#Like realistically if the inquisition knew he’d be dead but what would that do for Eury

[star--nymph]

It’s so important to me that the basis of Eurydice’s and Dorian’s relationship, the core of it, is that they recognized each as abuse children. Eurydice not understanding Dorian’s speech or coping mechanisms until she met his father in the tavern and knew intimately—though maybe not consciously—what this was because she had known it. She knew a father that did not love his child as they were, did not understand them, did not want them, violently tried to change them to fit his preferred mold. That all he wanted was an object, no a son. And she marveled at Dorian’s ability to acknowledge it and refuse to play into any longer.

Brave. When Eurydice meant Dorian was brave, she meant in a specific way and he knew it. That’s why he paused—because Dorian is smart and perceive in a way she isn’t and he doesn’t need that many clues to know how they were bonded.

and yet for all that Eurydice curled around him like a protective older sibling, offered him the elven name of ‘brother’ and stood vigilant over him.

and later that night when they were drunk and Eurydice spoke the things her father had done to her and then begging Dorian not to say it, not to make it real because she would not—could not— hear that her father did not love her (that she wasn’t ready), he let her have it.

But he kept that secret and watched her, waiting until she was ready—when it was her turn to be break apart and be brave.

[artemis-pendragon]

(Here's my first attempt at a Good Omens fic! Co-credit goes to my sister for the concept and some of Crowley's dialogue haha!)

THE CONFESSION (OR, WAYS TO RUIN A PARTICULARLY FANCY ANTIQUE HAND-EMBROIDERED THROW PILLOW)

"Listen, angel, I need to tell you something," Crowley said, in a tone suggesting that an Emotionally Significant Admission was coming on.

"Oh?" Aziraphale began to turn toward him, then stopped. He had never grasped the basics of a poker face (let alone the game itself), so the less Crowley saw of him the better.

Gesturing with a half-full glass of wine, Crowley said, "There's this thing. An important thing, very important, and as soon as I remember what it is, I'm going to tell you."

Aziraphale settled with his hands clasped in his lap, still avoiding looking at Crowley. Instead, he stared at the clutter on his desk, making a mental note to deal with that later. "Take your time, my dear. There's no rush. We have all the time in the world."

"Right." Crowley slithered into a reclining position on the couch. His wine defied gravity to stay in its glass. "'S long as the world has time. I mean, how long d'you think before Heaven and Hell come slinking back up--down--for a second go at things?"

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together, spinning his signet ring between thumb and forefinger. He reached for his own wine, determined not to let on how nervous that prospect made him. "Can we not talk about that right now, please? We were having a lovely time. And besides, it's out of our control. What use is there in worrying over something we can't change?"

Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and stared at Aziraphale. "Now that sounds more like the kind of thing you'd expect me to say. I'm the optimist, remember? You're the pessimist."

"I am not a pessimist.” Aziraphale shot Crowley a disapproving glance, then, overwhelmed by the direct eye contact, looked back at his messy desk. "I'm a realist."

Crowley made an undignified sound of amusement. "Look at this glass." He held up his wine, which once again refused to spill. "Half full or half empty?"

"Both. Half of it is empty and half of it is full. That," Aziraphale said, with a great deal more gusto than the topic required, "is simply the truth of the matter."

"Huh," said Crowley. "Guess so."

There was a long silence. Then Aziraphale cleared his throat and, valiantly wielding the last shred of his courage, asked, "What were you going to tell me?"

Crowley said something vaguely word-like (his penchant for incomprehensible articulations had likely inspired the link between demonic activity and speaking in tongues, Aziraphale suspected) and reached for his sunglasses. "The thing about that... well, hgnk, uh... listen, angel..."

"Listening," said Aziraphale, and forced himself to face Crowley directly. It wouldn't do for him to think Aziraphale wasn't desperately hanging on his every word.

"There's this angel."

"I told you, I would prefer if we didn’t talk about--"

"There's this angel I'm in love with--"

"--Heaven and Hell, so if you could just refrain--"

"--and I don't know how to tell them--"

"--from discussing it--"

"--and it's killing me, because I don't know how they'll react--"

"--that would be most appreciated."

"--and I'm afraid they'll reject me, so I'm really in a pretty shit position here, if I'm being honest."

There was a long beat of dead silence where they both stared at each other with mounting levels of incomprehension.

"What?" said Aziraphale.

"What?" said Crowley.

"Oh, well, I thought you were going to say... wait, what do you mean, there's an angel you're in love with?"

Crowley shrugged in a distinctly jointless way, looking miserable. "Exactly what I said, that's what I meant. But hey, 's really no big deal. Y'know, angel, demon, not exactly happily-ever-after material, is it? Thought I owed it to you to tell you, though. After everything."

"Oh." For the first time since the world nearly ended, Aziraphale wished that Crowley was talking about Heaven and Hell. His heart, unnecessary as it was, felt like a hundred-tonne lump of lead. "Oh," he said again, and this time he was sure Crowley could read the misery on his face: a mirror of the demon's own.

But this was Crowley, his best friend, and he was obviously looking for Aziraphale's advice, so he forced himself to smile and nod as if it was no big deal at all. "Ah, well. This... this angel of yours. Do I know them?"

Crowley gave him a blank look. "Well, yeah," he said. "I’d hope so."

Aziraphale wracked his memories for anything even vaguely helpful. "Now don't take this the wrong way, but I can't imagine any of the Host falling in love with a demon."

From the look on Crowley's face, this was the wrong thing to say.

"I didn't mean--"

"Nah, 's alright, angel. You're right. That's the problem. No angel in their right mind would love a demon, and that's... that's fine! Course it is. Wouldn't expect anything else."

Aziraphale felt a sudden vicious stab of something that was suspiciously like envy and wrath. It was aimed at whatever angel had captured Crowley's affection and, from the sound of it, not returned it. "Well that's not true. I know an angel who's in love with a demon, so it is possible."

Crowley, for the second time that night, ripped his sunglasses off his face and stared at Aziraphale in disbelief. "Nah. No way. I can't see any of those smug holier-than-thou bastards falling for a demon."

They both winced at the phrasing. Aziraphale sighed.

"That's just the thing," he said. Looking down, he clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap. "You see, I'm the one."

"The one what?"

"The angel in love with a demon."

Crowley's look became impossibly more incredulous. "You. In love with a demon. No way in the nine layers of Hell, angel. I know every demon who's ever gotten topside and there's not a single one who deserves you. Trust me."

"Trust a demon?" Aziraphale teased, then regretted it when Crowley's expression turned toward devastation. "I do trust you, Crowley, but I promise that it is possible for an angel to love a demon. We are beings of love, after all."

"You lot love all things, yeah, I get it. But not like this. This is... different. The selfish kind of love."

Aziraphale sighed. If it weren't for the wine making him especially loose-limbed and unsteady, he was pretty sure he would've already fled the shop. He was in dangerous territory now. One slip and he'd fall.

He winced again. Phrasing.

"Not that it matters," said Crowley. He gestured with his wine; it came dangerously close to spilling this time. His concentration must be slipping. "Because I have it on good authority that he's in love with someone else."

"He?"

Crowley scowled. His fingers twitched toward his sunglasses, but then he clenched his fist and took a long drink of wine instead. "Yeah. He."

"So," said Aziraphale cautiously. "What is he... what is he like?"

Crowley shot him a look of disbelief. "Well, he's not the brightest. No, wait, that's not right. He's brilliant. Cleverest person I ever knew. But he's also an oblivious idiot sometimes, and I'd have more luck shouting my confession into an empty grate."

Aziraphale took a sip of wine to cover the shake in his voice as he said, "Well, the demon I love is also... also not available. He's in love with someone else, too."

"He?"

"Yes. He."

"And your demon, what's he like?" Crowley sounded like he was trying to talk around broken glass. Aziraphale wondered just how many times he'd refilled his glass at this point. Probably in the low teens.

"Well... he's a lot of things," Aziraphale said evasively. The last thing he wanted to do was give the game away. "He's handsome and clever. And stylish, in his own way." He tried not to stare at Crowley's half-unbuttoned shirt, or his too-tight pants. He wasn't sure he succeeded. "And he's not a bad person, you see. He's actually quite nice."

That earned him an eyeroll. "I doubt it, angel. 'Nice' is the kind of thing that gets a demon fired. Sent to the pits," he amended at Aziraphale's inquisitive look.

"Well, he is. He's kind and considerate and I love him so very much, sometimes I wonder... well. I wonder if it will destroy me."

"You mean you're afraid you'll Fall."

Aziraphale looked down and away. "I don't expect I would, but... I wouldn't want to put that kind of pressure on him. It wouldn't be fair to put him in that position, assuming he returned my... romantic inclinations. Which he doesn't, I'm quite sure now."

Crowley snorted. "Romantic inclinations. Yeah." He finished his wine and snapped his fingers to refill it. "Look at us." He gestured broadly around the room. "What a fucking mess."

"Yes, quite."

A third silence fell over the room--the longest and awkwardest yet.

Finally, Aziraphale got up the nerve to say, "Well, if you'd like help or advice--"

"I don't," snapped Crowley. Then he sighed, rubbing his free hand over his face and sighing. "Sorry, angel. Just, y'know. Tired."

"I understand. If you'd like to go home for the night, we could sober up and--"

"Oh, bless it all." Crowley sat up. This time, a few drops of wine escaped the glass and splattered onto Crowley's tastefully unbuttoned shirt. "Listen to me, Aziraphale. It's you. I'm in love with you, you oblivious, infuriating, beautiful idiot."

Aziraphale stared at him. Whatever emotions he should have felt in response to that revelation refused to show up until, "Oh!" he said, breathless and stunned. "I--"

"Yeah. I know, you don't have to say anything, angel, I just... I needed you to know. I'll get out of your hair now, don't worry, I don't need you to--"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, and caught him by the sleeve as he attempted to slink out of the study toward the door. "Crowley, I'm in love with you, too."

"No, you're not," Crowley said, in an offhand way that made Aziraphale wonder how many times he'd dismissed the concept in his own mind. Then, "Wait, you what? What do you--"

"I mean," said Aziraphale, still holding onto Crowley's sleeve, "that I'm in love with you."

Crowley once again attempted to introduce a new word to the English language and failed, likely because it was made entirely of consonants.

"Precisely my thoughts. Now..." Aziraphale stood up and took Crowley's free hand in both of his own and squeezed. He smiled, radiating every little bit of joy as it seeped up from hidden places inside him, twining together like vines up a trellis. "If you don't mind terribly, I would like to kiss you."

"Mind?!" said Crowley. "If I mind? I can't believe you would even a--"

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley kissed him back.

It wasn't electric, or spectacular, or any of the fancy adjectives human writers used in romance novels and poems. Instead, it was just... right. Like a summer sunrise or spring dew. Simple and soft and good.

It wasn't until he pulled away that Aziraphale realized Crowley had stopped time. Crowley's wine glass was frozen midair, a spray of scarlet droplets suspended over a particularly fancy hand-embroidered antique throw pillow.

Crowley swore under his breath. "Sorry, angel, let me just--"

"Let it go," Aziraphale said. "We can always miracle it off later."

"But you'll always know that--"

"Oh, who cares. The world didn't end, Crowley. We're not stranded out in space somewhere. I can buy a new pillow."

Crowley gave him a long, searching look. Then, with a slightly devious smile, he put both hands on Aziraphale's hips and leaned in for another kiss.

They stayed like that for what was either one minute or five hours; it was impossible to tell when one's emotional and physical consciousness was entirely focused on the occult (or ethereal) being kissing you.

Finally, Crowley pulled back, just enough to look Aziraphale directly in the eyes. "Before we get on with this," he said, "I have to ask you one thing."

"Yes, my dearest, anything at all."

"This demon you're in love with... do you love me more?"

Aziraphale stared at Crowley.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale. "Crowley. It's only ever been you."

Crowley looked stunned, and then euphoric. "Well, in that case." And he kissed him again.

Time restarted. Behind them, the wine spilled on the couch.

Neither of them worried about it at all. The world hadn’t ended, they weren’t on some distant planet watching the Earth melt into a puddle of burning good, and they could always buy a new pillow.

[rk1kheadcanons]

AU after the revolution Connor becomes a “symbol of escaping your oppressors (esp sexually-conservative parents)” by becoming Markus’ partner and is very uncomfortable with everyone using him as just an object to project their fears and fantasies onto. He gets called a thot and “Markus’ good little slut” just for kissing and he hates it, the amount of pron people make of him makes him puke. No matter how hard they try, they can’t ignore how fetishized/objectified their relationship is becoming

You have no idea how vastly I love you for your prompt, Anon.

I took this prompt on for many reasons.

As an ally, it's imperative to respect and uplift all forms of love. It becomes a problem when we actively seek it out for the "entertainment value." There are people behind those alternative lifestyles with their own struggles on a daily basis. They are human, not 2d paper and pen figment of some of all perversions. They're not here to be anyone's form of sexual excitement, period. If someone asked me now why had so much more homosexual pairings instead of hetero, I got my receipts for each and every one of them, and I promise "they so cute" is not my first thought. If it is for you, well might give this a thought or two. And, no, I am NOT singling anyone out, never that.😌

Anyways, I'm off my soapbox now. I just felt l I owed it to my friends out there to say that they aren't just "quirky, gay babies, uwu."

That said, you'll have to pry booty shorts-wearing, nail polish bedazzling Connor from my cold, dead hands. I know he can be a BAMF, break my neck, and still be adorable while doing so. That's just gospel, sis. 😏

Markus and Connor had decided to go public with their relationship sooner rather than later for a myriad of reasons. There was a history between the two that no Android alive now would forget.

The famous deviant leader and the infamous deviant hunter now in a romantic relationship was the talk of New Jericho.

Of course, those hurt during the period of time that Connor had not Hu deviated was the louder voice heard from the masses. They didn't establish the 'ex' on deviant hunter for a reason. They were bitter, intimidated, and above all else, felt the relationship between the two men betrayed something that Markus had pledged to them. So long as Connor was just there acting as the security on his off time from the DPD, no one cared. As soon as he showed true signs of his deviation, that he could indeed understand the concept of emotions like love... Well, to many that was unacceptable. What about their friends and possible lost lovers in the original Jericho? They, the murmuring androids, knew that he would have been shackled to his programming, that until it was broken, he would have been just as much a slave to his protocol as they would have been in his place.

The funny thing about emotions though is it tended to make you irrational.

Connor was forever cautious when at New Jericho despite Markus and North, Josh, and Simon finally taking him under their wing. He heard those murmurs, though. It wasn't like he did not have good hearing. Then there were the social protocols that let him know that others were uncomfortable around him. Maybe they glanced away upon looking at him or more obviously changed positions to get away from wherever he strolled.

Connor hated the feeling but he wore the mass shunning like a Scarlet Letter around his neck.

Markus and the others knew of Connor's treatment. Markus often publicly condemned the behavior. It worked for some, others revolted against it. That's when they changed tactics.

Connor immediately became apprehensive about the sudden change in behavior over the next month. No longer did those who meet him look away or run from him, but more and more an odd behavior happened in some.

Connor was met with blushes, flustered looks while others, male, female, or other, looked at him with a look that could only be described as hostility mixed with lust. It caused him to recoil away from those who wore those looks, recalling how North had confided candidly in him, shared memories of how she'd been treated. Those human faces matched those of these Androids.

Markus had come to him without him knowing, so caught up in the sea of emotions he was, pulling him away.

When Connor looked at the other man, his face looked tired. He looked overall defeated and hurt. Before Connor could ask, Markus took him back to his office and gently sat him in his office chair behind Markus all in one desktop he used to interface with when going over things. It was not long before North busted in the office, Simon right behind her, both taking there side by Connor. Josh came in lathe st closing the door and locked it.

Connor was wary. What was going on? Markus began talking to him telling him about how about a month or so ago a new online group had been created, a forum. It revolved around their relationship solely. He told Connor that the maker of the room was in custody, as well as several of the main instigators, that he was heartbroken that this was happening, that he should have done more and to not concern himself, he was taking care of it and to never look at the site as they worked to close it down for good.

The LED on Connor's temple pulsed yellow and Markus had to stop him from searching for it, instead interfaced with the PC front of him on his desk. He knew Connor would want to go to it regardless. He was too inquisitive for his own good.

The website seemed pretty benign, it even had a cute shorthand for their relationship as 'RK1K' or 'R1000'.

Connor gently shed the human skin and interfaced with the site.

It was wasn't cute or sweet at all if the tightening if his other hand on the armrest indicated with the squeal of leather in the starkly quiet room. North's fiery glare was in one screen as well though she gently pulled his fingers away from the chair willing him to grab at her own hand, even if his strength in his stress crushed it. Simon placed a resting friendly hand on his thigh, sad eyes turned up to him.

Markus wrapped his arms around his lover's shoulders and rested his head on one shoulder, also taking in the devastating effects of what misguided hatred could do again with Connor.

The tears came naturally to his eyes as he took in the sheer volume of disrespectful post one after another. Pictures and videos edit made to look very realistic of Connor in a very harmful or demeaning role in his relationship with Markus.

They really did have him as if he was just Markus' slave, literal pet, or even more insulting, just a hole to use, eluding Markus still remained with North but they agreed to this arrangement due to her history as a known sex model. This was insulting to not only him but also North, cheapening her struggle.

Others said that this was his new attack on the android leader: get him used to him, in a relationship with himself, and then when they were in the throes of passion he'd strike like some twisted black widow.

The group chat was abhorrent. Connor to them was little more than a beautiful carcass. He meant nothing to them but they'd be willing to bed him. The female-presenting androids made him little more than just some sort of soft, weak invalid that lived only for Markus to dominate in and out of the bedroom. Others just lusted for them both, striping everything that was Markus and Connor away to nothing but rutting animals, nothing further.

The screen turned off with the withdraw of Connor's hand from it. He was up and out of the chair on his way, away from here. He could not do this with these people.

Markus was right after him.

North and Simon were calling all Androids on the campus for a meeting while Josh had been working on ways to fully dismantle such an awful website.

About time Markus caught up to Connor, he was in a self-driving cab, whisking away from New Jericho, Markus knew most likely to Hank's House called his own to go there.

The meeting went exactly as one would expect from two extremely pissed leaders, one who could remain level headed regardless, and the third finally joined giving the names of the known accused and that the site was permanently shut down. There was no grumbling because they knew that it would be more issues. They all have seen Connor flee the compound, markus on his heels.

For however angry North was, nothing would compare to Markus when he showed that side of him to the people that caused this and the others that cast a blind eye to this sort of abuse, allowing for it.

When Connor reached Hank's door, he knocked hard but couldn't see well due to the tears. His face was flushed as they poured down his face. It was not long before the older father figure lieutenant let Connor inside just as Markus pulled up in his own taxi.

After Hank was assured Markus was not the cause of Connor's distress, he was admitted into the house as well. Markus immediately went and held on to Connor. They were both hurting from that level of hatred.

Of course, Markus would be upset and just as hurt as if the subject matter was him. He loved Connor and the sheer disrespect for the one he cared for was a slap in the face to him, as well.

The situation was explained to Hank, who was livid for them both, and sad that the other Androids couldn't see Connor for himself. Dad powers activated and Connor would stay with him for a while, away from Jericho.

Weeks pass, Markus is hurting and the rest of the leaders can see just how much Connor helped with smoothing the frayed edges in Markus own personality when he was tired, hurt. He tended to be snappish, not meaning to be. While he still did everything required, the whole of Jericho started to understand the gravity of the situation.

Sure, there would still be those who just treated the situation like Markus lost a favorite toy like Connor wasn't even a person, to begin with. As if Markus was throwing a tantrum in the face of genuine mistreatment.

Others though would likely see the pain they caused, fear what would happen if, though unlikely but improbable, Markus decided to walk away from all of this as a leader in the Deviants for his lover.

There are very real rumors.

It's not like they don't see Josh counseling his friend and brother daily when Markus anxiously paces the floor, the sometimes bitter and harsh words directed at no one stating the same grief he feels from this strife of his people and who he's chosen to love in the end. Or how he leaves all things that can be to the three leaders now, where before it wasn't an issue to wear that heavy crown of leadership primarily. Or how when he can he sneaks off to the old human Lieutenant's house to see the ex-deviant hunter and second he can because of that love.

Yeah, the vast majority of people are feeling like they fucked up, including any androids who dared to join in with this witch hunt for Connor and they were part of the group he directly deviated and saved from Cyberlife.

Fractions start to happen among the group, those for and against Connor's presence like finally some of those saved remembered some semblance of loyalty to him. North is fucking done with this shit. All she knows is that she misses her awkward murder baby that is so much more than just arm candy to Markus and it takes both Simon and Josh to keep her from charging into another dispute of Connor this week.

"Shut the fuck up! You have no idea what you are talking about, the person you are trying to tear down just because of his past and programming."

Of course, she'd vested. It was an explicit reminder of her own life before Jericho and how people, human and Android, loved to devalue someone with a sexual abuse past.

Connor's was mentally and emotionally abuse he suffered. The abuse was abuse at the end of the day. He had confided in her. She had seen Amanda...

From that day on, it seemed quieter about the Connor subject.

Six months.

It took six months of Markus creeping to see his lover that felt an outcast, North railing at any Android who dared speak ill of Connor, and Simon and Josh going to see him at the old lieutenant's house.

Simon had missed Connor, too. Though he was quieter about the whole thing, it didn't mean he didn't suffer the same.

Connor was so unique. He could be so cold and calculating in the heat of the moment, gun out, ready to go. But in private, talking about the 'family' dog Sumo, sharing snapshots of him, and talking about a new soft sweater he thought Simon might like as well.

Simon helped Connor with his identity as a homosexual man and as such, they bonded together. Between him and North scheming when they had a night out, it was so hilarious and refreshing.

He missed him.

Josh enjoyed Connor's brand of humor. It was dry as the Sahara, and typically delivered deadpan and it murdered him. Connor did laugh like a madman, but it was typically in Markus presence at his dry humor or sarcasm.

All the while Connor was gone, Markus and Connor talked about the dilemma. Whether Markus came and got him for lunch or they met after work at Hank's place, they talked about it, kept their communication strong, and their relationship stronger. It had been hard for them, and blame had been spread, mostly hurt fueled from Connor's side to Markus initially that this even happened under their leadership. Markus mutely had taken it, feeling as though he could have done more. Then Connor would apologize, realizing that his past was not anyone else fault but his own, that he deserved this treatment to which Markus would rally against, telling him he was good and kind, no he most definitely did not deserve this disrespect. In time, the storm calmed between them and Connor knew what to do.

On a cool, wet morning in October, Connor Anderson moved back into New Jericho, back into the living quarters with one Markys Manfred. Sure, there were murmurs but nothing like before.

One android saw this again felt some sort of way about Connor and his existence at Jericho. Just as she readied her verbal barbs, another shut her down before she could even start.

Connor witness it; Markus did too, as did North, Simon, and Josh as they were welcoming him back. A majority of people saw this brave soul stand up for one of their leaders as they had never done before.

It makes a difference in the way Connor is perceived and treated. Instead of the leadership having to police the situation, the fear of another common android speaking out for Connor and against the naysayer's curves the negative vibe that attempts to take hold again.

Connor is now welcomed back by the majority of New Jericho, not the minority, and things are back to running smoothly as before he left.

[amhohwa]

「 headcanon questions | accepting 」 —asked by @holographic-confidence, @exhuntra, @gueyveloz, @diamondtrail, @kiiingkobra, @lovclythief, @paquectric, @illusionage.

016. WHAT IS HIS WEAPON OF CHOICE? in the arena, he likes a few different types of weapons. im also biased so he likes the weapons that i like since he’s my main LOL. ideal loadout is a volt smg + r-301 carbine, though he’d also be satisfied with r-301 + charge rifle or r-301 + longbow dmr.

for any reconnaissance missions or other outside-the-arena activities, he favors a silenced pistol and a data knife.

also, of course, using hack as a bludgeoning weapon. he likes doing that quite a bit.

019. IF HE COULD HAVE A SUPERPOWER, WHAT WOULD HE CHOOSE? time travel. :^)

023. WHAT DOES HE CONSIDER BEAUTIFUL IN OTHERS PHYSICALLY? movement and posture. there’s something about the way a person carries themself, whether it’s with graceful poise, a tall and strong posture, or a confident swagger that crypto admires. probably because he tries to make himself as unobtrusive possible, to move through the world without being noticed too much. others who can carry themselves with confidence, not caring if anyone is watching them—he finds that really beautiful.

024. WHAT DOES HE CONSIDER UGLY IN OTHERS PHYSICALLY? this is hard just because i dont think he really cares what a person looks like when it comes to attraction. he’s definitely a believe that ugliness is something that shows in you because of your actions and your personality.

bad breath and bad teeth are up there though LOL

025. WHAT DOES HE CONSIDER BEAUTIFUL IN OTHERS PERSONALITY-WISE? kindness and optimism, even when faced with really difficult or terrible circumstances. he finds it really admirable that some people don’t feel the need to harden up and close themselves off in response to their trauma and hardships.

026. WHAT DOES HE CONSIDER UGLY IN OTHERS PERSONALITY-WISE? blatant and extreme cruelty. like, yeah, he’s a huge dick himself and he can say some mean things at times, but he’s definitely not the type to revel in making other people’s lives hell for the fun of it and he’s disgusted by people who do.

027. WHAT IS HIS IDEA OF PERFECT HAPPINESS? right now crypto thinks he’ll be happy if he can clear his name, reunite with mila, and go home to suotamo and mystik. of course all of us know that is not a realistic dream and it’s never going to happen because he is unable to come to grips with the fact that he will never go back to his old life.

028. WHAT MAKES HIM LAUGH OUT LOUD? sadly nothing really does :/ it really would take a lot for that to happen. either some kind of unexpected funny thing happening or some kind of absurd statement or joke or something like that. crypto’s not a laugher, sorry 😔

029. WHAT SORT OF SENSE OF HUMOR DOES HE HAVE? on the surface? a very mean sense of humor. insults, ‘playful’ ribbing, calling everyone that’s not natalie an idiot, etc. he also enjoys sarcasm a great deal as well as deadpan humor just to fuck with people.

but he’s also not immune to a good pun (’data way,’ for example)

030. DOES HE BELIEVE IN THE AFTERLIFE? no, not really. he’s an atheist and doesn’t think there’s anything waiting for us after we die.

031. IS HE SUPERSTITIOUS ABOUT ANYTHING? not in the way this question is asking, no. he’s too much of a realist/left-brain for anything like that.

032. DOES HE BELIEVE IN GHOSTS? no (see above)

033. DOES HE KEEP HIS PROMISES? i feel like crypto makes very few promises to anyone he doesn’t trust because yes, he does actually try to keep them.

034. WHAT’S HIS VIEW OF LYING? big big fan of lying over here. love it, will do it until he dies, 10/10 because to him lying = security.

035. WHAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT RULE CRYPTO LIVES BY? trust nothing and no one.

038. WHAT BAD HABITS DOES HE HAVE? where to even start! LOL 

he has a plethora of bad habits. some of the more obvious are:

not getting enough sleep/pushing himself to stay up all night

not eating consistent meals

vaping

overworking

but then there are some less obvious ones like pushing people away, freezing people out, distrusting EVERYONE, and all his other little paranoid habits like:

scanning everyone who comes to his home for weapons

setting up surveillance cams around places he frequents

not eating food made by others/that doesn’t come in a sealed container

maintaining a minimalist lifestyle specifically because he will have to run again in the future

crypto is an unhealthy mess!

039. WHAT DO THEY THINK IS THE WORST THING THAT CAN BE DONE TO A PERSON? hmmm this is a hard one. because there’s the very obvious answer of, like, being tortured or assaulted and really terrible things like that but maybe those things go without saying. so in his opinion, the worst thing that can happen to a person is becoming completely stripped of their identity. it is so alienating and othering to have who you are at your core foundationally upended 

046. HOW DOES HE HANDLE GETTING SICK? like most things, crypto doesn’t handle it much at all LOL. once he realizes he’s getting sick he pushes himself through it as much as he possibly can to keep working/fighting/whatever until he physically collapses from it, whether that’s literally fainting or just falling into bed at night and waking up the next morning too sick to move. then he just lays there and hopes it passes quickly. he is horrible at self-care

049. HOW DOES CRYPTO FEEL ABOUT GROWING OLD? this is maybe a little morbid but crypto doesn’t have many feelings about growing old at the moment because he doesn’t think he’s going to live to being an old man. either the Syndicate is going to kill him or he’s going to die trying to take them down

050. HOW DOES CRYPTO FEEL ABOUT HIS OWN MORTALITY? he accepts his own mortality, and even if he’s not happy about it and even if he will fight it with gnashing teeth and claws, he accepts that he is going to die, probably soon. he’s just working to try and make it so that isn’t a thing that happens

051. IF HE KNEW HE WOULD DIE TOMORROW, WHAT WOULD CRYPTO DO TODAY? send a letter to mystik. try to get a message to mila. then he’d come up with some elaborate plan to try and really fuck things up for the Syndicate. sure it probably wouldn’t matter in the long run since they’re a huge conglomerate and have so much power but he can at least get some people thinking. so something like taking down a big rig of theirs or even just fucking up one of the arenas. something like that

068. HOW STRONG IS CRYPTO’S SENSE OF RESPONSIBILITY? WHAT KINDS OF THINGS TRIGGER IT? hmmm i think crypto has a strong sense of responsibility, just generally speaking. like he keeps his living space neat and does his work on his own time and puts forth effort in the game and all that stuff. he is a very hard-working and dutiful person. i don’t think there’s anything that really ‘triggers’ it either because it’s either he does these things, or he doesn’t, but the only person who cares if he does or not is himself.

072. IN A DUNGEONS & DRAGONS GAME, WHICH CLASS WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE? i’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about this. if he was playing as a character, crypto would be a Divination Wizard for a couple of reasons. first and foremost being that of course he would get access to spells that rely all around foresight and knowledge and that’s what he’s all about—knowing more about everything going on than anyone else. he’d also favor spells that deal lightning damage. the second reason is that the main stat for wizards is Intelligence and u know he’s gotta have that 20 INT babey.

in my D&D au, though, crypto is a multi-classed Divination Wizard and Inquisitve Rogue. started out as a divination wizard as tae joon but then took up some rogue-like skills after going on the run. i picked Inquisitive Rogue because they’re all about perceiving little details and stuff like that. i know that’s more WIS and less INT but it suits crypto imho.

074. WHAT IS CRYPTO’S FAVORITE GAME? sorry in advance that im not going to pick just one. he likes a lot of different kinds of games, but i think his favorite kinds are horror games, games of strategy, and fighting games. so, stuff like detention, dead space, cultist simulator, portal, tekken, street fighter, etc.

078. HOW EMOTIONALLY STABLE IS YOUR CHARACTER? heeeeeee is not LOL. i mean, the reason he keeps such a tight grip on his persona and his emotions is because he’s like one misstep away from a total meltdown. he’s never properly grieved or mourned about what happened to him and having to go on the run, and now he can’t show any kind of emotion because that equals some kind of weakness or chink in the armor.

but under that armor he feels things INTENSELY. everyone gets on his nerves so easily, and everything that’s happened to him in the games so far is piling on: being framed as the mole, having to tell natalie his name, and now pathfinder/caustic. and thats not even touching on his crippling paranoia. it’s a lot from him and he is barely keeping it together. he’s just good at hiding it.

even so, it manifests in all the little ways, right? so like how he cant even enjoy a meal without wondering if it’s poisoned, his inability to sleep through the night, how he has to scan even pathfinder for weapons when he comes into his house. crypto is an mental and emotional disaster

085. DESCRIBE HIM IN THREE WORDS. stoic. resilient. paranoid.

087. HOW WOULD CRYPTO DESCRIBE HIMSELF IN THREE WORDS? genius. prepared. determined.

[lovedsammy]

if your world falls apart; commission for @awesomesusiebstuff

This was a commission request from @awesomesusiebstuff, who requested some Sam and trauma + Jack and Sam’s feelings on Jack developing from the Devil’s son, to someone similar to himself, to finally his own person that Sam cares for and views as a son. :)

- 

“Father?” 

Sam doesn’t quite know what to make of it. 

He’d been expecting -- they’d all been expecting -- a newborn baby. Instead, he’s staring at a naked almost fully-grown young man huddled in the corner of the nursery. The boy’s - Jack’s - eyes are alight in a golden hue, alerting Sam to the depth of his power. And the scope of it reminds him of just whose offspring he is. This was Lucifer’s son. Sam’s mouth goes dry with fear. A part of him almost wishes he were in Dean’s place instead outside, huddled in the dirt seated beside the form of their fallen friend. But he’d come in first, he’d taken it upon himself to find the child, and he couldn’t back out now. Not when was face to face with him. He forces himself to remember that this is also Kelly Kline’s son, and that she died believing that he would be good, that he’d be more human than angel. And Cas…. Cas had just died sharing that same belief. He owed it to Cas, and to Kelly, to give Jack a chance. He owed it to the universe. 

And most importantly, he owed it to the kid. 

Sam knew full well what it was like to be told that your destiny had already been decided for you, that you were born to be evil. Just because Lucifer and Jack shared the same genetics - or as close to genetics as angels could possibly have - didn’t mean that Jack was going to go dark. If Cas and Kelly had taken that leap of faith, then Sam would, too. But telling himself that and feeling it were two different things. Right now, the echoes of Lucifer were all over this room, even when Sam realistically knows that he’s trapped with Mary on the other side. 

When the boy speaks again, it takes Sam a moment to register that Jack is asking him if he’s his father, not just asking for him. 

“N-No, I’m not your father, Jack,” Sam says slowly, placatingly, as if speaking to a wild animal. He doesn’t really know how to approach him, doesn’t know how Jack will react to hearing that. “It is Jack, right?”

Jack just stares at him, either because he’s not pleased with Sam’s answer or because he’s confused by it. Sam isn’t sure. “Father,” The boy repeats. It’s not a question anymore, but a declarative statement. 

It hits Sam then that this boy, while being physically grown to adulthood, was mentally and emotionally a child in every single way. For whatever reason, Jack had just associated Sam with the status of being his father, had basically imprinted on him. Or at least, that was what Sam was understanding. Before he can even try and really process or attempt to explain the situation, Sam hears Dean calling out for him. 

“In here,” He returns. His brother was good with kids, better than he was; maybe Dean could help Jack out. 

Instead, when Dean comes into the room and stands at Sam’s side, he looks upon the Nephilim boy for the first time, and immediately fires a shot at him.

“No!”

Sam reacts a second too late, lifting his arm uselessly to try and stop Dean The bullet barely misses the kid, and Jack unleashes a harsh yell in the form of a terrified tantrum. 

Sam catches Dean’s eye as they’re both suspended into the air. He’d tried so hard to be careful with Jack, and now thanks to Dean, they had only succeeded in pissing him off.

The force of Jack’s power slams them backwards, and Sam hits the wall with a hard thud. The last thing he sees before he slips into blackness is Jack’s golden eyes, and how as his vision fades, they become an eerie ruby red.   

-

The cell door closes with a bang and Sam jumps. 

Here he was, imprisoned once more with a celestial being. Even if this time had been slightly by his own choice. The sheriff had decided to lock him in here after he’d tasered Jack, but between himself and Dean, Sam was probably the better of the two of them to be alone with the kid right now. He genuinely wanted to try and reach through to him again, to explain, to try and help him if possible. Jack had seemed a bit out of his head, erratic when they’d found him. The exploding lights and pained reaction from the boy made it clear that he was spiraling, and fast. He had already attacked the sheriff. But Sam didn’t think it was done with malice or bad intention. Right now, sitting here looking at him, Sam sees an unstable being that doesn’t know who to trust, or how to navigate this new world he was just born into.

Sam is still cautious, though, and admittedly unnerved. Being near the kid was hard. The fact that he was the Devil’s son kept running through his head, constantly at the front of his mind. It didn’t even matter that Dean was in the next room over. Sam felt worlds away from him. He presses a little on the scar on his palm, just to try and ease the dissociation. It’d become a lot easier lately, to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t. He hadn’t even had to do this in a long while. 

But sometimes, he just needed to be sure. 

He misses it when Jack begins to stir. Automatically, the boy rolls over and springs backward on all fours, turning his golden eyes distrustingly towards him. Sam’s heart almost leaps into his throat. He lifts his hands up in surrender.

 “Whoa, whoa, easy, easy. It’s okay, you’re okay,” Sam says breathlessly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy is shaking.

“You already hurt me,” He growls, reminding Sam of a wounded animal. The kid felt threatened, hence his current stance. Jack was only trying to protect himself. 

Sam knows he only has one chance left to convince Jack that he means him no harm, that he’s on his side.  

“Yes, I did,” Sam amends. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to slow you down. You were, you were, um….” He trails off. How did you explain to a newborn Nephilim that he was losing control, losing his mind? Reminding people -- namely Sam -- of his lunatic Devil father? “Are you… are you all right?” He asks instead. 

“I don’t…. I was scared,” Jack explains slowly. “And when I get scared, things happen. I can’t stop them.” 

Sam’s brows crease. “Why were you scared?” 

“Because of the voices. They were so loud, so angry…” Jack is still shuddering, his entire body vibrating. The lights in the hall begin to flicker distantly. Sam looks back to Jack. 

“Do you hear them right now?” Sam needs to get the kid to let go of the fear, to calm down before something else happens. 

Jack focuses intently. “No,” He realizes, and some of the tension leaves his body. At last, he stops trembling, and straightens up. Unlike his father, Jack’s posture is unsure and wary.

“Good,” Sam assures him, offering a tight smile, a weak laugh. “That’s good.” A sharp relieved exhale escapes his lips and he takes a second to gather himself. As nerve wracking as this entire situation was, maybe there was a chance of reaching through to Jack after all. Sam starts a little when Jack moves closer, but the boy only goes to sit down, folding his legs cross-legged and appraising the hunter with child-like eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” He states. 

It takes Sam aback. “What?” 

“Will you tell them that I’m sorry?” Jack requests.

Sam sits there in stunned silence for a long moment before he can get his lips to move. “Y-yeah. Sure. Of course.” 

In the two minutes he’d spent with the kid, Sam was already beginning to think that Cas and Kelly got it right. There was no possible way that this boy was born evil. And when Jack talks about his mother with a fond smile, the reassurance is there. It makes Sam’s heart clench, especially when he announces that he considers Cas his father. It’s only that much harder when Sam has to give the news to him, that Castiel was dead.

The tearful eyes and sorrowful features reach something inside of Sam, making him want to offer the kid comfort. Here was this new being born into the world and already having lost everything. Jack needed guidance and help, not judgment or isolation. 

Sam makes the decision then that no matter what Dean says, he wants to try and help him. 

Because Jack wasn’t evil. 

-

After Dean agrees to take Jack home with them, the overall apprehension of being near the kid lessens. At some point, he stops associating Jack with being Lucifer’s son, and more as Kelly’s, and more of Cas’s. And in some weird way, kind of his, too. More and more, Jack was reminding Sam somewhat of himself. 

He hadn’t missed the similarities: both born to be evil, dead mothers, an unexplained power that seemed impossible to get a handle on. Sam had decided that day in the jail cell that he was going to protect Jack, to help him, to be for him what no one had for him.

Dean didn’t understand. He still saw Jack as evil, incapable of goodness or the possibility of being saved.

The first time Dean voices this is directly to Jack’s face, and it causes Jack to inadvertently use his powers, redirecting the kid outside. Sam comes to find him curled up in a cold alley, sniffling and blotchy-faced.

It hurts Sam that Jack feels so lost, so abandoned and unwanted. 

“Maybe I’m not worth all of this,” The kid says. 

Sam looks at him, nodding, because he understands. How many times had he had that same mentality? That Dean would be better off without him, had his brother just followed Dad’s orders and shot Sam dead like he was supposed to? Sam hadn’t thought he was worth anyone’s efforts, either. But Dean, Cas, his Mom, Bobby -- none of them had given up on him. 

“Your mom thought you were,” Sam tells him. “So did Cas.” Saying the angel’s name was still hard, still painful. After a beat he adds, “So do I.” And he means it. 

Jack lowers his eyes, still a bit disbelieving, but obviously touched. 

“Come on.” Sam says, extending his hand out to the boy. “Let’s go back in. Don’t let Dean get to you, okay? He’ll come around. He did for me.” 

The kid gives him an inquisitive look. “What do you mean?” 

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t yet. Not tonight. But some other time, okay?” One day he was going to tell Jack everything. 

Jack nods, and doesn’t press it. 

-

Hearing from Jack that Dean told the kid he wanted to kill him…. Sam’s seeing red. He tries to play it cool when his brother comes in, but once Dean mentions Jack and how messed up he is, it only infuriates Sam more. 

“No, Dean, he’s messed up because of you.” 

To his credit, Dean doesn’t look the least bit guilty about it. Sam tries to ignore the hurt that makes him feel. 

“Dean… you said you’d kill him.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” Dean says. 

“Then how exactly was it?”  

“I told him the truth,” Dean retorts. “See, you think you can use this freak. But I know how this ends. And it ends bad.” 

Sam can hardly believe what he’s hearing. He hadn’t heard the word ‘freak’ in years, and despite himself, it’s making him feel some type of way. “I didn’t,” He says harshly. 

“What?”

“I didn’t end bad,” Sam reiterates. “When I was the ‘freak.’ When I was drinking demon blood.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Come on, man, that’s totally different.” 

Sam raises his brows. “Was it? Because you could’ve put a bullet in me. Dad told you to put a bullet in me, but you didn’t! You saved me! So help me save him!” 

Dean glares at him. “You deserved to be saved. He doesn’t!” 

“Yes, he does, Dean. Of course he does!” 

“I know you think you can use him as some sort of interdimensional can opener, and that’s fine, but don’t act like you care about him! You only care about what he can do for you!” Dean shouts, and Sam reels back from the force of it.  

Of course he cared about Jack. Jack was his own person, not a reflection of himself. And Jack sure as hell wasn’t just some tool that they could use and then throw away when he was no longer useful. That wasn’t Sam. It was true that he needed Jack’s help, that he was hopeful to utilize some of Jack’s power to find Mary. 

But that didn’t mean that he didn’t care about him. 

So when he comes to find Jack later, he apologizes. First for not telling him the whole truth, that they needed help finding Mary. But most of all, he apologizes for Dean’s behavior, and for what Jack had overheard.

“You want to save her,” Jack realizes. 

Sam nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. But if this doesn’t work, if that can’t happen ... that's okay. Because I do care about you.” He tells the boy earnestly, and he can feel the truth of it, the weight of it, in his heart. He cared about Jack more than he liked to admit. 

He wouldn’t let anything happen to Jack. Not because of Dean, or Lucifer, or anyone else. Sam was going to protect this kid - his kid - with everything he had. 

[thenovelartist]

Kitty’s Key, set 1

I’m not gonna do Marichat May. I’m not gonna do Marichat May. I’m not gonna do...

I’m gonna do it. XD Here’s the first set.

Next>

1. No Powers

This was probably considered a gross misuse of his powers. Honestly, he should be going through this without the help of Plagg. But the fact was that he did have Plagg and he did have powers and it would be a shame not to use them if he was ever in trouble.

And Adrien Agreste counted being the prize for some contest that would give the winner a photoshoot and a date with him “being in trouble”.

“This is a really bad idea.”

“Well, it’s either this or subjecting myself to my father’s will,” Adrien countered.

“Yeah,” Plagg moaned. “But did you have to get me involved.”

“You can stand it.”

“But I don’t want to have to help you run from rabid fangirls.”

“You’ll live.”

He pouted.

“I’ll give you the extra good camembert for a solid month.”

Plagg froze mid-air, like Adrien knew he would. “The really good stuff?”

“For the entire month of the contest,” Adrien repeated.

Again, Plagg paused, likely pretending to mull it over when Adrien already knew the answer.

“Fine. But for the record, I still think it’s a really stupid idea.”

…

Marinette had to reread the post several times over. The Agrestes were hosting a contest that would give the winner a date with Adrien Agreste. Meaning Marinette had to win. Except…

The contest was… odd.

Attention fans! Do you want to win a date with Adrien Agreste? This month, you’ll be given the chance to! Adrien has paired up with renowned superhero Chat Noir to hold the “key to his heart” on a chain around his neck. The first to get the key will be crowned the winner of this contest. Chat Noir will be posting clues to his whereabouts daily on social media for the next month. It will be your job to convince him to give you the key! Best of luck everyone!

Marinette really couldn’t believe this.

Her partner was an idiot.

“Tikki, as a superhero constantly battling a supervillain, in what world is posting your location daily a good idea?”

“I’m more shocked Plagg agreed to it,” Tikki deadpanned.

Marinette groaned. “I swear, next time I see that cat, I’ll… I’ll…” Marinette growled. “I don’t know, but he better watch it because the best way to skin a cat, as I see it, is to strip the idiot of his powers until he can use them responsibly.”

 2. Greek

It was five days into the contest, and Marinette got a sick and twisted sort of satisfaction out of watching Chat run from packs of rabid fangirls (and fanboys). It was like karma coming back to bite him. And Ladybug was perfectly content to watch Chat suffer for his stupidity.

Chat was offended at her enjoyment. She didn’t particularly care.

However, with Ladybug being completely supportive of his choice and staying out of his way and offering zero help to him, he turned to the next best option. Which, apparently, was Marinette.

“Marinette, princess, please, I beg of you. Let me stay here for the next bit. I need a break.”

Marinette wanted to tell him no. She wanted to watch him suffer. Honestly, she should ask why he didn’t just detransform in the nearest free spot, but as she looked at that gaudy gold key he held around his neck, she thought of what a golden opportunity she’d been presented with. “All right, kitty. I’ll let you in this once.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

She let him in her room with the warning, “touch anything and your dead.”

“How about ‘break anything, and it will be replaced’?”

Marinette leveled him with a flat look.

“No touch. Okay.”

With a roll of her eyes, Marinette headed back to her desk to work. “You know,” she said, picking up her knitting and starting in on it again. “I have to wonder just what possessed you to pull this off in the first place. Like… you are the superhero of Paris. Why are you doing this?”

Chat’s lips pursed tightly, his ears pinning flat back on his head. For a moment, it looked like Chat wasn’t going to tell her.

“Let’s just say… I know Adrien. And I’ve been in his shoes more than once. So when he told me about this contest his father was making him do and how he didn’t want to do it, I thought I could help him out a bit. You know, distract his fans and keep the “key of his heart” away from the masses instead of it going out to some random fan he’d have to suffer through a date with, you know?”

Marinette grew somber at that realization. “I guess I never thought of that.”

Chat nodded. “So I know it’s stupid of me—Ladybug’s given me nothing but crap about it, though I’m starting to agree with her—but I did it to help him out, ok?”

The only thing Marinette could do was nod in understanding. Yes, she still thought it stupid, but… when he put it that way, she could understand why he was pulling this stupid stunt. “So,” she began, “You’re close to Adrien?”

Chat stiffened. “Well,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I mean… we actually, I guess… in a way… kinda close.”

Marinette quirked a brow. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

His ear twitched and his lips pursed. And then he shot her a smile she knew was practiced. “You know, Hades, I come to your realm to get away from people, not to face an inquisition.”

Marinette had to blink a few times; partly at the sudden change in subject, partly because, “Hades?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, you’re obviously Hades because I’m Persephone hiding away in your realm because you love me so much—”

“I will kick you out; watch me.”

 3. Kittens

“Hey Marinette.”

“Yeah, Chat?”

“Have you ever thought about what you want for the future?”

Marinette froze. This was the fourth time that she’d let him in to escape the pack of feral fans ravaging the city for him. Sure, he was kinda close to Marinette. Even before this contest, this wasn’t the first time she’d let him in to hang out. Not by a longshot. But the question still surprised her. “What brought that on?”

“I’m curious.”

“As to what my future entails?”

“Kinda.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He paused winding the ball of yarn—she had to keep him busy somehow and he was surprisingly good at it—and looked at her. “Because I’ve been thinking over my own future a lot lately. And not fantasizing, but actually, really, realistically thinking—”

“That’s trouble,” Marinette quipped, mostly because she wasn’t sure how to handle just how serious Chat was.

He glared at her. Considering he didn’t crack a smile, this was a very serious topic he was approaching.

Blushing, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Continue.”

He sighed. “No, Forget it. It’s—”

“Chat, I was kidding,” Marinette said, now regretting teasing him at all. “Tell me.”

He regarded her for a moment. “I’ve been really thinking about the future and all it entails. And just…wondering if I’m thinking about the right things or thinking about enough.”

And that’s why he wanted to know mine. To compare. Marinette realized. She looked back down at the project in her hands. “Yeah, I’ve thought it over. A lot. I’ve known what I’ve wanted for the past three—or is it four?—four years.”

She had to pause. Had it really been four years since she decided she was going to marry Adrien? She was seventeen now, so she supposed so. “I want to be a fashion designer. I want to get married—even have a guy in mind—and have two or three kids. Two boys, one girl, preferably. I have the names picked out. And a hamster. I want a hamster.”

Chat looked at her wide-eyed, the yarn forgotten in his hands. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him a smile. “I have.”

Chat turned back to winding the yarn. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

Marinette cringed. “Well… I said in mind. I’m not… really seeing him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Its… complicated.” And the most complicated thing about it was that she didn’t know how Chat kept sneaking into her mind and heart and challenging if Adrien was truly the man for her. “So,” she began, desperate to direct the conversation away from her, “what do you want for the future, Chat?”

Chat paused, and his expression fell. “You know, I sometimes think that I’m not asking for too much, and then other times, I feel like I’m asking the world.”

“Why?” she pressed. “What do you want?”

“A lot,” he said. “Hawkmoth to be defeated.”

Yeah. You, me, and everyone in Paris. “He will be; don’t worry. You and Ladybug will catch him.”

“Hopefully,” Chat said. “I want to catch him soon so that there won’t be any villain for me and Ladybug to fight. My fingers are crossed that when that happens, she’ll allow a reveal and then we’ll start dating and get married and have a house full of kids. More than one, at least. And… I kinda want a hamster, too.”

She froze, but her heart was skipping like a schoolgirl. Knock it off! “W-what’s wrong with that?” Marinette asked, hoping her voice came out steadily. “Wanting to be married and settle down and have kittens?”

“Because… I don’t know what she wants. “

It’s exactly what she wants, her traitorous mind thought. And then somewhere in the back of her mind chimed up a little, excited will you give it to me?

She barely resisted the urge to slap her cheeks. Remember Adrien!

“Like, does she want kids at all? Because that’s really important to me and I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t,” Chat continued, oblivious to Marinette’s inner turmoil. “But if she does—and I hope she does—does she want to be a stay-at-home mom? Meaning that it will be on me to fully provide for my family. Don’t get me wrong; I have no issue whatsoever in doing that. But I have to plan ahead to make sure I chose a career that will provide well for them as well as allow me to be with them as much as I can because I want to be a dad who’s involved and all. But what if Ladybug wants to have a career and work? Which my guess is she would because of her personality, but I don’t want to assume or anything. Then I’m allowed to choose a job that will let me be home with my kids more and help them with homework and take them to sports and events and all that.”

To say Marinette was speechless was an understatement. “You…” she swallowed, trying to get her mouth to work again. “It sounds like you’ve thought a lot about the future and, well, your little kittens.”

He gave a bittersweet smile. “I want to be a dad,” he said. “And I want to be a good one.”

“You will be,” Marinette said. She felt confident in that statement. “I can tell. From the sounds of it, you’ll have a pretty good future ahead of you.”

His shoulders relaxed, and his smile turned genuine. “Thanks, Marinette. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, kitty.”

[tiaragqueen]

may i request a scenario for yandere todoroki thats in a relationship with a reader that is powerful and older than him? (a third year) no violence tho. sorry if its a little weird :( i think a two year gap aint that bad. love your writing, thank u !

Eating His Heart Out

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Junior! Todoroki Shouto x Senior! Reader

✂ Word Count: 2k+

✂ Trigger Warning: Jealousy, possessive behavior, yandere theme.

***

The first boy who got me into BNHA fandom and because I’m a curious girl. I’m not sure if this what you wanted, since I quickly thought about violence when I saw the powerful part. Nonetheless, I hope you like it!

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from the apprehension that he is not equally beloved by the person whom he entirely loves.” – Joseph Addison

Never once in his life had Shouto doubted your love. He knew you were loyal, although a tad bit quiet at times. The latter was what connected the two of you in the first place. It allowed you to be together without the pressure of having a conversation to fill the silence and be completely content with peace. You could stay quiet for hours, just minding your businesses. You also never forced him to talk about his problems; instead opting to sit beside him until he was ready to speak.

Shouto loved you through and through. He accepted you as a whole, despite the two-years age gap and powers between you. The disparities weren’t something that he minded much, simply because he knew that everyone was different. In fact, he was kind of glad that you were able to protect yourself and matured enough to not be provoked easily. You were more of a peacemaker; preferring to negotiate instead of rushing headlong into a fight. Many of your classmates had mocked your ‘disgustingly pure’ way, but you remained stubborn. And Shouto admired you for it.

However, aside from the age gap and powers, there was another difference between you.

Interests.

Shouto wasn’t one to like mysterious, esoteric stuff such as supernatural or the afterlife. Not because he was a scaredy-cat, but because he simply wasn’t interested. He preferred being realistic and think about the future, instead of contemplating the existence of spirits and such.

You, however, were wholly fascinated by the idea of mystery. Very few people knew about your inquisitive nature; a side that you often concealed under a reserved facade. You were fond of learning about everything that spiked your interest, be it trivial or strange. The weirder a stuff was, the more curious you become. You liked to think that it was one of your many, hidden charms.

And you weren’t wrong.

Shouto did love your thirst for knowledge and was pleasantly surprised when he first found out. It was better than being with a jaded person who thought that they knew and had experienced everything from this world. He was supportive and often urged you to search more about a certain topic. After all, he only wanted the best for his beloved.

But there was one thing that he disliked from you.

“Hawks-san, where’s [Name]-senpai?”

The blond paused eating his favorite chicken wings that Shouto deemed rather ironic, considering his bird-like quirk, and looked up. “She’s left with Tokoyami just a while ago,” he replied with a mouthful of meat.

Shouto’s face hardened slightly, not that anyone could tell from his already stoic expression. “Is… that so?”

“Yeah,” Hawks nodded, averting his gaze back on to the food. “Should’ve seen them, y’know? They keep talkin’ about weird stuff, and Tokoyami-kun even chuckled. I’ve never heard that kid laughing before. Guess [Name]-chan just have that kind of influence on him, eh?”

The second pro hero giggled, but Shouto couldn’t bring himself to laugh as well. Not when his stomach kept churning at every word that left Hawks’ mouth.

“I see,” Shouto finally replied, breaking the one-sided conversation between them. “Thank you for the information then, Hawks-san. I should take my leave now.”

“Y’know, Todoroki-kun,” Hawks spoke up, watching Shouto’s rigid form stopped to listen to whatever he wanted to say. “Tokoyami-kun and [Name]-chan can make a good pair, don’t you think? She’s just as quiet and strange as him.”

Shouto was well aware that Hawks loved mocking people, and although Shouto hadn’t told him about his relationship with you, he knew that Hawks knew. After all, he was the only person who asked about you every day. Hawks was bound to pick up the connection anytime soon. He wasn’t dense to think that he was a mere friend of yours. Nobody would bother to wait on someone for so long like that.

That, and because Shouto could feel Hawks smirking at him. He didn’t need to look to confirm it.

“No,” Shouto muttered, clenching his fists. The act didn’t go unnoticed by the pro hero, who silently relished in his victory of ruling him up. It wasn’t every day that you would able to irritate the one and only Shouto Todoroki due to his ability to remain calm and composed at pretty much every moment. “[Name]-senpai is dating me, not him.”

“Oh, is that so? Well,” Hawks twirled a strip of meat in his hand. “I think [Name]-chan is more interested in Tokoyami-kun. After all, love is quick to blossom through similar interests. Am I right, Todoroki-kun?”

Shouto gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to attack the hero. Hawks was undeniably stronger than him, and to attack him would be a stupid move on Shouto’s part. Therefore, he decided to opt for a more… passive way, even though it hurt his pride a little. At least, it was better than being a fool in front of his superior.

Bowing to the man, Shouto left without another word. Thankfully, Hawks didn’t make anymore taunt, instead of simpering in triumph. Shouto tried his best not to take his attitude personally and went to search for you. It was rather hard to ignore what he said, especially the ‘good pair’ part.

It was indeed true that you have been spending more time with Tokoyami more than him. On one hand, Shouto was glad that you could get along with his classmate. But on the other hand, he didn’t want you to be focused solely on Tokoyami. Shouto was, and would always be, your boyfriend. He deserved your attention and affection too.

Hiding behind a corner, Shouto watched you chatting animatedly with Tokoyami. The way your hands flailed around to emphasize a point, the way your eyes twinkled under the setting sun, and the way your lips stretched into the widest smile he’d never seen before.

Shouto had never felt jealous before. He knew that you belonged to him, just like how he belonged to you. So, why? Why did his chest hurt so fucking much? Why did he feel like stomping over there and rip you off from that… that nasty bird? Or worse, doing all the terrible stuff that swirled in his head?

No, that wouldn’t be right. You had lectured him a hundred times before to always choose peace over violence, and to see him being careless – especially for the sake of quenching his jealousy – would greatly disappointed you. And he refused to let that happen. Shouto wanted you to be proud of him. He wanted you to be the boyfriend you’d always wished for; an honorable and peaceful guy. 

But it was so fucking hard when you were there, laughing with someone other than him.

“[Name]-senpai.”

You quickly turned around when a deep voice called out to you and sighed in relief. “Oh, it’s you. I thought it was a villain or something.” The sound of your chuckle ceased after you noticed his solemn features. “H-hey, Shouto-kun. Are you okay?”

Shouto said nothing in response. Instead, he stepped forward and grabbed your hand that was unknowingly lying on Tokoyami’s shoulder.

“Oh, sorry.” You grinned and rubbed your nape sheepishly. “We were just talking around and I guess I was being too excited. Sorry if it makes you angry, Shouto-kun. I assure you I don’t like Tokoyami-kun that way.”

“’kun’…” Shouto muttered the seemingly intimate nickname with pure distaste as if the word itself left a bitter sensation on his tongue.

You sighed, shooting your clueless junior a weary smile. “Hey, uh. Sorry, Tokoyami-kun, but I need to go ahead. We can resume our conversation tomorrow if you’d like to.” You didn’t know why you were being apologetic when Shouto should be the one who apologized to you both for interrupting your little discussion.

Not that you truly minded; you missed Shouto and couldn’t wait until you meet him. But the way he appeared out of nowhere and snatched you away was a bit rude in your opinion.

“Of course, I’d like to. Have a pleasant evening, [Name]-senpai.”

Tokoyami bowed before taking a turn towards his house. Once he was far away from you both, you immediately snapped your head to Shouto.

“What the heck was that?!” you hissed.

“You were talking to him,” the bi-colored haired boy stated the obvious. “And you went ahead without me.”

“I thought you wouldn’t wait for me,” you frowned in both frustration and confusion. “You didn’t even reply to my message!”

“My phone’s dead.”

You stared at him for a moment, searching for any sign of a lie. As always, his face remained unreadable. But you didn’t need to look deeper to know that he was telling the truth, and that was irritated you the most.

Sighing for the third time in mere minutes, you snatched your hand from his grasp and walked ahead of him. You wanted him to know that his actions weren’t appreciated by you, and luckily, it didn’t take long for him to take the hint.

“Look,” he exhaled tiredly. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to be rude like that.”

“You certainly shouldn’t,” you said pettily.

“But you looked so happy around him and I’m just…” Shouto bit his bottom lip, ignoring your piercing gaze. “I was… jealous. I thought you didn’t love me anymore. Thought you liked him more than me. I was… I was afraid that you might choose him over me because… he shares the same interest as yours.”

You opened your mouth to counter his shocking statements, but he raised a hand to shut you up.

“Hawks-san even told me that you and Tokoyami-san made a ‘good pair’ and I guess, I kind of lost it in there. I know you’re dating me, and I know you’re loyal but–”

“Then, why are you doubting my loyalty?”

Shouto curbed his tongue in fear of accidentally blurt out the wrong things. He didn’t want you to misunderstand him, but he knew that your question was valid. Being jealous meant that he was doubting your love and loyalty, although that wasn’t what he intended for. He was merely afraid that you would grow bored of him due to not having the same interest as Tokoyami did.

It was ridiculous. Then again, what part of jealousy was logical anyway?

You shook your head, finding the whole situation to be rather humorous. However, you still had the decency of refraining from laughing. As laughable as the matter sounded, you needed to take him seriously because it had a connection to his deep-rooted fear. He had been hurt again and again by his closest ones, and you didn’t want to be a part of them. Shouto, however independent and stoic he seemed, looked up to you a lot. Therefore, it was already your duty to lead him to the ‘right’ way.

“Shouto-kun,” you put a hand on his shoulder, pursing your lips in contemplation on how to word your sentences correctly. “I am, and will always be, yours. Tokoyami-kun is just my junior. Sure, we have the same interest, but our relationship doesn’t go any deeper than that. He already knows that we’re dating, anyway, and he’s been very respectful in keeping his distance. So, please. Don’t stress yourself, okay? I don’t love him as I love you. I belong to you, remember? Just like you belong to me.”

Perhaps, a time would come when you regretted your words. But today, you just had to prove to him that you were still his.

“You promise?” he whispered, looking at you through his long eyelashes like a bashful child.

“Absolutely.” You slung an arm around his neck and pecked him on the lips. “Now, let’s go home. I’m hungry and sweaty. Maybe we can watch that movie you’ve been wanting to watch too.”

Shouto smiled; a beautiful sight that he reserved for your eyes only. “Okay.”

While you were busy listing off the activities that you would do tomorrow, the thin smile slowly disappeared from his face. You might have promised him that you still loved him, but who would say that you wouldn’t stray from him?

“Should’ve seen them, y’know? They keep talkin’ about weird stuff, and Tokoyami-kun even chuckled. I’ve never heard that kid laughing before. Guess [Name]-chan just have that kind of influence on him, eh?”

“Tokoyami-kun and [Name]-chan can make a good pair, don’t you think? She’s just as quiet and strange as him.”

It was decided; he needed to talk to Tokoyami soon. And, possibly, teaching him to keep his distance even further from you.

[mi6-cafe]

The third week of writing for LDWS participants has come to a close. Now it’s time for the next bit of the competition: reading and voting!  

prompt: resurrection  Word count: 250 Challenge:  Write a drabble with an acrostic format spelling out ‘resurrection.’ (First word of first paragraph must start with r, first word of second paragraph must start with e, and so on). 

Voters–after you read, check out this form to vote for your top three drabbles! You can also leave anonymous feedback for the writers!

Who can vote? Anyone who’s read the drabbles! Yes, that includes YOU!  

Writers–you may also vote, but we do ask that you vote for three drabbles other than your own.  

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday.

Remember, readers–it’s up to YOU to decide who will wind up on top at the end of the competition!

Drabbles are under the read-more:

1) 

Title: Mourning Author: sunaddicted Rating: G Warnings: emotional h/c, mild angst Summary: the fact that it's not real doesn't make it hurt any less

"Roses, really?"

Exhaling a heavy sigh didn't alleviate his oncoming migraine "They were on sale" Q shrugged.

"Seriously?"

"Uh.. yes" had James really expected him to splurge on flowers for a fake grave? It wasn't like they wouldn't wilt anyway.  

"Roses are romantic, Q - for dinners and dates, not for funerals"

"Resurrections are romantic though, aren't they?"

Except for the fact that James hadn't really died: it had all been part of a plan to make some people believe that they wouldn't have to worry anymore about him hunting them down - and Q had been crucial to the plan, there for every step of it.  Still, he seemed... upset? "Are you okay?"

Candles peeked amidst the roses - the expensive and scented kind that Q lit up only to treat himself after long and hard missions; he focused on them, wondering about which of their colleagues had spent so much on a fake death "Sure"

That tone of voice screamed the contrary "Q..."

"I don't want to talk about it" Q sighed "You're fine. You're home"

"Of course I'm home" James drew Q against his chest, gently enveloped him in his arms "I'll always come back" faked or not, resurrection was his specialty afterall.  

Nodding was the only answer Q could give at those reassuring words: one day that grave would be full; one day that nightmare would be too real; one day he wouldn't buy discounted roses to cry on as he mourned the man he loved.  And it hurt.  

2) 

Title: Reinvention Author: IrishWitch58 Warnings: Introspection, Mildly fluffy Summary: Living long enough means changes

Rising through layers of sleep, Bond opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight reaching warm fingers through the drapes.

Easing himself onto his back and finding his left arm trapped under a lithely muscled and sleep warm body was a familiar experience now.

Sleep was becoming easier, after years of subsisting on brief naps on missions and nightmares when not.

Until six weeks ago, he had never imagined he would be this contented. He hadn't been when an initially minor injury had proven more debillitating than it had seemed. The laceration across his palm had severed tendons and though surgery had repaired it, the tendons were shorter and stiffer and he couldn't use the hand to the degree field work required.

Retirement from 00 status was his only option. He had fought it but he was a realist and knew the department could not risk delicate missions on an agent who couldn't handle the physical tasks required.

Resurrection, he had once said, was his hobby. Reinvention might have been more accurate.

Eventually he had accepted the position as head of testing and training.

Considering his years of experience, it was an excellent fit.

This morning would be the first of his new career.

In two hours he would be Commander Bond, department head. It was time to begin the day. He nudged Q.

One green eye opened and a frown crossed Q's face. “Second thoughts?”

“None. Just starting the day properly.” They were fifteen minutes late with smug smiles.

3) 

Title:  Resurrection Hopes Warnings: No warnings apply Tags: established relationship

Author: Susspencer

Returning to what was home to me, Mi6, my family, friends, the question was would they welcome me?

Everything was different. Everything was the same.

Stiff upper lip and I stood ready for the Inquisition before me.  Where have you been?  Why didn't you contact us, or at least me? Why did you wait to come back?

Unscathed by wounds. Unhurt by blame. Unmoved by their feigned sorrow. Unwilling to forgive, yet.

Ready to regain my title again, reclaim my license to kill. Would they relinquish their grip on it? And reinstate me.

Rumbling in my soul as I saw your face. Reasoning within myself, what do I tell you?  Those eyes as they peered through your lenses.

Eyes full of compassion and love still there, hung with a hurt, so deep, that it peers into corners unseen in forever.

Cheer bubbles in my chest, in that empty place, that was barely holding on to the memory of your face.

Time keeps ticking as I wait to hear.

Is it reinstatement or thank you for your service?  I need to be the hero that you need me to be.

Oh, my Q just come stand near, and chase away my fear. I am nothing without you.  It’s only as we that we can save the world.

Nay or yeah, it doesn't matter, if I can just reach out and touch.  The only thing I need to resurrect is us. To be with you, Q, my dear, you are my life.

4) 

Title: One hope... Author: ato Warnings: none Summary: I wait.

Regret is the worst emotion.  Unprofessional, M would have said.  Inevitable feels more on point.

Eleven o’clock in a sterile waiting room, unsure of basic questions of life and death, I think of words not spoken.  Looks shared, but not acted on.

So clear in my mind... all my opportunities.  Over comms.  In the branch.  Heading out at the end of the day in the same direction, only to turn away.  Avoid temptation.  Turn away from him and toward the cold safety of solitude.

Useless now to imagine "what if?"  How I might have changed his sadness (and mine) by acknowledging what I knew was there, but feared reaching for.

Resurrection is my hobby.

Resurrection is my curse.

Even so, I wait in an antiseptic room, hoping against hope that Q will follow my example.

Come back from the dead.  The presumed dead.  Back from the missing, then found (injured... beaten).  Back from the shadows and pain and who-gives-a-fuck-why-should-I?

To the work.  To the family that isn't family.  To the battles and camaraderie and late hours, exhausted and triumphant.  To the old agent who wants another shot.  A chance to say, "I just need one thing," and have him know it's him.

I sit — cold, bone-tired, frightened for perhaps the first time in years — indulging in a hope.

One hope.

No.  One need. For a snarky, willful boffin to fight his way back from the deep, dark dreamlessness, rise up, open his bright, clever eyes… and say yes.

5) 

Title: Duck Psychotic

Author: Venstar

Warnings: None

Summary: Living is hard. Resurrection is even harder

Resurrection was a little known part of the Quartermaster’s job. It was a demanding procedure, tricky even. He’d had quite a few spectacular and dangerous results. Some agents weren’t meant to come back, some were never the same again and some...had to be destroyed.

Except for Bond. He took to resurrection like a psychotic duck to water. There wasn’t anything that he had been through that Q couldn’t drag him back from. “I’m tired Moneypenny. He’s literally taking years off my life.”

“Someone has to deal with him,” Moneypenny said. “And besides, you love seeing those blue eyes see YOU for the first time, every time you bring him back.”

Unfortunately, Moneypenny was correct. Q coughed. There was something terribly enchanting about an assassin with wonder in his eyes when he spotted Q.

“Remind me why you’re complaining?” Moneypenny asked.

“Remind me why I like you?” Q sighed out through his nose.

“Extraction team incoming,” Moneypenny said pressing her earpiece.

“Can’t wait.”

Terrible things happened every day. It was always a terrible day when 007’s body was brought into his Necro room, where the laborious process of resurrecting an agent took its toll on Q. One more year was taken from his life.

“I know you,” Bond’s voice rough when he finally woke. His face lax and sleepy, his eyes tracking Q’s every move.

“Of course you do, fool.”

Now came the time Q’s strength would leave him and Bond would stay, keeping him company, sharing tea from a Scrabble mug.

6) 

Title: Reboot

Author: kiddohno

Warnings: none

Summary: Everyone needs a hobby.

Rebooting… |  |  |

Entering non-interactive start-up... [OK]

Switching to guest configuration... [OK]

User: 007 Password: ************

Reading biometrics... [OK]

root@LAPTOP-Quartermaster$: cd ~/Programs gcc bond.c

ENTER

Connection failed. Unable to find node. Discarding circuit.

Try again? Y/N: y

Initializing. Resolving... Connection established. Downloading files...

On screen, hundreds of points appeared over a graphical world map. Some were tied together with pixelated lines of colour, highlighting connections between them, and each one linked to relevant documents in a massive repository of data and evidence. This was everything that Q had found chasing down what was left of SPECTRE, alone, after James had gone. He’d foolishly thought that taking out Blofeld would be the end of the whole organization. Instead, the power vacuum had only served to revive the criminal network with added fervor. Q had been methodologically tracking the formation of new splinter groups and taking down cells all around the world, and in doing so he had drawn too much attention to himself.

Now that he was missing and presumed dead, James knew that everything Q had done was to protect him. As long as any part of SPECTRE survived, there was the risk that it would target James Bond. Q had done this so that he could retire in peace. And when Q couldn’t continue his work, for whatever reason, he had made sure that his laptop and a short note found their way to James. ‘007,’ the note read, ‘You know the password-- we all need a hobby.’  

7) 

Title: Azalea's First Bloom Warning: Major Character Death Summary: Resurrection is never guaranteed (but she will probably come back to haunt me).

Author: GwyllionDream

R’s instructions blared over his mobile, but Bond was much too panicked to comprehend them. His hands shook. His mind raced. Despite all of his years as an agent, this was the worst scenario he had ever encountered.

Every manual Bond had studied proved useless in this situation.

“Stop and listen to me,” R’s voice demanded. “Four compressions, followed by one breath.”

Unsure of himself, Bond resumed his efforts. His palms pushed on the small chest beneath him, but she was… gone.

“Repeat it with me,” R said, her voice cracking with despair. “One, two, three, four, breathe….”

“R! This isn’t working,” Bond shouted. “Q will be home any minute.”

Even from halfway across the city, R’s gasp of sympathy reached Bond.

Crimson petals covered the countertop. Bond had clipped the azaleas himself, hoping to bring some spring cheer into Q’s flat. Water dripped to the floor from the upended vase. Each falling drop reminded Bond of the pulsing heartbeat of life that now slipped away.

The old girl had really done it this time.

“I don’t want you to lose her,” R cried. “You need to keep going!”

“One, two, three, four,” Bond counted as he pushed on her fragile chest. He pressed his mouth to hers and breathed, but nothing worked. Bond sobbed so loudly that he didn’t hear Q enter the flat, or his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen floor.

“No!!!” Q let out a bloodcurdling scream when he saw Bond crouched over Pampuria’s lifeless body.

8) 

Title: Home Again Author: solarmorrigan Summary: Bond's priorities have shifted over time, just a little. Warnings: None.

Really, Bond had stopped enjoying the parties a long time ago.

Events like the ones he often infiltrated were filled people who wanted.

Someone was always wanting for his attention, always fawning and smarming and insinuating themselves into his space.

Unctuous in the extreme, they were unpleasant and false.

Repeatedly, though, Bond catered to them, listened to and flattered them. Whatever it took to gain their confidence, their secrets, their assistance – whatever they had to offer.

Realistically, it was the easiest way to get the job done.

Even so, the thrill of successful falsehoods had worn thin.

Could he do it another way? Were there options that didn’t involve the suppression of his every instinct and desire to the point where he felt more like a ghost watching his own animated body interact with others? Likely. And likely, they were higher risk.

The mission came first, though. Every time. And Bond would kill himself, body and soul, to complete the mission. Besides that, a lower risk meant a higher chance he could come home.

It wasn’t until Bond was on his way to that home that he began to feel himself again.

Only when he reached home did it really feel like he began to inhabit his own body again.

Not until he had Q in his arms, held against him, wrapped around him, grounding him and reminding him of who he was and who he was allowed to be, did Bond really feel like he’d come alive again.

9) 

Title: Lost and Found

Author: solitaryjane

Warnings: none

Summary: This time, it's Q who's been declared dead.

“Really, Bond?” Q sighed. “It hadn't even been a day.”

Each of the safehouse’s security measures had been breached, starting from the foyer all the way to the bedroom. Bond stood just inside the walk-in closet, where the entrance to the panic room was, and Q in front of it, looking cross.

Something could be said of the irony of being caught by someone prone to disappearing while trying to disappear. Q sighed again. So much for his foolproof plan. And it was foolproof, mind you, with a perfectly staged attack and a perfectly convincing corpse. He wasn't even going to be gone that long – maybe a few weeks – and then he’d be back. It would be no worse than what a certain double-oh liked to pull on a regular basis. Everything was going swimmingly according to plan.

Until now.

“R found some discrepancies,” Bond shrugged. “Thought I’d follow them.”

“Right, of course,” Q spat. He really should’ve specifically locked R out beforehand. It would've probably spared him the indignity of being found – alive – when barely 24 hours had passed.

Even with minimal lighting he could see the twinkle in Bond’s eyes, exuding mirth and arrogance. Q wanted to kill him.

“Care to explain?” Bond asked.

“To you? Not particularly.”

“I promise I can help.”

“Oh, suddenly an expert in international hacking ploys, are we?”

“No,” Bond smirked. “But luckily I know someone who is, and who, despite his efforts, won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

10) 

Title:  Faith

Author: Iambid/Flantastic

Warnings: None

Summary: Q’s faith in him is everything

Returning from missions has never been easy for James.  There is a soulless feeling that comes with killing. A deadening inside that is as difficult to overcome as it is insidious.  For years it festered.  Damaging James, slowly destroying him from the inside.

Even though Q has never realised it, from the moment they first fell into bed together, there is something he does that can bring James back to the land of the living in an instant.

Something so simple and he doesn’t even have a clue.

Understanding came slowly to James at first.  The first time that Q did it he didn’t know what to think but now he craves it.

Relishes it.

Returning home, it is Q naked in their bed, that resurrects him.

Even just sleeping, Q curls into James’s arms like their bed is the safest place in the world.  He allows James to hold him.  Protect him.

Caress him.

The times that James has killed are eclipsed by the moments that Q trusts him at his most vulnerable.  Nude.  Sleeping.

It is heady. This trusting intimacy.

Only James will never tell him.  It is the spontaneity of Q stripping off after a long day’s work, of him slipping into their bed, resting his head on James’s shoulder and holding onto him so tightly, that makes James’s heart beat again.  If Q realised, if it was a deliberate act, it wouldn’t be the same.

Nothing brings James back to life in quite the same way.

11) 

Title: Turnabout is Fair Play

Author: beaubete 

Warnings: none

Summary:  Patience is a virtue and Bond is a sinner.

Really, he should have expected it.  It was inevitable, though tell that to Q's empty flat at three in the morning with birdsong out the window and a funeral in Bond's heart.

Even the cats join him for long, meandering rambles through the kitchen as though they don't quite know what to do with themselves.  None of them do.

Surely Q will be back soon.  Surely Sunday he'll be at the door with a takeaway.  Surely Monday he'll  be back for his yoga mat.  Surely Tuesday.

Uncomfortable silence rules the flat; since that first confession, they've been quietly together, slipped into a relationship like falling into a warm bath.

Romance,  unanticipated as it was, has become the new normal, and this is of course why Q'll be coming back. It wouldn't be fair to suddenly get everything he's ever wanted only to lose it now.

Righteous anger sweeps his shoulders.   After everything, doesn't he deserve happiness? Doesn't he--

Except if anyone deserved to lose peace, it's him.  Chills trip up the back of his neck.

Could this be his own fault?

The thought has haunted him since their first kisses, faces drowned and ghostly in the corners of his vision.  It was always a possibility.   A likelihood.

It isn't acceptable.  His retirement was meant to make them safe; it never occurred that he'd find himself on the other side of the comms worrying.  He ought to let Mallory handle it.

Ought to trust the system.

No.  He fetches his pistol.

12) 

Title: Something of a Surprise

Author: melynen

Warnings: none

Summary: Q’s in the field and things get a little out of hand.

Resurrection being a hobby of James, Q has long since stopped holding his breath every time his lover pulls off one of his disappearing acts. He still fears for his life, yes, but he also trusts James to return to him.

Especially now that he has practically moved in to Q’s flat.

So it’s something of a surprise that this time, it is not James who disappears but Q.

Usually Q wouldn’t be in the field, but sometimes, concessions must be made, and this is one of those times. A supposedly easy mission quickly turns into anything but, and Q has barely time to feel the gunshot that takes him down.

Recovery is not the easiest or the quickest, and he’s told that on the way back to London his heart really did stop beating; waking up at Medical, surrounded by his nearest and dearest, he can only be happy it didn’t stick.

”Rubbed off on you, have I?” James grins, relieved.

Eve, sitting next him, snorts inelegantly. Q can see that she wants to say something, but mercifully she keeps quiet.

”Could be,” Q allows. ”Though I’d really rather not do this again, if you won’t terribly mind.”

”Too right you won’t,” says Eve.

”I certainly won’t mind,” James says. ”For a while there…” he pauses, but Q can easily hear what was left unsaid.

Out loud, Q says nothing, but he does squeeze the hand holding his.

Neither of them speaks again, but their clasped hands say everything.

13) 

Title: Blood and Fire

Author: azure7539arts

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Summary: Bond wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

-

“Run!”

Every time he tried to close his eyes, the image of Q’s blazing gaze kept flashing deep in the recesses of his mind.

Smoke had been billowing from the damaged sites, the sound of people trapped and screaming only second to the thick stench of fresh blood that had been permeating through the air. They had been under attack. Again.

Up until that moment, Bond had never allowed himself to even think about exactly just how important Q was in his life. And the second he had heard Q’s sharp, unwavering order for him to go after the assailants instead of staying back in the wreckage to help, Bond had realized that he was going to regret it.

Running had always been his forte, he had told himself.

Running should’ve been easy because he had been doing it his entire life.

Even so… in that singular moment with him staring wide-eyed at the half of Q’s face that had been drenched in free-flowing blood from a gash somewhere above his eyebrow, Bond had never been more reluctant to leave.

“Care for some tea?”

To be fair, Bond hadn’t needed to ask to know that Q would say yes before sitting up straight and murmuring “finally!” under his breath. “How is it?” He sat down, watching Q sip at his drink.

“It’s good,” Q mumbled, seemingly more relaxed. “Just how I take it.”

“Of course.” Bond quirked a small smirk.

No, he wasn’t going to make another mistake this time.

Thank you to our amazing drabble writers for bringing their drabbles to life this week, especially since this was the most difficult challenge yet. 

To our amazing readers, you can help this competition by going here to vote on your top three drabbles. You may also leave anonymous feedback for one or more drabbles.

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[amanformanyseasons-blog]

A Ghost Will Seem Within the House to Reign || Solo

Even vegetarians are entitled to a cheat day every once in a while.

There was no movement within the coffin.

Every so often, the body inside might twitch. Eyelids might flutter, revealing slits of unfocused eyes before rolling back into oblivion. An insect might crawl through the darkness, often many at once, twisting and threading through clothes but never once sampling the flesh underneath. Hallucinations had ended long ago, no longer blending the line between fiction and reality, no line now existing at all. He didn’t see anyone, nor hear anything, and he didn’t stir as Lachlan Richter wiped his forehead, the afternoon sun starting to bear down on him.

Damn heavy thing. Wasn’t every day you dug up a coffin on your land. He’d gotten Geena out as soon as he had struck it, and his wife hadn’t left his side as he set about digging it up. Took him hours. All whilst she sat flicking away flies from her perch on a beat-up old deckchair, leafing through the latest issues of her The American Gardener subscription with licked fingers. She’d laughed when he’d suggested that there could be treasure inside, had to be more than a skeleton. Your muscles just gettin’ old she had replied, and he had shrugged. True, he supposed, rubbing his back as he circled the coffin – discerning where to find a good place to lodge the crowbar in. After a moment, he hooked it under the lid centre-right, his wife affixing him with a beady gaze from where she sat. Still undecided as to whether she wanted to cop a glance at a dead body. Maybe it was cursed; she’d heard the stories. The wood splintered, filling the air with the sound of pine giving up against ancient iron nails. Geena dropped her magazine to the dirt, craning her neck forward before tip-toeing to peek behind her husband’s shoulder.

She should’ve screamed, but she couldn’t. Shock seemed to come much more naturally in the movies.

*

Agony.

Eyelids jolting open and then squeezing shut just as quickly, hands clawing in pure, unadulterated agony. Something howled, wretched – there was no person yet, only an animal; could only make the noise of an animal. Lachlan Richter stumbled back into his wife, eyes as wide as the full moon. The animal could smell them. Man. Woman. Blood. Blood.

Eyes that had squeezed shut at the onslaught of light snapped back open, irises bleeding red as blue dissipated like spilt blood in a body of water. Fangs burst from gums and fate played its cards: Lachlan Richter was now a man deader than the creature that threw itself at him, pathetic human as he was too slow to dodge. Not just fangs but teeth carved through his neck, mangling instead of puncturing, shreds of skin and gore catching in a vampire’s maw like tiny ribbons.

“Lachlan! LACHLAN!”

The finally-found scream startled him. His teeth lost their grip, and blood sprayed like a cow at slaughter and the woman shrieked to new heights as it hit her, an inhuman level of wailing that was like daggers to the eardrums. After that he didn’t notice the woman running, biting down again and again and again into different patches of the man’s skin, desperate for every drop that he had to offer. His flesh stripped like butter in his maw. Not enough. His fingers tore at his chest cavity, then his teeth, scrabbling for purchase until he could tear through the skin to snap the ribs in his hands. The heart was still beating, barely there, and he twisted the muscle free, hungrily ripping at meat and ventricles for the last the corpse had to give. Blood ran from his mouth, coating him; it tasted like life, life different from what even animals had. The woman had more. He lifted his head, watching her inquisitively now as she bolted like a caged rabbit set free for some curious looking domain. Good. Would make the heart pump faster.

The vampire dropped the spent carcass. Needed to get out of the sun. Needed more. He ran, she ran, they both ran, joining together in Geena’s last ever activity before it was ended when he quickly met her at the homestead front door.

“Please… p-please don’t do this.”

He could hear the words, but he couldn’t understand them yet. Had been too long. Only knew how to speak in one way.

Geena moaned, and the vampire snarled. Her last words had already been said.

He reached out and her hair bunched together in his clenched fist, her forehead smashing forward into the front door as she slammed against it, her frame immediately crumpling in his hold. An unintelligible gargle began to build forth from her throat, blood spurting onto the white-washed door as the force turned her teeth into her tongue’s guillotine, but it was only a small, quick jet in comparison to the burst from her neck as fangs sliced into her carotid. Red filled his eyes, ran down his front like a fountain as his arms tightened around her as she convulsed. Her hands flailed against the wood, creating echoes that weakened with each passing moment until they stopped completely, her arms slipping limp to her sides. He sucked at her wounds, savouring every mouthful. He could taste her impending death, could feel every tiny shudder in her body as the life flowed out of her. When she died he could escape the sun, lock himself in their strange little abode, and sure enough, when he tested the handle she had almost gotten to, entering posed no problem for him.

Invitations were not necessary when there were none left to do the inviting.

*

The vampire licked his forearm to his fingers, tasting the blood that was beginning to lose its lustre as it dried in the open air as he paced around the table in the centre of the room. At first he’d hunched himself in a corner, scared, hurt, confused - but now there was a feeling beginning to wash over him. His legs were starting to feel as if they didn’t want to cooperate, simultaneously wanting to stiffen and turn to jelly at once. He was becoming acutely aware of how uncomfortable he felt – his hair matted with mud, skin caked with dirt and blood with wet clothes rubbing unforgivingly against his skin. His hands fisted, fingernails digging into palms, before unclenching and repeating. The things surrounding him… he didn’t recognise any of it.

He stopped mid-pace, puzzled.

Why did his mouth taste like he’d drunk from the cup of the Gods itself? What was his name? Where was he?

He pinched his arm.

You are dead vampire you are dead the Devil will ravage your corpse and not a soul will mourn you do you know that do you know that vampire and your whore will follow suit as you burn together by the Glory of God I send thee abomination back to-

His shoulders seized and his arms tightened around him like a vice, and he wanted to retch but couldn’t. Could only dig his fingers into his sides until he brought blood, well beneath fingertips already dyed with it. The people. The torch brackets. Running from them, trying to hole himself up in that god-forsaken house where they had all lived, him and the others of his kind. The rocks being thrown through windows as they tried to get in, the hatchets to the doors. The hauling through the streets. Standing there with his arms forced behind his back as they all stood there and tried to decide what to do with him. The verdict being the idea to nail his heart to the grave, symbolic for the soul. Blake staggered, losing control of his legs as he collapsed backwards into the lounge. Foreign sights swam in his vision; from the black box on the other side of the centre table to strange, realistic paintings adorning the walls, but he couldn’t take it in. Fingers went from his sides to his hair, tugging it from his scalp as he leaned forward, feeling his eyes change and his fangs unsheathe yet again this time not as a response to hunger but as a defence mechanism. Oh God Oh God Oh god oh god She was dead. She was dead. Eilis was dead – he had seen her as they forced him into his coffin, saw them tie her to the oak overlooking his grave in wait for the sun.

He looked back up and the paintings on the walls focused, and he cried out, horrified. There was another, a smaller one on the little table beside him, and he snatched it up, pressing his hand against the glass. In shuddering gasps his whole body shook, his fingertips sliding down its surface to uncover smiling faces. The faces of prey stared back at him; the face of a man who would never again work amongst the buckwheat that he laid lifeless in at the base of the oak tree, the crop planted there the sowing season beforehand. The face of a woman, his wife, the woman he had met in high school fifty-eight years beforehand, who would never again keep the house as spotless as it was now. Because of him. 86 years, and he had never hurt a soul, never had the taste of human blood on his lips. 86 years.

To himself he said:

“Your name is Blake Emery Prescott, you are 86 years old, you live in Ashkent Creek.” He stopped, stammering. He glanced around in fervour, drinking up the sights surrounding him – nightmare visions of nothing he recognised. This wasn’t the world that was only 86 years of his life. He looked back down at the picture in his hand. The man and woman were doing more than smiling. Something was funny. He was. Mocking him, that’s what they were doing.

“I think I have been away for a very long time,” he whispered.

On the other side of the glass, they laughed.

[zureo-blog]

10:20

He found temporary employment at a restaurant in Seoul, between Seosomun-Dong and Myeongdong-Ga: Pierre Gagnarie à Seoul, which he’s been told offers exquisite French cuisine featuring innovative diverse preparation methods with an added artistic touch to “propitiate their customers’ aesthetics.” Or, realistically speaking, an astute excuse to for employers to charge their customers an absurd sum of money for small-portioned meals. This marketing scheme primarily targets, ingenuous millennials who aspire to get that perfect snapshot for their next big Instagram post. Profit, with the addition of free publicity. 

His first day wasn’t running as smoothly as he hoped. It was strenuous, as it was vexatious. Not only did he need to take on a completely new persona (feigning smiles, forcing laughs, and pretending to be interested in whatever the fuck these people were telling him), but he also needed to run from table to table to do each of the following: take orders, relay orders to the cooks, prepare food and drink garnishes, transport trays of food from the kitchen to the dining tables customers, buss tables – practically every little fucking thing anyone could possibly think of. 

Forty minutes remain before his shift ends, ten seconds left until he loses his shit. He assumes this is the busiest time of the evening, where employees struggle to place last-minute orders, buss tables, deliver checks and collect bill payment, and prepare the restaurant for another day of business. He’s having a terrible time, but there’s not much that can really be done. This is a job, more specifically, his job. 

He descends through the kitchen doors with a stack of clean plates in his hands, but is stopped by a shout of his name before he could even hope of proceeding any further. Taeyong glances over his shoulder, gaze clashing with his supervisor. He quirks a brow, inquisitively. “Woojin had to leave earlier, claims there was a family emergency, or something like that,” he was informed, “Cover his tables.” 

He responds with a nod, rolling his eyes when he turned his back to the elder. Another step, another call, and another turn. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muses, onyx orbs taking to the source of the sound. His coworker, Hwa Mingyu, staring him dead in the eye. No retort supplied other than a fucking crooked grin. Mouthing, “Fuck you” before heading down the trek he previously traveled, a cart abruptly bursts through the doors he’d been lingering in front of for god-knows how long; the force was with enough exertion to send him stumbling forward a few steps, thereby causing him to lose his grasp of the plates he was holding. Once held. 

The tranquil atmosphere of the room was completely disrupted by the deafening reverberation of plates shattering, multifarious shards scattered around the floor. It’s followed by silence, all eyes on him. He mentally curses to himself, a line formed between his brows as he shuts his eyes and hopes this wall all a dream. Soon after, murmurs break across the room and he catches a glimpse of Mingyu walking away, smirking and snickering. 

Exasperation manifests itself over his placid features. Ignoring the shouts coming from both his supervisor and manager, he loses his temper and shoves both out of his way, ensnaring his fingers into Mingyu’s hair. “You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you?” He seethes, smashing their head over the wall. Not once, but thrice. For a second, he forgets he’s in his workplace; forgets he should maintain professionalism until he’s officially off the clock. But when he remembers, he doesn’t care. Tightening his grip, momentarily, he slams their head against the wall for the umpteenth time and releases his grasp, “What the fuck is your problem?” 

Phones were whipped out, cameras pointed his way. He spots his manager and supervisor rushing over to his side through the corner of his eyes, arms extended as to grab him, though he stops both with another shove before they could even reach him “Don’t touch me.” Taeyong rips both his name tag and apron off of him, pushing himself through the intrusive throng surrounding them, sauntering towards the exit. 

To his luck, he spots Baekhyun standing by the entrance – leaning against the doorframe with his own camera pointed at Taeyong’s direction. As if he wasn’t already annoyed enough, fucking Edward Cullen would be there, observing this mess. “Get that camera out of my fucking face.” He deadpans, half-lidded gaze slicing through the elder’s on his way out of the restaurant. 

If he’s taken away anything from today, it’s that he’s not cut out for this lifestyle. 

@tempuris​

[southparkcoven]

Craig Tucker

Mun Information

NAME: Harvey

AGE: 22

PRONOUNS: he/him

TIMEZONE: CST (Central Standard Time)

RP EXPERIENCE: going on 10 years

ACTIVITY LEVEL: i work full-time overnight, but have access to my phone during work hours. starting classes in the spring

OTP/NOTP: i’m not even picky. i like cryle a lot, but anything else with craig idm

DISCORD: harvey#3357

ANYTHING ELSE: i’d like to think i’m pretty laidback and chill.

  Muse Information

NAME: Craig Tucker

AGE: 17

GENDER: Cis-male

SEXUALITY: Gay

BIRTHDAY: January 25th, 2000 (Aquarius)

OCCUPATION: Student, Cashier at the retro diner off of main st

SPECIES: Witch

POWER: Clairvoyance/Divination

CHARACTER APPEARANCE:

FACECLAIM: Matthew Bell [ x ] [ x ]

Craig Tucker stands at a whopping six-foot-two, weighing about 150 pounds. He participates in track and field during the spring, therefore retaining a rather lean physique on top of his lengthy legs. If given a body type label, he would be considered on the bridge between ectomorph and mesomorph. His hair is a soft black color, kept in a taper-fade cut with a loose side-part, and he has brown-green hazel eyes. He had his nose broken once in middle school from horsing around on a longboard, and a few scars littered on his arms and knees from childhood rough housing, falling off of bikes, etc.

  CHARACTER HISTORY:

Craig’s clairvoyance has actually been something he’s been able to tap into since he was a young child, however he found the capability rather unsettling after he vividly predicted the death of their first family dog –  to which they haven’t had a dog since – at the age of four. He never told anyone about the things he’d seen, not even his parents, therefore it became fairly easy to start pushing his divination to the background in attempt to ignore it. It never really left, but this resulted in his premonitions becoming much less intense. He’d prefer it be a lot more dull, anyways. However… after the incident in Peru, the Pandemic, Craig’s capability became revitalized and he was back at the first square he’d been avoiding all these years. Regardless, he still kept this matter private, not caring to share any of his visions, no matter who it involved. It wasn’t everyone’s business how much he knew, how much he knew that little blonde girl in kindergarten –what was her name?– was going to walk in front of that bus without looking. She was going to die, squashed flat in front of the entire school. And so she did. It’s now high school, the divination won’t leave, and Craig has already resigned to his fate –much to this utter dismay. While he’s at it, he might as well try to figure out how to control the damned thing as to prevent it from being a continuous nuisance. He really has nothing to go off of in order to get things under control, so all he can do is make it up as he goes. It’s a work in progress.

  1) Craig was taken to inpatient over in Denver for a good two months during a severe episode of depression he experienced the middle of his sophomore year. He’s since been diagnosed with a mood disorder and has refused to see any doctors following. The situation caused him distress about his own mental health internally, but he’s really afraid of finding out what’s actually going on with him. But, since he internalizes a lot of his emotions, the unaddressed stress had caused his clairvoyance to heighten –especially in the form of nightmares or viewing only negative outcomes. Craig became more reclusive during this time, growing apart from all of his friends and family. Because of his reluctance to talk about his issues, everyone just assumed it was part of the depression he was struggling with. It took that full year for things to finally go back to how they had been before the episode, and for Craig to get back to his usual self again. The incident should have taught him that shadowing his emotions is dangerous not only for his mental health but also for his already haywire ESP. 2) Dating Tweek for about five years before they both mutually called things off really helped Craig mature in a more positive light. He’s learned a great deal about how to handle more hectic and stressful situations, being emotionally supportive ( to the closest extent he’s capable of being, Craig struggles with empathy ), listening and understanding, etc. The two of them ended up mutually breaking things off, not ending on a sour note in the slightest, and Craig believes that’s due a lot in part by their willingness to understand one another throughout.

  As far as social life, Craig remains within the same group of friends he’s been around since elementary school. There’s not much room to roam around anyways. He’s stuck more to himself over the years, however, withdrawing but not alienating. He’s usually seen hanging around Tweek, Kyle, Kenny, or his cousin Red. His family life remains pretty uneventful. The common parental arguments here and there, a threat of divorce once or twice… maybe three times. Craig tries to ignore most of that bullshit, keeping an eye on his sister throughout these trying times. It doesn’t appear to him that his parents will separate anytime soon, and likely won’t until his sister is out of high school at least. If not, then they’re shitty parents for putting that on her.

  CHARACTER PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS: Pragmatic, Candid, Inquisitive, Capable Leader, Rational.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Cynical, Stubborn, Apathetic, Cold, Reckless.

MBTI: INTP

TYPE ENNAEGRAM: 5w4 (548)

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

Once a hot-headed kid who wouldn’t back down from a good fight, Craig Tucker has mellowed out starting in fifth grade onward. His relationship with Tweek really aided in his maturity throughout middle school, helping him become more intune with other people on top of knowing some of their immediate futures ( that was already intimate enough ). Craig has retained a lot of his apathetic and cynical demeanor regardless, still blunt and rational. The one thing that’s been revving inside of him since high school is his sense of adventure. Unlike in his childhood, Craig Tucker desires to go out and do something nonsensical, something extraordinary. It wasn’t until after his brief period of hospitalization that he became restless, maybe anxious to break from the ordinary. He retains a deep interest for space, the unknown, even the paranormal, ironic to his otherwise cynical and realistic demeanor. There’s somewhat of a rift between two sides of Craig and he’s almost fed up with it.

*SEE ABOVE FOR POWERS

  ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:

        Weekend shifts were the worst shifts because everyone else gets these days off and swamp to cute places like the retro diner off of Main Street. It’s only five after lunch hour and Craig already wishes he was locked dead in the freezer until next shift came to check. The place was full of families and teens as per usual at a time like this. One group of girls hadn’t even ordered anything the whole half hour they’d been sitting there, only then realizing that these tables weren’t waited at. Another family of four ordered, what felt like all of the menu, and complained three separate times about it taking more than fifteen minutes for their entire order to be served.

        Craig was tired, just like he was every single time lunch hour rolled around without fail. The bags under his eyes were never more prevalent as he stood there at the cash register, monotonously reciting his customer service role. His ultra obvious enthusiasm is a real kicker with the guests, they really love to watch a deadpan kid tap a touchscreen and swipe their cards. He’s a sight to behold.

        Speaking of sights to behold… a hot second of a break settles in as everyone in the building has placed their order and no longer require Craig’s immediate assistance. Rubbing the heel of his hand into one of his eyes, the dark-haired teen glances off to the right, free eye settling on a small kid with an open cup in his hands. And before he can even blink, a vivid series of pictures plays out in front of his eyes. The kid appears to be running with the cup in his hands, soda sloshing around violently as he does so, only to spill some of the sticky liquid on the floor in front of him. Unsurprisingly, it looks like the kid slips and falls straight onto his front, mouth banging into the floor with an ugly slapping noise. Craig already knows this ends in him having a mess of coke and red to clean up.

        All of this imagery plays moments before the kid actually does do a sprint forward, spilling his drink in the process, only to slip and slam his face into the hard floor. And, as promised, there’s blood to clean up. Just wonderful.

       With a very, very deep sigh to drown out the shrieks of the child on the ground, Craig Tucker leaves his spot at the front counter in order to retrieve the mop and bucket. Hey, at least he saw it coming.