#I love filling prompts <3

[luxaofhesperides]

I'm not sure if you're still taking Ghostlights requests, but if you are: Dick asking Duke to take Haley to the dog park for him in order to set up a meet-cute for him with the guy with the weird green rottweiler

And if you aren't, just know that you're doing great and I appreciate the hell out of you

“Oh, shoot!” 

Hearing Dick rush around as a frantic mess is not uncommon while he’s in Gotham. There’s too many people wanting to spend time with him that he ends up pulled in a bunch of different directions. Dick’s always in a rush, always busy, always making time for people because he has more love than Duke has ever seen in a person.

Dick’s also got pretty good time management skills after years of doing this. He’s only cutting out a few minutes early for their designated three hour catch-up session. 

That doesn’t mean he’s going to do it gracefully, though.

“Almost lost track of the time!” he says, moving to the couch to pick up his jacket. “Hey, Duke, can do you me a favor while I’m out?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Can you take Haley to the dog park? I usually take her twice a week around this time, but I totally forgot to include that in my calendar this week so I’ve got plans with the Titans just outside the city, and no time to take her out.”

“Yeah, man, of course I can take her to the dog park. The one attached to Robinson Park, right?”

Dick nods, shoving his shoes onto his feet. “That’s the one! Her treats are also in the bag hanging next to her leash. Oh, and she has a friend at the dog park! Don’t be scared when you see him, he’s just green.”

“Oh…kay?”

“Great, thanks! Bye, Duke, I’ll see you later!”

And with that, Dick is gone, closing the door to his safehouse as he dashes into the hall. 

Duke is left alone in Dick’s Gotham safehouse, blinking dazedly at the empty space where he once was. He’s certainly a whirlwind of activity when he realizes he’s going to be late. He’s also skilled in just saying things and leaving before any questions can be answered.

Haly jumps up onto the couch next to Duke. They share a look, then Duke shakes his head. “You have to deal with that every day, huh?”

Haly, the good girl that she is, doesn’t say anything bad against her owner and just puts a paw on Duke’s thigh, her tail wagging. 

“I hear ya, girl. Let’s go to the dog park to meet your green friend,  I guess.”

He has no idea what that means, honestly. Is Dick just talking about a dog that got its fur dyed green? Or is Haly’s friend like… a mutant dog? 

Well, he’s not going to find out by stalling. 

Duke pets Haly, then stands up and walks to the door. Her head perks up as soon as she hears the jangle of her leash being moved, and then she’s running to the door, looking up at him expectantly. Smiling, Duke slips the harness onto her, then attached it to the leash. He gives her another quick pet before shoving on his shoes and grabbing her bag of treats and waste disposal bags. 

He double checks that he has his phone, then takes hold of Dick’s spare safehouse key and steps out into the hallway with Haly. She waits patiently as he locks the door, checks that the lock holds, then runs down the hallway, ripping the leash right out of his hands.

“Haly! Wait! Stop, girl!”

She happily ignores him and goes straight for the elevator, leaving him to run after her and quickly scoop up the leash as soon as he’s close enough.

“Of course you’re a little escape artists,” he says to her, “Just like your owner.”

Haly woofs softly, then stands up and scratches at the doors of the elevator. Shaking his head, amused, Duke pushes the button to call the elevator and wonders if Dick has to deal with this every time they go to the dog park. 

On one hand, it wouldn’t surprise him since Dick is absolutely the kind of guy to give in to his dog’s every whims and spoil her rotten. On the other hand, Duke fully believes that Haly is smart enough and cute enough to misbehave only when Dick isn’t around so he never believes people when they try to tell him about all the mischief she’s caused. 

Dogs and their owners really do reflect one another. The internet was right about that.

Duke makes sure to keep a tight grip on Haly’s leash once they leave the apartment building. The streets are busy, as they tend to be on weekends, and the sight of Haly straining against her leash, ready to run, brings a smile to more than one face. 

He plots the route to the dog park in his mind, then starts up a light jog, tugging lightly on the leash to prompt Haly to follow him. 

It’s nice to run just for the sake of it. Haly makes a good running partner as well. 

How long has it been since Duke had time to relax and not be prepared for the worst? All the running he usually does these days is to catch up with criminals or run for his life. Being out during the day, moving through the city, without any lives in danger? Genuinely nice and relaxing. 

Maybe he can offer to take Haly to the dog park from now on. Join Dick whenever he goes. Create a set few hours where he doesn’t do anything but enjoy being outside in one of the few places where the smog of pollution and chemical toxins isn’t so thick in the air. 

He’ll just have to make sure Dick doesn’t agree to something else during those days. It’s still strange to think that Dick could forget to do something involving Haly when he’s such a good dog owner and a pro at juggling various responsibilities and a busy schedule. 

Well, they all have off days. This must be one of Dick’s.

The sidewalks get wider once they reach the street that leads to the park. Families fill up the space, walking with strollers in front of them or lined up at a food cart. The vivid green of spring fills the grassy fields that lead to the large patches of trees, marking the edge of Poison Ivy’s territory. Clovers decorate the ground, bees moving from flower to flower. 

There are other dogs on walks as well, making circuits around the park or running after toys. Duke spots a cat in a walking harness as well and wonders if he can convince Damian to get one for Alfred the cat. 

The dog park is on the other end of the park, as far away from Ivy’s territory as possible. The fenced off areas are separated into big dogs and small dogs, with a helpful guide as to which dogs go where posted at the entrance. 

Duke slows to a walk, breathing deeply to help settle his heart rate back down to something normal. Haly walks by his side, tail wagging, as she watches the other dogs run back and forth behind the fence. 

She’s still small, just growing out of puppy size, so Duke leads her into the small dog area, carefully making sure the gate doesn’t open enough for any quick dogs to make a break for it. He walks over to a bench and sits down before undoing the harness on her, setting her loose. 

Haly licks his hand once, then darts away, barking lightly as she joins the other dogs tumbling around each other. 

Amused, Duke leans back at watches as the other dogs sniff her, then do their funny little bowing stomps, moving back and forth before running off so she can give chase. 

He figures staying for an hour will be good enough. That should get the most of her energy out, and then they can make the long trek back to Dick’s safehouse so he can pick her up before he heads back to Bludhaven. Pulling out his phone, Duke settles in to wait, keeping half his attention on Haly just in case any of the other dogs decide to get a little too rough.

The first twenty minutes pass peacefully. Haly runs around and the owners of the other dogs give her pets when she runs up to them. One even went over to Duke to offer him a pack of fruit gummies. 

Then a loud bark fills the air and Duke jerks upright, watching with wide eyes as a colossally large dog, green and glowing and slightly transparent, comes barrelling down the street, headed right towards them. 

He doesn’t have time to yell Haly’s name before the dog is in the fence. None of the other dog owners look alarmed, though, so he watches carefully, prepared to jump up and save Haly at a moment’s notice.

“Cujo!” someone yells from down the street. A guy with dark hair comes running up and smoothly jumps over the fence. “Cujo, how many times do I have to tell you not to run off like that?”

The green dog, apparently Cujo, barks happily.

“And you’re too big for this park right now, buddy. Shrink, boy. It’s time to be small.”

And then Cujo… obeys? The dog shrinks, and instead of being the size of a bus, it’s now small enough to be carried in someone’s arms. 

Green dog is not enough warning for all of that. Dick owes him so much for this.

Actually, he’s kind of shocked that Dick never mentioned this to anyone. Surely a giant green dog would get people’s attention. Why is this the first time he’s heard about it?

“You new around here?” someone asks, and Duke turns to see the person who gave him the fruit gummies.

“Kinda? It’s my first time coming to the dog park. I’m looking after Haly, that one right over there.” He points out Haly, who is running in circles around Cujo.

“Ah, I see. Dick mentioned someone new would be coming today.”

Duke narrows his eyes. He’s starting to get the feeling that he’s been set up for something, but he’s not sure what. 

“I’ll give you the spiel we tell all newcomers, in that case,” they continue. “Cujo is a ghost dog. Poor thing died during some animal testing, far as we know. Danny looks after him, since Cujo got attached to the kid years ago before he moved to Gotham. He’s a kind one, but very nervous, and we’ve all got an agreement to keep quiet about him and Cujo round this parts. You better be holding your tongue, as well, ya hear me?”

“Sure thing,” Duke nods. “My lips are sealed.”

He’ll just ask Dick about the ghost dog situation and do his own investigation if needed. But Cujo is just a dog, and his owner is just a guy. Nothing threatening, nothing requiring a Bat’s attention.

“Good,” they nod. “I’ll get out of your hair now.��� They’re gone before Duke can reply, adjusting the hat on their head as they head back to their group in the back left corner of the dog park. 

Satisfied that things are under control, Duke relaxes back into the bench, watching Haly and Cujo tumble around with the other dogs, barking happily. Haly’s still growing into her paws, so she trips and falls often, but gets up without a moments pause, ready to keep playing.

From the corner of his eyes, Duke catches sight of someone walking towards him. 

He looks over and finds Cujo’s owner—Danny, wasn’t it?—approaching. Their eyes meet, and Danny offers him a sheepish smile and a wave. His eyes are a dark blue that seem to glow with some otherworldly light, and Duke can swear he sees something shifting around him, as if the air has turned visible and twists around his body like wisps of smoke. 

“Mind if I sit with you?” Danny asks, and Duke moves to the side a bit.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“You’re Duke, right? Dick told me about you last week.”

It’s looking more and more like Dick is up to something, and Duke will need to get his revenge. “Did he? All good things, I hope.”

“Aha, yeah, all good things. Um, actually I think I should apologize? I maybe said you sounded like my type so Dick promised that he’d get you here somehow. Sorry if this is messing up your plans for the day.”

Oh. Oh! 

Well. That’s interesting. 

Duke quietly shelves his plans for revenge against Dick and takes a proper look at Danny. He’s shy, but with a bright smile, glowing eyes and strange smoke curling around him still, and messy black hair windswept from chasing after Cujo. There’s a flush in his cheeks and his long fingers fiddle with the string of his dark red hoodie. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t have any plans today. This is way better than just sleeping all day.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Danny laughs, “There’s nothing I like more than being able to sleep all day. That would fix me for sure.”

There’s a loud bark, and Danny’s eyes snap back to Cujo, who is growing bigger. “Cujo!” Danny yells, voice sharp. “Shrink down, or we go home.”

Cujo grumbles, whines, then goes back to being little. The green dog only has a moment to look sad before Haly is tackling him, sending them back into another chase around the park. 

“Sorry about that,” Danny says, slouching against the bench. 

“It’s all good,” Duke replies. “So. I’m your type, huh?”

Danny’s cheeks turn a deep, charming red. He looks away, then nods and ducks his head down. 

“And that hasn’t changed after meeting me?”

Danny shakes his head, then peeks over at Duke, gaze slowly moving up his body until he meets Duke’s eyes. “Definitely hasn’t changed,” he says.

Now it’s Duke’s turn to feel his cheeks burn, flustered and pleasantly surprised by Danny’s boldness. It doesn’t help that Danny is cute, someone he can see himself falling for. 

“Good,” he says, then knocks his knee against Danny’s. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know you more. On one condition.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“Tell me what Dick told you about me. I wanna make sure he wasn’t sharing an embarrassing stories about me. If I’m gonna make a fool of myself, then I’ll do it myself with no outside help.”

Danny’s laugh is bright and warm and sends butterflies dancing in Duke’s stomach. “Fair enough!” he says. “And you know what? I’ll trade you for embarrassing stories. Trust me, I have so many. Nothing you’ve done can be worse that the dumb shit I do on a regular basis.”

“Woah, woah, woah, confident, aren’t we? Don’t say that until you’ve heard about some of the stupid situation I choose to throw myself into.”

“Please, I’m an younger brother. If anyone knows how to be stupid, it’s me.”

“I’m part of the disaster that is the Wayne family. I think that has you beat.”

“My parents are mad scientists and my dog is a ghost. Try again.” The teasing smile on Danny’s lips makes him want to be reckless, to keep pushing, to go down this path as far as he can.  Duke can’t remember the last time he clicked with someone so instantly, to be so comfortable with them so soon. 

Damn. He’s gonna have to thank Dick for this, isn’t he?

As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Duke pulls it out with an apologetic smile to Danny, who leans back a bit to give him some privacy.

The text that pops up is from Dick. It’s a photo of him and Danny from the side, heads bent close together as they talk with bright smiles. He can just make out the wild red curls of Kori’s hair. 

“I’m gonna put jello in his socks,” Duke says cheerfully, already looking around to find where Dick is hiding. 

He probably already moved locations, the ass. 

“What’s up?” 

He holds out his phone so Danny can see the screen. Danny stares at it, then looks around, then stares at the screen again. 

“...Is he watching us?”

“Yep.”

“...Should we do something about it?”

Duke shrugs. “I mean, I’m up for hunting him down and tackling him if you are.”

“I can do you one better,” Danny says with a sharp grin. He whistles, and Cujo comes running over, Haly at his heels, and he skids to a stop to sit before Danny. “Cujo. You remember Dick?” Cujo barks, as if answering. “Fetch! Go fetch Dick!”

Cujo jumps to his feet, grows from the size of a pug to a bear, and takes off for the art instillation farther into Robinson Park. Moments later, they hear a yell followed by loud laughter, and Cujo and running back, Dick hanging from his mouth, with Kori, Donna, and Roy following after him at a leisurely stroll. 

“I think we’re gonna get along great,” Duke says. “He’s gonna wish he never set us up.”

“That’s the way to do it,” Danny agrees.

“Say, wanna grab lunch together tomorrow?”

Danny blinks, then blushes again. “What, like a date?”

“Yeah, as a date. You up for it?”

“How could I say no? I was promised embarrassing stories.”

He watches as Cujo drops a rumpled looking Dick to the ground, half his shirt soaked with saliva. He dramatically mimes being shot in the heart when he sees them both looking at him, and goes limp when Kori picks him up and tries to set him on his feet. 

Then he tries to act very calm and cool as Danny leans against him. “Think he’s gonna follow up on our date?” Danny asks in a low voice.

Duke closes his eyes and tries not to despair. He didn’t even think of that. “Worse. He’s going to tell everyone else, then we’ll have every available Wayne kid stalking us on our date.”

“Guess I’ll have to rely on you to chase them off, huh?”

“Or we can sic Cujo on them again.”

“Or that,” Danny nods. “It’s always effective.”

He’s really going to have to bring his best to the date tomorrow, just to stay a step ahead of everyone else. Maybe he’ll ask Barbara for a favor and get her to lead them off? And if Bruce gets involved, then Duke is fully prepared to flashbang him, grab Danny, and run. 

It’s going to be a disaster.

It’s going to be fun.

He’s already looking forward to it, and from the mischievous smile on Danny’s face, he’s not the only one.

[surelysilly]

SuperPhantom Week 2024, go!

What: A week to celebrate the bestest crossover — Danny Phantom / Supernatural (TV 2005)! Fanfic, fanart, playlists/music, other multimedia or crafts, whatever you want, are all welcome! There are themed prompts for each day, so try to include it and more or as little as you want!

When: September 7th, 2024 - September 13th, 2024

Day 1: Sept. 7th - Divine / Impiety Day 2: Sept. 8th - Strange Day 3: Sept. 9th - Family / Outsider Day 4: Sept. 10th - Song (Fic) Day 5: Sept. 11th - Right / Left Day 6: Sept. 12th - Tools of the Trade Day 7: Sept. 13th - Free

*I will catch up on what I've missed in the following week to the best of my ability, but can't guarantee any swiftness. Submissions may show up the day after their prompt as I queue them up.

Sentence prompt for the week:

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

How: Post your works on Tumblr with the tags #superphantomweek2024 and #superphantom. I’ll reblog them here! Submissions to the week can also be added to this Ao3 Collection!

Just want everyone to have fun with this old little crossover here, so be free and be merry!!! <3

Below are extra details and information for each day.

Honorable mentions for extra brownie points:

Focus on side characters from either show! Last (few) season(s) nonsense Where do ghosts fit in the war between heaven and hell?

Day 1: Sept. 7th - Divine / Impiety

Do you think God lives in Heaven because He, too, lives in fear of what He's created Here on Earth? - Spy Kids 2

Divine: Angelic Presence, Angels, Grace, Holy, God(s), Wings, Pie, Fudge, Resurrection, Prophets

Impiety: Deals, Crossroads, Demon, Betrayal, Curse, Desecration, King of Hell, Abomination, Half-human (Nephilim, Cambion), Halfas (Half Angel & Half Ghost)

Day 2: Sept. 8th - Strange

There's something wrong with those boys... Something off about that house...

Too Many Eyes, Charade, Fleeting Glimpses, Veil, Death Defying, Midwestern Gothic, Limbo/Purgatory, Horror, Biblically Accurate, Ghosts, Weird Age Club

Day 3: Sept. 9th - Family / Outsider

This is about the blood of the covenant and the water of the womb, or neither or.

Family: Children, Childhood, Siblings, Old Friend, Blood, Fluff, Teamwork, Bonds

Outsider: Accidental Meeting, Secret, Outside POV, Found Footage, Ghost Facers, Wrongfully Accused, Strange Bedfellows, Incorrect Assumptions

Day 4: Sept. 10th - Song (Fic)

We've got a long road ahead of us... can't just sit in silence! Or can we...?

Mixtape, CD burn, Radio, Voice, Enochian, Ghost Speak, Silence, Lullaby

Day 5: Sept. 11th - Right / Left

The usual canon divergence, even canon compliance... or something even further removed!

Right: Time Travel, Pre-canon, The End AU, It's a Terrible Life AU

Left: Roleswap, Fantasy AU, Sci-fi, Multi-Crossover

Day 6: Sept. 12th - Tools of the Trade

These vary by profession. What are yours?

Overshadowing, Shot gun, Blade, Salt Circle, Trap, Ghost Portal, Ectoplasm, Impala, Feton AV, Cold Iron, Disguise, Fire, Possession, Wail, Monster of the Week, Summoning

Day 7: Sept. 13th - (Team) Free (Will)

New beginnings. Final endings. Let's do it all over again, it's only just getting started. Or is it?

Friday the 13th, Unlucky, Carry On My Wayward Son, Thrill, whatever you want!

*Take what you like, leave what you don't; these are all just extra suggestions for each day to help get the brain wrinkling up! Send any questions my way~

[ishipallthings]

I'm thinking of writing a bunch of fluffy stevetony codas for my favorite AA episodes, I've been rewatching the show this weekend and have all the AA stevetony feelings - just wondering if this would be of interest to anyone, or if it's a completely self-indulgent idea :D

I'm also in a post A1 stevetony mood so I'm opening my askbox for prompts for a little while! 💜

[qveerthe0ry]

hi! i just read misfire & omfg?😭😭 pathetic dieter is top 2!! i was wondering if you would consider doing an alternative to where the reader does engage??

Sweet anon, what a wonderful question.

The answer is absolutely, and I have, and also I may have written the bulk of this earlier today instead of doing my job.

Thank you so much for reading Misfire and your kind words! Without further adieu I present you: Misfire (Anon's Version)

Summary: Dieter gets waxed for a role and is way too into it.

Word Count: 1,494

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x GN! Reader

Rating: 18+ explicit

Warnings: 18+ mdni, body hair waxing, pain kink, humiliation kink, degredation kink, praise kink, sub!Dieter, dom!Reader, anal fingering, prostate orgasm, coming untouched, minimal aftercare, no use of y/n

It isn’t the stickiest situation Dieter’s ever been in, but it is still quite sticky. 

The last thing he expected for a Tuesday at 8am was to be ass naked on a cold esthetician table, hard as a rock. All for a stupid role about stupid Olympic divers.

Because your hands are so gentle, which is the sexiest fucking contrast to the sting your wax leaves as you rip it from his fuzzy asscheeks. 

His breath leaves him in little whimpers as your wax stick gets closer and closer to his entrance, and he’s drooling from his mouth and his cock at this point. 

Which is fine, since he’s on his stomach. And maybe he’s grinding into the medical grade sanitary paper that covers your waxing table, and trying to disguise his squirming as discomfort. 

It would’ve worked, too, if he didn’t have to wax every inch of the front of his body as well.

But now you’re telling him to flip over, and he doesn’t want to move. Any other time he’d be dying to get his cock out and swing it around. But you’re just trying to do your job, and here he is, leaking onto your poor little waxing table, soiling it.

With a heaved sigh, he rolls onto his back, clambering all awkwardly on the small space. You’re turned away from him, preparing the next glob of hot wax, and his cock throbs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and shameful, and you barely hear him.

“What’s that?”

Dieter can’t say it again. He just grumbles and covers his eyes with his arm. 

“Oh. Look at you, you poor thing.”

Dieter’s blood runs cold at the sound of your teasing voice. Well, all the blood that isn’t in his dick. The dick that’s now dribbling another stream of pre-cum as it jerks in the air. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he tells you.

And he looks so pretty, with his wide brown eyes and his flushed face. But he’s anything but innocent, and you know it. 

“Did you not, Mr.Bravo? Was I just imagining you humping my table like a bitch in heat, then?” 

You watch his chest expand with a gasp, see the wheels in his head turning for a desperate attempt at getting him out of this unscathed. 

He’s going to be fun to play with, you think. 

“I’m so sorry. I’ll uh, I’ll go, and I’ll make sure you’re paid triple for the trouble— I can do this myself at home.”

He starts to move to climb down from the table, but you don’t let him. Your gloved hands press down firmly on each of his thighs respectively. His prick bobs and sputters at the contact, and you’re sure your grin is devious.

“Nuh-uh, you aren’t going anywhere, Dieter. You want to act like a needy whore, then I’ll treat you like one.”

There’s a split second where apprehension gets the best of you, and Dieter freezes up, and you think maybe all the debauched tabloid entries you’ve read about him aren’t true at all. Maybe you’ve made a horrible mistake, and he isn’t a completely unhinged, freaky sex fiend at all. 

But then his body goes lax and his eyes close as he whimpers. 

“Yes, yes please.”

You huff out a sigh of relief and let your hands smooth up and down his thighs. 

“There you are, good boy. You know your place, don’t you?” 

“Mmm-hmm!” 

He nods his head and looks back at you with not a sliver of an iris to be found. 

“Get on your hands and knees for me, then.” 

He’s so eager to comply, crinkling up the paper on your table as he flips to his stomach, then eases up onto his hands and knees. 

His back arches as he hangs his head between his shoulders, and his freshly waxed ass is gorgeously on display, all for you. 

“For such a naughty thing, you’re being awfully good for me now,” you say, swiping your gloved fingers along the back of his thigh. 

He shivers, and goosebumps break out all over his smooth skin, and you don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on in your life.

“I’ll be so good, promise,” he whispers. 

You hum and squeeze the meat of his asscheek. He pushes into your hand and keens, and you watch another clear bead pour from his straining cock onto the crumpled paper underneath. 

Your other hand reaches up to grab him and spread, and you’re filled with awe as his puckered hole flutters at the attention. 

“Oh god,” he sighs, slumping slightly, balancing himself on one hand as the other makes a valiant effort to wrap around his own prick. 

It falls just short, though, when you grab his wrist and pin it behind him. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” 

The noise that works from his throat is pitiful, defeated and impatient and pleading. 

“N—no, no, you didn’t. I’m sorry.” 

You squeeze his wrist harder, and watch his dick bounce wildly between his legs, begging silently for any friction at all. 

“That’s what I thought,” you coo. 

His breaths are coming in more ragged, now, and his hips wiggle with desperation. Having such an influential, powerful man reduced to a puddle under you rministrations sends you reeling. Mad with power. 

So, you throw caution to the wind, and hawk a mouthful of spit directly onto his hole. 

He jolts and gasps and his face falls against the table as his arm gives out on him. His ass tilts up even more, and he spreads his legs farther apart and whimpers as your saliva drips down past his taint and onto his heavy sac. 

“Please let me come,” he begs, “I need to come.”

“Aww,” you mutter, “so eager.” 

He gulps another lungful of air, stuttered and wet, and you realize he’s crying, little droplets streaming from the corners of his eyes and wetting your table. All of a sudden, you find sympathy. 

“You can come,” you say. 

He tries valiantly to reach for his aching prick, but your grip on his wrist doesn’t waver. 

“Ah-ah,” you tut, “you can come, but you’re not touching your cock.”

He groans, and at first you think he’s defeated, but his dick throbs between his legs and sputters another few dribbles. The paper below him is transparent now, soaked and soiled from pre-come and drool and tears and your own spit. You want to see him come so badly, make an even bigger mess, and he doesn’t seem very far off. 

His legs are shaking and his hips rock back and forth absentmindedly, searching for anything he can get and coming up short. 

So you relent, and you help him along. Your gloved finger presses against his hole and it damn near sucks you in, greedy and ready. 

“Oh god, oh shit.” 

You feel the warmth of him draw in the tip of your finger as the ring of muscle spasms and relaxes. You enter so easily, a smooth, slow slide until you’re knuckle deep and Dieter is rocking his hips back and forth to urge you to move. You press in and out in minute motions, barely drawing back before diving in again. 

And then you curl your finger, and he yelps, and his legs tense up. 

“Have I– have I been good?” 

His little hiccup of breath is sweet, pathetic music to your ears and you let out a satisfied hum. 

“You’ve been very good for me, Dieter.”

“Yeah– fuck. Please–”

“Come for me, make a mess for me. Be a good boy and come.”

You can feel it before you’re even done speaking, his tight hole clenching around your finger. His legs tremble with the force, pulled taught and strained, and his groan almost sounds pained as he finally releases. 

His cock jerks against nothing as rope after rope of his seed sprays your table, each streak just a little less forceful than the last, until the final few drops weakly ooze from his spent cock. 

He whines when you slowly slip your finger from him, and curls into himself when your hands leave his body. 

You round the table to look him in the eyes, sleepy and sated and red from the tears. 

“Okay?” you ask, disposing of your soiled gloves. 

He sighs, and you thread your fingers through his sweaty curls. 

“I’m good,” he tells you with a hoarse voice, “thank you. For uh– For all of that.”

You give him a sweet smile, and he returns it, so vulnerable here, curled up into a ball, shivering from his cooling sweat, and lax. 

You find your handy box of tissues behind you, and set the on the table beside him. 

“Now clean yourself up and we can finish your wax.” 

Dieter watches in disbelief as you leave the room with a nonchalance that makes him burn.

He aches with the hope that you'll let him return the favor next time.

[ylvaslooks]

[team-118]

58 for the prompt game? -💙

hiiii @igarbagecannoteven ily

58. You don't have to say anything.

935 words • pre-relationship, buddie • s3e12 missing scene

Eddie is about to ring the doorbell when his phone buzzes.

Buck (118): doors open for you! let urself in when u get here :)

Buck (118): BUT DONT LEAVE THE KITCHEN

Buck (118): EDDIE IM SERIOUS WIAT AT THE RABLE TPPLSPLSPSLSPLSPLS

He laughs as he twists the door open, walking into Buck's loft. "Do I need to close my eyes, too?" Eddie teases.

There's a pause while Buck deliberates. "I mean..."

"Buck, Jesus -"

"Okay! Just wait two seconds," Buck huffs from the living room.

Eddie makes himself at home on one of Buck's barstools, fiddling with his keys. Buck's loft is becoming more and more familiar to him. He sees its vaulting windows and Buck's pristine tabletops as often as Pepa's, maybe even his own, at this point. The box of pizza he, Buck, and Chris had demolished just two nights ago rests against the recycling can. If he walked over to the fridge, he's sure he'd find the half-empty bottle of Pepsi Chris had left behind, because Buck has a weird superiority complex about Cola.

Eddie's about to risk Buck's wrath by knocking on the wall next to the living room when Buck emerges, covered in sweat and grime, red in the face from exertion.

"Hey, thanks for coming!" Buck greets him brightly, oblivious to his own appearance. With his sunny smile and sparkling eyes, any anxiety Eddie might've felt about Buck's secrecy today washes away. Eddie can't help but smile back.

"Of course. Wait, don't -" he gestures, but Buck's already wiping tire grease off his palms and onto his jeans.

"Whoops," Buck grins.

"You're actually twelve," Eddie tells him.

"What's that make you, old man?" Buck retorts, and before Eddie can tell him how little sense that makes, Buck's grabbing his hand and dragging him to the living room.

Buck crosses his arms in front of the doorway, blocking the view with his wide, wide shoulders. Eddie really resents the two inches Buck has on him, in moments like these.

"Okay, before you see it, you need to know I wanted to do this," Buck starts.

"Uh, okay," Eddie says, trying to peek. Buck blocks him easily.

"And I don't expect anything, okay? You don't even have to, like..." Buck trails off, choosing his words carefully. "Follow through. Totally up to you, yeah? But I promise it's safe. I'd swear it on my life."

"I trust you," Eddie reassures, automatic. As he says it, he realizes he really does mean it. He would be confused or even worried if it was anyone else, but with Buck, he's just...not.

Buck exhales. "Yeah, okay. Alright." He sidesteps, finally letting Eddie into his living room.

Inside, Buck's entire toolbox is in shambles across the hardwood. Rags covered in black grease are pushed into the corners, clearing a path to the centre of the room. Buck's laptop is open on a side table, whirring with the hundreds of tabs it has open. The light filters through the windows and lands on...something. A contraption in the middle of the room, tall and metal like some kind of barebones Eiffel tower. There are handholds on the sides and a net of ropes at the base.

Buck steps gingerly around it, so Eddie follows.

"What exactly...am I looking at here?" Eddie can feel his eyebrows twisting in confusion.

"Oh, I forgot," Buck says, grinning wickedly like he definitely didn't, "the secret ingredient." He reaches behind the mess of the toolbox and pulls out a skateboard. It's bright red and decked out in colourful stickers. On the top, Buck has pasted the letters "CHRISTOPHER DIAZ". 

Eddie's speechless.

"I just didn't want him to miss out," Buck says, rushed. "You know, when I was little, I taught myself how to skateboard without my parents around. Banged myself up good. I don't want Chris to think he has to do it on his own, or that he can't do it, because he can, and-" he trips on his breath, stumbling. Eddie still can't make his stupid mouth move, and he can tell it's stressing Buck out.

"You don't have to say anything," Buck tells him, nervous.

"I don't - know what to say," Eddie breathes around a laugh. "Buck, you - I can't believe you did this for him. No one's ever - how much do I owe you?"

"Nothing, man, come on," Buck brushes him off. "You owe me nothing. I told you, I wanted to do this."

"Yeah, but," Eddie exhales. "Nobody's ever really...wanted to."

"Well," Buck says, tone intentionally light. "I did."

"Buck."

"No, I'm serious, Eddie. He's a good kid. I wanted - just let me do this for him, please."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Buck, I can't thank you enough," Eddie stresses.

Buck gives him a small smile. "You don't have to thank me. Just let me be there when you show it to him?"

"Of course."

They stand in silence for a while, Eddie watching the sun light up the accessible skateboard like some kind of treasure chest in a video game. He can feel Buck's eyes on him, but he doesn't turn to meet his gaze. He just lets Buck look while he sinks into this feeling. Eddie can't quite believe it, but maybe he and Chris could have this. Maybe.

He clears his throat. "Let me help you clean up your living room, at least."

Buck laughs easily. "Yeah, okay."

It takes until sunset to scrub the grease off the hardwood, and maybe they're not as efficient together as they could be, but Eddie doesn't mind. He could do this for something like a lifetime.

[tennessoui]

"honestly, just stop it" or "i'm not even sorry" for princess diaries au?

"i'm not even sorry"! for the princess diaries au (or, the obikin version of the scene in princess diaries 2 where they push each other into a fountain)

(2.2k)

Riyu Chuchi is a nice enough princess. She’s kind, and she’s pretty, and she has enough of a backbone that Anakin feels confident that if he ever does something she doesn’t like or approve of, she’ll let him know.

These things are important in a marriage, Anakin thinks. 

Riyu, a twin born two minutes after the first, loves her country enough to leave it and marry someone else so there’s no contender for her sister’s throne. And Anakin loves his country enough to marry a woman and resign himself to living what’s always going to be at least partly a lie to produce an heir, to keep Genovia’s monarchy going strong.

It’s a duty he spent most of his life—eighteen years of it—unaware he had, but now at twenty-one, he can’t ignore it anymore.

He doesn’t want to, is the thing. He wants to get married. Now. So the love has as much time as possible to grow. His parents married young and for love, and they stayed together right up until the day his father died.

Anakin will marry young, for duty and not for love, but Riyu seems perfectly nice. Very accommodating so far, though this is mostly based on how the last candidate for the wedding he’d met had turned up her nose at the pears.

Anakin’s only been prince of Genovia for three years, but that’s long enough to get pretty attached and defensive about their pears.

She’ll make a great wife is what everyone says when Anakin asks, which is all Anakin needs to hear to start planning how to ask.

They’ll have a long engagement, if she says yes, which Anakin knows she will. Maybe if—if certain things had not happened, they wouldn’t even need to get engaged immediately.

But certain things had happened.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had happened.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of Genovia’s more well-endowed with land lords, had happened. Had—had waltzed up to Anakin’s private coat closet freak out, got him drunk and halfway in love before humiliating him at his own birthday ball, only to then corner him in a linen closet and kiss him halfway back to being in love, only for them to get caught by a few gossipy maids.

So now Anakin is getting married so people will stop fucking talking about it. He can’t be king of Genovia if the people don’t trust him to lead, and the selection of articles and tweets and opinion pieces his valet leaves out for him in a box every morning makes it very clear that getting caught making out with a man sixteen years his senior in a fucking linen closet has not inspired confidence in Anakin’s ability to make decisions with anything other than his dick.

So marriage.

Engagement now, marriage in a year or two. A long engagement. To give Anakin as much time as he can to ease into love, build it and commit to it, even if he’ll never feel it naturally, not for Riyu.

And he thinks maybe today’s just as good a day as any to propose. They’re hosting a garden party on the palace grounds because there’s nothing his grandfather is more proud of or in love with in Genovia than his gardens. 

Well, his gardens and Anakin, which is why Anakin thinks maybe today is the perfect time to ask Riyu formally for her hand in marriage. She’s looking very nice and put-together, wearing a blue dress that definitely makes her look. Very nice. And her hair is up too, also looking nice, and she’s smiling at everyone and remembering all their names, which is great because Anakin is terrible at that, and her smile definitely makes her look—nice.

Lunch has been served and eaten, and now the part that’s left is Anakin’s least favorite: walk around, make nice, and slowly go insane trying to pretend his shoes aren’t pinching his feet and his head isn’t hurting from the dehydration and the intense amount of sun beating down on him. At least with Riyu on his arm, he’s not suffering alone.

If he’s never able to love her like a husband loves his wife, at least he may be able to love her like a teammate. The thought gives him a bit of comfort, ring box burning in his jacket pocket. He shifts slightly, bringing himself and Riyu to a standstill on the garden path between two groups of people. They’re at the mouth of one of Qui-Gon’s miniature hedge mazes. Anakin could lead Riyu through it, to the center, and propose.

The ring is heavy in his pocket. No, he will propose. He—

“Princess,” a very familiar and very unwelcome interrupts, and Anakin turns around immediately, already flushed and angry because Obi-Wan Kenobi had not been invited. Anakin knows that for a fact, and he’s going to fucking—

Obi-Wan Kenobi isn’t even looking at him. “Princess Riyu, what a surprising delight.”

“Lord Kenobi,” Riyu replies, looking unfairly and remarkably charmed. “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

“He wasn’t supposed to—”

“How could I miss a garden soiree, my dear?” Kenobi asks innocently, cutting right through Anakin’s voice as if he weren’t interrupting his future king. “Has anyone told you how lovely you look today?”

Anakin scowls. “Yes.”

Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. 

“He did say I looked very nice,” Riyu allows, shooting Anakin a small grin.

“You do,” Anakin mumbles, unable to shake the feeling that he’s on the wrong end of a joke he doesn’t quite understand.

“Well, a compliment no matter how bland from a future king is worth ten from a mere lord,” Kenobi says blasely, and Anakin scowls.

“Obi-Wan, please, I’m about to get jealous,” an unfamiliar but no less welcome voice says, and Anakin blinks away from Kenobi for the first time since the man’s arrival to see another man—a boy, really—standing just behind Kenobi.

The boy has dark curly hair, amber eyes, and a strong jaw. He looks about Anakin’s age, and holds himself like he’s God’s gift to this hellish party.

“Apologies, darling. Please,” Kenobi wraps an arm around the boy’s waist and brings him level with them. “Meet Princess Riyu of Pantora.”

Riyu coughs politely.

“And, of course, Prince Anakin. Of Genovia.”

“Who are you?” Anakin asks when the boy reaches out a hand to shake. He crosses his arms over his chest.

Obi-Wan arches his other eyebrow. “Darling, where have you been the past five years? In the back of a closet? This is Set.”

Anakin colors, heart picking up as fury stirs in his chest. “Of?” he asks the boy. Set. Whatever.

Set smirks. Anakin thinks he’s definitely got maybe the most punchable face he’s seen, like. Ever.

“Of nothing,” the boy says.

“Of pop stardom,” Obi-Wan intercedes. “Set here is the number one most listened to artist across the board in Genovia, did you know?”

Obviously Anakin didn’t know. “Oh, well. Riyu here has been playing the piano for the past twenty years, she’s quite talented.”

“I can imagine,” Obi-Wan smiles cooly. “Set was discovered while busking on the streets during his senior year of high school.”

“Oh, just last year then?” Anakin asks innocently. “Did you know Riyu has a master’s in international relations and business entrepreneurship?”

“That’s noteworthy,” Obi-Wan ducks his head, but Anakin’s eyes are drawn to the way his hand curls around Set’s waist like it belongs there. “I read an article a few days ago that said Set is the future face of Genovia.”

“Then it looks like you have a type,” Anakin bites out, dropping his arms to curl his hands into fists.

“Like hell I do,” Obi-Wan snaps back, face pinched and eyes sharp. “Set is actually honest about what he wants and from who.”

“Set,” Riyu says, “would you like to escort me to the lemonade table? I’d hate to get in the way of their pissing competition.”

“It would be my pleasure, milday,” Set replies, extending an arm that Riyu gratefully grabs. “And has anyone told you that you look lovely today?”

“And meant it?” Riyu says with a laugh as they depart. “I don’t think so, no.”

“The nerve,” Anakin hisses at Obi-Wan, reaching across the scant distant between them and shoving hard at his chest. “You can see yourself out.”

He spins around and stalks away. He doesn’t get very far at all before Kenobi is catching his wrist and pulling them back together.

“You know I can’t, princess,” he murmurs, just for them, and it’s so fucking—it’s the fucking worst, because his voice is so light but his eyes are so dark. His hair looks so soft, and his beard smells so good, and he—he looks fucking lovely, in his light gray linen suit and light blue tie that brings out the gray in his eyes and he’s looking at Anakin like he knows that Anakin thinks he looks lovely and Anakin is going to scream.

“Why not?” he snaps, begs, bringing up a hand to push Obi-Wan away but forgetting to do so as soon as Obi-Wan catches it with his free hand.

“Because,” his voice drops. “That’s not the way a suit jacket is supposed to lie.”

The words don’t make sense, not until Obi-Wan darts a hand down, into the exposesd inner pocket of Anakin’s suit jacket to pull out the ring box.

He raises both eyebrows, face flushed as if he has a reason to be angry, before turning on his heel and stalking away, through the hedges to the Qui-Gon’s stupid miniature maze and away from the party all together. 

Anakin is quick to follow.

After all, the bastard stole his engagement ring.

“Give that back!” he demands as he chases after Obi-Wan’s surprisingly quick figure. “I am your future king—I could—hang you for this!”

Obi-Wan whirls round quite suddenly as they turn a corner, pressing him back against the wall of the hedge, higher here now. “And I’m just a lord,” he says, slipping the ring box into his own backpocket as he boxes Anakin in with his arms. “Trying to stop his future king from making an idiotic mistake.”

“Oh yeah?” Anakin scowls. “Pretty sure all the mistakes I’ve made so far have involved you!”

“You don’t want to marry that woman, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says as if Anakin hasn’t spoken at all. “You don’t have to—”

“Maybe a lord can show up to a party with a man on his arm, but you do not get to tell me what my duties are as a prince—”

“No one is asking this of you!” Obi-Wan puts his hands on his shoulders, as if barely resisting the urge to shake him. “No one in Genovia cares if you marry now or not! They are excited to have you as their king, they do not need a queen—especially one their king will not want!”

“You have no idea about what I want!” Anakin shouts, using his height to his advantage to loom as much as he can over Obi-Wan. When that doesn’t feel like enough, he shoves him out of his way, spinning them around and against the hedge so hard the plant shakes.

“I think I do,” Obi-Wan murmurs, allowing himself to be held, and it’s only then that Anakin realizes he’s been staring solely at the other man’s lips. “Do you really think kissing me was a mistake?” he asks, tilting his head up in a much more effective use of their height difference.

“Yeah,” Anakin says roughly, swallowing the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth. “I regret kissing you. Fucking—all the time.”

Because he can’t stop thinking about it. Because Obi-Wan keeps showing up. Because he can’t focus around him now. Because he smells so good. Because—because—

“I don’t,” Obi-Wan confesses, closing the gap between their lips and whispering the words against his lips. “I thought about it, and I know I should feel—different. But if I must watch you marry a woman we both know you will never love, I cannot regret stealing those moments with you. I’m not even sorry.”

Anakin finds it hard to swallow, air scarce between their faces. He stumbles back, and this time Obi-Wan allows him to go, an unreadable look on his face.

“I—you’re wrong, I—could, I would love—we’d—you’re wrong—”

“I’m not,” Obi-Wan’s face looks tender, which is an expression Anakin isn’t sure he’s seen on him before. “I—wish I were to make it easier for you.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws the ring box, taking Anakin’s hand in his own and wrapping his fingers around the velvet material.

“I’m sorry I’m not,” he says very quietly, as Anakin drops his gaze to stare at their overlapping fingers around the box. He stares at it long after Obi-Wan squeezes his fingers and leaves.

He almost wishes he’d kissed him instead.

He almost wishes he’d pushed him in a fountain. That would have been kinder.

[minecraftbed]

a desertduo fic based on the songAugust by flipturn

it’s so them right im not delusional

August: a song about a relationship that only works out during the month of august, wherein it seems perfect. After august it falls apart, until the next august comes around. 

title: octagonal

wordcount: 971

rating: T

ao3: HERE

“Hey, catch.”

Grian barely had time to finish pulling off his sweater before something equally as red entered his peripheral. He jumped backwards with a squeak and a fluff of wings, the object landing by his feet with a thud. An apple, shiny like glass under the desert sun.

“That wasn’t… you can’t just throw things at me, Scar—” the words were annoyed but laced with amusement as he adjusted his tank top. “—and expect me to react on time.” 

“Well,” Scar bit into his own fruit like an animal, juice running down his fingers, down his wrist, down his arm. “What if I’d been an enemy?”

“You aren’t.”

“And…! —And what if that had been TNT.”

Grian sighed. “Then I wouldn’t have wanted  to catch it, would I?” 

Scar took a second, canting his head and staring at him, apple frozen in motion towards his mouth. Then, the lightbulb went off. “Oh…” a chuckle. “Oh, I guess not.” 

It was contagious; the way they bickered and laughed, the constant back and forth as they worked. Hands splintered from planks of wood, then calloused from rough sandstone bricks. The foundations of their new …home… were beginning to take place. 

(Really, it was Grian doing the work. Scar stood around shirtless and thought up ways to scam people.)

The sun, high in the sky, unchanging as they changed beneath it. 

————————————-

The new world was different.

Grian noticed it from day one; the shift in tone, they went from orange to blue. 

It didn’t help that there was the looming threat of what everyone was calling ‘the boogeyman’. As if they were twelve. As if the insatiable, sudden need to kill one of your friends was as light as the stories parents told their children so that they would go to sleep.

Maybe it was, Grian hadn’t experienced either. 

But he felt the effects. People stood further away during conversations, hands itching by their sides ready to draw. No one wanted to be alone, either, but it was worse to be alone with another. Anyone could turn. Anyone could kill.

The curse brought on an ultimatum: them or you. And who in their right mind wouldn't choose the former? 

It was dark when he saw Scar for the first time. Part of him knew he should be cautious, memories burnt fresh into his brain of blood on his sword, in his hair, his skin. Together they had taken down everything and everyone, including themselves. Behind that annoying lopsided smirk and fake diamond armour, Scar hid what he was capable of. 

Grian wasn’t scared of his violence. No, no. His words, they were a completely different thing to fear.

“...So I can’t put you on the back of a llama and take you to the desert?”

It hurt, in an unexpected way. The type of way where you end up angry at yourself for not preparing on time. His mental walls were only half constructed, architecturally weak, and Scar had found the point to prod on his first try. Grian laughed, shrill and light as his heart crawled further inside. 

He needed severance.

“Hey… have you tried transferring a life yet?” 

The new world was different.

“No, I haven’t!”

He would be different.

————————————-

His throat stung, dehydrated lips cracked. Grian’s scream would unendingly echo throughout the ravine.

He waited, and waited, and waited. Alone in the desert, dizzy with heatstroke, uncertain of what was to come. When Scar finally showed up, he wasn’t sure if he was real or a mirage; he spoke to him anyway. 

The flowers. Lilacs and poppies. Grian clutched the wilted bundle in his fist, torn between them and the new shade of Scar’s eyes.

“Can we still be friends?”

Could they? Did Grian care if they couldn’t? It was just stupid rules of a stupider game. Half of everything was made up on the fly, and the other half broken whenever someone felt like it. They were too carefree, when nothing was there to enforce them. 

Grian didn’t want to admit it, but somewhere along the muddied lines, his obligation had grown into greedy devotion. He needed Scar, and Scar needed him. At least if they got any more parasitic the vultures would have something to feast on. 

“I think so? I still owe you my first life,” and the one after that, and the one after that.

They rearranged their sleeping quarters that night, silently communicating as they pushed two beds together. It was sticky and humid, but their hands stayed entwined until morning. 

Grian left the flowers on the windowsill, with thought that they would dry. 

————————————-

Grian had never experienced the boogeyman curse, but he had felt the effects.

“At least his bed is out here, so we don’t have to ruin his lovely house.”

That was something, right? 

They had built the obsidian spawn-camping death trap OUTSIDE of his lovely house. For that, Grian deserved a pat on the back. Joel gave him a funny look as the words left his mouth, the absurdity of the situation crawling down his spine. 

They needed these lives. Scar… Scar had too many. He didn’t need them like him and Joel did. —- Hell, he would lose them himself soon enough. All they were doing was stopping such an important resource from going to waste.

The method was… justified. 

So when Scar refused their offer, backing away from his beloved mountain, spewing lies, silver tongue tangled, Grian didn’t feel bad, loading his crossbow with bolt after bolt. Each one finding a place in flesh, in armour. Scar had made his choice.

At the end of the day, his heart was just a muscle behind his sternum. 

And Grian only knew how to touch skin when it was to brush away stray grains of sand.

[emily-mooon]

Here’s just a little nordegrim WIP I’m working on

Edit: Finished piece

[wilsonthemoose]

I made this for an edit but now it's giving me so many dark!dean thoughts 🥲

I'm picturing dean saying this to john, and by 'every one of you' he means whichever other hunters think sam needs to be hunted because of his demon blood/powers/boyking destiny. dean going on a murderous rampage for sam while keeping him in the dark yes I love it

Aww heck yeah! And I like the idea of John saying something that isn't all that provacative, he's just saying something like 'I'm worried about Sam, these visions he keeps having-' and Dean just pounces.

Or! Dean hobbles out of the hospital bunk after John tells him he'll have to save Sam or kill him. He follows John down the corridor to his room and tells him 'I'll kill you and every one else first'. And then he makes good on that promise.

Like! Why! Wasn't there blood and gore when John died? Was Azazel just being nice? Did he not have any hounds to spare? Was hospital security too tight for the hounds to get in?

[beevean]

Regarding Dracula's possessive love post Lisa's death.

With Hecula: If your read on Dracula is that he has separation anxiety, how to you reconcile that in MF Dracula sent Hector away to kill Trevor?

And do you think Alucard hiding in the depths of Dracula's castle waiting for help instead of leaving to seek help being related to that? Like do you think Dracula made sure Alucard wasn't able to leave. After all, can't risk evil humans hurting Dracula's only son, can we :)

lmao. And this is why you don't get in a relationship with your employee... especially if their job is fighting for you :P

Alright, more seriously. Hector is not just Dracula's Specialest Babyboy™ because he's cute and all... He's one of his top soldiers, if not the absolute best. He was most likely the only one Dracula trusted with the task of facing Trevor, and stopping him before he could become a threat was ofc his utmost priority.

I do love that in the manga, it was Isaac the one who implored Dracula to be sent to fight Trevor... and then it's revealed that Drac sent Hector instead without telling Isaac anything. Look at how mad he is 😂

Isaac's perpetual state in Curse of Darkness, animated.

The game indirectly proves it. When Isaac fights Trevor, he manages to scratch him almost by accident, but then he spends the rest of the fight dodging blows, or being yanked around because all the advantages of the Chauve-Souris don't matter against a weapon that can wrap around it. Shortly after that, Hector has a much better time against him. And don't tell me "oh he was just testing him", that asshole destroyed me the first time I fought him, he was not holding back :P

I'm not sure why Dracula didn't send Death, though. IIRC, he guards the entrance of the castle. I would be ready to theorize that Death is bound to the castle, maybe only able to travel freely in another form (like Zead)... buuuuut RoB begins with Death intercepting Ricther, and the two fight on a ghost ship in that game, so idk, guess he was busy doing other castle stuff ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now, Alucard being bound to the castle? Dracula being so terrified of losing his son, Lisa's son, that he forces a spell on him to prevent him to leave his domain? So that he has no choice but to wait for a warrior that can help him right under his home? This is even more poignant if we remember that in the original manual of CV3, Alucard became a vampire because Dracula sold his soul: such a ritual would absolutely tie him to his father! Yeah, I know that this was retconned, but I want to save something from it! Bro! That's horrible! I love it!

I also love that Dracula tightening his grip on both Alucard and Hector eventually caused them to leave on their own accord :) he will keep losing his loved ones no matter what he does :)

[luxaofhesperides]

For the ghostlights drabbles: “Say my name” with a favor being called in?

Duke had saved Phantom years ago, back when he was just out of high school and working to take down a branch of the government that was kidnapping and experimenting on people, targeting magic users and metas. Phantom had been working on his own to take them down, and they met in the middle, trashing a lab and freeing as many people as they could.

They had managed to shoot his back, knocking him down and making him bleed a glowing green. Phantom couldn’t move, protecting two kids with his body, and Duke couldn’t reach them in time before they were taken away by another swarm of agents. 

He was able to go after them in time, free Phantom and the kids, and evacuated the victims before Phantom rained hell down on the facility.

At the end, standing in the background as they watched paramedics treat the victims and take them towards the nearest hospitals, Phantom had turned towards him and thanked him.

Or rather, he thanked the Signal and offered him a bracelet with a rounded orb of ice, glowing faintly in the dark. If you ever need me, he had said, Hold this, and call me name.

Phantom vanished once the last of the victims were transported to a safer location, and Duke hadn’t seen him since.

He’s kept up with news about Phantom as best he can, but from what he could tell, Phantom is based primarily in Amity Park, Illinois, and the town is fiercely protective of their hero. News rarely leaks out of there, and with them running on their own servers and independent internet, it was nearly impossible to get in from the outside. 

Phantom remained a curious and distant figure in Duke’s life. He holds onto the bracelet still, guarding it carefully and sometimes running his fingers over the ice that never melts.

But he doesn’t call in that favor. He’s never to.

At least, not until now.

Sucking in a breath, Duke prepares himself and holds the orb of ice in the palm of his hand. He’s in civies, unable to hide his identity for this, and closes his eyes. “Phantom,” he says.

For a moment, nothing happens. Duke blinks his eyes open and frowns, mind already forming new plans to contact Phantom. Then the ice goes bitingly cold, almost painful, and the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The ice lifts up from his hand, floating in the air, then cracks open.

White-blue light spills out of it, growing brighter as it seems to swallow up the room entirely. Duke hurries to back up, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes. His breath mists out before him and he shivers as the sound of ice cracking fills the room.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the light disappears and the cold fades away like a bad dream. 

Slowly, Duke lowers his arm and looks up at Phantom, floating in the middle of his living room with a crown made of ice, engulfed in blue fire, hovers above his head. He looks older, more regal, holding his head high. 

He regards Duke carefully for a minute, then tilts his head and says, “Signal?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Man, I’m so glad you came.”

“You… need help with something? You’re calling in your favor now, right?”

Duke nods. He understands Phantom’s confusion; being in the hero business means that favors like these tend to be used only during the most hopeless of times, when the world is close to ending, when the chances of getting out of a situation alive is close to impossible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Duke was expecting to call Phantom in for.

Not the kid sleeping on his couch.

“You’re a ghost, yeah?”

Phantom blinks at him. “Ghost king, now. Why?”

“Well…” Duke rubs the back of his neck, nervously. “I didn’t really know who else to call, and I can’t do this on my own since I’m not a ghost. But this kid got attached to me and won’t leave, so now I’m taking care of her and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know why you think I have any experience with kids but—”

“She’s a ghost.”

Phantom stops short. “Ah. I see.” He floats down until his feet touch the floor, and then he’s standing like any other person. “Where…?”

Duke looks past Phantom’s shoulder, and Phantom turns to follow his gaze. Chelsea, the ghost girl, looks to be around nine years old and is fast asleep on the couch, curled up under Duke’s softest blanket.

“Signal,” Phantom says quietly, “What, exactly, is the favor you need from me?”

“You can say no,” Duke starts. “I get that this is a lot. But I need help raising her. And since you’re a ghost, I figured you could help me learn about the ghostly side of things. You don’t have to raise her with me or anything! Just… I would appreciate any help you’re willing to give me.”

Phantom doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at Chelsea, an unreadable expression on his face. 

On the couch. Chelsea shifts in her sleep, brows furrowing as she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat.

Moving on autopilot after so many nights of this routine, Duke kneels next to the couch, fishing one of her hands from beneath the blanket. He gives it a few reassuring squeezes, keeping it a slow rhythm to pull her gently from her nightmare. She settles down in just a minute, brow smoothing out as she continues to sleep. 

The silence grows and Duke is all too aware that his heart is the only one beating. 

He doesn’t hear Phantom move. Doesn’t realize he’s right next to him until he sees Phantom’s hand reach out towards Chelsea. When Duke looks, Phantom is sitting on the floor next to Duke, looking at Chelsea with something soft and devastated in his eyes. His hand hovers about her head for a long moment, then slowly lowers to rest on her head. 

The touch looks gently, barely putting any pressure on her head, but it’s enough to make Chelsea’s eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. She stares at Phantom with wide eyes, then sits up and looks between him and Duke.

“Who are you?” she asks in a small voice that makes Duke want to stand against the world to keep her safe. 

Phantom smiles. It’s casual and charming and makes him look like anyone else, as if he’s not a powerful king from a realm unreachable to humans. “Hi there,” he says, “I’m Danny. I’m a ghost like you. Signal called me and asked me to meet you.”

The Ghost King is good with kids. Who would have thought?

Chelsea looks at him for confirmation and only relaxes when he nods. “I’m Chelsea. What do you mean ghost? I’m not dead.”

Both he and Phantom tense, carefully keeping their expressions neutral. She hasn’t told him much at all, just that her parents were gone and forgot her and she got hurt, so she wanted to stay with ‘Mr. Signal’ because he’s a hero and heroes keep people safe and he was the only one who was Black like her. Duke hadn’t had the heart to say no, and began searching for her family, only to find that her parents had fled the state, and likely the country, after killing their only child through neglect and a dangerous environment. 

It was then that he realized that her powers were not because she was a meta, but because she was ghost.

It still hurts to realize how young she is, how much of her life had been stolen from her in an instant. Duke hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic with her, instead choosing to let her grow comfortable in his presence, get them both settled into a routine now that he was her primary guardian. 

“I know it sounds scary,” Phantom says, “And you may not want to believe me, but it’s true. I’m sorry that you died so young, but that just means you get to hang out with me and other ghosts from now on!”

Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I am not dead,” she says.

“Cici, I’m sorry to say this, but you are,” Duke cuts in. “That’s why I called… Danny. You have new powers as a ghost, and he can help you get used to them.”

“I’m not dead!” she says again.

“Kid,” Phantom begins, but Chelsea shakes her head hard and hops off the couch.

“I’m not lying! Watch, I’ll prove it to you!” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her nose, concentrating. Her hands curl into tight fists by her sides, and the glow around her grows dim. Two faint, stuttering rings of light appear around her waist. They flicker and wobble in the air, as if weak and uncertain of their own existence, then split apart, one moving up towards her head while the other falls to her feet.

Beside him, Phantom sucks in a sharp breath, but Duke can’t turn to see what’s wrong when he’s trying to take in the sight of Chelsea suddenly full of vibrant color, looking more solid that he’s ever seen her, very much alive.

“See?” she says proudly, lifting her arms and doing a spin to show off her right she was. “I told you I’m not dead!”

“No, you’re not,” Phantom agrees, sounding shell-shocked. When Duke is finally able to look away from Chelsea to check on him, he looks awed. There’s the smallest smile on his face, just the slightest upturn of his lips, but it makes him look softer.

Duke turns his attention back to Chelsea before he can be caught staring. “Cici, can you come here for a second?”

She goes before he’s finished speaking, crossing the space between them in a single jump, then grins up at him. Her hair is a bit of a mess, the two buns he managed to get her hair into falling askew. He makes a note to visit the old aunties in the Narrows later to ask them to teach him how to do hair. For now, he holds out a hand and Chelsea drops an arm into it.

It seems to good to be true, having her be alive, but her pulse is steady and strong when he presses his thumb against the inside of her wrist. 

“Well,” he says, leaning back and letting go of her arm. “You certainly proved us wrong.”

Chelsea doesn’t have much time to look smug before PHantom quietly says, “You’re like me.”

“What?”

“You’re like me,” he tells Chelsea. “A halfa.”

She tilts her head to one side. “What’s that?”

“Someone who is half human and half ghost. Both dead and alive.”

Duke blinks, taking in the words, then turns to face Phantom so quickly he’s worried he might give himself whiplash. Halfa, he said. Like me, he said. 

And sure enough, two rings of light, bright and strong, appear around Phantom’s waist before splitting in half, moving over his entire body. 

Gone is the Ghost King, all powerful and adorned in dark clothing with a crown of ice above his head. In his place is a guy who looks to be Duke’s age, eyes a deep blue and his black hair messy, feet set solidly on the floor. He looks completely normal, completely human, and no longer an impossibility.

“You still up for learning how to use all your new powers?” Phantom asks.

Chelsea grins. “Yeah!” And then, with a quick flick of her eyes going from Phantom to Duke that he almost misses, very innocently asks, “Are you going to stay with us then?”

“I… don’t know?” Phantom looks to Duke for an answer.

Already, Duke can see this going two ways. The correct way forward, the normal one, has Phantom popping in every so often, taking Chelsea out for a few hours to work on training her and her powers. It’s easy and routine and they can keep their boundaries uncrossed and be professional. 

The other path is what Duke wants most that he shouldn’t impose onto the literal Ghost King. He could have Phantom living with them while he’s on Earth and out of Amity Park, having a place at the table, a section in the closet for his own clothes, a quietly domestic night together while Chelsea sleeps where they can get to know each other more, get to know each other outside of news reports and texts on a screen.

“You can stay with us if you want,” Duke offers, casually, “It might keep my apartment safe from her powers acting up on their own again.”

“Are you sure? I could always just fly in on the weekends or something.”

“I’d appreciate having you around. So you can help Cici.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phantom says, looking away. Like this, fully alive with a beating heart, it’s easy to see the blush steal away across his cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either!” Chelsea pops in, looking far too gleeful by their awkward conversation.

Duke can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The relief of knowing that Chelsea is alive, for the most part at least, eases the guilt of thinking he had been too late to save her, that there was no chance she could have made it out and had a future, makes him feel weak. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks hits him all at once and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for twelve hours.

“Alright, squirt,” he says, reaching out to pat her head. “It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, so go to bed. In your actual bed this time, not on the couch.”

Chelsea stands up taller, ready to argue, but Duke gives her a Look™ and she quickly shuts her mouth, nods, and drags her feet back to her room (the former guestroom he can never give any of the other Waynes ever again, once they find out about her). 

Sighing, Duke collapses onto the couch once he hears the door shut behind her. Phantom joins him after a few seconds, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. The cushion moves beneath his weight, another reminder of how solid and alive he is right not.

Duke wants to touch him, to reach out and feel for himself his pulse, the warmth of his body, his chest lifting with each breath. 

He doesn’t move. He stays where he is, hands carefully still, and tries to think past the dizzying thoughts of she’s still alive, I’m not too late, he’s still here, he’s alive.

“Rough week?” Phantom asks, voice purposefully light.

“Something like that.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can. Not after everything. My mind’s too loud right now.”

Phantom shifts closer to him, hesitant in a way that Duke has never seen before in him, and asks, “Want me to stay with you until you mind quiets down some?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Phantom.”

“You know, if I’m going to be around so often as Chelsea’s halfa mentor, then you might as well call me Danny.”

Truth be told, Duke didn’t think that was his real name. He’s glad to know it’s not. 

“Then call me Duke.”

“...Are you sure? You could still hide your identity from me.”

“Nah, I trust you. A name for a name, yeah?”

Danny smiles. “Duke,” he says, testing out the name, and it’s never sounded better than when it falls from Danny’s mouth.

“Danny,” Duke returns. He belatedly realizes that they’ve leaned towards each other, drawn together like gravity, stuck in each other’s orbit. It feels natural. It feels like this is where they’re meant to be.

Maybe he should be more cautious. They’ve only meant once before, after all. But he’s read all he could on Phantom and has seen how Amity Park loves him. He’s stressed and exhausted and trying to figure out how to look after a half-ghost child that’s already been dealt a bad hand in life. He should be keeping Phantom at a distance, watching over him carefully to ensure he isn’t a threat to Chelsea.

But Duke saw how he acted with Chelsea, so gentle and understanding and kind. That’s all he needed to see.

He may not know much about Danny, but he knows this: he is trustworthy.

Enough to entrust his identity to him.

Enough to entrust Chelsea to him.

It’s more than a favor; it’s a promise to walk this road together. 

There’s no one he’d rather do this with. 

“Thanks,” he says again, “For all of this. I know it’s a lot.”

Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s nice to know there’s another halfa out there, no matter how she came to be one. Makes things feel less lonely.”

“Will you tell me more about halfas?”

“Later. Once you get some proper rest. We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

“We do,” Duke agrees, affection settling warm in his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Learning how to control her new powers won’t be easy for Chelsea. Learning how to take care of her won’t be easy. Learning how to do things together, as Duke and Danny rather than the Signal and Phantom, won’t be easy. But Duke knows with a certainty he feels in his bones that they’re going to be fine.

So long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.

[tommybowefuneralattendee]

mer you've opened the floodgates. 36 for spommy xoxo - katie

36. you were put on this earth to give me a headache

linked on ao3 || not under a cut because the format got fucky

preview:

June 13, 8:45am spenner: so like theoretically, tomothy: oh god, here we go tomothy: when did you change my name in chat  spenner: i’ll never tell :)  tomothy: you were put on this earth to give me a headache spenner: could say i’m made for you then ;) tomothy: i’m going to kill you  spenner: do it, coward tomothy: what were you even saying  spenner: i’ll never tell :)  tomothy: you forgot didn’t you  spenner: [maybe so.gif]

[mirasmirages]

🛡 valnori!!!! go wild with it

🛡 Hurt protecting someone they love

"Absolutely ridiculous!"

Val sat sprawled across an armchair in the living room while Coach Falkner paced the floor muttering.

"There's no way she won't win. It's rigged!"

On the couch next to the chair, Cara lay with her head in Eli's lap. Neither of them looked particularly worried, but Val knew they all felt it.

Tomorrow their dance crew were going to compete in the regional talent show, and they had a good chance of winning. At least, they had had a good chance of winning until it was announced that one of the other contestants was Norina, a young singer whose career was just taking off.

"She doesn't need this. She's already famous! And the prize money will mean nothing to her! Not like it would for us."

Val poked Cara with her foot. They were all exhausted after today's rehearsal, and Val wanted to go to bed. Coach could go on for hours if no one stopped him, but Val did not want to be the one to do it. Cara gave her a look, and the two had a short but fierce conversation solely through their eyebrows.

Defeated, Val sighed. "So, what are we going to do about it? We can't exactly stop her from competing, so what, do we drop out? Or do we go for second place?"

It would suck to only get second, but they had worked for this for so long, dropping out would be even worse.

Coach Falkner stopped talking and narrowed his eyes at her, and Val braced for getting chewed out.

"That," he said, "is exactly what we'll do."

Wait... what?

"We're... going for second?"

"We're going to stop her from competing," Coach Falkner said. "Since you volunteered, Val, you will find her tomorrow before the show and convince her."

"Wait, no-" Val protested, straightening up. There was no way that was going to work, she was a dancer, not a talker!

"Now that's settled, off to bed with you." Coach made a shooing motion towards them. "Cara, stay for a minute, I need a word."

*

Sneaking into Norina's dressing room was easier than Val had thought it would be. She had imagined sneaking past guards, or picking locks, but when she got there, she could just walk straight in.

The fact that Norina got a dressing room all to herself was ridiculous. The rest of them had to make do with sharing the general backstage area, working around each other while warming up, but apparently that wasn't good enough for the little celebrity. No, she had to have her own mirrors, and her own clothing rack, and her own snack table. Val snatched a bag of chips and sat down in the makeup chair to wait for Norina to come to the room.

She finished the chips before anyone came, and then walked a round of the room, stroking her fingers over the ridiculous costume Norina had brought. Norina was known for her opulent outfits, shiny long dresses that covered the stage and hair that was probably in fashion hundreds of years ago. The dress she had brought today was blue and green and had a kind of crunchy sheen to it.

Maybe Val had come too early. She had been early on purpose, since she hadn't wanted people to be here already, but this waiting was incredibly frustrating. She just needed a minute alone with Norina so she could tell her to drop out, and then she could go back to her crew.

She dragged the makeup chair over to the snack table and resigned herself to wait until someone came. Coach Falkner was going to be pissed if she didn't succeed in her mission, and while she had her doubts about how possible it was, she had to at least try.

The door opened half-way through her third tiny bag of chips.

Val had seen pictures and a few film clips of Norina on stage, done up in her costumes and makeup, but right now, she was wearing her hair in rollers and had barely any makeup on. She had a cup from Val's favorite milkshake place, which she dropped in the trash can the moment the door closed behind her.

"Hey!"

Norina startled as her eyes flew to Val.

"Who are you?"

"Did you just throw out a full milkshake? Those are expensive!"

"Did you touch anything?" Norina ran to the costume rack and ran her hands down the dress, probably looking for some kind of sabotage she wouldn't find, because Val was using more honest tactics than that. "No one should be in this room!"

Val rolled her eyes. "Calm down, princess, I didn't mess with your stuff. Seriously, though, why would you buy a milkshake just to throw it out? Was it for a picture? Did they sponsor you?" Val got up and picked the milkshake out of the trash to see if it could be salvaged. Cara would laugh at her for eating out of the trash, but come on. It was from Rainbow House!

"It was a gift," Norina said, grimacing as she watched Val. "It's very sweet of them, but I can't have dairy before a performance."

Val gave the milkshake a lick and frowned. It was almost bitter. "What flavor is this?"

"Chocolate, I assumed."

"That's boring. You should try their butter-rum milkshake, it's way better than this."

"I ... okay? Who are you, again?"

"I'm Val." Val stood and did a turn, letting Norina see the back of her sweatshirt. "I'm on The Kestrel Crew. We were gonna win this show, until you showed up."

"Okay ..." Norina said, looking unsure. "What are you doing here? No one were supposed to be in here."

"They should lock the doors if they didn't want people to come in," Val shrugged, and put her hands in her pockets, pretending not to be as awkward as she felt. "Anyway, I'm here to tell you to drop out of the show. It's not fair that you show up with your fame and your money and steal the show."

"That's not fair," Norina said. "I have just as much right to be here as anyone else."

"Do you, though? You don't even live here. You have a record deal and modeling jobs. I saw you in a hair dye ad on TV. People know who you are, and when you win, it won't be because you're good, it'll be because you're famous."

Val had expected Norina to be angry, or at least arrogant enough to not care, but instead, she looked almost hurt.

"I think you should leave," she said. "I need to do my makeup. Good luck on your performance."

"Yeah, whatever. We both know who will win," Val muttered and left.

*

The talent show had started, and Val was backstage, stretching as she waited for it to be their turn. On the other side of the room, Norina looked like a peacock in her shiny green and blue costume.

Coach Falkner had been surprisingly unbothered when Val told him she failed to get Norina to drop out, and Val wasn't sure if that was because he realized she had no chance to begin with, or because he was saving his fury for later. Probably the latter.

Cara dropped down next to Val and started working on her side splits, as if they weren't already perfect.

"Show-off," Val whispered.

Cara laughed and bent her foot up behind her head. 

"I can't believe she's still here," Cara whispered, glancing over at Norina. "She must be feeling terrible about now."

Val looked over to where Norina looked just fine. Nervous, maybe? Or guilty, as she should. But Val hadn't been that mean. "Why would she?"

"I gave her a milkshake on the way in," Cara explained. "Pretended to be a fan fawning over her. It was full of laxatives, and they should be kicking in at any moment now."

So that was why the milkshake had tasted funny. Val was feeling pretty miffed about not being let in on the plan. "I thought I was supposed to make her drop out."

Cara rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right, because we all thought that was gonna work. You were the distraction. We had to do something that would actually work."

"Well, she didn't drink it, so I guess we both failed."

"What do you mean she didn't drink it?" Cara actually looked kind of shocked.

"She doesn't drink dairy before she's gonna sing. Maybe she's lactose intolerant."

"Shit."

Cara got up to talk to Coach, and okay, yeah, that was the fury Val had expected. He wasn't shouting, not with so many people around, but Val could feel it radiating off him all the way to where she was sitting.

"What did he say?" Val asked when Cara returned, looking much less confident than she had been just a minute before.

Cara shrugged. "Something about a plan B?"

"What's plan B?"

"I don't know. I thought this was plan B."

When it was Norina's turn to perform, Val went to watch from the side of the stage. A hush went over the room as the lights adjusted, making Norina's dress sparkle like the ocean at night, and she began so sing.

"Tanto tempo fa, un uccello fatale di nome Chromaggia." 

She was just standing there at the front of the stage, and yet everyone in the audience was paying attention. Even backstage, a lot of the performers had come to listen. It wasn't the style of music Val would choose to listen to, but even she could admit, Norina's voice was impressive.

"Incrociò in volo la freccia di un arciere lungo le coste di lava."

"Crap." Cara came up beside Val. "She's good."

"Yeah."

"I was hoping she wouldn't sound like that live. There's no way she won't win."

"Yeah."

"Coach will be pissed."

"Yeah." Val turned to see what Coach Falkner thought of Norina's performance, but couldn't find him right away. Looking around, she found him by the rigging system, doing something Val couldn't see. She frowned, and gasped when she realized. Coach Falkner was loosening one of the ropes. Val followed the rope with her eyes. It led to the lighting rig right above Norina's head.

The lights moved, and Val had no time to think. She ran out on stage and pushed Norina to the ground, landing on top of her. A second later, she heard the rig fall to the ground.

There were screams, gasps, people rushing to the stage. Val paid them no mind. She grabbed Norina's thighs through her dress and followed her legs down to her feet.

"Oh, good," she said, feeling weirdly light-headed. "You're okay."

"Val, you--" Norina's voice was shaky, her eyes wide with shock. "Your legs--"

Val frowned in confusion, and turned to see what Norina was staring at. 

"Oh, shit." Both her feet were trapped under the rig, and there was blood. She hadn't felt it right away, too worried about Norina, but now, the pain crashed over her in one big wave. Like seasickness. She turned back and planted her face against Norina's stomach. "I don't feel good," she said, and passed out.

*

When Val was eight, she started taking dance lessons at Coach Falkner's studio, along with a few other kids at the orphanage she lived at. It was clear from the start that she had talent, but her attendance was spotty, since the orphanage workers didn't see it as a high priority to get her there on time. When she was ten, Coach took things into his own hands, and became her foster parent, and later, her adoptive dad.

He was her coach first, and her dad last, but still, he had been the only adult in her life that had really cared about her in some way. So when the cops showed up at the hospital to ask about what had happened, she hadn't known what to say. She lied and said she couldn't remember.

What would happen now? No one had visited Val in the hospital--at least not while she was awake--so she didn't know what was going on with the crew. Was Coach mad at her? How mad would he be? Would he let her come home when she was discharged from the hospital?

She had one broken ankle that had needed surgery, and a hairline fracture in the other. She wouldn't be able to walk for weeks, let alone dance. Even if Coach wasn't pissed about Val ruining his murder attempt, she would still be useless as a dancer. And honestly, even if she had been perfectly fine, would she want to go back, knowing what Coach was capable of? Did this change things? It wasn't like she had believed he was a good man, but ... murder was at another level.

She watched bad daytime TV while her mind ran in circles without getting anywhere. It didn't take long before she started to feel like she was going a little insane. Bad enough that no one was visiting her, but couldn't they at least have dropped off her phone?

A couple days in, she was finally, finally distracted from her thoughts by a knock on the door.

"Yes?" she said when the person waited for a reply. Maybe it was Cara? Probably not Coach, Coach wouldn't knock.

With a huge bouquet of flowers in her hands, Norina came into the room. No fancy costume this time, just her hair in braids and the kind of makeup that didn't look like makeup but probably was makeup.

"Hi," Norina said. She glanced around the empty room. With no flowers or cards or anything, it was clear she was the first to visit. "I wanted to thank you. You saved my life."

"Oh, um. I wasn't really thinking," Val said, feeling awkward. After all, she was on Coach's crew. Even if she hadn't known what he was going to do, she still felt weird being thanked. "I mean--not that I regret it. I just ... I didn't know he was going to do that."

Norina put the flowers on the bedside table and sat in the chair next to the bed. "It still doesn't feel real," she said. "I just ... I don't understand. Why would he do something like that?"

Val sighed. "I knew he was going to be mad when I couldn't make you drop out. But not like this."

"This was all to win the competition?" Norina's voice was small.

"Not even that." Val frowned. "Wait, we didn't win, right? What happened after I passed out?"

"No one won," Norina said. "They cancelled the rest of the show and called the police."

"Yeah. So if he did it to win, it was a shit plan."

"I suppose it was." Norina chewed on her lower lip. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

"Oh, this?" Val shrugged with a grin. "Barely a scratch."

"No, it isn't. You're a dancer. Getting hurt could mean the end of your career." Norina reached into the flower bouquet and took out a card that she handed to Val. "My parents want to thank you for what you did too. If you need anything, if there's anything we can do to help, give us a call."

Val opened the card to find a generic get well message and a phone number. "Anything?"

Norina gave her a suspicious look. "Within reason, but yes. Anything related to your recovery and to getting your career back on track."

That was incredibly generous. Val wasn't sure she trusted it. She pouted. "So no lifetime supply of milkshakes from Rainbow House?"

"Is that really what you want?"

"I told you, their butter-rum is really good."

Norina rolled her eyes and pulled the card from Val's hands, wrote something down, and gave it back. "Text me when you're out of the hospital, and I'll buy you a milkshake."

"Will you have one too?"

"We'll make it a day I'm not performing."

[countthelions]

prompts? hmmm ... a good little slow dancing snippet would be wonderful if you're up to it :]

(I ask this as I listen to my grillster playlist full of slow love songs)

borrowing some Hell-rasiers from @silverskye13, I was struck immediately by an idea for these two <3

Gaster never expected the damned thing to work.

He found it at the bottom of a canyon, lookin' all sad and mopey. Just like his fire did when the snow came blowing in all fierce. As it was doin now. Winter had come down with some sort of reckoning behind the flakes and left most of Deadwood stuck indoors, Grillby being stuck worst of the lot. Never in their years traveling together had he seen Grillby so stirred up an' ready to turn something to soot. For once, Gaster didn't like the sight of that smoke prowling around the room. So he dragged the pitiful thing back to the bar amongst all the logs for the other stuck townsfolk and placed it straight in the fire’s path. Grillby stared - glared - at it as Gaster patted all the snow off his duster.

“What’s that.” Grillby’s scowl hadn’t deterred him before and wouldn’t deter him here.

“It makes music.” Or it did, at some point or another.

“I know that. Why’s it in the bar?” He still looked offended by it. 

“Maybe I don’t want to lose my voice singing for you all the time.” Gaster waved off whatever expression Grillby’s flames turned into at that. Course he would sing until he was hoarse, and then sing a little past that point. But Gaster was too cold from trudging around Deadwood, wasn't up for arguing over anything so when Grillby opened his mouth again, he snapped, “do something with it at least. Turn it to charcoal if you want. Better than the bar top.” 

That settled that enough for the day. The little music player sat all hunched up and forlorn for only one more day, before the sound of flickering flames was joined by tinkering clicks of springs and bits and bobs. 

Nothing seemed to happen beyond that. Snow came and went, folks returned to the bar, flowers bloomed in the prairie grass. Gaster got back to ranch work and Grillby managed his bar. 

Then, one slow evening, music filled the stillness.

Gaster looked up in surprise. 

“What's this?” He watched Grillby move away from the music player, a satisfied twist in his flames. 

"I want you to stop darkening that corner of my bar." Grillby held his hand out towards him.

"You like me darkening the corner," Gaster countered the well-worn complaint with his own well-worn excuse. "It keeps the ilk riding through from doing it."

The invitation still stretched towards him. The music was a gently crooning thing, making the room go all soft and out of focus, like a memory drawn in pencil between the pages of his book. Gaster's bones found Grillby's fire on her next chorus. 

Hand in his. Hand on waist, his draped over his arm. 

It wasn't hard to match the music’s sway, not hard to match his partner’s neither. There was plenty of room to move around, dance however they wished, but Gaster was just fine with their slow spiral. He hummed along to the music, keeping them in time. Reminded him of another dance. 

“When was the last time we danced like this?” He asked.

“Hmm, Hillsboro Manor, the woman who had real gold in her wallpaper.” 

“Real gold, that’s right,” Gaster echoed with a laugh. “Almost forgot about her from that day. Too bad we couldn't steal some of that paper too.”

He got a snort of fire pops for that, then Grillby spun him out of their lazy circle, only their hands connected when extended out before he was yanked back in close.

“Remember how we got away?” Grillby asked, all grins of mischief. 

“Do not dip me-” Grillby dipped him anyways, hand warm and steady behind him, their faces too close to do anything but lose the gap to a kiss. Gaster hadn't then, too fulla nerves about all the stolen trinkets and their plan to do anything. He'd make up for that now. His hand pulled on Grillby's collar, getting him in close. He could taste the delighted surge of warmth at that choice, and chased it between his teeth for as much air as their breath had to offer.

Then, before Grillby could do what he did last time, Gaster looped his elbow around Grillby’s neck, and pulled them both to the floor. It was a loud, ungraceful fall, limbs going just about everywhere, making a right racket that’d startle anyone into thinking there was a fight coming. 

“Gaster!” The yell was punctuated by a punch to his side, but Gaster only had laughter to give in return, perched as he was now on his fire. He grinned down. Grillby glared back up at him, but it was all bluster for bein surprised. 

“Had to pay you back for last time, you see.” Gaster explained, sounding not even a little bit sorry and not moving no matter how Grillby shifted - settled - against the floor boards, finally accepting his fate.  

“C’mere then, make up for interrupting our dance,” Grillby growled, something playful behind the rumble that Gaster bent willingly to, ready to follow his fire. 

The music played on, gentle and slow.

[wouldntyoulichentoknow]

For the prompts, can I get SilMil Mars and Venus for 8? (Or any of the techicolor aliums because I love them.)

(+ bonus sketch of the immediate-before)

in the dead of night, Mars has a moment of weakness.