#Man-Bat definitely smells uh

[chiropterx]

Kirk doesn't always smell the freshest. His habit of getting caught up in his research (and resulting depression after getting divorced with Francine) absolutely took a toll on his mental health and the formula only makes things worse, making him sweat profusely due to raising his body temperature. Kirk can shower but he'll soon start developing a certain 'musky', even animalistic aroma that is only more prominent as Man-Bat.

[piratefishmama]

Crossing The Line | Part 14

Said metalhead was wearing a leather jacket, black, ripped at the knee denim jeans with a wallet chain dangling from a belt loop draped round to his back pocket, a bullet belt, that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was, combat boots, and an iron maiden tee.

His hair was its seemingly usual unruly mass of dark brown curls, and he had lightly smudged dark eyeliner around his eyes to make his eyes pop. That was the extent of how much effort Eddie had put into his outfit. And yet he looked like the tastiest little snack Steve had ever seen in his life, he loved it.

They were like polar opposites style wise but from the look on Eddie’s face they were both exactly what each other wanted.

“Sweater vest for Eddie” Steve parroted with a warm smile and a bashful little, “I figured… I mean… I thought you’d like it.”

Now, Eddie had turned up at that apartment, with the intention of figuring out whether or not Steve was wearing ear plugs at his gig and just lying to him to get into his pants (which, flattering, but also rude), and going from there.

But then Steve opened the door in that sweater vest. With that smile. Claiming he wore it because he thought Eddie would like it and his heart just did a series of pathetic flip flops and any hope of Eddie ever being mad even if he did wear earplugs went out the window because what the fuck. What the fuck.

What the ever-loving fuck.

How was this man real?

He needed to send Mike Wheeler a goddamn gift basket for sort of introducing him to the guy although he was pretty sure Mike would blow a gasket knowing he was severely crushing on the guy who apparently ‘ruined’ crazy train.

He didn’t even ruin it, it was just… a different style than Crazy Train was supposed to be in! “I love it… suits you way more than the metal look, definitely should have worn it for the gig.” Would have stuck out like a sore thumb but by god he’d have been the prettiest thing there.

Cool as a cucumber, Steve leaned himself against the doorframe, that bashful smile turning coy with just the raise of a brow and the flash of teeth “I dunno, then I’d have missed the look on your face just now.”

“Well I mean, sweater vests, cute glasses, slippers, are we having a cosy night in, Stevie?” Be cool, be cool, be super cool, don’t be a weird little nerd, don’t be a weird little nerd.

Steve reached out, warm hands taking Eddie’s own, then gently, he tugged Eddie inside. “Well, we can if you come in.” And he was hit by a wall of something delicious. A smell so delightful that his stomach just had to rumble in protest over the fact that he wasn’t already eating it.

Ear plugs? Who gave a shit about ear plugs really?

Okay no, he had to stick to some morals, even if his stomach was angrily telling him to wait until after dinner because then at least if Steve turned out to be a very sneaky asshole, he’d at least have gotten a meal out of the night.

“Wait wait” the door was closed but at least Steve seemed to pause, that smile dropping, replaced by curiosity, god how did he make that look cute? Stupid knitwear an glasses combo. “Okay so… this is probably gonna sound dumb, but Frank noticed it, y’know Frank, our bassist? He uhm… he noticed you were wearing what looked like ear plugs at the gig and uh…” oh god the eyes widened, his eyes widened, Eddie wanted the floor to swallow him whole. First real date in god. How many years? And he was fucking it up by bringing up something nobody else would bring up on a date with Steve Goddamn Harrington. “…Were they… earplugs?”

Fuckers would probably just be happy to be there. Could wear those big ol construction site noise cancelling headphones and nobody else would bat an eyelid, but it was about PROFESSIONAL COURTESY, Eddie was a musician too!

He didn’t want to be on a date with someone in the industry (wildly different success rates with it but WHO CARES) who was lying about liking his music to get in his pants.

It could have gone a few different ways, gaslighting being one of them, but Steve smiled, he had such a pretty smile good lord. “Mmhm, c’mere I’ll show you.” Steve was still holding his hand, so Steve had the full capability of pulling him through the entryway toward one of the two bedrooms in the obviously temporary apartment, probably just rented for the time they were there like an Air BnB situation. The room was pretty tidy, save for a little dressing table covered in hair products. “Theeese are them.” And he produced a little silver cannister from his bag and deposited it into Eddie’s hand.

Curious snooping was pretty much accepted in that situation, so Eddie unscrewed the top and emptied the contents into his palm, two sets of black earplugs with a little hole running through the centre, fitted with a sort of white mesh material which sat snuggly within the hole.

“…What am I looking at here, Steve?” Steve just breathed a little laugh and took one from him, then popped the centre circle out of one, the little white mesh disk sitting perfectly in his palm.

“So, short story long, I was a dumb teenager. Rich kid surrounded by bad influences, y’know the whole stereotypical drill, pretty much every magazine in the country and some outside of it painted me as kind of an asshole, ‘King Steve’ they’d call me. I hated it but it’s kind of like quicksand in those old adventure movies, y’know? Just dragging you under, inescapable. Anyway, I also walked headfirst into a low set doorway ogling Chris Hemsworth’s biceps so... I’ve had a few brain injuries.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger twice in rapid succession. “That uh… it has side effects… brains are tricky, a few too many concussions can get you hearing loss, sight loss, it can get you chronic migraines, aversion to sound, lights, it can do a lot of invisible damage… I… struggle with sound sometimes. And my sight too hence the glasses, but sound is the relevant one here.”

Eddie tilted his head a little in question, a silent motion to continue, research had given him none of this information. Maybe that he was a shitty teenager once but nothing else.

“Sharp noises, like uh… electric guitars played in a certain way, speakers turned all the way up, I get migraines basically and these are designed to filter out certain pitches to make things easier on my ears. Maybe… maybe I missed a few chords here and there, maybe some of it sounded a little off, but I can still hear through the plugs just fine. Robin got them for me, they’re supposed to help people with tinnitus, sensory issues, migraines…” he took the plugs back one by one, placing them back into the cannister and dropping it back into his bag, before he returned to Eddie and retook his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze “I swear I could hear just fine during your gig, and I really enjoyed it. I really like your music, Eddie… I think you’re amazing.”

Eddie felt like he was going to spontaneously combust right there on the spot.

Flattery always did have a certain effect on him, and with it being laid on so thick, honeyed words without an ounce of dishonesty in them… there was really only one response he could conjure in the moment, “…can I kiss you?” And the smile it earned, worth the brain dead moment.

“Well since you asked so nicely, but only one, dinner first, kisses later.” Kisses. Kisses. Plural. Many many kisses. Eddie felt like one of those cartoon characters that got all flushed and then just simply melted. Even though the kiss Steve gave him was chaste, a gentle, but lingering press of soft lips against his own, one of Steve’s hands cradled his cheek and god,

How had he lived until that moment not kissing Steve Harrington?

“Nono one more” was his sole complaint when Steve eased back, feeling the breath of Steve’s laugh dusting his damp lips, and the caress of his lips so very close whispering,

“Okay, just one” before doing just that.

Part 16

[mamawasatesttube]

I’m back and I have another prompt: “Your heartbeat’s really loud.”

Red Mercy.

Red fucking Mercy.

Kon's been exposed to it once before, so tonight makes a fabulous grand total of twice in his life, and both times? It has fucking sucked. He's not sure literally anything has ever sucked as much as the soul-rending, horrible, awful emptiness of those hallucinations, and yes, that list very much includes literally fucking dying.

He and Kara took care of the ship carrying the damn plants way before it made it into Earth's atmosphere, but he's still feeling jittery and on-edge. Right now, he just... he really wants some comfort, okay? He just... he just wants someone who makes things feel okay. Who makes him feel safe.

He just wants Tim.

Which is why he's here, TTKing open the fancy Bat-locks on Tim's penthouse apartment window so he can slip inside. Tim isn't in his room, and none of the lights in the kitchen or living area are on, and for an instant sheer terror slams through Kon's gut, but he smothers it as best he can. Tim's heartbeat is strong and steady, mixed with the white noise of falling water—oh.

Oh. He's just taking a shower. Probably just got back in from patrol. Now Kon feels kind of stupid for panicking.

But the remnants of that stupid awful horrific nightmare still tug painfully on the edges of his vision; he can still all but smell Tim's charred flesh, can hear the frantic, rapid flutters of his heart beating its last as blood gushed from the wound Kon himself inflicted—he didn't mean to he didn't want to he's never wanted to—and panic still rises too easily.

He just—he just needs to hear Tim's voice. Needs to see him and reassure himself he's okay, that it wasn't real. Needs a hug. Really, really needs a hug.

Kon opens the bathroom door—

—and immediately has to dodge the shampoo bottle that whizzes past his head, colliding with the hallway wall with a thunk. "Hey!"

"What the fuck?!" Tim's sopping-wet head peers around the edge of the curtain, eyes narrowed, hair plastered to the side of his head. He's holding another bottle at the ready, but lowers it in bewilderment when he sees who's there. "Kon?"

Kon twists around to glance at the bottle on the floor, then back at Tim, incredulous. "Did you just throw my shampoo bottle? Dude, mine's the good stuff! Why didn't you use yours as a weapon first?"

"It was the second-heaviest one," Tim answers immediately, then frowns. "Wait. Back up a minute. Why are you in my bathroom, interrupting my shower?"

Well, you see, I got real fucked up by a fucked-up and evil plant, and now I really want a hug? seems like a stupid explanation now that Kon's here. Then again, Tim's from Gotham. He's definitely heard worse.

But god, fuck, it's really good to see him acting normal. To hear his voice, dry and acerbic but warm like it always is when he talks to Kon. Not screaming. Not...

"Um," Kon says, and shrugs a little, helpless. "I, uh..."

Tim narrows his eyes further. He sets down the conditioner in his hand and points at Kon. "Okay. Wait for, like, two minutes, and let me put on some pants. Then we'll talk."

Kon nods numbly. He retreats to Tim's bedroom and perches on the side of his bed, biting his lip.

One-hundred-and-seven seconds later, Tim slips out of the bathroom. His hair is spiky and wet, like he just furiously rubbed it with a towel for about ten of those seconds before he gave up; he's wearing both pants and an old T-shirt, like some kind of overachiever. Kon gazes at him and drinks him in, drinks him in, drinks him in, and wonders if this is how a parched man in the desert feels upon finding an oasis.

"Hey," Tim says gently. He moves closer on silent feet, until he's standing between Kon's knees, and Kon slumps into his arms.

Tim folds him into a fierce hug, resting his chin atop Kon's head. Kon sucks in a shaky breath and swallows hard against the lump rising in his throat; it takes him a moment to bring his arms up around Tim, too, because—because he has too much strength, and he—the last thing he'd ever want to do is hurt him, but—

But he can hear Tim's heartbeat, strong and steady and slow. Relaxed. Not choking out its last desperate gasps, trying to push blood through a body bleeding out. Safe. Whole. Hale.

"Your heartbeat's really loud," he mumbles. His fingers curl desperately into the fabric of Tim's shirt.

"You have superhearing and are laying against my chest," Tim points out. Kon can hear the smile in his voice, tempered by concern. "...Do you wanna talk about it?"

Kon bites his lip again. "...Maybe later." He lets himself hold Tim a teensy bit tighter. Just a little. "Can you... Just, y'know. Hold me a bit?"

Tim's lips brush the top of his head. "Of course," he murmurs, and Kon closes his eyes, content to listen to his heart.

[razorblade180]

Omen

It was dark, pitch black in fact. Well… not really. Orange light randomly tickled my eyes while fibers harassed my tongue every time I took a breath. Man was it stuffy in this. If only my hands weren’t tied behind my back.

“Hello? Can you please remove the sack? I’m already in the car.”

I waited for an answer but of course nobody wanted to speak! It’s not like I don’t feel their body heat or how the seat sinks in on both sides of me. I move my right leg forward and immediately tap something that moves away. Really? Another one.

“I know there’s at least three people who hear me. Speak now or endure beatboxing!”

……

Well, they asked for it.

“Pa pa tsss! Pa pa pa tss! Pa ta pa ta tss! Pa ta pa tss! Yo it’s-”

Before I knew it, my performance was cut short as someone yanked the bag off of my head. Honestly, they lasted longer than I thought. My eyes stung for a second thanks to the setting sun, but it wasn’t long before I saw a gruffy brute of a man in a black suit with a pretty nice brown beard. I don’t think he liked my performance.

I looked to my left and right to see more suits! Both pretty redheads in shades. The one on my left had short hair while the right had short hair and a softer jawline.

“Am I in the middle of a twin thing? That’s interesting.”

I stare back at the man who I just know has to be smiling somewhere on the inside. “Thank you for taking the bag off.”

“It goes back on if you keep yapping.”

“If you didn’t want a conversation then why didn’t you gag me? Who the ladies look down on you? What are you an uncle?”

He squinted at me in silence. Hell yeah; I definitely got it on the first try. Now that I look at him closely he does look older than them. Also…this car is nice. Not to mention long. This is the fanciest abduction ever.

“Is this a limo?”

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re an actress.”

“It’s called small talk.”

The man sat up straight and opened his suit jacket slightly so I noticed the gun. Clearly someone didn’t like small talk.

“Guns aren’t scary when they’re holstered. Most of the time anyway.” I look at the short haired woman. “You're very pretty by the way. How are you a thug instead of an actress?”

She didn’t even bother to look my way. Tragic. I turn the possible twin then hear a familiar click. The uncle decided to make the gun scarier.

“No more talking.”

It’s amazing how good suits don't equal experience. Frankly, it was concerning.

“Sir, if that’s actually loaded I recommend you remove the magazine. Second, you won’t shoot me because clearly someone paid you to steal me instead of murder.”

It got silent again. Both the ladies looked at their uncle and that seemed to smooth out his edges. He was nice enough to holster that bad boy of his.

“That definitely has rubber bullets, right?”

“Why would it?” Said the long-haired woman. “Do you really think nobody will notice you're gone or something?”

“Oh you can talk! Eh, they might notice eventually but I run off sometimes. It’s the afternoon, not the dead of night.”

The man grumbled, “Don’t entertain the target.”

Such a rude thing to say. “You know my name. It’s Serendipity Karuma. I know I’m an actress but this is overkill. Who hired you?”

“Why the hell would I tell you that?”

“Because I’m already caught? Speaking of which, the rope around my wrist burns. Would you humor me enough to untie them? I’m dainty.”

I bat my eyes for dramatic effect. Nobody resists floral pink eyes.

I’ve been keeping my cool so far but it’s become impossible to ignore the intoxicating smell coming from the brown bag near the man.

“You stole me before I got my late lunch. Is that a double in the bag?”

“Y-Yes…”

“Knew it! Look, if you give me a single bite I promise it won’t be huge and it will prove I’m trustworthy enough to untie me.”

“Those two things don’t add up.”

“They do when you suck at math.” I giggled at my own ridiculous joke, but I wasn’t alone. Pretty lady on my right snickered.

“Uh-Sorry.” She cleared her throat.

Fortune favored me for once and the uncle actually took out a fresh burger that rumbled my stomach like a dryer on max settings. He put it right in front of my face and I oh so gracious took a moderate bite.

“Mmmmm.”

Car food and kidnapping is such a good combo. Especially when the food is greasy the drive has the hymn of the tires on the road.

“Thank you kind sir. You all actually seem like decent people.”

“We are not untying you.”

Why are people so stubborn? It’s not like I’m tangibly a threat. Well…not physically. I could hear it again, the whispers that never truly leave me. The way my body tingles from head to toe while I felt a knot in my shoulder made me sigh as I put the pieces together. This part was never fun.

“May I ask one earnest and important question to you all? You don’t actually know who hired you to take me, do you? Was it a direct contact or through a third party?”

Maybe it was the sincerity of my voice but it got the girl to my left to speak.

“Third party.”

Good old uncle was about to yell at the girl but I nudged his foot.

“Hey, I don’t know why you three or thugs but I will match the price if you let me go right now.”

“Do you think we’re that dumb!?”

Okay, now I am getting annoyed. “No! I think your client doesn’t give a shit about you, or they would’ve told you not to have live ammo.”

“What?”

His eyes widened and I truly tell how little they mattered in this scheme. That’s when it hit me, maybe this was the scheme itself? The whispering grew dead silent to me while the sudden sound of horn blaring was heard by all. I didn’t bother to look for the source, nor could I afford to care. I’m not a nice enough person to let things simply happen as they’re supposed to. The moment the man turned his head to look out the window, I gritted my teeth and forced my right hand out of the rope; I didn’t waste a second stealing his gun before-

BOOM

The limo was struck from the left. The entire world began spinning as the car filled with screams. Not mind though. All I could do was clench my jaw, shut my eyes and hold the gun firmly. My finger never grazed the trigger and yet all the violent movements eventually led to a BANG!

Was it all instant? Did I black out? All I knew was when I opened my eyes I saw a man writhing pain as he clenched his shoulder. The weight of one of the twins felt crushing while the other became the platform I laid on. If only I was a tad faster. The man could only watch helplessly as I unloaded the gun and put on the busted glass window.

My head was still ringing. That was a far fall. “Did we fall off a bridge?”

Truthfully I had no idea why I was still trying to talk to the man. He currently had more important problems than my questions. I rolled my body forward, hitting the new floor of this sideway limousine. Hadn’t noticed this before but it has a sunroof. Had a sunroof that is. My arms reached up and pulled me towards it while my legs got their act together. It pays to do your own stunts.

“Wa-Wait…” the man groaned.

“No time for that. If you’re worried about the girls, I could feel them flinching. Just…”

Man, my head hurts. I touch the top gently and don’t feel anything warm or wet. That’s good at least. Can’t say the same about whoever is the driver. Bullets rarely have one target in my experience.

“Find the strength to get them through the roof. Whatever happens next will probably be better than now.”

I let my body fall through the opening and land in crisp, cool water. Too bad it wasn’t deep enough to cushion anything. Actually…that would be awful. I prefer this creek. Definitely this creek. My body finally allows me to stand and before long, I’m walking. Sure it hurts and I have a slight limp in my step but I’ve been through worse. Won’t be long before an ambulance arrives. It is afternoon after all. Those amateurs were lucky. Late night crimes don’t go too well.

“Time to go. This isn’t my kind of limelight anyway.”

I got far enough away for it to matter. Siren’s played behind me sooner rather than later. Hopefully those three find a different career path. At the very least, let them never bump into me again.

“I should really invest in a bodyguard somehow. Heh, as if that’ll work. Oh well… back to my trailer I guess.”

Life will forever have its ups and downs and all things considered, this was a humbling middle ground. That was until I felt my leg vibrate. Scroll isn’t broken. Today is a good day. I take it out and answer the obvious questions from my Director.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?”

“On a walk.”

“I hear sirens!”

“They aren’t for me.”

“Are they because of you?”

Gotta admit, he was very good at asking questions.

“In my defense, I was kidnapped.”

“YOU WERE WHAT!? I THOUGHT THAT WAS DONE WITH!?”

“It could be a random coincidence? Nobody knew anything, which is concerning for other reasons. It’s pretty gross when I consider the worst scenario.”

“Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”

“No offense but I’m tired of cars. I need the exercise anyway. See you at my trailer?”

“…Fine.”

“Oh! Can there be burgers waiting for me? I can even go for a kids meal.”

“Fine! But your toy is a med kit!”

He hung up abruptly. Jokes on him. That’s the toy I wanted. Hopefully it doesn’t ruin our film schedule. After all, I’ve never been to Menagerie. Something fun is bound to happen there.

[eriquin]

The Trolley Problem, Part 13

Continuing the meta chapter. Steve feels a little bad about being praised for his creativity.

(master post)

Part 13

They went back to the living room and sat down again, discussing more things about the monster. Steve wrote down the note about the sword and suggested that it might be easier to get a machete instead, even if it lost cool points. Eddie pointed out that the sword had more reach than a machete, which Steve had to concede was true. 

He wrote down the nail-bat almost absentmindedly, but Eddie read it over his shoulder and asked about it. “Oh, I mean... Like, just get a bunch of nails and a wooden baseball bat, you know? Combine the two? If they’re just going for stuff they have laying around...”

Eddie looked stunned by the idea. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “That’d be so metal.” 

Steve grinned and ducked his head. “Right? Like, maybe it would just rip through the thing, or maybe it would break or get stuck, but it would do a lot of damage.”

“So much damage,” Eddie said. He ran his hands through his hair and stared at Steve like he was some kind of a genius. “Christ, Harrington, that’s brilliant. I love it.” 

It made something weird squirm in Steve’s chest, because it certainly hadn’t been his idea. None of this was. Eddie was sitting here, thinking he was some kind of creative genius when it was just dumb luck that sent him back in time. He scratched his head and turned to a new page. “Okay, so that’s probably enough weapons, right?” 

“Right,” Eddie said, nodding. “So what’s next? If they’re setting a trap, how do they get the monster to trip it?”

Steve nodded. “Right, okay. So they know that it hunts people and animals, probably by the scent of blood.”

“Right, like a shark,” Eddie said.

“And it can come through the walls, making portals in stuff.”

“Which is also awesome, by the way. Like, it can smell blood from another dimension? That’s so freaky.” He rubbed his chin. “What’s to stop it from hunting at the hospital, then? Like, just popping in during surgery. I’m sure it doesn’t really care about being seen.” 

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Uh, I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe... Maybe the hospital’s too far away?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, everything else was near the lab,” he said. “Maybe it can only go so far. Like, it has a certain area that it hunts...”

“Right, so they have to set the trap somewhere that they know it goes,” Steve said. “They can cut their hands to spill some blood and then be ready for it.” He made a motion across his palm with his finger.

“Man, does it have to be the palm?” Eddie made a grossed-out face. “You know how long those take to heal? And it can fuck up your ability to grip things, too.” He held his own hand up and pointed out a little scar on his palm. “I snapped a string on my old guitar once and couldn’t play for, like, a week.” 

Steve frowned. “But you always see people cutting their hands in movies and stuff.”

“Sure, because that’s the easiest place to hold the blood pack for special effects,” Eddie said. “But in real life you’d fuck your hand up.”

The thing was, Steve knew this was true, because the cuts on Nancy and Jonathan’s hands had taken forever to heal. Even if she didn’t complain about it much, he remembered watching her wince every time she had to grab something with her left hand for a long time after that first encounter. “Yeah, but...” He searched for a reason why they would do it like that, even if it didn’t matter. If this was a book, he could change it for Eddie. “Like, do you think they’d know that?”

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “No, they would not,” he said. “They’re just teenagers. They don’t know any better, and they’re doing what they see in movies. Good point, good point. But if they survive it, you gotta put in something about it fucking up their hands, okay?”

Steve grinned and nodded. “I definitely will,” he said. “Okay, so they’re at the kidnapped boy’s house because that’s the only place they know the monster hangs out.”

“There or the rich asshole’s house,” Eddie said. “That’s where it took the girl’s friend, right?” 

“Yeah, but that means dealing with the rich asshole.” Steve frowned. “I mean, he’s going to show up anyway. At the end, when they’re fighting the monster.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up. “Is he going to get eaten?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “No, he’s not going to get eaten. Why would he get eaten? Why are you so bloodthirsty?” 

“It’s horror, dude. You need some gore.” Eddie flopped back on the couch and waved his hand like that explained everything. “Aren’t you going to have one of the people setting the trap die instead? Like, sacrifice themself so that the mom and the cop can rescue the kid? That’s a great twist, you know. A person who dies in place of an innocent.” 

“I don’t... I wasn’t going to do that.” Steve tapped his pencil on the book and thought back to how close they’d come to getting killed. Maybe it felt like a sacrifice to Nancy and Jonathan, but that hadn’t been what was going through his head. “I was just going to have them wound it and have it barely escape.”

“Eh,” Eddie shrugged and sounded unenthused. “Okay, so why does the rich asshole show up? Didn’t he get in a fight with them about this shit? What’s he there for, round two?”

“No, no,” Steve said. He stared at the page. “He felt bad. I mean, yeah they fought but then he... Uh, he had a change of heart? And went there to apologize?” 

Eddie raised his eyebrows and looked like he was barely keeping himself from laughing at that. “Really? Your dickhead antagonist character is going to come around to the light side all on his own?” He did laugh a little then, short and bitter. “I thought you wanted something believable, Harrington.”

Steve frowned and glared at him. “Come on, man, he’s not Doug fucking Neidermeyer here. He’s just a normal teenager who’s kind of self-absorbed. He shows up, he freaks out, he runs away, and he comes back at the last second to help.” He shrugged and looked back at the book, unsure of what he was supposed to be writing at this point.

“All right, if you say so,” said Eddie, still looking unconvinced. 

The blank line stared back at Steve. He sighed and let his shoulders slump. “Yeah, okay. So, what would you do to make it more exciting? Or to get them out of danger. There’s just two of them and they’re trying to kill this monster, because Definitely-Not-Nancy wants revenge for her friend and the guy just wants to save his little brother. But they’re not really a match for it. They’re gonna make the mistake about the gun and it’s, like, eight feet tall and has claws and a giant mouth full of teeth instead of a head.” 

Eddie leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers together in front of his mouth. “And you’re sure you don’t want to kill either of them off?” 

“No, dude,” Steve said. “They’re important later. Like, she’s gotta get revenge on the lab that killed her friend and there’s a whole bunch of stuff that happens after they get the little kid back.” 

“Like, a part two?” Eddie asked. “You’ve planned that far ahead?”

“I mean. Yeah.” Steve shrugged. “Could work in some cool Russian spy stuff and weird technology and a coverup. The gate isn’t closed yet, and there’s some guy from the psychic girl’s past behind the whole thing.”

Eddie looked delighted at this. “Really? Then what happens?” 

Steve’s stomach dropped. “The apocalypse. Lots of people die. The Upside Down leaks into the real world.” He sighed and muttered, “Shit like that.” 

His drop in mood didn’t have any effect on Eddie’s. The other boy continued to gush about the idea. Steve tried to redirect his energy towards ideas on how to fight the monster. He asked what Eddie would do if the characters didn’t have time to set a trap, like if the demogorgon surprised them early. Eddie’s response was to let one of them die to increase the dramatic tension, which made Steve scoff.

“Okay, but what if it was one of your games,” he said. “How would your players survive it?”

Eddie grinned. “My players mostly see their characters die and roll up new characters,” he said, looking proud of himself. At Steve’s pout, he scoffed. “That’s just how the game goes, Stevie. It’s me versus them. If they all survived, then my adventure wasn’t challenging enough.” 

“That sounds awful,” Steve said. “I don’t want to play something and just expect my guy to die. Don’t you put a lot of effort into making characters? And then they’re just gone? That sucks.”

“I mean, uh...” Eddie looked a little flustered. “They’re not real people, Steve. You get that, right?” 

Steve thought back to listening to Dustin explain the whole backstory of the party’s characters, and how they’d built the group up to function together and run through adventures as a team. He couldn’t imagine them having a good time in the type of game that Eddie described, and he kept frowning. “Whatever, man,” he said. “I guess I don’t get it.” 

His dismissive tone seemed to make Eddie feel awkward and they moved on from the conversation. He went back to talking about the monster and different ways to confront it. 

“What about some kind of makeshift flamethrower?” Steve asked. “Like, can you use a lighter and hairspray?” 

“It doesn’t burn for very long,” Eddie said. “It might scare the monster off, but you also run the risk of the can exploding and hurting yourself.” 

“Yeah, good point,” Steve said. “You’re probably better with Molotovs.” 

Eddie grinned. “Or setting up the hairspray can to explode and hurling it like a grenade. Bet your jerkass jock character could manage that.” He made a grabbing motion at the notebook and, when Steve handed it over, sketched out a diagram for how to do it. “It’s still super dangerous, though. But then again, so are Molotovs.” 

Steve shrugged. “Molotovs aren’t that dangerous,” he said. 

This got a laugh out of Eddie. “Dude, they so are. They burn fast, they slosh around when you throw them, and you’re just as likely to flub the throw and break them at your feet and then fucking watch out.” He grinned and made a motion like the ground was exploding, complete with sound effects. “And God help you if you’re carrying more. You’re completely fucked. Like, there’s lots of ways to screw up with fire. Even setting the traps with the lighter fluid like you wrote there is probably going to burn a house down. Don’t do this at home, kids.” 

Steve grimaced. “Okay, so no fire,” he said.

“No, they should still do it. Like, in the book. It could work. Just, they’ve got to be prepared for it and like, don’t go around trying it out in real life to figure out how it’d work.” Eddie put his hand to his chest. “I know from experience, okay? Don’t screw with fire in the real world.” 

“Yeah, noted,” Steve said. “So what else do you have in mind?”

Eddie outlined some other options, based on his experience with running games for the Hellfire Club. It was like outlining plays with the basketball team, though the field and the target was different. Steve immediately understood what he meant by a pincer attack and about herding the monster into a trap. 

In turn, Eddie wanted to know more about his vision for the Upside Down. He said it sounded like the plane of shadows, but wetter. Steve described it as cold and damp, with freakish plants all connected to a hive mind. He talked about hearing voices from the other side as if there was someone in the walls, and being able to affect the lights in return. He told him how that meant that people thought the mom was seeing ghosts when her kid was trying to get through to her. Eddie hung on his every word, occasionally commenting about how good and creepy it sounded.

[chris-continues]

Your Savior,

Swap AU Savior Vash

Inspired by this text post!

NOTES: I love the idea of swap au vash/savior vash but I couldn’t write this longer like I wanted to because writing him too OOC aggravates me like AUGHHHH I can’t tarnish him like that :( so I’ll be writing blips of interaction with him and reader. More food is cooking and brewing, but I hope you enjoy this!

TAGS: @h4venpha @lune010 @vashfantasy @astrathecowboy @captaintweet

If I could not ping you, try changing your settings!

You shouldn’t be here.

You should be traversing the town, running errands, helping villagers with small jobs and going about your day- the sands billowing upon your feet with each step, the smell of alcohol from the tavern strong as per usual due to the lack of clean water.

You’re in town alright, but it’s.. overtaken. Many clamor around the town’s plant, in awe of the figure before it. The sands whirl below, flaps of his.. Wings?

Feathers adorn every which way, everyone in awe- paralyzed, even. They billow out every which way, whooshing past your ears and almost branding a sear as they brush your cheekbones, the feeling light, ticklish, and foreign. Almost as foreign as the figure which turns, large angelic, wings framing him,

“Aw..” he bats his eyelashes, toga draping as he descends from the heights of the plant’s holding container, the bulb blossoming into.. something out of your view. His wings emanate a powerful wind, yet he almost floats down gracefully, reminiscent of parchment slipping from your hands and fluttering to the ground. “The plant..” he appears sorrowful, “I’m afraid it’s too late.” Mourning.

It’s then you recognize the embellishments upon his skin- markings, appearing ritual, although with the way they glow and flicker in the sun they appear natural. They’re reminiscent of the being he had attempted to save?

Which makes no sense, you shake your head, hoping to rid of the buzz licking at your consciousness and aid in finding clarity,

“But I’m here to help!” He chirps happily, grin a bit too cheery. He’s traversing amidst the surrounding crowd, soothing those who were confused with assuring words and a sheepish grin upon further insistence, “That’s.. a complicated story, I’m afraid.” He was vague, in every sense of the word- what was his name? What was he? What-

What even was that?

Before you could even retain such knowledge, he was standing before you, looming above your person. His blonde hair cascaded down his forehead, the sun causing them to appear a slight gold in his ethereal nature. What about this man wasn’t otherworldly? You’d never know.

“You’re uh- you’re staring.” He chuckled, “I do hope everything besides the plant is doing well!” His feathers ruffled with his melodious voice, “How- how are you going to help? Are you a plant engineer?” Your insistence wasn’t anything new to him.

“You could say that.”

And then he continued to smile, passing you by once more to continue talking to the other townsfolk. He was odd, that much was obvious to any passerby, and if it was too late for him to heal the plant what would he do to help?

Worry began to curdle in your stomach at the possibilities that brewed in this mysterious man’s definition of help.

[leiawritesstories]

You did rowaelin teenagers, you did lysaedion teenagers, we all know this series won't be complete without elorcan teenagers...

then prepare yourselves for boy dad!Lorcan 👀👀

word count: 2,239

warnings: lots of language (they're Elorcan's kids), exhausted parents, injury

enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I swear to the ruttin' gods--" Lorcan grumbled, swinging himself out of his truck and striding across the parking lot, clicking the key fob to lock the doors. It took him less than a minute before he strode through the automatic doors, their quiet swish completely opposing his scowl, and approached the desk. "Salvaterre."

The curly-haired lady blinked. "Are you Salvaterre, or are you here for Salvaterre?"

Lorcan suppressed the foul thing that threatened to come out his mouth. "Sorry. I'm Lorcan Salvaterre, here for Daric Salvaterre. I got a call saying he'd been brought in?"

The receptionist typed a few things into her computer. "Ah yes, Mr. Daric Salvaterre was brought in by someone who said he was a friend. May I see ID, please? Just a formality." Lorcan handed over his driver's license. She glanced at it and nodded. "All right. Daric is in Room 27, go on back."

"Thanks." Lorcan took back his license and headed through the doors into the clinic, the sterile smells of cleaner and medicine hanging in the air. He followed the signs until he reached Room 27, where he knocked a couple times on the door to make sure he wouldn't walk in on a doctor talking to his son.

"Come in."

Lorcan opened the door, his eyes immediately shooting to his oldest son. "'Ric, you alright?" He crossed the small room in a step and a half. "Shit, kid, what happened?"

"Calm down, Dad," Daric protested, though he made no move to bat his father away. "I'm fine."

"That godsdamn boot says otherwise," Lorcan retorted.

"Fair enough." Daric shifted, wincing slightly. "Shit!"

"Shit," Lorcan echoed, instinctively catching hold of his son's shoulders. "Kiddo, you're scaring me."

"I'm not a kiddo," Daric grumbled, lips twitching. "I promise I'm gonna be fine, Dad, the doctor said nothing's broken."

"Then what's wrong?"

The boy sighed. "I had a...small accident at practice?"

"Bullshit." Lorcan raised one dark brow as he sat himself down in the uncomfortable chair. "What happened?"

"Ugh, shit, you see through everything," his son complained. "It was just during a scrimmage, I got a little too tangled up with my man and we both went down, but my skate caught on his and twisted my ankle."

Lorcan winced. "And they sent you to the damn ER for that?"

"Trainer referred me," Daric explained. "Said he couldn't be sure without a scan and there's sure as hell no X-ray machines or any of that shit at school."

"Okay." Some of Lorcan's raging stress subsided. "So someone drove you here and they got a scan and said it's just twisted?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Daric affirmed. "I just had to wait here 'cause I'm only sixteen and they won't let me check myself out."

"Cause you're still a kid." Lorcan half-smirked. "Right, is the doctor coming back?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Right on cue, there was another knock on the door.

"Come in!" Daric called.

Sure enough, it was the doctor, a couple of forms in his hand. "Mr. Salvaterre?" he asked, looking to Lorcan.

"That's me." Lorcan shook the doctor's hand. "I'm this uh...rash youngster's father."

"Dr. Hesper," the man replied. "I'm sure your son's already told you, but the injury isn't as serious as it could have been. It's sprained, and he shouldn't put weight on it for at least two days and definitely shouldn't be skating for at least a week, but as long as he keeps to those guidelines, he should be back on the ice within a couple weeks and back to training and competing in a month."

"Well, that's a relief." Lorcan flashed a half-grin at his son. "Any other instructions? Medicine, whatever else?"

"We're not prescribing pain medication," Dr Hesper replied. "It's not that serious of an injury. He can have ibuprofen, Tylenol, the standard over-the-counter pain relievers, and if it starts to swell, elevate and ice for twenty to thirty minutes on and thirty minutes off."

"Okay great, thanks again, doctor."

"Of course!" Dr. Hesper shook Lorcan's and Daric's hands again, told Daric he needed to use the crutches for a week, and headed out of the room. "You're all good to go, Salvaterres."

Lorcan helped Daric get situated with the crutches and took the forms, walking beside his son as they went back out to the truck. At the door, Daric stopped, unsure quite how to swing himself up.

"Give me a hand, Dad?" he finally asked, a little grumpily.

"Course." Lorcan took the crutches and boosted his son up on his good leg, helping him swing his injured leg into the truck so he wouldn't put weight on it.

"Thanks." Daric took the crutches back and leaned into the seat, closing his eyes.

It was a rather quiet drive home.

~

"Holy shit!" Elide yelped, practically sprinting out of the house and out to the pickup the second she saw her oldest son on crutches. She was at Daric's side almost before Lorcan could blink, brows creased with worry. "What happened?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Daric mumbled, hopping along.

Elide planted herself in front of her son and folded her arms across her chest. "Don't you give me that crap, Daric Callum Salvaterre. What. Happened?"

Her son gulped, the use of his full name very much communicating how serious his mom was. "I sprained my ankle at practice, doc said if I follow his rules, I should be back to playing in a month."

"So...not too serious?"

"No, Mom, it's not too serious," Daric huffed. "Can I go in now? I want to sit down."

She chose to interpret his curtness as him being in some degree of pain and stepped aside. "I'll get you some ibuprofen." And she did, bringing him the medicine and some water once he was settled on the couch. "Here."

"Thanks, Mom." Daric flashed her a soft smile, exhaustion written all over his face.

Elide reached out to brush the dark hair out of his eyes. "How long until you can get back on the ice?"

"I'm on crutches for a week, so a week until I can do anything at practice and probably two until I can actually go on the ice." He sighed, frowning. "Don't fuckin' like it, though."

"Language, son." She huffed a soft sigh herself. "I know it sucks, 'Ric, but please--"

"You don't know!" he interrupted, scowling now. "God, Mom, I get you want to be sympathetic but you don't bloody know!"

Arching one dark brow dryly, Elide merely sat down on the other couch and raised her right leg, pulling down her sock to expose the scar tissue at her ankle. "Oh?"

"Shit," Daric mumbled, his cheeks flushing. "Sorry, Mom, that was stupid of me."

"I forgive you," she murmured, standing back up and ruffling his overgrown hair. "Think before you speak, son of mine." her lips curled into a little grin. "Hungry?"

"Oh yeah, I--"

"DUDE!" A slightly younger dark-haired boy burst into the living room, staring unabashedly at his brother's boot. "Dude, that's DOPE, can I sign it?"

"Matt," Elide groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, "are you serious?"

"What?" Matthias Salvaterre, fourteen years old and his big brother's biggest fan, shrugged. "Taran said Ric had a boot!"

"Good gods above," Elide sighed. "Matt, leave your brother alone for now, I'm sure you can sign his boot after dinner."

"Ugh, fine," Matt grumbled, turning around and loping back out towards the kitchen. "DAAAAAD! What's for dinner?"

"Why don't you find out?" Lorcan's amused rumble sounded from the kitchen.

Elide chuckled. "I'll go control them. You just call out if you need anything, k?"

"Okay." Daric resettled himself and grabbed his laptop from his backpack. "Thanks, Mom."

"Love you." And she headed to the kitchen to make sure her husband and second son weren't actively burning anything down.

~

"Gods burn me now," Lorcan groaned, stripping off his shirt in one motion as he nudged the bedroom door shut behind him. "Remind me why we ever thought three boys would be a good idea, El?"

"Pretty sure you're the one who needs to remind me," she teased, "given that it was you who made them, babe."

"And I'd do it all over again," he purred, sliding his broad arms around her waist.

She laughed softly, leaning into his warmth. "Don't tempt me, Salvaterre."

His low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "We never had our baby girl, El..."

"Oh no you don't." She extracted herself from his embrace, strolling coolly into the bathroom. "I know we agreed we were done, but gods, Lor, you tempt me far too much."

"Not half as much as you tempt me, babe." He kissed the top of her head. And yawned, his jaw cracking.

She smirked. "Getting a little tired, babe? Age catching up with you?"

"'M'not old," he grumbled.

"Uh huh," she drawled, giggling as he playfully lunged at her. She dodged his grasp and returned to the bedroom, where she settled herself into bed and waited for her giant hulking husband to join her.

Which he did, curling himself into her side, his arms around her waist and his head leaned against her shoulder. She slipped her fingers into his loose hair, drawing a contented purr out of him as they both drifted into sleep.

Only to be awoken at some bloody unholy hour of the night when their door creaked open.

"D-Dad?" Their youngest, Taran, stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes blearily. "Dad? Mom?"

"What is it?" Lorcan cracked his eyes open, half-propping himself up.

Their eleven-year-old son bit his lower lip. "Ric's talking in his sleep again and he doesn't sound okay."

Elide pushed herself out of bed in an instant, hurrying over to Taran. "What do you mean?"

"Hey." Lorcan slid his hand into Elide's, comforting her. "Let me go, you go back to sleep."

"I--"

"I'll be fine." Lorcan kissed his wife's forehead. "I promise. Go back to sleep, El."

She sighed. "Okay."

Lorcan knelt down in front of his youngest. "What's Ric saying, kiddo?"

"I dunno." Taran's dark eyes were wide with concern. "I woke up to pee and heard him talking in his sleep and I think he said something about needing to skate."

"Shit," Lorcan muttered. "Alright, T, how about I get you back to bed and I'll go check on Daric, yeah?"

"Okay." Taran looked like he was on the verge of shaking, so Lorcan picked him up, letting the boy wrap himself into his father's hold.

"Dammit, kid, when did you get so big?" Lorcan mumbled.

"'M'growin', dad," Taran mumbled, his voice muffled in Lorcan's shoulder.

"Well, stop that," Lorcan chuckled. "Y'all growing up too fast." He got Taran settled back in his room, left the door cracked open, and went down the hall to Daric's room.

True to what Taran had said, Daric was mumbling in his sleep and rustling around in bed. Lorcan placed his ear to the barely-opened door, picking up mostly incoherent mumbles and a hint of ow shit hurts shut wanna play damn ankle.

He pushed open his oldest's door and went in, kneeling down by the side of his bed and gently shaking his shoulder. "Hey. Hey, wake up, Ric, you're scarin' me."

Daric jerked awake, disoriented, shaking himself as he realized that his dad was in his room. "Huh?"

"You're talking to yourself."

"Shit," Daric muttered. "Thought that was just dreams."

"Yeah, well, we heard you." Lorcan pressed the back of his hand to his son's forehead. "Shit, kid, you're damn warm!"

"I'm fine," Daric grumbled. "Just sleep hot, you know that."

"Fine." Lorcan raised his brows. "How's the pain?"

Daric didn't respond.

"How's the pain?"

"Not great," the boy mumbled.

Lorcan exhaled slowly. "I'm gonna get you a couple more ibuprofen, okay?" He ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a couple of the pills and some water, bringing them back and handing them to his son. "Here. Take 'em, I'm not leaving until you do."

"Thanks." Quietly, Daric took the pills, swallowing them down. "Ugh, gods, why'd this have to happen now?"

"Couldn't tell you." Instinctually, Lorcan brushed Daric's messy hair off his forehead. "You need anything else?"

"Uhh...can you--never mind, I can."

"Mm, no, tell me."

"Can you get a couple pillows under my leg?" Daric asked. "Doc said I should try elevating it when I'm sleeping if it starts hurting."

"Of course." Lorcan grabbed a couple of extra pillows and helped Daric get his boot situated atop them. "How's that?"

"S'great," his son mumbled. "Night, Dad."

"Night, son." Lorcan closed the door behind him and returned to the master bedroom, tucking himself back against Elide.

She shifted to face him, tracing her thumb across his cheek. "How is he?"

"He'll be okay," Lorcan murmured. "Gave him some more medicine and got his leg elevated."

"Good." She was silent for a moment, the worry in her brown eyes slowly dissipating. "Gods, Lor, it scared me."

"I know," he whispered, sliding his hand along her back. "Scared the hell out of me, too."

She hummed in agreement and curled into his side, her breath fanning softly against his skin. "You're the best damn dad, Lor."

He huffed. "I wouldn't say the best, but I try."

"Love you," she mumbled, her words slurring with sleepiness.

"Love you too," he whispered, twirling a lock of her soft, dark hair around his finger as he let himself fall back asleep.

~~~

TAGS:

@charlizeed

@cretaceous-therapod

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@nerdperson524

@fireheartwhitethorn4ever

@morganofthewildfire

@rowanaelinn

@wesupremeginger

@stardelia

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@throneofus7

@elizarikaallen

@llyncooljones

@booknerdproblems

@julemmaes

[alexthefly]

Just In Case

My first ever attempt at the @flashfictionfridayofficial challenge. It's a bit ropey, but it's a thing that exists, so yay progress!

Fandom: Thunderbirds/Thunderbirds Are Go

Word count: 999

Rating: teen

Warnings: Kissing, brief mentions of alcohol and poor mental health.

...

“Now boys, promise me you’ll be good for your mother. Mind your manners, do your chores - all that good stuff, okay?”

An enthusiastic chorus of “Yes Sir”s - together with Scott’s attempt at a salute - and Jeff was compelled to bend down for one last hug with his two tiny Tracys. For a moment he soaked in the smell of soap in his sons’ hair, the feeling of little arms wrapped around him, and of sticky wet kisses on his cheeks.

His heart ached.

Finally he rose again. “Alright boys,” he said, clearing his throat, “to your duties. Dismissed!”

And with that they were gone, racing past their mother on their way to whatever adventure Scotty had convinced Virgil to go on with him today.

“Stay in the yard you two,” Lucy called after them before walking over to Jeff, holding his hold-all. “I packed your father’s penknife for you,” she said, “just in case.”

Jeff took the bag and kissed her on the cheek. “You didn’t need to do that, Honey. Lee's got all the tools we could possibly need on board.”

“I know,” she replied, shrugging. “It’s just in case.”

He chuckled. 

Her favourite phrase.

“Alright then; just in case.”

*

“Promise you’ll write?” she asked as they got to the front door.

Jeff turned back, eyebrow raised.

“Write? Is this Victorian England? We have holo’s; I can just call you.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “It’s just it’s so far, and comms can be unreliable-”

Jeff laughed. “Those same comms you want to send emails through?”

Lucy scowled up at him. “Don’t be an ass, Jeff! I just meant you’ll be so busy, and trying to match up Moon/Earth timezones and stuff, it’s easy to miss each other. I just thought… just in case… it might…”

She huffed and looked at the ground, as if the right words might be scattered down there, and he felt a fresh wave of love for his remarkable, bewildering wife, whose brain was so much quicker than her mouth; who got flummoxed and tongue-tied even as she was thinking circles around you. Trying to keep up with her was like trying to keep pace with a whirlwind. 

But god didn’t he just love trying?

His clever, clever Lucy, unfathomable and completely fascinating. 

Gently, he reached out and brushed her flushed cheek, willing her to look at him.

“It might…?” he prompted.

Brown eyes met grey. Something brief and inscrutable passed across her face, then she smiled.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “I just thought it might be something to look back on one day, when we’re old and grey, remembering when we were parted lovers. Like those love letters you see in movies sometimes.”

“Uh-huh. And you thought I’d be ‘leading man material’, huh?” He grinned, puffing out his chest.

“Shuddup,” she grumbled, batting his arm. “Remind me again, how are you planning to fit that ego of yours inside that tiny rocket?”

“Ouch. Kick a man on his way out the door, why don’tcha?” He staggered, clutching his chest and feigning a grievous wound, eliciting giggles. 

“Oh yes, definitely got the ‘leading man’ theatrics down!”

“I’m telling Lee you called his rocket ‘tiny’, by the way.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

An eyebrow. “Try me.”

She went to bat him again but this time he caught her and, holding her in his arms, kissed her softly, tenderly, committing it to memory.

As they finally pulled apart, he saw the flush in her cheek was back. Not ready to completely let her go just yet, he cupped her face in his hand to admire it. He thought of the cherry blossoms in the orchard, just beginning to bud, and how the pair of them had walked together amongst them as he’d shown her the deployment papers. He’d lamented the fact he’d miss the full, floral display this year, even as he thought about what else he would miss...

“Alright Honey,” he said, holding her close, “if you write to me I promise I’ll write back. Write and tell me everything that’s going on at home. I want to hear all about what Meryl was gossiping about at the car-wash, or how much pork has gone up at the market, or exactly how much of an idiot Sheriff Buckley made of himself at the county fair.”

“You’re making fun of me,” she said, pouting.

“I promise I’m not, darlin’.” He took her face in his hands and looked her square in the eye. “I want to know everything. Tell me how Dad’s making a nuisance of himself trying to fix every fencepost around the place. How Mom won’t stop bringing you casseroles and you’re running out of places to hide ‘em.”

Lucy choked back a giggle.

“Write and tell me about every adventure and every scrape the boys get into. Let me know every single thought that goes through that beautiful mind of yours. I want to hear everything. Every moment. Don’t miss out a single thing - write it all. And one day we’ll read them together, side by side in the nursing home, surrounded by grandkids. Okay?”

“...Okay.”

-------------

All was quiet in the villa. Padding softly over to check the lock, Jeff returned to his screen and, after gathering himself together, brought up the hidden file.

The last time he’d looked at it, he’d not been in a good place. There had been whisky. It wasn’t… It was a mistake.

He was better now. His boys had pulled him through. 

Together they’d found a new purpose.

It was time.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the file. 

“Dear Jeff, how are you doing? I hope Lee isn’t driving you too mad yet. Virgil cut another tooth today…”

One last gift from his clever, clever wife, who’d known that not every love story ends in the nursing home. Who’d realised that one day one of them might need something to help remember the good times.

A contingency plan.

Just in case.

[aidaronan]

32 and Jargyle!

32. things you said right after hello The first time their doorbell rings in Lenora, Jonathan's heart kicks up into his throat. Mom is at the grocery store, and he thinks about all those shadowy people who might be after El. About the reporters who still occasionally go digging after juicy tidbits regarding Will's return from the dead. Staring at the front door, he eyes the baseball bat Mom keeps in the umbrella stand and tries to make out shapes through the frosted glass. Everything is a blob of yellow and blue. With that color scheme, he figures it's at least pretty unlikely to be the government. Still, his hands tremble as he undoes the deadbolt and opens the door, his body ready to leap for the bat at a moment's notice. Jonathan is met with the sight of a guy about his age and with the competing smells of mozzarella and good marijuana. "Hello, my dude." The visitor gives him an easy smile, nodding like a slow-motion bobblehead doll, his long dark hair swaying under his yellow cap. "Your hot and fresh Surfer Boy Surf's Up Sausage pizza has arrived right to your humble abode. Eat it while the eatin's good, man." "We didn't order a pizza." The easy smile briefly falters. "No? Is this not the-" The pizza boy reads the side of the box. "The Petersons?"

"Sorry, man." "Well shit. Do you know where they are?" "Kinda new in town." Jonathan shrugs apologetically. "Oh righteous, bro. Well, welcome to Lenora." The pizza boy smiles wider, and Jonathan feels his mood lift by proximity. "I'm Argyle." He leans in closer. "Hey, by any chance do you partake?" "Uh?" "You know..." Argyle mimes smoking a blunt. Jonathan thinks, oddly enough, of Eddie Munson and his little black lunch box all the way back in Hawkins. Jonathan had definitely slid a little money Eddie's way once or twice, especially after the demogorgon. "Sometimes." When the nightmares are bad enough. When he's missing his old life before Will went missing. When he thinks he sees shapes in all the shadows on the wall. "Consider this an official welcoming gift and my sincere apology for interrupting your Saturday night." Argyle fishes in his shirt pocket and pulls out a blunt, passing it to Jonathan discreetly on the doorstep. "Hey, uh, is it cool if I leave my van here while I ask around?" "Sure, dude." Jonathan watches Argyle look both ways before choosing a direction to go, pizza box in hand. And Jonathan can't pinpoint exactly which thing about Argyle makes him do it, but he calls after him. "Hey." Argyle turns back. "If you want to come by after you're done with work, we could..." Jonathan mimics the smoking gesture Argyle gave him. "Oh right on." Argyle beams. The next time the doorbell rings, Jonathan isn't afraid.

[fractualized]

It's that time again: thoughts on The Man Who Stopped Laughing #5!

Spoilers below, of course, and a reference to suicide and some definite body horror.

If there was one thing I didn't expect this issue to start with, it's Joker emulating his boyfrenemy.

The implied bat pun. The exposed midriff. … I def saw fan art like this once.

So it's been a few days since Joker escaped the hospital, and his getup indicates he's been investigating who his imposter is (if he is an imposter). And now he's in one of his old hideouts wondering why the Mad Hatter has set up shop there.

And of course since the Mad Hatter is usually relegated to Creepy Weirdo, there are some unfortunate kids here. Joker isn't worried about their welfare, but I'm pretty sure Jervis soon won't be in a state to do them any harm.

Jervis says he got the key from Other Joker, who is back in town, and Jason's own investigation on where his clown quarry soon leads him to the same information, after ruining Killer Moth's night.

So the Joker who ran off to LA is still seen as the real one, and word has spread there's an imposter running around.

Uh oh! Whatever Jervis told Joker, it's leading him to a trap! But what helpful information for Ja— 

LOL Poor Moth.

Over in the trap, we see some fun effects with the speech bubble.

That's no reason for me to think Protag Joker is the real one but I do, okay, I'll take any hint

It's not a subtle trap, is it?

Joker looking at himself like 😍

And then…

Lmaoooooooooo of course he did. Joker smelled a trap, of course, and even got a lock to keep the other Joker inside so they could burn together. He says he doesn't want to die but boy does Joker always have doubtful ways of showing it.

There's an interlude with Jason and Stephanie, in which she talks about Bruce like he's in the city.

So I guess this takes place before the current Batman storyline. Or after. Or in some amorphous space. Maybe concurrently with the Punchline comic? Does DC actually give a crap about continuity?

Meanwhile back at the fire, the Other Joker's dialogue gets a little suspect.

Protag Joker's had a water gun this whole time, and I thought it had gasoline in it, but…

Well, acid works fine, and it gets him out of the cage. Though I assume he's not gonna jump out the new hole in the wall.

Back at the coffee meetup, we learn Bruce doesn't think Protag Joker is the real deal. :(

Which implies that Bruce is aware of the Joker situation and just left Other Joker to do his thing in LA?? That raises questions that I sure hope get answered, because huh??

The fire gets big enough for Jason and Stephanie to notice it, as Joker walks out of the building and tracks his double down an open grate.

I like the detail that Joker slides down the ladder. :)

And alright, here we go! Time to get some answers!

DAMMIT, JASON

Yeah, sure, Joker got run over by a train. See you next issue, buddy.

Well, I'm glad Jason got to shoot a Joker copy in a good comic.

Oh whoa WHOA! The answer! Other Joker has been Clayface all the long! Well, that's a little overdone, but I've been wanting to know—

DAMMIT, ROSENBERG! Why must you taunt me! 

But we end on this amazing beachside image:

Okay, I forgive you, Rosenberg. The speedo, the flowy robe, the hat, the muscled manservant with the fruity drink… Di Giandomenico, I love you.

So apparently Other Joker is going back to Gotham for real now, but the end-title implies we won't see a real Joker-to-Joker confrontation next month. :( But I can deal so long as I'm still having a fun time.

Alright, backer time: we have yet another woman Joker is trying to woo, and yet another strange way to produce Joker copies.

Here the uninterested woman is Giganta, and my interest in this trope is waning, not helped by this joke:

Joker's been pursuing women in most of these backers, and I've been able to set that aside because they're so ridiculous, but it makes it hard to see this pun as unconsequential. I'm gonna stare at that last panel in the main story to feel better.

There's no mpreg to be found in this backer, just Joker working regular jobs to convince Giganta he's not evil. And when that doesn't work…

He calls up Etrigan, who doesn't think making a clown not evil is a good use of his time.

Lol Etrigan's unfinished rhyme

The demon gets his revenge, though, when he tricks Joker into reading the wrong spell.

I put this into Google translate and got:

"that his hands, head, and feet may be destroyed by worms, cancer, and vermin, and his medulous members may be destroyed"

Which sorta tracks with what happens, which is that Joker grows as big as Giganta, and then we get some body horror!!

Giganta, uh, remains uninterested and leaves with Etrigan.

I guess we can look at it as all of Joker's evil squeezing out of him like popped zits. 😬 But the marks are still left behind and so are all the little vermin. But at least they're supportive?

I have a feeling Fox News won't be interested in this one.

[sylphidine]

[NDU] Memory Retrieval

@rotgsecretsanta

A very merry happy everything to all those in the Nightmare Dork University fandom, and especially for the person who requested prompt#96 in the ROTG Stocking Stuffer event for 2022!

May the good ship Nightmare Galleon forever sail.

____________________

The Fall Ball was over.

Six solid weeks of weekend lacrosse scrimmages had come and gone, and Pitchiner was ready to spend the remaining Saturdays and Sundays of the semester sleeping in. 

Preferably curled up in full-bodied spoon fashion around a certain bony, snarky drama king who had a ridiculously poor circulatory system.

On the second Saturday of November, Pitchiner woke from yet another one of those dreams where he was stalked and mocked by a gigantic and ruthless galactic pirate who wore his face. Disoriented, he reached a hand out to pull Pitch closer to his body for reassurance, and encountered cold sheets and empty space where Pitch should be.

He clamped his lips shut before he could do anything as embarrassing as calling out for his roommate. As it was so often said, that way lay madness. Murphy’s law would almost definitely take over and triumph, in the form of Proto and his damned bat-sharp ears answering Pitchiner’s call instead.

So, as much as he did not want to be vertical this early, Pitchiner swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrounged through the rumpled piles of clothing on the floor for some boxers and a T-shirt. Dressed enough to satisfy decency standards if anyone rang the buzzer for their flat, he padded on bare feet down the hallway towards the living room.

And that’s where he found Pitch. 

The shorter man was seated on the couch, hunched over his laptop. A full steaming cup of black coffee and a plate of biscotti sat on the coffee table in front of him. When Pitchiner’s shadow fell over him, Pitch tilted his head upwards in acknowledgement, but kept staring at the screen, an expression somewhere between disbelief and desperation etched on his angular face.

“Whatcha up to, babe?” Pitchiner asked, trying to keep his tone light. The scene in front of him - the coffee, the biscotti, the taut focus on his bedmate’s face - had all the warning signs of Pitch launching himself into yet another bout of overworking, which could end up triggering another seizure incident. That was something Pitchiner would give an arm and a leg to avoid experiencing again.  Once was enough, thank you.

“Wracking my brains to figure out what approach to take with Professor Izzilee’s second-to-last assignment,” Pitch replied, finally turning his body to look Pitchiner fully in the eye. “I either need a time machine, or to create a non-existent childhood experience.”

“Come again?” Pitchiner flopped onto the couch next to Pitch, narrowly avoiding knocking the coffee table with his knees. Pitch looked daggers at him and snatched his mug out of harm’s way, taking a deep swig before answering. “This is for the ‘Nihil Noctem’ course I’m taking, and the assignment is to write about a Saturday morning cartoon that frightened me as a child.”

“That sounds cool!  What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that neither Piki nor I ever watched Saturday morning cartoons.”

Pitchiner blinked and shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me?” For that, he received a sharp poke in the ribs with Pitch’s bony elbow.

“I know what you’re thinking, that the offspring of rich people are too high and mighty and above it all to do something as plebeian as view cartoons. But it was more than that. Have I mentioned that my brother and I had a nanny until we were ten?”

“Uh huh.  Again, not a surprise.”

“Shut it. I’m trying to make a point. Nanny Phoebe was a lot more attuned to us as children than our parents were. She’s the one that noticed that Piki’s eyesight was weaker than mine, and she’s the one who picked up on the fact that certain smells would trigger my headaches, like carpet cleaning fluid and furniture polish. So she’s the one that kept us from watching television, not because she thought it was evil, but because she figured out, a lot earlier than most people did, what lights and sounds should be filtered for children with our particular circumstances.”

 “Huh.  That’s impressive on her end, but I’m still kind of sad that you missed out on so much good stuff.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be. Horseback riding, music, reading… those are nothing to sneeze at for childhood activities.”

“Yeah, but.” Pitchiner slung an arm around Pitch and pulled him roughly against his side as he said, “that means that I’m just going to have to fill in the gaps in your education, so that you don’t let Professor Izzilee down.”

Pitch made a grumbling noise as he practically fell into Pitchiner’s lap.  “And how do you propose to do that? Do you actually have a time machine hidden around here?”

“Nope.  But I am going to introduce you to something that scared the living shit out of ME as a kid, and I will BET that it will keep your attention even now.”

“Is all this… paraphernalia really necessary?” Pitch demanded crankily, two hours later.

“Absolutely necessary,” Pitchiner shot back. “I can’t recreate YOUR childhood, but I can recreate mine, and you can borrow it for your assignment.”

“Hmmmm. You may have a point. It’s not too hard for me to imagine myself young and powerless, especially in this ridiculous garb.”

“You look adorable, sweetcheeks. And Purradox and Tarminator are comfy, aren’t they?”

“Yes, yes.” Pitch grudgingly accepted the kiss Pitchiner planted on top of his head. 

They each wore a pair of footie pajamas that Pitchiner had found at the department store in town. They sat cross-legged on the floor with their backs leaning against the couch, a pug dog and a longhaired cat cuddled on their laps, a blanket fort canopied over their heads.  Pitchiner had a bowl of disgustingly sugar-laden cereal next to him that he ate with his fingers. Pitch couldn’t quite unbend that far to “get into the experience”, as Pitchiner put it, but he had to admit to himself that this was actually not too awful a way to spend time together. 

[Particularly since Proto had apparently left the flat while they were out shopping, and had left a note that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.  Small blessing, but Pitch would take one wherever he could.]

Pitchiner pointed the remote at their entertainment center, and the DVD started to play. An animated action sequence with an appropriately-synched soundtrack unfolded, fading into a title card that read “The Invisible Monster”, with the credited year given as 1965.

He observed Pitch’s reactions to what they were watching, rather than watching an episode he knew by heart. It pleased him to see how quickly Pitch immersed himself in the story, rather than the scoffing dismissal Pitchiner had expected. At one point Tarminator barked in response to a dog barking on screen, but other than a quick “ssshhh”, Pitch didn’t change his posture. 

Both animals left the room about halfway through the episode. Pitchiner grinned to himself. As a kid, he hadn’t known about infrasonics, but he wasn’t surprised that Purradox and Tarminator had noped out when the incidental music hit those low-frequency tones. 

To all appearances, Pitch was mesmerized by the manifestation of the invisible monster’s heavy footprints in the dirt, small smoking craters accompanied by crashing noises as the soundtrack cranked up the eerie mood. And then the scene came where the heroes poured paint over the creature so that it could be seen. 

Okay, this is make-or-break time, Pitchiner thought to himself. Either Pitch would dismiss the whole rest of the show as silly, or he would find it just as nerve-wracking as Pitchiner had when he first saw it all those years ago.

On the screen the heroes defeated the monster with the application of science, and returned to their ordinary lives.  The episode’s credits rolled, and the smaller man leaned against the larger man’s shoulder. Pitchiner didn’t know whether Pitch was even aware he’d done so, and decided to let it ride rather than mocking him.

After a few minutes Pitch finally spoke. “I think I must have actually seen this once upon a time, because I’ve had nightmares about an electrical phantom.”

“Really?” “Of course I can’t be sure. But I think so. I doubt I could have dreamed up that strange flowing, glitching movement without some inspiration.” 

“Told ya it would freak you out, if you could put yourself back in the mind of the kid you could have been.”

Pitch stretched his arms out and wriggled his backside against the couch, a movement that did happy things to Pitchiner’s insides, saying, “I think I’ve got a direction to go in now with this project. Thank you for showing me this.”  

“Need a hand getting off the floor?”

“I hate to admit it, but yes.”

“No sweat.” Pitchiner scrambled to his feet and scooped Pitch up into his arms in a bridal carry. Of course Pitch squawked a bit, but Pitchiner leaned his head down to shut him up with a sloppy kiss. When they both broke for air, Pitchiner said, “I think I’ve had enough kid stuff today. Wanna help me find MY one-eyed monster?”

“You. You’re insatiable." Pitch gave a long-suffering sigh. "Let’s go.”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Total Drama Villains x Reader || Drabble Set

Plot: You forget to take a towel to the shower and only realise after the shower, so you open the window to stick your head out and ask whoever's out there (Hoping someone is out there) to grab you one but to your chagrin- there's just a villain.

Includes: Chris, Heather, Mal and Scott.

Warnings: Mmmm, I dont think so. Swearing? A kiss?

~~~

All:

You slowly look around the room, very very aware of the fact that you're naked and cold in a room that does not have a great lock on it. "Ohhhhhh no." The words come out low and steady... but are just brimming with panic.

No. Towel.

No towel!!

Finally you gasp, covering the bottom half of your face with your hands and looking at the benches and the sinks in dread. You accidentally came in here without a towel!!

The sudden sound of footsteps out the back of the cabin rips a gasp from your throat and you lunge at the window, unlatching the lock and opening it to see who it is. Before you even stick your head out, you're calling for whoever it to stop. Please. Hold on! I need your help!

Chris McLean:

*You are an adult camper.

When you actually see who's standing out there, you groan. Chris McLean stands outside on the grass, hands in his pockets and an intrigued look in his eyes. He know's he's about to be amused, or he's going to amuse himself depending on what kind of trouble you're in- or what kind of help you apparently need.

"What's up?~"

"Nevermind."

"Oh no no no! Come on, you can confide in Uncle Chris, cant you?"

A whine tumbles out of you. Uncle Chris?? Grooooooooss. He see's and acknowledges your disgusted reaction to him calling himself that, but just giggles. He doesn't leave, to your utter annoyance.

What other choice do you have?? Rolling your eyes, you look down at your feet instead of meeting his beady eyes and wiggle your toes. And mutter suuuuper quietly, half hoping he doesn't hear you. "I forgot to bring a towel... and I really need one... " And, this part you say especially quietly. For seriously asking Chris fucking McLean for a hand would be akin to letting your dignity pack its bags and fly the coop. "... and would you please get one for me... "

"... Sorry, I didn't catch that. What didja say?"

Oh god. A little louder, you say shortly. "... I forgot a towel... "

Chris smirks at that, rolling back on the feels of his feet. "And? What would you like from me, Y/N?"

Finally too frustrated to keep playing this stupid game with the show's host, you snap your eyes up to his and cross your arms. "Fine! Damnit. Get me a towel, please."

Immediately, a cat like grin slowly spreads across Chris' face. Its the most evil thing you have ever seen.

"Now why would I do that when I could get Chef here to send in a buncha rabid bats with you and flush you out?" Christ teases - no, threatens. But then again, does he know the difference in the first place? - , that famous, alabaster white, terror instilling grin on his face as usual. "Now that's, good TV!"

You groan, head falling back on your neck, in frustration. "Chrr-ris!!"

"Ha ha! Well? What do you expect?" You cant argue with that, but you cans till groan again. "Okay, fine. I'll get you a towel! But what will you do for me, heh? Nothing comes for free."

"Oh, don't I know it. I've been on this show for 3 seasons now." For some reason.

"Heh heh."

"Fine, I'll... " Ugh, something for Chris... You blow air out of your cheeks slowly, in thought. What would Chris like? Well, he'd sure get kick out of you getting one of your friends hurt but that's sure as hell not happening. Finally, after a few moments, you get an idea. And scowl. "I'll be sure to drum up some drama for you. Good TV, right?"

"For sure! Promise?~"

Sighing, you lean tiredly on the window sill. "Oh, I cross my heart and hope to die." You promise him like he's a child, which he basically is. Chris McLean has got the maturity level and the intelligence package of a 7 year old on crack.

"Wicked! Heh heh, this'll be good. Okay, hang tight. I'll be back."

You smirk at his retreating back.

~

When he finally gets back and hands you a towel - a much nicer towel then what you and the other campers have been using. Which is nice? But also, you cant help but worry about what kind of strings might be attached to it, - through a crack in the door, you carefully wrap it around your body and tightly tuck it in.

"I'll want that towel back" He snaps, cranky. Why?? He could've just gone and gotten you your towel! "I imported that from Fiji!"

Of course he did.

Now you take a deeeeeeep breath, gathering all your courage, and killing the butterflies reeking havoc in your stomach. Then open the door again and grab hold of the front of Chris' signature teal shirt and wrench him close before he can walk too far off.

And you smash your lips together and slam your eyes tightly closed.

When you pull back from the kiss - a horrible, unpleasant, bad kiss, - you immediately wipe your mouth with your arm and let him go. But when you reveal your mouth again, you're for damn sure smirking at the stunned man. "Is that dramatic enough for you, Chris? A camper and the host? Scandalous- I bet we'll be front page news."

Then quickly you lock yourself inside the bathroom again, not really caring for his reaction- which only comes, finally, minutes later when you're half way dressed.

"DAMN IT Y/N!!"

Heather:

"Hm." Heather crosses her arms, an evil smirk on her lips- opportunity has knocked on her door. Or, the inside of the shower cabin. "You need something from me. Well! What will you do for me return? Hm?"

As expected. "I will vote for whoever you want me to at 2 different instances of your choice going forward. Except for myself, I wont vote myself out."

She thinks for a moment, but definitely looks pleased. "Three, different instances of my choice."

Fucks sake- "Fine! Just- please! I'm getting cold and one of the boys could come in here at any time and see me butt ass naked!!"

Uncrossing her arms and setting her hands on her hips instead, Heather laughs. "Oh- one of these boys? Shower? Haha. Have you smelled them??"

You blush darkly at her joking with you; At your worry but not your expense, before shaking your head of silly feelings and usher the pretty girl Heather, forward. "Go! Go! Get my towel already."

"Be right back." She rolls her eyes, heading off.

~

When she gets back, she reaches up to the window with the towel and you gratefully take it, beginning to dry off any drips from your body and get dressed as quickly as possible. "Thank you Heather!!"

"Mhm, yeah. Sure."

A few minutes later when you leave the door, Heather's waiting for you on the porch and you basically have a small stroke- jesus christ, why is she there!? STILL!?

"Oh, relax. I'm just cashing in some of your part of the bargain." She sneers, walking closer to you and pressing a sharp fingernail into your chest. "Dont forget, you owe me now."

"I remember Heather, we did this like 10 minutes ago."

"Good." She smiles, a tint of evil to it still. Pleasantly surprised that you're being so obedient. She leans back. "Okay, so Gwen's got to go. You got that? She's out. Vote for her and you're third done with your debt to me."

"Yes ma'am." You smirk, brushing by her and stalking off back to your cabin to put away your things.

Heather watches, hands on her hips and her own smirk on her lips. You might just be useful out of this bunch of losers. Not quite a diamond in the rough, but... better, at least. For sure. "Hm."

Mal:

"Oh- Mike!" You exclaim excitedly as soon as you see the lanky, dark haired boy. What luck!!

But then he slowly turns around; A dark, sinister grin on his face and hair over one eye. And your heart immediately drops.

This is not Mike. Neither is it Chester, Svetlana, Vito or Manitoba- any of which would have been just fine alternatives for this moment.

This has to be fucking Mal. You've met him before, and absolutely nevermind on the luck front.

"Nope." Yep- the grizzly, deep voice that responds to you can belong to no one other then Mike's chaotic evil alter. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. You continue to chant curses in your head as he turns around fully and comes forward, looking up with evil glinting in his eyes at you like a twisted Flynn Rider to your Rapunzel.

The kind that makes you rather stay inside your tower- its safer here then out there with him. You don't go out to meet the rabid pit bull!!

"Ummm, nevermind! Go about your business, I'm fine here. See ya!"

"Oh no. What'd you want from little Mikey?" He asks, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side, cruelly inquisitive. You chew on your bottom lip. Damn it; You've peaked his interest. Fuck.

"Um... " The sound comes out quiet and insure as you look down at the grass before his feet instead of his face. You're so nervous. "Well, I... I forgot my towel before I took my shower, and uh... I was just gonna ask him if he could go get me one."

For a moment, he's silent. Your gaze flickers up to his face to see an utterly wolfish look on his face, eyes gleaming with mischief before averting your eyes again to the grass.

Then a loud puff of hard, unpleasant laughter escapes him. He doubles over, holding his stomach as he guffaws at your embarrassing situation. You roll your eyes and cross your arms.

"Oh shut up," You snap, bravely- making him cut off his laughter immediately and look at you. You dare to fucking talk to him like that? "Come on, go get me a towel, please!! I'll owe you one."

After a moment, he stands up straight again and crosses his arms. Yes, he could do something horrible to you right now to teach you not to talk back to him; but it looks like you're going to struggle without his help. All he has to do is watch! "Hmm, nope!"

"Come on!"

"Not gonna happen."

"Ugh." You groan, leaving the window and Mal and plopping down on a bench. Fucking bastard.

This is so awkward. Especially since you know he's still out there!! And he could send someone in at any time.

... Minutes later, and you're still dripping wet but now freezing fricken cold, a towel is flung in through the still open window and lands on the wet floor near your feet. Your eyebrows fly up your forehead, as you look from it in surprise and to the window.

Mal's voice calls through it. "There! Its no fun if you just sit and bear your punishment." Huff. You can just imagine the cute boy - the look works for Mike, but is just very odd on Mal, - crossing his arms and setting his jaw, or even pouting. His voice just sound sooo frustrated. "I'll get you another time, anyway. Everyone will go down, eventually."

"Oh... mhm, oh sure." I mean, I can at least listen to his evil babble since he got me a towel, you think as you start drying yourself down and getting dressed.

A moment after you've got your shirt on, the door is kicked open and Mal stands on the threshold, making you jump. "Jesus christ!- "

"Kiss thank you?"

"Get outta here!" Absolutely not!

Scott:

Peering out from the window, you nearly miss the boy leant up against the cabin beneath you, in fact you would have- if it weren't for his bright orange hair. You gasp, unintentionally getting his attention and smiling brightly when he looks up to find you. "Scott!"

A confused, yet somehow still evil expression paints his face. "Y/N?? What are you doing?"

"Well farm-boy, how do you feel about giving a lady a hand??"

Scott snorts, getting off the wall and stepping back to see you properly. "Lady? I don't see any lady here."

Oh- Bastard. You look back into the bathroom before disappearing from the window for a moment before returning, and promptly clobbering him with an empty shampoo bottle. "You see her now!?"

"Ugh... yeah." He grumbles more malleably now, much more open to suggestion as he rubs his forehead. "Sure, now I see her... ow."

Now you feel a little bad. He looks so pitiful when he's in pain... and yes he's a rat but... its still not okay to hurt someone. You aren't Chris. And also you're getting colder and colder as the water drips unimpeded down your skin and maybe its making you soft. "Ohh... okay, I'm sorry."

He glances up at you, surprised at your apology. "Ahh, no problem, I guess... " Did someone just apologise for whacking him on this show? He crosses his arms, raising a curious look to your disembodied head. "Uhh, what'd you need a hand, with?"

"I... kinda... forgot a towel... could you please go get one for me??"

For a moment you watch his eyes narrow and a wicked grin flicker at the corners of his mouth and get anxious that he's going to ask for something in return- before he rolls his eyes and just shrugs, turning and heading off to the cabin. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Be right back- try not to gather too much attention, haha."

As he walks off, you duck under the window again, sighing in so much relief. "Thanks, Scott!"

~

When he returns, you're waiting at the door and crack it open just enough to get the towel from him immediately- which you quickly wrap around yourself comfortably and sigh. "Thank you so much!"

"Hm. No problem." He huffs, wondering why the hell he did this for you anyway and crossing his arms again.

From inside, you carefully ask: "Are you gonna get weird if I hug you now?"

Immediately Scott's ears go bright red and he quickly loses every little bit of cool-guy vibe from a moment ago. "I-In your towel?? N-No!! I mean- yes!" He rubs the back of his neck, looking away from the door like its you, or he'll accidentally spontaneously develop x-ray vision and damnit, he's a gentleman. "I mean... " Or at least he tries to be.

Grinning, because Scott's unexpectedly cute now that you've flustered him, you quickly open the door, hug him quick, then close the door again and shout 'BYE'.

[adrian-the-lonely-writer]

Transitions

A fluffy 'Dean WinchesterXTrans!Male' Reader one-shot where you had come out to Dean, and Dean decided he's going to do everything he can to support you.

“So,” Dean began. His heart was pounding. He rather be facing any number of ghosts and ghouls to avoid fucking this part up. Hell, he’d even take a few demons over this. Anything over these tense emotional moments. Still, he was glued to the bed, hand holding yours. He loved you. He wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of helping you.

“Y-yeah?” You stumbled over your words. You had no idea how your boyfriend was going to handle the news. Tears were threatening to fall over your cheeks as you kept your eyes glued to the floor.

Dean swallowed. Dammit, his brother mentioned something like this in the past. Why couldn’t he remember now? “Well in that case, I suppose we better get you some comfier clothes. C’mon.” He stood up, offering his hand to you. Looking up, you saw that same smile dance across his lips, the same smile you fell in love with. “Wouldn’t want my boyfriend to be uncomfortable.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you jumped into his arms, relief and love washing over you. Dean just chuckled, quietly as he shifted to wrap his arms around you, squeezing you against him. “Thanks Dean…Thank you so much.”

“Of course. You have a different name you like to be called now?”

“Y/N now- I uh, kinda picked it out when I realized I just-”

“Y/N is perfect babe.” His lips left a light little peck at your nose. “C’mon. Sammy’s with Bobby looking for another job, let’s take the day to get you feeling as good as possible, hm? I just had that great poker payout-”

“I thought that was for silver bullets-”

“Pshh. I can win another game or too.” Dean went to smile, but it quickly drooped into a frown. “Your clothes...do they make you feel-” He tried to find the right word.

“Dysphoric? Well I mean a bit. I didn’t exactly have time to choose great clothes when I ran off with you Dean.” Before you could even finish your sentence, Dean was digging through his duffle.

“I was going to drop them off somewhere, they feel a little small.” Dean grinned, poking his head back up. In his hands were an AC/DC shirt and an old pair of jeans. He even pulled out his spare hunting boots. “Might not be the most practical all the time, but we’ll get you some stuff today.”

You tried not to cry once again.

Few minutes later, you found yourself wrapped up in your boyfriend's clothes, in the passenger seat of the car. AC/DC rang out through the speakers. You couldn’t help but smile.

“You...really don’t mind Dean?”

“Mind? Why the hell would I mind?”

“Well you were into me as a-”

“I am into you, period.” Dean smiled a little. “Masculine, feminine, It makes no difference to me. You are still you. So, clothes we’re doing. Not half assed Walmart clothes either, we’re gonna get you some good hunting gear.” You couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that. “Masculine fake IDs from now on, easy enough. Anything else you need?”

“At the moment, I’m not sure...I kinda like what Sam does with his hair so I don’t think I’ll cut it off yet. It isn’t as long as his at the moment anyway.” You giggled at the scrunch in Dean’s nose at the mention of his brother.

“Cute guy with a ponytail never hurts either. Ah. Here’s the shop.”

“Dean this is a mall-”

“Yeah, sporting goods, including guns, bullets, as well as various clothing stores to get you what you need. Plus crowds to blend into. Malls are great Y/N.” He turned into the parking lot, picking a spot somewhere in the middle. “Plus, the impala doesn’t stick out too much here.”

Dean slipped out of his side, opening the door for you before you were even unbuckled. His calloused hand still felt tender as it grasped yours tightly, pulling you towards the store.

Your boyfriend was right after all. The crowds were seamless and the selection would be much greater.

“I’m thinking, we hit the sporting goods store, get some food and supplies. Take our time with it. Then just meet up with Sam and Bobby for the job, sound good Y/N?”

“Sounds perfect Dean.” Your smile was glued to your face as you leaned against his arm walking into the shop Dean had picked. “Is this where you got all your flannels and things?”

“Most of em, yeah. Why? You like that one?” He winked as he saw your cheeks turn a little pink. Sure, you loved the flannel. It made you feel more you, it also smelled like the man you loved more than anything.

“Well it’s nice and warm and-” You tripped over your words again. “Just really nice hunting clothes ya know? Like durable enough you have some protection, it’s also warm enough for nights but I can always open it ya know.”

“Great. So a couple flannels. Some jeans that won’t trip you up. Shirts.” Dean guided you to the clothing area of the store, whipping out his cellphone.

“Dean? Something the matter?” He doesn’t often look at his screen with that much concentration.

“Nope. I was just looking at a size chart.” He matched his screen to a couple of the tags. “These your colors?” He held out some forest green flannel and a black shirt.

“To start with, yeah! Although lighter colors are still nice. I don’t want anything thinking I’m your little brother if I match your style.”

“My style is functional and timeless. Plus, if I had a nickel for everyone who thought Sam and I should-” He scowled as you laughed. You couldn’t help but pick up those books when you saw them. Plus, as prank wars broke out it definitely gave you an upper hand.

“Alright, I concede your style is wonderful Dean.”

“Damn right it is.” He smiled a little. “But I get it, c’mon. Let’s walk around and see what catches your eye.”

The two of you scoured the store from top to bottom. Dean’s arms quickly became laden with fabric as you both approached the fitting rooms.

“Find everything you need sir, and-?” The guy in charge of the rooms spoke.

“Sir.” You introjected. Your heart rate spiked a little. Dean’s hand rested on your shoulder as he nodded to the cashier, as if confirming what you said.

“Of course, right this way. Here is your room, sir.” Without batting an eye the cashier escorted you back to try on your new wardrobe.

“Give 'em hell babe!” Dean called after you, taking his seat. He fiddled with his phone. Sam had finally convinced him to upgrade, and this one had a camera on it.

Quickly, pulse racing, you put on the first outfit of clothes, and slipped outside to model for Dean. Your nerves subsided when met with that goofy grin of his, and you couldn’t help but match it.

“You look amazing.”

“I feel amazing.”

“Wanna try more?” Dean snapped a photo. “That’s gonna be my new cell wallpaper.” You stuck your tongue out to him, a look he cheekily returned.

You went through this a few more times. Different mixed and matched outfits and hunting gear. Dean flirting with you every time you slipped into his sight. Soon you had a week's worth of clothes, with some extras to wear during a wash. Eventually you made it towards the food court, carrying the bags. You both went immediately to the burger stand and sat down.

“Fucck~” Dean’s eyes were closed in bliss. “I forgot how amazing these burgers were.”

“God we ate at gas stations so much I had forgotten food could be juicy.” You were devouring your burger as ravenous as Dean was. Oblivious to the look he was giving you.

Dean just smiled, chewing as he looked at you. It had only been a few months since you were traveling with him. Demon blooded kid like Sammy, you wanted to be able to help. Truthfully you were thankful they accepted.

Dean sometimes kicks himself at night for almost saying no. He had fallen for you, hard, the first time you rode in the back of the car. The way your eyes lit up as his own music started to play. The way you got along with Sam. He had fallen hard. You were perfect in his eyes now as you were then.

“Dean?...” Your voice was quiet, head against the window. After eating Dean had loaded you and your new things into the impala before starting to make your guy’s way to Bobby's place.

The excitement of the day had driven your eyelids to a close by this point. The soft rumblings of the engine were lulling you to sleep. Dean’s hand found yours once more, with a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah babe?”

“I love you Dean…”

“I love you too Y/N.” His words were the last things you heard before finally succumbing to sleep.

Dean drove on, hand never leaving yours. He had found the best boyfriend in the world, and he intended to keep things that way.

[heartfluttered]

sooo any poeguri headcanons pls??

YES YES YES PLENTY OH MY GOD YES OKAY HERE WE GO THANK YOU ANON THANK YOU OH MY GOD

( anon if you ever feel comfortable enough coming off please please please send me a message nobody ships this and i need to have a conversation with somebody on them :'DD )

there's like a lot below so uh have fun! feel free to send in another ask because i have. a lot more things to say about them and i'm too shy to talk about them without having been explicitly asked beforehand ok here we go

(first ones not romantic but) mushitarou totally did poe's crazily gelled hair when he appeared in chapter 80 as the sharpshooter

i like to headcanon that poe's not used to living with someone right off the bat

despite his mansion being huge poe would feel like mushitarou's presence takes up a lot of space

because lets face it, mushitarous loud, likes to complain, likes demanding things (he lists off like a bunch of shit right off the bat when meeting fyodor), likes things to be a very specific way etc etc

i like to think that mushitarou likes things to be orderly and clean and i! like to hc poe as a messy guy

because poe is. very obviously not mentally stable his desk is probably overcrowded with crumpled drafts that he thinks aren't good enough while he sits like a shrimp, i mean mans got a raccoon that house is bound to be a mess

so right off the bat there's a lot of banter to be found there

poe thinks it's totally fine to have 10 mugs on his desk still half full from two weeks ago and mushitarou! does not!

mushitarou ends up helping poe clean the room because it's starting to smell like something died in there, and the cleaning session ends up helping poe write more efficiently

despite mushitarou being a ... not very good writer, mushitarou is extremely good at editing and often reads through and critics poe's drafts. i like to think that poe becomes an even greater writer thanks to him ehehe

mushitarou still has nightmares over yokomizo. poe finds him one night on the balcony and gives him something warm to drink

none of them say anything they just sit next to each other in the cold, looking at the stars

from then on they slowly start to show trust in each other and even build a routine

poe's grown used to having someone in the house with him now and despite still not being good at social interaction, he can mess up around mushitarou without feeling extreme self doubt and hatred

the rooms don't feel as empty in the mansion anymore. rooms that previously went abandoned like the dining area now carry memories of . just having a nice time talking to mushitarou, eating mediocre meals with him and karl

and somehow mushitarou's precense doesn't feel overwhelming anymore. it feels a bit more like hope, like home, like meeting someone and knowing you'd love them, one way or another.

sometimes mushitarou will find poe huddled at his writing desk late into the night, desperately trying to write something good to prove something to ranpo and mushitarou lowkey just carries slash hauls poe to bed when it's too late, putting a blanket over him

and mushitarou?? lowkey gets sort of mad at ranpo lol,, i love ranpo don't get me wrong but ranpo lowkey uses poe quite a few times in canon with little to no conpensation and mushitarou is Not okay with that

and when mushitarou's lowkey yelling at ranpo to quit the bullshit and stop treating poe like garbage when poe obviously still harbours feelings for ranpo? yeah. mushitarou is probably the second last person to realise he likes poe lol

there isn't a definitive moment where mushitarou falls for poe it's more so through poe just being kind to him and the process of them trusting each other

i think poe would fall in love with mushitarou because of the way mushitarou carries himself with this. grandiose confidence while still being smart enough to notice when poe's not feeling good and actively try to make him feel better

their relationship definetly isn't perfect there would be so many fucking issues mushitarou would probably say something insensitive by accident at the wrong time, or maybe poe would drown himself in work, still obsessively trying to beat ranpo while completely ignoring his health which would lead to some heated arguments

but at the end of the day they'll manage to make it up to one another. they're both stubborn men but i think they're really good listeners in general they can make it work

idk man theyre cute

i could talk about them for ages but im gonna stop it here LKDASHHA sorry for going on for so long thank you for sending this ask!! please feel free to send me a message on poeguri or bsd if you feel comfortable enough to do so :DD

[clarawatson]

It Only Takes a Taste

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x [Fem]!Reader (GN pronouns, fem coded stuff, but I’m not sure where this is going as a larger work so we’ll say Fem!reader to be safe) Summary: You work at a diner. Aaron Hotchner falls in love with you. We’re not kidding around trying to make us all sound like profilers, just accept the diner life, we love it here. W/C: 1498 Warnings: none yet!  A/N:  First chapter of that diner!au i was talking about here! AO3 ps. I forgot to tag people, so: @willowrose99 & @genevievedarcygranger my beloveds. If you want to get added to the tag list jump in my inbox and i’ll try to remember to add tags every time i post. Where am I in this series?  01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

~

When you first meet him it’s 5am and raining. You’re switching over shifts for your friend, Rita, because she’s been doing night shifts at the diner. This late into her pregnancy she shouldn’t be working, not technically, but she needs the money and she’s got insomnia because of the baby, so she works nights now. There’s always someone working with her, be it Joe (who’s got far too much muscle for a chef) or Lola (who can beat anyone to a pulp with a pie tray). In the early hours of the morning a bunch of tatt’ed bikies come and sit and talk about their extracurricular activities (definitely not legal) because one time there was an armed hold up and the police didn’t turn up until two hours after it had happened. People don’t like holding up a diner full of men who eat their own motorbikes for breakfast.

But when he comes in, he’s not any of them. He’s not even one of Lola’s nightly hook-ups (she needs the money, you don’t ask). He’s too well dressed in a grey suit (or is it black? Maybe it’s black), trying desperately to shove his I.D. badge in his pocket. He has a look about him that says ‘I’m part of one of the alphabet soup agencies’. A smile on his face, dead in the eyes, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He fumbles with his wallet as he squints to read the menu behind the counter. The rain’s stopped dripping from his hair, instead he’s got droplets like his woken with the morning dew upon him.

“Hi love,” Rita coos as she hangs her apron up. She has a look about her that says she’ll eat this man for her breakfast. It’s an effort not to curse those pregnancy hormones some days.

“Go home,” you tell her, swatting her arm. “Put your feet up, rest, sleep while the baby does or some shit.” Rita sticks her bottom lip out and pouts, but she’s making grabby hands for her purse, which is stored where the tea towels used to be. Far too high to reach even when one’s not pregnant. You grab it down for her, ignoring the showering of thank-yous.

The new guy (who is getting more and more handsome by the second) is still looking at the menu. He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop looking and order any time soon.

“Are you sure you’re fine to take the metro in this weather?” you check. She’s rubbing her swollen belly and looking longingly at the booths that haven’t had anyone sit in them for hours now. 

“Wait forty-five minutes and I’ll take you!” Joe yells. He’s slaving over something in the kitchen even though it looks like no one’s ordered in hours. “Wife gave me the car ‘cause of the storm!”

“Forty-five,” you repeat and point her towards the seat that she’s been eyeing off. Rita sighs, nods, then goes out to the seat. “What can I get you?” Usually when addressing the customer you’d add something gentle like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’ or ‘dear’ because the customers like it and they come back because they think you’re treating them like a long lost friend.

He bats his dark eyelashes and rubs at his forehead.

“I don’t know.” He sounds tired, balancing on the very edge of exhaustion. He might just fall off into a pit of sleep that he won’t wake up from. Been there, done that. “Do you guys do coffee?”

You laugh and point to the brewed pot beside you. There’s one for each table, free refills with a pie purchase. It’s written in decorative lettering right above you on the blackboard.

“We can put it in a take-away cup. It’s before six so it’s free anyway,” you offer. The last bits a lie, but Joe doesn’t care about a cup or two of coffee going missing. He’ll catch it up later when he flirts with all of the mom’s coming through after school drop off. The new guy nods and pulls out a ten dollar note and shoves it in the tip jar. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he nods anyway. He’s like a broken bobblehead.

“I know.” He goes to the sweets display and searches through it like he’s looking for something specific. Maybe he is. You’ve not seen him in the diner before, and neither has Rita, but maybe he’s one of Lola’s regulars. Maybe you’d judged him wrong. 

“Anything caught your eye?” you ask, leaning over the counter as if you could see it from his angle too. Maybe you do it to show off just that little bit of cleavage. He notices, then looks like he’s done entirely the wrong thing as he licks his lips and blinks like a school boy.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and Rita giggles. You point at her and give her a stern look, but she just puts her hand over her mouth and lies down on the seat. She’s still silently giggling because her belly keeps bobbing above the table. 

“I just…” he has that exhausted look on his face again.

“Long day at work?” The answer is always yes for the people who work at the alphabet agencies. He nods. “Take a seat, grab some coffee, take a minute. It’s only just gone five, you’ve got time.” 

He nods. He looks like he’s gotten his words all mixed up and they’re just sitting in his mouth, refusing to leave. Tongue tied doesn’t exactly encapsulate what looks like is going on inside his head. He sits at one of the chairs in front on the counter, and takes the coffee cup gratefully as you pass it to him.

He’s definitely an alphabet soup man. He sits in this weird stance like he’s countering his weight against a gun. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he spends hours a day doing paperwork. He’s got a nervous twitch in his hands like sitting still is only going to bring the next case.

You think about making a joke about turning on the cellphone jammer, but last time Joe made that joke the whole place ended up swarming with cops. Absolute disaster. No one’s going to do that one again. 

“Cherry, berry or apple?” you ask, grabbing a plate.

“Sorry?”

“Cherry, berry or apple?” Rita repeats from her booth. “For the pie, sweetheart.”

“Uh, I didn’t—“

“Eat it,” Rita growled. You pull a face at her even though she can’t see you. The guy smiles.

“Apple, please.” Well mannered. Sweet. He looks elated as you slide the apple pie to him and hand him the canned cream.

“Not as good as fresh, but it’s better than nothing.” 

He puts a generous amount on his plate. You half think he might like it more than proper cream. Rita leans up just enough to look at him as he digs in, fanning herself playfully before sighing and collapsing back down.

Joe brings out his tray of caramel salted cookies. They’re thick enough to look like cakes with a gooey caramel center, and they usually sell out pretty quickly. The new guy watches them intently.

“How much trouble am I going to get into if I give those to my son?” 

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

You smile. That’s a good age. “How much do you hate his teacher?” 

He considers this with a gentle tilt of his head. “Not a lot. I’ll give it to him after school.” He pulls out his wallet again and Joe looks like he’s just hit the mother lode as he grabs one of the cardboard boxes. 

“If you really want to spoil your kid, y/n here can write really pretty on top.” You glare at Joe. He shrugs. He’s covered in cake batter and cookie dough, and smells like pancake batter. He’s always smelling sickly sweet, and like a well lived in home, despite looking like the living embodiment of Gaston. “She does it for my wife all the time.”

The handsome man’s phone buzzes. He checks it, then shovels the rest of his pie in his mouth like a starved man. 

“I have to go,” he says. He gives Joe another ten and tells him to keep the change. Joe looks like he’s about to break into a song and dance. You pour a fresh cup of coffee into a take-away cup and slide it across the counter to him. He thanks you a thousand times over then goes. With his cookie.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Rita screeches the moment the door shut with it’s little jingle. “I’ll-show-him-my-cleavage-but-I-won’t-ask-his-name?? No wonder you can’t get a date!”

“I’ll do it next time.” Not that there’s ever a ‘next time’ for these alphabet soup agents. They’re always looking for the next place to go to so they don’t have a ‘regular place’ that can be ambushed. 

But in a perfect world... you’d see him every day.

[writefightandflightclub]

Too much information (Frankie Morales x GN reader)

Summary: you’re dating Frankie in secret, and Pope is on to you. Brunch probably isn’t the best place to put his interrogation skills to use, but do you really think that’s going to stop him?! No, me neither.

Author’s note: this is just a quick, silly, shortish blurb. Nothing special but the scene popped into my head and then my finger slipped, so here you go. It’s mainly between reader and Pope, but you are dating Frankie and he does appear.

Warnings: not really. Food mention.

GIF by @themarcusmoreno

“Is that ‘Fish’s t-shirt?” Pope asks bluntly, as he settles into the booth opposite you, the group gradually gathering for lunch. You had arrived first, and begun perusing the menu.

“Normal people might shoot for a hello,” you josh, standing and leaning over the table to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, that too,” he grins. “Well, is it?”

Before you retake your seat, you take a quick look down at the garment in question. A marled-grey band shirt.

“No,” you answer adamantly, crinkling your face in confusion. “It’s not.”

“You sure?” Pope presses, and he leans in, resting on his folded arms. His stare is intense, and you suddenly feel like you’re in an interrogation. You suddenly feel very sorry indeed for his prior subjects, considering this is a mere taster of the intensity they were subjected to.

“Yes,” you say in a level voice, looking him dead in the eye.

“Hmm,” he nods, considering it, his hand rasping over his stubble. He takes a menu too, from the stash at the far-end of the booth. You hope he’s dropping the topic, but no such luck. “See. You already made one mistake,” he breezes, and you squirm in your seat. “You checked. You looked down, as if it could be Frankie’s t-shirt.”

You saw your jaw from side-to-side.

“Which I’m pretty sure it is,” he adds with a flourish of his hand, his eyes flashing with a smug pride.

“It’s not,” you snap, staring him down until he raises his hands in surrender.

“Okay.”

Finally. You look down at the menu, selecting your burger and milkshake combo. But he’s not done yet. Of course. Air seethes out out your nose. “Looks like his though. Doesn’t really fit you either. Not really your usual style,” he muses, as if ticking off a checklist in his head.

You huff, and look back up at him. “You have too much time on your hands, Pope. How’s that job-hunt coming? Or, actually, when did you last get laid? Think you need to find somewhere to direct all this excess energy.”

You should have said yes. Should have made-up an excuse about how you needed to borrow some clothes. Because it definitely is Frankie’s t-shirt.

He knows it. But if you admit it is Frankie’s t-shirt, at this point, you are admitting a whole lot more besides.

“Now now. No need to get personal.” You wish you could knock the shit-eating grin off his face. “Just answer the question.”

“This is how I wear my clothes now,” you say, gesturing down at yourself. It’s flimsy and you know it.

“Okay.”

You’re really starting to hate the way he says that.

He’s quiet for a beat, and you think he may have given up, but, to your ire, apparently not. Instead, Pope leans over the table and presses his nose right into your shoulder, taking a whiff. “Kinda smells like his detergent too.”

You pull back from him in disbelief. He recognises his detergent? “That’s fucked up, Pope. Why are you so obsessed with Frankie?”

Your comments don’t seem to rile him. Instead, Pope’s eyes flash with a sudden knowledge.

Balls. That was your second mistake. You called him “Frankie”. Not “‘Fish”. Fuck. You flare your nostrils in annoyance and only hope that Pope missed it.

“Well? Explain that. Why does it smell like... Frankie?” No chance that he missed it, then?

“Guess we use the same brand,” you dismiss, propping your chin on one of your hands as you continue to review the specials, in an attempt to obscure your face.

“Uh-huh. Okay.” You bristle. There it is again. Maybe he simply irritates all of his subjects into confessing. He’s certainly irritating enough for that to be plausible. “So, let’s recap, shall we? You dress like him now, and use his detergent? Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“He’s a role model for us all, pendejo.”

He ticks up an eyebrow, looking distinctly unimpressed by your insult.

“Pendejo?”

“And I really mean that,” you say, with a saccharine smile, even as you reach across and bat his cap from his head with a quick boop under the brim.

He half rolls his eyes at you, and yet you can tell he’s biting back a smile as he scoops it up from where it landed and places it by his side on the seat.

“So you weren’t at his place last night?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the “p” and refusing to look-up.

“Didn’t arrive together and stagger your entry to avoid being caught? Because I’m pretty sure his truck’s parked out front and yours... isn’t. And yet here you are, and here he’s not.”

Well. You don’t have an answer for that one. Not right away.

Pope grins smugly, enjoying that he’s getting under your skin.

Shit, where is Frankie? Where are the Millers? Literally anyone. Pope evidently thinks you’re the weak link while you’re alone, and you’re not doing a whole lot to prove him wrong.

“I walked here,” you say weakly.

Pope even goes so far as to dip his head under the table.

“In those boots? Don’t they kill your feet?”

Well at least he was paying attention when the boys made you walk all the way across town that time, to get to this one “must-visit” dive bar. Kinda sweet he remembered actually. Unless, of course, he simply gathers information to use it against you, during times like this, for example.

Eyes drawn away from the booth, you finally see Frankie walk through the door, and you let out a breath of relief. Still, as Pope raises a thick eyebrow at you, examining every expression on your face, you try to avoid looking at Frankie altogether, just so you don’t give anything away.

Pleasantly oblivious, Frankie comes in and settles right next to you in the booth.

“Hey,” he says brightly to the both of you, before smiling at you a little too long, and so -subtly but pointedly- you bump his knee with yours to alert him to play it a little cool. He doesn’t get the memo. Instead, he points down at your torso, without thinking. “Is that my t-shirt?”

Your eyes flutter closed to the sound of a smug, victorious laugh from Pope. Groaning, you put your head in your hands, peeking at your interrogator through your fingers. You watch him lean back in the booth, raising his arms to rest his head on his interlaced fingers, and a smug grin extending over his face.

“Fucking knew it.”

Quickly putting it together, with a gasp of breath, Frankie realises what he’s said. He quickly tries to smooth it over with some elaborate excuse, but you place your hand on his denim-clad thigh and gently shake your head. “He knows, Frankie,” you sigh. “He’s on to us. Basically interrogated me.”

There is a heated and mile-a-minute exchange between the two men in Spanish, and it sounds animated but is clearly somewhat good-natured, typical of their dynamic. Then, Frankie turns back to you. “You know how to shut him up, though?” he smiles. “Give him too much information.”

And he’s not wrong. As soon as Frankie begins to start describing a list of hypothetical activities from last night in vivid detail, Santi quickly holds his hands up in defeat. “Woah, Buddy. Alright. I get it. Fuck.”

Honestly - these two. You roll your eyes, even as you shake out a laugh.

“Hell. I need a drink,” you express, and you step away to the bar, leaving your interrogation behind for a moment.

As you look on though, it seems like poor Frankie’s interrogation is only just beginning.

“So, how long has this been happening?” Santi asks warmly.

“How long do you think?” Frankie asks out of curiosity- wanting to assess Pope’s abilities.

The man weighs it up, his hand smoothing over his stubble. “One month, give or take.”

“Three,” Frankie confirms, a hint of pride flashing in his soft, brown eyes as he realises you’ve outdone Pope, even for a little while.

In contrast though, victory is suddenly the last thing on Pope’s mind, and he’s more concerned with how damn happy his friend looks as he reveals this information. Pope mirrors Frankie’s wide, beaming smile, and he reaches across the table to deliver a few solid, congratulatory pats to his shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.”

Frankie’s smile lingers, and he steals a sweeping glance over at you as you lean-up against the bar, his eyes shining as he takes you in.

“How’s it going between you? This a serious thing or just fucking?” Pope asks, although he could hazard a pretty safe guess.

Frankie’s hands disappear into the sleeves of his cord jacket, and his eyelashes flutter bashfully. “I’m in love, man. I’m in some deep shit.”

Santi smiles, tapping Frankie on the arm and giving him a heads-up that you’re on your way back over with the drinks.

You smile brightly at him from across the way, and Pope looks between the two of you. Frankie certainly does look like a goner, he considers.

“Plus - shit,” Frankie adds quickly, in the moment before you come back into earshot. “Seeing them in my t-shirt is Doing Things for me, man.”

“Hermano,” he chuckles. “That’s too much information.”

You arrive back to the table to the sound of Frankie’s delightfully throaty chuckle - your second favourite sound in the world (since hooking-up, you have found one noise he makes which is even better). As you slide in beside the boys, you see the doors swing as the Millers enter the establishment in tandem.

You gaze at Frankie for a few moments, and you steal a final glance back at Pope. He’s still looking at you, but now he looks satisfied, as if he’s put a final piece of the puzzle together.

You don’t know it, but Pope’s suddenly deeply happy for his friends. He has the final piece of information, and to him, it’s quite plain to see. You’re clearly in love; and you’re evidently a complete goner for Frankie too.

“Hey, Millers- did you know these two are hooking-up in secret?” Pope asks loudly as the brothers join you around the table.

Well - he’s got it partly right. You are hooking-up, but it obviously isn’t a secret anymore.

You could care less.

When Frankie takes your hand under the table, giving it a little squeeze, you can’t help the smile which lights your face. Suddenly, you can’t help wanting to tell the whole world that Frankie is your man. And, what better people to begin with than your squad?