakes up in an unfamiliar place—ah, yes, his new room. But what's this he's holding? A… a stuffed snake?

There's a note on the bedside table. It's in a slightly messy scrawl. It reads, Good morning, kiddo! I went out shopping yesterday night for some things I forgot and I saw this and you like snakes so it reminded me of you! Hopefully you like it. I'll be in the kitchen if you wake up after 8, but if I'm not up yet, there's some pancakes in the fridge and if you'd like you can microwave them for two minutes. Love, Dad.

Janus rolls his eyes. They're doing so much for him already, and he only just met them yesterday.

He starts to leave but then changes his mind. He goes back for the snake plushie—he's going to name her Ethel. He brings her with him to breakfast.

It's only 7:43, so Patton isn't up yet, but Janus does find the container of pancakes in the fridge. He stands on his tiptoes to reach a plate and puts some of the pancakes on the plate. He microwaves the pancakes for two minutes and takes them to the table to sit.

As he eats, Janus looks around. He'd gotten here yesterday, but he hadn't gotten much of a chance to really observe. He'd been overwhelmed and tired, so he'd gone to bed not long after getting there. Wait—home. This is… his home now. He's never had a real home before.

On the wall by the door, there's a trophy display. Janus can't read the plaques from there, but he bets if he went over there to read one, it would commend Roman on his acting. He'd asked a few questions about his dads in the car on the way home. At first he'd been worried his questions would get annoying, but they'd been more than happy, overjoyed even, that he was expressing interest. He'd learned that Roman does acting, Patton's a librarian, and Logan is a professor at a nearby university. Virgil is a freelance artist, but he doesn't get paid much for his work.

Janus bites into a reheated lukewarm pancake and his eyes widen. Is this a blueberry pancake? He shovels down the blueberry pancakes as fast as he can and eats the normal and chocolate chip ones a bit slower. He makes sure to rinse off his plate, leaving it in the sink.

"Good morning, kiddo." Patton enters the kitchen. He's delighted to see that Janus brought his snake plushie with him. "Did you like the gift, then?"

"I loved it," Janus says, and Patton looks so extremely happy that it almost takes him aback. Wow, so Patton's really a pure soul, huh?

"Let's get some food in you, hm?" Patton hustles over to the stove.

"Oh, I've already eaten, actually."

"Oh, really?" Patton turns to face him. "What did you have?"

"All…" Janus lowers his gaze to the floor. "All the blueberry pancakes."

"I can't hear you, honey, you've gotta speak up."

"I ate all the blueberry pancakes," blurts Janus.

Patton blinks. "Oh, wow. You just really like blueberries, huh?"

"They're my favorite food?" Janus meant to say that as a statement but it comes out as more of a question.

Patton claps once in excitement. "In that case, I'll have to make you some more soon." He hums as he gets himself a huge serving of pancakes from the fridge. He taps the counter behind him as he leans on it while he waits the two minutes required to warm the pancakes. Janus normally would be bothered by sounds like that, but since it's Patton, it's endearing.

By 8:30, the other three dads have stumbled into the kitchen in varying states of sleepiness, and Patton gives them each a good morning kiss on the cheek. Before long, a friendly argument has broken out, and Janus smirks behind his plushie. He can get used to this.

-----

@moxiety-my-love @celeste-tyrrell @bitteryjittery-andveryglittery @treasureofpriam @acompletemusicalnerd @unicornofdarknessstuff @whispers-stuff-in-your-ear

#sanders sides #ts sides #ts fic #ts fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders side fic #janus sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #dlamp #ts dlamp #ts love ties a family together #fluff

[solace-sun]

Not the Typical Way You Meet A Soulmate (Solangelo) - Chapter One

Preview: Nico had his fun for the night. It was time to go home. Which would've been easier if the ground beneath him isn't spinning. The world was moving in ways it shouldn't. He wasn't sure which direction was home. The street was now solely lit by the harsh streetlights towering above him, and the sidewalk seemed to slip from under his feet.

At the current moment, Will Solace hated just about everything he could see. He hated his shitty car for breaking down, and he hated the empty refrigerator in his kitchen. He hated how he had to walk to the store, and he hated his broken arm that hindered his ability to adequately carry his groceries home from the store. He even hated the lady at the checkout for only giving him two bags, which teemed to the brim with his groceries. He hated the way the sun reflected across the pavement and trees around him. The sun filtered the colors of the earth's surface in such a painstakingly gorgeous way, one that seemed to mock Will's current mood.

Needless to say, Will was pretty pissed.

Lost in his own hatred for the world and everything on it, Will failed to see the growing tear at the bottom of one of his bags. The bag broke and groceries tumbled onto the cement before he could even notice the hole.

Now, Will really hated his groceries. He almost thought about just leaving them on the ground as they lay, in an utter defeat. Before he could walk away from the wreckage, someone approached him from behind.

"Do you need any help there?" A voice came from behind Will. He turned to find a dark haired man standing behind him, clutching the straps of his backpack. Will's expression softened.

Now there's something I don't hate.

"That would actually be so great, thank you," Will sighed with relief.

"It's no problem. I was raised to always help the crippled when they're in need," the man joked, referring to Will's broken arm.

"Do I really look that sad?" Will asked with a laugh. The man shrugged before bending over to pick up the spilled groceries.

"We can use my backpack to carry what fell out," he offered, opening the bag for Will.

"Thank you so much," Will replied, "What's your name?"

"Nico. And you?"

"Will Solace."

The two placed an assortment of fruit, ramen, and frozen meals into Nico's bag.  Before hefting his bag onto his shoulders, he flashed Will a thin smile. The pair began to trudge through an uncomfortable silence down the sidewalk. Just before the silence became too thick, Nico spoke, driven by curiosity.

"How'd you break your arm?" He asked.

"Oh, I broke it during a lacrosse game last week," Will responded.

"Lacrosse?"

"Yeah I play at the school here. Or, well, I used to, I guess," Will responded.

"You quit because of your arm?"

"Yes and no, I guess. Getting injured kinda made me realise there's more important things I could be doing. Better places to put my time, y'know?"

"Makes sense," Nico agreed flatly.

"Yeah, guess I'll be spending more time focusing more on school, for right now," Will replied, "I'm here for pre-med."

To which Nico's response was a stifled snort.

"What's so funny?" Will demanded.

"I've never seen a doctor in a cast and sling before. I don't know, I just think it's funny. Did they let you wrap your own arm?" Nico joked. Will gave a sardonic huff and rolled his eyes.

The two continued their walk down the sidewalk. Will took a turn and gestured towards an apartment complex.

"Looks like we're here," He spoke. Nico followed him up a flight of stairs and watched as Will fumbled with his keys in the shadow of his front door.

While Will opened the door, Nico had gathered an armful of groceries from his bag. He placed them into Will's arms.

"Hey man, thanks for everything," Will thanked.

"It's all good," Nico gave a wary smile as he zipped his bag shut. He gave a wave to Will, and turned on his heel, starting for home

Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was who Nico had just met, but that day, Nico felt lighter than usual. A feeling from the pit of his stomach that made his head feel airy. The feeling continued his entire walk home.

His mood only improved when Hazel told him about a party happening the next night. Parties were Nico's favorite pastime, as the life of a dead end, part-time job weighed on him from time to time. Besides getting utterly and totally wasted on a weeknight, Nico had no real purpose. He needed some sort of distraction to get him through to the next day.

He opened the door to his painfully dull apartment, to see his step sister Hazel finishing up her ramen noodle dinner, with her head stuck in a textbook.

"How's it going?" Nico asked, greeting his sister.

"Someone's in a good mood," Hazel responded.

"What? I can't ask my sister, whom I love very much, how her day went?"

"Someone like you? It's pushing it dude," she joked, "Seriously though, the past week you've barely spoken a single word. What's up?"

"I don't know," he tried. And, in all honesty, he truly didn't know.

Hazel gave him a look of confusion, "Alright then, keep your secrets," She paused to shove a bite of noodles into her mouth, "Also, I've got a friend who's throwing a party tomorrow night. I gotta do some homework tomorrow so I won't be there, but I'd figure I'd let you know anyway." She said through a bite of noodles.

"Oh god, you don't know how happy that makes me," Nico smiled.

"Yeah, I know. Just, be careful. Please?" She bored her eyes into his. He turned away.

"Yeah, got it."

The next night, Nico managed to find himself in the corner of some shitty frat house, nursing a less than adequate bottle of vodka. But his head was swimming, and nothing else really mattered. Barely cognizant of anything, disillusioned and unaligned with the world around him was how he liked to be. The quality of whatever drink was in his hand at the moment didn't really matter, so long as it made the room spin. His favorite distraction to life was working just as well as it always had.

So when he saw a familiar blonde face, he thought he was seeing things. Will, apparently, thought the same, based off the double take he made when he saw Nico in the corner of the room. Nico flashed a grin.

"Hey, I know you!" Nico exclaimed, waving the bottle that was in his grip. Will made his way over to Nico, and settled down across from him on the gross, germ ridden couch. The unnaturally hard texture of the couch's fabric made Will wonder if the thing had ever been washed. He pushed the thought out of his head before he fell down a rabbit hole of thoughts he'd rather not think.

"Funny seeing you here," Will said.

"Eh, I mean, not really," Nico slurred, "Just crashing some party at a school I don't even go to."

"How did you even get in?" Will asked with a smile, tilting his head making his blonde curls fall over his eyes.

"I just told the shithead at the door I was a 'brother' from Delta Lambda Phi. He totally bought it," Nico shook his head and laughed.

"I'm impressed," Will admitted, "But why spend your time at a college frat party?"

Nico shrugged, "Free drinks. I could be asking you the same thing. Didn't you say something yesterday about focusing on schoolwork?"

"Gotta have fun somehow," Will shrugged.

"Then how come you've got an empty hand?" Nico inquired, motioning to Will's lack of alcohol and sober status. He offered Will the bottle of vodka in his hand.

"Oh, no, I'm good, thank you," Will refused, pushing the bottle away. Nico shrugged.

"Tell me why I'm not surprised that the smart, pre-med kid won't let loose at a party?" Nico teased. Will shot him a displeased glance.

"What? I'm joking!" He reached over and took a light punch to his shoulder, "I'm sure you're the funnest guy here."

"Funnest isn't a word," Will corrected.

"You're gonna make me take back my statement," Nico deadpanned. Will threw his good hand up, defeated. The other hand remained cradled by his side, bound by cast and sling.

"Give me the bottle," He demanded.

"There we go!" Nico applauded, "See? Now you're acting like a real jock! What was it you play? Football?"

"... Lacrosse."

"That's right, lacrosse. What the fuck even is that? Like, honestly, it wasn't even a thing in Italy."

"Italy?" Will inquired.

"I grew up in Italy. Moved here when I was thirteen? Fourteen?" Nico explained.

"Oh. Wow," Will spoke.

"You didn't answer my question," Nico prodded.

"Huh?"

"The fuck is lacrosse even?"

"I'm mean its just another sport," Will reasoned, "Y'know? You got your stick and the ball, and you try to make the goal."

"How long did you play for?" Nico asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I started when I was a freshman in high school, so... seven years?"

"Damn, that's a long time. You gonna miss it?"

Will gave a huffy laugh, "Parts of it, for sure."

"Wait okay, I'm lost," Nico started, "How do you break your entire fucking arm during an over-glorified game of catch?"

"Got a nasty body check," Will explained. Nico gave him a blank stare in return; Will's words obviously did not mean anything to him.

"Someone body slammed me during the game," Will explained, "Fell back landed on my arm."

Nico made a pained expression, "Sounds like that hurt," he emphasized.

"It's not that bad," Will reasoned.

"How long to heal?"

"Only a few weeks."

Nico nodded, but before he could respond, a voice boomed from across the room.

"Solace!"

Will whipped his head around, to see another man trudging towards the two, shoving past a pool of party-goers and drunk bodies. His stride was confident and almost loud. Nico watched as he made his way over, unable to stop himself from taking an immediate distaste for the guy.

"Where have you been, dude?" the stranger asked.

Will averted his eyes, maintaining eye contact with the ground instead. He shrugged as a response before cautiously meeting the other man's stare.

"How come you don't come to lacrosse anymore? We miss you man!"

Nico couldn't decide if his words were authentic. His tone seemed to be genuine, but his condescending smirk and the arrogant gleam in his eyes wanted to tell of something different.

"I don't know," Will started. He turned his gaze to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Just come back to the team!" he exclaimed, his arms open.

"Man, I just... Just gotta think about it," Will reasoned, giving a sympathetic smile. In the shadow of the man he looked small. Maybe even vulnerable.

At this point, Nico had enough. Maybe his head wasn't quite where it was supposed to be, but his heart was. Before anything could be said, Nico interjected.

"God could you fuck off?" Nico barked, "Anyone with a pair of fucking eyes can see that he doesn't want to talk to you."

Will's head shot up and his eyes grew in shock.

"I'm sorry," the man laughed, "You talking to me?"

"Yeah man," Nico snapped, "Why don't you just leave him alone?"

"Don't you know your place?" The man retorted.

Nico was now riding on a high of his favorite drug; adrenaline. He cocked his head to the side and matched the stranger's confident energy.

"You wanna show me my place? Be my guest," he invited, standing up, a little shaky from the vodka. He tried to hide his stumble.

Will shot him a pleading look, "You don't have to do this," he whispered.

The stranger towered over Nico, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" the man snarled.

The room's atmosphere changed, voices began to hush and more eyes turned to watch the show. Nico stared down his opponent, undeterred from any distractions.

"Nico, c'mon, give it up, it's not worth it." Will persisted. But his pleads fell on deaf ears, Nico was too caught up in finishing what he had just started.

"You need to know your fucking place, fuckin' little shit," the man seethed, his shoulders rolling up and his face sneering. Before Nico could respond, a punch was thrown.

Luckily for Nico though, he had become skilled in the art of dodging fists through his years of picking drunken fights with strangers. This was nothing new for him. Instead of sucker-punching Nico in the gut, the man missed and lodged his fist into the drywall behind Nico. The crowd voiced sounds of excitement, shock, and concern. Nico could feel like anger blooming in his chest, pumping through his veins. If there was one thing he hated most, it was entitled, rich white frat boys. His hands turned to fists, but before he could commit to the final act, he felt Will tug on his arm.

"Don't do it man," He pleaded, with soft, sad blue eyes. Nico looked to the ground, trying to use his brain for the first time tonight.

"Yeah, okay. Party fucking sucked anyway," he cursed, "And I'm taking this with me!" He announced, pointing an angry finger to the bottle he had claimed earlier. He stumbled away from the scene, away from the hungry eyes of party-goers, away from the man he didn't even know the name of, who was now shouting obscenities to Nico's back. Away from Will.

Nico had his fun for the night. It was time to go home. Which would've been easier if the ground beneath him isn't spinning. The world was moving in ways it shouldn't. He wasn't sure which direction was home. The street was now solely lit by the harsh streetlights towering above him, and the sidewalk seemed to slip from under his feet.

Then he heard a voice call his name.

"Nico!" It was none other than Will, "That's your name, right? It's Nico?"

Nico smiled and nodded.

"Where you going, man?" Will asked.

Nico shrugged, "Home, I guess."

"You're not driving, are you?"

"God, no," Nico shook his head, "I don't even own a car. I was just gonna walk home."

"How's that going for you?" Will inquired, sarcasm hidden in his tone.

"It'll be fine, once the floor stops moving," he waved a dismissive hand.

"Let me walk you home," Will prompted.

Nico's brow furrowed, "What? Why?"

"Just a way to say thanks," Will shrugged.

Nico thought for a moment before he nodded. The two started off, absorbed in the sound of the quiet night.

"I'm sorry," Nico spoke, puncturing the veil of silence between the two.

"For what?" Will turned to Nico.

"I don't know... It probably wasn't on your agenda for tonight to piss off... Whoever that was."

"One of my teammates. Or, an old teammate, I guess," Will informed, "Don't feel bad about it though, I actually enjoyed watching you tell him off."

"Oh yeah? I could just tell he was making you uncomfortable. I can read you like a book," Nico flashed a cocky grin, proud of his "emotional intelligence" skills.

"Like a book? Is that so?" Will teased, "What am I feeling now?"

"You're probably wondering how you got into this mess, walking a drunk stranger home and all."

"You're not a stranger, we've met before," Will joked.

"Can't argue with that," Nico agreed.

The silence returned, but the two were comfortable in its wake. Will kicked at rock as they walked, while Nico struggled to place one foot in front of the other. In a cruel joke played by God or maybe fate, he stumbled and fell, only to catch himself on Will's good shoulder.

"Woah, there," Will laughed, holding Nico's forearms as he regained himself, "Do I need to carry you home?"

"Oh, yes please," Nico replied. Maybe drinking a whole bottle of vodka by himself was a bad idea.

"Alright then," Will said, moving an arm to secure Nico's balance.

"Wait, no I was joking-" Nico started.

"Yeah sure, you're gonna be joking until you fall and bust your ass on the concrete," Will retorted, "Don't make it weird," He said with a laugh, slinking his good arm around Nico's torso, with a gentle squeeze.

Oh.

Okay.

Don't make it weird. Got it.

"I'm not making it weird," Nico quipped.

"Great," Will shrugged. Will's curls brushed against Nico's cheek, and Nico was almost positive that Will could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, wait a minute," Nico wondered out loud, "How come you aren't shit faced?"

Will gave a breathy laugh, "I'm more of a babysitter than a drinker. I was watching over a few friends tonight, but then I guess you could say I had more pressing matters to tend to."

"A stranger was more important than your friends?" Nico questioned.

"Well, when a stranger tried to pick a fight and stumble home completely wasted -- by himself, I might add, then yeah. Also, my friends know how to take care of themselves."

"Are you saying I don't know how to take care of myself?" Nico demanded.

"Maybe," Will confessed, failing to sequester the laughter spilling from his chest.

Nico found Will's laughter to be contagious, something that couldn't be escaped, and he discovered himself chuckling along with him. Maybe it was the buzz, but Nico felt the warmth in his chest again, a cozy feeling from inside. He felt at home in the feeling.

As their laughter died down, the two came up upon the backside of an apartment complex. Even on the backside, the complex stood tall and elegant, the siding expensive and tasteful.

"Looks like this is my stop," Nico announced.

"Wait, but there's no entrances back here," Will noticed.

"What a gentleman, wanting to walk me to my door," Nico teased.

"I just want to make sure you get home safe," Will protested.

"I know. It's just that... I've got this roommate, whose fucking batshit -- like absolutely crazy. Hates when I bring people home. Doesn't even matter if they drop me off at the door. It's always an argument. Says it's always too noisy when I come home with people."

Will gave a dejected look to the ground, "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Nico tried, slipping out of Will's hold.

"Wait, hold on. I'm gonna give you my number. Text me when you get back safe," he prompted. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a crumpled receipt and a pen, and scrawled his number on the backside, "Here."

Nico smiled as he took the number into his own hands, "Thanks, Will. I feel like I owe you now," He laughed.

The pair separated, following their own individual paths. Except Nico didn't head towards the complex he had claimed to be his. Rather, once he was out of the spotlight of the streetlamps, he crossed the street, heading towards a less impressive complex. His home. His tiny, dirty home.

He knew lying was wrong, but his shame for his poorly house outweighed the moral balance in his mind. He had also had lied about the crazy roommate. Just another excuse not to let someone in, keep them at a comfortable distance; knowing all too well what would come once they knew what he really lived like -- the pitiful looks and gross expressions.

It was embarrassing. But it was all he could afford.

Nico hated the pity. Rather than confront it, he would create himself a false life. Call it lies if you like, but for Nico it was just protection.

He fumbled with his keys for a minute, wracked his brain with the task of trying to figure out which one was the key to the front door. When he opened the door he felt the cool dusty air hit his face. He cracked the door open and coasted inside, careful not to wake his sister sleeping in the room across from his, who had better things to do than getting wasted on a weeknight.

His least favorite part of the nights like these was coming home. No longer did he have his distraction, his escape from his sad apartment, from his own racing thoughts and feelings.

When he came home he was forced to confront it all. No more running, and no more hiding.

Nico found his way to his room, the door creaking open. His empty room greeted him and the cool air nipped at his skin. The cracks in the ceiling welcomed him and his creaky bed frame embraced him as he collapsed into his mattress.  Nico hated its grasp, but right now he couldn't protest; sleep called his name too loud to ignore. When he lay the room was still spinning. He pulled his phone from one pocket and a crumpled receipt from the other. He copied the number from the receipt into his phone.

Will received a text on his walk back to the party.

its nico mabe it h ome safe. thbanks for caring abt me lol

#solangelo #heros of olympus #hoo #nico di angelo #percy jackson #pjo #toa #trials of apollo #will solace #long post #solangelo fanfic #pjo college au #hoo college au #college au #solangelo au #hazel levesque #jason grace #pjo adaptation

[redemptionva]

                                                          Quin

“I promise you - just look for yourself,” Gref insisted as the squeak of the monitor accompanied his voice, “all there, and it looks pretty big. Plenty of opportunities to find whatever you’re looking for.” Gref’s mouth curled into a grin that showcased his crooked teeth and stressed the creases in his homely sun-burned skin. A crackle came from my helmet - beneath the noise lay my mirthless chuckles.

“Fine, fine” I asked as my voice was tenuously doubled through two channels, “How old is this thing? I don’t really want to dig through a rusted bucket again”  “At least a century, so any fuel-fires or fumes are bound to have gone out by now. If you’re so worried about it, just toss a match down before you go spelunkin’.” I turned my head and mulled over the perpetually decent finds Gref had “found” for me over the past few months or so. “Sure,” I shrugged, gesturing to the antiquated speeder-bike that Gref had been eyeing since I arrived, “you really want that, huh?” With a nearly wordless exchange, I traded the speeder that had surely seen better days for a chance at finding something worthwhile. At least more worthwhile than a Vekog Mk. III Gravbike.

The sight was something to behold if you hadn’t seen the work a scrapper does almost weekly: a massive freighter-ship the size of a tower dug deep into the earth perpendicular to the ground. It awkwardly protruded from the ground laden in a rust and moss. Despite Gref’s description, very little paint survived the century (at least) of storms and meteor-showers. Its nose was lost to the earth, leaving the majority of the vessel beneath the cracked earth. Quin wasn’t a tourist; they knew better than to waste time sight seeing. I didn’t let myself get distracted by such an uncanny scene. After my first few months out here, I pushed the thoughts of the poor souls that perished here. Gref told me not to be too upset about it. They were a bunch of rich people from a “lost civilization of terrible proportions that were slain by the mighty LLF”. He knows that the thought of those bastards makes me itch, but he thinks he’s funny and I won’t take that away from him. 

After getting a lay of the land, I pried my way inside of the beast after taking a torch to this damaged port a story above the ground. Inside was musty as I expected. Stale air couldn’t touch me beneath the helmet. The floor was at an angle, leaving me hanging on door frames like a ladder for a giant. As I slowly made my way deeper into the belly, the glow of my headlamp kept things mostly visible until I encountered a map on the wall. It was one of those maps that had the big “you are here” thing on it, but that didn’t help a whole lot  considering I had no clue where the hell I was to begin with. Seemed I was near the back where the engines died. That’d explain the stains on the wall and floor. Despite the age, I was surprised how untouched everything was. The doors I managed to get open (or the ones that were already open) lead to nothing impressive. I found a few thousand in a currency I’ve never heard of and metal jewelry. A jumpsuit with a label on the breast that was probably a name and number. Despite how much I’ve scrapped through ships like this, I don’t think I’ve ever been this disoriented. Seeing beds flipped and against the wall made my stomach churn. Damned if I knew why. It just did. 

The deeper I went, the harder it was to see. Something lingered in the air. Some sort of gas. It had a color like mud and the density of moderate fog. I descended further and yeah, still plenty of this gas. Paranoid thoughts about the filters on my helmet filled my mind. I couldn’t remember the last time I changed them. Last week? A month? Fuck, I hope it hasn’t been a month. What else had I not ran diagnostics on? My feet. My feet hit the bottom. The side? The side was the bottom in this case. I’m breathing to much. I need to breathe. I can’t breathe. Am I choking? Choking on nothing. Choking like a baby on spit. Fucking mercy. My head hurts. Like someone stuck jumpers to my temples. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t. My head is heavy. It’s full of the charge from the jumpers. The jumpers that the baby choked on. I reached the side only to choke on the bottom.

What the fuck happened. One minute I was running diagnostics and the next my mind went from solid to liquid out my ears. Splitting headache. I’m on the floor looking up at the fog that became harder to see through. Not even my lamp helped. I was the last bean in the can and there was only a fart from what was already eaten above me. Never thought I’d feel so small yet so big at the same time. I have all this space to move around yet nowhere to go. I’m not standing up. I’ll just crawl. Yeah, what could go wrong? Crawl on the bottom (side) of a totaled ship that had sharp rock and glass all over the place to grate me like cheese.

Left, right, left, right. My head was pounding. At least I could feel something in my head. The rest of my body tingled with the frigid chill of ice water, but it was something. Something was better than nothing. A box. The thing of my search. A fucking box. I reached for it with my stiffened arms to grab it. Click. It opened. Small tubes with clear liquid. A small container full of sterilized needles. Some other bottle of liquid. Good enough. Meds. Gref will know. Gref. Is he even alive? How long have I been down here? Fuck. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I died after that fall. Come to think of it, I never actually reached the bottom. Did I fall? I need to get the hell out of here.

I fell asleep, but only for a few hours. My blurred vision cleared around the center, leaving me with two inconvenient tunnels of perception. Yeah, I must’ve fallen. Whole body hurts and it hurts to stand. There’s a particularly bad pain in my back, but it isn’t stopping me from trying to climb out. 

The walls down here weren’t like the ones up a ways; they’re rusted and dented down here. Wrapped around the earth like tinfoil. The rest of the ship seemed inaccessible from here. There is far too much in the way for me to ever possibly dig through. Fucking Gref. I guess I can’t blame him for my stupidity. I don’t know why I go on these dangerous dives in the condition I’m in. I guess a greater part of me wants to make sure the old bastard doesn’t worry about me. I don’t know why. I don’t have anything to prove. Hell, maybe I do. I’ll be damned if I tell him about what happened though.

I’m lucky to be alive at this point. I just rested as much as I could before I began to climb with my hook and cables. With all the things that happened here, I wondered why I hadn’t seen a body yet. There’s no way that someone survived this crash. Stop. Stop. Left, right, left, right. I’m not fucking falling again. Left, right, left right. The gas is thinning. It’s easier to see. Left, right, left, right. I can see light. How long was I - No. Left, right, left right. I finally sat myself down near the port I burned through to get in. I threw my helmet off and finally took a drink and had another sawdust protein-bar. Last thing I wanted to do at the bottom was have to inhale all that shit when I was trying to eat this garbage. That’d really make me sick. Just seeing light eased my pain. The pain in the head, I mean. My back still hurt like a sonuvabitch.

As much as I wanted to rest, I didn’t want to stay in this metal tomb for another minute. Even the smallest pebble made a deafening echo as it banged against the metal on the way down. It didn’t bother me at first, but my amateur scrapper was showing. I was honestly disheartened and afraid. Helmet on. Hooks and ropes are ready to go.

I hopped on my bike, looking up at the thing that nearly killed me. I coughed, looking at the box I found before tucking it away again. I had at least two weeks. That was good enough. Despite getting what I was looking for, that wasn’t worth the scare. I drifted with great speed over the craggy landscape. The last thing I wanted was a ship like that to be my over-sized titanium casket. -Note from the Author- Hey there! My name is Redemption (Red for short), and I’m a writer and aspiring voice actor. The kind of things that I’ll be posting here are going to vary. Some stuff may be more silly like outtakes and what have you and others may be like this; short stories or even multi-part stories. Please let me know what you lot would like to see in the future. Thanks! Link to my Fiverr page (I use this as a portfolio since I can’t seem to get any orders anymore): https://www.fiverr.com/share/plxaDZ

#scifi #conceptart #comic #shortstory #firstperson #thriller #voiceover #fiverr #voice acting