#does this classify as another snippet

[kindahoping4forever]

5SOS IG Story

[v-writes]

wip wednesday

Captured King snippet 2

part 1 part 3 ao3

Zatanna's wards had held Phantom unconscious for transport to the Watchtower, but would grow less reliable over time. The ghost shield the Justice League had been provided appeared to work during transport to the Watchtower, having had to be turned off and of again to pass through, but according to the GIW Phantom had a history of being able to get around them.

More reliable would be the custom restraints Zatanna had made, Phantom had stared at them in shock upon waking in the cell, before placing his shaking hands on the table he was cuffed to. Four custom sigils, two on each wrist, chained to a magically reinforced interrogation table.

Clark turned as Diana and Zatanna entered the observation room, each with a coffee in hand, "didn't bring a cup for Batman and I? I'm hurt."

"I know you are, I was there. And I hear the Medical Bay has its own private cafeteria and coffee pot."

Zatanna raises a perfect eyebrow, "do I look like a coffee gopher to you?"

"Ah, that's-"

Diana and Zatanna make eye contact, before laughing together, Diana leans pointedly on Clark as Zatanna asks "any updates?"

"Nothing solid," Clark sighs, "we thought we'd try talking to him individually to see if that changed how he responded, if he would be more open if he weren't outnumbered, but he just ignores us both, he'll look up to see who entered then go back to staring at his chains."

"That's not entirely true." Batman says.

"How could I forget, he flinched when I entered but not when Batman entered, anything else you want to add about his body language?"

"Hn."

Diana nods, "it makes sense, he has been in several fights with you, but not with Batman."

"Frankly I'm stunned the two of you thought could pull off unintimidating considering the past fights and your whole deal," she gestures to all of Batman, winking, "no offense Batsy."

"Hn."

"You think we should send in the one who put that bruise around his neck? Or the one who is responsible for his custom restraints?"

"Point taken. But I was actually thinking the Captain? You know, the one you used to get the drop on him? I saw the recordings, send him in as Billy and Phantom will talk."

"We aren't contacting Captain Marvel until school releases."

"Right. Middle of the night? No problem, what teenager has a sleep schedule anyway? But god forbid we interrupt Biology."

"It would be Language Arts at the moment actually."

"Why do you know that? Are you counting down until the school day ends?"

"Hn."

"Of course you are."

"You know," Wonder Woman starts carefully, "his cooperation with Captain Marvel isn't a guarantee, but there is another way."

Superman shrugs her arm off of his shoulder, "Wonder Woman-"

"Are we not in agreement about wanting information that does not come from the GIW themselves?" She gestures, lasso in hand, towards Phantom through the one way glass. "There information sits."

"Yes, but Diana-"

"It wouldn't be admissible in court."

Diana looks between Superman and Batman for a moment before sighing. "Politics."

"This isn't an alien invasion," Superman placates, "we need to be cognizant of how we handle this, not just that we handle this."

"I know, I know, as I said, 'politics'. That he can, or rather, has flattened a building with a yell and gone toe to toe with us makes him our business, but we aren't the USA's dogs"

The door to the observation room opens, Batman's eyes narrowing behind the cowl, "you're supposed to be in class."

"You thought I would listen to you and go to school after last night? How are you surprised, don't you have kids?" Captain Marvel does not even attempt to look ashamed.

"He really has no excuse, they don't listen to him either," Red Hood, sans signature red helmet enters, a domino in its place, and a manila folder in his hand.

Red Robin follows him, "he doesn't even have custody of me, but don't tell him that, he likes to pretend."

"This is a restricted access area, associated with a classified investigation."

"Nope." Red Hood steps to stand in front of Batman, taking the lead of the new trio to enter.

"Excuse me?"

"It's our investigation now old man."

"That's not your call to make-"

The computer terminal activates, lighting the room in green Oracle's symbol takes over the screen, static clicks over the Justice League communicators and computer speakers before Oracle's voice, computerized and clear comes over them.

"And he didn't make it, I did. And we've been busy."

Captain Marvel smiles, stubbornly bright, "I emailed her after you tried to bench me. You would not believe the stuff you can find on the GIW when you don't respect the government. Here's a flash drive from Oracle, I've had a lot of fun, and come to the conclusion that she's terrifying."

Red Robin snickers, "did you need the wisdom of Solomon to figure that out?"

"O, the Watchtower servers are on a closed network."

"I thought we were past you underestimating me? The drive is more for general JL use, I've already uploaded copies to our servers."

"I'm referring to the guests you gave Zeta access to."

"Oh that wasn't me."

"That was my idea," Captain marvel scratches the back of his head bashfully, not making eye contact with Batman, but not apologizing either.

"Without prior notice or Trinity approval?"

Diana takes a long sip of her coffee. "While I am neither 'the World's Greatest Detective', nor an investigative journalist, I have picked up how to best get around certain 'politics' issues. For what it's worth, Oracle was already on the case when I reached out to her."

"Speaking of ways around politics," Red hood steps towards the door to the interrogation room, Superman starts to move towards him, but stops when Wonder Woman puts a hand on his shoulder. "While you lot have been keeping your hands clean, we've been doing actual work-"

"In fact Oracle is still working."

"Yes, thank you O, you're amazing and their servers are weird, Red Robin can handle filling you lot in, I'm gonna go get Phantom to open up."

Red Hood slams the door open, Phantom's gaze snaps to him, eyes narrowing, "yo Danny!"

[bitsbug]

Collection of minor observations I've made while exploring ENA: Dream BBQ

To preface, only a portion of these observations are likely to have any lore or thematic significance. This list is mainly to document aspects of the game I found notable, small as they may be.

In the settings, the description for the sprint key is strangely written in first-person. No other keybinds are described in this manner, and instead use impersonal wordage.

All Doors emit a "shining" note when in close enough proximity. Notably, this noise is absent from the Lonely Door in the ending sequence of the game. Perhaps it indicates a Door is active?

The "shining" noise is classified as music.

You can go inside the Receptionist's TVs to look at all the display frames

Directly before entering the casino, you can hear a sound similar to a plane's engine. It's distinct from the AC hum also present throughout the building.

Three instances of the game pointing out small but conspicuous things about the environment. Definitely intended to inspire questioning towards these otherwise overlookable aspects.

The bubbles in the Shaman's Seal House pop when you run into them. Quite fun!

All the 'buildings' in the Uncanny Streets periodically emit strange mechanical creaking sounds, steam venting, and distant conversation.

Alex has toilets stacked in his trash hoard. The statue atop feels like an allusion to Theodora in the Bathroom.

'Three, missing fourth' is a reoccuring motif.

three hanging dolls, the fourth seen only during the end sequence.

three pillars in the smoke room, the fourth destroyed.

three doors (Bed, Lonely, and Crowd), the fourth (Horse Door) out of commission.

The pillars have eyes that open when the smoke is turned off.

did something explode here? Also, this whole section of the Bathroom is missing in its greyscale variant.

good lort there's been a train accident. Call the ambuless.

ohhhh theyre also burying people. Oh well!

The ending sequence Outworld is full of strange little music snippets, sporadically placed throughout all sections. None of these are classified as music by the settings slider.

the embellishments on this screen outside the Purge Event resemble the sun-headed Delay Lama people in the Core.

Despite the Bathroom's association with toilets, there are no toilets actually present within the Bathroom. That probably means something.

Does having an aspiration granted mean to throw it away? Or does this flavour text indicate that ENA does not have faith in her own aspirations?

this one absolutely isn't important, I just like her posture here. Exactly the kind of insane pose I'd expect

Bells are another reoccuring topic. I assume only some of these instances have significance, but it's notable how often they appear nonetheless.

When you first enter the (non greyscale) Bathroom, you can hear faint whispering around you. This whispering vanishes when you backtrack to the starting area after Theodora permits you to enter the well.

[kingmlem]

Hello, just me dropping off the weekly snippet. This is another backlog post that's fully unrelated to anything currently in the works; it's actually from last November (8.06), so it actually takes place right around there... Super angsty and filled with dramatics, but we love her anyway, and we post her anyway.

There's a second chapter to this also available that I'll post later, but as for a final end, it doesn't have one yet- or, well, it does, it's just super rough and unfinished. So, if I polish it up, you may see the last chapter as well.

As for now, your weekly snippet.

Trigger warnings: Angst, complete overpopulation of italics, canon-divergent, claustrophobia (just in case), brief description of death,

🧑🏻‍🚒🧑🏻‍🚒

Time. Everyone always said to 'give things time,' or 'things will work out in time.'

The problem with that particular ideology, was that he- essentially- had gone over his allotted time slot.

Someone get the crook, he was still kicking, still breathing. And that's after being pinned by an engine, stuck in a tsunami... Dying by lightning strike.

At this point, he started to think 'time' might've been the last thing he needed. Which, he guessed is where the problem was, right? Always going too fast, too soon, too much-

But really, what other options did he have? He practically lived on death's edge, and currently? It wasn't really any different.

The tank next to him squealed, pressurized gas leaking from the bolted body.

I'm your first, not your last.

It really had to be the universe's dark sense of comedy, because in the three months since Tommy walked out of his loft- out of his life- Buck hadn't been able to meet someone who erased him.

He'd tried, really, he had. Spent the first month falling into every other bed he could, ready to forget the way the pilot could take him apart and put him back together with a- frankly- disgusting amount of care. Spent the second month hating himself for the first month, especially after the Lucy incident, her basically flaying both him and Tommy over a cup of coffee as he sobered up on her couch. It had been an eye-opening experience, sure, he just hated having to listen to it alone.

Three months. Half of their official relationship. Wasn't there some old rule about how long it took to get over a relationship?

One of the smaller tanks across the room burst, a rocket of blue flaring against the orange and black.

Three months of trying to find someone to fill that void, someone who had the right smile, the right laugh. Someone who made 'Evan' feel like a person, instead of a stand-in. Dates, hook-ups, hell even just quick meet-ups for coffee... He'd spent his three months actually trying.

Another smaller bottle-empty this time- burst across the room, the metallic boom echoing loud enough to vibrate even through his mask.

Looking back, it was probably stupid, similar to the hand sanitizer factory going up in flames, him finding the last living soul in the building. This time, however, he was the only living soul left in the building, the two workers having perished from an exploding tank, hardly recognizable under the layers of ash and smoke. Yet another hazard of the job, he supposed, death's edge and all that.

Borrowed time, he'd heard said. Did that classify his time as stolen, then? He did already die once. Maybe that was Daniel's time and he was just leeching off of it, taking the years he was supposed to give his brother.

I'm your first, not your last.

He'd run the full gambit about how that had made him feel.

Depressed at first, obviously, because he really had thought what they had was going somewhere. Angry-no, pissed- because how dare Tommy just... Give up like that, like they hadn't been growing together through their six months- Depression again, this time flavored more like self-loathing and self-deprecation, maybe he was too much, maybe it was on him once again, he pushed too hard too soon. Which, then led to anger again because they had talked about the big shit before, conversations about what mattered, what didn't, and everything in between, and Tommy chose the moment Buck had asked him to move in? To panic? Bargaining- maybe Tommy was just nervous? Scared after the whole Abby reveal? Worried he might not have been enough? Worried that he might end up just as broken as Buck had felt these past few months? (Anger-spite, really- petty, and hot burned through him at this one, because again, how dare he get to make that decision for them.)

Finally coming to acceptance, only pretty recently, actually. He'd stopped moping around on dates, stopped trying to fuck the anger out of his system, and it all came to a stunning calm when the new lease to his loft came in the mail. Another two years living alone, probably, in the loft that used to feel too big for him and his stuff. He'd thrown out the last Tommy-worn sweatshirt when he found it in the bottom of his hiking bag, the lease came the same day.

It felt like the final nail in the proverbial (almost literal, going by the now rapidly bursting empty gas bottles across the room) coffin. A final piece saying it was all really over, that Tommy wasn't coming back.

Sure, he was still alive, still hung out with Eddie from time to time, still went to bars with Hen and Chim now that that connection had been reestablished, but he wasn't in Buck's life anymore. Only in periphery. Which, he's not going to lie, absolutely fucking sucked. 'Oh hey, the guy you actually started falling for is still kinda around, even though you're trying your damnedest to forget the way his smile made you forget to breathe.'

Totally no big deal.

He didn't blame his friends, Tommy was a fucking cool guy. He was a badass pilot, a skilled Muay Thai 'expert' (Buck could still hear the exasperated-but still fond- 'Evan, I'm really not,' as Tommy took his gloves off. Breathy, and-not helping.) Muay Thai fighter, sarcastic bastard whose eyes did things whenever he leant in close to whisper filthy things into his ear- NOT. HELPING.)

His radio crackled to life next to his ear, someone's muttered commands echoing in his head. Muffled, garbled commands bouncing off the cement, overpowered by the continued booming of exploding bottles.

It wasn't like he could really answer anyway, not when each breath he took sent tremors through his whole body, pain radiating from his chest and back like-well, like he was punched through with a hot gas tank, flying mach-whatever, straight into his chest, which sent him flying backward into a storage shelf lined with more solid pieces of metal.

So, yeah.

Maybe it felt like being kicked by a horse? Not really, his time on the ranch pretty much taught him how that felt. Maybe multiply it by ten-or a hundred- he couldn't really tell, only hoped nothing had actually severed his spinal chord. Maybe one of the solid pieces behind him was just pressed really well on a nerve, that's why everything felt numb, too heavy to move.

More garbled static, more pop-booms, like some kind of twisted sort of lullaby... Swan song? Another bout of the universe's dark humor, or was it his own hubris?

Great, he was philosophizing.

He really was going to die here, huh? Stuck against a shelf or machine, in an industrial recycling center.

Bitterly, he thought to just add it to the ever growing list, maybe this time someone wouldn't re-tip the hourglass.

"-kley- Buck?!" The voice-not from the radio- roared over the cacophony of sound.

I'm your first, not your last.

"God damn it, Evan!" That voice was supposed to be in the air. Air Support. Extra suppressants on standby for when the factory inevitably blew. That voice wasn't supposed to say his name like that, ever. As a rule. It sounded wrong. Even worse than the 'Buck,' that had been practically tossed at him before the door closed. Wrong.

Wrong that Buck felt his chest tighten as soon as he saw the shadow, the body belonging to that voice silhouetted against the orange and black, still. Just like he was in the hospital bay, all over again, grimy and soot-covered but still there.

Why here? Here, where he was probably supposed to die, in a comedic turn of fate or also quiet possibly his own hubris. Still hadn't decided on that one.

Two more shadows followed the first, the one belonging to that damned voice, commands getting lost in the loud screech of the bolts on the tank stretching past their limits.

"-king stay alive, Evan Buckley. Just- Jesus just stay fucking alive." Muffled and drowned in the insulation on Buck's own respirator, the scream that ripped from his own lungs as they moved him was barely audible over the words.

I'm your first, not your last.

Funny, because before he went under, Tommy's face was the last he saw, blue eyes swimming with fear.

Just another fucked up joke from the universe, who once again seemed to have a hard-on for putting him in these situations.

[ronearoundblindly]

Dominance & Sleepy Sex for Fools Rush In Steve! <3

Loved your most recent one with Curtis btw 😘🖤

💜💚💜

Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed Curtis's dirty headcanon (for the legit-dirty man).

Now to FRI Steve, the tricky and ever-growing love of my life! Prompts from this dirty ask game.

While there are several stories in the Fools Rush In series that are suitable for all ages, this headcanon is not. MINORS DNI, please.

D - Dominance

This is a story of a very slow evolution. Steve develops excruciatingly over months and years in the FRI series--which I do love, for the record, I love to detail every little thing that makes him understand his body, his love, and how to show it--but that's for a reason.

He has the specific problem of his senses. It makes him a better soldier to feel less, be more immune to pain, and be affected very little by those hormone fluctuations in response.

Throughout Do You Two Fondue? and This All Day, we see him come into his own as a sexual partner. That blossoms further when he's finally married to Keeps (unlocking his first kink, sorta, when he gets to call you 'Mrs. Rogers' and 'my wife'), and throughout his isolation in Dignity of His Choice, Steve realizes he's not terrible for having fantasies and wanting sex.

He's...slow to initiate anything.

What I haven't gotten to write yet is Steve being exposed to a Hydra gas (sex pollen) that reduces him to his basest, most animalistic desires, and it takes a lot of therapy and talking to shake his learned-shame. He's been conditioned to believe things like dominance and anal can only ever be wrong/disrespectful to the one he loves. (It's important to specify that Steve holds himself to this standard and no one else.)

So, please enjoy a snippet where our soft!boi admits that he might be interested in more than his so-far-pretty-vanilla intimacies.

excerpt from Not A Perfect Soldier But A Good Man

“It’s still you and me, Steve. Doesn’t matter where and it doesn’t matter how. I feel just as safe and loved now as I did before. I know you think you hurt me, but I can’t watch you hurt yourself anymore.” “But I remember it.” His voice is so quiet you think he can barely hear it, but you’re so focused. Your hands cup his face and raise his jaw, but Steve won’t look at you. “We remember a lot of things th—“ “You don’t understand,” he interrupts, the words wet from his closing throat, his long lashes shimmering with tears he’s straining to keep squeezed in. “I…”  There’s a beat before Steve sobs one huge release and reins it back in just as fast. The whiplash of keeping himself together forces him to his knees, planting him right at your feet.  He grabs your legs, pressing his forehead to your closed thighs. “I liked it,” he whispers, likely hoping he’s too far away and too quiet for you to hear. “God help me. I liked it.”

FRI Steve never becomes what I would classify as a Dom, however. He gets better at initiating and steering sex in a way he's excited about, but I can't see him regularly and entirely taking the lead in bed.

S - Sleepy Sex

The short answer: yes.

He gets much more comfortable with the slow and easy enjoyment of morning sex.

Please enjoy another snippet from the upcoming tale about soulmarks:

excerpt from Something Wrong Is Something Right

He drags a light few fingertips across your arm, making you shiver and snuggle into him more. There’s another faint whine before you bury your head in his pec and breathe deeply. Your heart rate increases. So does his. It’s a testament to how in-sync you two are now that before you even say a word or look up at him, your arm slides down his abs and you rock your hips closer to him. Ok, now Steve’s just plain excited. He loves morning sex. Tired-You turns into a rag doll in his arms and gets loud. He feels powerful and a touch controlling, but really it doesn’t take much to get both of you off even lazily when it’s this early. You let out that little sigh, the one that pairs with the perfect hug, but as Steve has learned over the years, it really pairs with any genuine embrace between you two. It’s contentment and freedom and the invitation he’s all too willing to receive.

(I couldn't fit it in because the snippet would be too long, but one thing I just melt over is that he's categorized your scent between three levels of arousal...which, I mean, oh my, fucking swoon, am I right??? No? Ro's a perv? Ok, yeah, that checks out.)

Steve does not usually wake you up already between your legs or anything; that's a bit aggressive for him. Like, he'll rub on you but won't put his tongue or cock in you until you're aware enough to look at him.

He's been given consent to, several times, but he enjoys the participation--sharing the experience--more than just the act of getting off.

Since in FRI, Steve is a super soldier, it's unlikely he's ever completely asleep if you are significantly moving around, so you can't surprise him with a blowjob. He is finicky about those. Again, that feels impersonal and distant compared to having his arms around you.

He goes for runs so early that Steve's amazed you two have as much morning sex as you do. It turns out that's a great way to make you tired enough to fall back asleep, and you can spread out happily on his still-warm spot while he heads to the gym. You can even shower with him when he returns! Yay!

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

This completes the TWENTY-SIX dirty asks from the past week. WOOHOOOOOO, we did it, gang!!! Now right back to the drawing board/notebook/multiple scrivener projects...anyway, you get it. Thanks for reading 💕

[yandere-wishes]

General Grievous is not a nice yandere. I hc that these feelings towards his darling are more suitably classified as a morbid obsession or curiosity.

The Bride of Grievous

(A snippet from a Yandere!Grievous fic I've been dying to write) 

You have no idea how feral I am over this man!! The body horror that would come with being his sweet little darling!! I'm studying Robotics and Mechatronics at university and I gotta say I LOVE Robot/cyborg characters. They are my holy grail!!😍💞😍💞😍💞😍

You're 100% right Grievous is one of the worst Yanderes. He's obsessed with turning his darling into something he finds attractive and worthy. overdosing in a morbid curiosity to see just what he can turn you into. 

Listen Grievous does NOT like organic beings. He prefers cyborgs and droids to anything else. So for this to work, you're going to have to already be a cyborg to even catch Grievous' eye. Sure a talented mechanic or the heiress to a droid manufacturing company would also draw the general's eye. But there's something about your mechanical essence that draws him in. Bonus points if you're both. 

Now I'm playing off the idea that the reader comes from a wealthy family of engineers who are the prime supplier of droids for the empire/separatists (idk which timeline to set this in exactly). You've been left with a few cybernetic implants after an accident that happened when you were too young to have formed a functioning memory. 

There's something about you that's...not right. You build the most advanced automatons but instead of programming them to become soldiers or anything remotely beneficial to warfare. You merely treat them as family. As your children. Your dolls. Doting on them as a mother would. You blame it on your heritage. On the accident that left you tettered between machine and mortal all so many years ago. 

Not quite human 

Not quite robot.

Another option, a secret third.

Glitching between realities. 

When Grievous makes a personal visit to your family estate. Needing to strike a new deal for a rather large shipment of androids. He's surprised to find you, the heiress, taking charge of the transaction. He's even more interested when he notices your cybernetics. And how you don't hide them but instead seem to have made many personal enhancements to them. You're pretty too, and it's been such a long time he's been with someone sentient. 

He's just so interested in you. Following you around like a wolf does its prey. Listening carefully to your jovial tone as you go into great detail about all the new features of this new batch of battle droids. He's even taken aback when you reprimand him for belittling a R0-GR.

Maybe somewhere along the line, you offer to work on him. To implement some new weapons. Add a few folding missiles into his casing. Even going so far as to propose giving him a speedy digital processor to clip into his brain. He scuffs at your boldness, pushing you aside as he moves past you. What a disgusting offer.

So why does the thought linger in his head?

When he returns to base, he finds his mind wandering to you. To your bizzare existance. You've practically shredded your humanity. Yet it still clings to you like a leech. He wonders if you'd thank him for taking it from you. Swoon over him for having saved you from the pesky flesh and blood. He falls asleep dreaming of the sounds your new metallic body would make as it clangs against his. 

He kidnaps you soon after that. Stealing you away in the dead of night. Your family can search all they want, and send all the bounty hunters they want to try and retrieve you. But Grievous won't let you go. He loves watching as he makes you take him apart. Nibble fingers peeling away metal layers to access his wires. Pulling off prosthetic limbs to enhance them. With you by his side, the Jedi will never be his match ever again. 

But it's Grevious we're talking about. He's a greedy creature, never satisfied with what he's given. He blames Dooku for this behavior and blames the benefits of being half Sith and half machine. He's become spoiled. Maybe it's not such a bad thing. 

He starts to return the favor. Tearing you apart piece by piece. He used his lightsabers to cut through bone and replace it with metal. Drugging you with ecstasy and spice as he plucks away your humanity. He adores the love-sick looks you give him. Loves how, even when you've come down from your high, you still crawl onto his lap and litter his cold body with kisses. He'll keep your face just the way it is. He loves the feel of your chubby cheeks and soft lips too much. 

Soon Grievous will turn you into a creature much like himself. 

His perfect little creation.

A loving robot who can think for herself (with the general's help of course)

He's finally found a lover worthy of him.

All this being said I now need a poly fic with Maul, Anakin, and Grievous with a cyborg reader. 

[m0llygunn]

good sunday here’s something I wrote a while ago. it’s part of a bigger piece, so there’s references that are foggy, but if I simmer it and reduce it to its essence, it is amateur writer!eddie x amateur writer fem!reader, reader wears a lot of layers and is pretty closed off. I don’t think it needs more explaining for how small this snippet is (1.8k) but if you’re curious about one thing or another, my ask box is always open. (sorry this is out of the blue but I just reread this and I like this part, I don’t think it deserves to die in the docs like all my other wips lol) (this won’t die in the docs but it will die unedited)

18+ only pls this is soft and not horrifically explicit but

“Do you think drugs help with your creative process?”

“Sometimes, dunno,” he shrugs.

Eddie asked if it was okay if you went to his place today. He told you that Friday night was his last chance to make a good chunk of his profits before Christmas and he had things he needed to do in preparation.

You watch as he weighs out little baggies of fuzzy green and brown product.

“Can I help?” you ask.

“You want to help me with this?” he laughs.

“Yeah, s’boring over here,” you say, feeling a tinge of embarrassment for your enthusiasm.

“Must be hard being such a pretty girl that has to sit around waiting, huh?”

You ignore his comment, pushing yourself off the bed and using your own judgment on how to help him. You help by opening the plastic bags and by tying them after he fills them.

————

“A woman’s love makes all the difference,” Eddie teases, pressing a kiss to the edge of your face as he puts away all the neatly made bags. “They look good, thank you sweetheart,” he presses another kiss to your skin, this time closer to your inner cheek. He stands and you do the same. While he put his stash away in a drawer for now, you settle back into his bed, sitting cross legged in the middle.

“You ready to go home or wanna stay longer?” he asks, catching your gaze.

“It’s barely been an hour,” you complain with wide eyes as you check the time. Eddie crosses to the bed, laying beside you so his head rests adjacent with one of your folded knees while his hand closes over your other.

“So stay then. I want you to stay,” he smiles.

“Sounds like you’re kicking me out,” you mumble.

“You could stay forever, I’d be happy.”

You scrunch your face and Eddie barks a laugh. His hand grabs further up your leg, getting closer to you as his fingers reach high on your thigh. You push him away with a flattened palm on his chest, fighting his advances just enough to make a point.

“Don’t be weird,” you scold.

“I’m not allowed to kiss you when I want and I can’t be weird? What am I allowed to do then?” He asks, laying on his back in comical defeat.

“Be normal.”

“See, that’s impossible when I’m with you,” he smiles cheekily. He folds both his hands over his chest, severing his ties from you, leaving you with not a single point of contact.

“And that classifies as a weird thing to say,” you say pointedly. You watch as he absentmindedly twirls one of his heavy silver rings around the knuckle it sits under.

“I like you, is that such a crime?”

He continues twirling the ring as he smiles up at you.

His room matches him to a T. Dark colours, hints of deep red that peak out under the clutter of personality that adorns every surface. Music is in your face, with posters that are screaming levels of confronting as soon as you walk in. The quietest part of his room is the novels that stay hidden in plain sight. A tattered book under a beer can, condemned to the life of being a coaster, a short stack just under his bed, they scatter everywhere and don’t demand the attention that everything else does.

When you feel like you understand Eddie it comes in waves like this. Like you have all the puzzle pieces but you need a particular clue to help fit them together. When they click into place it makes your stomach flip and your heart patter in your chest. It surges you forward and you find him. You kiss him to let him know you hear him.

He kisses you back and you hope he understands.

It’s awkward the way you hunch over him. Your knees press into the edge of his stomach and dangerously close to his crotch so you move carefully. He rises to accommodate you until you can sit a little straighter, feeling less of a stretch in your lower back. His hand finds your waist, encouraging you to sit up and uncross your legs while also pulling you into him. His kiss is soft yet firm and once you’ve both comfortable, it’s clear that you’re the driving force here. His hands don’t roam and he doesn’t deepen the kiss, he takes what you give him, as always.

You want more though, you want his hands to roam.

“Touch me,” you breathe into the kiss. With your hands on his forearms you drag them up your sides and he takes over, he feels up and down and he tugs and pulls the clothing barrier with every movement. You let your own hands sit low on his stomach, and it’s unfair the way your hands slip so easily under his thin cotton shirt, pulling it up to feel how the hair just under his belly button grows thinner the higher you go. His mouth stops moving against yours and he pulls back gently.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, searching your eyes while he holds the seam of your most outer layer.

You nod, agreeing quietly. He works slowly, letting his fingers gather the seam before pulling upwards, careful not to disturb the layer that lives underneath.

When it pulls over your head, he folds the material in half, placing it down on the bed beside you both.

He moves in closer to you, eyes landing on your lips but you motion for him to pause.

Finding his hand and placing it on the hem of your next layer, you meet his eyes. “Keep going,” you whisper. He nods, fingers finding their grip.

He could take every layer off at once, tug them over your head in one clump of clothing, but he doesn’t. He takes his time, unwraps you like a gift, paying special attention to the bells and whistles of zippers and buttons. He folds every layer with respect, making a pile of the mismatching fabrics that he’s silently cursed a handful of times for keeping you from him. He doesn’t want to make that mistake now, so he takes his time. When he gets to your second last layer he finds your eyes, making sure it’s okay.

“Go ahead,” you whisper. Inch by inch, the prize of your bare skin is revealed to him as he lifts the ribbed thermal from your hips, your waist, your chest, your shoulders, all the way to your wrists. Your poor thermal gets discarded without a gentle fold but you don’t mind.

Eddie’s eyes dance with lust filled adoration. He sits forward on his bed but doesn’t touch just yet. He traces curves and connects barely visible freckles with his eyes and when he’s looking for longer than you deem necessary, you find his hands again, bringing them to your skin and it feels grounding.

You part your hands from his once they flatten to your sides, giving him permission to roam. He hums appreciatively and his hands glide. They cover places you wouldn’t deem worthy of dwelling on and eventually, they start to squeeze. They feel like they’re molding you, pushing you in, and drawing you out all at the same time. You feel like you’re clay in his hands, but really it's the other way around. He’s learning how his hands fit to you, he’s adding the curves of your body to his lexicon, teaching himself how to speak to you through his touch. It’s a beautiful thing and you could cry.

“Kiss me, please,” you ask, needing him to take the swell of emotions from you. He nods before he meets your eyes, and when he does, he looks like he melts into valleys of softness.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” he whispers, using his new found language to fit his hands against your waist, tugging you forward into him.

He kisses you and it feels like breathing anew. Like words you’ve yet to discover, and dialects of feelings you never knew existed, it makes your heart hum.

It’s not long before his kiss translates every stirred up emotion into pure lust. His hands roam, rough at the fingertips but substantially softer at the palms.

Down to your last layer, he lingers at the equator of your back until it becomes the hottest part. The band burns at his fingers with every grazed touch over and under it. Despite that, he plays with fire, tracing the lace back and forth in quick movements that tell you what he wants. With a giggled approval, you feel the way he beams when he pecks at your lips.

Talented with his fingers, he one handedly releases the tension on your ribcage. Both hands move to the straps on your shoulders and he pulls back from his onslaught of quick kisses with a candyland worthy smile.

His eyes visibly dilate and your chest stutters with the breath that gets stuck in your lungs. He drops your bra to your lap, not letting it go too far just yet and he looks back to your eyes.

“Beautiful. Prettiest girl.” His mouth opens another time to speak but he closes it, mullingly.

“What?” you ask, shifting so your shoulders press inwards, unconsciously making yourself smaller in front of him.

He notices the way you change and brings gentle hands to your shoulders, coaxing you to straighten out. He moves in closer, letting the edge of his head press to yours, cheek meeting cheek.

“I just want to say thank you for sharing yourself with me,” he whispers quietly into your ear. “Not just for this, but for everything. I know it's hard,” he continues.

You nod, but you don’t know what else to say. It leaves you choked, throat swelling with emotions again.

Eddie pulls back to see you, not your body, but you and he smiles adoringly.

“I do like this though, I like it a lot.” His smile switches to a smirk and your choke becomes a sputter of laughter.

He kisses your lips, across your cheek, down your jaw. He kisses your collar bones, up the peaks of your chest and down the crest of each breast. He places a lasting kiss to the center where your ribcage ends and moves back up.

He lavishes you with kisses. Gentle, sweet, appreciative, and when you promise it’s enough for you to feel his purified adoration until next time, he helps you redress, but not without substantial kisses to your lips.

Eddie Munson hasn’t shown you any of his writing yet, but you trust he has perfected the art form because the way he looks at you is with the gaze of a man who’s dedicating more words to you than you’ve ever read, more words than you’ll ever know.

-----

[malleleothreesome]

smirk emoji…. can we see a snippet of whichever wip is gripping you most rn 🫣🫶 IM EYEING ALL OF THEM LIKE HEY…. grabby hands

Referencing this post

Um, idk if this classifies as a "snippet" 🤪 but, I swear, this is only a small portion of what I have written...

This is the start of 'Fellow Honest Drunken Confession' (WIP, subject to change. SFW, swearing, gn reader)

To the people who voted on my poll for me to post the Leona/Malleus/Reader love triangle early, this isn't the content you voted for, but hopefully this might hold you over???

Fellow Honest let out an exasperated sigh, standing next to you and your classmates as the massive cruise ship that housed Playfulland amusement park sinks into the abyss of the ocean. His hands are clasped behind his head, and a carefree grin lights up his face. "You know what?" He asks, turning to you. His fox ears twitch atop his head as a salty breeze stirs his orange hair. The night has begun to encroach, a half moon hangs suspended in the starry sky like a pale glowing lamp above the dark waters of the ocean. You stare back into his face, noting his fangs poking out as the tip of his curly orange tail swishes happily. Fellow winks as he laughs his signature haughty cackle. He opens his mouth to speak. "Do you want to grab a drink sometime?"

Ace Trappola perks right up at the mention of alcohol and barrels forward, face beaming and completely missing Fellow's lascivious intent towards you. "Hey, free drinks? You're talking to the right person, man. Hell yeah, let's do it, you're gonna let us drink free? I mean, it's like, the least you could do for trying to human traffic us, am I right?" He does an excited fist-pumping action as Trey Clover trails in his wake, attempting to shush him to no avail, calling, "Ace!" in a desperate hiss. Fellow regards the spectacle with the most blank stare, his ear flicking as a tiny, unnoticed wince of annoyance flickers across his visage.

The monster of a man tilts his head and smiles slyly to you and only you, his eyes sweeping you with interest, "Just you and me, hotstuff. We're talking romantic and steamy. We've got a connection, don't deny it. So. Whaddaya say?" Fellow steps closer, tongue running along his canines as he looks you up and down with a cheeky grin and a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "You and me, alone together, drinking, talking... I'll be real good to you—I'm an honest guy! All my business is legit now!" he throws his head back with a flourish of his arms, roaring with raucous laughter. After a second, he composes himself, his piercing orange eyes turning sharp as he flashes another lecherous look in your direction. With a slight smirk on the corner of his lips and a suggestive raise of his eyebrow, Fellow leans to whisper in your ear, lingering in the electricity of your aura a bit too long before speaking, making you shiver. His voice drops to a low, suggestive purr as his hot breath grazes your neck, "But, if you like, a little bit naughty ain't out of the question... "

Before you can respond, Ace—unable to be subdued by Trey—makes his way back over and elbows you in the arm. Just as clueless as ever, his freckled cheeks are flushed bright pink from excitement, and you swear he's bouncing with happiness on his toes as he hollers with unbridled hype for the evening ahead, "Free drinks, bro! He's an underworld mobster, dude—a high ranking one—we'll have the VIP treatment if he decides to take us out. Taste of that top shelf, not some gross, warm piss from a barrel they serve everyone else, only the best!" Ace says all this while gripping his heart and fake swooning, holding out his arms in an exaggerated gesture, leaning on your shoulder. "Free top shelf liquor!" Ace shouts to the rest of your classmates gathered around in small groups, waving them all over.

Fellow's eyebrow raises further upward until it threatens to leave the confines of his forehead, a dead look in his orange eyes. His tail doesn't twitch—it stays perfectly still, frozen in an upright arch. When his lips part in a rigid smile and his shoulders begin to shake, the absolute venomous displeasure that radiates off the poor fox is palpable enough that you can practically feel it soaking into your skin. For a minute, all that comes out of his mouth is a jumble of fragmented curse words mixed with giggles. You look over at him in mild alarm, unsure if he has finally reached a state of losing his goddamn mind or if he's about to violently lash out and murder Ace and everyone in attendance on sight.

Fellow holds up both gloved palms, almost covering his whole face as he slowly shakes his head and doubles over, guffawing uproariously and wiping away tears of hysterical mirth from his eyes, tail swishing from side to side again. You are stunned, staring as Fellow wheezes and struggles to get ahold of his faculties. Catching his breath, his eyes bulge and he bellows to the sky with unrestrained joy, throwing his head back, ears flying and pointing upwards, his hat almost tumbling off as his body quakes and his lungs struggle, "The sheer audacity! The unmitigated gumption of this fool—"

"Oh my GOD," he continues to snigger with laughter, almost out of control as his nose crinkles. Before long, he descends into violent snorts, then coughing as his breaths go askew and come short. In a valiant effort to calm himself, he holds up his hands, as if praying, a wicked grin plastered across his face. All Ace does is squint suspiciously at his antics, totally clueless to Fellow's intent. Trey shakes his head slowly, rubbing his face in abject defeat, looking as if he's willing his brain to purge the trauma of ever coming to this place. Fellow makes a poor attempt to control himself, breathing deeply, "Sorry, sorry, it's just funny, oh my God. Wow. He has some balls on him, I'll give him that! I really admire the gall. You know what? This brat might have a career in the biz, I'm serious." The fox beastman reaches out and ruffles Ace's head of red hair like he's some kid, chortling.

He is shaking his head and wearing a very impressed look as his fingers caress his chin pensively, lost in thought, unable to maintain eye contact as he's on the verge of losing his composure again. "Alright, tough guy. Yeah, let's go get boozed. And hey, little bastard," His fiendish grin takes a more sinister tone, fangs exposed as he tilts his head in a cocky way. "Just so you know, if your pathetic college didn't send that sweetheart of a cutie,” he winks suggestively at you, his tail giving a little twitch, before his eyes wander across the crowd of students, obviously unimpressed by your entire class, sneering, “I'd never be letting any of you idiots go. No way! I would have dragged each of you back to my boss by force. Don't test my generosity or my kindness." He shoves his finger into Ace's face, leaning towards him intimidatingly, but the smirk of delight stays on Fellow's face despite his posturing. He's clearly getting a huge kick out of trying to spook and intimidate Ace, who thinks he's some scary, powerful crime lord.

Fellow takes a sharp inhale and clasps his hands shut as he addresses the group, "Now, just for fun, let's get liquored up on the highest rooftop bar, play some poker, do a little dancing..." his eyes flit back over to you, "Maybe some smooches, hey?" A fox yip punctuates his sentence. His eyes return back to Ace, whose lips press in a firm, annoyed line, frowning at the con man. Fellow's eyebrow twitches with incredulous humor as he takes in Ace's defiance, biting his lip for a second as if trying not to give in to another peal of cackling. "There isn't going to be any 'VIP treatment', no 'free drinks', and definitely no 'top shelf', is that clear? Who do you think I am? You think I like doing that type of shit?" he points to the water, gesturing to the decimated remnants of the amusement park. "I'll let you in on a little secret, kid, people don't do those types of jobs because they're loaded.” He leans down to get eye level with Ace, using expressive jazz hands as he puts on a pompous voice, “'Oh, man, my yacht's all paid off and ready, better become a goddamn kidnapping organ trafficker—the glamour! The luxury!' Do you understand what I'm saying, you dinky little shit?"

[scotianostra]

On 11th March 1911, Sir Fitzroy MacLean, the Scottish soldier, diplomat, politician and author was born.

Another controversial figure to classify as a Scot as he was neither born nor died in the country, but MacLean had Scots blood proudly running through his body,

His father a member of the Scottish landed gentry, was serving in Egypt with the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders when Fitzroy was born. The family are descended from the MacLeans of Ardgour, a Sept of the Clan Maclean, whose chiefs have as their historic seat Duart Castle on Mull.

His hero was Bonnie Prince Charlie and he often expressed regret that the most important part of his life was compressed into an 18 month period, when he was sent to Yugoslavia during World War 2 to liaise with Partisan in the country fighting the Nazis.

Before the war MacLean was a diplomat and one of his postings was in the former USSR, it was here through contacts he made, that he is said to have found out about the likelihood of a Nazi-Soviet pact.

In 1939 he was posted back to London but was frustrated that his status as a diplomat ruled him out of fighting in the war he resigned from the Diplomatic Service, to “go into politics” but after tendering his resignation he immediately took a taxi to the nearest recruiting office and enlisted as a Private in the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders. He was soon promoted to lance corporal and was commissioned in 1941. He is one of only two privates to make it all the way to the rank of Brigadier during WW2.

Picking up wee snippets of the man from interviews and newspaper articles on him, I like this wee passage from, from an interview;

“To some people, my life might seem one long adventure holiday, blowing up forts in the desert, clandestinely parachuting into guerrilla wars, penetrating forbidden cities deep behind closed frontiers”

Well to some it was a big adventure, the author Ian Fleming is said to have taken inspiration for James Bond from the stories of Fitzroy MacLean, his physical description does somewhat lend itself to the famous character of so many films and books, he was a tall, handsome, broad-browed, imposing, energetic figure, and of course had the Scottish connections.

His daring exploits behind enemy lines were with a fellow Scot, and leader of the newly formed SAS, David Stirling, another anecdote from an article, shows the audacity of what they were doing, this is the stuff of fiction, you would think, but these men were there doing this.

On one occasion, while trying to mine Benghazi harbour, Maclean posed as an Italian officer and, in fluent Italian, roundly berated the sentries for inattention while mounting sentry duty.

Seemingly a man oblivious to danger and with nine lives, Maclean had his only near brush with death after a car crash resulting from Stirling’s reckless style at the wheel. He was unconscious for four days after the crash and later remarked:

“David Stirling’s driving was the most dangerous thing in World War Two!”

Friendly critics dubbed Maclean “the Balkan brigadier”, “the Scarlet Pimpernel” and even (from his penchant for Highland dress) “Lothario in a kilt”.

After the war war and away from politics he ran his own hotel, “The Creggans”, on the shore of Loch Fyne at Strachur. Maclean was a patron of Strachur and District Shinty Club. He collected an extensive library, including a full set of early editions of James Bond novels, which sold in September 2008 for £26,000. He was a well known figure in the area and very well liked by all.

In the later years of Sir Fitzroy’s life, his work included making television documentaries, writing, and commenting on Soviet history. In addition, he and his wife made one of the first mercy missions into the war-torn former Yugoslavia, taking a truck with medical supplies through Bosnia to the island of Korcula, ,with a substantial contribution from the people of Rothesay and Bute. For that Maclean was posthumously awarded the Order of Prince Branimir for the humanitarian aid to Croatia, as well as contributing to international affirmation of Croatia.

For his wartime services he was awarded the French Croix de Guerre, the Soviet Order of Kutuzov, and the Yugoslavian Order of the Partisan Star.

There will be those among you who have your own opinions of whether MacLean should be included as a Scot, for me there is no doubt about it, I may not agree with the mans politics, he was a Tory MP for years, but his pride for Scotland and the Jacobites, and his years spent in Scotland, around Argyll and Bute, his home for over 40 years. He was also very well thought of by all who knew him, including those around Strachur and Strathlachlan on the Cowal peninsula.

Finally just to show the mettle of the man, Maclean died while he was visiting friends in the English village of Hertford having just completed a swim at the age of 85!!!, he was stricken by a heart attack and died instantly, I think he would rather have gone that way rather than faded away.

He was returned to the location of the family home in the village of Strachur, Argyll County and was interred in the cemetery of historic Parish Church there.

[holmoris]

I have no idea why this post made this pop into my mind but here's one of my all-time most memorable ones: A long long time ago I was an implementor on a MUD. This was like 2000-2004, way after their heyday, but it was Fun because hell yeah it's a game we can actively screw with and edit while people are online and we wrote SO much dumb bullshit because it was highschool and dumb bullshit was the point. We had a playerbase of like 60 at peak. It was a good time and absolutely 100% the reason I wound up a systems programmer.

Back in the day there was a big community of sharing code to add features to various popular mud codebases. These were known as 'snippets' and were just little textfiles with chunks of code you'd manually patch into your codebase by hand like diffs. ROM (rivers of mud) was a big popular codebase and it was what we were based on and it had tons and tons of snippets. So one of the things we added was this auction command that allowed someone to auction an item and other people to bid on it. Winner gets the item, seller gets the gold, exactly what you'd expect - lots of mmos copied this exact system wholesale. Another thing that happens in ROM is that mobs will randomly drop bodyparts along with their corpse (the WoW corpse run concept came directly from this) when they die. These do almost nothing but decay after a few minutes (side story: the funniest thing that could happen to them was them dropping in a room where a roaming harmless dog mob called the beastly fido could find them and eat them because they were technically classed as 'meat'. The main city had 'cityguard' mobs that would attack anything that performed a hostile action in the room they were in, and eating the meat was classified hostile so more often than not you'd find a cityguard standing over a fido corpse where another fido would wander in, eat the corpse and then get murdered by the guard, and this would repeat for like an hour).

So anyway that bodyparts dropping thing could happen when players died too and if people were pvping and the loser dropped bodyparts, the winner would often pick them up and auction them if the player was particularly obnoxious, because it was funny and made other players mad which was like the alpha and omega rule of anything on that particular mud. One day this happened and midway through the auction the bodypart suddenly changed into something like chainmail, causing an extreme amount of confusion. This caused absolute chaos and happened while no administrator was online, and the game crashed MANY times that night (fun mud thing is the concept of a 'copyover': if the game crashes it just restarts itself which takes like 5 seconds and reloads/reconnects everyone so you never even notice other than everyone in the game getting an instant fullheal, everything respawning, fights stopping, and a console message. Literally the same thing the blood moon in Breath of the Wild does). So I looked into this. If you're a C programmer the actual auction snippet is here, just scroll down to 'automated auction system' and see if you can spot what was happening. Hint: All items in the game are tracked as a massive linked list. REALLY BIG hint : Look at the comments in the auction_data struct. Something very important is missing.

So the problem here is that code doesn't actually check to see the item being auctioned still exists during the duration of the auction, and since the game uses that massive linked list to iterate through them to track item updates it was very possible for the item being auctioned to decay while it was being auctioned. If this happened and the list got adjusted the item pointer in the auction would wind up pointing at dead memory which, due to nuances of 30 year old C compilers and their weird memory management would usually wind up pointing it at a completely different item somewhere in the game. This would do things like pulling off someone's equipped piece of armor and giving it to the bidder. It was absolute chaos. Someone managed to pull a quest weapon (tl;dr the highest value pieces of gear in the game) out of someone else's inventory with it at one point. Immense, endless salt.

So anyway I fixed the bug by making decaying items in auctions pick a random item from the item list, properly unlinking it so it wouldn't crash the game, and continuing the auction, because that was the funny option. I did however make it give the auctioner an extreme amount of negative karma (modifies rng rolls) to the point where they probably weren't going to win a fight for a solid hour afterwards due to near constant misses. This didn't stop people though.

Nothing brings me more joy as a programmer than seeing a really weird glitch in a game and try and figure out what exactly in the code made it do that

[quietwings-fics]

you know nothing

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Charlie & Kevin & Lucifer) Additional Tags: Trans Charlie Bradbury, Trans Kevin Tran (Supernatural), don't know how to classify lucifer's gender really. but it's definitely not cis, (also implied trans nick because i am predictable), Platonic Cuddling, Couch Cuddles, Television Watching, Gender Identity, Sexual Identity, and the complications therein, Alternate Universe, Charlie Bradbury in the Men of Letters Bunker, Kevin Tran in the Men of Letters Bunker, Lucifer in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Queer Themes, Friendship, Self-Indulgent Wordcount: 2,209 Summary:

Snippet from an alternate universe where Lucifer gets out of the Cage to be the guardian archangel to Kevin's prophet. Charlie is also along for the ride. They are friends. And Charlie is thinking about some things.

Charlie never developed much of a filter. Or, well, he did, but it was rudimentary at best. Around strangers, say nothing, let nothing stick, and so there wouldn’t be anything dragging on his heels when he needed to cut and run. Friends are supposed to be the opposite of that, right? You tell them everything. No stray thought goes unvoiced. Like how today he is Charlie, like Charlie Brown or Charles Xavier, but tomorrow, he might hang this name up again and try another one.

What triggers this new thought is a little ridiculous. His quest to spread the love for all things Game of Thrones through the Bunker’s inhabitants is going exactly as planned, (It gives him common ground to work off of. Small talk is hard. Rambling about Jaime Lannister is not.) and slowly but surely, he’s worked Kevin and Lucifer up to season 3. And season 3 has Ygritte. And wow, but Charlie has always wanted to kiss Ygritte.

This is new: Charlie wants to kiss Ygritte, but he wants just as badly to be Jon as he does it.

So, he opens his mouth without thinking and what spills out is, “I’m not sure if I’m a lesbian.” And what follows is silence, only broken by the dramatic swell of the soundtrack as characters trek through the snowy wastes.

They’re all sitting on the Bunker’s one couch, the one that was actually Charlie’s idea to get because what kind of movie night were you supposed to have without a couch. Charlie took the corner, and Lucifer took a seat next to him, and Kevin sprawled over the entire rest of the couch, legs thrown over the arm rest at the other end. Somewhere in the past thirty minutes, she’s taken over the empty space of Lucifer’s lap, resting her head there instead of on her own arms and the couch cushion. He doesn’t seem to care about the intrusion all that much.

Lucifer’s got two fingers pressed to Kevin’s right temple. Every once in a while, Charlie can see him make a small circle and hear Kevin let out a breath of relief. There’s only one effective cure for the migraines that come from reading the Word of God day in and day out, and that’s letting an archangel soothe them. It’s not something Kevin used to let him do. Not until a week and a half ago, when she’d walked into the kitchen and dropped the mug of coffee she’d been trying to drink because her hands were shaking too bad, whether from pain or sleep deprivation or the fact that all she’d eaten the day before from what Charlie could tell was a piece of bread and a Kit Kat bar. Kevin had stared at the shattered mess at her feet for a few seconds before finally saying, decisively, “I don’t have to fucking live like this.”

It turns out that if your prophet decides they want to sleep 8 hours a day and eat at least two full meals rather than throwing themselves at the brick wall of translation 24/7, it’s a lot harder to argue with them when they’ve got an archangel on their side. Lucifer takes his guardianship seriously. (And takes the job of getting on Dean’s nerves even more seriously.) It’s good, though. Charlie didn’t want to watch Kevin burn herself out.

“You like boys now?” Kevin asks. She turns her head slightly and resettles so that Lucifer’s fingers rest above the end of her eyebrow instead. She’s fresh-shaven. (Yesterday, she showed Charlie how to shave his face. It’s not something Charlie actually needs to do yet, but it’s useful information for the future. “My mom taught me, I’ll teach you,” Kevin has said and explained how it differed from shaving everywhere else. Charlie took notes. He’s got them on his iPad.)

“No, absolutely not,” Charlie says. He wrinkles his nose up at the idea. He may not have everything figured out yet, but he’s pinned that down for certain. Guys don’t have the same appeal girls do. There had been a few brief times after meeting Dean where he’d thought wait, am I-, but it turned out that feeling had not been attraction at all. It was the unfamiliar combination of ‘holy shit, I have a friend?’ and ‘why is it so easy for him and not for me’. To be fair, that was harder to figure out when Charlie didn’t know what he’d been jealous of Dean for doing so easily, but now he knows it’s being accepted as a one of the guys and not just the token girl he’d always been. (Knowing Dean better helped, because it turned out what Charlie had perceived as easy was actually the most elaborate gender stageplay in the history of mankind and that Dean wasn’t even fully aware he was an actor.)

The feeling still cropped up now and then, confirming further that it’s definitely not attraction because Charlie might be close to Kevin and Lucifer but not in that way. (Off-handedly, he’d joked once about stealing Lucifer’s gender, which led to the abrupt reminder that, oh, yeah, that was literally what Lucifer had done with his own body. Charlie’s not sure if finding that relatable should be worrying or not.)

"I thought at first that loving women was the only way humans could exist," Lucifer comments. "First Adam, and then Lilith, and then Eve, obviously." Charlie raises an eyebrow because things obvious to Lucifer were never actually so, and the real biblical Eve being a lesbian? That's a new one. "But then Cain's little brother, Seth, only ever had eyes for men."

"No one knows what you're talking about, old man," Kevin snarks. Lucifer narrows his eyes. He lifts his fingers from Kevin's forehead. It only takes a few seconds before Kevin tenses up, and she hisses out, "Ow. Okay. Sorry." She doesn't suffer for long. Lucifer goes back to soothing her migraine. Charlie can see goosebumps rise on Kevin's arm as she relaxes again.

"But I'm right, aren't I?" Charlie carries on. He wrings his hands. "If I'm a guy..." He pauses. "Guy-adjacent. Can I even still be a lesbian?" Kevin shifts from her side onto her back, tilting her head to peer upside-down at Charlie.

"You can steal millions from offshore bank accounts in under an hour," she says, "so I'm not sure who you think is going to stop you. The lesbian Jedi council?"

"There is no lesbian Jedi council."

"...and you know this because you went looking for it?"

"No. No, I didn't- Because it doesn't exist. And I didn't look for it."

"Right."

"Shut up."

”She’s right,” Lucifer says. He flicks a stray lock of Kevin’s hair absently. “There’s no one who could stop you.” He smiles at Charlie then. It’s the kind of smile that sets him a little on edge. Lucifer hasn’t hurt anyone since getting out of the Cage, has insisted he’s on parole and seeking redemption through looking after his Father’s newest prophet, (though he won’t clarify who exactly is enforcing that parole, if anyone) but Charlie’s read all of the Edlund books. Lucifer’s not a passive guard dog unless he chooses to be. 

Lucifer’s smile says you are one of mine and I protect what is mine, so give me a reason and I will bite.

Charlie pulls his feet up onto the couch, curling up and wiggling his toes against the cushion. The thing is that Lucifer’s protection is neither entirely unwarranted nor unwanted. Charlie is no prophet, but somewhere along the way, he’s become someone Lucifer will let into his space. Kevin had been the other way around, someone Lucifer had to convince to let him watch over her, and who ended up embracin it because no one else seemed to be in her corner. Charlie’s here more often now and ready to help Kevin in any way, but that’s a new development. She didn’t have anyone but the Winchesters before.

They're Lucifer’s. Certainly not in the way he claims Sam is his, but they’re still his. It’s funny what you feel safe to do when one of the most powerful creatures in the universe will cuddle with you on the couch. Who you feel safe to be.

Charlie tips to the side. He bumps Lucifer’s arm and then squirms so that he can comfortably rest his head against the archangel. Lucifer’s always cold, the good side of the pillow except he never warms up under Charlie’s cheek. Lucifer goes lax, settling deeper into the couch. Charlie takes that as invitation to come closer. 

“I might stop me,” Charlie says. Lucifer does this whenever Charlie and Kevin get this close. Lucifer’s always the bottom of the puppy pile, but he doesn’t complain so something about that must be nice for him. It’s hard to remember the heinous shit Charlie read about him doing when he’s melting under a single touch. 

(Charlie really shouldn’t scheme, but if this is how Lucifer reacts to them? Then they have to have Sam join them at some point. For science. Obviously.)

“When I figured out I liked girls,” Charlie continues, “I clung to that idea. I thought one day, when I found somewhere to settle, I would find a community there." No one is paying attention to the TV anymore, and Charlie's pretty sure he was the only one doing so at all in the first place. "I never settled. I never stopped for anyone for longer than a night." Of course the name Han was one he wore for a day, how could he not, but Charlie is not much of a dashing rogue, loving and leaving. Charlie's not even sure he could be a Luke yet, not the one who stood in triumph at the end of Return. "I wish I had. I could have belonged somewhere." He slumps. ”That’s why geeks rule. All you have to do is roll up and say, ‘I think Janeway was the best captain,’ and in five minutes, you’ll have someone ready to back you up with citations and another person ready to argue passionately in defense of Captain Kirk. No question about where you came from or where you're going or when."

Kevin stares at the ceiling forlornly. “You know, I used to have cool friends,” she says. A laugh rises in Charlie's chest, but it's too small to break out of it's cocoon and settles on his face as a fond smile.

"You took AP classes and you were in band," Charlie says. "You were the opposite of cool." Kevin crosses her arms. Lucifer shifts again, one arm settling around Charlie, his other hand tap-tapping against Kevin's elbow. Her migraine must have finally passed on.

“Humans have to label everything. Nothing actually works like that. Angels don’t even work like that, and Heaven loves boxes." His voice darkens. Then, he pauses, and he sighs. “Nick's wife used to be a lesbian.”

"Used to be?" Charlie questions, over Kevin's who is Nick? Kevin hasn't had the time to read the Edlund books.

"She stopped using that word when she knew Nick was a man. It made him happy." Lucifer filters a lot of things through Nick's experiences or through the few of Sam's memories he picked up while possessing him, Charlie's noticed, so it isn't a surprise when he asks, "Is that why you'd stop using it?" Charlie considers that. He lifts a hand to bite at his nail and grimaces when it's already been nipped too short.

"Why does no one warn you that once you figure the gender thing out, the goalposts get moved?" Charlie grumbles.

"The princess is in another castle?" Kevin offers.

"Don't try and cheer me up with references," Charlie says. He turns his head and presses his face against Lucifer's shoulder until the world is blotted out. Stupid Kevin. Stupid Mario quote. Stupid him for finding it funny anyway. The most complicated part of the world after meeting the Winchesters was supposed to be the man-eating shapeshifters trying to take over the government, not what he calls himself.

"If I can survive calling you Leon for a whole day because you just replayed Resident Evil 4, then I don't think you're going to hurt anyone by swapping between calling yourself a lesbian and not." Kevin says. Charlie peeks at her.

"Maybe..." He lifts a hand and runs it through his shorn hair, more symbol than style. It had meant everything when he did it. He probably won't keep it that short. "Maybe I'm not a lesbian today." And that's enough. Kevin rolls her eyes, but she lifts a hand above her head to pat Charlie's ankle in solidarity.

"Great," Lucifer says, "and now that you've decided that, can you put on the next episode?" Charlie glances over at the TV. The episode they were watching is over, and credits are running their course. He'll have to get up and swap out the DVDs to get to the next two episodes, and he's finally gotten comfy.

"In a minute," he says.

And Lucifer, who could turn a mountain to dust if he felt like it, accepts his new lot in life as a glorified pillow.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[chinatownb1ues]

Fushiguro Megumi Imagine 💙💜

"Seasons Changing"

A/N: hi lol this has a whole plot. I was gonna turn it into a narrative, but I was too lazy to, so here's a straightforward and bulleted one. If you want to know more about your cursed technique from here, message me?

Slight angst || Mostly fluff || Some hurt w/ comfort || Slow burn-ish?

• Fushiguro Megumi was winter. Cold, uninviting, harsh; hauntingly beautiful.

• You were picked up as a new first year before Yuuji and Nobara came into the picture, so it was just you and Megumi.

• You both had a professional relationship, though with constant prodding from Gojo, you two eventually became not-talking friends.

• Aka, just hanging around the dorms and enjoying each other's company through silence

• This newfound friendship helped increase you two's teamwork since your cursed technique pairs well with his.

• Even if you consider yourself friends with Megumi and he probably does as well, you knew you were both still hesitant about telling each other more personal info.

• Considering your technique is both dangerous and self-destructive, you have lied throughout your life about the true nature of it.

• Only Gojo and Principal Yaga seem to know the full extent.

• Though considerably weaker than Gojo and Yuuta, your technique was still classified as dangerous and thus, to be kept under lock and key.

• You didn't mind; you were sick of having to committ a heinous crime just for a taste of true abyssal awakening.

• Because of the cover up, other sorcerers have speculated that your technique might be a variation of the Zenin clan's due to it being related to shadows (though, yours doesn't necessarily rely on shadows; simply darkness).

• You vehemently denied this rumor though, and for some reason, Megumi appeared relieved after you denied his suspicions.

• Once again, you weren't that close of a friend to him, but you knew you both had an equal amount of respect for each other, which is saying something if it's Megumi.

• He did say the only one he truly admired was Yuuta, but you came in close.

• Your time training with him has always been fruitful, learning to create new strategies for one another's benefit.

• Overall, you had a solid foundation of friendship with him.

• You just wished you could get over your anxiousness about personal matters to be able to speak to him casually.

• Talking to him felt like you were walking on eggshells, but it's mostly just from your overthinking that you felt that way.

• He didn't seem to mind some of your rambles.

• His heart just didn't appear to be in it, so it was a surprise for you when he suddenly questioned why you stopped talking to him about certain things.

• Shocked as you were, you also felt warm at the prospect that he listened to you.

• Perhaps, one day, he'll realize you're willing to listen to him too?

• You saw autumn in him at that moment. A winter's end, and a possibility of something new and warm arising.

💙

• When Yuuji and Nobara came into the picture, you two were the sole level headed ones of the new group.

• However, as much as you wanted to watch them in the sidelines and laugh at their antics, you also wanted to join their shenanigans, but you just weren't that close yet.

• Maybe they'll be easier to befriend.

• And guess what? Mustering up the courage to add in your opinion about which shop's mochi taste better ended with you sharing more than a few laughs with the duo.

• During the entire time, you noted that Megumi didn't even try joining in.

• Try as you might to include him in conversations, chiming in occasional snippets like "Oh, Fushiguro-kun once fought a curse..." that were related to the topic, he just wouldn't engage fully.

• You stopped trying to and simply focused on your two new hopeful friends.

• You respect his boundaries, you thought.

💜

• Yuuji was summer. Hot, adventurous, the most awaited, oh so friendly; the one you relate to the most.

• As much as you adore Nobara, you weren't really cut out for the fashion thing wherein you're supposed to dress by the latest trends.

• She respected it, but still wanted your opinions about certain outfits, which you would always happily oblige to giving despite your limited knowledge.

• Yuuji, on the other hand, was well-versed in internet happenings, as he constantly referenced his favorite movie and main actress from the said movie.

• Your interests and humor aligned with his almost perfectly, so banter between you two were fresh and easy.

• You noticed that Yuuji was trying to include Megumi into your new friend group, but an antisocial guy like him evidently wasn't interested much in your hobbies.

• Safe to say you were feeling rather defeated after numerous more attempts with Yuuji.

• You felt like your quiet friendship with Megumi was starting to crumble, as your once quiet hangouts turned loud and chaotic with the two new additions.

• "He'll come around eventually!" He would say with full confidence, and a part of you believed it too.

💙

• One day, you were supposed to go to the mall with the rest of the first years, yet Yuuji and Nobara suspiciously bailed on you last minute.

• "I completely forgot that Gojo-sensei wanted to train with me today! I'm so sorry!" Pleaded Yuuji, hands clasped together and almost begging on his knees to forgive him, which you immediately did.

• "I also forgot that Maki wants to teach me these new defensive tactics with some cursed tools. I've always wanted to do that, so please? I can come next time, I promise." Said Nobara, guilty expression on her face, so you also quickly reassured her that it was fine.

• You presumed that the hangout would have to be postponed due to half the group backing out, but Megumi said something that absolutely shattered your perception of your friendship with him.

• "We could still go, if you want to." His voice was so quiet – quieter than yours, you'd guess – that you almost didn't hear him. It made you blink.

• "Ah, huh?"

• You remembered how he clearly looked like he was avoiding turning to you, gaze downcast and hands shoved in his pockets.

• "You kept on rambling about the new arcade that opened there, and this is a rare free day we get to have, so... let's not waste it?"

• As much as you wanted to believe that, you still considered his feelings.

• "Are you sure YOU want to go with me?"

• He almost snapped his neck from looking up at you too fast. You flinched and blinked in confusion, recoiling at the sudden reaction.

• "What do you mean by that? I always like being... with... you..."

• Oh...

• "Huh?" You stuttered out.

• His face turned pink, expression pinched.

• "I thought it would be nice to hang out together like before. With just us two."

• "Fushiguro-kun..." So, friendship saved? "I would love to."

💜

• After that fateful day, you and Megumi began to hang out more.

• You learned to balance your time between Yuuji, Nobara, and Megumi so you'd be able to hang with them equally.

• Though, Megumi started to evidently become your new favorite when you would turn down the other two's invites and simply stay behind with him.

• They once caught you two in your own room, doing nothing but leaning on each other and reading a novel you loved.

• While you were alright with them barging in, even inviting them over to lie down with you, Megumi was surprisingly uncomfortable with it.

• When you asked why he wanted to go back to his own room, he turned his head away and a noticeable flush was seen on the back of his neck.

• You were oblivious to this newfound reaction, but Yuuji and Nobara took one single look and immediately understood.

💙

• You swore you didn't mean to eavesdrop when Yuuji cornered him once

• "Dude, what are you waiting for? Just tell them!"

• You peaked around the corner and watched as Megumi crossed his arms and looked down

• "Tell them what exactly?"

• "You know what I mean! It's getting sad, man."

• "Look, I really don't know what you're talking about, so stop getting in my damn way–"

• "You like them, don't you?"

• All you heard was silence before they both walked away.

• Megumi... likes someone?

• Oh.

• As much as you wanted to pester Yuuji about it, you respected Megumi's boundaries.

• You never brought it up even when you two hung out again.

💜

• Training sessions with Megumi were a reoccuring theme. Sometimes, he even invites you to train with him outside of your proposed times.

• You didn't mind; the stronger you can control your technique by learning from him, the better.

• It was a routine at this point. You knew you would never have it any other way, and had an inkling that he felt the same way.

• It was painful and therapeutic, in a way. Silent but filled with deadly jabs.

• Just as Megumi summoned Nue, Gojo-sensei appeared, carrying a squirming Yuuji.

• "Gojo-sensei," greeted Megumi, deliberately ignoring a whining Yuuji.

• "Itadori-kun, are you okay?" You asked afterwards, concerned at how he was being held.

• Gojo simply smiled and dropped him, causing him to cry out.

• "Megumi-chan! Yuuji will be replacing you for awhile so he can train with them. He needs to get used to the teleporting... Plus, I need to talk with you~"

• Megumi was stunned while you were getting excited over a minimal change in the routine. Training with Yuuji? Sounds fun! You always wanted to train with a more hands-on person to improve your close combat skills.

• Just as you helped Yuuji up, Megumi barked out a "no".

• Yet eventually, Gojo managed to drag him towards the entrance in order to not get caught with your training.

• You and Yuuji didn't really know how to start at first, but after suggesting to simply go all out towards one another, you found a working system with him.

• It was a breath of fresh air, trying to not use your technique much when handling him – which was the complete opposite with Megumi – and you could feel your reflexes sharpening with each punch he swung.

• Once you started laughing, enjoying your training with him, he also began to laugh with you.

• After all, "work hard, play hard," right?

• While you were training with Yuuji, you once again overheard some of their conversation; Gojo wasn't the type to tone down his voice, anyway.

• You also didn't realize it, but the whole time they "talked", Megumi was silently watching you both and subconsciously glowering.

• "So, what do you say?" Gojo asked, grinning since he noticed Megumi was focused on something else during the whole talk.

• Megumi blinked and shrugged.

• "What's up with the staring? Got something on your mind about..." Gojo attempted to whisper your name, yet it was still heard.

• Megumi flushed a deep red and stayed silent, glaring at his sensei the whole time. Gojo laughed at his face.

• "I knew it! Oh, that's adorable, but you know..."

• He leaned closer, only then turning his voice down so Megumi's the only one who can hear.

• "Yuuji-kun would be a better match for them than you."

• You, the eavesdropper, flinched when you suddenly hear Gojo yell out what seemed to be a sound of pain.

• Yuuji whistled, "Doesn't he have his infinity still? How'd Fushiguro touch him?"

• Maybe Gojo thought he deserved it? You hummed, shrugging at the thought.

• Megumi was walking back towards you two when Yuuji managed to catch you offguard, swinging a leg underneath yours and making you trip backwards.

• Ow.

• Without another second wasted, Megumi was by your side, helping you up, yet not saying anything. Yuuji was busy apologizing to you.

• You brushed both of them off.

• "I'm fine, I'm fine."

• Yet, as you tried to walk, a sharp pain in your ankle made you realize you might have sprained it.

• Before you could fall down again, both Megumi and Yuuji were ready to catch you.

• "Let's take them to Shoko–" Yuuji started, but Megumi subtly pulled you in closer to his side.

• "It's fine. I'll take them. You tell Gojo-sensei what happened."

• As you two were heading to the clinic slowly, you decided to break the silence.

• "So... what did you and Gojo-sensei talk about earlier?"

• Unexpectedly, he turned bright red and turned to the side, not letting you see his face.

• "It's nothing important."

• "Oh, okay... if you still wanna talk about it, I'm all ears?"

• "Not necessary."

• "... Oh."

• "Wait, no, it's not like that–" he began fumbling. You simply chuckled.

• "No, I get it. If it's personal, then I won't poke you anymore."

• You may not know it, but Megumi was grateful you decided to drop the subject.

💙

• A solo mission turned your life upside down.

• You were excited about going on your own, though a bit scared, as well.

• When you talked to Megumi about being offered the job, he was immediately on your ass about not going.

• "It's way too dangerous," he said, "What are they thinking sending just one student?"

• You reassured him that it could just be a test and the curse was a grade two, anyway. You were more than capable of handling it.

• He was hesitant even up to the day you were going to leave for the mission.

• "Just... be careful, okay?"

• "Okay."

• The mission was easy at first. There was a young girl trapped in an abandoned convenience store where the curse was staying in. She was evidently younger than you. The locals who heard her screams inside, about being stuck, contacted the fire department. Try as they might, they couldn't pull any windows or doors open.

• Cue you, a jujutsu sorcerer.

• As you were fighting the curse, you didn't notice that the curse could separate its limbs.

• You only heard the girl scream again, making you whirl around in alert and watch as the curse's hand was about to plunge into her abdomen.

• "Stop!" You yelled, opening a portal underneath the girl to transport her into your pocket dimension for awhile.

• "I'll get you back, I promise!" You reassured her as she looked at you with wide eyes filled with tears before being pulled inside the portal you made.

• After getting more freedom from not having to protect someone while fighting, you defeated the curse easily.

• So, the only thing left to do was to bring her back.

• You summoned a portal, waiting for her to walk back out, and yet...

• She never did.

• Panicking after waiting for a few more minutes, you entered the portal yourself.

• Inside the empty pocket dimension, you couldn't find her. You searched everywhere, even calling upon your trusty "search units" – the bat terrors, to search with you. Even with their sensitive echolocation, there was no trace of her.

• The thought of sending her into that place sent chills down your spine.

• You couldn't have opened a portal to the abyss for her... right?

• With great hesitance, you opened it and looked inside.

(tw: slight gore)

• You were greeted with the mass of abyssal horrors gnawing on her flesh.

• "Human... Warm..." You heard their distorted voices say in their language, causing you to stumble back.

• With wide eyes and a horrified expression on your face, you watched as you subconsciously closed the portal slowly.

• As if to mock you, a finger was thrown out of the portal before it entirely closed, splattering blood on your face and unto the floor.

(end of tw)

• The rest of the day happened in a daze. When your supervisors asked you where the girl was, you couldn't speak.

• Gojo seemed to understand, sharing a nod with Principal Yaga.

• They let you go back to the dorms after giving you a grave message to be more careful next time.

• They didn't provide reassurance, simply telling you that it was part of the job that some citizens may die.

• Yet they failed to include that it was rare for someone's cursed technique to cause death upon an innocent.

• You were... traumatized.

• You may have killed lowly criminals in order to utilize more of the abyss, but you never thought to kill an innocent.

• And now you have.

• A young girl who had so much to live for, who was simply inside of an abandoned store trying to have her own adventure, and was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

• You couldn't sleep.

• It was 3am and you were debating upon your own existence.

• It may have been selfish of you to do so, but you walked yourself to Megumi's dorm room, numb.

• Your feet seemed to have lead you to the place where you found the most comfort in.

• Even though it was 3am, Megumi still took you in, locking his room and making you lie down on his bed with his arms around your waist.

• "Do you want to talk about it?"

• You shook your head.

• "Okay."

• There was a comfortable silence where you simply laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

• Your tears soaked his shirt, but he didn't mind.

• "... Megumi."

• He hummed questioningly.

• "Are we still best friends?"

• He pulled you in closer, letting his lips brush against the top of your head, giving himself the chance to plant an unnoticeable kiss on your hair.

• "Of course." Even if he wanted more, he'll just stay where you could still see him.

• After a few more minutes of silence, you decided to tell him about your cursed technique and its origin.

• How your grandfather on your father's side made a greedy choice to satisfy the abyssal horrors by sacrificing the first born of his following generations.

• How they would have to learn to spread the horrors of the abyss by offering people in exchange for glory upon your family name.

• How you never even chose to bear such a responsibility just to be able to use more of the abyss's power to help you in missions.

• "I hate it... I wish I–" You couldn't bring yourself to say it.

• Megumi was silently listening in, finding himself in pain after hearing your broken voice tell him how much you hated being yourself.

• "I've killed people, Megumi. I'm essentially a serial killer."

• He only nodded.

• "I miss my family. I miss my mom. I miss my brothers. I... I miss when we had fun. I miss–"

• Talking about it made you cry even more. He held you closer, pulling a blanket over both of you.

• After your cries, you started to reminisce about your childhood. You started to tell him how your brothers used to annoy you, how your mother always seemed to take their side... But there was a slight smile on your face as you told him this, as if you were happy by simply oversharing about your memories with them.

• He treasured that smile.

• He listened until you got tired, your eyes drooping.

• He let out a rare smile at that and offered to tell you about his own family situation.

• Tsumiki.

• His breath stuttered at the mention of his sister, causing you to look up and grab his face. He covered your hand with his own, turning his face to plant a soft kiss on your palm. You blushed at the action but didn't dare interrupt.

• You couldn't help but listen to him, leaning in closer until your face was buried in the junction between his neck and his shoulders, with your lips brushing against his pulse.

• His sad stories soon turned into funny ones after he got to the part when Gojo became his new caretaker.

• You both shared teary laughs until there aren't any more shed.

• Megumi realized that holding you close like this, being the only one who can see you at your most vulnerable, was something he wanted to continue having for the rest of his life.

• So...

• He called your name softly.

• You blinked, your lashes fluttering against his skin and making his face flush redder than before.

• You looked up just as he looked down, both your lips and his only a breath away from touching.

• "I like you," he whispered.

• He gathered his courage and eliminated the space between you two, planting a kiss as soft as a feather upon your chapped lips.

• Without even pulling away, he mumbled against your closed mouth.

• "Please."

• What was he begging for?

• "Please..."

• "Okay."

• You understood. No mere words can express the sheer longing in the way he holds you.

• "Is it bad to ask how long?" You jest, kissing him after.

• More slow kisses were shared before he finally pulled away and breathed a bit too heavily.

• "Too long," he whispered.

• It felt like it, but you weren't complaining.

• Fushiguro Megumi was spring. Warm, exciting, a breath of fresh air, light; a new beginning.

[aphelea]

better off as lovers (and not the other way around)

Ao3

Through a series of flashbacks and present-day snippets, Quinlin tells the story of his and Alden's (rather complicated) relationship.

Warnings for internalized homophobia and alcohol consumption.

@that-glasses-dog

-

As an honorary uncle, Quinlin isn’t supposed to have favourites out of his best friend’s kids. So if anyone asks, he loves them all equally. 

But his favourite is definitely Alvar. 

Well, it’s not really a fair comparison – Biana and Fitz are three and five, respectively, and don’t seem to have much interest in anything but bramble and Prattle pins. Biana, especially, only spends time with her mother, who in turn spends much of her time with Livvy when she’s not working. And Quinlin isn’t sure what exactly Livvy tells her about him, but he knows it can’t be good.

Alvar, on the other hand, is sixteen, and at the very least has some interest in Quinlin’s work for the Council. As of late, too, he’s started showing up at Quinlin’s office for advice on more mundane issues – grades, girlfriends, and the like. 

(Quinlin’s not sure how to tell him that he can’t quite help with the second one.)

So, it’s not much of a surprise when the eldest Vacker is sitting in the office upon Quinlin’s return from his lunch break, flipping through what are probably classified files that Quinlin would definitely be fired for letting a teenager read. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asks, setting his wine on his desk. 

Alvar takes a bite out of what seems to be a blitzenberry muffin. “Probably,” he says. Quinlin sighs. 

“You know Level 6 is important,” he chides, “You’re missing out on valuable information by skipping.”

“Valuable?” He scoffs. “It’s just mentor after mentor singing the praises of the Council and trying to score a date with my father.”

Quinlin nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”

Alvar grins gleefully, an expression Quinlin has learned to fear. “Oh, yes, did I not tell you? Lady Alina is my multispecial studies mentor.”

“You’re joking.” 

“I wish I was,” Alvar responds, wrinkling his nose. “Everyday, it’s always, ‘oh Alvar, how’s your father doing, does he still prefer chocolate mint ripplefluffs to cherry?’ I always start talking about my mother just to rile her up.” 

Quinlin frowns. “He hates both.” At Alvar’s confused expression, he clarifies, “Mint and cherry. He only likes toffee, for some ridiculous reason.” 

Alvar offers him an inscrutable glance, but only responds with “Interesting.” 

Quinlin nods and shakes off the memories that claw their way to the surface of his mind — evenings spent with Alden baking various baked goods in his kitchen, then subsequently being kicked out by his mother after ruining yet another appliance. They were only teenagers then, about the same age as Alvar now. 

A guilty, messed-up part of him misses those days. 

“Do you need something, Alvar?” Quinlin says, turning away so the boy can’t see the tears welling up in his eyes. Not now. 

“I’m just bored,” Alvar says, “and sick of learning that glorified bullshit they call history.” 

Quinlin chuckles. “And, what, you think I can teach you any better? You should ask your father, he was always better at history than me.” 

“He would lecture me til the sun sets about responsibility and all that,” Alvar replies, and Quinlin, unfortunately, has to agree. “You’re the nicest one. That’s why I’m here, because Mom took Biana and Fitz shopping with Aunt Livvy and I don’t have enough energy to deal with children right now.” He paused, then added, “Also, Aunt Livvy scares me.”

“She has a tendency to do that,” Quinlin replies fondly. As far as friends go, she’s the best he could have asked for. She doesn’t ask what he does in his free time holed up in his office, and he doesn’t ask where she goes when she disappears from the apartment for days on end. It’s a lovely little symbiotic relationship they’ve kept up for years, and it hasn’t failed either of them yet. 

“Do you have any of your old stuff in here?” Alvar asks, pulling Quinlin out of his reverie. 

“My old stuff?” 

Alvar rummages through various boxes. “Like from your time at Foxfire. I’m curious.” Quinlin raises an eyebrow, and he adds, “It’s history! Don’t you want me to learn something today?” 

He considers it for a moment, considers how incriminating his old letters would be, and decides that he might as well take the risk. Alvar will only get suspicious if he refuses, anyway, which is infinitely worse. 

“It’s in the corner,” Quinlin says with a sigh, making his way over to the chaotic mess that is the corner shelves of his office. 

“Wait, actually?” Alvar scrambles up from his seat. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

“I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have.” He hands the dusty box to Alvar anyway, hoping to the stars above that there isn’t anything about him and Alden in there. There shouldn’t be, since he burned it all when their cognate bond fell apart, but one can never be too careful. 

“Is there anything about you and Aunt Livvy in here?” Alvar asks, and Quinlin shakes his head. 

“I met her well after I graduated,” he says. 

Alvar’s face falls. “Damn. And here I thought I was about to find something, like, How to Get A Badass Girlfriend in Ten Steps: by Quinlin Sonden.” 

Quinlin rolls his eyes. “Language. And I thought you were dating that girl— Lily?” 

“Lila,” Alvar corrects. “But she dumped me after she found out I’m a Vanisher. Apparently she was only looking for a ‘real Vacker.’ A Telepath, I guess.” 

Quinlin scowls. “That’s horrible. She doesn’t sound like someone you would want to date, anyway.” 

Alvar leans back against the wall. “Yeah, that’s what Ruy said. I guess he’s right.”

“Ruy?” Quinlin’s never heard the name before — and he prides himself on knowing the names of all of Alvar’s friends. It’s only the girlfriends that he can’t keep straight. 

A blush rises in Alvar’s cheeks, and his lips curl into a small smile. “Oh, yeah. He’s a friend I made at the, uh, store. Where I work. In Atlantis.” 

“I’m glad your new job is proving useful,” Quinlin responds with a nod, filing the information away for later use. 

At that, Alvar begins rummaging through Quinlin’s Foxfire memorabilia, tossing aside old notebooks and crumpled homework assignments. 

“You really haven’t looked at these much, have you,” Alvar says, blowing the dust off a picture frame. He examines it for a moment, then frowns. “Is this you and my dad?” 

Quinlin lunges and snatches the frame away with superhuman speed. It’s a painting, slightly faded over centuries, but the situation is still clear: two figures, sitting side-by-side on a hill, watching the sunset over crystal Eternalia. There’s no doubt that it’s him and Alden, or younger versions of them at least. For one, a great pain had been taken by the artist — a seventeen-year-old Quinlin, most likely — to paint Alden’s eyes a stunning teal blue, contrasting against the purples and pinks of the evening sky. It’s beautiful, but incriminating nonetheless. 

“It is,” Quinlin confirms quietly to Alvar, aware that he’s been silent far too long. 

Alvar regards him with the same inscrutable expression as before. “When is this from?” he asks quietly, regarding the painting with a new level of contemplation. 

Quinlin has to think for a moment. “Oh,” he says, the memory replaying, “that’s from the sum–”

-

“—mer before Level 8!” Alden shouted, dragging Quinlin by the arm throughout the city and marveling at the crystal buildings that seemed to reach forever. “We only have one summer left before we’re adults, Quinlin. Let’s make the most of it.” 

“I’m all for making the most of it,” Quinlin said, “but do we have to be out here in the pouring rain? I’m freezing to death.” 

Alden rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re just horrible at temperature regulation.” 

“Temperature regulation is a skill for Exilium waywards,” Quinlin replied with a scoff. “I haven’t sunk that low yet.”

“Yet is the key word here,” Alden said with a smirk. Quinlin shivered as he sighed, and his best friend added, “Do you need me to warm you up?”

Quinlin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see how you could do that, since last I checked you’re not a Pyrokinetic.”

“And thank the stars for that,” Alden said with a grimace. “I meant giving you my cloak.” He stopped, then detangled his hand from Quinlin’s to unpin the thick teal fabric that hung over his clothes. Before Quinlin could protest, Alden’s arms were around his shoulders, securing the cloak around Quinlin using a blue pin with golden wings. The Vacker crest. 

Alden trusted him with the prestigious Vacker crest, then. 

Oh. 

The thought spawned a warm feeling, warm enough to make him forget the rain for a moment. But Quinlin didn’t dare explore that emotion to its source, for fear he would find something he would be forced to keep secret. And he and Alden couldn’t keep secrets. 

It was the nature of the job. 

Alden’s hands came to rest on Quinlin’s biceps, and he realized all too quickly that they were standing almost flush against each other. Close enough that each of Quinlin’s breaths blew a perfectly gelled strand of Alden’s hair out of place. Close enough that the rings on both their thumbs hummed with energy, although neither of them were reading a mind. 

“Do you trust me?” Alden finally murmured, breaking the carefully constructed silence.

Quinlin reached up to brush a raindrop off of his best friend’s cheek. “Always,” he replied, his voice almost lost to the pounding of the rain on crystal. 

Alden smiled softly, a private smile reserved only for the two of them. “Let me show you something,” he said, reaching into Quinlin’s pocket. He pulled out a gleaming clear crystal, one that looked official and nothing at all like either of their home crystals. 

At Quinlin’s confused stare, Alden explained, “I stole it from my father. He takes my mother there on dates sometimes, when it’s too risky for them to go to Atlantis.”

Fame was a vicious beast, and it followed the Vackers around like a hunter. People did almost anything for glimpses of the famous Vackers, especially since Alden’s mother had once been a Councillor, years ago. 

Quinlin wondered what it would be like to live with that kind of innate respect. He was the first to manifest in his family, on top of being the youngest of three, and so each honour, each connection he’d earned, he’d had to claw his way to get. His father had nearly cried when Quinlin first told him he was friends with a Vacker. 

He was sure his father would cry for a much different reason if he revealed how deep that ‘friendship’ truly ran. 

Quinlin shook the terrifying thought out of head and instead focused on the fact that Alden was taking him to a spot that his parents used for dates. 

Was he even aware of what that implied?

It didn’t seem so, as Alden dragged him into a nearby building to create the crystal pathway. As they leaped, he threaded their fingers together, and their cognate rings snapped together with a click. 

When the rainbow faded away, Quinlin found himself atop a hill, lush with green grass and pink flowers. As they climbed, he realised that the summit looked over the glimmering, crystal streets of Eternalia, where the beautiful sunset was alas obscured by the thick, woven storm clouds. 

“It’s usually much prettier,” Alden commented. Quinlin wasn’t sure if it was the cold, the hike, or something else entirely that caused them both to redden. 

“That’s quite alright,” he replied, moving to wrap an arm around his best friend’s shoulders, “I think it’s beautiful no matter how grey.” 

Alden leaned into his shoulder. I want to remember this forever, he transmitted. 

Quinlin startled at the sudden shift. This moment, he returned, or this view?

Alden laughed. You. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

The unidentifiable emotion was back, in full force. It was like light-leaping, but in place, and every cell in his body was intact enough to feel it. 

But he couldn’t dwell on it too long. 

“I’m going to paint this for you,” Quinlin said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. 

“Paint what for me?” Alden looked up at him, teal eyes glinting in the moonlight.  

“I’m going to paint the sunset,” Quinlin said. “Well, paint it for us, I suppose. I’ll just hang it in our dorm room.” 

Alden raised an eyebrow. “Does the Gold Tower even allow decorations?” 

Quinlin grinned. “When has that ever mattered to us?”

They stood in silence for a moment, before Alden finally whispered, a barely-audible, “I lo—”

-

“—ve what you’ve done with the place,” Livvy says, crossing her arms as she leans against the doorway to his office. “Messy chic, I call it.” 

Quinlin glances around at the old papers strewn everywhere. “Shut up.” 

Livvy must notice the crumbs scattered all over his desk, because she says, “Alvar was here, wasn’t he.”

“Yep. Skipping school as always,” Quinlin replies with a sigh. He really isn’t sure how Alden has managed to keep Alvar on the search for so long without the teenager giving up and quitting. 

Livvy laughs. “I don’t know how Della handles that kid. Managing a troublemaker is bad enough, but a Vanishing troublemaker? Infinitely worse.” She tosses a braid over her shoulder. 

“Indeed,” Quinlin agrees. “How was your day, without Vanishing troublemakers?” 

Livvy shrugs. “Oh, you know, fairly uneventful. Not much happens at the healing center these days.”

“There’s blood on your dress,” is Quinlin’s response. 

“What?” She glances down at her daffodil-yellow gown. “Shit.”

Quinlin raises an eyebrow. “Uneventful day, you said?” Rarely do elven healers see blood – especially enough of it to stain that much. 

She grimaces. “You could say that. Let’s just say that those Emissaries are never going to be tasked to ogres again.”

“Hmm.” He chooses to leave it at that, and not press anymore, because that’s what they’ve always done – let their secrets hang in the silence, unspoken and unanswered. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Livvy reaches over and picks up the empty wine bottle from where it lays on its side in front of him. Empty. She glances over him, frowning slightly. 

“Don’t ask,” Quinlin says, the headache already well on its way. “I, too, make bad decisions sometimes.”

“You only drink when you’re angsting,” Livvy says. 

Quinlin scoffs. “I don’t ‘angst.’”

“Then, please, tell me what you were doing when I opened the door to find you on the floor of your office, holding an empty glass in the midst of a mess of strewn papers.”

He considers it, considers the memory he had lost himself in only a few minutes before. “It’s less angsting, more… reminiscing.”

Livvy rolls her eyes. “Got it. Well, while you’re here reminiscing, I’ll be in the kitchen eating the ripplefluffs Della made me. If you don’t stop me, I’m eating them all.”

Quinlin sighs. “What flavor?”

“Flavor?” She pauses to think about it. “It’s a mix, I think. There’s peanut butter and chocolate.”

“Oh.” He’s not sure why he even asked– he hates ripplefluffs. He knows how to make them - pretty damn well if he does say so himself - but that’s only because he was the kind of teenager who did anything for his ‘best friend.’ “I think I’ll pass, thanks. I don’t really like rippleruffs.”

Livvy shrugs. “If you say so.” The next words out of her mouth are frighteningly familiar. “I mean, every–

- 

“–one loves ripplefluffs, Quinlin,” Alden said, tossing him a bag of flour. “Don’t be stupid. Now, come on, help me bake.”

Quinlin looked down at the white powder now covering his silver Foxfire uniform. “I still feel like we should’ve changed first.”

Alden pulled out a jar of sugar and set it on the counter. He turned and placed a hand on Quinlin’s shoulder, which only served to spread the flour around more. “Relax, Quinlin. It’s the weekend, we’re allowed to have a little fun.”

Quinlin scoffed. “Are you joking? It’s the weekend before midterms! The only reason they even allowed us to go home for the weekend is because you’re… you.”

“Because I’m a Vacker, you mean?” Alden grinned. “I typically dislike using my family name to get special treatment like this. But you’ve been so stressed about midterms lately, and I figured that we both could use a break, so…” He gestured around the massive kitchen. “Here we are. Sleepover.”

Oh. 

Quinlin wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

He turned away to hide his awkward laugh. “I’m surprised your parents let you come home,” he said, instead of any real acknowledgement of anything. 

Alden was silent. 

“...You did tell your parents that we’re here, right?” Quinlin wasn’t sure he wanted to add ‘kicked out by a former Councillor’ to his list of achievements. 

Alden, ever the affectionate one, grabbed both of Quinlin’s hands and held them in the space between the two, a position reminiscent of their Cognate training. “We’re adults, Quinlin. We hardly need our parents’ permission to come and go as we please.”

“That’s all well and good— until we end up burning down the house and your mother Exiles us.”

Alden chuckled. “You worry too much, Quinlin. But there’s no reason–”

“–If you say ‘no reason to worry’ then I swear to the stars that I will break this Cognate bond right here and now.”

Alden scoffed. “Oh, please. We’re helpless without each other. And I don’t think it’s even possible for us to break our bond at this point; we know everything about each other.”

Not everything, some traitorous part of Quinlin’s mind muttered. 

Shut up, he told himself.

You have to acknowledge it at some point. 

Well, that point isn’t going to be today. 

“Yeah,” Quinlin agreed aloud. “You’re stuck with me for life.”

“I wouldn’t want to be stuck with anybody else,” Alden replied, and the words seemed so easy for him. 

Quinlin wondered whether he was a bad person sometimes, because those kinds of easy compliments didn’t flow smooth like water off his tongue. Alden would drown him in showers of compliments and promises like they were just words, like they meant nothing past face value. But Quinlin couldn’t bear to say those words to Alden knowing he would interpret them the same way he interpreted their friendship: best friends who left things unacknowledged, let secrets hang between them, unspoken. It was easier like that for him. 

But it was hell for Quinlin. 

“Have I ever told you,” Alden said, while mixing what Quinlin could only assume was batter, “that I trust you? More than anyone in the world?”

Quinlin stared at him. “What?”

“You understand me, Quinlin,” he said, “and I like to think that I understand you.”

“Of course,” Quinlin said, but he wasn’t quite sure. Because if he couldn’t understand his feelings or himself, how could Alden? 

“I think,” Alden said, “that we should live together after graduation.”

Quinlin froze. “What?” 

“We’re going to work together anyway, and we’ve already lived together for two years.” 

Quinlin’s mouth was drier than sandpaper. “But… what about your Winnowing Gala?”

Alden paused in his pouring of the batter and frowned. “My Winnowing Gala?” 

“I thought you would want to live with one of your matches,” Quinlin said, choosing his words carefully. “Someone you would eventually… marry.” 

Alden was silent for a moment, gaze still trained on the bowl in front of him. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Quinlin,” he murmured, “I don’t want a Winnowing Gala.”

And of all the things he could have said, that was not one Quinlin had expected. “What?” he spluttered, bewildered. “I– but– then why the hell are you having one?”

Alden turned and leveled an incredulous glare on him. “I’m a Vacker. I don’t have a fucking choice.”

The curse felt foreign in Alden’s mouth, and Quinlin instinctively shrunk back. 

“Sorry,” Alden said, running a hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Quinlin replied. “But, can I ask… why?”

Alden raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t I have a choice? It’s tradition, Quinlin.”

Quinlin rolled his eyes. “I meant why don’t you want a Winnowing Gala.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

Quinlin’s heart stopped. 

Why didn’t he want a Winnowing Gala?

Because I already know who I want. Because I can’t make myself dance with those girls and pretend my heart is theirs; I can’t listen to you telling me which girl is the nicest and who I should take a chance on. 

Because the only person I’d take a chance on is you. 

“Quinlin?” Alden’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry, lost in my thoughts.” Quinlin laughed awkwardly in an attempt to drive the conversation far away from his realization. 

It’s alright, Alden transmitted, and Quinlin flinched.

You really need to give more warning for that, he replied with an eye roll. 

Alden grinned. Why? It’s fun. It took so long to finally get past your mental barrier, I intend to do this as much as possible now. 

Their rings hummed with energy. Alden grabbed Quinlin’s hand with no hesitation, and their rings clicked.

Quinlin stared at their joined hands and took a deep breath. “Alden,” he began, the words like firecrackers on his tongue, “I need to tell you–”

“Alden Dendrick Vacker get out here this instant!” came a shout from the foyer. 

Immediately, they dropped their hands like a hot potato. 

Alden blanched. “Coming, mother!”

Quinlin debated whether hiding under the table or jumping out the window would have a higher chance of keeping him alive. He did neither, however, as Alden grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hallway behind him. 

“Seriously?” he hissed, and Alden rolled his eyes. 

In the foyer was, indeed, ex-Councillor Evanna Vacker herself, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Her eyebrows shot up when she noticed Quinlin, who was desperately scrambling to hide behind his shorter best friend. 

“Quinlin, how great to see you!” she greeted, with warmth in her eyes. That warmth quickly melted away as she turned to her son. “Care to explain what you’re doing home?”

“Baking,” was Alden’s simple reply.

“You have midterms in a week,” she said. “This is hardly acceptable behavior.”

Alden seemed to shrink in on himself, and Quinlin squeezed his hand in sympathy. 

Do you want me to cover for you? Quinlin transmitted. She likes me better anyway. 

Not even you can get her off my back, Alden replied. It’s fine. She would see right through it, anyway.

Quinlin nodded and squeezed his hand once more for good measure. Lady Vacker glanced between them with raised eyebrows. 

“Alden,” she said, “I think we need to have a talk in m–”

-

“–y office,” Alden whispers, to avoid waking the cranky child in his arms.

“Did you find something?” Quinlin asks. 

Della’s head pops up from the table where she and Livvy are engaged in an intense game of cards. “You two better not be running off to Alden’s office again. We’re not dealing with three moody kids all on our own.” 

“I’m not moody!” Alvar protests from where he sits in the corner, a book in his hands. 

Della raises an eyebrow. “I can tell you, after seventeen long, long, years, that you most definitely and certainly are.” 

Alvar splutters, and Livvy leans closer to examine his book. “Is that a romance novel?” she asks, and he immediately blushes scarlet. 

“What? No!” Alvar scrambles to get up so quickly that he drops the book, and, sure enough, the popular teen romance novel, Ravagog My Heart, is on the floor. 

Alden raises an eyebrow. “Son, do we need to have a talk?”

Della laughs. “He’s dated enough girls, Alden. He knows what he’s doing.” 

Alvar looks ready to drop dead right then and there. Quinlin can’t blame him. 

“Well, if you ever need romantic advice, don’t ask your father,” Livvy says with a smirk. “He’s absolutely horrible at romance.”

“I can attest to that,” Quinlin adds before he can think. 

Alvar, thankfully oblivious to the implications, just sighs and slumps against the couch. Alden, on the other hand, stares at Quinlin, his gaze boring through his skull. 

What? Quinlin snaps and transmits. 

Alden startles at the sudden message. I… nothing. It’s nothing. 

But the places where their legs touch, sitting beside each other on this small couch — Quinlin burns. It’s like they’re kids all over again, leaving things unsaid and speaking without thinking of the implications. And Quinlin knows for a fact that he’s blushing like a teenager. 

Get over it, he tells himself. It’s been years. All of that is over.

Beside him, in Alden’s arms, Biana begins to stir, and the adults cast each other worried looks. None of them are in the proper mental state to handle a ravenous four-year-old with a penchant for screeching. 

“I’ll take her upstairs.” Quinlin stands up, mostly to get away from the tense air between him and Alden. Della smiles gratefully. (Quinlin’s always preferred her over her husband.)

“I’ll go as well,” Alden says.

They walk together towards Everglen’s grand staircase, sharing the weight of a four-year-old between them in silence.

“What did you need to talk about, earlier?” Quinlin finally asks, and Alden shakes his head. 

“Ah, nothing.” 

Quinlin raises an eyebrow. “Was it about our, er”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“secret project?”

“How covert. And yes, though only tangentially.”

“Well, I think we’re alone now, so you might as well spit it out.”

Alden pauses, seeming pensive. Finally, he said, “It’s about my son.”

“Your son,” Quinlin repeats. Sometimes, it feels like Alden is intentionally vague just to annoy him.

“Alvar,” Alden clarifies, as they open the door to Biana’s rather sparkly bedroom. “I truly don’t understand why he likes you more than me.”

It’s not exactly an accusation, but Quinlin raises an eyebrow anyway. “I simply make an effort to listen to him, is all.”

Alden either doesn’t notice the jab at his parenting, or chooses to ignore it. “He really is quite fond of you – it’s like he sees you as his actual father.”

Quinlin snorts. “Well, I’m not, in case you were worried.”

“What?” Alden seems bewildered, before the statement clicks and he wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. Well, obviously, I knew that.”

“Just making sure,” he replies with a teasing grin. 

Alden rolls his eyes and leans over to tuck Biana under her blankets, brushing her hair out of her eyes with a fond smile. It’s such an affectionate, fatherly sight that Quinlin almost feels like he should leave the room.

There’s still a part of him that’s not used to his best friend being a father. Even though it’s been seventeen years since Alvar was born, the idea that his mischievous, oblivious friend is a paragon of responsibility is just… laughable. 

Alden appears lost in his thoughts, so Quinlin decides he might as well head out before he decides to start worrying about his parenting again. “Well, good night,” he says, practically to empty air. “I’m just g–”

-

“–oing to leave,” Quinlin said, closing his book.

Alden glanced up from his seat next to Quinlin, both leaning against the wall of Everglen’s vast library. “Why?”

“Because it’s nearing midnight, and I should probably get home.” 

Sometimes he wondered whether Alden had forgotten that they didn’t live together anymore, even though Alden was the one who decided to move out and live with his girlfriend. Not that Quinlin held any resentment for Alina, of course, but… well, she certainly deserved it. 

“Stay,” Alden murmured, resting his head on Quinlin’s shoulder. 

Quinlin’s throat went dry. “Um,” was all he could manage in response, his brain short-circuiting at their new proximity. 

“There’s still so much work to do,” Alden said, handing him a scroll from his own pile. “You can’t possibly leave now.”

Quinlin laughed. “And, what, you want to stay here and research until the early hours of the morning? I don’t think Alina would be very happy with that.”  

“So?” Alden said through a yawn. “She does the same. And we’re doing important work for the Council, it would be treasonous to stop us.”

Quinlin raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying it would be treason for me to leave right now?” 

“Maybe.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Quinlin’s sleep deprivation must have addled his brain. There was no other explanation for why he found himself reaching an arm around Alden’s shoulders and pulling him in, because after all these years, he’d established one cardinal rule for himself: Keep your distance. 

This position they were in right now was the exact opposite of distance. 

But Alden didn’t object to the move. Instead, he hummed contentedly and adjusted himself to his comfort, turning his attention back to whatever old scroll he was reading before Quinlin’s interruption. 

Quinlin couldn’t take his eyes off him. 

(That was the consequence for breaking the rule – his feelings began to claw themselves out of the dirt like the undead.)

“Is there something on my face?” Alden asked, and Quinlin startled. 

“What?”

“You were looking at me,” Alden replied with a teasing grin. 

“Well, I always am,” Quinlin said, before his brain could catch up to his mouth. He froze when he realized what he had said, looking down at the man in his arms with terrified eyes. “I mean–”

“I know,” Alden interrupted, eyes not moving from his scroll. “It’s rather flattering.”

Quinlin sucked in a breath. “You– You know?”

“I know everything,” Alden said easily, as if his words hadn’t just stopped Quinlin’s heart and beaten it to a pulp. 

“Everything?” Quinlin repeated, eyes wide. “How did you…”

Alden turned to meet his gaze, putting his scroll to the side. “I was joking,” he explained, and Quinlin’s heart started beating again, “but now I am actually a bit concerned.” Quinlin shrunk into himself, and Alden frowned. “We’re Cognates, Quinlin. If you’re hiding something I need to know.”

Quinlin wasn’t sure what to say. “There’s nothing,” he lied, though Alden was obviously unconvinced. 

His best friend regarded him for a moment, searching his face, perhaps, for some clue to the truth. But after all these years, Quinlin was well-versed in hiding his feelings, and revealed nothing. 

The two were left staring at each other, mere inches apart, both lost in thought. 

Until Alden rushed forward and placed his hands on Quinlin’s temple. 

“What are you–”

Quinlin was cut off by Alden’s mental whisper. Shh. 

What are you doing? 

Quinlin felt Alden’s breath on his cheek like a cool breeze. We’re Cognates, Alden reminded him. 

I’m well aware.

Alden leaned in closer. That means no secrets. 

Quinlin’s breath hitched. I’m well aware. 

So you can understand why I’m concerned. Quinlin felt a familiar tug in the back of his head – the telltale sign that Alden was attempting to search his memories. 

Instinctively, Quinlin threw up his barriers, kicking Alden out of his mind in the process. When he opened his eyes, he found Alden staring at him, lips curled into a frown.

“You’re a very strange man, Quinlin Sonden,” Alden said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. 

Quinlin couldn’t process a word of Alden’s statement, instead focused on the space – or lack thereof – between them. 

He tried his hardest not to let his thoughts run wild, but his mind, ever the traitor, only pictured them more vividly. 

Kiss me, a stupid, hopeless, traitorous part of his head said. 

Alden’s voice was breathy as he spoke. “Quinlin,” he said, “you know that I trust you, yes?” 

Quinlin could only nod, struck speechless. 

“And you know that… that you’re the only one I trust?” Alden asked. 

“You’ve told me,” Quinlin responded, “many times, since we were kids.” 

“I’ve said a lot of things since we were kids,” Alden said. “I’ve felt a lot of things since we were kids.” He leaned in closer, until his voice was a breathy whisper in Quinlin’s ear. “I think…secrets can be feelings, too.”

“Feelings?” Quinlin repeated. 

“You know we can’t have secrets,” he said. “And it might the late hour or the wine talking, but I think we might as well follow through with our oath.” His voice dropped. “No secrets, Quinlin.” 

“No secrets.” 

Alden returned to his original position, with his piercing teal eyes directly in front of Quinlin’s own—  though his gaze was trained just below. At his lips.

This was a horrible idea, Quinlin knew. Getting themselves into this position, saying the things they had always left unsaid — it could only end in one of them getting hurt. And yet, Quinlin reached out and placed a hand on Alden’s cheek, pushing away a stray strand of hair, and asked, “May I?”

“Please,” was all Alden said. Then their lips were touching, and the world melted away. 

His kiss was like the touch of a gentle breeze, delicate and chaste; like puzzle pieces falling into place: somehow, both a revelation and a long-lost familiarity. Quinlin wasn’t sure why it had taken them a hundred years to get to this point. There was nothing else in the world he would rather be doing. 

All too quickly, their gentle breeze became a windstorm. Alden kissed like it was the last time he could, like they would wake up tomorrow as strangers and this was the one thing they would remember. 

Quinlin didn’t know why he had ever bothered kissing anyone else. Nothing could compare to this high, and he was sure that nothing ever would. If this was what death felt like, he would gladly die a thousand times over. 

He never wanted to stop. 

Until the euphoria wore off. 

He realised, with a start, what exactly he and Alden had just done and immediately pulled back. Please, stars above, let this be just a dream. 

Alden looked up at him, with swollen lips and fear in his eyes as he scrambled back. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Quinlin’s heart stopped. “This was a mistake. I was never here, this never happened, I just—” He was silent for a moment. “I need to go.”

“Are you serious?”

“I need space,” was all Alden said in response. And then he was running, out the door and, presumably, into Alina’s arms. 

Quinlin could only stare after him in shocked silence. “Fuck you, Alden Vacker. I really, truly, h–”

-

“–ate you sometimes,” Quinlin says, banging his head against the crystal wall of Alden’s office. 

“What did I do?” his incredibly oblivious and frankly rather stupid mess of coworker says. 

“You sent your six year old into the Forbidden Cities!” Quinlin hisses, making sure to keep his voice down lest Della and Livvy hear in the parlour. He’s sure that if Della found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to murder them both. 

Alden rolls his eyes. “And?”

Quinlin gapes at him. “‘And’? What do you mean, ‘and’? Does Fitz even know what he’s looking for?”

“I assume so, he sat through my briefing.”

Quinlin sighs. “Alright, well, even assuming he was listening to that – which he likely wasn’t, by the way – that boy probably doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘covert.’ He’ll rat us out to the Council the moment somebody asks. And you know they’re asking, Alden. The Council will always be suspicious of us.”

Alden frowns and looks away. “They have my wife, already.”

“Your wife?” 

“They want her to spy on me. On us.” Alden stares pointedly at the door, beyond which the woman in question sits eating lunch. “If it were anyone else, there would be no reason to worry. But Della…” He trails off, looking uncertain. 

Quinlin understands. Della is the most talented Vanisher he’s ever seen – which means she’s also the greatest spy. If Della truly wants to uncover their project, she doesn’t even have to break a sweat. 

It all comes down to where Della’s loyalties lie.   

“She won’t do it,” Quinlin says, mostly to reassure himself. “She cares too much about us.” 

(Quinlin isn’t stupid enough to think she cares about him. But if he’s Exiled, then Livvy’s reputation is dragged through the mud– and Della cares far, far, too much about her to allow that to happen.)

Alden sighs. “I do hope you’re right.” He looks away, blinking back what seem like tears in his eyes.

Quinlin reaches out to comfort him, but quickly retracts his hand. 

Alden meets his gaze and smiles sadly. “I suppose it’s my fault that you’re involved in all of this. I truly am–”

-

“—sorry, Quinlin,” Alden said, standing in Quinlin’s doorway and dripping water all over his nice new welcome mat. 

Quinlin slammed the door shut. 

“Everything alright there?” Livvy asked from the living room. 

Quinlin moved to respond, but was drowned out by loud, incessant banging on their front door. He waited a moment for it to stop, for Alden’s arms to tire out, but it just kept coming, loud and annoying just like its creator. 

“Quinlin! Fucking answer that please,” Livvy shouted, and Quinlin sighed. 

He opened the door against his best wishes and found his Cognate still standing there, still dripping water all over the floor. 

“You’re disturbing the neighbours,” was all he said, before moving to close the door once more. He was stopped, however, by an arm wedged into the crack, and then a shoulder, and then a puppy dog pair of teal eyes. 

“Quinlin, please, listen,” Alden begged, and Quinlin thought he might actually fall to his knees. 

“I told you already,” Quinlin said. “I don’t want to talk to you.” 

Alden shook the water out of his hair like a wet dog. “And I don’t understand what I did wrong.” 

Quinlin scoffed. “Are you joking?” He gestured to Alden’s left hand, where a large teal crystal was embedded into a silver band around his ring finger. 

Alden’s gaze followed his own. “Seriously? You can’t actually be this irked by my engagement. This is supposed to be a special occasion, and all you can do is angst? Why can’t you just be happy for Alina and I?”

“Oh, I’m happy for you,” Quinlin snapped, decidedly not happy. “I’d be happier if you didn’t do this barely a week after you—” Quinlin glanced around the hallway. It was empty, but he still wasn’t willing to risk it, so he stepped back and opened the door fully. Alden slid into the apartment he had seen all too many times before. “One week,” Quinlin repeated, “after you fucking kissed me.”

Alden stepped back as if he’d been slapped. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” 

“Agreed? You just ran off and ignored me for seven days! Did you think I was going to welcome you back into my life with open arms? Oh, congratulations on getting engaged, I definitely don’t still have lingering feelings for you!” 

“You– what?” Alden scrambled back. “What?”

Quinlin stared at him, silent. 

Alden glanced frantically around the apartment, gaze landing on anything except Quinlin. “But you have a girlfriend!”

Quinlin gaped at him. He couldn’t possibly be serious. “Are you talking about Livvy?”

“Do you have another girlfriend that I should worry about?”

“Why are you worrying about my girlfriends?” he retorted. 

Alden froze, eyes wide. 

Quinlin hoped to the stars that Alden wasn’t having a gay crisis right there in his foyer.

Alden pulled out a pathfinder from somewhere under his cloak, shaking his head. “I– I have to go.” He opened the door and dashed outside, not even meeting Quinlin’s eyes in the process. 

“Wait!” Quinlin called, and he was unsure why. “Don’t–”

-

“–go!” 

Quinlin wakes up drenched in sweat, with his own voice echoing inside his mind. He sees himself in that old apartment, shouting at Alden and pushing him away. 

There’s a logical part of him that knows Alden deserved it at the time. But his irrational, grief-stricken side keeps telling him things like, you should have let him in – why didn’t you let him in? You only had so much time with him. You should have savoured it. 

And, his least favourite: This all could have been prevented if you had been honest about the break. 

He knows it’s not true. He knows that if he had shared his reservations with Alden at the time, they either would have all been Exiled, or Quinlin would be in Alden’s exact position right now, gone and consumed by guilt. 

The thing is, he would take Alden’s place in a heartbeat. 

He wanted to, when he first heard. 

It’s only been a day since the news arrived. It was Alvar who knocked on the door; Alvar, who had cried into Quinlin’s shoulder, shaking as he sobbed. 

And it’s Alvar who shows up now, clutching an envelope in his hands. 

“For you,” he says. “I found it in his office.”

Quinlin doesn’t want to think about what Alvar was doing, searching Alden’s office. He just takes the letter and slams the door shut. 

And then he stares at the letter for a solid ten minutes, memorizing the intricate calligraphy that spells his name, examining the wax Vacker crest that seals the envelope.

He remembers the first time he wore that crest. At eighteen, without a care in the world. 

Carefully, so as to keep Alden’s memory intact, he opens the letter, and nearly sobs when he recognizes the perfect handwriting. He makes himself sit down before he reads it, knowing its contents will wreck him. 

It begins simply. 

My dearest Quinlin,

I assume you’re reading this after I’m gone – or, at least, when I am frighteningly close to it. In either case, I’m sorry. Although I’m sure you don’t want to hear it. 

I’m writing this letter first because I feel you would understand the most, out of the people I love. 

I’m bound by oath to keep this a secret, but stars be damned if there were ever secrets between us, even now. I only ask that you leave the poor girl alone. It was my mistake, bringing her to that hell. 

And, now that I’ve likely terrified you… I went to Exile. I broke Fintan Pyren’s mind. 

Sophie was the guide. I know, it was a stupid decision, and despite her enhanced abilities, she’s nowhere near the level of control that you, or I, or even my son has. 

I’ll spare you the details, if only because I know that they will only make you worry more. (I never liked seeing you anxious.)

I also saw Prentice, that day. It broke me. 

I should have come to you, after that. I should go to you now, instead of writing this letter and praying to the stars above that it is never sent. But, Quinlin, you know that I’m a coward.  I always have been. And I’m sorry about that. 

I’m sorry that I can’t be what you need. 

Woeful apologies aside, I truly am glad we were friends. There is no other Telepath, no other elf that exists that could have made me a happier man. I want you to live knowing that you and I were best friends, until the very end. 

Though sometimes I wonder if we were better off as something else. 

Take care of yourself, Quinlin.

Love,

Alden

[dolly-on-the-dotted-line]

Interlude: Different

Softly, softly

Rating: 18+ (for consistency)

Warnings: None, Jealous Javier Peña.

A/N: Just a little snippet that takes place right before the chapter Strangers.

Laredo, Autumn, Age 22

You feel ecstatic, alive.

The warm evening wind wraps itself around you as you walk back toward the house, and you glance quickly over your shoulder just once more to wave as he drives off.

It’s miles away from the last time you’d come back here after a date, disheartened and teary-eyed, batting off Javi’s cloying attempts to make you feel better, and then eventually settling for something a bit more substantial instead.

Obviously, it had ended up being a night you’d never forget, but you try and put the thought out of your mind right now to focus instead on a different man in your life.

The one that, surprisingly, isn’t Javier Peña. 

You’d met him on a night out with Mel and Petra, who were also back for the long summer.

Week after week you attempted to stave off the effects of the glue trap however best you could manage; drinking more than you should, going out more than you liked.

He was new, didn’t know you from high school, hadn’t fallen prey to the small-town attitudes just yet.

It was a matter of time, of course, but you vowed to take advantage of it while you could - the glossy novelty of it, the farce of taking an interest in someone that didn’t shake you to your core every time they walked into a room, the way that Javi now did.

You had seen him two, maybe three times at the bar before you plucked up the courage to say hello, ask his name, find out what he was doing around here and not somewhere altogether more interesting.

He was here for temp work, a college dropout helping out for a few months. Little did he know he’d never leave, the adhesive already starting to dry in the way he talked about the people, the place, how goddamn 'friendly' everyone was. His naivety was warming, you remember being hopeful like that once, too. 

When you came back for mid-term break, he asked you out immediately. You hadn’t even known what to say. Eventually, it was a yes.

It was baseless, really, a summer fling that arrived nine weeks too late. But, dinner had been nice and that was good enough for you.

He’d actually spoken to you, for a start, asking questions about your life, what kind of person you wanted to be, what you thought about things like deforestation and vegetarianism and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

He ate with his mouth closed, too, and even paid the bill, tip included. By the time he’d driven you home, it was safe to say you could classify it as writing the wrong from your last encounter. The slate was clean, and that was enough to make you giddy. 

Realistically, the bar had just been really, really low. 

When he asked to kiss you goodnight, you said no, but not why, and let yourself out without another word. He smiled at you all the way down the drive nonetheless. 

For the final few steps over the porch, you even contemplate whether you’d like to see him again. 

Maybe boys from home aren’t so bad after all. 

Other boys, you correct. Other boys did exist besides Javier Peña. Apparently. 

But in pushing through the screen door into the kitchen, you’re immediately reminded of how untrue that statement really is.

“How was the date?” he murmurs from inside the fridge, rummaging around for what looks like a second dinner.

While he fumbles about, you quietly admire the snug fit of his jeans over his backside, and question if he actually has those things made to measure.

Staring when he had his back turned was a liberty you’d definitely taken to more frequently, something close to a weekend treat. The broad cut of his shoulders and the taut pull of his shirt was something that only made it harder to resist.

The boy was a looker, you would never deny it.

Settling for Chucho’s leftovers, he puts the dish in the oven, and only when everything is in order does he finally look up at you, ready to hear your answer. 

It’s evasive, the movement, almost like he doesn’t really want to know, like he couldn’t care less. You notice it immediately.

“Actually… it was great. Really great.”

“Huh,” he mumbles, crossing his arms tightly and giving you a surprised smirk. “Really?”

Frowning at him, you grab a dishtowel from the back of the dining chair and whip it across his shoulder with a dull crack.

“Yes, really, you cheek. Were you expecting it not to be?”

“I’m just asking,” he teases, holding his hands up in surrender now to soften the tone, but there’s something curt about it that you think would hurt a little if you weren’t so elated.

“You know what happened last time.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Plus, that was a long time ago,” you offer, surprised by the optimistic note to your tone. 

Something about him is off, distant, antsy. He’s tidying the worktop, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you.

When he checks the timer for his food for the third time, you decide to breeze past your suspicions instead of facing them head-on, in the hope that it will incidentally get you an explanation. 

“How was your night? Did Lorraine come over?”

“Me? No, no. Pop and I just stayed in, watched TV. I saw Lorraine in town yesterday but we’re going to cool it, don’t want a repeat of last year. She’s always here, I’m not.” He looks through you again. “You know how it tends to go.”

You did. Everyone did. 

“Okay, well that sounds… sensible.”

You pull up a chair and lay your head in your hand to look up at him easily, a stark contrast to his rigid frame.

“It’s a shame, though, I thought things were going well this time, I’m sad to hear it.”

Javi looks at you with an eye of suspicion. You know your words sound more amicable than you really mean.

A few considerate comments aren’t going to undo years of quiet but open criticism about Javi’s childhood sweetheart.

Half the reason you’d been on the date tonight was that Javi had been so caught up with her all summer. Things had been good as back to normal between the two of them, whatever that was, and while you tried not to linger too long on the tight feeling you got in your throat whenever you’d say goodnight and leave them sitting out together on the porch, it had stung a little more than you’d expected this time.

The boy from the bar had been a welcome distraction, not that you’d ever admit that to either of them. 

“I think it’s just company, really,” Javi offers up, as if to fulfil some kind of explanation.

That’s when you start to piece together his odd mood. He’s a sucker for getting something off his chest eventually.

“She’s got easier to be around, calmed down a bit. But if I’m not actually her boyfriend, she can’t yell at me so much, you know? Although she does still try.”

You laugh at that. He’s so matter-of-fact, so adult.

The transition from love-struck to reality-driven has been a dramatic turn since their latest break-up last year. He’d clearly filled the intermediary with whatever he could find at college, appearing to develop a preference for the short-term versus his big plans as envisioned in middle school. 

Nothing had really happened between the two of you since last summer, either.

A quick kiss goodnight after a night out, an accidental pat on your backside that had taken you both by surprise, that one little blip.

Other than that, your yearly fling had remained just that, yearly. Staring at the inseam of the denim, you try not to linger on when you might be cashing in your next go. 

“Like a married couple,” you grimace, this time allowing your bitterness to show just enough for him to chuckle.

“I can’t see that so much, anymore.”

“Oh?”

“No,” he sighs, quietly. “I think things have changed, since last time.”

Last time with her, or with me? 

He turns to look at you then, quickly, and then back to the window, staring out into the night. Whatever is really on his mind is beating against his chest, but he’s not letting it go just yet, that much was clear.

You wait. 

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” he asks eventually, the nonchalance scraped so thin over his words that you can feel the real shape of them loud and clear. You resolve not to tease. 

“Probably not, with term starting next week and all.”

“So it’s not… serious, or anything?”

“We've only met about three times, Jav. He just bought me dinner, that’s all. Not a lot of people offer to do that around here.”

“I’d buy you dinner,” he snorts, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The defensive edge to his voice is warming, but you pretend not to notice. 

“You already do, you get groceries.” You wonder if that smarts just a little bit. 

You come to join him at the window, quietly trying to get a closer reading of his body language. If you didn’t know him well enough you’d guess he was anxious, worked up. More likely he’s just itching for his food to come out of the oven.

You pull yourself up onto the counter, placing yourself as close to directly in front of him as possible. Instinctively, he places his hands on your thighs and moves to rest his head against your chest, letting out a deep sigh and finally seeming to relax at last. 

“What’s up with you? You’re so tense.”

“Nothing, I’m just tired. Not feeling like myself. I need to pack, too. Wouldn’t mind your help.” 

The oven timer dings and he flinches away from you quickly, barely allowing himself to settle into your frame. You can’t ignore the way your fingers itch with the desire to pull him back, to soothe him however best you can. 

Pulling the dish from the oven, but immediately putting it down instead of tucking into it like you expect, he turns, with intention, to look at you properly. 

“Come with me, to Fairfax. Just for a few days.”

“Come with you?” you question, genuinely surprised by both the statement and his ferocity, “Javi, I have school too.”

“Not yet you don’t, you’ve got time. Your dates are on the calendar, see? It’ll be fun, I promise. Big party at the start of the semester.” 

He comes back to join you at the counter, slotting himself against you with ease. His hand trails a little higher up your thigh, a little firmer. He’s giving you a look, one of your favourites, the one that speaks when he can’t.

He’s throwing you a line and asking for you to take it. Trust, intuition. 

Please just work with me here, I’ll explain later. 

‘Come with me’, you repeat in your head. Any time, anywhere, you want to yell back. 

“Sure, okay. I’ll come.” 

Satisfied and apparently now sated, he sits to eat the leftovers straight from the glass dish, and you pull up a seat to join him. He’s back to his usual self in no time at all, but you can’t ignore what that was.

Jealousy, you wonder? Stomach ache and a bad temper, more likely. 

Once he's finished eating and starts locking up and turning off the lights, you pat him gingerly on the head and mumble something about going to sleep. Best to leave him to it while a hint of his good mood remains.

He pauses at the final light switch to call after you.

“I really like you in that dress, by the way. I’m glad you had a nice time tonight.” 

You turn on the stairs to look down at him, hands tangling almost nervously in his hair.

“Yeah? Thanks, Jav. It was nice. I’m really happy.”

“I like it a bit too much, I think. That dress.” 

“What are you saying, Javier?” you ask slowly, suspiciously.

“You should get to sleep, sweetheart. And go and pack a bag. Goodnight.” 

As you pace slowly up the stairs, you try to piece together the parts in your mind of whatever had just happened. Words were never his strong point, admittedly, but something was different. Changing, even, you ponder.

Other boys did exist besides Javier Peña. That was technically true.

But, as you go to pack yourself a duffle bag just because he asked you to, you remind yourself that that fact doesn’t really matter at all. 

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[avictimofthejazz]

can you hear me? hello? Mel uselessly calls. (Asylum au? For Street and Mel?)

@timeguardians (for Melody)

The room he had been locked in has no windows, leaving Street only able to guess at how many days have passed since the orderlies tossed him in here. Assuming that the medication cycle only comes once a day, it has been over a week since he arrived. Street suspects he is missing days, though. Two days after arriving here, he attempted to escape. He failed, and woke up strapped to the bed in his room while a nurse plunged a needle into his arm. He had no idea how much time passed before he became lucid again. That was five days ago, he thinks. Now he dutifully takes the medication when the orderly brings it in, and mimes swallowing it. As soon as he is alone, he spits the pills out, and tries to gather whatever information he can by listening at the door. So far, all he has learned is that this whole floor is classified—only a few staff members are allowed to work on it. A few more snippets he collects suggest that he is not the only sane person unwillingly trapped in this hospital. Locking unwanted enemies away in an asylum is a lot more efficient then killing them—no body to dispose of, no evidence to deal with, and who would think about looking for a missing person inside a psychiatric hospital? The information does him little good, though, without a way to share it with his team on the outside. At least he hopes Hondo and the rest of the guys are still free. If all of them are trapped in this surreal nightmare, then he really is in trouble. The medication round had been, it feels like, hours ago and no one is in the hallway for him to eavesdrop on. Flopping down on his bed, Street stares at the ceiling. He has to come up with a way to keep his sanity intact. What did the guys in Nam do when they were in solitary at the POW camps to keep their heads together? Before he can ponder the thought too much, he hears a voice on the other side of the wall. It is the first time he has heard another patient on this floor. Maybe he is just hallucinating it…

Street hesitates, knowing that if he is wrong he has likely just spend up his own descent into madness. Then he raps his knuckles lightly against the wall to catch the attention of the occupant in the other room. “Hello?” he hopes his voice is loud enough to make it through to her. “Can you hear me?”

[urlbending]

I MUST KNOW ABOUT THE CHUCK AU

the funny thing about that title is its hilariously broad. I have at least two other chuck aus for different fandoms (Runaways and Sweet/Vicious) lurking in my gdocs in the drafts of other completed works

aside from arrow ones we basically created as a fandom, all my chuck aus have been for f/f pairings, which means the inversed gender tropes from the show are removed, but leaves interesting questions like why was dating the cover chosen for these two women? For the Sarah stand in, how has being gay affected her life as a spy? For the Chuck stand-in, it gets a little hard as i have to divide up the couple's friend group like they're getting a divorce, and sometimes they're much more of a loner than Chuck (see: Ophelia from S/V), so its difficult to find characters to populate their civilian life

For every fandom chuck au I've ever briefly entertained, the first scene i always write is the bomb kiss scene. It's a great way to get a sense of where the characters priorities and principles differ, and also i get the instant gratification of writing the first indication their feelings are very mutual.

Anyways, this specific wip is a warrior nun chuck au.

Of all the ones I've had kicking around, this one has the most solid plot outline and interesting contrasts with Chuck as a series.

Ava's best quality is her love and gratitude for being alive. She's never had a chance at a normal life, and this makes her conflict about desiring one while having an innate need to help people more interesting than Chuck's resentment of having an average life. Complicating things, the Intersect also acts as spinal technology for her, so removing it would very likely be deadly. (Thanks, secret shady government organization for jamming ultra classified technology into her back!)

In this, Ava and Beatrice's cover is roommates, and she's fake dating another of her handlers (Michael), which is a pretty wild decision to make for an au built around fake dating. I felt this was the more interesting take and truer to Beatrice’s very reserved character. Michael has real feelings for Ava, which would lead to a fun love triangle/pining and ramp up the tension

This fic would take place in more of what I would consider the second season, with the previous season being about Ava learning to become a spy and a civilian, with Mary as Ava's handler and roommate. After the s1 finale, Mary goes off on a globe trotting, no-holds barreled revenge mission to track down Vincent. Beatrice, who briefly helped initially train Ava, is brought in to be Ava's handler and she's STRESSED about it.

I feel like Mary and Ava's dynamic is either not explored enough in fic or mostly revolving around Avatrice. They have a great friendship and chemistry, and having Ava learn most of her spy skills from Mary and then learning to work with Beatrice would be really cool, and I'd want to write some prequel case fics about this. Mary takes a more coaxing, laid back approach to handling Ava that is very different from Beatrice’s direct, appraising style.

I don't know if its the same for you, but usually there's one section of a wip that i love the most that keeps me going for the rest. That section is this snippet below:

"Oh thank fuck you picked up!" Ava exhales in a rush, her voice tinny over Mary's shitty burner phone. "I need your advice."

"Ava?" Mary can already feel a headache coming on. "This line is for emergencies only--"

"Beatrice kissed me!"

"What?"

"We thought we were gonna die! Would you kiss me if you thought we were both about to die?!"

"No," Mary scoffed. "You wish."

"Right! So what does it mean? Does Agent Perfect Score have a crush? On me?"

Mary rolls her eyes. "Like your ego needs any more inflation."

"And if so, what should I do? God, I'm so confused. How does she feel. How do I feel? Can you come back and be my handler?" Ava pleads. "Because I don't want to kiss you and I keep thinking about kissing her and it's really distracting."

"Wow, thanks Ava. I'm flattered."

"Hey, you're the one that turned down my very generous "if we're both single and alive by 40" offer..."

"Yeah, I spend every waking minute desperately regretting it." Mary's phone beeps. "I gotta go."

"Wait, Mary, no!"

"Mary? It's me." Beatrice's voice sounds downright uncertain when Mary answers the phone. "I need your help. I uh, kissed Ava."

"Wow," Mary says, looking up to the heavens, beseeching whatever sort of Almighty was out there to put her out of her misery. "This is shocking information."

"I know." Whatever level of guilt/repression/shame spiral Beatrice is down has made her unable to comprehend sarcasm. "I figure, as the person last in relationship with an Intersect, you might be able to provide...guidance."