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starlit-clouds · 2 years ago

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I hought I would finish this fic way sooner than I would, but alas August passed and it was not done then

On the bright side, I finally completed it!

Gonna post it soon after editing it, but imma do that in the morning because it is midnight for me and I am weak. But! I can give a sneak peek!

It’s called “Siblings in Spirit (And Paperwork)” and it has ALL of that Dad Fukuzawa(TM) content and contains PEAK Ranpo and Yosano sibling bonding. I’ll put a short snippet it under the cut that I was going to use parts of for the summary anyways!

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Word count: roughly 793

Timeline: Ranpo and Yosano are 15/16 and 14/15 respectively in this

—

“You should do it.”

“No way!” Ranpo protested immediately. He gestured widely towards the door to Fukuzawa’s office. While the glass was frosted in a way that he couldn’t see too far inside, he knew Fukuzawa was sitting at his desk. “You should do it!”

Yosano put her hands on her hips. “No. You.”

“No! You!”

“No. Y—” Yosano cut herself off and paused, thinking for a moment. “You know what? We’re getting nowhere with this. I say we both need to calm down and talk this through again.”

“‘We both need to calm down’? Yeah, right. I’m the one who’s being rational here. I think you need to take a moment to think things through.”

“Oh?” She crossed her arms. “And why do you think that?”

“Because you wrote the papers in the first place. So since you’re the one who wrote them, that means you should give them to him.” Ranpo the pointed to the papers in Yosano’s hand. “Plus, you’re already holding them.”

She huffed and shoved the papers into Ranpo’s hands. He was forced to grab onto them to prevent them from falling onto the floor. He attempted to force her to take them back, but when that failed, he settled for simply glaring at her.

“Those reasons don’t even make any sense. If we’re really going by who did what, then you should be the one to give him the papers,” Yosano reasoned. “I already did the work by writing them. You can do your part by giving them to him. It’s only fair.”

“But it’s not about what’s fair,” Ranpo claimed. He had started to try and give Yosano the papers back. He was failing. “It’s about what we need to do for the plan to work. And believe me, it absolutely pains me to say this but…” Ranpo’s tone indicated anything but. “It would be a thousand times better if you were the one to do it.”

“Now you’re just making things up. It would be better if you gave them to him.”

Ranpo stared at Yosano. “No. You.”

“No.” Yosano stared back at him. “We are not going back to that.”

“Yes, we are.”

“No.”

“Yes. And I think you should be the one to do it.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“You were here first,” Yosano blurted out.

“No— wait. What do you mean?” He squinted at her suspiciously. “What exactly is the point you're trying to make there?”

“Well, you’ve known Fukuzawa for longer than me. Obviously it would be better if you were the one who gave him the papers.”

“Yeah, but the whole point of this is that he doesn’t know what they’re for until it’s too late for him to change his mind, so we don’t need the emotional manipulation of me doing it,” Ranpo pointed out. “We’re meant to be discreet. Which really means you should be doing it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You’re normally the one who gives him all of the paperwork, so it would be suspicious if I was suddenly giving him papers to sign.”

Yosano stared at him. And stared. And stared some more.

She was still staring as she glared and took the papers from Ranpo’s hands.

Ranpo cheered. “Ha ha! Yeah, that’s right! You’re the one who’s doing it!”

Yosano glared even harder before she ignored him by turning to face the door. As she entered, Ranpo leaned up against the door with his ear pressed up against it.

Fukuzawa looked up as she entered. “Yes?”

“I have some documents you need to sign. Preferably as soon as possible. As well as while I watch,” Yosano stated as she strolled towards Fukuzawa’s desk.

She watched him closely as she put the documents in front of him. She flipped through some of the pages before she reached the end, pointing to a box at the end of the page.

“Sign right here. Please,” she added after a moment.

Fukuzawa picked up the papers and flipped them back to the front.

“Wait! What are you doing?!” Yosano quickly snatched the papers away from him.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m reading them over?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she rushed, absolutely not suspiciously at all. “You can just sign them without reading them.”

‘I’m pretty sure I should read documents before I sign them,” Fukuzawa said, sounding somewhat amused.

“Uhhh…” Time seemed to freeze as Yosano saw Fukuzawa begin to look back at the documents. And then she panicked. “I’m going to go now!” She announced. “And I’m taking these with me!”

Before Fukuzawa could read what the documents were about, she clutched them close to her chest and she whipped around to the door. She quickly hurried out of the room before things could get too awkward.

—

Or: Ranpo and Yosano try to trick Fukuzawa to sign adoption papers without him finding out until they’re already in effect. This goes as well as it could be expected.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49812589

#bungo stray dogs #bsd ranpo #bsd yosano #bsd fukuzawa #not a fic update #fic update information #short snippet #my post #my fic #if anyone is looking for a time it’ll probably be around 11 am or something #because idk how long I will take me to edit or when I’ll wake up #(it’s the weekend y’all I AM GOING TO SLEEP IN!!!!)#the fic ended up being around 6k words if anyone’s curious!#very proud of myself for actually doing that (even if it took me weeks)#schools starting soon but ironically I think it’ll make me post more #because writing helps me de-stress and since my summer was not stressful I did not write #rambling #I do also have two other fics beside for this one in the work!#one will probably be an enternal WIP (it’s multi-chaptered) but the other is SO CLOSE to being done (literally ending scene rn)#more rambling #again I’m actually very proud of this Sibings in spirit (and paperwork) and I think you’ll enjoy it! (hopefully)#ok i’m out now actually done rambling

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision.

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths.

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced.

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat.

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved.

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..."

Jack looked up, gaze intent.

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself.

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out.

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please."

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station."

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes.

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face.

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.

#ADAD2025 #ADOCTORADAY #the pitt #jack abbot #the pitt imagine #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #the pitt fanfiction #dr jack abbot #obsessed with this fictional man #the pitt hbo #abbotjack

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seraphinitegames · 9 days ago

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The Wayhaven Chronicles—Update 13/June/2025

It was a bit of a write-off week this week, unfortunately. Rather deflating after smashing through for so many weeks! But it all started with a boiler breakdown emergency, then a lingering vet issue (which is now resolved and all fine but was a bit scary for a few days!), and then Nai got pretty ill at the end of the week (she is now also slowly recovering!).

So yeah, it was a bit of an intense week!

I’d planned on social media days this week as well as getting through my edits on the chapter I finished. Instead, I gathered up the edits ready from the editor in prep and also printed out the plan for the next chapter and went through it.

As with all the chapters in Book Four, this next chapter is a serious doozy to write, lol! Lots of variation and branching for a specific choice. It was a bit overwhelming to look over what with so much else happening, but I took a breath and started chunking it up into smaller, manageable scenes. That helped a lot!

And now I’m also seriously excited to get writing it, hehe! :D

But I will do the sensible thing and get the edits done first! My plan for next week is edits and social media days. Then I can jump right back into the next chapter, which is quite the set-up chapter for something very dramatic and very intense to come in the one after that…

And after the (wonderfully amazing) response to the Chapter 5 opening snippet on Patreon, I think I’ll be releasing the next two chapters in one go. So that’ll be out later this month! That will be the final section of demo to be released for Book Four :)

Hope you all have a fabulous weekend! The poll for the gems will be over next week, so I’ll finally be able to post the results and fill out the choice set I had to skip over.

I’m so excited to see what the results are already! :D

We’ll be offline as usual, so I’ll update you all again soon! <3

#the wayhaven chronicles #interactive fiction #unit bravo #twc detective #romance #vampires #update #twc book 4 #twc book 4 demo #the wayhaven chronicles book 4 #the wayhaven chronicles book 4 demo #creative writing #if wip #if game #choice of games #hosted games #patreon #patreon content

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ngage2003 · 2 months ago

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Hey so, a lot of folks in the Marble Hornets fandom are varying shades of new to it, and so didn't experience it coming out unfortunately, but apparently there used to be a marblehornets website that has been down since 2016, and I actually didn't know about it but my friend (@straycalamities) did and found it on the Wayback Machine.

I bring this up because while the images on the website are mostly broken now, it actually holds some really fascinating information on the characters that I have never seen talked about, like some of their majors in college!!

I am going to post snippets (as screenshots would get fucked up on mobile) and talk about them a little, but check it out here if you're curious.

Starting from the top and most passionate, we have Alex Kralie's description.

Director / Writer / Editor / Actor Alex Kralie, born April 4th 1986, has been into making films since his early childhood, when he would make short sketch comedy videos starring himself and his cousins with his parents camcorder. He would then show them at “premieres” to his friends and family. That love has since remained with Alex, where he has been involved in many different capacities in various filmmaking communities. He is a double major in both filmmaking and photography, with a minor in theatre. He originally wrote Marble Hornets during high school and has continuously tweaked and polished it throughout his time at the university. He’s very excited to finally see it all happening after years of work!

Likes: Film, Directing, Art, my dog rocky. Dislikes: Fakery, creative bankruptcy, passionless people, 9 to 5 jobs, unambitiousness, bad movies and film.

Wow, ain't that a breath of fresh air? A BIRTH YEAR! In a slenderverse series! In a youtube horror series, honestly! You never see it.

Alex's description is by far the longest and most passionate, a fact which kind of kills me knowing what he becomes. Working on a project he started in highschool, if there is anything Alex is, I suppose it is dedicated, all devoted to idea he gets in his head which he just can't seem to shake, huh?

Finally though we have a major for our tragedian! Two majors! And a minor! Sorry but I am genuinely so enthused about this. This paragraph really knocks home what I have always said about how Alex thinks, with his confidence and slight pretentious nature with a genuine passion and undertone of insecurity—and through the lens of him talking about himself! Wow.

But moving on to the lead, Brian Thomas!

Actor Brian has been attending the university for three years, and is hoping to graduate after his next couple of semesters with a Bachelor’s degree in psychology and a minor in video production. He originally met Alex in Dr. Warren’s cinematography class where they collaborated on quite a few projects together. He’s very happy to be making his acting debut in Marble Hornets!

Depending on who you think wrote these, this description could be really funny. BUT WOW A CANONIZED WAY THESE CHARACTERS MET. I feel like I have won the lottery. Anyone else?

That is a really fascinating combination of major and minor too, [WHICH WE NOW HAVE FOR HIM, WOAH,] it really makes you wonder what Brian is doing though, and where his direction in life is, if he even knows. Its such a short and sweet and direct description, it is equal parts charming while hiding something under its surface you can't quite place and might even slip from your attention, which feels very emblematic of this character.

I'll leave you to read Sarah Reid and Tim Wright's bios on your own, but I want to point out that at the bottom of the page, there are two people who don't have them.

Both Seth Wilson and Jay Merrick are marked with a "coming soon" notice, with Seth listed as Camera/Co-Editor and Jay listened as... nothing. He is just slapped on there because. Why?

Probably because Alex wanted him there because he is his friend, but it is interesting to point out. Jay as I said before is a passive (though not meek) character, especially at the start of the series, and this just reminds me of that. He is here, but quiet and observing, not helping really as he trails after Alex because he is his friend, because they have a connection, because Alex can't imagine not having him here.

Food for thought :-)

#marble hornets #jay merrick #alex kralie #brian thomas #ng.txt

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jinxyvvrites · 27 days ago

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-- morning after

Warnings:

writers own interpretation of Steve Harrington, extreme fluff, post sexual encounter.. kissing / cuddling, that's about it. Reader is female and a roommate of Steve's. If anything I'm warning you about is gonna get your panties twisted, maybe don't read?

Word Count:

615 ... this is just a short lil blurb to wrap up do not disturb, fyi.

Pairing:

Steve Harrington x Roommate!Female reader.

Snippet:

He can't move because you're practically on top of him, you have been for hours, but even if he could move he wouldn't.

The rise and fall of your chest, those quiet little snores are just starting to lull him back to sleep when he hears the door to the apartment creak slowly.

Seconds later, Robin leans in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear as soon as she sees you in Steve's bed and puts two and two together.

“Did you guys finally crack?”

Steve grins and its sleepy. Followed close by a yawn as he nods.

The rain is softer now, a constant pitter-patter against the window as bleak sunshine begins to leak in through the edges of the blanket Steve has tacked over his window.

He can't move because you're practically on top of him, you have been for hours, but even if he could move he wouldn't.

The rise and fall of your chest, those quiet little snores are just starting to lull him back to sleep when he hears the door to the apartment creak slowly.

Seconds later, Robin leans in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear as soon as she sees you in Steve's bed and puts two and two together.

“Did you guys finally crack?”

Steve grins and its sleepy. Followed close by a yawn as he nods.

Robin can just look at him and tell that maybe this time its real and it'll last. After all, she was around to witness your crush on Steve the first time around, first-hand.

You're just starting to wake up but its early and his body is big, all soft muscles and warmth and you just don't want to let go. You trace a line up and down his chest and he presses dry lips against your forehead.

“I haven't slept that good in a really long time,” you admit through a yawn in a whisper quiet voice. Steve nods in agreement because he hasn't, either.

“Are you hungry or anything?”

“Uh uh. I don't want you to move.”

“Okay, I wont.” He promises with soft and husky laughter.

He shifts you around a little and the whine hes met with is just so cute he can't help but stare down at you, pepper your face in sleepy kisses. Kisses met with enthusiasm and pleading for more.

If I wasn't already a hopeless idiot, he thinks, oh boy would I be so royally fucked right now.

Your stomachs are growling. He looks down at you already starting to doze off again and snickers quietly. “Okay, as much as I swear I don't wanna move, princess..” he frowns at the prospect of prying himself away from your soft and warm little body, “We need food.”

“I'm totally fine.” you insist, pouting when he starts to move around again, sitting up with you in his lap.

“Hey..” soft bribing kisses fall against your messy hair, “what if I carry you, hm?”

You bite your bottom lip. Pouting for a second before giving a nod. “Okay, fiiine.”

He slips out of bed, you're hanging onto him as tight as you can as he makes his way down the hall and into the kitchen where Robin sits at the table, smearing cream cheese on a blueberry bagel.

You're sat on the counter and before he pries himself away to gather what he needs to make you both something to eat, he pecks you softly on your forehead. You pout and slip your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a real kiss.

Robin smiles to herself at the sight of it, grinning at the two of you. “So..” she looks from you to Steve and back again, “does this mean Nance and I can finally have time to ourselves?”

Steve flips her off but he's laughing as he nods yes. You’re as red as the strawberries that sit on the counter beside you but you smile at her and nod too.

“Good. I'm gonna go crash.” Robin excuses herself, putting her purple coffee mug into one side of the sink. You lean against Steve, smiling as the sound of his heartbeat lulls you.

As far as he's concerned, the day is perfect.

And hopefully, Steve thinks, this is just the beginning.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x female!reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. as written by jinxy #.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. wake tf up babes.. part 2 finally dropped.

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magickizu · 3 months ago

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The New Girl

Crossover dp x dc. So I've got this time line in mind, for my crossover AU and this is a snippet of it. Master Post: Lost Retirement

In order to further Damian's social skills, keep up illusions and maybe in an attempt to give the boy some form of normality in his life Bruce negotiated with him to attend High School. The only condition Damian set, on which he would not budge, was that Jon and him will attend the same school, to not start off completely alone.

When a new girl got transferred to their school, who happened to share a majority of their classes, a few things changed for both boys.

Math is boring. High school in general is boring. Not to mention, that he already knows most, if not nearly all of what the teachers say anyway! It's just frustrating... Especially, ever since his classmates found out who he was, which didn't take that long due to public appearances of the Wayne family. So many people, try to be cool or smart or pretty in front of him for his attention, to gain his favour and with that his status. The same shallow talks and compliments from galas and high social events. Honestly, if Jon wasn't here to make it bearable in any way, chances are Damian would have made sure, his first day would've been his last.

Not to mention the materials taught here are so dry for the most part. There are things and concepts that are good, sure... But for the most part? It felt so useless. When would someone like him, someone who was going into the medical field, ever going to need to know that in Poe's works-

Damian sighs. It's Monday morning and math is supposed to start soon, the first double period of the day. He already sits in his chair, materials open. He can hear a particularly noisy group of girls chit chatting about 'grand, expensive weekend getaways' and how 'school is so easy right now', as they deliberately sit a row in front of him... tt, a special form of mental torture, that he has to go through alone for now, as Jon actually had a doctor's appointment and it takes a while to fly back. The rumbling comes to a halt, as the teacher walks in, yet picks up in hushed whispers again, as a new girl steps in behind the teacher. After a few shared thoughts the class quieted down, as the teacher stood behind his desk,

"Class, from today on we have a new student with us, I expect your best behaviour only. Would you introduce yourself, please?" The teacher turned to the girl, she looked at him for a moment then sighed.

"'kay... Hi, I'm Ellie Nightingale. I uh... Just moved here with my family from Wisconsin and yeah..." As she talks, it's definitely clear; she has a thin midwestern twang but strong enough to notice, a light tan and soft freckles. Although the black hair and blue eyes do seem familiar... But the white streaks, that didn't really look natural, throws him off and the electric blue in her eyes, that barely balances the line to normal; even Kryptonians have a more natural blues. Yet Damian just knows, if he wasn't so observant, he could have missed it. Just a meta, he thinks.

"Well, welcome to Gotham Academy Ellie. Go and take a seat, please." The teacher says, the Nightingale girl nods and scans the room for a free seat. The girls in front of him started to cackle already, tt how moronic... Yet he does nothing to clear the seat next to him, even though he knows fullwell that the seat next to him is one of the two empty seats. But he is not about to sacrifice his -somewhat- peace here, for no good reason, and so the lesson begins.

The teacher introduced a new topic, as he spoke and explained, Damian noticed the girls in front of him giggling and then he saw it: a paper ball zooming through the room, hitting the new girl in the head in a moment of inattentiveness from the teacher. Well that's just rude and unnecessary, she didn't even do anything yet. Damian rolled his eyes at these childish antics. Throughout the rest of this double period of math, the behaviour continued; paper balls thrown, cackling into her direction and one of them, Sabrina Portman, made snide comments towards her. Damian just observed, of course he'd intervene if it became too serious, but Nightingale held herself quite well so far, ignoring it well. At least until the teacher had to leave the classroom for a very brief moment, leaving the students unsupervised for only a few minutes.

"Hey, soo... you're really from Minnesota or something?" Portman asked, the class just watched.

"Wisconsin, actually." Nightingale spoke, without looking up from her text book. Good priorities, he admitted to himself. The girls giggle.

"So did you like grow up on a farm or something? Because you kinda look it, country bumpkin." Damian scoffed silently, the rest of the class seemed to snicker at this. "How'd they even let you get in here? Because I kinda doubt, that a farm dweller like you could afford it. Sorry, not sorry." More snickering, Damian just gives Portman a snide and slightly disgusted side glance. At least Jon isn't here to hear this, that boy would be furious. ...on second thought, that is really not acceptable in any form-

"Ow, ou, ouch! That sting! That burn!" Nightingale threw herself over dramatically onto her table, just to prop herself up again, grinning with a weird mix of mischief and indifference. "Be honest, two entire periods and this is the best you can come up with? Well I guess you're right, I wouldn't wanna pay the amount of people necessary to educate you either." Damian blinked, the rest of class looked dumbfounded, Portman seemed absolutely flabbergasted. Yet the raven after a moment of silence, couldn't help the very subtle way the corners of his mouth would form an infinitesimal smile. Then his breath hitched, as their eyes met directly, time stood still for the moment as did his heart, skipping a beat only to make up for it, by beating faster. But it was over just as fast as it came by. This feeling, still stuck in his throat like a lump he can only hardly swallow, the tingling in his head and stomach. He drew in a sharp breath, it hit him, ran through him like a shock. A feeling he knew all too well... Could it have to do with her powers? It had to be, she must be a meta, that's the only explanation. The slight metallic taste, similar to blood, of the feeling, still lingering on the back of his tongue and down his throat, his heart just slowly calmed again and now he understood it wasn't just stunned silence filling the room in-between his classmates. It was something else:

Pure fear.

Damian had to keep an eye on the new girl, just to make sure nothing happened...

"You did what!?" Jon gasped in utter disbelief, gaining a confused look from his best friend. They sat in the cafeteria, Damian sat them down in a spot to keep watch over the new meta. To be ready, just in case. But for the moment right now, the kriptonian in front of him held his attention.

"I didn't...-" He got cut off by said half alien.

"Exactly! You didn't do anything- honestly Dami, you see someone get bullied and you do nothing??" The boy bit down on his snack carrots in a huff, the clear disappointment still on his face. The other also huffed.

"In my defence, she handled herself very well, there was no need for me to step in and help-"

"Damian..." The bigger one laid his head into his hands and sighed, defeated. Sometimes Jon really wished Damian's vast knowledge would also incorporate a few more social skills, on the other hand he's probably never seen real bullying. "It is. This is bullying. And you step in, not because they can't handle themselves, but to show comradery and that they are not alone."

"Hm..." Jon was right, he himself thought what happened was truly unacceptable, as Damian took another bite of the breakfast Alfred made him. "You're right... I suppose I should apologise for my incorrect behaviour yesterday." It had been rather quiet the rest of yesterday and for the most part of today, except that Portman's friend group talked about her in hushed tones. One glance over, Nightingale sat alone at a corner table headphones in and scrolling through her phone while sipping on a juice box. Damian sighed defeated and made a motion to stand up, "Are you coming with me or would you prefer to stay seated?"

"Hm? Mmh... I'll join." Jon thought it over, maybe he can help Dami when he's got trouble putting his emotions into words.

Nightingales eyes shot up at the two boys immediately, as they stood in front of the table and Jon could feel a slight shudder down his spine... Damian didn't exaggerate, there's something almost sparking, not sparkling but like lightning sparking, in her truly electric blue eyes.

"Hello, Nightingale. I am Damian Wayne, this is my best friend Jon Kent, we share-"

"I know, same class. What do you want?" She cut him off, seemingly a little tense, training her eyes to keep either of them in view at all times. Both boys knew that look, yet they were a little taken aback by the harshness of her tone.

"...right." Damian cleared his throat, that bone chilling and irrational feeling comes back. "I wanted to apologise for my lack of comradery yester- and today as well. I should have at least said something, even if solely to stand up in solidarity." Slurping on the straw of her juice box, she listened, processed, only to look confused at them. Jon decided to say something,

"What he meant to say was, that it was not okay for you to be bullied and we will help if we see something happening. We also know it's hard to find new friends in new surroundings and if you'd like you could sit with us?" Damian nodded, Jon can put his thoughts better into words- at least for their civilian forms. Well... Damian has gotten better, he just likes that Jon knows what he means but as if he'd ever admitted to it. Vise versa too; Damian can formulate words better when there're reports and other hero related issues. Sure Jon learned over the years, but this just feels more comfortable and he likes how close it shows them to be.

Nightingale looks them up and down, her eyes narrow slightly, thinking, contemplating about something. "Thanks, but I'm fine. I can handle myself."

"Are you sure? We really don't mind-" Damian put a hand on Jon's shoulder, pulling the attention of the bigger one towards himself.

"The offer still stands. See you around, then." He nods and pulls Jon away, who looks confused.

"Why did you keep it so short? Sure, she was a little defensive, but..."

"Not just defensive, Jon. She kept her guard up constantly and walls sealed shut; this conversation would have led nowhere." Damian explained his observations, "trust me, I should know..." Recognition of this behaviour flares in his eyes and Jon understands immediately, nodding in understanding. Then a small smile forms on his face again, growing,

"Then we have to make actions, speak louder than words. And consistency is key! I mean, for how long did I annoy you, before you realised I wouldn't go?" Damian gave him an honest smile at the now fond memories, he hummed in agreement, which in turn earned a bright grin from the Kryptonian.

"It is settled, then. I also highly suspect she is a meta. If we get close enough, we can properly guide her to the good, when the time is right."

Operation: The New Girl

"Yes, let's go!" Jon laughed, that settled it most definitely for their plan,

Goal: befriend the new meta, before the wrong people get to her and use her powers for bad.

#alternate universe #dp dc crossover #dc x dp #danny phantom #batfam #damian wayne #jon kent #jonathan kent #dani fenton #Dani is called Ellie #fanfiction #fanfic #no beta we die like danny and jason #KizuVerse timeline

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bravoechoes · 22 days ago

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on the topic of Final Reckoning being the most bleak thing ever. this is a work in progress snippet of a larger post-MI8 fic that I probably won’t have time to work on for a while. tw for Ethan being like catatonically depressed and passively suicidal

———

It’s quiet when he wakes up. This is wrong.

Ethan’s hand feels at his side. The scratchy material of the old cot rubs against his skin, and then his fingertips find cool, hard plastic. There’s a tremor in his hand as he brings the recorder up into focus, squinting at it in the dim light of the room. Thumbing the play button does nothing. Dead battery again.

He sits up. It’s morning, fortunately, so the yellowed light coming in from the papered-over windows dimly illuminates the interior of the building. It’s warm, too, enough that he sweat through his jacket during the night. He doesn’t shrug it off; it’s still preferable to being cold.

Getting his boots planted on the bare wooden floor, he begins rocking on the bed, building up momentum for standing. It’s always the hardest part. He just has to get through the initial wave of pain, and then it’s fine. One, two, three….

His cry echoes throughout the upper floor of the building, ceilings high and empty. Clenching his teeth, he stands half-hunched, free hand braced on his thigh, waiting for the tremors to work through his body. They’re getting better, he thinks, or at least they aren’t getting worse.

Once he’s steady enough, he limps towards the stash of supplies he’d set on a table in the north-eastern corner of the room, away from the windows. He grabs a water bottle from the open pack—eight left; he’ll need to buy more soon—and swallows some of it down. He checks his phone: six missed calls from Benji, four of which had ended with a voicemail.

The small box of batteries are right by the front, where he’d left them. He lifts the cardboard lid with a finger. Six packets of four are left, and the open one has two inside. He hasn’t measured it out exactly, but he thinks they’ll last him a few months still.

Ethan takes another drink of water. It’s warm in his mouth, which is nice. Setting the water bottle and recorder down, he flexes his hands, clenched and open, clenched and open. This is the other hard part. His fine motor skills are still out of whack. He’s sure one of the messages Benji left him is to remind him to go to a doctor.

He spends the next few minutes extracting the dead double-As from the exposed back of the recorder, watching his fingers tremble. The first one is always the more difficult one to pull out, but he eventually does it, and sets both of them down on the table. They immediately roll off the edge and drop onto the bare floor.

Now to open the plastic wrap around the batteries. Thankfully, one of the packets is open already, so he can just crush the plastic in his hand until it deforms enough to shake the batteries out. He’ll have to peel open a new one next time. The next replacement will be harder, take longer.

He has to press the body of the recorder down onto the table to hold it steady as he slots the fresh batteries inside. It’s too dim to see where the plus and minus indicators are, but he memorised the positions awhile ago.

The joints in his fingers are already starting to hurt again. He’d snapped the latches on the protective plastic backing of the recorder at some point, purely by accident. It makes replacing the batteries easier, although he has to be careful about not knocking them out.

All done. With a sigh of relief, Ethan flips it around, rewinding to the beginning and pressing the play button.

“Hello, brother.”

Ethan smiles, a wave of calm washing over him. “Hey, Luther,” he whispers, and grabs his water bottle.

“If you’re listening to this, the world is still here. And so are you.”

He limps back to the cot. His boots echo on the bare wood floor, loud enough that he has to hold the recorder up by his ear so he doesn’t miss Luther’s voice. He half-collapses back onto the cot, setting the water bottle down on the floor next to him and placing the recorder on his chest.

“For the record, I never had any moment of doubt. I knew you’d find a way. You always do.”

Ethan settles back into the thin mattress, letting his eyes slip closed. He’s got a few hours still before the hunger gets bad again. For now he can rest.

“I hope in time you can see this life was not some quirk of fate.”

Following along, his lips form silently around the words as Luther speaks them, caressing the inside of his mouth.

“This was your calling.”

———

Benji’s really getting on his case again. The next time Ethan checks his phone, there’s a ream of unread messages, sent over the course of the last ten days. He should’ve looked at it sooner.

Hey man, how you doing?

You doing okay?

Ethan?

Are you eating at least?

Im gonna come find you if you don’t respond to me.

Ethan. Just checking in

Youre starting to really worry me

Please answer me man. I only need to know if youre alive. I don’t care about anything else

Ethan

Please

I will find you, you know

We’re all worried about you. You still have people who care about you. You can call anytime, anywhere, I’ll pick up. I’m not mad

Proof of life. Just send me that. a thumbs up or something. anything. Then I’ll leave you alone

I promise

He swallows down the resentment and the guilt with a bite of the energy bar in his hand. Benji’s just being nice. But he’s forcing the issue, and now Ethan can’t put it off any longer; he knows the threat of searching for him isn’t an idle one.

Proof, Ethan sends back, and then Sorry. It hurts his knuckles to type. Relief washes over him as he sets his phone down on the floor next to the cot. He won’t have to deal with that again for another week.

He presses play on the recorder.

“I hope you know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see you again. Though I hope it’s not too—”

Ethan thumbs the rewind.

“—know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see you—”

“—hope you know I’ll always love you, brother. And I will see—”

“—you know I’ll always love you, brother—”

“—I’ll always love you, brother.”

———

Benji lied to him, obviously. Of course he came looking for him. He shouldn’t have said anything.

He wakes to someone gently shaking his shoulder. “Ethan. Hey.”

His head is pounding. The building is quiet, aside from Benji. Batteries must have died again.

Ethan opens his eyes. It’s light, mid-afternoon. Deep yellow. He feels for the recorder. It had slipped from his chest, down to his side.

Benji’s face comes into focus, breaking out into a smile that’s almost convincing.

“Hey, buddy. It’s good to see you.”

“Benji.” He clears his throat. It’s dry. He needs water.

“Come on. Sit up.”

He lets Benji do the heavy lifting. His hands feel good on shoulders at least, gentle and warm. Ethan avoids his eyes, not wanting to deal with the poorly-concealed look of horror Benji is giving him. He hisses as he gets upright, and his hand wraps around the recorder so Luther doesn’t slide off the cot.

“There we go.” Benji grabs one of the mostly-full water bottles from the floor. “Here.”

Ethan blinks as a wave of dizziness washes over him. It doesn’t sound like anyone else is around. Benji came alone. A small blessing.

“Can you….” He coughs around the dryness in his throat.

“What is it?” Benji’s kneeling in front of him, eager. “Ethan, you should drink.”

“Yeah.” He takes the bottle. “Change these,” he says, offering the recorder to Benji. “The batteries. Table.”

“Sure,” he replies tentatively, frowning down at the recorder as he stands up. “As long as you drink.”

A fair trade. Ethan does. It’s warm, but not as warm as it used to be. The weather is starting to get cooler. He’ll have to relocate soon.

“How long have you been here?” Benji asks, his back to him. Ethan watches his hands work where he stands at the supply table. He can change the batteries a lot faster.

“What day is it?” Ethan asks.

“Thursday.”

“The date.”

Benji turns, recorder in hand, expression pinched. “September 24th.”

“September,” Ethan repeats, frowning. “Uh—I don’t know. Few weeks.”

Benji comes back to his bedside, handing Ethan the recorder. He holds it against his chest.

“I rented out a motorway hotel room you can stay in for the next month,” Benji says, standing over him. “It’s a lot nicer than this place. Is there even running water here?”

“There’s a bathroom on the lower floor.”

“Can you walk?”

He rubs his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Ethan—” Benji looks around, eyes lingering on the exposed insulation and pipes. “You can’t stay here.”

“My stuff’s here.”

“The supplies on the table, you mean?” Benji looks over his shoulder. “I can move all of that for you. I have a car.”

Ethan sets the water bottle down on the bed next to him, wiping his mouth. “Leave me alone, Benji. I’m fine.”

“No you’re not, and no I won’t.”

His voice is forceful but not unkind. Ethan finally looks up at him.

“Come with me,” Benji says softly. It’s hard to meet the warmth in his eyes. “We’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better.”

“Benji, I’m fine—”

“It’ll get cold soon,” he interrupts. “You don’t even have a blanket.”

Ethan pauses. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Benji smiles at him, way too sad. “Yes I do. Come on, Ethan. Please.”

He looks down at Benji’s outstretched hand. It feels good to talk to someone, and Benji’s a nice someone to talk to. It’s not Luther’s voice, but it’s a lot better than silence.

Ethan nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

———

Benji’s uncharacteristically quiet as he drives them to the motel. Ethan doesn’t have the stamina for it; his fingers keep brushing the play button of the recorder, aching for Luther’s voice. Any voice, really.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ethan asks eventually.

Benji gives him a side-eye. “What?”

“When you were moving my things. I saw you wincing.”

“Oh, that.” Benji’s hands shift restlessly on the wheel. It’s really bright outside; Benji gave him his sunglasses to block some of it out. “Nothing major. Risks of the job, y’know. I’m healing.”

He can’t rest his head anywhere but the seat headrest. The car rattles too much. His head lolls against the thin cushion, staring blankly out the front window. “What’s nothing major mean?”

“Well, I….” Benji trails off with a nervous laugh. He looks at Ethan again, properly this time. “Nothing as bad as you.”

“I’m not gonna die if you tell me.” It takes a lot, but he offers Benji a smile. “I can handle it.”

“Just—you look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, is all.” His eyes flick down to the recorder, still clutched to Ethan’s chest. “What is that, by the way?”

“A recorder.”

Benji gives him a sour look. “Ethan.”

“Tell me what happened to you and I’ll tell you what this is,” he bargains.

“No way. You still haven’t even told me what you’ve been up to.”

“You saw what I’ve been up to.”

Benji gives him another one of his pinched worried looks. It makes the lines on his face crease together, especially deep around his eyes. Deeper than Ethan remembers them being.

“Tell me….” Ethan swallows. His throat is dry again. “Tell me what you’ve been doing the past few weeks.”

Benji scoffs. “You’re awfully demanding.”

“I don’t like the sound of my own head. And I like listening to you.”

That seems to be enough to get Benji going. “Uh, well, I’ve been recovering, mostly. Nothing serious, like I said,” he adds quickly. “Decompressing, y’know. Been in London for the most part. But I’ve spent a lot of time in bed, and it’s quite boring if you’re not sleeping, so I’ve been reading French novels to get my vocabulary back up. It’s the only common language I have with Paris that either of us have any fluency in, and she’s stuck around for some reason. Well, kind of. She disappears randomly. Kind of like you. But it’s been good. I’ve been walking Grace through some….”

Ethan closes his eyes as he listens to Benji talk. It’s a soothing babble of noise, and he especially likes hearing about the others. Grace is alive. Paris and Degas are alive. And Benji is here, alive, right in front of him. It’s good to be reminded of it.

#fic.txt #mission impossible #ethan hunt #benji dunn #my fic #edited to add one final little section I forgot at the end

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cityofmeliora · 11 months ago

Text

notes / thoughts on Terzo's characterization (Terzo is so disappointed and depressed and i love him)

a few weeks ago i saw this post from slavghoul which has snippets of TF describing the Papas. it includes this quote:

“He represents this frustrated old guy who hates everyone, especially himself. But despite his wounds and his darkness, he has a sense of humour and is endearing, like most of my heroes. The late actor Christopher Lee was an inspiration to me. In many ways, he is Papa.” (Metallian 7/2015)

i thought this quote was really interesting because i'd never seen anyone talking about that side of Terzo before. Terzo hating "everyone, especially himself" felt at odds with the charming personality he typically displayed. i wanted to know how that developed and where his "wounds and darkness" came from. so i did some digging for quotes on Terzo's history and characterization. here are my notes + thoughts:

something that came up again and again in my research is that he is actually quite antisocial when he's not performing. it seems like he didn't want people to know anything about him past his stage persona.

TOUR MANAGER: No one in the crew really gets to see or speak to Papa, ever. Only Anna and myself have access. He is not in the building and then he'll just be there, just for show time. The only thing you really need to know about Papa is what you see of him on stage. Ghost - The Devil's Hands (Documentary) (2017)

he almost never interacted with any of the nameless ghouls or the tour crew. in fact, he really went out of his way to avoid them. he traveled separately, would appear right before the start of a show, and then he would disappear as soon as it ended. in "The Devil's Hands", it showed they sometimes had trouble locating him when he was needed.

With this new era, can you introduce Papa Emeritus III? NAMELESS GHOUL: I don't know him very well yet. We haven't really done our mileage with him, so I am sure that we will find out. But he seems nice. He seems okay. Obviously, he's very close relatives with Papa number two, who was a little bit of a hmm. I'm sure that he isn't like, completely different, but we'll find out. He's a bit of a recluse, and he sort of travels on his own. And he sort of appears when we're due onstage and then he disappears when we're offstage. So yeah, I guess we have a little bit of a social disconnect there, but I don't see a big problem with that. I mean he seems to be doing well on his own, and I don't know if he has a little harem somewhere that occupies his time offstage, I guess. I'm assuming that. Loud TV (July 2015)

INTERVIEWER: How has it been working with the third Papa? How is he fitting into the group? NAMELESS GHOUL: We like him, actually. He seems to be quite nice. Obviously, we haven't really done our "miles" with him yet, so we don't know him that well. And he doesn't travel with us- he sort of goes separately everywhere, and he appears just before the show and then he just disappears. So we haven't really had the time to sort of fully get to know him. But overall, he seems quite a joyful chap. Metal Injection (September 2015)

predictably, his bandmates did not know him very well. but they always remarked that they liked him and that he seemed like a nice, chill guy. (they also assumed he had a harem that he spent time with when he wasn't performing, which is probably not true, considering how much effort he put into avoiding people whenever possible.)

NAMELESS GHOUL: We don't really socialize with Papa, so… But he seems nice! But he's very occupied in his harem. [...] He's a little bit cooler. He seems to be the nicer of the two brothers --I don't know if there are two-- but he seems to have, I don't know, a kinder mother, probably, or something that makes him slightly.. INTERVIEWER: A little different. NAMELESS GHOUL: Yeah, he's a little bit different. AMBY (October 2015)

i don't think his charming, pleasant demeanor was just an act, though. i think it did come from a genuine part of himself... he wasn't always an antisocial recluse.

before he became Papa, he was a cardinal in Krakow, Poland. Bishop Necropolitus Cracoviensis (the character representing Zbigniew Bielak, the artist who does the album art for Ghost) characterized younger Terzo as having enthusiasm in all his endeavors. he was always a very devoted member of the clergy who had big dreams of progress and modernization for the Ministry and the world. he had a strong interest in Futurist art and philosophy.

Bp. Necropolitus Cracoviensis remembers: "...our relationship goes a long way back to the times before his papacy, that is when he was still a cardinal in my hometown, in Cracovia...(...) Although we had our share of juvenile recklessness - be it indulging his beloved cream pies - allegedly verging on six hundred sixty six portions a year but that must be a rumor I believe, or wild parties at the attic of seminary school (laughs) - even in his formative years, he remained a focused man of vision, looking far into the future, always addressing his people's needs and longings to keep our church together in those turbulent, rapidly changing times (...) there were so many temptations to syndicate among our good people (...) (...) We would sit down to studying exciting Futurist manifestos, sketched the blueprints of utopian metropoles, spiked with shiny skyscrapers stabbing at the heavens belly... Wantonly swollen zeppelins would to carry our gospel of indulgence to the farthest corners of the globe to summon and enslave. (...) Forged in nostalgia of steam and fire, this brave new world of ambition, vice, lust and greed - all so inherent to the enlightened modernity, was always with him through all these years. And it is now - when our church continues to grow stronger and wealthier under wise reign of Papa Emeritus III - that these visions may finally be witnessed and embraced in the preachings of 'Meliora' - his most contemporary and humane Encyclical." (https://www.facebook.com/thebandghost/posts/994031900615606)

those core values of ambition, vice, lust, and greed stayed with him when he became Papa. though he had a revolutionary spirit, he's actually described as "less rebellious" in Metal Myths. Terzo took his job as Papa very seriously, and he cared about being successful and achieving his goals. while he and Secondo certainly had vice, lust, and greed in common, it was Terzo's ambition that truly set him apart.

"It felt like the goal was to take Papa II's sense of modernity and remove the recklessness." Metal Myths: Ghost Pt. 2 (April 2022)

How would you describe the personality of Papa Emeritus III compared to his predecessors? NAMELESS GHOUL: "First of all, Papa Emeritus III is an entertainer! He loves projectors, he loves the public, and he loves success. The first Papa Emeritus was someone very rigid, very strict, and very solemn. A real son of a bitch! (laughs) To be honest, we don’t miss him at all! Papa Emeritus II was a pervert a little bit sadistic, and, in hindsight, I think he wasn’t very at ease on stage. He wasn’t a showman, unlike Papa Emeritus III! Him, he’s the guide we missed to rise up the quality of our shows, to reach the step above and communicate with our fans." (MyRock #44 (2017) translated from French by @ a-wandering-ghoulette)

unfortunately, his ambition eventually led him to become disillusioned and depressed.

Terzo looked forward to becoming Papa. he worked so hard for it his whole life, only to be confronted with the realization that his time as Papa --and therefore his achievements-- would be limited.

he was a nice guy, but he was also was egotistical. he was a showman and an intellectual, and he thought very highly of himself.

NAMELESS GHOUL: He's a little bit more chill. But obviously, all the Papas are definitely pompous assholes. INTERVIEWER: That's part of the job. SPECIAL GHOUL: That's one of the criterias, the prerequisites, that you have to be this sort of flamboyant diva, know-all, show-off. Metal Injection (September 2015)

his self-hatred came from his inability to be the person he wanted to be. it's not that he felt like he couldn't measure up, it's that he felt like he wasn't allowed to express his full potential. Terzo's mindset was "i know i'm good enough. and i could prove it if they would just let me." but he wasn't really in charge, and his vision was at odds with the goals of Sister Imperator.

Terzo felt so stifled, it makes sense that he became a "frustrated old guy who hates everyone, especially himself."

and i think this is the reason for the paradox of him having a kind, charming personality onstage and being unsociable offstage. he still gave it his all. he did the best he could with the time and resources he was allowed. that zealous man of the people was still in there somewhere. but he felt betrayed by the clergy, the organization he dedicated his life to. his career ended up being unfulfilling and he was ultimately really bitter about the way things turned out.

he was good. he never got to be great.

#long post sorry #papa emeritus iii #terzo #radley post #headcanon #i guess #analysis #sure #the band ghost lore #quotes #bishop necropolitus cracoviensis ii

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