#the fire safety turtleneck......

[christiangeistdorfer]

ELIO DE ANGELIS studying timing sheets at the 1980 BRAZILIAN GRAND PRIX

#the fire safety turtleneck...... #also the little flecks of blonde <3 #sun-kissed angel! #elio de angelis #classic f1 #f1 #formula 1 #1980s

[krahk]

Blood for Ruin

Part One : Part Two

Masterlist

Alastor x OFC/Reader (no use of Y/N)

Part Three

(Or Alastor learns it’s never to late learn your kinks, hell welcomes all)

18+ from here on out to be safe.

Warnings: entering smutty content near the end, written by an amateur. No smutty smut, but it’s beginning from here on out. I am opening that can of worms.

__

You really hoped you were harder to kill in hell, because these people simply had no sense of preservation of life in them. First full day in hell and you had been invited to a BDSM club, thrown off of a roof and hid from gunfire trying to keep the creepy little janitor from jumping into the crossfires. Trust exercises were not supposed to be life threatening, but the mania of the day had certainly made it harder for you to focus on your situation for the time being. Back at the hotel you gratefully accepted a drink from Husk as the group recapped the day they had just gone through. For a bunch of terrible sinners, they were pretty alright. Like when you were all alive, the group of you was simply trying to get by day by day.

You had learned that Angel was a porn star in Hell, Nifty’s kinks were both frightening and dangerous (mostly to her, but still), Husk you were certain liked nobody, and Vaggie was an aggressive woman who had no issues throwing you through the fire if she thought it would make you a better person on the other side.

You supposed there were worse people to attach yourself to given your situation. Part of you was grateful that you landed in a place that offered you a place to stay, food to eat with a generous host who made sure you were dressed and comfortable all around. Even though you had processed your death fairly quickly (that was normal, according to Angel) you did know that you could have it so much worse and be dealing with everything alone.

Grateful that everyone was heading to their own quarters when Alastor had returned with the little egg creatures, you made sure to avoid hovering your attention in his direction and ran upstairs after Angel, who had the room next to yours. While passing by Alastors room he had pointed a finger towards his open mouth and gagged, to which you could only respond with a forced chuckle. You waved goodnight to him as you opened your room door and found yourself falling onto the bed and passing out before your head even hit the pillow. Day one, over.

After a few weeks of Hell, you had settled into a comfortable routine. In the mornings you would join the others in the lounge for breakfast and coffee, you would all chat and discuss the next redemption plans before everyone would set off on their own plans for the day if Charlie and Vaggie didn’t have an exercise planned. You still had not left the safety of the building, knowing from your first day that it was strictly mean streets out there. Charlie had grabbed you a few more articles of clothing to complete your meagre wardrobe, and you were not picky in the slightest so you accepted your role as a doll she could dress up. She had picked a lot of modest, but cute A-line dresses, shorter skirts with turtlenecks, a suit - she had a clear preference of clothing seeing as your new items closely resembled her and Vaggie’s overall style. One thing you were grateful for was that the shoes she chose you didn’t require you to wear socks. Like your arms, your legs were black from the end of your limbs until your joint, where the black faded after it passed the knee. So it always looked like you were wearing little stockings. In your time in Hell getting comfortable in your new skin you had also discovered a scattering of black and white freckles on your shoulders and upper arms. You found yourself to be one of the luckier sinners, because your feet were still feet. Many souls like yours had come to hell with hooved feet, but you received a tail instead, which was not quite as common.

Angel had been your link to the world outside, he was constantly on his phone and for some lucky reason the underworld had a similar system of communication like earth. Cell phones, social media, advertisements, etc. It was truly not a far cry from what you knew. He had given you an older phone of his to use, the hotel members being the only contacts in your phone (minus Nifty & Alastor, for which you were grateful) and the two of you texted on the daily, him quickly becoming the closest member of the group to you. Even though Husk was the most recent being to die aside from you, Angel was the most willing to adapt to change. He effortlessly weaved through this complicated lifestyle with ease. He was confident, smart, and an all around great guy. If he would consider easing up on the partying and perhaps manage a way to distance himself from his industry he really would be an excellent candidate for redemption.

Alastor had still not spoken with you since your initial confrontation. Not that you were complaining but it was getting to the point that Angel had noticed his distance from you. It was if he was deliberately avoiding any chance that the two of you would end up in the same room. When asked about the radio, you found that even if you wanted to mention what you thought were unimportant details of it, your tongue snapped to the bottom of your mouth, preventing words from coming out. You had lamely said it was a motel item that got caught in your descent and you really had no idea why it followed you. Charlie had simply declared that possessions must occasionally follow a soul, but usually souls don’t fall in a space with decent people who won’t steal your stuff. It was simply considered an anomaly and after the first week thankfully people seemed to forget about it.

And while Alastor might have prevented you from mentioning anything to anyone about the symbols that were in the radio, it didn’t prevent you from researching the symbols. Charlie had a very extensive collection of books in the hotel library that you had been working your way through. Since you had no job and minimal expectations, you were sifting through the books quickly. And because Angel had left in a rush for a shoot earlier in the morning, your recent hobby started a few hours earlier than usual. You had made your way through a large portion of the ‘Historical Literature’ section before hearing a commotion outside of the library. With your ears being so sensitive it was easy for you to not make a sound while honing in on what was being said. It was more Husk and Angel bickering, but this one sounded worse than usual, ending with Angel storming out of the hotel and Vaggie immediately harping on Husk about his behaviour.

You shot a quick message to Angel by text, getting a read notification but no response. Oof, he was really in a mood. You sent another one telling him you were there when he was ready and a heart emoji, which resulted in a heart being sent in return. Husk had followed him shortly after so you weren’t too worried about how his night would go.

You had started sifting through the next category of books, which appeared to be something of a ‘Human Magic’ section. It appeared to start right at the beginning of humanity’s creation, which meant this was another hefty subject you’d have to filter through. You were only going shelf by shelf because you had started with ‘Runework’, ‘Salem Witchcraft’ and ‘Hell’s Overlords’, hoping to find the information right away with no luck.

Your phone vibrated and you absentmindedly opened the message from Angel, and your stomach dropped.

‘I need help.’

You tried calling and the phone went straight to voicemail, disconnecting as his mailbox was full. You shot out of the library and looked around. With Husk going after Angel, was he in trouble as well? Damn you wished Husk carried a phone. Vaggie and Charlie were also absent from the hotel or at least very very quiet with whatever they were doing.

You decided there was no time to hesitate and you went out the front door, running straight for the Vee’s district in an attempt to remember every bar that Angel had mentioned frequenting in the past. He was a famous porn star, surely someone had noticed the giant spider passing by them on the street. It wasn’t as if he was capable of being a wallflower after all.

You had started into a light jog as soon as you hit main street, the people out and about making you nervous. You were grateful that your new form allowed you to run without any difficulty, the benefits of being a deer hybrid being in your favour today. You ran quickly towards the bright district, making it there in a short period of time, and merging with a larger crowd entering. It seemed dangerous making it obvious that you were out on your own. You were due for trouble after all, it had been a fairly calm life since keeping your distance from him.

The group you had followed went straight into an arcade bar. Great. You were certain that Angel wasn’t here, games weren’t his thing but the giant windows peering into the establishment made it easy to recognize that he wasn’t present. You had made it a few blocks before trying to call Angel again, with it still failing. During your second attempt you noticed that there were a few people heading your way on the sidewalk so you shrunk over to the edge of the building to give them room to move past you.

But you found yourself bumping into one of them who deliberately stayed in your path, and when you looked at their face you came eye to eye with a wolf demon smiling and growling down at you. You glanced around you and noticed that you were surrounded by two additional wolves and your back pressed against the wall behind you in an attempt to create some space away from them.

“Hey baby,” The one you ran into started, “Eager for a good time? Can’t keep your hands off of me?” The other two laughed, one even licking his lips before his friend continued. ”You look cute, how about we find some privacy?” He stepped towards you with his arm reaching for yours and you took a step away, right into the other wolf. Shit. The three laughed at you shoving the one aside and walking backwards to try and make a gap, but they were advancing quickly. Panicking, you threw the only thing you had on you - the phone - with which the corner smacked one of them squarely in the eye, making him shout in pain. Another jumped at you and you quickly dodged his lunge by bracing a hand on his head and leaping over him to start into a sprint once your feet hit the ground.

Note for next time: Heels are super cute, but super terrible to run in, because they caught up to you quickly, despite your quick escape. One wolf immediately punched you in the face, causing your nose to have a minor explosion of blood shoot out of it, which made your brain rattle.

”You might just be cuter like this,” One guy said, pulling your arm so hard you lost your balance and was dragging behind him as the three took you into the closest alleyway. “We could have had a nice night, but you had to go and fuck it up. Now you’ll get what’s coming to ya.” The one who held your arm roughly lifted you back to your feet and slammed you against the brick wall, making your head hit it just as hard. It was getting hard to think about a way out, your head was so foggy.

“Hey this bitch was texting Angel Dust!” One of the guys said, probably the one who had her phone thrown to his face. “She’s got to be a dirty slut! Have you seen any of his shit? It’s messed up man, we got ourselves a wild one here!” He cheered, whooping with the other demon who wasn’t holding you up. You made eye contact with your captor and he was growling low with a sinister smile on his face.

”Lucky us! Prime meat for free? Baby I’ll make your night better than anyone you’ve ever been w-“ his words were cut off, as his neck suddenly had a black tentacle wrapped around it, squeezing so hard his eyeballs were protruding out of their sockets. You fell to your ass, legs bent on the ground, hands trying to steady your swaying head. Looking over you saw the bodies of the other wolves, already separated into a few pieces, some appendages being swung around by the tentacles.

Looking forward you noticed who came to your rescue. It was Alastor, and he was pissed. Thankfully not at you, although you certainly had a concussion so there was a chance you were misinterpreting the situation. He said something to your assaulter about how to be a gentleman and ‘perhaps he would discover how to treat a lady in his next life’ before all the tentacles had wrapped about his and his friends bodies before disappearing with them into the ground. Your surroundings now quiet except for your heavy breathing, you watched Alastor take even, steady steps towards your fallen form.

“Well now! Haven’t you got yourself in a bit of trouble, hmm?” He taunted, entirely too chipper. Closing one eye and squinting the other to avoid seeing double, you noticed that he had blood on his face, under his nose, which you apparently pointed at, because he raised a brow and questioned it.

”Blood on your face.” You said with a bit of a slur, “S’little bit here.” And pointed to your own nose, fingers getting coated in blood. His hand reached up to his face and he touched his nose, only for blood to begin to flow from it. Shocked, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it while he frowned at you before offering a second handkerchief to you. You shook your head, well tried too, and said something about being sleepy.

”Now, now, sleeping after a head injury is most certainly bad for you!” He chirped, putting his handkerchiefs away now that his face was clean. He leaned over to inspect your injuries, taking note of your head and nose specifically.

“Care to explain why you are wandering about on your own my dear? Itching for a second death?” He asked in a condescending manner. “Quite foolish of you really, to come without an escort - why you are quite lucky I happened to be around, darling!” He waved his hand about in a dramatic fashion before offering his hand to you, lifting you up. On your feet you dusted off what rubble had got on you, found your phone settled on the ground a few feet away and began to try and walk to it only to find that your balance was way off course. With one hand holding your head you reached for your phone, noticing new texts from Angel.

‘with my script later, are you free?’ Followed with: ‘Sorry babe! That first message didn’t send all the way, love ya xoxo’

For fuck sakes.

”Hmm?”Alastor hummed, looking down at your phone, reading the messages. “Oh-ho! So you were on a rescue mission were you? Noble indeed, considering your naivety and lack of knowledge of any part of Hell outside the hotel.”

You shot him a nasty glance. “I was worried.” Augh. Pathetic response.

“Very stupid thing to do, really.” Picking at one of his claws, attempting to be indifferent. “Very stupid indeed, especially since I have just had an unfortunate revelation.”

”Hmm?” You responded, still trying to get the throbbing in your head to settle down. “I know it was stupid,” agreeing with him made him in a good mood, Husk had told you, “But I had to try and find him, I don’t think he has many people to depend on.”

He gave you a look of contempt. He really did not care for anyone other than himself.

“You and I need to have a chat darling.” His eyes narrowed as he wrapped a hand around your upper arm, painfully putting pressure on a new bruise from the previous baddie. He dragged you alongside him, holding you so close to him you could feel the heat of his body through his jacket. “Say nothing until we make it to the hotel my dear, there are always eyes on us out here.” He gestured with his microphone cane in a wide sweep, indicating literally every where could be listening. You obeyed him by not responding which kept Alastor in a good mood during the walk home.

However upon arrival, he dragged your sorry ass through his shadow travel again, but thankfully to your room. More specifically your bathroom. He gestured for you to sit down, which you did on the edge of the tub, and watched him gather a pathetic amount of first aid. He removed his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his right hand, almost all the way up to the elbow. You noticed his arms were covered in scars that stood out from his black skin that was similar to your own pattern, except fading away before the joint of his elbow. The scars were all thin and bright white, a stark contrast. However what he was looking at intensely was a large bruise that had formed right below his elbow, right above the fade of his black skin. He then turned to you and grabbed your right arm and lined up the two. You had a much darker bruise that matched his. Weird. Didn’t Pentious say that no one had landed a hit on Alastor before? And that a small piece of coat was all he himself had managed to get? So how did those stupid wolves get up on him? And when?

The room had a massive chill fill the air as Alastor processed what he was thinking. What was he thinking? Could you talk now? Should you? You should at least thank him.

”Thank-“

”Quiet.” he interrupted. No filter on his voice for that one. Just a deep, sharp command.

Your lips tightened into a thin line and you nodded despite your killer headache. He released your arm and went back to the counter. With his jacket off you could see that he, too, had a small deer tail on his backside. It was red and black, much like his hair. It was probably the only cute thing about him, and you’d die before you said that out loud. Alastor came back to you with a warm wet cloth and some antiseptic. He instructed you to wipe up the blood on your face and he wiped a few of your more surface scrapes that were on your legs and knees. You narrowed your own eyes, why on earth was he doing this? It was as if he was trying to memorise every little injury you had received. Once you felt as if you had removed all the dried blood from your face you braced both hands on either side of you as you watched Alastor tend to your wounds. When he was quiet and focused he wasn’t too terribly frightening, but in the way that a poisonous snake might be. Obviously dangerous, possibly venomous, and could certainly kill you given the chance, but still captivating to watch. He released a huff of air when he was done checking out your head, just a bump he said, he moved to your nose. He had gently grasped your chin and moved your head from side to side, where he traced some of the worst damage with his free hand.

“Not broken, my dear, but guaranteed to have a couple of black eyes by this evening.” He announced. “You shall not be leaving your room until you have healed or found a way to cover those up.” Man was he bossy. He put his coat back on and leaned into the mirror to check his own face before tapping the floor with his microphone for your attention. His shadows enveloped the small room, and it was as if you were sitting on a void of nothingness, large symbols hovering around you in green. And just as quick as the dark arrived it disappeared with another few taps from his cane.

“Preventative measures darling, we cannot have anyone listening in on us.”

”Uhh…okay? Okay. Why?” Why are you so creepy?

”Creepy keeps the fear alive darling.” Well shit, that last bit was said out loud. Stupid concussion. “I think it is time to discuss the Radio, because you have proven to be a thorn in my side that I cannot simply be rid of with my usual methods.”

You nod along with each word slowly and focus on the last bit - the usual methods? “Do you mean eating people?” the statement escaped your loose lips, feeling drunk from the head injury .

His smile turned even more wicked if that was a possibility, eyes and teeth glowing like dim lamps. “Among other things…” He trailed off, closing his eyes and being sure to cock his head up in a very proud manner. He seemed pleased you had heard some of the more…graphic methods of dealing with other demons. His cool composure only lasted a moment. Once he opened his eyes, his mood was icy, eyes sharp and narrowed as he came a little closer without overwhelming your personal space and spoke bluntly, radio voice effect gone, “It appears as if you have linked our souls into an agreement that even I am unable to break.” He stared into your eyes, his fury palpable. You frowned in response out of both confusion and fear.

“What do you mean? I don’t even know who you are! I still don’t know who you are, how can we possibly be…like that…?” You ended lamely, hands wildly gesturing between the two of you. He had surely made a mistake, because this sort of thing just didn’t happen. Besides, you had only met him after death, so there was simply a misunderstanding. You shook your head in denial, causing blood to leak out of one nostril.

“A-hem” He said, getting your focus back on his face. His nose, same nostril, now had a slow trail of blood trickling out. He stood straight and a handkerchief appeared in his hand to dap his face while you grabbed some bathroom tissue off the roll beside you. It was hard to meet his eyes as it was obvious he was upset with you.

Attempting to end the silence, you spoke up. “Did you get hit as well? Your nose has been bleeding just as much as mine.” His eyebrows arched so high it was lost within his hairline, the stretched skin the only visual evidence of his reaction.

“No. I do not get hit.” He scoffed. “This is a result of the damage you incurred today my dear.”

Your lack of reaction, compounded with the cold molasses that was currently your brain, made him sigh and begin his explanation.

”The Radio was mine as a young man. It never worked quite right, so I was constantly repairing it. But this was before my Radio Show! So fixing instead of purchasing new was all I could do at the time. I would have kept it forever if I could, it was one of the only things my mother had given me on her own.” He had started picking under his middle finger with his thumbnail, trying to appear indifferent to his admission. You caught on to the way his voice softened when his mother was mentioned but you weren’t inviting death over tonight so you kept a straight face.

“Just before my career took off, I had been dabbling with some other gifts that came from my mothers side. Her ancestors were practitioners of creole magic, something that I am familiar with, but not proficient enough to use in my day to day.” Eyes back to you, he continued on. “The symbols in the radio were a deal I made with it, naively, early on in my practising. I was certain I would become a radio star, first of my kind, and well, sometimes we do questionable things while drinking.” He rolled his eyes at that, resulting in a smirk on your own face. “A friend and I had quite a night out! She knocked my radio over and the back panel came off. I cut myself on a stray piece of metal inside, cutting myself quite deep-“ He opened his palm with the scar to stare into it. “Beyond my better judgement I wrote, in my own blood, symbols I was not familiar with and apparently created unfinished magic that was only completed and sealed when your blood went over my runes.”

Still confused, you gave him a look that caused him to roll his eyes at you, as if you were the malicious force at play here and continued.

”What was a foolish act of an immature man at the end of a bottle of rye has now tethered our souls together. Akin to,” he shuddered, “Soulmates. However where fate might have chosen different paths for our souls, we have become united through dark magic powered behind the power I hold now, which is significantly stronger than when I wrote the symbols within the machine.” His smile was tight, still present as always, but certainly not the smile of a happy man.

But wait - “I don’t have any magic though, so why…?” You started, trying to steer the conversation away from the dreaded admission of the demon.

“Your being has little to no effect, my dear. The deal I was attempting to make with the Radio relied on magic supplied by me and me alone, as one cannot make a Radio respond to such a request.” One hand came up to his temple to put pressure on it, like you would do when you had a headache. “Foolish, foolish man.” He said, quickly and quietly, your ears picking it up as if he made no attempt to remain unheard. “And because the deal was made in blood, with the same instrument, on the same hand, even - I suspect that blood is our tether. Some link love or minds, so they can reciprocate feelings and thoughts to a person of their choice. And due to my being well, dead, the only thing we were able to link was our blood. In layman’s terms, darling - you bleed, I bleed. Your blood rushes to an impact, my blood rushes to an impact. You blush and, augh, etc. Do you understand?”

”Yes. But that honestly sounds ridiculous, and would be hard to believe if I didn’t die and land in hell a month ago. But I will admit, my knowledge of creole magic is absolutely zero, straight up nothing, so this was honestly just an unfortunate…mistake, that we can possibly undo?” You said with hesitancy at the end, but Alastor shook his head before you were even done speaking.

“I have looked into it extensively, and I am afraid it is not something we can separate - not even with Death. You die, I die. And I have far too much unfinished business to bow down to death just yet.”

“Oh, super duper!” You replied, chipper like Charlie. His face dropped at your tone, frowning down at you.

“No, not ‘super duper’, finger quotes around his snarky repetition, “Quite terrible for me actually. You have become my greatest liability. I am not worried I will get either of us in any kind of danger, but as we have both learned this evening, you are incapable of even walking on your own without getting into trouble.” His microphone now bracing both of his hands in front of his body.

Well excuse you for being a basic, simple individual without knowing everything about everything in the whole wide world, and also not knowing anything about the thing that Alastor told you not to talk about? This guy was an asshole on so many levels that you missed when he just left you alone.

”Well, I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me, because it was totally my plan for this to happen.” Giving him a deadpanned look that made him smile tighter out of…well, you didn’t really know. He wasn’t that easy to read when he wasn’t angry.

“That is quite enough funny business for today, I am afraid that your galavanting around Hell will stop immediately. You will stay within the confines of this hotel. You will stay in your room during the extermination-“

”This is bullshit! I am a free person to do whatever! You can’t control me like this-“ He was growing again, filling the small bathroom with his demonic figure.

“Foolish girl, I can do whatever I want with you!” He growled, tendrils coming up from the shadowed ground to wrap themselves around your calves and wrists, another wrapping itself in your hair to control your head, forcing you to look right into his demonic eyes.

“I have been kind, considering your unfortunate and pathetic self has been on my nerves since the moment you arrived. You are a senseless creature who-“ he choked on his words, pausing as his smile lowered. You were breathing much harder now, and suddenly it made sense why you were so unbothered by the BDSM club Angel brought the group to. This was turning you on, being helpless and controlled by such a force like Alastor. Still staring at each other face to face, you could see a blush start to spread like a brand across his cheeks. His breath began to match yours, and you shifted your ass that was still seated on the bathtub edge in a vain attempt to get comfortable. In record time you had become wet from the situation. You were turned on, girl, and he was feeling the same effects. Wherever the blood rushes was no lie.

You started to laugh at the situation, manically as you realised what had happened. He was still frozen in place, clearly unsure of how to proceed. He needed to teach you a lesson, to know who was in charge of this unwanted union but obviously this was doing nothing but cause your blood to rush to your cunt, because he felt a pressure almost unfamiliar to him below his navel. He was disgusted that you were causing this reaction from him, he was an elevated creature with no need for carnal pleasures. And now you were laughing at him.

The tendrils released from your person so quickly that the movement caused you to slide back into the tub, hitting the bottom of the tub with your ass, but catching the sides with your elbows to prevent your head from smacking backwards. Alastor had returned to his usual form, blush still visible on his cheeks but definitely going away as you yourself had woken from your horny stupor.

“I believe I have made my point. Perhaps I am being far too protective of you, we will have to discuss a proper method to exist in spite of our situation. I expect reasonable suggestions when we revisit the topic. For now I will leave you be, as your injuries have been attended to and have already begun the healing process. Does all of this sound reasonable to you?” Wow, how quickly the tables have turned, being turned on was obviously not something he had thought of dealing with, and it was easy to get you going. Certainly more so now that you had so much more peach fuzz on your skin as a deer hybrid - you were extra sensitive to any touch. Perhaps that was why Alastor disliked physical touch as well? Your smiling of this thought clearly made him wary of you at this moment. He repeated his last sentence again.

”Yes, Alastor, it sounds reasonable. We can talk about a game plan later, and I promise I will try to make it as easy as possible.”

He nodded at your answer and narrowed his eyes with a slight smile, “Good Girl.”

You felt the shocking return of arousal at those words and released a very small “oh!”, and he sank into his shadows immediately, leaving you alone in the bathtub bruised and turned on.

Well, turns out you had a praise kink too.

***********

First three parts is over 11K word wise. I can’t stop writing, I’m at 32k now, I just keep plugging away editing/writing/thinking. I’m so grateful for all the likes and comments.

@queermaxwooo @drawings-by-meh @sirens-and-moonflowers @looking1016

#alastor #alastor x reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel #soulmates trope #alastorxreader #Alastor x ofc

[galaxgay]

Couldn't stop thinking about the premise of This Post I made and decided to write a little drabble of Aziraphale being touch starved and Crowley not being quite ready for it:

It was a stormy night but Aziraphale and Crowley knew exactly how to pass the storm.

The two of them have spent the last 2 months catching up on 6000 years worth of affection- hand holding, hugs, kissing, cuddling- and boy, Aziraphale has never felt this way before.

They sat on the couch, lips pressed together. Crowley's hands cupped Aziraphale's face and Aziraphale's hands lay on Crowley's knees. Crowley was warm. He always was. Aziraphale could curl up in Crowley's embrace for the end of time if Crowley allowed. He felt giddy knowing all he would have to do was ask.

The feeling of Crowley's touch was a high he would never get over. So many songs and poems and books made sense now. The fact that Aziraphale went through his entire existence without touch was absurd to him now. He was never going back.

It was safety. It was soft. It was tenderly romantic.

But tonight, Aziraphale wanted just a little bit more.

His right hand slid up Crowley's thigh and stopped at his waist, the tips of his finger tips brushing skin under his shirt.

Crowley made a small little hum and pulled back the tiniest bit.

Aziraphale blushed, "Too much?"

"Bastard," the demon smirked in response.

That sent Aziraphale reeling. Sometimes Crowley's teasing was too much, but other times, it was like chucking a log on the fire.

Aziraphale snorted with amusement and pressed their lips together once again. His chest feeling light and jittery. The air turned from romantic to something a little bit more like their first few kisses- new and electric. Aziraphales entire body buzzed. The sound of another small hum from Crowley told him he felt the same.

He wasn't sure what compelled him to do it, maybe Crowley's comment or his humming reassurance, but he pulled back but only to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, and continued the line down to the crook of Crowley's neck.

Aziraphale was thankful for once Crowley wasn't wearing a turtleneck. He pressed sweet little kisses there, nothing too risqué. Each kiss a small ask for reassurance.

"Aziraphale," Crowley's breath hitched. He pushed slightly against him, "Angel, you're going too fast for me."

The angel sat back, an embarrassed blush settling over his cheekbones. He wasn't sure when Crowley was going to let that go.

"Can you not tease me about that now?" Aziraphale's face twisted into a playful yet somewhat serious frown as he pulled away.

But when he met Crowley's eyes, he saw no teasing nor any smug smile. Sincerity laid in his eyes.

"I'm-" a deep blush grew on Crowley's face, "I'm not teasing. This is just a little too much for me."

Guilt settled in on Aziraphale's gut, "Oh darling, I'm sorry." He gave the inside of Crowley's hand a quick peck, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I misread the moment."

Crowley turned slightly away from Aziraphale, a small unsure smile on his lips, "It's okay, you didn't. I thought I was ready." He sat back, "Can we just..." He huffed, "Can we just stick to kissing for now?"

Aziraphale nodded, pulling his hand back from Crowkeys hip, trying to give him a little space, "Of course, dear. Was my hand too much?"

Crowley nodded and shrugged, "no." he peeped.

There was a silent pause between them. The air between them had shifted. Not uncomfortable but it was definitely time for a break.

"Why don't we watch that movie Muriel mentioned?" Aziraphale lifted his hand to slowly stroke the stray hair that had fallen onto Crowley's face.

Crowley nodded before leaning forward and giving Aziraphale a long deep kiss. It was almost enough to get Aziraphale right back into the mood but just as soon as it started, Crowley pulled away again.

"You grab the movie, I'll make the cocoa." He gave Aziraphale one last look before heading upstairs to the kitchen.

Aziraphales eyes followed him and his slinky hips until they couldn't any longer. He had no idea it was possible to be this in love.

There was no sadness or frustration in the shift in activity. After 6000 years, and an eternity to go, Aziraphale wasn't worried. They had all the time in the world. Nothing could stop him from being in love and enjoying it.

#please dont judge me #kinda self conscious #but also them #yk? #good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #aziraphale #crowley

[cherikdogfood]

*Game night in the mansion*

Raven: Erik, if your house is on fire and you only have time to grab one thing, what would it be?

Erik: Charles.

Charles: ?? Erik, I'm not a thing.

Erik: Fine. Charles' body.

Charles: *appalled* Are you implying that I'm dead?!

Erik: No, I meant I'd grab you and exit the building... Bring you to safety...

Charles: *touched*

Raven: *unimpressed* No, it has to be a thing, Erik. Pick something else.

Erik: Fine. I'd grab... that favourite cardigan of yours. *looks at Charles* The blue one.

Charles: Aww... *blushes* Actually my current favourite clothing is your turtleneck, because--

Raven: Alright, enough. Stop flirting, you lovebirds, and get married already.

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #fassavoy #x men first class #incorrect quotes

[little-cereal-draws]

A ramble about Dr. Blitzmeyer's clothes (pt 1)

There is no point that I'm trying to make with this, I've just been staring at pictures of her for so long I thought of this

This is the first time we see her. It's at the science fair and she is dressed very professionally. She's got her lab coat on, buttoned all the way up even up to her neck. She's got long gloves, her signature goggles, and her hair pulled back. It's a very "lab safety is important" outfit lol It's all very form fitting which is exactly what you want in as a scientist so you don't accidentally catch fire or snag on things while you work. You can't see it in these pictures but she's got a black belt around her waist too that pulls her coat in even tighter. There are also no bunches of fabric on the coat, even as she's moving around. It'll probably get uncomfortable wearing something that tight all day but you'll never have an accident in the lab that ends you up in the hospital

2. This is in her apartment after Ballister calls her in the middle of the night asking for help. These clothes still look nice but are much more casual. The collar is undone and I think she has a black undershirt on too. The sleeves are rolled up around her elbows and it's obvious there's more fabric on this shirt by how much it wrinkles compared to her lab coat. It's not excessively baggy, it hugs her hips tighter than the rest of her, but it's still comfortable. It's something that you would change into after coming home from work but still planning on leaving your house later

3. Green sweater dress! This is from when she has to pick Bal up from the hospital and the official art for the Everything Is Fine au. It's very different from the other outfits she wears but it makes sense in the context. It's warm, it's comfy, it's the perfect "doing errands in the middle of the night" outfit. It's got baggy sleeves and a turtleneck to keep her warm as well as the cloak she wears with it. It's a good traveling outfit, I would wear that on a redeye flight. The other thing that's interesting about this is that it's the only dress we see her wear. She wears pants with the first two outfits and either leggings or pants with this one but it's still a dress.

Part two part three

#aaaannndd... that's it. i just wanted to list out her different outfits lol #i think her different styles are fascinating #nimona #nimona comic #meredith blitzmeyer #dr blitzmeyer #ballister blackheart #nimona meta

[alltimefail-sims]

Hi friends, and happy Friday!

Yesterday the sims team released its first stuff pack since Paranormal Stuff, so I wanted to give my thoughts and pseudo-review it for you all. I'm not sure if these little reviews are helpful in any way, but I've found that forcing myself to take the time and really isolate the new features, CAS items, and objects has made me appreciate, incorporate, and analyze them among the existent content a little better.

So, with that being said, here's my long and unbiased review of the CAS items from the Home Chef Hustle Stuff Pack! ↓

Let's begin with the outfits shown above. This pack provided items that I absolutely love and have been asking for whilst also giving items that are just...meh at best. (By "meh" I mean that after this review, they'll be forgotten in the catalogue.)

There are multiple variants of apron outfits for both frames and I liked all of them. I'm serious, I even liked the apron dress: it's a little frumpy, but it feels like a perfect cuddly grandma or elderly sim outfit. Also that shirt with the little towel over the shoulder in male frame? Love love love that. Crazy about it, in fact! But beyond the outfits themselves, I really like the color swatches in this pack and the fact that they have clean and dirty swatches. I say it every time, but I love the lived-in, imperfect CAS and Build/Buy items that the sims team has been rolling out lately and I hope they keep up with that style.

I also really love the turtleneck jumpsuit and honestly, it may be one of my favorite CAS pieces to date. I love all the swatches and the way it fits on sims of all sizes. They have been giving us a lot of jumpsuits lately, but this one stands out from the others in a positive way.

As for the clothing items I didn't care for and/or could do without: the one pair of pants that came with this SP. It's not that they're bad or anything; the swatches are fine, they just don't stand out as a staple item to me. Same with the chef coat - it's a nice piece, it has a variety of color and style options, but I'm not sure how often I'll use it as it's so specific/niche. Both perfectly adequate for what they are though!

However, the hoodie, t-shirt with the little ascot, and graphic tee did nothing for me. Some of the swatches on the t-shirt were good (the fire chicken for example) while some felt weird and wildly out of place with the existing animation style/graphics in the game. The shirt with the ascot is just okay, I like how it fit my sims but some of the designs are a bit on the nose and corny. I can't emphasize enough that some of the designs on the shirts were just decent while the other half were really, really bad.

The single pair of shoes in this pack aren't great either. I just thought they looked a little underwhelming, I had higher expectations I guess. I have clog/croc cc that looks much better than what came with this pack if I'm being honest, so I could leave these out all together. Plus, they warp the male ankles significantly, so I couldn't even use them on my male sim as demonstrated in the picture below.

I've seen a few people confused about the gloves that came with this pack, but I actually like them. I especially like the latex/rubber gloves: I would have a home chef wear these at their pop-up-shop for the play pretend impression of food prep safety (like in real life). It's silly, it doesn't impact gameplay, but it helps my imagination and storytelling so that's a fun touch to me. Any touch of realism is a win in my book, and they're also nice to have if you have Dine Out as well! Come to think of it, a lot of the CAS items from this pack would incorporate quite seamlessly with that pack if not for the fact that Dine Out is virtually unplayable. Anyway!

The earrings and necklace are cute, even though the knife is a little chunky. I love silly jewelry though, so I will definitely use all three of them. The tattoo, I'm sorry to say, is kind of goofy as fuck lmao. Just not my personal taste. "A" for effort though? I feel like they could have kept with the chef/foodie tattoo concept and been less on the nose, but it's fine. If nothing else, it's silly and it is in a good location at least? At least they've been trying to add tattoos in the last few packs after going a long while completely ignoring that category all together?

As for the hats...

Need we talk about the hats? They're bulky, chunky, they don't lay on any sim's head properly and it only gets worse as they get younger. We all joke about it, but I don't know that the Sims team has ever seen an actual human wearing a hat before. You'd think after we complain and make jokes about it every pack, they would get the message.

Regardless, the hats themselves would have been, objectively, super adorable if they fit correctly... but they don't. The swatches are pretty fun, the texture is actually nice. So annoying! I hope someone comes out with a default replacement fix because I would use these for my younger sims a lot.

Now...the hairs!

The first scarf hairdo in fem frame looks SO GOOD. Why it did not come in male frame, I will never know. It's one of my favorite hairs to date. Also the curly hairdo for male frames is so cute and like nothing else we have in the game, so that was nice too (and it also should have came in fem frame, but again I digress). I want to give them props as well for the short cut with shaved sides - that is one of the more fashionable, practical, reusable male hairs that have come with a pack. They always somehow manage to mess "staple" pieces up by doing something funky (looking at you Cats and Dogs hair with a fucking pawprint shaved on the side lmaoooo) but this hair is simple and good. Love that. I do feel like there are similar cuts to this already in game, but they don't look as good... so congrats to them for finally doing this haircut right on try 4 or 5 lmao.

I so so so wish they would do what CC creators do and create a headband overlay in the hats category so you could change the hairband color because I actually love the different swatches... I just hate that they're limited to certain hair colors! It's not like anyone is pairing a hat with a hairdo that has a scarf or headband, so whyyyyyy aren't they giving us that option yet? Hopefully cc creators pull through on this one as well.

Otherwise I genuinely have no complaints about any of the hairs. I think they're all quite nice!

Now onto the least exciting part of this review...the littles.

Not much to say about any of this: it's all the same stuff from the adult CAS items, with a lot left out. I would have liked to see an item made specifically for these life stages in mind, but that didn't happen, unfortunately. Everything they converted felt kind of random, and there were things they didn't convert that I thought were a missed opportunity.

For instance: I don't know why the hoodie didn't get converted, or the pants? They didn't make anything original for children, so I don't think it would have been much trouble to convert one or both of these items. In my opinion, the swatches on the hoodie would have probably suited kids better than the adults, and I feel like hoodies are a staple item in every child's closet so you can never really have too many? But yeah, big miss.

The random onesie for infants was weird and I felt like it had fewer swatches than it should have. Maybe they're trying to throw infants in as they're a new life stage and we have so little for them? I don't know. I thought it was weird toddlers got nothing but one singular hairstyle and the giant hat (all life stages got that). They could have at least given toddlers the onesie, too...or even the t-shirt. Regardless, this pack wasn't for kids/toddlers/infants, that much is clear, but they could have been incorporated better with a little more effort, and that's what frustrates me the most!

I'll be talking about gameplay in the next post. If you read all of this, I love you very much. You could have googled "Home Chef Hustle CAS items," but you didn't!! You read my rambles instead and for that I am so thankful. Big smooch on the forehead from me to you. <3

That's a wrap for now. See you in the next one, friends!

#ts4 home chef hustle #home chef hustle #ts4 lookbook #ts4 lookbooks #ts4 #simblr #the sims 4 #sims 4 #pack overview #the sims community #ts4lookbook #stuff pack review #ts4 stuff packs #oc: micah #oc: tristan

[lavalampstealer]

Okay, I’ve made a compiled dump of lore on my interpretations/versions of IEYTD characters (mainly Phoenix and Handler so far) so I can pin this and ppl won’t have to go looking for old posts. I’ll be updating this as I figure stuff out or if anything changes with them. Apologies if this is a little hard to read, I kind of word-vomited info here and I’ve tried to clean it up a little. Spoiler warning for IEYTD 1 and 2

Buckle up it’s gonna be a long one

First up: Handler, he/him (tumblr doesn’t have yellow text so orange will have to do).

He wears a sleeveless yellow turtleneck over a short sleeved shirt, square glasses, and a yellow headset. Originally a Field Agent for the Agency, he made quite a name for himself and was given the internal/honorary nickname of Agent Moray due to his knack for slipping away from Zor’s clutches while also leaving carnage in his wake (little did people know, he usually ran on pure adrenaline, fear, and general clumsiness that worked out in his favor). He eventually had to retire from field work and become a handler due to him breaking his right leg during his last mission and it not healing properly. Before he had to hang up his spy gear, he was selected to be an early implant tester for the Agency, and the one he got was a rudimentary version of the telekinesis where he could float things in place but not grab objects from afar. He has kept it and it has proved especially useful during his time as a handler for hovering important documents like dossiers and building blueprints/layouts nearby during missions. As for his actual work as a handler, he acts as support to Phoenix, mostly with work related things, but sometimes emotionally as well. He acts as an anchor for Phoenix and is there to bring them back to reality should he notice them getting that glassy-eyed, million mile stare every once in a while. He was very concerned for them in the fallout of Operation: Death Engine and after that he became more attached to them, resulting in him being devastated after Rising Phoenix. If there is anything between him and Phoenix, it leans more towards him being like a father figure than anything else. He usually works from his office in the Agency building (the one from IEYTD 1), but occasionally for more urgent/important/overseas missions, he opts to be nearby (in the crowd in Stage Fright, above Phoenix somewhere in Eaves Drop, outside the chateau in Party Crasher, etc.). If I come up with more I’ll add it to here, 10/10 character.

Next (and probably much longer): Phoenix, they/them.

During IEYTD 1, they had short hair and wore a long sleeve dress shirt and their cyan tie. They were able to do more action-intense missions (hijacking Zor’s sub, sneaking into a cargo plane to steal a car, sneaking onto a shuttle to the Death Engine, etc.) and were generally more aloof about their own safety and pretty much saw their job as just a fun game. However, in the aftermath of Operation DE, their left leg was badly injured and needed to be replaced from the thigh down, so the Agency provided them with a robotic prosthetic. It took them a while to get used to it, and while they can walk, run, and stand with it just fine, it’s a bit difficult for them do more intense activity like, say, hand to hand combat (although a good kick to shin usually has foes doubled over) or dodging projectiles. They also got their facial scars from the DE Incident, with the one on their left cheek coming from the beam that shot into their shuttle when the Death Engine fired for the first time. The other two are just general nicks and gashes from crashing back to Earth. Because of their robotic leg, someone in the Agency gave them the nickname “Tin Can” and it stuck (Phoenix pretends to hate it but thinks it’s amusing). After months of recovery, they were cleared for field work once again where they were given slightly easier missions that have most of the action happen while they’re seated (an exception to this is the implied fight with Gibson before Party Crasher because him being there was unexpected). This time around they prefer to roll up their sleeves because it’s more comfortable, allows for more movement, and it keeps them from getting singed/dirty, but they still wear a cyan tie (a new one since their old one was torn). Their hair grew out during their stint in Medical and they liked it, so they decided to keep it longer. Not much happened to them physically during IEYTD 2, but after Rising Phoenix they had their right arm replaced from the elbow down and got an updated leg (their og prosthetic was shattered in the fall).

I don’t have a design for them as they are in IEYTD 3 yet, so for now just imagine more scarring, longer hair, and a metallic arm from the elbow onwards.

Now, enough about their physical description, now it’s time for more on their mental state(s). After the DE Incident, Phoenix refused to actually dive into their emotions about losing a leg and nearly dying and instead preoccupied themselves with learning to use their new prosthetic and getting well again so they could return to field work. They don’t like to be alone with their thoughts for too long otherwise they start to spiral to a bad place so they’re always listening to some kind of music (a radio, headphones, humming/singing a song to themselves, or just replaying songs in their head). Handler helps them with this and pulls them back to the present every so often. Phoenix also once received an anonymous gift package that contained some very comfy and good quality earbuds (three guesses as to who sent them). They weren’t too surprised by Juniper’s twist of actually being evil (they had an icky feeling about the slimeball ever since they heard his tone in his call during their mission briefing for Jet Set). During Safe and Sound (and by extension, the tutorial), Phoenix gets a sinking feeling that Handler was never truly with the Agency and had betrayed them until Juniper revealed his act. Phoenix is furious with him for toying with them like that and mentally kick themselves for falling for it and for allowing themselves to get that attached to Handler (it’s like a taboo/rule at the Agency for handler and agents to not get connected (they don’t have the budget for employee therapy)).

More random tidbits about them and some other stuff that I couldn’t work into the above paragraphs:

- JJ carries a comb in his pocket at all times because he wants to make sure he always looks good (the smug look on his face undercuts the effect)

- JJ’s hair is more on the side of fluffy/soft but when he slicks it back it looks thinner and more wiry

- Phoenix’s color before getting their TK was a darker blue

- Handler’s favorite flowers were marigolds but after Jet Set, he refuses to have any near him

- Before becoming a handler, Handler’s color was more of an orange before mellowing out to a golden yellow after his retirement from field work

- Phoenix and Handler are injured in opposite legs, to which Handler teases them about them becoming an old man like him (he’s not old, about mid/late 40s-ish, idk)

- Phoenix is around 5’8 while Handler is a little under 5’6

- The Agency trains agents with the implant to use a sort of pointing finger gesture to use their powers but they can develop their own hand sign/gesture that better suits them. The pointer finger is generally effective for everyone but is limited in the sense that the user can’t pick up/float heavy objects. Once agents find a gesture that works best for them, they’re able to lift larger objects (like other people, crates, chairs, etc.). Phoenix has yet to find their gesture

- Background characters do not get a color and are either solid black if they’re with Zoraxis or black with grey or muted gold accents if they’re with the Agency

- Phoenix can and does use their powers in their daily life when they’re off the clock. They use them while cooking to hover ingredients nearby, picking out clothes so that they don’t end up wrinkled on the ground, looking through reports on previous missions to study Zoraxis’ preferred attack methods (explosions, guns, darts, etc.), to grab things from high shelves or faraway, etc. They’re really casual about using it and have to stop themselves from doing it when they go out in public (unless no one’s looking)

- Phoenix isn’t a bad cook, they just like to burn their food on purpose (they like the taste and it annoys Handler)

- Handler is a good cook and gets ticked off whenever Phoenix burns food

- Songs that fit Handler: From The Start by Laufey, The World We Knew and My Way of Life by Frank Sinatra, No More by Manfred Minnich, Nothing by Bruno Major, Slow Summer Swing by Essential Jazz Masters, The Lamp is Low by Laurindo Almeida

- Songs that fit Phoenix: Skeleton Song by Kate Nash, Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny, Leave Me Alone by IDKHOW, Debt Collector, Bad Luck!, and Pressure Bomb 3?!?! by Jhariah (Beginner’s Guide versions), My Way by Frank Sinatra, This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory (thanks @dieing-lilac for sending me some of these <3)

The songs are a mix of songs from ones that fit their general vibes to ones where the lyrics are accurate (to some degree) of their emotions (Phoenix’s especially). 10/10 songs go check them out if you can

Also the way that character colors work for my style/designs is that it’s an artistic choice to color characters’ details rather than their scars/eyebrows/tongues literally being something like blue or green. A character’s color is a reflection of their personality, characteristics, and general feel that I get from them, with the exception of if a character already has a canonical color (like John Juniper and Roxana Prism). Handler is golden yellow because he seems warm and he likes/liked scotch and marigolds, as well as his subtitle color in IEYTD 1 being yellow (albeit a different shade). Zor is red and gold because Zoraxis is also red and gold so it just makes sense that they would have the same colors as their corporation (also the cliché that red=evil, that whole thing). Phoenix is cyan because of their powers and it fits their personality more than red or any other color would. I don’t really have a reason for why Fabricator would be indigo other than her polaroid pic’s lighting looks dark blue/indigo and that it just makes sense to me. Solaris would be orange because of her love for lasers and because her name makes me think of a glowing ember orange. The more of an impact a character has on the story, the brighter/more saturated their color is (Ex: Daniel Sans would have a muted yellow-green and Anna Ulanova would have a muted maroon because they both don’t appear much but aren’t unimportant).

I think that’s all I have for now, but some of Handler and Phoenix’s characterization can’t really be accurately described without just showing them in their element, so I’m thinking of maybe writing a little story about how Phoenix joined the Agency, how their training went, how they got the implant, and how the events of IEYTD 1 and 2 went with them :) No promises though as I’ll have to find time to plan it out, but if I ever do it I’ll be sure to put it on wattpad or ao3 or something, I’ve never posted a story anywhere before so we’ll see how it goes

Enough of my rambling, I set you readers who made it this far free <33 also here’s something for having made it all the way to the end: 🍬

#ieytd #ieytd2 #i expect you to die #agent phoenix #ieytd handler #agent phoenix ieytd #ieytd fandom #john juniper #I am so sorry if this is disorganized #I did say it was gonna be a dump of info didn’t say what the quality would be #also your honor they are in love but neither wants to fully admit it can I bonk them over the head with a squeaky mallet? #it’s now canon that Phoenix has some kind of brain damage #I gotta research how irl trauma works bc I don’t want to write about it/represent it inaccurately by accident #that’s why I was kinda vague abt it in the post #you’re still reading. why. also also while I have your attention go drink some water :) #lava’s rambles

[heartfullofleeches]

How would donnie feel about reader wearing the sweater he made them all the time? Even if its hot or theres rain, they’ll always be wearing it.

Panic. Of course they're happy to see you wear it around. They made it with the hope that you would, but if its too hot out they'll be worried for your safety. If it's just that you like stuff they make, they can make you a sleeveless vest or crop top just please don't go out when it's hot enough to fry an egg on the street in a full blown turtleneck. The sun is already an enemy of theirs, but if you get heatstroke it'll just add fuel to that fire. Rain is fine because if there's ever any kind of damage to one of your sweaters that just means they can make another.

#Donnie my oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere insert #yandere headcanons

[winksasleeplesseye]

File #003 - The Rookie

City of the Dead

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x OC

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: mention of death

A/N: For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to center the bolded text on this godforsaken app but please enjoy anyways! 

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

September 21, 1998

 “It is recommended that all citizens take the necessary precautions as this strain of Influenza spreads throughout the city,” The news anchor spoke in only the way they could, Amara wasn’t paying attention fully to the screen. 

Her eyes were more transfixed on her own smaller version of Jill’s wall. Pins to pictures, red string pulled taut between them where she tried to make connections. The sound of sirens had certainly picked up more and more in the last few weeks but Amara didn’t want to think too much about it. 

People certainly still hustled and bustled, acting blissfully ignorant of them. The news alongside mentioning more and more cases of “sickness” at the hospital, seems to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes despite the uptick of violence as well. 

They’d rather pin it on the Raccoon Sharks' past few football games, but Amara knows martial law when she sees it. 

The next step would be setting up roadblocks. Something that wouldn’t be necessary for measly football fans. She’d done exactly what Jill requested of her, laying low but the more that seemed to ramp up since their meeting, the more worried she became for her. 

But, she also knew that Jill could handle herself so she returned back to her board. 

                                                           —---

September 23, 1998

Amara jolted awake at the sound of incessant banging at her front door. Turning her eyes toward the clock on her bedside table, she notices the time, 11:23 p.m. 

She groggily rubbed her eyes, taking a moment to stretch before the knocking began again, this time harder. Who could be knocking at her door at this time of night? She moved with a little more speed to answer the door. Peering through the peephole, she saw her next-door neighbor.

As soon as she opened the door, a woman she barely knew, but at least knew the name as Mrs. Thompson, practically pushed her way in, looking panicked. "We have to go, they're evacuating the building! There's something happening outside!"

Amara's heart rate skyrocketed as she looked out the window and saw the chaos outside. People were running frantically, screaming, and the streets were filled with abandoned cars. She knew this day would come. All the violence seemed to be coming to a head, and now Raccoon City was paying the price.

"Okay, okay," Amara said, “Wait right here.” 

She threw on a pair of her cleanest jeans, a green turtleneck, and a leather jacket along with combat boots. If there was going to be chaos, might as well try to look like she wasn’t in shambles. She also grabs her Samurai Edge, a standard issue for all S.T.A.R.S. operatives. 

Amara grabs one final item, her keys. She could hear the sound of heavy rain outside, making the chaos outside seem even more ominous. "Let's head to the RPD, they'll have more information there."

Heading to the RPD seemed inevitable now and Mrs. Thompson clearly knew enough to come banging on her door for help. 

She looked back at her neighbor, who was clearly distressed and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It'll be okay," she said, more to herself than to her neighbor. "We'll get through this."

With a heavy sigh, she headed out of the safety of her apartment and her neighbor followed her closely behind out of the building. The chaos outside was even worse than she had imagined. No one quite knew where to run, scattering to wherever they thought they could find safety. 

As luck would have it, her car remained untouched amidst the fires burning. 

As they made their way to the RPD, Amara could see just how dire the situation had become. She could only get so far in her car. Just as she predicted, the roadblocks were up and blocking the path.  

“Mrs. Thompson, seems we’ll have to do the rest by walking. Think you’ll manage?” Amara asked, the station wasn’t too far away and that seemed to be now the general direction every person she saw was heading towards. 

“I think I can, dearie.” 

Amara rushed over to her passenger side door, helping her get out slowly. She hadn’t known Mrs. Thompson for that long but she knew she needed to be as helpful as possible. 

"Here, just stick close to me," Amara said, taking the lead.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Thompson said, her voice shaking with fear. In a way, she kind of reminded Amara of her own grandmother which made her more willing to help her.

They made their way through the dark, deserted streets, their footsteps splashing through puddles. The rain was relentless, and it was becoming difficult to see through the torrential downpour. They passed a few other people along the way, all of them looking just as scared as Mrs. Thompson had. Amara decided early on that keeping on a brave face was the better option. A few of them also wore expressions of recognition at the sight of Amara but she paid it no mind. 

As they got closer to the gate, a multitude of people are huddled against the gate, fighting just to get inside. Amara takes hold of Mrs. Thompson’s hand, weaving through the panicked crowd of people as the rain seems to come down harder, drenching them to the bone. 

"We're almost in, just a little further," Amara said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice as the sea of people got a little more hectic. She knew she had to stay strong for Mrs. Thompson's sake. And her own. 

On the other side of the gate, Marvin alongside a few other officers were trying to calm people down. 

“Marvin! Lieutenant!” Amara yells above everyone else, hoping he heard her. As they both reach the front, she sticks her face and hand through the bars of the gate. 

“Moore!” Marvin heads closer to her, careful not to let anyone in. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m escorting my neighbor here for shelter, can you let us in? She’s elderly and this rain isn’t good for her.” It isn’t good for anyone, really. But Mrs. Thompson is no strong ox, she’s a frail lady. 

“We’re letting everyone in, to hell with Irons right now,” Marvin commands the people to back up a bit from the gate as he and a few other officers push them open, helping as many people as they rush inside in an orderly fashion. 

Amara ushered Mrs. Thompson inside as well, relieved to be out of the rain and away from the chaos outside. She led Mrs. Thompson to a bench to rest and secured a blanket for her to get warm.

"Thank you, Miss Moore. I don't know what I would've done without you," Mrs. Thompson said, tears welling up in her eyes.

"It's no problem, Mrs. Thompson. We have to stick together in times like these," Amara said, offering a comforting smile. “And call me Amara for future reference.”

As she looked around the crowded station, Amara couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. And wanted to hit herself over the head, this was definitely the opposite of laying low and a hundred percent reckless. But, she also knew that the outbreak was only going to get worse, and she wondered how long they could all survive cooped up in the RPD.

The first person she goes to is Marvin, huddled by the radio that seemed to be on the fritz. Her eyes scan over the crowd of people. “What the hell happened?” 

Amara looked over at Marvin, who was frowning as he listened to the radio. He thought it was the flu, just like everyone else in the department. But Amara knew it was much worse than that.

"It doesn't spread that fast," she said softly, shaking her head.

Marvin looked at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Amara hesitated for a moment, knowing that revealing what she knew about Umbrella's involvement would put Marvin in danger. She decided it was best to keep quiet for now.

"Never mind," she said, her voice quiet. "I just...I have a bad feeling about all of this."

Marvin didn't push the issue, instead returning to the radio. As he did, Amara heard a soft groan from behind her. She turned to see Mrs. Thompson slumped over on the bench.

"Mrs. Thompson?" Amara said, moving quickly to her side.

Marvin followed her over, concern etched on his face. "What's wrong with her?"

Amara checked Mrs. Thompson's pulse, her mind racing. Was this another symptom of one of their viruses? Or was it something else entirely?

"I don't know," she said, her voice tight. "We need to get her some help."

As they helped Mrs. Thompson to her feet, Amara couldn't help but wonder what was really going on in Raccoon City. There’s no way, at least this time, that Umbrella planned this.

She and Marvin gently carry the older woman to a temporary cot that was set up. 

Remembering some of the rudimentary things that Rebecca had shown her, she grabbed the first aid kit that lay atop one of the cases nearby. 

“Blood pressure is good.” Amara tells Mrs. Thompson, hoping to reassure her, “Let’s check that pulse again.” 

Amara secured the stethoscope in her ears, feeling like she was playing doctor rather than what she actually is. Where were the real medics, anyways? 

“Alright, let’s take a listen.”

Mrs. Thompson’s heart beats steadily like a beating drum. A doctor would give her a clean bill of health, except for the slight fainting spell she had just had. Amara was puzzled, but now that she was in closer proximity to the older woman, she could feel heat radiating from her body.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Thompson?” 

“Like a million bucks, but could you tell these officers to lower the heat? I feel like a chicken ready to roast!” 

Amara can’t help but smile a bit. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

She leaves the woman to rest, not without leaving her some water to drink and some medicine. Though she was not certain it’ll help much.  

“I think some of these people need to go to the hospital,” Rita speaks up, her fellow officers huddled in a circle. They were obviously trying to figure out the best way to proceed. “The streets look like hell, though.” 

“Best thing we can do is provide the best help we can until more reinforcements show up,” another officer adds. 

Amara doesn’t add to the conversation. Only because she knows reinforcements weren’t coming. She couldn’t crush their hope. She just couldn’t, but a part of her lied to herself to keep up the facade that maybe they would be saved.

                                                            —-

September 25, 1998.

We’re turning the station into a temporary shelter due to the massive sudden outbreak. All police personnel have been instructed to make the safety of the citizens their top priority as we try to accommodate as many of them as possible. 

September 25, 1998 (addendum)

One of the refugees attacked us in the middle of the night, resulting in the death of 1 officer and injuring 3 others. The person in question was quickly restrained. We believe this was simply a case of someone snapping under intense stress. 

September 26, 1998. 

A mob attacked the station today, resulting in a number of casualties. A few survivors were able to make it safely behind the emergency shutters, but as surrounded as we are, it’ll be hard for any of us to escape this place. We’re not sure we can fix any of our comm equipment, so we remain cut off from the outside world. During these events, Chief Irons detained one of the citizens but wouldn’t divulge details to any officers on why.

                                                       —---

Amara counted herself lucky so far that she had managed to evade Irons as he lurked the halls of the RPD. His search for her became relentless as there were fewer and fewer witnesses to see him in action.  

The only benefit of the chaos that had ensued in the past few days alongside the almost endless downpour outside, was that the mess within the hallways granted her cover.

The number of survivors had dwindled down significantly and that number would only grow as the infection within the citizens’ bodies took over. She certainly didn’t want to think of how many she had taken down by her own hand. Even Mrs. Thompson couldn’t be spared.

But still, Amara wore a stupid smile, unintentionally thinking about her neighbor whom she barely knew, they shared pleasantries occasionally and at one time even offered her sweet treats and chats inside her apartment which held absolutely ghastly wallpaper and hideous fabric couches (which Amara had only seen by chance one evening). 

Every time, Amara politely declined instead opting for the solitude of her apartment instead. Now, she wishes she had accepted every offer.

Thinking about it too long was too much, she had to push it down and focus on her own survival now. Of course, Irons has managed to corner her in her moment of weakness.

“You really thought you could run from me, Moore?” 

If there’s one thing Amara would have even now, it’s her quick wit. 

"You know, for a corrupt, power-hungry sack of shit, you sure know how to dress the part." 

Irons scoffs. With more force than a man of his size should possess, he roughly pulls her up. 

“Get the fuck off!-“ the yell dies in her throat, as Irons presses a gun against her temple with no hesitation. 

“You call out for anyone when we are in the main hall, and I won’t hesitate,” Her heart beat faster as the cool metal dug into the side of her face. “We clear?”

With a slight nod from Amara, a grimy smile comes across Irons’ face. “Good girl.” He holsters the gun for the moment. Had she had anything in her stomach, his words would have definitely made her nauseous. 

She wasn’t so much as scared of Irons as she was the fact that she knew good and well that he wasn’t bluffing. Unfortunately, he was always a man of his word. 

Chief Irons held her arm in a vice grip, certainly better than any blood pressure monitor that could cut off circulation at a doctor’s office. The lights in the RPD had been cut off for a few days now and puddles began forming on the floors, this place had seen better days. 

Deep down, Amara is completely aware that she should probably have some self-preservation but another part of her can’t help but to say something, anything in the deafening silence.

"Let me guess - you're going to take me up to your office and try to impress me with your collection of creepy dolls and taxidermied animals. Sorry, Irons, but I'm just not that into you."

The chief only tightened his hold, his eyes cold and calculating. “Always something to say, Moore. You’ll shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

The walk through the main hall is quiet, save her last few surviving officers seeming to notice the scene laid before them and question Irons repeatedly but he brushes them off, explaining it’s classified. She desperately wants to call out to them, or even plead through her expressions but she keeps her face neutral and unbothered. 

Amara's heart sank as they entered the holding area. 

This is certainly the last place she wanted to be. The other cells were shrouded in darkness, but that didn't exactly hide the undead prisoners as they stuck their hands out, hoping to have their next meal up against the bars. 

 "You've been interfering with police business and I can't have that. I'm going to put you in a cell with your friend, Ben." His words only confirmed to her that he had eyes and ears everywhere when it came to Umbrella. 

Ben? Who the hell is Ben? But as they got closer to the only cell with light within it, recognition comes flooding back. Ben is a journalist. One that she had spoken to once or twice during press conferences in the past year. 

As they approached Ben's cell, she could see the surprise in his eyes. "Amara, what are you doing here?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Chief Irons brought me here," Amara replied, her eyes never leaving the chief's face.

Irons unlocked the cell and roughly shoved Amara inside, slamming the door shut behind her, not letting the machine do it. She stumbled and fell to the ground, her gun clattering on the concrete floor.

"Enjoy your stay," Irons sneered as he walked away. Fucker. 

Amara slowly got to her feet, grabbing her gun as her eyes adjusted to the bright light overhead. She could see the shock in Ben's eyes, and she knew she had to probably explain how she ended up there. But first, she had to know how he ended up there.

"Ben, what are you doing here?" Amara asked.

He chuckled humorlessly, “I could ask you the same thing.” 

“I asked you first, start talking, Ponytail.” 

"Irons’ plan is to keep me here until it's too late for me to expose his secrets," Ben replied. "Whatever you did…He sees you as a threat, Amara, and that's probably why he threw you in here with me."

Amara nodded in understanding, knowing that Irons would do anything to protect his own interests, even if it meant sacrificing innocent lives. “I’m here because I got wise to Umbrella’s shit, John Clemens’ suicide not being an actual suicide, and Jill told me all about Irons so I’m three strikes out already.”

“Doing the S.T.A.R.S. team pretty proud right now, I’m sure.”

Amara crossed her arms over her chest, pacing the cramped cell, “I hope so. Crazy how much of a shitstorm can occur in such a short time.” 

“You can say that again,” Ben pulls out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. Lighting it and quickly taking a puff.

She sits on the cot next to Ben and sighs heavily. “Shit…you got a plan?”

“Don’t die.”

Amara does something between a scoff and a laugh. “That’s not a plan, that’s legitimately a general demand of living.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but that fat fucker is the only one who seems to have the electronic part, and guess where he just went?” Ben waves his hand in the direction that Irons went. “So yeah, I think not dying in here is a perfectly sound plan at the moment.” 

                                                              —--

September 29, 1998.

With no clock to be seen anywhere, Amara wasn’t sure if it had been mere hours or days. Judging by her parched throat, gurgling stomach, and hunger pangs that were like punches to her gut, she guesses it’s been a few days. The sink at the other side of the cell tempts her endlessly but she learns pretty quickly that the water supply is contaminated, thanks to Ben.

He’d been telling her all about what he knew, and even that Umbrella had a lab in the sewers. It’d been there for quite some time. And no surprise, Irons had been getting paid under the table by Umbrella to cover up many incidents and S.T.A.R.S. was Umbrella’s private army at one point or another. 

Learning this didn’t exactly shock Amara the way she thought it would. Her worldview had been shifted many times in her life especially as of late so learning Umbrella and those Umbrella-adjacent were all terrible (minus the ones unaware of this, herself included) only made her more determined to stop them.

Her eyes began to wander the cracks and crevices of the concrete wall. 

As she turned her eyes towards the outer part of the wall, she saw Chief Brian Irons standing outside the cell, a twisted smile on his face.

How long has he been standing there? 

"Well, well, well," he said. "Looks like you two have been getting cozy in here. I have some good news and some bad news for you, Amara. The bad news is that you're not leaving this cell anytime soon. The good news is that you won't have to worry about Ben here anymore. He's going to be taken care of."

A chill ran down Amara's spine. Taken care of? “What does that mean?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” Irons answers as he walks away, leaving her and Ben alone in the cell once more. She tried not to think about what that entailed for Ben or what Irons had in store for her. 

“Does he speak in anything other than cryptic?” Ben pipes up.

“He’s very fluent in asshole, too.” Amara quips. “Pretty sure he's illiterate when it comes to ethics and morals if we want to take it a step further."

She knew she had to find a way out, but she didn't know how. She plopped down on the floor near Ben, exhausting her brainpower to think of a plan. 

Every single scenario she thought of really all needed her outside the cell. As her breathing slowed, she realized she was falling asleep, everything seemed to catch up with her and her body was forcing her to rest. 

And rest she did, her eyes fought against the burning sensation on her eyelids but it was no use. 

Leon

If you were to ask Leon how he envisioned his first day as an officer with the RPD, flesh-eating zombies would be the last thing he’d imagine. 

He remembers the call he received to stay away a week ago, he certainly didn’t think too much of it and only thought it was a temporary delay. 

“Does anyone know what started this?” Leon asks, adjusting his new uniform as Marvin, his superior-well, technically not really anymore-sat on a nearby bench, looking over a laptop. 

He looked in dire need of medical attention, considering the way he clutched his side and the dried blood coating his hands. 

“Not a clue, but honestly all you need to know is this place will eat you alive if you aren’t careful.” 

“Yeah, well…I was supposed to start last week and got a call to stay away. I wish I’d come here sooner,” he continues with a shrug. 

Marvin briefly turns to look at him, a slight chuckle under his breath. “Amara is really gonna like you.” 

“Who?”

“Nevermind that right now,” Marvin shuffles slowly to face him, “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

“Okay, Lieutenant, I’m ready,” Leon said while walking towards him. 

“The officer you met earlier, Elliot?” Leon nods. “He thought this secret passageway might do the trick.” He looks over the small notebook, noticing the drawings are crudely drawn but they give enough detail to get their point across. Hope swells in his chest at the prospect of getting Marvin to safety. 

“That’s good news, we can get you to a hospital.”

Marvin shakes his head fiercely. “No, I am not the priority here.”

“Lieutenant, I’m not just going to leave you here-” 

“I’m giving you an order, rookie!” Marvin cuts him off. “You save yourself first, I’d come with you, but I’d just slow you down.”

Leon sighs. Just like that, some of his hope had been stomped out. But maybe, just maybe if he found a way out, he couldn’t refuse…right? 

“Now…you’ll need this.” Marvin stands up, holding out a knife to him. 

“I can’t-”

Much in the same way a father would, Marvin says, “Stop.”

Leon hesitantly takes the knife, but not before Marvin pulls him closer by the handle. “Don’t make my mistake, you see one of those things–uniform or not, you do not hesitate. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

                                                           —---

That was hours ago, and having faced horrors that a person could only dream about was starting to become very, very annoying to Leon. After finally getting the medallions to get to the parking garage underneath a goddess statue (Christ, who built this place anyways?), he found that he lacked the very parking pass he needed to escape. 

Then, there were the dogs. Then a mysterious FBI agent who wasn’t so forthcoming about what was going on. Leon really didn’t know what to expect anymore.

Continuing his exploration of the police station, he entered through the only door unlocked within the parking garage. His steps echoed in the expanse of the jail cells but as he got further inside, he couldn’t help but hear a set of voices reverberating off the walls and a light source coming from the last cell on the block. 

As Leon approaches the cell, he takes notice of a woman locked inside. She's wearing civilian clothes with auburn hair, but what catches his attention is the standard-issue Samurai Edge gun holstered to her side. Leon finds it odd that someone with that kind of firepower would be locked up.

He also takes notice of the man on the cot, who seems to glance up at him first. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Leon greets him. 

“I don’t believe it. A real human,” The man walks up closer to the bars of the cell. “Hello, human.”

Of all the weird shit he’d seen tonight, by far, this had to be the weirdest interaction Leon had ever had, probably in his whole life. But he disregards that, possibly a little more relieved than he expects himself to be at seeing other people still alive. 

“You been here long?” He asks. 

“Long enough.” The woman answers, turning towards him and looking him over. Leon couldn't help but take a double take at the striking features of the woman, even though her expression was guarded.

“Are we the last ones alive?” The man comes close to the bars of the cell.

“No, no, there’s a few of us.” 

“That’s good…unless, of course, Irons sent you.”

“Irons? You mean Chief Irons? Is he still around?” Leon questions.

“Who cares, hopefully, he’s someone’s dinner by now.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“He’s the bastard who locked us in here.”

“I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“He did. We were both going to blow the whistle on his dirty ass. I’d have done the same thing too, I guess.” 

“Look, as much as I love this back and forth, I highly doubt either one of us deserves to die in this jail cell this evening. Would you concur, Kennedy?” Leon’s eyes snap over to the woman. How does she know his name? 

“Why are you locked up?” His eyes glance once more at the Samurai Edge, there’s a S.T.A.R.S. engraving on the side. 

"I'm not entirely sure," The woman says with a shrug. "Let's just say some people don't like it when you uncover the truth, Leon.” 

Leon nods slowly, not quite sure what to make of that. But, he trusts this woman more so than he does the man at the moment. A sense of familiarity sweeps over him the more he looks at her.

"I read your file a few weeks ago. You're kind of a big deal around here," The woman says with a smirk. Seemingly answering a question he hadn’t asked yet. 

Leon feels himself blushing, both from the compliment and the fact that he's now standing in front of a complete stranger who's clearly done her research on him. He clears his throat and tries to change back to the subject at hand.

But, a part of him really wanted to know her name.

"I feel like I've seen you before," he says, trying to sound casual.

She smiles. "Maybe you have. I'm kind of a big deal too, you know."

“I saw the S.T.A.R.S. emblem engraved on your gun,” he pointed out, his mind ran through the picture he’d seen of the team and that’s when it clicked, “Amara Moore, right?”

He had seen that S.T.A.R.S. team picture in the highlights of the Raccoon City brochure he had briefly glanced at before arriving. Her hair had certainly grown in length and it was dyed but he certainly remembered her striking features.

“Let me guess, they gave you that stupid brochure?” Amara asks. "Yup, that’s me. And you're Leon S. Kennedy, the rookie cop who just joined the force."

Leon fought the urge to smile. He wasn't used to being recognized by people he considered to be important. "Yeah, that's me," he said, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in his stomach.

“Not to take away from whatever this is, but do you think you can let us out?” The man asked. 

Before he can answer, the sound of metal scraping across the metal echoes throughout the space. All eyes turn in the direction of the noise. 

“Hey, I’ll make you a deal…” The man sticks out his hand from the cell. “Unlock this cell and I’ll give you this.”

The very thing Leon needs hangs around this man’s neck. A parking pass card.

“There’s no other way out of this parking garage! Believe me!” 

Another sound echoes once again, it distinctly sounds like heavy stomping now that it’s closer. Leon looks toward where he came from and finds nothing. What the hell? Whatever it was, was making the man more frantic while Amara seemed equally as confused as Leon. 

“Look, we’re all prisoners in this station,” The man explained, “So, either we play nice and help each other out-”

Leon could feel the floor beneath his feet vibrate. 

“Shit. It’s coming.” 

“What’s coming?” Amara asked, trying to get near the man but he backed away toward the wall. 

“C’mon–c’mon don’t be an asshole…okay? You need this!” The man is now flush against the wall, and Leon wasn’t quite sure what to do. “Just get us the fuck out of here!” 

A massive hand bursts through the wall, grabbing the man’s head. Both Leon and Amara seem to have a delayed reaction but still manage to aim their guns at...whatever is holding the man by the skull. 

The man’s screams of horror stop abruptly. His head was crushed with a quick, sickening crunch. Amara recoiled in horror, unable to believe what she had just witnessed, what they both witnessed. She backed away from the wall, her back against the bars near Leon.

“Oh, my god…” Leon trails off.

“What the fuck is going on?”

#leon s kennedy #Leon Kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x oc #re2 remake #re2make #re2 remake fic #original character #original black character #black oc #resident evil 2 #leon scott kennedy #resident evil #city of the dead fic #resident evil 2 remake

[nakamurastorrington]

Percabeth/Alabaster

Athena and Poseidon corner and warn threaten Al

Al relishes on the fact he pissed off two Olympians in a very very personal manner

CACKLES YESSSSSSSSSSS

--

"I have cause for celebration tonight," huffs Alabaster when he sees the odd looks Annabeth and Percy give him. Or more accurately, the wine bottle and glasses he has in hand as he comes out of the kitchen. He sets them down on the table and starts pouring.

Annabeth elegantly takes the first glass that's filled by its delicate stem. "And that would be?"

Alabaster's about to fill the third glass when he pauses and goes back into their pantry. He comes out with a pitcher of sparkling cider for Percy, who softly smiles and relaxes in his seat.

"Thank you," murmurs Percy. A hand grasps at Alabaster's waist to pull him into Percy's lap; Alabaster swats at his arm but lets himself be manhandled anyway.

Once they've clinked their glasses together and Alabaster's sure no one's at the risk of choking on anything, he says, "Well, your parents have finally set their eons-rivalry aside."

Percy catches on first and snickers. "Oh my god, didn't my dad learn anything from the last time he tried to shovel-talk you?"

"Apparently not. That, or he very badly wanted to see me in sleepwear again, because those fuckers showed up during my nap and astral-yoinked me out of my body."

Annabeth rises out of her seat. "My mother tried to threaten you?" she faintly says, no longer enjoying the wine.

"Keyword: tried." Alabaster downs another mouthful of rich red wine. "But it's getting kinda old, you know. Once they were done with threatening to make me insane and turn me into all kinds of creatures, they moved onto actually trying to do it."

"What?!"

"Then they realized that the amount of protection runes I'd put on myself wasn't just paranoia and actually worked, so they started trying to bribe me. Endless wealth and power and all that. The grey-eyed lady does have a lot more finesse than the sea god."

"And what'd you say?" Annabeth grimly prompts.

"I said, sure, I'll leave them. But you either lift my exile or resurrect the siblings you killed after the amnesty was granted. Fair is fair." Draining his glass, Alabaster sighs and grabs the bottle itself. "That shut them up real quick."

"Oh, Al," Annabeth sighs, and Alabaster wraps his arms around her middle. He buries his face into her stomach and breathes in the scent lingering in her turtleneck's knitted fabric. Percy's thumbs rub soothing circles into his sides.

The bottle is gently pried out of his hands and set somewhere on the table where he can't reach it. "This isn't your first drink of the day, is it?" Percy accuses.

"I was trying to calm down," mumbles Alabaster. "The wine made everything seem a little funnier. Not so funny now that I'm recounting to you guys what went down."

Even if he can't see them, Alabaster feels it when Percy and Annabeth lock gazes, a whole conversation being carried out in those few moments of silence. They're furious, even if they're trying to not show it right now for his sake, but Alabaster doesn't think it would spook him even if their anger were more palpable. If anything, his heart is rabbiting in his chest at the thought—Annabeth and Percy furious for him, for his safety, ensconcing him between their bodies and their protection.

"I'm alright," he whispers, and their attention turns back to him instantly. He pulls back a little from his hold on Annabeth to look at her worried face. "I'm okay."

"You better be," snarls Percy. "If they'd done something to you, Poseidon and Athena would have a lot to answer for and hell on their hands." Thunder booms outside their window, but Percy just rolls his eyes.

"Percy," Annabeth reprimands on instinct, but the command falls flat with no fire to back it up. She turns back to Alabaster. "... What he said, though. We chose to do this, Al. Nothing our parents say will change our minds; we're not leaving you."

That choice might not be in your hands. What if—

Alabaster forcibly swallows those thoughts down. Instead, he leans into them, chooses to let go. Chooses to take the leap of faith. "I know," he whispers.

"You better," rumbles Percy against the back of his neck, and Alabaster laughs at the petulant tone that bleeds into those words. Percy's soothing hands turn vicious, pinching the insides of Alabaster's thighs. "Why are you laughing?!"

"Because we got gloomy for no reason," snorts Alabaster. He grabs a fondly exasperated Annabeth by the cowl until their noses are touching. "See, I told you guys: it's a cause for celebration."

"You worry me," Annabeth sighs. She steals a kiss, then two, from Alabaster. "All the time. It drives me crazy."

“What about me?” Percy pouts. Annabeth and Alabaster both roll their eyes.

“You, you infuriate me.” Annabeth leans in to kiss Percy, who looks so besotted Alabaster can somewhat understand why Olympus suspects he’s under a love curse.

And. God. Damn. He’s never gonna get tired of this view.

#alabaster torrington #percy jackson #annabeth chase #percabethaster #my asks #my ficlets #thank you for the ask anon it sent me into the stratosphere #smartwatermagic #HAHAHAHAH THAT SHIPNAME IS SO FUNNY TO ME FR

[mokkkki]

SWTE A1 C12 - 1 Winner, 6 Losers, 1 It's Complicated 

Because Lucius Malfoy is in a fucking Hooters uniform.

Guess who wrote this on Monday but forgot to post it? Anyways, another amazing example of what happens when I try to make Regulus happy, this 2 POV Halloween-themed monster is the most chaotic of Act 1, so far (and I know I say that every week, but it's because the shit that happens each chapter keeps increasing!). I like to think it has all of the staples of a solid Sleeping With The Enemy chapter: an excruciatingly dramatic inner monologue, truly bizarre behavior from all of the characters, ruined plans, and so many emotions that writing it gave me whiplash. Here is the 1 winner and many losers from "Trick ± Treat", alongside their Halloween costumes! Spoilers below the cut. 

Winner: Bellatrix Black (Black Swan)

Yeah, our only winner in this chapter is Bellatrix. Who isn't even a PLAYER in Orion's fucked up mind games? As Regulus identifies, she's the only person who uses their money in a fun way. While her family was getting emotionally tortured by Orion Black, she was in France, hosting a bacchanal, and flew home to NYC to have the cutest matching costume with her sister. Unbothered queen.

Loser: Renée Vance-Black (The Velveteen Rabbit, a costume she changed out of as soon as a nanny snapped a picture)

The seven-year-old hugged her dad, and he had fallen on the floor, having a mental breakdown. Then, she sawhim throwing up. THEN, her parents ditched her for a Halloween party. She's a child I'm sobbing this isn't fair.

Loser: Petra Pettigrew (Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson In His Black Turtleneck)

Even though her costume was fire and her party seemed to be going great, I'm going for her as a loser since halfway through this great party, her old high school friend turned into a werewolf, and she had to scurry through the halls as a rat. Also, Regulus really kink-shames her after he gets locked in her love dungeon.

Loser that probably thinks he's a winner, the optimistic idiot: James Potter (Unknown)

James literally says three words in this chapter, but he's still oddly prevalent. He's a loser because Remus, who hasn't told James that he was attending, has transformed during a very public event, and if this gets out, MMG, alongside his reputation, is ruined. While he saved Regulus, this was not a victory; it was a necessity.

Loser: Remus Lupin (The Joker)

I don't want to hear ANY counterpoints on this one. I think a counterpoint would be impossible to form. The only reason he's a winner is because Sirius and Marlene had an argument; other than that, it's lose, lose, lose. He goes out and transforms in a public space full of friends and business partners. Sirius bites his shoulder. Marlene calls him a side chick. Literally the most ginormous loss.

Loser: Sirius Black (Conan The Barbarian)

He fights with his wife, then fights with his boyfriend, and said boyfriend turns into a monster and absolutely brutalizes the brother that he's arguing with. Like?? Do I need to elaborate??

Loser: Lucius Malfoy (Hooter's Girl)

His crush told him that she'd match costumes with him, but guess what! She didn't! Now, he's all alone in a tight nylon scoop top and booty shorts. Sirius found him hot for a millisecond, though?? But to Lucius, that probably makes for an even bigger loss. Either way, long live Himbo Lucius.

It's Complicated: Regulus Black (Hannibal Lecter)

Bro. I literally don't even know how to start. Regulus would be a loser, since his daughter catches him in the middle of a mental breakdown, he has a weird moment with Emmeline (tbh, all their moments are weird), and he hangs up because he literally can't handle the sound of James' voice. And that's just BEFORE the Halloween party, where he has a tense moment with his brother that he probably won't forgive anytime soon, a werewolf slams him against the wall and a red stag scoops him away and charges into safety, accidentally stabbing him with its antlers, and ending up in Petra's fucking love dungeon. That is a LOSS. But the very real, very large thing that makes me reject his status as a loser is that he's deprogramming himself from his father's bullshit. I don't know if this is because of James' influence or a part of his recovery from Slut in the Hut- but instead of having his Van Der Woodsen moment and throwing his phone out the window, he tracks down a homeless man and gives it to him, instead. Very rudely. But still. Regulus is undergoing a very subtle transformation (even a physical one, at the beginning on the chapter- go Animagus Reg!), and I just hope that he's able to complete it before his father finds out- and drags him straight back to where he came from.

read chapter 12 here!

#fanfic #ao3 #swte #winners and losers #winners and losers act 1 #the mauraders #james potter #regulus black #bellatrix lestrange #bellatrix black #lucius malfoy #sirius black #remus lupin #harry potter #fanfiction #fanfic writing #marauders fanfiction

[murder-raven13]

Ghosts are not people [until you remember they are]

Present Mic x Reader

Synopsis: In a world where almost everyone had a quirk, those without them were widely regarded as unlucky, a minority most would have given anything not to be a part of. You, on the other hand, would give anything to be quirkless. 

Warning(s): Death, mentions/light descriptions of torture, cursing, quirk slander, a lil bit of self-hate [to make it spicy], fear of touch, angst with a happy ending, no explicit character death, reader’s quirk isn’t ambiguous, they/them pronouns used for reader, spoilers, 2nd POV [I can’t do the y/n thing], suicide mention, Asexual lesbian Midnight, [it’s not explicitly mentioned, but] Present Mic is Pan, kinda open ending??, Colorblind Present Mic

This is on the long side and if anyone actually reads it, I’ll break it up into smaller sections, with a masterlist.  

Word Count: 9.6k

Your quirk manifested while your mother held you. It was instantaneous, your body tensing up, your eyes glazing over. At four, there was nothing you could do but cry, and scream, completely unable to explain what had happened.

Your mother wrote it off as a tantrum, a waking nightmare, but it happened again, with your father, and again, with your brother.

At four, you couldn’t explain what had happened because you didn’t understand it. They touched you, and you saw them, differently, in another time. They were older, and scared, and everything around them was burning.

You could hear yourself, muted, as if very far away, screaming. Over and over, you called their names, voice raw and different, like you were older too. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense to you, but you carried that knowledge with you, saw glimpses of what you’d seen every time you looked at them for the next 6 years.

By the time you turned 7, you knew what you had seen, and you understood it. 

At 10, knowing wasn’t enough. You still watched them burn.

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Hosu was a large city, full of people always in a hurry, completely unaware of how often they accidently touched a stranger. You knew, though, were aware of the statistics, of the places contact was most likely. And you prepared accordingly. 

Gloves, long-sleeves, tall socks and long pants, turtlenecks and long, loose hair. A mask over the bottom half of your face. The only part of you people could see were your eyes, accompanied by the occasional, barely there flash of pale skin.  

It became normal and, after so many years of dressing like this, you didn’t get hot anymore, even during the summer while everyone else wore their tank tops and shorts and sandals. 

At 28, you didn’t notice the odd looks anymore, the same way you didn’t notice the whispers from those in your workplace, on the rare days you were required to actually come in. You worked as an editor, and you worked from the safety of your own home, and that was best.

Today, you had to go to work, to deal with the bitching from a writer who disagreed with your critique. Sighing, you made your way upstairs, climbing stairs steadily. You walked with your shoulders drawn in, years of trying to make yourself as small as possible ingrained in your posture.

You’d barely made it out of the stairwell when the building shook, an explosion sounding much too close for your liking. People scrambled, already talking too loudly, and you barely had time to press yourself against the wall before people were rushing toward the stairs, alarms blaring. 

Fire glinted outside the windows, and you froze, staring at it as it licked across the sky, terrible and terrible. The windows burst, inward and outward, and loud, and the fire was there, lapping at layers of clothes that had become your safety, after so many years. 

You didn’t have time to scream, not about fire or glass shards or anything it made you remember, before the world shattered underneath you, concrete and metal and glass falling to bury you.

It was hard to breathe, laying in the dark, dust thick in your mouth, with rubble pressing down on you from above, like revelation or retribution, like some kind of misbegotten peace. But it was quiet and dark, and you thought you might sleep there, or die. Really, you wondered if there was much of a difference. 

When the first piece of rubble moved, deliberate and then gone, noise came flowing in with fresh air. You dragged in a heavy breath, coughing dryly, listening to the shouting coming from above you. And then, the rubble on top of you moved, a piece being taken away as another fell more tightly on top of you. You groaned. A scream caught in your too dry throat. 

“Fear not, dear citizen,” a voice, familiar in a way that was strange, to you, came down, “For I am here.”

All Might, you thought, blearily, in Hosu?

“Are you hurt?” A different voice called down, and this one you didn’t know. 

You grunted a small no, all you could manage, just before the rubble crushing your ribs was lifted. A large hand, a large bare hand, reached down at grasp you, and you realized in the split second before it touched you that your clothes were burned away in too many places. 

You realized too late, and even so, you couldn’t move. All you could do was whimper, just before All Might’s hand reached you, skin-on-skin, and you were taken, quirk activating and blurring your eyes over with death. 

The All Might you saw was frail and small, drooping hair and saggy clothes, broad smile nowhere to be seen in his sleep. Blood bubbled and seeped through his lips, and he was gasping for breath, shirt riding up to expose a terrible wound across his abdomen. 

You didn’t notice the two heroes gasp when they say your face, nor did you see the flash of the paparazzi camera, capturing the image of All Might’s skin on yours to plaster across every newspaper the very next day. 

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Three weeks after the collapse and your ribs still ached with every breath, but it wasn’t a bad ache, necessarily. Certainly, it wasn’t as bad as it had been. Your ribs were, however, a hindrance on occasion. Running, for example, was nearly impossible considering you couldn’t take a deep enough breath to stop yourself from falling into dizziness. 

So, when they came for you, there was really nothing you could do to stop them. 

“C’mon, doll,” Dabi mocked, scarred face twisted and ugly in the dark, “you could at least make this a little difficult.”

Shigaraki, disgusting and infantile, ignored Dabi in favor of training one red eye on you, muttering, ”Very nice, very nice. Tell me, what is your quirk?”

You spat at him from over Dabi’s shoulder, ribs screaming at you, and didn’t answer. This, it seemed, pissed him off. 

A steady hand came up to wipe the spit off the grotesque hand covering his face, and he swore, “You’ll regret that.”

“Will I?” you asked, quiet and already entirely unhappy with where you were. You knew who these people were, not by name or association, but because the League of Villains had been a hot topic for the past while. 

They secured a bag over your head, and for the next while your world was darkness and the gentle pain of your ribs. 

When the bag came back off, you were chained to a chair with the league standing before you. Shigaraki regarded you still with that one red eye, “How does All Might die?”

You forced yourself not to tense, doing everything in your power to keep your face carefully blank, and you had years of practice. They knew about your quirk, but maybe they didn’t know everything, so all you said was, “What makes you think I know that?”

“Cut the bullshit, doll,” Dabi drawled, blue eyes glinting from among the purple scars marring his pretty face, “we know about Deathwatch.”

“We’re not unreasonable people,” Shigaraki professed, “just tell us what we want to know.”

“I-” you met Shigaraki’s eye, “-don’t know how All Might dies.”

Shigaraki held your gaze, sighing and mumbling, “Dabi.”

And Dabi smirked, started like this is what he’d been waiting for, and he burned you, right over the scars from your family’s fire so long ago.

It was, strangely, easier to deal with Dabi’s fire than with others. His flame burned blue and unfamiliar. It still burned, though, and you felt your already stolen fingertips melt away. 

Shigaraki raised a hand, a malicious gleam in his gaze, “How does All Might die?”

“I don’t know,” you ground out, all gritted teeth and spittle.

Twice came forward this time and, unlike Dabi, he used his fists, talking to himself as if he were to split in two at any moment. 

Again, Shigaraki called him off after a while, and asked, “How does All Might die?”

“Is that your goal here?” you asked, panting and in pain, “To kill All Might? Because if that’s the case, you don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“That’s for me to decide,” from someone else, it would have sounded threatening, joking even, but from Shigaraki those words sounded the those of a child who didn’t believe the stove was hot when told. 

So, you smiled, and leant forward as much as you could, blood on your teeth and torso screaming at you, no longer any kind of gentle ache, “All Might dies-” Shigaraki leaned forward, excited and waiting impatiently, “-on June 13th, 2351, of old age.”

Immediately, Shigaraki snarled, “That’s impossible!”

And then, with one move of Shigaraki’s hand, your world really did become just pain.  

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Really, you weren’t sure how long the League had you. It had seemed a long time, but you had nothing to base your sense of time on. The entire ordeal was a blur of pain, and, at some point, you had stopped paying attention.

When heroes arrived and took you away from the League, it took a while for you to realize what that meant. They rushed you to a hospital, where people muttered things about internal bleeding and trauma, but you weren’t really listening. 

You weren’t really sure how long it took for that to end, either. 

The first thing you do remember, is a man with long black hair and tired, bloodshot eyes, and All Might, standing with police around your hospital bed. 

“I didn’t tell them,” You mumbled, voice hoarse from disuse. You looked at All Might, “They don’t know how you die.” 

The room collectively relaxed. You almost laughed. 

“Three of them...three of them touched me; I know how they die.”

“Which three?” Aizawa asked, voice oddly severe for how detached you felt from everything.

“Dabi, Toga,” you took a deep breath, “and Shigaraki.”

They all looked at you, then, and you knew they realized exactly what this all meant for you. You knew it too. So, when they stepped into the hall, you weren’t surprised to hear Aizawa say, “The League will never leave them alone; they’ll be hunted the rest of their life.”

“We’ll put them in witness protection,” a police officer declared, “change their identity and keep them protected.”

“You want me to be babysat the rest of my life?” You asked, startling the police and All Might, but not Aizawa.

All Might laid a hand on your shoulder, and he was so large it almost made you doubt your own vision, the small and scrawny version of him you’d seen, “Just until we beat the League of Villains.”

You glanced at the floor, eyes catching for a moment on your burnt fingertips, your lack of identity, before you heaved a heavy sigh, “Okay.”

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On the official record, you had been killed by the League, and you, to the world, ceased to exist. The process made you realize how truly little you had already been existing in it before. 

They gave you a counselor, who was meant to walk you through the process of missing loved ones who believed you were dead.

“I don’t have anyone to miss,” you had said and were surprised at how much you meant it. You supposed it was better that way, given everything. It made this easier, if anything, because you were a thread with no loose ends.

You could see on the counselor’s face that they thought this was a problem of its own, but they weren’t paid to fix you. So, they reported that counseling needs were met, and they left.  

A part of changing your identity, apparently, is also changing your appearance. They brought you to a specialist with a quirk that allowed for minor appearance alterations, who changed the color of your hair, the texture of it. They reached for your face, and you drew back, glaring. But they only hovered their hand over your skin, never touching you.

Looking in the mirror after, you still looked like you, but only because you knew what to look for. Your nose curved just slightly more upward, and your eyebrows slanted in a way they hadn’t before, and your eyes were an entirely different color. It was jarring, but you didn’t much care. 

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When they sat you down to go over your backstory, they brought the four heroes who would be guarding you most: Easerhead, All Might, Midnight, and Present Mic. Based on disposition alone, Aizawa was your favorite. He didn’t seem the friendly type, where All Might and Present Mic both seemed overly earnest friendly types and Midnight seemed like a flirt. All three seemed to lack a true idea of personal space.

It wasn’t a trait you favored in those around you. 

The file they handed you was very in-depth, containing all of your legal documents, and the officer in charge began to explain as the five of you looked the file over, “It said in your file that you spoke Greek, so we decided to make you a Greek citizen by birth that recently moved to Japan.”

“You speak Greek?” Present Mic exclaimed, turning to look at you with wide eyes.

You simply nodded. 

For a moment, he just blinked at you while Aizawa quietly snickered, but then exclaimed, louder than last time, “That’s awesome!”

The officer decided to continue, “Your mother is a now-deceased woman who died during childbirth in the year you were born, and no father is listed on your birth certificate; your birthday is July 8th. You’re in Japan to teach language at UA as part of a new course program, since you speak four languages besides Japanese, it shouldn’t be much of an issue.”

Present Mic opened his mouth, but Aizawa pushed his mouth closed, sighing. 

“You want me to teach at UA?”

“Yes,” the officer nodded, tapping his fingers on the table, “as long as you’re on campus grounds, you’re surrounded by security throughout the day, meaning you only need a guard outside of school hours.”

“I don’t have a license,” you said.

Reaching over, he pulled a copy from the papers in front of you, “Yes you do.”

“I may have a piece of paper,” you countered, “but that doesn’t mean I know how to be a teacher.”

“We’ll help you,” Aizawa wasn’t fast enough to stop Present Mic this time, “we’re all teachers, so we can show you the ropes before you start.”

“The last big thing is your quirk, and, on paper, you don’t have one.”

You nodded again, returning your attention to your file. Present Mic seemed to sigh softly, but you ignored it. 

“Any questions?”

You shook your head and the officer rose to his feet, “Alright then, we’ll see you tomorrow to quiz you on the information, so make sure you read it all before then.”

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UA teachers, apparently, lived on campus, something they’d always done, even before the student dorms were implemented. Realistically, though, you could understand why that wasn’t information the school wanted to be common knowledge. 

You were placed in the apartment beside Present Mic’s, who had introduced himself as Yamada Hizashi. In the short time you’d known him, he had been nothing but loud energy and perpetual grins. It was, honestly, a little unnerving. You can’t remember ever having interacted with anyone remotely like Yamada before. 

The first time he worked the night shift, he surprised you. He was still a smile personified, but he was quieter, softer, with his long blond hair thrown back into a loose bun while a too-big sweater threatened to slide off his shoulders. 

There was no leather or spikes or directional speakers, just Yamada, big glasses perched on his nose, and he seemed entirely different to you then, compared to the costumed hero you’d met days ago. 

His shift in countenance was the only one to shock you, just a bit. Aizawa had been much the same: tired and serious and somewhat grumpy. Midnight hadn’t lost any of her boldness when out of costume. And All Might, for all his hero presence took over everything, was still overly earnest, if only slightly sadder and slightly awkward. 

You supposed you shouldn’t have been surprised, considering what people said about such overly-happy performative personalities being either fake or just that: performative. 

Of course, you didn’t much mind the change. Quieter, simply put, made you more comfortable. 

That didn’t, however, make you any better at interacting with him.

Aizawa, bluntly, had said that you were bad at social interaction, and you had told you had never imagined you would be good at it. Yamada made it very hard to feel as okay with that fact as Aizawa had. 

For one, he liked to talk, and tried his hand at no less than five different failed conversations within the first ten minutes of his arrival. 

His sixth attempted conversation started with this, “Do you like music?”

And that wasn’t a topic doomed to fail, so you said, “Of course.”

“Yeah?!” Yamada’s eyebrows crept up, and his posture straightened at the first actual response he’d gotten from you, “What do you listen to?”

You hummed, “I’m not picky.”

“You have a favorite genre, right?” Yamada asked, head cocked slightly to the side, eyes narrowed in consideration.

You hummed again, nodding this time, “I like lo-fi and orchestral music best, I suppose; they’re more versatile than other genres.”

And Yamada seemed to understand what you meant, because he grinned-when had he stopped- and nodded enthusiastically. You found yourself glad he didn’t ask what you meant.

“I get that,” Yamada said, grin softening into a smile, “they go with the most moods. I like pop best, myself.”

At this, you raised your eyebrows, blinking at him, which he understood, because he replied, “Everyone guesses rock or alternative because of my costume, but I like pop because it’s catchy.”

“Thats makes sense,” you said, not really thinking much about it, “pop’s a happy genre, mostly; it suits you.”

Yamada chuckled after a second, and you missed the way he physically responded to your statement, like someone had pulled him taut and released him in an instant, because your back was toward him. 

You didn’t miss the grin on his face when you turned back around. You blinked at him, half tempted to stick a brightness warning on his forehead before you dismissed the thought, asking, “Do you want tea?”

Yamada’s grin grew, “Yes, please, with honey.”

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Yamada taught English, so the other heroes left most of your teaching questions to him. You were sure it was exhausting, having to teach students, run his patrols, host his Friday-night radio show, guard you, and teach you all at once. But he never complained and never looked tired.

You were beginning to think it was a trick of the light. He had to be exhausted. But you never brought it up because it didn’t seem something he wanted to acknowledge. 

Not talking about it didn’t stop you from letting him sleep on the rare occasion he fell asleep while he worked. Instead, you carefully and meticulously packed his supplies away and threw a throw, a ratty yellow blanket that you’d clearly had for years, over his shoulders.

He always whined when he woke up, often to the unkind prodding of Aizawa the next day, but he never asked you to stop. So, you didn’t.

By the time your first month at UA ended, you’d become fairly well acquainted with Yamada’s sleeping habits. He didn’t snore because he didn’t have nostrils, you discovered, and he mumbled while he slept. His fingers curled in toward his palm and, if his hands were close enough, he would clasp them in his sleep, almost as if holding his own hand. 

Oddest of all, to you, was that Yamada always managed to shift toward you in his sleep. It made you nervous, that habit, and it didn’t make sense either, until you realized that he was shifting toward warmth. After that, you started setting a small heater next to him, and you no longer had to fear him accidently touching you while he slept. 

Subconsciously, you started to think that Yamada just ran cold, so you would ask, always without much thought, “Are you cold?”

And Yamada would blink at you, with big orange-red eyes, “I’m alright.”

Always, “I’m alright,” even if you could see goosebumps along the bits of his forearm after the ends of his sweater. 

And, each time, you would hum as if you believed him, before turning the heat up the next time you left your spot. 

He never said anything about that, either.

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After two months, it became normal to have people in your home. When you realized this, you were humming over the stove while Yamada chopped vegetables behind you. 

When you realized this, it gave you pause. How could two months undo 18 years of habit?

You’d stopped humming, and Yamada glanced over his shoulder before coming to stand next to you, head tilted in a way that was so familiar to you now that it made you dizzy.

He didn’t even have to say anything. You knew what he wanted to ask by that head tilt alone, by the way he held his eyes. It made you want to run. But running isn’t an option for you; you’re stuck here. Because of your stupid fucking quirk. 

“I’m alright,” you said, taking a large, obvious step away from him. His eyes flashed with something, in response, and you told yourself it wasn’t hurt.

Yamada smiled, small and wrong, and quietly murmured, “Okay.”

Later, after you’d eaten dinner, you found goosebumps on Yamada’s arms as he settled down in the living room. You retreated to your room without a word, leaving the temperature alone as you passed. 

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It takes a week for you to warm back up to Yamada, after a number of sleepless nights that you fill with thoughts of what it means to have people in your life.

It is a strange idea to wrap your head around.

By the time you had wrapped your head around it, though, you had already managed to overhear Yamada complaining about your distance, wondering what he’d done.

So, when you were ready, you sighed, unsure of how to begin, unsure of if you would be able to explain, even if you wanted to. 

You weren’t sure, so you went with what seemed best. Music, since he had first brought it up, had been a safe topic because it was something you shared. It seemed a good idea, so you painstakingly picked out songs to make a playlist, all pop, from cultures all over the world.

It took another week to finish it; you nitpicked it often.

But the day you did finish it, Yamada arrived to find you already at the kitchen table, plate of cinnamon rolls in the middle of the table, with tea and an old-fashioned tape sitting ready for him. 

“Cinnamon buns?” Yamada tilted his head, watching as you ate more animatedly than he’d ever seen you eat before.

You nodded, pushing the plate toward him, softly, and awkwardly, mumbling, “They’re my favorite.”

And Yamada answered with a grin, as he was in the habit of doing, and sat himself down, noticing then the tape waiting for him. With gentle fingers he picked it up, turning to examine it carefully, finding your careful, though messy, handwriting detailing a song list.

“What’s this?” His voice was odd, but not bad, and his gaze on you felt heavy.

You ducked your head down, nibbling on your cinnamon bun, pointedly not looking at him, “A playlist.”

Yamada grinned so hard for the rest of the evening you were sure his face would cramp. 

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The first time you had two heroes with you at once, it was Aizawa and Toshinori. Watching them through the evening, you began to realize a few things.

“You two aren’t together?” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but filtering your thoughts at home was still new, even if having people there with you was not anymore. 

Toshinori spluttered, face turning such a bright red you were vaguely concerned, while Aizawa’s eyes flashed before he sank more into the safety of his capture weapon. 

Flashes, prudent and vivid and completely against your will, pushed themselves into the forefront of your mind. Visions of Toshinori’s mouth stained red, gasping in his sleep, as the pressure of his own blood in his throat woke him. Of scarred, rough, hands coming to hold Toshinori’s face. Of a now familiar voice, softer and sadder than you’d ever heard it, but familiar still, whispering comforts as Toshinori’s life faded away.

“I just...” you murmured, attempting to blink the ghosts away, “I thought ...”

“Excuse me,” Toshinori stammered, standing too quickly to scurry to your bathroom, still alarmingly red. 

You and Aizawa watched him go, while discomfort twisted in your stomach.

“Why?” Aizawa asked, lowly, slowly, like part of him didn’t want you to answer, “Why did you think we were...together?”

The way he said it, muttered the words together, made you realize something else, “You want to be.”

The breath Aizawa sucked in then sounded tortured and harsh and red began to creep across the slight parts of his cheeks still exposed to you. 

Your thoughts were difficult then, because you knew that Toshinori only had a little while left, but you also knew what you had seen. So, with great hesitance and a good deal of struggle, you tried to explain, “I thought...from the beginning...that you two were together.”

Aizawa’s eyebrows twitched, like he realized where that idea might have come from.

“You know what my quirk is,” you said, fiddling with you thumbs, gloves making the movement much less smooth than it would have been otherwise, “and Toshinori-san-”

“I don’t...” Aizawa cut you off, voice gruff with strain, “I don’t want to know.”

“I think you need to.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, so you continued, still stumbling because having your visions, knowing them was one thing, talking of them was something else entirely, “He dies in his sleep, in the early hours of the morning...because of...an old wound to his torso.”

You pause and Aizawa shutters, staring at you with eyes filled with grief he shouldn’t yet feel, and you force yourself onward because this is the easy part to tell, “But Toshinori-san doesn’t die alone.” You look at Aizawa then, making eye contact with him in a way you have scarcely made with anyone for as long as you can remember, “You’re with him, Aizawa-san.”

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If there was one thing all of them had come to know about you in the four months you’d been with them, it was that you hated your quirk; that a part of you feared it. Yamada knew it, and he didn’t like it. 

“You know,” Yamada starts one day, randomly, in the middle of dinner, “Deathwatch could actually be kind of useful, couldn’t it?”

Your entire body, from your toes to your teeth, goes completely rigid, and you shake your head, “Don’t.”

“But couldn’t you use it to save people?” Yamada presses on, ever optimistic and entirely terrible to you right now, “You would know where to be, when to be there, and what kind of emergency it would be; there would be a lot less casualties with that kind of preparation!”

“No,” you snapped, anger a front to a great sadness, “that’s not how it works.”

Yamada’s head cocks to the side, blond hair falling across his forehead as it escapes the bun atop his head, and in a brief moment, all at once, the optimism leaves him. He still presses, though, because that’s who he is, “You tried to save someone.”

Your answering sigh was heavy and shaking, leaving you curled in on yourself, eyes closed, “As a child,” you began, half-whispered, all very tired, “who do you touch most?”

At this point, four months into your new life, you had abandoned any hope of keeping your heroes at a distance; you had particularly abandoned any notion of pushing Yamada’s happy acquaintanceship away. 

His responding, “Oh,” didn’t sound very happy, though.

Like a dam breaking, your tiredness faded, fell away under the kind of anger that ate people alive, and seeing it in you made Yamada want to reach out and hold you, cradle you, but he knew that would only make this worse. 

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” your lips curled, face and eyes dark, bitter rage coloring you entirely, “trying to use Deathwatch to save people-” Yamada shivered, watching you, and your hands pressed meanly into the table, “-just means that you get to watch them die twice; how fucking useful.”

A spiral, long coming, pulled you in then and Yamada, watching and aching, knew without doubt in that moment that these thoughts weren’t new. But he didn’t know what to say, what to do, when he couldn’t touch you, when there was nothing he could say.

“It’s a fucking joke,” you spat, but your voice was thick with tears, “it’s a stupid fucking joke and the universe decided to play it on me. This quirk is something I wouldn’t wish on the worst person alive, not for anything; it’s a nasty fucking curse. Because it should work like that, it should, but of course it doesn’t! Because the death I see is the death you die when I know.”

You start to laugh, and Yamada nearly crumbles at the tears in your eyes, but you’re not done, “What a joke, right? That if I know how you die, everything I do or don’t do to change it just ensures my vision comes true.”

“I...” Yamada starts, feeling like his heart is on the brink of a great collapse inside his chest, “I’m sorry.”

You chuckle, hysteric laughter dying in the back of your throat, swallowed back to rest with the hundreds of ghosts you’d kept in your ribcage all this time, “Everybody’s sorry.” A strange expression quirks your lips, and Yamada can’t read your eyes, and it scares him, “How useful it is.”

For the rest of the evening, he swallows the urge to pull you into him, to offer comfort in the only way he could, if only he could touch you.

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“They really hate their quirk, Sho,” Yamada sighs, eyes downcast, fingers running absentmindedly over his tea mug, “and I... I can’t think of a reason for them not to.”

Aizawa quirks one dark eyebrow at him, face otherwise unmoving, “You, ridiculously optimistic as you are, can’t think of a single reason?”

“They tried to save their family and had to watch them die twice.”

“That does suck,” Aizawa agrees after a moment.

“You should’ve seen their face, Sho; it was terrible.” Yamada sighs and then his demeanor shifts, leaving Aizawa to watch as some realization or another comes over his friend, “They can’t ever be with anyone.”

Aizawa sat up, now suspicious and watching Yamada with carefully narrowed, observant eyes, “What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Yamada’s voice falls flat, and this is all the indication Aizawa needs that this is very, very bad, “a relationship requires physical touch, if not while awake, then while you sleep. But they can’t touch anyone without seeing how they die, and they won’t do that. They’ll never let anyone close enough to even risk touching; they’ll be alone for the rest of their life.” Yamada takes a barely there breath, “And I... I can’t really blame them; I don’t think I could handle knowing how someone I loved died.”

When Yamada looked toward Aizawa again, he was met with the kind of seriousness Aizawa saved for delicate situations where it was needed, a kind of seriousness Aizawa almost never took with him. Aizawa watched him, dark eyes and serious face and serious voice, “When did this start?”

“When did what start?”

“Your feelings for them.”

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“Your...vision,” Aizawa began slowly, calculated in the way he always was, and you looked at him expectantly, “you really saw me there?”

“Yes.”

Aizawa’s breath shuddered in his chest, and you only noticed because you’d trained yourself to notice. You decided not to mention it, instead saying, “My visions are never wrong, and I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“Why are you asking?” You said, standing to go and make tea, a ploy to relax Aizawa by making your attention seem split. 

Even without looking at him, you could feel the glare he sent your way, the way he prickled. Aizawa’s gaze, you’d come to realize, was something entirely too powerful, even without the weight of his quirk. 

“No reason,” he tried, “I was just...thinking about things.”

You hummed, making tea for the two of you, having memorized the way Aizawa takes his, and didn’t say anything. He knew you knew, and that was enough.

Two days later, Aizawa and Toshinori both stood before you, sheepish and beaming, respectively, to tell you thank you. 

You smiled for the rest of the day. 

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“They were almost less insufferable when they were pining,” Yamada whined, though the effect was lost at the fondness in his eyes, “I mean, this is a bit much, being right in front of my tea and everything.”

You snorted, looking from Yamada to Aizawa and Toshinori. Admittedly, it was a bit strange to see such blatant emotion, especially one that could only be described as lovesick, on Aizawa’s face. But it was also, undeniably, wonderful. 

“No,” you murmured, “I’m glad they get this.”

Humming, Yamada turned his head to look up at you, cheek smushed against his arm. You kept your eyes on the couple across from you, slowly lowering your own chin onto your hands. 

“To be honest, I never thought they’d actually do anything.” Yamada sighed, “I figured they would pine for the rest of eternity.”

Huffing a laugh through your nose, you didn’t answer him right away, watching as Aizawa and Toshinori finished their paperwork and stood to leave, the gentle sound of teasing banter and fondness fading with them.

From the doorway, they called, “See you tomorrow.”

Yamada called back to them, and you watched them leave, murmuring softly, so they couldn’t hear you, but Yamada could, “I did this.”

Slowly, Yamada turned back to you, but you kept your eyes on the door as it closed, tears shining on your lash line, “Deathwatch did this.”

“Yeah,” Yamada smiled, a soft one he rarely gave, even though you weren’t looking at him to see it, “you did.”

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You were happy for Aizawa, and Toshinori, really you were. But a large part of you didn’t understand it. How could Aizawa be with Toshinori, how could he let himself have Toshinori, knowing that it would be taken away? That Toshinori would die, long before he would?

It kept you up at night, wondering, running through all it took to know when loved ones were going to die. Aizawa had shouldered that weight willingly and seemed happy to bear it now. It didn’t make sense to you. 

It took Aizawa three days to notice something was bothering you. And he wasn’t the type to beat around the bush, so he asked, “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t sleeping,” Aizawa answered, eyes narrowed at you, “I know the look. And you’re looking at me weirdly. What’s going on?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, looking from Aizawa to the floor, before deciding honesty was best, with him, “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“How you can be with Toshinori,” you said, brows deeply furrowed, hands clenched, “knowing when he’ll die. You only have a couple years; that’s not long.”

“Oh,” Aizawa sat back, sighing, “you’re wondering why I’m not running, like you would.”

Inhaling sharply, you snapped your gaze to him.

“Your quirk is unfortunate,” Aizawa continued, “and I can’t imagine what it’s like to know how everyone you touch dies. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t let myself close to anyone else either. If I knew when Eri died and I could do nothing, I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

He leaned forward with intense eyes and an aura of seriousness, “But it’s different with heroes, with people like me and Toshinori and Yamada.”

“What do you mean?”

“Heroics is a dangerous job,” Aizawa explains, “everyone knows that. But it is also a very uncertain one. Any of us could go on a mission, on a patrol, to a single fight, and not make it out alive. Heroes’ lives are always in danger; survival is never certain.

“Knowing when Toshinori dies, means that I don’t have to spend every day wondering if he’ll come back to me, because I already know when he won’t; I also know that I’ll be there.” Aizawa closed his eyes, breathing deeply, before looking at you again, “That certainty is more than any hero’s partner can ask for.”

“I-” you blinked, sitting back, eyes wide, “I never thought of it that way.”

“You’ve locked yourself in a box,” Aizawa said, “where Deathwatch can do no good; but nothing’s that black and white.”

Your eyes drifted to the ratty yellow blanket thrown over the arm of your couch, and you murmured, “I suppose not.”

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“Can I ask you a question,” Yamada asked, soft and hesitant in a way he wasn’t, “...about your quirk?”

You looked over at him, letting your book rest half closed around your thumb on your lap, “Sure.”

His eyebrows raised, liked he had expected you to say no, before he stumbled, “Do you...?”

Taking a deep breath, he started again, “Do you know how you...?” His question choked off, sudden and vivid distress clear in his eyes, even past the glasses.

So, you asked it for him, “Do I know how I die?”

His inhale was sharp and cracked, but he nodded.

You hummed, looking away from and toward the titled cover of your book. The book had been written in Greek and, for a moment, the letters meant nothing. They stole your focus, your brain running through itself, and you blinked them into meaning.

Reading through the title, again and again, you answered, softly, “I don’t.”

Yamada didn’t say anything back, but you could hear him breathing. 

“I used to think it was odd,” you were practically whispering, “not knowing how I’m going to die. I thought it was cruel, to be tormented but every death but my own; that the least the universe could have done was let me know when this would be over, when I would be free from my curse.” Yamada stopped breathing next to you, strung as tight as wire, which you knew without looking.

“Did you know that people with quirks like mine are almost 94% more likely than any other part of the population to commit suicide before they turn 30?” Somehow, you thought you could hear the sound of something breaking in the air, before you realized that you’d heard Yamada. “It wasn’t hard for that statistic to make sense to me, but after I learned it, part of me realized why I couldn’t see my own death. The timelines leading up to suicides are messy. The two that I’ve seen were both... different, than the others. I saw more than one death for them both; one where they went through with it and one where they didn’t.”

You finally looked back at Yamada, meeting his sad eyes with your own, “I cannot see my own death because I can choose to take my life.”

Yamada jerked, like a puppet on a string, and opened his mouth to say something, though you could already see the plea of a hero in his eyes, but you spoke first, “It had never occurred to me before I read that statistic because taking my own life had never been an option in my mind.”

All at once Yamada relaxed, like a building settling back into place, and you, because you had been around him long enough to know when he wanted contact, slowly hooked his ankle with yours. Again, his eyebrows shot up and his eyes locked on the place where the two of you touched, his neon socks against your own dull ones.

“Death isn’t something we’re meant to control,” you said, opening your book back up in your lap, eyes drifting back to Greek letters, though this time they had meaning without you giving it, “I learned that well enough trying to change fates that cannot be changed. I never thought of myself as an exception to that, no matter how tired I became.”

Yamada hummed, softly, and reached his other leg over so that yours was wrapped up in both of his, and he murmured, “Read to me?”

“It’s in Greek.”

“I don’t care.”

For a moment, you kept my eyes on him, before you looked back to your open book and resumed reading. Aloud this time.

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When you opened the door to find Midnight waiting for you, your guard immediately raised, “Where’s Yamada?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be so disappointed to see me, baby,” she purred, teasing.

You didn’t laugh, “I mean it.”

Her face sobered and she sighed, “They got caught up in a situation downtown.”

“All of them?”

“Eraserhead and Present Mic, yeah.” 

“What kind of situation?”

Midnight sighed again, and though her mouth was still curved teasingly, you could see something hard and weary in the lines of her eyes, “Building collapse.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “Then why’s Yamada there? His quirk would be the opposite of helpful for search and rescue in unstable debris.”

Midnight’s posture tightened, and you watched as the aura heroes wore like cloaks came down around her, “Hizashi was...there...when the building collapsed.”

“Oh...” you drew back, making yourself small in a way that made you feel most comfortable, “well...okay.”

Midnight said your name, but you had already stepped aside, gesturing her inside after you. She didn’t question it when you sat, grabbing a book and settling into your chair, the same way you always did. Despite her silence, you could feel that she wanted to say more, had expected more from you.

After a while, Midnight began, somewhat hesitantly, hopefully, “You don’t seem worried...does that mean that he...” she cut off, taking a deep breath, and you remembered that Yamada was one of her closest friends.

So, you cut her off before she could finish, “I’ve never touched Present Mic.”

She deflated and fell into silence again. 

“How bad was the collapse?”

“Whole building, about 15 stories.”

You licked your lips, staring at the floor, “Was he...was he in the building?”

Nemuri shook her head a little, “Shouldn’t have been; he walks past it on the way back from patrol.”

“Okay.”

Slowly, you walked into the kitchen, beginning to make tea as a reflex before you realized you couldn’t drink it. So, you offered it to Nemuri and retreated to your room.

For the first time in a long time, your home was silent.

And for the first time in your life, that silence was not a comfort; you thought it felt an awful lot like a noose, instead. 

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You didn’t sleep the night Yamada was gone. Nemuri paced in the living room, filling the terrible silence with gentle steps and the vague sounds of a news channel. It wasn’t enough. Silence still pressed down on you like the sky upon Atlas. 

When dawn began to approach and pale, grey light began to file through the slots of your blinds, heavy knocks sounded from your apartment door. Nemuri flung the door open so harshly that it thudded against the wall.

Immediately, you identified Aizawa’s voice, muffled but steady, the way it always was, and Nemuri’s, high pitched and strange, gravelly after a night of quiet. You creep out of your room, hovering in the shadows to listen, heart racing uncomfortably in your chest. 

When you press your hand to the wall, you realize you’re shaking. 

“Hizashi’s alright, just a few minor lacerations and a mild concussion.” Aizawa reassures Nemuri. He continues talking, but you can’t hear it over the rushing in your ears. Trembling, you collapse gently against the wall, leaning into it with your eyes squeezed shut. 

It feels as if you take a breath for the first time since Nemuri arrived. 

You do not think about this.

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When Yamada returns, completely free of even the remnants of injuries, you cannot look at him. Despite this, he acts the same: happy and calm and comfortable, with his ridiculous grin flashing constantly in the corners of your vision. 

He acts like his death wasn’t a quite tangible thing, just a slight step behind him, just a couple days ago. 

At some point through the evening, Yamada’s smiles get smaller and smaller, flashing less often, until he finally asks you, “Is something wrong?”

Your back tenses, but you hum and shake your head, “No.”

“Really?” he asks and the agitation in his voice surprises you, “Because you haven’t looked at me once since I got here.”

Slowly, so very, very slowly, you force your eyes to him. And just as you’d feared, the sight of him was enough to send your eyes flitting over every inch of him, a lump beginning to collect in the back of your throat. 

You didn’t notice, but your eyes must have watered, because Yamada was immediately on his feet with wide eyes, coming to kneel in front of you, placing a careful hand on your clothed knee. 

“Hey, hey,” his voice is unbearably soft, and you have to close your eyes, “come on, talk to me.”

You shake your head again, pouting like a child, and trying desperately not to cry. 

The pressure from Yamada’s fingertips increases, his hold on your knee tightening, and he speaks, somehow even softer than before, “Do you want to get one of the others?”

Your breath whistles through your teeth slightly, but you manage to whisper, “Ai-Aizawa.”

Yamada’s hand falls from you knee and you hear his sharp inhale, but you miss the hurt that takes over his face as he whispers, “Alright.”

Twenty minutes late, Aizawa is sitting across from you, grumpy and tired as always. He doesn’t say anything for a long while and you know him well enough to know that he’ll make you start this conversation, so you murmur an inadequate, “Hello.”

“Don’t ‘hello’ me,” Aizawa says, “Hizashi said you were going to cry.”

Your eyes burn and your hands shake, and it surprises you how weak your voice is when you speak, “I...I don’t know why.”

“Yes, you do.”

Inhaling sharply, you shake your head, “What?”

“You were scared, “Aizawa begins, settling that much too heavy gaze on you, “when you weren’t sure whether he was alive or not.”

The burning in your eyes capsizes and spills over as tears while you choke, “I don’t-” your own breathing cuts you off with how jagged it’s become, “I’ve ne-never felt like that be-before.”

“It’s just fear.”

You shake your head, “N-no,” your hand curls into your chest, shaking still, “it was like-like I cou-couldn’t bre-breathe.”

“Yeah,” Aizawa says, ever calm, “that’s fear.”

“Well, it sucks!”

“That it does.”

For the next few moments, you chase your breath, attempting to get it under control, before you look at Aizawa with solemn eyes, “Is this...is this what you feel all the time? In the field?”

His answer is as solemn as your eyes, “Always.”

“How do you do this?” your voice is pitching weirdly, but you can’t stop it, “This sucks.”

“I imagine this is hitting you much harder than most people.”

“What?”

“For most of us, we spend out entire lives-” Aizawa leans forward, eyes heavy with truth, “-not knowing whether the people we care about will come back to us.”

A bitter, bitter laugh bubbles past your lips, wet and sarcastic and an awful lot like a sob, “So, these are the choices?” your voice is pitching low, angry and so, so bitter; it’s like you’ve become something acidic, hollow and sour, “Constantly living in fear or being tormented by ghosts?”

By the time you finish, your voice is no longer angry, but rather very profoundly sad. 

“In many ways,” Aizawa begins, and his voice is oddly pensive, even for him, and somewhat wistful, in the way people get over things they’ve learned to except, “death is the one thing that torments us all.”

For whatever reason, his words feel a lot like a punch to the gut, or a knife scraping down the vertebrae of your spine. It is, in many ways, very uncomfortable. In others, however, it begins to feel a lot like waking up. 

Slowly, but with a certainty you haven’t felt since you were a child, small and cradled in the hands of your mother, you extend a hand to Aizawa.

Just as slowly, he reaches out and takes it.

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Once all is said and done, Aizawa comments on your eyes, your dead eyes, when your quirk activates. He does not ask how he dies. You do not tell him. 

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The next day, during lunch, you pull Nemuri aside, into a classroom that’s empty, and, just as you had with Aizawa, you reach out to her, skin bare.

She takes longer to reach back, and she cannot look at you after.

You do not regret it.

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By the time Nemuri approaches you again, another day has passed. She looks at you, something odd in her eyes, and says, “I didn’t realize that your quirk...”

She trails off, looking at you, and she swallows something very thick in her throat, “I’ve seen too many eyes like that; I didn’t like seeing them in you.”

You hum, “I suppose no one would.” A small smile twists your lips, and there’s something ironic to it, like you know a joke no one else does, “Someone once told me that I had the eyes of death. I’ve never seen them, but I can imagine it’s nothing pleasant to see.”

“Why the sudden desire to touch?” Nemuri’s voice is imploring, but hesitant, and it strikes you how used to seeing her flirtatiousness stripped away you’ve become, “You were adamant about avoiding it just a few days ago.”

Your shoulders shift and your eye drift to the window, tracking listless clouds across a sky that’s beginning to gray with winter, and you say something you never have, “I’ve spent my life tormented by the ghosts of people I do not know, of people I’ve only seen once.” Your smile is wry, “I’ve spent quite a long time being tormented by the ghosts of people who are still alive.”

There’s an air about you, a calmness, that has silence settling when you don’t speak, “And I’ve spent even longer tormented by the deaths that I couldn’t stop or change, no matter how much I loved them.” When your eyes flick up, across the window and across the sky, Nemuri is surprised to note they’re dry, “I spent so long afraid of collecting more ghosts that I forgot they’re people, too.”

Finally, you turn, pale sky casting over your face, as if casting you in marble, and look to Nemuri, and beyond her, to Aizawa and Yamada, hovering by the door. And, like it is very simple, you tell them, “I am tired of ghosts, but I am ready for people.”

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It takes you three days.

Three whole days, to finally approach Yamada, holding out a cup of tea, the same way he always takes it, and your hand. He takes the tea and puts it aside, carefully on a coaster. 

And then, Hizashi takes your hand like he is grabbing something lost, and fragile, and important. And, unlike the others, Hizashi does not look away from you, or your eyes, until they have cleared of death and filled with tears. 

And, for the first time, Hizashi finally, finally, pulls you into his chest, cheek mushed against your shoulder and fingers in your hair. 

You cry, for a long while, because you love him.

Even choking on it, on all the things you’ve long felt and denied, it is hard to believe, but you do.

You do not know how to say such things.

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Over the next four months, you learn a lot of things, about yourself and others.

Hizashi is colorblind and despises the color purple in spite of it.

Nemuri is asexual and a lesbian, and smiles very, very small whenever she wants to cry. 

Aizawa is, perhaps, the most anxious man you have ever met, and spends much of his time fussing: over cats, children, friends, and Toshinori, who bears it with a grin and a blush that tells you it is not a burden at all. 

Toshinori, despite everything, is scared of dying, and regrets much of what his legacy has left in the hands of children who should not have to carry it yet. 

You, after a lifetime of hidden skin and statistics on avoidance, adore hugs, and holding hands, and spend much of your time now leaning against and tangled with your friends. 

After four months, you think, you have finally remembered what it is like not to think in terms of ghosts. 

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You still do not know how to say I love you, but you don’t think of it often. Instead, you spend every Friday night sitting in a radio production booth, listening to Hizashi’s show while he grins at you.

Your apartment fills with Hizashi’s presence, from the coaster’s dedicated to his favorite show to the ratty yellow blanket he had adamantly insisted you never throw away. His favorite candles littered your tables and his teaching notes often sat in your kitchen, always near some now-empty mug of tea. 

You aren’t sure if Hizashi notices these things, but they’re enough for you, for now. 

As always, on Tuesdays, all of you, your heroes and you, gather in your living room and sit around your table, playing terrible games and talking and eating. It is habit to sit Hizashi’s heater next to him, and he does not blink at this, but Aizawa does, something smug in the set of his mouth. 

You’ve grown to adore these Tuesdays, of having a home full of people, and lacking the breathless existence of ghosts. 

But, every Wednesday, without fail, Hizashi arrives at your place, after most reasonable people are asleep, carrying mix tapes and cinnamon buns and books, and you’ll spend the night tangled with him far more than is necessary, listening to music and reading aloud to each other until you inevitably fall asleep, together, tangled on a couch that shouldn’t be as comfortable as it has become. 

You grow so used to him that you start to believe his smile is what makes this place your home. 

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Exactly a year after you met him, you tell Hizashi you love him, and you say it first in every language you can that he does not know: Korean, Cantonese, Thai, French, Spanish, Italian, Latin, Greek, and on and on you go until there are only two ways left you can say I love you.

In English first, “I love you.” And then in Japanese, which bears the weight of every language you’ve said it in before, and somehow means much, much more than any of the others, because this is the language you and Hizashi will always share, have always shared, “I love you.”

Hizashi’s face splits into a grin so brilliantly bright that you suddenly think you will never be able to settle for anything less than this again, and his eyes well with tears that quickly fall to streak across his cheeks. 

Quickly and without hesitation, you wipe the tears from his cheeks, and he falls into you, crying, and repeating, again and again, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Love is not something you’d seen for yourself. In any version of your life, imagined by yourself or theorized by others, love has never been a part of it.

In this moment, curled around Hizashi, playing with his fingers while he traces your face with a touch that is gentler than anything you had ever known, you cannot imagine that life. There is not an existence for you, in any universe, down any path, where you can imagine not loving Yamada Hizashi.

Belatedly, you realize that your own eyes have filled with tears. Hizashi, as gentle as only he can be, rests his thumbs beneath your eyes, and smiles at you.

You were wrong, a moment ago, every smile of his is something bright and marvelous, no matter how small. 

Raising your own hands, you mimic his hold, resting your thumbs beneath his eyes, and you lean forward until your forehead is touching his, and you whisper, softly, a confession, “You were my first person.”

Hizashi’s smile is not on his face, then, but in his eyes, and he shifts to press his lips against the corner of yours, and you know that he understands.

You press your own lips to corner of his, and stay there, breathing with him, for a very long time. 

#present mic #present mic x reader #bnha fic #yamada hizashi #yamada hizashi x reader #no smut #mentions of death #mentions of tortue #self-hate #apparently ive decided to do things on this site now #the number of fics i have planned and havent done anything with is honestly sinful #this shit hit 2k before they even met #suicide mention

[typingtess]

NCIS: Los Angeles Season 13 Rewatch:  “Down the Rabbit Hole”

The basics:  Katya kidnaps Callen and the team is on the case.

Written and directed by Frank Military.  Military wrote "Little Angels", "Deliverance", "Lockup", "The Job", "Greed", "Betrayal", "Crimeleon", "Vengeance", "Out of the Past" Part One, "Rude Awakenings" Part Two, season four’s finale "Descent", season five’s premiere "Ascension", "Allegiance", "Spoils of War" (directed by Military), "Black Budget", "SEAL Hunter", "Rage" (directed by Military), "Unspoken", "Unlocked Mind", "Revenge Deferred", "The Seventh Child" (directed by Military), "Crazy Train", "Uncaged" (directed by Military), "The Silo", "Monster", "Line in the Sand" (directed by Military), season ten opener "To Live and Die in Mexico" (directed by Military), "The Patton Project", "Better Angels", "False Flag" (the season 10 finale), "A Bloody Brilliant Plan", "Code of Conduct" (season 11 finale, directed by Military) and "Raising the Dead", "Through the Looking Glass" and "Indentured".  Military directed one episode he did not write, season 11’s holiday episode "Answers".  He also appeared as Donald Kessler in "Raising the Dead" and several other episodes in photos.

Guest stars of note: Bar Paly as Anastasia "Anna" Kolcheck and Beckett Gunderson as Young Callen are both back from "Genesis" in April.  Elizabeth Bogush is back from “Subject 17” as Joelle Taylor.  Sasha Clements as Katya Miranova, Karolina Szymczak as Vavara/Female Fire Captain, Andrei Dolezal as Young Pembrook and Jamil Akim O’Quinn as Detective Michael McNeil.

Our heroes: Rid themselves of Katya with some Joelle help.

What important things did we learn about:

Callen:  Kidnapped. Sam:   Greatest partner in the world. Kensi:  Working with Rountree. Deeks:  In Guatemala. Fatima:  Using Kaleidoscope the whole episode. Rountree:  Working with Kensi. Kilbride:  Figures out the best course of action is to start in the past.

What not so important things did we learn about:

Callen:  Loves Anna. Sam:   Loves Callen. Kensi:  Not deep faked. Deeks:  Absent. Fatima:   In the office the entire episode. Rountree:  Always checking for bombs now. Kilbride:  Not particularly ranty today.

Where in the world is Henrietta Lange?  Gets a mention from Katya.

Who's down with OTP:   In the episode, nothing.  In the short deleted scene, Kensi is worried about Deeks being gone.

Who's down with BrOTP:  Callen code phrase to Sam is “greatest partner in the world” while Sam’s is “I love you”.  You don’t get much more BrOTP than that.

Fashion review:  Callen is wearing a peacock blue button-down shirt.  Sam is wearing a brick red long-sleeve tee.  Kensi is back in the white and blue striped long-sleeve tee (a lot of use for that top at the end of this season).  Fatima is wearing a green-grey sweater over a darker green turtleneck.  Rountree is wearing a pink-tee shirt under a blue-green jacket.  A dark blue three-piece suit with a pale blue shirt and blue tie.

Music:  None.

Any notable cut scene:   In the firing range, Kensi and Rountree are set up and shooting.  When Kensi finishes her practice session, Rountree asks about Deeks coming come the next day.  Kensi says “Can’t wait,” but sounds sad.  Rountree asks if Kensi is OK.  Kensi says sure, her husband is down in Guatemala with no badge, authority or gun.  Rountree thought Deeks was down there gathering paperwork.  He is but there was more than just the paperwork.

Rosa’s father didn’t abandon the family, he was murdered by MS-13.  He was a journalist who wrote about the gangs and was killed for it.  That helps Rosa’s asylum request/Kensi and Deeks’s adoption plans since it proves Rosa was fleeing to the US for her own safety.  All true, Kensi tells Rountree but Deeks has to gather witness statements, police reports.  Rountree reassures Kensi that Deeks will be home tomorrow.

Fatima enters the firing range with a situation – Katya made contact.  She is sending them to meet with Sam.

Quote:  "Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world.”

Anything else:  An impatient Callen is sitting in traffic.  There are accidents in both directions on the highway.  Fatima calls to set up a shared call with Sam.  Callen greets Sam with a compliment – “Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world.”  Sam replies that “someone took a happy pill.”  Everyone laughs as Fatima tells both men that Marshall Davis is back and the weapons deal planned for next month is going down today.  Davis was arriving in LA today and wanted to meet with a Stewart Grimes at 9:30AM in Davis’s office to work out the details.  NCIS has been staking out Davis’s office for a month – they need to be ready to roll.

Pulling out of traffic and onto a side street, Callen parks his car and opens the trunk.  In his go-bag are several phones.  When Sam answers, Callen repeats the “Sam Hanna, greatest partner in the world” statement.  Sam tells Callen he loves him.  The conversation was code.  Checking with Sam, Callen learns that he wasn’t on the phone minutes ago.  Sam is surprised the deep fake call was with two people.  “That’s got to be Katya.”  Whatever Katya has planned, it is starting now. Callen half-jokes that Sam saying I love you saved him.  Sam is going to talk to Fatima about putting their comms on a closed, encrypted loop (shouldn’t they be that way already?).  

“It gets worse,” Callen tells Sam.  Katya used their case against Marshall Davis to lure Callen in.  That has Sam worried – Katya is in their casefiles.  Since this case has been going on for months, Katya has been staking them out for a while.  Thinking that going to where Katya tried to lure Callen with a team could end their Katya issues.  Callen and Sam set up a location near Davis’s office to meet.

As Callen drives to the location, an ambulance and a LA Fire Department SUV are going the wrong way down Callen’s one-way street.   Callen tries back out of the street but a firetruck is right behind him.  Out of his car and waving his badge, Callen asks one of the firefighters to make a little room so he can get through the street.  The firefighter has a weapon in her hand.  She hits Callen with some sort of tranquilizer dart.  A firefighter behind Callen has a taser.  Callen is down for the count.  Just to make sure, the dart shooting firefighter punches Callen in the face.  The ambulance opens up and a gurney comes out.  

As Sam pulls up in the location where he and Callen were supposed to meet, he pulls out his phone and calls Callen.  Right to voicemail.  Tapping his comms, Sam is connected to Fatima, who tells him that Kensi and Rountree are five minutes out.  Sam tells Fatima that Callen isn’t where they were supposed to meet and he was much closer when they spoke.  Fatima looks at her tablet – Callen’s comm went offline five minutes ago.  

Four women carry Callen into yet another shipping container.  Callen is strapped into a chair.  The walls are covered with soundproofing material.  As the doors are locked, Callen starts coming.  There is a big screen TV and Callen is on the TV.  He knows it is Katya.  Screen-Callen talks about the old TV show This Is Your Life.  Katya considers what’s happening now as This is the End of Your Life.  

When Kensi and Rountree arrive, Sam updates them.  Fatima has video of Callen eight blocks from the meet site, leaving his car and going to the stakeout.  

Back in the shipping crate, Screen-Callen is yammering on about becoming obsessed moving on to it being almost sexual.  Real Callen wants to know how Katya knew about their case.  There is no case – Katya set it all up and the team came buzzing “like good little bees to service your queen.”  As the team staked out the office, Katya was able to put trackers on everyone’s cars, listening to their conversations, getting details of everyone’s lives.  Katya knows that Callen has been meeting with “that one-legged bitch” – Joelle.

Turning her attention to Anna, Katya asks Callen if he thinks it is strange that the two of them love the same woman.  “We” had sex with the same woman.  Callen wants to know who is “we” since all he sees is someone like a 14-year old wannabe hacker playing online practical jokes while hiding in their bedroom.  Pulling off whatever made her look like Callen, the real Katya is on the screen with a lot of pricey computer equipment behind her. She’s not hiding from Callen.  

Since the moment he took Anna from her, all Katya wanted to do was meet Callen,  Again, Katya feels he took the most important thing in the world to her.  Callen disagrees – he knows what the most important thing in the world is to Katya.  Katya insists it was Anna, her last chance at happiness.  Thinking Katya can’t live with happiness, all she has is hate and revenge.  And they share that because both want to see Howard Pembrook dead.

Calling into Ops, Kensi wants Fatima to contact Anna, see if Callen has spoken to her.  Fatima is reviewing security cameras in the area and traffic cams.  The Admiral joins Fatima in Ops.  Looking at the blocks around the fake office for Marshall Davis, Fatima can’t a trace of Callen in the neighborhood.   Sam asks her to check out the office there were using for stakeouts – there was a camera there.  Two clicks and Fatima see the power has been cut to the office.  Saying that something is “profoundly wrong”, the Admiral is sending in the REACT Team to the office.  While the team drives to the office, the Admiral asks about Deeks, who is in Guatemala working on the adoption paperwork.  The Admiral isn’t pleased but he’s not angry either.  

Not long after Sam, Kensi and Deeks arrive at the office building, the REACT Team shows up.   Setting an outside perimeter around the office, Sam, Kensi, Rountree and the REACT Team go into the office building to their stakeout location.  In the office, the NCIS chairs, computers and telescopes are there.  The office for Marshall Davis, however, now sits empty.  One of the REACT Team members gets the power back to the office.

With the power returning, Fatima is able to download what was last on the security video.  Putting it up on the computer screen in the office, there is soundless video of Callen walking into the office followed by five women wearing ski masks.  The women circle Callen as fourth of them start beating the living hell out of him.  The fifth woman looks at the camera and takes off her ski mask – it is Katya.

Knowing that nobody but NCIS is in the office, Sam wants to check the security cameras in and around the building to see how Callen was brought in and taken out.  Of course the cameras outside were disabled.  Sam saw a new photo of Katya that Callen got from Joelle.  The Admiral will have Joelle picked up and brought in.  As Kensi and Rountree search every inch of the office for a clue, Sam is on his way to the boatshed.

In the shipping crate, Katya tells Callen that Pembrook has been dead for 25-years.  Callen disagrees, even says he spoke to him.  Katya wants a name but Callen won’t share unless they meet face-to-face.  Katya leaves the fake female firefighter to watch Callen.  When Callen asks who his new babysitter is, she replies “I’m the one who made your face not so pretty.”  Katya enters in the shipping crate with a warning, Callen is playing with fire if he lies about Pembrook.  And by playing with fire, she means burning Callen to death if this is a trick.  Callen makes a joke and gets punched twice in the face.  Saying that they were trained by the same person, Callen knows whatever Katya is feeling, he’s already felt.  

When Katya moves in close to Callen, it causes a flashback.  Pembrook is hammering Callen’s fingers, telling him not to cry.  Pembrook tells Callen not to feel because feelings cause pain.   She wants to know what he is thinking now.  Callen recognizes she’s wearing Pembrook’s cologne – Shulton Pierre Cardin.  Callen asks where she found it.  Admitting it took a while, she wears it every day now, she got so use to it so she doesn’t smell it anymore.  Callen says “feeling cause pain.”  

In interrogation, Sam can’t believe Joelle doesn’t know anything about Katya.  Joelle says she’s telling the truth but an arriving Kilbride tells her she’s not.  Her ex-colleagues at the CIA have been feeding Joelle info on Katya.   Saying that the search for Katya was killing her, the CIA had Joelle speak to “some really good people.”  Joelle is fighting very hard to put all this behind her.

On comms, Fatima interrupts.  She has something to show Sam and the Admiral.  In the main section of the boatshed, Fatima found a van with no windows.  It was stolen two days ago.  There is a BOLO with LAPD to find the van and Kaleidoscope is looking too.  Fatima has some bad news – Anna isn’t answering NCIS’s calls.  Fatima got Arkady to call – they have a secret code too – and Anna is not answering to that.  

Alone, the Admiral tells Sam he’s going to kick Joelle free – see where she goes and what she does.  Sam is going to put a tracker on Joelle’s car.  As Sam is about to leave, the Admiral mentions Sam losing Michelle in a situation like this.  “We’re going to get your partner back,” the Admiral says.  “Yes, of course,” Sam says without his usual enthusiasm.

In the shipping container, Callen is trying to make a deal.  Both he and Katya could find Pembrook together.  Katya knows he’s working an angle.  He’d never work with her, never let her walk away.  “The things I’ve done can’t be excused.”  Callen says if he finds Pembrook, Katya knows what he’ll do, which means he will have blood on his hands.  They will put the gun in Pembrook’s mouth and pull the trigger together.  Callen won’t only let her walk away, he’ll help her start over.  That way, they both will be fixed.  Katya says she can’t be fixed.  She still wants to hurt Callen for taking Anna away from her.  She’ll find Pembrook.  Katya leaves.

Arriving where Fatima found the van, Sam sees Kensi picking the lock while Rountree checks for explosives.  No explosives so Kensi opens the door.  A camera is looking that the three of them while deep fake Callen and Sam are on the TV screen behind the camera set-up.  Fake Callen and Sam are looking for Deeks and Fatima, who fake Callen thinks is sexy.  Real Sam asks Fatima to check for a video signal going to van.  Fake Callen tells her not to bother, the team just fell down the rabbit hole and there is no signal there.

In Ops, Fatima can’t trace the signal.  They can’t trust anything going forward.  A beep from Fatima’s tablet has Joelle stopping at a different office location.  Sam is on his way while Kensi and Rountree check out the van to see what they can find.  

With a change in the screen in the shipping container, Callen sees a badly beaten Anna strapped to a chair.  He calls to her but she can’t hear him.  Instead, Katya is talking about how much she loves Anna.  Beaten and handcuffed, Anna is not feeling the love.  While Anna says they were only together a short time while they were in prison, Katya announces it was the happiest time in her life.  She thinks Anna keeps going on-and-off again with Callen because she is still in love with Katya.  Callen can see Anna playing her.  Anna admits she has a hard time with her bisexuality but she loved their time together.  Katya asks if Anna still loves her.  Anna admits still thinking of her.

Walking into the office building, Sam learns from Fatima that Joelle is on the fourth floor.  Fatima has video of Joelle entering the office.  Sam knocks, saying he’s coming in one way or another.  An annoyed Joelle answers, asking how he found her.  She pulled the two trackers off her car.  Sam put four on the car.  Looking around the office, Sam asks how long has she and Callen had this “side hustle”.  It is two months.  Sam wants to know why Joelle is keeping secrets.  He knows Callen is in a seriously bad place.  Joelle tells him they were tracking Katya and Pembrook.  Since the law can “get in the way of a really good time”, they were working without NCIS.  

Following credit cards, they found Katya renting vehicles, from the vehicles, they were able to trace her movements with traffic cameras.  Katya swaps out vehicles every day or two.  Looking at the businesses where Katya was parking, Joelle found a shipping container rental property.  Since both Joelle and Anna were held in a container, Cargo Blue Inc. is a place to start.  

When Rountree comes up with nothing in the van, Kensi says she didn’t expect them anything.  Katya is too smart and too well trained to leave anything behind.  Since everything they found was a deep fake, Rountree realizes the beating of Callen was likely as fake as this van being used in Katya’s plan.  They are moving forward on Katya’s planted clues.  The Admiral agrees, they should go back in time to trace what Katya did, not wait for her to send them on another wild goose chase.  They have to find something they know it is real.  If they can find something from a camera they know is really, the team will use that as a starting point.

On the screen, Anna is told Callen is in other shipping container.  Katya turns on Callen’s camera but not the audio – Katya doesn’t want Anna to hear him.  Anna thinks it is a deep fake but Katya shows her a photo of Callen’s chest with the bullet holes.  If Anna will leave the country with Katya, Katya will tell NCIS where to find Callen.  Asking for a month, alone together, Anna could leave Katya after that if she’s unhappy.  Katya wants to know if it is real.  Anna agrees to go.  The two kiss.

Knowing that Anna would say anything to save Callen, Katya thought she’d feel better if she heard Anna say she’d leave.  Instead, Katya feels like a prostitute.  Anna says Katya is wrong but Katya asks for a gun.  With Callen yelling “don’t shoot her,” Katya does just that.  Covered in Anna’s blood, Katya tells the camera that shooting Anna felt real and good.

After tracking Callen from the time he got the deep fake call, Fatima found the fire truck/ambulance blocking Callen in but nothing after that.  A call to the 9-1-1 operators said there were not fires in that area.  The Admiral wants Kensi and Rountree to check out the area.  “Someone must’ve seen what happened to Callen.”  

Using security cameras, Joelle has Katya coming out of the Cargo Blue offices wearing a wig.  Cargo Blue’s offices are half-way between the Port of Long Beach and the Port of Los Angeles.  With the shipping issues, there are tens-of-thousands of shipping containers just sitting around in the ports.  Good place to hide Callen, terrible place to look for him – he’s a needle in a haystack.

At her workstation in Ops, Fatima gets a call from Anna.  Worried that it is a deep fake, Fatima is going to use their codes.   When Fatima says it is a beautiful day in the neighborhood, Anna answers that Mr. Rogers was the man.  It was the code.  Anna was on a run in Topanga.  The Admiral can’t quite abide by a three-and-a-half hour run but Anna says she is training for a marathon.  Anna is brought up to speed and asks if Callen is alive.  The Admiral doesn’t know.  She’s coming into the office.

At the place where Callen was grabbed, witnesses confirm to Kensi and Rountree that Callen collapsed and was put into an ambulance.  They thought the fire truck and ambulance was there for Callen as part of medical emergency.  Fatima is able to track the movements of the ambulances while Joelle gets the code numbers for the shipping containers.  Fatima watches the ambulance go into the alley and a white van exit the other side.  Rountree is worried they switched  vehicles again.  Joelle sees a white van outside of the Port of Long Beach with the same plates.  Sam realizes they either got very lucky or Katya planned this.  The Admiral wants to follow up this lead with the whole team and the REACT guys.  While Sam leaves, Joelle keeps the video running and sees a smallish sedan pick up the people from the van.  Blowing up the license plate on her computer screen, Joelle can track it.

When Anna arrives at the Port of Long Beach, Kensi promises her they will find Callen.  Sam is right behind Anna.  Joelle heard from the Port Authority with the location of one of the shipping crates.  Sam leads the way.   The Port Authority police are waiting for Sam, Kensi and Rountree outside of the shipping container.  Anna is there too.  Rountree checks for bombs while Kensi picks the lock.  Though Kensi is worried they are doing Katya’s bidding by opening the shipping container, Sam doesn’t think they have any choice.  

Opening the container, Callen is on a big screen with Katya.  Callen is happy to see Anna alive.  Katya thinks it is going to be so much fun to make everyone watch.  Sam tries to talk to Katya but is ordered to shut up.  Callen gets punched in the face for no real reason.  With a bucket between Callen’s legs, Katya picks up a canister with potassium cyanide pellets.  When she puts them in the bucket, they’ll dissolve and kill Callen with cyanide gas.  Dropping the pellets into the bucket, Katya leaves while Callen starts to choke to death on the poison gas.

Sam does not believe a minute of it.  Anna does.  Pulling Anna away from the screen, Sam tells her not to believe it.  Katya wants Anna and to do that, she has to keep Callen alive.  In his shipping container, Callen is very much alive and is encouraging Anna to believe Sam.  Sam tells Rountree to kill the video feed.  Rountree does.

When Katya arrives at the shipping container, Callen tells her the team didn’t believe her cyanide act.  Katya thinks they looked worried.  Promising to take everything from Callen, she brings a few of her flunkies with big cases into the container.  Since the Pembrook training made them feel nothing, she knows they both really want to die.  But to cause Callen real pain, his real family is not the sister he barely sees but Sam, Hetty, Kensi and Deeks  who all mean everything to him.  Seeing them killed in an explosion trying to save him is the new plan.  Thinking he’s dying they’ll rush into the container which  Katya’s flunkies are wiring it to blow up.  With a camera outside of the crate, Callen can watch the team die.

From Ops, Fatima found footage of the van stopping off at a private shipping container company before it was parked outside the port.  Callen is likely there.  Fatima sends the address and the team is on their way.  At the private facility with the REACT Team, they are looking for the container numbers Joelle sent them.

In a car with the chief flunky, Katya admits that killing Callen gives her as much pleasure as drinking a glass of water though she honestly thought it would make her feel better.  Callen is one of the few people who knew how dead she feels inside.  The flunky wants Katya to go – it’s all over.  Katya is there to hear the final explosion.

Running through the huge crates, Anna found one.  The team is on their way but Anna is in the back of the facility.  Anna is trying to open it but Callen is screaming for her not to open it.  Thinking he’s inside, Anna tries to shoot the lock off the door.  Callen yells for her to stop shooting.  She fires her gun again.

Someone is walking with a gun.  Katya tells the flunky she thought the bomb would have gone off by now.  Katya wants to go back in but the flunky is worried about the NCIS agents all over the facility.  Katya gasps.  Joelle is in front of the car.  She executes the flunky.  Just before being killed, Katya says “thank God” before taking one to the neck and one to the brain.  

Just as Anna is about to open the container door, Sam stops her. He checks for a bomb and finds one.  Opening the door just a bit, Sam sees the bomb.  Callen tells him not to open the door.  Telling Callen to sit tight, Sam wants his bomb kit.  Sam orders Anna to leave but she’s not going anywhere. Rountree runs up with the bomb kit.  Sam orders him away and Rountree listens.

Working diligently in a very small space, Sam is going to open the door without defusing the bomb.  Sam is able to get himself and Anna into the container.  Sam is able to deactivate the bomb’s triggers, defusing the bomb.  Callen and Anna hug as Sam tells them “you’re welcome.”

The Long Beach police bring Callen to Katya’s vehicle.  Dead Katya, dead flunky.  Callen confirms it is Katya – they have a positive ID.  He doesn’t know the name of the flunky.  The officer asks Callen who would do something like that.  Callen lies – “I haven’t a clue.”

Walking away, Callen and Anna share I love you’s.

What head canon can be formed from here:   While he was likely selling the idea of teaming up with Katya to kill Pembrook and letting her start a new life to keep himself alive long enough for the team to find him, Callen did the same thing with Joelle killing Katya and the flunky.

The Noble Maidens are all in on shipping containers.  Starting with Anna wanting to send Kirkin back to Russia in one, going to Joelle and Anna being held in one and Callen here, Trained Russian female spies may be the real reason for shipping container shortage.

Shulton Pierre Cardin cologne is available online for $25.00.  Not sure why Katya had to try too hard to track it down.  Amazon has it.

The program has spelled Pembrook about six different ways in the closed-captioning.

Episode number:   This is episode 21 of season 13 and the 301st episode overall.

#NCIS: Los Angeles Rewatch #NCIS: Los Angeles #NCIS: LA #NCIS Los Angeles #ncis la

[butchjesus]

evil scientists (gay)

[image ID: two sketches of faraday (she/her), a younger tall buff woman with short hair in a turtleneck, apron, toolbelt, and welder's mask; and dr. disaster / dr. diesley (they/them), an older tall and pudgy person with long unkempt hair in a mullet dressed in a bowtie, lab coat, apron, and safety goggles up on their head. in the first, the doctor leans on a table looking at a small creature blazing with a rainbow flame and says, "ah! how pretty." faraday replies, "it's on fire, doc." diesley: "quite right!" faraday: "...I'll get the extinguisher." in the second sketch, faraday stans behind a seated diesley, who is blissful and calm despite their head being on fire. faraday roasts a marshmallow in the flame. end ID]

#art #memes #silly #requests #prompts #sketches #doodles #so dating sim #dr. diesley #dr. disaster #faraday #be gay do science crimes #asks

[xasha777]

In the year 2387, Earth had entered a golden age of technological advancement and exploration. Humanity had spread its influence far beyond its home planet, establishing colonies on distant worlds. However, with expansion came challenges, and the need for security and defense in the vastness of space was ever-present. This responsibility fell upon the shoulders of the United Galactic Defense Fleet, a coalition of naval forces from across the galaxy, including the esteemed Ottoman Navy, renowned for its strategic prowess and cutting-edge technology.

Aboard the flagship of the Ottoman Navy, the "Selim's Pride," Captain Selma Nazan stood on the bridge, gazing out at the stars. Selma was a striking figure with her blonde hair, cut sharply just above her shoulders, and her pale complexion accentuated by the black turtleneck uniform she wore. Her bright red lips stood out as a symbol of her unwavering determination and strength. She had earned her position through a combination of tactical brilliance and an unyielding commitment to her crew.

The Ottoman Navy, having evolved from its ancient terrestrial roots, now operated vast fleets of starships, each equipped with advanced weaponry and defense systems. Their mission was to protect the interests of the United Galactic Defense Fleet and ensure the safety of humanity's colonies.

On this particular day, Captain Selma and her crew had been tasked with investigating a series of mysterious disappearances near the planet Karçin, located in the far reaches of the Orion Arm. Reports had indicated the presence of an unknown and highly advanced alien race, capable of rendering entire ships invisible and undetectable.

As the "Selim's Pride" approached Karçin, the crew remained on high alert. The ship's sensors, designed by some of the finest minds within the Ottoman Navy, swept the surrounding space for any signs of the elusive enemy. Yet, despite their best efforts, the screens remained blank.

"Captain, there's nothing on the scanners," reported Lieutenant Hasan, his voice tinged with frustration. "It's as if they don't exist."

Selma narrowed her eyes, her mind racing with possibilities. "They exist, Lieutenant. They just have a technology we haven't encountered before. Prepare for active scanning. I want every anomaly, no matter how small, on my screen."

The ship's advanced active scanners sprang to life, sending out pulses of energy in every direction. Moments later, a faint distortion appeared on the main display.

"Got something," Hasan announced, his fingers flying over the controls. "It's faint, but it's there. Bearing 220, mark 5."

Selma turned to her crew. "Helm, set course. All hands, battle stations."

As the "Selim's Pride" altered its course, the distortion grew clearer, revealing a sleek, dark vessel unlike anything the crew had ever seen. The alien ship was angular and menacing, its surface rippling with energy.

"They're powering up weapons, Captain!" Hasan warned.

"Raise shields and prepare to return fire," Selma ordered, her voice calm and authoritative.

The two ships engaged in a deadly dance, energy beams and projectiles lighting up the void. The Ottoman Navy's ship, with its superior maneuverability and firepower, held its ground, but the alien vessel's technology was formidable. It darted in and out of visibility, striking with precision.

"We can't keep up with their cloaking," Hasan said, his tone grim.

Selma's mind raced. She needed a strategy, a way to outthink their opponent. Then it hit her. "Lieutenant, redirect power from the aft shields to the forward sensors. Enhance the active scan frequency. We need to overload their cloaking field."

"Aye, Captain," Hasan replied, quickly implementing the changes.

The "Selim's Pride" pulsed with a surge of energy, and the enhanced scanners cut through the alien vessel's cloaking field, rendering it visible. With their enemy exposed, Selma gave the order to fire all weapons.

The Ottoman Navy's ship unleashed a devastating barrage, crippling the alien vessel's engines and weapons. The once-invisible ship now floated helplessly in space.

"Cease fire," Selma commanded. "Prepare a boarding party. I want to know who we're dealing with."

As the boarding team suited up, Selma couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter was just the beginning. The galaxy was vast and full of unknown threats, but with leaders like her and the strength of the Ottoman Navy, humanity would face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Selma Nazan stood ready, her red lips a stark contrast to the darkness of space, a symbol of hope and defiance in an uncertain future.

[after-hour-diner]

Hiyo! We’re over on artfight this year! We’re gonna bite so many people!! Here’s the link: https://artfight.net/~After_Hour_Diner !

We mainly have humanoid ocs, but we do have quite a few non humans.

Image description further below vv

[Image ID:

An Art Fight profile card, specifically themed around Team Vampires for 2023. In a circular icon space, there is a pointy eared humanoid with half of their skin being grey and the other half being a light orange. They have one green eye on the orange side. They have dark brown messy hair they flops mainly on the right, grey side. Their ears have two gold piercings. They have a sleeveless black, skintight turtle neck. They are smiling widely, showing off pointy canines.

On the right of the circular icon is large text reading “TEAM VAMPIRES” under this text there is a “User” box with the name “After Hour Diner” in it. Under the “User” box is another, larger box with text reading “I attack…” and more, hand drawn large text reading “ANYONE”. There are three, small, floating hearts doodled around the large text. Next to the “I attack…” box, there is small text that read reads “I DO:” with large text under reading “FRIENDLY FIRE” and “REVENGE” with two boxes next to the text, both boxes are checked.

Underneath everything is a “FEATURED CHARACTER:” section with five boxes all with characters in them.

In the first box, there is a purple vampire, with long pink and dark brown hair. They are smiling softly, dark wine coloured eye slightly lidded. They have worried eyebrows. They are holding a sign that reads “Silas F.” Right in front of their chest. You can barely see a very light pink coloured shirt. The second box has a robot with saturated red hair. Half of his face is grey and the other half is bronze. It has light blue eyes, with a plus symbol in his right eye and a minus symbol in his left. It’s wearing a light purple shirt. His right arm is mainly bronze, it’s fingers red. He’s holding a sign only with this hand that reads “SAFETY”. His left arm is grey, left hand (also with red fingers) is resting on a light brown “Blink dog” (a fictional species in Dungeons and Drangons). The dog is sticking her tongue out and looking up at Safety. There is an arrow pointing down at her, with the words “Beelzebub (Service Dog)” above it. The third box has a very happy man waving at the viewer with his right hand. He has very dark purple hair along with a light green and purple jester hat with bells on his head. His skin is a light tan with a dark scar going over his left eye. Both of his eyes are a light periwinkle coloured. He has a gold earring on. He has a large, light purple ruffle on his neck. His shirt is a green colour, with sleeves that are dark purple. The sleeves go all the way down to his hands and also cover at least one of his fingers on both hands. Both wrists have a light purple band and bell on them. He’s using his left hand to hold a sign that reads “Stars” with a small star under the word.

In the four box, there is an anxious tiefling (a race in Dungeons and Dragons) sitting. He has black hair and bright yellow curling ram horns. His eyes and fingers are also yellow. His skin is a rusty red colour. He has fangs pointing outwards from his mouth, with his top lip being completely black. He is wearing a dark blue scarf with grey around the edges on the fabric, a light blue vest, and a lighter blue long sleeve shirt. He is holding a sign in front of his chest, reading in small text “Afi”. The fifth box, there is a masked figure. They’re tilting their head to the right. They have very light salmon hair, with a light pale mask with a red smile over their face. Their eyes are very pale purple. They’re wearing a very dark purple cloak, the hood up over their head. Under their cloak, they have a purple turtleneck on along with a gold collar on. They have reddish brown gloves on, with gold nuckles. They hold a sign over their chest that in shaky text reads “Lâche”.

Underneath the featured characters, there is text that’s says “CHARACTERS I HAVE:” and more boxes with the text “HUMAN”, “FERAL”, “ANTHRO”, “WORM”, and “MECH”. The only box that is scribbled out is the “WORM” box. There is a smaller text prompt that reads “other” with handwritten text that reads “All characters are some type of queer and there’s nothing you can do.”

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#art fight #art fight profile #art fight profile image #team vampire #image id #I don’t do image ids often but I need to do them more #sorry if it’s rough and really long #I wanted to try and detail everything I could.