#I'm fumbling with the passcode

[fazcinatingblog]

I wanted to Trent today but Trent is emergency which is just really unfair

[slowdrawl]

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]

{TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!} |part 4| Wildflowers and Wine | 2.3k words|

Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

“You bite back a laugh, heat flooding your face. You stand by the front for a minute, feeling a little dumb for moping around all morning thinking he didn’t really give a shit. You should’ve given him more credit—what a softie." |A/N Part 4 of these cuties. I'm thinking we might only see one more chapter for a while after this... unless I get some protest about it. not that I'm planning on wrapping them up forever, but I do want them to live hea and I have a few other fic ideas on the go. xox

Warnings: Mild language, alcohol use, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, alcohol use, YEARNING.

An alarm blares on your phone, and you groan yourself awake. You tap the screen and hit snooze. It’s been two days since the party, and the hangover is still lingering, fogging your head. You’re dehydrated, out of it, exhausted. You just lie there with your eyes clamped shut, willing yourself back to sleep. It’s no use. You spend the next fifteen minutes staring up at the ceiling fan, telling yourself you need to wait. You’ve spent the last 48 hours of your life checking your phone every fifteen minutes for something, anything, but—

bzz.

Your heart jumps, and you rip the phone out from under your pillow, tapping in your passcode with frantic fingers.

(8:07 PM) Kim: idk abt cam, hes cool but also lowkey clingy. hows old dude?

Disappointment floods into your chest, hollowing you out. You sigh, and it comes out half-strangled, throat tight with something—anger? Embarrassment? Shame, maybe? You roll yourself out of bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood, dragging yourself to the shower. You crank the handle to the left, letting the water rain over you, practically scalding. It soothes your muscles, but it doesn’t calm the ache.

//

The salon is humming with the sound of your hairdryer, clippers, and quiet conversation. The afternoon sun is shining through the blinds, hitting just low enough in the sky now that it’s blinding your left eye—sending a pang of pain through your skull, still recovering from the long weekend. You’re standing behind your client, Erin, applying her root color. She’s droning on about her daughter’s wrestling match out of town and her overnight shift in the ER clashing. She’s a single mom, three teenage daughters, working doubles just to make ends meet. You’re barely paying attention to what she’s saying, your mind entirely elsewhere, total dissociation. You hum and work, throwing out a “That’s crazy!” every once in a while for good measure.

The front door chimes open, and you hear heavy footsteps come in. You don’t turn, almost afraid to look. You stare forward and slow your hands, waiting for a natural break in conversation, trying not to be rude. The person at the front desk clears their throat. “Excuse me, Miss. I got a delivery for—” Your head whips toward the desk. You don’t remember ordering anything—probably a mistake, wrong address. There’s a man standing at the desk in a brown button-down shirt, “Freytag Floral” embroidered on the chest. He’s holding a bouquet wrapped up in brown kraft paper, a dark green ribbon tied around the stems.

“Uh, for who?” you call out, voice high enough to carry over David’s blowdryer, but it cracks. You slap what’s left of the color on your tint brush to Erin’s head and pause, placing the brush down in the bowl. “One minute, darlin’. Be right back.”

You walk over to the desk, watching the guy fumble with the flowers. He pulls out a little green card and squints as he reads it. “Looks like—you, if I had to guess. You’re the hairdresser?” He looks around the room like he’s deciding if it’s a safe bet to assume or not. He’s right. It’s just you and David today—unless his husband sent them. “Card says ‘Trouble.’ You Trouble?” He raises his eyebrows at you from behind the cardstock. David shuts his dryer off and shoots a smirk your way before going back to styling.

Yup, that would be me.

Nobody has ever sent you flowers before. You’re stuck standing there, wide-eyed and nervous, picking at the skin around your thumbnail and chewing your lower lip. “Oh—okay, do I have to pay—or sign? Anything?” you mumble to him, eyes on your feet.

The delivery guy just smiles and shakes his head at you, placing them down gently on the desk. “Nope, have a good day, Miss. Here ya go.” He turns and leaves the shop—thank God, because that was really fuckin’ awkward.

Erin’s already swung her chair to face you, grinning. “Who’s the admirer—secret or what? Go on, kid, read it!”

You slip off the dye-covered nitrile gloves you’re wearing, throwing them in the trash under the desk, before picking up the arrangement. It’s stunning—wildflowers, daisies, sunflowers, and lavender filling the spaces between. A single red rose sits in the middle; it’s messy and perfect and absolutely you. You stop for a second and wonder if it was Kim who sent them—she knows you well enough to pick out your dream bouquet like that. Maybe an apology for the “use protection” jab or something? You grab the card, fingers brushing against the rough paper, opening it, your heart hammering in your chest.

The envelope does indeed say “Trouble,” handwritten in sloppy, boyish cursive. The inside of the card says, “dinner, my place, tonight, 7. No complainin’, bring the bratty attitude with you.”

Yup—Joel for sure. What a dick. Two days of radio silence and then this stunt?

You bite back a laugh, heat flooding your face. You stand by the front for a minute, feeling a little dumb for moping around all morning thinking he didn’t really give a shit. You should’ve given him more credit—what a softie.

You slot the card back into the flowers and shove them under the desk. You take a deep breath, trying to play it cool, but Erin’s craning her neck, staring like she could read through the envelope with X-ray vision or something. You smile at her and walk back over.

“So, who was it? Spill it.” You can’t hide the smirk curling at your lips. “Just a friend, no big deal.”

She scoffs. “You’re so full of shit! He cute at least?”

Disgustingly, and so is his daughter.

“He’s alright, little rough ’round the edges.” You pick up the color brush and finish applying, glancing at the clock. It’s already 4:30—Erin’s gonna have to sit for half an hour, then another to rinse and finish. You’ll be out by 5:45 after cleanup. You look in the mirror and cringe—it wasn’t hair-wash day, and you’re wearing fucking cargo pants.

You text Kim and pace in the back room while Erin processes.

(3:42 PM) You: Joel sent flowers, dinner tonight at his place. I look like i crawled out of a dumpster. 👍

(3:45 PM) Kim: oh shit, you shave today? or is it like… the amazon rn. 😂

You did not.

You map out your plan of attack as you rush to finish Erin’s hair. You convince her to skip her haircut today, knocking off a good fifteen minutes or so. She heads out the door, but not before giving you a cheeky smirk, saying, “Have fun, be safe!”

You decide to do your hair at work, curling it into soft waves, nearly burning your forehead when your hands start shaking. You grab your purse and a plastic shower cap, practically running out of the shop to your car, flowers tucked under your arm. You’re nervously sweating the entire ride home, checking the clock every few seconds like time’s going to bend and disappear on you.

You rush into the shower, listening to the water hit the plastic on your head,distracting you. You move onto taming the beast, shaving every inch of your body until it’s slick like a hairless cat or something. When you get out, you lather yourself up in a lotion you bought a few weeks ago from the farmers market—it smells like patchouli and rosemary, real hippie shit. You bet yourself five bucks Joel will make some stupid comment about you smelling like a Portland bookstore or someone fresh from Burning Man.

You throw on some mascara and a bit of lip gloss and head to your closet, picking out something comfortable but cute, a black sundress that sits low across your shoulders and hugs you in all the right places. You’re about three minutes from leaving the house when it hits you—fuck, you don’t even know where this guy lives.

(6:45 PM) You: Hey, i tried texting the other guy, he said it wasn’t him who sent the flowers so ur my last guess.

(6:46 PM)  Joel: ha ha ha, very funny. Brat.

(6:46 PM) You: I dont have ur address, cuz im not a stalker like u are. plz send it.

He turns on his location and sends it to you.

Okay��domestic! Weird, but I like it.

(6:48 PM) Joel: there, now cool it with the attitude before i do something ’bout it. Don’t be late.

(6:50 PM) You: shaking in my boots rn. See you in 10 🤠

You do not see him in ten—it’s more like twenty, no surprise at all.

You pull up to his house, parking in the driveway next to his truck. It’s a cute craftsman rancher with a rocking chair on the front porch—very Joel. It’s only a few blocks from your house, the yard overgrown with shrubs. You laugh to yourself, thinking contractor, not a landscaper. You do one more mirror check, then stare down at the flowers in the passenger seat, picking them up as you push open the door. You give yourself a mental pep talk, psyching yourself up to walk to the house. You’ve got fuckin’ butterflies in your stomach like you’re a teenager again.

You knock twice, and he swings the door open like he was standing there already. He’s wearing dark-wash jeans low on his hips, a plain black t-shirt stretched across his chest with a—say it with me—flannel over the top, sleeves rolled up tonight to show off his forearms. The sight alone makes you salivate. His hair’s still damp from the shower, slicked back and off to the side just like you’d do it for him. He smells good too—cologne, no cedar today. He’s smiling at you, dimple flashing like he knows you’re already a goner.

What a slut.

“Well, well, well, look who showed up,” he drawls, leaning against the frame. “Thought you might’ve changed your mind—or chickened out, at least.”

“Me? Chicken out?” You scoff. “You’re the one who ghosted me for two days, remember that?” You grin, shoving the flowers into his chest. “Now you pull this corny bullshit? What’s wrong with you, Miller? What’s your game?”

He takes the bouquet from you, smirking as he steps aside to let you in. “No game. Figured you’d be less of a brat with some food in you, though. C’mon, dinner’s gettin’ cold.”

His house is decorated exactly how you’d imagined it—with mismatched furniture and paintings of woodland creatures here and there. Sarah’s drawings are Scotch-taped to the walls; it’s a little cluttered but in a homey way. You follow him toward the kitchen. It smells like rosemary and something roasted, vegetables, chicken maybe? Joel’s kitchen is airier than the living room, with big windows facing the backyard and an open layout. He grabs a mason jar and uses it as a makeshift vase for the flowers, setting them on the dining table. It’s set already, real proper-like—how fancy.

“Sit. You’re gettin’ the full Miller treatment tonight.”

You plop down, eyeing the spread in front of you—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a salad, all simple, but it looks pretty damn good.

“This your apology for kissin’ me then actin’ like you fell off the side of the earth?” you ask, grabbing a fork.

“Maybe… drink?” He sits across from you, cracking open a bottle of white wine you can’t pronounce the name of—you’d bet money he can’t either. You don’t respond, but he pours you a glass anyway before going on. “Figured maybe you were busy with that other poor son of a bitch.” He’s trying to keep a straight face but failing. “Or maybe I just wanted to keep you on your toes.”

“You’re an asshole, know that?” you mutter, taking a sip of the wine. It’s cold, cutting through the end of your three-day hangover fog. Dinner is quiet at first—he’s got the radio on low in the kitchen; it’s all forks clinking and birds chirping outside. Then he starts talking, dumb stuff: Sarah’s school projects, work ordeals, a leaky pipe he fixed—and you’re trading jabs, laughing over nothing and everything. It’s domestic, easy…too easy, and you feel that ache from this morning start to fade away.

When your bellies are full and the dishes are cleared, Joel sits back down, folding his arms. “So, still thinkin’ about that other guy?”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “Nah, he didn’t even send me flowers. Think I’ll kick him to the curb.”

“Okay, good. Now c’mon, I got one more thing for ya—surprise.” He stands, grabbing your hand and the bottle of wine, leading you toward the back door. The yard is small and more manicured than the front, with a swing set, patio furniture, a big glass-top table, and green chairs—you know the type. There’s a propane firepit going already, crackling low.

“S’mores round two?” you tease, sitting down in one of the chairs next to the fire.

“Not quite…somethin’ better, I think.” He pulls his guitar out from beside the table, slinging it over his knee, grinning. “You wanted to hear Wonderwall, right?” He starts plucking the strings.

You laugh, real and loud. “Oh my God, no—please tell me you didn’t.”

He’s strumming a few chords now, laughing with you. “Nah, ain’t gonna subject you to that. But I figured you’d like somethin’ anyway.” He starts playing something you don’t recognize, soft and dreamy. His voice rumbles in, gravelly and warm. You lean forward, just watching, smiling like an idiot, hypnotized. You wish you could bottle up this feeling, film this memory, and watch it over and over again. That feeling from the other night comes back into your chest, but it’s lighter now, less “fucked,” less terrified.

He keeps playing for a while, the crickets coming out in full force as darkness settles in. The sky is open wide, the stars so bright, moon so close—like you could pluck her out if you reached up.

I could get used to this.

[zyart-jpg]

Hi to these two anons! I thought it's kind of a similar request but different scenarios, please have this at the moment! Not exactly Yandere but...close...I guess...I'll try to make another one lol

A/N: I don't usually write dark themes, I'm a coward pls...I don't like gore...I can't even watch zombie movies lol also I kinda did this out of boredom, might not good lolol im sorry in advance :( it's like 2 AM here my brain's a little groggy

"Sugar-Coated Warnings"

Pairing: Kwon Hyuk x Reader

Summary: He reads your messages while you sleep, deletes a classmate’s contact, and quietly ensures no one else gets too close. You're his, after all.

Tags: obsessive love, possessiveness, implied stalking

You’ve always been the only bit of sunlight in the grayscale mess he calls a life. 

Just a kid back then—clumsy, bright-eyed, stumbling into his world with scraped knees and too much heart. He should’ve pushed you away when he had the chance.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Even now, years later—with your senior uniform sleeves rolled up, your laugh filling the silence like it belongs there, like you belong there—he’s more certain than ever that he’s never going to let you go.

He watches you sometimes like a man starved, like someone who’s been underwater too long and only now remembers how to breathe. You have no idea how insane you drive him—how that stupid, sweet smile of yours could be the death of him if you ever pointed it at someone else.

You're just so innocent, so naive. 

Still figuring things out, still fumbling through life like you’ve got all the time in the world—and maybe you do. But he doesn’t. Not when you look at him like that. Not when he knows just how many eyes are on you now that you’ve started growing into the kind of pretty that doesn’t go unnoticed.

He loves you. 

Loves you in a way that doesn’t always make sense, not even to him. Words don’t cut it. “I love you” feels too thin, too soft, too easy to say and even easier to forget. 

So he finds other ways.

He doesn’t tell you about the small heart-shaped locket he bought—your baby photo tucked on one side, and a tiny lock of your hair, stolen the day you cut it, pressed into the other. 

Doesn’t tell you how he sometimes scrolls through your messages when you fall asleep beside him because he wants to know every corner of your mind, even the parts you don’t share out loud.

Like now.

You looked so small like this—curled into him, your cheek pressed to the inside of his arm, lips parted just slightly as you breathed slow and even. Your fingers twitched against his chest now and then, soft and restless—like the dreams you always swore you never remembered.

He should let you sleep. He knows that.

But instead, he’s been lying there for the last ten minutes, arm numb and mind loud, scrolling through your phone with the hand not trapped under your head. His thumb moves slowly, careful not to jostle you, the screen dimmed just enough to keep from waking you. He knows your passcode. Of course he does. You told him once, with that thoughtless kind of trust you gave too freely.

It’s not about trust, though. Not really.

It’s about knowing everything. Every little thing.

Because you're too young to know the ways people lie—too soft to notice the way some boys talk to you like they're trying to see how far they can reach. You reply too politely. Use too many smiley faces. You don’t know how cruel the world can be to something as sweet as you.

His eyes pause on one thread of messages.

Ice Creamy oppa 🍦

Really?

The name alone makes his grip tighten, just barely, on your waist. You shift in your sleep, brow crinkling faintly like you felt it even through the haze. He softens his hold immediately, guilt brushing against his pride, but the sour taste lingers at the back of his throat.

Who the fuck is Ice Creamy oppa?

He turns his body a little, just enough so he can mold around you better—pulling you closer until your forehead rests under his chin. His arm, still under your head, bends to cradle you, fingers grazing the side of your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the exact slope of it.

Your lashes flutter. You mumble something soft and confused into his skin.

He kisses the top of your head, slow and tender, like he hasn’t just been prying through your digital diary.

"Can you wake up for me, sweets?" he murmurs, voice smooth like warm honey, dripping slow against your cheek.

You make a tiny noise—half a whimper, half a whine—and he smiles, something fond and too deep curling in his chest.

"There you are," he whispers, brushing your hair back from your forehead. "Did I wake you? M’sorry. Just wanted to see your pretty eyes."

You blink up at him, still hazy, still drowsy and disoriented in that way he finds too damn endearing. Your lips part, confusion settling faintly on your features.

“Mm… what time is it?”

“Late,” he answers softly, stroking your side with slow, lazy fingers. “Go back to sleep if you want. I just… had a little question before you drift off again.”

You hum a little, eyes slipping shut again.

He takes that moment to nuzzle in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear—his tone still syrup-sweet, still tender.

“Who’s Ice Creamy oppa?” he asks, voice featherlight—so casual it could be mistaken for curiosity, only it isn’t.

You shift against him with a sleepy hum, lips brushing his collarbone. “Mm… just a classmate,” you mumble, barely awake. “He bought us ice cream once…the name stuck.”

“Hm.”

His smile stays, soft and curved like it always is when he’s holding you like this—tangled in sheets, your cheek warm on his arm. 

You don’t see how his gaze sharpens, eyes cooling as he stares at the contact name like it’s a wound that needs cauterizing.

Just a classmate, you said.

You trust people so much it makes his chest ache. 

He might be a friend, but Hyuk knows boys like that. The kind who try to sneak their way into a girl’s life with a joke and a smile and a stupid nickname that sounds harmless but sits too comfortably in her phone.

You nod off again, already drifting, trusting him enough to fall asleep with your back exposed and your phone in his hand.

He holds you tighter. Just enough to make you let out a soft little sound, but not enough to wake you.

“I don’t like it,” he whispers, nose brushing your temple. “Don’t like that he has a name like that on your phone. Makes me feel like someone’s trying to be sweet to my girl.”

You make a noise—something between a sigh and a yawn. You’re not really hearing him anymore. Not enough to realize what he’s saying isn't a suggestion. It’s a warning to a ghost you’ll never see coming.

He stays like that for a while—soaking in your warmth like it could settle the storm inside him. Pretending he’s not quietly unraveling.

But after a few minutes, when your breathing evens out and you stop moving completely, he slowly slips his arm from under your head, careful not to wake you.

Still smiling.

Still sweet.

But your phone’s already unlocked, screen dimmed but still faintly glowing in his palm.

He opens the contact.

He stares at it.

Then changes it.

From Ice Creamy oppa 

To Don’t Answer. He Wants Her.

He blocks the number, then deletes the message thread. Every sticker. Every emoji. Every digital trace.

And just because the thought makes his teeth grind, he opens the guy’s social media, finds a photo of him smiling in that smug, harmless way guys like that always do—cropped neatly beside you and a few of your friends.

He saves it.

Just for now.

Just in case he ever needs to remember his face.

And later—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even this week—he’ll find a reason to make that boy uncomfortable. A subtle threat. A cornered hallway. A flat tire in the school parking lot. Maybe a sudden warning from someone else that Ice Creamy oppa’s been ��crossing lines” he shouldn’t.

He’ll never touch him. He’s smarter than that.

But he will make sure that boy never calls you anything sweet again.

Because you’re his—and sweet things like you don’t need anyone else feeding them sugar.

Only him.

Always him.

MASTERLIST

[the-s1lly-corner]

Flufftober prompt 16: Stargazing (Moondrop)

you all know the song and dance! you can find the link to the referenced prompt list here prompt: stargazing inside the daycare is rather disappointing when you've experienced the real thing notes: reader is gn and humans, works as a nightguard, pre evil fucked up moon, no romance but its implied moon has feelings for you word count: 672 cws: none

Your finger pointed upwards towards the sky, connecting invisible lines with a lazy movement. Glowing stars blurred against the dark ceiling, colors varying from yellow to blue surrounding a white moon. The crescent engulfed your sight, before clicking once to the right. You drop your hand to the ground with a soft thud, staring at Moon as he leaned over you.

"Slacking off?" He tsked before crouching low to the ground, his joints softly clicking with the movement. You make a mental note to see if maintenance will take a look at the animatronic soon. Filing the thought away, you roll your eyes at the attendant. "Just resting, is that so wrong?"

Moon is silent for a moment, still- before his faceplate clicks once more, this time to the left. He tilted his head back to where you were previously staring. Your gaze followed his, your eyes squint to force the blurs of light to focus into fine shapes... but you had no such luck. Frowning, you pull yourself up into a sitting position. "It's nothing like the real thing... It's cute, but..." You muttered, fumbling for your phone in your pocket. In an instant you felt Moon's stare burning into you, fixated on the device in your hands.

"I'm not going to play games,"

Another click tells you he's readjusting his face plate for the third time. You vaguely wonder if there's something bothering him.. or if it's a personal quirk in him. You flip your phone around in your hands, not saying anything else. Neither did Moon, for a long moment.

"What do they look like?"

Your phone nearly slips out of your fingers and falls onto the mat you're sitting on. "Huh?"

"The stars outside," Moon finally sits down. He pulls his legs to settle criss cross, hands resting on his thin ankles. His blank eyes stared right into yours, awaiting an answer. "You... don't know what real stars look like?"

The animatronic remained silent, his stare only seeming to intensify. You pass your phone between both of your hands, thinking of how best to describe what a night sky looks like to someone who has never been outside. You chew on your lip as your eyes flick back to the ceiling of the daycare. "It's kind of like the ceiling... but the stars are a lot smaller, more..." You paused your fidgeting, "scattered? Like tiny specks against darkness... it's..."

You grip your phone before turning the screen on, lighting up your face as you punched in the passcode. Moon leaned forward, trying to see what you were doing. You opened your gallery, riffling through endless screenshots and videos before finding what you were looking for.

"Like this," You turned the phone screen over to face him. Moon made no move to grab the phone out of your hand... an action you were admittedly relieved over given that you did not want to explain some of the more... random... images you had saved.

The silence hung heavy between the two of you for a moment. You swipe to the next picture, showing him. "They're not the best pictures... I'd pull up some on the internet but wifi is a little shotty sometimes... I think my phone just sucks though," You muttered.

"You took these?"

You hummed, nodding slightly as you scroll to the next photo.

"Pretty..." He muttered, his faceplate tilted upwards just slightly to look at you. You nod gently, before pulling your phone back to yourself. You shut it off, tucking it back into your pocket.

"It is," You offer a smile as Moon continued to stare at you before he turned his faceplate straight up to stare at the ceiling. You pulled your body closer to his, and returned to your original activity of making false constellations in the lights above.

"Here is pretty, too," Moon said, sounding almost uncharacteristically soft. You hum in agreement, attention still fixated on the stars; left entirely unaware that Moon had shifted his attention to the space where you reside.

[cursedhaglette]

Please tell me your thoughts about Felassan and Solas’s relationship so much of it is left for us to fill in!!

okay beautiful one. the masked empire is literally so slow. i'm bored of it and know how it ends so i'm gonna tackle this without finishing it because i'm a strong brave girl. you heard it here first.

felassan is such a babe, first of all. let me get that out of the way. his intro being "yeah we used to eat medicinal bark back in the day. not this shit though" and just putting the bark he chewed back on the tree? icon. legend. "yeah i'm...dalish..." okay felassan, you've charmed me.

as for felassan and solas, well that sure is the question, isn't it? i think in a lot of ways, it feels like felassan is representative of the traits that solas loses when he loses mythal. felassan's sense of duty and compassion never seem to waver, never lose focus. even when he denies solas the passcode to the eluvians, it is because he believes it is what's best for the elves. solas is mired in his pride and his duty, his guilt and everything going on with mythal that tangles through that, but felassan doesn't seem to suffer from the same... distractions? (idk if that's necessarily the right word?) if solas is the mind, felassan is the heart. you need both to make the kind of change that is right for an entire race of people.

and i think in some ways, that's why solas needs the inquisitor to step into the position of 'heart' (even if unromanced!) where felassan fell. to redeem solas and save the world as it is, solas has to have both, he cannot win with wisdom and pride alone. would he have with felassan still by his side? who can say - maybe trick i guess.

anyway idk if any of this made sense! but it's my personal take on the matter based on what we have from TME, DAI, and DAV. i also definitely think felassan and solas explored each others bodies during the rebellion. look at them. they'd be fools not to. why hasn't someone written an after battle hurt/comfort/smut for them. i can't do everything myself.

lastly the "solas is bi but doesn't date men anymore because he's haunted by fumbling felassan so bad" joke that was going around is also so good i think it's become my personal headcanon too so add that to the list. okay that's all for real

[theskeletonprior]

The Second: Slow 'n' Steady???

This is a casual little writing challenge to get myself into a habit, perhaps, or if not, to get some words from the meat of my brain to the pulp of the page. All of my stories for this challenge are set in the world of RAVENOT, and if you're curious, you can take a look at my WIP intro right here. And if you're really keen, you can read the first chapter (sort of a pilot as I toil) right here! Now onto the daily ramble.

It's been a slow start to the day today, but yesterday was pretty successful. I find that it's often the case that the first few days of any challenge are fruitful, but the real test comes midway through. For me, there will be some difficulty, this week, as Friday-Sunday are my working hours (what a trial, I know!). There won't be much time to write, then, so I'm not sure that my 5k for the week will come through like I hope. But it's only Wednesday, so we'll see. Yesterday I clocked a cool 980 words, and didn't attempt to flog out any more, which feels like good progress to me. Something that I often do, which helps, is that at the end of each night of the challenge, I'll try to write the next part, wherever I left off, by hand, before I go to bed that night. Then not only does my subconscious eat away at it through the night, but also I find I'm able to make adjustments and notice new storytelling pathways as I transcribe it onto my device of choosing. This month, I'm trying out Ellipsus, which I was about to say good things about, and likely still will, though I did run into a slight hitch while changing devices. (Changing devices, you see, is a key part of my writing strategy. I write on my laptop, on my desktop with the mechanical keyboard, and by hand.) But it's a minor gripe--it took a little longer than I expected to get the passcode to login. Other than that little hiccup, though, it's been working well. The interface is sleek, but intuitive, you can export your work to a pdf if you like. I thought sharing was a little bit cumbersome, as you have to create a new draft for others to be able to leave comments, but it still beats the pants off Google Docs, so far. I especially like the focus mode, which gets rid of pesky eye-catches that might interrupt your flow. Also, no one is making me say nice things about Ellipsus, I just thought I'd give them a go after they were so adamantly opposed to the use of generative AI. All told, second day's looking just dandy, despite how slow I've been to sit and write. Please behold an excerpt from yesterday.

"Stop!" Hadan shouted out, finding his voice small, thin as a child's in the dark. "Be not afraid," the Risen's answer was shatteringly strident and clarion-clear. They raised their hands, mailed in black, and the movement was enough for Hadan. He flinched, and let his arrow fly. The Risen didn't move, as if it knew before the arrow was loosed that it would fall short of the mark. Hadan fumbled for his quiver, unable to take his eyes off the still form of the intruder, who had yet to lower their hands. They were dressed in black from top to toe, as if they'd been cut loose from the shadows to walk free amongst the living. It was difficult to make out their face in the darkness of their hood, but Hadan did not miss the sight of a longsword at their waist, restful in its sheath. "Not another step!" "I have ta'en none." Hadan nocked an arrow. "I won't miss this time, wise arse," he warned, picking a mark in the centre of that black hood. "Pick another place!" "I cannot," the Risen said, "for I am Ravenot." If Hadan's blood had been running cold before, he felt it now as though the ice in his veins was splintering. He couldn't see well enough in the dark to look for the recognizable signs. Even his little town had heard the name Ravenot, and knew that the dead thing that bore it wore a tabard with a balanced scales, struck through from shoulder to hip. That it carried with it a blade and bell and trumpet, and that it went where the living could never dare, and did what even the risen dead could not. He couldn't bring himself to relax, for he knew that the Risen could lie just as well as the living could. What if this was some kind of trick, so that he'd let it in, and once he did, it would mean nothing but peril for the souls of all who dwelled here?

Until next time! Taglist: @rosieartsie @void-botanist @carmillasboywife

As always, let me know if you'd like to join or leave the taglist, and I'll act accordingly.

[kirythestitchwitch]

Klaroline WIP Wed - Body Drop - blood/injury cw

assassin!Klaus/fence!Caroline au is what i've been working on recently. just hit over 10k on this file, feeling p good abt it!

Part One here Part Two here

A faint scrape of a shoe against cement where none should be and the flutter of the curtain covering the hallway to the back storeroom were the only warnings she had to drop, the tablet clattering to the ground. The first shot went wide over her head as she grabbed her handgun under the counter with one hand and smashed the lockdown button with the other. There was a curse and then a crashing noise as Caroline popped her head back up, thumbing the safety on the Ruger P90, and was nearly distracted from the Assassins-R-Us looking asshole in all black fallen back against the row of display cases on the counter behind the front desk by Klaus—who seemed to have vaulted the counter in the few seconds she was down—looking menacing and holding a knife on them. It wasn’t the knife he’d been eyeing earlier, no that knife was currently sticking out of the other person’s shoulder, the handgun they’d been shooting held weakly in their hand and pointed at the ground. 

It was obnoxiously hot, seeing Klaus in his element.

“We can do this the hard way, and I can make a mess of Caroline’s nice floors. I’m sure she will be very put out about it, but I wager I can convince her to forgive me. I’m hoping with dinner. Or you can tell us why you’re here making such stupid decisions and I won’t kill you slowly.” Klaus’ voice was conversational, generous even as he backed up enough to keep Caroline and her lowered .45 at the edge of his sight.

Wait, did he say he wanted to take her to dinner? Dinner like a date dinner? Was that what the password nonsense was about, was he flirting with her? As the assassin made a jerky motion toward Caroline that Klaus fended off with a warning jab of his knife, she snapped back to the important matters at hand.

The assassin stepped back towards the back counter, and then, staying silent, quickly reached for the gun with their good hand. Caroline ignored the pounding adrenaline, aimed, and shot through the triceps of that arm. The masked person let out a short expletive as the gun fumbled from their hands and clattered to the floor, their other arm jerking back. It took effort to squish down the curl of pleasure that rose through her as Klaus tilted his head and hummed a pleased little noise.

“It will go easier for you if you start talking,” Caroline said, annoyed, “I want to know how you got in here, and I want to know who sent you.” Getting into the security system wouldn’t be impossible, it would just be very, very hard, and would definitely trip her alarms if someone tried a brute force code breaker on the passcodes to her outer and inner security doors. She squashed a moment of panic when she considered that someone may have tortured the codes out of Enzo, and squeezed her handgun’s grip a little tighter.

The masked person clutched at the knife in their shoulder and started to tug with a grunt. Caroline considered telling them they shouldn't do that, but Enzo was really on her mind at the moment and frankly, if blood loss made them a little more pliable then she wasn’t going to point out their dumb decisions. Klaus on the other hand seemed to be under no such compunction.

“I’m hoping you’re not here after Caroline because then I'm going to have to make a mess of your insides out of principle, which is definitely going to make her cross.” Klaus’s voice was almost lazy as he watched the person grunt in pain as they pulled the knife from their shoulder, blood leaving a shining wet spot around the rip in the black fabric. He idly flipped his knife in his fingers while his opponent squared off against him, holding the bloodied knife in their not unnoticeably trembling fingers.

“Equally, I hope you’re not here for me: the caliber of assassin being sent is a disgrace. You would think your employer would know better.” Klaus sounded so put out that it was an effort not to laugh.

“You’d have to hunt them down over the insult alone,” Caroline tagged in, as the assassin took a swipe at Klaus and he leaned out of the way almost carelessly.

“I would, it’s true. It’s bad for business, letting that sort of thing slide.” This time, when the assassin tried a stab at Klaus, he met them with a thrust of his own and caught their blade on the hilt of his dagger. With a swift punch by Klaus in their injured shoulder, their hand spasmed, and the knife dropped from their grasp with a grunt of pain. Shoving them away from him, Klaus stepped back to let Caroline train her gun on the intruder, who leaned on the display cases, blood smearing from where it dribbled down their arm and chest.

“Do you feel like you’re in a sharing mood yet? Because I can keep putting holes in you until you feel like talking.” Caroline said, hoping that wouldn’t be the outcome. God, what a mess that would be.

[echo-rambles]

the beginning of a future!changjin fic I might never finish

-o0o-

The one thing about spending half of your life tucked into the back pockets of the same people day in and day out, is that even when you no longer occupy the same space, you find it a little bit impossible to go about your daily life without them. 

It’s a little bit like having a constant empty spot wherever you go. It’s not gigantic and it doesn’t always catch your attention, but sometimes you have to stop what you’re doing and just sort of recognize that there’s a space next to you where someone used to stand. Sometimes you need to fill the empty space and remember what it’s like to have someone just sort of exist with you. 

Which is why Changbin is sitting in his studio, tapping away at his computer with Jisung on call in his periphery. Neither one of them has said a word in the last twenty minutes, the call filled mostly with quiet hums or noises of acknowledgement. At one point, he heard Minho in the background, talking about dinner and even cheekily asking Changbin if he’d like any. 

Changbin had whined, a lot, because he can’t remember the last time he had a meal cooked by Minho. It’s special in a way he’ll never be able to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. If you haven’t been kicked out of the kitchen by Minho, or sat cramped between two of your closest friends and bickered over who has more on their plate, or helped him do the dishes after, you simply won’t understand. 

Now they’re back to silence. If he listens, he can hear the sound of Jisung’s own typing. It’s relaxing and familiar, like white noise. It helps him work.

There’s a track laid out in front of him, nowhere close to finished, but he’s been making steady progress in the last few hours with the presence of Jisung. It reminds him a little bit of when they were younger, the three of them sitting around a small studio working on their own sections of a project. 

“Hey, did you see the group chat?” Jisung asks suddenly, gently breaking the silence. 

“Mm? About Felix being in France or something?”

“Ah, no. About Hyunjin. Flying into Gimpo.”

“When?” Changbin doesn’t mean to be so loud, but it’s sort of his default. Especially when he’s been caught off guard. 

A pause. “When was the message sent or when is he getting in?”

“Both- either.” He snatches his phone up and fumbles to unlock it. Thankfully he’s alone and no one witnesses how the simple act of jamming in his passcode eludes him on the first try. 

He has to scroll up, but not too far. Past some well wishes and Jeongin sharing a selfie of himself in some European cafe, there, Hyunjin’s message. It’s simple and to the point, and it makes something in Changbin’s chest buzz. 

He was meant to land- Changbin checks the time. An hour ago. 

Hyunjin is here, in Seoul. On Korean soil for the first time in- too long. A few months. 

It feels like there's helium filling his lungs and Changbin has the sudden urge to drop everything and leave. Ask Hyunjin which hotel he's staying at so he can see him, right now.

“How did I not see this?” Changbin mutters, mostly to himself.

“When was the last time you were on your phone?” Jisung counters from the laptop speakers.

“Ok. Fair. But I’ve been busy.” 

“Yeah well, you saw it now."

"An hour too late!"

"Technically he sent it yesterday."

"You're lucky you're in Osaka right now and not in front of me."

"Sorry."

-

Changbin spends twenty minutes after hanging up with Jisung chewing at his thumbnail and trying to decide if he should text Hyunjin. What even would he text him?

I'm sorry we haven't spoken in months and have barely even seen each other in literal actual years, but do you want to get lunch?

God, no. Absolutely not. But if he's too casual about it, will Hyunjin worry that Changbin doesn't actually care about all the time they haven't been speaking?

Thankfully, Hyunjin takes the decision out of his hands. Multiple text messages ping through as he's staring at his phonescreen, and seeing Hyunjin's name immediately makes him feel a thousand times lighter.

>one a scale of 1-10 how busy are you rn? >please say 1 >or zero! >anything below a 5 is acceptable

Currently Changbin is sitting at a solid 8.9. But it's Hyunjin asking.

<I'm never too busy for you~

[plantfeed]

location: marty & moriah's studio status: closed for @devilspools

for the best part of half an hour, marty's been lying on the studio floor, one knee cocked like a dog at a fire hydrant, attempting to recall the melody. on the bus it had felt so simple — the obvious refrain to the latest in a haphazard sketchbook of tracks she was working on for the e.p. — that she hadn't even voice-recorded it, trusting instinct to keep it secret, keep it safe. instinct had failed her. now, she was left fumbling in the dark attempting to piece it back together from memory, like a martian attempting to sew a quilt when they'd never been taught how to stitch. “ it was something like, lover… take me where the cats don’t prowl, cut me with the edges of your teeth and watch me howl… nah, fuck, that’s not it either. ugh ! ”  their one saving grace is that they aren't paying for the studio time — however makeshift, this little square of hope is theirs. “ hey. pass me your phone.” marty says, a sudden lease of energy in her, rolling onto her side to reach up for moriah’s pocket. “ yo, don’t fight me ! don't fight, i just wanna see your spotify wrapped ! ” hands fumble their way up her thigh, sink into the back pocket of her trousers with a light fondle of ass cheek and pinch the device in question. they’re on their feet and halfway across the room in the blink of an eye, swiping the passcode they’ve seen too many times. “ oh moriah… oh no. oh baby girl, this is criminal. ”  eyes scan up to moriah, marty's teeth sinking into her lower lip to bite back a smirk.  “ taylor swift ?  harry styles,  king of the queer baiters ? olivia fuckin' rodrigo, what are you twelve ? am i hanging out with a loser ? is this a parallell universe in which i played the tuba in high school and now i'm lame ? am i at the losers convention right now ? gee fuckin' whiz. ”

[impossiblepluto]

I had a mean thought and did a bad thing and two hours later I "yes and"-ed myself into a sort of unfinished, fic(ish) series of words.

(Mac misses a phone call. And misses a phone call. And misses a phone call)

Mac grunts, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face harder into his pillow. The material beneath his cheek is damp. He flops onto his back, huffing as his stiffened muscles protest the action, and rubbing a hand over his mouth. He must have been drooling.

Reaching over, he fumbles for his phone on the bedside table, squinting through the darkness and winces at the sudden light when he successfully wakes the screen. It’s early enough that the blackout curtains aren’t the only thing keeping the room dark, almost an hour before sunrise. He drops his phone on the bed beside him. 

A distinctive guitar riff blasts through speakers on the other side of the house, loud enough, surprising enough that Mac flinches at the sound. 

Everyone gives him grief for getting up early or staying up too late and making too much noise with a drill or revamping a can opener but anyone else in the house can blast music before the sun is up. And run the mixer. And… is that the blender? 

With a huff of frustration he untangles himself from his sheets and stumbles out of bed heading for the kitchen. 

Lounging with her feet hanging over the armrest of the couch, Riley sips on a smoothie. The deep purple color in her glass matches the workout gear Desi wears as she attacks the heavybag hanging in the corner of the living room.

The waffle maker beeps. Bozer flips open the lid and the waffles onto a plate. 

“Hey! Just in time, waffles are done,” Bozer says as he notices Mac standing in the doorway. 

Desi wipes her face with a towel. She ruffles a gentle hand through Mac’s hair as she passes. “You okay, sleepyhead?” She’s more affectionate now than she was when they were dating. She grabs a glass from the cupboard and pours the remainder of the smoothie from the blender. 

Mac scrubs a hand through his ruffled hair to smooth it into a semblance of order. “Fine.” He croaks and clears his throat. “Slept hard.” 

“You almost missed waffles,” Riley teases as she swings herself off the sofa, heading for the kitchen and catches her toe on the leg of the coffee table. “Ow! Oof.” 

“You okay?” Bozer rests his arms on the counter, leaning forward to peer into the living room.

“Yeah, caught my stupid toe on the stupid table,” Riley hisses and limps a few paces. “You okay, Mac?” she asks, stopping in front of him, canting her head with concern. “You kind of look like a teenager on the first day of school after summer break.” 

He gives her a small smile and rolls his eyes. It sounds like something Jack would say. 

"I was going to say I'm good, but that was before the implication that you wouldn't wake me for waffles."

"With waffles, it's every man for himself." Riley ducks around him, scooping up the plate on the counter. ----

The charging cord is draped over the bedside table, the end unattached. Mac pats the pockets of his cargo pants, coming up empty. The sweatpants he wore for sleep are bunched on the floor beside his bed, too light when he picks them up, and pockets confirmed empty when he searches. He shakes out the rumpled sheets. His phone tumbles free, bouncing on the floor and skittering under the bed, forcing Mac to chase after it with a grunt, pushing aside an old pair of boots before his fingers close around his phone and he shoves it into his pocket. 

---

On the top corner of the screen, a small icon shows he missed a call. He thumbs open the log and sees a number that while he doesn’t recognize, looks familiar. As he punches in his voicemail passcode, he rifles through his brain. An international number. Not the country code for Australia or Puerto Rico. 

He doesn’t want to hope. They don’t have plans for a check in. Mac has tried not to let that bother him. Not to take it personally or feed into what feels like a growing rift. He has still made contact occasionally. Hasn’t let it go too long between calls. 

“Hey, hoss.”

Mac’s body seizes. He can’t stop the small gasp at the familiar voice. His eyes slam shut, prickling behind closed lids. It’s him. It’s him. The greeting sluices over him like a healing balm over a raw wound. 

“Sorry I missed you. Guess it’s still pretty early over there. ‘Course you might not even be home. Sorry I missed the last few check ins. Things have been– well, you know how it can get.”

He does know. He gets it. He remembers watching the hands of his watch march on when he was supposed to give Bozer an update on his work trip to Cincinnati and wondering what kind of story he should make up this time. Hoping that Bozer will forgive him, again, for being forgetful and not calling when the plane landed. 

Being on the other side, watching the clock as it moves five minutes past their planned check in, thirty minutes, three hours, hurts. Knowing that the window of opportunity closed and not knowing when it will open again makes him angry. 

Maybe missing their call isn’t Jack’s fault and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. But isn’t this whole thing Jack’s fault? Breaking his promise, leaving and leaving Mac behind and he can’t even pick up a phone and–

“Listen, I– uh, I just wanted to talk to you. Hear your voice. I’ve missed you. Missed having you around.”

Mac’s jaw tightens. He swallows the emotions threatening to surface.

“I might need your help with something–”

Jack’s voice gets lower, softer.

“But I don’t want to do this in a message.”

Mac pushes the phone harder against his ear to hear. 

“You take care of yourself, okay, bud?” 

“You have no more new messages. To delete this message press seven.”

“No! No, Jack,” Mac growls in frustration. “Well, that wasn’t cryptic at all.” He scrolls back to the missed call log and stares at the number. The call must have come just minutes after he got up this morning. He could kick himself for not taking his phone with him when he left his bedroom. 

He debates returning the call now. Doesn’t want a mistimed ring to put Jack in danger. But Jack’s a professional and would have turned off the phone if he was heading out. Might even be a private burner phone he’s got hidden from the rest of his team so he’d definitely have that secured somewhere safe and silenced. 

Mac hits the button, beginning the call, and as predicted it goes to voicemail. 

“Hey, it’s me,” Mac begins. Jack didn’t use names so Mac doesn’t either. And even after all these years, Jack will still know Mac’s number. And his voice. “Just give me a call back. Anytime. Day or night. I– I miss you too.”

He ends the call, staring at the blinking number on the screen until it goes dark.

Why didn’t he check for a missed call this morning? He always checks. Almost paranoid about it because he never knows when he’ll get called in for a mission. And today, when it mattered, he just didn’t. Before returning the phone to his pocket he makes sure the ringer is turned all the way up and activates vibrate for good measure. He is not missing Jack’s next call. 

---

He’s in the lab with Bozer, working on Sparky, arguing about something inconsequential. Laughing at his friend’s antics. 

The laugh catches in his throat as the door to the lab opens and Matty walks in. She’s involved in all the day to day operations of the Phoenix, she knows where anyone can be located at a moment’s notice, but she doesn’t come down to the lab unless he’s forgotten his phone or there’s something important. Life changing important. And, Mac glances down at the lab table next to him, his phone is sitting right there. 

The world seems to slow, like a cinematic decision Bozer would have made for one of his movies. 

“Matty?” Mac swallows back the last of his laughter while Bozer tries to get his giggles under control. 

She runs an appraising eye over him. Studying him. 

She’s one of the few… maybe only authority figures he’s had in his life that doesn’t measure him and find him wanting. 

He hopes that’s still the case, but the longer she studies him, the more nervous he becomes, rubbing lightly at the back of his neck 

“What did you do, Mac?” Bozer whispers, shifting uncomfortably by the strength of her gaze but attempting to inject some levity. “Whatever it was, I think Mac acted alone.”

“Mac, sit down.” Her voice is as strong as it’s ever been, betraying nothing. And yet...

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to. No one is ever told to sit down if there is good news. He drops into the chair anyway because he knows. He knows. He knows. 

“Matty?” Bozer’s voice is quiet, all teasing gone as he moves to stand just behind Mac’s shoulder. A protective move. Different from middle school when Bozer would jump in front of him and take on a bully. A supportive move. A Jack move. Offering Mac strength to lean on while he fights his own battles. 

Mac’s pulse roars in his ears. It’s not quite enough to drown out the words he doesn’t want to hear.

“There was a bomb.” 

----

Bozer takes him home. He doesn’t want to go home but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to stay in the lab either. Or at The Phoenix. He follows Bozer through the halls which are miraculously empty. He doesn’t remember getting in the car. Doesn’t remember the drive from the Phoenix though he’s pretty sure he’s been staring out the window the whole time. While he knows every twist and turn of these roads, they’re unfamiliar as they flash past the window. It’s like he’s never seen them before. 

“Riley?” Mac croaks as he pulls his gaze away from the window to look at Bozer.

Bozer quickly brushes a hand over his cheeks, dashing away the wet tracks.. “Yeah, yeah, Desi is with her. Gonna bring her back to the house.”

Mac nods and turns back to the window. 

----

“He called.” The room is dark. Bozer didn’t bother with the lights on their way to the bedroom and Mac never opened the blackout curtains this morning. Even so, Mac can’t lift his gaze to meet Bozer’s. 

He doesn’t want to know what he’ll see there if he does. 

The pause lingers as though Bozer isn’t sure how to respond. 

“Jack?” Bozer finally questions gently. Carefully. 

Mac nods, not sure if Bozer can see it. 

There’s another pause. 

“When?”

Mac gives a bitter laugh. “This morning. I– I missed it. I tried calling back as soon as I saw but…” He can hear the questions that Bozer hasn’t yet voiced, unsure of what to ask or how. Of what to say that could possibly help. There’s nothing. “It was the last time I– and I missed it.” 

Mac’s chest feels tight. Like a hole with jagged edges is pushing out from his core, squeezing his lungs from the inside

Bozer tugs him forward, wrapping him in a hug so tight it feels like it will bruise. Mac buries his face against Bozer’s chest. The soft, short breaths pressing against his cheek reveal Bozer’s silent tears. 

Mac wishes his own would fall. 

----

Mac squeezes his eyes tightly shut, unwilling to face a new day. Not even allowed a second of reprieve from the twisting knot in his chest. The knowledge that Jack is gone. The sun rises on a world where Jack no longer lives. 

The pillow is damp beneath his cheek. Tears only overflowed to the surface once he slept. He pushes his face hard into the material stifling a heaving gasp that comes from somewhere so deep within his core it startles him. It’s raw and feral. Grief and anger and burbling emotions he can’t identify and doesn’t want to examine. 

His whole body aches. 

He flops onto his back, gasping for air like he’s drowning. Like there’s a hole in his chest and his life is hemorrhaging out. Only this time there is no one there to save him. No one whose fingers burn into his flesh, holding onto to life for him while it’s dripping out. No one to breathe for him when he can’t.

Jack needed him. Needed his help as much as Mac did on that beach in Italy. Reached out to him, and Mac wasn’t there. 

He flinches, violently, when a guitar riff blasts through the house. 

The blender whirs.

The scent of waffles wafts through the house.

Anger flares. 

They’re just going about their day, same as any other. 

And he understands, better than anyone, that desire, the action of shoving his emotions into a box and burying them in some deep, hidden place so he doesn’t have to acknowledge them but today. Today he can’t. Today he wants to hurt. 

He whips back his blanket, lurching from his bed, staggering through the hall. 

In the corner of the room Riley sips on a deep purple smoothie, laughing and joking as Desi attacks the heavybag hanging in the corner wearing the same monochromatic workout set she wore yesterday.

“Mac? You okay?” Bozer asks, flipping a waffle onto a plate.

“What are you doing?” 

“Breakfast,” Bozer’s voice raises with uncertainty as he holds out the plate to Mac. “Figured it’d be a good day for waffles–”

Waffles are a fix-it food, always have been.

“-- since we’re just in the lab today.”

“You’re– you’re going into work?” He figured he’d have to fight to be allowed back through the Phoenix doors again.

“Yeah, we’ve got that update we’re going to run on Sparky.” 

Mac blinks. That was– they were supposed to do that yesterday. They did do that yesterday. Or started to. Until. Are they all in denial? Somehow able to pretend it didn’t happen? 

“You okay, sleepyhead?” Desi asks as she swipes a hand through Mac’s hair as she passes. A hurt look crosses her face when he flinches. 

“I’m–” he can’t say fine. He’s not fine. It’s not her touch, or it’s not just her touch that has him flinching. His eyes narrow as he takes in the waffles on the counter. The half-finished smoothie in the blender. Something is wrong. More wrong than just waking up the morning after Jack��

“Ow! Oof,” Riley limps, hopping around the coffee table with a grimace. 

“You okay?” Bozer rests his arms on the counter, leaning forward to peer into the living room.

“Yeah, caught my stupid toe on the stupid table,” Riley hisses. She limps a few more steps, stopping in front of Mac and canting her head with concern. “Are you okay, Mac? You look like the rest of us would if we were doing algebra in our heads.”

“Yeah,” Mac says slowly. “Yeah, just… weird dream, I guess.”

It wasn’t a dream. 

Was it a dream? 

“Waffles are good for weird dreams too,” Bozer pushes the plate closer. 

“Just give me a second,” Mac says, turning toward his bedroom. “I forgot my phone.”

He can hear the concerned murmur behind him as he hurries down the hall. 

In the still dark bedroom, his fingers slip as he reaches for his phone. It hits the floor hard. Sliding beneath the bed. Mac shifts on his feet, staring at the glow emanating from under the bed’s frame. It’s not that weird. He drops his phone a lot. With a sharp exhale, Mac drops to his knees, fishing his phone out from where it landed behind a pair of boots. The screen illuminated with a time and date. 

Yesterday’s date and time.

Mac sits back on his heels, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

Or… today’s?

It’s not the first time a dream has felt real. Not the first time he’s lived his worst fears while asleep. But this felt different. Feels different. 

Yesterday was so real. So devastatingly real. 

A small icon on the top corner catches his eye. 

He feels his pulse beat faster.

He opens the phone log. Sees the missed call. The only recent missed call. And the voicemail notification. 

This time recognizing Croatia’s country code. 

It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Is it some sort of cruel joke? An enemy coming to gloat. But that doesn’t explain Bozer, or Riley, or Desi. 

He swallows hard, mouth and throat suddenly dry. 

Slowly he punches in his code, leaving fingerprints against the screen, and raises the phone to his ear. 

“Hey, hoss.” 

i continue to live through my own "groundhog day" moment as I once again have not finished the time loop fic that I swear I'll have finished for next year

[ddejavvu]

HEAR ME OUT aaron with a  Morticia Addams like wife that comes to like drop him off lunch or something and the og team gets to met her for the first time and they are like “wtf he got a goth wife??”and he’s just head over heels for her 

sorry sorry sorry i know you said the og team but goth!prentiss is so special to me so i had to make it s2

--

"Woah, Prentiss," Derek is quick to elbow the agent sitting at her desk, "You didn't tell me you had a sister!"

"Sister.. what-" She furrows her brows, looking where Derek is gesturing towards. Behind the doors to the bullpen, there's a woman checking in through security, donned in attire Prentiss definitely rocked in her high school years.

"Very funny." She deadpans, "I'm sure she's just here to visit someone."

And you are. You step through the doors confidently, striding straight to the door labelled Aaron Hotchner. They watch you walk, eyebrows raising along with tensions as you neared the door.

Then, "Excuse me? Miss?"

You turn at JJ's call, standing feet away from Hotch's door, "Yes?"

"He doesn't take walk-ins," Morgan gestures to the door, "He's kinda rigid about procedure. You need an appointment to see him."

"I've got an appointment." You flash your left hand towards him, your ring glinting in the fluorescent lights above, "I've had it scheduled for years."

There's a unanimous intake of breath at your statement. Morgan's eyes nearly pop out of his head, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, JJ freezes, and Reid's mouth falls slightly open.

"You're.. you're his wife?" The doctor looks up at you with bewilderment, "Like, you two are married?"

"Yes," You chuckle, the sound of the door opening catching your attention, "Aaron!"

Your husband steps out of his office only seconds after you reveal your relationship, but he can tell from everyone's faces that you've told them.

"You made it," He smiles at you, lovesick and sappy, tugging you towards him with an arm around your waist to peck your lips sweetly, "I'm glad you're here, Y/N."

Aaron won't even answer a personal phone call in front of his coworkers, and now he's kissing his wife. Everyone stares, everyone gapes, because no one knows what to do.

"You all are way too invested in this," Rossi comes back from the kitchen, coffee in hand, "It's nice to see you again, Y/N."

"Dave," You nod affectionately to the man, "It's good to see you too!"

"You knew?" JJ scoffs, glancing incredulously between the three of you.

"Only because he's a blabby drunk," You pat Aaron's chest fondly, "It was really fun picking him up that night."

Morgan's face lights up at your good-natured teasing of his boss, something he excelled at himself, "No way. You've got style and you make fun of Hotch?"

"Style?" Prentiss rounds on him, "So when I do it, it's something to laugh at, but she's got style?"

"Yes," Morgan laughs, far too proud of his double standard, "You looked like you were trying to play a raven in a middle school play."

"So fucking rude," She scoffs, glancing back at you, "Can you believe him?"

"A raven," You snicker, hiding your laugh behind your hand, "Are there.. pictures?"

"Yep!" Morgan grins.

"I've got them," JJ fumbles for her phone.

"It's saved onto my computer," Reid lunges for his mouse, "It's under passcode, though, so give me a sec-."

"Unbelievable." Prentiss groans, "Does Penelope have them too, or is she the only nice person in this office?"

"She's the one that sent them to us," Rossi smirks from where he's leaning against the doorway, "You're not on every email thread that we send out, you know."

[andileighwrites]

We Ran and Found Home - Chapter 1 | Lane (March 2023) BOOK PREVIEW

It was raining the night Lane took off with nothing but what they could carry in their backpack. Their shoes were thoroughly ruined thanks to the puddled sidewalks. It would be a few days before the sneakers would be completely dry again. Lane carried their possessions-filled bag close to their chest while wrapping their light raincoat tighter around their body. It wasn't enough to cover the bag as well but Lane ducked down to shield the rain using their body. Cars were speeding by Lane who fumbled with opening their bag to retrieve a set of keys. Once Lane got ahold of the keyring, it slipped through their fingers and fell to the sidewalk. Thankfully, it missed a murky puddle. Lane grunted as they leaned down to pick up the wet keys and they shook them off. The keys jingled and echoed louder than the raindrops pelting the cold concrete. Lane shoved the keys into their raincoat pocket and dug in their jeans pocket to retrieve their cell phone. They struggled to enter the passcode into the phone. The raindrops made it challenging, but once they were in, Lane noticed a string of missed calls. "ATLAS" lit up at the top of the phone screen. Along with a number of missed call notifications. There was also a voicemail. Lane swiped the notifications away.

"No. I can't deal with you anymore."

Lane opened up the email app to check a certain email they had received.

"Okay. What was the address again?" Lane scrolled through the email conversation that they had with a landlord. She was a nice older lady named Phoebe. They had gone over the basics; first and last month's rent, included utilities, pet's policy (to Lane's excitement they allowed pets), and lease paperwork. Phoebe was understanding of Lane's situation. She kept all paperwork electronic for Lane and even personally dropped off the keys at Lane's new place of work. Atlas was unaware of what Lane was up to and as Lane stood on the sidewalk in the rain looking for the address of their new apartment, they were grateful they made it this far without Atlas finding out. He would have been upset.

Atlas had no idea that Lane started a new job, was looking for an apartment, and certainly did not know that Lane was finally putting their foot down and ending the relationship. It was a relationship that was well into its third year. Almost four years together but Lane couldn't be around Atlas anymore. Lane couldn't live another minute in a house with Atlas. Close to four years was enough wasted time on him and Lane built up the courage to leave. Lane snuck out of the house on a rainy night after Atlas had passed out on the couch from drinking. They pulled out their packed backpack that was hidden in the hall closet and quietly left the house they lived in for almost four years. Lane went out the back door and tip-toed carefully around to the front of the house. Then they sprinted off into the night ready to begin their new life.

After Lane found the address in the email, they looked around for street signs. "Oh, okay. I'm almost there." They felt relieved. Soon they could get out of the rain and be in their own apartment. A place just for Lane without Atlas lurking. A place where Lane could exist without Atlas waiting for every possible moment to criticize everything Lane did. This would be a place where Atlas couldn't hurt them. A place where Altas wouldn't be able to hit them again. Lane started walking down the street again after shoving their phone back into their jeans pocket. There was only a short distance left between Lane and the apartment building.

The apartment building that Lane was moving into used to be a hotel. The Sequoia Bay Hotel was once a popular destination. It had a restaurant and hosted large social events. Celebrities would stay there, causing crowds to gather on the street below, hoping to get a glimpse of these stars peeking out of their windows. The hotel was established in 1941 and was popular through the 1950s. In the late 70s, the hotel faced financial ruin and they were forced to close its doors. The Sequoia Bay Hotel sat empty for many years but the new owner of the building was determined to reopen the building, not as a hotel, but as affordable apartments. The building was converted into apartments in the 1990s and has been apartments ever since.

Lane had finally made it to the front steps of Sequoia Bay Apartments. At last, they were under the oning and shook off the rain, letting the beads roll off of their coat. They fished the keys from their coat pocket and looked for the one for the front door of the building. Lane felt a sense of security that no one would be allowed to get into the building unless they had a key. And there was the doubled security of needing a second key to get into the actual unit. Atlas wouldn't stand a chance! Lane checked their backpack, it wasn't completely soaked through and they swung it over their shoulder as they went into the main entrance. The lobby of the apartment building was a grand sight and Lane could tell that it used to be a magnificent hotel. During his email conversation with Phoebe, Lane learned a little bit about the history of the building and also learned that Phoebe's father bought the building after the hotel went bankrupt. She inherited the building after her father passed away. Lane looked around for the elevator and discovered an unfortunate out-of-order sign. They glared at the door that led to the stairwell. "Apartment C7," Lane said. "That's not that bad. At least I'm not on the top floor." Lane pushed open the stairwell door and was met with a brightly lit winding staircase. "Just a little bit of a climb and I'll be home."

...

Copyright ©️ Andi Leigh, 2023

...

Thank you for reading the first chapter of We Ran and Found Home. Let me know what you think! Tomorrow I'll be posting chapter 2. The first 6 chapters will be posted as a preview for the novel.

[radical-superstar-daycare]

Thanks Sonnie. *I sigh in relief before flopping to my side holding Cosette as I curled up facing Sonnie and look up her, tired and sad*

[The daytime attendant takes a single baby step back, trying to give you a little space while Cosette cuddles close to you again, one hand fumbling with the back of her shirt. Sonnie watches her for a few seconds, and then understanding what the little mime is trying to do, she leans down, helping Cosette get her extension cord out of her back hatch]

[In response to your thanks, Sonnie hums in acknowledgment, moving to plug Cosette in to the nearest outlet]

No problem, Keiko

[Once Cosette is plugged in, she pauses to gesture to the door]

Lunar and I will get the passcode reset on the door, and then I have some other things to do, but I'll come right back as soon as I'm done. It shouldn't take me too long, but if for some reason something happens, you can always use my remote to call for me!

[timextoxhajima]

The Kingdom: Stray Syndicates [HWANG HYUNJIN]

In a world of money, love, death and chaos, the three families of the KINGDOM fight to prove their place. Who will become king?

[PLEASE READ THE CASE FILE BEFORE PROCEEDING]

Genre: Mafia! au x Stray Kids [3rd person POV]

Investigators: @suzy-rainbow @from-xero

Evidence Material: Witness Interview

FOLLOW THE TAG #THE STRAY SYNDICATES FOR THE SS UPDATES

FOLLOW THE TAG #TIMEXTOXHAJIMA KINGDOM SERIES FOR KINGDOM UPDATES

“Alright, so start from the top, Ms Jung. Please state your full name, your age, your occupation and your relationship with Hwang Hyunjin.”

“Um, I’m Jung Chan Mi, I’m 21 and an undergraduate and Hwang Hyunjin was… someone I met at the bar- um, The Code, which is the name of the bar.”

Kwon glances up from her folder, eyes scanning the nervous young lady. By her side, was Wang, careful with his words.

“How did you come to interact with Mr Hwang Hyunjin?”

"Um," She gulps. Kwon can tell she's nervous - almost like she was afraid to speak of the boy they were after. "He- He approached me while I was drinking."

"Alone?" Wang sniffles, side-eyeing Kwon clicking on her pen as she jots down the information.

"Well, yes. I needed some time alone."

"Do you mind if I ask what you needed time alone from?"

Ms Jung pauses, and the silence pulls Kwon's eyes up from her notes again.

"Family issues," The young lady blinks the eye contact away, looking slightly fallen after she admits it.

Wang stops, and the tension in the air settles between the party of three, both detectives picking up something far more in-depth than they can see.

"Ms Jung, if you don't mind... I'd like more details about your family's issues. Where do your parents work-"

"Both my parents work at the City Bank."

With a grim scoff, Kwon places the pen down on the stack of lined sheets.

"Hwang Hyunjin targeted you specifically, Ms Jung."

The young lady frowns, eyes slightly squinted and her head tilted to the side. "I don't understand."

"Hwang Hyunjin is part of a family in a huge Mafia gang... and just last week, the City Bank was robbed of 20 million dollars. We don't know if the family he belongs to did it, but we have good enough reason to suspect they did."

"Ms Jung," Wang steps in, tying down the tension and making use of the panic to bear through her memory. "I need you to tell us if you had anything on you that Hwang Hyunjin could've stolen or taken that could've helped him."

"What- no. I'm not close to my parents at all... that's why I went to the bar."

"No passcode, no phone number that could've helped him? No key to a safe? Nothing?"

Jung Chan Mi gulps. Her palms are probably sweating.

For a split second, Kwon's patience is tested and Wang shoots her a dark glare. Under the sharp lighting of the interrogation room, Kwon's thinning tolerance is highlighted by the distinct shadows on her face.

"I don't-" Jung Chan Mi shakes her head, but comes to an abrupt halt. "Unless..."

The two detectives spare her all their remaining attention, eyes wide and brains churning like they hadn't been on this case non-stop.

"I- I lent him my phone..."

Kwon's eyes flutter shut as Wang gestures for one of the standby officers to come to the table.

"Ms Jung, I'll need you to hand over your cellphone to check for the bug. We'll have to extract your phone details like calls, messages, emails."

She fumbles around in her handbag, pulling out her phone and holding it out to the officers.

Later on in the day, Kwon and Wang find themselves rubbing their eyes as they stare at the monitor screen, observing the tech team try to detach the bug off the phone battery. The loading icon goes in circles and circles and circles, until it finally draws a tick across the screen.

The list of calls and messages from her parents' to her shows up on the screen, and Wang can't help but run his hands through his hair when he notes the pattern.

"Hwang Hyunjin was checking in on when they were in the bank and when they weren't."

[arobinwithoutbatman]

"I-" More slow blinking. Mental gears rusted over with exhaustion but still desperately trying to spin. To generate a thought. "I set alarms. I'm sure I did..."

He did. He had to. He's sure he did. If none of them had gone off then it had only been a couple of hours, right? Phone. Where was his- ah hah! He fumbled it a few times as he entered his passcode then gave up and just used his fingerprint instead. Nothing. His phone was dead. When? When did that-

"...too old to be carried." Was his only real protest as he slowly put his phone back down. He hadn't left this chair in at least twenty four hours apparently so stumbled a little as muscles complained and joints cracked and popped. "I'm okay. I'll... I'll get upstairs. Take a nap."

Dick squinted his eyes at Tim as the other took way too long to think of an answer. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised with Tim's sleepless antics by now; the man was running on energies that he got from some ungodly sources or from the constant caffeine and sugar boosts he kept feeding himself. Tim was aware of his own hyper fixations; he would usually set up proper alarms that he listened to so he could disconnect himself from whatever got him too focused on one thing - enough to neglect himself.

But there were always slip ups. This is why all of them kept an eye on the young boy genius most of the time, Alfred included. The fact Tim managed to get away with not taking a break for an entire day was astonishing enough.

"Ok, buddy." Dick stretched his arms before placing his hands firmly on his shoulders, gently tugging him to stand up. "Come on, it's time to get you to bed. Don't make me carry you because I will if you resist." He spoke firmly, not leaving Tim room for arguments.

[rainforestgeek]

If you lose your strength to stand (I'm gonna reach for your hand) pt. 2

ao3 link to the story: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14440329/chapters/33353805

Part 1

Part 3

As it turned out, the little green gremlin herself had already broken into his room. He heard her boisterous yelling through the doors before they even swished open. Pidge was coiled in a half-crouched position, fingers flying over the controller in her hands and a gleeful look on her face. The lights were off, so Lance could only see her by the harsh blue glow from the monitor she’d rigged up. The light shined off her glasses and hid her eyes.

Pidge didn’t even flinch when Lance flicked the lights on, but he yelped in surprise at Hunk sitting on his bed. He had the other controller and looked thoroughly put out.

Pidge glanced at him. “Hey Lance! You’re just in time to see me kick Hunk’s ass!”

“You could at least let me know before breaking into my room,” he grumbled.

“Change your passcode, then.”

“Why bother? Either one of you could override it anyway.” Lance worked at the clips of his armor to take it off and put it away. Pidge joyously trash talked at Hunk with language she’d probably never use around Matt. Once down to his bodysuit, Lance opened the bathroom door and started unzipping.

He heard a startled choking sound behind him, followed by a victorious whoop from Hunk. “Ha, got you now! Suddenly off your game, Pidge?”

“Lance, what the fuck! Close the door before you start stripping!” He turned to see Pidge pointedly glaring at the screen away from his bare chest, her cheeks bright red. Her fingers fumbled over the controls. He put his hands on his hips.

“Hey, this is my room. You can leave if you’re embarrassed. And we shared a locker room for months at the Garrison, Pidge, what are you getting all flustered about now?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. Lance rolled his eyes and left his friends to their game.

A hot shower was just what the doctor ordered. The heat loosened his muscles and the steam was wonderful in his lungs. He felt properly cleansed by the time he walked back into his room, wearing pajama pants and toweling his hair dry. Hunk and Pidge were still there, but seemed to have abandoned the game in favor of taking it apart and arguing. Hunk said something about Pidge being a sore loser. She lobbed Lance’s matching pajama top at his face.

“I was gonna play that tonight, you know,” he complained, pulling the shirt over his head.

“We’re just making a couple improvements,” Hunk reassured him. Lance sighed dramatically and collapsed onto his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Pidge shot back at Hunk, “The game wouldn’t be lagging in the first place if you hadn’t messed with the CPU. Do you have any idea how hard it was to build that component from scratch? On an alien spaceship?”

“Hey, the lag is not a hardware problem. The operating system’s been going on the fritz, you need to double check the code.”

“My code is flawless! There’d be nothing wrong with the console if you’d just stop touching – ”

“How about you both just stop talking?!” Lance snapped.

Amazingly, they both shut up. A large blunt elbow gently poked at his side from where Hunk sat on the floor by his bed. “You okay, dude?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Lance doesn’t feel like talking?” Pidge eyes went comically wide. Coupled with her big round glasses she looked like startled green owl. “Shit, Hunk, the whole fucking universe is ending.”

“Did Matt ever wash your mouth with soap when you were growing up or is this a new development?”

Hunk, the traitor, played along with Pidge. “Prepare for the four horsemen to descend from the heavens.” He squeezed his eyes shut, clutched his heart, and fell over sideways, narrowly avoiding crushing their homemade game console. That earned him an irritated smack across the forehead from Pidge.

“Really? A year ago we found out Keith is half human half purple cat-alien, but this signals the apocalypse?”

“You’re not exactly the secretive type, Lance.” Pidge resumed disassembling the console.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hunk climbed onto the bed and wrapped an arm around Lance’s shoulders. “Hey, chill out, it’s okay man. You just seem really upset and it’s not good to bottle it up like that. You know you can trust us, right?”

Pidge nudged his knee with the back of her hand. “Talk to us, Lance. For the sake of all creation,” she joked, quirking an eyebrow. Lance snorted a laugh. That seemed to please her, because her playful smirk softened into a real smile. That and Hunk’s warm hug, more than anything, were what made him relent. “Allura just rejected me. Like, about twenty doboshes ago.

“So? Doesn’t she do that all the time?” Lance’s heart dropped into his stomach. He glared at Pidge. She was frowning down at her project.

“Pidge, not helpful,” Hunk snapped, to both his friends’ surprise. Their little green paladin turned bright red.

“Well, it was for real this time,” Lance retorted. “I said something about being in love with her, which apparently she didn’t know because ‘I’m not the only girl you’ve flirted with out here.’ I mean, she’s rebuffed me before, but this time was so…final.”

“Because she knew you were serious this time,” Hunk filled in gently.

“So she responded seriously, yeah. I could… I know she doesn’t like me like that, okay? I do. It still sucked to listen to her say it’ll never happen, she loves me like a brother, doesn’t want to hurt me, the whole nine. So excuse me if it takes more than half an hour to get over it, Pidge.”

Pidge opened her mouth, closed it, and awkwardly placed a small, warm hand on his knee. Her eyes stayed downcast as she murmured, “I’m sorry, Lance.”

He sighed deeply. “It’s okay.”

Her thumb rubbed back and forth in what was probably meant to be a soothing gesture. “It’s…I – I don’t, I don’t know how to…comfort people.”

Well, if that wasn’t just adorkably sweet, Lance thought. He picked up her hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry for yelling earlier. Hunk’s right. Burying your feelings is how you end up like Keith – quiet until he turns red and explodes. Like a volcano!”

Pidge cracked up. Hunk did, too, but to his credit did try really hard to cover his laughter. “Hey, be…be nice…to Keith. Poor guy…’s got a lot of…issues!” he huffed.

Hearing his friends laugh – at someone other than his expense – made Lance feel even better. “That’s exactly my point!”

They laughed until Pidge started to yawn. Hunk’s mom friend instincts kicked in and declared it was her bedtime. She mumbled something about him not being her dad, but she packed up what was once a video game console into her backpack and let Hunk carry her to her room. She looked like a tawny kitten all curled up in his big arms. Lance bid them goodnight and proceeded to his own nighttime routine.