#prompt: this isn't real

[aceship-sconesterprise]

Day 30 for @may-lancholy

Fandom: Mission: Impossible

Prompt: "This isn't real."

Warnings: Major Character Injury, Major Character Death, Ambiguous/Open Ending

~

Benji's eyes widened in shock as he opened the door to the room and stared at a huge screen. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

"Ethan," he breathed in disbelief, before he shook his head.

There he was. The love of his life. His lifeless body sitting in a chair. The marks on his body showed that he'd been tortured for what must have been hours.

"This isn't real. It's..."

The blond agent didn't get to finish. His voice broke, turning into sobbing.

Ethan couldn't be dead. It was impossible! For Ethan Hunt never failed a mission. Or... did he?

[shotmrmiller]

being at a restaurant because of a blind date set up from a friend but the thing is you don't remember his name, or what he looks like- did she even tell you what he looks like?

you quietly sit there, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the polished mahogany tabletop, your wine glass stained red with tonight's indulgence, stands as empty as your stomach. just when you're about to wave a hand to your waiter, a massive brute of a man crashes into the chair across from you with so much force that you can hear the wood groan under his bulk.

he settles into it, unhurried, as if he wasn't 20 minutes late, his worn leather jacket creaking as he does before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table, and the silver wear rattles with the impact.

then he looks at you with an unsettling intensity, irises so dark they blend into the pupils and asks if you've been waiting long.

you've a mind to leave him there but you're hungry- starved, really- and he's going to cover the check so you might as well stay and get your free dinner. "doesn't matter now, does it?"

you shoot a quick text to your friend, telling her that he- simon- is here and slip your phone back in your bag, not reading the messages she sends back until the morning after, when your head pounds in rhythm with your sex.

who's simon?

[magicpiano]

Bruce Wayne had a child that was somehow kidnapped right out of the hospital just hours after being born. He of them ever stopped looking despite how cold the trail had grown.

Years later there is some rouge attack and a civilian child was injured and taken to the hospital. Bruce does a DNA test on the blood found at the scene and concludes that the child is actually his long lost kid.

Dani was planning to sneak out of the hospital the moment the doctors stopped looking at her. Then Bruce Wayne of all people comes in and claims that she is his long lost child. She knows that this is very impossible because she is a clone, but Bruce won't listen to her and she really doesn't want to explain the clone thing to a "normal" stranger.

This does brings up a lot of questions about how Danny ended up living with the Fentons though.

[amygdalae]

why r u still complaining abt "theater kids" when u 7 years out of high school and probably haven't run into one since 🥱

[worksandmusings]

Danny dresses up as a ghost for Halloween. Wes is furious. His parents are critiquing his costume. The other ghosts don't know if they should be amused or offended. His friends find this hilarious. Jazz is wondering if this is a cry for help.

[hitlikehammers]

This Is Your Life (¿ǝɟı˥ ɹno⅄ sıɥ⊥ sI)

Steve Harrington never thought he’d end up like his parents. He never thought he’d allow his life end up like this.

…but did it really?

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s… He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But. That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

rating: t ♥️ tags: post S4, established relationship (?), drama, introspection, angst (?) with a happy ending (!), steve harrington and the inescapable reality of becoming your parents no matter how hard you try, (it IS inseparable, right?), creeper hitting on a sad divorcé at the bar, SINCERE APOLOGIES TO PEOPLE NAMED A NAME MALIGNED HEREIN SOLELY FOR PLOT PURPOSES

for @steddielovemonth Day Twelve—“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”―The Sandman —

“You look like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Steve, actually, feels like he should definitely be alone. Certainly isn’t looking for company from this random, hair-slicked-back, not-even-being-subtle-about-the-sleaze stranger.

Who sees fit to put his hand on the back of the empty chair across from where Steve sits.

Alone.

“I meant,” and his voice is…soft, but like he wants something. Soft like he means to pull you in. Steve doesn’t fucking need this, not tonight. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Steve wants to laugh. Steve wants to throw his glass and watch it shatter, watch the other patrons of this fairly high-end restaurant gasp and clutch their pearls for it.

He wants to know how he ended up here. How his story unfolded to this. He knows there was a time when they were happy. When he was happy. Lots of memories of being unhappy, especially when he was a kid, but Steve knows in his bones there was happiness, there was lov—

“Hmm,” the stranger hasn’t figured out he’s unwelcome yet, apparently; Steve tries sipping his drink as a hint.

It has the opposite effect.

“Ah,” the man watches Steve’s hand, then points: “it’s been a while, but you still remember the weight, no?”

Steve makes the mistake of taking his eye off this nuisance of a human to follow the pointing: he grabbed for his drink from the left.

Yeah, he does still keep his presently-empty ring finger the slightest bit off the glass. Like a habit.

Motherfucker.

“Children?” the stranger who absolutely cannot take the goddamn hint presses on, too curious, too poised at innocence to be wholly genuine.

Steve doesn’t know what could have possibly given him away—he knows he looks run through the wringer, but kids, there wouldn’t be a tell for the kids in his wrinkled suit, his mussed-up hair from running his fingers through it, greasier than he ever allowed before, tie rumpled and half-undone, what—

His right thumb catches his eye, just out the corner: nail polish. He didn’t have the heart to take it off, and, well. There’s a little corner of Barbie pink on the inside of the tip, hanging on months later. Taunting him.

Must be pretty quality stuff.

“How old?”

And Steve’s lips part, he intends to answer actually because the drive in him to tell this asshole it’s none of his business and that he needs to fuck off was strangled in a second at the thought of the girls, his three girls, the six little nuggets he always dreamed of, plus one more besides as a bonus, a fucking gift, and maybe it’ll hurt less in the long run to say anything about them to a faceless person he’ll never see again, so he intends to answer, but…

Suddenly he can barely form a coherent thought about his kids, it all hurts too much—like the burning, the wetness caught on his lashes; like that’s flooding full-on in his own mind’s eye as much as his lungs all at once.

He wants to grab for his wallet: he knows there’s gotta be pictures there, he always knew if he did become a dad he’d be that dad and maybe he can’t fucking grasp how he’s here, how it all went wrong, but he, it’s…

He can’t have gotten it this wrong; he might have fucked up the love of his life, somehow—and he knows that’s what it was, the one, came out of nowhere and made him feel more than anything he’d ever known his chest could hold: he might have failed the soft brown curls he can feel against his cheek with his eyes closed, but he’s shaky on the smell of them, the scent of this person he knows that he loved, fuck, no, he knows that he still loves—but he can believe that part. He doesn’t want to believe it, really thought this was different, feels it in his chest that this was so different, and this time was forever—but Steve’s history speaks for itself. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want to think it fell apart—again. But.

That said: he swore he’d never be his own parents. He can’t have gone and failed this bad, with his own kids—

“She took them?”

Steve turns—he hadn’t been looking at the pestering asshole, had kind of forgotten he was there. Steve stares at him a little open-mouthed; blinks. The fuck is he talking about—

But it makes sense. Steve got his picket fence and his gaggle of Harringtons, maybe only got a handful of their trips across the country under their belts before it went to shit, before Steve fucked it up like it was always in his blood to do: lost his marriage. Lost his kids.

“For Henry?”

Finally, the man turns away, automatic: so that’s his name. That’s the only reason anyone looks so quick.

Steve…doesn’t know any Henry, but he bristles to hear it anyway. Like a…a back-of-the-mind instinct that it’s a bad name for bad people.

Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s obviously had too much to drink, for now fuzzy him mind is proving; for how quick his eyes are to sting in public—for how much of a mess he is.

How much of a mess it all is—

“Let me grab that, but,” and the man, this Henry, he gestures to Steve’s glass of mostly-melted-ice; “what were you drinking?”

“Old Fashioned.”

Steve’s voice is metal on gravel. He licks his lips.

“I’ll bring you back another,” this Henry, he thinks he can touch Steve’s shoulder as he walks away.

Once he’s reached the bar and shoots Steve a…deeply discomforting smile as he waits on the second drink and—

Steve doesn’t remember what he had been drinking.

But he knows in his core, somehow, that it wasn’t an Old Fashioned.

“Shame they can’t just turn the music off,” Henry slides the drink Steve’s way before sliding back into the seat he was never invited to sit in in the first place; “not loud enough to really hear is it,” and where he’s started the out-of-fucking-left-field comment with more annoyance than Steve thinks it warranted, he hadn’t even noticed there was music playing until now; “but not strong enough to make an impression.”

Henry ends with more…satisfaction, and weirdly, kinda like self-satisfaction, and fuck but this guy’s weird as shit.

“Oh, unlike the drink,” Henry laughs, shifts the mood—or tries to—after a sip of whatever he’s got for himself and he laughs…too forced. Too much like a game, and unsettling for it when Steve doesn’t know the rules, let alone the playbook.

And honestly, Steve is more interested in the music, now, than his unsavory tablemate.

“You were talking about your children,” Henry leans close his arm extended like it wants to grab for Steve’s in something comforting, too presumptuous—Steve moves that closest arm to grab his glass, but not to lift it.

“I’d rather not,” he says as flippant as he can because he doesn’t want to go back to the hurting, to the lack of anything to hold to in remembering that’s still closer to the surface than the actual face of his kids, his kids—

“Don’t see them much,” Henry says, kinda…tuts, like he’s regretful on Steve’s account, and it’s less a question than an observation, but Steve’s face must do something without his permission at those words because to en Henry’s got this too-bright, too eager sympathy painted all over him before he starts damn-near cooing:

“Oh,” he says, breathy, sour at the back of Steve’s mouth somehow; “oh you poor thing, you’re not even in their lives? Barely remember them sometimes, no?” And the weird thing is…he sounds too invested, yeah, but not just like a creepy fucker looking to maybe take a sad sap to bed. It’s…

It’s different.

“Like they never existed.”

Steve doesn’t understand why of all the things this asshole says, it’s that that shakes him, that trips in his pulse in a way he can feel, and hard.

He stares, jaw clenched, at the unsampled drink still in his hand: whiskey.

Like your eyes, sweetheart, just like whiskey in the morning sun, magic and full of their own perpetual light—

“She took the house, I bet,” Henry sighs, shaking his head, while Steve shakes his own from the voice that had floated at the back of his mind through to the front, close, so close and so fucking clear; “your white picket fence. Your Winnebago.”

And he looks over Steve’s shoulder like he’s really aiming at sympathizing, but…

Something about those exact words seems too precise. Lights something up in Steve’s wobbly memories—but the light feels old. Like it’s a thing he did know, once; followed and looked to, but…changed course.

And how the fuck does this jackass know that Steve maybe wanted, ever, or thought he could have wanted but knew it was a past want, a no-longer-want—in the marrow of his bones he knows the way he’s remembers it, if he is remembering it, he knows the last time it left if lips he didn’t mean it anymore, he’d turned toward wanting something else, something somehow more—

His chest feels stretched for thinking all of it through and…something equally uncertain and shimmering, just out of reach: that part knows this.

And is very fucking suspicious of how this fucker sitting across from him knew about a fucking Winnebago he doesn’t even want anymore?

“Love,” Henry, fucking, yes, Steve is now 100% convinced that that’s a bad name, it’s a bad name that means a bad person, his brain might be fuzzy right now but he knows that part: “even if it werereal,” and he says is almost dreamily but more mocking, kinda, but he’s…he’s not sincere in it. At least not the hints at empathy.

Steve knows he’s being played, even without having the rule book. Even without knowing the game.

“It’s never quite enough, is it.”

It’s not a question. But still. Nonetheless.

Love isn’t enough?

Wrong.

That he knows deeper than any narrow. Closer to the soul of him than of the other things his brain has thought it’s known so far, he’s—

Wait.

Wait, why did Steve think that? Whose voice was that, in his head? A deep voice, smooth and sweet and beloved, Steve feels that undeniable in his chest—thinks it might have been the same voice as the one that talked about his eyes, and, he, it’s…

Is that what he lost, the ring not on his finger, the kids he’s apparently walked out on in every way that matters—if the voice is right, if love were enough then why is Steve, why is Steve here, now, and he’s—

It’s always enough..

It’s a man’s voice. Steve tried to think of any man in his life who would say such a thing in the first place—no family, and friends? He—

Maybe not enough to fix everything alone, but it’s the foundation, Stevie. If it really is love, then it’s more than enough to build anything out of, or back up from.

That’s a man’s voice. And it rolls through Steve’s veins like embers, like the light catching precious stones and sparkling prismatic.

Steve may not be able to place the where or the who just yet. But he knows that it’s there.

There was no ‘she’ to take anything from him, not anything that mattered, when it mattered.

It’s the weight of the memory between his lungs and his steady-pounding heart, gaining pace and punch with every breath—the first inklings of some knowing. It’s the face of kids he’d die for. It’s the knowledge in his bones they’re not the only people he’d die for, and that he’d feel his life more than well-served in doing it. More than.

Steve swirls his glass, watching the smoke from the bar haze through real crystal—thick where the cloud in his head is dissipating more every second. It’s a meta…metafort? It’s a thing that’s making a point about another thing. Illustrating it poetically, or whatever.

The smoke left in his head. The clearest thing shining through it is that voice. That voice telling him not just about love, but something crucial embedded inside: this man seated across from him.

That man is wrong.

“What did you say your name was?” Steve asks, because there’s power in redirecting someone’s attention. And Steve feels…electricity building in his body. Lightning in his limbs; familiar.

He’s on the brink of something, and if all of the losses this man is underscoring are the reflection of who Steve’s grown into, after all that he’d sworn not to become what he knew, what nearly ruined him growing up, fucked him up so bad it took another fucking dimension and its literal monsters to yank him back from the path to becoming like the monsters at his mother’s cocktail parties, his father’s business dinners—

If this man, sitting here, is still somehow who he’s become anyway?

If Steve feels on the brink of something, so fucking close—and maybe the thing he’s close to is total oblivion, to whole-on forgetting and decimating any chance of recovering the losses this fuckface across from him with his martini glass has lifted up to the light—if he’s this close?

Last time Steve can remember breaking through the disaster of his present self was swinging a bat, and swinging to crack fucking skulls.

He’s not sure what that means but he feels weirdly inclined to trust it. So…he figures: what’s the harm?

He’d very much like to break this sonofabitch’s skull in, so.

“Could have sworn you did,” Steve finally takes a sip of his refreshed drink—the single sip alone is sharp assault on his tongue, and he bites at his bottom as the taste shoot through the nerves in his limbs and the pathways in his ways and lights them all up at once, and he hears the music in the background make a bigger impact than the way his heartbeat starts picking up in his ears as he set the drink back down, and leans in on autopilot to meet the guys eyes and make sure the way every cell in his body’s waking up is real, is telling him the truth:

“Henry, right?”

The man barely blinks, just hides less a smirk now and more a grimace in the curve of his martini glass.

Fucking bingo.

The clouds are gone. The haze has fully lifted, or at least is on its way. Steve couldn’t have said how much his body felt like a wrong-sized suit before this very moment until this very moment, when it starts to feel like his own again, like this body and every scar it’s marked with belongs to him alone.

“I’m also in the mood for forgetting this evening,” Steve lowers his tone a bit, bats his lashes as subtly as he knows and then tips his chin down the look up through them, a move that’s never failed him once when he really tries:

“Could I persuade you to accompany me?”

Henry tries to play his wordless agreement cool, almost aloof, but now that Steve knows the truth of it all, now that his own mind is clear, it’s so obvious.

Motherfucker’s champing at the bit.

They make it just out the door into the half-packed parking lot before Steve pauses, looks up at the sky—notices the eerie starlessness, the shadowy-faltering veil over the ominous red of the clouds.

“It’s funny,” Steve tells the sky as his eye catches the impression of a bolt of lightning behind the shade; “what you said earlier.”

Henry hums, but it’s…it’s an impatient, or maybe unsettled, at the very least annoyed sort of sound. He wants to leave. He wants to take Steve farther from a neutral setting.

Or at least: neutral by comparison.

“About the music,” Steve tosses his head back toward the bar beyond the doorway. “Too low to really set the ambiance,” Steve agrees, because he knows the why; “but there enough to be,” Steve sucks his teeth, pretends to look for the right word: “distracting.”

Distraction.

Henry stills. Steve isn’t feel patient enough to drag this out any further, really, now that his gaze is clear.

“We knew it wouldn’t work this time, the music,” Steve taunts, feeling the adrenaline suddenly rise in his veins like an untamable force; “you’re not strong enough for it to matter, can’t even lift the tool you need for half your dirty work.”

Literally. Because Steve’s still cognizant. Steve can feel the bleed of the real world—even if he’s floating he’s not down for the count yet. And by rights, he damn well should be—based on all previous encounters.

And yet here, on top of everything, all the memory and clarity rushing back in one heartbeat, one breath—the choice of the cocktail, the song in the background wasn’t a song anyone would know, it was written for Steve and it was in the voice of its composer, probably sang at his side without any instrument to smooth it out to anything less than raw and real—

The last nail in the coffin were the eyes.

“Can barely hear at all, the state you’re in,” Steve kicks at the ankles of the man unraveling before him as the parking lot around them starts to fade into dead trees and shot-red skies; “the bats could have, if they’d made it.”

And there it is, even diminished, even rotting: Vecna’s eyes were always the same; unmistakable. Dead giveaway.

Still full of the same fucking unhinged, megalomaniacal hate.

“She took everything, didn’t she?”

Because Steve knew it didn’t sound right for him, when it was thrown at him beyond all of it being twisted and wrong—that part had felt different, and now he knows why: no woman was taking his house, was dismantling the life he was building with someone his heart belonged to, full stop.

But this sorry excuse for crawling corpse had a young woman whose buzz cut was growing back to her curls again; and she sure as shit took everything, and was poised now to come back for the stragglers and make it final. Make it done.

All this pathetic scrap of not even a man, not even a monster—this pathetic scrap of nothing really was?

Was lingering in the dead space, half-a-ghost on borrowed time.

So Steve thinks, given his role in this was always to be the bait, and to keep him preoccupied until that ill-borrowed time needed returning to its rightful owner, and what was left of Vecna had run out of it entirely—Steve thinks he’s more than entitled to kick this fucker when he’s down.

He doesn’t even feel bad when he trips the bastard up again, too uneven on his disintegrating legs to even try to fight; honesty feels kinda giddy, like he wants to laugh when the fucker let’s loose a fittingly inhuman scream when Steve jumps with both feet on what’s left of his knees, one by one.

“Never tell me my kids don’t exist,” Steve growls, enraged, half-feral at what this creature tried to sell him; “do not even suggest I don’t remember my fucking kids.”

Because Steve could never. Steve would never. He had the nuggets he used to dream of. Almost missed the gift of those shitheads, for too long, in clinging to a different version of it he’d just absorbed from what he thought was the way the world worked; hadn’t yet readjusted to knowing the world worked wholly fucking differently, and the things he heart really wanted of course would shift accordingly.

Had shifted. Goddamn perfectly.

“And it’s wild,” Steve takes a second, considers the writhing vermin on what’s given way entirely from the mirage of anything else than soggy ground, littered with dead leaves, blackened bark.

“I’m really not a whisky drinker,” Steve muses, circling the pathetic heap of this self-style god: some fucking god.

“Not yet, anyway. I’ve been told it’s a drink you have to grow into,” Steve hums consideringly, even as he catches a hand try to reach, try to grab, try to bring Steve down again and sap his energy, the lifeblood in him to steal a few more minutes, a few more gasps before the end.

Steve crushes the hand that darts out from what’s left of the wrist, unforgiving under his heel.

“But you ordered me that cocktail with bourbon,” Steve says, almost blasé, as the figure on the ground writhes and howls.

“I drank a lot, after our first round with you,” he had. Figuring out you might very well be falling in love with someone when that someone’s not guaranteed to make it through the night for too many nights in a row takes a goddamn fucking toll. “Only time I’ve ever touched bourbon,” and it’d been top-shelf shit, his dad didn’t keep anything less on hand:

“Only time I ever will.”

Maybe Steve could grow into enjoying another kind of whiskey in the future but…that taste was always going to be tied to the heart-pounding nightmares, the bitter fear of unmitigated loss.

“Really throws me out of the moment here and now, though, y’know?” Steve makes a point of crushing every individual finger on the hand he’s still got under one shoe with the other. For insurance. “Takes me back somewhere else.”

When the cretin slowly quiets his yelping to heavy panting—and Steve is not above admiring to himself that he does weight crushing his windpipe next because Steve’s not a vicious person, he’s not violent like that but this animal nearly cost them everything, nearly cost him everything.

Might still, if Steve can’t get back out of this half-mindfuck, half-hellscape.

He really, really thinks about it.

“You fucker,” he desires to hiss, to lean down little and catch those wrathful eyes; “you really thought you had me, didn’t you.”

And the second hand tried to shout up to take Steve by the neck, but Steve’s faster, not least because he’s not coming apart at whatever stands in for the cells of a reconstituted corpse multiple times over. He knocks that arm away hard enough to snap something clean enough to echo, and then takes his time repeating the through crushing of wrist, finger, finger, finger, finger, thumb.

And then, because the screaming isn’t load enough for Steve’s liking just now, not for this monster, he decides to see if there’s anything in the crotch area left of this wrinkled ballsack of a man. It never really looked like it, the few times Steve had seen him in full, in better days for his…already-rotting body…thing.

But the pitch of the agony that rings out when Steve grinds his heel down in that general anatomical…area must mean there’s still something.

It’s something like the middle of that scream that Steve catches under his shoe at what’s left of the neck he wanted to crush before but now…now it’s just pressure. Painful. Inconvenience, dialed up to Eleven.

“What’s wrong, Henry?” Steve taunts, meets those eyes with what he knows, means to be a crazed fucking grin:

“Never heard of a Piggyback?”

And those hate-filled go wide, go fearful.

Fucking excellent.

“El, take him!” Steve cries out and feels a seismic wave knock him far from where he was standing, but he’s still grinning wide when he lands far in a heap, knocked hard but…this was the plan.

Everything goes dark very fast after he crumples in the ground, hears mostly yelling—rage and pain, triumph and total decimation—and it’s the last thing he does hear, might be the e last thing he hears ever, save for a desperate cry of one word before it all fucking fades:

“Steve!”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

…..tbc??😬🫠

SERIOUSLY: I have nothing against people named Henry! I promise! 🫠

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and, oddly, also me!

[lsunstreakerl]

hi chef sunny it's me ya girl sarah verstappenalty can I order versainz with breathplay 😘

yes yes you may! today's house special is darkbull versainz, with a dash of a tenderhorny. kind of. the idea is there. 1k words, Max POV, darkbull, explicit

pairings: carlos sainz/max verstappen

relevant heads up: breathplay, dubious consent, this happens in a pool, if you haven't read darkbull before this is not really a good place to start either

"Carlos!"

Max lunges to the side with a panicked noise as Carlos darts forward at him, acutely aware of the pool behind them. Carlos almost goes crashing into the water, but he spins on a dime, grinning.

"Just give the hat back Max, that's all you have to do."

Max's hat, that Carlos stole.

"My hat? Mate, it's a fucking thirty three—!"

He scrambles backwards as Carlos feints at him, almost tripping over a chair. He's got nowhere else to go, and the rooftop pool of a hotel that he's pretty sure Red Bull somehow owns doesn't exactly have a lot of escape routes.

Carlos grins, and Max wavers as he walks closer. He's backed himself into a corner, and they both know it.

"C'mon Max, give me the hat."

His voice is a low croon, but it's a matter of pride now— he's going to have to pry the stupid hat out of Max's hands.

Max waits for him to get closer before launching himself into the pool, clothes and all, and frantically pushing off through the water to try and get around Carlos. He hears a second splash moments later, wincing.

A large hand wraps around his ankle, and Max shouts in a burst of bubbles as Carlos yanks him fully underwater, grip shifting from his ankle to his waist. Max can feel his lungs burning, fingers wrapped tight around the strap of his hat even as Carlos tugs at it.

They both surge back up for air, and Max tries to kick back and away, gasping for breath. Water drips down his face, hair plastered wet, and Carlos is still watching him with a smug curve to his mouth.

Max's back hits the wall of the pool, and he realizes immediately why Carlos isn't worried. If he wants to haul himself out, he's going to need to flip around and show Carlos his back.

There's not exactly anywhere else to go. His heart is pounding in his chest, and the adrenaline is higher than it should be just for some roughhousing in the pool, but—

He and Carlos have an odd relationship now. He's inserted himself into Max's life as thoroughly as GP had in the absence of Jos, and he's so close all of the time. Sometimes it's a friendly pat on the ass when he walks by, and sometimes it's making out messily in a supply room closet before debriefs. Max knows this isn't just roughhousing, not when it comes to Carlos, and it's embarrassing how that fact has him hard, fingers gripping the rim of the pool behind him.

He flips around, trying to get out of the pool as fast as possible, and all the air leaves his lungs as an arm wraps around his middle, yanking him back into the water.

Carlos wrestles him all the way underwater, and Max can't tell which way is up or down, barely has any oxygen left as he feels a hand squeeze at his chest, a rough palm over his cock before his head is yanked back above water.

"Carlos—"

He's gasping, hat forgotten, trying to wiggle out of the hold Carlos has in him, but he's stronger than Max is, rutting his hips against Max's ass.

There's strong fingers prying his jaw open before soaking wet fabric is shoved halfway into his mouth, and Max's protest is muffled through the wad of cloth. He realizes a moment later that it's the stupid hat as Carlos laughs, rubbing at his cock through his shorts again.

"You get so loud, Max. Wouldn't want someone to hear us and come investigate, would we?"

Max knows the hotel is all Red Bull, but the idea of one of the engineers, or Jonathan, or GP coming up and finding them, Max grinding back against Carlos, Carlos's hand slipping under his shorts—

Carlos snorts, floating them to a more shallow area of the pool.

"Ah, you would love that. Showing off for the team."

His hips buck into Carlos' hand, head tipped back against his shoulder, shaking it in protest against his words.

He can feel Carlos' fingers wrap around his cock, slowly starting to jerk, and he makes a panicked noise when he's tipped back under water, face submerged. Carlos is hard against his ass, and despite Max's halfhearted attempts at wiggling away, he's not getting very far. He blows out another stream of bubbles from his nose, fingers clawing at Carlos' arm before he's allowed back up again, gasping.

There's water in his mouth and nose, chlorine stinging in his eyes as he grips at Carlos. He can't see, eyes blurry and surrounded by water, the stupid hat sopping wet between his teeth, and he's achingly hard, rutting helplessly into Carlos' hand.

He's saying something to Max, but he can't hear it through the water in his ears, only realizing a moment later as he's tipped back into the water that it was probably a warning.

Carlos keeps him under longer this time, and Max can't ignore how he's close, lungs burning and cock hard as Carlos thumbs at the head, fingers a slick channel as he jerks him off. He's moaning through the hat, water in his mouth, and there's spots dancing in his vision.

Surely Carlos won't keep him under much longer, not when Max stops struggling, fingers falling loosely from Carlos' arm.

The air hitting his face shocks him back to reality as Carlos pushes him up against the wall of the pool, and he's coming without meaning to, gagging on water and eyes rolled back in his head. It feels euphoric, like he's floating on a high.

The hat drops from between his teeth as Carlos tugs it out, and Max realizes at some point that he must have also gotten off, because he's not hard against him anymore.

He's not entirely with it as he floats against Carlos, still trying to suck air into his stinging throat, mind untethered from the rest of him. Carlos navigates them both out of the water, tapping out a message on his phone as he finds the towels, wrapping one around Max's shoulders and he shakes out the hat, wrangling it back onto Max's head with a grin.

"There."

Max blinks at him, water dripping from the brim of it to splatter at their feet, head spinning. Carlos' face softens as he tips the brim up, kissing Max on the nose.

"You are so cute, Max. We should play around more often, that was fun."

Max slumps forward into his chest, exhausted.

Sure. Fun.

[hughmanbean]

Occasional Visits

Once upon a time, there was a man who had a pit of Lazarus and was the Head of the League of Assassins. Perhaps the Lazarus is rancid ecto, and the death emanating from all of the members around to it is really starting to pull some attention.

And perhaps, one High Queen of the Infinite Realms early on had decided that, "Man, I gotta check this out." Time, of course, decides that "That would be a good precaution. Just be careful." And gives a few time portal visits.

Now, imagine those visits keep going. For the Head of the League, it is a first meeting of suspicion followed by rivalry, before the years churn along into an amicable acquaintance. For the High Queen, it is a FrootLoop who needs to be kept under watch, before years grind down the drive to continue messing with his plans and go back to managing the Realms and allowing for others to take action.

Contemplate the idea that only five years with visits for the High Queen is decades with occasional visits for the Head of the League. Maybe it is an occasion that is now greeted with a bit of celebration, for someone who he can talk too and know from the past who isn't now against him or dead.

And maybe, just maybe, he's about to get another visit. Right in the middle of something important. Who could say?

[snkyou]

Drabble Prompt: Post-canon Levi, struggling with chronic pain and mourning his dead loved ones, being visited by his still alive loved ones

Anon, you knew how to talk pretty to me <3

hihi requests are still open btw

I feel like I gotta put a disclaimer or something lmao. So, the length of my drabble requests is usually something between 100-400 words. This request is just an incredibly unexpected exception. it just happened to fit into this idea I already had been thinking of, which was how the remaining 104th would ask Levi to be part of important events in their lives because well, they like the dude lmao, so expect that sort of one-shot soon. Additionally, since I kept reminding myself that this was supposed to be a drabble, I might have glossed over the chronic pain and mourning bits so I'm sorry about that ;;

that being said, 2.4k words of Levi and Gabi be upon ye <3

Now on Ao3!

The angry hissing of the kettle makes him flinch. It brings a loud ringing to his right ear. Instinctively, he places his right hand over it, and gives his ear a couple of gentle taps; it's more of a grounding gesture, a distraction from the buzzing. He usually keeps watch over the kettle, so that he can lower the heat just right before it gets a chance to scream at him. 

He realises then that he must have spaced out while waiting. It’s alright, he thinks. It’s been like that a lot, recently. He’s been like that. Lost in thought-- lost in time, if he allowed himself to be precise. The last days, weeks even, as the temperatures started to drop, blended into each other. There’s a little calendar on his bedside table, it had been a birthday gift from Armin – or had that been Mikasa’s? He isn’t sure, he had received an absurd number of presents from the kids last year, it had been hard to keep track of who gave him what and now the fact escaped him. Turning the pages of the little calendar, with its delicate botanical illustrations on each day, quickly became part of his morning routine, and so he was sure that time was passing at all. The stillness of the routine, he guesses, made him like this.

His vision blurs momentarily while he scoops the tea leaves into the teapot. He squints, trying to will his good eye to focus, but all he gets in return is a throb in his right eye. After putting the tea canister away, he presses the inner sides of his wrists to both eyes, placing just enough pressure to relieve the discomfort. When he opens his eyes again, he is pleased to find he can read the small print on the canister an arm’s length away. 

There’s a loud slam coming from the front of the house, followed by footsteps coming further into the house.

He quickly recognizes the heavy stomping as Gabi’s gait. She’s always been so loud.

Gabi crosses the arch into the small kitchen and dining area. 

“Don’t slam my doors,” he says as a greeting, slowly turning his head to his left side, trying to catch a glimpse of her in his periphery.

“Aye, aye,” the kid waves her hand, shoots him a teasing grin, “someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Levi hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. He busies himself with placing everything they need for their morning tea and coffee on a metal tray on the counter, which Gabi takes from him as soon as it’s ready and sets it on the table.

He grabs his cane from where he had hooked it on one of the kitchen drawers. He has been leaning against the counter, his right leg supporting most of his weight all this time. He braces himself for the sharp pain that will surely surge from his bad knee, through his left hip and up his spine. Cold mornings like this one and being still in one place for long will do that to him. It’s not so bad. It could be worse.

It takes 4 steps to get from the stove to his chair, which Gabi has already pulled out for him. It sits at an angle that allows him to easily slide down on it and rest his right elbow on top of the table, leaning back and against his good side.

“I have something that will cheer you up,” she holds a couple of envelopes in her hand and waves them at him, “You’ve got mail!”

He nods at her in acknowledgement but does not take his attention away from preparing his first batch of tea of the day. There’s a ritual to it, it almost feels like, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. Not when the ringing in his ear is still there, the building pressure in the upper back part of his eyeballs, and the cold air seeping into his bones through his thick jumper. Oh, how he needs a good cup of tea right now.

While Levi waits for it to steep, he grabs the papers that she had shoved in his face, squints his eyes at the first envelope and finds that he is unable to make out much of the handwriting. He brings it closer to his face, squints harder, steals a quick glance across the table and hopes Gabi isn’t paying him any mind, too preoccupied with choosing from the bag of pastries she brought with her. It is with an impassive expression that he hands the stack of envelopes back. 

“Read it for me.” A beat and then he adds, a little reluctant: “Please.”

He knows Gabi prefers coffee in the mornings, and black tea in the evenings, so he makes sure to have a fresh brew of the former whenever he knows she’s coming over; so, with shaky hands, Levi gets to prepare her cup of coffee. While he enjoys the aroma of it, he remains faithful to tea; at first, he thought he didn’t like it because he had butchered his first attempts at brewing it. But even after Onyankopon had taught him how to do it properly and he had enjoyed his cup, it didn’t bring the same comfort as tea. It just never hit the spot.

She shoots him a mischievous grin, “Oh, you sure? What if I read something personal, hm?” 

Levi just shakes his head, scoffing at the idea of Gabi finding his junk mail fascinating.

“Is this how I find out you have a secret lover you’re exchanging raunchy love letters with?” Gabi teases, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

He lets out a tired sigh and rolls his eyes, “just wanna be done with it, ” he stirs the milk into Gabi’s coffee, which now has turned into a cup of milk with coffee. “We have a lot to prepare for tonight.”

She clicks her tongue at him, but still rips the first envelope open, “Mr. Levi, your reading won’t improve if you keep doing that,” she jokingly scolds him.

Although Levi mentally recognises handing her and Falco stuff he couldn’t be bothered reading before, that’s not the case this time. He’ll let her think that for now, though, because he doesn’t want to mention the pressure building in the back of his bad eye, it’s not important and she, a kid, doesn’t need to know his newly found ailment of the week. He can see just fine around him right now. He can see Gabi’s big eyes and playful smile at the other side of the table, and that’s good enough; smaller details, he doesn’t feel he can do them, not without making himself go dizzy with a migraine.

Levi slides the cup of coffee to her and is pleased with himself when she approves of the colour of her drink.

“It’s from Armin,” she announces as she scans the letter. 

From this angle, the soft morning light illuminating her face and thanks to his faulty vision, Gabi’s image stirs his memory. His heart faintly constricts as he is reminded of the many times Hange read their research reports to him during breakfast in the mess hall before presenting them to Erwin. Levi always wondered how they could read so fast, sometimes he even doubted they were actually reading at all, their words barely being able to catch up with her eyes; he never asked about it, maybe reading came easy to them as numbers did to him.

A high-pitched squeal from Gabi startles him, bringing him back to the here and now.

“Oh… ohh, Mr. Levi,” she starts, her smile widening by the second “This is good news!”

Gabi makes a show of clearing her throat and then starts reading “Dear Captain, I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.” 

Levi can’t help but let a sardonic huff at the irony of the greetings but doesn’t let himself be bothered by it. He has written only a handful of personal letters throughout his life, and by now he knows it’s just something you’re supposed to say because jumping straight to the point isn’t acceptable, or so that’s what he had been told. 

Gabi continues reading Armin’s words to him. For the most part, it’s a standard letter coming from him: he asks Levi how he’s dealing with the changing of the seasons, how Gabi and Falco are faring, if business at the tea shop has been good, if there’s anything Levi needs that he can’t get in town so that Armin or the others can get it for him. He tells him a little about the country he’s writing from, he even includes a photograph. Then, after the expected pleasantries, Gabi can barely hold her excitement and starts reading faster, trying so hard not to trip over her words.

“If I’m being sincere, we would prefer to ask you in person,” Gabi stops for a second to look up at him from the paper, gauging for a reaction and finding nothing, she continues. 

Armin apologises for not being able to visit him before the holidays, Annie included, and so it is implied that he won’t be attending tonight’s reunion. 

Sometime during the last five years, the Alliance brats had decided to make showing up at Levi’s doorstep together once a year a sort of custom; the first time it happened was during an early winter, a blizzard had stopped them from leaving Levi’s until the next morning. It had been a really nice evening despite the awful weather, Levi remembers, after everyone pitched in one way or another, they all shared a simple but hearty meal together. It was Connie who jokingly said they should do it every year. The following year, Onyankopon, Gabi and Falco joined them. 

This year would be their fourth, and the first someone wouldn’t make it. That fact sits heavily in Levi’s chest, stealing the spotlight from his throbbing eye.

“...Annie and I have decided to get married. The both of us would like you to officiate our ceremony!” unable to contain her excitement, she tears her eyes away from the paper and looks at Levi. “Huh?! This is good news! What’s with the constipated face?!”

That doesn’t sound right. It figures that Annie and Armin would be the first to marry; in a way, he is happy for them, they clearly care for each other. No, that part is easy to understand. Their union is logical to anyone who knows the couple. What Levi can’t figure out is why they are asking him such a thing.

He clears his throat, assumes it’s been 3 minutes and his tea is ready to be poured and so he distracts himself with that.

When he doesn’t answer Gabi, she picks up where she left off. 

He isn’t… well, he isn’t that close to either of them. He’s sure Annie must have other relatives that could step in his stead. Maybe a brother, a cousin. Even Jean or Reiner would be better options than Levi. He isn’t good with words or people like they are, he couldn’t possibly give them a speech about something foreign to him as it is that kind of love, that’s what people expect, right? His title of Captain is obsolete in this new world, so it can’t be that either. Hell, he has never been to a fucking wedding. 

Just… why him?

As expected, Armin doesn’t really go into the details of their choice but does let Levi know they do not expect a fast answer and that they do not want him to feel pressured to accept it, despite how much it would mean to them if he did. Armin asks if there’s anything in particular that he would like for his birthday, as it is a month away, and closes the letter by saying he looks forward to seeing him and everyone then.

When the letter is closed and put back into its envelope, silence falls around them. For a moment the only sound that can be heard is the clinking of tableware as Levi places the teacup back on its saucer.

It bothers him, that he knows he will be letting Armin down by refusing something that any other well-adapted person would consider an honour. But the thought of embarrassing him and himself, because he gave an awkward, most likely insensitive, speech, mortifies him. No, he can’t put them and their guests through that. He will find a way to make it up to the couple, maybe he can… he doesn’t know yet, but he will come up with something.

As he finishes his first cup, Levi realises that at some point while he was lost in thought, the ringing in his ear has subsided and now it’s back to that muffled, cotton-in-ear sensation he’s used to and he doesn’t feel his eyeball pulsating anymore. Glancing at Gabi, he notices she is trying really hard not to say something, her brow furrowed as she takes a sip of her own drink, followed by a big bite of her pastry. Flakes stick to the corner of her mouth and for once it doesn’t disgust him. Instead, it makes his lips twitch as if going into a smile.

“I can help you... if you want,” she says eventually, sounding uncharacteristically careful and small of her.

Levi quirks an eyebrow “Help? with what?” 

She shrugs, “How to… tell them you don’t want to,” she avoids looking at him for the first time, finding the flakes on her plate more interesting. She shrugs again and tilts her head to the side, a thin line of a smile appearing on her face. “...or prepare for the ceremony.”

Not unlike many times before, Gabi’s words render him speechless, if only for a moment. He spares his tea a glance and he thinks: it’s bold of her to be so upfront about offering her help to him, and had it been any other morning, one where he couldn’t think past the constant ache in his body, he would’ve chewed her head off for simply trying to help him because he himself doesn’t know how to accept that kindness.

This kid is trying her best and he can’t help but feel somewhat proud of that.

“You have shit on your face. Here,” he points to where the flakes would sit on his own face and picks his refilled teacup back up.

Gabi quickly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, getting most of the flakes off. Levi gives her a thumbs-up with his free hand.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally concedes and tries to ignore the little happy dance she does in her seat.

This time, when the amber liquid touches his lips, it’s remarkably sweeter than before.

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

Im tryna cook here so hear me out on this : what if SMC(shadow milk cookie)​&reader are in the same trope of Rudolph​&Catherine from dangerously yours?(it may not be same-same kidda wipe cuz I didn't watch the movie yet lol(srry not srry))​ : It's started from reader got send by the witches to spy keep eyes on the old ancients(before corrupted-after corrupted)​but suddenly reader fell in love with one of them(aka SMC)​and so do he,but then after he and the other got corrupted he become obsessed toward them(obviously)​but then he started to realized that the witches are planing to seal him and the other fallen ancient​s away cause​ of their actions of being corrupted and cause choas on earthbeard, so he conveice reader to tell him how to get to the witches(reader's witches spy and have their own specific way to contact/went to face the witches)​ and get him and his friends revenge on the witches but reader ran away instead and not telling him,and in the end they met each other​ again at the silver tree where the witches was going to seal them in and the line between reader&shadow milk will be like : "your time is up" "do you think actually going to let it happen?to let them seal me?to seal us?!" "..i mean just that" "....... well then go ahead" "i'll get this over with" "You won't do it,you won't let this happen...you won't because you love me."-"it takes a very brave and and a very cold person to do that,(y/c/n)"-"I don't think you can..."

Note / I think amma gonna end it here and I'll let u imagine it on ur own😭actually it was gonna be longer than this but I accidentally delete half of it so my lazy ass just tell me to get this over with😔(no any​one's oc x canon pls I beg u(Im srry))​

throwing this into the Warden Reader AU, because silly.

Requested Prompts #44 - 💔💓

The words of the witches ring through your head as you stand ready in your position. " You have to be there, Reader Cookie." They had said. " For you are the only one who can see through his deception, it's how we know that the seal will truly work on them all." You knew what they'd really meant, but it was whatever. This was your purpose, what you were made for. There was no defying your own destiny when your were chained to it. It was an anchor dragging you down into the abyss of the sea, dread it, run from it, hide from it all you wish but it will still drag you down all the same. And then, you saw him. Your destiny made personified right in front of you in the form of a far too large blue cookie. Shadow Milk Cookie, the Cookie of Deceit as Elder Faerie had put it. The grin he wore was wide, yet not open enough to look insane as it usually did. His eyes were focused on you, keeping track of each and every action you took and each reaction you displayed. Such analysis befitted the former Cookie of Knowledge, but only fragments of the past were left in the beast before you. He'd strayed from how the witches made him due to the power of the soul jam, all of them had. You steel yourself after a mere millisecond of hesitation, pointing your spear at him with determination. " Your time is up." You coldly announced, not daring to let anything else slip into your tone. He'll use anything to get the upper hand, all you need to do is to distract him until the seal is prepared. His grin widened. " You mean you're actually going through with this? You're actually sticking by them, even though they're betraying you?" He asked, almost mockingly in tone. You knew not to search his expression for a hint of genuineness in his expression like you did in the past, and yet you did for just a moment. And maybe there was something, but you stopped yourself from looking. " ... I mean just that." You replied. You watched as he shrunk down, each step he got smaller and smaller until he was just a bit taller than you. " Well by all means, go ahead my dear." He said almost cruelly, taunting you by laying his head upon the tip of your spear. You hesitate, " This will be your finale." you state to his amusement. He smiled, an airy chuckle seeping through his lips. " You won't do it, you can't bring yourself to let this happen. All because you love me." The beast taunts, pressing his neck closer to the blade in a way that was just enough to draw forth a few droplets of his blueberry jam. " It takes a very brave and cold cookie to do that, I don't think you can."

----

Or, what happened before the witches sealed the beasts in the Warden!Reader timeline, and during.

[pyrotation]

🎃 this pyro has its birthday right at the start of scream fortress season 🎃

[zhoumeyourlove]

Meet Phoebe Allard!

@choicespride Choices Disability Pride Month, day 1: Cane, also applies to day 15: comfort and day 31: symptoms

This is Phoebe, another one of my 4 Desire & Decorum MCs (I've also introduced Oliver). She romances Prince Hamid. Like him, she's a natural flirt, and the two of them hit it off almost immediately upon meeting.

As you can tell, she uses a cane - the second picture is her holding it up higher than usual so you can see it better! When Phoebe was two years old, she contracted paralytic polio, which gave her monoplegia (paralysis in a single limb) affecting her right leg.

She also experiences symptoms of post-polio syndrome - she struggles after walking for extended periods of time due to mild pain and general fatigue. She has a very carefree and energetic personality and enjoys taking short walks and traveling (even if the destination isn't very particularly from home), but she knows to be careful not to push her body too far. She began experiencing these symptoms a few months before the start of book 1.

She likes to wear looser dresses, the one pictured being her favorite. She loves being comfortable far more than she cares about being perceived as 'fashionable', and she also finds it's easier to move around when her legs are slightly less restricted.

[vibing-lizard-nose]

Fanning books is not entertaining

(G/ood O/mens, 2,186 words)

ok so I had a dream last night which, for the most part, was a pretty normal dream so i don't remember a lot of it. BUT there was a part almost mid dream were I had a snz dream with the husbands and GOOD LORD. I'm gonna expand this in detail but good gracious lord SEEING IT was another level. Enjoy!!1! :3 --------------------- CW: mess?? cheers to me posting G/O snz writing in 2025 lol

((DONT SHARE TO NON SNZ/SICK BLOGS!! thx <3))

It was a normal day in the bookshop. A/ziraphale had asked C/rowley to help him air the books, as to prevent them from developing mold or something. So they were fanning book after book and putting them back in the shelves.

As the night fell on them, A/ziraphale invited C/rowley to the backroom of the bookshop to drink some wine and talk, as a way of thanking his help that day.

They were a little tipsy and giggling when A/ziraphale started to worry because C/rowley had been faintly rubbing under his nose the entire time they've been talking. Although it hasn't been them talking, more like A/ziraphale to him and C/rowley nodding and humming every now and then while pretending to have some self control.

So when Aziraphale asked him what was wrong, Crowley explained to him that his nose had been all tingling since this afternoon after they fanned the books. Under his glasses, he could see Aziraphale starting to stare and him with knitted brows like he always does when he's trying to figure something out.

So before he could ask him anything else, he said something like "Maybe there was actual mold in you books. A little tiding up wouldn't hurt every so often." and then he pouted and added "Think about the costumers safety, angel" in that little sarcastic tone. Aziraphale scoffed jokingly at this, he knew the books weren't that dirty and he knew that Crowley was just being mean on purpose to annoy him and derail their conversation.

That could've worked if Crowley had stopped messing with his face but he didn't.

At some point, the tickling feeling started to get stronger and he tried to sniffle hard to get rid of it. Fetal mistake, silly boy. Up until this point, he had blamed the tickle on dust, or mold or anything that seemed reasonable. So he didn't expect the faint tickle to turn into a sharp, burning itch when he sniffed. Even more unexpectedly, he felt something move up and deep into his nose while he sniffed, but before he could begin to think about what the hell was in there he started to sneeze his head off.

This whole situation had hold Aziraphale from drinking to much, so he was well aware and awake when Crowley started to have the fit. He sat his glass on the coffee table and quickly moved close to the demon to steady him.

Crowley tried to control himself, covering with his hands as his body tensed up and coiled up with the effort of containing the fit. He was also trying to pinch his nose shut and stifle the sneezes (for some reason? maybe trying to not make a scene late at night in the silent backroom, that seemed reasonable.) but whatever was inside of him NEEDED to come out so he wasn't helping. And he was sneezing over and over, a long fit of rapid sneezes with almost no time to take a breath, so he was also running out of air. uh oh.

Aziraphale held Crowley as the fit drained him until he was panting and gasping for air. "Well, that was something." Said Aziraphale, and Crowley glared at him, but any anger that he wanted to convey was diminished by this watery eyes and red face.

"Now really. Are you alright? This is hardly normal." the angel insisted. Crowley relented and lowered his hands which had been covering the mess all over his face and his raw, chapped nose. "I feel like I broke something in- uh.." he gestured at his face. "I felt something moving in there." Explain the demon, completely drained. Oh and it was showing!

Aziraphale conjured a handkerchief that had been folder and stored on his closet. A big, soft tartan-patterned piece of fabric, and handed it to Crowley. He wanted to look unimpressed, but he couldn't do it even if he tried. It was doing him well at the moment, cleaning his face without steering the itch.

"Maybe you actually inhaled something while fanning the books" Aziraphale tried to reason. Crowley rolled his eyes "This is what I get for mocking you. Karma, as they call it now." He sighed. Aziraphale looked at him fondly, like watching a little puppy accidentally trip and fall. "I will happen again." Added Crowley, who didn't appreciate being looked down on. (He did, but this was not the moment for that kind of feeling)

Aziraphale did notice that Crowley didn't blow his nose even though he said he felt something was loose inside of it. Maybe he was just to weary to bother doing it, but it would be good to get out whatever was inside. "Why don't you try blowing your nose, dear? It might help." Suggested the angel. Crowley suddenly looked worried, like he was being cautious about something. "No than you, 'm not a big fan of sneezing my bloody head off." Protested the demon, lowering the pretty cloth.

This is one of those moment where one has to make a decision with no regard of the consequences it may have later. He knew a particular set of words that would make Crowley have a bit of a fit. He had, in the past, complain about their use multiple times to him, so Aziraphale was perfectly aware of how his demon felt about them (physically and literally).

But he wasn't enough of a bastard to say them in this particular moment even if they were convenient to help his friend when he didn't want to help himself out. He just wasn't bastardy enough to do that.

Or was he?

It wouldn't hurt (or so he hoped) and it would be beneficial to alleviate his friend's predicament if it worked the way he was picturing in his head. And, less relevant to the entire situation, he thought the demon was particularly cute when he sneezed. There was something endearing in seeing this tall, slender and usually mean demon being reduced to a sniffy little mess when it happened.

Oh, this wasn't the moment for such silly thoughts.

So without any warning, or telling looks, or anything that could possibly let Crowley know what his friend was planning, he turned to him with the faintest smile and and unleashed chaos.

"God bless you!"

Oh, he did not.

"No she h-" Crowley went to say, but was intermediately cut off as the effect of the blessing took over him. He barely had a second to cover himself back with the handkerchief before he was sharping inhaling and…

"Hh’TSCHIUUH!!- ‘TSHHIU! … Hehh-… HEh’AASSHh!!…-Nghh.."

Crowley groaned and whined as the fit passed but the tickle persisted. Whatever was causing him so much trouble must be something straight from hell. Where else could anything like this come from? He was very lucky to have his angel next to him to guard him while he was in this vulnerable position. Wait. HE STARTED IT. He should be.. angry… at him! What is he doing here glorifying the angel when he was the one to bl-

"Crowley blow now! For God's sake!"

Oh. Right. The thing.

Crowley had nothing to loose now, so he blew his nose. A sound, gurgling blow that made him recoil on his seat as he felt the tickle all over his face, so overwhelming it felt like he would choke on it. He even coughed a few times in between blows. And then… it stopped?

He opened his eyes, still blurry from the tears, and looked up at Aziraphale from under the handkerchief. He has no idea why or how but the madding itch just stopped.

"Is that better?" Aziraphale asked, softly. Crowley blinked. Then looked down at the handkerchief, unsure if he wanted to even peak.

"Yeah... What did you do??" He asked, confused. The angel smiled and looked to the side. "Well, you did mentioned you felt something had gotten in... and you just wouldn't blow it out! So I thought a little... blessing could help?" Aziraphale giggled to himself, and Crowley looked bamboozled. It had been an unpleasant feeling, sure. But he mildly expected Aziraphale to do something more magical and less... 'I just prompted you to sneeze'.

"So who was the culprit?" Said Aziraphale, looking like a child waiting to open a present for christmas.

"Do you WANT to see it? It's my bodily fluids, Aziraphale." Said Crowley. Aziraphale could be very obnoxious at times but this was another level. He didn't know if he should be disgusted or intrigued.

"Well, you didn't make a scene in my bookshop and a mess in my carefully folded handkerchief to leave me without answers! You must understand, I'm very curious about this, Crowley." Insisted the angel. Ah, well... he can't deny him that, he was also wondering what it is. It was just unprecedented that the angel would want to see it so badly.

Crowley sighed. "Alright, just don't say anything when you get grossed out." and with that, he opened the handkerchief (and tried to keep some distance from it, rightfully cautious).

As expected, there was a lot of Crowley in the cloth. The clear, gloppy mess that had left Crowley's body a few seconds ago. 'Ew' thought the demon.

Less expected, however, was a tiny white fluffy feather that sat in the middle of the cloth, completely coated in snot.

"Is that... one of your feathers?-" asked Crowley.

"It certainly seems to be." replied Aziraphale, staring at it.

"Wha-when-... WHY was that in there??" Thing had just gotten more confusing, Crowley couldn't believe that the tiniest feather had set him off like that. "I've been around your wings, I've touched your feathers before. Why did this little shit got me so bad??"

'Language.' thought the angel, and relented. "I think that one is one of my baby feathers, the ones that pop up closer to the base of my wings"

"And?" Crowley didn't mean to come off so irritated but he was genuinely confused and changing the subject wasn't helping.

"I assume those are holier then the ones at the end of my wings, and them being very new and blooming straight out of the core of my true form, they must have a similar effect to that of incense, or sage." Explained Aziraphale.

"That makes sense but how did it got my nose? How did I not feel it just casually slipping in?" Crowley argued, staring at the little feather like it was about to bite him.

"I wouldn't know for sure. But if i had to guess, I'd say it slipped into one of my old books while I had my wings out. I used to preen them a lot and my books would be around more often back then, before I got big shelves to put them in." clarified the angel. "So it must it slipped out when you were fanning the books today, I think."

Crowley was silent for a moment, as though processing all the new information.

Then looked up at Aziraphale, looking very serious.

"You mean to tell me that I almost expelled my lungs out of my corporation because I accidentally inhaled a five-hundred-something ancient little feather of yours?"

Aziraphale stared back at him.

"That's one way to put it."

They both look at the gross little feather that seemed to mock them if it could talk. Big things to come in small containers.

Crowley snorted.

"Well this was bloody ridiculous-"

And with that, they both broke out in laughter. This entire chaos was the epitome of ridiculousness, and it was hilarious to them. To think that years ago they would've called it the end of times because one of them was actively dying of this unknown, spontaneous demonic disease that would surely end up in discorporation and a lot of paperwork. But thanks to their trust, this had only been an interesting and completely unnecessary situation. It was stupid and it was hilarious.

"HEH... Oh good Lord..." finally spoke up Aziraphale, catching his breath. "I would've been so worried about your in this hadn't been so entertaining" he smiled at Crowley, looking adorably flushed from all the laughing.

"Entertaining?!" scoffed Crowley. "I might as well come by every now and then and sneeze my head off if you think that's entertaining!" chuckled Crowley, smirking at the angel.

"You could, you could." Joked Aziraphale, wiggling in his seat and grinning, like the little bastard he was.

"You'll have to hide the feathers better next time then." Responded Crowley, grabbing his glass that had been long forgotten and refilling it with wine. "I'll come back prepared to purge the books with hell fire! Or not. I don't want to burn them... hell smoke, then!"

"Oh hush now, you silly serpent!" Aziraphale giggled, offering his glass to Crowley for a refill as well. "It won't happen again, dear. I'm sorry, it must it been very uncomfortable for you" Apologized Aziraphale, looking at Crowley with those soft blue eyes.

"Not uncomfortable, never that" Said Crowley, taking a sip of his wine and slumping back on the couch. "Entertaining sounds better."

[lurafita]

I need immortal husbands who accidentally travel back to current times from like a century or two in the future. And Alec is super relaxed because while he keeps in shadowhunter shape just in case, he has been retired from official clave business for over a century and malec are currently the owners of a small island b&b. And anyway island life Alec falls through a portal and lands in season 1 and has to tell himself to chill out.

Anyway, you are the place I send my weird fic ideas I don’t have time to write. I love reading yours when you post them!

If season 1 Alec, then immortal future Alec probably has a bit more to tell him than just to relax. A lot of fans like to forget that early Alec had some major hangups that fortunately he grew out of. But an older self coming back to this mirror of the past, and dragging him into a room and telling him exactly what a bullshit statement "Downworlders are slaves to their instincts" is, would just be *chef's kiss*. Also how there was more to life than leading an institute the way his parents and the Clave want it to be led. That adhering to tradition too stubbornly stands in the way of progress. That life is nothing but a meaningless list of tasks to complete if you aren't true to yourself. That the respect of his subordinates isn't earned by standing in his family's shadow. That loving your siblings doesn't mean that you should go along with every cockamamie idea they have. And yes, he uses words like cockamamie now. And so on. Just imagining the possible butterfly effect of change it could bring if Alec got an early start for a change of perspective, and did things differently. Especially if this meant that he and Magnus would get together quicker. And then when future Magnus steps through a portal to collect his husband (it probably took him a bit to figure out what happened and where Alec ended up), future Magnus can take a bit of a crack at past Magnus as well. Why not give him a head's up about the whole Valentine disaster? Why not deal with Iris Rouse sooner? Why not lay the groundwork to cut ties with Camille once and for all? Why not prevent Ragnor's death? Why travel back in time at all if you don't change things for the better. Magnus isn't worried that these changes would affect his and Alec's relationship. They have stood the test of time. They are rock solid. And they both believe in their love. So many lives can be saved, relationships repaired, diplomacy practiced, and so on. Two Magnuses going up against Lilith and Asmodeus? Two Alecs leading the institute to a frontal assault against Valentine, Malachi and Altertree? Hell, maybe they can even help Johnathan. At that time, he hasn't commited any atrocities yet. And then they can go back to their time and island living. With the added occasional visit from Ragnor, who is promptly tlaked into babysitting the latest kids that Malec have adopted, so that they can have an anniversary date under the stars.

Keep the fic ideas coming. I love responding to your messages. XD

Hope you are doing well, and remember to drink enough water.

[yeonban]

I was thinking there aren't enough memes catered to third parties on this site (ex. two muses talking about a third) which imo make rp flow so much smoother sometimes bc it feels more realistic for interactions to not start & end at only the two people directly involved, but then I realized... blud, you have a meme sideblog. You can literally make your own dreams come true

[reiderwriter]

I've had a lot of asks recently that are just "do this" "write this" "I need this"

I'm sorry, I know that tone is hard to translate over written text, but I need you to treat me more like a human being with feelings and not a writing machine that just gives you fics every few days. You can't just feed me prompts with no "hello."

I'm not asking for massive praise or even anything more than a hello and thank you. Just some recognition that I'm a human being, thanks! ♥️