Dream melodramatic ot3 declaration of feelings scenario (that I’m thinking about post-s5, but could certainly work for Redemption) is this:
This time it’s Eliot who steps on the bomb.
They’re only meant to be doing recon, and he almost wants to laugh when he hears the click, a little past the boundary of their mark’s sprawling land. Years of precautions and paranoia and he’s about to get taken out by a fucking booby-trap like an expendable character in one of Hardison’s action movies.
Parker and Hardison are still walking up ahead, and for a second he thinks about letting them go, letting them get clear of the danger zone and then just lifting his foot. Only he swallows, watching them, lump rising fast in his throat—he hasn’t been scared of death itself for a long, long time, but the idea of never talking to them again, never looking at them again, never telling them—
Well. It’s unbearable.
Besides that, while the placement of the device suggests it’s the only one, he can’t be sure, and besides that, it doesn’t take them long to notice he’s no longer right behind them.
‘You okay?’ Hardison calls, and the look on Eliot’s face must be answer enough, because they’re both coming back to him before he can choke out a warning.
‘So yeah,’ he manages, when they’re within a few feet of him. He holds himself very, very still, even as his heart seems to hurl itself over and over at the walls of his chest. ‘Looks like our guy went to the Udall school of home security.’
‘Eliot,’ Parker whispers, eyes dropping to his feet. Her mouth sets into a firm line. ‘How do we fix this?’
‘You can’t.’
‘It’s okay; we’re gonna figure it out,’ Hardison assures him.
‘You should get out of here,’ Eliot says, through gritted teeth. There are no wires for Parker to pull this time, no clever computer resets for Hardison to try.
‘We’re not doing that,’ Hardison says immediately, dropping to a crouch to try to get a better look at the barely-buried pressure plate, and Eliot wants to scream.
‘You need—I’m serious, you both need to get as far away as possible. We don’t know if this thing’s on a timer or—’
‘Then we’d better figure it out fast,’ Parker says, squatting down next to Hardison.
Then they’re talking to each other, the two of them, but he’s not really processing what they’re saying. Instead his pulse is thundering in his ears and he’s thinking about the pie he’d planned on making later. How they’d have both picked at the raw pastry and he’d have pretended to be annoyed at them. How they’d have argued they had just as much say in how this pie came together, because Eliot had dragged them out of the city to pick the berries specially (had watched the two of them goof around—Parker smushing a ripe blackberry against Hardison’s mouth and then kissing the deep purple stains away, Hardison putting Parker up on his shoulders so she could reach high into the hedgerows—and felt the odd mix of longing and deep contentment that is sunk into his bones by now, thrumming warm and sweet through his veins, settled forever into every atom).
It would’ve been good, that pie, and it would have been even better to watch them eat it, Parker with so much ice cream she’d get brain freeze, Hardison with that awful powder mix custard, at their dinner table in their home that they built together.
‘I need to tell you something,’ Eliot says.
‘—makes sense that it’d be deactivated remotely,’ Hardison is saying.
‘I need to tell you something,’ Eliot says, louder.
I think it would be really cool if there was an AU where the whole of Amity Park was convinced that Danny Fenton died in the lab accident. After all, who gets shocked with an entire dimension’s worth of electricity and lives? Nobody. Nobody could survive that.
So they pity the Fenton family, particularly the parents who, for some reason, refuse to believe their son is dead. They send him off to school and make him meals just like a regular living boy, but somehow remain confused when their perfectly functional ghost-hunting equipment locks in on him. They somehow never suspect that their own son is the very thing they spend their lives trying to dissect and destroy.
But Danny… the ghost of Danny… he’s clearly not malevolent. And it’s obvious he doesn’t know he’s dead.
The second month of freshman year, when Danny Fenton came trudging through the halls like a typical teenager too tired to be at school on a Monday morning, the whole school froze. The boy (ghost?) didn’t seem to notice as he grabbed his schoolbooks from his locker, and headed towards first period like it was normal.
The news of the Fenton Works lab accident had been on every Amity Park news station the week before. A tragedy, someone so young and hopeful meeting such a miserable end.
And yet, the Fentons did not appear to grieve.
The ghost of Danny Fenton acted as he did before his untimely demise, and if one didn’t know better, they’d be convinced he was still alive.
However, little things gave it away.
Every room Danny entered was immediately the temperature of a meat cooler. Students took to having jackets on hand if they shared a class with him. He didn’t have a pulse either, which Coach Tetslaff found out one day when Dash Baxter hurled a ball just a bit too hard at the smaller teen, apparently knocking the boy out.
The most damning evidence of all, however, was the fact that Danny Fenton didn’t age.
One could consider him a late bloomer, but it was obvious something was up by junior year as his best friends, Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson had gained inches on him, starting to look more like young adults and less like the awkward duo of adolescents they were at the beginning of freshman year. Yet Danny looked the same as always, face as young and bright as it was at the beginning of high school, never aging past the edge of fourteen.
But Danny was no beast or monster as the Doctors Fenton claimed. He was quiet, and peaceful, and although a bit of a slacker from Mr.Lancer’s perspective, a good kid who just wanted a second chance at life.
So no one acknowledged his miraculous return from the dead.
They treated him like any other student or teenager. Dash Baxter shoved him into lockers like normal, students ignored him in the halls, and teachers called him in for detention if he had late work or missing assignments.
It was the least they could do. The longer they delayed the Fenton’s finding out about their son, the longer they could keep him safe, allow him to live his second chance at a normal adolescence.
After all, there were other benevolent ghosts too, like Phantom. Surely it was the right thing to do to protect this one innocent spirit?
i know i just reblogged this but these tags are a MASTERPIECE
oh my fucking god
s-screaming
Idk why the funniest part of this to me is that dash is like “ dang Fenton died? He’s a ghost?! Guess I’d better make sure to keep beating him up. It’s the least I can do.” like HIMBO PLEASE
really weak for human pov hetalia fics, ngl. not so much for “human/nation” ships (tho im not opposed to it, as i think it’s possible for nations to have some very intense attachments to some humans), but more when the human pov is used as a device/perspective for exploring how interesting, intriguing and fascinating—or alternatively, in other situations, how eerie and unnerving it would be to have these eldritch fucks actually existing throughout history, immortal and eternally young. for me personally— bonus if it’s an unknowing human running into a helltalia eldritch and not knowing what’s up but feeling something off(whether in a good, ambivalent or outright creepy way depending on the themes explored…it’s all good.)
Notes: And so we begin with my attempt at replacing the ficlets I deleted from this collection! I’m going to try to post one a week, but there’s a lot going on, so I’m not going to beat myself up if I can’t get to it.
Hypocrisy
Finally! After an entire morning’s worth of needling and squirming and pouting, you found yourself in the open corridors of Asgard’s royal palace. Being a young woman—the only daughter of Odin’s Captain of the Guard at that—meant that you typically didn’t have many options for adventure whenever your father chose to drag you up there for some “society,” and that day’s meeting had been less adventure than most. Now that you were free of his and Odin’s watchful eyes, you intended to find yourself some fun, and you knew just who to look for to find that.
“Loki!”
Or perhaps that person would find you first. The enraged voice you caused you to jump about a foot in the air in fright.
A clatter of footsteps followed this cry. Louder they grew, and louder and louder, until a boy around your own age rounded the distant corner. You recognized him at once by the mischievous grin on his face. He in turn must have recognized you, for he picked up his pace the moment he spotted you.
“Loki?” you asked, but could not question Odin’s youngest son further before he darted behind you.
“Perfect timing as always, [Name],” he said.
“Perfect timing for what?”
“Loki, I am going to kill you!” the same voice from shouted. “And then I’m going to tell Mother!”
A strange noise issued from behind you. Turning, you found Loki stifling his laughter with his own palm. His green eyes twinkled with mirth. Thor continued stomping up the hall and opening (and slamming shut) every door on the way, and that only seemed to amuse Loki all the more.
“What did you do?” you asked. Your tone smacked the smile right off his face.
“Nothing!”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“All right, nothing important. Nothing Thor should be so worked up over, anyway. It was only a prank.”
“I thought the Allfather told you to stop pulling pranks on your brother,” you said with your hands on your hips.
Loki rolled his eyes. “What does he know? Thor’s got to learn to take a joke.”
“It’s not a joke if your prank is mean.”
“No one got bit this time! What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you’re being—”
“There you are!”
Thor had found Loki at last. At least, you thought it was Thor. The red-faced boy headed right for you looked familiar, only he had bright blue hair with eyebrows to match. Your attempt at a swift greeting curtsy went ignored. Only Loki could capture Thor’s interest at the moment.
“Turn it back!” Thor shouted.
Loki didn’t flinch. “No.”
“If you don’t, I'll—”
“Make me? How? Get Sif to hold me down so you can punch me?”
Instead of thinking of a better way to finish his threat, Thor—still looking utterly ridiculous with his blue hair—lunged at his brother with a wordless cry of anger. Loki ducking behind you deterred Thor not at all. The two boys, one snarling, the other snickering, circled you. Around and around they went until you grew dizzy enough to shove the nearest person out of the endless whirlwind.
Unfortunately, that person turned out to be Thor. More unfortunately still, your shoving him was enough for you to end up at the wrong end of his wrath yourself.
“You're helping him!” Thor snapped incredulously.
“What?” You shook your head. “No, I—”
“I should have guessed you were in on this, [Name].”
“Wait. I had nothing to—”
“You're always helping him pick on me!”
“I never—”
“If that’s how you want things to be, fine. I’ll tell your dad, too. When he hears about this—”
A sudden peal of laughter from Loki interrupted Thor’s tirade. Disconcerted, Thor paused, but it didn’t take long for him to open his mouth to continue lecturing you. He took a deep breath, then found himself unable to speak over your laughter.
“What?” he demanded, looking between you and Loki as the two of you doubled over gasping for breath. “What are you laughing at? What’s so funny?”
“Maybe—maybe you should check a mirror,” Loki managed to choke out.
Thor’s eyes narrowed, but clearly his suspicions were great enough to convince him to follow Loki’s advice and leave you both unattended. It did not take long for him to find a reflective surface in the lush corridor. He took one look, then gasped. For good reason, too: Above his quivering lips now sat a magnificent mustache the exact same color as the rest of his hair.
“Mother!” Thor bawled before rushing back out of sight once more.
They were too much, his hysterics. Together you and Loki melted into a guffawing puddle right there on the palace floor. Only several minutes later did either of you recover to rise, hiccuping, into a seated position.
Loki shot you a knowing look as you wiped the tears from your eyes. “I thought you said I wasn’t to prank Thor anymore,” he said.
You sat up as straight as you could and said in your most prim of voices, “Thor has to learn to take a joke.”
This very nearly sent the two of you to the floor again. Struggling to contain himself, Loki instead hopped to his feet and offered you a hand to follow suit. You allowed him to pull you up. Each of you shot the other enormous grins at the exact same time. Then you both wordlessly raced up the hall side by side. Thor would be back soon, almost certainly with backup. Until then, there remained plenty of fun for you and your friend to go looking for.
When Bruce woke up, he found someone in his bed. This wasn’t an altogether strange occurrence, but he was quite certain he had gone to bed alone four hours ago. Trying not to feel too concerned, he wiggled halfway out of the sheets before peeling those beside him back. He was surprised to find youcurled up in a ball halfway down the mattress.
Bruce frowned. Had he gone to bed alone the night before? Yes, he was sure he had. He’d been up with Tony until one working on some new clean-energy plans and had had no chance to call and see if you had made it home all right after dinner.
“Um, [Name]?” He nudged you softly with his hand.
The tiny ball simply shuddered slightly at his touch.
Bruce tried again. “[Name]?”
Your eyelids fluttered and a small groan worked its way free of your throat as you stretched yourself out of your fetal position.
“Five more minutes,” you mumbled as you flipped over.
Bruce shook your shoulder. “Is there any particular reason you’re asleep in my bed?“
You opened your eyes completely at that. They darted across the unfamiliar walls and ceiling. Then you looked at him, cheeks already much darker than normal.
“Oh, no,” you said.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine!” You sat up and shuffled your feet across the carpet underneath the bed. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Bruce.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” You certainly weren’t acting like it. “Are you sick?”
“No! No, I’m not. I’m sorry for waking you up.”
“But why are you here?”
You looked at him. Bruce looked back. At last, you took a deep breath and answered:
“I…have a problem.” His eyebrows rose at that, so you continued, “It’s not a big deal. I just…sleepwalk…sometimes. I guess I was thinking about you so much that my legs took me here without me making them.”
“Ah,” Bruce said, as if that explained things.
The color in your cheeks deepened still further as you stood up. "I’m so sorry. I’ll go home now.“
But you didn’t get far before he took your wrist. "Look, you’re already here. I missed you, too. Besides, it’s dangerous to be wandering around at five in the morning in your pajamas. Why don’t you just stay the night–or day, as the case may be?”
You paused before turning your head slightly to look at him. Your cheeks were beginning to fade back to their original color. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
Bruce shifted to his side to allow you space to crawl back underneath the blanket. As you snuggled back into the sheet, he chuckled and shifted you so he could tuck you into his chest. Before you fell back to sleep, he planted a kiss behind your ear and whispered:
“And maybe if this is going to be a frequent problem, you should just move in.”
When you first met Dr. Bruce Banner, you’d hated his guts. Physicist work was your work at Stark Industries, and you didn’t appreciate his coming along to usurp your position–not that Tony noticed your obvious disdain when he shoved the other man into your workspace.
“Look, [Name]! I brought you a souvenir: a new partner!” Tony said.
You would have preferred a “My boss saved the world and all I got was this lousy t-shirt” t-shirt. Surely that was apparent in the way your lips curled as you shook Dr. Banner’s hand. Still, Tony just grinned, slapped the two of you on the backs, and left with a jaunty:
“You two kids play nice now!”
Needles to say, you did not play nice. You glowered and sulked and pouted and glared. Dr. Banner didn’t try to stop you. He just did his work in silence and only deigned to speak up when he needed help finding a tool.
Several weeks passed in the same manner before something strange happened, and it was something you never could quite figure out. Things between the two of you just seemed to…shift.
“What do you say we take a break and go get lunch?” Dr. Banner interrupted the quiet to ask.
You looked up from your holo-screen to scowl at him. “Why are you asking me?“
"Because you don’t do anything other than work. You seem lonely.”
Your eyes widened. Dr. Banner gazed at you calmly in return. Then you slammed your palms onto the table and left the room.
It bothered you that he noticed something so easily that you thought you had been hiding so well. You didn’t go back to work after your lunch break that day, but instead spent the rest of the afternoon grouching at home, ranting to your goldfish about how exactly much you hated Dr. Banner.
Time passed. Your rage faded slowly to embarrassment. You realized that you had been taking out your feelings of inadequacy on a man that had been nothing but polite to you.
“About that lunch,” you said the next day.
Dr. Banner looked away from his notes.
“I–I’m sorry I snapped at you. Maybe we could go today?”
After the fiasco that was the Triwizard Tournament, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pretty much put the kibosh on anything related to the competition. This included balls for a good number of years–at least until the students’ cry for chaperoned romance became so loud that even Headmistress Professor McGonagall threw up her hands in surrender. Since that time, the school held one ball a year, each on the same day: Halloween.
It came as no surprise to anyone that Professor Longbottom tried his best to stay away from such festivities. A near-run-in with a troll on Halloween of his first year left him a little nervous about the day, even as a full-grown man nearly as famous as Harry Potter. That didn’t stop Professor McGonagall from trying to convince him to chaperone every year, but Neville preferred to spend the evening looking after his mandrakes.
When he wandered back into the castle that Halloween night, however, the ball was still in full swing. An unexpected frost had killed much of his stock, leaving Neville with very little to do outside of fit the rest of the mandrakes with scarves. The music was sure to continue for several hours, rendering an early bedtime moot. He lingered in the hallway, listening to sounds of revelry drifting from the great hall. At least the ball had food, and there was nothing to be afraid of except a few students getting a little too intimate with their dates.
Or so Neville thought until he heard some very strange banging coming from a nearby classroom. He nearly leapt out of his skin, then paused, waiting for the sound to come again. When it did, the bumps accompanied a cry of “No! Not like that. Oh, come on! It’s nearly over!”
He stepped closer and then closer still. Almost without thinking, Neville lifted his hand toward the room’s door’s handle. Before he could work up the nerve to open the door, someone burst out of it–or maybe twosomeones. The first careened straight into his chest before he could get a good look at things.
“Oh!” you said as you pushed yourself off of him. “Longbottom!”
“Um…[L Name],” Neville answered with a frown.
One of your hands had encircled his arm so that you could steady yourself. Your other hand was preoccupied by the skeleton standing behind you wearing a set of dress robes. Once you righted yourself, your eyes followed Neville’s gaze as you brushed the hair from your face.
“Where are my manners?” you said, and tugged on the skeleton’s arm. The laugh that followed sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “This is Roger. Roger, this is Professor Longbottom.”
“Hello…Roger,” Neville said with a small wave.
Roger turned his head away as though he were disgusted by Neville’s appearance.
You elbowed Roger in the rib cage. “Roger! Be nice!”
By then, Neville was frowning at you. Your hair was in disarray, though you’d clearly tried to do it up nicely to go along with your dress. Your ditzy demeanor was nothing new, however; Neville often wondered how in the world you had convinced Professor McGonagall of all people to give you the Charms position. That did not stop him from being curious, though, especially as Roger began to drag you down the hall toward the ball.
“What were you doing in there with a skeleton?” Neville asked as you managed to get Roger to stop. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t what he often caught the sixth years at in vacant classrooms after dark.
At first, he thought that would be quite the feat, considering Roger’s missing several important fleshy bits, but then you turned a light shade of pink. A second later, you looked back at Roger, who quickly shook his head. You released his bony fingers and took a step toward Neville.
“You can’t tell anyone okay?”
“Uh…” was all Neville said in response.
He really, reallydidn’t want to know about your kinks. You both planned to stay at Hogwarts for quite a while still, and it would make talking to you in the teachers’ lounge difficult. Clearly, you had no idea where Neville’s thought were headed, though, because you continued in a pleading whisper:
“I just really wanted to go to the dance.”
“I…see,” said Neville, though he apparently did not.
“Please don’t tell Professor Pendragon!” you squeaked. “I was going to put Roger back as soon as the ball was over, and I was going to take the charm off of him, too!”
Slowly, Neville nodded. Then it occurred to him that feigning understanding would get him nowhere.
“Okay, I have no idea what’s going on here. Are you saying you charmed the Alchemy professor’s skeleton so you could take him on a date?” he asked.
“I didn’twantto,” you said in a rush. “But…no one asked me, and I…really wanted to go. If I danced by myself, I’d look like an idiot.”
Before you even finished your explanation, Neville was chuckling. Your last words trailed away into a tear-filled stare as you watched.
“It’s not funny! You don’t know how it is, being a single woman in a castle full of children and elderly teachers. I’m never going to get married, never!”
“You could date Professor Pendragon,” Neville offered, and got only a shove for his suggestion. “All right, all right. I won’t tell him. But it would probably be better if you went ahead and put Roger back. Won’t Pendragon notice when he sees you two dancing?”
Maybe you hadn’t thought of that, because you paled instantly at Neville’s words. Still, the look you threw Roger was one of great remorse. His only response was to tap his feet against the floor. You turned back to Neville.
“But…”
He reached out and placed a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll go with you. That way both of us have an excuse to be there.”
“You will?”
Neville nodded. If Roger had eyes, the look he shot Neville as you lifted your wand definitely would have been a glare. Unfortunately, the skeleton had no time to prevent his second demise. With a flick of your wand, all life disappeared from his bones, and you caught the collapsing structure easily in your arms. A moment later, Roger disappeared.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” you exclaimed, and took Neville’s hand. “I’ve never had a date with someone living before!”
Somehow, Neville thought to himself as you yanked him after you into the great hall, he wasn’t surprised.
It had taken hours (although it felt more like days), constant reiteration of the rules, and so many practice rounds it would make a normal person’s head spin. But after all this time and effort, you knew Thor could do it.
“Ready?” you asked as you held out your fist.
Though he didn’t look as confident as usual, he reached out his own. “Ready.“
"Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock,” you chanted. At the end, you triumphantly thrust out a lizard.
Thor, however, continued to leave his fist in the air as he stared at your hand.
“Uh. Thor? You gonna stick with that rock there?”
“That depends,” he said slowly. “What does rock do?”
The rest of the group around you groaned. Even Natasha fell back onto the couch with her head in her hands.
“Really?” Bruce mumbled. “Really?”
“I am sorry,” Thor said, and had the grace to look sheepish. “I do not understand this strange Midgardian custom of choosing things.”
Steve heaved a sigh.
“Okay, you know what?” Tony got to his feet. “We’re done. You and Blondie here should have settled this hours ago. We’re just going to watch–”
“No one wants to watch another documentary about you, Stark,” Steve said into his hands.
The rest of the group made noises of agreement. Tony, apparently thinking that this was somehow your fault, glowered at you and gestured at Thor.
“By all means, spend the rest of our lives trying to teach an immortal dog new tricks.”
You glowered at him in response. Thor had to wave his free hand in front of your eye to bring your focus back to him.
“[Name]?”
This time, it was you that sighed. “Scissor cuts paper; paper covers rock; rock crushes lizard; lizard poisons Spock; Spock smashes scissors; scissors decapitate lizard; lizard eats paper; paper disproves Spock; Spock vaporizes rock, and rock crushes scissors.” You made a cutting motion with two fingers in the air. “Got it?”
He beamed. “I understand completely. Thank you, [Name].”
“No problem.” You sat up straight once more. “Let’s just get this over with before I have to listen to another eight hours about the Stark Expo. Ready?”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Tony called. “This is your last chance. You guys don’t decide this round, we’re doing whatI want to do. My tower, my rules.”
“Ready?” you asked again without even showing any sign that you had heard him. Thor nodded.
“I am prepared!”
“Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock!”
You held up Spock. Thor continued to hold up rock. The only difference this round was that he looked delighted.
“I win!” he cried joyously.
“What?” You looked from your hand to his. “No, you don’t. Spock vaporizes rock.”
"But Spock is an alien not of Asgard.“
You nodded.
"And a rock is of Midgard.”
"Um…so?“
"The only things that can defeat those of Midgard are those of Asgard! Thus, the victory is mine.”
You stared. And stared. And stared some more. Finally, without taking his eyes off the still-blank television screen, Bruce spoke up:
“He still doesn’t get it.”
Looks like you’d all get to spend your night learning about Stark Industries again after all.
Loki had always been a bit different–a bit more magic than muscle, a bit more tricky than truthful, a bit more bitter than sweet. But for all your years in his company, you never imagined you’d have to see his face through the wall of a prison cell.
“So they decided to send you to break me. I should have known,” Loki breathed, his grin as fragile as glass.
You weren’t sure how long he had known you were there. Perhaps the entire time, as silent as you had been trying to remain. As his green eyes caught the little light that filtered into his cell, you stepped forward.
“Break you?” you asked. “Why would they ask me to break you?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
You shook your head, your fingers fluttering out to brush against the surface of his cell wall. “What happened to you?”
“What happened to me? What happened to me? What happened to you?”
“Getting Thor exiled,” you said without answering him. “Trying to kill him and our friends. Destroying the Frost Giants. Murdering hundreds of innocent Midgardians.” You lifted your gaze to meet his. “You’ve changed.”
That got his ire. Loki strode forward. “I have not changed!” His shout was so loud that you stumbled backward. Though he couldn’t get himself any closer to you, Loki clenched his hands into fists and grimaced down at you. “I have simply learned what I truly am!”
“A Frost Giant?” you said calmly, getting to your feet and gathering your skirts around you along with your wits. “Thor told me. Loki, you cannot believe–”
“They told you!“ He barked out a wild laugh. “Of course they did! You’re Thor’s little lapdog now, aren’t you?”
“Loki, you are speaking madness. I would never–”
“Don’t deny it! You helped them. You helped them all. And you would send me back to exile as soon as you could to be rid of me. Just like my damned family!”
“What are you saying? Thor loves you! He–He adores you. And Odin–”
“All of it was lies, wasn’t it, [Name]?” His voice dropped to regular volume and his smile returned to something close to normal as he stepped backward and away from you. “The truth comes out. Everything we shared, it was all a lie so you could watch me, spy on me for my family.”
“What?” Hurt colored your tone.“ No. Loki–Loki, I–”
“Don’t say it.” He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear that you love me. Not anymore. You lied to me, just like everyone else.”
You pressed a hand to your heart and moved forward again. “Loki–”
He whirled around. “Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again!”
A shaky breath escaped your lips, but:
“If that is what you wish, your Highness.”
All he did was watch you as you bowed and left the room.
Today was just not your day, not your day at all. Despite your having been there for nearly three hours, Avengers Tower was a complete mess.
The banner you had so painstakingly painted the night before? Ripped slightly and hanging from only one part of the ceiling; the other part of the ceiling had nothing but a huge dent from Thor’s hammer. Apparently Thor hadn’t stopped there with his decorating, either.
Natasha and Tony? Nowhere to be seen. But there was a large amount of alcohol missing, and they’d been talking about a drinking contest for weeks. You’d seen them briefly earlier, Tony practically asleep and Natasha complaining of a headache.
The cake? Currently nothing but a smeared blast across the remains of one wall. The rest of the kitchen area had all the other telltale signs of a Hulk attack.
Clint? Still unconscious. One of his explosive arrows could be found near where Bruce had been carefully icing said cake that morning. The rest of his arrows were littered across the cabinets, walls, ceiling, and counters.
And poor Steve? He was still trying to understand the situation.
All you had wanted was a surprise party set up. That wasn’t such a big request, was it? They all liked Phil. You’d thought they would want to help celebrate his getting out of the hospital. Instead, all that was left was wreckage and some unsalvageable dessert.
The aggravation wasn’t even worth it. When Phil arrived when your note had directed him to, all he did was take one look around at the carnage and shake his head.
You opened your mouth to explain, but Phil held up a hand.
[ Server chatter, sparkly little ideas, chased down this drabble like a rabbit to its hole. No spice under the cut, it’s just long~ ]
~*~
“You ever take off those fuckin’ things?”
Din pauses and glances down at his hands. “Take off what?”
Cobb nods like he speaks, loose at the connecting points—joints like the lax spaces between his vowels, the drawl of him melted soft under the twin suns. It’s been a long day. His chin angles down, right to where Din holds the edge of one pauldron removed and balanced in his lap for polishing.
You had been warned. Over and over again. Spindly tree branches reach over each other, a cross-hatch of dark oak that covers any starlight that would have guided you back to your village. A cold wind unceasingly blows through your hair kissing your skin with a frigid touch. For a forest so dense there are no cries of birds or rustling of rabbits hopping through the grass. There are only whispers from shadows that are said to drive a person mad.
Every man, woman, and child knew not to enter the woods beyond the hillside. If you had been smart about it you would have simply let the black fox make off with your sack of gold. However, it was all you had made that week and your pantry had more dust than food in it. The moment the fox ran to the forest you knew there was something amiss. A foolish mistake. Perhaps now that bare pantry didn’t matter so much.
The bramble surrounding you is sharp. Running had scraped up your skirts and legs. Your feet were sore and bloody from the wool socks rubbing up the back of your ankles. When you collapsed you swore there was a path that led out of the woods, but as you take in your surroundings there is nothing but thorned bushes and lanky trees.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” A voice cuts through the silence abruptly. You whip your head around, startled by the proximity of the voice’s owner you stumble backward knocking your elbow on a rock. Honey-hued eyes gleam back at you. They would be warm if the smile accompanying them wasn’t filled with sharp teeth. The creature, what you assume is a Fae by the pointed ears that ombre black at the tips, jingles a bag of gold. Your bag.
“I–yes. I’m..sorry if I disturbed you. A fox stole it and I have no food–” Fae, from the tales of your childhood, were vicious creatures that killed humans without remorse. Beautiful and charming, they lure humans to their hollows for a feast. The fae holds a slim, pointed finger to your lips.
“Ah ah,” he says voice creamy and warm, “I don’t bother with reasons, the fact of the matter is that you are here. Where you should not be.” He jingles the bag in his palm watching your every move. You could feel his gaze like a hot poker to your throat. “What comes to the forest on its own accord belongs to the forest.” The gold clanks in his hand again. “And I have no use for gold.”
Before you can protest his hand is on your throat. His sharp teeth catch light from the single gleam of the moon cutting through the branches high above. “D-don’t eat me! Please!” You beg, trembling. The fae blinks curiously then begins to laugh.
“I do not eat human flesh any longer, I prefer the taste of sweets.” He dips his nose down to the center of your throat. “You do smell of strawberry tarts don’t you?” Dirt shifts beneath your back as he puts more of his weight on your torso. “As I said, what enters the forest on its own accord belongs to the forest. If I don’t claim you now,’ his eyes flicker upwards. You follow his gaze breath freezing in your lungs as dozens of pairs of eyes gleam down from the branches. “An inhabitant not as friendly as I will take a bite.”
Aro decided that he should let the pair go, he should stop arguing with them. He should have guessed that prohibiting Didyme from leaving would stir her rebellious nature and he should have seen that Marcus was still blinded by her. There was a solution to the fights and misunderstandings and that was letting them go. Because Aro knew they would come crawling back soon enough, disheartened but enlightened as to who they truly are.
Because Aro knows everyone pretends and everyone lies and cannot quite escape their nature. He keeps telling himself that he isn’t desperate and hopeless but he knows it isn’t true. Vampires don’t change and he will forever be doomed to carelessness caused by his heart’s frantic search. And so, Marcus will forever be doomed to a leading role, that he supposedly despises so. As if he would ever be sated by anything else. He began his quest of building an empire on a petty, little whim, as if he could destroy the idea of royalty by creating his own. An ambitious, idealist nineteen year old who wants to rule and thinks he can do better than everyone who came before him. Aro had seen through the flimsy lie that very first day they met. And he has been proven correct ever since. Marcus seeked out a Roman general after all, someone who knew how to enforce rules, how to keep people in order, someone who valued laws. Making guards, taking down other covens, helping Aro himself when he made that deal with Kleo. Is there a more certain way to establish power than having a god on your side?
And then Didyme, who as opposed to him, can never be called impulsive in her actions, had to fall for him. She was always so viciously entranced by the idea of freedom, she had nothing to prove, no carved path to stray from and of course, that attracted Marcus. She was someone he could not rule. Aro saw that Marcus thought, or tried to believe, that part of his love for her was his desire to be like her, unbound and untamed but Aro knew better. Marcus was almost obsessed with her because his need to control was undying and she was resisting him.
He predicted that if Marcus left with Didyme, the two would be happy for a few years, thinking they somehow deceived fate, or maybe even Aro himself. But then Marcus’ skin would start to itch and one day he look around and he would see that he has gathered himself a new flock to lead. Servants perhaps, founded towns or worst of all, he will manage to enslave Didyme and break both their hearts. And when that happens, the pair will return to the palace, disillusioned with themselves and finally knowing perfectly well where their place is.
He went to find his sister, talk to her about having a change of heart, and that she absolutely should run away with her soulmate.
Note: It’s just Will cleaning Hotch up after the battle with Foyet. Quick and dirty, no plot, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around any of my WIPs today. (~970 words of gentle Will and grieving Hotch // AO3 if you prefer)
**
“Hold tight.”
An eerie silence fell over the apartment while Will took in the sight. What he’d anticipated, especially after seeing the house Hotch and Haley had shared, was nothing like what he saw. Everything in that house was tidy, decorated like a showroom, immaculate and impersonal. This was chaos. There were stacks of boxes against the walls collecting dust, the dining table littered with case files and books. What looked like a nest of blankets and a pillow on the couch told Will that Hotch probably wasn’t in the habit of making it to his bedroom many nights. None of it fit the careful persona he walked out the door wearing every day. Will threw open a window and pushed back the curtains, letting the fresh air waft in and drench the place with the sounds and smells of the city’s bustling afternoon. Car horns, people chattering, flowering dogwood, he was acutely aware of all of it as it rushed in to fill the void.
Hotch sat hunched over on the couch like he was taking up space in someone else’s home, not his own. A small bucket, neon green plastic made for playing at the beach, filled slowly with cold water in the kitchen sink while Will rummaged around in the freezer for an ice cube tray. He thought about his own freezer, everything in a chaotic disarray, if he ever managed to find an ice cube tray it would probably have been put back with only one or two broken cubes left. Neither he nor JJ were particularly good at maintaining kitchen organization. Hotch’s freezer, though, was stark contrast to the chaos of the apartment. Small boxes of single serving microwaveable dinners in a neat stack, some ice packs with Batman and Wonderwoman symbols dancing over their clear plastic covers and two full ice cube trays that looked like they were regularly changed out or used.
Cracking the ice into the bucket, he swished the cubes around and glanced up at the man on the couch. He hadn’t moved, not even a little. Staring somewhere into nothing, straight ahead but not at anything in particular, Will wasn’t sure he ever really left that house. If he was crying he would try to hide it, wouldn’t want Will to see it and he understood that. He took his time, made a little extra noise as he hefted the bucket of ice water out of the sink to give Hotch warning that he was coming.
“May I?”
Crouching on the floor, knees popping loud on the way down, he took Hotch’s hands in his own with all the gentleness he would use on Henry’s scraped knees. He unbuttoned the cuffs of Hotch’s bloody shirt, pushed them up his forearms carefully and examined the damage. He was no doctor, wasn’t looking for anything more than what he could do to get him cleaned up. Make him comfortable.
“Probably not gonna like this much…”
He plunged Hotch’s hands into the water after a nod of acceptance, silent understanding, and watched him wince at the shock of the temperature. Ice settled against the open wounds and his shoulders tensed, he drew a hissing sound in between clenched teeth. It was the first sound he’d made since they entered.
“Y'all got a first aid kit?”
Another nod and Will was off again, ready to rifle through the cabinets in the bathroom for what he needed. He was a simple man with simple needs. Some ointments and some gauze, a bottle of peroxide if he could find it. While Hotch’s hands trembled in the water he wiped at the blood on his face until uncovering the gash across his nose that was the culprit. It didn’t look bad once it was cleaned up. If it was Henry, he would have told him it made him look tough, asked him to make his tough face, but he thought it only made Hotch look sadder.
Wrapping the gauze loose around Hotch’s hands, like taping up a boxer, was easier than he’d anticipated. Everyone warned him he was in for it, Hotch was a terrible patient, he’d play nice until they got back and then he’d put up a fight and refuse care…but they’d all been wrong. Maybe none of them could bear the thought that this was enough to take the fight right out of him and in a way, Will was glad to be the guardian of that. If they asked, he’d say Hotch gave him hell…why not? Not much else he could do, nothing that Hotch would ask of him certainly, so he cleaned up the mess he’d made and refilled the ice cube trays while vowing to do the same at home.
“Guess I’ll be off,” he said, clapping Hotch’s shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. “I should get back to the scene, see if I can help. You gonna be okay for a bit?”
Hotch nodded solemnly and Will forced a weak smile. “Jennifer and I will bring you dinner later, when we bring Jack home. You sure you’re okay?” He wanted to stay, thought he should, but he got the impression Hotch would prefer to be alone. Couldn’t blame him, really, but still hated to leave. With no answer, Will let out a soft sigh and made for the door.
“I’d like to lie down,” Hotch called after him, his voice cracked and raw. Will turned and in Hotch’s eyes he saw the hurricane, his father in his home alone and dying, every day since missing a person who was so much a part of him. “Would you…please…” He couldn’t seem to form the words for what he needed. Will nodded anyway. He didn’t need to hear the words to understand.
Who me? Attempting to write a cozy Zimbits slice-of-life romance? It’s more likely than you think …
It would be too kind to say Jack Zimmermann, Pulitzer Prize winner and son of legendary newspaper publisher Bob Zimmermann, resigned in disgrace mere days before the biggest story of his life broke without his name on the byline. That’s what his father is telling people. That’s what Jack himself is telling people, even though the lie goes against everything he’s been taught as a journalist.
But somehow it seems slightly less bad then the truth, which is that Jack was fired, by his own father, for getting too close to a source, blowing his chance at breaking the story he’d been working on for six months, and compromising the paper’s integrity as a purveyor of unbiased journalism, all in one fell swoop.
(Found these notes in my fanfic brainstorming files and had a laugh.)
“People forget Cas read the SPN books, and Dean says all the sex scenes are "full-frontal” about him, sooo…Cas knows all sorts of things about Dean’s sex life.“
Dean: Brb, dying of embarrassment. >//<
Cas: Will you be dying in those pink silk panties from book 6? >_>;
Dean: This conversation never happened.
Cas: It isn’t just you, Dean. Sam "gets around” *air quotes* quite a lot, too. And does creative things with Ruby. =|
Dean: TMI, dude! *plugs ears*
Cas: u_u; It isn’t like you didn’t read all of Sam’s sex scenes, Dean. I read about you reading the book series in book 18.
Dean: ….
Cas: …If there’s ever another book in the series, there will probably be a scene about me reading about you, reading about Sam… c_c;
Dean; Stop, my head hurts. <//<;
Sam: *wishes himself invisible*
Cas: * siiigh* The only sex scene I have fades to black. I am curious how it would have been written.
Dean: What, with that Reaper chick? D: I didn’t realize that scene was in there! *digs for copy of book*
Cas: You’re going to be disappointed. >//>;
Dean: *scans through book scene* There’s just a pillow talk scene after the fact? Well that’s just unfair. If we get humiliated you should too. >//<
Cas: *shrugs* You seem to be enjoying yourself in the stories.
Dean: u//u; This conversation never happened.
Sam: >//>; Do you really want to read a sex scene with Cas? I mean, use your imagination…
Dean: *sputters* I-I don’t wanna read it! I’m just saying, if Chuck described US, he should’ve described Cas too. It’s only fair!
Cas: <//<; Maybe it was not anything impressive enough to write about for more than a summarized paragraph.
Dean: Ouch, man.
Cas: *shrug* The people in the porn seem to continue for hours. I thought maybe I did it wrong. =|
Dean: *cough* Porn’s, uh, porn’s not exactly REALISTIC, Cas.
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Do you think we’re like Jack and Rose?”
Enjolras didn’t look up from his phone. “Jack and who?”
“Jack and Rose,” Grantaire repeated, and when Enjolras didn’t answer, he added helpfully, “Like from Titanic.”
Now Enjolras did look up, and even though Grantaire couldn’t see him from his angle, he could hear the scowl in his voice. “Why in the name of all that is holy—”
“It was just the anniversary of the sinking!” Grantaire said with a laugh. “And so Joly, Bossuet and I got stoned and watched the movie.”
Enjolras sighed. “I should have known.” He kissed the top of Grantaire’s head before asking, “So are you Kate Winslet or Leo in whatever scenario you’ve cooked up in your head?”
Grantaire sat up, frowning. “That’s not a fair question. I’m not as hot as Leo and your tits aren’t nearly as magnificent as Kate Winslet’s.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Grantaire cleared his throat. “Anyway, where I was really going with this is that you were born with a silver spoon—”
“Gold-plated stainless steel, if you want to be specific,” Enjolras murmured.
“—shoved all the way up your ass, and I’m just a lower class kid from the street who got in your pants by drawing you.”
Enjolras snorted. “Firstly, you grew up thoroughly middle class and your poverty is mostly of your own making.”
“Harsh, but fair.”
“Secondly,” Enjolras continued, “you didn’t get in my pants by drawing me. You got invited to join Les Amis by drawing me in a political cartoon that we used for advertising. It took several more years for you to get into my pants, and I don’t recall much drawing being involved.”
Grantaire smirked. “Well maybe not with a pencil, but if I need to remind you what I can do with my tongue—”
“Does this Titanic-related metaphor of yours have a point?” Enjolras interrupted, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
Grantaire just shrugged. “Mostly that I thought it would be a good backdoor into asking you to let me draw you naked.”
“No.”
If Grantaire was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “You say that now, but you know you’re dying to say it.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Say what?”
Grantaire leaned in so that his lips brushed against Enjolras’s ear as he whispered, “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
Enjolras laughed, pushing him away. “Absolutely not.”
“Shame,” Grantaire said, laughing as well. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, though.”
Enjolras shook his head affectionately, and picked his phone up again. “For the record,” he said casually, “if you were Jack, and I was Rose, we’d either both find a way to be on that door, or we’d both freeze to death together.”
Grantaire blinked. “Really?”
Enjolras glanced up at him. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
A slow smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “You saying you’d die for me?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
But Grantaire didn’t seem to have heard him. “You’d die for me,” he said, beaming.
“Only you would find that romantic,” Enjolras murmured. “I, for one, would much rather we live for each other than die for each other.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder, still smiling. “I already do.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Do you think we’re like Jack and Rose?”
Enjolras didn’t look up from his phone. “Jack and who?”
“Jack and Rose,” Grantaire repeated, and when Enjolras didn’t answer, he added helpfully, “Like from Titanic.”
Now Enjolras did look up, and even though Grantaire couldn’t see him from his angle, he could hear the scowl in his voice. “Why in the name of all that is holy—”
“It was just the anniversary of the sinking!” Grantaire said with a laugh. “And so Joly, Bossuet and I got stoned and watched the movie.”
Enjolras sighed. “I should have known.” He kissed the top of Grantaire’s head before asking, “So are you Kate Winslet or Leo in whatever scenario you’ve cooked up in your head?”
Grantaire sat up, frowning. “That’s not a fair question. I’m not as hot as Leo and your tits aren’t nearly as magnificent as Kate Winslet’s.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Grantaire cleared his throat. “Anyway, where I was really going with this is that you were born with a silver spoon—”
“Gold-plated stainless steel, if you want to be specific,” Enjolras murmured.
“—shoved all the way up your ass, and I’m just a lower class kid from the street who got in your pants by drawing you.”
Enjolras snorted. “Firstly, you grew up thoroughly middle class and your poverty is mostly of your own making.”
“Harsh, but fair.”
“Secondly,” Enjolras continued, “you didn’t get in my pants by drawing me. You got invited to join Les Amis by drawing me in a political cartoon that we used for advertising. It took several more years for you to get into my pants, and I don’t recall much drawing being involved.”
Grantaire smirked. “Well maybe not with a pencil, but if I need to remind you what I can do with my tongue—”
“Does this Titanic-related metaphor of yours have a point?” Enjolras interrupted, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
Grantaire just shrugged. “Mostly that I thought it would be a good backdoor into asking you to let me draw you naked.”
“No.”
If Grantaire was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “You say that now, but you know you’re dying to say it.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Say what?”
Grantaire leaned in so that his lips brushed against Enjolras’s ear as he whispered, “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
Enjolras laughed, pushing him away. “Absolutely not.”
“Shame,” Grantaire said, laughing as well. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, though.”
Enjolras shook his head affectionately, and picked his phone up again. “For the record,” he said casually, “if you were Jack, and I was Rose, we’d either both find a way to be on that door, or we’d both freeze to death together.”
Grantaire blinked. “Really?”
Enjolras glanced up at him. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
A slow smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “You saying you’d die for me?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
But Grantaire didn’t seem to have heard him. “You’d die for me,” he said, beaming.
“Only you would find that romantic,” Enjolras murmured. “I, for one, would much rather we live for each other than die for each other.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder, still smiling. “I already do.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Do you think we’re like Jack and Rose?”
Enjolras didn’t look up from his phone. “Jack and who?”
“Jack and Rose,” Grantaire repeated, and when Enjolras didn’t answer, he added helpfully, “Like from Titanic.”
Now Enjolras did look up, and even though Grantaire couldn’t see him from his angle, he could hear the scowl in his voice. “Why in the name of all that is holy—”
“It was just the anniversary of the sinking!” Grantaire said with a laugh. “And so Joly, Bossuet and I got stoned and watched the movie.”
Enjolras sighed. “I should have known.” He kissed the top of Grantaire’s head before asking, “So are you Kate Winslet or Leo in whatever scenario you’ve cooked up in your head?”
Grantaire sat up, frowning. “That’s not a fair question. I’m not as hot as Leo and your tits aren’t nearly as magnificent as Kate Winslet’s.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Grantaire cleared his throat. “Anyway, where I was really going with this is that you were born with a silver spoon—”
“Gold-plated stainless steel, if you want to be specific,” Enjolras murmured.
“—shoved all the way up your ass, and I’m just a lower class kid from the street who got in your pants by drawing you.”
Enjolras snorted. “Firstly, you grew up thoroughly middle class and your poverty is mostly of your own making.”
“Harsh, but fair.”
“Secondly,” Enjolras continued, “you didn’t get in my pants by drawing me. You got invited to join Les Amis by drawing me in a political cartoon that we used for advertising. It took several more years for you to get into my pants, and I don’t recall much drawing being involved.”
Grantaire smirked. “Well maybe not with a pencil, but if I need to remind you what I can do with my tongue—”
“Does this Titanic-related metaphor of yours have a point?” Enjolras interrupted, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
Grantaire just shrugged. “Mostly that I thought it would be a good backdoor into asking you to let me draw you naked.”
“No.”
If Grantaire was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “You say that now, but you know you’re dying to say it.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Say what?”
Grantaire leaned in so that his lips brushed against Enjolras’s ear as he whispered, “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
Enjolras laughed, pushing him away. “Absolutely not.”
“Shame,” Grantaire said, laughing as well. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, though.”
Enjolras shook his head affectionately, and picked his phone up again. “For the record,” he said casually, “if you were Jack, and I was Rose, we’d either both find a way to be on that door, or we’d both freeze to death together.”
Grantaire blinked. “Really?”
Enjolras glanced up at him. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
A slow smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “You saying you’d die for me?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
But Grantaire didn’t seem to have heard him. “You’d die for me,” he said, beaming.
“Only you would find that romantic,” Enjolras murmured. “I, for one, would much rather we live for each other than die for each other.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder, still smiling. “I already do.”
The first time Crowley sees Aziraphale naked, a few weeks after the Apocalapse, he rears back in shock.
“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley’s mouth works silently for a few moments. “What is that,” he finally manages, although he can’t muster up a question mark.
“What is what?” Aziraphale looks down at his own body, following Crowley’s eyeline. “My penis? Oh no, did I do it wrong?” He pokes at it anxiously. “Is it too small?”
A sound rips from Crowley’s throat. It could be a hysterical laugh or it could be a scream. “Too small? Too small? How big do you think they normally are?”
Because Aziraphale is, to put it politely, well-endowed. To put it less politely, he has an absolute monster of a knob. A titanic cock. Porn stars would weep and recoil in fear. A stallion would be jealous. It would be comical if it weren’t so intimidating.
In lieu of answering, Aziraphale’s hands flutter about as though looking for pockets to hide in. Not like there’d be much room for hands in his trousers, Crowley thinks, wildly.
“How long have you been walking around with that— that thing?”
“Hm. I manifested it sometime during the Renaissance. Codpieces were all the rage, you know; needed something to fill it out.”
“Those must have been some bloody enormous codpieces.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale looks at his own genitals consideringly. “Is my penis large?”
“Is it large. Is it large. I’m half expecting Moses to come down from it with the Ten Commandments.”
“Well, I have no frame of reference! I— er— I haven’t had much exposure to them in the flesh, as it were.”
“Then how, pray tell, did you decide on the size?”
Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “Erm, I looked at some medieval manuscripts…”
“Angel.” Crowley rubs his eyes. “You’re telling me that you based your genital configuration on the pornographic doodles some horny monks drew in the margins of manuscripts?”
“I didn’t realize they were so unrealistic!”
“How do you even find trousers that fit?”
Aziraphale, red with embarrassment, grumbles. “Fine. You’ve made your point. I’ll shrink it down to a more reasonablesize.”
“Now wait just a second,” Crowley says. “Let’s not be hasty.”
Aziraphale arches an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh, really.”
So I love mutual pining as much as the next fanfic enthusiast but what about:
Stiles just blatantly thirsting for Derek.
Like just outright, can’t mistake it, everyone knows it. That Lydia fascination switches gears to Derek at whiplash speeds. Every chance he gets he’s complimenting Derek on his biceps, on his face, on his hair, on his clothes, on his shift, everything. At first it’s all physical stuff, but as they go on Stiles starts peppering in flattery about Derek’s personality and training and brilliant mind.
And Derek has no idea what to do with any of it. Stiles isn’t really actively seducing him, just seems to be appreciative, if you will, and Derek’s never really been just casually flirted with, everyone who hit on him just wanted to get him into bed.
After the first couple times Stiles makes Derek blush, Stiles ends up asking if Derek would like him to stop hitting on him. Derek manages to get out that he would absolutely like Stiles to continue, thanks. And Stiles makes some throwaway comment about Derek returning the favor.
It escalates.
Stiles’ compliments go from tame to dirty in the blink of an eye, just blatant come-ons. He still gives Derek the sweet flirting too, but now he’s also giving him a little grin and looking at Derek with heat in his eyes, adding in some of the best and the worst pick-up lines Derek’s ever heard. And there’s apparently never a bad time for it, either.
They’re researching something that’s trying to kill them late into the night? Stiles looks up from some ancient book written in another language when Derek brings him coffee and says in a sleepy-rough voice, “Derek, if you were words on a page, you’d be fine print.” Then he winks, takes a drink of his coffee, and gets back to a crash course in… that actually may be a dead language, Derek’s not sure.
They’ve just killed something that was trying to kill them? Derek’s in shift, still looking as menacing as ever, and Stiles sidles right up to him withi his bat over his shoulder, scratch on his cheek, and says, “Hey, you got a Band-Aid?” He grins and points to his cheek. “I scratched myself when I fell for you.”
The turning point comes when they’ve killed something that tried to kill them, and almost succeeded in killing Stiles. Derek’s sitting in his hospital room like the creeper he swears he isn’t, dodging suspicious looks from the Sheriff, who’s only just now in the know about werewolves and supernatural things since Stiles’ wounds are pretty hard to explain otherwise. And Stiles finally starts coming awake, squints at Derek in the dim light, and manages a crooked little grin as he croaks out, “Is this heaven? Or is God just missing an angel? Oh shit, hi, Dad.”
After that, Derek thinks about Stiles saying he could “return the favor,” and about Stiles in a hospital bed after nearly bleeding out in his Camaro.
So it escalates again.
He’s rusty, is the thing. His first attempt does not go smoothly. After a pack meeting, when Stiles is still healing but able to hang around as long as there’s somewhere for him to sit, when everyone else is gone, Derek clears his throat and looks down at where Stiles is laying back in the arm chair, eyes closed but still awake.
“What are my chances of getting you into bed?” is what he manages. Which is honestly less pick-up line and more obvious innuendo, that actually can’t be acted on because Stiles still runs out of breath walking up the stairs right now.
Stiles grins though, eyes closed still, knows exactly what Derek’s trying for. “Pretty good, but you might have to carry me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my bed, but I’d rather be in yours.”
Derek snorts and bundles Stiles up in the Camaro, drives him home. He helps Stiles up the stairs, helps Stiles get changed - and oh, Stiles is a goldmine of pick-up lines and innuendo in that situation - and gets Stiles into bed. He stays until Stiles is asleep (and then honestly a little while after that), and then he slips out the front door instead of the window, like a person, as Stiles would say.
And then he goes home and Googles pick-up lines. He’s gonna need to build up a stash if he’s going to keep up with Stiles’ repertoire.
Note: I was going to make this end sad, but I don’t like Barbatos being sad. :( So we have a happy ending.
Warnings: Attic incident mention, head injury, concussion (loosely based on my experience with a concussion - but that’s all blurry to me), incorrect medical stuff to fit the plot, amnesia, threat, pact use without permission
Barbatos stormed through a portal and slammed Solomon into the wall. His hands gripped into tight fists on the fabric of the sorcerer’s shirt as the portal vanquished into thin air. The demon’s tail thrashed from side to side. “What did you do to him?” Barbatos growled.
Solomon winced at the stinging sensation in the back of his head. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding from where his head collided with the wall. “A potion we were working on blew up. It knocked him out. He’s being checked by a doctor right now.”
“Where is he?” Barbatos released the wizard. Solomon pointed through a door as he rubbed the back of his head. Without glancing back, Barbatos left with his demon form dissipated and threw the door open. A doctor looked up in alarm.
“You can’t be in this room, sir,” the doctor spoke quickly. Barbatos ignored him and made a beeline for Lance.
“Lance, Little Lamb, are you alright?” Barbatos went to cup the human’s face with his hands.
“Don’t touch me!” Lance yelped and shot out of bed. He tripped as the sheet caught on his ankle.
“Lance?” Barbatos asked in confusion. He immediately ceased his movements with his pact activated, unable to try a catch him. Fortunately, with how often he has fallen in the past, Lance was able to stabilize himself. “My apologies, I didn’t–. You’ve never minded in the past.”
“The past? I don’t know who you are. We’ve never met before.”
Barbatos stilled. His heart sank. Painfully. It felt like someone had just stabbed him in the gut and twisted the knife. “I beg your pardon?” Barbatos took a step forward to try and reason with him, but Lance scrambled backward.
“Sir, please, I must ask you to leave.” Barbatos gave the doctor a pleading look.
“Lance, we’re engaged. The ring on your finger is the ring I gave you.”
“Engaged?” Lance scoffed. “I’m never going to date, that’s impossible.” He glanced at the ring he had and froze. “Where did this come from?”
"It was a gift from me. You received it the same night I received a ring from you,” Barbatos spoke softly. He turned to the doctor. “Will he get his memories back?”
“I cannot give that information out without the consent of the patient. Sir, you really must leave.”
Barbatos looked away from both of them. He felt his bottom lip quiver before he nodded. “I understand. I will be waiting outside.” He risked a glance towards Lance who watched him with confusion. “I’m sorry I frightened you, Lance. That was never my intention. I would never do anything to harm you. If you’ll please excuse me.”
Barbatos slid the door open and then shut it behind him. His feet unconsciously carried him to a nearby bench. He sank down on it and stared blankly at the wall before him.
“How is he?” Barbatos barely registered Solomon’s words.
“He does not remember me. At all.”
“What?”
Barbatos’s hands formed into tight fists. “He does not remember me. I do not know if his memories will return to him.”
"You don’t? You didn’t see any of this?”
“No!” Barbatos snapped. “I did not look that far into the future. I was afraid to see how things between us may have ended if they ever did. This…” Barbatos’s voice began to crack. “What if this is how it ends?”
Just as Solomon was about to respond, the door opened. The doctor left the room before shutting the door behind him. Then, moments later, the door opened again. Barbatos glanced to see Lance standing there awkwardly. He shuffled over to the demon and sat down, a bit of a distance away from him. He eyed Solomon nervously. With an awkward laugh, the wizard excused himself and left the pair alone.
“How are you feel—” Barbatos’s question was interrupted.
“You called me Lance and used he/him pronouns.”
Barbatos’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Yes, I did. That, besides my nicknames for you, has been what I’ve always referred to you by.”
Lance slowly nodded his head. “No one calls me that. Not that I remember. But it’s what I wanted to be called by.”
Barbatos’s lips parted as he started to piece together where in his life Lance’s memories took him back to. It must have been just before the exchange program took place. “I see. Many people call you that now.”
“They do?”
"Yes. You have many people that truly care about you.”
“Even you?”
Barbatos looked down at the ring Lance gave him. “Yes, especially me.”
Lance frowned and played with the ring on his finger. “The ring’s beautiful. It’s exactly what I would want.”
Barbatos nodded. “I know. I picked it especially for you.”
Lance swallowed. “And I cared for you?”
Barbatos looked away from the human at feeling a stinging in his eyes. Lance’s feelings vanished in less than a day. “Yes, you did.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Lance whispered. “I don’t let myself get attached.”
"It took a very long time,” Barbatos murmured quietly. “I was patient.”
Lance glanced at the person next to him who refused to look at him. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m hurting you, because of this.”
Barbatos shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I can be patient again if that is what you wish.”
Lance stilled as he stared at the stranger in front of him. “You’re a stranger to me. I don’t know if–.”
Barbatos nodded his head but paused so that his hair covered his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware.” Finally, he was able to look up at Lance. “How are you, asides from the amnesia?” That was more important.
Lance inhaled sharply as he caught sight of Barbatos’s eyes. He felt something in his chest and looked away quickly. “I have a mild concussion. Everything’s moving slowly in my head. I hate it. I’m used to my thoughts being faster, louder. It’s just molasses right now. I can only have one train of thought. I used to be able to think of multiple things at once.”
Barbatos stood from his seat and held out a hand to Lance. “You should get some rest, then.”
Lance looked at the hand. His eyes lingered on the engagement ring on the person’s hand. “What’s your name?”
“Barbatos. Though, you sometimes called me Little Bat or Tosie.”
“Tosie?” Lance’s nose wrinkled at the overly cutesy name.
“Yes,” Barbatos said with a sigh. “Only you are allowed to call me that.”
Lance tore his eyes from the ring and up at the butler. “You actually loved me?”
“I still do. Always and forever.”
Lance’s lip quivered. “I’m sorry, I wish I remembered. I might with some time.”
Barbatos lowered to his knees before him. “Don’t apologize. Right now, the most important thing is for your concussion to heal. The rest we will figure out. Would you like me to help you back to your room to rest?”
Lance nodded and took Barbatos’s hands. Barbatos sighed with relief as the pact’s command was released. He wrapped an arm around Lance’s shoulder and guided him back to the hospital bed. He tucked Lance in tightly with the blankets on the hospital bed and lingered for a moment – not wanting to leave just yet.
“You can stay,” Lance said softly. Barbatos nodded and took a seat near the bed. It was silent for a few moments before Lance spoke up, “You’re on my home screen on my phone.”
Barbatos glanced at Lance and nodded his head. “Yes, you rotate it frequently if you get another picture of me that you like.”
Lance was quiet as he rolled over to his side to face Barbatos. “That’s how I believed you. Believed that we’re engaged. I’ve kept the same home screen for years.”
“Yes, it was a very big deal for you to change it. You felt as though you were disrespecting the deceased. It took a lot for you to go through to change the picture.”
“I must have taken a lot of pictures of you.”
Barbatos chuckled. “You did, yes. I believe most of them are still on your phone.”
Lance’s eyes started to drift shut. “I’ll try to remember when I took those pictures, then.”
Barbatos gave him a sad smile. “Take your time.”
–
Lance’s head pounded when he woke up. He winced as he opened his eyes and sat up in alarm. The dull beeping of the machine grounded him to have him realize where he was. A nurse must have come back in and reconnected him while he was knocked out. He looked over and saw Barbatos asleep in his chair.
“Tosie?” Lance asked quietly. Instantly, the person woke up and looked at Lance. He hurried over to his bedside.
“What is it, Lance? What do you need?”
Lance’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You like tea and you bake, right?”
Barbatos sighed in relief as he sat on the side of Lance’s bed. “Yes, that is correct.”
“And I…Started a fan club for you?”
Barbatos laughed. “Yes, you did.”
Lance squirmed with embarrassment. Still, he watched him with caution. “Can I hug you?”
“Yes, of course you can.”
Lance quickly wrapped his arms around him. Barbatos immediately returned the embrace and held onto the human tightly. “This feels familiar. There’s something else,” Lance spoke quietly. “But it’s stupid.”
“Nothing is stupid. What is it?”
“Something’s telling me you’re not human?” Lance said with confusion in his voice. “I don’t know why. Is it an inside joke?”
Barbatos paused. “No, it’s not an inside joke. It’s a long story, though. I’ll tell you once you’re feeling better. However, it seems as though you’re starting to remember some things?”
Lance slowly nodded. “Just some tidbits. A couple of facts and a sort of feeling when I look at you.”
“What’s that feeling?” Barbatos asked as his fingers ran up and down Lance’s back, tracing small patterns. He felt some comfort in that Lance hadn’t pulled away yet. It took a while for him to let Barbatos touch him for more than just a few seconds.
Lance rested more of his weight into Barbatos. “I don’t really know. Comfort? Safety? A sense of belonging? It’s a nice feeling.” Lance hesitated before he pulled away. Though, his hands still lingered on Barbatos’s arms. He looked up at the person in front of him with exhaustion. “I should sleep more. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Barbatos pressed a kiss to the top of Lance’s head without thinking. When he realized what he did, he pulled away quickly. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have.”
"Don’t apologize,” Lance repeated. “It was nice. I’ll hopefully remember more soon.”
“You’re already remembering plenty, I’ll be patient.” He helped Lance lay back down and ensure that the blankets were covering him. “Do you want a warm blanket brought in?”
Lance silently nodded as he quickly drifted off to sleep.
–
Lance startled as he clawed at his neck. There was nothing there. “Barbatos!” he gasped out and looked around frantically. Barbatos quickly grabbed a hold of his hands. “I died. What happened?! Why did I die?!”
“Breathe,” Barbatos whispered to him. “Just breathe.”
“I couldn’t!” Lance sobbed out as he desperately held onto him. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. “I couldn’t breathe! I tried calling for you, but–!”
“I know, I know,” Barbatos hushed him. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was the only way,” Lance hiccupped. “Why was it the only way? I don’t understand. How did I come back from that?” Barbatos was quiet, his grip on Lance tightened. Lance seemed to have no memories that involved magic or anything related to demons. “But you were there. You stayed with me.” Lance’s breathing started to calm down. “Just like you are now.” He cringed at the fogginess in his mind. “Even though you have an important job.”
“My job can wait,” Barbatos reassured Lance. He ran his fingers over Lance’s hair and paused at the small welt. “Goodness, Solomon will definitely be punished for what he did to you.”
“Solomon?” Lance repeated the name. “You warned me not to trust him, but I do anyway, right?”
“Yes,” Barbatos said with a sigh. “Although, I’m certain he warned you not to trust me, too.”
Lance nodded. “Possibly. I think I got mad at him when he suggested that. Should I be mad at him for this?”
Barbatos hummed. “I am. I’m furious with him. You, however, would probably insist that it was your fault.”
“Then, you’d be mad at me?”
“No.”
Lance snorted. “Why not? If it was my fault this happened, then—”
“You’re too cute to be mad at.”
Lance stiffened in Barbatos’s arms. “No, I’m not.”
“Oya. Are you calling me a liar, Little Lamb?” Barbatos teased. He pulled away so he could look down at the reddening of his face. “I thought you had more trust in me. Don’t tell me you actually listened to Solomon? Or perhaps I just need to shower you with more compliments until you believe them?”
Lance whined and quickly moved to bury his face in Barbatos’s chest. “I’m still concussed, you can’t overwhelm me.”
Barbatos clicked his tongue. “You’re just using that as an excuse. But very well, I’ll stop teasing you. No matter how much I know you like it.”
“You dem—” Lance froze in his words. “Demon?” He repeated it again quietly as he tried to have his slowly moving thoughts catch up with the idea that was forming a mile away. “Are you a demon?” Lance withdrew his face from Barbatos’s chest. “An actual demon? You have horns and a tail.”
Barbatos watched Lance carefully to gauche just how he would react. “Yes. I am a demon.”
“Can I see them?”
“It won’t overwhelm you?”
Lance thought it over before he shook his head back and forth. “I don’t think so.”
Barbatos glanced at the door leading into the hospital room. His horns and tail appeared. Lance stared at them in awe. Slowly, his fingers reached up to caress the horns. “They’re actually antlers, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Barbatos confirmed. “You kept one that I shed.”
Lance giggled. “That’s right. You only had one for a while. It was cute.”
Barbatos’s tail slapped against the floor at being called cute. Still, he kept his mouth shut. Even if it did form a small pout.
Lance grinned at him. “You don’t like being called cute. Even though I call you cute all the time.”
"You do,” Barbatos grunted out, much unlike his more articulate self.
Lance tilted his head to the side. “You actually like it when I call you cute, though. Don’t you?”
Barbatos eyed Lance suspiciously. “I will not confirm or deny that.”
Lance laughed, drawing a smile from the demon. “You’re confirming it then.” Lance leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, causing Barbatos’s skin to become painted a fair pink. “It’s no wonder I fell in love with you.”
Barbatos’s smile softened. “It’s still a wonder to me.”
Lance melted into Barbatos’s arms at the soft smile. He whispered just so Barbatos could barely hear him, “I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you all over again.” Barbatos immediately pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Can I fall asleep in your arms, Tosie?”
“Anything you need or want, it’s yours.”
–
“Little Bat,” Lance whispered as he looked up at the snoozing Barbatos. His arms held him protectively from the rest of the world. Lance leaned up and pressed small kisses to his face. “Tosie.” His fingers lightly brushed over his eyelids. “Barbatos.”
Slowly, Barbatos’s eyes opened. He hummed and pulled Lance closer to him to try and keep him warm. “Yes, Little Lamb?”
“I remember,” he whispered and pressed a small kiss to the side of his neck. “I remember just about everything. I’m so sorry I put you through this.”
Barbatos pulled away from Lance with his once groggy eyes now fully awake. “You remember? What all do you remember?”
“I remember you tricking me into making Hell Coffee so you knew how I felt for you before I officially confessed.”
Barbatos chuckled. “It was the most bitter thing I have ever tasted.”
“I’m sure it’d be even more bitter now. I remember you gambling on where I would stay for a week. I remember you telling me about your past. I remember you getting upset over wanting to ask me to become immortal to stay with you. You were out in a rainstorm and I came out to fetch you.”
Barbatos was quiet. “You even went out in the wind for me.”
Lance nodded. “I remember you catching me ordering a custom body pillow with you on it. You catching me wearing your coat and making me wear it to dinner. I remember writing you those sticky notes after you were having a difficult time.”
“It turned into one of the best times I’ve ever had.”
“I remember you showing me our house for the first time. I remember proposing to you. I remember how much I love you.”
“Let me kiss you?” Barbatos nearly pleaded the human. Lance responded by pressing his lips against Barbatos’s.
The previous owners had been the ones to put up the sign, of course. Every time Nicky unlocked his front door, he looked at it—non pubblicità, solo lettere d'amore—and reminded himself to take it down. It wasn’t that Nicky particularly wanted any advertising leaflets, but he couldn’t imagine himself getting any love letters in the near future, either. But there were many tasks that needed doing around a house that had stood empty for so long, and figuring out which tool he’d need to pry a whimsical little sign from the top of his letter box wasn’t near the top of Nicky’s renovation list.
Which was why now, on the first proper spring morning, Nicky walked home from the bakery to find a man standing on his doorstep. He was broad-shouldered and curly-haired and had a small sheaf of envelopes clutched in his hands.
“Can I help you?” Nicky asked. By now, he at least knew everyone who lived on this little street by sight, even if not by name. This man wasn’t one of them, although when he turned around he smiled at Nicky with all the warmth of an old friend.
“Possibly,” the stranger said with a smile. His Italian had an accent to it that Nicky couldn’t quite identify—almost American, but not quite. His eyes were a deep and liquid brown. “Possibly not, I think I’m being very foolish. Someone told me about the old custom you’ve got here, and I thought hey, if I’m going to be living here now, might as well commit.”
“Old custom?” Nicky was confused. The town had as many customs and quirks as any other in the region, but they were mostly associated with saint’s days and holidays, and not with showing up on a stranger’s doorstep on a Tuesday.
“Yeah,” the stranger said, holding up the sheaf of envelopes. “The one where if you’re hoping to fall in love, you write letters to your soulmate and send them out into the world so they know you’re looking for them. I was on my way to the post office but then I saw your letter box and I thought it was a sign that…” He trailed off at the expression on Nicky’s face. “There’s no such custom, is there?”
Nicky shook his head.
The stranger said something in English, too fast for Nicky to follow, and then threw his head back and laughed. “This is Quynh’s revenge what happened last week. Well, I guess I deserved it.” He stepped down from Nicky’s doorstep. They were much of a height, Nicky realised vaguely. “I’m sorry I bothered you, I will take my embarrassed self and my nameless love letters home.”
Ever after, Nicky was never able to say what it was that made him speak up then. Was it how lonely he had been ever since he’d moved here himself, or was it being close enough to see that there were fine lines around the stranger’s eyes, as if laughter came to him easily and often?
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Nicky held up his bag from the bakery and said, haltingly, “Focaccia with coffee is a local custom. If you would like to try it? With me.”
What mattered was that the stranger—Joe, Nicky learned, over a slightly belated breakfast—had a smile that grew ever more beautiful the more that Nicky studied it.
What mattered was that some months later, they would lie together in their bed while the late autumn rain pattered against the window pane—that Joe would finally open the letters and read them aloud to the one for whom they had been written.
All of the bat kids have a “bird call” whistle unique to them, used to sound off at a distance without comms when necessary. It lets Bruce and everyone else know where they are and that they’re okay. Bruce will whistle first and they all reply. If someone fails to, he heads towards their last known location. It’s very helpful when operating outside of Gotham in more wild areas.
I saw this and all I could think of was Bruce using his whistle, expecting to get a call back from Dick and Tim.
And a newly returned Red Hood literally cannot help himself and calls back, too.
Batman, Nightwing, and Robin nearly have heart attacks.
Oh god, I love this.
What if Jason does it out of habit, without thinking. It leaves his mouth and he’s instantly cursing himself for it, because fuck, too early!
Imagine the hunt afterwards.
The Bats keep looking around to discover who dared to use the whistle - who knew about it and made mockery of it!
But I like to think that the ones who reacted first were Dick and Bruce. They knew the whistle, they heard it in person. Tim had no idea what Jason’s call was, no one ever showed him or anyone after him. He was just on a mission, sounding off as normal, when the unknown sound came in and suddenly B was just… Just gone. Dick following right after, both ignoring the calls of the Robins, so angry that anyone would dare!
The hunt, however, comes to nothing. There’s no one there to be found.
For Bruce, it was like a bucket of ice, bringing back the worst flashbacks. For Dick it was infuriating and concerning. Who the fuck could know?! After all those years, who the hell would remember and mock them with it?
But they’ve heard it, right? They weren’t going crazy!
Tim and Steph are there to confirm that yeah, the whistle was real. And what the fuck, guys, the mission is bust now!
B goes home, out of sorts for the rest of the week. Damnit, he doesn’t need that distraction, not with a new player in Gotham, taking down criminals in bloody sprees. He has to focus. Can’t get dragged down into the memories he’d rather not relieve - even the good ones. He manages to get his head out of it.
Until it happens again.
Once Red Hood realizes the supposed ‘Worlds Greatest Detective’ didn’t catch his mistake, Jason is all too willing to use it against him. He ignores how much making his low-low-high-low call soothes something in him that’s dark and twisted and green.
He uses Bruce’s call a few times, when he’s fighting one of the other bats. And uses one of the other’s alarm call when he’s in a sticky situation to draw them away.
After all, you never ignore an alarm call.
During one of their fights, Bruce whistles for all his children, for his family, his flock, tells them get back, get away, get safe.
And he’s facing Red Hood as the haunting low-low-high-low note echoes across the roof.
Batman snarls as another part of him freezes in panic and another collapses under sheer weight of grief, “How do you know that?” He growls and yells, holding himself back from lunging just yet.
“When I said No More Dead Robins, what, you didn’t think I knew? Little robin red breast, all dressed up and buried!? What are you going to do to a dead man’s call?! Here I am, Batman! Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. Come and get me!” Then Red Hood is jumping off the roof, whistling all the way. Low-low-high-low.
Batman races after him. The whole night, with Red Hood keeping just one step ahead of him. At times, when Batman thinks he’s lost him, Jason’s call will echo out again, taunting him with everything it means he’s lost.
The half-second that Bruce takes to mourn is enough for the Red Hood to get away. Each. and Every. Time.
—
During their last fight, Jason doesn’t even bother to use the whistle. The broken look on B’s face says he’s already done it.
And then he baits him into the chase, into the fight, into confronting the Joker,… and Bruce won’t. He turns away.
Jason’s chest burns with heartache and anger more than from the broken ribs. But he knew this would happen didn’t he? How could he expect anything else from the man who didn’t avenge him?
So he lets himself give up. Lets the countdown go on the bomb. One more time. Just like it did before.
And Batman still saves the Joker first.
Something breaks in Jason’s chest, under all the weight of the building now sitting on top of him. And yet, buried under the rubble, suffocating and bleeding and bruised and broken from his father…
Jason whistles. Weak and broken. He whistles, just as he had in his coffin, low-low-high-low, and another high note for help. An alarm call. Every bat knows it. And B knows it’s his. He repeats it, licking his lips and struggling to breathe.
Low-low-high-low. High.
Low-low-high-low. High.
Low-low-high-low. High.
Because they’re never supposed to ignore an alarm call. A call for help.
Low-low-high-low. High….
He said no more dead robins.. but then again, he was already dead, wasn’t he?
Low-low-high-low. High.
The call echoes across Gotham. Lost to sirens and cars and people. Falling on the deaf ears of a broken father who’s always too late.
inspired by this prompt // post s2, geraskier; in which Jaskier decides to push his luck with some compliments
Later on, he’ll blame it on the alcohol. On the pleasant warmth currently spreading through his body, relaxing, making him feel as though no matter what he says, things will turn out just fine.
It’s not like Jaskier doesn’t ever run his mouth when he’s sober (in fact, he does so far too often), but there arestill certain topics that he avoids, things that he doesn’t want to let slip. Especially these days, when that bitter taste of heartbreak is still relatively fresh on his tongue.
Right now, though, he’s content. Here, in Kaer Morhen - there’s a fire burning, laughter and chatter all around him. Good ale in his cup. And Geralt is sitting right across from him and gods, it’s impossible to look away when there’s this soft look on his witcher’s face, when strands of white hair frame his face just so, when his eyes glow from the light of the flames. He seems just as comfortable as Jaskier feels.
And he’s beautiful, Jaskier thinks to himself and then he’s opening his mouth with not a clue as to what he’s about to say.
“You know, Geralt, I’d compliment you, but I feel like you’re going to take it the wrong way,” is what comes out of it. Could’ve been worse.
Geralt doesn’t move an inch. He only acknowledges Jaskier’s words with a subtle glance and a questioning grunt.
“The wrong way?”
“Yes,” Jaskier nods quickly, shifting his entire body until he has an elbow on the table, chin rested in his hand. He never takes his eyes off Geralt and there’s an amused smile playing across his lips as he elaborates. “Platonically.”
Hermione’s back arched into Draco as his large hands curled around her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the desk.
“We musn’t,” she gasped, her nails clawing the grains of the wood. His only response was a wicked laugh that rumbled through her as he ran biting kisses down the column of her throat.
Their hurried breaths were deafening in the quiet office; only the hubbub sounds of the afternoon DMLE filtered through the flimsy door. Hermione peeked at the moving silhouettes she could see through the frosted glass, and bit her lips to muffle her moan.
“We must,” Draco murmured against her skin, as he popped the buttons of her dress. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the black lace that you have on under here since this morning.”
Hermione squeaked as Draco dropped down to one knee and the rough pads of his fingers slipped up her thighs.
“What if someone comes in and catches us?” she whispered as her knees unconsciously fell wider.
Draco’s grey eyes glinted over the frame of his glasses, his kiss-bruised lips tilted to a smirk. “Then tell them to come back later, Deputy Granger.”
Her response was lost as she lifted her hips at his urging. She held his heavy gaze that darkened with lust as he slowly peeled the delicate lace from her body.
Her breath quickened, her body tingled with anticipation as Draco stood, pocketing her lingerie before he loosened his belt.
Hermione grasped the straps of his holster as his firm grip parted her thighs around his waist. She could feel every brush of air over her newly exposed skin that slickened with gathered arousal. Draco swallowed her whimpers as he stole the breath from her lungs.
“These are staying with me,” he said against her lips before he captured them between his.
“I’m not going to stop,” he growled darkly as she felt him at her core, “until the entire fucking department knows who makes you scream.”
As flattering as the words had first been, it quickly dawned on Kenma that Kuroo was also, in fact, rather smart himself. Smart enough that when he came over to stay the weekend for the first time, he’d first unpacked his volleyball from his overnight bag, suggesting they go down to the riverbank to play. He’d uttered not a peep about the volleyball DVDs he’d also brought until they were both completely sore, thoroughly bruised, and as grimy as boys their age were expected to be.
Only then, only during the walk home, did he (almost innocently) suggest that they could either play a game or watch the matches he’d brought after dinner.
He’s figured out that if we start with the DVDs, we’d never leave my room. Sneaky jerk.
Well, if there was a choice about it, then Kenma would insist on a game then. A game he knew he’d always win.
But even as he grimaced at the new bruises developing on his forearms (just a little more ‘internal bleeding’ he supposed), Kenma gave a respectful nod to Kuroo’s strategy. He wouldn’t be as interesting if he were an idiot. At home, they kicked off their shoes and might’ve run straight toward the kitchen if Kenma’s father hadn’t intercepted them and shoved them away to take a bath first. The whiff they caught from the kitchen smelled of fish—mackerel—which Kenma noted brought a glimmer to Kuroo’s eyes and an excited tremble to his bottom lip. There were some things he just couldn’t hide.
Although Kuroo was still a little shy and quiet around his parents and most other adults—probably trying to be polite—he now let fully loose when it was just the two of them. In the bath, Kuroo scrubbed his back for him and insisted that Kenma soak in the hot water for longer even though they were small enough to both fit.
“Your arms look way worse than mine!”
And then he chattered on and on with Kenma listening comfortably from his hot water cocoon until they were both pruney and Kenma’s father knocked on the door for them to stop dithering about and come out for dinner.
“If it weren’t for the noise, I might have thought you boys had drowned!”
His father teased them in a way Kenma suspected he’d wanted to do all Kenma’s life, if only he’d had friends earlier.
But now their household had Kuroo too. Kuroo, who wolfed down salted mackerel as if it were his last meal, who always packed his volleyball into his backpack no matter where he was going, who could get as rowdy as any eight-year-old boy when the adults weren’t looking, and who now jumped into his bed carefree when not even a month ago, he’d sat nervously on the floor instead barely saying a word.
“Ahh… dinner was so good! Your mom’s food is the best!”
Something in that sentence rang hollow in Kenma’s ear, and his mouth pulled into a thin line.
“Move over,” he said quietly as he crawled into his bed beside his friend. Reaching for the remote, he paused only a moment before he added, “You brought DVDs, right?”
It was just as well, Kenma thought as he settled to lie down on his stomach to watch. His forearms were so sore he’d have trouble holding his game controller anyway.
Kuroo popped one of three DVDs in—a women’s volleyball match this time—then sat cradling his volleyball in his lap beside Kenma. He might’ve complained—he knew exactly where that ball had been and it was filthy—but it had been cleaned.
Probably dad.
He gave silent thanks for that, because for Kuroo, that ball was as good as any stuffed animal or baby blanket. And about as effective too. Only an hour later, Kenma felt Kuroo’s body drooping sideways, his breathing slow and comfortable as he lay his head on Kenma’s back.
Meanwhile Kenma was transfixed on the game, and most especially on the setter’s every movement. Ever since Kuroo had suggested the idea, he’d taken a liking to it. And the setter on the screen was good. Really good. When he looked up her name, Takeshita Yoshie, it turned out that she was known as the World’s smallest and strongest setter, earning the “Best Setter” award seven times total throughout her career in various competitions, including twice at the Olympic Qualifier level.
You brought over a star setter for me to watch.
Which meant Kuroo was fixated on the idea of Kenma as a setter too. The first time he’d said it, Kenma couldn’t be sure how serious Kuroo had been. It could’ve so easily just been a passing whim, the shallow thoughts of an excited child.
But Kuroo rarely said things he didn’t mean, and Kenma reminded himself for the second time that day that Kuroo was smarter than he wanted to give him credit for.
Kenma stretched out his arms in front of him on the bed, mimicking the motions of a toss as he flexed his fingers as he fell asleep.
The next morning, Kenma found that his mom had come in to turn off the TV, provide extra pillows and blankets, and that she’d also left a mischievous note on his bookshelf that read: Thanks for the adorable photos!
He also realized that Kuroo was a pillow hog, and that he slept on his stomach like a weirdo, somehow avoiding suffocation despite the pillows squished against either side of his head. Kenma gave the blanket a harsh tug, which was enough to wake him, and a sleepy head of exceptionally spiky hair rose slowly from the pillows.
Oh… Kenma realized with a snort. His stupid hair is just bedhead.
this piece makes me sad and has kicked my writing slump, so while I actually write all the things, pls have 300 words of Bucky’s my feelings. You’re brilliant, Kay!
Falling.
It’s something the Soldier has done a hundred times over. Fallen out of step, fallen through the sky, fallen to his hands and knees.
He’s watched a lot of others fall, too. Fall from grace, fall behind, fallen at his feet, by his hand.
But he’s never watched someone fall quite like this – willingly, broken, and beautiful all the same.
He hangs by one hand, body dangling above the waters, his other arm dislocated and uselessly limp at his side. He stares after the falling angel. The Man on the Bridge. He could easily pull himself up – he should. The metal groans under his hand as his hold tightens, steel beam crunching in his fingers.
“Bucky, you’ve known me your entire life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”
“Shut up!”
“I’m not gonna fight you. You’re my friend.”
“You’re my mission. You’re… my… mission!”
“Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you 'til the end of the line.”
He can’t really say if he recalls letting go, but as he falls — no, dives — through the sky, fingers outstretched, he wonders if he’ll make it in time.
Please.
He hasn’t asked for anything in a long, long time, has he? If he’s been denied all these years, every prayer to stop the pain, every plea for it to just end, couldn’t God just grant this onewish?
Among the raining, burning rubble, Steve’s golden hair shines brightly like a halo until it’s swallowed up by the murky waters, and Bucky could have sworn it was him instead, the way a cold feeling crashes over him.
One never moves gracefully in water, not when the currents wrap around your limbs, drag you through like quicksand, but Steve still looks like he’s floating while Bucky fights the invisible tangle of the river.
![siriaeve:sheafrotherdon:Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.] For @sheafrotherdon](https://64.media.tumblr.com/86515d3378890c989ce1e964650059fb/95279eb6990dbeac-40/s1280x1920/cca265818e40af5fa4c0d766248dd42a824032a8.jpg "siriaeve:sheafrotherdon:Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.] For @sheafrotherdon")
