#which he hardly ever drops. so. it's almost permanent he's so committed to the bit. when he does drop it he's... hm. hmm.

[ynscrazylife]

Hi i have to request if you will you don't have to do them but i was wondering if you could do a part two too the lene luthor one i wasn't enough that by the time she realize her mistake and that it was just a passing phase for her and kara the Reader has already moved on and wants nothing to do with her or kara or the rest of the superfriends and maybe her new partner can be kate kane?

For the Kara one all a lie kara tries to get back with the reader when she finds out mon el is about to be married with imran is that her name i forget but the reader has already left the deo and wants nothing to do with her and maybe readers new partner can be a villain

I Wasn’t Enough (2) | l.l angst & k.k fluff fic

Summary: After Y/N leaves Lena and Lena starts dating Kara, Kate Kane saves Y/N in more ways than just one. (I Wasn’t Enough can be found here)

Authors Note: Thanks for requesting! I did Part 2 of All A Lie here.

Request to be on a Taglist (or multiple) here! (Taglists are at the end of the fic)

DCEU Masterlist | Main Masterlist

PSA: Do NOT copy, steal, translate, plagiarize, republish, etc any of my works on Tumblr or any other platform. Also, do NOT claim any of my works as your own. All of these works are either requests I’ve gotten that people have wanted me to write or original ideas I’ve had for works. If you happen to take inspiration from anything I’ve written and want to write something inspired by that, please a) ask me first and b) IF I say yes, credit me as inspo in your post by tagging me and link whatever work of mine that inspired you. Thanks.

header c/ @/artpoetryedits

Image ID: Five panels of Kate Kane (Batwoman) from the DC comics themed in red, black, and white. End ID.

It had officially been a week since Y/N and Lena had broken up and Y/N had left the DEO. An anger had been bubbling up inside her that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to contain before it burst at Kara and her friends for so easily moving on from the pain Lena had caused her. No one cared that they had been in a committed relationship. No one cared that Lena had gone to Kara not a day ever she and Y/N had broken up. No one cared about her. 

Except for J’onn. 

He was her saving grace, as he promised to lend her name to a few of his friends for work, and Y/N couldn’t be more grateful, especially as she had left her position at the DEO so suddenly and without warning anyone.

The woman had just returned to her home after a long day of failed job hunting, because even though she had J’onn’s help, it was better to be safe than sorry. 

She locked her door, took of her coat, and promptly flopped on the couch, her limbs hungry from rest with their endless aching. She complied, letting her what-now-felt heavy eyelids flutter close.

The ringing of her phone felt 10x louder in her sleepy clouded haze, as she was almost asleep when her eyes flew open, wide, and she nearly tumbled off the couch. 

Grumbling, she pulled her phone out go her pocket and saw that it was an unknown number. Y/N had nothing better to do so - she answered. 

“Hello?” 

“Can I speak to Y/N Y/L/N?” 

“This is she . . . Who are you?” 

“I’m Batwoman. J’onn recommended you for our Crisis team and if you’d like, we want to bring you to our headquarters - paid by us, of course - and test and see if we should recruit you.” 

Y/N could of sworn she was dreaming, and had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t. It took a couple moments for this all to process in her head . . .

“Uhh, you still there?” 

She suddenly realized she hadn’t answered for a bit and scrambled to compose her thoughts. “Yes, sorry! Just digesting everything . . . it’s a great opportunity, thank you so much and . . . yeah, I think I’d like that,” she said, clearing her throat. 

The warmth of Batwoman’s chuckle instantly calmed Y/N’s frenzied-state like a spell. “Awesome, I’ll text you more details soon,” the superhero said. 

After ending the phone call, Y/N laid back on the couch, jaw open and an awed, dazed look in her eyes. “Wow,” she whispered, hardly believing it. 

Little did she know that she would get accepted into the team and would have the greatest time ever - working with the team, gaining new friends, and the best one of all would be falling for and dating Batwoman herself, Kate Kane.

. . . . . . . . .

A couple months later and the couple was happily sitting at Y/N’s apartment, having a date night (which mainly consisted of watching cheesy and classic movies, eating chocolate, and gossiping about their teammates).

Kate had just started ticking Y/N (the former trying and struggling to get away from her strong grip), laugher bouncing off the walls.

“This is too adorable,” Kate commented with a grin, enjoying her girlfriend’s smile and giggles.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “NnnnnOoOhHOO,” she got out through her laughter, attempting to combat Kate’s fingers as she dug them under her armpits, making her squeal.

Knock knock knock!

“Saved by the bell,” Kate remarked with a smirk, leaning back.

Y/N just smiled, glad that the tickling had ceased for the time being but also wondering who was at the door. She climbed off the couch and walked over, first checking through the peephole.

She had to do a double take when she saw who it was. Turning back to Kate, Y/N said, “It’s Lena.”

Kate furrowed her eyebrows in confusion but nodded, encouraging her to open it.

“Hey, Y/N. I’m sorry to do this, I just . . . My feelings for Kara were so stupid. It was just a passing thing, a crush, and . . . God, I miss you so much. Would you consider, uh, taking me back?” Lena rushed out as soon as Y/N opened the door.

Whatever she thought her ex-girlfriend was going to say, it wasn’t this. Y/N stood there for a couple moments, letting the words weave itself throughout her mind.

“Um, I’m sorry Lena, but . . . no,” she said, unsure of how else to voice it.

Lena blinked, shocked. “What?” She asked, obviously not expecting this.

Y/N shifted the weight from one foot to the other, fingers tapping against the door quietly. “I’ve moved on. I have a girlfriend,” she clarified, opening the door to show Kate on the couch, who awkwardly waved.

Lena’s mouth dropped, tears in her eyes. “I... I didn’t expect you to-”

“Move on?” Y/N cut in, taking a breath. Her grip on the door got tighter. Shit, she knew she was past Lena, but the hurt was still there.

Silence filled the air, Lena not knowing what to say and Y/N looking at her intensely. Finally, Lena huffed and looked at her, before spinning around on her heels and walking out. Y/N sighed, closing the door, but Kate snuck up behind her and was there to tickle and hug and cuddle the pain away. 

Permanent Taglist: @natasharomanoffismywife @hehehehannahthings @paulawand @blackbat2020 @cerberus-spectre @marrymemcgrath

DCEU Taglist: @stephanieromanoff @basiclesbianbitch @extraordinary-fangrl @hi-i-1 @mmmmokdok @harrypottercumslut

#lena luthor x reader #lena luthor x you #lena luthor imagine #lena x reader #lena luthor #lena luthor x y/n #kate kane x reader #kate kane #batwoman x reader #batwoman imagine #arrowverse x reader #arrowverse fic #arrowverse #dceu x reader #dceu imagine #dceu fanfiction #dceu #dceu fic #dc x reader #dc x you #dc imagine #dc fanfic #dc fic #dc angst #dc tv universe #dc tv show #dc shows #dc #dc x y/n

[teaaavis]

a little something (and happy new year!)

Heyo there, @royaidaydreams! I’m your secret santa, and I apologize for the extremely late gift; I hope that I could have sent this earlier. You preferred Royai and nothing else (lol) so here goes! I hope you enjoy!!! (I don’t use AO3 or anything but if I did I would link it for you, sorry.) Also, huge thanks to @fmasecretsanta2020 for organzing this unbelievable event!!!

six battles fought and one battle won 1 ( one ) : young.

The floorboards creaked and whined under his feet as he walked across the vast room, two pairs of footsteps melodically echoing throughout the house. The only thing that stood in his way of leaving the Hawkeye estate and the military was the blank wooden door. The pleasant breeze of air that slipped in through the crack of the door warmed his feet as he put down his trunk with a muffled bump. Mustang had stopped walking and placed his hand on the numbingly cold brass doorknob; then he twisted it, the door swinging open, and nearly bumping the wall like its squeaky hinges did nothing to prevent it. Mustang turned around and almost toppled his leather case holding his belongings over, but he righted it before picking it up again. Gentle steps sounded behind him, and he slowly looked up to see a blonde girl with coppery brown eyes staring at him with a delicate hand on the door. 

"You'll come back, won't you, Mr. Mustang?" she questioned, remaining her hand on the door as she took a step closer to the crow-haired young man. Her brown eyes scanned his face as if searching for a reasonable answer, "Will you?" she repeated after she took notice of the uncomfortable pause between him and her.

"I- uh," Mustang opened his mouth and closed it twice before planting a small frown on his face; he knew that there was no point in returning here; Berthold Hawkeye was dead and gone from the household. "I- maybe, think I will." he glanced a soft, worrisome look at the smaller figure, and she continued to stare at him. 

"Where will you go now?" Hawkeye asked, a gentle breeze brushing her pale hair across her face.

But damn, did she look so beautiful in that pair of clothing, blond hair barely reaching her shoulders; he wanted to draw her closer to him and wrap his sturdy arms around her fragile figure and tell her that he never wanted to leave her side. But Mustang had already told her- and his passed teacher that he would commit his time to the Amestrian Military, and there was no turning back now. 

"Miss Hawkeye, I do believe you know where I'm heading next, so there is no need to ask," Mustang rubbed the back of his head and dropped his arm back to his side with a lengthy sigh. "I plan to help the military with the use of my flame alchemy; if you ever do see me again, it will be a long time until I rest my eyes on you again."

She continued to lay her eyes on him for a long time, then crossed her arms in front of her and put a solemn look on her face, "Then just stay safe, would you?" 

Roy felt the heat creeping up his neck, which spread across his face, resting on the tips of his ears and his cheeks; he certainly wouldn't have expected that to come out of her mouth. "Of course, yeah," he diverted his gaze to a small crack in the floorboards, which caught his eyes, "I'll try." Mustang cast his glance towards the pale-haired young woman standing before him, and it was that he knew he had owed his former master's daughter more than he could give. 

"I, uh," Mustang stuttered; he knew this sentence wouldn't come out the way he intended, and if it did, the young alchemist knew he would certainly be on the sinking ship; there was no way that she even thought of him more as a mere friend. "Nevermind."

He raised a hand to her; his frozen hand remained there for a fleeting few seconds, but he decided to drop it then, "Goodbye, Riza Hawkeye."

Mustang watched as her penny- pecan colored eyes softened just a tad bit, and she gave a quiet sigh that silently spread over the rustling of the bare branches and the gradually dying grass that was slowly turning a grey-green color. She cast a somber look at her passed father's apprentice, and a sad smile soon filled her expression. 

"Goodbye is too permanent," she murmured while crossing her arms into a v- shape in front of her frame, "Until next time, Mr. Mustang."

He turned around. 

The last thing he saw in color beside her beautiful eyes was a small blade of green grass in the middle of a barren patch of dirt. 

2 ( two ) : battles and burns.

The Flame Alchemist. The three words that she'd help create, and now the soldiers of Amestris on the Ishval- Amestris battleground tossed it around as if it were something to be proud of- unquestionably, it was something that the Hawk's Eye of Ishval wouldn't take in. She wasn't sure if revealing the secrets on her back was worth it; Hawkeye knew that she intended the destructive flame alchemy was for the people but right now, her once sturdy thoughts were crumbling before her. 

Left and right, the scarring of the pale Ishvalan grounds and the annihilation of the citizens who lived there was to be permanent, and even though she hadn't been here for long, she knew that the alchemists, especially the Flame Alchemist, had reached a high death toll. 

The Hawk's Eye sighed and peered through the sniper's scope, watching as a small burst of brilliant orange, yellow and red flames erupted into the air; she wondered what it was like to kill so many people at a time just with the snap of the fingers. It wasn't until long after another man that she'd never seen before, this time with glasses, which she scrutinized through the lens of the sniper; he turned around and faced the Flame Alchemist. She watched them closely with light interest, positioning herself so she could watch every last movement, and Hawkeye wondered if pulling the trigger on him was a good idea; and it was easy, too easy to pull the trigger back a little more, but instead, she decided against it and put down her sniper with calloused hands. 

"I trusted you," she said to him, later that day, her hands tightly fisted in her lap, nearly torn- up, pale coat and near navy uniform covered in wrinkles, "I trusted you, and this is what happened?"

He reached an arm out to her, and in the dim light of the lantern beside her, she saw that part of his tan coat was partially scorched black, but what drew her eyes to his hand was the unmistakable red of a fresh burn. The small ebb of warmth radiating from his arm faded away as he pulled back his arm; his other hand brushed the healing wound, and he dropped both his arms on his lap. 

"I told you to be careful, Major Mustang."

"And I was; this wound barely distracts me; besides, this only a minor wound, it hardly hurts."

"Well, you should have known to be more careful," she shot back, eying the fresh red of his skin, "And I doubt that you even treated the wound."

Mustang rubbed the back of his head with his uninjured hand, sighing, "Yeah," he huffed, pulling a face, "But as I said," he eyed the sniper with onyx- colored eyes, "I don't need it."

She plastered a "do you seriously want to play this game with me right now" look on her face but then stood up and opened the flap of the large tent, stepping outside into the rocky terrain. She popped her head back into the tent, looking at the Flame Alchemist sitting on the near- broken wooden crate, "Who was that man with the broken glasses and black hair just like yours?" 

"Oh, you must have seen him," Mustang paused and turned to look at the Hawk's Eye, "Hughes," his eyes turned slimmer than they usually were, "His name is Maes Hughes."

3 ( three ) : rain.

"Colonel," she whispered from behind him, handing him his midnight- colored military coat, which he wrapped around himself, and watched the lieutenant stop, the grass flattening under her shoes, blue uniform ruffling in the soft wind.

He watched the stone grave with the name Maes Hughes engraved into it so intently as if it might move, but when the grave did not, he gripped the uniform cap tucked between his arm tighter, "Alchemists as a whole, we are horrible creatures, aren't we?"

The lieutenant gave no reply, and he carried on quickly, "There's a side of me that's desperately trying to crack the theories of human transmutation right now," Mustang paused, trying to burrow whatever feelings and thoughts he had for his dead friend right now, "I think I understand what drove those boys who tried to- " he cut himself off abruptly, "bring back their dead mother."

He kept his eyes on the grave, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lieutenant Hawkeye shift, "Are you all right, Colonel?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled in reply, taking his cap by his right hand and setting it on his head, "Except," he tilted his head upwards, the brim of the hat just almost covering his eyes, "It's a terrible day for rain."

At first, he knew she wouldn't get the statement, hearing her, "What do you mean? It's not raining." 

He felt the sleeve of her coat brush lightly against his, and that word useless that she'd always called him when he fought in the rain just suddenly got to him, and he felt a wet substance sliding down his cheeks. "Yes, it is."

She directed her gaze towards him and responded, "Oh, so it is. Why don't we head back? It's getting chilly out here."

Soon, Mustang felt the small of her hand on his back as she directed him to his car in silence; desperately, he wanted to believe the truth was just a dream; one of his most valuable subordinates and a treasured friend ripped away from life so quickly. Running his fingers through his neatly pulled back hair, he let it fall back to its usual unkempt state; he sighed and crossed his arms. 

Gazing at Lieutenant Hawkeye, he wondered how she could keep the same emotionless look on her face- not daring to let a flicker of movement dash across her face. Focusing on the darkest brown of her eyes, he noted how she concentrated on staring ahead of her, hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel. He didn't know what he looked like at that moment, but, god, he must have looked so desperate at that moment. 

Desperate to hold her, to take her into his arms, tell her everything he wanted to, but of course, he scolded himself for thinking of such an idea- and would she even let a man with bloodstained hands hold her? A man in which he wielded a dangerous power that had killed so many? Emptying the thought from his mind, he blew a loud exhale, which attracted a glimpse from the lieutenant, which only lingered on him for a second or two. 

But Mustang knew he needed to find Hughes's killer quickly and avenge his death, knowing that the killer could notice the lieutenant and take her away, just as they did to Hughes. He would still protect the lieutenant at all costs, but inside, he knew that she didn't need his protection; that she would be just fine on her own. 

What he didn't know was that he would be completely wrong. 

4 ( four ) : sorrow.

There was no way. She refused to believe it- but after all, they were facing a Homunculus. The Homunculus had told her she had killed a sacrificial pawn, and if Alphonse was still alive, the Colonel and Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc somewhere else, then that meant she had already dealt with one of them, meaning that it was either Colonel Mustang or Second Lieutenant Havoc. Or maybe she was dead, and she was the sacrificial pawn, and this was all a nightmare because, of course, it would be impossible that Roy Mustang had perished so quickly; and killed by this monster of all things. 

She told herself to remain calm like she always would, but Hawkeye couldn't dream of the fact that she would have to carry on without him, missing out on everything they could have had together; but instead, grief, fury, and boiling rage channeled through her veins. She pulled the trigger of her handgun as bullet after bullet hit the Homunculus; echoes of screaming bounced around the vast room of Laboratory 5, and she didn't know if it was her or not, but it didn't matter. 

Her comrades in the military knew her as the Hawk's Eye, earning that name from the fact that she never, or once in a blue moon, missed her target. Usually, she would make sure that perfection and accuracy came in her shot, but her mind was so jumbled, one of her bullets only grazed the monster's shoulder. She threw aside another of her handguns and continued firing, hoping, pleading, for this creature to die before her, and maybe he just wasn't dead yet. Ignoring the shocked Alphonse Elric at her side, maybe confused at her sudden rage and her crazed behavior, but she didn't care who saw her at this moment or not. 

But the fact that she'd failed to protect him, something tremendously crucial that he'd trusted her with from the very day she became enlisted under his command; it tore her apart. Down to her last bullet, she pulled the trigger with great force, lowering her arm slowly and reluctantly, then collapsed on the cold floor, hands clenched together firmly. She didn't know at that moment, but there was a part of her eager to end her life right there and join him; the Homunculus, still alive, uttered something which sounded like static to her. The floor, blurry between the tears forming in her eyes, warped and pathetically fell to the ground; and when she heard a clacking sound, grey metal stepped in front of her, she knew the younger Elric brother was trying to save her. 

They both bickered for a moment as to whether to run or not and of course, she remained there, slumped over, hearing the sound of strange material piercing through metal. Telling Alphonse to run for the last time, he'd fought back, telling her that he had seen so many people die before him, and with this chance to protect her, he would. And when a new voice entered the room, she was suddenly yanked to the side by cold metal; that wrapped around her body; but no, how could it be? 

Flames engulfed the air around her, heat rising quickly from abrupt and large flames near her; the wall that Alphonse Elric had transmuted earlier shook as something from the other side rammed into it. Painful shrieks and screams reverberated through the room as she imagined the flames created by his hand submerging the Homunculus. It took time for it to be over, and when it was, an enormous cloud of smoke blew in front of her eyes, with the following, quiet sound of something like sand blowing into the air filled the room. Behind the transmuted wall, she heard something clatter to the ground and the familiar grunt of pain from the colonel. 

Released from her spot, she dashed over to the colonel, not caring to wipe stray tears on her cheeks; and at that moment, she was glad that Alphonse had saved her back a few moments ago. Asking about her superior's wounds, he only responded with a question if she was unscathed and a thanks to Alphonse, quickly adding in to fetch the injured Havoc. 

After the sound of metal faded away, she turned back to the colonel, who gave her that crooked, small smile that she was fond of- a smile that filled her with the feeling of reassurance. Feeling raven eyes lock on to her, she gave a small smile; and maybe, she thought, he had stared at her a bit too long.

The understanding silence between them was interrupted by the return of Alphonse and the colonel's voice, so quiet it was like a whisper, "Help me up, would you?"

She stood up, brushing one of her hands briefly across his before planting her hands on his broad back before hoisting him upwards. 

5 ( five ) : color.

"Your precious woman is dying."

Chasing the shape-shifting Homunculus, Envy, the one who had killed Maes Hughes, down the winding tunnels was a real game to play, and after he'd blasted that creature to a despicable green worm, she just had to step in and prevent him from going over the edge. And what an idiot he was back when they were still in the tunnels, when he had told her to end the burden she carried around every day, her response was already a bullet to the head. He remembered the flames that had come with his anguished cry, and he hated, despised, loathed, what this woman could do to him. Then she had saved him again. 

But now, all he could do was watch her die in front of his eyes as he called out her name, no, her rank, frantically. 

As he strained against his captors, he watched as her precious lifeblood smoothly and swiftly flowed out of the deep gash in her neck; her hand on her crimson, bloodied neck did nothing to hinder the bleeding. He watched as her eyes dulled, her beautiful blonde hair starting to stain red from the blood that spilled on the stone floor, a red puddle spreading farther and farther from the lieutenant and closer and closer to him. Trying to shake the two men holding him down off of him, they held him tightly, the anonymous man with the gold tooth speaking again, but with fear coursing through his body, the man's words were unintelligible. 

Hawkeye, looking so vulnerable and weak, mouth slightly open, body limp against the ground; he wanted to embrace her with unwilling ferocity, even if it was the last time. A flare of hope grew as she saw movement in her eyes- a signal, which informed him to buy a bit more time, and after a short while, his saviors appeared, the youngest throwing some weapon at one of the führer candidate's head. Taking the sword of the stunned- and hopefully dead man, he stabbed the other man holding him captive, and dashed to the lieutenant, pleading, praying that she hadn't left him yet. Usually, stepping on something during a full sprint would have tripped him, but the urgency flooding through him kept him going. As one of the other candidates raised his sword to cut him down, he snapped his fingers, releasing an explosion of fire, blowing him away. 

Letting out a panicked cry, he supported her weak body in his arms, not daring to let her go; he was with her, and everything was going to be all right, and why wasn't she opening her eyes? He watched, powerless as she twisted and turned in his grip, the warmth from her body fading, blood still slowly oozing out of her fresh wound, and god, was she slowly dying in his arms? 

Then, a flurry of pink, purple, and white entered his vision, accompanying a small voice, and in seconds, she had patched up the wound. Thankful, he told her, "I owe you one," and turned his attention back to Hawkeye, who had slowly woken from a daze; he watched as a pair of eyes opened. 

And suddenly, his world was in color again, pale skin against the black and blue of his uniform, red against the yellow of her hair, and he found himself wondering for the first time how her stunning eyes were that shade of brown. 

But color or her eyes didn't really mean much right now; there was only one thing that he really fancied at this moment, the only thing that comforted him; but right now, he loved that smile she gave him. 

6 ( six ) : dark mornings.

She wondered what it would be like for it to be pitch black in the middle of the day. The thin curtains did nothing to filter the sunlight pouring through the open window, which made shadows that danced across the floor. And of course, he wouldn't be able to see those either, but as she described the way the beams of warm light hit her skin and the tiny view of the leaves blowing this way and that in the wind, a feeling of commiseration flooded through her. 

Beside her, he pawed his face dramatically with bandaged hands and hung his head in defeat; black strands of hair drooping. Standing up on uneasy feet, she padded over to the colonel, who must have heard the creaking of the hospital bed and the soft shuffling of her feet. Sitting down on the soft mattress in front of him, she reached out for his bandaged hand, knuckles brushing gently across the palm of her hand. 

He lifted his head and looked in the direction he thought she was sitting, which was the wrong way, so she cupped his cheek, turning his head towards her. Pale grey, blind eyes widened, and he gripped her hand tighter, and was he blushing?

Thin sheets and a blanket wrinkled as she leaned backward, whispering small sentences that went back and forth between them. She did not manage to exchange many words between them before silence filled the room, and they sat there, enjoying the company and the silence. Mustang stared at her, maybe staring at nothing, then blurted out, "It's a shame I can't see you." The colonel repeatedly and quickly blinked as if he was embarrassed but showed no signs of being so. 

Fidgeting with a bedsheet with her free hand, as her other hand was still occupied by the colonel, who was now running his thumb across her knuckles, she only smiled in response. Avoiding his comment, she started unwrapping the bandages on his left hand for him, which the doctor had instructed to do every morning. "What is the first thing that you want to do with your sight back?" she questioned, pulling away from his firm grip and strolling over the small medical cart left at the other end of their shared room. She started reaching for the new roll of gauze and the ointment when he replied, a bit too quick. 

"Probably spend some time with you," he replied, smirking at the sound of Hawkeye sighing in response, "or maybe hurry over and see what Alphonse looks like."

"You most certainly won't be traveling anywhere until you get you're completely healed and have your sight back."

He nodded as she sat back beside him and lifted his unwrapped hand, applying the ointment, then covering his hand in the fresh, clean covering. Tranquility filled the room as there was nothing more to be said, and the only thing she could hear was the ripping of the old bandage stained a dark red with old blood. It took a while, treating both hands, but after she finished, she threw away the used materials and took a seat next to the colonel. 

"Sir-" she started but was interjected by her superior by, "I told you that you don't always have to refer to me formally." 

Continuing, she crossed her legs, "-what is it like to be blind?"

He looked at her, scoffing, "I guess it feels like you're drowning in darkness, never seeing the moon or the sun that rises every day. I  constantly feel lonely, as I can not see anyone," he paused, reaching for her hand, but instead found her leg but gripped it, "and I can not see you."

"They're always dark mornings."

#flame-hawkseye #royaidaydreams #fmasecretsanta2020 #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #alphonse elric #maes hughes #may chang #envy the jealous #lust the lascivious #royai #fma #fmab #fanfiction #royai fanfiction #my writing #long post #event #text #hrghhghhggh

[itsallavengers]

Word of Mouth

“Let me speak to them.”

Natasha and Fury turned as Steve stormed in, both of their faces hardening. Nat stepped forward, a placating hand outstretched and telling him to stop, but Steve ignored her without sparing a second glance. His eyes were on the screen pulled up in the middle of the room, where two men were stood, semi-automatics in hand and ridiculous Vendetta masks perched on their faces. In between them, tied up to a chair and unconscious, was Tony. Steve gave him a visual once-over. He seemed okay. Bruised face, but nothing severe. 

“Captain,” Fury began coldly, but Steve turned to him and levelled him with such a glare that it made even the Director pause. He was going to be having serious words with the man for not informing him that they were in contact with the kidnappers later– Nat too, for that matter. But for now, he didn’t care about the other two people in the room. 

No. The only thing that mattered was right in front of him, thrown up on the holographic screen and showing his husband, alive and currently being ransomed by what Steve predicted were two young men that barely even seemed out of their teens, going by stature and build and professionalism. 

Seriously? Vendetta masks? That was just tacky. 

But tacky and unprofessional or not, they’d still managed to snatch Tony right from under all their noses, hurt him, and then demand a ransom without leaving a trace. Steve hated to admit that this wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it didn’t make it any easier. Every single occasion left him feeling sick to his stomach, and filled with a tension under his skin that would only be released when he either got Tony back safe, or got rid of whatever was hurting him. In whatever way he had to. 

Maybe that was why Fury and Natasha hadn’t informed him that the kidnappers had made contact. Luckily, JARVIS, who had been monitoring every network and recording on the planet for a glimpse of Tony, had been the one to let him know. Ever the reliable AI. 

Steve clenched his fists as he looked at the mask of the man stood one step in front of the other. Taking lead. Fine by him. “You have a name I can use?” Steve asked, voice clipped. 

“Steve, stand down, we are dealing with th–”

“Just call me The Investor,” the man said, and Steve felt like he was grinning behind the mask as he waved toward Tony, “and call this my investment.”

Steve smiled, but there was not a trace of warmth in it. He knew how he looked just then; standing to his full height of 6′4, muscles tensed and flexing against the hard lines of his uniform. He stared straight into the camera, eyes drilling into the mask through the deep furrow of his brow. He didn’t speak for a second or so, and the room was eerily silent. It furthered Steve’s belief that these people weren’t professionals, and this was at least one of their first runs. Trained ransomers never allowed there to be a power-play on the other end, which was what Steve was doing right now. They would simply fill the silence with words. These men, this organisation, whatever it was, were letting Steve stare them down. 

Big mistake 

“Okay, Investor,” Steve leaned forward on the table, keeping his face calm. Despite what Nat and Fury might think, he was good at this. He wasn’t going to mess up, not when Tony’s life was on the line. “Make your demands. Let’s hear them.”

The man cocked his head, triumphant that he had gotten Captain America to listen to him. “What we want, Rogers, is a simple transaction. We know Tony Stark has files on the Rendition Program. We know he keeps them on hardcopy somewhere. We would simply like to have them, and in return, once he has translated and decrypted them for us, we will give you back your Iron Man.”

Seemingly hearing the voices around him, Tony stirred in his chair, moaning gently as he came around. Steve watched, forcing his face to remain steady as Tony blinked in the harsh light and then glanced at what must have been a computer in which Steve’s face was showing through. Tony’s pained expression curled into a weak smile. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he mumbled, “bad morning to you two incompetent fucks. I was gonna get a manicure today. Marissa is going to be pissed–”

“Shut your mouth, bitch,” the one closest to Tony said, cuffing him across the temple and sending Tony’s head snapping sideways. Steve heard the glass table under his fingers shatter, and felt Natasha’s presence step close behind him, but he didn’t turn around or flinch at the pain. None of it was important.

Tony’s head dropped, and it didn’t come back up again. Steve watched through the grainy live feed as blood oozed down the cut that the man had put on his husband’s skin.

He turned his gaze to said man. “You shouldn’t have done that in front of me,” he said softly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He did not shout. He did not even change his tone to an aggressive one. But there was a promise in his voice, in the way that he held himself, and the man in question shifted just the tiniest bit. 

Nervousness. 

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, leaning a little further forward, “I understand you’re probably feeling rather proud of yourselves right now. Capturing Iron Man. Making demands to the Avengers. I’m sure you feel unstoppable.”

The two men looked to one another, and the front guy probably would have spoken up if Steve hadn’t cut him off with a small smile that projected a truly deadly sort of violence. It was obvious enough that some long-lost survival instinct within the two kidnappers kicked in, because Steve saw the brief flex of fingers against their guns. He just smiled harder. 

“We’ll give you the Rendition Program,” Steve said with a shrug, “we’ll meet at your rendezvous point, we’ll see to your demands. But let me just ask you this– do you think that this is the first time someone has tried to take my husband from me?” 

The front man stepped forward. “If you’re not careful, we’ll be the last, Captain.”

“No, you won’t,” Steve told them simply, “because you need him to decrypt it. You need him alive until we arrive, and when we arrive, I assure you, it will be the end of you. You’re smart kids. I assume you’re piggybacking the SHIELD network in order to send this recording. So do something clever, and look up the reports of every other attempted kidnapping or assassination of Tony Stark.” Steve gritted his teeth together, finally letting some of the anger seep into his voice. “Look up the Serum Replication Effort of HYDRA in 2012. The Sentry Guard Attempt of 2015. The Tower Siege, 2017.”

“You’re not the one calling the shots here, Captain–”

“No. I’m not. You are. And your orders just involved hurting my husband in front of me, and threatening his life. I don’t think that was your wisest choice. Do you want to know the common factor in all those previous attempts I just mentioned?” Steve grinned, all teeth, pointing a finger into his own chest. “Me. And would you like to know the survival rate of the people that I saw or knew were hurting my husband? Or can you guess?”

It was zero, in case anyone was curious. It was the only time when Steve never even thought about it. The only time he ever lacked a shred of guilt. People who touched Tony ended up dead, because Tony was not theirs to touch. And Steve would not hesitate for a single second to permanently incapacitate someone who threatened Tony’s life.

“I’m giving you one chance,” Steve told them quietly. “Take five minutes. Look up those reports. Look at what happens; and what I will do to you if I get my hands on you. Because I promise you, if Tony is damaged permanently in any way shape or form, there will not be a rock you can hide under. There won’t be a crevice you can squeeze into or a safe house you can scurry to where I will not be able to drag you from. And when I do?” Steve leaned back, turning his eyes back on Tony. “I will make you regret every single decision you ever made that led you up to this point. And that, Mr Investor, is a promise I will spend the rest of my considerable life committing to. So if you want to make your decision right now, by all means, go ahead. But I assure you, you’re signing your death warrant. I can crush steel. Your skulls will hardly be a fucking problem once I get them.” 

He stared at the two men impassively for another second, while they silently looked back through their emotionless masks. Then the lead man gave the smallest of cutting actions, and a moment later the video feed cut, leaving static in its wake. 

Steve stared up at the empty screen, hearing Fury begin to shout about misconduct and compromising the entire negotiation process. But Natasha at his other side appeared to be smiling slightly, something knowing and dangerously triumphant as she raised her eyebrow to Steve.

They’d both seen the body language on their two masked villains. They both knew that Steve had not been lying, and Tony’s kidnappers knew it too. 

Steve would rip this whole Earth apart to get to his husband, and after so many years, the criminal underworld had gotten that message too. Nowadays, if they were going to stage some sort of hostile situation, they either took both of them or neither of them, unless they were a very high profile organisation that had the resources to at least attempt to keep Steve away.

These Goddamn idiots were not HYDRA though, they weren’t AIM or SUBCON or any of the other well-funded domestic terror groups that had sprung up over the years. They were just criminals trying to catch their big break. And they’d just picked the worst target in the entire motherfucking world.

Steve sat down on one of the chairs on the conference table as calmly as he could, and he waited. 

–

Twenty minutes later, JARVIS flagged an alert.

“It appears that Sir has just been dropped off on the side of a road out in Waterford, Pennsylvania,” the AI declared, while Steve jumped to his feet immediately and began his walk toward the jet. “Setting coordinates into the Quinjet now. I suggest an immediate retrieval.”

Behind him, he could hear Clint talking confusedly.  “Did you say they just– they just dropped him? Why the hell would they back out now? They got through the hardest part!” 

Natasha grinned at Steve’s side, jogging into the jet and tying her hair up as she went. “Steve’s very scary when he wants to be,” she told Clint, “I think he may have persuaded them to try stealing the technology of a… less well protected individual.”

Steve felt their eyes on him, but he was too focused on the immediate task of getting Tony back into his arms to bother with banter. It all faded away into a vague hum, and he ran a hand back and forth over the rim of his shield absently as the jet took off. It was a comfort thing. He imagined ramming it down into the necks of Tony’s attackers briefly, but discarded it. If there was anything more than surface damage on Tony’s body, he might consider bringing the thought back again. But for now, it wasn’t important. 

The journey was faster than it would have taken for the Philly police or ambulance to arrive, so they didn’t bother to ring them up and ask for assistance. The trip was done in less than five minutes, and perhaps there were a few people who weren’t all too pleased at having a large jet land in the middle of the road and block their path, but Steve couldn’t really say he gave a damn. 

He saw Tony immediately, dumped against one of the posts at the side of the road and surrounded by a handful of people who were trying to help him. He was still cuffed, and Steve noticed the head wound still slowly oozing blood across his face as it fell to the Earth. The thoughts of killing whoever had put that there rose up to the surface again. 

He sprinted across the road, leaping over a car that didn’t stop and landing swiftly on his feet. He vaulted the metal fencing and pushed past the small crowd wordlessly, hearing Natasha’s diplomatic voice excusing his behaviour behind him. Getting to his knees in front of Tony, his fingers went instantly to the man’s neck to check the pulse. 

Slow, steady. He was simply unconscious. It didn’t seem to be too severe, but one never knew with head injuries. He looked up at the closest person; a man in his late fifties, probably. “Did you move him?” He asked, voice clipped.

The man shook his head, clearly a little shocked that he’d just seemingly gotten into the middle of some serious Avengers business. “I–ah, no. We found him like this. Didn’t wanna– in case of breaks, you know.”

Steve nodded and looked back down to Tony, his hands gently beginning an evaluation of his husband’s neck, his spine, checking everything was in place. “S’okay,” he murmured, even though Tony couldn’t hear him, “I’ve got you now.”

Seemed that those kidnappers had looked at the files after all. And they’d made the right call, it seemed. They valued their lives over their pride. 

Tony’s spine was intact, and there were no other serious injuries to contend with, so with a quick tug, Steve broke apart the cuffs on Tony’s wrists and then curled his hands underneath the smaller man, pulling him up off the floor and cradling him into his chest. He’d been gone 24 hours. Not the longest stretch by a long shot, but again, that didn’t mean this was easy. 

Steve shut his eyes and pressed his mouth softly against Tony’s temple, finally allowing something other than the razor-sharp focus on finding his husband cloud his mind. The rest of the team had silently taken on crowd control, thanking those who had stopped their cars to help and explaining the situation to the angry drivers whose passage had been blocked. Steve let it all fizzle away. There was just Tony, there, in his arms. Safe. 

And, as if to prove the statement, a second later Steve felt his husband stir slightly. Steve soothed him with his voice immediately as he rushed them back into the jet, keeping the tones low and comforting. “It’s alright,” he whispered, “I’m here, I’ve got you, it’s over. You’re on the jet. You’re safe.”

Tony’s eyes focused in on him blearily. Definitely concussed. He frowned slightly at Steve, before hissing in distress when he became aware of the pain. Steve lowered him onto the cot as the others jogged back into the jet, and his hand very delicately stroked Tony’s hair away from the man’s face. “I know it hurts, angel,” Steve told him lightly, “but we’ll get some painkillers into you, you’ll be fine.”

Tony was still looking at him. Then, suddenly, he began to giggle. Steve blinked at him, wondering how bad the concussion was. “Tony?”

“You…” Tony tried to find the words, clicking his fingers awkwardly and smiling as he shut his eyes and leaned into the hand on his face. “You made ‘em give… they gave me up without you even being in the room. You just glared at them. Glared!” Tony cackled again, even though it must have hurt, and Steve couldn’t help but smile back at his husband, leaning down to press a touching kiss to his nose. 

“It’s a very good glare,” he said with a shrug, “what did they do to you? Can you tell me now, or should it wait?”

Tony sighed and brought his hand up to his face. “Standard kidnapping fanfare,” he mumbled, wincing as he spoke, “Steve, my head hurts.”

“I know. But you’ll be okay.”

Tony nodded. “’Cuz you yelled at them, and they  decided it wasn’t worth you gettin’ mad at ‘em.” He dissolved into laughter again. “Steve, I love you. I love… lots.”

The jet engines started up again as Clint got himself into place and began to fly them home, and Steve’s whole body softened at Tony’s apparent calmness and relatively good health. Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, Steve thought darkly, thinking back to the horrible month back in 2015. That had been… well- difficult was putting it lightly. 

But this– this was okay. These kidnappers, at the very least, had had the sense not to follow the team of 2015 down into the grave and had instead just run for their lives. Steve was glad of that. 

He sighed in relief, leaning downward until their foreheads were pressed delicately together. His hand rested gently against Tony’s cheek, and Tony’s hand came to settle around it, their fingers interlocking as they breathed one another in. Faintly, Steve heard the clink of their wedding rings, and the final nugget of tension released itself at the familiar sound. The world had righted itself. Tony was home. 

He figured those particular kidnappers probably wouldn’t try for a repeat performance.

—-

Ao3 // commission a piece // donate to my kofi!

#stevetony #itsallavengers writes #kidnappings #hurt comfort #steve is a bad motherfucking BITCH and nothing else matters except Tony

[talesfromthefade]

Anders x Fenris (Post Legacy DLC, Wings!AU ), for @dadrunkwriting and @contreparry​

Anders doesn’t quite know how to go about bringing it up. It seems, however, like the sort of thing they should probably talk about. Even if it isn’t, well, the healer has always been far too curious for his own good. And he did at least manage to make himself wait until they’d left Corypheus’ corpse and the Warden prison behind them and were sheltered in the relative safety and privacy of their tent for the night. He should probably wait until they’ve returned to Kirkwall, Fenris is always the most himself, the most open, whenever it’s just the two of them holed up in his mansion in Hightown, but the thought of waiting even two more days for answers sounds absolutely maddening.

“Out with it, Mage. Think any louder you will wake Hawke and Varric,” Fenris says, interrupting his meditation. There’s a playfulness, though, teasing in his tone as the elf scolds him that makes Anders smile. It’s been ages now since the elf used the term for him with any sort of bile. It sounds, almost fond…

He’d thought it fascination, at first. That the elf’s interest was only in his wings. Allowing Fenris to groom them had been- well, wonderful if he’s being truthful, but also a kind of a test. Permitted with the expectation it probably wouldn’t happen twice. Except it had. As had a number of other unexpected kindnesses. Fenris seeks him out now. He speaks to him, listens to him, remembers little things, saves herbs where he can for him to use in his clinic… And the way he looks at him, even before their run-in with this crazed old Tevinter Magister, but, rather, over these last few months since they started spending more time together outside of the rest of the group. It isn’t just his imagination. It can’t be… And, surprising as the thought was initially, Anders finds that he likes it. Perhaps even a little too much. 

Justice is quite sure this is a distraction. It is, thoughts of Fenris occupy Anders’s thoughts at least as often as anything else. And this thing, whatever this is between them, Anders doesn’t want to ruin it, the thought of doing so is how he’s managed to hold back asking Fenris about it this long. But he and Karl had never spoken aloud about what they shared, never given it a name, and that had hardly spared him any pain when it was gone. Still, for all that Anders is curious, even a little desperate, to get some answers, he doesn’t have the first idea how to begin this conversation, how to go about determining what Fenris might be feeling or want from him without leaving his own heart completely exposed, between his fingers for him to crush.

“Anders,” Fenris prompts again.

“Are we friends,” Anders manages, hedging his bets at the last minute.

“Yes,” Fenris replies without a moment’s hesitation.

This isn’t that big of a revelation with all the time they’ve been spending together lately but given in the early days Fenris would have loathed admitting even knowing him, Anders can’t help the soft intake of breath at the elf’s unflinching confirmation. He’d hoped, somehow, this smaller question might embolden him to ask the more pressing question that burns at the tip of his tongue and presses in from the corners of his mind. It doesn’t. The precipice Anders finds himself standing on the edge of is every bit as terrifying as it was a few minutes ago.

“Why do you ask?” 

Anders bites his lip. Maker, it was never this hard with Karl. He’d pretty much just given him eyes from across the library for a week or two and when the older boy didn’t knock his lights out or cast a fireball at him, he’d sauntered over and snogged the daylights out of him. That had pretty much been that. But things were different in the Circle, with Karl. Fenris is different. So much of his life has been inflicted on him without his consent or choice. Anders has worked damn hard to earn the elf’s trust. The last thing he wants is to become just another mage who’s tried to use and impose his will on him.

“What does ‘Amatus’ mean?”

It’s not the question he’d meant to ask. Not yet, anyway, although it has certainly been bouncing around in the back of his mind ever since he started replaying the events just before Justice overtook him in the dank and murky depths at the base of the prison tower. It’s out there now, though, so Anders decides his other question can wait a moment longer. Perhaps the answer to this one will provide a little more clarity and a helping of courage. But Fenris looks… conflicted. Even, although the elf would probably never admit it, just a little bit nervous.

“I did not realize you heard me,” Fenris admits softly, shaking his head.

“But you are going to tell me what it means, right,” Anders asks, trying desperately for casual or teasing and kicking himself for the nervous quiver that he can’t quite banish from his voice.

“It-” Fenris hesitates for a moment. “It means you have become- important to me.” Anders swallows the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. That can’t be the literal translation, of course, which Anders still hopes to learn at some point, but this feels… big. “Anders, I-”

A few years ago, before he and Justice merged, Anders would have pounced on the first opportunity of pursuing this. But the healer likes to think he’s done some growing since then, though, become a little less selfish than the impatient young man he used to be. Which is not to say that it isn’t incredibly tempting. This is after all, what he’s been trying to work up to talking to Fenris about. But it’s likewise, simply not possible to ignore the all too fresh reminders of the permanence of his commitment to the Wardens their latest adventure with Hawke. This won’t last forever. It can’t. 

“You should find someone else, love. You don’t want all the ugliness I’m going to bring into your life.”

“Love?”

It takes Fenris repeating the term of endearment for Anders to realize he’s just voiced his thoughts aloud and completely shown his hand. Because Fenris said he was important, and that’s amazing, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for this.

“Fuck.”

There’s abrupt rustling as his companion rushes to free himself from his bedroll and suddenly Anders is knocked backward as he finds himself with a lapful of the elf and Fenris’s lips crash into his own.

“Beloved,” Fenris pants breathlessly when he finally pulls back to allow them both to draw breath. He waits a moment for Anders’ confused honey eyes to open again and meet his. “Amatus, means beloved,” he clarifies, a strong, callused hand reaching up with to cup his cheek with the same tenderness and care Fenris shows tending to his wings.

“Fenris-” Anders begins, fighting every impulse that screams at him, begs him to hold his tongue or perhaps put it to better use with his companion. Fenris shakes his head.

“Later,” Fenris interrupts, punctuating the word with another kiss. “I thought I lost you today, to voices I couldn’t hear or fight. To whatever that monster we fought was.”

“But-” It’ll happen again. One day. And Anders doesn’t have the first idea how much time they have. Fenris can’t possibly want that. He shouldn’t have to deal with that. He deserves- so much more than that.

“You are not the only one with ugliness in your life,” Fenris offers softly, interrupting his inner monologue with a rueful smile that melts his heart,  “and it does nothing to diminish the beautiful things about you. Ask me, Mage. Anders,” he corrects with a smile. “Ask me what you wanted to before.”

“Would you ever consider becoming something more than friends?” It feels almost silly to ask now the elf’s had his tongue down his throat, but Anders feels his chest tighten, holding his breath for the answer all the same. He melts into the warm hand that slides to the back of his neck and tangles in his hair as Fenris lets his forehead drop to rest against his.

“Yes,” Fenris whispers and Anders can’t possibly tear his eyes from the large, beautifully bright, and oh so deep green ones that bore into his, into his very soul, but he can feel his smile. “Amatus.” Later, Anders agrees, chasing Fenris’s mouth with his. They’ll figure the rest out later.

#dadrunkwriting #contreparry #fenders #fenris #anders #dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #wings!au #trans!fenris

[aelysalthea]

Wisdom In Words

Summary: Sherwin was quiet. Unobtrusive. The kind of person to duck his head and strive to be overlooked. That was always the way when starting at a new school. Except that this one was different - just barely, and almost indiscernible at first, but apparent nonetheless. And all because of a few passing words.

Rating: T

Tags: Pre-Film, Changing Schools, Muteness, School Life, Messages In Quotes

Chapter 1: Changes

The tolling of a bell could mean a number of things. A beginning. An end. A call to attention. It could be a melody of poignant sound crying a change in routine, or a solemn ode of loss.

A school bell was all of these things in its own way. Regardless of the school, the specific pitch of that bell, and the hour at which it sounded, Sherwin knew that much. He'd had his fair share of experience with a variety of the sort.

The school loomed before him, all grey walls and shuttered windows. Students in navy sweaters and grey slacks slung bags over their shoulders, rising from where they sat upon the modest spread of the school's front lawn. The chatter of voices, laughter, and moans of disgruntlement overrode the ringing residue of the bell's echo.

Sherwin swallowed. Starting anew. Starting anew was… always hard. It had nothing to do with the change in uniforms. It wasn't because of the struggle he would inevitably face with the confusing layout of the school. He was prepared for that – or at least as prepared as he would ever be. Those changes were the same at every single school he'd attended.

It was the people that made it the hardest.

Fingers digging into the strap of his own bag, the satchel bumping his side as he clung to it as he would a lifeline, Sherwin took a deep breath. It didn't help. Breathing, coaxing himself into slow breathing, never really did. If anything, he felt just faintly lightheaded for the fact, and it didn't serve to slow his pounding heart either. So loud, it thundered in his ears. Sherwin perceived that surely, surely someone must hear it.

No one turned towards him, however. No one glanced his way as they bypassed where he stood rooted to the path leading to the front steps of the school. Unfamiliar faces of unfamiliar people who barely spared him a glance but to turn away a moment later and skirt around him.

Sherwin was relieved for that fact. He didn't like being stared at.

It took a herculean effort to unstick his sensible shoes from the path. An even greater effort to start his trudging way towards those steps. Eyes fixed directly ahead didn't stop him from seeing those around him.

 Are they looking? Do they know I'm new? Do they think I'm strange?

How many times had Sherwin been plagued by such thoughts? He didn't know, couldn't remember. They likely wouldn't ever leave him alone, either; most of the time they proved to be valid suspicions. With a tuck of his chin, he picked up his pace and slipped into the flooded halls of the school.

Vinyl floors. Dinghy lockers that were better than some he'd seen but worse than others. Schoolrooms and noticeboards pinned with posters and reminders, a water foundation patterned in a mosaic at its base for all of the colourful gum spotted around the piping. And people. So, so many people.

A bump to the shoulder, a dodge out of the way of a senior, another backpedal to avoid the trail of juniors that hastened past and almost tripped over Sherwin's feet. He scuttled to the side of the hall, clinging to the wall as he made his way down the corridor. He'd seen the map. He'd studied it as soon as the principal had sent his mom a welcome package. Homeroom was around two corners and the third door on the right. Mr Simpson, his teacher was called. Hopefully, Mr Simpson knew to expect him. Even more importantly, it was Sherwin's hope that he didn't draw attention to him.

Sherwin hated when the eyes turned and the focus was drawn. He hated it even more than changing schools itself.

The classroom was barely half full when he stepped inside. Shoulders still hunched, fingers still clinging to his satchel strap, he edged his way around the room of buzzing students, eyeing those around him with a ducked head. These would be his new classmates: the girl with the high, blonde ponytail perched on the edge of a desk, the boy at the window nibbling on an apple, the pair of other boys seated towards the front of the room appearing nothing if not engrossed in the books they were reading. A scattering of them in various states of ease; Sherwin's gaze darted around the room, committing faces to memory even without their names.

It was better to know people. Better to recognise, to be able to tell them apart, to define each from the general crowd of 'new'. That way, at least, he could pretend to be something other than 'new' himself.

The back corner seat was blessedly empty. Sherwin slid into the creaky chair, tucking his satchel under his desk, and hunched upon himself with eyes still studying the room. Plain, simple, all but interchangeable from every other homeroom he'd ever been in, it was nonetheless a necessity to commit every detail to memory.

The desks, in rows of five by six.

The teacher's station, front and to the left of the room and sparsely spread with whiteboard markers and papers.

The pattern of student arrangement, tending not too far to the front – so as to avoid the teacher's attention – and yet not too far to the back, either – for such would be indicative of potential troublemakers.

Except for Sherwin, that was. Apparently there was something about him that bespoke 'not concerning' to each and every teacher he'd ever had. Maybe it was his tendency to sink all but completely under his desk. Maybe the silence that he wore like a protective scarf seemed suggestive of obedience.

The slightly grimy windows.

The stacks of dog-eared textbooks at the back of the room.

The fluorescent lights overhead that whirred so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

And on the board –

Sherwin blinked. The board was wiped clean, as was almost expected of a Monday morning, except for a single line of text in slightly slanted hand written with meticulous straightness. A single line… and it seemed to drown out the rest of the room entirely.

 There is nothing permanent except change.

Underneath, written in the same slanted print, the name Heraclitus sat like a footnote. Sherwin didn't know what it was – a name? The person who'd said the words like a quotation? – but that hardly mattered. It felt like the quote was written entirely for him.

Everything changed for Sherwin. Everything and always. Cities and towns, schools and friends that became less about the friends over time and more simply just the schools. His mom's job and their placement, and the house they stayed at, and the neighbours and rental cars and shopping malls. So much change, and Sherwin had perhaps, maybe just a little bit, hoped that such changes might someday cease.

Maybe he was reading too much into the quote that had likely been left by the teacher only that morning. Maybe the words were simply a throwaway mention of the inevitability of that change, and something to be read, nodded at, and discarded.

It likely wasn't meant to resound so strongly. It likely wasn't meant to place both a heaviness of the inevitability of constant change upon Sherwin's shoulders while at the same time offer a strangely satisfying hand to hold. Nothing would remain the same, and for Sherwin, that likely meant more towns and more schools. But change – that could always be anticipated.

Sherwin stared at the slanted words as the room slowly filled with students. As the boy with the apple crunched idly and the girl with the ponytail kicked her legs where they swung off the edge of her desk. As the boys at the front of the room flicked through their books to the disregard of the rest of the students, and the seats around them scraped upon the ground when filled and the slap of bags dropped at feet picked up frequency.

And Sherwin waited. He only caught a hold of his attention once more when the man who was likely Mr Simpson entered the room.

A tall, heavy-set man, he was balding and wore a pair of wire-framed glasses perched slightly askew atop his nose. The stack of folders he carried under one arm dropped heavily onto his desk as he took himself to the front of the room, but the students before him barely quieted for his presence, though several heads turned and more chairs scraped as they were filled by obliging bodies.

Not until Mr Simpson glanced towards the whiteboard. He absently patted his belly, plucking distractedly at the button-down front of his shirt. Then he turned back to the room, and a smile spread beneath the bristled tufts of his moustache. "A very appropriate way to start this week, I should think," he said, and the murmur of student voices died. "Once again, we appreciate the written words of the wise men of old." A gesture towards the whiteboard behind him, and then Mr Simpson was inclining his head to the room at large. "Thank you for your contribution again, Mr Philosopher."

As though by reflex, a ripple of laughter passed through the room. Practiced laughter, old laughter, the kind of laughter uttered by those who had heard the joke before and yet still found it somewhat amusing. Sherwin glanced briefly around himself, eyes darting towards mouths that murmured words like, "Have you heard of Heraclitus before?" and "He probably got it from one of his books." Someone even snorted with a, "Suck up. Every single day…" that Sherwin almost, almost frowned at.

He didn't really have the time to grow affronted on behalf of someone else, however. Not even someone – a student, it would seem – who seemed to have written the quote directly for him. Instead, his attention snapped towards Mr Simpson again as he continued. "On the note of change, however, we have one such change in our classroom today." The teacher squinted slightly as he cast his gaze around the room.

It scanned.

It passed once, twice – and then it stopped.

Sherwin truly wished he could sink beneath his desk at that point. Change or otherwise, the introduction of the 'new student' into the cohort was one so consistently arising as to be almost predictable.

Please don't, please don't, please don't, Sherwin all but begged in a mental chant. Only to smother a wince when Mr Simpson spoke. "Sherwin, was is? I'd like you all to welcome our newest student to our year."

Mr Simpson smiled at him, but Sherwin hardly noticed. He noticed only for the response it caused when Mr Simpson gestured towards him, warm and welcoming. That warmth was lost before the sea of turning faces; the girl with the ponytail and her friend alongside her with the too-big jumper. The boy who'd long since finished his apple to turn with raised eyebrows and curiosity towards him. Even the two boys with the books twisted in their chairs to regard him; one of them went so far as to lower his book entirely to turn his gaze with mild curiosity.

Sherwin could hear as much as feel his heartbeat in his ears. He could hear, too, his ridiculously overloud breath and hoped – hoped – that no one else heard them both quite so loudly. His eyes darted around the room once more, and he could feel his cheeks redden with the readiness they always did.

The students would likely smirk. They would likely tease. Why wouldn't they? There was nothing quite interesting about a skinny new kid with hair too red and a propensity for blushing in his too pale cheeks. The chanting reprimands beating away inside Sherwin's head were so loud that he almost didn't hear Mr Simpson continue. "Sherwin? Good effort on finding homeroom on time; the corridors can be a little tricky to navigate sometimes." He smiled benignly, then gestured to Sherwin once more. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

And there it was. The worst possible words to hear. Sherwin only managed to refrain from truly sinking beneath his desk by grasping the sides of his chair so tightly his fingers whitened even paler than they usually were. He hated, hated, hated having the attention drawn to himself. It was almost the worst part of changing schools.

Almost.

Sherwin didn't stand. He didn't introduce himself. With cheeks flaming, chin tucking once more, and doing his best – and thoroughly failing – to ignore the stares of the curious, the dismissive, and the resigned as his fellow students turned to regard him in wait, Sherwin shook his head.

There was a pause, a long pause, after which Mr Simpson finally seemed to realise the futility of his own wait. Then he dropped his gesturing hand back to the front of his shirt and cleared his throat quietly. "Well," he said with false cheer. "Not to worry! Sherwin, welcome to the class. I'm sure everyone will be more than ready to assist you should you need a hand with finding anything. Now, I'll ask for the usual quiet while I just take roll call, if you would…"

Sherwin tuned him out as he sunk forwards until his head nearly rested upon the desk. He'd almost expected it to happen, because it almost, almost always did. It didn't make it any easier to endure, however. He still hated the attention, the introduction, the staring and the unconscious judgement from those around him. To the sound of Mr Simpson's drone, Sherwin sighed and closed his eyes once more.

Two things in Sherwin's life were permanent, it would seem. Change, he'd recently discovered, and perhaps obviously so, was one of them. And the other?

Sherwin hadn't spoken a word to anyone in nearly three years. He doubted that was likely to change, either.

A/N: I have every intention of continuing this story, have already finished the first draft, and would absolutely love to know your thoughts! This is such a wonderful Short Film and it deserves all of the love and support in the world. A thousand Kudos to Beth and Esteban for their incredible work!

If you’d like to follow this story, please take a look at it on AO3 here!

#in a heartbeat #iahb #short film #fanfiction #pre-canon #school life #starting at a new school #muteness #tentative beginnings #social awkwardness #bullying #Rating: T

[lolcat76]

James Duff wants Rusty to be the lens by which he tells stories. Ok, fine, Rusty is the lens in this little one-shot:

She navigated her keys around the black box in her hand. Even on the drive home, she was unwilling to drop the box holding her commander stars into her purse – afraid that if she let go of it, it would disappear before her eyes.

Commander Raydor. Isn’t that just a kick in the head?

Andy kissed and congratulated her, then complained in the same breath that he was stuck cleaning up the debris while she strolled off with her little black box. Well, he’d gone out without orders and put himself in harm’s way – again – the least he could do was sweep up the dust and shattered glass that remained of her office. And he did it, because he loved her and he did whatever he could to make her life easier.

Commander Flynn also sounded awfully nice, come to think of it.

She didn’t even have a chance to toe off her heels when she caught sight of Rusty on the couch. The tv wasn’t on, the stereo wasn’t playing; he was just sitting, staring out the picture windows toward the green of Griffith Park.

“Rusty?” she asked, hesitant to break his reverie.

He started, then came around enough to smile at her. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

After all this time, she knew her son well enough to know the difference between thinking and worrying. Still, she didn’t want to press him. As much as Rusty could be moody and a little bit selfish at times, he frequently tried to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he only let her in when he was ready.

She could empathize. It’s why they got along so well.

“Want something? Water, coffee, tea? Delivery?” She peered over her shoulder and saw one of her expensive wineglasses perched on a coaster on the coffee table, half-full of what was a very expensive bottle of Chardonnay. “Or maybe you’ve already got what you need,” she said, trying to hide the dismay in her voice.

Rusty looked at her, then at the glass. “I thought it would help. It doesn’t.”

She gave up on the kitchen and settled next to her son, tucking her feet underneath her on the couch and lifting his glass of wine to her lips. “It’s not supposed to help, Rusty. I drink it because it tastes good, not because I want it to make me feel better. If I want it to make me feel better, I don’t go near it.”

“You’d think I’d know that by now.”

She hummed in response. He did know it, which was why she was so glad that the glass was still full, and still cold.

“What’s on your mind? Anything you want to talk about?”

He shrugged and picked at the blanket that was bunched up underneath him. “Gus is moving to Napa.”

Oh. Oh, no. She didn’t expect this, no matter how many times she worried that Rusty and Gus found each other too quickly, no matter how many times she worried that they’d committed themselves to each other before they ever learned to be independent. It wasn’t her place to determine the pace of their relationship, even if the mother in her wanted to pull them apart and sit them in separate corners until they took a long, hard time to think about what they wanted.

Some mistakes were worth making. Some things that looked like mistakes weren’t. She knew enough to know that she was hardly in a position to judge.

Still, she was here, and that’s what he needed. She ran her fingers through his hair. “Are you ok?”

Rusty shrugged. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I? I can’t make him stay, if he wants to go.”

Her heart was ready to burst in her chest. On the one hand, her son was suffering, and she’d give anything to take away his pain. On the other hand, he was becoming an adult, and he was finally realizing that life, as ugly and complicated and perfect and hilarious as it was, happened no matter what he tried to do about it. “No, honey. You can’t. You can only tell him what you want, and hope it’s the same thing.”

“I don’t want him to go, it’s just-“ He stopped for a second and stared at her. “It’s like when he wanted me to move in with him. I want to be with him, and I want to have him around, but I don’t want to LIVE with him. He has his thing, and I have mine, and why do they have to be the same?”

“Rusty, sweetheart, they don’t. Being with someone doesn’t mean you stop being yourself. It just means that you share yourself with the people you choose to let in.”

“Yeah, but-“ he stopped himself for a second, and she could see the wheels turning in his head. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Far be it from Rusty to hold back on the tough questions. “You live with Andy. You work with Andy. No matter where you go, he’s always there. Sharon, doesn’t that…I don’t know…get on your nerves?”

Sharon rubbed her index finger along the seams of the little black box in her hand. Her commander stars. She might never have gotten this promotion if she hadn’t been backed into taking over Major Crimes. She wouldn’t have Rusty if it weren’t his temper tantrum in the Murder Room during that first case. She wouldn’t be wearing the ring on her other hand if she hadn’t let her lieutenant’s sad brown eyes convince her to volunteer as his buffer at his daughter’s wedding.

And yet there they were, both of them leaving crumbs on her countertop and erasing old movies on her DVR in favor of sports or reality tv. She’d run her dishwasher every few days rather than nightly, and a bottle of laundry detergent might last longer than a month. She’d be in the condo, convincing herself every night that a glass of wine and a classical playlist was all she needed.

“He does get on my nerves,” she said lightly, and he snorted in reply. “Then again, so do you. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean that they don’t annoy the crap out of you.”

Rusty’s eyebrows ticked upwards. “Annoy the crap out of you? Wow, Sharon, such language. Are you sure you should be marrying that guy?”

She nudged his nose with her fingertips. “Listen, buster, you annoy the crap out of me too, and I still made you permanent.”

He nodded, acknowledging her point. “But still…how do you know that you want him around, like, all the time? How do you know you’re not going to get sick of him?”

“Haven’t gotten sick of him yet,” she said with a shrug, but he stared at her so intently that she knew he wouldn’t be content with a flip answer.

If there was one thing she hated, it was giving relationship advice. For so many years, she didn’t have a leg to stand on in the matter, and now that she had Andy…well, she was still so baffled by how easily they worked that she was terrified to tell anyone else to judge their relationship by a standard she still couldn’t believe she measured up against.

“I know you hate to hear this,” she said, and he sighed almost as a reflex. Sharon fought back a smile. “I know you hate to hear this, but relationships are different when you’re young. You still have the entire world ahead of you, and you’re still trying to figure out what you’re going to be. Who you meet now may not be who you want to sit across the dinner table from 20 years from now.” She snorted. “God knows I can attest to that.” She shook her head, trying to clear the picture of herself and Jack seated across a cheap pressboard table with Emily in a high chair between them.

“But-“ Rusty prompted.

“But,” she continued, “when you get to be my age, you realize that the world has more behind you than it has in front of you.” She fidgeted with the black box in her hand. “Sure, there may still be some surprises, but at the end of the day, who I am is who I am, and where I am is where I’m going to stay. And who Andy is is who he’s going to be. And between the two of us, it works.”

“So, does that mean you’re settling for him?”

Settling? For Andy? For the man who couldn’t let her walk by him without reaching out to touch her? For the man who sang softly under his breath when she woke him up in the middle of the night, tossing and turning about Philip Stroh? For the man who argued with her when he thought she was wrong, but still brought her a cup of tea every afternoon, just because he knew she liked it?

For the man who ran across the street and faced down a bomber to keep her safe?

“No. It means that for whatever time I have left, I want to spend it with him. It means that when I go to work, I get to see him right outside my office. It means when I come home, I know he’ll be there. It means that I’m at the point in my life where I can’t imagine wanting anything else. And it means that I hope you find someone who makes you feel the same way.”

Rusty nodded, still a little bit unsure. “But Rusty, if you’re not ready for Gus to be that person, that’s ok. Only you can decide if it’s right for you.”

“And if Andy up and moved to Napa, because it was a good chance for him?”

“Then I would go with him. Without a doubt and without reservations. And if I up and moved to Napa, he’d do the same.”

She took another sip of the wine that had started to warm. “But if that’s not where you are with Gus, then that’s fine too. Nobody says you have to make these decisions at 20. Or at 30. It will all work out when it’s supposed to – you just need to be at a point where you’re ready for it.”

Rusty leaned over and kissed her cheek, so quickly that she almost didn’t feel it, then shot up from the sofa. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said to his retreating back. He was in his room with the door closed before she could drain the last sip of wine. As she put the glass back on the coaster, she heard the door open behind her and Andy’s keys and weapon hit the table in the entryway.

“You’ll never guess what I found in one piece,” Andy said.

She laid the black box next to the empty wineglass and turned to smile at him over her shoulder, her commander stars forgotten when he leaned down to kiss her. As long as Andy came home to her in one piece, she didn’t really care.

#major crimes fanfic #shandy #major crimes #lolcatfic #sharon raydor #andy flynn #rusty beck #just a little something that was stuck in my head

[denial-island-spn]

[Admin Island]

Well after sundown

Megs steps out of her cabin, having spent most of her day catching up on the administrative / business aspects of the island that Suzy and Krys weren’t able to handle in her absence (mostly because of their moral fortitude and desire not to commit any felonies by forging her signature on various things).  While the night air is usually comfortable, the ocean breeze tends to make her feel chilled, and she’s wrapped herself in a shawl in anticipation that she’ll eventually grow chilly.  

She makes her way down the path around the outer edge of the cabins, not even thinking about where her feet are taking her.  It isn’t until she comes across a figure that she realizes she’s headed toward (human) Gabe’s place.  He’s standing just beyond the path, hands in his pocket staring out in the darkness in the direction of the water.  

He looks up when she reaches that awkward distance where she’s too far to be clearly heard over the waves but still close enough where it would be weird not to greet him.  She gives him a small wave, a smile immediately appearing.  The one he gives in return is automatic, weighted, and she knows tonight is not going to end as simply as she has hoped.  

Megs:  *becomes concerned at how quickly he looks away from her once she approaches* Hey.  Everything alright?

(H) Gabe: *keeping his gaze trained in front of him*  I think it’s time we talked about… the things my counterpart alluded to back in Raphael’s world.

Megs: *stiffens as a snarling mass of memories and emotions have her physically reacting to the reminder that place even exists*  Ok.  Um, if you could just hit me with it, that might be best  I tend to do better when these things aren’t drawn out.  

(H) Gabe: *takes a breath, his rising nerves causing him to just blurt it out* You’re a mate and you’re activated.

Megs: *blinks* I’m… Are you drunk?

(H) Gabe: *turns to give her an irritated look* Do I seem drunk to you?

Megs: I mean… you’re not not speaking English right now… but I also wouldn’t say you’re actually speaking English.

(H) Gabe:  *flatly*  I’m being serious.  You’re meant to be paired with an angel and the process for that has been started.

Megs: Ok - I - what?  Why would I be meant to be paired with an angel? *the term he’s used finally sinks into her mind* Wait, mate as in soulmate?

(H) Gabe: Soulmate is misleading in most people’s understanding of the word.  *frowns*  My explanation is misleading.  You have the capability to be an angel’s mate, you are not necessarily meant to be one.  Just like you’re not pre-destined to be with one specific being or even fated to be with anyone.  *catches the confusion on her features*  I… *sighs* It’s complicated.

Megs: *considers what he’s saying* Well… it’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.  *he glances sideways at her, trying to figure out if she’s taking this seriously at all*  Don’t look at me like that.  I’m not joking.

(H) Gabe: Neither am I.  Do you understand that this means?

Megs: Admittedly? Not a damn clue.

(H) Gabe: The simplest way I can explain it is there are a very small number of people in the universe that can have a special bond with one of us.  You happen to be one of those people.

Megs: *takes a breath as she tries, very hard, not to ask him if he’s accepted any special baked goods from the other Gabriel* Define “special bond”…

(H) Gabe: Kind of like when humans get married.  Although a little more permanent and a lot more fulfilling on every level possible.  

Megs:  … Oh.  

(H) Gabe: *finally turns and faces her fully, his brow arching high*  Oh?  That’s it?

Megs: *exasperation and tiredness bleed through the edge of her look* I trust you, Gabe, I really do, but telling me I’m a super special snowflake meant for one of you is a little far fetched.

(H) Gabe: *completely serious*  My counterpart saw it.  All the angels  in Raphael’s compound saw it.  He saw it.  It’s what made you so special to them.

Megs: *finally all the pieces slide into place as she thinks back to all the oddness she encountered* … Oh.  *the color recedes from her face*  I… think I need to sit down.  

(Human) Gabe sees her grow a little wobbly and quickly takes hold of her arms, guiding her over to the steps where they both take a seat.  They sit in silence for several minutes as she processes the information.  

Megs: *Swallows* I - I don’t understand what any of this means… being activated, rituals *her mind starts racing and the rest tumbles out of her mouth as she becomes anxious*  Does this mean I have to be with one of you?  *her eyes grow wider*  Do I even get to choose who I’m with?  

(H) Gabe: Woah, sweetheart, slow down.  Breathe.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, mate or not.  Like I said.  It’s not pre-destined.  You aren’t locked into one set path.  You’re just… kind of on it, at the moment.  *he tries to give her a reassuring smile*  The ritual and activation thing, I’ll admit, not the nicest sounding things after our experiences.  But it’s nothing more than a process that’s intended for a mate and an angel to show their intentions and open themselves spiritually so that they can be joined.  

Megs: *trying to keep up as all the pieces of information rattle around in her mind* But I don’t understand.  If I never went through a ritual, how can I be activated like you said?

(H) Gabe: *rubbing the back of his head* Sometimes having a level of intimacy with one of us can… sort of trip the circuit breaker, so to speak.   

Megs: *her eyes become the size of quarters and she looks almost terrified* Are you saying - the Gabriel here and I - we.... *everything shifts as it clicks into place, and suddenly she is furious, her voice rising steadily*  You don’t think this was important information for me to know when I was sleeping with an archangel?  

(H) Gabe:  *becomes defensive, throwing his hands up as his own voice grows in volume*  How was I supposed to know you two were bang buddies until after you decided to renovate your place with his dick? *pauses a moment* Wait, it can’t happen after only -- *his eyes darken* Just how much were you two --

Megs: *jabs a finger into him hard, cutting him off, her voice lowering with warning* None of your god damn business … and you *she jabs him again* should have told me the moment you figured it out.

(H) Gabe:  And how was I supposed to do that, exactly?  *sardonically* Hey, Megs, thanks for overlooking all the terrible things I did and giving me a new place to stay.  Let me put that all in jeopardy by telling you not only are you possibly one of Heaven’s oldest urban legends, but you might be the first one to exist in this world in millenia.  Possibly ever.  *points at her* Would you think I’m crazy?  Because that still sounds crazy to me.

Megs: *her brows draw together and her anger begins to give beneath her confusion*  What do you mean I may be the first to exist in millenia?

(H) Gabe: *gives her an incredulous look* Do you really think I just sat on my hands, waiting for your return every moment of every day since I’ve gotten here?  The library you have sitting around is unreal.  I mean, the access you guys have to information is dangerous.  I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about maybe -- *she gives him a sharp that says now is not the time… or possibly I just need one more reason to justify stabbing you so please, go right ahead and give me one*  -- right.  Let’s save that for later.  *clears his throat* Long story short, I did my research.  The history here is vague, really vague, so much so your flyboys probably would never think to connect the dots… not that there were many to connect before you left… or possibly even now.

Megs: *losing her patience* What the hell does that even mean?

(H) Gabe: The magic or whatever it is that makes you what you are… it’s different here.  

Megs: *sarcastically* It’s different between worlds? What a revelation!

(H) Gabe: *glares and the archangel in him flares bright for a moment as he considers reminding her he’s not a being to be mocked.  He pushes aside his pride, however, and simply let’s it go*  I’m trying, kid.  Little limited these days by the human cognitive capacity *quickly adds* And no.  That’s not some underhanded comment.  It’s just a fact without the extra juice, I run a bit slower these days.  

He takes a breath, fingers digging into the corners of his eyes as he tries to gather his thoughts.  It takes him several moments to find the words adequate enough to relay his thoughts, which always tend to become a jumbled mess when it involves her directly.  He drops his hand, his gaze glancing over toward the nearby light source.

(H) Gabe: Ok.  Let’s pretend, for a moment, you are that torch *he gestures to the tiki torch lit at the side of the path*  At night it’s a beacon.  You can see that thing from clear down the beach.  The closer you get to it, the brighter it is, and the more you can appreciate the real beauty inherent in it’s light. *his voice softens slightly as he looks back to her*  You just can’t help but be drawn in by it.

Megs feels the warmth of his gaze as it jumps across the small space between them directly into her cheeks.  

(H) Gabe:  *he shifts, his eyes glancing back up at the flame*  Now you take that same torch and you light it in the day time.  It’s still there.  It burns just the same as it does now, but you hardly notice it in the sun.  *his eyes close for a moment as he slips back beneath the surface of his own memories*  Compared to many other places, it’s daytime in this world.  *his eyes open again, unreadable as they fall back to her*  And what you are becomes lost within the natural light.  Raphael’s world, in comparison, is the night, and you shine so bright against the darkness of that place… it’s a miracle my counterpart let you leave to begin with. 

Megs: What that Gabe said, about all those colors --

(H) Gabe:  Was true.  It’s unclear if it’s actually your soul or your general being, but whatever you want to call it, it’s you.  Kind of like when a male peacock presents its feathers, trying to attract a mate, you’re advertising yourself as available.  

Megs: You mean unclaimed.  

(H) Gabe: *grimaces* Technically yes, but that term is also misleading.  This entire process is about consent.  Your consent.  A bond will never form unless you choose an angel in return. *his features grow sober, gold muted beneath the weight of the seriousness he tries to impart*  That doesn’t mean that others understand the process, or that they wouldn’t necessarily try to claim you by force.  *Without thinking, he places a gentle finger beneath her chin* You don’t understand what you could be for one of us… it’s possible it’s beyond even my understanding.

Megs swallows, feeling drawn to the glow within gold as it sparks with an affection she’s not used to seeing.

(H) Gabe: All I know is it’s dangerous for you right now and that you need to be careful *as if remembering himself, his hand suddenly falls away, his look becoming tightly guarded*  Around any of us.  

Megs:  *uncertainly, as she watches him continue to retreat within himself*  Even you?

(H) Gabe: *smiles, though the hollowness behind it is unsettling as shadows creep across his gaze, though what’s more striking is the sadness that still lingers around the darks of his eyes, one that’s followed him to this world from his own* Especially me, sweet tart.    

Megs watches as he turns and walks back inside his own cabin.  She pulls her shawl tighter around her and for the first time in awhile, she’s uncertain whether or not she should follow him.

Without warning, Balthazar suddenly appears in front of her.  If he’s tried to make himself heard, she’s completely missed it.  The unexpected appearance has her nearly shrieking, though she manages to hold back on that as she leaps back, hand flying to her chest to keep her heart from bursting through it.

Megs: *testily* Jesus Christ, Balthazar, a little warning next time?

Balthazar: My apologies.  There is a situation down at the main island the vampire insisted you be made aware of.  

The angel holds out his hand expectantly.  She hesitates, her eyes flashing back up to (human) Gabe’s cabin as she thinks about the warning he’s imparted, only to find all the lights are out.  Whatever is wrong clearly cannot wait, not if she’s being sent a personal taxi to take over.  Steeling herself, she reaches out, taking Balthazar’s hand and with a flutter of wings they both disappear.  

#Megs #Closed

[literaphobe]

#82 and #84 for the prompt thing pls

82. “My back’s a bit sore from when you stabbed me with your knife.” and 84. “No, I didn’t murder them. I accidentally knocked them unconscious forever, that’s all.”

“Jake, really? Still? Are you coming or do I have to interrogate this murderer myself?” Amy groaned as she waited for Jake, whose lips were still showing hints of the pout he had had on for the past hour.

He finally got up, albeit very reluctantly. “Oh, I’m sorry Ames. My back’s a bit sore from when you stabbed me with your knife.” Amy rolled her eyes, prompting Jake to cross his arms indignantly. “Yeah, the knife is betrayal. Because you betrayed me-”

“Are you kidding me? For the last time- I’m sorry I didn’t buy you the bacon bagel. They ran out- it wasn’t my fault!” She huffed.

Amy went on a weekly bagel run and she always got everyone in the detective squad (plus Gina) a bagel each. They did stuff like that for each other; Charles often got coffee because any strange-sounding or strange-looking food he made would be rejected, Terry gave everyone a small pack of fruits or a mini tub of yoghurt every few days to safeguard their health. Jake gave everyone candy, which was only accepted in desperate times when they needed a quick energy boost. Rosa and Gina didn’t give anyone anything.

And Amy, she got everyone bagels of course. Everyone had their various favorite flavors that she would get specifically for them. As for Jake, that happened to be the bacon bagel that the bakery they all liked to frequent had just released.

“No, they didn’t ‘run out’. You gave my bacon bagel to your stupid boyfriend.”

“There was only one left- he likes the bacon bagel too! If you had showed up to work earlier you would’ve gotten it.” Amy retorted.

“Oh so you get a boyfriend and I don’t get a bacon bagel anymore because I ‘show up twenty minutes late’? I thought I could trust you, Amy.”

“You’re making a bigger deal out of this than you need to.”

“It’s not just the bacon bagel Ames-” Jake sighed, his arms placed on his hips in resignation. “Ever since you started dating Daniels your morals have been compromised.”

“I’m pretty sure this is just about the bacon bagel Jake. And really? My morals?”

“You heard me. I hardly see you anymore, you never come to Shaw’s- and bagels were something you always got for the squad, and now that’s ruined too.”

Amy heard it then. It really wasn’t just about the bacon bagel. A part of her felt bad, seeing that hurt glint in Jake’s eyes, replacing the pure joy that usually radiated throughout him. Maybe she hadn’t been spending as much time with Jake as she would’ve liked, but her relationship with Officer Daniels was still new, and- wasn’t it a common thing for people to slightly distance themselves from their friends when they got into a new relationship? Why was she even feeling guilty about this?

“What do you want me to do? Break up with him so I have more time for my work friends?”

“Yes-” Amy’s heart almost stopped. “I mean- no, of course I don’t, I want you to be happy.”

Amy gulped. Happy. She still wasn’t sure she was exactly there with Daniels yet. But it was nice… to have someone in her life, and a certain security that came with having a boyfriend, a potential life partner.

Amy sighed. “Look- I’ll make sure no one takes your bacon bagel away no matter what from now on, okay? Now can we go interrogate this guy?”

Jake’s lips finally broke out into a smile, a smile Amy didn’t know she had been waiting for, but the wave of relief and pleasure that coursed through her when his lips curled up was certainly indicative of that.

“Lead the way,” he said with a goofy grin, hands outstretched in an act of courtesy.

Amy rolled her eyes and entered the interrogation room, Jake trailing close behind her.

-

“No, I didn’t murder them. I just accidentally knocked them out unconscious forever, that’s all.”

Jake and Amy groaned, wanting very much to commit police brutality against this pasty white guy of a murderer, who had been blatantly refusing to admit to not just one, but two murders. The interrogation had went on for almost an hour, but to Jake and Amy it already felt like days, ages even, because of how frustrating this man was.

“Okay- first of all, 'knocking someone unconscious forever’ basically means someone died at your hands.” Amy crossed her arms. “Second of all- I wouldn’t consider multiple stab wounds to the chest 'knocking someone unconscious’.”

“I didn’t kill them.” The man insisted. “None of them. Not even one.”

Jake slammed his hands on the table, giving the suspect (who was clearly guilty) an impatient look. “Dude. We have security footage of you breaking and entering that couple’s apartment. Your fingerprints were found on the weapon, and multiple witness accounts told us about how you’ve been harassing that couple for the past two months. We’ve got you dead to rights, so you might as well just confess and we can cut you a better deal.”

The man shook his head. “No. That- that security footage was clearly photoshopped.” He clearly had little to no proper understanding of how photoshop worked.

Amy rolled her eyes, this guy went from trying to convince them he somehow accidentally punched the victims into permanent unconsciousness to denying any involvement in the crime at all. Amateur.

“Alright- since you just can’t remember what you got up to that day, why don’t we do a little reenactment for you?”

Amy nearly scowled at Jake. “Do I look like Charles to you?”

“I’ll let you be the murderer.”

Amy’s face broke out into a smile, and this was a heartening sight for Jake. “Time for a reenactment!”

“Okay so I’m the victim-” Jake explained as he pointed to himself. “Wait, there were two victims. Should we call Charles?”

“No need. I’ll just stab you twice as much.” Amy said with any almost sly smile.

“Okay.” Jake gulped, preparing himself for the fake death that was to be brought upon him.

Amy pointed to herself as she looked at the perp. “And I’m you-”

Jake pretended to be having a pleasant dinner in the comfort of his home. “Ah, darling! This meal is delightful!” He turned around, pretending to be another person now. It looked ridiculous and Amy could barely keep it together. “Glad you like it dear! Pass the salt?”

Amy decided it was time to enter the scene, no matter how tempting it was to keep watching Jake act out domestic scenes all by himself.

“I’m breaking into the house!” Amy announced as she mimed picking a lock, brandishing a knife at Jake and Jake. “There you two are! Time to die.”

“Oh no!” Jake yelped. He moved one step to the right, before pulling another horrified face. “Oh no!”

“It’s too late.” Amy said exaggeratedly as she always did in situations where they had to play a character. “Stab! Stab! Stab!”

She mimed stabbing Jake, as he stepped side to side, pretending to be two different people.

“Stop! Please! I confess alright?” The man almost begged. It seemed Jake and Amy’s reenactment had cracked him.

“Finally!” Amy cheered, bringing out the necessary paperwork for him to sign.

“We’ve done it again, Santiago.” They shared a high five, before Jake turned back to look smugly at the perp. “So- did our reenactment bring you to tears?”

“It was horrible. Never do that to anyone again.”

“And what? Lose a foolproof way to make criminals confess? We’re doing this more, Peralta.”

Jake’s jaw dropped, his mouth wide open in pure joy.

Send me a number and the character/ship you want!

#ANYWHOOZLE #LMAO #i hope this was funny #idk how to tag for stuff?? #murder mention #peraltiago #stabbing mention #mywriting

[thefootballlife]

Meh - Celtic and Rangers end 2017 in a stalemate

Graeme Murty is a man who, when given a challenge to set a team up to get a result over a single 90 minute period, can get the job done. The longer game is far more open for discussion, but having had two chances to take on Celtic, both at Celtic Park, he comes out of both unbeaten. Against Aberdeen, it’s the same story. Were every game the same sort of 90 minute challenge, Murty would be a genius but it isn’t so he isn’t.

But it’s a novelty to see Brendan Rodgers in that rarest of binds - unable to get one up on someone. It happens in the Champions League, of course, and one expects that but, in more local surrounds, Rodgers is master of his domain - even Craig Levein’s Hearts could hardly claim to have got one over on him (or at least to have made anything of it) given how their season has gone as a whole.

It is, however, a sight that we are beginning to see with increasing regularity - Celtic struggling to put teams away, Celtic struggling to get on top in the first place, Celtic struggling to make their attacking movement count. It is almost as if (and whisper it in hushed tones), Brendan Rodgers has got a touch of the Deilas about him.

That is, of course, faintly ridiculous to suggest things have gone that far, but to state that Celtic’s own standards have dropped this season is hardly a controversial point. Holes that should have been plugged in the summer haven’t been (Right back, Centre back) and new issues have emerged with the side that weren’t as big a deal last time around - Scott Sinclair’s form, the midfield going forward.

And that was shown up in today’s Glasgow derby. Rangers put on a high press and, while Celtic weathered the storm and got on top in the first half, they were unable to do so in the second due to multiple issues.

It’s impossible to not give Graeme Murty credit for his overall gameplan - press Celtic into mistakes at the back and force them wide and into crosses. Both worked well - Mikael Lustig had an absolute stinker and there wasn’t a member of Celtic’s defensive line who wasn’t, at some point, forced into making a hospital pass. Meanwhile, forcing Celtic to do their attacking out wide made them easier to defend against thanks to a career high watermark for James Tavernier who finally showed the defensive discipline to match his undoubted talent on the front foot. He and Candeias didn’t keep Sinclair and Tierney totally quiet, but they did a better job than anyone has domestically for a long time.

Starved of possession in the centre between Rangers’ defence and midfield, Celtic were forced to be unimaginative and, while that nearly bore fruit on a couple of occasions in the first half, it quickly descended into stodge in the second half and Brodge’s answers were found lacking. Meanwhile, Rangers’ energy levels kept up - playing like a team who knew full well that they were about to have a mid-season break to Florida and buried themselves for the cause accordingly. Celtic, on the other hand, were forced into catching up on their own individual errors on multiple occasions.

Obviously, I am a Celtic fan and it’s to them I must turn as Celtic Park bore witness to the odd scene of Moussa Dembele’s own curtain call as, upon his substitution he stalled and took in the crowd as if in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be there again in the hoops. That seems likely to be the case and Celtic are, at least, in the position to make a great deal of money from him - £20m plus a nice sell-on clause should surely do the trick but, more to the point, that money actually looks as if it needs to be reinvested into the squad. Obviously, Dembele must be replaced - be it a permanent deal for Odsonne Edouard or not - but Celtic have multiple gaps that need covering. Shorn of Tom Rogic, Celtic’s midfield movement was near non-existent vs Rangers as Stuart Armstrong was forced to go long on multiple occasions without ever coming near to finding his radar. The one time Celtic did fashion a chance in the middle, Forrest was forced to pass wide to Armstrong as he was closed down by four players - an example of Rangers’ commitment and of Celtic’s lack of imagination.

Now, any follower of this site or of me on twitter will know my proposed solution for this issue - a 19 year old Croatian wonderkid by the name of Lovro Majer - but that Celtic didn’t fashion a goal against a defence which lost one member to injury in the first half, who were mainly booked and who haven’t exactly earned themselves a sterling reputation over the past season or so is just nuts. If Tom Rogic’s fitness can’t be relied upon and Messrs Armstrong and McGregor simply can’t, then Celtic have to go and get someone. If Mikael Lustig can’t hang on consistently at this level and Tony Ralston isn’t ready, then Celtic have to go and get someone. If Boyata can’t pass and Ajer isn’t ready, then Celtic have to go and get someone.

This isn’t an endorsement of reckless spending, this is simply saying that Celtic were vastly profitable last season without player sales and they will be even better off this season with improved European performance, TV monies and probably the best part of £30m in incoming transfer fees that could be spent on someone. Even if Celtic bank £10m of that, they will still have more than enough to hand to provide a big improvement in the side. Celtic don’t just need to spend to improve, they need to spend to bring the sort of player in who will force those around them to up their game - after all, that the likes of Armstrong have resorted to, ahem, “phoning it in” is surely not a matter most fans would dispute.

Celtic are not at the end of the cycle and this writer does not ask for the wheel to be reinvented, but most Celtic performances of late show signs of a team simply on the downslope of their cycle and needing an injection of pizazz to light it back up and move the side back onto the upswing once again.

As for Rangers, Graeme Murty deserves credit for stopping Celtic from steamrollering Rangers once more. The remainder of his season at the club won’t be decided solely on matches against Celtic but it’s certainly a good way to buy himself a bit of time in the winter break.

Both clubs will have a busy break. Both managers have to bring something new into their squad. But only one will enter that break feeling pretty pleased for themselves - and that will be Graeme Murty.

For Brendan Rodgers, the hard work starts now.