#I love the result so damn much oh my god bless you for drawing it!

[lil-grem-draws]

Will has a hard time believing that Elland has feelings for him, especially after crushing on the Hufflepuff for 2+ years. And if Will isn't willing to listen, Elland is taking the wheel 🧡💚 There are way too many scenarios in my head as to how they'd finally get together so I don't limit myself in AUs. I like Dark!William one; Yule Ball "going as friends"; adult AU with ministry official Will and Auror Elland tasked with protecting him; a bunch of modern AUs like spoiled brat Will and hit way too patient bodyguard Elland (sense the pattern); Spy Elland and his Q William... I'll never get tired of them.

Thank you @kallynnekmi for drawing this commission and @kiwiplaetzchen for enabling this whole thing 🥹💚

[waddingham]

not to just leave my fic brain worms out in the open like this for god and all to see but if anyone wants 900 words that are a direct result of whatever the fuck THIS is.........come and get it

He loves a team bus. Win or lose – or draw – it's an exceptional feeling, almost tangible, to be a part of something right alongside two dozen other people. There's no mistaking the sense of being so fully in the same boat with everyone else, feeling the same things and supporting each other in the reach for success, however it may come, whatever it may manifest as.

Today it was a light-hearted feeling – they'd won, spirits are high, Beard even higher and, well…

Somehow they got Rebecca today, blessing them all with her presence, her humor, her sweet voice. It had circled them in the back of the noisy bus and he couldn't help but nod along as he made an attempt on Sharon's advice, writing out his thoughts, his feelings, all the while marveling at the clarity of Rebecca's voice even as she slouched into the seat.

It was a long trip – for her especially, he thinks wryly, so it's no wonder at all that she's long asleep by the time they roll up to the dark club.

He does wonder a little at her choice of pillow. Has been ever since she slid back into the corner next to him, legs out long and head tipped onto his shoulder.

"Let's see how good a pillow you make, Coach," she'd muttered and by God, if he didn't make himself the best damn pillow this side of the Atlantic.

He hadn't moved chatting with Beard, or fiddling with his phone, or going over his notes again. And when the bus started to dim bit by bit, Beard passing out and Greyhounds falling asleep, he'd just tipped his head back, breathing in whatever lovely floral scent follows her around and letting all the safety and comfort around him relax his tired body.

He's safe here. He's content here, in these moments in the dark bus with his team, with Rebecca at his side, listening to the intermittent rain tap the roof. And he relishes each one, each moment, knowing the next may be bereft of this peace.

Beard snaps up as soon as the brakes hiss, looking dazed only for a moment as the boys start to nudge each other awake. He takes him in, then Rebecca, a grin spreading over his face.

"Should I wait up?" he asks as he stands, still in that ridiculous wig.

Ted shakes his head, waving him off as the bus starts to empty, then looks down at the blonde head on his shoulder.

Something like two hours ago, she'd wiggled against him, threading her arm under his, her hand flat against his forearm. He smiles down at it now, her fingertips resting on the heel of his hand. He curls his fingers, brushing them over the familiar soft pink color on her nails and his smile grows, his chest warm.

"Rebecca," he murmurs, squeezing her fingers more firmly. "Boss."

"Mm?" she grunts without moving and he almost chuckles.

"Home sweet home," he says, nudging her gently with his elbow. She sighs, squeezing his arm to her but still not moving to go.

"Unless you plan on spending the night in this bus," he says. "And let me tell you, if you're sore from your little swim earlier, sleeping on this probably ain't gonna do much for it."

She tilts her head on his shoulder just enough to shoot him a dirty look.

"Don't be a dick," she mutters. "It wasn't fucking marked as a bike lane."

"Mmhmm, 'course it wasn't," he says indulgently.

Her look gets dirtier.

He just chuckles, squeezing her fingers. "How'd I do as a pillow? I'm accepting feedback."

"Four stars," she says, lifting her head from his shoulder but not moving to rise.

"Four?" he says with an exaggerated frown.

"You lose a star for being too good," she says, rolling her head on her shoulders. "I didn't mean to sleep for so long."

"Oh," he chuckles. "Well, I'll take that."

She sighs again, taking in the fact that they're the last on the bus before turning to him, tipping her head against the seat. She gives him a small smile, almost clandestine, eyes full of the same contentment he's been filling his reserves with.

Her voice is hushed when she speaks. "Were you just gonna let us get locked in here or…?"

He snorts a little bit. "We got at least two more minutes before the boys sort out their bags and Ricky always checks before he gets the bus to the garage."

"Mmm," she hums, looking down at their hands for a long moment. Her fingers curl experimentally against the tender skin inside his wrist, sending tingles up his arm before carefully releasing him to sit up. "Thanks for letting me sleep on you."

"Oh, anytime," he says, meaning it entirely even as he rolls his stiff shoulder in its socket. He stands, lifting his backpack from the floor and over his shoulder before stepping around the tiny table, holding a hand out to her.

She smiles up at him as she slides her hand into his.

"You know what, Coach Lasso," she says as she rises, twinkling just a little bit. "I just might take you up on it."

He gasps dramatically.

"After all the fight you put up about joining us on the bus–"

She rolls her eyes, still grinning as she pulls him down the aisle, "Come on."

"Oh, but riding on the bus was gonna be such a long trip, such a nuisance–"

"Shut it."

"You can't tell me you had fun–"

He giggles when she pulls up short before the step down, releasing his hand to point a finger at him.

"I hate the bus."

He grins at her. "You're a terrible liar."

She huffs, but it does little to counteract her smile as she steps off the bus.

He lingers for a moment, his fingers still warm from being tangled up with hers. He closes his fist, trying to hold onto it as he follows her back down to solid ground.

[trek-tracks]

What generic wisdom and/or life advice do you have? Here's an acorn for your trouble: 🌰

Oh, goodness! Talk about an intimidating ask.

When I think about existence, two quotations always come to my mind from authors who have been important to me at various stages of my life.

The first, from Kurt Vonnegut's God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater:

Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies — "God damn it, you've got to be kind."

The second, the last line from Robertson Davies' final novel, The Cunning Man:

“This is the Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free, but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Goodnight.”

These are two thoughts by which I've tried to lead my life.

The first lesson is kindness.

As an educator and person in a certain position of power over people's learning journeys, I'd like to say that kindness costs me nothing. That's not true. Kindness costs me late nights, extra review sessions, letting people hand in assignments in ways that are detrimental to my own time and stress. Connecting with so many people on a daily basis can be emotionally exhausting.

If there's one thing I have worked on more and more in my life (and need to continue to work on), it's walking the fine line between being kind and being taken advantage of.

However, I operate from the following perspective:

Everyone is having a difficult time, and there are things in other people's lives that are not "dreamt of in my philosophy," so to speak.

This perspective makes my life richer. I have never understood people who rigidly stick to a "one size fits all" mindset. I listen to people. I prioritize the person over the dropbox deadline. I say nice things to my family, my friends, my colleagues, my students, when I can. I practice grace in most things.

This also means that, when I do draw a boundary (for example, in my work as a professor, I do not tolerate plagiarism once I have very clearly taught what it entails), people can see that there is a clear difference between my usual practice of grace, and my ethical framework. It also means that people are more likely to extend me grace in return. I need it. We all do.

The second lesson is passion.

This is the Great Theatre of Life. We don't get to choose much about it, but we do get to shape the show.

I was talking to a former student the other evening, after I came across him in the lobby after my Lord of the Rings performance. He said to me that I was one of the few faculty he'd had that wasn't cynical or jaded yet, which is why he'd enjoyed my class.

The funny thing is, that's not entirely true.

In many ways, I'm very cynical. A fellow faculty member once said of me, in an approving tone, that I was "impressively jaded for one so young." Look. I'm Jewish. I'm bi. I'm disabled (in the chronic often invisible illness way). I know what the world can dish out, and I can kvetch with the best of them. But that's mostly because I want to believe we can do better. In any case, I can only control myself. I can do better.

First, I want everyone I teach to know that reading, writing, critical thinking, loving language, loving literature and theatre, are all things they can do, even if those gates have seemed barred. Opening these gates together can help them. I like to break things down as clearly and succinctly as possible. I don't expect people to show enthusiasm for something if I'm not showing it myself. Do I sometimes get super-mega-frustrated with the results I'm getting? Of course. There are parts of my job and my life that suck. Do I throw myself into things head-first with enthusiasm anyway? Always.

I do the things I love. I see tons of theatre. I make theatre. I sing (even if you "can't" sing, find time to do it anyway). I tell stories. I spend time with friends. If I have a choice to go to the thing or stay home, I go to the thing. I support my friends. I make people LAUGH, because I love that more than anything. I curl these things around me like a warm cat on a lap. And I try not to get jaded by the offerings around me, no matter how many shows I go to or how many papers I read. (I don't always succeed.) Can you imagine, though, how amazing it is to have a life where you're in danger of getting jaded simply by the sheer amount of art on offer?

Four years ago, a student came to me after the second week of my rhetorical analysis class. She told me that she had dropped the course with other faculty twice because she was intimidated by it. We were talking about one of the course readings for the week, which was a 35-year-old essay by a now-dead white man (everything she was not) with very strong opinions on the need to properly state your ideas in exactly the correct words to prove you were thinking.

She said, about the reading, “I didn’t understand it when I read it and thought I was stupid. But then, when you said it might not have been written with me in mind, I felt better. And then, when you broke it down and I understood it, I liked how much I liked that feeling.” Then she said something that made me cry in my office: “Things happen for a reason. I had to drop that class twice so I could meet you.”

She came to office hour after office hour. We spent time working on her writing and discussing what her particular frame of reference brought to her understanding of each week's readings.

She had dropped the course twice because she "couldn't do it."

She left with an A.

She left with a new sense of agency over her own experience of the wonder of the world.

What does it cost to be kind, and to love things?

What do we gain?

This is the Great Theatre of Life. All we can do is put on a show of kindness, watching with wonder before we depart.

[honey-dewey]

Somewhere That’s Green

Pairing: Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels/Reader

Word Count: 3,220

Warnings: None

Jack’s always known his girlfriend was big in musical theater. He’s heard her practice, listened to her sing, and driven her to the theater more than once. But this is his first show of hers, and boy is he in for a shock. Between the on-stage kissing and the death of his girlfriend’s character, Jack Daniels has never been so invested in musical theater. 

“And you’re sure you’re okay with missing work?” You asked, picking up your coat from Jack’s coat hook. “It’s a long show.” 

Jack smiled, grabbing your waist and pulling you close to him. “Darlin’ I wouldn’t miss this show for anything. I’ve been waiting two months to see this play.” 

You grinned, kissing him slowly, almost teasing. “Just promise not to murder my costars, okay?” 

“And just why would I be murdering your coworkers?” Jack asked, keeping his arm around your waist as he walked you out to the parking lot. 

Stepping into the parking lot and following the familiar trail to Jack’s car, you took a breath. “The show gets kinda dark. My character is abused by her sadistic boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You could hear Jack’s jaw tightening, hesitation filling your chest as you thought over inviting him to the show. Again. 

“Babe,” you said softly, trying to console him. “If you want, I can introduce you to my co-star Alex who plays the character. He’s a sweetheart, I promise. Wouldn’t hurt a fly and y’know how Stevie is my best friend? Well, Alex is like the cool big brother I never had. He’d never even think about touching me. And he knows I’m totally off limits. Stevie does too.” 

“Stevie’s the one who’s playing your nice fictional boyfriend?” Jack asked, opening the Bronco’s door and helping you up. 

You laughed. “Yes. Stevie is the one who gets to kiss me on stage and his character isn’t a huge dick. Alex is my first fictional boyfriend, and Stevie and I get together halfway through the show. He gets to kiss me.” 

Jack’s eyes darkened behind his sunglasses. “Does Alex kiss you?” 

Reaching across the center console, you took Jack’s hand. “No. Alex does not get to kiss me.” 

As Jack drove to the theater, you mulled over this decision. Since dating Jack, you’d done three musicals, but this one was your biggest and proudest role, as you’d finally managed to get the female lead in a musical after countless ensemble roles and smaller name characters. 

“And what’s the show called again?” Jack asked, squeezing your hand. 

You smiled, lifting his hand and pressing lazy kisses into his knuckles. “Little Shop of Horrors.” 

Jack hummed, his face scrunching as he thought. “Ain’t that that movie with the crazed talking plant?” 

“It was adapted from a musical,” you explained. “And then they redid the movie in the early 2000’s and put it back on Broadway.” 

“Ah.” Jack turned to look at you as you pulled up to a red light. “I’m sure you’ll kill it. You got the voice of an angel.” 

You smiled to yourself, the fate of your character entirely unknown to Jack. “I know I’ll kill it.” 

Upon reaching the theater, you hopped out of the Bronco, looking at Jack. “Wanna meet Alex and Stevie? I think Yvette and Eva are here too, and I know for a fact Amber’s been here for an hour, at least.”

Jack shrugged. “Why not. I’ll go park, you go get your friends.” 

You eagerly headed into the theater, practically jogging around as you looked for your costars. 

“Eva!” You shouted happily, hugging Eva and seeing Amber around the corner. “Is Yvette here?” 

“Nah,” Eva said, gesturing to the empty dressing room she shared with Yvette and Amber. “You know she always gets here at the last damn minute.” 

“And she’s somehow always ready to go first,” Stevie said behind you, causing you to laugh and spin around to hug him. “Heya Auds!” He used the nickname he’d given you based on your character, causing you to punch him lightly. 

“I want y’all to meet someone,” you said, walking towards the entrance, where you knew Jack was waiting. “Jack’s finally coming to see the show.” 

“Ooooo,” Amber said, coming out of the costume closet. “We finally get to meet the mystery man!” 

You waved them off, looking around for your final costar. “Where’s Alex? He didn’t call in tonight, did he?” 

“Of course not,” Eva scoffed, drawing her coat closer around her. “He doesn’t call in unless he’s like, bleeding out.” 

Laughing, you pushed open the door, seeing Jack leaning against the Bronco. “Jack!” 

Jack drew closer, smiling and looking at your friends. “Alright. Who’s who?” 

You introduced everyone, the chatter flowing easily until someone came up behind you, lifting you off your feet with a happy growl. “There’s my girl!” 

“Alex!” You squealed, squirming and laughing. “Alex you absolute fuck! Put me down before Jack murders you!” 

Alex put you down, grinning and holding out a hand to a very shocked Jack. “So you’re the mystery man our darling has been swooning over for the past three years. Nice to meet you.” 

Jack shook his hand. “Their darling?” He asked you as you stood by his side. 

“That’s what they always call the female lead,” you explained, tucking yourself under Jack’s arm. “Alex, Jack has promised not to kill you upon seeing the show, which is a damn relief because I don’t think we can do next year’s show without you.” 

“What’s next year's show?” Jack asked, looking at you. 

You shrugged. “I heard from the director that they were seriously considering School of Rock.” 

Alex whistled. “Auds, that’s been a rumor for years now. They aren’t gonna do it.” 

“Okay Dewey,” you said jokingly, reaching out to give Alex a light punch. “You wanna talk about people who were born to play certain roles? Alex is a spitting image of Broadway’s Dewey Finn,” you explained to Jack, who had gotten very lost very fast. “We’re all just waiting.” 

“Oh, so you wanna talk about that, huh?” Stevie said, raising an eyebrow. “I swear that voice of yours is identical to Audrey’s.” 

You flushed, checking your watch and looking up. “An hour,” you explained, extracting yourself from under Jack’s arm and heading back to the theater’s entrance. “I’ll see you after babe!” 

Jack grabbed your hand, kissing you deeply and nipping ever so slightly at your earlobe as he murmured a teasing “break a leg darling,” into your ear. 

“I like him,” Alex said, coming up behind you and smiling. “He’s good for you.” 

You rolled your eyes, grabbing Alex’s white jacket out of the costume closet and handing it to him. “Go get dressed, dork. We can talk about my boyfriend later.” 

Alex shrugged. “Just saying. You have my blessing.” 

“I don’t need your blessing!” You called after him, seeing him disappear into his dressing room. “And where’s Jake?�� 

“Where he always is!” 

You sighed, heading to your own dressing room and sitting down, beginning the long yet calming process of caking your face in stage makeup. It took forever and made your face feel heavy, but the results were worth it. 

Eventually, by the half hour call, you were ready, having pretty much cemented your hair into beautifully picturesque curls and shimmied into the tight cheetah print dress that barely covered the tops of your thighs. Thank god you were able to wear tights. 

You tossed a fluffy cream colored faux fur cropped jacket overtop your dress and adjusted your black heels. With your makeup and your sufficiently warmed up voice, you were entirely ready for the night. 

Picking up a picture frame, you gave the glossy photo of Jack a kiss, slipping a worn out penny he’d given you when he’d first heard you did theater into your bra. It was a symbol of luck, and the magic would hopefully continue into tonight. 

“Knock knock,” Alex said, knocking on your doorframe. “How’s the princess?” 

“Good,” you said, raising your voice to get the perfect breathy innocence that was needed for the role. “How much time?” 

Alex checked his watch. “Ten. I think the girls are on stage already, and Jake’s having his fun on the beams. Are you sure you’re ready?” 

“Just nervous,” you mumbled, fiddling with the sleeve of your jacket. “I dunno what Jack’ll think.” 

“Does he know the ending?”

“No.” 

Alex whistled in a breath. “Damn. Ten bucks says he cries.” 

You scoffed, slipping past Alex and smiling, your heels clicking on the worn out flooring. “Twenty!” 

The opening of the show, as was the rest of it by now, was a familiar chaos to you. The fanfare that signaled the beginning spurred you and Alex to your places, tucked just outside of view but still able to see the show. 

The ensemble and the girls rushed past, filling the stage and giving life to the purposefully worn down set. You craned yourself neck, heart swelling when you saw Jack, his hat off, sitting in the front row. 

“Front row, fifth seat in, stage left,” you whispered to Alex, who nodded, spotting your boyfriend as well. 

Stevie joined you at that moment, grinning as Alex told him where Jack was sitting. “He got a good seat, huh?” He said with a wink, sliding past you to take his place on stage. 

As the second song started up, you adjusted yourself, tugging on your dress and asking Alex for help with your mic. 

“Break a leg,” he said, watching you rush behind the set to the section that was your fake apartment. 

At the cue, you opened the door, slipping out and beginning to sing. It was easy to lose yourself in the role now that everyone else was singing too. Stevie came out, singing his part as you sat weaved in and out of the ensemble members, climbing up a ladder to a fire escape on one of the building fronts. Leaning on the railing, you sang along with Stevie, spotting Jack beyond the stage lights and grinning as you finished out the song. 

The next four songs went smoothly. You left the stage after the next one, when Stevie got his first solo song. Standing next to Alex, you checked your phone. 

Jack: You’re amazing doll. Love the dress.

You smiled, slipping your phone back into your pocket. Stevie was, as usual, doing great on stage. Everything was running perfectly. 

While the songs you weren’t really in ran in the background, you helped prepare the other sets. The apartment set you were about to use was ready to go by the time your first big song was about to start, and you walked back out on stage, reciting lines you’d memorized months ago. As the set turned, revealing the inside of the apartment, you began to sing. 

The song was a nice one. Maybe a bit of strain on your voice as you pitched it upwards, but otherwise easy to sing. You poured a certain mournfulness into it, taking your jacket off and hanging it on the coat hook. 

Every so often, you’d see Jack out of the corner of your eye, grinning like a lovesick fool at you. When the stage rotated again, showing you leaning out the small balcony, singing about your character’s dreams for a brighter future, you watched Jack carefully. His eyes never left you, winking when he realized you were watching him. 

The song ended, the audience clapping as you slipped out, grabbing your coat on the way. 

One quick change and bit of makeup adjusting later, you were cycling through another song. Nerves began to bundle in your stomach as the introduction of Alex’s character drew closer. You always drew a few gasps when he roughed you up, but it never made you this nervous. 

Thankfully, it was a short scene, as the focus shifted to the introduction. His touch was always professional and careful, never actually harming you. You slipped off stage as his character began his song, settling down on a beat up old couch and loosening your shoes. You didn’t have to be on stage for a while, so you half listened to Alex and half focused on checking your phone. No texts from Jack. 

“Hey hon.” Alex flopped onto the couch next to you, shocking you a bit. “C’mon.” 

You quickly tighten your shoes, standing and taking Alex’s hand as he tugged you towards the stage for another small scene that you knew would make Jack’s jaw clench. 

The scene was, yet again, not harmful. You moved in perfect tandem with Alex so neither of you got hurt, stumbling a bit as you walked off stage after only two minutes. 

“You okay?” Alex asked, steadying you and checking your wrists where he’d grabbed you. 

“Yep.” 

“Everything good up in here?” He asked, knocking gently on your temple. 

You smiled. “Haven’t been this nervous about a show in, gosh I don’t even know.” 

“You’re doing amazing,” Alex promised, pulling you into a hug. “I’m sure he’d love it even if it all went to shit.” 

You nodded, tightly hugging Alex back. “Yeah. He would.” 

You two got ready for your final scene together, the one where he ‘hit’ you. The slap had been practiced until it was instinct, until it was a guarantee Alex’s hand would never even touch your face. 

Watching the stage and slowly moving behind the set pieces, you bopped a bit to the song, looking up and seeing Jake having the absolute time of his life above your head, singing for the plant. 

“Ready?” Alex asked, squeezing your hand. 

You nodded, hearing the cue and starting your nervous babbling conversation with a shouting Alex, stumbling through the door and smiling at Stevie. “Hey Seymour! I left my sweater here before.” 

Immediately, Alex followed you, still shouting. You couldn’t see Jack’s reaction when he called you a slut, or when he slapped you, your pitiful voice breaking as you and Alex headed off stage.

As soon as you were out of sight, Alex hugged you, murmuring the apology he always gave after that scene and heading off to act his death. 

It was a favorite scene of yours, and you watched as Alex ‘died,’ unable to leave the scene until the lights went dark and he hurried off, Stevie taking a bag of fake limbs and grinning to you as the lights rose and he headed back out. 

During intermission, you left the couch, allowing the girls to collapse into the frankly disgusting crease. Instead, you curled up in the oddest place that shouldn’t have been comfortable, the antique dentist’s chair from Alex’s scenes. 

Which was where he found you, settled into the leather and adjusting your makeup. You were humming along to some music playing out your phone, carefully wiping away your black eye and touching up your foundation. “Good job. You absolutely murdered it.” 

Alex smiled. “Thank you. Still nervous?”

“Nah.” You closed your makeup bag, spinning the chair lazily. “No more than usual now.” 

You two just hung out, as usual, until the signaling music began to play. You shook yourself out, standing and smiling. “Halfway there!” 

Alex laughed and took your place, grabbing a book. 

You were significantly more involved in the second act, breezing through the first few songs, feeling an uncomfortable tingle of guilt in your stomach as you and Stevie kissed during the second song. It was an emotional scene that was immediately followed up by a murder. Not your murder. You weren’t set to die until later. 

Of course, your next big scene was your death. You ran over the process in your head, just in case. Stevie would throw you into the giant plant puppet, and you’d slide past Jordan, who was the puppeteer inside, and out through a hole so you didn’t have to sit inside the cramped puppet. 

However, you had to die first in probably the most heart wrenching scene in the play. 

You walked out as Stevie walked in, alone on the stage aside from the plant. Sitting on the couch in your fake apartment, you began to sing, wandering over to the florist’s shop set and talking to Jake, who was still sitting above your head. 

And then it all went to shit. 

Jordan, inside the puppet, grabbed you with a vine, tugging you close as the song finished out, and you fake struggled as he pretended to eat you, the voice and the body working in perfect tandem as you got deep enough and struggled enough to open a buttoned up tear in your dress, smearing fake blood all over and making it truly seem like you’d been bitten, all without the audience knowing. 

Stevie pulled you out, revealing the wound to the audience. He carefully set you down, going through the musical motions as you poured everything you had left into your final few minutes on stage. Your voice broke, the gentleness fading slowly as you did your best to imitate someone who was dying, actually starting to cry with your last line. 

When the music swelled, Stevie wiped your tears and lifted you, slowly and gently placing you in the plant puppet and allowing Jordan to grab you and pull you in, helping you down and out the other side. Immediately, Alex helped you up, handing you a change of clothes and a pack of wet wipes. It was easy to remove the blood and toss the stained dress into the wash as soon as it was off. By the time the last plot important song was over, you were completely ready for the finale. 

You were unable to spot Jack as you and Alex walked out together, singing one final time for the night and taking your bows. It was a giant group number, everyone happy and very much not dead. Jake came down, singing and throwing an arm over you and over Stevie, dragging you two forward to take the first bow. 

Amidst the clapping and the people leaving and the actors heading off stage, you didn’t see Jack until he met you and Alex at the Bronco. 

He scooped you up, laughing and firmly kissing you. “Holy shit babe! You couldn’t’ve told me that would happen at the end?” 

You laughed, wiping tears off Jack’s face. “Alex! He’s crying!” 

“Well fuck.” Alex leaned against the car, smiling. “Guess I owe you.” 

Jack put you down, still holding you tight. “Y’all did good. I almost got up to smack you halfway through the show.” 

You rolled your eyes, squeezing Jack’s hand. “I’m exhausted.” 

“Alright,” Jack said, opening the Bronco’s door and helping you up. “Pleasure to meet you Alex.” 

“Same,” Alex said, stepping back. “You be good to our girl, you hear?” 

Jack snorted. “I will.” 

The drive home was quiet. Now that the adrenaline of the show was gone, you felt limp, every part of your body in pain. Jack, the ever sweet and loving boyfriend, carried you inside, setting you down on the bathroom counter and grabbing your makeup wipes for you. 

“Anything else?” He asked once you were done, cuddled up in your favorite pyjamas. 

“Well,” you hummed, getting down and heading over to the bed. “I seem to be missing my boyfriend. C’mere.” 

Jack, now eager, took his shirt off and crawled into the bed next to you, pulling you close. “You were amazing tonight, truly.” 

“Thank you,” you murmured, already falling asleep. 

“You’re welcome.” Jack shuffled so you’d be more comfortable, stroking softly up and down your back as you fell asleep properly, safe with the knowledge that Jack’s first musical theater experience had been a good one.

[rusty-tetanus-nail]

Never Look Away

Summary: Dean and Cas are forced to redefine their relationship as a decade old secret between them finally comes to light.

Dean jumps up, strangely offended.

“Okay, first of all, you’ve seen my browser history. Your true form doesn’t even make my top 10 weirdest things I’ve jerked off to, so that's a load of bull..."

Notes: This is the result of listening to Never Look Away by Vienna Teng for 10 hours gay.

-------

Careful not to wake him, Dean traces the outlines of Cas’s body illuminated by the reddish hues of the morning sun with his fingers. He can hardly believe it’s only been a year since they defeated God and pulled Cas out of the Empty with the promise of a love returned. 

So much has changed in such little time. With the illusion of free will no longer binding Dean to a greater destiny and with Cas and Dean’s own feelings out in the open he finally allowed himself to want all the things he denied himself for so long, always prioritizing other people’s happiness over his own. Now he has it all. A house, a job, a family, a life, Cas. It was so hard at first, to stop looking for hunts and letting go of Sam so he too could start his own life with Eileen by his side, but in the end Dean had been too tired to fight his own desires any longer and gave in.

Fuck the voice of his father telling him his only purpose in life was to watch out for Sammy and fuck the man John wanted him to be. He helped save this world so he gets to live in it in whatever way he wants to and what he wants is to live his cheesy apple pie life waking up every day next to the man he loves.

Cas stirs in his sleep and Dean watches the translucent wings flutter against the light seemingly drinking up the morning sun. They used to be pitch black back when they first met. A beautiful sight, yet not quite fitting the man Cas would eventually become.

Then they burned and Dean could barely stomach to look at them knowing how much the culmination of all of Dean’s mistakes had hurt Cas so irreparably. And now the wings are whole again and even more awe-inspiring than before. Something about Dean rescuing Cas from the Empty or maybe a blessing from Jack has restored them leaving Dean with the desperate urge to touch the intangible. Watching one of the smaller eyes on Cas’ wings slowly flutter open Dean wonders if it would be rude to ask about the colour change and chuckles. The way the wings shimmer with all the colours of the rainbow is just so wonderfully, blatantly gay.

“What’s so funny?” Cas mumbles half asleep as a couple more eyes flutter open searching for the source of Dean’s amusement.

Dean leans over, one hand caressing Cas’ jaw and kisses him softly good morning.

“I just love you so damn much.” He whispers only inches away from his husband’s mouth and rests his forehead against Cas’.

Cas moves back to study Dean’s face questioningly. The familiar stare is so much more intense now that Dean can take all of Cas in without suffering through the burning sensation that always accompanied laying his eyes on something filled with angelic grace. 

Dean swallows hard. Having all of Cas’ eyes so solely focussed on him and him alone is such a major turn on. He must be doing it on purpose. It’s unfair how such a simple action has so much of an effect on Dean.

“I don’t understand how that’s funny.” Cas says, one eyebrow raised.

“Then come and find out.”

Dean’s mind is already too far gone to care for the conversation and he pulls Cas closer by his shirt desperate to embrace the parts of Cas that he can actually touch. Now fully awake, Cas reciprocates the action enthusiastically pressing their lips together earnestly and climbing on top of Dean to explore his body with his hands and mouth. Not for the first time Dean curses his past self for not allowing himself to be loved by Cas years ago. There’s so much time they have yet to make up for. Luckily they’re both more than willing to try.

Dean’s musings are cut short when Cas’ attentions move downward as Dean’s legs get pushed apart and Cas presses against Dean’s growing erection. 

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean groans and sees new galaxies forming inside Cas’ body. Always good to know that Cas enjoys this as much as Dean does.

The prodding stops and Dean lets out an embarrassing whine.

“Not yet.” Cas teases with a grin, all of his eyes’ attention once again on Dean alone. The bastard. Dean has half the mind to hit him upwards with his knee in retaliation, but soon gets distracted by Cas intertwining his hands with Dean’s and leaning down slowly to kiss the sensitive spot on Dean’s neck. He gasps and moves his neck so Cas can take him apart much easier.

In their closeness Cas’ celestial body engulfs Dean in his entirety and he is left again, breathless, by the unfathomable sight of his lover’s true form. Stars and skies in colours not named by men expand and swirl inside the translutient depths of the oceans and galaxies that make up the angels body as the golden halos’ luminescence submerges them both in it’s light. Dean would lose himself in the sight if it weren’t for the thousands of eyes, holding the knowledge of millenia, watching him unblinkingly in a way that is so Cas, so human, that Dean can’t see anything else but his stupid socially awkward self-sacrificing husband.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Dean blurts out, giving voice to his thoughts.

Cas flinches away as if burned, his true form doing much the same. He wavers back against the bedroom wall as far away as possible from his vessel and curls in on himself. At least Dean assumes that’s what Cas is trying to do. Cas' true form, once taller than any skyscraper, has shrunk significantly with the absence of grace powering him up, but is still far too large to fit completely inside a house let alone a room.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks sitting up.

Cas turns away, his eyes fluttering across the room looking for an escape. Dean gingerly places a hand on Cas’ shoulder and is relieved when he’s not pushed away.

“Hey, Cas, buddy. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I know it’s weird coming from me, but let’s not do this again. No more unnecessary secrets. Please.”

Cas takes Dean’s hand into his and nods. One slow measured breath and he starts talking.

“Dean, I- I know you can’t help seeing me this way, but I dislike it when you comment on my appearance.”

Cas’ vessel is still turned away, but out of the corner of his eyes Dean can see Cas, the real Cas, watching his reaction with interest.

“Well, uh, okay, if it makes you uncomfortable I can stop.” Dean starts awkwardly. “But let me assure you there is absolutely no reason for you to feel insecure about the way you look, you’re-” Dean trails off. You’re mind blowingly gorgeous and sometimes your beauty is so overwhelming that I’m scared I’ll cry if I look too closely.

At Dean's words, Cas finally turns to face him.

“I’m not ‘insecure’, Dean.” Cas bites out emphasizing his irritation with air quotes. “In fact my true form is counted as one of the most attractive among my brethren.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. No argument there. Cas is by far the prettiest angel he’s ever seen.

“And I am well aware that you find my vessel visually pleasing, but Dean, what you’re complimenting is not me. It’s Jimmy Novak.”

“Uh, Jimmy’s a good looking guy for sure, but the one who’s beautiful is definitely you.”

Instead of being reassured by Dean’s words Cas just sighs resignated.

“It’s kind of you to refer to my inner beauty, but we both know this is not what you meant. You see Jimmy’s face and call it beautiful. I don’t begrudge you for this but don’t like being confused with him.”

Oh Cas definitely has insecurities. How can he even think Jimmy fucking Novak is anywhere near as attractive as Cas himself?

“No, I meant exactly what I said. You, the you you, are fucking hot.”

Cas’ frowns, unhappy with Dean’s reply.

“It’s okay. I understand. It’s hard to keep Jimmy’s body and I seperate. There’s no need for you to backtrack to make me feel better. Let’s just stop arguing about this.”

“Oh no Jon Snow. Not so fast. Let me put this in terms even you and your insecure ass will understand.”

Dean takes Cas’ face into his hands and stares deeply into his eyes. The staring is a habit from back when Cas was still fully juiced up. With the angel grace making it near impossible to look at Cas’ true form without feeling like his eyes were on fire, the vessel's eyes were the only place Dean’s own could safely escape to.

“Your true form is incredibly attractive. Very sexy. Wings and all. If I could hit that, I would. Inner beauty not required.” He speaks slowly as if to a child. Apparently it was the wrong thing to do as Cas slaps Dean’s hands away unable to suppress his irritation any longer.

“Dean, you’ve never seen my true form and I can assure you if you had, its inhuman nature would stop you from ‘hitting that’.”

Dean jumps up, strangely offended.

“Okay, first of all, you’ve seen my browser history. Your true form doesn’t even make my top 10 weirdest things I’ve jerked off to, so that’s a load of bull and second of all…”

Dean grows quiet. What does Cas mean with Dean’s never seen his true form before? Wasn’t the ability to see angels part of being the Michael Sword or something? How could Cas not know? And even if he didn’t, they’ve known each other for over ten years. It must’ve come up at some point. 

Dean rifles through his memories desperate to find the right one, but draws a blank and visibly blanches. 

Cas had no reason to believe Dean could see him. Back when they first met, Cas made some assumptions and Dean didn’t correct him, not trusting the self proclaimed angel an inch. And then it’s always been the vessel Dean’s been talking to, never the one puppeteering it. At first out simple necessity, then out of pure habit. 

Determined to rectify their decade old misunderstanding Dean makes his way through the bedroom and sits down right in front of what Dean assumes must be the angel equivalent of Cas’ face or maybe his hand. Either way the body part has enough eyes to have an honest conversation with and has been observing Dean and the vessel talk this whole time. 

This is Cas. The real Cas. And it’s high time for Dean to stop averting his eyes.

Cas squirms under his stare.

“Dean, childishly staring at an empty wall won’t solve this.” Cas argues from behind Dean and Dean has to suppress the urge to turn around. The voice might be coming from the vessel, but the one talking is the angel in front of him.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Dean says, looking directly into one of Cas’ bigger eyes. Cas freezes momentarily at the direct eye contact and then his eyes swirl around frantically trying to find whatever it is that Dean’s looking at. Dean's stomach tightens. It hasn’t been fair to make Cas feel as if he’s invisible just because it’s easier for his stupid human brain to talk to the vessel.

Dean reaches out attempting to touch the nervously fluttering wing next to him, but as expected his hand moves right through it. He smiles sadly.

“I’m sorry, Cas. It seems there’s something I’ve neglected to tell you. I thought you knew, but that’s not an excuse.” Dean pauses. “I’ve always been able to see you.”

There’s a storm brewing inside Cas, a tension. One wrong move and a star could explode setting off a supernova that is held at bay by nothing but a shimmering skin made of light and colours. His husband is nervous at the possibility of being seen, Dean realises and has no choice but to confirm Cas’ worry.

“When you were still full of grace I couldn’t look directly at you without fearing for my eyes, so I got used to looking at your vessel instead, but I’ve always known and seen the real you.”

Ever since Dean could remember gigantic and intangible creatures taller than skyscrapers with wings that could pierce the heavens have been watching him from a distance, their countless eyes following his every move. Scary, yet unimaginably beautiful. As a child Dean would try to describe them and ask what they were, but apart from his mom there was never anyone trying to hear him out.

“Children and their imagination.” Adults would say and ruffle his hair whenever he tried to ask about them and by the time he was four he realised that he’s the only one who could see them.

Then his mom died and all his questions and curiosity were left behind in the ruins of their broken home. Dean learned quickly that John had no use for children and their imaginary friends. He needed to grow up and become a soldier for his family’s sake. So he followed the orders, and pretended not to see these watchers following him around.

Later, when Dean was a teen and John was gone most of the time, Sam often dragged him to libraries and Dean would do his own research on the creatures in secret, too scared to ask anyone for help. John made it pretty clear he didn’t want Dean talking about them and Dean feared that if he told someone and didn’t have proof of their existence Dean would be sent off to a mental ward for seeing things that were simply not there. In the end it took dying and coming back to life to find his answers.

Despite having seen these creatures all of his life, when they summoned the one named Castiel, Dean needed a moment to figure out what he was seeing. He’s never been this close to any of them and the proximity was overwhelming. Dean was suddenly acutely aware just how Pamela's eyes could've been burned out so easily by the creature's visage.

In an attempt not to suffer the same fate as her, Dean averted his eyes and spotted a man entering the barn, his body connected with small tendrils to the large creature around him. A puppet, Dean thought, one he could touch and subsequently kill, so without another moment's hesitation Dean took the first shot. And then the second, a third. Neither the puppet nor the creature were faced by his attempts to fight, merely curious. As if Dean was nothing more but an ant trying to fight a giant.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The puppet finally said, inhuman in everything but his appearance and so Dean stabbed him as a thanks for the introduction. Next thing he knew, Bobby was down and the guy began claiming to be an angel.

“There’s no such thing.” Dean said, but the voice of his mother telling him that angels were watching over him thought differently.

The man’s body straightened and the creature, Castiel, stood up, his form ending far beyond the barn’s roof and he spread his wings. Bolts of lighting exploded into an array of mesmerizing fireworks and Dean was left breathless before the angel. His terrifying beauty nesting deep inside Dean’s heart and he knew he was lost.

“No, you must be lying.” Cas says as his body trembles under Dean’s stare.

“I’m not.” Dean replies, leaving no room for debate and moves closer to Cas, who seems to be trying to escape through the bedroom wall. “So believe me when I say that you’re fucking beautiful and only thinking about you watching me with your many many eyes is enough to make me hard.”

Cas sputters incoherently and his body changes colours rapidly, eventually settling on a pinkish sort of hue. Oh. That’s new. Dean grins.

“Cas, Huggybear, are you blushing?” Dean teases, taking immense amusement in this new discovery. Cas swirls him around in an attempt to make Dean look at his vessel again, but with a true form as big as Cas’ it’s not hard to find a new part of Cas’ body to focus his attention on.

“No.” Cas growls defensively. “Stop looking.”

“Make me.” The reply is a bit cliché but Dean isn’t trying to win an Oscar. He’d much rather film a porn instead.

In the blink of an eye Dean is encased possessively in Cas’s wings and pushed onto the bed with urgency. Fuck yes.

[leapyearkisses]

Director’s Cut Commentary - Orbs Are Bad News Part 2

Second part of me blathering my thoughts all over this old story per the request of a very nice anon! I am still sleep-deprived, so yay~ Sorry, this commentary is probably way less interesting, since this part is just the sexy stuff, but if you have any particular questions, please send me another ask!

Happy to do any of my stories or just answer asks, whatever. I clearly enjoy reading myself talk XD

Comments in bold below the cut! This part is NSFW. Well, it’s all kinky but there’s also sex.

I forgot to mention this in Part 1, but the title of this story is because the homebrew campaign I ran for my friends involved magical evil crystal orbs. Hence they are bad news.

"Are you ever going to stop sneezing?" Remembrance asked.  At the same time, Cordes said, "One thousand blessings, Llewellyn, one for each."  The two of them were several yards ahead on the road, and only Cordes was looking back over his shoulder.  Right now, the four party members were the only travelers on this particular stretch, although as they got closer to civilization, they'd started to pass the odd wanderer, farmers with wagons, even a merchant or two.  The woods here were broken up periodically by stretches of arable land, clear-cut several decades ago and now waving with wheat, flax, or various vegetable leaves.  The fields were golden in the late sun.  Their shadows stretched behind them like taffy, rippling on the cobblestones.  The day was vanishing quickly, and Gerrit could sense his companions' impatience to move on even as he stopped again himself, drawing out his handkerchief in a now very familiar motion.

 Stick your people in a world. That’s my advice. Don’t have them just floating around in a no man’s land of generic scenery. (Also why I like period/historical snzarios and fantasy stuff, because reading about plain people in an apartment somewhere is boring to me.)

Llewellyn, for his part, could not answer them, face buried in his elbow as he ducked with another reluctant outburst. "Hahktschiu!  Hahh- happtsch!"

"Bless," said Gerrit, and he stepped in front of the elf to shield him marginally from view.  He laid one warm hand on the back of Llewellyn's neck and lifted the handkerchief with the other, capturing the next sneeze in the flannel folds.  He settled his fingers firmly around Llewellyn's nose.

This was an arrangement that had been born out of necessity three days ago when the party had raided a bandit camp's plundered stores.  Along with a good stash of gold and gems, they'd found a blue crystal orb, cursed perhaps, that had summarily become attached to both of Llewellyn's hands, rendering the sorcerer unable to do most anything... including take care of his cold on his own.

 On the last episode of Orbs Are Bad News...

Llewellyn blew his nose into the handkerchief, wetting the cloth and dampening Gerrit's fingers through it.  Originally quite opposed to such a display outside of the most private circumstances, the elf had been forced to put his pride aside and let Gerrit help him.  His fever had abated the previous day, but the frequency of his sneezing had increased, as if his body was insistent now on ridding itself of whatever illness remained.  It was a horrific prospect to Llewellyn to catch the resulting mess every time in the sleeve of his robes... so he suffered Gerrit to hold the handkerchief, even though they were walking along the road where any might see them.

Despite some initial teasing, Remembrance and Cordes had quickly grown accustomed to the practice and now cared not at all, except to complain.  "We're going to have to camp again," grumbled Remembrance.  "Five miles from Veigh and we're going to be stuck without a bath!"

 Is five miles a realistic figure here? No fucking clue! I frequently engage in excessive and specific research for my stories, but I didn’t look up how long one might hike for in D&D. Oh well.

"Is there anything I could do for you?" Cordes asked, somewhat exasperated.  The priest had made several herbal concoctions for Llewellyn over the past few days, but none had helped the elf's nose much.  Cordes's specialty was unfortunately not the curing of disease but the mending of bones and flesh.

 I will take any opportunity to make up an excuse as to why the snz cannot be contained. You’re welcome lol

"Ndo," Llewellyn growled, as fed up as the rest of them.  "I'm beyond heh- help. Hngtschiu!"

"Bless you, arimelda," said Gerrit, trying to keep his voice even.  He shifted the handkerchief so that Llewellyn could have a drier spot, trying to ignore a glimpse of slickness on the elf's face.  "Remembrance, Cordes, why don't the two of you go on ahead?  Find an inn, get a room, take a bath, whatever you want.  It might be prudent also to send a message ahead to the Mages Guild about the orb.  Will you do that?  Llewellyn and I will join you when we arrive."

 An elvish word appears! I researched this but not walking.

Cordes nodded.  "Yes, I'll draft a letter as soon as- Hey!"  Remembrance had grabbed his arm and was rushing ahead already.

"Let's go, man!" she said.  "Everyone loves a damn priest; you're my ticket to a good room, so may your god help you if you dawdle."  Her pointed tail swished as she practically jogged down the road.  Cordes spluttered but could no more stand up to her as to a tornado, so off they went.  It was a remarkably short time before the two of them were out of earshot, disappearing around a bend.

 And again, removed so that the main characters can bang, lol.

Gerrit sighed but turned his attention back to Llewellyn, who was blowing his nose again.  The handkerchief was running out of clean corners this late in the day, but the elf leaned back this time when he was finished.  "All set?" Gerrit asked.

"Yes."  Llewellyn rubbed his eyes on his upper arm, wiping away a spare tear from the effort.  "...My apologies."  He cleared his throat, refusing to meet Gerrit's gaze.  "We may arrive after dark."

"You're ill," said Gerrit, trying to fold the flannel in a way as to avoid his pocket getting wet.  "We'd move faster if you let me carry y-"

"No."

"Then I don't mind taking a more leisurely pace."  Gerrit smiled.  Even after everything, Llewellyn was stubborn.  Honestly, since they weren't really in a rush, he didn't really care when they reached Veigh; they'd only detoured here to try and remove the orb.  If Llewellyn, the most inconvenienced, didn't want to give up his pride and piggyback on... well, Gerrit found his noble hauteur inexplicably cute.

 Me too, buddy. Don’t worry, you can carry your elf later.

He also wasn't in a particular hurry because it was awfully uncomfortable to make any sort of time with his arousal pressed flush to his thigh.

A reminder that sex is usually going to be involved in my stories. The snz is not enough by itself.

Llewellyn coughed into his elbow and then started walking again.  Gerrit had pulled back his hood for him in the morning and braided his hair, and the crown of plaits caught the afternoon sunlight like an obsidian.  Gerrit tried not to let his eyes linger on the sorcerer's pale nape.  Or any other part of him.  He and Llewellyn had been travelling together for close to three years, working for their current patron in the capital, and in that time Gerrit had felt himself growing closer to the elf.  Wanting to be closer, anyway.  

Llewellyn shot a glance at him and caught him looking.  Gerrit flushed and turned his gaze back ahead to the road.

"You've been very accommodating during all of this," the elf said, tone carefully neutral.

Gerrit shrugged.  "It doesn't bear mentioning.  We're comrades."

"Comrades," Llewellyn repeated, an edge to his voice that Gerrit couldn't quite place.  "Is that all it is?"  He kicked a stick that had fallen to the cobblestones, sending it into the brush. Somewhere to the right, bumblebees droned over a meadow.

 Llewellyn is kind of a asshole and not super great at communicating with any level of affection, although he does get better.

Gerrit swallowed.  "Yes?  You and I, we've helped each other before.  I consider you to be a steadfast companion."  Eyes on the road.  Eyes on the dappled play of shadowed leaves and light on the ground.  "Why do you ask?"

"So shy," Llewellyn exclaimed, a tad mockingly.  "You've never been shy about taking me to bed, Gerrit."  Despite his short height, the elf seemed to find it easy to look down his nose at the much taller fighter.  "Has something changed?"

 Height difference is also personally sacred to me.

"Changed?"  Eyes on the road.

Llewellyn stopped walking.  "You called me 'arimelda.'  'Dearest.'  Did you think I wouldn't hear you over my sneezing?"  He couldn't cross his arms with his hands trapped by the orb, but the set of his jaw was determined and his firm brows were arched.  "I wasn't so distracted then as you seem to have thought."

Gerrit shoved his hands in his pockets.  He stopped walking but didn't turn.  "Apparently not," he muttered.  "Look, we can set it aside.  Doesn't have to mean anything – doesn't have to change anything.  I know a highborn elf like you wouldn't consider an official relationship with a half-elven bastard, and I've known that from the start.  For my whole life.  So... I care about you.  But it can just be as comrades, or whatever you want it to be."  Llewellyn was quiet, and after a long minute, Gerrit did turn on his heel, desperate to know what kind of reaction he'd provoked.

 The angst of the half-elven existence! Gerrit is a very typical half-elf in terms of D&D characterization, lol. Despite that, I do find these different-lifestyle pairings interesting, so they keep happening, cliche or not. There is a definite pathos in the elf/human relationship because of the different lifespans, of course - most famously depicted through Arwen and Aragorn, probably, although he’s not the exactly typical human. Anyway, it kind of varies how people like to determine elven and half-elven lifespans in D&D depending on the PHB and your DM’s weary forbearance lol, but Gerrit and Llewellyn will expect to live similar lengths because I’m a sap.

He saw Llewellyn standing with his eyes closed and head titled back, lips parted.  The elf's nostrils flared as he gasped.

"Are you going to sneeze again??" Gerrit asked.  He threw up his hands, then went for his handkerchief once more.  They ­did have an arrangement.

He strode back over to Llewellyn's side and tucked the cloth around his nose again, thumb and forefinger just resting on the elf's nostrils.  He started to rub Llewellyn's back.  "You have the worst timing, you know?  Here I am, spilling my heart to you and everything."  

 I laughed writing this part, too. You can’t always let things just be angst.

"Sh-hhuh-t up, I jh- just nih-" Llewellyn gasped again and gave in; he had no other choice.  "Hahktscht!"  He moaned and pressed closer into the handkerchief, thick congestion only aggravating the itch that remained inside.  "Hkktschtt!  Hngtscht!  Hahh- ah-- ankcxttschiu!"

 That sure is a bunch of letters crammed together!

"Easy... it's okay."  Gerrit massaged Llewellyn’s nose, tried to soothe the irritation.  He guided Llewellyn to the side of the road, and, in a moment of calm, settled him to sit on the grassy bank.  He followed, kneeling at the elf's side.  Llewellyn was tearing up again and his nose was twitching against the pads of Gerrit's fingers.  Gerrit felt electric all over.  He found himself wishing the handkerchief was gone so that he might touch the soft, heated skin of Llewellyn's septum, coax the elf to relax and loose his tension, sneeze into Gerrit's palm.  The mess didn't bother him; none of it bothered him.  He was supremely unbothered.  His cock was almost painfully hard.

It took several more minutes punctuated with more urgent expulsions before Llewellyn seemed to trust himself to speak.  His eyes were wet with unshed tears, eyelids tender and reddened.  His nose was brightly ruddy, running to chapped.  He had to take a shaky breath, collecting his thoughts.  "Gerrit."

 I’m a very visual writer. This kink is extremely visually-based for me. I wish I could draw as well as I want to so I could depict these scenes how I imagine them, but eh.

"Yes?"  Gerrit lowered the handkerchief, gently pinching as he did to clear any lingering moisture.  He wasn't ready to hear a rejection, nor did he feel particularly ready for a lecture or a tirade or even a logical exploration of why a relationship was a bad idea.  He wanted, if possible, to keep walking to Veigh, side by side, listening to the bees and dragonflies and songbirds settling in for the evening, feeling the light breeze on his face, replete with the scents of summer.  

"Kiss me."

Gerrit blinked, mental caravan bunching to a halt.  "What?"

 i am so funny omg

Llewellyn nudged him in the chest with the orb.  "Kiss me.  You're all worked up."  He cleared his throat.  "And judging by the state of you, you're not put off by my cold.  So?"  He tilted his head to the side, gently, closed his eyes.  "I want you to kiss me."

 An example of the B character not really forcing the admitting of the fetish but just kind of not caring. That is also okay, and I think it’s normal. People don’t just admit to all their kinks immediately upon entering a relationship.

Baffled, but feeling as though maybe all was not lost, Gerrit obliged, pressing their lips together.  His own eyes slid closed and he cupped Llewellyn's cheek, deepening the kiss, touching their tongues together, trying to convey how he felt.  Whatever had changed.  The kiss lasted for too short a time; Llewellyn broke away to breathe, eyes half-lidded, but he didn't lean away.

 I’ve never kissed anyone, but I consume media. I feel like I am pretty good at depicting things regardless of experience.

"I'm not going to dismiss you out of hand," he said.  "You or your feelings.  But I would ask for some time to think."  He looked up through his lashes.  "Are you feeling better?"

 Another thing I like in romance, even in kink short stories like this, is a more realistic portrayal of the confession than just “It was obviously meant to be~”

Gerrit could feel his pulse in every extremity.  "Not really," he managed, and he kissed Llewellyn again, this time sliding one hand under the elf's head and one at his hip and pressing him back to lay in the grass.  He moaned in his throat as Llewellyn kissed back, and when they had to break for breath, he started to kiss at Llewellyn's forehead, jaw, throat, wherever he could touch skin.  His hands roamed over the elf's body, smoothing over hip and thigh and belly until he could start to undo the buttons on Llewellyn's close-cut robes.

"Gerrit," gasped Llewellyn.  He moved the orb between them, jamming it into Gerrit's sternum.  "You are not going to sleep with me on the side of the damn road!  Get ahold of yourself!"

 He has standards!

Gerrit growled at the quick pain in his chest, then shook his head and leaned back.  He flushed deeply and pulled his hands away.  "Oh.  Oh, fuck, sorry.  I-"

"Pick me up."  Llewellyn lifted his arms.

"What??"  Gerrit's brain was having a hard time keeping up at the moment, all of his blood being elsewhere.

"There was a thicker copse of trees back about thirty feet, on the left."  Llewellyn waved the orb at him.  "Pick me up.  We can lay down there."

 His standards are NOT that high! But he does have them!

So.  So Gerrit ducked his head into the circle of Llewellyn’s arms and picked him up, holding him securely and setting off down the road again, back the way they’d come.  The elf was right; there, about twenty feet back from the bank, was a thick copse of pines, all grown together with wild geranium and maidenhead ferns.  Gerrit pushed through, shoulder first.  Despite its proximity to the thoroughfare, the inside of the stand was quiet and shielded completely from view.  This would do nicely.

 Told you you’d get to carry him soon.

He set Llewellyn back on his feet and made short work of undressing him, first freeing the sorcerer from his pouches and bags, then undoing the silver buttons on his robe from his collarbone to his crotch.  The rich fabric fell open appealingly.  Next, Gerrit freed the elf from his boots and leggings.  A long white shirt, woven from the finest of elven angora, still covered him, but Gerrit pushed the fabric up over Llewellyn’s belly, leaning in to kiss the elf again and touching him intimately.

Llewellyn moaned and nudged Gerrit’s hip with the orb.  “Now you,” he said.  “I want to see your body.”

Gerrit complied, making quick time shedding his cloak, pack, leather armor, breeches, boots.  Two daggers, two short swords, caltrops, a bow and quiver, a glaive, and a spiked whip followed.  He pushed them to the side as Llewellyn rolled his eyes.

This is another funny trope lol, like when a hero or assassin or someone has to go through airport security and the metal detector keeps beeping because they’re carrying 18 knives on their person. Fighters are proficient in every weapon, so why not have one of everything?

"You can't possibly have a use for all of those," the elf said, and then Gerrit captured his mouth again.

He laid Llewellyn down on the soft carpet of pine needles, using his cloak to cover the ground and double as a makeshift pillow.  The elf was beautiful in the shifting shade, skin flawless.  He had the orb resting on his chest and it glowed intermittently in the inconstant sunlight.  The gold chain netting that encapsulated both the orb and Llewellyn's fine-boned hands glimmered.  "You know," said Gerrit, smoothing a hand down Llewellyn's bare thigh.  "You'd look pretty good bound up in gold chain."

"This isn't enough for you?"  He scoffed.

Gerrit laughed.  "It would be fun to tease you.  I love it when you fuss at me.  So cute."  He dodged Llewellyn's elbow and settled down on his stomach, hooked one of Llewellyn's legs over his shoulder, and nuzzled the base of the elf's cock.  "Ready, arimelda?"  His own cock was under him, pressed to his stomach in the confines of his shirt.  He could feel his pulse in the head of it, quickening with the scent of his lover.

"Yes, you prick," sighed the elf, and he moaned when Gerrit started to kiss him and lave his skin.  His fingers flexed on the orb, longing to wind into Gerrit's hair.

 Licking is kind of thing, and I love writing about fellatio so. Yay~

Gerrit took Llewellyn into his mouth eagerly, fingers curled over the elf's thighs, fingertips pressing at the sensitive inner surface as he sucked and teased and swallowed.  Like this, he could focus on Llewellyn's pleasure.  The noises the usually stoic and prideful sorcerer was making were enough to make Gerrit moan, mouth full, and rock his hips.  Nothing pleased Gerrit more than seeing Llewellyn undone, seeing the elf flushed and open and undone for him.  And he shivered, all over, when he heard the elf's breath catch and his tone go wavery.  He thought he could come from this, listening to Llewellyn sneeze while pleasuring him implacably with a heated, well-placed tongue.

 This is also VERY IMPORTANT. Caretaking to the point of like, partner worship idk. It’s good!!

"Aa, aa, ahh- ih- Gerrit, I-" Llewellyn drew his knee up, curling, heel drawing along Gerrit's back.  "I nih- need to snih- hh-"

Gerrit drew his head back, let Llewellyn's cock free for a moment.  He didn't loosen his grip on the elf's legs, though, wound up and desirous.  "Okay by me, melda, it's okay.  Feel all right?  Want me to stop?"  He was breathless himself, had to force the words past the distraction of his arousal, but he would abide.

 Consent is the sexiest thing.

"No, don't stop," Llewellyn groaned, then turned his head to the side.  "Hpptscht!  Hah- Haktschiu!"

"Bless, bless."  Gerrit kissed Llewellyn's thigh tenderly, then nipped it, drew his tongue over the hurt, sucked a bruise to mark its place.  He swallowed Llewellyn down again as the elf cried out in pleasure and then bent with another helpless burst.  Gerrit wondered if he could make Llewellyn come simultaneously with a sneeze and what that might feel like.  The fantasy set him alight.  His abdomen was tight, his cock like a brand on his stomach. He redoubled his efforts.

Gerrit felt it first, when Llewellyn came, in the tightening of the elf's thighs and stomach, then tasted the salt of his release.  His world narrowed down to taking it in, swallowing, milking with his mouth while Llewellyn cried out, going until the elf was pushing him away, keening, oversensitive.  He didn't wait to lift Llewellyn then into his lap, cradling him with one arm and stroking himself with the other hand, desperate to come as well.  Llewellyn pressed his face to the junction of Gerrit's neck and shoulder, tightly gripping the cloth of Gerrit's shirt as they rocked together.  The elf's nose was gently wet and he was panting, sniffling.  Gerrit came with a shout, holding him close, shaking with an overabundance of pleasure.  He let go of his cock and embraced Llewellyn fully.  He had enough presence of mind not to confess to anything, but he couldn't stop himself from murmuring how beautiful, how soft.

 okay. o__o There’s only so much I can say about writing the porn lol. I write what I want to read.

Gradually the world came back.  Birdsong, first, and the bees, the sounds of the trees swaying in the light breeze.  The lingering heat of the day, dampened by the shade and the growing dusk.  The musty smell of pine needles and the sharper hint of sap, the scents of sex, the pressure of Llewellyn astride his lap, the bite of uneven ground against his knees.  Llewellyn was touching his cheek, trying to say something sweet, failing because of his cold again.

 I tried to write this part so that it would not be immediately obvious to the reader, as it is not to the characters, that the orb is gone.

"Ah- hh- Ttschgktst!"

Wetness against his neck.  Gerrit wound his fingers with Llewellyn's and kissed his jaw.  "Bless you," he said.  "I'll find you a healer in Veigh.  We'll get you well again.  Right after we free you from the orb."  He laid his cheek against the back of Llewellyn's hand tenderly.  Then he paused. "Wait."  Straightening, he brought his hands between them.  The right was laced with Llewellyn's left.  "The orb is gone."

Llewellyn straightened also, looking down at his hands.  His hands with no orb.  He lifted them both, amazed.  And then wiped his nose on his wrist, sighing in pleasure.  Gerrit tried not to blush despite everything.

 Me too, buddy.

"Where did it go?" he asked, looking past the elf's shoulder.  "Why did it come off?"

"Who even cares at this point??"  Llewellyn had let go of him and was stretching, running his palms over his body, touching his own arms and face and cock, finally able to move and feel again after three days of magical bondage.  He wiggled his fingers and then clapped his palms together, raising a small flame with their parting.  "I have my freedom back.  I can cast spells again.  I can-" He smiled brilliantly.  "I can touch you, too."  He dropped his hands suddenly to Gerrit's lap, nimbly taking Gerrit's cock between them.

Gerrit lost track of the orb immediately.

 Me too, buddy.

---

It was dark indeed when the two of them made it to the inn in Veigh, but both were in high spirits.  Gerrit had relinquished handkerchief duty back to Llewellyn with a great internal mourning, but he could always fantasize about this again in the future (he did, frequently), and he knew that Llewellyn, despite his best efforts, would catch more colds on the road (he did, more frequently than he would like).

I would love to play a fetish-friendly D&D campaign, but it would be way too embarrassing, probably. My current PC has allergies, but I have never mentioned them in-game and probably never will lol. God help me if my DM ever remembers that I wrote them into my character sheet.

Remembrance and Cordes had only been able to secure one room, it seemed, with two beds.  Gerrit resigned himself, going up the stairs, to sleeping on the floor. But... it was apparent upon entering the small space that... well, their priest and thief had ended up taking up only one of the beds, together.  Gerrit and Llewellyn traded glances.

"I don't think I want to ask," said Llewellyn, going for the free bed.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Gerrit replied, joining him.

The untold story, lol

In the morning, Cordes, with great dignity sprung from embarrassment (the cause of which he did not volunteer) informed them that a letter had not been sent to the Mages Guild yet.  He was immensely relieved to find that one was no longer needed and quick to congratulate Llewellyn on his newly regained freedom.  Remembrance just chuckled from the bed and took her time buckling her armor back on.  

Already in Veigh, the party spent some time stocking up on medicines and liquefying some of the heavier treasures they'd liberated from the bandit camp.  Gerrit sent a message on to their patron to expect them back in the capital in a couple of weeks, barring disaster.  They purchased horses and set out, ready for the next adventure.

---

The orb lay still in the pine thicket, nestled like an egg among the ferns, waiting for the next hapless traveler. 

 Faust’s Orb of Rope Bondage. Make a Will saving throw [DC 15] upon touching the orb with any body part, wearing clothes or not. Upon a failure, the orb will find its way to adhere to the hand of the hapless adventurer. If both hands touch the orb, they will both be stuck. If two people fail the save, one of each of their hands will be stuck. The spell can be broken only if each attached party has an orgasm.

I GUESS

[merlin-wolfgang-trades-hale]

McDanno Proposals #1

For @mcdannoangelwolf who asked for McDanno proposal involving Charlie somehow. I did a few McDanno proposal scenarios and they can be found in my fic here! 

"Uncle Steve!" Grace ran into Steve's open arms.

Steve hugged her and even spun her around. "Hey, Grace. How was school?"

"Good. Nothing exciting to report though. What are you doing here? Where's Danno?" Grace asked as they walked over to Steve's truck.

"Your aunt's birthday is coming up, so he went with Eric to go do a bit of shopping. I told Danny I'd pick you up," Steve replied.

Grace smiled, "You didn't have to. I could have gone to the Grover's with Will."

"What? You're not beginning to get embarrassed by me too are you?" Steve asked with mock hurt. And okay, maybe actually hurt. He knew he teased Danny when he moped about Grace entering her teenage phase and didn't want to hang out with her parents much anymore. Steve could handle it because he knew Grace really, deep down, loved her parents...and that she thought Steve was cool.

She rolled her eyes. "Only when you start acting like a dad. But you know I love hanging out with you."

Steve smiled as he took off. It made him a bit worried about the subject he wanted to talk to her about though. He pushed it to the back of his mind. Right now, it was time to spend time with his girl. "Well, there's something I actually wanted to talk to you about, but I also think it's been a while since we've had one of our Steve-Gracie days."

"True. So where are we going?"

"I was thinking of getting some shaved ice?" Steve suggested.

"Always a classic."

~~

They spend a good hour just catching up. Grace tells Steve about school, college choices, her and Will. Steve, in turn, tells her about the things he can tell her about Five-Oh. The whacky shenanigans, crazy bets, and wild stories that are on the family-friendly side.

"Are you and Danno okay?" Grace blurted out.

When they first got together, no one was really surprised. They apparently tried to keep it a secret, but that only resulted in some hilarious moments in the building. Once it was out in the open, they were no different...other than people could tell when they did it because Steve would have the biggest and stupidest smile. Or that their protectiveness was fiercer, as well as their jealousy.

Grace knew that they had a bit of a relationship problem when Joe passed and then the thing with Greer. But they worked through it and it seemed like it was back to normal.

"What? Yeah, yeah...we're fine. We've...we've worked it out. Sure some days we have moments but they pass." Steve reassured her.

She sighed in relief. Out of all of Danno's partners, Steve was the best for many reasons. He was strong and resourceful and helped keep Danno safe. Steve was also witty and sharp and kept Danno interested mentally, and loved him so damn much. Sometimes though, that love leads to them making bad decisions. In recent events, Steve leaving without keeping in touch with Danno. Grace had given Steve an earful, that's for damn sure.

"So...what is it then?" She asked as she sipped from her milkshake. Steve seemed to want to talk about something serious, so when the shaved ice was gone, they stayed and ordered something else.

Steve fidgeted for a moment, but Grace didn't hurry him. It wasn't every day that Steve acted like this...unless he was in trouble. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, even though her mind jumped from one crazy scenario to another. With Uncle Steve...it was all too easy.

Grace was pulled out of her thoughts when Steve pulled out a ring box and showed it to her. Her eyes widened comically as she reached for it, "No way!"

Steve blushed sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. "Uh, yes way...well, hopefully. I...I love him. I know we've talked about it not mattering, ya know. It's just a piece of paper and our love was bigger than that but...I want to. I want to legally call him my husband. I want to be given rights in case anything happens. I'll try to make sure they don't but...I don't want to be pushed aside if they do."

"Not to mention if you guys ever get arrested, you can't be made to testify against each other," Grace said teasingly.

Steve chuckled, "Yeah, there's also that."

"Oh my god! This is amazing!" Grace said happily.

"You think so? Cos...I'm kinda here asking for a blessing."

"Really?" Grace cooed, it was so cute.

"You mean the world to him, Grace. You're his baby girl and your opinion matters. Your opinion also means a lot to me too...I want to ask Charlie too but more towards when I actually ask Danny. Charlie-"

"He's not the best secret keeper, no." Grace agreed. She scooted over and hugged Steve tightly. "I love you and I love you guys together. You make him happy and you've always been part of our family. You have my blessing. But if you hurt him...just know that I have enough blackmail to get Eric to get rid of evidence for me." She said very seriously.

Steve laughed and pulled her into another hug. "Mahalo, Gracie."

"So! How are you going to do it?"

~~~

"Hey Charlie, how's it going?" Steve asks and holds his hand in a high-five.

Charlie high fives him and smiles, "Hey Uncle Steve! Where's Danno?"

"Oh, he went to go pick up Gracie from practice today. I told him we'd stay here and get some homework done, yeah?"

"Okay. It's not hard. Just gotta practice some spelling." Charlie said as he grabbed his backpack and pulled out his workbooks.

Steve helped him set up and let Charlie explain to him what his teacher said and what was needed for today. They settled in and Steve helped Charlie when needed. He knew he had some time. Grace would distract Danny for at least an hour.

"So Charlie...you know how much I love Danno, right?" Steve began.

Charlie nodded. "Danno loves you too...even if sometimes you make him lil mad."

Steve chuckled, "I know. It's part of why I love him...and you know that we're dating right. That I'm Danno's boyfriend?"

"I've seen you guys kiss, even if there's no mistletoe." Charlie snickered, as a kid talking about 'love' would do.

"That's right. Well, I can't help it. I just love Danny so much...and I was wondering...what do you feel about having another daddy?"

Charlie furrowed his brow, confused. "Like Stan?"

"Eh...sort of. Kinda...I mean me. Do...would you like if I became your other daddy?" Steve asked, not wanting to really get into the whole Stan thing.

"But you are already, right?"

"Well, I do love you like a son. And I help you with homework, and I tuck you in with Danno...I do a lot of dad things. But legally, I am not...but I want to be. I...I want to marry Danno."

"You do?" Charlie asked happily.

"I do." Steve nodded. "But I need your permission...can I be part of this family?"

Charlie chuckled as he leaned over and kissed Steve's cheek, "You already are. But if ya wanna marry Danno, you should!"

"Really? Oh thanks, Charlie...then can I ask you for a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you draw up a card for me to give to Danno, asking him?"

~~~

"I can't believe I'm indulging it," Danny muttered as he served pancakes for dinner.

"It's once in a while babe. And you promised pancakes for breakfast but we didn't have time." Steve said.

Danny rolled his eyes before cutting up Charlie's pancakes in manageable pieces. Charlie was a bouncing ball of energy, so Danny said, "Little syrup...you're so hyper today. What? Did you eat your weight in sugar?"

"No..." Charlie chuckled, looking between Steve and Grace.

"What? What's with the look?" Danny asked with suspicion.

Steve knew that if he wanted this to work the way he wanted to, it would have to happen now. "Charlie's made you a card, and he can't wait to give it to you."

"A card? What's the occasion?" Danny asked.

"You need an occasion to get a gift from your kids?" Steve teased.

"No, but...that smile was really suspicious. What are you plotting?" Danny 'demanded'.

"Go get it and put Danno out of his misery," Grace told her brother, trying and failing, to hide a smile herself.

"Kay!" Charlie wobbled off his chair before running to go get the card he made with Uncle Steve. He ran back and handed it to Danny.

Steve made sure he was sitting in the right place. So the moment that Charlie gave Danny the card, he could reach into his pocket and grab the ring box and be prepared to drop down on one knee.

Danny grabbed the card and opened it. He stared a bit at the writing, not because he couldn't read it but because he was a bit confused by 'Will you let Uncle Steve become Papa Steve?'. Danny put the card down, ready to ask Charlie what he meant when he gasped. Steve was on one knee, ring box held out to Danny, a shy smile on his face. "So? Will you marry me?"

"Yes!"

Steve placed the ring on Danny before kissing the hell out of him. The kids get up and hug them. Danny complains, but not really, about all his loved ones ganging up on him but...he's so damn happy right now he could burst.

[anika-ann]

Grease and Pearls - Pt.3

Dreams Meet Reality

Type: One-shot turned three-shot (because does anyone really want a 17k in one go?)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (main), Tony/Reader, Tony/Pepper

Word count: 3400 or 5100 (yeah, you read it right, see A/N)

Summary: An uptown girl met a downtown guy with a heart of gold. Oh, and he was handsome too. It inevitably leads to their relationship developping… but is there any chance for them at all?

For @cxptain​​ ’s challenge. Prompt: Uptown Girl by Billy Joel

Warnings: swearing (a lot), attempt at angst, ghosting, communication par excellence

A/N: We had fluff and smut. What are we missing? That’s right. Heads up, people! There is an alternate ending to my original one, the one sentence where it breaks is in italics. I hope that makes sense ;) Pick whichever or read both :D Enjoy!

Story Masterlist

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It was bound to happen – you knew as much – but deep in your heart, you had hoped it wouldn’t. You had hoped it would last longer. You had hoped that perhaps a miracle would occur and in some mysterious way, you would be able to convince your parents that marrying you to Anthony was a terrible idea.

You should have known better than that.

The very day you had fell asleep in Steve’s arms after making love – and God, you could still feel him, his touches on your skin, his mouth, everywhere, even in the most intimate places, a pleasant, almost ceremonial ache lingering exactly there, a memory of fire in your belly and your heart – you got caught.

Your parents had been waiting at Potts’ house as you reached it around eleven in the evening, a smiling mess, a sight to behold, and any illusion about the future you had been painting in your mind shattered.

Pepper had tried to take part of the blame, but your parents always believed that you were the faulty daughter in your household and such ways stretched outside your house.

Your father was furious. Your mother was deeply disappointed and even faked a few tears – or perhaps she shed them for real, mourning her reputation, one the family would fight tooth and nail to retain.    

You had literally fallen on your knees and begged when they found a drawing from a street artist, a souvenir of one of your trips to downtown which you had only craved to explore-- and by some miracle indeed, you were allowed to keep it and not to have it torn to shreds right in front of your eyes. Pepper’s teary gaze told you she knew you were making up things up as you went and that the drawing, the one that captured beauty you weren’t sure you possessed, meant much more.

You couldn’t even hope to earn forgiveness, so you only asked for it half-heartedly.

What you did earn was a damn chaperon.

In your age! In this day and age!

Her name was Maria and she was truly efficient and strict to a fault. Nevertheless, she respected your privacy and whenever you were to meet Pepper, she would stand just outside the door and wait if you asked for a confidential conversation… which was always, you didn’t need some goddamned stranger spying on you. What the hell.

But truly, all things considered, you had lucked out; as your parents didn’t fault Pepper for your actions, you were still allowed to meet with her at least and to talk her in private.

However, the marriage plans were sped up.

And naturally, you couldn’t even hope to set your foot anywhere near downtown. You hadn’t seen Steve for two weeks, you hadn’t even found his number in the phone book to explain yourself and you missed him.

Your heart seemed to fail in its basic function; when you were lying in your bed at night, wide awake, it longed after ocean blue eyes with a drop of green, strong hands holding you close, and it wouldn’t stop pounding wildly in your chest. In the morning, your heart appeared to be beating so slowly you had to place your palm over the area to make sure it was still there, that it still had enough strength to keep you upright all day ahead.

And it ached 24 hours a day. For you, for Steve, who must have been clueless on why you never showed up to your set date or any time after. You were hurting and your parents watched you suffer along with your sister, frowning at you and scolding you to stop acting like a five-year old who had a toy taken away.

They could never understand. Was that a curse or a blessing?

Pepper was the only person you could trust, only person you could talk to about your true sorrows and her patience never seemed to wear thin despite her own turmoil – after all, if your marriage was to be sped up… her hopes were being crushed as well.

“Pepper… I don’t want to marry Tony. God, I can’t marry him,” you whispered, a cup of tea in your hands, your palms and fingers curled around the warm ceramics, hoping for it to take away some of the ever-present cold your body radiated these days.

Your friend smiled at you sadly, an honest and heart-breaking lift of the corners of her lips.

“I know, honey.”

You chuckled bitterly at the irony. Here you were, stealing her dreamed man, on she loved, while yearning after another, after the one you loved. You looked up at the ceiling, blinking away the tears gathering in your eyes – again and again, barely a day without their presence. They were always there, ready for the dam to broke so they could run down your cheeks.

When you spoke again, you could barely force the words out of your tight throat.

“I… I truly love Steve. I dreamed tonight, about having a little boy,” you whispered, the image still vivid behind your now closed eyelids. He was so damn pretty, your sweet little boy. “Blond hair, pretty blue eyes full of mischief and such innocent smile with a front tooth missing and I was expecting with another--… I want that. I want to have Steve’s children one day and I want Steve. I need him. It feels like I can’t breathe without him.”

Tender hands reached for your shoulders and pulled you into an embrace, soft and careful, yet very unladylike, not proper for anyone to see in public – at least not here, not in uptown. God, you hated it here. You despised it now, truly. And if that made you an ungrateful brat, then so be it.

“Oh sweety, I know exactly how you feel. I’m so sorry,” Pepper replied in the same manner, comfortingly stroking your arm. She sounded on the verge of tears as well. “But you know what your family is like, they would never accept Steve. As much as it hurts you and me… I’m not sure you really have a choice.”

You swallowed against the lump formed in your throat and shakily breathed in.  

“Don’t I?”

You thought of your chaperon and wondered… just how heartless could she be?

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It was three weeks after his girl’s last surprise visit that had somehow resulted in her and Steve tangled in his sheets when he lost his faith in her and whatever the two of them had had completely.

Three weeks without as much as a glimpse of her or a word, two weeks of not going to bed without few bottles of beer to keep him company, Steve walked into the shop and instantly knew something was wrong.

The usually loud environment full of chatter and teasing was suspiciously quiet.

“Hey guys,” he called out, trying to sound casual. “What gives?”

“Nothing-“ Thor responded swiftly – and way too quickly. Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’m blond but ain’t that stupid. Who pissed in everyone’s cereal? Buck?”

Steve’s best friend looked up from his work, shorty meeting his eyes. The regretful gaze spoke volumes on its own, but the brunet still sighed, tossing the rag in his hands on the nearest hood.

Steve suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear the news whatever it was. Dread filled his stomach, a feeling that had his gut twist uncomfortably. The blue-grey irises of his friend hid behind his eyelids.

“I… I’ve been in town this morning, Steve,” he explained slowly, cursing under his breath when he took in Steve’s perfectly confused expression, awaiting a metaphorical punch. “Fuck, Steve—I-eh, I saw Carter with Stark and they were-“ The coil in Steve’s stomach tightened to the point of him thinking he might throw up. “-shit, I’m sorry, Steve, they were at jeweller’s, probably picking up a ring.”

A ring.

Right.

Because she was getting married. To Stark. He knew that—he had been, in fact, informed that it might happen at some point.

But no-- like a fool, he had painted an image in his head, stupid and naïve and even found himself thinking about his ma’s engagement ring – once or twice since he had met his stunning uptown girl –, one he had inherited and was planning to give a woman who would take his heart.

Funny how his mind had been purposely leaving out the fact that the very same woman he had given his heart to was the one who could stomp on it and let it bleed on the pavement.

Fuck, he was a complete idiot, wasn’t he?

Steve swallowed against his suddenly dry throat, nodding few times in acknowledgement of the information, lips in a tight line, one corner lifted in an ironic smile as his blood boiled.

“Well… we knew it was comin’, didn’t we?” he remarked and shook his head with a scoff.

God, he was so fucking stupid-

“Steve-“

He waved Bucky off, stalking towards his own station. He dropped his bag, always stashed with clean clothes just in case, to the ground by the counter, hand blindly reaching out. He grabbed the wrench on the top unmistakably, his fingers curling firmly around the metal.

One swift movement, one jerk of his bulging arm and the wrench was sent flying, hitting the momentarily empty chain with an ominous clang that could only hope to echo the mad rage he felt, sizzling in his veins, eating him up from the inside.

“Fuck him!” he roared, the ferocity of his voice startling even his mates who were familiar with his occasional temper.

His breathing turned heavy as he reached for another tool, flinging it the same way, this time hitting the wall, much to his irritation.

Jesus fucking shit-- he was so fucking mad – at her, at himself, at Stark, Stark who thought he could just take and take, greedy asshole, just like all of those uptown snobs that thought they owned the fucking world!  

“Fuck Stark and all of those privileged assholes! I hope they rot in- Fucking! Hell!”

Two more objects Steve didn’t bother to look at flied through the air and hit the chains, the harmless violence not providing him with half the satisfaction he hoped in.

By the time the boss stalked into the shop the check on what was going on – and to yell at his employees to stop fucking around – Steve had been long gone, taking the SHILED bike and driving away until all he could feel was the wind swishing around his head, loud enough to drown out his noisy thoughts.

“Rogers came in sick, we sent him home,” Pietro supplied helpfully, the deadpan expression on Fury’s face telling him that he had none of that shit.

Yet, the bossman sighed and headed back to his office.

“Good, wouldn’t want him to puke all over my fuckin’ garage.”

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She showed up in the shop on week four. Steve was just coming back from a short bathroom break, quickly taking a U-turn when he got a glimpse of her in the overhead door to the garage, wearing black and red elegant dress.

He leaned his back against the separating wall, closing his eyes at the painful jab to his stomach.

Logically, there was no reason for him to be so devastated. He fucked girls before—he liked girls before. So why did he have to be such a missy when it came to her? She was pretty, sure, but there were plenty of cute gals. Steve really tried not to think about the L word they had exchanged, because deep down it had dawned to him a while ago; he was so fucked up because he was in love and then he was dumped by a lady who normally wouldn’t look at him twice, which was something that his brain had been bullheadedly refusing to accept.

“Sorry, he ain’t in today,” Odinson drawled, traces of hostility in his voice.

“Oh,” she sounded surprised and he could picture the gentle confused frown, the slight pout to her lips—shit, those lips tasted like cherry-- "Uhm, do you know when he will be in?”

“Why do ya’ need to know?”

Steve was certain that her frown deepened at Bucky’s words.

“Well, uhm, I need to talk to him, it’s important. Should I come here in few days or-“

“Don’t think he’ll be ‘round here any time soon.”

“Is he alright?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice and it took all of Steve’s willpower not to bang his head against the wall.

Why, just why was she doing this to him? Why would she care?

Now he knew that was cruel to her – he believed that once, she had truly been interested in him – but he told himself multiple times that her looks were deceiving, that she only had been looking for a distraction from her uptight uptown world. Maybe if he told himself enough times, he would start to believe it.

“Ain’t none of your business, princess,” Thor retorted and Steve just knew she winced at the harsh tone, a soft gasp escaping her mouth, that sweet mouth he had  kissed over three weeks ago, sweet, innocent and sinful, the music of her short breaths filling his poor excuse of a loft, keeping him fucking going.

“Nice ring, by the way,” Bucky said nonchalantly.

Steve gulped at that. Yeah, he bet it was; but there was no way Bucky was being polite. The venom dripping from his words was a message on its own.

And she picked up on it, naturally. His –not his anymore, not that she had ever truly been – brilliant beautiful girl.

“Oh. Thank- thank you,” she whispered and Steve had to strain his ears like a creep, catching the crack in her voice; he almost ran out hearing it, ready to comfort her, because God, he couldn’t imagine her crying, salt tears rolling down her rosy cheeks - few had when they had made love, but she had been smiling too.

He was sure that seeing her cry without that smile… it would feel the world was ending. Her eyes were made for shining with happiness, her lips made for laughter-

“The fuck-?“

Steve’s head snapped straight when he heard his boss leaving his office, catching him chilling by the wall, very much not working and instead trying not to break and kiss the woman he loved stupid – no matter how stupid that made him. She was engaged. Promised to another, a much classier man… or at least much richer, Steve didn’t imagine his character being worth a damn penny.

On instinct, Steve put a finger over his own lips, wordlessly begging Fury not to rat him out. The man rolled his good eye – the one that hadn’t been hit by hot oil years ago – and crossed his arms on his chest.

“And—uhm, I see. Tell—please tell him I stopped by if he- and that I am sorry for not coming here for so long. He can leave a message with Mrs.Maximoff if he--- tell him I really need to-- that I would like to talk to him,” her voice trembled a bit as she stuttered, but it was clear she had been aiming for a firmer voice and missed by miles.

“Don’t see why he should want to know, princess, but sure, whatever.”

Fury gave Steve another annoyed look and stalked into everyone’s sight. For a second, Steve panicked – was his boss about to tell on him? – but the bulky man only walked in, a professional greeting on his lips.

“Good afternoon, madam. What can we do for you today?”

“Oh, good afternoon, sir-“

“My name is Nicolas Fury, I own the SHIELD Car Repairs. May I be of service?” he continued pleasantly, a businessman in his heart. And actor in his soul, apparently, because Steve was sure he figured out what was going on from the few words he had heard and from Steve’s cowardice and was now putting up a face.

“Mr.Fury, thank you for your readiness, however I was only just leaving. Your staff was most helpful,” she said, polite and respectful, almost a hint of a kind smile in her tone as if she hadn’t sounded on verge of tears only a moment ago. As if the guys hadn’t been jerks to her, standing up for him and his… ugh, his hurt feelings.

“Very well then. Have a pleasant day. Should I walk you out?”

“I actually already offered to walk Ms. Carter out if that’s alright with ya’,” Pietro quickly stepped in, a voice that hadn’t spoken since she had arrived.

“Thank you for choosing SHIELD Car Repairs, Ms.Carter,” Fury’s voice echoed through the shop, complete silence following for what felt like an eternity.

Steve gulped, knowing all too well Fury was waiting for him to come out of his hiding spot.

And sure enough – the boss’ eye found him the moment he returned. “Mr.Fury-“

“For fuck’s sake, Rogers, don’t pull shit like ‘dat in my shop. And all of ya’ – less chatting, less big-mouthing customers and for fuck’s sake, don’t go jerk into the bathroom now just because a girl in skirt showed up. Get your head in the game… and don’t drop anything on your fucking toes, accidents on a workplace are shit to deal with.”

Steve nodded with fervour, going back to his station, even when he couldn’t say that his head was in the game. No, his head was miles away, with beautiful pouty lips, the sweetest smile and a body to write sonnets for.

When Pietro came back, he didn’t say a word, but Steve could feel him burning a hole in his head with how much he stared.

That night, Steve switched from beer to whiskey, just once, hoping to drown out the sorrow that consumed him at simply hearing her voice.

Two months later, two months of Steve avoiding Maximoff’s diner like a plague and dodging Pietro Maximoff’s attempts to have a minute alone with him, a Good Samaritan left a newspaper on Steve’s doorstep. Steve, utterly confused and bone-tired from the long day at work, lifted it and started flicking through the pages absentmindedly as he went inside of his apartment.

And there, right among the obituaries, were marriage announcements, one single photo from a wedding.

She was stunning in her dress, the fabric appearing as delicate and soft as her skin when Steve had felt it under his rough fingers the day she had asked him to make love to her. A smile, crooked and melancholic, played on Steve’s lips at the memory, her breathless moans echoing in his ears.

In the photo posed a beautiful bride with her husband; and yet, Steve couldn’t make himself think she looked as pretty as she had been when sitting on his bed, misplaced, breath-taking and tempting, as pretty as she had been in the moments of ecstasy he had brought her with his loving; for the first time and for the last time at once.

He abandoned the paper on the counter and poured himself a glass of whiskey, bringing it up, hesitating an inch from his lips.

Eyeing the amber liquid, stirring it in the glass, he recalled a movie he had been to with Buck a long time ago. He had never seen people do it in real life, they certainly hadn’t done that at his ma’s funeral, but it would feel symbolic perhaps; the action of pouring a drink into a freshly dug grave was as outside his reality as the foolish idea of a relationship with her, after all.

Taking the newspaper to his hand once more, straightening the picture, he let himself feast his eyes on her. She was radiant, like sun, like the damn sunflowers on her dress the day he had met her.

Shaking his head, he threw the paper to the trash, picture up. Pouring half the whiskey on it, he buried the bittersweet memory of his untouchable uptown girl;downing the rest, he ignored the burn in his eyes and focused on the one in his throat.

As much as he hated himself for it, his last thought before he fell asleep that night was of her, a minute of wonder if she had ever truly been as affected as he was, at least for a moment; he lulled himself to sleep hoping that perhaps she had.

He dreamed of reaching out to Mrs.Maximoff as she had asked the guys to tell him to do. He dreamed of her being there the next time he came in, with an inviting and yet sad smile, a big-ass diamond on her finger… her cherry-flavoured kiss of goodbye lingering on his lips when he opened his eyes to a new day.

He took the trash out that very morning, adding a half-finished sketch he torn away from his book.

It was the last time he saw her.

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Thank you for reading! Scroll to the end of the fic for notes. ….Or? ;)

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That night, Steve switched from beer to whiskey, just once, hoping to drown out the sorrow that consumed him at simply hearing her voice.

In the night of week four turning to week five, Steve’s eyes snapped open to the darkness of his apartment. Momentarily confused, not remembering a nightmare or anything that would cause him to wake up so abruptly, he groaned when he reached for the alarm clock on his nightstand only to find out it was half past one.

He woke up for no fucking reason barely two hours after he went to bed.  

Furious knocks on his door made him jolt, his irritation only growing.

Not without a reason then – some fucker was-- ugh. People were fucking assholes. He was not getting up from his bed for sure.

“Fuck off,” Steve muttered, lying back down face first, determined to ignore-

His door rattled with the force of the next series of knocks and he growled, scrambling to his feet, shuffling to the door and wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“C’min’, comin’, Jesus, fuck.”

Unlocking and opening the door for a slit, Steve stared at the face of his night visitor, absolutely baffled.

“The fuck, Pietro? Do ya’ know wad time ‘zit?”

“No. Do ya’?” the blond retorted, his voice dripping sarcasm and Steve really wanted to shut the door to his face. It was too early – or late – for Steve to deal with that bullshit. “Pack your bags, Rogers, Natasha has a free room.”

Steve briefly wondered when the fuck the world stopped making any goddamn sense, but opened the door fully for his clearly delusional friend. For all Steve knew, Pietro could be having a stroke, he’d better hear him out.

“Huh?” he hummed, his palms massaging his bloodshot eyes. “Da’ fuck are ya’ talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Natasha? My cousin? Remember her?”

Why the hell was Pietro acting as if it was completely normal to stop by a guy’s loft to talk about his cousin, one Steve hadn’t even met?

Steve sighed, humouring the other man. “Yeah? Married some… general or somethin’? What’s ‘dat-”  

“Colonel, yeah. She’s the one who lives in Baltimore. She got a room for ya’,” Pietro repeated, still not making an ounce of sense.

“The fuck’d I do in Baltimore?” Steve asked tiredly, earning a look that told him that it was fucking obvious. Which it wasn’t really, not to him.

…was this a fever dream?

“Open your own shop, dumbass, or find a spot in some. Make money for that pretty gal of yours and that little cute as fuck babies you’ll make.”

Steve’s heart dropped to his stomach at the mention of you, fully prepared to rip Pietro a new one to wake him in the middle of the night to fuck with him—but  he caught a movement to Pietro’s right from a corner of his eye and his heart leaped right back, suddenly sprinting.

This was most definitely a fever dream. Steve felt his jaw drop, his eyes fixing on the vision in front of him as he entirely tuned out Pietro’s next words.

“She must like you real big if she’s willin’ to sell her family nick-nack to look at your ugly mug every day. And skip town and shit…”

And a vision his beautiful uptown girl was, a mirage his mind must have come up, because there was no way she was standing there, sheepish as always, but instead of her dress, wearing a pair of jeans and a simple red blouse, a denim jacket unbuttoned, hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, threw over her left shoulder.  

And shit, she talked too, which made it appear this was in fact real.

“Good evening, Steve. I am sorry to wake you,” she whispered, leaving him stare at her blankly, dumbstruck, breath stuck in his chest.

“I’ll drive ya’, Dr.Strange’s car needs a test ride. Fury’s payin’ for the gas, by the way, the ol’ bastard,” Pietro continued as Steve managed to only watch the woman he had been missing for the past weeks lower her gaze, her teeth anxiously biting on her lower lip, fingers toying with the edges of her jacket. Hers? “I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon, even have an hour or two to spare. That’s if you start packin’ now, bud.”

The mention of packing snapped Steve from his trance, all the emotions hitting him like a damn truck. Anger, longing, more confusion, restlessness as his girl was standing only few feet away from him and he couldn’t take it anymore.

He took a hesitant step towards her, ignoring the smirking man clearing his path.

“What—what are ya’ doin’ here?” Steve asked incredulously, his inner turmoil reflecting in his voice. She hadn’t showed up for weeks and now-- what exactly was she doing here? “You- you’re engaged-”

Gulping, she looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears; yet, a hint of a smile spread on her lips as she shifted her weight from one foot to another. For the first time, Steve also noticed her shoes, a simple pair of sneakers looking bizarre on her feet.

“To a man who loves my best friend and vice versa, my best friend who has been covering for me whenever we were together before it blew to our faces,” she explained, not daring to raise her voice above whisper. Steve still didn’t understand – not fully, unable to comprehend what was happing on his doorstep. Pietro talking about his cousin, about driving, Fury paying for gas, the woman he still loved standing there as if ready to skip town- “She was too covering for me when I talked to Mrs. Maximoff when she helped me to plan this. Pietro said you would want this as well— but- but if you don’t, I will leave you alone. I-“

The day Steve had met the strange girl from uptown, Bucky hadn’t failed to mention Pietro was the fast one, clearly implying Steve was the slow one.

Bucky should have fucking seen Steve now when she hesitated, unsure of his feelings – he had never acted so fast in his whole damn life.

He crossed the distance in one long stride and his hands shot up to her, grabbing her by her shoulders unceremonially. Before she could react, he pulled her body against his with all he got, claiming her mouth like there was no tomorrow.

He swallowed her yelp of surprise, followed by her happy laugh, feeling tears springing from her eyes, causing him to halt just as she finally started kissing him back.

“But your family-“ he blurted out, interrupted by her shaking her head wildly, hair flying.

“Mr. Ross has an eye on my sister. He is from a good family, of good name, generations of lawyers. My family will do splendidly,” she said with a smile playing on her lips, sweet and watery as tears still rolled down her face – happy ones, Steve believed. He felt the same delight bursting in him, switching from a broody cynic back to the fool in love in no time. “And we might too. We will have each other and I have learned enough to teach—or-- or I can be a waitress if I can’t find another job, it doesn’t matter, just so you are not the only one to-“

God, he loved her. She was so adorable and sweet and was talking about being his and going from basically a modern princess to a damn waitress, because she was willing to be with him whatever the fucking cost, apparently--

And was there really anything else he could do?

He grabbed the back of her neck to connect their mouths again, a hungry open-mouthed kiss, his hand fisting in her hair, because holy fuck, how was this happening, she was here and she was his-

“Alright, alright, smoochin’ later, packin’ your friggin’ bags now, Rogers,” Pietro cleared his throat loudly, sounding only as annoyed as amused. “I have a long drive ahead.”

Later, bags hazardously full and piled up in the trunk and on the backseat next to them, Steve couldn’t stop smiling and yet he felt a pang of guilt, ruminating over everything she was giving up.

She was resting her head on his shoulder, their interlaced fingers in his lap and Steve revelled at the absence of an overpriced engagement ring on her hand, the one from his ma’s securely in one of his bags to take place on her finger one day. She was walking the fine line between the real world and the dreamland, breathing softly to the crook of his neck and she seemed content. For now.

He sighed and pressed what could be the hundredth kiss to her hair that night.

“Doll?” he whispered softly, the question burning on his tongue, the only one he could hope to actually have answered now and not after they would try and started a life together.

“Mm?” she hummed softly, nuzzling into him further, her lips brushing the exposed skin on his throat.

“Why me? You could have any of those-“ snobs “-high-class… uptown guys.”

The smile he felt against his skin had him melt into the seat as he chased away all the grim thoughts about what the future might bring, her regretting her decision and blaming him for her ruined life on top of that list.

“Because I love you, Steve, and you are worth ten of them. My amazing downtown guy,” she emphasized, filling Steve’s chest with the most delicious warmth, his heart swelling, feeling so full it might burst.

He knew she wasn’t just saying that – she meant it. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t’ have been in his arms right now, heading to damn Baltimore with nothing but her bags, little money and few pieces of jewellery.

“I love ya’ too,” he whispered, this time pressing a kiss to her nose, drawing an exhausted giggle from her lips. Yep, his heart was about to burst before they even reached their destination. “Love ya’ so much. My sweet, sweet uptown girl.”

“Not so uptown anymore...”

Steve chuckled as rather than regret, her voice was filled with relief. “I’m willin’ to put up with ‘dat as long as ya’ stay mine.”

She squeezed his hand, tilting her head up, blinking up at him sleepily and softly pressing her lips to his.

“I think that can be arranged.”

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S.R. masterlist

cxptain’s challenge (check it out, prompts are still available - and who doesn’t like the 80′s?)

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Tags:

@wxstedhexrt, @comicshoplife, @elysianecho, @scentedsongrebel, @orions-nebula, @pies-writes-and-more​, @kayteewritessteve​, @murdermornings, @rinkashirikitateku, @queen-kass-the-writer

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….yes, in the first ending, there might have been a chance of our uptown girl planning an escape and Steve aka heartbroken dummy blew it. But hey, maybe not, perhaps she only wanted to say goodbye like he dreamed of… who knows. 

Aaaaanyway.

You are my hero if you finished reading this fic! Thank you so much for finding time to do that, this one truly was a beast – at least when I consider that it WAS supposed to be a one shot. 

Any feedback is appreciated, as always – good, bad (if constructive), coherent or incoherent, or ‘just’ a like if you enjoyed and don’t feel like putting feelings into words. Thanks again for reading!

[cetaceans-pls]

A Bagel To The Brain (A Batfam Story)

Bruce Wayne gets knocked the hell out by the Fear Toxin, and it’s an even worse nightmare than usual, which is really saying something. The menagerie of Robins do what they can, as Alfred plans for brunch and future brutality.

Or, it’s fever dream Russian Roulette meets the Bachelor, and Bruce does not want to be the last man standing.

Batfam fic with the four prodigal sons, written just in time to be a little too late for @setsailslash ‘s birthday, which is pretty on point for life in 2020 tbh. Please partake and enjoy, and stay safe and well ;9 

On AO3 here! 

Commission info here! 

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You have to give it to the villains of Gotham; maybe old dogs can’t learn new tricks in other cities, but the drab grey skies and the perpetual hint of eau de urine on concrete inspires so, so much creativity in the local criminals. If Bruce hadn’t decided to dedicate himself to a lifetime of pursuing justice, he might even admire the absolute audacity of Scarecrow going wild with his latest fear toxin in an industrial kitchen that supplies thousands of bakeries and homes city-wide with bagels and bread, crippling Gotham right in her belly.

 That realisation comes much, much later.

 Bruce biting into his pre-brunch breakfast sandwich of cured salmon and microgreens on fresh bread has a much quicker turnaround time.

 It’s almost noon. Billionaire, Batman, actual adult man Bruce Wayne bites into a bagel and passes out straight into a bowl of soup.

 -

 He’s stood in front of a mansion that pales in comparison to the Manor, and he’s in a tuxedo that is far, far too shiny to be in good taste. There’s a camera crew facing him, a red carpet between them like an untouchable border, and there’s something….fuzzy about everything. Bruce hasn’t had a legitimate, honest-to-God hangover since his twenties, but this does remind him of the time he mixed marijuana with a touch too much home-brewed pineapple rum out in Absolutely Nowhere, Belize.

 He’s sweating, which is odd. His face and neck is all damp, but given the amount of physical fitness that is required to put a dent in Gotham’s crime rate while dressed as a bat, standing around in a bad suit shouldn’t have him this sweaty all over. 

 He doesn’t even have a pocket square to dab his face with. Trying to, to remember why he’s here and dressed like this yields no memory, and given the presence of cameras Bruce snaps into his flighty socialite personality, smiling vapidly about two feet above the centre of the huddled cameramen. 

 Was he kidnapped? Drugged on the way here? Where is here, anyways? He shifts slightly, this way and that, and very calmly does not groan when he finds none of the stuff he usually keeps on him: no batarangs made of starch that have a vicious edge but dissolve in the wash, no tiny smokebombs masquerading as cufflinks, no ring that doubles as an emergency signal. He’s dressed in three layers of questionable polyester, and he might as well be naked.

 Hyper-aware even when (especially when) drifting through his thoughts, Bruce turns with fantastic slowness to observe a limousine driving up to the other end of the red carpet. He doesn’t feel like he’s in danger, even if his heart rate’s strangely uneven and his face feels warm and wet and he can’t remember a single blessed thing about the past, oh, 24 hours or so, so he keeps on a look of handsome idiocy and figures that so long as he isn’t about to face armed attackers, he’s probably still in control of the situation. 

 The car draws to a halt, and Alfred is there, somehow, suddenly, to pull open the door.

 The relief that shoots through Bruce is the taste of morphine right after 5 broken bones. No matter what else is wrong, if Alfred is here, it’s going to be okay. He’s more than happy to just ignore all the strangeness that’s going on and head straight for the man, but he finds that he’s…. frozen in place, somehow.

 Oh, god. It’s drugs, it must be drugs, it’s definitely drugs, and he’s not even wearing the cleverly rigged Rolex with its 4 polyvalent antivenoms embedded into the watch face.

 It’s fine. Bruce doesn’t need proximity, doesn’t even need words to communicate with Alfred. All he needs is for the man to turn and look at him, just the barest glance and the distress in Bruce’s mask of a face is going to be broadcasted to him at an alarming volume, and it’s going to be fine.

 Alfred doesn’t turn, and the feeling of wrongness informs Bruce, quite smugly, that Alfred will not turn to him, oh, he won’t turn for Bruce.

 -

 “Master Bruce! If this is the result of ignoring my warnings for the past week straight about how humans do need to sleep to survive, I will be most cross.”

 Alfred knows, of course, that even when passing out in exhaustion Bruce would be far too conscientious to slam face-first into soup, would instead be slumped against the chair, safe and away from china, snoring like a truck in dire disrepair.

 Alfred saves him from his meal, and slaps him hard, twice, across both cheeks.

 There’s no response, and Alfred takes a deep, calming breath before he murmurs “What absolute bollocks,” extremely aggressively under his breath. Bruce is deadweight, and he’s a lot of deadweight at that, and no amount of top-notch healthcare can ease out the grinding in Alfred’s knees and a sticky shoulder when he keeps regularly needing to haul heroes up and down the house.

What an impossible, unbearable burden.

-

 The door opens; a handsome man steps out of a limousine, and it’s Dick. It’s clearly Dick, from the glossy flop of his hair to the unbearable sweetness in the curve of his smile, wearing an equally tacky dark blue suit. He doesn’t say anything to Alfred, just smiles blandly, and isn’t that yet another alarm on top of the wailing cacophony nearly drowning out any semblance of reasonable thought in Bruce’s head. Something’s wrong, clearly. Is everyone drugged? Is this a time-slip, and he’s blacked out through 6 months of tremendous personal turmoil? Is this a parallel universe, where they don’t know each other and somehow also happen to be featuring in a reality show?

 His first instinct is to bundle Dick and Alfred into the car and just drive off. For all that Bruce knows he can take pride in his ability to strategise and plan and reason, people often miss that in an emergency his first thought is always protect! Defend! Take care! 

Supreme intellect doesn’t come to him at the cost of human instinct; the most important thing he’s ever learned is to acknowledge his panic and his fears so that they can’t blindside him in an emergency. This is bad, this is awful, look the truth of things in the eyes, move on to plan contingencies that are buttressed by already knowing what the worst possible outcome is. People who think he’s single-minded don’t know the half of it.

Twenty odd years of bitter vicious training, and all that he’s gotten good at is letting rationality come in quicker; Bruce has no doubt that it would take more than an act of God to make him stop feeling desperate to put himself between the people he cares about and any and all dangers. He can’t quite make out the make and model of the car from here, and he’s pretty sure they’re not in Gotham, because he would know if they were, but commandeering a vehicle seems like the best idea available to him at the moment.

 Feet leaden and body heavy, it takes an almost supernatural amount of effort to pull himself away from where he’d found himself. Head down, one step at a time. He’s had his back broken, this is nothing compared to that first round of aching, screaming physiotherapy. This is for Alfred and Dick, and if a spinal injury couldn’t keep him down then, strange happenstances cannot stop him now.

 What may prove a bigger challenge though is this woman abruptly in his face, holding a microphone in front of her glitzy dress, not someone he knows but clearly from the family of conventionally-attractive-functionally-dull television hosts that pepper the world. She talks at him, and Bruce struggles to make out her words just as much as he struggles to make out her face.

 “Sorry, darling,” he drawls, making an effort to rake his eyes up and down her body as he registers sequins in the dress but not the damned colour. “Mind repeating yourself?”

 The vague amorphous cloud of classically-pretty gives off a sense of mild irritation and professionalism fuelled by a sizable income, and that, at least, is a familiar response to the charms of Bruce’s alter-alter-ego. “I said, Bruce, how do you feel about meeting your first bachelor?”

 Several thoughts collide all at once, slamming into each other with such force that thinking briefly comes to a complete halt. Lucky him, he’s trained so many contingencies into his body and mind that a go-to soundbite for talking about donors at the Foundation works his jaw while his brain scrambles.

 “Oh, you know, it’s such an honour to be here, and to get to do all this, really, I love…. Bachelors.” Insert an overemphasised wink here.

 What does she mean, ‘bachelor’? Is this some sort of charity auction? Why would anyone try to flog Dick to Bruce? Obviously there’s no bid that’s too high for his eldest son, no line Bruce wouldn’t cross if he thought Dick would let him get away with it, and his inability to be anything but a father doting to the point of idiocy is not news anywhere in the world by now. Why would a charity auction be televised, and why would he be the centre of attention anyways?

 He runs through what he knows of the intercept between the concept of bachelors and television programmes, and all he can think of is that strange, strange show where a lot of one gender compete in mentally and emotionally gruelling ways to win the show and the one member of the opposite gender everyone’s allowed to throw themselves at.

 (His kids had declared that he needed to know more about the world around him outside of crime-fighting and saving the world on occasion, and as a result once every other Saturday night Bruce is treated to increasingly terrible reality tv.)

 Is that the premise of this? Some charity popularity contest? It sounds like something he might sign up for, if he’s done anything particularly troublesome and Lucius needed appeasing, but it’s still so dumb.

 Of course he’s going to pick Dick. Twelve suitors, ten weeks, eight challenges, whatever permutation and combination of people and places and problems, obviously he’s going to choose Dick, even if Dick still hasn’t looked at him, still hasn’t acknowledged that Bruce is there, trying to get to him, barely held back by a woman with a microphone.

 It’s absurd, and it’s a struggle to not let that thought show on his face. He keeps saying bland, vague things while teetering on the edge of public indecency by way of leering, and just waits for Dick to come up to him.

 Bruce is willing to admit that there are many aspects to time travel and parallel universes that are currently beyond his ability to fully grasp, but there’s no world-time-universe-plane where he doesn’t care about Dick, so all he needs is to be patient and lie in wait until an opportunity presents itself to him.

 He thinks it’s come, when another limousine pulls up. He’s going to accidentally stumble into the woman, maybe rip a strap so that the flash of her bra gets everyone’s attention (these are dire times and he is at present an unforgivably desperate man), and then gallantly call off the shooting so that he can bundle up his son and butler into this car and just leave.

 Bruce shifts his weight, angles himself towards where Alfred has a stately hand on the handle, and plans around how to extricate the newest candidate and commandeer their car.

 Everything is ready-steady-almost go, but then the door opens, and oh, it’s just going to be a bad day all around, huh.

 -

 “Bruce? Bruce, can you hear me? Goddamnit, you passed out the last time I came by for brunch too. Is it because I brought doughnut holes both times? Rico’s is cursed, it’s cursed and so is brunch. How is he, Alfred?”

 Alfred looks a little ruffled, which speaks volumes to how serious the situation is. “We have a great many stairs between the kitchen and the Cave, but I managed to bring him down without too much fuss. He’s hooked up to fluids, and the first course of the broad-spectrum antitoxins have been administered, as well as a scratch test on his arm. I am, of course, running tests on the last few items of food and drink that sir has consumed, as well as on his blood and spit, but the results are not yet available.”

 Dick breathes a sigh of relief; Alfred’s ability to take care of them is masterful but his skill of looking after Bruce is absolutely unparalleled. There is a reason why for Alfred’s 60th the whole family had come together in t-shirts Steph had gotten made, black with gold embroidery, saying ‘Villains Work Hard, But Alfred Works Harder.’ There’s a reason why Bruce not only wore the shirt, but has also kept it, wearing it around the house whenever he knows Alfred’s especially annoyed with him.

 Alfred’s amazing, and Alfred works miracles, but trouble’s always hankering for Bruce and poison is so, so difficult to deal with. Alfred and Dick both know this, and they know that if Bruce doesn’t show any signs of improvement in the next half hour, the second course of antitoxins will start, and those are stronger and harsher, the third course is worse still, and it becomes a race to the bottom, trying to figure out how to save a man by coming a little closer to killing him each time.

 They stare at each other, then at Bruce when the man groans and frowns in his unconsciousness.

 “He kept calling my name,” Alfred says softly, hand tight and resolute on Bruce’s shoulder in unflinching support. “And now, master Dick, he appears to be calling for you.”

 Dick goes round to the other side of the cot, and gently squeezes Bruce’s limp hand. “I’m here,” he tells Bruce, willing him to feel it. “But it’s the third Sunday of the month, Alfred. You know that means that-“

 A half-hearted alarm starts up, with all the urgency of pleasant elevator music.

 “Ah, I see we have a breach at the eastern gable of the greenhouse,” Alfred says to absolutely nobody, because absolutely everybody knows who likes to come in through the greenhouse, and why the security system for that part of the house is more like a doorbell than an actual warning.

 “God,” Dick mutters under his breath, while Alfred makes a face that strongly indicates that God had better be ready to answer for some of the decisions He has made recently.

 -

 It’s Jason, it’s Jason, it’s Jason. Handsome and tall and deadly, unfolding out of the car in a crisp white shirt and tuxedo pants, jacket in the crook of an arm. He looks healthy and whole and hale, streak of white in his hair artfully pushed behind his ear, looking for all the world like a marvellous man.

 Jason doesn’t turn to look at Bruce either, and that’s fine, it really is, it’s par for the course of what he deserves from him, but Jason doesn’t react to seeing Dick with any affection, just a perfunctory handshake before he’s moved back to keep some space between them. Jason didn’t even say hello to Alfred, and that’s the clearest indication so far that whatever is going on here, it’s not a mass-drugging issue. For one thing, the dose that would be needed to scramble Jason’s brain would be enough to kill every single other person here, without a doubt, and for another, Jason could be bleeding out from 90% of his body while a king cobra is at his neck dosing him up with enough venom to take out a herd of elephants, and he would still greet Alfred. Jason crosses lines that Bruce despairs of and disagrees with, but Jason also struggles with undercover missions because of a sweet, sweet inability to pretend not to care when he does.

 It might be a parallel universe, then, because time travel no longer makes sense, but it’s statistically unlikely for the chips to align and have Bruce in what amounts to a dating show with his sons. Stress can cause premature greying, maybe, but the electric green tint to Jason’s eyes is all Lazarus pit. At this point, Bruce is beginning to suspect that he’s hallucinating everything. Not because anything feels particularly unreal, other than how everyone except his family appears less whole, but because after running through all possible explanations, that’s the simplest one.

He can’t remember his last lucid moment, can’t remember anything much outside of right now, but if the premise is that he’s off his head, he can work with that. A “Superman,” pitched under his breath, urgent and demanding, yields no results. He can draw the parameters now, and try to plan around what is least likely to damage his psyche. Thanks to all the previous accrued damages to his psyche, Bruce has a clear idea of what he can and can’t take, which is good.

His brain’s making all his sons gather here, he suspects, and that’s very, very bad. The woman is still talking to him, talking at him, and Bruce needs more data to work with. The most important thing that currently needs consideration is this:

In this hallucination, this fever nightmare, does his family care about him? Not general pleasantries like a smile and a nod and a wave, but deep deep down in that place where it’s all screaming instinct and all it screams is family or foe.

So he just smiles benignly at the host, turns so that he’s facing Dick, Jason, and Alfred, and raises his hands to cup his mouth. There’s an entire language of signals they use in the field to determine the state of things, words rotating in and out and swapped and disfigured and built up, but Bruce thinks there’s one key word that he could never ignore from any of them, and that he hopes they wouldn’t ignore from him.

Bruce takes a deep breath, and as best he can, shouts “Help!” at the group of some of the world’s best men. He can’t remember the last time he’d shouted for help and meant help me, and he’s almost curious how his off-centre brain will make everyone respond to that.

It says a lot about the sort of life he leads, to find so much comfort in confirming an ongoing hallucination.

-

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Dick doesn’t question the timing; Jason rolling into the Cave just as Bruce started to convulse and scream “Help!” is pretty par for the course. “Hey Jaybird,” he greets back, not looking up from where he’s doing his damnedest to try to keep Bruce still. They have padded restraints, because trawling through Gotham nights means they show up at the Cave with all sorts sometimes, but tying Bruce down like a rabid dog isn’t anyone’s idea of a fun time, so here Dick is, sprawled over his father who is still so dumb strong this far under.

Quick as anything Jason’s on the other side of the bed, heavy hand on Bruce’s sternum, the other on his shoulder. “I told you brunch is cursed. What the hell is going on?”

Alfred apparates to his side, wearing nitrile gloves and holding a tray of what looks like breakfast kept under a plastic lid. “Sir passed out while enjoying a light breakfast sandwich. I have managed to isolate some strange compounds in the bread, but the toxin is not one we have encountered before. I believe my next move will be to-”

It happens in Dick’s head half a second before it happens in real life, and him shouting “Jay, no!” serves as nothing more than background music to Jason smacking the lid off the tray and grabbing the innocuous bagel. Alfred’s reactions are a little faster (and isn’t that embarrassing, god), and he has his hand on Jason’s wrist, an effort at restraint.

Too fucking bad that Jason Todd’s not really known for his restraint. With an almighty heave Jason’s got man and bun pulled up close, and he’s biting into the bagel before Dick can vault over the bed.

Alfred and Dick freeze in place, as one-man toxicology-lab-disaster Jason takes his time to chew and swallow, not betraying much barring a case of the sweats and his pupils blowing out. “A’ight, before anyone starts yelling at me, can we just big time confirm that the Joker’s not here and holding a crowbar?”

He isn’t, of course, though Jason’s unblinking wide-eyed stare somewhere behind Alfred convinces DIck to take a second look. Alfred merely rolls his eyes, putting the tray aside and pulling Jason to sit on a nearby stool. “If he were, Master Jason, I would be more than happy to deal with him myself. It has been one of those days, I’m afraid, and my temper is wearing awfully thin. How are you?”

It takes a while for Jason to blink and breathe his way through whatever he’s seeing, before he drags his gaze back to Alfred. “Feel like shit, if that helps. It’s got a different kick to it, but it sure tastes like fuckin’ Scarecrow gas in the mouth.” He works his jaw around, and rolls his shoulders. “Pretty sure there’s some sort of numbing agent to it, or something. Fuck, it’s giving me cotton mouth and it feels like all my feet are falling asleep.”

Alfred’s muttering “Lord give me strength,” under his breath in a way that promises absolute chaos in the very near future, checking over Jason’s vitals before heading over to the mainframe to, presumably, save the day. Dick’s still got a hold on his father, and in a moment of attempted levity, pokes fun at Jason. “What, how many feet do you think you got?”

Jason’s now looking down at himself, frowning a little. “Sure looks like at least five, to be honest.”

-

They all turn to him, but look about as disinterested as a human being could possibly be. It’s not a nice feeling, but it gives him an idea about the dimensions of him losing his mind. They either don’t know him, here, or he’s done something extra-particularly unforgiveable and they have just finally given up. The former is more likely than the latter; his sons are good people, far too good for him, and Alfred’s greatest skill in an arsenal of great skills is his ability to forgive Bruce over and over and over again.

Bruce doesn’t know how he got here, but he knows he needs to try and snap out of it and wake up as quickly as he can. Who knows where he actually is, he could be bleeding out in some alleyway even as he wrenches his gaze back to blurry-woman. Hallucinogens all get you in different ways, and with some of them, once you caught the truth of it you could will yourself awake. This….doesn’t feel like that, so his aim is to go through this with as much of his sanity preserved as possible. Batman as a concept is more impervious to mental torture than he is physical, and he’s pretty impervious to both as far as the common man is concerned.

In practice, it’s mostly the ability to brutally compartmentalise the hell out of his life experiences. It’s control, iron-fisted and unwavering, and it’s why toxins and magic and everything that can take his control from him are really high on the list of what Bruce finds absolutely intolerable. 

He doesn’t know when his mind will turn on him, he just knows it will, and the premonition of future misery has his back tight and teeth grinding. 

A limousine appears, right on cue mid-breakdown, and Bruce knows who’s going to come out of it. He wonders if Tim’s going to come out some older version of himself, to match Jason and Dick, but figures that it’s going to be maximum trauma if it’s Tim exactly as Bruce last saw him that gets hurt, somehow a victim of Bruce’s brain.

It would have been nice if in this dreamland Tim was up to his usual tricks, asleep standing up somewhere after spending three days staring into an investigative abyss, hopped up on coffee supplemented with more sugar than the FDA would consider humane. It would have been nice if all his sons, just this once, avoided him the way they sometimes did in real life. Being alone is a lot less tortuous than waiting for the other shoe to drop on his children.

Bruce groans, and decides to just fuck it. He politely pushes the woman who is still, somehow, chattering, and lies down right on the red carpet, hands covering his eyes.

He’ll be okay in a minute; he just doesn’t want to see Alfred let Tim out and have yet another family member not know he’s real. He’ll get up again, he really will, he’s just tired.

He just needs a break.

-

“Why the sweet Jesusing fuck is his heart rate dropping all of a sudden?” Jason swears as he dives for the AED tucked in a cabinet, snapping the case open even as Bruce abruptly goes limp in the bed, breathing getting eerily slow.

“The hell do you think I would know?” Dick shouts back, who is taking matters into his own hands and is soundly slapping the devil out of Bruce’s cheeks. “C’mon, c’mon, Bruce, wake the hell up!” When it doesn’t work, he jumps atop the bed, straddling Bruce around the hips, and gets ready to do CPR. He’s well-trained; push comes to shove and Dick can CPR the life back into someone for up to 3 hours. 

One of those weird paranoid Batman training schemes that always seem unspeakably dumb until they inevitably pay off, urgh.

He’s going “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin’ Alive!”’ slightly hysterically under his breath while Jason waits for the defibrillator to gather enough charge when Tim sprints in, still sleep-tousled and pyjamaed, holding a vial of something that fluoresces yellow and bubbles like a demon. 

“Hey! Hey! Tim! Ah!” Dick calls out, still on beat, a man on a mission.

“Hi Dick,” Tim calls back, before he jabs the EpiPen of Doom right into Bruce’s thigh. The concoction floods in, gelatinous and menacing as anything. Christ, Dick saw the needle on that beast; it’s not all bad that Bruce is unconscious.

He doesn’t let up on his CPR, though, and Jason’s staring at the heartbeat monitor and ECG display like they hold the keys to the universe, paddles charged up and ready to go. Within moments Bruce seems to stabilize, heart and breathing picking back up. The problem with being the most athletic 40-something year old in the world is that Bruce’s resting heart rate hovers around the 30 to 40 bpm mark, and when that plummets it really just doesn’t have far to go.

Jason evidently is thinking something similar when he finally puts the AED awar, sighing like he’s personally offended. “It’s not a cute look to go ‘round having a heart so lazy, damn.”

Tim’s breathing heavily, still holding the empty syringe pressed into Bruce’s leg. “Brunch is extremely cursed,” he says, reluctant to move. “The one time I oversleep for the monthly meet-up, and this is what happens.” He looks up, blinks, and absently waves at Jason. “Hi, Jason. Alfred said I should knock you out for eating poisoned food.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “He’s the only one with any goddamned common sense in this household. How’d you figure out what was ailing the big guy, anyways?”

Tim grins. “Because you ate poisoned food. Alfie said you started hallucinating but also like you were kinda going numb? That’s a pretty specific combo, and not a lot of stuff can do that in tandem with Scarecrow’s stuff. This one’s,” he jiggles the empty canister, and Dick feels the need to emphasise that the needle is still stuck in Bruce, “a counter to hemlock, and there’re like 5 more vials that I was going to go through.”

Dick and Jason look at each other, and they both groan. “Let me guess,” Dick says, struggling to keep down a smile, “Fresh off of B’s Introductory Poisons 101, huh? God, when was the last time I heard someone say ‘hemlock’ like that’s a normal thing to say?”

“Hey, Socrates got murdered by a hemlock sip, it’s one of the cooler poisons,” Jason says with absolutely zero conviction. “Lemme guess, Replacement, bet you got a perfect score on the last pop quiz. ‘Draw and label the molecular structure of the Botulinum Toxin for 5 extra points’ haunts my dreams way the fuck more than being murdered.” He dramatically shivers. “The truest torture is a Chem exam nobody wants.”

Tim blinks at them, like this is news to him. “I did Intro P years ago, and yes, maybe I did get full marks for it. I just like going over the slides every once in a while for self-study!”

Dick laughs while he ruffles TIm’s hair. “You’re such a good kid,” he says with whole-grain affection. “Thanks for saving the day, Tim.”

“Yeah, you huge nerd,” Jason says, fond and deeply offensive.

-

Somebody touches his cheek, a gentle tap-tap. Bruce doesn’t want to open his eyes and acknowledge what’s going on in this unreal reality, but he feels flooded with adrenaline all of a sudden, and the malaise that insisted on a nap’s completely evaporated.

With tremendous reluctance, he opens his eyes, and sees Tim looking down at him with his usual look of unstifled curiosity. “Are you all right?” Tim asks him politely, and it’s a fake Tim, Bruce knows, because there’s no hint of dark circles under the eyes, and his eyes don’t do that thing where they can’t stay and focus in one place too long because there’s too much to see.

They’re steady, and they’re looking at him with a complete absence of recognition, and Bruce was 100% right. It is significantly worse to be unknown to the Tim who went out on patrol with him yesterday than to some made-up older version of him. 

“I’m fine,” he says, because it’d be rude not to answer. “I’m just going to stay here until everything blows over.”

Tim crouches down next to him, tucked up tight with his chin on his knees. You’ll crease your pants, Bruce thinks and doesn’t say. Tim’s permanently in mild disarray, and it’s grown to become a comfort to Bruce. A fully primped and pressed Tim, neat and alert and free of coffee stains, is a Tim in a time of crisis.

Crises don’t tend to end well for Batman and his ilk.

They just stare at each other, and it reminds him of when Tim had arrived on the doorstep to the Manor, vibrating and immoveable with the truth of things. Tim, small and scrawny and determined to bear the weight of being Batman’s Robin. 

Bruce, being much too weak to say no and keep saying no to what amounts to having a child soldier self-enlist (again).

It’s not as clear-cut as people expect, the line between Batman and Bruce Wayne, except when it is. Tensions rise high when the mantle of fatherhood is a heavier, deader weight than the Bat’s cape, sons die in a shack somewhere beaten to a dead, dead pulp, and some mornings Bruce wakes up and he mostly just hates both sides of him.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” TIm asks again.

“I don’t think so, no,” Bruce says, and waits for things to escalate.

(In the distance, there is the sound of a car pulling up. This universe holds its breath.)

-

Tim is hard at the work in the lab, Alfred assisting him, and Dick feels a little bad that he never got into toxicology and pharmacology and microbiology and the like. Bludhaven’s plenty scummy, but it’s the sort of scum you can wipe out with elbow grease, and chemical and biological warfare’s a bit beyond the average operational budget of the local bad guys. He still gets a little Krebby any time he thinks about that one summer where Bruce thought it was a great idea to get Dick to learn about enzymes and gene splicing and all sorts of stuff that necessitate a young hyperactive boy to sit very still and think very long about very small things he can’t see with his own damn eyes.

Jason’s better at focusing, but while he’s got less of a biological imperative to move and keep moving, he’s a lot worse at paying attention when he doesn’t want to; that’s why neither of them are in the lab, and are instead idly playing poker on Bruce’s chest.

It’s a little disrespectful, probably, to do this on your unconscious father, but Dick’s feeling pretty jittery and not entirely willing to lose physical contact with Bruce. Whatever Jason’s feelings on the matter, he’d obliged Dick’s casual invitation to a round, and now here they are with a pack of cards Jason usually has in his leather jacket, doughnut balls acting as currency.

Lord, this is how you get ants. Bruce’s shirt is covered in powdered sugar as they aggressively try to out-cheat each other.

Underneath their cards and balls and hands, Bruce’s breathing stutters, and he seems to let out a long, resigned sigh.

Dick’s got a read on things, because if there is a God they have a goddamned awful sense of humour, especially as it pertains to Bruce and everything Bruce cares about.

As if summoned, the door to the medbay slams open, and it’s Dami there dressed like a normal boy right up until you spot the sword in hand.

The shrieked “Father!” with the inauspicious crack, though, that’s all young-boy-screaming-at-the-sight-of-their-father-(figure)-on-his-deathbed all over, and is a staple in Wayne Manor. If Alfred’s got a traumatic childhood memory of something similar, then they’d have a full house.

Dick sighs too, and holds up a doughnut hole. “Hungry?”

-

The world blurs, the way too-small font gets when your eyes start to waver from fatigue. Bruce is sitting now on a chair masquerading as a throne, all velvet red upholstery and gold gilding. It’s hideous, and it’s ominous as all hell. They must be rolling into the endgame now, and Bruce feels no closer to parsing out the future than he did before. 

His sons are arranged all in a row in front of him, with Alfred leading Damian over. God, Damian isn’t even scowling, and there’s no sign of that awkward half-step he gets when he’s trying to smuggle an oversized sword down a tuxedo pant. 

It’s not real, Bruce tells himself, tries to make himself believe. It’s not real, remember all the reasons this is not real, because things are going to go down really soon, feels like, and he’ll be no good to anybody if despair gets him right between the eyes.

The faceless woman is back at it, still sparkling and indistinct, the concept of a microphone in her hand as she talks about the handsome bachelors and what a night it’s been. Bruce is testing his range of mobility as the woman stands in front of the cameras, and finds that the oppressive weight that dragged his feet feels lighter now. He can make it from where he’s sat to the line-up of children in seconds, and that’s important to note. Given the way he’s barely biting back paralysing fear in the face of the premonition of danger coming upon the kids, Bruce is grimly certain that whatever’s happened to him is Scarecrow-adjacent. If he’s still struggling through this hallucination that comes complete with a goddamn backstory to build up the anticipation, it’s probably a new concoction that Alfred is struggling to break.

The only way out is through; if he overcomes the peak, he’ll be out free on the other side. He’s never going to stop being afraid for his children, obviously, but he can overcome the fear that he won’t be enough to stop them from suffering. 

He can, and right now, he must.

So Bruce keeps as calm as he can, centres himself and shifts a little in his seat to plant his feet more firmly in the ugly carpet, and bides his time. There are three entry points into this courtyard, there are four boys, five cameramen, six thousand ways for things to go wrong.

He’s already up to Contingent Plan Number 1322, so if Bruce Wayne’s brain thinks he can trip up Bruce Wayne when the stakes are this high, then he is a fucking idiot.

Bruce almost wants to smile; things are looking up.

-

Damian’s a funny one. He’s seen more brutality than any of them had when they were his age; some extremely dense front-loading of trauma, and a Bat lifestyle doesn’t promise that things get better as you get older. Half the time Damian acts like he’s older than every one of them barring Alfred, and that’s only because Damian intrinsically respects that Alfred can cook where everyone else left to their own devices would have a diet focused on proteins (for the muscles!) and whatever vice slash emotional crutch they can get their hands on.

So Damian is hard and brittle and sometimes he’s also a little awful, but right now he’s just mostly a scared kid trying not to show it. Funny how goddamn infectious Scarecrow’s hot bullshit can get, thinks Dick, as he restrains Damian from slashing Bruce’s belly open in the world’s most ill-advised attempt at a stomach pumping.

“D, Tim and Alfred are working on a cure, all right, so how’s about we cool it with the whole ritual disemboweling thing?”

“Unhand me Richard!” Damian shrieks, and the break down the middle can’t be good for the throat. “I will not leave Father’s wellbeing to Drake! He is a damned idiot who didn’t even tell me there was an emergency, I was sat at the dining table like a fool while all this while…”

Everyone’s guilty of that particular crime, of course, forgetting about Damian in the heat of the moment. Jason’s also guilty of not being very helpful right now, as he just watches on with a look of vague indulgence, eating up doughnut holes he hasn’t earned. Dick tries not to sigh, and forcibly reminds himself that looking after crazy younger siblings is the classic curse of the eldest (and best-looking) child. He hugs Damian tighter, and holds him steady. “Sorry, Dami, it’s been all systems go from when Bruce passed out. Tim’s already nullified the paralytic that was shutting down his lungs, and now they just need to figure out how to deal with the Scare Toxin 2.0. Gutting your father’s probably not a good idea, don’t you think?”

Jason, who is currently racing ahead of his competitors for the title of ‘Worst Little Brother By Far, Jesus, Jason, Stop’, snorts and tips back in his chair. “You know, I say we let the little guy have a go. God knows Mister Repressed over here sure could do with a loosening of his bowels, you feel me?”

Luckily, the current frontrunner for ‘Best Little Brother By Far, Not To Play Favourites Or Anything, Tim, But It’s Definitely You’ runs in with Alfred at his heels, shouting “Stop encouraging him!”. Tim has a tiny glass vial in his hand, cradled like it’s a reliquary bearing the tears of the Lord Himself, and a needle and syringe that could probably down a wildebeest. Alfred is outfitted with an IV stand rolling beside him like a third leg, the liquid in the bag swishing like a particularly important water balloon. 

Doughnut holes, needle holes, assholes. What a day full of holes, or something. Dick’s not too sure how he’s meant to interpret all of this, and so he decides not to, doubling down on securing Damian to stop him from flying at Tim and accidentally destroying the best hope they have of dealing with this whole mess.

Tim pushes Damian and Dick away from Bruce’s side, steadfastly ignoring the mess they’ve made of Bruce’s pokerboard chest. “I’m not even going to ask,” he says, and he means it with every ounce of his soul. He pushes Bruce’s sleeve up, takes a breath and reminds himself that he’s checked the composition of the potential cure a dozen times by now. Best case scenario, it works, and even in the worst case, they’re only risking liver failure in the next three to four hours.

Looking around at the tableau of people keeping vigil over Bruce, Tim suspects that there won’t be a shortage of donors anyways, so it’s a risk well worth taking.

“Well,” he says, amazed that his hands are so still for someone running on minimal sleep and even less coffee, “here goes nothing.”

He sticks the needle in a split second before Damian shouts “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”, and the antidote’s coursing through Bruce’s veins before Damian can break free and create a second casualty. 

Alfred ignores all the hullabaloo to put in the IV line into Bruce’s other arn, and he starts the drip. Amidst all the commotion and all the stress, he looks down at Bruce’s slack, unconscious face, and feels a very gentle sort of jealousy accompanying the usual teeth-grinding feeling of concern.

Jason taps him on the hand and holds out the bag of doughnut holes. 

Alfred sighs. “You really will ruin your appetite for brunch, Master Jason.”

Jason just smiles, and he looks as guileless and as sweet as he did when he barely came past Alfred’s waist. “Alfie, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than somebody else almost dying and me eating some junk to turn me off your food.” He holds the bag out again, insistent and dear. 

This time, Alfred takes it. He can’t help feeling just a little bit charmed. “Just for that, Master Jason, you may count upon getting a double-portion of dessert.” 

Even if brunch may be delayed because Alfred fully intends to beat Scarecrow over the head with an electric whisk for the next three hours after this.

-

At least Alfred isn’t on the dais, thinks Bruce. That’s four targets instead of five, one less thing he needs to worry for. It seems like a tremendous oversight, for his psyche to leave out Alfred as he crafts his idea of a worst-case scenario, but it’s also entirely possible that Alfred is so grounding a presence that even in the depths of delusion, he’s doing his best to support Bruce.

It’s a heartening thought. Bruce looks and sees and thinks and waits, feeling anticipation build. The lights seem sharper now, the edges between his family and the rest of the world becoming more distinct, like a sign to say look here, and nowhere else.

The boys are arranged by age, Damian furthest to the left and Dick furthest to the right. In an emergency, which this will be, Bruce would have no problem just picking up both Damian and Tim and running. Jason and Dick he would need to grab one at a time to get up to any sort of decent speed, which is not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. He doesn’t see snipers skulking in the balconies that overlook the courtyard, doesn’t hear the quiet undercurrent of people planning murder sneaking into place. It doesn’t mean much in a hallucination, but Bruce is banking on his psyche being far too particular to leave out such clues. 

Another blank-faced human-approximate comes out into the courtyard, bearing a silver tray with champagne flutes. All the boys take one, even Damian, and the waiter finally proceeds up the steps to Bruce with one special gold-rimmed glass.

He accepts it, and unreality starts to crystalise.

Off to the side, the woman raises her own glass. “A toast! To finding the right man for Mister Wayne!”

The boys knock back their drinks, and Bruce doesn’t, because she’d said man, singular, when these are all the right men, plural, and his is the only glass that’s different.

Damian collapses first; that small of a body with the same amount of poison as all the rest, it’s inevitable. Tim sways a little, and then he’s down and out too. If this were truly real instead of just seemingly real, Jason would hold out longest because between the Pit and the ghoulish training he can metabolise most anything out there to kill him, but he’s writhing on the ground in moments. Dick manages to stumble a few steps forwards, flute still in hand, before he finally falls too.

“Now then, Mister Wayne, it’s time to choose!”

And this, Bruce thinks distantly as he holds the one antidote dose in a glass close to shattering in his grasp, is the truest stuff of nightmares.

-

The room goes quiet when Bruce starts writhing on the table, eyelids flickering as he grunts and groans. He was quieter when they’d had to set his broken leg without any anaesthesia, and isn’t that an illuminating view into what it takes to be the man in Batman?

Dick is Extremely Stressed Out, and is meaner than he means to be when he looks at Tim. “Why is he getting worse?”

Tim’s gone pale and is going paler still. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Usually as soon as you administer the antitoxin recovery happens right away. This should have worked-”

‘Should have’ isn’t particularly reassuring right now, and has had a long history of biting Bats and their associates in the ass; it’s another one of those kinds of days, looks like. 

Damian isn’t having any of it. “You’ve made him worse, Drake! I knew we couldn’t trust you to do anything right, Father is dying because of you. I should have gotten rid of you when I had the chance.” He sounds like he’s never meant it more.

Tim doesn’t even disagree with him, just keeps staring at the puncture wound in the crease of Bruce’s elbow, at the remains of the little antidote that couldn’t. It’s like a metaphor for his life, at this point. The shoddy patch job that didn’t work, the plaster too insignificant to cover the wound, the cure that didn’t heal anything.

Everybody quiets down when Tim doesn’t rise to the bait, even Damian who had been near frothing at the mouth for a fight. The fear gas isn’t deadly, usually, but these aren’t usual times. There are things that could be done, people they could call, things they could do to keep Bruce running long enough for more help to come in.

That’s the thing, though, the absolute worst thing about the fucking toxin; it’s so metaphysically infectious, that the concept of a dying Bruce has rooted them all to the ground. Smooth as anything, it saps away the will to try and try harder, bit by terrible bit.

Bruce is breaking out into cold sweat now, movements growing increasingly violent as he keeps gasping out their names, and isn’t that just a sight to behold?

Tim breaks his own spell first, holding a hand up to his mouth like he’s trying to hold back the desire to throw up. “I’m going to go back to the lab, I must have missed something, there’s got to be something I can do.”

Dick nods, mouth dry. “Sounds like a great idea, Timmy. I’ll stay here and stop Bruce from convulsing all over. D, can you keep his legs still?”

It speaks to the heaviness of the situation that Damian doesn’t do more than glare at Dick before he goes to do his bidding, securely holding Bruce down by his ankles. The blanket had gone flying when Bruce had started convulsing; Damian tugs it back to cover Bruce’s bare feet. The thin skin and battered bones look vulnerable in the harsh light of the medbay, and Damian doesn’t want to look at them. Socks, he thinks. He’s going to festoon his father in so many socks, thick woolly fluffy ones for swanning about the Manor in, and things will be fine.

He grips Bruce’s ankles tighter, and wills whatever spark of magic he may or may not have to come out and do its damned job (can’t leave it all to Drake, can he?).

Jason remains unusually quiet, still in his chair, close by Bruce’s shoulder. He remembers that first hit of the toxin, fresh from the bagel, the immediate confidence that the Joker was there with a crowbar, only this time it’s not just Jason tied up in some shack somewhere in the snow.

This time the fucker was in the room with him, right by Alfred and Dick, right by Bruce who’s unconscious and more useless even than usual, and the greatest, most unbearable fear had been that this time, someone else would die from the blood in their lungs, and this time, he’ll be the one too late to stop it. 

Alfred said that Bruce had been calling out for all of them, hadn’t said anything but their names and ‘help’, and he thinks he can guess the shape of the nightmare Bruce is seeing. The bare bones of it, five snapped ribs digging into a soft lung, the thing that’s making Bruce choke. Tim’s a certifiable genius, but a toxin in the blood’s a lot easier to get rid of than a demon in the head. 

Jason’s fortunately a master at both, at this point, and he suspects that there’s something he can do.

With uncharacteristic gentleness he brushes Bruce’s hair off his face and tucks it behind an ear. He moves his hand down until he has a sure grip on the nape of Bruce’s neck, secure and confident, and squeezes just a little. “Hey, B,” Jason says conversationally, not looking up from Bruce’s twisted face. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I’m gonna guess it’s some fun times involving us.” He drags his chair closer, the legs screaming across the concrete. “Dying horribly, probably, I sure fucking know what you’re like.”

He thinks about the rush of horror that had filled him, and how Alfred’s steady hold on his wrist had helped, how hearing his name being called had helped.

“Whatever it is you’re seeing, it’s not real. Promise you it’s not, ‘cos I bet it’s some dumb thing that wouldn’t have a chance of actually hurting us in real life, because you’re like, the world’s most overbearing parental figure.” Introductory Poisons 101, a Wilderness Survival Skills Camp for a pack of vigilantes haunting greater metropolitan Gotham, a field guide for identifying the warning signs of a rabies infection. Three thousand and a half Powerpoint slides updated with the determination of a man who refuses to be caught out unawares ever again. Jason wants to scream as much as he wants to laugh. “So I’m just gonna tell you right now, that whatever decision you have to make, whatever it is you decide to do to try and save us in your head, you’re doing enough, okay? We came into this trusting you, and whatever hell it is that you got going on, we’re gonna come out of it still trusting you.”

Jesus, it’s embarrassing needing to say these things that need to be said in front of other people. This is why Jason had tried to hold out on making monthly brunch an official thing, and his premonition had been 20/20, urgh. The sole silver lining is that Bruce is unconscious and cannot quote him on any of this.

Still, whatever his grievances and anger and dissatisfaction, it’s a point beyond contention that Jason absolutely doesn’t want to see anybody in this family hurt. Even Bruce. Maybe especially Bruce, on days like these. 

“Do what you have to do,” he says easily. “I can take a hit or twelve, and I got a great track record of coming back, you know? Make the call, and just wake the fuck up.”

God, the temptation for a dramatic slap is almost overwhelming. Instead, Jason absently brushes the fine hairs by Bruce’s nape with a thumb, and hopes for the best.

-

His first instinct is to go for Damian. Damian’s the smallest by far, and the poison will take him first. If he gets the antidote to him, then he’s buying time to figure out a cure for the rest of them. Best case scenario, he can figure a way out of this. Worst case scenario, everyone dies except for Damian. He lets down three of his sons, and the one that does survive gets to know that the only reason he lived is because the others didn’t.

It’s twisting his stomach, twisting his brain, and the panic’s ratcheting up as they start dribbling a bit of blood and convulsing. He has to choose, he has one cure and he has to choose, how is he meant to choose, how is he supposed to come out through this in one piece? Bruce can’t even pull himself out of his chair, and the edges of the world are starting to ominously fade to black. It’s too late to say hey, how about you let me drink four shots of poison instead, please? It’s too late to do anything, why hadn’t he moved the moment he suspected foul play masquerading as champagne? How is he too late again?

What is the point of him, other than to spectacularly fail when he’s needed the most?

Deep breath in, slow breath out. He tries to remember that this is likely a hallucination, but it doesn’t help, so Bruce shoves all other thoughts out of his head, and makes himself move.

It’s triage; a sip of antidote given to everyone, as much as he can spare for each. He could give all of it to just one son and hope for the best, but whatever the outcome of that, the decision-making process behind picking one to live and three to die is going to cause so much more fucking damage than this, so he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about anything, just tips his glass into Damian’s mouth, then Tim’s, then Dick.

He’s got Jason propped in his arms, just the littlest bit of the antidote left in his glass, and gief is already settling in because isn’t this a familiar scene? He holds the flute up to Jason’s mouth, and pulls back when he hears the softest little mumbles. “‘s not real,” he hears Jason say, and abruptly warmth blooms from the back of his neck, running down his spine. Jason’s words come in and out of focus, like a voice over the phone trying to whisper over static. “Trust….you.” More static. “Wake the fuck up.”

The last line comes over more strongly, the warmth at his nape squeezes harder, and Bruce drags in a desperate breath. He feeds the last of the liquid carefully into Jay’s mouth, because it doesn’t hurt to be careful, and tries to focus on the grounding feeling that’s holding him by the neck. “Jason?” he calls out, right at the sky instead of the man in his arms, because he feels close to cracking it.

-

“Holy shit, Jay, it’s working!”

It had been soft, but they all heard Bruce call for Jason after the world’s most heartening speech. Bruce even seemed to be pressing into Jason’s steady hold, and Dick joins in on the action, commandeering a hand and squeezing it tight. “C’mon, Bruce, you gotta wake up. You’re always the one that gets testy whenever we’re late for brunch. I’m starving, and not even your paranoid brain’s gonna keep me down, so just wake up already!”

Fingers twitch in his hands, and Dick wants to vault off the top of something very tall while he whoops.

Not to be outdone, Damian starts shaking Bruce by his ankles like he’s trying to swing some extremely unwieldy skipping rope. “Yes, Father, I would not allow myself to be killed inside or outside your mind, so you may as well give up and just wake up.” The shaking becomes more intense, and it’s almost funny to see Bruce’s heavily-muscled legs flopping about. 

Alfred eyes the EEG read-out, and sees the signs of a man fighting through a nightmare. Fighting desperately, inching ever so slowly towards wakefulness. He’s not usually one for loud cheering or whooping, but what’s a butler to do but provide for his charge? Alfred rounds the table, right by where Jason is, and politely clears his throat. “I shall fetch Master Tim, as this does seem to be working. If you will excuse me,” he says as he leans down and presses a palm to the curve of Bruce’s cheek, “I’ll see you momentarily, sir.”

The touch lingers, and Alfred disappears on the wings of a soft sigh from their communal patient.

Dick and Damian continue shouting encouragement from the top of their lungs, deciding that the best strategy is the loudest one, while Jason stays quiet and keeps a firm hold on Bruce. Bruce’s eyelids flutter harder and harder, like consciousness is only a moment away, and when Tim comes in with the largest needle to date with something that looks like hot pink radioactive waste, the shouting just gets more energetic. 

It’s so dumb, and it’s so sweet, thinks Jason. Dick and Tim and Damian are all on one side of Bruce, and the gentle nudges and prodding has turned into what looks like three bakers kneading a massive slab of dough, Dick working on a shoulder, Tim on a hip, and Damian on the feet. Bruce is actively groaning now from being worked over by three violent, overexcited masseuses, and is probably hopped up on whatever stimulant Tim just stabbed him full of. When he wakes up he’s going to be extremely disoriented, and probably bruised to hell and back. 

They’re all crazy, and they’re going to give Bruce motion sickness, and shit like this is maybe why Jason still shows up month after month for goddamn Brunch at the Manor. 

He’s smiling as he starts bellowing in Bruce’s ear too.

“Wake up, you old man, god, remember that whole year you secretly planted like 15 alarm clocks in my bedroom because I was a teenager who liked to sleep in on the weekends?”

Wake up you complete asshole is the pervading primary vibe in the room; wake up, dad! is the secret group wish. 

Sometimes, good things do happen to vigilantes.

Bruce groans, and-

-

Things escalate really quickly from Jason’s quiet whispers. All of a sudden he’s bombarded with shouting on all sides, like the sky is screaming down at him. If that wasn’t overwhelming enough, he starts feeling warmth in patches all over him, screeching fire burning a path up his arm, and he keeps tipping to the side like he’s being shoved over.

There’s a theme to the cacophony; it’s familiar voices yelling some variation of wake up, and he recognises those voices. They’re ones that he tends to be bad at turning down, all of them, and if they’re saying wake up, then he really should try.

The Woman comes up to him in her beautiful dress, catches him by the chin with her red, red nails, and Bruce looks into a face that isn’t there; the void threatens to pull him under.

“They’re dying,” she tells him, and her voice is the amalgamation of every terrible voice promising every terrible thing in every terrible Gotham alley. “Choose, Bruce Wayne, you have to choose.”

He looks down, at his sons lying down around him like a halo, and looks at her.

“I choose,” he says more calmly than he’s felt throughout this entire hellish experience, “to wake up.”

(Choosing just one is no fucking choice at all.)

-

The screaming continues long after Bruce wakes up, and he thinks at this point it’s just payback for him worrying them. Alfred had shown up bearing tea and sandwiches almost at the exact moment Bruce had wrenched himself awake, because the man has a sense of timing that is simply sublime. Bruce can’t hold his cup of tea himself because the last kick of drugs Tim had given him had helped kick his brain back into gear but also leaves him so strung out he’s pretty sure he could one hit KO Killer Croc right now.

Everyone seems to find his lack of coordination exceedingly funny, even as they take turns to help him sit up and sip his drink. The hot darjeeling helps with the cotton mouth, and nibbling a delicate little cucumber sandwich helps soften the nausea brought about by the abject despair. He idly brushes powdered sugar off his front, and looks around at his family. Nobody’s bleeding out or foaming at the mouth, and he’s never seen anything so good in his life. 

They update him on the situation as he gets his bearings; some new type of fear toxin-paralytic combo present in baked bread, the GCPD being informed and pulling the contaminated food off the shelves, Tim’s three-strep antidote composition forwarded to the pharmaceutical arm of WE for immediate production of the cure, Bruce going down harder than most, likely due to his built-up resistance to previous versions of the toxin. Damian happily outlines his plan of plucking the poison right out of Bruce’s guts, which certainly is an idea, and Bruce carefully doesn’t mention how all of them are keeping in tight contact. Jason’s got his feet propped up on the cot, and his socked feet are pressed to Bruce’s side. He woke up with Dick holding his hand, and he hasn’t dropped it yet. Tim’s leaning over the cot, body turned to face Bruce, and his elbow pokes Bruce right in the waist. A master of secrecy and deception on an average day, Damian’s taken a break from being a professional assassin and offers no apologies or excuses for just straight up sitting on top of Bruce’s legs.

Even Alfred seems to find a thousand reasons to offer up glancing touches as he passes snacks and drinks around, oh.

He’s piled in, and it feels fantastic. 

Alfred keeps disappearing and reappearing with more and more food, and the kitchen island upstairs is usurped by Bruce’s body acting as a table for their meal. He has a worryingly warm gravy boat placed securely between his thighs, and staunchly ignores whoever it is that calls it ‘Batman Meat Juice’. A wrought iron pot full of warm tea hangs from the IV stand, and his chest is home to a platter of roast beef and mushroom tempura. He’s clearly intentionally being weighed down, because the first response to him saying he should really get up get out and get Scarecrow was greeted with a mostly-empty bag of doughnuts slammed right into his middle.

Bruce realises he probably deserved that, even if he’s less certain about deserving all of this. There’s no way to free himself barring an out-and-out brawl with all of his sons, and even if he survives that, he won’t survive Alfred who’s been bringing down the cutlery with a look of impending violence.

The atmosphere’s manic; down for the poisoning, up for the recovery, twanging every which way because everybody is clearly curious about what had taken him so deep under, but everybody also had enough sense (enough experience) not to ask.

It’s not like Bruce is famous for sharing information, either, but he’d seen them almost die in front of him. Surely, he’s learned from Jason. Surely, he knows better than to be shitty to his living children after seeing dead children.

He pours Batman’s Meat Juice over a slice of beef, and looks at it instead of at anyone. “It was a competition, with the four of you. They poisoned all of you, and I had the one antidote, and I had to choose.” He tears into the sliver of meat, still firmly avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t, because I couldn’t. All of you managed to wake me up before the final conclusion.”

And how fortunate was that? In the heat of panic, opting to parcel out the antidote had been the only thing that had made sense, but where would Bruce be if he hadn’t woken up? If the fever dream ended with all his children dead at his feet and then the nightmare began?

Dick and Jason don’t give him much time to stew, because they both snort in a way that indicates maximum offense has been taken. “The Scarecrow wishes he could poison me dead,” Damian states with utmost confidence, and Jason going “Even getting smashed to a pulp couldn’t keep me down, and you’re saying some shitty ass ~mystery brew~ was gonna take me out? Christ, dream me was probably taking a nap to avoid all the melodrama,” was an echo of the same thought.

Why they’re offended that Bruce’s worst nightmare is not up to snuff is a little hard to understand, but their vehement confidence in their unwillingness to die is comforting. Even the inevitable escalation of Damian and Jason trying to flex their poison resistance to each other feels familiar and warm, though Bruce twitches reflexively when Jason roars for Alfred to bring out the bagel so that they can have a showdown right now, right here, little bird. 

Bruce looks up, and Tim’s just staring at him. “To be honest, if I was enough of a dumbass to just knock back suspicious liquids in suspicious circumstances, I’d be as bad as those two,” he nods to Jason and Damian who are both currently being lectured by Alfred and being threatened with a fate worse than any quick-acting poison (“No kebabs and ‘nugs’ at the next family barbecue, indeed none for the entirety of the spring, sirs, if you so much as say the word ‘bagel’ in my presence again, do you understand me?”). “You really need to worry less about us, especially not-us-us.”

Dick saunters into view, eating an unholy combination of meat and mushrooms sandwiched between custard-stuffed doughnuts. “No joke, I have and probably will keep on being the dumbass that’ll just swallow everything that looks food-shaped, but at some point you just gotta look at the boy throwing up at your feet because he ate from a bag of ancient popcorn that’s gone kinda green and go, you’re an adult human being Dick, and this is what happens when you eat your body weight in junk and black mould.” His tone is casual and light, but his eyes are sharp as anything. That’s the trick of Dick the Flying Grayson; all pomp and splendour in how he walks and talks and moves and acts, and none of it has a patch on what goes on in his head.

Bruce wonders what he’s calculating now.

It turns out to be a kiss, pressed sweetly to Bruce’s brow, a callback to the first few months of Dick’s endless sleepless nights spent curled up in Bruce’s bed. The world goes hazy, and for a moment it’s like he’s at the start of a dream that could go very well or very badly, again.

Bruce blinks, and Dick just smiles. “It’s a Robin’s job to look out for Batman, and it’s our job to look out for you. We would literally stay alive just out of spite, B. Try and come up with something more realistic next time, or you’re gonna make Scarecrow feel bad about his life’s work, okay?”

There is a bit of grease on his forehead, because a tempura-laced kiss will do that to you no matter how dapper the man who gives it, and Bruce for a hysterical moment feels tempted to never wash his face ever again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, but his voice is rough and there is not a chance that he’s not an open book right now. 

“Very good, sirs.” Alfred’s voice cuts through the background chatter, uncharacteristically loud. He has a massive whisk in his hands, but there’s nothing nearby that needs it. It’s a heavy-duty one, probably more commonly used in industrial kitchens than in homes with fewer inhabitants than fingers on the average hand, but Alfred seems to be appreciatingthe heft. “Now that we have sorted everything out, I do beg your pardon. I made a promise to myself that I would teach young Dr. Crane a thing or two about endangering members of the Wayne family, and I’ll just be off getting that done so that I may return in time for tea.” He nods at all of them with exquisite politeness, and it’s with dawning horror that Bruce understands that this is really happening.

(What does this one man intend to do with that one whisk, oh my god.)

Alfred’s even rolled up his sleeves, suit jacket discarded, and he keeps doing practice upward jabs with the whisk absent-mindedly. It’s easy to form some ideas about where Alfred intends to stick it and then twist to whisk, and isn’t that a spot of healthy horrific exercise for the mind.

Jason’s laughter cracks out like a shot, and in a second he’s up and by Alfred’s side, holding the gravy boat like he would a gun (it’s fantastically menacing). “Alfie, you’re a man after my own heart,” he croons, looking intimidating despite the holding of the Meat Juice. “C’mon, I’ll let you ride shotgun. It’s time for you to let your hair down, go buck wild on the town. Shit, I knew there was a reason why I liked brunch.”

It becomes clear, in that moment, that the world’s most terrifying hero matchup is happening right before his very eyes, and Bruce feels a cleaner, purer fear than he did at any point during his nightmare. It’s his duty as Batman to derail this, and there’s only one thing he can think off that could, conceivably work.

“The toxin made me dream that I was on the set of the Bachelor, and at first I thought my challenge would be going on a date with all of you,” he says out in a rush, steely stare fixed on a particularly attractive stalactite.

The merged scream of “WHAT!?” damn near knocks him out again, and somewhat sarcastically Bruce thinks he might actually miss being unconscious and a little dying.

He’s beginning to suspect that brunch may, in fact, be cursed.

- 

 A/N: If you’re struggling with your headspace right now I want you to know that a plate full of cheesy wedges will NOT help. Nor will having sad folk songs play for 2 hours on full-blast as you fail to digest too much dairy and potatoes. Please take care of yourselves in these dark dank times.

[blackdahlia-parker]

What you reading love?

Part 2- Tom Holland x female reader

Summary: you were meant to be studying for an exam that you had the next day, but instead of returning home so your boyfriend could help you, you decide to head to the library and got too interested in a particular book. What happens when Tom catches you flustered while thinking about him in a public library?

Warnings!: Smut! 👀 throughout, dirty talk Please don’t read if you are uncomfortable.

Please Read part 1 if you haven’t already 🙃 someone asked for a part 2 so here it is-

“But Why did you say you hated my teasing love?… If you didn't like it then why were you a moaning mess hmm?” “Ahhhaa T-Tom” was all you could reply . Flip— he’d caught you good you thought, as he continued to move his finger, slipping in and out, in and out at an extremely pleasurable pace. Just then a woman walked past as he went deeper on purpose as he saw her. He was really putting you at risk now. “Ahhhaa—cheeky shit!” You screeched, as you attempted to push the both of you further into the hidden corner of the shelves, gasping for air. Removing himself from within you, he laughed quietly as he forced his middle finger into your mouth and got you to suck on it, ravishing it like a dummy. You made yet another filthy noise, but you just can’t help it. God you were embarrassing yourself.

“Shhh darling!, you just can’t keep your mouth shut around me can you? Why’s that then hmm?” You couldn’t really speak probably with his rough finger in your mouth. Muffled, but you tried at least; “n-no reason babyyy” you looked up at his face and just melted into his mocha eyes. There were crinkles around them as he grinned. “oh yeah I’m sure it’s for no reason” he sarcastically replied winking. Why did you have to be looking at those damn eyes as he did that? You were just drawn to them....they were like a whirlpool. Drawing things to the very centre. Ending in dangerous results. Dangerous but good mmmm. “I can tell how much you like me now Y/N. I mean it’s pretty evident now isn't it? Now, slurp you filthy wet  mess off my finger. There’s a good girl.”

“hmmmhhh hmmmhhhh hmmmhhhh.’’ You tried to shut your mouth but failed, so you just did as your boy told you to. You teased him, getting a small lick of his finger before quickly removing your mouth from around it and then going back to suck it hard and then grabbing his hand to shove it in and out. Leaving your saliva on his now wet finger that your tongue swirled around slowly in attempt to turn I’m on. And you had succeeded in doing that for sure.

You were still lost in his deep eyes, watching as they turned from looking like day time, to the pitch black night sky. They looked mysterious and it excited you to not know what he was gonna do next. He then removed his finger when he was satisfied that you'd cleaned it enough. He’d felt his stomach twist at the explicit sight of you sucking his swear finger hard, twirling your tongue around it while not once taking your eyes from his. “God y/n, if there’s something you need to do, you make sure you do it properly don’t you? I bet the teachers at college love you because you suchhh a good little girl aren’t you love? ” your knees shook at the comment. You could listen to his voice all day and wouldn’t get bored. You loved being praised. He knew it too so he did it purposely all the time, being the big tease that he is.

Leaving you standing by the shelf, he went and grabbed the book again. The one you were reading earlier. As he studied the book, he tried to find some of the most erotic pages and you studied him. Your eyes stuck to his face. He turned you on so much and made you soak all the was through your underwear when you saw his focused face. He has a bit of a wonky nose from breaking it a couple of times, but nevertheless it was shaped really nice. His small lips looked larger than usual, as he licked them until red and puffy while he read. You bit your lower lip at this and you could've sworn it nearly bleed. “Oww” you silently gasped, while bringing your finger up to touch it. You stared at his long, curly brown locks that draped down his forehead on his concentrated face. Your head taking you to the most sinful of thoughts, as you imagined his head among your thighs, hair tickling them and sending tingling shivers to your pussy, while he would lick up every drop, and look up to you with those damn eyes. ‘Shit’ you thought.

You came back to reality and pushed the naughty thoughts away, while you focused on his little freckles which was very pretty and hopefully didn't have a chance of sending you back into a dirty daze. The flaws and details on his face were immensely beautiful, but there was one thing that was more….. Your body attempted to keep you from looking but it failed miserably as your eyes said differently, they wanted to be blessed. Your eyes slowly went down from his face, passed his upper body and down to his lower, catching sight of the outline of his big fat cock—

Just as he found the page, he looked at you. You were guilty as sin. Your jaw dropped as you tried to think of a misunderstanding. He'd caught you good and proper. What you thought of was rubbish; “I’m so sorry T-Tom, I know what it looks like b-but….ummm…..i wasn't looking at y-you” He shook his head and laughed as he ran his tongue over his lip, “Nuh u uhh darling, I don't want your excuses.” He wasn't normally this confident but he forced himself to be, purely for his girl’s fun. Your whole body shook. “Don’t worry, you wont have to wait for much longer for my cock darling, in fact I have the page i wanted right here’’ and with that, he pointed to it. Page 289. Sh!t.

For some reason you remembered specifically what was on that page, and you began dripping again. “T-Tommm…” you quivered, “are we really gonna do what it says in the b-book h-here?” As much as it excited you, you had a slight frightful look in your eyes. You were in p-public. “Yes my dear….Do you comply to any of this?” he questions. “N-no not really… I guess I can’t complain” You were a stuttering mess…and what the hell did you just agree to??!!

You didn't bother checking what time it was, at least you both were hidden, but god help if he does you good. You were still stood up. He decided that it was best if You kept your ruffle skirt on and just slide down your underwear. But even that was enough. You’ll never be ready for what was to come…

He read from the book; “Thomas roughly swirled his finger around her clit. She was soaking, which proved to him how much of a naughty girl she was. This wasn’t allowed. Not without his permission” he did as the book mentioned, he reached up and grazed around your clit a little at first. So light that at one point it hit a spot and tickled. You jaulted , wrapping your arms around his thick neck and turned rouge. “Ohh hheehe” you gasped while giggling. But then he smirked and began to rub pastily and abrasively up and down the area. You looked down to where his fingers were and nearly came at the sight of how good he was handling you. “Ahhaaa Tomm—Oh uuuu—Such a good husba— boyfriend, yeah boyfriend.” I mean you secretly wanted to marry him. He felt so pleased with himself. He was making you forget reality , making you think he was your husband. all that was on your mind was how good he was pleasuring you...in public. Where the hell did he learn to move his fingers like that? “T-Tom ahaaa, Oh my goddd baby!” Now it was his turn to say “shhh”. You then whisper yelled at him, as he continued to rub around the most pleasurable spot in the whole of your body; “What do you—Ahaa— Ohhaa—What do you expect—ahhaa T-Tommy?!.”

You sounded like an uneducated child trying to form your sentences (except with the moaning…) He then chuckled mischievously and came to a sudden stop. Your mind couldn’t figure out why. He was on the ground…what the he—Then it hit you like a ton of bricks, as he licked a stripe all the way up the inside folds of your pussy. You gulped as he swallowed your wetness all the way down his throat, in one massive gulp. “Tommyyyyyyy!!!!” You really began to whine now. He got up from the ground. You was fuming. You raged; “what the heck??!! that’s all i get is one lick??, please stop teasing me Tommmm.’’ “Haha, patience baby, or I’ll just leave right now. Leave you here on your own to sort your own mess out. It that what you want darling hmm?” You certainly did not want that. “No!” You replied hastily (just in case he did leave you). He chuckled darkly; “I thought as much love. Now behave!” He snapped. And with that he spread his hand wide and slapped your ass cheek firmly, causing you to Yelp as a trickle of wetness ran down your thigh from your dripping core. And to top it all once he’d done that, he moved his hand and brought it back and slapped down onto your pussy this time it felt so good and stung just a right tiny amount, making your clit tingle as he then rubbed his whole palm over it in a traumatically slow motion. You were flooding. He tutted as he felt such wetness. “Ahh-haaa mmmm p-pleaseee” You rocked yourself on his hand uncontrollably. Tom shook his head and licked across his bottom lip at what you were currently doing and then spoke, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. Lips ghosting your ear. “My little SLuT!”. He then blew on your ear. It was short and simple but sent shivers right down the side of your face. And with that he gave quick grab to your pussy, pinching it into his hand. You whimpered, eyes falling backwards. You didn’t know how much longer you could stand this.

“Now where were we?…. Page 289…’’ he stated, as he began to recite the book’s words again….

“Thomas laid his girl gently to the ground as he got down beside her.”  “ooofff, you heard it, lay down dear” he said breathily and smirked as he put his palm flush to your heaving chest and slowly lowered you down while he grabbed on to support you. You were now eyeing him from down on the library’s floor. You cannot believe you are doing this, stomach fluttering as you started to get a little excited at the thrill of it all. He continued to read… “He pulled his jeans off while he put on a seductive show for her.”  Tom did as the book said, as he pulled his jeans off traumatisingly slow and he seductively rolled his hips in a grinding motion. You saw his dick move with his body through his pants and gulped, eyeing it with strong lust for him in your eyes. You hadn't expected it, but as soon as his jeans were off, he yanked his underwear off quicker than she she thought was possible, but in a very sexy manner. Being the seducing God that he is.

OH MY GOD! It wasn't only you that was dripping…He was too. You stared at it. Long, red and tip releasing sex juice. “Mmmhhmm, yum” you accidentally said a little too loud for your liking. He stared at you intensely, not saying a word at your reaction to him. Instead he just shook his head , tutted and his pupils dilated until they were almost black.

He wanted to devour you. His gaze made you scorch. “Quit looking at me like that , or I’m going to cum before you even shove it in me!” He growled at your words, “Is that so darling?, am I that flippin’ delicious?” You just nodded in response. He was incredibly satisfied with himself for this. But just then, he lost all of his smiles as he instantly thought of something vital. “Oh sh!t Y/N!.....we don’t have a condom do we?” Your eyes widened a large amount as the boy reminded you. Tom was ultimately quite sad as he was getting excited all that time and for nothing to come of it. “Well.....actually.....” you spoke....embarrassed and anxious to speak.....”I actually have ......a cond— well you know....one of them handy in my b-bag” You blushed furiously. “Ahh do you now?”, your boyfriend questioned amusingly “are condoms a thing you keep handy in your bag on a regular basis?” He questioned again....expecting your answer to be ‘no’ but instead it was this; “well.....this is quite embarrassing....but um—yes Tom, yes they are.....I don’t really know.....I’ve just wanted to do this for so long, I’ve wanted you to do at least something to me again for ages....and I guess they really did come in handy” you smiled a cute, innocent toothy smile......but not for long.....

A fire lit in Tom’s stomach. He was ‘in’ as they’d say. “Aww that’s really cute Y/N......but just you wait.....the noises you’ll make darling won’t be so adorable sounds.....and they’ll be all for me.....isn’t that right, my little princess?” He winked. You could’ve collapsed to your death. What an embarrassing end that would have been. You can see it as headlines now; ‘cause;- her boyfriend turning her on too much, too frequently’. You internally laughed at the thought but decided to play back, “wanna bet?” ......”oh yes please baby” he smirked “it’s on!, I bet you’ll be moaning like a wild animal” he then lowered his voice into more of a whisper.....”trust me , you’ll be jelly by the time I’m done with you darling.” Something was telling you that he would be right. You were wobbling already. ‘Pathetic’ you told yourself, as you gave one of your knees a smack, attempting to stop the wobbling , unsuccessfully. You huffed.

Before he proceeded to look at the book, he approached Your bag that was right beside the by the shelf and found a condom in the side pocket. Oh god, one of many....you had a stash...you wanted it bad. His eyes went big at this, as he returned to you and the book’s not so religious words;

“After Thomas has his underwear off, his errection was in full sight and he was oh- so relieved that his ‘penis was free as his balls escaped the tightness of his boxers too.” Tom held in a laugh at the word ‘penis’ but couldn’t hold it any longer, his cheeks burst and mouth flying open with a cute, toothy laugh while he had his moment. He knew it was a little childish but he just couldn’t help it. The classical way that bit of the book was written was hilarious to him. Looking down at the page again, he processed the words to speak “He could feel the cum inside of them , desperate to pour out with sexual desire. The air hit his throbbing cock as it grew hard. He got to the ground, where he knelt down in front of her centre, with her whole body flush to the floor.” You both blushed furiously at this. If you weren’t eager before, then you were now. You just loved the thought of all that liquid within him “mmmm”

Tom stopped and spoke to Y/N in real life; “Red Hot is it love?” you just groaned as Tom said this and he continued looking at the book, reading to himself before speaking to you again. “ohhh this is kinky darlingggg, what he does next. I mean it’s normally the girl that .......you know........but if that’s what want, then I’ll do it....only for you ...How do you want it pumpkin?” Your eyes water, you wanted to feel him so badly and intensly. Your feeling for him were immense. His were too. You spoke; “Like the book T-Tom pppleaseee!!” You began to whimper like a helpless animal trapped in a cage. He grinned, “Alrighty then love” and then chuckled as he spoke the cringy words of a famous song.... “I’m gonna take my horse to the old town road, I’m gonna ride ‘til I can’t no more...”. “Oh my god Tom” ,You gushed but laughed at how he killed the mood. But it certainly didn’t stay that way for long.....

“The man reached for her legs and pushed them slightly back towards her head. Legs in air, ass on show as he brought his length pointing directly downwards , leaned over her , practically sitting on top of her,his red cock plunging into her sopping centre.”  Tom wasn’t sure if this position where he rode the girl, possibly even sitting on her was even possible, it might not have even existed but it apparently did in the book so regardless, he went for it.....good.

Pushing your legs back,he set the book aside and he got over you in a leaning but practically in a sitting position and pushed, sinking in deeply until he couldn’t see himself anymore when he looked down.Your tight pussy took every inch. “Good girl” he praised you.

“Ohhh Tom , T-Tom feels a-amazing. Ohhhh please moveeee, — take it out a-and s-slam it back innnn.” You choked on your rather long sentence. (You’d rather be choked by him though;) ), as you moaned and moaned. Tom found this so flipping sexy, but had to block your pretty, filthy little mouth. He put a hand in front of it as you continued your muffled begs for him to move. He begins to bounce up and down at a purposely aggravating slow pace. You groaned at the speed he was going, wanting him to thrust into you with all his might.....harder and faster becauseyou was a naughty girl and that’s how you liked it. “Oh god Y/N, young so tight, it can barely fit in.....and .....uhhhhh—wettt....do I really make you feel that gooooddd baby?, ohhh— listen to the sound of my cock as it pounds you. Our skin  s-slapping togetherrrr......sss—sounds like heaven doesn’t it darlinggggg?” There was a pause as he gave you a chance to take the sound in.....you getting extremely week in the knees, and then; “Do you love my thick cock- b-baby?” He said in between pulling in and out. “Do you?.... D-describe— it— to— me, Ahhhaaa.” He moaned. Your whole body shook .....you absolutely loved hearing a boy moaning, especially your boyfriend. You were so glad he wasn’t embarrassed to just let it all out and be as vocal as he needed to be <3. His voice reached a peak at the end as it went more into a high pitched whimper. Oh my God Y/N though, that was so hot and endearing. you thought his helpless, submissiveness was swoon worthy.

You struggled to hold back from making sinful noises but somehow managed, and you cheekily lied to him about what she thought of his massive dick. She silently laughed before speaking; “No Tom, I don’t like your stupid cock. I-its t-tiny and under—undersized and your so bad at s-sex!” He stopped moving for a minute and pulled out, you immediately wanted him back. He began to actually worry that that’s what she actually thought. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. He wandered In Your eyes for an answer. Then you burst out laughing at his reaction. “Ohhh you nasty girl” Tom said, “you got me thinking there for a moment.  Now look who’s killed the mood? ....and it was a sexy one at that!” He shook his head playfully waiting for your reply. “I’m sorry Tom. I really liked your fat cock in me actually. It felt really good babyyyy” she faked a little moan to wind him up. Tom squinted his eyes at you with fake anger for this, but felt proud. But you needed him back in you now!!! You spoke to him again; “Tom, i need your cock inside me n-now!” you begged. “my what?” he asked…..as if he hadn't heard you in the first place. Right then you thought. You decided to joke again at him for that. “Your tiny, little, undersized,….microscopic—Ow!’’ he touched your pussy and spoke,“Oh, is that area sensitive? I apologise.” Tom gave an evil smile, “you were saying?”

You rolled her eyes at his touch and shifted; “I need your huuuge  cock inside me Tom!!!” Tom nodded, “that’s right baby, that’s better.” Tom chuckled darkly as he slammed back down into you harder than he ever has before.

“Tommm, *slap* oh this *slap* t-took a dramatic t—turn, *slap* Ohhaa my Godddd!!! *slap*W-what happened to y-you? So r-rough *slap*T-tommy, uuuuu— Y-your so goodddd!!” He slapped your ass with each powerful thrust. It was stinging.He groaned in reply to your moaning all because of him….all him… “What do you think * made * m-mee like this darling? Hmmm?” He questioned,while you looked up and saw the most un-holy sight of him bouncing up and down and in and out of your tightness at the speed of light. Another kink of yours was him questioning you with the words ‘hmm?’...you don’t know why it just made you soak continuously. You replied to him “I - I don't p-particularly know what made you like this Tommm” You could barely breathe. “Darling ohh Darlinggg— of-of c-course you- you do. UhhUUu. You really upset daddy by what you said earlier, so n-now your paying for it….You asked to be done better, so that’s what I'm going to do, my P-Princess.”

Those words were nearly all it took…you were sure that you were about to spill and drip down all over his cum filled ballsss, but you forced your body to hold it all in. There was so much inside you right now, and you could tell that his cum was piping hot by the temperature of his balls as they whacked against your groin. You thought of the words ‘Daddy’ coming from your boyfriends mouth. Who knew he could talk so dirtayyy.

He read the words of the book for one final time; “Thomas went in, and I mean in. Hard and deep as she gasped for air. A hitch in her throat. He finally moved one hand from her hip. where it had once resided for some time and brought his own fingers to his mouth, as he licked one, brought it to her nipple, wetting it and blew.”  You as shuddering like jelly beneath Tom, as you knew that this was coming next. Your boy began to lick his thumb and then lifted your t-shirt slightly. You had no bra underneath. His lips curled up at the religious-free sight as he brought his wet finger to your nipple, removed it, still bouncing and slamming into her, leaning close and blew on her breast’s damp nipple. You jolted,

And kicked your legs further up in the air at the tingling sensation, when the cold air hit your soaking nipple. Oooff. You loved this so much. You wanted more. You wanted to be his slut. You was enjoying it a little too much if you ask me. As you kicked you nearly caused Tom to fall off of you ; but gladly he hadn't or he would have gone tumbling into that bookshelf….someone would have surely caught you both for sure then…phheww!

But the thrill of it was purely amazing. You yanked at his long curls while he was resting inside you as your pussy flooded; “mmm Ahhhaa yesss”, a wet liquid just continuously ran and poured out of it. Pulling your t-shirt down, Tom pulled out of you. His hand now deciding to go elsewhere. But before he could move, you quickly grabbed his fat cock and tossed his back down on Top of you (but not inside) , and you forced him to grind on you like he did to that umbrella during his lip sync battle- him grinding on that umbrella was so F-ing arousing. Shit. He wiggled his cock and his ravishingly radiant ass, as you lay on the floor getting the best of views. God you wanted him to grind on you hard. That ass had a scrumptious shape. Plump and rounded. ooff and the sight of him when he wore tight trousers that clung to it was to die for. You heaved, heaved and heaved as he sped up and he growled like a possessive bear, not wanting anyone else to hear moan but him. Nobody else deserved to. But that was impossible. You were just so loud. He was just grinding but that was enough. His ass and cock banged your skin harshly but then came to a stop as you reached out and grasped it, tugging it towards your mouth. You wanted to taste his flesh. Mouth wide open, But as he realised before it even reached your mouth, he slapped your hand causing you to let go of his dick. You felt miserable. “NO!’’ he said harshly, Yanking his massive length away from you...

A/n- thank you so much for reading part 1 and this, I really appreciate it.

Part 3 anyone? 😂💓

[wellntruly]

STRANGER THINGS Recap: 2x02

It’s All Hallow’s Eve in Hawkins --- time 2 get SPOOKY

“Ghost.”

Stranger Things 2, Chapter Two: ‘Trick or Treat, Freak’

And now it’s time to return to the final moments of last season (love thaaaat, always do this in the second episode!), and catch up with whatever adventures of Eleven’s resulting in her hiding out with Hopper in his cabin eating microwaved turkey and peas.

It seems that after her really visually explosive vanquish job on the Demogorgon, El woke up in the Upside Down school, as adrift as the flakes on the cyan air. It takes our tube socked warrior a few moments to realize that she’s been vanish’ed in the manner of young Will, because amazing to realize but I don’t think she’s actually been here before, in this world where your voice echoes in such a (wonderfully) disconcerting way. Like sound itself is breaking down in this air, aah! Leave my heart here much longer and it’s GONNA BREAK TOO, watching El stumble through the halls calling for Miiiike Miike with ever more painful urgency, oh noo.

But if we know anything about El, it’s that she’s a fighter, with a real flair for visuals. Forthwith, she has lit-er-ally clawed her way back into our world, THROUGH a painting of a claw. Fucking superb, my funky little telekinetic.

However, before she can reach the warm safety of Mike’s basement & love, she is waylaid by a positive armada of law enforcement vehicles encamped around the Wheeler house, the officials already inside, pressing on the family a story of a very dangerous little girl. Which is how this very dangerous little girl ends up shivering alone in the forest, wrapping Hopper’s flannel tighter around her shoulders. Ahh. Feel the tug of those heavily woven threads, sweetheart, they’ll lead you through the narrative woods!

Today, Hopper may not understand everything, or frankly much at all, about this weird laconic child he is hiding from anyone still bent on taking her away, but he does still know what she likes, and that is breakfast sweets. So: French toast. So: rules about how she is not to risk being seen, ever, even under a ghost costume for trick-or-treating, even if her startling him in it by just being stood there when he turns around is so fucking funny that she definitely deserves a reward.

Because it sure is HALLOWEEN, BABEY.  Jonathan Byers—sorry Hop but our reigning patron saint of making breakfast—is fixing up some eggs and toast in a cozy goldenrod sweater, while Joyce bustles around putting the finishing touches on Will’s freakin’ adorable Ghostbusters costume. CHARMING AF POLAROID MONTAGE NATURALLY ENSUES. Oh my god, Finn Wolfhard’s pitch-perfect petulant embarrassed “No” to his mom gleefully going “Okay, say ‘who you gonna call?’!”....this kid’s comedic skills remain on point.

But while their costumes too are undeniably on point, even with some squabbling between Lucas and Mike over representation, there’s just one problem: no one else dressed up this year. Why can’t my boys just catch a damn break!

Meanwhile, it appears Joyce did call Hopper first when things seemed to be getting worse, oh bless this show’s ethos of taking offers of help. 💛 They conference at the kitchen table about this new drawing of Will’s, depicting the long-limbed monster he saw hulking on the horizon, though he’s been claiming to his mom that it’s just a character design. “Why would he lie to me?” Joyce pleads of Hopper. “He’s a kid, Joyce,” Hopper just replies sympathetically. Honestly so far this season Hopper is proving himself to be A Pretty Great Dad. He’s very firm, but realistic. He’s teaching his daughter about compromising. He protec. And he’s being a good platonic partner to Joyce in all this, too. He dissuades her from dragging Will off to more appointments with a very Hop dismissal that most docs are quacks, but again he affirms that he thinks this Owens one is right about trauma, about them all being on edge right now at the one year anniversary. It’s hard, but they’ll get through it together, he assures her, just like they got through high school together, chased by teachers for smoking under the stairs. Oh man I can just see it, you cute delinquents. Anyway, did u date? Are u gonna date....again?? Pls for me???

Speaking of Dr. Owens, he and the boys at the lab are replacing equipment fried in the Upside Down storm, I believe, which continues to be very interesting. It also appears that Joyce is not alone in being concerned over poor Will, as Owens is literally squeezing a stress ball re-watching the footage of his last appointment. I gotta say, it really seems like Owens is worried on behalf of Will... I wonder how much he might be stuck in a situation where he’s been instructed not to tell the Byers how much he really knows.

Circumstances Nancy is all too familiar with herself, suffering through a great deal of stress of her own over how no one seems to remember or care what happened to her best friend last year. Distressing! Nancy, a straight-A student used to adults letting her break rules, wants to flout the very serious warnings from the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency, and tell Barb’s parents what they know. But Steve, the boy who so worried last season that his parents might find out about his party, continues to be scared of authority figures.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s hard, but, let’s just go to Tina’s stupid party. Wear our stupid costumes that we’ve been working on for a stupid amount of time. And just, pretend. Like we’re stupid teenagers, okay.” Wow!!!! This is kind of a really emotionally complex ~teen plot~ going on here? Gosh I’m having a whole feeling over this couple! I was going to say “popular couple” but honestly, this whole bit of their “pretending” really seems to speak to how Steve and Nancy have ended up rather separate from their peers by what they’ve gone through. Welcome 2 Weirdos Club, my darlings: you live here now.

Other residents include: these idiots, be-Ghostbusted Dustin and Lucas, who have screwed up their courage (they ain’t afraid!) to tell Max….that they’ve decided to extend an invitation to her to go trick-or-treating with them. Aw, puppies. But Max, who has learned to protect herself with an ironic remove, just tosses a few quips back at them that mostly go over their little heads, and departs without a backwards glance for Dustin’s happily hopeful face.

We see why Max is so guarded in her next scene though, in which her older brother drives her home and in the course of one car ride manages to a) make sexist comments about the girls at the high school, b) threateningly demand Max say it’s her fault they’ve moved to Hawkins, and c) nearly runs down Lucas, Dustin, and Will on their bikes. Presumably he WOULD have swerved at the last second, but as plays it is only Max yanking at the wheel as he races toward them that keeps him from murdering three children in a horrifyingly reckless game of chicken, while he hollers about getting bonus points if he can sweep through all three. HOLY SHIT HE’S TERRIFYING?!

Yeeesss good let’s get back to the PUMPKIN PLOT, that has a ton of spooky simple charm. Eerie crop failure during the harvest, g o d it’s so old school magic, I adore it. And the plot thickens: another farmer has come to Hopper with a field of rotting gourds. Hopper, in a tired but thorough recap: “So you’re telling me that Merrill poisoned your farm, because he thinks you poisoned his, which of course, you didn’t.” The reality though is looking to be much, much stranger. Farm after farm is getting swept with this weird rot, far too many to be the work of some escalating series of U-pick sabotages. The rot itself extends off the fields into the surrounding woods even, and is oddly….slimy.

Hopper instructs his deputies to start marking how far it has spread. “That’s going to take some time, Chief,” they radio over. “Then take it,” he rumbles back, and asks the farmer if he has marking flags. Hopper, for all his front of grumbling disinterest, is actually a very dogged man. This is the form his patience takes: task patience. His patience for people is limited, but only insofar as they do or don’t intersect with his missions.

Jonathan, meanwhile, is loyal as salt to his little family---his top tier mission always. He’ll be shadowing Will tonight trick-or-treating with his friends, to keep an eye on him and be there if he needs him. All the weight of people’s attention on him is steadily bearing Will down though—he looks almost muffled under it, sad and tired. When Jonathan, on an impulse, decides he’ll just drop Will off at Mike’s and let him be a free unfettered kid tonight, Will’s face just lights up, that heavy blanket lifting right off his shoulders. How can you feel other than that you’ve done the right thing, with that much joy radiating out of his little body??

His heart warmed and his evening now free, Jonathan sighs, and betakes himself to Tina’s party. Time to live a little.

Unfortunately, Tina’s party is gonna prove DEATHLY, and not just because, eurgh, Billy is there. Though that does not help. For some reason, as soon as he sees Steve and Nancy he literally steps over a coffee table in order to make a beeline right to them, all while maintaining an unbroken stare. He is unnerving. Steve’s ex asshole friend (ex friend not ex asshole, he is still Full Asshole) starts taunting Steve that there’s a new keg stand champion in town. This implies Steve was the reigning champ, which I’m sorry is hilarious. Joe Keery?? Naww. Anyway Nancy is just immediately like “I’m out”, and we follow her over to the punch bowl, so do not actually see Steve’s response to this proclamation.

In fact, he too might have just bounced without a word, because an instant later he’s pulling a Captain Kirk reminiscent half-speed wall spin off the fridge to try to intercept his tiny girlfriend darkly chugging half of this red-black liquid wreathed in dry ice vapor. It’s a fantastic dynamic, Nancy looking fatalistic and hollow cheeked and glowering, dabbing bloody droplets from the side of her mouth in a really excellent gesture, while Steve tries to look after her with the same soft dumb worried caretaker vibe with which he oh-no’ed over her cut palm last season. This is all just very good.

Hey here’s something: slow-dancing in Joyce’s living room awaiting trick-or-treaters, Bob asks if she’d want to move out of Hawkins with him. PARDONE, Bob?? You can’t leave, all your people are here!

Such as Hopper, now deep in a foggy forest alone on Halloween night, which is, amazingly, not what at last dissuades him from what he’s doing. What is though is suddenly remembering he’d promised El he’d be home early tonight to eat candy and watch scary movies. See this is the conflict with his task responsibility, it can supersede his emotional responsibility! He wires over to her right away though to let her know he’s late, a Morse code message tapped out on channel 11—*her channel* soobbb.

El reads it, and flashes back to being a sad feral little squirrel hunter in the frozen woods, and then finding those Eggos in the dark, a lifeline made of toaster waffles. She followed it to a kind of home, where sometimes people break their promises, but do always come back. God I’m really emosh.

Meanwhile, the boys are out painting the town in nougat. Max arrives, scaring the living shit out of them, to her great delight, then sticks around to start getting slowly won over by Lucas and Dustin’s dorky charms, to their own. Will, a sweet and tender soul, is happy to see his friends happy. Mike is BETRAYED. “She’s ruining the best night of the year,” he declares to Will with just stupendous casual drama.

Before Will can quite work this out, a group of older kids try to startle “Zombie Boy”, and guess what it works. :( Stop, leave him alone! With a little gasp Will tips right off his feet and falls backward—into the Upside Down. Like most people in the Upside Down these days, he starts calling for Mike. Oh Mike, such a soft spot for the quiet, hunted ones, who love you so much in return.

And it’s again Mike who saves him, clasping his shoulders as Will cowers in nerve-icing terror behind a little brick wall, hiding from the massive shadowy beast now very clearly stalking him whenever he strays into this realm. But now he’s back in the warm-dark light of this suburban street on Halloween night, and while the fear is still there in his big lost searching eyes, he has Mike’s gangly arms around him, sheltering him from the monsters, from the questions from the others, from all of it. Hey gang I can hardly take it!!!

NOT HELPING, at Tina’s the ~stupid teenagers~ storyline is just REALLY out to sink me in the depths of the emotional currents swirling here! Forget the punch, Nancy has a whole other cocktail in her system right now, an admixture of grief and guilt and powerlessness all shaken up with the dissonance between how she’s supposed to behave and what she knows. Say Nothing, And Drink To Forgeeett. Well she sure did try, and now Natalia Dyer gets to show off her INCREDIBLE incredible incredible drunk acting. 

In the bathroom, her shirt stained red, her eyes just...I don’t even know how to describe them, damned and accusing? pained and taunting? These riveting eyes just turned up at Steve, as she slurs that it’s bullshit. All of it. This situation is bullshit, this party is bullshit, this, the two of them, is bullshit. Like she’s supposed to be in love with him? Bullshit.

Steve is devastated and angry and hurting, and so he leaves, because he’s a 17 year old boy and he can’t deal with this. Frankly, no one 17 year old boy can handle being someone’s boyfriend. But if we had two 17 year old boys, that’s like one 34 year old boy, and together they might be able to make one functional human! Luckily, Nancy in fact has the only adequate amount of teenage boyfriends, which is two, so Jonathan steps up to take her home.

Mike and Will are already there, safe in the basement surrounded by a litter of candy on the carpet. It’s confession hour for our pumpkin tarts---it’s Halloween, what ghosts are haunting you? Will reveals to Mike that he’s been dropping Upside Down, like he can’t leave that place and its terrors, those claws still in him. And Mike reveals to Will that he still feels like Eleven is out there, harboring this secret tender fool’s hope, because at times he almost feels like she’s almost....right there.

Mike: “I don’t know, sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy.” Will: “Me too.” Mike: “Hey well, if we’re both going crazy, we’ll go crazy together right?”

Will smiles at him, he has tears in his eyes to match the tears in Mike’s voice, and it’s too much for me!!!!! You sweet things?? My poor traumatized little boykittens, oh my god, you support each other, cling to one another’s love and understanding, this is the episode where characters tell each other that it’s so hard, but we’ll get through it, just take my hand.

His own hands holding a plastic pumpkin offering of candy he bought at mark-up off a miniature cowboy, Hopper finally returns home tonight. But while El eventually undoes the locks on the door so he doesn’t freeze on the front porch, she herself remains icily distant. Hopper tries to talk to her through her door, explaining that he got stuck on something, lost track of time, “and I’m sorry.” When the direct approach does not work, the door remaining resolutely closed, he tries a new tactic: loudly eating candy on the couch without her. A good effort, Dad. But still no dice.

Inside her room, El knocks the TV she’s dragged in to static, wraps a blindfold around her little head, and with this makeshift low-grade sensory deprivation set-up, steps out into that inky blackness to find Mike, naturally reaching out for her as well. For one heart-stopping moment, it seems like he sees her too. Their beautiful eyes search for each other, inches yet miles apart, and then, his heart pitching down with remorse, because of course she’s not there, Mike crawls out of the blanket fort. The veil between worlds is thin on All Hallow’s Eve, but not thin enough to bring these two together. THIS TRAGEDY. El pulls the blindfold off in her room, crying. Oh noooo!

But the night is not out of drama yet—Dustin arrives home, to find that trash bin outside still rattling and like, chirruping? He pulls out one of his prop ghost-busting weapons, oh DUSTIN, and with a gulp, flings the lid off.

CREDITS.

- - - - -

Love Letters to Stranger Things Stranger Things (2016) Stranger Things 2: Chapter One

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SnK S3E14 Poll Results (Manga Reader Version)

The poll closed with 355 responses. Thank you to everyone who participated!

Please note that these are the results of the manga reader poll. Anime only watchers are suggested not to read if you do not wish to be spoiled about certain events! Anime only viewers, click here to view your poll results!

RATE THE EPISODE 346 Responses

Despite some negatives about the animation of this episode, 87% of the fandom enjoyed it overall, giving it positive votes!

Animation's not movie quality, but damn it was a good episode

I think it lacks some kind of tempo: some moments are stretched out, others are too short.

Could've been paced better, better music choices, less cgi roof shingle focus and could have cut the thunder spear flashback or at least have shortened it... but it didn't look terrible. Although, I wish the fight had a bit more "weight" to it, with moments such as eren punching reiner ( "This is the place where I once called home!" )

Loved it!

Reiner Vs Eren looked a bit stiff, but overall it was a great episode.

The mUSIC WAS SO BOMB

IT WAS SO GOOD I CANT WAIT FOR THE NEXT ONE WIT NEVER CEASES TO IMPRESS

WHICH OF THE FOLLOWING WAS YOUR FAVORITE MOMENT? 346 Responses

Levi agreeing to fight the Beast Titan was the winner in this category with 31.5% of the vote. The Thunder Spears in action come in second place and Levi sassing Erwin in third.

Levi the madman not losing any of his sass

Liked Erwin’s monologue

Reiner and Erwin’s inner monologue was pretty nice in this episode imo. I like the manga just as much as the anime but hearing their voices in the anime, especially Erwin’s, made those scenes heavier and much more real to me.

Hange looked amazing!

WEAPONRY! It's the way to get it done! WEAPONRY! It's effective and it's fun!

WHO DID YOU FIND YOURSELF ROOTING FOR MORE? 346 Responses

With the 81.8% of the votes, Eren was getting the majority of cheers from the fandom, while only the 18.2% were rooting for Reiner. 

Seeing Anime people hating Reiner hurts my feelings. Specially because it will take a lot of time until we see the Marley arc  

WHICH SIDE OF THE WALL WOULD YOU RATHER BE ON? 345 Responses

89.3% of respondents agree that they’d much rather be inside of Shiganshina facing off with Reiner than dealing with the threat of the Beast Titan.

STRATEGY MAPS: WHO DID IT BETTER? 345 Responses

This question has a more equal response, with 54.2% of the fandom believing that Isayama did it better with the Strategy Maps while the 45.8% preferred WIT’s animation of it.

HOW MUCH DID YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH ERWIN AS HE REFLECTED ON HIMSELF? 348 Responses

33.3% of the fandom sit directly in the middle between sympathizing with Erwin and feeling that he needs to shoulder the responsibility of his decisions, while 28.2% of respondents truly sympathize with him.

Erwin's speech was the moment I was holding my breath for in this episode, and it was done justice. Not as impactful to me personally as the manga version, but justice done. And that's all I'm asking for.

That look on dead!Mike's face... It was revolting, because real, alive Mike would never have looked at his best friend like that. And that just tells us how terrible Erwin's own perception of himself is... God, he deserves a hug. :'(

HOW MUCH DOES IT HURT TO SEE THE 104TH ATTACKING REINER? 347 Responses

This answer had a lot of relatively equal votes! About 40% of respondents overall didn’t feel too badly about the 104th attacking Reiner, while 23.3% of the fandom felt neither sad nor happy about seeing the 104th attacking Reiner.

104 kickin ass?!?! bless the lord?!?!

If I was anime only I would be happy seeing Reiner's suffering. But as a manga reader I felt a bit of sadness when I saw him being attacked by the SC.

RATE HOW WELL THE ANIME ADAPTED THE CHAPTERS OVERALL: 347 Responses

The fandom seems very pleased with the adaptation of chapters 75-76, with 49.3% ranking it at a 4, while 36% of respondents gave it a 5.

I was so looking forward to Erwin's reflection moment, especially the scene in which he stood on top of all of the corpses. Really well adaptated, just as I expected it to be (even though it was better in the manga, maybe because it was my first contact with it)

Great, faithfully adapting some aspects from the manga, but still the quality should've been a lot better. I hope WIT would rise the standard bar in the future episodes. Overall, it was satisfying to watch.

WERE YOU SATISFIED WITH THE ADAPTATION OF EREN VS. REINER? 347 Responses

Overall the fandom gives the adaptation a pass, with 64.6% of respondents feeling it went about as expected, while 21.3% believe that it was worse than their expectations. The remaining 14.1% felt it exceeded their expectations.

IMO they really could've done better with the OST in Eren vs Reiner fight.

Eren vs Reiner could've had better music to fit the scene. It was a little generic?

Although the adaptation of the Eren vs Reiner fight wasn't as good as I was expecting, I still enjoyed the fight. Definitely wasn't as disappointed as a lot of other people are. I just hope they do my Boi Bert justice next episode.

HOW PUMPED WERE YOU TO SEE PIECK’S TITAN UP CLOSE? 348 Responses

As expected of Pieck! With a slight winning edge, 36.8% are hyped for best girl, while 36.5% feel that WIT captured the eeriness of her titan perfectly! 10.6% felt she looked very cool.

I RABU MY CUTE WIFE PIKU

This design fits her more than the initial one Isayama did back when he wanted to have a middle aged man instead of Pieck. So yeah, I like this one more.

I feel like the Cart Titan looks more feminine than it does in the manga.

It'll be very surprising if she suddenly talks or makes a short noise in the anime version lol

Cart Titan might be my favorite character design of any anime, cartoon, or show. She’s just as beautiful here as in the manga.

They made the eyes more feminine. But it clearly resembles Pieck

I’ve been waiting so long for this I’m satisfied and excited af :’)!!!

GIVEN WHAT HAPPENS LATER, DO YOU THINK ERWIN’S PLAN WAS A GOOD ONE? 347 Responses

64.6% of the fandom feel that Erwin’s plan is the best decision they could have made, while 16.7% feel that while the plan was good, there may have been better options.15.9% are still not sure of the answer.

I don’t even know my own name anymore

This episode really cemented the fact that Erwin never stopped caring about his dream to find out the truth of the world and that Levi made the wrong choice.

Erwin no

DO YOU FEEL THAT ERWIN’S REFLECTIVE MONOLOGUE HAD THE SAME WEIGHT AS IT DID IN THE MANGA? 344 Responses

Erwin’s self-reflection is an emotional part and adds important weight to Erwin’s character! 56.1% of the fandom thinks that the scene was as good as they remember it in the manga, while 25.3% were more deeply impacted by WIT’s rendition of the scene. 18% felt that it could have been done better.

I WAS NOT READY FOR ERWIN'S MOUNTAIN OF CORPSES I DID NOT KNOW IT WOULD HAPPEN SO SOON AND IT CRUSHED ME

WIT does action well, but character moments not so much. The mountain of corpses was almost too big imo. Somehow it had more impact in the manga. Making things bigger and more extreme doesn't necessarily make them more intense in terms of emotional impact.

WHAT DID YOU THINK ABOUT THE ANIMATION AND SOUND EFFECTS OF THE THUNDER SPEARS? 345 Responses

Well over half of the fandom were pleased with the animation and effects of the Thunder Spears. We’ve been waiting a long time and it seems the vast majority of us were not disappointed! :’)

seeing some of the thunder spears in action made their function and operation easier to understand.

YAASSSSSSSSSSS!!! THUNDER SPEARS MAH BOISSS!!

Oh man I did not expect the thunder spears to make those high-pitched squeals but it was actually amazing

Thunder spearsssss

WHICH SCENE FROM THE PREVIEW ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 347 Responses

With 44% of the vote, manga readers are most looking forward to seeing the Bertl Bomb™! Following behind that at 23% is seeing Marco get eaten by Araki Titan, and 17% of respondents are looking forward to Armin and Bertolt’s confrontation.

I'm REALLY looking forward to watch Marco's death (even though they already showed it in the Lost Girls OVA) and the flipping Serumbowl, which will be epic "

really good cliffhanger, left me uhhhh,,, hung

BERTPISODE WHEN

The ending scene really hyped me up for what's coming

Can't wait to see the corps get obliterated by rocks

GIVE ME THE BIG SWEATY......... LET ME ENJOY HIS LAST ANIMATED MOMENTS :(

These week long waits keep getting worse

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS ON THE EPISODE?

WHERE’S MY MOBLIT? THEY CAN’T JUST KILL HIM OFFSCREEN WITHOUT EVER SHOWING HIM! :(

Seeing Anime people hating Reiner hurts my feelings. Specially because it will take a lot of time until we see the Marley arc

It was so so slow. I mean I loved every second of it but it was painfully slow, they showed every characters thoughts. Not a bad thing, but not good either idk. I guess it has to build up the tension before the battle.

Does Hanji get prettier with each passing episode?

Needs more Sawano

Aside from the slow/awkward reiner vs eren fight, the animations were honestly sO amazing! the smooth ODMG animations and the Thunder Spears—even down to Reiner sliding back down the wall; it was verryy impressive! In addition, the pacing is honestly perfect and it draws out quite the tension and emotion! Loved it!

I remember reading Eren saying "This is where I...where we..once called home! I'm taking it back!" in the manga and I was like "YES! DO IT!!" but in the anime it didn't have that feeling. Not to mention that the OP had a better punch animation than the actual episode? The second half of the brawl felt more in tune (probably helped by the music that carried from Erwin's part of the episode).

I hope there are gonna be as little changes as possible. WIT butchered one arc already, let's hope they won't repeat those mistakes.

WHERE DO YOU PRIMARILY DISCUSS THE SERIES? 331 Responses

Thank you to everyone who participated! We’ll see you again in a few days! 

[cuddleslutloki]

2018 fics, a year in review

i’m a madman, but even my crazy ass probably won’t finish and post another fic in the last 6 hours of 2018, so here are all the fics i posted on ao3 this year, plus some thoughts on each!

Hemlock Honey and Silver

this was my last ever supernatural fandom fic. literally the end of an era for me since i was in the spn fandom for so damn long and wrote so much fic, about two-thirds of which has been orphaned on the archive at this point because i didn’t like the stories anymore lol. 

i do like that one, though, and i’m actually alright with it being my last ever spn/destiel fic

Fire In Your Veins

this was my first time posting thorki fic! i was so, so nervous about it, but everyone in this fandom is so chill and lovely. i still like this one, and i don’t think i write enough 69ing lmao. also this fic was obvs the start of something bigger bc. i mean. i’ve written so much damn fic now lol since i only started posting in june. i was worried that i wasn’t going to be writing anymore, or that i’d never be posting on ao3 again because it had been literally 2 full years between hemlock honey and silver and the fic that preceded it. then i fell into thorki and i started writing fic and it’s just been such a huge, huge thing. bc i’m also writing original stuff again for the first time in forever.

Underdressed and All Out of Time

a direct sequel to fire in your veins, i really like it. i felt like i was able to characterize loki fairly well in this one bc i was very insecure about the way i wrote loki when i started out

A Thousand Teeth, Yours Among Them

who doesn’t love a fic title from a hozier song? i remember writing this fic and wondering if it was any good and if my characterization was okay and still being nervous and insecure in my writing, but it’s been very well received so i kinda got my inner critic to stfu which is nice lol. i also really enjoyed doing this vignette style story

To Always Face the Sun

what if :) loki was happy :) and thor had his brother back :) lol i really liked writing this and having loki being such a little shit tbh. can we tell that i like a happy ending in fic?

Blue On Gold

so i wrote an arranged marriage fic where they never actually get married and it’s still 15.8k lmfao. also the return of the vignette style, which was fun bc i got to do short, impactful scenes and build the narrative with them. i remember sitting at my desk at work, on my phone, writing this fic, then coming home and editing on a damn tablet bc my laptop bricked earlier this year

the warmth of your doorway

i meant to capitalize the title but at this point i’ve decided to leave it lol. i really loved writing this bc i felt very confident in the way i was building the scenes and the detail i was able to incorporate. i feel like this is where i really kinda go my voice back and i start to come into my own, if that makes sense? one of my fave fics i’ve ever written tbh. there’s a longer ‘verse for this, but after i finished this fic i got too distracted by new projects to try and continue it lol

Tell Me

this was my first trans!loki fic and he’s a trans man, and god i love it. i’ve got another ftm loki story as a WIP in my gdocs bc this story showed me how much i fucking love writing trans characters, and i really enjoyed the dynamic i put into this fic. there’s a sequel planned lol it’s gonna be dirty

Interwoven

i still haven’t managed to ever find the post that inspired this damn fic and if you wonder whether that drives me up the wall the answer is yes (: and fun fact! i intentionally never describe loki’s genitals in this fic, bc i was picturing him as a trans guy since i’d just written tell me and now i have a massive obsession with writing trans romance and erotica

Tie Breaker

in this house we love and appreciate bottom thor!!! also i loved writing the sparring at the beginning. it makes me wanna write more fics w/ brutal fight scenes lol. thor’s slutty drunk cape outfit is iconic and i’m gonna read that comic just for that outfit honestly

Pretense of Subjugation

i became drunkenly obsessed with loki manspreading on the throne of asgard and this was the result. this was the first thorki fic of mine that i’d had beta’d and it was vastly, vastly improved by it. the tips @ktspree13 gave me when she helped with this fic have affected literally every single fic i’ve written since

Double and More

so this is not the first thorki fic i ever posted, of course, however it is the first i ever started writing. i got to the point where loki’s in thor’s lap and then i kinda blanked out and let the fic sit for like... 2 or 3 months? then i opened it back up and i was like “oh i like this i should finish this” which is why i don’t delete anything anymore bc there’s always a chance i’ll come back to it

Ringback Tone

y’all owe @thotki for the wondrous idea they presented in discord that ended up creating this fic. i think i wrote this fic in like 3 days bc of how much fun i was having with it. the dirty talk was my favorite thing to write in this and i remember distinctly having this [:< moment when i was daydreaming about it

Seldom All They Seem

there was an impromptu bottom thor day back on 20 oct and this fic was my contribution. we can never have enough time travel, can we? i remember i think i took like a four day weekend from work and part of my motivation was literally wanting to finish this fic in time to post it lmfao

Fluffy Thorki Sunday Ficlets

i started doing fluffy thorki sunday back when i was on bourbonbucky and i continued it here, and i’m proud that i’ve written at least 1 piece for fluffy thorki sunday every sunday since i started. i love doing fluff and smut, and honestly even when my mood has been shit, i’ve always felt motivated to try and improve it at least enough to write some nice fluff. i put all of these on ao3 once i moved blogs

Let Love Disrupt

this is another fic we owe to discord lmao. i remember posting this when i was either very drunk or very tired and having to keep going onto ao3 on my damn phone browser to correct minor shit, and some not so minor shit like a typo in the title bc at first it said “distrupt” and that’s why i only post when i’m awake and sober now lmfao

Without Fear

i love werewolves (: a whole bunch (: and this fic is something dirty and wonderful that i’m proud of and THERE’S ART bc @nekokat42 is a blessing and takes commissions. kot i love u :3

On the Other Side Like Always

i have a lot of feelings about this fic. there’s an entire future in this ‘verse that i would so love to write, but i’m stuck on where to go with it. as it stands i am satisfied with this as a story of thor and loki coming together, and a story about how loki does something out of desperation but is finally given something genuine and comforting in his life like he’s always deserved. THERE’S ART from the wondrous @boltplumart / @mrhiddles bc allie is perfect :]

Runaway

when i tell y’all i’m a trash gremlin king. i do have a thing for writing underage characters with adults (probs due to messy personal history lmfao ain’t gonna look at that too closely) and so writing this one was a fun little bit of self indulgence. also it’s dirty and really plays into codependency, which i always like writing bc it’s a fun thing to explore in fiction

Sunset Rhapsody

this fic. was supposed to be. two thousand words. at most. then thor smiled at me, as the writer, and was like “i want to own him” and we ended up with 11k of thor’s obsessive bs and loki being brutal. joking aside, i love this fic, i love what i did with it, i have an original story i wanna write for my size kink anthology that will follow a similar thread to this one. also that torture scene. i don’t recall if i ever properly wrote torture before, but this did kinda make me squirm a bit when i was writing it and if you’ve read it you know precisely which scene i’m talking about lmfao

Right to Guard

this fic was honestly very emotionally satisfying for me in a pretty visceral way. writing thor just surrendering to love and spoiling the fuck out of loki was pretty damn cathartic. 

A Bite of Lamb

me making sure i never lose my title as a trash gremlin king. honestly writing thor’s POV in this fic was like >.> at myself a couple times bc it felt distinctly dark in a way i’d never written another character. a very, very unhealthy kind of obsession and this twisted logic where he’s trying to make it all okay. i really fucking love this damn fic tho and i’m happy with how it came out. 

Seamless

i was so, so frustrated and pissed off at work that i needed to let that shit out, so that was channeled into this very guilt-ridden turned tender fic, and i really enjoyed writing it. loved writing thor taking care of his baby sister. also! KOT IS FUCKING AMAZING and drew this bc they’re such a good fucking person ;A; like they sent me a message and just said “really liked this scene” and i was D Y I N G and i still am. thank you again, kot!

The Way A Rose Blooms

this was written for the thorki secret santa exchange! i drew @chickcheney and honestly the list of prompts was so, so good. bottom thor, arranged marriage, semi-public sex and trying not to be caught, body worship. i was like “damn did i draw myself wtf” bc that is all up my alley. 

Sugar Cookie

i honestly could not think of a better fic to finish off 2018 for me than sugar cookie. porn and emotions that’s all this is, but it features loki as a trans woman being loved and appreciated as she is with nothing extra expected of her and it was so satisfying to write. it makes me want to write original romance with trans women, which i’ll definitely do bc i loved writing this hungry and tender story and i’m very happy with how i ended it. 

so that was 2018 for me! 

[amelia-blackshepherd]

Our Name

Apparently today is my 1 year anniversary with Tumblr. And to celebrate I wrote a story. Based on a prompt I received a few days ago. Set after Omelia gets married, Amelia changes her name on her lab coat.

On our honeymoon, which was really just us staying at our new house together having lots and lots of sex, anyway one night after Owen had fallen asleep, I had slipped out of bed and made a phone call. I had to be sneaky about it as I wanted it to be a surprise, we had discussed me taking his name well rather adding his name to mine. I was a successful doctor after all and the name Shepherd carries weight in the medical field, which can be both a pain in the ass and a blessing.

I hadn’t told Owen that I was officially adding his name, he thought I would remain Dr. Shepherd at the hospital, which was fine with him. But, I wanted to surprise him, so I made a call that night to Bailey to get me a new lab coat for my first day back.

After hanging up the phone, I grabbed a glass of water for rehydration in case Owen woke up again. I was just sliding back into my side of the bed when Owen’s gruff, sleepy voice sounded, “Where’d you go?” He cuddles up next to me, placing a few kisses on my shoulder as his arm slips around me and under my shirt.

I turn around, so I can be face to face with him, and wrap my arms around him, tugging gently at his red curls, “Water. Thought I should rehydrate.” I inform him with a happy smile tugging at my lips.

“Good thought.” Is all he says before his lips are back on mine and we are ready to continue our honeymooning.

Our first day back at work we drive in together, after another morning of mind-blowing honeymoon sex. I am so excited for Owen to see the surprise I have for him. When we get to the hospital, we ride the elevator together, he gets off on his floor and I continue up to the neuro floor. Or at least that is what I let him think, I actually get off on the next floor and then go back down to his floor, which is the same floor as the chief’s office.

I sneakily make my way to Bailey’s office, and knock once before letting myself in. I successfully make it there without Owen seeing me.

“Morning Shepherd.” Bailey says in a good mood as she takes a sip from her green health drink.

“Shepherd-Hunt.” I reply with a smile on my face. “And it is a good morning, this whole being married thing is great, makes everything seem better.”

She rolls her eyes at me, “Yeah, come talk to me after a few years when you don’t get any sleep because the baby keeps you awake.” She opens her desk drawer and pulls out my new lab coat, it is still wrapped in plastic when she tosses it to me.

I catch it with ease, of course, because of my quick neuro surgeon hands. “Thanks.” I say referring to the lab coat.

“No problem, Shepherd. And just so I know, you and hunt aren’t already at the baby stage, are you?”

Her question takes me by surprise, but to be fair Owen and I had started talking about marriage and kids and then two weeks later we were walking down the aisle. “No. No little Shepherd-Hunts.” I inform her and then just to tease her a little bit add, “Yet.”

I tried on my new coat and admired the name stamped on it, ‘Amelia Shepherd-Hunt M.D.’ I decide to head to trauma and show Owen my little surprise. I see him barking orders at the interns when I walk in, god I love a man in power, so I head over towards him sticking my chest out to draw attention to the name.

“Hey, Dr. Shepherd, looking fine as always.” Roy flirtatiously says in his usually way. Which only results in a small kind smile from me and Owen telling him to go lance an abscess in bed four.

Owen turns his attention to me, “Did you miss me already? It’s been what 30 minutes.” He teases as he pulls me closer to him.

“Well, that is a new record for us since we got married.” I play along moving closer to him, not caring how unprofessional this looks to anyone watching us.

Owens laughs and nods his head before lowering it so his hot breath dances across my ear. “Well we could fix that.” As tempting as that sounds, both our pagers go off, incoming trauma.

“Save that for later.” I tell him, patting his muscular chest as I head towards the ER doors to take care of our incoming trauma.

Roy runs over to walk with me towards the doors, he hands me a plastic cover and quietly says, “Thought you might want this, wouldn’t want your new lab coat to get covered in blood.” He throws me one of his arrogant smirks before he moves aside so Owen can take his place beside me.

Roy made a good call as our patient within minutes of getting her inside coughed blood all over me. Once it was clear she had no head trauma, I paged another surgeon to tag in and went to clean myself up.

Owen and I skipped lunch, instead we used the time to keep the honeymoon going. Afterwards, I started getting dressed, “What are you doing, Amelia? Stay.” Owen whines which only causes me to laugh at his pathetic attempt at persuading me to stay.

“I’m hungry Owen, let’s go get some food. You can show off your hot wife to everyone.” I say, moving closer to him as I put my lab coat on trying to subtly draw his attention to the name on it.

A smile spreads across Owen’s face, “Oh, I am hungry too, but not for food.” He says pulling me back on top of him.

“Owen, I am serious.”

“So am I. Now take off this lab coat and your clothes and then we can see about getting you some food.” He commands, pushing the lab coat off my shoulders so it falls on the floor. I am going to argue more, but then his lips are sucking on my neck and his hands a lighting a fire across my skin, and I lose all fight left inside me.

It had been a week since I got my new lab coat and so far, Owen was as clueless as an intern. “Hunt still hasn’t noticed the new name?” Alex asks entertained by the frustrated scowl that has been on my face for the duration of our conversation.

“No. And I am running out of ideas of how to get him to notice it.” I sigh. “I’ve tried talking to him, hinting at it, walking so the name is clearly showing, hell, I have even thrown it at him with the name facing him. And he still didn’t notice.” I rattle off some of the ways I had attempted to get Owen to notice it, so much for a romantic gesture.

“Wait, you threw it at him and he still didn’t notice?” Alex’s asks clearly confused how Owen could have missed that.

Meredith chuckles and gives Alex a light elbow and then fills him in, “She was probably taking off her clothes when she did it.”

“Oh. Yeah that might have been why he missed it.” Alex agrees.

“Well do either of you have any ideas?” I ask, slumping back in my chair.

Meredith shrugs her shoulders and steals a fry from Alex’s plate. But Alex offers an idea, “Have you tried wearing nothing expect the lab coat. Then he doesn’t have much else to think about.”

“Except what is underneath.” Meredith points out.

Alex’s nods as he pops a handful of fries into his mouth, “Yeah, well just don’t take it off till he notices.”

I think it over in my head, it might actually work, “Thanks Alex that isn’t a bad idea.”

Alex proudly puffs up his chest and then adds, “Or you could do it somewhere public. That way you know Hunt won’t take it off you right then. Like tomorrow at lunch in the cafeteria.”

Meredith gives him a light slap on his head. And I tell him, “And that is a bad idea.” On that note I get up and leave the table.

Owen is in surgery the rest of the day, which means I don’t have anymore chances to try and get him to notice the new name. I check in with him to see if he will be home for dinner tonight, he said he should be home by seven.

I head home after doing my final rounds, making sure to bring my lab coat home with me instead of leaving it in my locker. Once home, I decided I should cook something and taking Alex’s advise I decided to cook in nothing but my lab coat.

I decide on making us chicken alfredo, as pasta is my second-best dish behind waffles, and spaghetti would be way to messy to cook with my white lab coat. I don’t finish cooking the meal until Owen texts me to say he is on his way home, I didn’t want to make him eat cold food.

I hear the doorknob click as the door opens, revealing a very tired looking Owen. I am just stirring the sauce when he comes into the kitchen and stops short. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my lips as I look at him, staring at me, eyes wide with his jacket half on half off as he had stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, standing in the chicken cooking, with nothing back my lab coat on.

“Like what you see?” I quip, I already know he does. He still has not regained his speech skills, so he simply nods, his eyes don’t leave me as he runs them up and down my body.

After a minute he finds his voice, “The only thing that could make it better was if we got rid of this lab coat.” He has a wicked grin on his face as he moves towards me, grabbing the hem of the lab coat.

I feel his warm, strong hand on my leg, but I ignore it and take a step back, “Supper is just about ready.”

“It can wait.” He tries again moving closer to me, putting his hand on my lower back and holding me against him, to keep me from moving away this time.

“Later, Dr. Hunt.” I inform him, a little annoyed that yet again he didn’t notice my new name. I mean what else could I do, I literally took everything else away, he had to notice it this time. “I actually worked hard on this.” I say referring to the dinner, but a small part of me meant the display I put on for him, so he would notice the damn name change.

He smiles at me and loosens his grip, so I can move away. I go to the cupboard to grab plates for dinner, but I turn around when he says, “I know you did, Dr. Shepherd-Hunt.” He must have noticed the shocked look on my face as he explained with a hearty laugh, “What? You thought I hadn’t noticed the new lab coat with the new name. My name? Our name? I love it, Amelia.”

I hate him for playing this game with me, but the way he looks at me and the fact that he did notice makes my heart and other parts of my body ache for him. “How long have you known?” I ask.

“Oh, well let’s see.” He says coming closer to me again, “We came back from our honeymoon and you ‘secretly’ went to the chief’s office. And then came prancing into the ER with your new coat that just so happens to have my name on it.” He acts like it was no big deal, but I can see behind his goofy smile how glad he is I took his name.

I shake my head at him, how could he have pretended not to notice this whole time! “So, you knew this whole time? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because, I wanted to wait till I got this, before I told you I knew.” He says pulling a plastic wrapped lab coat out of a bag he had hid when he came in.

“And what exactly is that?” I ask.

In response he opens it up and puts on his new lab coat, he presses down on the name, and when he removes his hand I see written in little blue letters, ‘Owen Shepherd-Hunt M.D.’

I can’t control the smile that spreads across my face, “Did you really?”

“You aren’t the only one who can do romantic gestures.” He teases.

“You are right Dr. Shepherd Hunt, but I am the only one who can do this.” I say as I jump up and wrap my legs around his waist and pull him into a hot passionate kiss.

When we separate he looks over at the food and says, “What about supper?”.

“Screw supper.” I say with defiance in my tone.

“I’d rather screw you.” He says as he sets me down and slams my back into the kitchen cupboard, instantly ours mouths are back together.

[arizonatotoronto]

consider: auston + pals sitting up against the glass next to the leafs bench at a rangers game. mitch notices Him and skates over to the boards, starts doing his lil stretches and he and auston are playing eye tag until mitch gives in, squirts the glass with his water and makes auston chuckle. mitch, seeing auston wearing a jersey, picks at his own and swirls his finger around. auston grins, twisting in his seat to show off the 'marner' on the back. through the glass, mitch says 'thats hot' 1/2

and makes auston laugh again. 'i'm gonna score you a goal tonight,' he says then, and he's pretty sure he can see auston blush through the glass, but then there are kids coming up so he starts flipping pucks over and all that jazz. the leafs win, and mitch scores auston his goal, throws himself against the glass right in front of auston to tell him 'that ones for you.' at the end of the game, mitch grabs the game puck, writes his phone number on it, then skates over to aus and tosses it to 2/3him with a wink ((damn you character count. four words didn't warrant an entirely new ask.)) 3/3

--

(OKAY this made me like... shiver? Because it's so good and Mitch is such a flirt oh my god YES)

"...you could see who else I'd be up for wearing," Auston had said, flippant, and the look in Mitch's eye had been worth his boldness. 

The thing is, they don't end up going back to Auston's place to hook up. Not that night, anyway. 

Mitch isn't exactly able to leave a MLSE event halfway through, being the Captain and all. He's expected to deliver the results of the silent auction, and still has some press to do before he can call it a night, and there's no way Auston is sticking around for all of that. 

So. They flirt some more at the bar, Mitch leaning back against the counter and Auston coming close enough to all but box him in with his broad frame.

Auston goes to protest when Mitch gets the bartender's attention and asks to buy Auston another gin and tonic. Honestly, he can buy his own drinks, he doesn't need--

"Hey, c'mon," Mitch says with an easy laugh, "Let me have this, eh? It's not every day I have the undivided attention of a *supermodel*, after all." He's teasing, but it ends up coming out more sweet than anything, because then he adds, "I'd really like to buy you a drink." 

And yeah, Auston obviously lets him. Flattery will get people everywhere with Auston. 

They end the night shortly after, when somebody important-looking comes to fetch Mitch. Auston sets his empty glass down on the bar and gathers his things. They can't exactly say much in front of an audience, so Auston gives Mitch an easy smile, thanks him for the drink, and tells him he'll see him around. 

Auston doesn't tell Mitch that he'll be at the next game in New York, or that he'd bribed a bunch of his friends into coming with him and sitting rink-side by the Leafs' bench. He figures Mitch will be able to see that for himself when the time comes.

Of course Mitch notices him. Mitch... does a lot more than just notice. 

Auston has figured out that Mitch is a flirt. This, though? This is something else entirely. 

Auston's friends are already chirping him for wearing a jersey (even though he'd paired it with expensive distressed jeans that make his ass look incredible, and a pair of high boots he loves. Auston is adamant that you can make a jersey look sexy, alright? It just takes the right amount of accessorizing). They are absolutely insufferable the moment Mitch skates over and starts stretching his legs out, one at a time, across the top of the boards. 

"... I sincerely hope you are tapping that," Auston's friend Charlotte says, with a look of awe on her beautiful face. She watches Mitch show off for a few more minutes, watches the sly looks he's been shooting Auston out of the corner of his eye, and nudges Auston in the side. "I literally cannot with this, Aus. This is... wow."

And then Mitch is spraying water on the glass right where Auston is sitting, and his friends *howl* with laughter. 

"This boy is the opposite of subtle," James says. "I feel like I'm watching some weird hockey player mating ritual."

Auston takes the chirping with grace, because it's no secret that he loves the attention. When Mitch gestures for Auston to turn around, his finger movements look absolutelty hilarious in his gloves and Auston's face hurts from grinning. He's quick to turn, to flaunt Mitch's last name. 

"That's *hot*," Mitch says, and now they're drawing a bit of a crowd but Auston's vision seems to be centred on Mitch and only Mitch. He looks at this boy, all geared up and telling Auston he's going to score for him, and just... wants. He knows it's written all over his face and doesn't even care. 

After the game, Auston feels like his blood is on fire. The Leafs tore the Rangers to shreds tonight, and Mitch had scored that goal for Auston just like he'd promised. Auston's friends absolutely lose it when Mitch tosses him the puck, and they're quick to make their opinions heard.

"Guess you're not coming back with us tonight after all, huh, Matty?"

"Jesus, go and *get it*, babe."

"I bless this union."

Auston's friends are a bunch of enablers, and he loves them dearly. 

--

Auston turns the puck over in his hands, fiddling with it as he drinks a beer in the arena lobby and just... waits. He assumes Mitch will need time after the game, to shower and change and speak to the media, so he kills time playing TsumTsum on his phone.

When he does call, Mitch picks up right away. 

"Good game tonight, Captain," Auston purrs, and he loves the sound of Mitch's laugh, intimate and right in his ear, all for him. 

"I told you I'd score for you," Mitch says, in a voice that is so stupidly attractive. It sends a shiver of electricity down Auston's spine. 

"You did," Auston agrees. "My friends were impressed."

"Mm," Mitch hums. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Were you impressed, too?"

"Oh, I don't know," Auston says. "It's kind of old news to me now, isn't it? I see you score all the time."

"Oh, fuck you," Mitch laughs, sounding pleasantly surprised at the banter. Auston smirks, commits to his next words before he can lose his nerve:

"Now there's an idea."

"It is," Mitch agrees after a short pause, and then, "How long are you in town for?"

"Just for the night," Auston tells him. "I head back to Toronto tomorrow afternoon."

"You should come by my hotel for a drink," Mitch offers, in a tone that suggests that there are better things to be had than simply drinks. 

"I might swing by," Auston says. His words are casually tentative, but is tone is anything but. A second or two later, he gets a text from Mitch with an address and a room number and Auston knows he isn't fooled one bit.

[notorious-fiction]

The Christmas Prince (A Whoever You Want to Read With One-Shot)

        You two had made a deal.

         Shook hands and all, very solemn looks on your faces, promising one another a very simple thing.

         No gift exchanging on Christmas day.

(You'd just been laid off your job and it sucked balls, and he knew money was a bit short on your end and also knew you would never, in a gazillion years accept any money from him, so he started to come up with a bunch of lame ass excuses to make you feel a bit better.)

("It's cliché", he had snorted when you touched the subject "Exchanging Christmas gifts. Ugh. It was meaningful before but now it's just another "especial" date that lost it's core value to boost capitalism. I mean, you can be a crappy boyfriend all year round as long as you buy your girl an extra glittery Hallmark card and a Tiffany Bracelet, right?")

("Right." You had agreed, although not really, because as much as you found sexy as fuck when he used pretty words - core value, damn - you still flipping loved Christmas and looked forward to it all year long.)

        So no gift exchanging it was.

        You'd spend Christmas day with you family and he would spend it with his - you knew how rare it was for him to take some time to see them - but the day before, the 24th, you had him all to your own.

        Just "a casual dinner, the two of us" (his words, not yours) with some "classic Christmas movies, deal with it, loser" (your words, not his) at your place.

        Going out was a real pain nowadays, with the whole paps, fangirls, Snapchatters, etc thing, so to save yourself from the stress (how come he never failed to look like a Goddamn model on those candids whilst you looked like you were about to sneeze? Ugh.), staying in it was.

        In, with no gifts.

        Or at least you thought so, because mid afternoon on December 24th your iPhone seemed to gain a life of its own, all your social media accounts on a frenzy of notifications as, oh well, your famous as fuck of a boyfriend was spotted loading a box the size of a small poney into his car.

("She is so lucky!!!!!!")

("What did he get herrrrrrr i'd be happy just with his dick on box and by the size of it its prob that lol")

("Ugh i hope its a bomb")

(Insert other very sweet comments here.)

        You controlled the urge to text him (going against your über curious personality with all the strenghth your posessed), instead focusing on the fact that you were...

        Fucked.

        Because whilst your boyfriend was on the posession of a very big, flashy box (what you had no idea what was inside, Christ, what the hell was inside of it?!), you were in the posession of...

        "How The Grinch Stole Christmas", "Elf" and "The Polar Express".

(All masterpieces, in your humble opinion.)

        And the phone of the thai take out two blocks from your place.

(Best pad thai and sticky rice ever.)

(Plus it gave tons of free sriracha packets! Yay for free stuff!)

        But seriously, what the fuck were you supposed to give to a human being who seemed to have absolutely everything?!

        It'd be stupid to give him clothes - he got those for free -, you had no idea what his shoesize was (did that make you a horrible girlfriend? oops) and anything else you could think of was undoubtely lame. 

        What if you made him something?

        Okay so you didn't know how to draw or paint or knit or rhyme or write a song or do anything that required a minimum artistic vein slash handicraft talent but you could...

        Try?

        Throwing your body on the couch, your laptop literally on your lap, you sat on your ultimate comfy position - which he had lovingly nicknamed "Cirque Du Soleil's contortionist catching up on reality TV on it's free time" or "how you don't have a back problem is beyond me" (when he said that last one he totally reminded you of your mom) -, typing on the words that were responsible for many delayed papers at Uni and scurries off the house whilst almost tripping on your shoes as you were late as fuck.

        Pinterest dot com.

(A blessing and a curse to womankind, honestly.)

D. I. Y.

(Do it yourself.)

(Although you actually never did.)

        Scrolling down the screen - DIY baking soda shampoo! DIY mosaic tile birdbath using recycled DVD's! DIY Glittery Bath Bombs! - you noticed that all of them seemed to involve stuff everyone apparently had at home except you like glue guns or spray paint or Scrabble tile holders (...seriously) so after five minutes of Pinterest searching, you sighed in defeat.

(Hard effort wasn't your forte, you had to admit.)

        Even friendship bracelets are a hard task to accomplish when you have the skills of a three year old toddler and if you actually purchased a glue gun you could already picture yourself glueing nothing but your own fingers and spending Christmas Day at the ER.

        But you did have glitter glue, and that wasn't so dangerous was it?

        You also had an old, slightly crumpled piece of cardboard and a "DIY Easy Glittery Hallmark card tutorial!" (snort) at your screen, so you decided to give it a go.

        If it came out okay you'd be able to give him as an ironic gift?

("Oh hey, I know you gave me a super awesome/expensive/fancy/cool/thoughtful - insert whatever the hell could be inside that massive box here Christ the curiosity was killing you - but ha-ha-ha remember that snark you made about glittery Hallmark cards?! Instead of giving money to the greedy capitalist men I made one myself, how about that?! Aren't I the Best Girlfriend Ever?!?!?!")

        And if it came out like crap you could, y'know, throw it in the bin...

        ...So of course it came out like crap.

        Because you somehow managed to put more glitter glue on the tip of your fingers than on the goddamn cardboard, more glitter glue on your clothes as you absentmindedly rubbed your hands on it as you tried to think of what the hell you could do to save your "Merry Christmas" masterpiece.

(Trash.) (That was how you could save it, your dignity, your boyfriend's poor eyes and your dignity.)

(By throwing your masterpiece on the garbish.)

(Fuck ironic gifts.)

        Of course that instead of coming up with another idea after the Glittery-DIY-Hallmark-Card fiasco, your procrastinator side spoke louder, and click after click after click you found yourself going deeper and deeper of that pit called Pinterest, until you blazed on a section you'd never dared to venture on before.

        The recipe session.

        There were gooey chocolate chip bars, chocolate fudge brownies, kale and artichokes dip, quinoa fried "rice" (...why would someone all it fried "rice" if it had no rice in it only quinoa, you wondered...) and everything made your mouth water and stomach growl and you deeply wished there was someone who could make it for you.

        Everything sounded too tempting (and too hard and with too many fancy ingredients and kitchen appliances you'd never even heard of) until you found...

"Easy adaptable chocolate chip cookies with ingredients everyone has at home!!!!! Can be made vegan gluten/lactose/nut/anythying free paleo atkins insert random diet you'd never heard of before here"

        Well...

        Following a recipe wouldn't be that hard... Would it?

        Especially when you could sub eggs for oil if you didn't have any or oil for mashed banana or mashed banana for applesauce or applesauce for honey or honey for agave which were all obviously so much alike, right?

        Throwing everything you had into a single bowl - did you mention it was a single bowl recipe? Seriously, it could not get any better, your dishes-washing-hater-side thought - you frowned as you compared your final result to the one on the screen.

        Pinterest's batter: gooey but firm, looked so good you wouldn't mind spooning it raw directly into your mouth.

        Your batter: two year old's diarrhea, you wouldn't want to spoon it raw directly into your mouth not even if they paid you.

        You somehow managed to put little (balls, on Pinterest, blobs, sounded more accurate to your situation) blobs of the batter onto the baking sheet and onto the oven, too busy freaking out slash trying to understand what the hell you did wrong (ooh two american cups of flour? what were american cups? weren't your cups american? why america has to control everything for god's sake?!) to notice the door being unlocked, only realising you had company when you heard an amused chuckle behind you.

        Turning around so quick you almost broke your neck - fouet filled with sticky disgusting batter held in hand in a threatingly way - you found him staring, all long legs and perfect hair and mocking grin and...

        Empty hands?

        Where the hell was the box the size of a toddler he was seen loading into his car?!

        Goddamit, internet!

(And why did you feel a lil' bit disappointed I mean...)

(...you had him, hadn't you?)

(Best Christmas Gift Ever, am I right.)

        "Hi."

        "Hi. Were you..." A cute little frown appeared between his brows, pearly white teeth still on show as he asked "Baking?"

        Getting a bit defensive - why did he have to sound so confused/terrified? - you dropped the fouet on the sink, replying "Yes, why?"

        "Oh, for nothing! I mean, it smells..."

(Awful.)

        "Pretty good."

(Damn, he was a liar.)

        Leaning to check the oven temperature just one more time - I mean, better safe than sorry, you couldn't push your luck (any further) - you ignored your boyfriend's stare (a cute little smirk on his lips because well, he thought it was cute how you hadn't noticed the chocolate batter on your chin or how you wore an apron thrice your size), asking maybe a little too cheery "So, how's your Christmas eve going so far?"

( "...Loading too many big ass boxes onto your car?", you rhymed mentally.)

        "Well, not too good I mean, I only got to see my lovely lady today." He replied with a charming smile, expecting for you to giggle - alright, fine, he knew you weren't one to giggle, or at least give him love eyes.

        You squinted skeptically.

...Okay.

        "Empty handed, I see."

        "Yeah, kinda glad we decided to skip on that Christmas madness. Had to help a mate out with picking up a complete set of one of those fancy Le Creuset cooking things. Said his girlfriend would love it." He added with a scoff, rolling his eyes "I told him that if I gave you anything kitchen related you'd throw it in my head, but seeing you're apparently into cooking now..." He paused, pursing his lips "Should I write it down as a suggestion for your birthday?"

        Her mind went black.

        Kitchen appliances.

        His mate was giving his girlfriend freakin' casseroles and frying pans.

(Oh poor girl.)

(Poor, poor girl.)

(The disappointment when she opened that huge heavy box.)

(Damn.)

        And you had been freaking out the entire day thinking he'd gotten you something big and awesome and you'd look like the awful ungrateful girlfriend.

        Man, that ugly glittery card would look like heaven next yo, y'know... Nothing.

        "If you ever give me a damn casserole pan I shall rip off your little buddy of you, cut it into tiny little pieces, cook them in the freakin' thing and serve you for dinner." You stated, and he replying, giving you a kiss on the forehead  "Aw, see? I know you so well."

        God, you were glad he didn't get you anything.

        Because being with him was the best gift you could've ever asked for.

(Insert vomiting and cringing here.)

(Fuck you never thought you would be THIS gross and disgusting and loving about any human being in your life after your miserable string of awful break-ups.)

(Yet there you were, with your very own prince charming.)

(Yup, that was it, you guys would be watching The Christmas Prince on Netflix.)

        You showed your appreciation by getting on the tips of your toes and pecking him on the lips, the little wrinkle of confusion between his forehead making you want to kiss him even more.

(How was possible for someone to be so cute slash sexy at the same damn time?)

(Seriously.)

(Ugh.)

        But then, maybe you'd been too distracted by his pouty pink lips - no chapstick or anything, you wondered how the hell he managed to get them always so soft and puffy and kissable - to check the oven...

        And the whole room started to smell a bit smokey.

        And look a bit smokey.

        "Fuck, my Pinterest cookies!" You squealed, startling him.

        You were sort of thankful your fire alarm wasn't working so well, because if the firemen showed up because you almost burned your kitchen down, your landlord would have (even more) reasons to hate you.

        "It looks... Edible." Your boyfiend said matter of fact, poking one of your cookies at the tray with the tip of his fingers with brows furrowed.

        They looked like baby alien fetus.

(Edible, in some outer galaxy cultures, probably.)

        "Want to try them?" You knew by the raise of his eyebrow that it was a challenge, a thing you rarely passed.

        Daringly, you got one - dropping it back to the tray because damn they were hot -, trying it again after a few seconds of you two staring at each other with "Who Shall Quit First" eyes.

        Was he going to make you eat them first?

        By the fake tight ass smile he was giving you, he was...

        So with the biggest grin you could muster, you squeaked "Merry Christmas baby! I made these for you! Hope you like them!"

(Or at least don't get food poisoning and die! Please don't get food poisoning and die! I kinda really really really really really like you!)

(And if you die because of me slash my cookies your fans will murder me!)

        With a small gulp, he picked one of the alien fetus cookies, shaking it off so they wouldn't be "too hot and burn his tongue" for about three minutes.

        You kinda knew he was trying to make as many tiny pieces of it fall out so he'd eat as less of a cookie as possible, but you didn't call him out on it because oh well, he was at least going to eat a teeny bit of them.

        And in the end, after a bit of fake awing "Oh, tastes so good babe" and maybe spitting on a napkin when you turned around to throw the dirty dishes on the sink, he did eat your alien fetus cookies.

        What made him the best boyfriend slash Christmas present ever.

        And after drinking maybe a bit too much wine and watching The Christmas Prince, he drunkenly vowed to never ever give you anything cooking related - as the cookies now rested in peace in your trashcan, on top of your ugly ass glittery card -, and that vow would be proved to be a gift that kept on giving.

(I mean, it would give stomach aches and calls to the fire fighters and be a total waste of ingredients, so you were cool with that.)

(And even if he never gave you anything at all, he dealt with your craziness, your PMSing, you overreacting whenever you let your - very expensive - makeup fall onto the floor, never watched Game of Thrones episodes without you and always let you eat the biggest last slice of cheesecake.)

        And if that wasn't much of a proof of real, true love, you had no idea of what the hell it could be.

           And that was the greatest gift of all.

(Cue to cringing due to cheesyness again.)

-------

MERRY CHRISTMAS U GUYSSSSSSSSS!

Hope y’all have a fantastic one and find all you wanted under the tree! ooh and if you liked it pls don’t forget to click on that like button (i’ve been watching too many youtube vids send help)

lots lots of love

Gabe

ps: i’d like to dedicate this to my favorite humans on earth victoria, nina and lari, who are still my friends even after i’ve been through probably 30 different mental breakdowns this year, love you guise so muchhhhhhhh thanks for always encouraging me to write!!! oh and if you haven’t read my stories based on them you can find them all here