#and i keep getting that shitty fucking song stuck in my head

[baejax-the-great]

WIP Wednesday-WitD

Patroclus cups his hands and draws the water to his face.

“Sir? Hey, sir!”

He tries to ignore Zagreus. He does. His hands tremble suspended between river and mouth and he is already losing water trickling through his fingers. The sizzle of burning feet on grass grows closer at a breakneck speed as Zagreus sprints toward Patroclus.

“You’re still here,” Zagreus exclaims with a huge grin on his face. “And I saw you in the arena last time. Did you find what you were looking for, then?”

Patroclus does not know how to answer this. His cupped hands hold now barely a mouthful of water, the rest of it slowly dribbled onto the grass.

He doesn’t want Zagreus to witness this. The other shades milling about—they don’t matter. But this moment, Patroclus unbecoming himself—he doesn’t want the boy to see this. He lets the rest of the water fall out of his hands.

“Were you going to drink, sir?” Zagreus asks with a small amount of trepidation in his voice. “You do know that… it’s the Lethe.”

Patroclus sits back on his heels. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

The boy stands there awkwardly, about as still as Patroclus has ever seen him, the ground charring beneath his feet. The ribbons of grass flare orange then red then black with an undulating glow. It’s captivating. They crumble to pieces, black and gray dust, and new grass grows in its place startlingly quickly to burn all over again.  

“If you found a way to kill Achilles,” Patroclus asks, “And went beyond him to discover whatever was past Elysium and learned that there was still no way for you to get out, that you would never escape, would you want to know? Or would it be easier to forget and keep struggling for your freedom? Or even to forget that you ever wanted to escape in the first place?”

Zagreus’s expression crumples. “I…”

Patroclus waits. Is he asking the boy for permission? For understanding? Has he grown to value the judgment of Zagreus, or at least fear his disapproval? After this, Patroclus won’t be able to help him anymore, and he hadn’t helped him much to start with.

The boy’s attention turns sharply toward the arena with a frown. He waves and calls, “Hail, sir.”

Achilles is standing in the center of the gate, still armored, still holding his spear. Shades are scattering away from him as he strides onto the grass. More importantly, however, far past Achilles and far upstream, the movement of a tall, dark shadow catches Patroclus’s eye. It is too far away to make out clearly, but there is only one who roams these rivers.

Shit. He’s out of time, the one resource he usually has far too much of. Achilles shouts for him to stop at the same time Zagreus calls his sword to his hand.

“He’s talking to me, stranger, not you,” Patroclus tells him, fairly certain he’s correct about that. Zagreus is merely a duty to Achilles, whereas Patroclus is… something else. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, it occurs to Patroclus that he can do one good deed before he consigns himself to history. “Make me,” he calls to Achilles with as much challenge in his voice as he can muster, edging his way closer to the river.

Zagreus looks at him in shock, and Patroclus says quickly and quietly, “This is your chance. He’s coming for me. When he’s far enough away from the gate, run and don’t look back. I think he’ll let you go this one time.”

“Will you be—”

“I’m dead, Zagreus. Now go.”

Achilles does turn his attention to Zagreus briefly, and Patroclus quickly scoops up the river and swallows as much as he can. It is cold, almost numbing as it goes down his throat. How quickly does it work? Which memories went first? Will he even know? It doesn’t matter.

As he reaches his hands back into the river, he can hear the thundering of Achilles’ feet. He lifts his head just in time to see Zagreus bolting into the arena. Before he can fully swallow his second mouthful, Achilles tackles him.

[samthestrangerthingsfan]

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, lots of parallels, reader is a lil down on herself but don't worry, eddie is down bad for her.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of weed and smoking, smut!! 18+, minors DNI.

AN: do i write 90% of my fics based on what pops into my head when i hear a certain song? yeah. also this is only half edited bc life. enjoy bbs <3

“Okay, okay,” You laughed. “One more hit then I’m tapped out, Eds.”

Eddie grinned, speaking through a half-held breath. “Oh no, Sweetheart. New stuff hittin’ a little too hard?”

You inhaled deeply, passing back to him what was left of the joint. It went straight to your head, and you flopped back, laying comfortably on Eddie’s bed.

Eddie inhaled, following suit, making your body bounce as he hit the mattress.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “Feel like I’m fuckin’ flying.” He grips your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Don’t let me float away, okay?”

You smile at him, taking in how fucking beautiful he looks under the dim lights in his bedroom.

“Never. You’re stuck with me, Eds.”

He looks down at you, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He took you in like he'd done 100 times before. Eyes trailing from your nose, to your eyes, landing at your mouth.

So fucking beautiful.

“Good," he breathes, pulling you in closer. "Just the way I like it.”

Eddie let go of you hand, only to wrap his arm around you and pull you into his chest. He placed a kiss to the crown of your head, "This okay?"

It's all I want. You think.

"Or do we have to get up and go watch that cheesy chick-flick I promised we'd watch.

You sighed, fiddling with the hem of your denim skirt. "I'd stay here all night if you let me."

That's all I want. He thinks.

Eddie leans back a bit, looking down at you. He's not sure if it's the weed making his so emotional, but he swears he could cry just looking into your eyes. "What am I gonna do if one of these dates you keep going on works out? What if someone takes you from me?"

He tries to sound relaxed, but the truth is, the thought keeps him up at night. There’s gonna be a guy that steals you away from him one of these days. Someone who can give you everything he can’t, someone brave enough to open their mouth and tell you just how much they love you.

and it'll crush him.

The laugh that escapes you is a cynical one, "Eddie, I've been on three dates with three different men, and I've gone home alone each time."

"So?" He asks.

"So," You scoff. "It means no one is interested in doing anything with me."

It’s true—to you at least. The guys you’d gone out with were either not looking to be tied down, or ran once they met you. The last guy thought you’d be easy because ‘the freak’s best friend has to be a freak herself right?’

The dates were a distraction for you. As your heart pined over the one guy you could have it all with, it was breaking too. Eddie hadn’t made a move on you—ever, and you weren’t brave enough too.

So the two of you sat in limbo, completely unaware that the other person was right there with you.

Eddie sits back, releasing you from his arms. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" You ask, sitting back as well.

"That. Act like you're the problem, and not these shitty fucking dudes you keep going out with.” Eddie tried to control his tone, but his temper got the better of him. He cursed at himself for it.

Jesus H. Christ, Munson, get it together.

You push back from him fully now, "Eddie, the common denominator is me. I-I'm fucking broken or something."

“Stop that.” He seethed.

It’s a command—a tone you've heard him use with Steve, or Dustin, but not you.

Never with you.

Eddie stood as you sat up, hanging your legs off the edge of the bed.

"What--"

He turned back and got to his knees right in front of you.

“Stop talking about yourself like that. It’s fucking ridiculous.”

He was close to you, and with him on his knees, his gaze was just at your eye level. “You’re not broken. There's nothing wrong with you, you’re—you’re fucking perfect.”

“Eddie…”

“No, no, just…just shush for a second.” Eddie moved his hand to your cheek, his thumb sweeping across it gently. “You think all this shit about yourself and it’s just not fucking true. I wish, for a second, you could see yourself how I see you. I fucking adore you.”

You feel the warmth of his breath on your nose. His large hand on your cheek warms you, and you lean into the touch, closing your eyes.

Everything is Eddie in this moment. He’s invading every sense you had.

It’s overwhelming.

You can feel your eyes brim with tears. “You don’t have to say that, Eds. I’m okay. I’m just…I’m lonely, that’s all.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. He watched you, he saw the tears hidden beneath your lashes. How could you not see it? See how you were…everything to him?

His mind stopped for a moment, deciding whether or not to take the leap, to risk it all and not run for once.

Fuck it.

“I’m right here, Princess. I’ve been right here.” He leans his forehead on yours.

You exhale his name, “Eddie,”

“What,” he’s quick to ask. “What is it, Sweetheart?”

Your on fire with how close he is to you. But he doesn’t mean it, not in the way you hoped he would…does he?

Your eyes open, seeing his beautiful brown ones searching your face for some kind of clue as to what you’re feeling. You clasp your hand on top of his. “Please,” you beg. “Please don’t say things you don’t mean just to make me feel better. My heart can’t take it.”

He laughs softly, bringing his other hand up. He’s cradling your face gently, “Oh, Honey. You have no idea just how much I mean it.”

Eddie is overwhelmed with you. You’re everywhere, and he can’t fucking think straight. Probably a good thing right about now, because he’s about to do something he never thought he’d be lucky enough to do.

“Can,” he clears his throat. “Can I kiss you, Baby?”

With zero hesitation, you nod, earning a chuckle from Eddie.

“Gotta use your words, sweet thing.”

“Yes,” it comes out as a plea. “Kiss me...please.”

Warm warm warm.

It’s all you feel when he leans in. Then his soft lips are on yours, all the while he’s holding you as if you’d be the one to float away.

Eddie kisses you like he’s done it a thousand times. Like he knows your lips and the pattern that drives them crazy. He’s trying to tell you everything he’s been too afraid to say since the moment he met you.

There’s no one but you.

You’re everything.

I love you, please, let me love you.

Regrettably, you pull away. Breathless from the kiss, but also how surreal this moment is.

“I-I,” you sigh, touching your forehead to his. “I’ve wanted to do that for forever.” It comes out as whisper. As if you’d scare him away if you said it too loud.

Eddie smiles, a relieved laugh passing his lips. “Yeah?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a beat, Eddie is looking at you so softly and with such care.

“You’re so beautiful.” He says with all of the conviction in the world. “My pretty girl.”

“Am I?” You ask. “Am I yours?”

He nods, "If you want to be." He moves his hands, resting one on each thigh. He rubs them absentmindedly, likes he's trying to flatten the goosebumps that had prickled across your skin. “...and I’m yours. You've got me, Honey.”

Eddie's grin was still a shy one. You brush your hand across his face, pushing back any stray hairs. "Eds?"

He grips your wrist gently, placing small, tender kisses along the inside of it. The gesture is so simple, but it sends a heat through you like you've never experienced before.

"What is it, pretty girl? Whatever you want, whatever you need...it's yours."

You intertwine your fingers with his smoothly, "You, Eddie. Need you. Wanna make you feel good, Eds."

Now it was his turn to get goosebumps.

"Fuck, Angel. You can't just say that to me." He breathes.

Your bedroom eyes blink twice, "Please?"

A strangled moan vibrates from his chest, "Who am I to deny the fair maiden what she asks for?" Eddie stands, holding out a hand for you.

You're pulled to your feet by him, and he's looking at you through a brand new set of eyes. "One problem with that though, Princess. You come first."

You gasp as his hands take purchase of your ass, pulling you into him. "If anything, and I mean anything is too much, or too weird, you tell me, okay?"

You're nodding again, and he tuts at you. "Uh-uh. Words, baby."

Your arms fall around his neck and you press your body against his. "Yes, sir."

"Ho-ly-shit." He moans. "Yeah, I'm gonna kiss you now. Cool? Cool."

He's hungrier this time, kissing with teeth and tongue as his roaming hands explore your body.

"Eddie, Eddie..." You breath through swollen lips. "Too many clothes."

"You a mind reader or something?" He jokes, ripping the t-shirt from his body. His body was a work of art in more ways than one, and seeing it now, like this, made you crave it all the more.

You watch as Eddie falls to his knees, "Can I?" He asks, pulling at your skirt.

"God, yes."

He unbuttons the fastener, pulling the distressed denim down until it's pooling at your ankles. Eddie then came face to face with your black-lace covered heat.

"I-I'm dead right? I've died and now I'm at the pearly gates."

Your hands cover your face, "Eddie! Stop!"

He stands quickly, "No, baby, no. God, please don't hide from me." He pulls your hands away gently.

Your shirt is next to go, and so is the matching bra. Eddie pulls his pants down, leaving his boxers on.

"Lay down for me, Princess. Wanna take care of you.”

The timber of his voice makes you tremble. Once your comfortable on the bed, Eddie climbs on too.

“Now, I know this is all new, and we’re figuring things out as we go, but…” Eddie pauses, laying on his stomach between your legs.

He starts kissing his way up your legs. “I’ve been dreaming of eating this pussy for a long, kiss, long, kiss, long time.”

You’re so turned on you can barely speak, but you manage to get out a quiet. “Well what are you waiting for?”

Your thong is thrown into parts unknown, and Eddie starts to feast like a man starved.

“Eddie, fuck—“ his tongue explores your heat. His hands hold onto your hips as you grind down onto his mouth.

“Uh-uh, don’t hold back. Wanna hear you, Princess.” He dives back in, lips sucking on your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. He slips in one, the two fingers. Pumping and curling them slowly until he finds the spot that makes you see stars.

The fire in your belly is growing and you feel your legs start to shake. “Holy fuck, Eds—Eds I’m gonna cum!” Your hands take purchase in his hair, giving it a sharp tug as you feel the heat engulf you.

Eddie eats your pussy, drinking you in as you cum.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” You release your grip on his hair as you come down from your high.

Eddie crawls up your body, kissing you. You taste yourself all over his tongue. “Don’t be sorry, Baby. Let’s me know you’re enjoying yourself,” he kisses you once more. “Plus, I kinda like it.”

You’re both breathing heavy.

Now it’s his turn.

Your hands touch his shoulder, pushing him gently. “What’re you doing, pretty girl?” He asks softly.

When Eddie’s leaned back against the headboard, you pull his boxers off. Pink, uncut cock springing from it's confines.

God damn...he's fucking huge.

"Gonna ride you, Eds. Let you feel what you did to me." You climbed on top of him, "Can I do that? Can I make you feel good?"

Eddie's nodding, not sure what part of you he wants to look at more.

"Uh-uh," you tease. "Use your words, Handsome."

"Fuck," He breathes. He palms your bare chest, moving the pads of his thumbs over your nipples. "Do whatever you want to me, use me, I'm yours." He leans forward, hot mouth latching to your other breast.

You sit up, allowing Eddie's hard length to slip inside your aching cunt. The sheer stretch and size is enough to snatch the breath from your lungs.

"Eds...Eds, shit. S'big." You moan.

His eyes close as he bottoms out inside of you, "So tight. Fuckin' pussy was made for me, she wants my cock. Won't let it go. She greedy, baby?"

You adjust to his size filling the void inside you. Eddie hold your hips as you begin to ride him, helping you to keep a steady rhythm.

"Look at you, Princess. Cock-drunk already, hm?" He teases.

Eddie is whispering praises as he fucks up into you.

Such a good girl.

Taking me so well.

My pretty girl.

Mine.

Eddie's pace quickens, and you feel the tremble return to your legs.

"Eddie, fuck, I--"

"I know, Honey. I can feel it, feel you squeezin' me. Let go, Angel. Go on, cum for me."

His words are like a spell.

You cum harder than you did on his mouth, and this time, it's his cock that's drenched in your essence.

"Gonna cum, Sweetheart. Where--"

You're entirely lost in everything Eddie. "Inside me, Eds. Fuck, please cum inside me."

"Shit, shit, shit." Eddie's moves become erratic. Sloppy thrusts chasing his release, and when he does, he all but growls in your ear.

He's breathless and spent, but his arms wrap around you. Eddie holds you, softening inside you. He kisses the center of your chest, the trail making its way across your shoulder, up your jaw, and to your lips.

"Hi." He says quietly.

You giggle softly, "Hi."

"So uh, not sure if this is a good time or not..."

You kiss his nose, "Hmm?"

"I-I...I love you. I don't know, just felt like someone should tell you, might as well be me." Eddie's big brown eyes search your face for any sign of regret or discomfort.

Nothing.

You kiss him deeply, "I'm glad you told me, otherwise I'd be sitting over here, in love with you, looking all silly by myself."

Eddie holds you tighter. "You, you love me?"

You giggle, "Edward Munson. I love you."

He pulls you closer, "You love me." It's a statement now.

Eddie lays his head against your bare chest. "I'm gonna get you cleaned up in a second, Sweetheart. Just wanna hold you for a little."

Rubbing small circles on his back, you kissed the top of his head. "I'm not going anywhere, Handsome."

[nectardaddy]

'88 Ford | Kita Shinsuke

chapter three | wash out

masterlist

ignore timestamps

track three . . . keep 'em on they toes

cw: the tiniest hint of sexual humor in one single sentence, I'm so country I managed to use the term "backwater" forgive me

Her eyes flickered to the windshield once again, tracing over the small crack in her mind's eyes before letting a groan pass her lips. Seeing as the rain went from a shower to a down pour in the matter of minutes, she leaned her head back against the head rest in defeat. "Piece of shit tire, fucking weather, dumbass road," grumbling a list aloud to no one of things that managed to piss her off today.

Clothes wet, sticking to skin as every article was water logged, and phone dead, she decided this, surely, was the worst day of her life. So she wanted to ignore the lump in her throat upon hearing the engine of a truck behind her, ignore the sickly feeling bubbling up as she heard the the door creak open and slam shut - wanted to, but simply couldn't. Hearing the gentle knock on her driver side window was enough to pull her completely to the deep end.

She didn't wait for him to open the door, knowing his hand was already on the handle to do it for her, she just opened it with a sigh. Revealing the man, the handsome man with pretty brown eyes, and seeing his brows furrow in confusion. "You're wet," he said in a statement rather than a question.

You couldn't even imagine, is what she wanted to say, biting back the smirk that ate away at her lips. "So are you," is what she opted for, watching as the rain poured down on him. Hat protecting his hair and face, but leaving all else to elements. His sleeves were rolled up to his mid arm, and rain water glided down pale skin as it hit him. This is why they write songs about the rain, fucking hell. "Good thing we're not made of sugar," spoken with a shrug before turning to get out.

"Do you wanna' jacket, ma'am?" Asking sincerely, not minding the rain at all through his question. Always respectful, always considerate, not a single rotten bone in his body - an absolute dream of a man.

"I wanna' get going," she added, a sass that she tried to reel in but was unsuccessful. A twang in her tone heightened by her snippy response. Erring on the side of caution, he simply moved out from the way of the door, if her tone got too backwater, he was a goner. She let out a deep sigh as the rain pelted her again upon getting out, and she heard him close the door behind her. "Shitty ass weather."

"Rain's a good thing," replying with a small smile. "Makes things grow; it's my favorite actually." She saw him pass in front of her after his statement, the corners of his lips still pulled into a smile as he made his way to the passenger side door. His hand already on the handle of the door before she could reach for it herself, she found herself smiling in response.

"Hard to argue when you say it that sincerely," musing as he opened the door for her. "But I'd prefer weather that doesn't leave me soaked t' the bone." Especially in front of you, saying the latter in her head before getting in the truck, hearing him hum before closing the door behind her. "Should be illegal to look that good in the rain." Mumbling quietly to herself, eyes tracking him pass in front of the truck to the driver's side door.

Shamelessly, she watched as he got in himself and closed the door, taking off his hat and putting it on the dashboard once he did - his grandmother's words forever stuck in his mind: don't wear a hat inside, anywhere, it's rude. Hair damp from the soaked fabric of the hat, and stringy pieces falling in his face that weren't contained and met with the rain. Maybe rain's good, great even, oh my god. To which she turned her head, hands meeting her face and dragging down in an attempt to stop the thoughts that hammered in her head.

She didn't turn when she heard him sigh, only put her head against the head rest once again. "Ma'am?" Questioning softly, to which she only hummed in response. But his words were cut off by a loud crack of thunder, rumbling through the area with force, followed by the bright flash of lightening. "It's coming down too hard to drive at the moment, 'm sorry."

Rain pelted down harder than before, hitting the truck with an, almost relaxing, drone. But it was a compete, and total wash out; if the man tried to drive, he would be met with bogged roads and little visibility. She let out a loud groan at this, keeping her eyes closed as it passed her lips in annoyance. "Whatever god I managed t'piss off is taking it out on me today and dragging you down with me." Reopening her eyes and gaze shifting towards him, she caught his own. Locking for a fraction of a second before he averted, turning his eyes to the windshield as she still kept her's on him.

You can't be looking at me like that, I'll lose my mind. Looking him over once more, again shamelessly, before sighing at the thought. "You got my dad's number?"

"Yes, ma'am," he spoke with a nod. "You want me to let him know we got stuck in the storm?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "And tell him my phone's dead too, so he'll have t'bitch at me when we're back."

A small chuckle left his lips at her words, "I'll tell him we'll be back as soon as it lightens up." The man was simply too good for this world, pure as snow - which she told him often. Always smiling or laughing off the comment with a gentle I just do what's right following suit. But maybe that was why the woman found herself infatuated with him, smiling to herself like an idiot after every conversation.

He had nothing but generosity and care in his soul, spilling over upon every interaction he had with anyone lucky enough to cross his path. While she, although caring and compassionate in her own regard, was nothing but a firecracker. But he would never be subject to venom laced words, even if he deserved it, some how some way, because he was the only reason to why her heart squeezed - giving her a heart attack with every smile.

So deep in the trenches of her own feelings she didn't dare think of coming back out, because hell, it felt good. I'll make it everyone's problem the day I have the balls to tell you how happy you make me.

I couldn't be bothered to give this man a name, I'm sorry.

taglist under cut

@wyrcan @chizunata @seroh @chemiru @froyaoya

@h3xi2g0n3 @localgaytrainwreck @mollyrolls @causenessus @diorzs

@rory-cakes @phoenix-eclipses @pattys-got-cakes @girlkissersco

@jaynawayna

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 13- goddamn when you're young

"My heart plays the songs of my lost years. My scars are a church for my old fears. My body's a wreck, but I don't care, I swear. So say a prayer, gotta lift me up, goddamn when you're young in America." -Young In America by Barns Courtney

Masterlist Part 12

Jazz felt the shockwave of the bomb seconds before the sound reached them. Concussive, lethal, far too close as Jazz pushed Jason to the ground, trying to shield him with her body. It was instinct to protect her loved ones, her body was near indestructible after all. 

Chunks of wall and metal rained down on them, striking Jazz in the back but not forcing her down just yet, making sure to keep Jason tucked as far under her as possible and cradling his head. The debris hurt but ultimately couldn’t harm her, but they were stuck under until it was safe to move. 

“Jason?” Jazz murmured, hearing still sensitive from the shockwave. He was still under her, shallow breaths against her sternum proof he was alive, but Jazz needed to hear his voice. 

“Jason, talk to me.” She tried again, this time shuffling a bit to get some debris off her spine that was uncomfortable. 

She felt him speak against her, “Jazz.” His speech was slurred so her name came out more like ‘ass’, funny it would be in any other moment, but not now that she felt like one for not being able to protect her boyfriend from what killed him previously. He wasn’t alone this time, Jazz was here and she wasn’t going to let go until she absolutely had to. 

“It’s ok, Jay, I got you.” She promised, “We have to move.” Time was running out, just like her faith in this shitty apartment to hold itself together after such a blast. She had to get them both out of here, but-

Her train of thought was interrupted by something warm on her thigh. Jazz didn’t need to guess what it was from the smell alone. 

Blood. 

It wasn’t hers, no it had the tinge of corrupted ecto to it and held Jason’s scent just on the surface. 

Fuck, he’d been hurt. 

Jazz cursed out loud and shifted again, forcing debris away from the two of them so she could summon her sword. It was dangerous to rip open a portal from below, but she had no other choice. Thankfully, she was skilled enough to create a directional difference on the other side, so no debris would fall on them and they themselves wouldn’t have to plummet from above. 

Channeling her energy towards her hand, Jazz released her hold on Jason’s head as she felt the cool metal of her sword handle settle into her palm, vibrating slightly from being called forth. 

Envisioning the Far Frozen, her sword vibrated more strongly in acceptance before she imagined where she wanted the portal and with far more effort that she should have expended, Jazz thrusted her sword into the floor beneath them. 

Her beautiful sword, her Faithkeeper, hummed as the fabric of reality was torn asunder and allowed for the Infinite Realms to bleed through, Jazz held her breath as Jason’s muffled scream echoed in her chest as they sunk through her portal to be embraced by winter frost. 

It wasn’t easy to let Jason be taken from her grasp, even if it was Frostbite himself who cradled her lover to his soft fur. The Yeti had come bounding across the snow to her side, ready to fight an army but only to be greeted by Jazz’s teary face as she cradled the love of her life to her chest. 

Frostbite didn’t say anything as he brought them both back to the tribe. 

Jazz refused to leave Jason’s side even as he was stitched up, gently carding a shaking hand through his dark hair, wanting nothing more than to wrap him up in a blanket and hide him from the world. He had been hurt in her apartment, on her watch, in her haunt. It was unacceptable. 

Danny would no doubt be investigating the explosion that had occurred in his haunt, even if Jazz’s tear in reality hadn’t alerted him to the fact that something was very wrong. She hadn’t tasted any corrupted ectoplasm in the air, which the GIW unknowingly used in their weapons post-Fenton death and lack of access to the Realms, but still didn’t eliminate them as suspects. 

The question was- Why? If Jazz could answer that then she’d eventually find the culprit and properly deal with them. 

(Eviscerate them.) 

But not right now, Jason was more important than murder getting on the trail of whoever was idiotic enough to hurt the man she loved. 

By the time Jason woke up, Jazz had zero doubts she would have to come clean about everything spooky going on. 

His blue eyes were narrowed In contemplation as he digested her words, her explanation of where they were, what happened, why they were there and so on. 

He didn’t seem angry, which she took as a good sign. 

“So I’m a Revenant.” The word sounded wrong in the air between them, bitter with the memory of death, his death. 

“You were, but now-“ 

He cut her off, “I’m a Liminal.” 

Jazz nodded, softly rubbing her thumb over his hand she held in her own, comforted by the rhythm of his pulse against her fingers. 

“And you’re like me?” It was a question, one of hope that Jason wasn’t alone, that someone would understand. 

“Yes, I’m a liminal too.” They had time to get into the finer details of their respective liminality, Proto-Cores and all. For right now, the basics were enough. 

Jason fixed his gaze back on her, searching her features for something, something he clearly found much to her bewilderment, “You’re Regent.” 

It was spoken with awe and sadness. Jason knew what she had done to the Fentons, to her proginators, but he still wasn’t angry. 

She didn’t answer him with words, only lifting his hand to her lips to leave a kiss on his palm. Many things would need to be discussed later, but for now they had this moment to rest. 

Frostbite allowed them to stay in the healing tent for a day cycle, content with Jason’s vitals and ecto-levels left the room, but not before sparing Jazz a knowing look as she held fast to her boyfriend. Yes, the old Yeti knew the answers to several questions of hers and it only served to further tie the two liminals together. 

Jason, for his part, was calm and resting peacefully despite how his temperature began to fluctuate every so often, not as bad as when he’d first been brought to the Realms though. Further proof that he was settling in well as a Proto-core liminal, but Jasmine still worried every time a shiver ran through him. She didn’t want to invade his space without his consent, especially now that it wasn’t life threatening enough that she had to use her own Proto-core heat, but she still wanted nothing more than to curl into his chest and block out the world. 

“Jazz….” Jason mumbled, drawing the Regent back to her love. He was somewhat conscious again, but still ready to be dragged back under. 

“Yeah, Jay?” Jasmine responded, hand squeezing his own lightly where she had yet to let go. 

Her love didn’t answer, lifting up his opposite arm from the one she held captive and Jazz took the initiative embarrassingly quick to climb over and settle against his side in a familiar fashion as they would on her bed. 

(Jazz loved the smell of him on her sheets.)

(Gunpowder, petrichor and something uniquely Jason.)

“‘M sorry, Jay.” The red head mumbled, head resting against his chest right above the steady beat of his heart. There were many things she had to apologize for in this lifetime (and never would), but for Jason she felt they were necessary. He’d been nothing but good to her, watching over her as she walked home late at night, softly reading to her by lamplight, cooking her favorite food… he was her perfect match. 

Her soulmate. 

Despite how bad she wanted to mock the overused cliche, Jazz could not dispute its validity at any angle other than sheer audacity of it happening to her of all people. 

(The one lost in the dark.) 

Perhaps it was meant to be, she mused, with her proclivity towards the darkness of mind and soul that her other half would possess a proto-core of shadows. The same ones that hid him, aided him and now gave him life in a completely ironic sense. 

(Not dead.) 

(One foot in the grave.)

(Cat in a box.)

(What are we today?) 

“No.” Jason rumbled underneath her ear in the same baritone she loved to hear. He didn’t say anything more, so Jazz left him to fall back asleep. They would talk more later anyways. 

For now, Jazz was left to her thoughts. 

Danny’d been about to take a sip of his milkshake when the ripple of sheer terror came over him, body and core. One that he’d only felt when Amity was pulled into the Realms, when his people were hurt and terrified. 

Jazz. 

He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Signal, the Sunshine child startled by Danny’s sudden departure- no he literally started sprinting in the direction of his haunt, where Jazz should be, not even dropping his milkshake as he ran. The meta was probably going to follow him but he wasn’t all that concerned, hell he’d take Sunshine over Stabby any day… but Jazz! 

Jazz was in trouble! 

The ripple was her effect on his core, a side effect of a portal being opened within the bounds of his haunt. Usually he didn’t really pay attention to it, other than a passing thought that she was back home safe, but terror at the same time? No. Jazz was in trouble and he needed to be there now. 

(And he fucking forgot he could fly. )

Tossing his milkshake over his shoulder to where the meta was almost about to grab him by the arm, Danny ducked out of sight and transformed into his ghostly alter, rings of light barely making a complete pass before he was off in the air. 

He left a very baffled daylight hero, covered in boo-berry delight, watching him go.

Duke, not for the first time, had the thought of- Add that to the list of ‘must never let B find out’. 

Prime adoption bait Danny Nightingale was prime bat bait because he was a vigilante already. 

He’d seen the strange shadow shapes around the teenager ever since they’d first met on a random Gotham rooftop, with Danny lounging on a lawn chair with coffee and a look that screamed he wished for the sweet release of death, but he’d put it down to ‘meta-in-hiding’ and closed the case. 

(Not before getting the background on the kid thanks to Oracle.) 

It wasn’t the first time his ghost sight had outed a meta and Duke was positive it wouldn’t be the last, but Danny had been the first to have an overlay rather than an aura. Others, metas included, had silhouettes of themselves of colors associated with them as a being. Batman was charcoal grey, Jason was red, Tim was brown and Duke was yellow. Rarely had he’d seen an overlay of something else, something other and familiar to the hero. 

Standing over Danny’s shoulder, ever still and watchful with its green, green gaze fixed unflinching forwards was a King. 

(A Phantom King.)

Skin tinted light blue as if suffering hypothermia, stark white hair braided across one shoulder with several glass beads tied into the strands that clinked with every shift Danny made in an echo of wind chimes, sharp features set in a neutral expression as if frozen in place. Snowflakes dusted the light blue collar of a black cloak fastened at the collarbone with a shard of ice entrapping a green flame and galaxies lazily floating across the span of the cloak, though with every movement it parted to reveal a white shirt tucked haphazardly into black jeans.

The being wore a crown of green ice on its head that reflected the sunlight. 

Duke felt in his bones that should he dare try anything against Danny that he would come face to face with the otherworldly being. 

(Why did the being look like a victim of hypothermia?) 

 (Why was it attached to Danny?) 

(And why did he just see a variation of it fly away?) 

It wasn’t until Duke was about to fall asleep some hours later that the realization struck him about what he’d seen standing behind Danny. 

He’d seen the future Phantom. 

Phantom frosted over the smoldering embers of what had been his sister’s apartment building, the remnants clinging to a broken frame like a shambling corpse. He’d not been able to hear anyone in need, most importantly he couldn’t hear Jazz though. Her apartment was on the top floor with roof access, but it was empty of life forms much to his relief. Jazz had probably gotten out using a portal. 

Phantom lingered for a few moments in the debris of his sister’s home, carefully sorting through for anything salvageable that couldn’t wait. Most of the shelves were furthest from the blast zone so Jazz’s books were going to be fine, though singed and ash coated alongside the contents of her closet, which included a hidden safe Phantom phased a hand through. 

His hand touched something glass, thrumming with power underneath his fingers and familiar. 

(Pure ecto.)

(What Jazz needs to remain alive.) 

Phantom hurriedly retrieved the vials, shoving them into his chest for safekeeping before moving on towards where he suspects the bomb was placed. 

It was odd.

He’d been expecting corroded remains of a cannablized Fenton explosive, the ones he’d been familiar with down in the lab, but this was plainly human for even a goopy ghouly ghosty like him to see. 

Not a trace of corrupted ectoplasm either, a sure sign of GIW presence due to the nature of their technology. The GIW wouldn’t plant something like this for the hell of it right? It’s not ‘anti-ghost’ in the slightest! 

Who else would target Jazz, the most ecto-contaminated being on Earth? 

(Unless she wasn’t the target.) 

Definitely human oriented explosive, timed and locked firmly into place with what looks to be a steel plate bolted into the floorboards, clearly meant to be left unattended for a long period of time. Delayed detonation. 

(Explosives were never his strong suit.) 

(But he’d learnt at the knee of Jack Fenton.) 

(And so he knew many things he wished he didn’t.) 

(What his beating heart looks like.) 

(“-molecule by molecule!”) 

This wasn’t meant for a liminal being, but for humans. 

Either someone targeted Jazz without that bit of extra knowledge or she wasn’t the target. 

(Sure looked like it though.) 

(Right in the middle of the empty apartment next door.) 

“I’m telling you, his tracker stopped working right there!” 

Tim didn’t like going outside most days. The sun hurt his eyes and he hated being swarmed by people. 

(Ugh, people.) 

Yet, here he was, in the outernet with only sunglasses and a ball cap to ward off pesky reporters on his way to the last location of his most murderous sibling at the edge of said sibling’s territory. 

(Tim hated Crime Alley with a vengeance.) 

The Ridge wasn’t where he’d ever expect to find Jason, the older man preferring to remain in the Alley if he wasn’t wandering Gotham proper. The Ridge was neglected and crime ridden up to a few months previously, the vigilantes Phantom and Regent claimed the territory as their own to protect. It was kind of awe-inspiring to study the real-time data plummet with their presence, though the big Bat himself wasn’t pleased with openly active ‘Metas’ in his city despite their obvious positive influence. 

Phantom was once a vigilante from Amity Park, Illinois, the town that claimed itself to be the most haunted place on Earth. It’s population was halved on its opinion of the ghost, almost split perfectly between generations on whether or not the teenager was a hero or the one controlling the attacking ghosts. With what Tim knew now thanks to the Ghost Files, he was of the firm belief that the vigilante was only defending his haunt from both ghost hunters and ghosts. Major Justice League level threats had been handled by Phantom almost single-handedly, though Batman had been livid to discover that someone had classified the distress calls from the small town as pranks. 

(He’d listened to every single one.)

(There was nothing about them that screamed prank.) 

(And no, they still hadn’t found who had committed such a fuck up.) 

It was fortunate that Phantom was a Protector spirit with all the powers available to him, not to mention the grit and resilience he displayed in every major fight he threw himself into. Mad respect to the ghost boy, couldn’t have been easy. 

(Though Tim could never unsee the death and rebirth of that same hero.) 

(The scream echoes in his ears when he thinks too hard about it.) 

Unfortunately for him, his thoughts screeched to a halt when he found the location he’d been sent to. 

A burnt shell of an apartment building held together by Phantom’s ice, firefighters carefully searching for anyone left trapped inside, civilians loitering around like ants at a picnic. No one spared him more than a passing glance, but Tim still noted the weary gazes and tried to get information. No one could say anything more than an explosion happened, with Phantom following close behind to form Ice on the building in an effort to keep it intact, before the ghost kid entered himself and Phantom had yet to leave. 

Jason was in the building when the explosion happened, but without a time to match the tracker read out to they wouldn’t know if he’d been killed in the blast, tracker affected by the shockwave or pinned down by debris.  

“Hey babs, did Jason have a safe house here?” Tim asked, soft spoken into his phone so as to not be overheard. 

Barbara didn’t answer, but Tim had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever she said next. 

“…in a way?” 

“You just answered a question with a question.” He accused, a bit of shock coloring his words. Barbara definitely knew something she wasn’t sharing. 

“Jason might have… a girlfriend…” 

“What.” 

It came pouring out, “Its so cute, they’re so cute. He just adores her and she’s so sweet to him, I’ve never seen him smile so much and he’s so calm-“ 

“Woah, woah, slow down, Jason has a girlfriend?” If it wasn’t so concerning from his angle, the explosion wracked building in front of him, he would be cackling at the juicy blackmail as only a younger sibling can. 

“Mhm, Jasmine Nightingale, twenty years old and applicant for Gotham University currently pending. Younger brother is Danny Nightingale who often talks to Signal whenever Duke crosses his path, obsessed with Space and science, currently attending Gotham Academy. Jasmine has a trust fund allowance from the estate of her presumed dead godfather, but that’s the only thing that stands out.” 

(Jasmine and Jason.) 

(Tim felt happy for his older brother despite their history.) 

“This is her apartment, isn’t it.” 

Tim didn’t need Barbara to answer that either, the silence spoke for itself. 

“Well, shit.” 

A/N: 3k words for you! @meditating-cat had suggested making the last section more dramatic, but I want to save that for the next part where I want Bruce to react. And now Jason finally knows the truth! I can't wait to write more about him as Hood with Regent out in Gotham.

Yes, beta read by @meditating-cat who also gave me some song suggestions. If you have any of your own please don't hesitate to message me! I love music and often use it for inspiration in my works.

In fact the very last part of this series was written first as a draft before I even made Regent!Jazz or Vigilante!Jazz, because of a Katy Perry song.

It has always been a Hardcover pairing though.

Thanks for reading!

[live-love-be-unique]

But It’s Home To Me

Summary: Eddie was meant to be the next metal god but things didn’t work out and he ended up a mechanic stuck in Hawkins, but with you by his side, that might not be such a bad thing.

This was inspired by a line from one of my favourite songs, Tomorrow by Shakey Graves, that just screamed Older Eddie to me:

Well, you love this heart and this six string, girl, oh

But they've been outta tune yeah for some time.

Parings: Older Eddie Munson x f reader

Warnings: none.

The dull ache that had started in his left shoulder as he drank his morning coffee had steadily traveled its way down into his lower back throughout the day and then, by the time he headed home it had reached his knees. I’m not old enough to have shitty knees, he thought, running a hand over his tired eyes, I’m only in my thirties.

As he drove home he remembers Wayne working the same long hours at the same garage, returning every night to the same trailer park the same ache in his bones and the bitterness returned as it always seemed to do lately, it was a sharp buzzing sound that filled his brain with a familiar doubt.

Eddie reached over and turned the radio up as Metallica filled the cabin of his old van, he could feel his grease covered fingers tapping out the familiar guitar chords. He still played of course as a way to keep connected to his dreams, and to make a little extra money on the side. Tutoring some of the kids in Hawkins was fun but not as fun as being on stage.

Corroded Coffin, his old band had traveled to Chicago to submit their demo tapes to a big music exec, who took their tapes and gave their music to another band without even giving them a chance. The band had broken up a few years later, he still kept in touch with the guys of course, getting together for regular jam sessions, they all had families of their own so those jam sessions were few and far between.

We could have been up there with the greats, the bitter thought invading his brain as the final notes of Enter Sandman die out. I should have put this shithole town in my rear view mirror years ago and never looked back.

He hadn’t though, he needed the money so Wayne had pulled some strings and gotten him some shifts at the garage and he never left. His shoulders felt heavy and the buzzing in his brain got louder as he pulled into the trailer park. Can’t even afford a proper house.

He’d met you on his first day, the world's prettiest receptionist he’d thought, he couldn’t even get the words out when you smiled at him at the end of his first day and asked how everything had gone.

He was smitten, so he went to Steve the next day for advice about how to ask you on a date. He tried to be smooth, he had a whole speech planned out, but when he saw you, he’d shyly stumbled out the words “would you want the movies…with me?” He cringes to this day at the memory. But you just smiled and accepted and that Friday night you were sharing popcorn as you watched Michael Myers disembowel teenagers, and later, when he dropped you off at your house he kissed you and asked you to be his.

You were his for two years, you were his own personal sunshine, he’d pick you up every morning and drive you home every night just to spend more time with you, you were never apart. Things were perfect, but that didn’t stop him from feeling guilty, like he was holding you back from something or someone better, someone like you deserved so much more than what he could offer, so he did what his father had done, he ran.

Fuck, Eddie thought, I was a fucking idiot, letting the best thing that ever happened to me slip through my fingers. He pulled into the driveway and turned off the ignition, he slumped down and leaned his head against the steering wheel, hands still tightly gripping the wheel.

His friends had told him that he was an idiot, he’d agreed of course, told him to get you back and somehow after six long months you had cautiously let him into your life again under the condition that he wouldn’t break your heart again. That was four years ago.

He looked up and glanced towards the kitchen window of his trailer and there you were, cooking dinner and swaying to some music. A soft smile graced his worn out features as he watched you sway along to the music playing.

Dropping his bag by the door as he entered your small trailer, chuckling a little at the familiar strains of your current favourite song playing softly. Eddie made his way to the kitchen. He watched you for a while as you cut up vegetables for dinner, you were wearing that little sundress he loved so much, god, he thought, you’re so gorgeous, he moved forward, wrapping his arms around your waist, he smiled as you jumped in surprise. Eddie pulled you tighter against his chest as his head dropped down to rest in the crook of your neck.

“Missed you baby” Eddie mumbled against your skin. He ran his hands over your swollen belly, your son would be here in a few short months.

You ran your nails along his arms eliciting goose bumps, the shine from the small diamond on your left hand catching his eye. He’d felt bad about not being able to afford anything more, but you didn’t care about that, he remembered fondly that you had squealed with joy when he proposed. You never complained about not having more, you always said you were happy with your life, with him.

Eddie stayed like that while you cooked, needing to feel your comfort. Whatever shitty things happened at work always evaporated whenever you were around.

“Daddy!” A tiny voice came from behind the two of you as your daughter padded into the kitchen in her little Snow White princess dress. Eddie turned and scooped up the tiny little girl with the same unruly dark curls and dark eyes as his.

“Hi pumpkin” he smiled as he shifted the little girl in his arms, holding her on his hip as she wrapped her tiny, chubby arms around his neck.

“I made you a picture” your little girl, Evie, proudly informed him, showing him the finger painting she’d made clutched in her tiny hands.

“You did?” Eddie asked, taking the paper and examining the drawing “I love it pumpkin!” he said, putting it on the fridge.

“Steve called, wants to have us over for a barbecue this Saturday” you mention, placing dinner on the small table. “I was thinking of making potato salad”.

Eddie places his daughter in her high chair and takes a plate from you, “it would be good to see everyone again”

He smiles as he watches you feeding your daughter, the feelings of comfort and warmth of his little family slowly replacing the bitterness he felt earlier.

“What?” You smile up at him and his heart skips a beat, the same as it did the first day you met.

“Nothing” he smiles, maybe not being a rock star isn’t so bad. It’s not much, but it’s home to me.

[thewritersaddictions]

Day One: Soldier Boy + Baby It's Cold Outside

It's late december when Ben comes back from yet another search for a Vought member. He's not really a fan of christmas having never really gotten the things he wanted during his childhood.

The first time Ben hears the song it's during his time away at war. Ben is just thirty, and he loves music. Warming his heart in a way that not much else can. He hums to himself during his time away at war, and as his mother used to. It keeps him clam, and striaght with his thoughts.

It's when Vought takes Ben to be their test subject and their propaganda device, does the song come back to him. Years had passed, Vought wanted, and tried like hell to make the face of thier company sell.

What was worth selling? Sex has alway sold, and by the standards of the world then and now Ben is a deliciously sexy man. Now mix that together with money and you've pretty much got yourself anything you can dream of.

It forces Ben, or what Vought called him "Soldier Boy" to become apart of a few things. Movie titles, pinup posters, and songs. During the sevetnies, and eighties when the tech get's better the songs he laid down on records turned into shitty music videos.

During christmas time one of the years before he was caught by the russians. He does yet another albums filled with winter songs. Speicallifly the song he had used to keep himself level headed during the war, down in the trenches dirt and blood splattering his face.

Shaking the thought he does what he's told, and sings the song. That damn song that has been stuck to him like glue for the past twenty years at least. Ben does a few good things before getting caught by the Russians like buying the song on record his version and the orginal stuffing them away with other importnat documents, and things from his childhood.

Ben can see the stupid LED christmas lights from the apartments window as he walks up his duffel over his shoulder. With that he jams the brass key into the lock twisting and turning the knob before the door gives and he's let in. The lights are dimly light, and the sound of the tv plays in the background.

"I'm home." He says loudly so you can hear over the tv. He can the scampering of your feet on the hardwood, as he drops the duffel kicks the door shut with his boots, and sits down to unlace his boots.

Theres that beautiful smile he wishes he could see everyday whenever he's away. "Hey beautiful." He says with a contentment that you can hear in his voice. You smile sweetly down at him, and when ben gets up from his kneeled postion you smother him kisses.

You taste of choclate and mint, "What have you been up to while I've been gone?" He asks even though he really doesn't have to. The apartment is decorated ceiling to floor in christmas decorations. Ben feels as if he just walked into a christmas store, or maybe a hallmark.

"Well," You start with a smile written all over your face, "I've been trying to get into the sprit of christmas, and  I pulled some of your old records out looking for something a least a little bit chirstmassy." The words "your records."

"You weren't through my things?" Ben doesn't mean for the words to come out so harsh, but they do. Ben is and has always been protective of what he has and that includes you, but he wishes you could have waited till he was home and you had asked him instead.

The smile on your face starts to fall you open your mouth open to apoliges, but nothing comes out. You drop your hand from his, and get quiet moving over to the couch. "I'm sorry Ben." The tv is still playing but the sound is lower.

Ben can feel the tension in the air. Thick and it annoys him. He forgets just how sensitive you can be not used to being home just yet. Ben needs a drink before he can deal with that mess he's created.

He leaves you in the living for now, to mutter in your feelings while he finds in the kitchen a jug of eggnog. An old recipe card sits out, he internally groans. 'Fuck you for being so damn sweet to him.' and 'Fuck him for having such a sweet spot for you.' He pour himself a glass and it hits him with a tingle down his thoart. His eyes scan over the recipe card, In cursive, "Just a dash or two cups of whiskey."

He can't hear you, but cna hear the tv. He rolls his eyes has he pour himself anther cup, and you one as well. When he comes out of the kitchen you are right where he left you. Setting your cup on the side tablebut not before you move a coastar underneath it. He set his cup down on the other coastar. The silence isn't uncomfortable for Ben, but he can feel you messin' with your fingers and nails. He starts to scan what you took out. His records, and one catches his eye.

He slides his fingers over the old package, and pulls the record from the safety of it's home. The record is safe from marks, or scratches and so Ben slips it onto the record player. Grabbing the remote, turning the tv off.

"Listen baby," You don't look at him, "Honey, look at me." Your eyes are glazed with hurt, but you look at him anyways. He has to stifle his laugh at how adorable you look right now for him.

"I'm sorry for being short with you, you know it takes me a few hours to get back and used to being home with you love. Now get up here and let me fix it." Ben says, reaching out his hand palm up so your much smaller hand can fit right in it. You chew your bottom lip for a moment like your thinking of denying him, but as much as Ben's missed you you've missed him tenfold.

You grab his hand and Ben pulls you up effortlessly. He smiles for the first time since he arrived home, and your shoulders fall with contentment. Ben only lets go of your hand for a few seconds just enough to let the needle fall on the record and his hands to slip back into yours. One hand holding onto your hand and the other your waist. The two of you sway as the music crackles and then starts to play.

You rest your head against his large chest, and breathe him in. The first few tracks are not the song Ben's looking for, but he waits patiently. He likes being able to hold you like this, there's no rhythm or reason to your swaying.

That is until the song Ben had been waiting for hit his ears. The songs start slow, and then your movements become more fluid. Your socks glide on the carpet, and even if you accidentally step on Ben's feet he is still okay with having you in his arms. By the chorus of the song Ben's humming in your ear with his hand holding you with a warm grip 'round our waist.

"You'll sing it for me?" You ask with your cheek pressed into his chest. Ben's humming stops and for a moment so does the little swaying the two of you have gotten into. Ben thinks for a moment, "Maybe sweetheart. Maybe." But he can already feel you getting excited at the thought of him singing, "But for now can you take the hummin' and the swayin'?" He asks, putting a stray piece of hair behind your ear. Nodding, you place your head back on his chest, swaying, and humming resumes.

Completed on: 10/06/23

Posted on: 12/01/23

The Anti-Hero-

The Boys Master List // The Anti-Hero Master List // Christmas Stoires Master List

[scary-lasagna]

Things I've said/done/thought watching Marble Hornets (Season 2)

- I headcanoned that Tim ate dirt when he was a kid. Like, a lot of it because he thought it was funny when people told him not to. I later headcanoned that he once drank an entire bowl of brownie batter made from a mix, got a stomach ache, and never did it again.

- I headcanoned that Tim owns a hot pink feather boa and if you ask him about it, you will get the angriest glare imaginable.

- Saw Tim limping and immediately got the song "Sexy" from Mean Girls (The Musical) stuck in my head for the next hour.

- I keep seeing Tim and going "Heyyy~♡". I don't even like him like that. He smokes. I'm not into smokers because I have that thing called ✨️asthma✨️ or some other respiratory issue.

- I KNOW Brian likes meatloaf. Look at him. Meatloaf enjoyer. Can't relate.

- I fucking hate Alex. He's such an asshole. I hope he dies.

- Us, watching a weird ad with a princess eating men: This is scarier than Marble Hornets!

- Me, watching a body get dragged offscreen: I think we should let Brian crossdress.

- This story really resonates with me as someone who was in a really shitty friend group that inevitably dissolved because of the leaders actions. I have the memory gaps too, but thats just the depression. I logged a lot of stuff on Discord, but my memories of what wasn't logged are few and far between.

- Would someone please get Tim a nice, hot grilled ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of cold root beer. Give a bitch a break please. Damn.

- I think Masky/Tim's preferred date would probably just involve sharing a root beer float (Initially with two straws. You'd probably get into straw sharing territory later <3), watching some shitty movie, and ranting about how bad the shitty movie is. I know that man is a sucker for quality time and also bonding with people over bad movies.

Those are so accurate I support this

And Tim is 100% a root beer float person, no doubt about it. Brian is an orange creme milkshake kinda guy. Jay probably likes coffee-flavored things or blue raspberry. Alex enjoys the casual mint goodness.

[astridthevalkyrie]

chand ko chakor dekhe, tujkho naseebo wala (the bird looks at the moon, a lucky one looks at you) | hawks x reader | chapter 1

“You’ve died twice? From clocks?” “I know you’re not blind to the rocks and debris flying literally everywhere! The world would be better off without you in it!” you scream at the villain. The machine is even louder as it breaks and jams into the ground. “Flying building pieces or something, I don’t know—one hit me yesterday. The first day I got knocked into a wall, and then I woke up hugging my body pillow. Same thing the next day. And the next, and the next. Did my number three pro hero partner save me? No, he let me get stuck in a fucking time loop!” Or, you’ll do a lot of things with infinite time on your hands, but falling in love with Keigo Takami isn’t one of them.

a/n: lady gaga mentions all over :) i know mha is set in the future but i didn’t feel like inventing some fictional artist in the future so, you know. whateva. i am a lady gaga fan.

warnings: afab reader with she/her pronouns. FOUL language, reader curses so much, and just general rudeness, lots of death because reader is morbid, chapter warnings will be added to each chapter

“You like the song Poker Face.”

“Um, duh?” Hawks gives you a lopsided grin. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.” Your eyes dim. “I don’t. But that doesn’t matter. You’re about to be really happy in two seconds.”

Sometimes you say two seconds as a kind of placeholder time, like if your mother was telling you to come downstairs to eat or if a civilian wanted an autograph in the midst of you taking a photo with another one. But in this case, it’s literal. 1, 2, and—

“Oh, hey!” The hero’s eyes brighten as the tune starts, bopping his head to the rhythm almost immediately. The sound comes from the mall you two are walking by. “Nice guess, Nightingale. Unless you requested it specifically for me.” He gives you the famous wink, punctuated with a single finger gun.

“How would I? You never told me that you liked it. Send a feather over there, that kid’s about to fall.”

Like a real hero, his head sharply turns the same time a feather shoots out, right as a child stumbling on a skateboard falls back. The back of his shirt nudging him back up, the kid waves shakily, stammering thank you, Hawks! thank you! even though the shitty birdbrain would have missed it if you didn’t call it first. 

“You could have stopped that too if you saw it first. Why let me take the credit? In a generous mood today, are we?” 

“No.” You cross your arms. “It’s just he thinks girl heroes are lame. Sexist little shit. I should have let him fall. It’s fucking hilarious when he does.”

This time Hawks cocks (ha, rhyme) his head, looking more avian than usual. “You know him?”

“Sure. I know him. Someone in a pirate costume is about to turn the street.”

And so he does. “Okay, Nightingale, you’re freaking me out.”

With a sigh, you begin a flurry of wind under you. “You go left, I’ll go right!”

“Wha—”

The ground breaks right as the beat drops. Out of the road a man with a large clock tattoo on his neck emerges, at the top of a loony machine. Several people scream (no he can’t read my POKER FACE she’sgottolovenobody), and like real pros, both you and Hawks are up in the air in an instant. Somehow he’s quicker than you, even still. Well, fuck it—you’re not a literal fucking bird, are you?

“You go left, I’ll go right!” Hawks shouts, and then a second later, “Huh?”

Ha. Little birdie’s confused, you wonder if his head will do a full 180. That would be cool and gross at the same time. More gross. You hope he doesn’t do that. 

“I am Clockworth, the clock villain!” both the man from the ground and you shout at the same time. When his eyes gape in your direction, you flip him the bird. The snot-nosed skateboard kid points up like a dope, like you’re some fucking. Spectacle sight that is going to keep him safe no matter what. 

“What’s going on?” Hawks, pointedly not at the right, as you catch the boulder that goes flying down in the wind. “Did you get a tip about this?”

“Would that make me know what you were going to say?”

“Dunno, maybe you’re just intuitive.” i wanna roll with him a hard pair we will BE

“I didn’t get a tip, shitbrain.”

“Rude,” he quips. “Then?”

“I’m reliving—”

Another boulder that neither he nor you see coming smashes into. your goddamn face. 

—————————————————

“—the same day over and over again.”

One punch to the wind and the boulder breaks, crumbling into tiny rocks that litters down Hawks’ wings. He brushes the smoke out of his face. 

“Cool.” Then he’s zooming away, nine wings spreading out in different ways to evacuate the six fucks who think they’re so cool spectating instead of running. 

No no, Hawks is not going to be chill about this, that’s what you’re here to do. You just dropped a bomb on him, and he is going to be surprised if you have to beat the surprise into him yourself.

“You don’t believe me. The biggest trauma of my life and you don’t believe me.”

“How can I after fuck-with-Hawks day?”

“Fuck-with-Hawks day,” you whisper dreamily. You wish you were reliving fuck-with-Hawks day, you’d never want to wake up notthatthisisadream. “Sure, but I don’t fuck with Hawks on non-fuck-with-Hawks days. Aerial wheel!” The hell was up with calling out the names of your moves in the first place? To strike fear? Clockworth wasn’t-that-the-name-of-the-thing-in-Beauty-and-the-Beast Villain Man doesn’t look scared as he fires off the tiny clocks he keeps producing straight out of his head. 

“You absolutely fuck with Hawks on non-fuck-with-Hawks days.” Two swords in his hands now. Predictable, even without the time loop thing. “Okay, fine, I’ll bite. Answer a few questions for me.”

“Sure.” Not like you’re fighting a villain in the meantime.

“How many times have you relived today?”

“Ten. No, shit, eleven. Fuck! I was going to tell you yesterday (or yestoday) and that would have been perfect but now it’s the fucking eleventh day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

“Got killed.”

Hawks barks out a laugh, slamming his full weight into the machine carrying Cogsworth Clockworth. “During this fight? That’s embarrassing for you. You’re talking about trauma, what do you think the other me had to go through seeing your dead body?”

“Way to make it about yourself. Oh, die,” you snap irritably when a tiny clock hits you on the cheek. It doesn’t even sting. Goddamn useless quirk. 

“Harsh.”

“Not you, dipshit.”

“Ah. Proceed. Anyways, next question. Do you know how to beat this guy?”

i'mnotlyingi'mjuststunninwithmylovegluegunning stupid as SHIT lyrics. “Yeah, keep hacking away at the fucking thing. You break through it eventually. Sometimes. I assume all the time. Two out of eleven times I haven’t actually seen you do it.”

Something about knowing the future does wonders to a man’s vigor and strength. With the backend of his sword-feather, Hawks finally stabs through it, right as you finally shoot a burst of wind strong enough to knock CLOCK BOZO down. 

“You’ve died twice? From clocks?”

“I know you’re not blind to the rocks and debris flying literally everywhere! The world would be better off without you in it!” you scream at the villain. The machine is even louder as it breaks and jams into the ground. “Flying building pieces or something, I don’t know—one hit me yesterday. The first day I got knocked into a wall, and then I woke up hugging my body pillow. Same thing the next day. And the next, and the next. Did my number three pro hero partner save me? No, he let me get stuck in a fucking time loop!”

Yanking on the man’s hair, you force him down, keeping both your legs away from any sweeping risks (the first time had been embarrassing enough. Never again.) 

Wingspan shorter but not too short, Hawks lands in front of you, holding the struggling villain down as you tie his hands together. “Okay, one more question.”

“Only one? My lucky day.”

“Why tell me, and why tell me now?”

Mockingly, you hold up two fingers. You don’t know how bird elementary school works, but the Oxford comma won’t disguise that he merged two questions into one.

“I believe you. C’mon, you can give me two answers.” Hawks tilts his head with his kicked-puppy pet-me feed-me-a-treat wouldn’t-look-bad-whimpering look. 

“Okay, fine. I’m telling you now because I’ll toss myself into the sun if I don’t tell someone, and I’m telling you because…” Sirens fill the air, signaling the police have arrived. Not that you were all that tense before, but your shoulders relax a little. They’ll take him away and you and Hawks can have a nice little talk so you can steal his ideas on how to get the hell out of this then pretend they’re your own the following day. 

“I’m telling you because you’re always there.” Not in the he’s a hero way, not in the your quirks compliment each other and that’s why you’re always paired together way, not in the he’s the closest thing you have to a best friend way, not even in the feeling safe when he gives you a reassured smile way. “There’s two constants. Doesn’t matter what I do. One is that you’ll be a part of my day, and the other is that I’ll die before the clock hits midnight.”

For the first time since you’ve broken the news to him, Hawks looks genuinely concerned. It gives you a sick pleasure. “You die every single time?”

“The villain’s still alive!”

“No, you idiot, he’s tied up!”

Bang, goes the bullet into your stomach.

—————————————————

“Yeah,” you groan, slumping forward next to your cup of coffee, “every single time.”

Hawks whistles lowly, placing a single hand over you to pat your head. “She’s good,” he says to the waitress, in his stupid, charming, beautiful tone, “But she’ll take another coffee. Best start a tab.”

[sebastianstansqueen]

Where Do We Go from Here 1

A/N: I'm going to up date this series usually Every other Thursday But I thought I'd give ya'll the first official part today , if you want to be Tagged, either send an ask or comment on this or click on Taglist open.

Wordcount: 1,491

Warnings:  Angst, arguing, brash commentsI think that is all actually

Masterlist // Series Masterlist // Taglist open// Spotify Playlist

Tags: @cherryblossomsky - - @babylooneytoonz - @wonderlandfandomkingdom - @miraclesoflove - @amelia-song-pond - @leyannrae - @avengerlex - @pineprincess - @nik2writes - @dorothea-hwldr - @rosie-posie08 - @scxrletrecsmarvel - @elizacusi-blog - @valhalla-kristin

You hadn’t seen Bucky since graduation, from high school, and it made you a hell of a lot more nervous than it probably should have but hey the last time you saw the man he had been a dick towards you so you’d guess that was reasonable enough. What you were invited to was a ‘family’ dinner, more like a party, mostly filled with some family and the rest just mafia family members. As much as you wanted to avoid Bucky tonight, you knew you couldn't do that, if anything that would be the worst way to handle the situation, you currently wore a long black tulle dress with a plunging neckline and two slits in the legs, and black stilettos, your hair and make up done to perfection, you walked out to the large black SUV with one of your fathers drivers in it waiting for you. 

The party was grand for being outside it had gorgeous lighting, along with large trees and dark green lush grass, you walked nervously pushing a peace of hair behind your ear, your heart beat fast and rough in your chest, you took a few deep breaths, you’re father found you and hugged you. “How have you been in the past week?” He asked you. 

“Nervous since you asked me to marry my childhood best friend, who pushed me away in high school.” You said a little bit bitterly. “I’m sorry if I sound harsh.” You apologize for your words. “I’m just nervous.”

You walked around saying hi to old friends of the family, everyone but Bucky you had talked to you were doing exactly what you didn’t want to do avoidance. So eventually you sucked it up and walked up to your soon to be fiance, Bucky had the same dyed balck hair that sat at the nape of his neck where a tattoo you’d hadn’t seen before sat on the right side of the neck. You were so close and you sucked in a breath. “Hi.” You said as you stood across from him. 

“Hey.” His deep voice rang out. 

“So, how have you been in the last ten years?” You questioned. 

Bucky looked at you, and he shook his head. “Let's not try formalities Y/n.” He said harshly. “This is a shitty situation that we are both stuck in.”

“Okay, so you're still keeping me at an arm's length, good to know.” You huffed out as you walked away from him just trying to be nice. 

You shook your head at yourself you should have known he wouldn’t have changed, but the tiers burned in your eyes, you truly did care for Bucky he didn’t seem to care for you, and you don’t think he ever would. You walked up to your father who was talking to George Barnes once again. “Hello Y/n, I am so glad to see you once again, my how you’ve grown.” The older man hugged you. Then he pulled away and noticed your eyes look glassy. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Sir.” You pushed off. 

He looked at you with furrowed brows. “You were just talking to my son, did he do something?” 

“No Mr. Barnes, I am fine, just a little tired. I've been up since five working on a case.” You huffed. “I think I need to go back home.” You smiled weakly before heading out. 

 George looked towards his son. “I’m sorry if he did anything to upset your dear daughter Henry, I don’t fucking understand what gets into my child when it comes to her.” He apologized, then walked towards said man.

Bucky looked at himself, he wore a simple tux with the jacket, shirt, pants and tie, he kept his hair in the usual style he wore it in. He headed down to his collection of luxury cars, he got in and started the vehicle, he pulled out and went through the large garage, once out of the gate of his property is when the anxiety hit him, what the hell was he going to say to Y/n when he saw her, what was he going to do this wasn’t going to be the night that he proposes to her, but this was the night he first has seen her in ten years, he wondered if you’d died your hair, like he has for a multitude of years. 

Bucky got to the outdoor party and he walked into it to find his and your father talking together, he huffed and thought that was his only option, but he was stopped by Steve. “Thought you could use a shot.” Steve told his closest friend, holding out the drinks. 

“Thank god for you.” Bucky said taking the shot and throwing it back.

Steve smirked. “Are you nervous to see her again?” 

Bucky huffed, about to say something when your father rushed across the yard, Bucky’s eyes followed the man seeing him hug Y/n, her y/h/c hair was long but curled while her makeup was done up to notch, and her well pedicured hand patted her fathers back you hadn’t changed but at the same time you did you changed into an elegant refined woman, Bucky was tempted to walk over to her but he held himself back he knew that once she was safe and could get out of this marriage she would devorce him. 

Bucky watched as Y/n walked about and talked to old friends and ‘family’ Bucky knew she would eventually make her way towards him Steve currently kept him company while he waited for her to come up he prepared what to say to her. Then she eventually did come up to him. “Hi.” Her kind eyes looked directly into his blue ones.

He smiled softly. “Hey.” 

Then he forced himself to harden his expression, she looked up at him still with a gentle look in her eyes and a soft smile. “So, how have you been in the last ten years?” 

Bucky shook his head, he told himself he was keeping his distance, this was how he was defying his father.  “Let's not try formalities Y/n. This is a shitty situation that we are both stuck in.” It came out a lot fucking ruder than he ment. 

Y/n nodded, giving a tight lipped smile. “Okay, so you're still keeping me at an arm's length, good to know.” She huffed walking away.

Steve stood next to him with a judgemental look on his face. “I know I fucked up.” Bucky told his friend. 

“I know why you started to push her away in high school. Why do it now when you have to do this?” Steve questions looking at the campaign he held. 

They watched as Y/n hugged Bucky’s father, before she left, Bucky stood there for a moment before his father came up. “What the hell did I tell you last week?” His father hissed. 

Bucky got snarky. “Do you want me to quote you exactly?” 

George nodded. “Why not?” The older man shrugged, Winnifred came up to prevent a screaming match or a physical fight. 

Bucky’s nostrils flared. “I’m going to do the big proposal thing, and I’m going to have the big wedding and the honeymoon and I’m going to be a good husband and I’m going to do all that is needed to win her over, and get her to love me, father I listened, but I have some things I want set up for her.” 

“Talk. To. Henry.” George snipped. 

Bucky huffed, before walking towards the man whom he had a plentiful amount of respect for and that was Y/n’s father he stood waiting as a woman hit on the man probably for his money Bucky excused himself into the conversation. “James.” Henry spoke in a neutral tone. 

“Hello Mr. Y/l/n, um I want to talk about the union between me and Y/n.”  He spoke to the man. 

“What is it James?” Henry asked the younger man. 

Bucky inhaled sharply. “I want it to be like a normal marriage.” 

“I intended it to be a quote, ‘normal marriage’.” Henry told him as he slowly sipped on the drink in hand. 

“Not that type of normal, our normal.” Bucky emphasized.

Henry tensed at what he was implying. “I won’t ask that of my daughter, James, I’m not like you. I will not hurt her, rather I don’t care if it is physical or mental.” 

“I have never hurt her.” Bucky said with a clenched jaw.

“Tell a sixteen year old Y/n who was devastated when you told her that all she was useful for was to get married and to look pretty, she has a very successful career as a lawyer. I won't ask her to give it up for something she has worked for.” Henry told him. “If you want it you work up the balls and talk to my daughter.”

[deerabigailhobbs]

Greetings and salutations good friend; I bring offerings of Adamgail-siblings thoughts!

So I was thinking about Adam going 'fuck this' and bringing Abby back home with him. Does he still live in the same shitty place, or has a boost in the popularity of his photos following his post-trap fame given him enough money to get a better place? Do they bring any of the Hobbs House furniture with them? Orrrrrrrrrr does he live with Lawrence, coming home after being missing for a week with no warning like "Honey I'm home, and guess what I brought back: your future sister-in-law!"

Whatever the case, we see a drastic change in the type of clothes Abby wears after episode one. Going from floaty more casual clothing, to a more compressed(i can't think of a better word) look. So what if after moving in with Adam, she starts to wear a more grungy look; quite a few people dress aggressively to warn away people, so maybe Abby could go for that to get randos to stay back to keep herself safe.

Her and Adam could maybe have a siblings bonding moment of Adam giving her a (probably not great) haircut and dye-job in the bathroom to make her look less like the pictures in the paper!

I like to think of the idea of a while down the line Abby meeting Danny from Saw 2 at a 'Teens who nearly got serial-killed support group' or maybe Adam met Danny at a survivors group and Danny stuck to him because 'wow this guy knows Scott Tibbs lead singer of Wrath of the Gods (the band on his t-shirt)' or at some point Adam was like 'hey I have a sister your age I think you two could be good friends'. or something.

Anyway, the end result would be the two meeting and becoming friends, perhaps bonding over their trauma a little bit. And then mayyyybe joining forces to create an angsty teen band where they sing songs about the fucked up things that happened to them!

Hope you're having a good day!

Hello! Very happy to see you in my inbox again friend! I'm a little sick right now, but happy to ramble about the siblings :D

I LOVE the idea of Abigail, Adam and Lawrence living together. I really think Lawrence would be fond of Abigail. Although Adam wouldn't say exactly why Abigail had come to live with them, he'd know the situation back home is dire. I can imagine him getting the house all ready for their return , asking Adam beforehand what Abigail's interests are. So when Abigail arrives she's greeted with a small bedroom full of art supplies, and a window facing the park nearby the house, which he delightfully explains to Abigail had all sorts of critters roaming around day and night. I'm sure this would not only warm Abigail's heart, but Adam's too. Knowing that his partner would care so much about someone so close to him would make Adam want to propose that very moment.

I like to think when Diana visits, her and Abigail would get on well. Abigail would finally know what it's like to be an older sibling figure. I can imagine her helping Diana with her homework or making food for themselves when Adam and Lawrence decide to go on a date night, which would consist of homemade pizza and ice-cream for dessert.

(now I've got a really cute image of Adam and Lawrence coming back home to a sleeping Abigail and Diana, snuggled up against the couch while The Little Mermaid credits roll <3)

Funnily enough, I'm planning on writing a part of my fic where Adam cuts Abigail's hair, but dyeing it is also a nice thought! I'm sure Abigail would be quite hesitant to trust her brother with scissors and hair dye, but surprisingly he knows his way around a head of hair. And paired with some new clothes Lawrence had bought her (no matter how hard she insisted she didn't need them), consisting of flowy skirts, loose tops, cardigans and jumpers/sweaters for the winter months, she'd really start feeling like her own person, not who someone wanted her to be.

I also love the idea of Abigail and Daniel (Danny) being friends! Especially since the only person we see Abigail interact with her age is Marrisa and her dad's victims. He'd think she'd like so cool with her platinum blonde hair (thinking of that one picture of Kacey rn) and they'd hit it off!!! In my opinion, if they were to start a band, I think Abigail wouldn't want to be front and centre, so I can imagine her taking up the drums, hidden away from everyone yet still soaking up the atmosphere. And of course for their first gig Adam insists on taking pictures for free (much to the jealousy of Scott) and he'd be so proud of her!

[bisaster-energy]

you can tell me about your idea!!!

thank you so much 😭 it's kinda long sorry

SO i was listening to a song my sister like (Valerie, Amy Winehouse) and there's this line about ginger hair and it was just so specific ig it stuck with me? so im thinking man who do i know with red hair...DUH KUWABARA!!!

nearly every song i listen to gets assigned a character or ship or relationship of some sort idk why but yeah once i fixated on the hair i was able to expand on the rest of the song and a sort of idea settled in the back of my head about kuwameshi

we all know kuwabara is always the one getting left behind but what if while he's off doing his thing yusuke also feels that sense of loss? an absence even though it was his decision to up and leave. it makes no sense cos hey! you felt the need to go back to the demon realm bro but he cannot help how he feels left behind in some illogical sense. i made some notes 😤😤

centers round the time where yusuke goes back to makai after the whole sensui debacle and kuwabara is getting his education studying in prep for college (hell yeah boy !!) not sure if the timelines even match up like that but i literally dont care

i'm working under the canon divergence that keiko really did decide she's not gonna wait for urameshi like that but ofc she's still his bestie and he loves her sooooo much <3

so he's going back. he's a demon now so he feels drawn to the culture. it's a side of himself he's never known after feeling so othered ofc he's interested right?

i mean sure he grew up with other humans but almost everyone hated him/was scared of him ironically he was called a demon or monster or wtv

reactions like that are why he almost decided not to come back to life in the first place!! it wasn't a welcoming atmosphere and even his home didn't feel great cos his mom isn't exactly the mothering type

im all for deadbeat moms but the neglect will fuck a kid up. demon heritage or not

and he loves her and all but it's just all fucked up at home so he ended up wandering around a lot being mad about his shitty life and he likes fighting so that's what he did!

and obviously in makai this behavior isnt like. crazy or uncalled for

but yeah the only connections he's got to ningenkai is his mom, keiko (her parents by extension) and of course kuwabara; the only friends he managed to not scare off

anyway. you get it. so yusuke is back in makai and without his permission his mind keeps wandering to kuwabara who he hasn't seen in let's say. a year and some change? i'll decide later but A While

and like. last time he was in the demon world kuwa was WITH him yknow? like yeah the world was ending but it feels weird without him even if he is having a blast fighting with his new demon buddies and acquaintances

so he's a little distracted when he literally came here to fight he cant even focus on it

"how is college prep treating him? are the teachers there just as bad as middle school? did he make new human friends? a girlfriend?" basically he's spiraling over changes he might be missing out on this very moment

there's a bunch of talk in the song where the singer wonders if valerie dyed her hair if she's busy if she ever paid that fine if she sold her house if she got a man so that's where i got it lol

yusuke doesn't have to worry about kurama and hiei cos hey they're from here and have lived way longer and they actually do visit but who knows what typa shit could be happening to kuwa right now

ofc he can take care of himself he's really strong but yusuke can't help but remember that time he let kuwabara go when he shouldn't have and he almost died because he wasn't there and yeah. he's worried. sue him

so it's half worry half wistfulness and maybe some other secret third thing and when hiei and maybe kurama (depending on how the idea forms as i write) come to visit or maybe they're also participating wtv

he cant help but think well kuwabara could be here with us if he really WANTED to :/ he's got the jigen to down pat by now so...why hasn't he...

and those old but ever remaining insecurities resurface about how people don't wanna be around him they think he's a nuisance at best no good waste of time a trouble maker. keiko already dumped my sorry ass so who knows maybe kuwabara just...wisened up

hiei and kurama are like this bitch is back on his bullshit (affectionate)

they manage to weedle his worries out of him hiei ofc trying to act like he doesnt really care (he cares a lot) "you must not have much faith in kuwabara if you think he'd abandon you just from some time apart. and i thought HE was the oaf between the two of you"

kurama with his fox self is like "well yes hiei is right of course kazuma is too loyal to do something like that. but he is human...the only human of us now."

yusuke is like wth is that supposed to mean on the defensive even tho kurama is their friend and hasn't even said anything untrue and hiei narrows his eyes a bit maybe but is still acting like this doesn't really concern him

"i just mean that...from what i've learned about humans over the time i've spent with them...time feels different. we demons live such long lives that when faced with the human lifespan well...it can be laughable to some. that's why demons can be so callous about their lives."

yusuke just wants him to get to the point ofc "what i'm saying is we don't need a lot of contact with each other to keep relationships fresh and healthy but, kuwabara might be a little different. 3 years will do nothing to your bond but...i do worry about longer periods..."

and he seems to just trail off and it just gets quiet and a little sad and hiei isn't looking at them anymore

kurama starts again pretty cheerfully tho "well, don't worry! i'm planning on staying in the human world for quite some time once i'm done with this visit! i do have the company to take care of so i'll make sure to see kazuma all the time! i'll even send him a message from you if you want to say anything :)"

kurama has deliberately been using kuwa's first name knowing damn well urameshi doesn't even use it because this dude is not JUST a sweetie he's a fucking master manipulator. gaslight gatekeep bbg

yusuke is like okay yeah no new plan i'll just go see him now. no need for a middle man thanks anyway and then he's just gone. left the tournament early. like bruh that's what you came here for 😐

so yeah he's breaking into kuwa's house next thing you know and ofc he goes through the window not the door like a normal person and he just kinda stops short because he hasn't seen his friend in what feels like forever even though it's only been like a year or so but he just looks so different

and yeah a big part might be the hair he's never seen without that popadour, long soft copper coils, and he's somehow even bigger than when yusuke left him jesus when did he get so swole? when did he have time in between all those brainiac classes

yusuke knows he's bound to look a lil different too ofc i mean they weren't kids anymore really but like. when they hell did you go and grow up?

"next time i come back is this even gonna be your house anymore? will you still wanna hang out with dropout delinquent demon urameshi?" he gets so insecure in so little time

anyway kuwabara didn't sense him at first cos yusuke isn't a threat and he never really thought he'd be coming especially not yet but when he does notice

kuwabara just gets the biggest goofiest grin he's like urameshi you dog when the hell did you get back in town you're early!!

and yusuke is significantly eased by this reaction but now he feels stupid cos he up a left everything just to what? bother kuwabara while he studies to achieve his dreams? yusuke has got no human world aspirations like keiko had. like kurama has. like kuwabara.

and ofc kuwabara looks glad to see him but he wasn't desperate enough to just show up like yusuke had just done and he feels like a pathetic loser so he pouts

he's like yeah hey man just uh. checking in. and i should probably check out hah you seem busy with your books so im gonna scram and he tries to retreat through the window

and ofc kuwa is NOT letting him get away

and there's that desperation yusuke had selfishly wanted to see. kuwabara had just grabbed him without thinking even though he'd promised himself when urameshi left he wasn't gonna just sit around waiting for his life to start when he came back

he remembers when yusuke took him into that headlock and he wanted to succeed like he said he would that day

but still he's just thinking about urameshi all the time and it's awful. he always said he was gonna beat him some day but he just wanted to be near him. but all he sees is his back, even right now

part ii cos it's too many words!

[kuwdoravids]

Year in Vidding Review: 2023

Year-end round-up/meme: 2007 | 2008 | 2009 | 2010 | 2011 | 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 | 2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019 | 2020 | 2021 | 2022

April What (Yennefer of Vengerberg) The Witcher Netflix Making of "What" commentary: do it for the process (and for Yennefer!) The Witcher Netflix Mr. Brightside (Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer) The Witcher Netflix

June Skipping Stones (Fringilla Vigo) The Witcher Netflix

August In Our Wake (Vilgefortz/Geralt) The Witcher Netflix

December [Festivid Assignment] - redacted until reveals! [Festivid Treat] - redacted until reveals!

Review questions under the cut.

Random process notes:

Well, I have been kidding for *counts* 16 years now?? I guess I kind of know what I’m doing when I have a good idea of what a vid is like inside my head. Which is why most of these vids took less than a week to make and none of them were on my actual to-make list that I had written down at the beginning of the year. Flighty ADHD/anxiety brain just latching onto the feelings of the moment and zooming across the timeline until I can call it done. I think I started two non-witcher vids during the year before Festivids but the witcher hyperfixation remains too strong. Everything else falling to the WIP piles. I tried to finish my Moonhaven vid but couldn’t focus. Tried to finish my Green Knight and Blade vids but no, my brain was more interested in writing +70k of fic this year, aha.

Overall thoughts:

HEY I made Festivid stuff! I can vid-non Witcher things! I was really worried there that my brain was just forever stuck on Witcher but! I did it.

Anyway. I really love vidding The Witcher Netflix and keep building up my clip gallery for easy reference for when I can settle in for the next witcher vid. I keep fuck up my exports though because I’m doing everything too quickly and not paying enough attention. So there’s some export-related things and a few minor clips I would have changed if I weren’t caught up in a in a rush. But overall I’m very, very happy with my crop of vids this year.

Favorite Vid:

Most of the time I have upwards of 8-16 vids a year and it’s easier to pick a favorite. When I do so few… they’re all my favorite. For different reasons.

For my Yennefer vid it’s my favorite editing.

For Mr. Brightside it’s my favorite song choice and tone (this is a cover in the style of The B-52s) for Jaskier.

My Fringilla vid — it’s my favorite thing that came together from all of the season footage of her character from seasons 1 and 2 and the song just makes me so happy that it tied everything together for her.

For the Vilgefortz/Geralt vid, oh it’s my favorite because it’s my pure id, heh, and my favorite build/pacing of all my vids.

My festivids are my favorite because I have been wanting to make things them for awhile now but hadn’t had the focus. And then I did!

Hardest to make:

The only thing that was hard was me exporting shitty stuff and not realizing it until days or weeks after I uploaded and crossposted. Anyway. I took my time with my festivid exports so those should look pretty good. Most successful:

They are all successful in my heart. I love them.

My best vid:

Probably my Fringilla or Vilgefortz/Geralt vid. I’m so happy how they turned out.

Most fun vid:

Mr. Brightside. I love playing with Jaskier’s humor with the song choice and the transitions.

Things I learned in 2023:

Mmm, I am still worked up about my fic WIPs and life anxieties that I wasn’t able to do more vidding things that I wanted. As for the projects themselves, I learned that it’s very handy to have a standing clip gallery all labelled and ready for when I want to make my next Witcher Netflix vid.

In 2024:

I always want to be ambitious in the new year but always end up wandering in completely unexpected directions. In any case I would love to finish my Moonhaven vid and get my brain in order to find the last of the Black Sails source I need for a vid idea that has been eating my brain for 4 months now. I also have my Philippa Eilhart Witcher vid I want to make as well as a season 3 Witcher Netflix vid too that’s taking up space in my brain.

[knownangels]

paid promo

wc: 4.5k

Saha has that song stuck in her head. The one she had first listened to a week ago, in a business meeting. Then, it’d been raw; underproduced. Still  with enough soul the right beat could take it somewhere great. 

She blinks up at the ceiling. Fuckin’ hell, I sound like — 

Her cringe is so severe her eyes scrunch fully shut. The view of the spackled ceiling disappears, along with the strange stain in the left-most corner.  She’d meant to say something about that, earlier. You oughta get that spot checked. Looks like it could be a mold bloom, love. 

Earlier. Before they got to — this point. 

It’s a concentrated effort to unscrew her awful expression. As a kid, Saha had been taught a sure-fire way to go to sleep. Tense up all your muscles, close your eyes, and relax each muscle one-by-one. Focus on feeling it. 

She starts to do that, just out of habit. The shoulders wedged between her thighs jerk. 

“Shit—p”

“I’m not—”

Saha pulls herself back at the same moment as her hookup. They stare at each other for a winding moment. The longer it goes, the more she feels ashamed heat crawl up the back of her neck. She blushes; the rim of heat touches beneath her eyes. 

Quickly, she untwists her fingers from between Grace’s and cradles her own cheeks.

“It really fucks me up that you seem so into it and then —“ Grace waves a hand between them. “It’s literally this every time. I’m not trying to be shitty, Saha. I know how that sounds, okay?”

Saha covers her eyes instead, sighing. “I get it,” she assures Grace. They’ve been friends four years now, with occasional benefits for most of that; she knows Grace doesn’t mean it how it admittedly sounds. She has never been anything but an honest and respectful communicator, even if she could be a bit blunt. 

Saha stiffens and then rubs her fists hard enough colors burst in the dark. Fuckin’ hell. No wonder this shit keeps happening. Where is your brain, idiot? Some very nice head won’t even shut it off long enough to cum? 

“It’s—“

“Mindset.” Grace responds with a slick eye roll. Saha always thought they looked so cool doing that. Naturally above it or humored in a way that wasn’t put on at all. When Saha rolled her eyes, she looked unattractively petulant.

Grace rolls off the bed, collecting their shirt off the floor. They toss satin into Saha’s lap at the same time. She needs to put lotion on; when she catches the dress she’d worn to go out, her fingers catch the fabric. 

“I get it,” Grace repeats. Saha can’t quite tell if it’s mocking or not. They hold up their hands. “I’m not pressuring, I’m not mad. I just would prefer to feel wanted while I fuck somebody, fair?” 

Saha nods. “Fair.”

Grace fans their hands out with a shrug. There, was that so hard? “I’m showering first. I’ll send you off with Thai if you ring it, but you are going home.” 

With that, they pad out of the bedroom and down the hall. Their footsteps echo a bit; Grace was into the whole minimalist thing now. Just their latest in aesthetic noncommittal. 

Saha frowns at that, staring up at that off-white spot in the corner with her arms angel spread into the sheets. Can focus on the interior design choices in flat’s not even yours, and you can’t fucking — stupid. 

*

She smiles at the rideshare driver and approaches the passenger door slowly, holding her phone out for the other girl to see the app home screen: her beaming, prettily-made up face, a few emojis, and a standard quip as her bio. 

The girl, maybe twenty-three at most, widens her eyes. “No. Oh my God, I follow you.” 

Saha smile doesn’t falter. And even though it burns her eyes, she refuses the urge to blink — with this grin, she’d look unhinged. Instead, she puts on a pleasantly bashful tone. 

“Really? That’s so nice.” 

The girls’ brow pulls in slightly, a little drop to the corner of her mouth. 

Fuck. Saha thinks. Sounded insincere, hey? Wonderful, Saha. really. 

When the girl drops her at the entrance to her gated flat community, the car idles with wet red rear eyes fixed on Saha. She stands there, hand paused where it delves halfway into her bag.

Then those red eyes blink off and the car peels away down the street. It comes close to splashing a couple at the bottom of the hill. They laugh swears in unison; neither looks away from the other as they jump to dodge the spray, clutch each other, and giggle before moving along.

Saha’s phone ping. She glances down at it.

Andrea has rated you!

Her phone pings again.

Your average trip rating has gone down -.75 stars. Your average is now 4.25.

She rolls her eyes. 

In the bathroom mirror that night, she debates on the number of slight mounds rising on her cheek; she had tried a new moisturizer for a collaboration, and now she was dealing with the beginning of what was likely to be a nasty breakout. 

Wind-down stories. Three slides max: it’s late enough engagement falls with the nine-to-five business demo. Add those sponsor candles, two bird one stone with a face mask to damage-control. And you can make sure Tuesday’s no-makeup-makeup advert doesn’t have to get spackled on the surface of the fucking moon.

Saha smiles at herself in the mirror. Her left cheek doesn’t pull quite as high. She imagines that muscle tensing and loosening. If a level could be taken to her top lip, would the bubble be centered? 

She leans away from the mirror, palms to cold tile, and frowns. Then she rolls her eyes. 

Still petulant. 

*

Her dates the next few weeks die off in similar fashion. Her inbox is mostly dried-up conversations; the only two serious (and weirdo-vetted) matches had ghosted her after one date each. Granted, both had been agonizing sessions of twin dysfunction and insistence to keep going, almost there. 

One of her girlfriends — of the platonic type — urged her to give it a rest for a bit. Not out of denial, but the insistence that putting the pressure was only adding to her mindset problem. ‘Who cares how long it’s been? You’ll only psych yourself out thinking about that!’ 

I care, Ines. I care very fucking much how long it’s been.

How much she cares becomes painfully obvious during that time, when Saha has little to occupy her other than work. She likes to date — she’s good at dating, finds meeting people fun. Maybe stereotypically, a lot of her closest friends had started as a match on an app or at throwback night at the club. She and Grace had met at a campy Kate Bush drag act. 

It isn’t necessarily an excuse for why she ends up lingering on one of Tess’s Instagram stories. And she doesn’t want to make it seem like the draw is only from a source of loneliness or strikes out elsewhere;  from what little she knows, Tess is better than that. 

Not that Saha would know. Twice now she’s chickened out on the visit to that restaurant. She has a permanent outline of the building’s fine angles and big windows, the reflection of water in smooth glass, from looking the address up online so often. Sometimes when she’s in line at the club or waiting on a package label to print, she looks up its reviews. Scrolls through them, scowls at the nasty ones (few), smiles at the glowing recommendations (many).  

It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? But no — Tess is close enough to her she can care about something like that. My little brother’s partner’s sister? My sister in law? 

Saha winces. 

*

She ends up in Seattle, only a little guilty for the overly-warm message sent asking after things like schedules and busy seasons and big catering events. 

They go back and forth a bit, like that. Just for a few weeks. Proper, polite, somewhat detached chatter back and forth. About the boys, at first —did you see that picture Xavier sent. Then Tess sends her a video, an event invite hosted at the restaurant that Saha leaves on read —

“Listen,” her final straw in the form of a Saturday evening wine date sighs. “You’re really hot. But I need literally anything. Something.” 

Saha sits upright. She’d been staring at the ceiling (a different flat, a different person, no stain, still finding patterns in the paint job rather than focus on the task at hand). When she drops her eyes to the other woman, she blinks. 

“Why is it always really hot?” Saha asks her.

“Huh? I mean, isn’t that—“ 

“Right, yeah. Thanks. Appreciate it.” Saha waves a hand between them. She folds her arms over her bare knees. They’re chilly to the touch; her date leaves their room too cold, and the chill was part of the reason Saha hadn’t been able to fucking focus. 

“I mean, why hot?”

“Because—“

“‘Cuz, I’m watching this new series of a show I adore, yeah.” She drops both feet to the floor, digging black-painted toes into the rug clumps. “And the love interest, she’s always going oh, you’re lovely and sweet.” 

Her date stares at her. 

“You said hot. Not lovely. Or sweet.” Saha frowns. “Not that I need to hear anybody say that. But — aren’t I? Why’s it always that?” 

There’s a beat of silence before her date stands, posted at the foot of her bed with knuckles on her bare hips. “I was really happy you wanted to come out with me, Saha. And then you made me take a different way here in my own car because one of the streets had a pothole and you wouldn't stop worrying about me fucking the transmission.” 

“I don’t see why you’re bringing this up.” Saha mumbles, the lie slippery on her tongue. An embarrassed blush once again heats her cheeks. 

Her date leans over and kisses her cheek. “You’re really high strung. And hot. And, uh, I think you should probably reflect on that first part.”

*

Saha does not fucking reflect on anything. The second her own flat door’s slammed shut behind her (scuffed with a black rubber-mark that she’ll get on hands and knees to wipe off later), her phone is open to an airline. She charges the ticket to her personal card, rather than from her business account. 

She’s got no idea why she does that. 

*

Seattle is wet. It smells different than London, wet. Similarly metallic and biological, but different. She sort of imagined it would be better than what is is — another clogged city. Doesn’t even have the audacity to smell like the gorgeous pines blanketing it. 

She knows the address, and fortunately when the door swings open for her the place isn’t too packed. The hostess is a teenager with pretty, but red-ringed, eyes. In her head, a picture of a stressed student barely balancing grades and a job and friends forms.

“Hi,” the girl says with a peppery, high-toned voice. “Do you need a menu?” 

“I need—“ Saha glances around the pillar that separates the entrance and dining area. “Oh, this is going to make me sound like a dickhead, so I’m sorry. I’m here to see Tess.” 

The girl’s eyebrows shoot up. “The owner? Um. I don’t think really takes, like, media things?” 

Tess nods, smiles in a way she hopes sticks normal to her face. “No, I totally get it. Here, look. I’ve got — she wanted me to come do a review—“

“Is that your dog?”

Saha pulls her phone screen back towards her own face, where her scrolling through messages with Tess has paused on a picture of Opal. 

“Yes,” Saha says with a laugh. “You want to see more?” 

“Yes.”He hostess whispers back, tossing two looks over her shoulders. “This shift manager is such an asshole though, make it quick.” She squeals delightedly at the next video Saha scrolls past. “Oh my God, precious! Okay, fine. Consider me bribed. Stay right here.”

The interior of the restaurant is modern, but not cold; stylish, just not chic. Plenty of reviewers and articles have mentioned the decor being one of the downsides to the restaurant, but Saha disagrees. It’s…sweet, really. Unique and homey — messy, what the stick-arsed food critics had decided on. There are posters from and adverts for local bands and art exhibitions framed along the walls. Behind the till, a showcase of a local high school’s international pen pal art exchange. Report cards, letters in envelopes, band flyers — the walls, actually, are so full that things overlap. Saha wonders if Benji’s been here yet, if he likes seeing the sharp curves of hand drawn punk bands. 

Saha’s staring at one when the swing door to the kitchen slaps against the wall. She turns to look, fingers clutched comfortingly around her crossed wrists, and its — 

Well, it’s a Wolffe. That’s for sure. 

Saha lifts a hand, two fingers raised in greeting. She worries her smile might be too reserved. But where that concern passes over her like an anxious bubble about to burst (what if I say this wrong, do this wrong, what if they don’t like me, she doesn’t like me?), Tess looks the complete opposite. 

At first, actually, she looks confused. Saha can only imagine what her teenage hostess had described to her. She probably used the word influencer. That would certainly contribute to the confusion — but it lasts only a second. Then Tess’s face splits into a massive smile she recognizes.

“Hullo,” Saha calls, offering another little wave before she feels stupid and drops her hand. “Uh. I’m really sorry to crash in. I was finally in town—“

Lie.

“Oh my God! You finally showed!” 

She moves swiftly around the counter, wiping wet hands on a white rag she tucks back into a pocket on her apron. It’s mostly pristine, except for what look like a few skins of carrot. Tess glances down and brushes them off, her grin going sheepish. 

“You didn’t even warn me—“

“Sorry!” Saha laughs, too. “It was a…well, honestly. It was a spur of the moment thing.”

They’re smiling at each other for a beat, right then. No speaking, no noise aside the distance clatter from the kitchen. Someone sat out at the patio listening to music too loud. The quiet shuffle of waiters to the few full tables, the chatter of a loyal crowd at an unpopular time. 

“I thought I was going to have to pitch it to you.” Tess blurts. “Like, little old restaurant, we’re not good enough for—“

“Stop!” 

“I can’t!” Tess whisper-yells back at her. She reaches out to close her hands around Saha’s arms, shake her. “Oh fuck! You actually showed up. I have to make you something.”

Saha glances around. “Only if you’re not too busy. And I’ll pay.” 

Tess’s face goes stony, her eyes dead serious. “Over my fucking corpse.” 

*

There’s still a bit of a rush for Tess to get through, so Saha ends up in a secluded corner. There’s a few news clippings tucked under the glass of her table, which she reads while sipping at a glass of wine she probably could have forgone. Each of the stories seems to be about a local kid — Seattle or Boston, the quantity of accomplishments split evenly between the two. There’s a story behind all the memorabilia, and Saha’s starting to put it together. 

Especially when she picks up the menu and discovers there is only one category under which everything is listed: comfort food. 

Eventually Tess quiets the meager rush of customers; Saha can hear her herding cats, as close as she is to the swinging kitchen doors. She’s never worked in a kitchen before, unlike her mum. Even just the thought of it makes her want to puke. All those mistakes to make. All the pressure. 

When Tess returns to her table, she hooks a booted foot around the chair leg and practically throws herself down into the seat.

“Long day?” Saha prompts, chin propped in her palm. Tess looks glowy, rather than sweaty — but she does smell like some strange mixture of ingredients that Saha isn’t sure go together. Perils of the job, and all that.

“Sort of.” Tess responds dutifully, shrugging. Her smile goes a bit wicked then. “It just recently got better.”

She isn’t sure what to say to that, other than huff politely. Other than — not watch when Tess leans back, body stretched long, to untie the apron from around her waist. Other than blink, other than turn her head away. 

Don’t fuck up, something sinister in her chest bubbles out. You’d make it awkward. You’d ruin Benji’s good thing. 

I’m not going to do anything but be very cordial and polite with Xavier’s sister. Saha is fully aware she’s got two voices in her head, snipping back and forth. She is also, unfortunately, totally unable to stop them. 

“Did you want to—“

“I had a question about—“

Tess’s teeth show again; she covers them with a pale palm, eyebrows raised. No, you. 

Saha rolls her wrist. “Go on, then.” 

Red eyebrows hitch up. The ends are lighter, almost white; she wonders how long ago Tess had bleached them. “Hm?”

She repeats that motion. “G’on.” 

Tess smiles a little, chin tilting. “G’on. That’s cute. I was tempted to make you go first, but that was like. Absolutely distracting. G’on. Elaborate so I can do literally whatever you ask.”

Saha’s lips part on a tiny breath. “Ah. Shameless.”She chides teasingly (fuck, don’t flirt back, Saha). Saha clears her throat. “Anyway — you said. You said you could pitch it, right? So pitch it.” 

“Huh?” 

God, but she looks cute confused. Saha steels herself quite bravely. “Sell the restaurant to me, Wolffe.”

Tess has the audacity to tinge her smile sheepish. “Oh. Okay. Well —”

Saha watches, perhaps a bit too rapt, as the head chef adopts a posture fit for her. Tess goes from someone you might mistake for a particularly cheeky bartender, knowledgeable and expert without the optimism of a restaurateur, to the owner. It’s the pride, Saha decides. Earnest and obvious, the secret ingredient of the establishment’s success has to found in that sweet charisma. 

And if Saha thought that was rosy-colored enough, she hadn’t been prepared for the actual pitch.

“Well, you saw the menus. All snacks? Like, nothing heavy. That was the whole point. Everything is based off some iconic snack food. But nothing corporate, right? We don’t do — fucking—“ Tess makes a disgusted face, and Saha stifles a laugh behind her hand. “I don’t know, orange cheddar organic cheese crispy triangles.” 

“Doritos is the first thing that comes to mind?” Saha twists in her stool, peers over each shoulder. “I thought this was a respectable establishment with worldly staff.”

Tess’s cheeks are pink. “Watch it.” 

“Right, right. GO on. Nothing corporate.”

Tess nods. The color doesn’t fade. “Right, nothing corporate. Anyway. We’ll do things like, dunno. Recreate those cheap veggie party platters you’d get in grocery stores. Or, hm, we have roasted chickpeas. Onigiri. Everything is basically from me or one of the other team’s childhood. Health, wildly unhealthy. Steve, our dishwasher? We have the marshmallow peanut butter sablé cookies because his mom would make him marshmallow peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.”

“That sounds incredibly American, actually.” 

When Tess laughs, she puts her whole body into it. “Oh my God. It super fucking is, isn’t it?”

Saha smiles a little distantly. “My mum used to do toast pizzas for us. With this specific — well, it’s a tomato chili sauce. And she’d throw whatever cheese we had left, and veggie scraps —“

“And you had probably like, the best pizza ever to your kid brain.” 

She nods. Tess mirrors it, excitedly leaning forward. 

“That’s exactly the point. And we’ve got, like, community weekends. We’ll put out a blast for people to come in and give us suggestions and sometimes they get added to the menu. Our special board is a weekly rotation from background. There’s a decent Vietnamese community a few blocks down, so we had people tell us what their favorites were. We’ll do these really good rolls, basically, of sesame seed and coconut and rice paper —“ 

Saha’s hand brushes up her throat. She’s perplexed by the sudden lump in it for only a moment. Then she realizes the source of the emotion: that passion. It was the same food passion her mum had, the same Benji had picked up. Tess, she guessed, was someone who had food centered for her in some way. Based on what she knows about their upbringing from Xavier (and plenty of nosy assumptions), Saha figures that introduction happened outside their home. 

She imagines Tess as a toothy, charming kid. Wide-eyed at a plate she didn’t recognize, but eager to try. 

“What should I get?”

Tess tucks her arms behind her back, adopting a professional posture that seems almost uncharacteristic to the woman Saha (if only slightly) knows. 

“Well, if you want to start I would recommend—“ 

Saha snorts. Tess cuts herself off, eyebrows up. “No, I mean. What would you make? What would you get?” 

* 

It’s the right or wrong question to ask, depending. 

She eats so much Saha suspects she might be slumped over in the booth, when Tess finds her again. 

“Satisfied?” 

Saha blinks up at her, eyes glossy from the carbs and late hour. “I took so many pictures, I am so sorry. All I was doing was sitting here, eating your food, taking pictures.”

When Tess tucks her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels, Saha’s fucking skull buzzes. “Aw, shucks. I mean. I’ll take that as a positive review? And endorsement?” She picks up a few plates. “But, um. I’m letting the kids go early since it’s a game day.  If you want —only if you want — I’ll save a few slices of this weekend’s dessert.”

Saha’s turn to raise her brows expectantly.

Tess clears her throat, gaze bouncing off to the side. “The office is down the hall, past the catering closet—“

“Oh, special treatment?” 

She means for it to be lighthearted. A funny jab. But Tess only holds her stare, green eyes so intense where they hold Saha’s that she nearly feels it. 

“Yeah,” Tess breathes, or whispers, or promises, really. 

Saha strands abruptly, her knee knocking against the side of the table. “I’ll meet you there. I just — I need to get air. Ate too much.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Saha stumbles backwards, swearing under her breath. “Oh for —okay. Okay. It was so good, Tess, really. Such good food.”

“G’on!” Tess mocks, flapping both her hands. “I’ll get forks.” 

*

Their plates are long empty by the time their conversation slows, the dainty and once-moist yellow cake crumbs dry and stuck to paper. They were boxed caked cookies, as Tess referred to them lovingly, except with none of the pre-packing.  A simply modified recipe the Wolffe matriarch would make often for dessert — because it was quick and cheap. Just two eggs and some oil. Saha has never had those in originality, so Tess’s fine dining twist immediately move to her number one spot.

A lot of the foods tonight have shattered Saha’s lists and records. She has no idea where to start with the review they’ve been teasing about. If she even wants to write it at all. It’s not egotistical for her to be concerned about the state of the place after Saha blasts it to her following. Sometimes, she goes back to places she’s visited and found that the fame and online traction had made everything worse.

I got a nice cupcake lady doxxed. Saha admits silently, staring at a crumb on Tess’s chin while she offers an animated narration to a recent local restaurant drama. I got a food truck shut down over a silly code ruling that people reported becuase of the increase in business. 

“I’ve got to go,” Saha finally hedges once Tess’s latest story has wrapped. She lifts her watch and turns it so the other woman can see. “Tess, fuckin’ hell? We’ve been at it four hours now. When do you open?”

Tess opens and closes her mouth a few times. “Um. Early. For brunch.” 

“Shit!” She slaps her forehead a bit too hard (another glass of maybe-shouldn’t wine had paired with dessert nicely). They both giggle at the noise;  Tess snatches up her hand and holds it still. 

“Jesus, don’t literally beat yourself up? This was great. This was so fun. It’s worth like, four hours of sleep. I’m glad—“

“Oh, don’t.” Saha pleads, waving her hand in the air. She’s a little tipsy and the sentimental sway of the conversation will make her rebalance with tears. “Oh, don’t be nice.”

Tess squeezes her hand. “I’m serious. I’m so glad you came. I’m glad you got to see it — I’m glad —“

They both pause. Tess chews on her lip, palm lingering its gentle cup around Saha’s knuckles. 

“I’m really glad Benji, you know. I’m glad your brother has someone like you.” Tess is looking at her that way. Saha leans back in the chair with tremendous effort. The office is small, compared to the rest of Tess’s gorgeous establishment; it houses not much more than a desk, some record shelves, and the two uncomfortable spinning office chairs they perch in. The space feels even smaller, now that Saha is aware she’s being…observed.

“Yeah,” she says around that lump in her throat. “Yeah, me too. I mean — I’m glad Xavier —“

“I know.” Tess laughs. She pumps Saha’s hand firmly like it’s their first time meeting. “We should do this more.”

No. No, definitely not.

“Okay,” Saha says instead. “Can. Sorry if this is strange. I know, right, that — I mean. I really appreciate all this. You staying after. And being a good host. And I’m glad we can do this, right? Get along.”

Tess stares at her. she looks as though she wants to stand. Wants to pace. 

So Saha rises first; before she realizes what she’s doing, her arms spread. “If you’re not a hugger…”

Tess barrels into her, arms winding tight around Saha’s waist before she’s squeezed nearly in half.

*

Once she’s back home, Saha finds a local Seattle florist online. She sends along a thank-you arrangement, which seems the least she can do: strands of gorgeous green pine, alpine strawberry leaves, and dainty camas. She isn’t sure what they all mean — but the florist was local, the way Tess appreciated, and the flowers were too, and — and it felt fitting, saying thank you. For more than just a meal. 

The weekend after her present is delivered, Saha stands in uncomfortably tall heels at a gallery showing. Right as she’s nearly sucked into another inane high society bit of chatter, her phone goes off.

Tess has posted a new picture of the restaurant; it’s a magazine clipping of a news piece. In the background, each of those memory-plastered tables has been topped with a familiar bouquet.

Saha rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

[cephalog0d]

Batfics - "Something In Your Pocket"

Title: Something In Your Pocket

Rating: Teen and Up (language, mentioned alcohol)

Category: Gen

Characters/Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake (mentioned)

Word Count: 1,313

((This title was a joke and then A Certain Someone persuaded me to keep it so now here we are and every time I read it in my files I get this stupid song stuck in my head))

Jason might not have any idea what the hell this particular scheme was about but he had a very good idea of how involved he wanted to be in it, which was “not at all”.

Which of course meant that before he could execute his updated plan of quietly getting the fuck out of there Dick caught his gaze and his broad fake-drunk smile went bright and sharp in a look Jason recognized (with no small amount of foreboding since it had historically preceded everything from creating headlines that gave Bruce a migraine to straight up running for their lives) as Dick Grayson Getting An Idea.

Well, shit.

(Full text under the cut or over on AO3)

Things had been suspiciously quiet recently, at least relatively speaking. There hadn't been much above the normal level of Gotham Shittiness, which almost certainly meant that there was a huge shitstorm brewing on the horizon and they just hadn’t caught wind of it yet. Obviously there was plenty of Bat-themed surveillance going on at any given moment in Gotham, but sometimes a more direct approach was more useful and Jason, unlike some people, didn’t have to try very hard to blend in with the less savory side of the city. (For example, he looked older than twelve, which was helpful considering the kind of places Gotham’s criminal element liked to gather.)

So, in the interest of not being totally blindsided by whatever catastrophe was coming, he was dressed in his most nondescript civilian clothes and headed to one of the multitude of grungy bars that collected unscrupulous Gothamites like Batman collected child sidekicks, planning to grab a beer and keep an ear out for any interesting chatter. Assuming he didn’t hear about any dire and immediate plots to blow up the city or poison the water supply or unleash a swarm of genetically modified wasps, he could then go home and eat leftover Thai food, update some files, and maybe see if he could prod Tim into another angry nerd spiral by sending him terrible and extremely fake "unexplained phenomena" internet videos.

Of course, because it was his life, that fell apart basically the minute he walked into the bar he had chosen as his recon site. It was instinct to quickly scan the room, noting exits and occupants and choosing where he was going to settle in and listen. What he was not expecting was to have his gaze snag on a very familiar face in the otherwise unremarkable crowd.

Or mostly familiar.

The combination of dim lightning and some light disguise work was enough to throw off any casual observers, but it just gave Jason an unsettling uncanny valley feeling because behind the dark contacts and subtle contour-shifting makeup that was very definitely an extremely fake-drunk Dick Grayson, laughing and swaying and apparently oblivious to the carefully performative air of danger from the group of (vaguely familiar probably mob?) guys he was with.

Which was emphatically Not Jason's Problem.

In fact, it was a good reason to bail and find a different bar to lurk in. Dick was (infuriatingly) good at undercover work, and more than capable of taking care of himself, and there were decent odds he had at least one little bird on standby for backup. (Jason had a mental image of Damian trying to gain entry to the bar, either as Robin or as a civilian, which would be a hilarious disaster and he kind of wanted to see it.) Whatever operation Dick was running, he did not need anyone's help, never mind Jason's.

More importantly, Jason might not have any idea what the hell this particular scheme was about but he had a very good idea of how involved he wanted to be in it, which was “not at all”.

Which of course meant that before he could execute his updated plan of quietly getting the fuck out of there Dick caught his gaze and his broad fake-drunk smile went bright and sharp in a look Jason recognized (with no small amount of foreboding since it had historically preceded everything from creating headlines that gave Bruce a migraine to straight up running for their lives) as Dick Grayson Getting An Idea.

Well, shit.

Jason rapidly ran through options. Plan A: Leave without getting spotted, obviously already blown. Plan B: Leave anyway and risk the probability that Dick was just enough of a spiteful asshole to turn it into a big attention-grabbing scene. Plan C: Punch his dumbass brother in the face and then leave, upgrading from risk to certainty on the big attention-grabbing scene outcome. Plan D: resign himself to “yes, and”ing whatever bullshit he was about to get handed.

Dick broke away from the group and moved towards Jason, calling out what was either “Hey” or “Jay”, Jason couldn’t quite tell (although it better have been the former, because opsec, shithead). The men Dick had been with (definitely some flavor of Gotham underworld, definitely armed) had followed Dick’s attention and noticed Jason, and he had just enough time to quietly mourn Plan A’s viability and decide that at least if he played along he’d have some control over whatever narrative was happening here instead of just generating a whole lot of suspicious questions and potential unknown future problems for both of them (but more importantly him) before Dick stumbled into him.

It was a carefully calculated maneuver, Dick not actually making much contact or losing his footing while making it look like the kind of drunken stagger that would leave him one helping hand away from faceplanting on the sticky floor. Jason probably could have held his ground even against the kind of collision it looked like easily enough, but he wasn’t a highly trained vigilante at the moment, he was just Some Guy out at a bar, so he shifted with the motion as if it had actually jarred him and reached to stop Dick from completely toppling over as Dick slung an arm around his waist, ostensibly for balance.

The men Dick had just left were watching them with mixed curiosity and suspicion and Jason surreptitiously kept one eye on them while he tipped his head slightly towards Dick’s, half so he could lower his voice and half to help hide the movement of his lips in case any of them were watching that closely.

“How worried should I be about whatever the fuck you just dropped into my pocket?” he asked. There were a lot of possibilities, none of which he could confirm without giving things away but many of which would land solidly on the “very” end of the scale.

Dick mostly righted himself, although he was still fake-leaning into Jason a bit. He shot Jason a quick, stealthy wink, still grinning, which was the exact opposite of reassuring, although Jason suspected it wasn’t meant to be, because sometimes Dick really lived up to his name.

“You should come meet my friends!” he slurred, swaying hard back towards the group he had just left and trying (with a very sober amount of strength and coordination, which Jason did not appreciate) to tug Jason with him. He had mostly plastered on the same easy, drunken smile he had had before he spotted Jason, but there was still just a little bit of an edge to it, an unspoken "I dare you" that threw Jason back to when he was a lot smaller and a little less cynical and Dick was less of a (debatably) serious and responsible adult and more of a fucking menace in a terrible V-neck costume.

Jason knew better than to take the bait, of course. He had plenty of vivid memories of how that usually went (making himself sick proving how many chili dogs he could eat at once, nearly losing a finger trying to juggle batarangs, jumping on goddamn trains). But.

He was maybe (definitely) enough of a spiteful asshole himself that he didn’t want to give his brother the satisfaction of just backing down from the challenge, especially not if he could turn the tables on him. And he was a little curious about exactly what the fuck he had stumbled into. So…fuck it. Not like he had something more interesting planned for the evening, and this probably wasn’t going to get him killed.

(And if it looked like it was going that way, he already had whatever Dick had smuggled into his pocket. He could always just throw Dick at them and run.)

(Dick could handle it.)

(Probably.)

(It was all his idea, anyway.)

((This scenario definitely does not rapidly devolve into these two improvising things to try and trip each other up.

(Unfortunately for Jason, Dick is basically immune to embarrassment normally, never mind when he's pretending to be happily drunk anyway.)

The really fun part comes later when Dick has to try and get his MacGuffin back because there's no way that doesn't end in a chase and/or fight.

Please also consider:

Jason sending Tim videos like "Look, Tim, it's a UFO!"

Tim: First of all, that's just Killer Moth, and second of all, you know aliens are real, Jason, they're not unexplained.

Jason: But what about this Bigfoot video?

Tim: That's just a bear.))

[thebestestbat]

@twinkubus tagged me in a writing project game a long time ago, thank u! im gonna focus on original work for this bc ive been getting back into that and im excited....

im going to tag @hyumjim, due to heavily references to our catboy world

1: what are you currently working on? 

i am mostly working on RPs right now! the main one is what the tag #bread cats on this blog is about. my character is named doe and he is a catboy. then the other RP is in the much shorter tag #dragon elfs, where my character, chassis obeisance, is a cyberpunk elf who wants to become a dragon.

also! i want to get back to a writing project with @twinkubus which is for elf erotica (#fucky elfs).

the other things ive been meaning to get back to are:

horror story about being a shitty older brother and childhood trauma (surprise)

necromancer wartime erotica

2: summarize your current project 

let me go with the necromancer wartime erotica. this is about a bunch of dudes of various young ages (19-35) being sent as offerings to a necromancer for protecting a collection of villages from the most recent clash between two warring empires. the necromancer is sexy.

3: summarize your current project poorly 

bunch of guys from different villages have to band together to fuck a necromancer to keep him from fucking the teenager who wants real bad to fuck the necromancer

4: describe your favorite character or characters

i quite like doe, who is a catboy whose greatest childhood wish was to work in a textile factory but he grew up to be a thief. he is part cougar. he never had a mom. he has recurring nightmares of being in a building that is burning down, and now any time he has a dream with fire he immediately knows its a dream. most of his closest friends are slutty and he is a virgin. he thinks about sex all the time. he has never been kissed! he is afraid that if he has sex something very horrible will happen to the world. he can read and write but not very well.

5: post a line from your current project without any context 

It was as if the thoughts were placed into his head by something else, pressed into the grey mush of his brain until they stuck there.

6: how do you get through writers block?

not writing for a while, and reading more things / watching more things.

7: would you want to live in the world of your current work? 

i would not like to live in catboy world. elf cyberpunk world would be great though because i could become a dragon

8: briefly discuss your outlining process, if you outline 

i don't outline... i sometimes do timelines and character descriptions to keep track of worldbuilding, like for the necromancer story. i learned these skills, especially the timelines, from playing The Quiet Year by Avery Alder

9: what is the aesthetic of your current project?

here is a picture i have saved for the necromancer idea.

10: what song sums up your current work the best?

moving to catboy RP, the song i listen to on repeat to write that is paranoid by black sabbath. modern au doe, whom i think about also, has bad music taste.

[crystallizedkingdoms]

cicada calls & goldfinch songs

Rory and Carrie have an emotional moment… on the floor.

wc: 4,817 || tw: ableism

you can also read this on ao3 <3

Droning hums of cicada calls are the only sounds that hit Rory’s ears that don’t come from the dingy box fan right beside his face. The suffocating September heat, too early for fall to kick in but too late to justify turning on more than one fan, drags Rory down into the dirt-stained carpeted floor of the living room. He lays there, stewing in the heat and sweat, eyes closed and mouth parted ever so slightly. 

Usually, Rory falls asleep after a certain amount of time on the floor, but this time, sleep just can’t come to him. Maybe it’s the awful sticky feeling that the humid weather plasters on his skin, or maybe it’s the mind-numbing cacophony of insects seeking each other out that permeates the walls. Maybe it’s the pain in Rory’s back from moving the new wave of shitty movies onto shelves all day. Whatever it is, it keeps Rory up, stuck in an exhausting state of limbo, limp on the floor. It keeps Rory’s mind awake enough to think.

I should change out of this stupid uniform, really, I need to shower, too, but god am I hungry, I think I need to make dinner tonight. Dinner for one? no, no, dinner for two at least, maybe three if mom drops by before she goes out, she might be gone a while she might be hungry maybe make enough for leftovers just in case, sure, maybe that bitch should just cook for herself though no god sorry. Ignore it ignore it fuck those cicadas are loud as shit. Visit dad at ward tomorrow and sneak leftovers. Dinner for two, Carrie will be hungry, should ask her what she wants for dinner wait where is Carrie? Sun is setting she should’ve been here already, first day of school ended hours ago should I get up and look? She does this sometimes she should be fine but what if she’s not what if something is wrong maybe I should get up but I don’t want to god my back hurts what if she’s hurt what if I—

What pulls Rory out of his messy head is the sound of a scraping key against a keyhole and the subsequent slam of a door opening. Rory’s body freezes, and his brain scrambles, begging him to get off of the floor in time before the person sees him, but the unbearable heat keeps him down. All he can do is crane his neck to look at who is entering the house and hope it’s not a client.

His thoughts and prayers are answered when Carrie stumbles past the door, staring him down. Rory can’t see her face very well, as the fleeting rays of the setting sun illuminate her from behind, casting leaving her face and in shadow. The open door temporarily lets in the songs of American goldfinches and common crows into the Mancer home, into Rory’s spirit. 

Temporarily being the keyword. Birdsong drowns under cicada calls as Carrie slams the door behind her and chucks her backpack down on the ground. She kicks her bag further to the side and lets out a strained huff. “Hi,” she signs, her right hand unusually stiff and curt as it moves up from her forehead.

“Hey,” Rory replies, his hand much less tense as he returns the movement. His face screws up, canine idly biting his lip. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Carrie’s hands are quick to respond, almost sloppy as she angrily throws her hands down to her side when she finishes. She stomps closer to Rory, her eyes never leaving him and his state on the floor.

Rory doesn’t press. It’s a delicate situation, deciding which questions to ask, what exactly to say, but he tests the waters with another question, “Tell me why you took so long, at least. Please.”

Carrie huffs and crosses her arms. Her way of saying she won’t talk, no matter what! She swears that she means it every time she does it. But when Rory gives her those big brother puppy eyes, worried and searching for an answer, she gives in without a second thought and uncrosses her arms. “I was just in the graveyard. Far end, near the overpass. That’s all. I promise.”

Rory sighs and visibly relaxes. “Good. Now, come here,” he says, patting the floor beside him.

Carrie looks to the side. Her frown is more noticeable in this angle. “The floor? I don’t need to do that anymore. I’m not a baby.”

Rory pats the floor harder, forcing a smile. “Come on,” he insists, “floor time. You need it. I need it.”

The frown on Carrie’s face doesn’t leave, but the body loosens up from its previous stiffness. She relents, and slowly she descends to his level to lie by Rory’s side. Her hair, short and blunt from a recent chop she had done herself only a few weeks earlier (she was found teary eyed and regretful in the bathtub the morning after), doesn’t fan out across the floor like Rory’s does, but it catches the light from a slit in the curtains that Rory’s couldn’t catch from his spot. 

Rory gives her some time to settle in. He closes his eyes and listens to her sigh and grumble, her frustration as unbearably hot as the surrounding air. She stews in her anger, eyes boring holes into the ceiling above. 

Rory wants so desperately to ask her why she’s acting this way. What could’ve happened in school to cause this? Although he knows the answer, not even buried that far back in his mind, he desperately wishes it will be anything else. He hopes with all his soul that it will ever be anything else than what he already knows. So, he knows better than to ask. At least for now.

For as much as Rory deliberates on asking Carrie the question, it is actually Carrie who turns to fully face him. She taps him on the shoulder, and he faces her the same way. “How’s your new job?” she inquires.

“Ugh, you don’t wanna know. It is actually insane how nothing can happen in that place. All I do is restock stuff that never sells and sit around on the company computer. I guess it leaves me with a lot of time to think, though,” Rory explains, exasperation oozing in every movement. The heat and sweat only exemplify his messy style.

Carrie can only let out a disappointed groan. “Are the movies at least watchable?”

“I promise, not one of them is even worth watching passively. I tried watching one during work in the back, and for a moment I thought that it would be more entertaining to sit and face the wall than just looking at that movie.”

Carrie pouts. “So, you can’t bring some home?” 

Damn. Rory’s eyes shift away to avoid looking at Carrie. “You wouldn’t like the movies, really…” he says. His eyes catch Carrie’s by accident, and that mixed look of residual frustration and genuine disappointment gets the better of him. “But, well, yes, I can bring them home. We can make fun of them together.”

Some part of Rory expects the news to light Carrie up. If not completely, then at least crack a smile. It does neither. She shrugs and lets her hands fall to the floor. Her nails absentmindedly pick at the carpet fibre, her eyes cast downwards, almost purposefully avoiding Rory. It stings, Rory won’t lie.

Would it be better to let her be? The delicate balance of being too pushy or too neglectful feels impossible to navigate, scorching Rory’s thoughts like a rough summer. For a moment, Rory leans into the thought of leaving Carrie alone. She could always come to him when she felt ready to. She knew that, right? She’s big enough to know that now. That's a whole other horror of itself that Rory isn’t ready to confront.

Rory thinks about how his parents left him be. Left him be, let him be. Let him shrivel under the overbearing sun.

No, he realizes. I can’t do that to her.

An inkling of an idea he had come up with days ago comes to mind. It is silly, but really, what can you expect from an older brother of any age? Rory taps Carrie on the shoulder. She looks at him from the corner of her eye, but he motions for her to fully face him. Carrie does as she’s asked, shifting her head. “What?” she asks, her face providing a tone to her sign that only cranky preteens can unleash.

Rory smiles at the stupid idea brewing in his head. “Do you know how fairies say ‘microwave’?” Rory asks. 

Carrie shrugs as best as she can while laying on her side. “How?” 

Rory raises his hand between them, then closes all his fingers, except his pinkie. He shifts his pinkie side to side in a quick waving motion. “ Microwave,” he says out loud for emphasis to no one but himself.

Carrie stares at Rory blankly. Then her lips tremble. Her back rises and falls too sharply for any normal breath.

Got you.

Before Carrie can call him dumb or insufferable, Rory interjects as quickly as he can, “Have you heard the actual story of King Kong?”

The question stuns Carrie out of her need to tease. “No?” 

“Well, it starts the same as the normal King Kong. King Kong is rampaging in New York City, stomping around and causing crowds to run in fear, when he spots the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He scoops her into one of his hands, and he climbs to the top of the Empire State Building, swatting away the helicopters and military that try to defeat him. Eventually, he finally gets to speak to the woman. He props her up on his left hand to speak to her better.” Rory props up his own left hand as he tells the story, and Carrie watches him with curious eyes.

“When King Kong tries to speak to the woman, she shakes her head and points to her ears. ‘I’m Deaf!’ she says. King Kong signs, ‘That’s okay. I know sign language. My parents are Deaf,’” Rory pauses for dramatic effect, and to give his hands a quick break from the sweeping, exaggerated gesture he has been doing. He hears a bitten-back giggle from Carrie, sees how her lips accidentally crack a smile, and he fights back his own grin to continue the joke. 

“And he continues in ASL. He says, ‘You are so beautiful! I love you. I want to marry—’” Rory slams his right hand onto his left one, the sign for ‘marry’. His eyes grow wide in shock, faux horror settling in on his face. “‘Shit!’” 

Raucous laughter fills Rory’s ears, drowning out the sounds of summer insects and failing fans. Rory hadn’t expected her to laugh so hard, he only expected to put a little smile on her face. He doesn’t complain, not at all; he relishes every single sound, watching as her whole body shakes in her big, charming laugh. 

Carrie is still a smiling and giggling mess when she can steady her hands enough to talk. “Where did you learn that?” she asks through jittery hands.

“You know how I said my new job has a computer? Well, it has access to the Internet. I’ve found some pretty cool forums on there. One of them was made by Deaf people and people with deaf family members. They shared some jokes with me that I could tell you,” Rory explains. 

A twinkle lights up in Carrie’s eye when he mentions the Internet. She’s practically sparkling when he talks about the forum. Rory tries to ride that high, elaborating, “Since barely anyone comes in right now, I use that computer and the Internet as much as I can. It’s really amazing. If you need anything, anything, tell me. I’ll try to find whatever you need there. At least until I save up enough to get my own computer, like I told you I would.”

Carrie is still beaming, warmth radiating from her like a gentle star. Rory can tolerate the warmth, even in his sweaty Planet VHS uniform and dirty carpet floors, just so long as it is Carrie’s warmth.

That is why it’s all the more shocking when that warmth is sapped from him not only a minute later. Her sparkle catches on something, flickering away in the humid wind, and her bright smile falters. “Can you find other schools on the computer?” she asks tentatively.

There it is. The small opening, a crack in her walls. Rory’s own smile falters as he tries to keep that crack open for as long as he can. “A new middle school? What’s wrong with the one you’re in now?”

“I don’t know…” Carrie’s hand stands still.

“You can tell me. I won’t tell our parents if you don’t want me to. Please, just tell me,” Rory begs. He’s so desperate in his begging that he starts mouthing his words in English.

Carrie stares at Rory with apprehension. Her body is tense once again, deliberating over her words. Finally, she gives in. “I can’t be in this school. It’s not for me,” she sighs.

Rory looks to the side. Right. Of course. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. But I thought your EA was decent?”

“She’s not. She isn’t even as good as you, or even Mom! But,” Carrie balls up her fists in momentary frustration, but she quickly gets back on track, “but she’s not the issue. She’s not the issue. The issue is… um, it’s these girls. It’s these girls in the classroom next to mine.”

Rory scowls. Those fucking bastards. “Same ones from your old school?” he asks, barely containing his anger.

Carrie shrinks into herself. “One. Two others are new. They, um, make fun of me, like usual. But lately they’ve been making sure I see them. They—” she chokes on a cry building up in her throat, the most heartbreaking sound of Rory’s entire existence that she can’t hear— “they get mean right in front of me. They raised their voices at me during lunch, thinking I can’t tell the difference. They came up behind me during P.E and they scared me. They wrote the worst things in a note in my bag and— and I hate it! I hate them!”

Rory bites down on his lip, teeth digging into soft skin until Rory is sure if he goes any further, blood will rush out. It’s the only thing keeping the simmering rage from escaping him, from making him yell and demand Carrie tell him each girl’s name and where they lived. Carrie hates it when he gets like that. The terrible line he has to toe, between his feelings and keeping Carrie comfortable, feels impossible when listening to his little sister in pain.

He’s unnervingly quiet as Carrie vents. “I don’t want to go there anymore. I want to go to school with other people like me. I want to go to school where people like me. I want to be somewhere where nobody knows who me and my family are! I don’t want to be somewhere where people know—”

“Wait, family?”

Carrie clutches her hands together in an instant. Her eyes are wide with shock, like she didn’t mean to let the words slip out. 

Rory narrows his eyes. “Carrie. What are they saying about us?” he presses.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Carrie,” Rory emphasizes her sign name with a tight movement. “Tell me, please.”

“I’m done talking! Stop it!” Carrie shuts down the conversation, clenching her eyes tightly when Rory tries to talk to her. She rolls onto her back and pins her hands to the sides of her body, shaking her head from side to side. 

Carrie has never spoken to him like this. Rory’s heart pounds a mile a minute as he stares at her, mind racing with the worst of thoughts.

Fuck what are they saying what could they be possibly saying about me? What are they saying to her never seen her react this way is it getting worse how much worse? Need to ask if she has the note I need to fucking bring this up to the school I need to find those girls I need to find their parents. Need to make some complaints need to make a scene it’s the only way to get anywhere in this fucking shithole. They must be saying something about us, something about the family, about me. No no no Rory it’s about her it’s about Carrie she’s the one being bullied, it’s her it’s her she’s hurting she’s hurting so fucking much why aren’t you doing anything do something anything for fucks sake you worthless piece of shit goddamn it ignore that!

Rory shakes his head to rid himself of his thoughts. He searches for anything to focus his mind on instead. His eyes sweep down from Carrie’s shut eyes down to the hand on her side. It’s balled up into a fist once again, denying any sense of continuing any conversation with Rory.

Rory can’t help himself. He takes his hand and snakes it towards Carrie’s. His long, thin fingers gently pry open her fingers until he could slip his hand into her small, delicate palm. Carrie does not respond. Her eyes are closed, her hand loosening enough for Rory to hold, but she does not hold his hand back. 

Though his heart aches at the rejection, Rory takes it head-on. His fingers trace along her clammy palm until he opens it up, completely flat. He arranges his fingers in a particular pattern, with his pinkie, index, and thumb rising up while his ring and middle fingers fold down. He presses this sign into Carrie’s hand harder than he intends to, frantic, longing for her to feel the emotions he felt in this one sign: “I love you.”

There is reluctance in Carrie’s fingers when they first close down on Rory’s index. But when she feels the two folded fingers, her hand closes down on Rory’s hand fully, feeling around the sign without actually looking down at it. Every pass of her fingertips around Rory’s own makes her body tense up, her chest rise, her shoulders shake, until it crescendos into the smallest, weakest sob a girl can release. 

Rory closes his eyes and keeps his hand in Carrie’s palm. He feels her fingers loosely circling his knuckles when he unfurls his hand and pulls away from her. She needs some time alone, he convinces himself; even when her quiet cries and goldfinch songs haunt his mind. His hand retracts from hers, resting by his side similar to Carrie.

Not a second goes by before Carrie clamours to grab Rory’s hand. Her grip is tight on his sweaty palms when she presses “I love you” into his skin. She shoves her hand deep into his palm with a fervour that matches Rory’s. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Carrie emphasizes by swaying her hand in Rory’s. 

Rory opens his eyes to look at Carrie and the first thing he notices is that a tear has fallen from his eye. He feels the teardrop rolling down his cheek, and he blinks hard to hold back anymore tears. What kind of strong, older brother is he if he cries in front of his little sister all the time? Surely, he can bottle it up tightly this time. He can hold the tears back and release them later, where she doesn’t have to see him. 

Then he sees Carrie lying on her side, looking back at him, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks. And Rory cracks.

“Oh, Care Bear,” Rory whispers, signing his words as he speaks them out loud. He reaches his hand towards Carrie’s face and gently wipes away her tears with his thumb. His caress is uncharacteristically soft; a special compassion reserved only for his sister. Carrie matches his action, wiping away Rory’s own rolling tears, and Rory knows she feels the same.

When his thumb has cleared most of her tears, he pulls away to talk. “I’m gonna look into those schools, okay?” he promises. Carrie’s face lightens up, a dim glimmer of hope, but he interjects, “Look, I can’t guarantee that I will get you out of there immediately. I don’t know how it’ll fly with Mom and Dad, or how long the process would be. But I’ll figure it out. Even if it's further away, I’ll figure it out. I will get you out of there. Okay?”

Carrie does what she does best: she smiles. She smiles through her tears, so wide that it pokes dimples into her red cheeks, so bright it outshines the last tongues of sunlight peeking through the blinds. Rory stares at that smile and wishes he had what she did. “Thank you,” Carrie cries. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She throws her arms around Rory’s shoulders, her body on top of his upper body as she sobs into his neck. Rory hugs her back with all his might and wishes that could make everything better.

They can’t talk to each other like this. Not when they’re so close, not when their arms are preoccupied with clinging to each other like they are the only things in existence. But as they cradle one another in their arms, their heartbeats so prominent in their chests, talking is not a thought in their mind. Every shift in their grip, every rise and fall of their chest, every tear dry on their cheek, communicates their message just as loud as talking. Perhaps it is even louder.

Carrie is the one to break the spell. She lifts her head from the crook of Rory’s neck and looks down at him. Her eyes are red and puffy, but when she wipes her face, no fresh tears flow from her eyes. She tears herself away from Rory’s embrace, but only so she can return to laying on her side. “More comfortable on the floor,” she explains.

“I thought you weren't a baby anymore,” Rory teases. Carrie lets a quiet grumble and a roll of the eyes respond for her.

Rory reaches and brushes Carrie’s short, blonde hair towards the back of her head, feeling the choppy strands slip past his fingers with ease. He rests his hand on the back of her head, staring into her eyes with love, then cranes his head to plant a loving kiss on her forehead. 

Immediately, Carrie gasps, her face blooming pink and red. “Rory!! I’m in middle school now, I’m really not a baby!” she insists, embarrassment exuding off of her exaggerated signs. She covers her face, as if that could stop Rory’s kiss from hitting her skin, leaving enough room through her fingers so she can peek at Rory. 

“You’re still my little sister,” Rory laughs. A genuine laugh. He kisses another section of her head that her fingers couldn't quite cover, and she squeaks in embarrassment. “Loser,” he adds. Carrie swats his hands when he says that, whining loudly that he would say such a thing. Rory is not insulted; he went through this phase before. Worth it.

A door swinging open interrupts their season of laughter, and the choir of cicada calls pouring in.

Rory sits himself up, suddenly becoming aware of the sweat on his body once again. He wipes it off of his temple as he stares at the person who interrupts his time with Carrie.

“Candy” stares at her children on the floor and signs a sloppy “hello” at them. Rory and Carrie silently return the greeting, watching as she kicks the door closed behind her and walks past them, towards the couch across from their spot on the floor. Exhaustion seeps into the carpeted floor, staining it so clearly that Rory notices his own lack of energy hits him once again. Carrie seems equally drained, her smile faltering.

The mother collapses onto the couch, her arms and legs spilling across the couch. “Rory, did you make dinner?” their mother questions through voice, and voice alone. Rory glances down at Carrie, who glances back with a knowing look. He translates his mother’s question before he answers, in English and in ASL, “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

A sigh escapes their mother’s lips. It is long and drawn out, but it is not disingenuous or even frustrating. “I’ll cook tonight, dear. What do you want? Could you ask Carrie?” she asks. One hand drapes across her waist, the other dangles off the couch. Motionless.

Rory repeats the question to Carrie.

“Just spaghetti is okay,” she says, although she looks a little disappointed. 

Rory repeats the answer to their mom.

“Oh, thank God. I can do that,” the Mancer mother says. She closes her eyes and sinks further into the beaten-up cushions. Her long, dulled blonde hair does not catch the light how Carrie’s does. It looks more like Rory’s hair. Looking at it, Rory can’t find it in him to be mad at her. “Yes, yes. Five minutes, though. Please. Need time to rest. Then I can cook. I can do that, I can do that…” Rory translates their mom’s droning hums. Carrie’s eyes gloss over his hands. All there is left in her eyes is an empty dissatisfaction. 

The Mancer household is miraculously still. Two children laying on the floor now, the mother on the couch. Summer sweat and Soul-sucking duties drain the Mancers until all is quiet.

Rory breaks the silence by getting up. “I need to change,” he tells Carrie. He’s getting sick of the sticky, sweaty fabric clinging to him in places he’d rather they not stick to. 

Carrie gets up with him. She clings to his uniform shirt to steady herself, her thin legs wobbling as she stands up. “I’m going to my room.” She pauses, then leans against Rory. Rory wraps his arm around her shoulder and hums. He knows she likes it when he does that.

Rory and Carrie begin to make their way to their rooms, down the hall, where Rory will take a left towards the basement and Carrie will take a right towards the second floor. 

“Wait!”

Rory turns back to the mother, tapping Carrie on the shoulder so she can do the same.

Mom is still laying on the couch, but she has her upper body propped up on the armrest of the couch to better face her kids. She flashes a weak but genuine smile. She raises her right hand and folds down her ring and middle finger. “I love you,” she whispers, just loud enough for Rory to hear you, swaying the sign from side-to-side. Rory and Carrie repeat it, a silent chorus of I love you, I love you, I love you.  

Mary, not “Candy” or “baby” or any other name, drops her arm onto her chest, then wraps her other arm over it. Oh, Mother Mary, she closes her eyes and rests with her arms hugging herself. It looks just like the sign for love. 

Rory tears his gaze away from his tired mother and towards his sister. “See you at dinner,” Rory says.

Carrie raises her hands as if to talk, but she stalls. Rory raises a brow. He waits for her to admit something tragic. He waits for her to drop some bombshell on him, like her worries about school, her worries about life, or what those kids at school were saying to her about their goddamn family. As if, somehow, that could given him closure to the conversation they just had.

Carrie wraps her arms around Rory in a quick hug, pulling away right as he is about to hug her back. “Thank you, again.”

This is fine, too. Rory lets out a sigh of relief. “It’s no problem,” he assures. “Anything for you.”

Carrie waves goodbye with her small hand. She turns and walks down to the stairwell on the other side of the hallway, and she ascends to her room on the upper floor.

Rory stands in the hallway, staring down where Carrie left, hands up to talk to no one in particular. He looks towards his mom as she rests on the couch and only then does he decide to go down. He descends into the hot basement with a heavy heart, Carrie’s terrifying words still weighing on him. 

Surely Rory can make Carrie’s life better, can’t he?

What a stupid question. Of course he can. That’s what good older brothers do.

Holed up in the depths of the Mancer house, Rory lies on his bed, and finds that he can’t hear the goldfinches and cicadas of the world above. Carrie, up in her room, shall never hear them at all.