#while i write the other…

[pinazee]

I have two dueling ideas and i cant decide which one i want to do more! I want to write a one shot where ted drags paul out for drinks, but does it go:

1. Ted gets drunk, hits on everyone in the bar, makes a real mess, and paul has to clean everything up. But as hes taking ted home, paul learns that ted was actually sad that charlotte cancelled plans on him and just didnt want to be alone, thus helping paul understand ted better and leading him to actually consider ted a friend. This is also the first time emma sees paul outside of beanies, and how he handles ted convinces her to give him her number.

Or

2. Ted convinces paul to drink, telling him he needs to loosen up if he, a man who’s never left the state let alone the island, wants to keep someone like emma, who’s explored the world and gone on adventures, interested. Paul gets drunk pretty quickly and gets a bit sloppy, emma shows up (as theyre at the birdhouse, her favorite bar) and both ted and emma end up taking care of him and he learns that she likes him just the way he is, boring, stable, and reliable. Ted doesn’t get much development here though.

Now mind you, before you vote, know that i might not even publish it. I hoard my fics in google docs like a collection of broken toys. So you might not read it. But please help me anyway. This is the most divided ive ever been because i want both :( i want someone to see ted for who he really is, and i want to explore paulkins.

[inkskinned]

i have chronic pain. i am neurodivergent. i understand - deeply - the allure of a "quick fix" like AI. i also just grew up in a different time. we have been warned about this.

15 entire years ago i heard about this. in my forensics class in high school, we watched a documentary about how AI-based "crime solving" software was inevitably biased against people of color.

my teacher stressed that AI is like a book: when someone writes it, some part of the author will remain within the result. the internet existed but not as loudly at that point - we didn't know that AI would be able to teach itself off already-biased Reddit threads. i googled it: yes, this bias is still happening. yes, it's just as bad if not worse.

i can't actually stop you. if you wanna use ChatGPT to slide through your classes, that's on you. it's your money and it's your time. you will spend none of it thinking, you will learn nothing, and, in college, you will piss away hundreds of thousands of dollars. you will stand at the podium having done nothing, accomplished nothing. a cold and bitter pyrrhic victory.

i'm not even sure students actually read the essays or summaries or emails they have ChatGPT pump out. i think it just flows over them and they use the first answer they get. my brother teaches engineering - he recently got fifty-three copies of almost-the-exact-same lab reports. no one had even changed the wording.

and yes: AI itself (as a concept and practice) isn't always evil. there's AI that can help detect cancer, for example. and yet: when i ask my students if they'd be okay with a doctor that learned from AI, many of them balk. it is one thing if they don't read their engineering textbook or if they don't write the critical-thinking essay. it's another when it starts to affect them. they know it's wrong for AI to broad-spectrum deny insurance claims, but they swear their use of AI is different.

there's a strange desire to sort of divorce real-world AI malpractice over "personal use". for example, is it moral to use AI to write your cover letters? cover letters are essentially only templates, and besides: AI is going to be reading your job app, so isn't it kind of fair?

i recently found out that people use AI as a romantic or sexual partner. it seems like teenagers particularly enjoy this connection, and this is one of those "sticky" moments as a teacher. honestly - you can roast me for this - but if it was an actually-safe AI, i think teenagers exploring their sexuality with a fake partner is amazing. it prevents them from making permanent mistakes, it can teach them about their bodies and their desires, and it can help their confidence. but the problem is that it's not safe. there isn't a well-educated, sensitive AI specifically to help teens explore their hormones. it's just internet-fed cycle. who knows what they're learning. who knows what misinformation they're getting.

the most common pushback i get involves therapy. none of us have access to the therapist of our dreams - it's expensive, elusive, and involves an annoying amount of insurance claims. someone once asked me: are you going to be mad when AI saves someone's life?

therapists are not just trained on the book, they're trained on patient management and helping you see things you don't see yourself. part of it will involve discomfort. i don't know that AI is ever going to be able to analyze the words you feed it and answer with a mind towards the "whole person" writing those words. but also - if it keeps/kept you alive, i'm not a purist. i've done terrible things to myself when i was at rock bottom. in an emergency, we kind of forgive the seatbelt for leaving bruises. it's just that chat shouldn't be your only form of self-care and recovery.

and i worry that the influence chat has is expanding. more and more i see people use chat for the smallest, most easily-navigated situations. and i can't like, make you worry about that in your own life. i often think about how easy it was for social media to take over all my time - how i can't have a tiktok because i spend hours on it. i don't want that to happen with chat. i want to enjoy thinking. i want to enjoy writing. i want to be here. i've already really been struggling to put the phone down. this feels like another way to get you to pick the phone up.

the other day, i was frustrated by a book i was reading. it's far in the series and is about a character i resent. i googled if i had to read it, or if it was one of those "in between" books that don't actually affect the plot (you know, one of those ".5" books). someone said something that really stuck with me - theoretically you're reading this series for enjoyment, so while you don't actually have to read it, one would assume you want to read it.

i am watching a generation of people learn they don't have to read the thing in their hand. and it is kind of a strange sort of doom that comes over me: i read because it's genuinely fun. i learn because even though it's hard, it feels good. i try because it makes me happy to try. and i'm watching a generation of people all lay down and say: but i don't want to try.

[milkamel]

AU idea: PV never regains memories, ancients don't reunite and the beasts are freed. Soul jam's powers are weak so SMilk aims to forcefully make PV remember and takes him to the spire (Little does SM know he'll get attached to this little compassionate Healer)

More details about this AU (currently called Slumbering Truth AU): Basically it starts off with Smilk being terrible and basically doing what he was doing in the 8th episode, trying to make PV remember and playing with his mind for his entertainment. He knows who PV used to be but PV knows nothing about him or his own past. He's confused as to why would this powerful cookie need him but decides to submit in exchange for the village being safe.

At first Healer is uncomfortable and nervous but gradually despite Smilk's intimidating look decides to play along his games and get to know him better. Smilk is surprised by the other's behavior (and unexpected wits and trickery) and what started with the urge to break PV down slowly became an urge to keep the other close since the other's intentions to know him were genuine and comforting and SMilk hated the thought of losing that (not that he'd admit that. he needs that Healer to see him suffer, right?).

Now he doesn't want Healer to remember, he doesn't snap at that cookie as much, he wants him to stay in this blissful lie because if PV knew the truth then he'd definitely leave Smilk and lock him again. If Healer knew the truth he'd turn against him instantly, Smilk was sure. For the first time in a long time, Smilk felt like he found someone to who he was connected and he wasn't going to let anything ruin that.

(It's a wip so I might change some stuff along the way)

[dancingaliensfics]

Remmick is actually nasty fr. He'd fuck you anywhere for anyone to see he doesn't give a fuck. If you let him, he'd fuck you in the middle of the street. You have to be careful because he has wandering hands and it doesn't take much for him to have them up your skirt, face pressed in your neck, drool running down your shoulder, begging in your ear for you to let him have a taste. And he means it too, he'd kneel down with you legs over his shoulders in the middle of the pub if you let him, it's not like anyone could stop you two or try anything.

He loves it for a lot of different reasons but the big two are this. Firstly, it let's everyone know you're his. He's a greedy man and he loves to own things, loves to posses. He also loves to show you off. He wants to put his mark on you and ward off anyone who covets you. And secondly, it let's everyone know he's yours. Because he's a lonely man, with sorrow in his heart and desperation in every action. He needs to be possessed as much as he wants to possess and he needs you to claim him, it's the only way he can feel whole.

He also doesn't care about getting messy or dirty. To the point that he will try and fuck you on the side of the road, in a field or against a tree. He's constantly ruining your outfits by pulling you down onto a patch of wet grass or dusty soil. He fucks you covered in blood and gets it all over your skin and hair and under your nails. He fucks you in the rain until you're shivering and soaking wet all over not just-

Anyways just so little thoughts about remmick

[hansoeii]

Do you think of me?

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

masterlist

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[bluerosefox]

Little Grayson and his Talon Knights

Got a new idea cooking in my head.

Another DPxDC idea.

A reborn into DCverse Toddler!Danny but also Dad!Dick and Talons.

Danny is reborn into the DCverse (either he's a clone of Dick, a created test tube baby, OR a kid Dick unknowingly had during his amnesia year) and wakes up in the Court of Owls who finally have their Gray Son and will turn him into the greatest Talon ever.

Thing is, Danny still has his ghost powers (King Danny? Idk leaving it open, either that or just able to control clean ectoplasm) and knows whatever fruitloops have him, this will not be fun. So, when none of the Owls are watching him, he uses his abilities to influence a few Talons and they all book it out of the place.

Danny later finds himself walking the dirty Gotham streets with a few Talons, one holding his hand while the others hide in the shadows in case they need to protect the baby Talon they all care for.

Of course, the sighting of a Talon holding a toddler's hand catches the camera's and Oracles attention very very fast.

One of the Batboys is sent out, not Dick he's on a space mission right now, and whoever it is, is shocked to see a toddler that has a LOT of similarities to Dick.

[beehunterkisser]

ive been working on a PNF alice in wonderland AU. Some of my fav designs that ive done for it

[homemadesterekpie]

Stiles starting to worry about just how angry Derek seems to be all the time because that can’t be good for you in general.

he starts looking for a solution to help Derek out and decides that the only way to do so is to let Derek fuck him whenever he wants to. That way he would have an outlet to let out steam AND Stiles would be getting fucked it’s a win win situation. Stiles is a bit of a dumbass when it comes to Derek and his fat crush on him so sue him okay.

so when Stiles notices Derek is wound up and angry by the end of the next pack meeting, he decides to stay around. He ignores Erica’s lifted eyebrow and Isaac’s eye roll as they leave. He doesn’t ignore Boyd’s pointed stare though, there’s a warning in it. It means don’t push it, don’t push him. Stiles just nods, looking away. Because he gets it and he won’t, much anyway. He’ll push Derek just not in the way that will make him more angry or at least he hopes so.

Derek could totally get even more angry and put him back in his place real fast which would be embarrassing and frankly would break Stiles’ heart a little but he tries not to let his nerves get the better of him and approaches his Alpha, slowly.

Derek is at the large window, looking outside with his fists clenched tight. Stiles goes to stand beside him, not too close but close enough, for now anyway. He hears Derek sigh in annoyance and Stiles closes his eyes for a second to strengthen his resolve because obviously Derek will make this harder than it should be.

Stiles decides to just go with it and he tells his Alpha to simmer down, he knows he’s angry but that he can make it okay. His words come out unsure and he tries not to cringe at himself. He knew he probably needed confidence for this but all he feels is nervous and needy. Maybe this was a bad idea actually.

But Derek lets out a small ugly chuckle and asks how. How can Stiles possibly make it okay and it oddly sounds like a challenge to Stiles.

So he swallows his nerves and turns to Derek and reaches out with trembling fingers to touch Derek’s closed fist, keeping his eyes down.

When Derek doesn’t move away, Stiles whispers that sometimes physical exertion helps with working through angry feelings. He steals a glance up to Derek from under his lashes to check on him but Derek’s face is unreadable. He’s tense but he’s still not pushing Stiles away.

He needs to make himself more clear. With his other hand he reaches out slowly to lay it low on his Alpha’s stomach, just above his belt. He waits for a few seconds and when again, Derek doesn’t stop him, he slowly lowers his hand to his crotch not pressing or anything just laying it there making itself known.

Stiles’ breathing is coming hard because this is it isn’t it? this right here is what makes or breaks it. Derek either accepts it, accepts him or he rejects him, breaking Stiles’ heart in the process. Eyes stinging, Stiles lets out a small whispered plea. Please. Please, Derek let me.

He’s shaking all over when the Alpha finally moves, dislodging Stiles’ hands on him and making Stiles shrink into himself. He can feel his heart breaking because yeah he should have known Derek would reject him, what was he thinking? He’s just a kid, he’s a dumb human with absolutely nothing special about him why did he even think Derek would ever go for him.

He’s taken out of his spiralling thoughts when fingers grab his chin and make him look up. Derek doesn’t look angry at all anymore but Stiles can’t keep his eyes on Derek’s, it’s too much. He tries to pull away but the fingers at his chin tighten, keeping him in place.

He suddenly, stupidly feels like crying. He’s humiliated and Derek won’t let him leave to go hide somewhere to cry in peace.

But then Derek says his name softly, grinding all of Stiles’ thoughts to a halt. He looks at Derek’s face, giving the Alpha all of his attention.

Seeming satisfied, Derek ask him if he’s sure.

Emotion surging in his chest, Stiles tells him he’s a thousand percent sure.

After that, without letting go of his chin Derek takes one of Stiles’ hands and brings it back to his crotch. There’s hardness under his fingers and Stiles lets out a breathy little moan.

With eyes flashing red, Derek pulls Stiles’ face towards his while leaning in. They meet halfway and finally they’re kissing. Stiles moans into it, dick already hardening and heart pounding in his chest.

The next moments are a blur of pleasure and excitement. Stiles doesn’t have much experience, to be honest, this is pretty much his first time but he hopes he makes up for it with his eagerness.

Derek lifts him up into his arms to carry him to his bed and Stiles’ belly flutters with countless butterflies. He kisses Derek with everything he has, hands buried in his soft dark hair.

He lets Derek undress him and Derek rewards him by kissing every patch of naked skin he reveals. He helps Derek take off his henley, to undo his belt.

Stiles has to push at Derek shoulders a few times for Derek to let his lips go so he can tell him there’s a bottle of lube in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

Derek kisses him on the nose before retrieving it.

He opens Stiles up diligently, watching Stiles intently. He takes in every one of Stiles’ little reactions. He lets Stiles grab at him desperately, breathe and moan into his mouth all he wants.

Only when Stiles is taking four fingers, panting and begging on them does Derek finally pull them out and shift himself in between Stiles’ spread thighs. He doesn’t even bother taking off his jeans or briefs, just pushing the fabric down just enough for this. He hooks one of Stiles’ legs over an arm and the other he settle it around his waist before lowering himself so they can kiss again.

Stiles is so stretched, there’s little to no pain when Derek breaches him. There’s plenty of pleasure though and Stiles moans, digging his nails into the skin of Derek’s biceps desperately.

He lets Stiles adjust when he’s finally balls deep, but Stiles wants him to move already so he pulls Derek’s face to his and begs Derek to fuck him before kissing him.

Derek does fuck him. Setting a strong hard pace, the sounds of their skin slapping together and the bed creaking filling the space around them.

They’re both lost to pleasure. Stiles moaning and grunting on Derek’s hard thrusts and Derek’s growls growing in intensity as both of their pleasure builds and builds.

Stiles is almost on the edge when Derek shifts and lets go of his leg to instead plant both his arms on both sides of Stiles’ head but not before taking a pillow and lifting Stiles’ hips to settle the pillow under them and Stiles lets out a shaky curse.

When he starts thrusting again, he’s so so deep into him, Stiles wails. Before he knows it, he’s on the edge and he’s calling Derek’s name over and over before coming hard, spurt after spurt of his come shooting up his stomach and chest as Derek fucks him hard through it until the Alpha’s thrusts falters, going erratic and wild before stopping altogether deep into Stiles as he comes hard with a loud growl.

They both shake with aftershocks for a few seconds before Derek settles his weight on Stiles, not caring of the mess, both of them breathing hard. Stiles entangles his fingers in Derek’s hair. Derek nuzzles his skin.

It’s only when both of their breathing have calmed and they’re both dozing that Derek says that Stiles was right. The anger is gone. His tone is teasing and Stiles giggles, rolling his eyes a little.

Later, Derek fucks him again. This time soft and slow with Stiles on his belly and something breaks in him and he tells Derek that he loves him, that he loves him so much. To that Derek just lets out a rumbling sound and nuzzles Stiles�� cheek softly. But when Stiles say it again once they’re done and sated, Derek says it back making Stiles the happiest he’s ever been.

[vivitalks]

thinking about guard dog characters and attack dog characters. the different ways to protect your people. characters who take the defensive versus the ones who never let it get to that. ones who, when someone bares their teeth, will bare their teeth in return, and ones who need only see the glint of teeth before tearing them limb from limb. it's the difference between "i would die for you" and "i would kill for you." characters who are ready to compromise their life or their morals, who have already made that sacrifice in their mind, who have fangs and claws and are always ready to use them, because ultimately these characters are fundamentally the same: they will protect you, and they will do anything.

[inkskinned]

i'm still trying to piece together the truth of it. when you left, you said: feel free to spin this narrative however you want. i have no idea if you were being cruel or if you just genuinely don't remember what you've done to me.

it's hard because i'd done so much of the work for you. i had seen the parts that flaked off, the rust underneath. i started separating you into two people - the one i loved, and the one who hurt me. i had this fantasy version of you - my partner - and then i had this stranger, a third person who would show up randomly to shatter me. i am deliriously glad i'm no longer with "the stranger". i miss the gentle (unreal?) "other" you terribly.

at first, i was so strict about my boundaries. i remember telling you to get the fuck out of my house if you were going to talk to me like that. by the end: i would justify your behavior for you, accepting even your mistreatment as "my fault" in the grand scheme. i look back on the person i was before you - smart, independent, confident - and i feel a strange sense of detachment. i don't even recognize me.

even in one of our last conversations, you said: if you want a partner that always talks warmly to you, find someone else. there was a time that a comment like that would have made me leave. and instead, somehow, i just placidly accepted that kind of thing. you were literally telling me that i wasn't allowed to have a reaction to your cruelty - and i just took it, because you'd so fully turned things around on me.

when people are faced with irrationality, a rational brain tries to make sense of it. this is the trap. they're lovely in the morning, gentle and blue-eyed and sweet. like nothing even happened, they breeze around the house and kiss you on the mouth. but at night; who is that? they snap almost randomly; flying into an impotent rage about just-about-anything. it just doesn't make sense. so the problem must be me, and my brain, and how i think.

the traumatized brain just wants peace. so maybe i'm misremembering. maybe you were just having a bad day. maybe it's actually me.

you eventually would fully turn on me and start implying that i am the bad actor in our relationship. that's what happens, right? that's literally in the playbook. you went to therapy for all of a month, told her a half-truth, co-opted therapyspeak. you figured out how to reframe your actions as "seeking peace." any time i stood my ground, i was "gaslighting." when i asked you to be more gentle, you said i was "tone policing." you said, randomly, i had emotionally manipulated you - i still have no idea what that's even specifically referring to. maybe my consistent requests for calmness and empathy?

and while i literally know better, and i'm sitting here, trained by you, thinking: wait, fuck. was i actually the person you made me out to be?

and the thing that scares me is that i literally do not know if you ever actually saw what you were doing to me. when you'd tell me how you remember arguments, you'd always summarize them in a way where you come off as gentle and easy: "i was trying to set an important boundary." what had actually happened was 15 minutes of you shouting at me i know you did something shady, just admit it already. eventually you'd say my reaction to your shouting (when i finally reacted, which usually happened around hour three) was inevitably "disappointing" and "another way i'm silencing your feelings."

how many times did i ask you - beg you - to just take accountability? looking back, i don't think i ever heard you say: you're right. the way i talked to you was wrong of me.

i am trying to tie together the two people into a full version of you in my head. yes, you made my coffee and made me laugh and spent hours on the phone with me. and yes - you would scream at me until i had to run away and hide behind something.

i wish i did have a narrative i could pull out and shape to my whim. i wish i did have some semblance of reality. instead i just stand here, strange and vibrating, wondering: what the fuck just happened?

[keferon]

Two Peas in a Pod: part 2/?

*slips another piece into your mailbox*

_____________________

Jazz was still feeling a little woozy from his donation in the dark hours of the morning. Blaster had breakfast changed from the usual to something that felt more like a treat, probably a reward for his good behaviour, and to help his body recover. Fish heavy in proteins, fat, all that healthy stuff. Something that normally he would have tried to savour, but he wolfed it down from excitement. Too many questions ran through his head, and most he couldn't bring himself to voice.

The mer, the mer would pull through. Blaster told him about how he had saved their life with his blood. Praised him high and low. Because Blaster knew how Jazz felt about seeing blood, about how hard blood tests were for him, and that was only a tiny vial. Not three big bags of it. Jazz hadn't seen how much they had taken – because he had kept his eye closed until they left in a hurry –, and hearing about it made him dizzy for other reasons, but he honestly felt real proud of himself.

It was a new feeling, different from other moments of pride – like when he figured out the lock codes. Yeah, this gave him butterflies and the drive to help more.

Blaster laughed when Jazz offered that the vets could take more if the other mer needed it. His handler didn't think it would be, but he would pass it on to the vet team.

Jazz's morning checks were a little off, expected with having a little less fluids and feeling off-balance, but it was kept short and quick. Blaster told him that if he learned anything more, he'd tell him next time he came by and then hurried back down to the staff area. Blaster was needed elsewhere, understandably as there weren't many mer experts here, though he did leave Jazz his waterproof stereo if he wanted to play some of his favourites.

But, the orca mer was far too busy causing a whirlpool from the laps he was swimming. He was too excited to sit still, and embarrassment be damned he started practising old vocals. He didn't remember much of his mother tongue, and he was pretty sure that his pronunciation was off, that or had one hell of an accent. Echo-speech was even more rusty. And once he had gone over and over what he could recall, Jazz began to really worry. A few sentences and handful or so of words was all he had? Gods, I hope I can at least make a decent first impression. Blaster said they were just like me, so hopefully, that will give me some starting points.

More than he cared to count, Jazz would swim into the shallow waters of the medical bay and hope to see something through that window. But no one ever came close enough for him to hear any news of the mer. He couldn't even see anything on his radar, wherever they had done treatment, it wasn't in the hospital ward. It almost felt like he was being purposely kept in the dark.

And just when Jazz was starting to worry that things had taken a bad turn, a group of staff turned up around four pm. He wasn't able to ask any questions, or rather they refused to answer. Shooing him away as they got to work. Starting with closing the gate to the bay to 'keep him out'. Jazz could easily climb those walls, but that wasn't the point. Even if the gate window was closed, he could pick up that they were setting up the water hammock. But it wasn't until he heard the cautionary beeping of the hoist lift approaching that it dawned on him – the mer was coming. Now.

"Jazz," Blaster called, "… Jazz," he blew the training whistle and finally got his mer's attention. "Stop pacing and get over here."

"But–" Jazz looked back longingly up the wall.

"Jazz," his tone dropped to a firm one, and Jazz begrudgingly swam over to the pier. The human crouched and made sure that they held eye contact before he spoke. "I need you to promise me that you will stay in your enclosure."

He sunk a little, trying to play into his cuteness, but being far too anxious to really pull it off. "What do you mean?"

"Jazz," now warning him. Blaster knew full well that he was more than capable of getting into or out of places he shouldn't, bloody Houdini mermaid, "this is serious. Things are going well, we want to keep it that way. Which means keeping things calm and feeling safe. You're excited, I get it, we all are. But in about an hour, they'll be waking up and – from past experience seen with wild Mers – they will likely freak out. And the last thing we need is you hauling your tail over that wall and making things worse. Understand?"

The beeping was louder how and the hiss of hydraulics caused Jazz to look up. The arm of the lift was visible over the wall. They're here!

"Jazz," Blaster hopelessly called for his attention once more.

Within moments, a massive bundle was carefully raised, the staff calling out and coordinating. Jazz's gaze was fixed on the black and white fluke poking out, it was the only part of them he could see, and his heart began to race. Once they became hidden by the wall again, Jazz moved back to pacing by the gate without even thinking. Listening to people hopping into the water to unstrap the mer and call back n' forth. "Careful, careful! – Watch the head! – Someone give me a hand over here! – We're clear on this side! – Keep the head up!"

Really starting to sound like a broken record, Blaster chirped the whistle and called out to him again. The expression he wore must have been pretty pitiful because the look on Blaster's face dropped. "If I open the view port… will you promise me that you will wait, that you will stay in your enclosure?"

"I promise," he answered hastily, placing his hands on the gate, over the panel that would slide open.

"And that you will wait until everything is in the clear, till the staff come to oversee the integration. There will be no rushing things and no asking staff when we will open the gate."

"I promise," he repeated, trying not to beg.

Satisfied, Blaster pulled out his radio, "Blaster to Control; when the team is out of the Mer enclosure's medical bay, open the view port. Jazz's stress is mounting without a visual."

"Can do," came a quick reply.

Though, opening the panel was not. Several minutes went by, the hoist had cleared out, and much of the staff had returned to their other duties. Only two remained double-checking the mer's breathing and pulse. The moment that the last of them left, Jazz heard the lock disengage, and he retracted his hands as the panel shifted and began to slide open. The window was too small to get more than his hand – maybe up to his elbow if he wanted to push it – through, and sat just at water level– any movement sending water hopping to either side. But it gave him a clear view of the surface area inside.

Oh.

Oh. Jazz stopped breathing. While the mer's body was mostly supported by the fabric of the hammock, cradling them on their side, effectively hiding most of them from Jazz's angle. Propped up on a soft floating platform was the mer's head, face towards the gate. Sharp features and elegantly shaped finials, with flattering lines of their markings complimenting the peaceful expression as they slept. The butterflies from earlier came back stronger than ever, his heart thundering as words fumbled from Jazz's lips, "he's beautiful…"

_____________________

-GLC

Orca Prowl really is just-- too fucking pretty, omg, I'm living through Jazz in this moment like when I first saw your designs of him.

I'm more than happy to continue writing for you, you bring me so much joy. I screamed when I saw how much you liked it. If you have any requests you would like me to add to the story, leave it in the tags or comments ♡ I now plan to continue until the tsunami and a bit afterwards, maybe more, we'll see~

Upd: There is a next part!

Previous

Oh. MY GOD. OKAY ALRIGHT OKAY ALRIGHT OKA

I'M ABOUT TO START PACING IN CIRCLES JUST LIKE JAZZ OVER HERE KDLCNFJFLFB PL E A S E THIS IS SO GOOD. The tension?? You can fucking TASTE it IT'S SO GREAT GLC I LOVE YOU

The way it all starts at night and then you (as a reader) have all this additional time to boil in your anticipation?? So fucking great. Like you can really feel how little power Jazz has over the wholse situation. The plot is moving but he doesn't have any saying in it. Well. Yet heheh

Anyway haha. Im normal and I made some art>:D

[cloudbends]

something I feel like isn't nearly appreciated enough about mob's arc in mp100 is that his background is... Completely normal. I see a lot of people interpreting mob's parents as neglectful or distant based on the few scenes we've seen of them, which greatly baffles me because their few scenes aim to establish his family life as.. completely normative. They have the normal, average quips of a normal family. And I think it's very unique and refreshing because it means mob's troubles and internal hardship isn't a product of his upbringing, it's a byproduct of a traumatic experience and of his own personality and how it coalesces with his psychic powers. And I personally think more media should acknowledge that some people, even with perfectly normative and healthy familial dynamics and circumstances, will still develop very complex internal issues and personal psychology. and on the same note, some people with perfectly normal upbringing won't feel comfortable to confide in their parents and seek an external authority figure to look up to, which doesn't necessarily mean them and their parents are estranged. I dont think mob's (or ritsu's) life have to be unhappy to legitimize or explain the fact he has the personal struggles he does. Embracing normalcy is the main theme of this series.

[fictionalcharacters-mybeloved]

Say no to this, Bruce.

A few days ago Bruce had a fight with his sons, now he doesn't even remember why, it was probably something stupid that escalated and he didn't know how to stop it, it was probably his fault.

He was alone at the mansion, Damian was at Dick's house, Jason was ignoring him more than usual and Tim was on a case where he didn't want help, not from him at least, even Duke was away, it wasn't a good week for Bruce.

He grabbed a phone he had hidden and only took out before going to sleep alone in his room, hesitated for a few seconds and sent a message to the only number added.

His "thing" with the boy, Danny Fenton, had started four years ago, the boy was lost and Bruce found him when he coincidentally went for a walk as a civilian.

Danny was so charmed by Bruce (for some reason) that he gave him his hotel room number to keep talking about the universe, and later his home number.

Danny was a good, funny and witty kid, a very smart too, with parents who didn't deserve him because they didn't notice their son's brilliance.

Danny was a good boy with a not-so-good life, a strong, independent boy who wasn't always positive but didn't always let himself fall apart.

That's why when Danny answered his message with a call with him crying and asking for help, he could only go to his rescue without looking back, barely remembering to tell Alfred of his departure.

When he arrived he found only tragedy.

His family and friends had died, an explosion at an unfortunate time, Danny had no one in the world besides his godfather and Bruce, and he didn't want to fall into Vlad's clutches, so he was desperate.

He also told him about Phantom, and Bruce could only hug him and promise him that no one was going to find him.

The first thing that came to his mind was to take him to his mansion, Danny was like his son, it was the most logical action... except that Danny still looked up to him and trusted him a lot, and wasn't that a scary thought?

Bringing Danny to the mansion would involve many things, Danny would meet his children, which might make Danny see him differently, goodbye to his admiration and affection, goodbye to spending time "together" watching bad movies to criticize them, goodbye to quiet conversations and asking for advice, goodbye to trust.

Bringing Danny to the mansion would mean having him physically close but keeping him away in every other possible way.

"Danny doesn't want anyone else to know about Phantom." Bruce repeated to himself as he took Danny to a small, hidden apartment in Gotham, a cozy little place where Vlad wouldn't find Danny (and neither would Bruce's family).

[ugokuna]

you hear a slip and a crash before a loud scream comes from across the house and you're trying so hard not to stifle out a laugh and trying so hard to calm the burning in your cheeks and ears. the moment you hear the bedroom door slam open and shut, you're bolting from the living room to the kitchen to try and put some distance between you and your husband.

"what is this?" his voice is breathless, but anticipating, filled to the brim with excitement and disbelief and awe and so so so much joy. he stands on one side of the island.

and you stand on the other, teasing him, "you know what it is," looking at the object in his hand.

"it's positive," he tells you, as if you don't already know, making his way towards you.

"i know." you move the opposite way, in circles, trying to retain the space between you two.

"and?"

"and what?"

he stops chasing for a moment. you do too. "why are you running away from me?"

you bring the long sleeves that are spilling over your hands to hide your growing smile, muffling a, "because you're too excited right now. and i know you'll topple me over the moment you get your hands on- AHH!" you shriek as he somehow makes his way to you, lifting you by the waist and twirling you around.

you shriek out his name, "put me down!" you somehow both can't stop laughing.

when he finally puts you down, you lean into his warmth, the stick facing you both to stare in awe at. "when'd you find out?"

"this morning; about an hour after you left." you're biting you lip as meticulously try to read his face.

you're only met with pecks and pecks and pecks of kisses on your lips. "so you're really pregnant?"

you hum in reassurance. "yes, i'm pregnant." finally spelling it out into fruition.

he gets down on his knees and kisses your belly. "hi pregnant, i'm daddy."

+ MIYA ATSUMU, UMEMIYA HAJIME, BOKUTO KOUTAROU, oikawa tooru, kuroo tetsurou, HINATA SHOUYO, ITADORI YUUJI, gojo satoru, ino takuma, PORTGAS D. ACE, SHANKS, CHIFUYU MATSUNO, manjiro "mikey" sano, VASH "THE STAMPEDE" SAVEREM, andy (undead unlucky) and any other characters

[unicornpopcorn14]

Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt during the Lovecraft fight has always been so interesting to me...

Because it's the kind of worry you'd never expect from a character as gruff as Chuuya, who had displayed nothing but hostility towards Dazai so far. Usually, characters that are labelled as "angry" or "anger issues" (which Chuuya is much more complex than that but you get my point) act more as a tsundere type of way when the one they "don't care about" gets hurt. And show their care in very, very subtle ways (ex. their eyes widen, their mouth parts and closes again, etc) before putting up their front once more.

Chuuya, however, is open, and vocal about it. His worry is clear not only to us, but to Dazai himself, the one he shouldn't be displaying the concern to (as per the cliche). Shouldn't it be some sort of secret that Chuuya does care? Isn't that what skk's dynamic has been shaping up to be until now?

I'm telling you- the way my mind blanked when Chuuya just casually.... showed concern not once, but twice, was a sight to see.

Besides, the context makes it much more confusing, because Dazai isn't some rookie, and Chuuya knows that more than anybody. He was the youngest executive in Port Mafia's history, of course he can handle a hit or two. Of course he'd seen him handle a hit or two, sometimes without batting an eye.

Heck, Chuuya himself was hurling Dazai like a ragdoll in their reunion, which was their last meeting. And you could argue that he was going easy on him, but Dazai has mostly withstood the same damage (as far as I could see), and Chuuya was as bitter as ever.

So that kind of contradicts both what we knew of Chuuya so far, and how their dynamic was shaped to be. I mean, that just makes Chuuya a hypocrite, yeah? What makes him care now, all of a sudden? What makes him care at all?

Well, to me, this backasswards reaction implies one (or more) of the following:

- Dazai rarely got physically hurt during their partnership and thus this is an unexpected thing for him to see (during a mission).

- The four years of separation made Chuuya unsure of how much Dazai can withstand physically now. Also the fact that he isn't in the mafia anymore, aka fighting enemy organizations on the weekly, would naturally make Dazai lose his touch in a way, what prompts Chuuya's reaction.

- Dazai getting taken off guard took him off guard which led to panic. Especially since the situation was (momentarily) out of their depth. Seriously wtf even was Lovecraft?

- During the dungeon scene Dazai was an enemy, while in the Lovecraft fight he was as an ally. The difference might be significant to Chuuya.

- This has always been Chuuya's reaction to Dazai getting hurt regardless of the situation.

- "Only I can hurt him like that" ahh logic

- Asagiri was still experimenting with their dynamic and thus there are some inconsistencies.

This scenario didn't play out again (after their reunion) for me to exactly determine which one is more plausible, but it is 100% canon for Chuuya to shamelessly show his concern and run to Dazai to check on him before properly dealing with their opponent, which I find to be such an appealing layer to their dynamic, and a good spin on the type of character he gets stereotyped as.

Bonus: Dazai also becomes a softy when Chuuya's hurt, especially post corruption. Dead Apple alone displays that multiple times.

All in all, Skk are doing a terrible job at maintaining their 'hostile' and 'antagonistic' relationship post their reunion. Freaks.