#hurt comfort sort of

[thatmexisaurusrex]

What if in the big first disaster mini-arc of season 8, Tommy's helicopter crashes close to where the 118 are. Gerrard decides that the helicopter, and everyone that is in it, is a lost cause and that they shouldn't be wasting resources or his team trying to help anyone out of the crash. What if the entire team mutinies to go find Tommy, his team, his helicopter, and the patients he was transporting?

What if the people in the helicopter crash are scattered - some in the helicopter, some flung out of it? What if Tommy was one of the people flung out of the helicopter; lost and out of range?

What if the 118 manages to find the helicopter, only to see that Tommy is missing? But they have to secure the scene, they have to call for back up, they have to make sure everyone still in the helicopter is okay. But maybe Hen takes over the scene and tells Chimney and Buck to keep searching the woods for other survivors.

And Buck feels guilty that he's relieved that Hen chose him to go sift through the woods of this mountain for other survivors, but there's really no time to think about that. There's no time at all.

Lives are on the line.

Tommy is out there.

And in the woods, Tommy is hurt. He's hurt, but he can hear someone calling for help. So, he moves despite knowing full well that might be bad for him. He moves because he's a first responder and will always try to help someone in need. And he finds one of his patients worse off than before. And he feels guilt that due to bad weather conditions and how the fire in the woods traveled (did I not say there was a fire? There's a fire and it's threatening to reach their side of the mountain at any moment), he lost control of the helicopter (and I would like to think there would be another twist too, like the 118 find something was already messed up with the helicopter to begin with, so it was a miracle that Tommy could even fly it at all).

But Tommy could do this.

He could save this one person.

So, Tommy's doing his best. He's working through his own pain as he puts a splint on this person's leg, as he pops this person's dislocated arm back in, as he makes the split decision to burn a cut closed because he doesn't have the supplies and that was the best he could do without the person bleeding out during a hike. And he makes a fucking board out of low branches he rips off trees. And, damn it, he knows his radio is basically busted, but he tries for help, only getting broken static back.

But he is going through.

He just can't hear the other end.

But his words are getting through the radio - they're reaching Buck. And Buck is desperately trying to answer back, he's trying to far longer than he should, he should have realized the first four tries that Tommy can't here him.

But he knows which direction Tommy is going. Because he and Tommy hiked up this mountain before. Buck knows which trail Tommy is trying to get to, so it's a race against time - will Buck and Chimney get to Tommy and the patient before the fire gets to them?

And the answer is that they get there just as the fire does. Nipping at Tommy's heels, but it ends up being stopped by a water drop just in time. Tommy is stunned when he sees Chimney and Evan, he's truly stunned.

He didn't think anyone heard him.

He didn't think they were going to be found in time.

And Buck calls it in, asks for backup, asks for help. Chimney checks on the person Tommy did first aid on.

And Tommy.

And Buck.

They run to each other.

They collapse into each other's arms. Exhausted and running on adrenaline alone. And they're checking if the other is okay - both are very worse for wear. And things seem okay as they wait for help to get to them. Things are going great for Hen too, she successfully saves everyone else in the helicopter crash with Eddie and Ravi's help.

But then.

A tree nearby is unstable.

Tommy sees it just in time.

And Tommy pushes Chimney out of the way, only to be caught under the tree.

And this is bad.

Back breaking bad.

Body crushing bad.

Buck tries not to panic, but it's clear this has shaken him. Chimney is doing his best and is calling for more help.

Help gets there, help finally gets there. And they manage to pull the tree off Tommy. Buck rides with Tommy to the hospital, holding his hand. He paces, distressed, as he waits for the longest surgery in his life.

And Tommy? Tommy should make it. But he's out, he's been put into a medically induced a coma as he heals. And at first, that's okay. Buck can be there. He can make sure Tommy's warm. He can hold Tommy's hand and read to him, and sleep in a rolled in bed.

Until that stops.

Mysteriously, he's not allowed into Tommy's room.

He's not allowed any information.

He's not Tommy's family.

And Tommy's parents are, somehow, technically still Tommy's next of kin - they're in charge of his medical treatment. They're in charge of who sees him.

Buck tries to explain who he is.

They reject the very idea of it.

And it's devastating. Buck didn't think about this. He didn't know this could happen. Tommy hadn't spoken to his parents in over twenty years, yet they're just allowed to come and do this to him.

Buck doesn't know what to do. He can't eat. He can't sleep. People have to force him to do anything for himself as he wonders how Tommy's parents are treating him.

Are they reading to him? Are they spending time with him? Are they making sure he's warm? Are they doing anything at all? Is this all for spite?

Somehow, other people are allowed to visit.

Just not Buck.

Buck is blacklisted.

Eddie is allowed; Christopher too. Chimney, somehow; probably because Tommy had saved his life. Maddie, even. Hen isn't, they can tell something is queer about Hen. Ravi isn't either. Bobby was allowed at first, before he made a case to the Kinards to let Buck see Tommy and it went south.

But definitely not Buck.

And Buck? Buck is camped out in the waiting room. The waiting room he kissed Tommy in. He basically has grown a short beard in that waiting room, he hasn't been shaving.

And all Buck can ask when he sees Eddie or Chimney or Maddie is - how is he doing? Is he doing okay? Is his favorite blanket still on him? What did you talk to him about? What did you read him? How did he look?

And the nurses - they know Buck. They've known him for years. And some take pity on him one night, and let him at least near the room when the parents are gone.

And the parents file for a restraining order against Buck, but it was worth it just to see Tommy.

Tommy looked better than last time.

That was good.

That was what mattered.

And a few more days go by like that with Buck in the waiting room, unable to leave.

Until Tommy wakes up.

He wakes up.

He asks his parents to leave.

He asks for Evan.

And a band of nurses and maybe Chimney rush over and tell Buck the news.

And Buck is running.

Sprinting.

To get to Tommy's room.

He knows where it is.

He memorized where the room was.

And he sees Tommy awake.

And part of him hadn't realized that he wasn't sure if Tommy would wake up. That some little, horrible part of him thought that Tommy would never wake up and he would never see Tommy again.

Tommy makes a joke about how Evan looks like a caveman.

Buck laughs. And cries. And sobs as he rushes frantically over to Tommy and collapses into a hug.

Tommy holds Buck as best as he can in his state while mumbling fondly that Evan smells like a caveman too. Buck offers to go, get cleaned up, but Tommy holds onto him.

Asks Evan to stay.

Apologizes for his parents, that he hadn't expected them to come. That he is going to change his will as soon as he can.

And he just wants Evan there.

With him.

And Buck stays.

[ made a fic based on this on AO3 in my Denial-Verse series ]

[teabagboy]

I'd make some joke about s5 spoilers but i think ill just smash my head into the wall instead

[defectivehero]

Please write about a nb hero who is big on "not owing anyone money" and "its my problem and weight, let me carry it" and "please let me pay u back" and "its your money even if you spend it on me"

And a nb snarky millionaire (by evil methods) villain who is obsessed with their hero and is like "let me spoil u bbg" and *casually throws money around for hero* and very big on "I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR U" but hero is too fucking dense to actually believe rhe villain.

this snippet completely spiraled out of my control (as most things do).

It all started with that damned news article. In hindsight, perhaps the hero shouldn't have been as forthcoming as they were. But, they wanted the world to know that the life of a hero wasn't always glamorous. They just... didn't expect for the journalist to capitalize on the single remark they made, the single huff of laughter they let out when asked about the wages. Days later, when the article released, the hero was stunned.

Heroism: A Thankless Job

The hero remembers the dread coiling in their chest as they opened the newspaper to find the article, apprehension increasing as they digested the information. That picture of their apartment complex... they don't remember consenting to release that information. Granted, the journalist kept them as a nameless, anonymous hero. But, it wouldn't take a huge leap in logic to connect the dots—to find the building's tenants and cross-reference those names with the hero agencies nearby. The hero just hoped an average reader wouldn't take the incentive to do something like that. They spent the rest of that day struggling to keep their paranoia at bay. It took them a while to fall asleep that night.

Fortunately, they slept well and their anxieties seemed to fade. The hero stumbled through their morning routine and opened their front door an hour later, ready to greet the day, only to nearly trip on a package. They had frowned and taken the package inside, unable to shake the recognition that they hadn't ordered anything to be delivered. Upon opening the package, they found a single unmarked envelope. Their jaw had dropped to the floor once they found the bills inside—an amount more than their typical paychecks.

Little did the hero know, this would be far from the last time they received an unmarked package with a far too generous, entirely unexplained gift inside. At first, the gifts were just small things: a collection of medical grade bandages and antiseptic, a new sweater after they spilled coffee on theirs at work, a care package with things like cough medicine and tissues that appeared the day they got sick. The hero was still profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of some mysterious benefactor providing them with these things, but at least the packages were small. The magnitude of the first gift hadn't been matched since, and the hero couldn't help but feel grateful.

Amidst their hero work and their daily life, the hero found their mind quickly returning to the question of their gift-giver's identity. It had to be someone they interacted with fairly often, considering the far too accurate timing of several of the gifts. One time could be dismissed as a mere coincidence; a box of cough medicine a mere hour after they found themself bedridden, however... That is an entirely different story.

The gifts continue, but, thankfully, they are small in scale. The hero still feels horribly guilty about being entirely unable to pay this person back, but there's almost nothing they can do. Their benefactor clearly doesn't want to make themself known, and that's fine. Really, it is.

Until there is another envelope. This time, their mystery patron doesn't bother concealing their gift within a package. Instead, the hero opens their mailbox to find an unmarked burgundy envelope. Dread coiling in their chest, they look around—foolishly hoping that their gift giver would somehow have a change of heart and decide to show themself—before heading back inside. The hero sits on their sofa and takes a deep breath, before opening the envelope with care.

What they see is enough to make their hands tremble and their grip falter, allowing the envelope to slip down to the floor. They hold their present in disbelief.

It's a check—for more money than they could possibly fathom having. This sum is so large that the hero wouldn't have to work another day in their life. They would be able to live comfortably without earning so much as a single penny on their own.

The thought sickens them. "I can't accept this," the hero breathes aloud. They look down at their apartment's hardwood flooring as if it will give them the answers they're looking for.

"I don't recall asking you to." The hero jumps, looking up to find the villain standing before them. How they got there, the hero doesn't have the faintest idea. They blink at them for a moment, wondering how they didn't connect the mysterious gifts to the villain sooner. Their enemy has always had access to extremely high-tech weaponry and state of the art medicine (judging from their utter lack of scars despite their numerous fights); not to mention, they've had an inexplicable disregard for finances for as long as the hero can remember. It's all beginning to make sense now.

The villain takes a step closer and the hero remembers their remark. "I'm serious," they say with a frown. "Why are you doing this? Do you want me to owe you? ...Is that what this is? Want to, I don't know, kick me while I'm down? You're such a good person, helping the needy." The latter statement is spoken with venom.

"No, of course not," The villain argues.

"Then why?" The hero repeats, the volume of their voice rising as they get more frustrated. They take a deep breath and clench their fist at their side. They're still holding the check in their other hand, and despite the fact that it's nearly weightless, they can feel a pressure pushing their hand down. "And, more importantly, how in the hell did you get this much money?" The hero hears themself ask.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," the villain says lightly. There's a darkness to their eyes that suggests the hero should cease this line of questioning. They take another deep breath.

"You're assuming I'll just... accept this," the hero realizes aloud. That familiar itching feeling is rising to meet their skin, and they're becoming less convinced that they should stop it.

"Perhaps."

The hero blinks at them once, twice. The villain refuses to break eye contact; their gaze almost urging them to do it—to use their powers to turn the check to ash. The hero gives into the flames prickling along their skin and summons their fire in the palm of their hand. It will only take a moment, maybe two, for the bottom of the paper to char. From there, it will only be a matter of time. The hero watches in anticipation.

...But nothing happens.

"Did you really think I'd be foolish enough to give you a check you could just burst into flame?"

The hero stares ahead blankly, their ears ringing. The villain's expression blurs into a twisted smile. A figment of their imagination or reality? The hero hears their breaths, ragged and half-panicked in their ears.

"I don't understand," the hero repeats hollowly. They don't understand anything that's happening—anything that happened that led them to this very moment, standing before the villain and holding a check that their enemy gave them.

"You don't have to understand," the villain says, crossing their arms over their chest. "I'm not asking you to understand. Hell, I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm ordering you to cash this check."

The hero's tongue is ironed to the roof of their mouth. Even if they desired to speak, they don't think they'd be able to.

The villain notices their speechlessness and sighs. "I didn't want things to come to this, but..." They break off. "As I predicted, you're stubborn as hell, and self-sacrificing to a fault." The hero doesn't have the energy to be offended or outraged.

"So," the villain drawls, their arm falling to their side quickly. The hero blinks and they're suddenly being held at gunpoint. "Go to your bank. Now." The hero suspects the weapon is more than a gun—and they don't care to find out just what it can do. It appears they really have no choice. The villain is forcing their hand.

An hour later, the hero is walking out of the bank with sunken shoulders. "There," the villain says, clapping a hand on their shoulder and leading them out of the building. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Upon closer examination, the villain's weapon is nowhere in sight—as if it simply vanished in thin air. The unlikely pair walks down the street and heads back to the hero's car. The hero ignores the domesticity of it all, securing their seatbelt over themself. The villain doesn't seem keen to wear their seatbelt, so the hero reaches across and buckles their rival's seatbelt for them before they can object.

"I'll transfer the money back to you tomorrow," the hero announces as they're driving down the street, back towards their apartment. Their eyes are locked on the road, yet they somehow know that the villain's gaze is fixated on them with frightening focus.

"We both know you won't," the villain hums with certainty. The hero hates that they're right, hates that their rival can read them so damn easily. Their hands tighten around the steering wheel and the rest of the ride is suffocated with a horrible silence.

When the hero arrives back home, they can't shake the realization that the villain seems deeply pleased. They say as much to their enemy, who hums.

"Of course I'm pleased," the villain says, "If I knew this was all it would take to get you to accept a much-needed gift, I would've done it eons ago."

The hero takes a deep breath, struggling not to cry. It's been a long day, and they're reaching their limit. "I think you've humiliated me enough today," they announce. "Can you leave?" Please, the hero thinks to themself.

"I suppose," the villain sighs dramatically. They take one step to the door, then another. Just before their hand can clasp the doorknob, the hero feels one last objection fall from their lips.

"That money could go to far more deserving people and causes," the hero chokes out. They're choking on their own pride, choking on the simultaneous acknowledgment that they need money and the horrible knowledge that almost no one in their situation has an out like the one they were just presented with.

The villain turns around to face them, clearly moments away from rolling their eyes. "Do I look like a philanthropist to you?" The hero shakes their head, their throat burning. Their enemy nods in confirmation and turns back around. They twist the doorknob and tug the door open.

"You deserve nice things, you know." The villain's parting remark is murmured so quietly that the hero convinces themself they imagine it. The hero watches their front door close and waits a few moments before locking it. They turn around, their back to the door, and slide down to the ground with their head in their hands.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

[hitlikehammers]

'who did this to you?' established Steddie, post-S4 🖤💙💜

The bruising’s stark, like footprints on new-fallen snow punished through to the long-dead grass. It draws the eye, insistent; screams to be seen:

“Who did this to you?”

Steve’s eyes are bright, voice low even as he delicately moves Eddie’s stretched-low collar to follow the line of broken vessels near the surface, a few stray snags of already rusty red, lines that follow the trails of mottled purple-blue. Steve smoothes barely a touch from the pad of his thumb just below the marks to trace them where they color neck to chin, up to the silver-light scarring on his face.

And honestly: it’s a ritual almost, now. But, like, it’s so different from how it used to be. Or even how it was before that, before them at all.

Before things ever ended like this.

“Names, babydoll,” Steve coaxes, but demands all the same; he’s learned over time not to bring the full weight of his steel to the fore in every moment—the resolute promise in his bones to protect Eddie at all costs doesn’t disappear, maybe does the opposite even, maybe just grows strong as what they have has grown, too; but it doesn’t burn so bright when it’s expressed in Eddie’s vicinity. Maybe to spare him.

Maybe as a strategic move on Steve’s part, who’s maybe finally learned that if he’s going to go beat the shit out of anyone, he should one-hundred-percent not let his boyfriend or his platonic soulmate—or also Wayne—about it in advance. So:

“Sweetness,” he nuzzles carefully, where Eddie’s skin’s not water-colored in burst-blood; “give me names.”

“Mmm,” Eddie hums, so easily softened and lulled by Steve’s careful adoration, the way he rubs his nose, his cheek against Eddie and just breathes—it carries Eddie into a soft, comfortable space always, no matter what’s happened; no matter what’s been done.

“Don’t have to,” Eddie sighs out, kinda pathetically desperate in how he leans into Steve’s…just Steve. Steve-Steve-Steve. So he just kinda sighs, because…Steve.

“You know damn well who it was.”

“Don’t play coy,” Steve warns, though its airy, diaphanous, even though Steve doesn’t stop for a second from nuzzling into Eddie’s skin; even but Eddie knows better than to entangle Steve’s softness for Eddie with his broader intentions, the heat behind his words, and the ultimate question:

“Who,” and Steve’s breathe so hot, so close to Eddie’s ear as he whispers, sends fucking shivers down Eddie’s spine; “did this,” and then he’s leaning to run his mouth back along the bruising, the damning trail of damage: “to you?”

“Steve,” Eddie sighs, can’t help but crane his neck to Steve’s careful attention, almost cataloging of the dark splotching, and Eddie can’t help it, it’s not like it even hurts, not really, Eddie knows hurting—

He’s not weird if he kinda feels like most hurting’s worth the high of Steve’s tender care like this, the buzzing flame-like licking across his skin.

Steve doesn’t even make contact with where it could even possibly sting, but fuck if it doesn’t make Eddie light up wild from the pit of his belly.

And fuck if Steve doesn’t know it.

“Mmm-nope,” Steve pulls himself back when Eddie’s reckless, lets out a full-ass fucking moan. “No distracting me,” Steve bites with a glare before he catches Eddie’s gaze and looks down pointedly, points so only the whisper of his touch follows the trail:

“Who did this,” and Eddie is weak, he’s weak because he shivers and when Steve draws his barely-a-touch back, away, he whines. Fuck, yes: he whines, Jesus.

Weak, you understand?

Also, if you don’t understand: fuck you. Eddie would like to see anyone—man, woman, or otherwise—do any better.

“You know,” Eddie keeps with the whining, Jesus fuck, seriously: “I said”

“I think mostly you’ve made noises.”

“Steve,” Eddie…does not break his whining streak. He’s tight in his thighs, and it’s not…he’s gonna need to address that soon.

He’s gonna need someone to address that for him, really.

“Hmm?” Steve leans in, and for the first time he does touch the bruises, tastes them on the flat of his tongue with barely any pressure like he’s collecting evidence, searing proof into his own flesh.

“What’s that now?”

“Steve.”

And he tilts his head at his name, which is less of a whine now—win—but breathy as fuck, still. It’s a process.

“Who did this to you, baby?” Steve asks, eyes wide, innocent and encouraging now as he pulls back and buries his hands in Eddie’s mess of curls, massages as his temples, his scalp.

Fucking dirty pool, right there.

“Steve,” Eddie bites out. Like literally bites his tongue as his head tips back, inescapable for the perfect circles being traced across his head; “Harrington.”

And yes: soon as he gets the words out, the name in full, he stops fighting how just Steve Harrington’s hands are deciding to undo him, this time.

“Hmm, sounds familiar,” Steve hums a little, clicks his tongue and bites a bit at his lip; “but you say it so soft, sweetheart, like maybe you’re hesitant or somethin’,” Steve shakes his head, and tips Eddie’s face toward him a little more full-on, thumb on Eddie’s subtly swollen lower lip:

“Are you one-hundred-percent sure?”

“Absotively posolutely,” Eddie enunciates carefully, never breaking eye contact as he lets his tongue flick out to Steve’s touch and watches those pupils dilate quick to drown that hazel gaze.

“No doubt in your mind?” Steve pushes, relentless, but leans in, leans to breath open mouthed against each bruise:

“Only one,” Eddie sighs, and maybe it sounds frustrated, over the interrogating but hell if he can be over any single goddamn thing about this man.

And it’s the truth. There’s no evidence but Eddie knows Steve leaves his trusty bat at a different angle against the wall the days after Eddie so much as mentions being hassled, or only just slipping the asshats looking to resurrect Jason’s pursuit—the coincidence of every single threat disappearing, suddenly keeping the eyes on the ground if they pass Eddie by, changing course overnight when the bat shifts ever so slightly?

Eddie’d be more concerned, if there was ever any real damage to Steve in response, but in reality he only ever went to put the fear of god in those assholes, he swears he’s never even let a single one of them move quick enough to even try to pull anything on him in return, and well.

Hop doesn’t condone it but he never works too hard to find evidence, and Steve never does anything the technically breaks any obvious laws, so. Eddie thinks it’s Hopper’s way of showing he cares.

But then there’s…this.

There are mornings, like this, when Eddie wakes with bruises around his neck like a chain, a heavy one in the center of his chest like a pendant, little red dashes here and there, barely visible but particular points of interest for Steve when he wakes Eddie up with gentle but unceasing kisses where the bruising doesn’t survive the night so bright, so tender, sucks the blood back up to Eddie lips and leaves them gorgeously numb before he inspect the purple marks: perfectly shaped to his lips.

The tiny red marks perfectly lined to ?i>his teeth.

All of them sucked and nipped so sweet, never hard enough to mark for force but only through persistence, dedication, painted with the single-minded kind of worship Eddie never even considered having focused on him.

So it’s kind of a wondering way that he reaches, reaches out and thumbs Steve lip in return, marveling a little when he tilts his head and takes Steve in for a breath, just basks in him:

“Only one man alive allowed to mark me up,” Eddie whispers, and there’s love in every syllable. Even that’s not really enough but.

They both know.

And Steve’s grin curve slow and satisfied, leaning in to presses his lips, open-mouthed to Eddie’s that he’d already kissed plump as he woke, long before the breaking light through the windows now, catching in Steve’s gaze, had dared fort with the horizon line; he leans right there and breathes hot into Eddie’s mouth:

“Damn fucking straight.”

For @cranberrymoons, who requested the quote 'Who did this to you?' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher

divider credits here

💫 ao3 link here

[magiccath]

Emergency Dance Party

Tenth Doctor x reader (ambiguous relationship) (could also be any Doctor if you ignore the Converse comment)

Summary: In which the Doctor and the TARDIS come up with a way to make your week a little better

A/N: I wrote this for myself MONTHS ago and kinda just forgot to post it. Also, he's so pretty in this GIF

Today wasn’t your day. It hadn’t really been your week either. You were tired, grumpy, and beyond fed-up. It wasn’t anything in particular, but rather an accumulation of small things combined with a general discomfort. 

You walked into the TARDIS control room, hoping that the familiar hum of the ship might calm your anxieties. The Doctor was busy with the console, fiddling away with the controls. He became aware of your presence once you got a few steps into the room before promptly faceplanting. 

The thump made him turn towards you before rushing to help you up. You met his flustered concern with your own exasperation, accepting his outreached hand begrudgingly. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding on to you. 

“Just my luck,” you groaned to yourself, adjusting your footing. “I’m fine,” you grumbled, pulling your hand from his to brush off your shirt. “It’s just one of those weeks.” 

“The kind where absolutely nothing goes right?” he asked, leaning back against the console casually. Your eyes drifted to the floor, his dirty Converse catching your eye. He was wearing the white ones today, his ankles crossed gently over each other. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, really feeling the weight of the week. 

“I think I have just the thing.” He grinned brightly. You loved his smile, it was always lopsided and giddy. It reminded you of a kid on Christmas or a serial killer. It depended on the day.

“I don’t really feel up for an adventure,” you admitted, slumping into the control room chair. You didn’t have the physical or emotional energy to run after the Doctor. He had promised “stress-free” trips in the past, and they always ended with some form of chaos. When you traveled with the Doctor, there was no such thing as a “beach vacation”, at least not in the traditional sense. Usually, such expeditions ended with something blowing up.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “we don’t have to leave the TARDIS for this.” 

You watched him move about the console in his regular manner. He did this for so long, that you started to think watching him was supposed to be the activity for the day. Before you could question his motives, he made his way over to you. He was holding something, but he hid it behind his back so you couldn’t see. 

“Please tell me that’s not a duck,” you groaned, remembering the Doctor’s last surprise. That one left the ship in shambles, and single handedly destroyed your favorite shirt. 

The Doctor frowned, “What’s wrong with ducks?” 

“Nothing,” you laughed lightly, “I just don’t want to have to chase after another one.” 

The Doctor nodded sheepishly, remembering the hassle you two had when he brought a rouge duck onto the ship. He still hadn’t put the kitchen back together, and that had been months ago now. 

“Well, it’s not a duck,” he explained, moving his hands to the front of his body to show you what was in them. He held the large, bright pink button under your nose excitedly. 

“What exactly is it?” you asked, peering at the strange object. For all you knew, it could be the TARDIS self-destruct button. You didn’t trust big red buttons, and you certainly didn’t trust pink ones.

“Just press it.” he grinned. You searched his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out if it was safe or not. After some deliberation, you rested your hand warily over the button. 

The Doctor nodded, encouraging you to push down. You squeezed your eyes shut and did as such. 

When nothing blew up, you opened your eyes warily. The ship transformed before you: the lighting was different, a disco ball lowered from seemingly nowhere, and the floor tiles began to light up in synchronized patterns. In a matter of seconds, the TARDIS had turned into a magnificent disco. 

You raised your eyebrow, clearly confused by the change of decoration. You didn’t know the TARDIS had a disco mode. You could only assume it had been installed in the '70s. 

“Emergency party button.” He smirked. “Press it again,” he urged. 

Gently, you pressed the button again, and music started to fill the room. The distinct opening beats of your favorite song brought a small smile to your face. 

The Doctor threw the button across the room recklessly before holding his hand out to you. You took it, allowing your smile to fully take over your face. 

“Emergency dance party,” he explained, grasping both of your hands. 

“With my favorite song?” 

The Doctor nodded, clearly proud of himself. He wasn’t always the most observant, but when he was it made your heart melt. He knew the little things, like how you took your coffee, what your handwriting looked like, and your favorite meal of the day.

“How did you know?” You laughed. 

“You told me once,” he smiled, his eyes showing all of the love he had for you. 

You smiled back, all traces of sadness and frustration leaving your mind instantly.

The two of you bounded, jumped, and danced your way through the TARDIS for hours, laughing and smiling until it hurt. When you couldn’t dance anymore, you collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles, simply enjoying each other’s company. 

It was the best part of your week, probably even the best part of your year. By the end of it, you couldn’t even imagine the sour mood you had been in before, basking too much in the joy of the moment. 

At the end of the day, all it took was an emergency dance party with your favorite alien to boost your mood. 

[twinkbusted]

untitled- simon petrikov x reader

(just a very indulgent oneshot i wrote... i hope ygs enjoy! [btw y/n is NOT excusing simon's behavior at the end im sorry if i didn't make that clear] also pls excuse all grammatical errors... i wrote this in a few hours)

warnings ! - making out and sexual implications

rating - tv-14

It was early in the morning, when he left. At first you assumed he had simply left for work, but something felt off when you woke up. Half of the blanket was sprawled across the floor, Simon’s uniform was still neatly folded on the desk, and most alarmingly, there was a note on top of it.

“No, no, NO.” you stammered, dragging your fingers through your hair. You didn’t have to read it to know what it said. He was going to leave you again and he wasn’t going to come back. You hurriedly threw on a robe and slippers, not bothering on finding a proper outfit. You dashed out the door, shoveling your way through crowds and crowds of people.

“To Ooo?” The sailor asked, eyes wide. You didn’t have time for questions. You needed to find him now, before it was too late. “Yes. Immediately.” The sailor nodded, and started vigorously rowing. You knew you were being difficult; and possibly a bit entitled, but something like this couldn’t wait. You needed him to stay away from that thing.

“Thank you!��� you said, scurrying out of the boat and into the woods. You didn’t know why you always tried to run after him. Deep down, you wondered if it’d be better if you just left, let him deal with himself. It was getting kind of tiring, like playing a never-ending game. You were not amused by it.

However, time and time again you still found yourself helplessly in love with him. It was probably foolish at this point, but he was always gentle; sweet. You just hated to see him like this; so upset. You would do anything to see him happy again.  

After about ten minutes or so of running, you were surprised to see him sitting on a log, staring down at the ground. Taking a second to catch your breath, you slowly started walking towards him, still bearing in mind that he could still be thinking about taking the crown. 

Your plan failed, Simon perked up immediately as he heard a branch break. “Y/n?” Simon asked, confused. You sighed, and picked up your pace, stopping about arm’s-length from him. You forced yourself to relax and hear him out, but it was hard to not look a little angry. 

“What are you doing out here, Simon?” you asked, your voice softer than expected. He was silent for a second, scratching his head nervously. “I don’t know anymore. I’ve just been… so out of it lately.” Simon clasped his hands together, avoiding eye contact. You put your hand out for a moment, before taking it back.

“Were you thinking about taking the crown?” you whispered, hands clenched into fists. Simon’s head sank lower, his glasses hanging lopsidedly off his face. “Yes,” he admitted. “I thought it would make everything better again. But… I didn’t want you to go through that, not again.” 

Your fists loosened up a little, it wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely a start. You adjusted your robe, and sat next to Simon. “Thank you for being honest with me.” You said, reaching for his hand. Simon turned around, giving you a weak smile. You laughed, and leaned in for a kiss. 

In that moment, everything was perfect. Your hands fluttered at Simon’s waist, and his hand was around your neck, the other cusping your face. Simon’s tongue settled in your mouth, and your lip was inbetween his teeth. You found yourself pinning him to the log, moving up and down on his mouth, holding your breath like you’d drown.

Eventually, you both pulled back, gasping for air. You were both too tired to take it any further, and Simon peppered your cheek with soft kisses. You were grinning helplessly, staring lovingly into Simon’s eyes. He brushed your face, before resting his head on your shoulder.

Yes, it was definitely a start.

[bg-brainrot]

Alone in a Crowded Camp

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: A short Astarion reflection, where he realizes that company isn't so bad.

Tags: Astarion POV, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings

A/N: My ~mood~ persists and I wanted to make this real angsty, but even I couldn’t do that to myself hah. A short little oneshot to try to get me out of my funk!

Word count: ~1.1k

Alone.

Astarion has gotten quite good at being alone.

For two hundred years, he's been surrounded by people– their faces, their bodies, their sickly sweet words and insincere affections. But all along, he has been deeply, achingly alone.

He's had his siblings, ugh, if that's what you could call them. They’ve been a constant, annoying, and at times cruel presence in his life. They’ve felt like a growth he could no more remove than he could ignore. And, through the misery and the pain, he somehow still managed to feel gods awfully alone.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the source of his loneliness. After all, he has nary a moment to himself. But no matter how many people, no matter how frequently he’s with them, something is missing. There is no connection, no kindness, no caring. He simply is alone.

As such, Astarion has grown downright skilled at solitude. A practical art form, he's certain– someone else may call it a method of coping. Either way, it’s not a skill he's comfortable to admit.

Especially not when he suddenly finds himself surrounded once more, veritably drowning in the same disgusting familiarity and the startling newness of companionship. Because this time, he's free. Or as free of Cazador as he's willing to believe for the moment. And his companions don't expect much from him. At least not more than he's willing to provide.

So when he settles into the motley crew, he’s prepared to face the same discordant discomfort of isolation, all while being a hair’s breadth from falling into someone’s bedroll.

Instead, what he finds is an unconventional, at times chaotic, symphony.

The loud sheering sound of weapons being sharpened.

The heat of bodies surrounding a late night campfire.

The beautiful, desperate joy on the faces of those who may not live to see another day.

Astarion soon discovers that, despite the dirt, despite the tentacled doom lingering over his gorgeous head of curls, the boisterous mundanity of daily life is oddly… welcome.

For so long, as long as he can remember honestly, he’d dreaded meeting someone new. Meeting someone new meant as much a death sentence for them as it meant a detestable evening for him, a night lost to his inevitable withdrawal into the deepest darkness he could muster. 

But here, in the warm glow of firelight, the darkness abates. 

Against all of his efforts, he actually learns about the group.

How Lae’zel single-handedly took on her entire crèche while training, how many rooms Gale’s tower boasts back in Waterdeep, how far Wyll’s travels have taken him along the Chionthar, how Shadowheart didn’t need her memories to remember she hated bad wine, how Karlach once defeated a Pit Fiend in the hells themselves. None of them are things he expected to learn, nor care about. But he finds himself listening, chortling along all the same.

And then there’s you.

At first, he’d kept you a careful arm and knife distance away– an asset surely, but just as surely a dangerous one. He’d learned early in his time with Cazador that anyone who could wield both blade and charm was not someone to be trifled with.

What he hadn’t expected was the way that you made him feel: Distinctly not-alone.

Whether it be catching the mischievous twinkle in your eye from across the room or finding himself wrapped in your arms, feeling your body heat slowly seeping into him– he simply can’t understand how you make the world feel so full.

Astarion isn’t sure if he loves this new feeling of overwhelming closeness or misses the solitude. He wonders if he’ll ever feel alone again, and the idea that he may not both thrills and terrifies him.

Because there is something soothing about being alone, a type of insidious succor only his own thoughts provide.

The ache loneliness has carved in his chest is as lingering as it is deeply rooted within him and, like a plant desperately trying to survive, he finds the roots digging deeper and deeper in an attempt to stay grounded.

His moments of actual time to himself have been scarce, of course. So, in his fear, Astarion has gotten used to finding his solitude among the chaos, sequestering himself away from any who might hurt him before such a chance could arise.

Retreating from their kindness, reciprocating with sharply worded barbs, shooting utterly underserved glares in every direction. Their wounded looks mean nothing to him– why should they? They are just another group of strangers, one vampire lord away from becoming another pile of corpses.

However, much like every other of his carefully thought out plans, you are ready to thwart him. For every attempt he makes to withdraw, you’re right there, proving time and again that you are no stranger. Not anymore.

“Astarion.”

It’s a simple thing, his name. The last remnant from a mother he no longer remembers. It sounded wretched upon Cazador’s lips, a curse he could never break. Upon yours though? It may as well be a blessing. 

With that one, simple name, his loneliness is allayed. The roots embedded within him pull back, if only for the moment.

Despite his best efforts, he remembers that he is not alone. Astarion feels at ease.

His heart opens, little by little, and not just to you.

Living hundreds of years as he has, faces had begun to meld together, names began to lose their meaning, voices their distinct candor. But for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself seeing, listening, connecting to others in a way he no longer believed himself capable of.

It’s… nice. Not that he’ll ever tell the others.

Naturally, his past doesn’t simply up and vanish. His mind still drifts, and he finds himself retreating into the damning safety of solitude from time to time. But each and every time, a hand reaches out– at times jovial, sometimes tentative, other times caring– ready to pull him back to the present.

“Astarion?”

One such hand comes into his field of view, and he takes it instinctively. It’s warm, comforting, and scarred with the beautiful history of an adventurous past. He could get lost in the look and feel of this hand.

“Astarion? Are you alright?”

Your voice is soft, tone gently questioning– yet still worried. Adorable, but you needn’t worry about him. He doubts he’s ever been better.

“Mmm, yes, darling. Quite alright.”

“Good.” 

Your hand squeezes his as you respond and he’s certain that, as long as you’re next to him, he may never feel alone again. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing after all.

[federaliszt]

that thing where a character is sitting on the ground, either at their limit or just past it, and just tucks their legs into their chest and wraps their arms around their shins and buries their head in their knees to sob and cry with their face hidden in their own privately little cave for a while.

[wangxianficrecs]

Devil Flute Upon Graves, Wei Ying by cloudyrobinwrites (jwyoomi)

Devil Flute Upon Graves, Wei Ying

by cloudyrobinwrites (jwyoomi) (@chirpycloudyrobin)

M, WIP, Series, 47k, Wangxian & Hualian

Summary: Wei Wuxian received the news of his first death a little bit too late. Kay's comments: I think this series was a Follower Rec during the last WIP Rec Week and I picked it up there, because it sounded absolutely delightful and it sure didn't disappoint! Here, Wei Wuxian died earlier, but he didn't notice! He only noticed when he was staying in the Burial Mounds with the Wens and that changed a lot. For one, he's a ghost, so when he "dies" again, he actually goes full TGCF and even meets Hua Cheng and Xie Lian. Really interesting world-building. The current and ongoing part of the series is a canon retelling of how Wei Wuxian being a death changed his resurrection. Also! Xuanli as Gods! And Jin Ling growing up under their proctection! So much good stuff. Excerpt: “I would know if you’re dead, Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing tells him. “I’m your doctor.” Wei Wuxian sputters, “W- Well, look again!” He shoves his wrists at Wen Qing, his face just a tad bit hysterical. Okay, maybe he’s not taking this ‘I’ve actually been dead the entire time’ debacle as well as he thought. Wen Qing gives him a look that is half-exasperated and half-concerned and checks his pulse anyways. Maybe she’s thinking that all that demonic cultivation is chipping away at what remains of his sanity. Maybe she’s right. A few moments pass. Wen Qing slowly lets go of Wei Wuxian’s wrists and looks him dead in the eyes. “Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing says, slowly and deliberately. “What did you do?”

pov alternating, canon divergence, tian guan ci fu fusion, hua cheng/xie lian, ghost wei wuxian, hurt/comfort, burial mounds settlement dwys, post-first siege on the burial mounds, mo xuanyu lives, immortal jiang yanli, immortal jin zixuan, fix-it of sorts, somebody lives/not everybody dies

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[sp0o0kylights]

PSEUDO DADS WAYNE AND HOPPER/BEAT TO SHIT STEVE HARRINGTON A03 LINK

S3 AU wherein Hopper calls in a favor and Wayne ends up hiding a beaten and battered Steve Harrington in his house.

Eddie's not happy about it.

SEPERATE POST FOR ANYONE WHO JUST WANTS THE A03 LINK

First chapter has all three parts together.

[akirakirxaa]

Akira, unable to sleep laying down but also unable to hold herself upright for long periods thanks to her injuries, petitioned Hades for help. Hades, unable to tell her no after everything she'd been through - that he'd put her through -, obliged. Hythlodaeus, returning home from a fitting session with Tataru (who would not take no for an answer on making them suitable clothes to fit in with the sundered world), joined in the cuddle pile on the bench. Despite being propped against a hard wall, legs and arms slowly falling asleep from the weight of his loves, Hades had not slept so well in centuries.

Bonus End page

[thejacketscloset]

Could you imagine what woukd happen if Soap just up and disappeared one day. Just uprooted everything and left the military and everyone else without a word. Something that seems so out of character for him, and everyone is just left wondering why? What happened? And most of all, is he okay?

The only one who has any semblance of what happened is Price, and that's only because Soap had to give him his discharge papers. When he tried to get any information out of Soap he simply wouldn't talk.

The task force is a little heartbroken, some more so than others, and every attempt to contact Soap after just seems to fail or be ignored. Most give up, but Ghost is desperate. He messages Soap every day, but he stops expecting a response after a while. He'll send Soap updates on his day, things he thought Soap would've liked to see, general thoughts. It's ridiculous, but he simply can't move on without some kind of closure.

What he doesn't know is Soap reads every message, they're one of the few things that keep him going now, if only he could get the confidence to text Simon back.

[afewproblems]

Difficult Days Part One

Even at ten years old Shawn knew he was different. 

It didn’t take a genius to notice, and Shawn was certainly good at noticing things --observing, his dad would be quick to say, correcting him as usual. 

His dad did that a lot, correcting, insisting there was a right way to do things; there was a right way to play hide and seek, there was a right way to camp, to relax, and more often than not it was the opposite of what Shawn was doing. 

While other kids learned how to play baseball and spent their loose change at the arcade, Shawn was instead learning how to navigate through the woods without a compass, escape from the trunk of a car, and how to spot a squeaky floorboard from four paces. 

While his classmates were at the beach, searching for jellyfish in the low tide pools, Shawn would memorize the layout of restaurants and describe the last three patrons to walk through the door in the time it took him and his dad to get their drink orders. 

‘You can’t skate through life Shawn,’ his dad would tell him, breathing the words out sharply, ‘you have skills others don’t and you need to use them the right way, I don’t get why you can’t see that’.

It was exhausting. 

Why was the right way only his dad’s way? It had never been very clearly explained to Shawn, other than how great of a cop he could be -maybe even a detective. But why couldn't he use his observation skills the way he wanted to? This grownup stuff was years away!  It wasn’t like it was something he could turn off, so what was the big deal?

Like Mr. Cooper’s homework spot checks. 

None of the other kids had managed to figure out his system, the pattern to the days when their teacher would ask for their math homework.

Tommy Decker insisted it was completely random, that the man asked for it on a whim -just to torture them all. 

Mandy Holloway on the other hand, whose sister had Mr. Cooper for math the previous year, argued that it was based on the moon cycle and every second new moon the pattern would change - you just have to track it Tommy.

But somehow Shawn always, always, seemed to know without fail the day that Mr. Cooper would ask them all to pass their work to the front of each row.

It wasn’t Shawn’s fault that Mr. Cooper was incredibly obvious, so why shouldn't he take advantage of it? Besides, it was almost mind boggling how the other kids in his class couldn’t see the many, many, tells their teacher had. 

First, there were the heavy purple bags under Mr. Cooper's eyes that would tend to show up a few days before the homework check. 

Mr. Cooper would also become noticeably agitated over the smallest of incidents in the classroom, whether a student was running late or even opened their book bags a little too loudly - it didn’t matter, detention was in their future. 

That coupled with the noticeable creases in Mr. Cooper’s shirts, unironed, and lacking the normal meticulous care --probably on the outs with his wife based on the intermittent wearing of his large gold wedding band.

Finally, and honestly how no one else in his class seemed to see this one, if Mr. Cooper brought in a gas station paper coffee cup as he walked into the classroom -instead of his usual metal thermos from home, that was the nail in the coffin. The final sign that Mr. Cooper would be demanding their homework the very next day. 

It was so, so obvious, at least to Shawn.

But then, so too was Shawns ability to avoid the seemingly random spot checks.

“How do you always know?” Tommy whispers to Shawn near the end of the school year, his voice quiet to avoid Mr. Cooper’s notice as the man wanders up and down the rows of desks.

“Know what?” Shawn says, his voice equally soft as he turns towards Tommy, whose face twists into a sneer at the question.

Tommy scoffs with narrowed blue eyes, “Duh, Cooper’s homework checks, you’ve never not handed it in - what are you some kind of nerd?” 

Shawn blinks, the way Tommy spits out the word, nerd, can’t bode well for him. He remembers just the previous year, how Tommy and a few of the other boys in their grade had given Gus a hard time, even going so far to give his best friend a swirly. Shawn shivers at the memory and shakes his head rapidly, he opens his mouth to argue when suddenly a shadow appears over his desk. 

He manages to quickly turn back to his paper, away from Tommy’s glare, and writes down an answer to question seven from their textbook. It’s not the right answer, he knows that already, but it’s enough to throw Mr. Cooper off his scent.

Their teacher shifts away from Shawn, seemingly satisfied, and looks at Tommy who isn’t quite fast enough.

“Eyes on your own paper Thomas, I don’t want to have to tell you again,” Mr. Cooper says sternly, but his voice is tired at the edges. Whatever fight the Coopers had must have been a real doozy this time. Shawn tries not to think about his own parents' fights and the silence that would drift through the house for days afterwards. Did Mrs. Cooper shut down the way Shawn's mom so often did? Maybe Mr. Cooper yelled, like Shawn's dad. It seemed likely given the number of detentions the man had assigned their class this year. 

Mr.Cooper waits for another beat between their desks until Tommy finally shifts in his chair and lowers his face to his desk, the tips of his ears quickly flushing pink beneath curly blond hair. 

“Yes Mr. Cooper,” Tommy mumbles into his desk. 

Their teacher nods and leaves, making his way over to a pair of girls on the far side of the room hiding a magazine under the desk - or trying to. 

“You did that on purpose,” Tommy hisses, shooting a withering glare at Shawn, “you knew he was there-”

“What am I psychic?” Shawn huffs with a roll of his eyes, “how was I supposed to know he was there, huh?”

Tommy turns away again, glaring at the paper on his desk. Shawn watches as Tommy catches the eye of Marcus Boon across the classroom.

Shawn stifles a low groan as the other boy's eyes flick between him and Tommy; Marcus levels him with a sneer to rival Tommy’s own and lifts a finger to his throat before dragging it across in one smooth motion. 

Well, shit. 

So much for making it through at least one school year without getting into a fight. 

***

“You should’a just told him,” Gus breathes out, his chest heaving as he and Shawn scramble over the fence of the Spencer front yard. Both boys make a beeline for the porch, Gus keeps watch while Shawn stops first at the small garden to grab the spare hide-a-key out from the fake rock beside his mom’s hydrangeas.

Shawn is lucky that Gus had been with him on the way home from school, not that it had stopped Tommy Decker and Marcus Boon from making good on their threat from math class, chasing Shawn down the road to the boardwalk.

Shawn winces as his fingers grip the key, his hands hurt from where he had managed to stop himself from falling face first into the gravel after being shoved by Marcus. 

Thankfully Gus had managed to distract the pair of boys long enough for them to make a run for it. 

“Tommy’s an asshole, they both are, why should I tell them anything,” Shawn mutters, wincing as his split lip opens again, the smell of copper invades his nose, making him nauseous. 

He gets the key in the door and opens it, bringing in the fake rock with him. He’ll have to explain to his dad that he ‘lost’ his house key again, knowing that Tommy and Marcus had taken it from him and thrown it into the trees off the side of the road. One more thing for his dad to lecture him over.

Shawn can feel Gus staring as he brings the hide-a-key with him into the kitchen, but says nothing as the pair make their way through the quiet house. 

He places the rock on the counter with the spare key beside it. Gus opens the pantry door and takes a pair of Wagon Wheels out of the already open box, the cellophane crinkles as Gus tosses one to Shawn. 

“All I'm saying is you might get beat up less,” Gus says before taking a large bite of the chocolate snack cake, he wipes the mess of crumbs from his cheeks onto the floor and shoots Shawn a grin at the mess.

“And I'm saying, they don't need much of an excuse,” Shawn counters, matching Gus’ grin as he watches the collection of crumbs grow on the kitchen tile floor.

Shawn chews on his lip, playing with the thin cellophane around his snack cake, “It’s…it's weird, right?”

Gus blinks, his lips quirk into a half frown as he takes another pensive bite of his cake before finally shrugging. 

“Well, who cares? I think we're cool so if that's weird, then we're weird together”.

Shawn lets a groan out and shakes his hands so hard his own snack cake goes flying onto the counter with a soft thunk.

“No!” He breathes out sharply, “I mean, it's weird being able to know things about people without trying, I don’t want to know them, I don't want to be in this situation, it’s weird and it sucks and dad thinks its so great but--”

Shawn stops speaking as the last of Gus’ chocolate cake is suddenly smushed into the side of his face. Crumbs and icing litter the tile around them, some has smeared from Gus's shoes in his haste to dart out of the line of fire. The previously spotless kitchen is now completely filthy in just a matter of seconds.

Shawn slowly looks at Gus, who has the widest grin on his face, and breathes out a startled laugh.

“Dad is going to kill you,” he says, wiping cake and icing from his cheek. 

“He's not my dad,” Gus snorts as he tries to dodge Shawn's swipe of cake hands.

He might as well be, Shawn thinks to himself as he reaches for more cake crumbs from the floor and manages to smear them onto Gus’ face. 

At least one upside to Shawn’s memory is he’ll be able to hold onto this, their laughter in the afternoon sun, the smell of chocolate, for a really really long time.

Wrestling in the kitchen with his best friend, previous hurts forgotten for now and with chocolate smeared all over their clothes, their faces, and the floor, Shawn had never felt less like an only child. 

Tag List: @adaed5 @drakkywolf

[defectivehero]

The villain squints at the silhouette at the edge of the rooftop, before ascertaining that it's indeed the hero, their enemy. They take a step closer, wincing as the gravel beneath their feet makes a slight noise. With any luck, the hero didn't hear that. They take another step, only for the hero to laugh. It's a dry laugh—one devoid of any genuine humor.

"You caught me," the hero announces, placing their hands on the railing in front of them. Their back is turned, as if they're hiding their face. "I hoped no one would see me." Their enemy admits.

"What are you doing?" The villain feels the need to ask. Typically, they'd be fighting by now. But the hero doesn't seem to be in the fighting mood.

Their enemy takes a moment to respond. "Hanging up the cape, so to speak," they eventually answer. The villain's heart drops to their stomach.

"You're retiring?" They choke out. The hero doesn't utter a word of confirmation, but the villain is able to sense their resolve nonetheless. "Not of your own volition, surely," the villain remarks, squinting at their enemy's shadow. They must've been bribed, blackmailed-

But the hero is silent. There is an utter lack of objection, argument, anything to dissuade the villain from the grim reality staring them straight in the face. "Really?" They hear themself ask. "You're quitting? Just like that?"

"What, going to miss me?" The hero asks. "We could work something out-" The villain can envision the smile on the hero's face—playful but manufactured, amusement failing to reach their eyes.

"No, you're missing the point," the villain interjects. They can't seem to organize their thoughts. There's a terrible foreboding itching at their skin. "What happened to your mission?"

"My... mission," the hero echoes hollowly. They rub a hand over their face. Their enemy looks horribly mortal in that moment, their shoulders hunched and their posture crumpled.

"Don't tell me you can't remember," the villain says, resisting the urge to grab the hero's jaw and force them to turn to look at them. "Right the injustices of the world. Give people a better life than I had. Any of that ringing a bell?"

The hero's nose wrinkles. They're still staring out at the horizon, a distant gleam to their eyes. "My dreams were just that: dreams. Too lofty and optimistic to ever become reality."

Anger bubbles in the villain's chest, white-hot and fast as lightning. "How do you know?" They demand. "You didn't even try-"

"Didn't even try?" The hero snaps, finally turning around to look them in the eyes. The villain immediately regrets wishing to see the hero's expression, as they stare at the uncharacteristic rage and defeat written all over their enemy's face. "I can excuse everything else you've just said to me. But I tried. I fucking tried—more than you can possibly imagine."

The villain is struck silent. The hero takes a step closer, slowly breaking the distance between them. "Do you know how long I spent pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion and injury, just for the idealistic hope of change?" The hero continues, fury glittering in their eyes, "Do you have any idea how tiring it is to work every day of your fucking life for a system that doesn't give two shits about you?"

"I think we both know that I do," the villain finally chokes out, once their tongue no longer feels glued to the roof of their mouth. The hero's eyebrows furrow.

"No," they say with a shake of their head. Their enemy clenches their fists at their sides. The villain suddenly feels nervous, for reasons they can't quite explain. "You don't understand. You gave up." Dread prickles along the villain's skin as they comprehend what the hero just said. Perhaps the worst part of their accusation is that it's entirely true.

"Where you saw an insurmountable obstacle, I saw an opportunity," the hero continues, "I fucking tried. You didn't. You were content to drown in your hatred, to let your own selfishness override the fact that, out there, thousands of people are still experiencing exactly what we went through."

"So don't you ever say that to me," the hero hisses, pointing at the villain's chest. Their touch is light as a feather, yet the villain feels as if their enemy's finger is tearing through their flesh and bone. "Because I gave everything I had to this job. And the agency chewed me up and spit me right the fuck back out."

The hero's eyes are glassy, the villain realizes. Tears are falling down their enemy's face and they watch as the hero furiously wipes at their face with the back of their sleeve. They're beginning to realize why the hero hid their face at first—they were hiding the tear stains running down their cheeks.

The villain is at a loss for words. Truly, there is nothing they can say that will change the reality of the situation—nothing that will fix the horrible injustices and cruelties that lay the foundation for the very system the hero operated in for so long.

"So, yes, I'm quitting," the hero says, their voice raspy and cracked. A part of the villain's stone heart breaks at the devastated tone of their enemy's voice. "I'm done and, if I'm lucky, you will never see me again." Something akin to fear strikes at the villain's chest.

"I'll still find you," the villain maintains, their stomach turning as they try to imagine a world without the hero, a life without an enemy.

"And what will you do?" The hero hums. Their voice sounds empty; there is no sign of the unending determination that first drew the villain to them. "I won't fight you." They state.

"You don't need to," the villain tries.

But the hero simply shakes their head. "Goodbye," their enemy says instead, their visage fading as they disappear into the shadows. The villain stares at the space the hero had just occupied, wondering how it all could have fallen apart so quickly.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

MWAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHHHHHHHHH. ahahahahhahhahahhah. HAHAHAHAHHA. hahahaha.... ha.... ah.... ha.... heeheehee

happy ending? never heard of her! :3

tag list: @lateuplight @wit-is-wisdom @greengableswriting @whump-me-all-night-long @noawhite @rekhyt-of-arcadia @the-blind-one-speaks @sufferfictionalcharacters @basically-psyduck @alexkolax @subval01 @emerald-blade @felicia609 @surplus-of-sarcasm @ilickedanenvelopeandilikedit @a-chaotic-gremlin @unknownogre @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @whatwhumpcomments @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @agayprince @starsick1979 @a-lonely-little-ghost @agayprince @plum-tello

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

[semi-completely-original]

🌱🏛️ #femhkvthmweek2024 day 3: fall out ... of bed. because kaveh is incredibly drunk. i can't do angst sorry 💀

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

Had a weird dream about Free Willy but trying to break an Angel(?) out of a government facility and honestly now I’m attached to this big anxious bird. Learning to fly is hard when you’re a gangly preteen.