#let’s call it a fic prompt

[ghostbsuter]

"Constantine, if you leave now, you bet I'm going to hire the best hunters in Royal name to hunt your goddamn ass down."

Seeing the man freeze, he continues, eyes hardened with determination and shoulders tense.

"You leave now, and your life is over. The observers demand your head, Connie. I could barely talk them into bringing this to court. Believe it or not, you grew on me, stupid man."

His escorts, Nightwing and Kidflash, were tense next to him. Wary of him now that he stated his intentions.

Wonder woman had her sword drawn, brows furrowed at looking between the man and the teen.

—

Or Constantine majorly fucked up that the only reason he is alive right now is because the King of the Infinity Realms (who is a child) likes watching him.

Jesus Christ.

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlights cuddling for comfort, but also they're oblivious idiots who are pining over each other but thinks its unrequited

“Ugh,” Duke says, dropping down onto the bench besides Danny.

Danny nudges him with his shoulder. “Rough night?”

“Slept for like an hour,” Duke mutters, “This sucks. My head’s going to burst like balloon and my eyes are about to fall out.”

“Yikes. You know, you could have just canceled for today. I wouldn’t have minded.”

Duke sighs and presses the heel of his palms against his eyes. “Maybe, but I would have minded. We barely see each other anymore, man. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh.” Danny bites his lip, trying and failing to stop from smiling. Something soft in his chest glows at the words, a growing spark of happiness in knowing that for this, at least, the feeling is requited. It’s nice to hear that he was missed, and it would be even nicer if Duke wasn’t in pain, pushing himself just because he didn’t want to cancel. Carefully, Danny reaches for him and pulls his hands away from his face. “Here,” he says, “Let me.”

His hands are always cold. Most of him is cold, really — side effect of having an ice core. Sam told him once that his hands were better than an ice pack, and he’s hoping she’s right or this is going to be weird. 

Danny gently presses his fingers against Duke’s temples, his hands cradling Duke’s face. Duke is tense for a few seconds, then abruptly relaxes, leaning into Danny’s hands. 

“Is this helping?” he asks, voice hushed to keep from aggravating Duke’s migraine.

“Mhm. Yeah, it feels great. Thanks, Danny.”

Duke goes completely limp, leaning against Danny. They sit there for a minute in silence, the rest of the world feeling far away. As nice as it is to just exist together, he knows what Duke needs most right now is quiet and stillness. Gotham is very much not that, and every honking car that passes by makes Duke wince, trying to turn away from the road even more.

“Hey, let’s head back to my place. It’s close by, and a lot quieter than out here.”

“Are you sure? I know we planned to go to the arcade today…”

“The arcade can wait. You’re more important.”

Duke blinks open his eyes and looks at Danny with something soft in his gaze. Being so close together, barely any space between them, with Duke looking at him like that makes Danny’s cheeks flush red, unable to think anything but please kiss me.

Which is never going to happen. Duke is his friend, and just his friend, no matter how much Danny wishes they could be something more. It’s a pipe dream, something so impossible it’s almost laughable. 

Duke likes being friends with normal human Danny. He doesn’t want to imagine how he would react if he found out about Danny being half ghost, assuming this imaginary reveal happens without Danny being hunted down and cut open by GIW agents. 

He’s still in hiding, always waiting for the worst as he stays in the apartment his friends (living and dead) had set up for him. The building is for ghosts so it technically doesn’t exists, which means it’s the safest place for Danny while he’s actively being hunted by the US government. 

He can’t be honest with Duke. Can’t be as close to him as he wants to be. Duke deserves more than to be dragged into Danny’s problems and put in danger.

Even so, Danny can’t help but want him around, pushing his luck each time they hang out.

“Come on,” Danny urges, standing up. He pulls his hands away and Duke’s brow immediately furrows, his pain returning. “It’s only a few streets away.”

Duke sighs, then visibly braces himself before he stands up. Danny tucks himself into Duke’s side, taking as much of his weight as he can as he walks them down the street. It’s times like these that he wishes he could reveal his powers safely and just fly them to his apartment. But even without the GIW gunning for his head, showing off powers in Gotham is a sure fire way to get a target painted on his back.

“Almost there,” he says as they turn a corner. 

His apartment doesn’t have a fixed address. It doesn’t have a fixed location at all, drifting around, but it likes this street the most, so this is where it usually is. Danny takes them halfway down the street, then turns into an alley, following his ghost sense. 

Where there’s usually a dead end is instead a building, looking as if it’s always been tucked away in this alley. Danny keeps a tight grip on Duke as they climb the front steps, silently asking for the building to let him stay while he’s with Danny. The door opens easily, which is as good as an agreement, and they’re inside without anything going wrong. The small entrance lobby is empty, with an area for packages filled with clearly magical artifacts carelessly wrapped in bubble wrap. 

Danny drags them past that quickly, hoping Duke doesn’t notice, and calls the elevator down. It arrives silently, the doors opening to let another tenant out. Carefully, Danny positions himself in front of Duke, making sure he doesn’t see how the tenant, who nods at Danny, has a still bleeding wound in his stomach that has him nearly split in half. 

“Alright,” he says, ushering Duke into the elevator, “Just a little ride up and then you can lay down.” He hits the button for the fourth floor and they ride up in silence, Duke dropping his head down to onto Danny’s shoulder again, wrapping his arms around his waist as he stands behind Danny. He’s glad Duke can’t see his face; there’s no doubt that he’s blushing like crazy and if that doesn’t give away his feelings, he doesn’t know what will.

Thankfully the elevator ride isn’t long. If Danny had to go for more than a minute with Duke breathing softly against his neck, his warm hands on his stomach, Danny would have collapsed into a pile of flustered goo.

He opens the door to his apartment and kicks his shoes off. Duke follows in suit, still plastered onto Danny’s back, refusing to let go. 

“Come on,” Danny says, leading him to the couch, “Sit down and I’ll grad you some water and painkillers.”

Duke nods against his shoulder, then slowly detaches himself from Danny and makes his way to the couch. He drops onto it gracelessly, pressing his face into a cushion. 

Danny winces. He must be feeling really bad. He knows how bad migraines can be with sleep deprivation, having suffered through high school with only a few hours of sleep at night, if he got to sleep at all. Frankly, it’s a testament to Duke’s strength that he lasted the entire walk to Danny’s apartment without complaint. 

He returns to the living room with a full glass of water and a bottle of Advil, setting them on the coffee table to crouch next to the couch and place a cold hand on Duke’s cheek. “Hey,” he says softly when Duke turns to look at him, “Is Advil alright? It’s all I had.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks, Danny.”

Duke sits up and shakes out three pills, then washes them down with water. He drains the rest of the cup quickly, then falls back against the couch with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Is there anything else I can do to make you feel better?”

Duke immediately reaches a hand out for him.

“Um?”

“Sit next to me. I feel better when I’m next to you.”

“Oh! Alright. Bet you’re only saying that because my hands are cold.”

“You caught me,” Duke laughs, pulling Danny onto the couch. He goes easily, tucking his legs beneath himself, and places his hands on Duke’s temples again. “Man, I owe you my life.”

“I don’t think my cold hands are worth quite that much.”

Duke hums, but doesn’t say anything else, so Danny settles in and focuses on keeping his hands a little colder than normal. 

The apartment is quiet. No sound from outside can reach them, one of the few ways the building looks after its tenants. Danny and Duke fall against each other, at ease with each other. There’s no need to fill in the silence, and with Duke’s eyes closed, Danny doesn’t have to carefully shove down his feelings and act normal. He indulges in the warmth of Duke’s body pressed against his, a hand on his knee and an arm around his waist. 

He keeps his hands as steady as possible as he looks over Duke, adoring all the little details he can see; a small scar on his chin, the fullness of his lips, the way his hair falls into his face now that it’s long enough to keep in braids.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Duke murmurs, “What’s on your mind?”

You’re cute, he thinks, I feel safe with you. I want to kiss you. I wish I could be brave enough to be honest.

I wish I was brave. I wish I was brave. I wish I was brave.

“Nothing,” he says. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. I might fall asleep though.”

“That’s fine. You know I would never say no to a nap.”

“Come here, then,” Duke says, and before Danny can do anything, Duke gets a stronger grip on his waist and pulls Danny down on top of him as he falls back towards the arm rest and gets his legs on the couch.

“Duke!”

Duke laughs underneath him, and Danny can feel it roll through him. Okay! This is definitely something he’s going to think about… forever. Wow, he can feel Duke’s abs tense up as he laughs, and has he always been ripped? Unfair. Also unfairly hot. 

“Is this alright?” Duke asks, voice soft and quiet. There’s a hesitancy around his words that Danny doesn’t like hearing, and he brings his hands down to sweep his thumbs soothingly over Duke’s cheeks.

“Of course it is, man. I’d never refuse cuddles.”

“Okay. I’m gonna pass out now. Wake me in an hour?”

Danny moves his hands back up to his temples and says, “Sure. Get some rest, Duke. You really need it.”

He feels Duke relax beneath him, breaths slowing down as he begins to fall asleep. It’s peaceful and quiet and Duke is warm in a way Danny never can be with his ice core. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but curled up on the couch with Duke in the safety of an apartment that only barely exists has him drifting off in no time at all.

. . .

(Duke wakes up before Danny. Their legs are tangled together and Duke has moved during his sleep, turning so Danny is held tightly to his chest, his back to the cushions, while Duke is balancing very carefully at the edge of the couch. 

It’s been hours, and he should be heading home soon, but he stays as he is, enjoying this quiet moment for as long as he can have it. Danny is in his arms, safe and content with him, his head no longer hurts beyond a residual ache he can easily ignore, and he can admire how pretty Danny is without being worried about Danny catching his lingering stares. 

These moments are precious to him, rare as they are, and he wants nothing more than to kiss Danny once he’s awake and let his feelings be known.

But the Signal has lots of dangerous people after him, and Gnomon has started causing problems in Gotham again. So he’ll bite his tongue and keep his less platonic feelings buried under lock and key until it’s safe enough for Danny to be around him more often.

And when that time comes, he can only hope that Danny will feel the same way.

That’s all far away from the stillness of Danny’s apartment. All that matters is that he has Danny in his arms. Everything else can wait. 

For now, this is more than enough.)

[justaz]

even tho merlin constantly complains about tournaments and arthur goes on and on about glory and honor, merlin is always the loudest in the stands and arthur always finds merlin’s eye first when he wins

[rebornofstars]

hello!! just wondering whether anyone would be interested in a September-based art & writing event focussed on celebrating the female characters in the LU fandom?

i've been thinking about trying to organise something like this for a few months now, but i'm finally speaking up, because this morning i had an idea...

we could call it:

✨Sepfember✨

anyway, if you'd be interested in a september event, let me know!

[biblicallyaccuratestiles]

STILES, scolding a whining SCOTT: “Tough fuckin’ scuff, dude—shouldn’t have almost died on us.”

SHERIFF STILINSKI: “Language, Stiles.”

STILES: “What, scuff?”

SHERIFF: “The other one.”

STILES: (gasps dramatically) “Died?!”

[machveil]

hey, brief apology, I sent an ask about a monster!Konig blurb that got a dirty and then realised you dont write that kind of thing so im rewording it

monster!Konig being initially very shy and not liking when m!reader touches his tentacles, but he grows to appreciate the touch over time as he starts getting used to m!reader, to the point of holding his hand with a tentacle gently

oh!! hi anon! I saw that ask - don’t worry, I do write for nsfw and nsfw adjacent(?) content. I just haven’t written anything for it yet haha, but no sweat! I just don’t write for these, your other ask is totally good<3

it’s known around base that Monster!König has an… unusual physique. he kept it hidden for as long as he could, but it was bound to be found out when you’re constantly surrounded by soldiers and snoopy people - stupid rookies that like touching things that aren’t theirs. that’s how König’s tentacles came to light, one stupid rookie dared to snag the behemoth’s mask

Monster!König, while a feared and respected Colonel, held some insecurities around his tentacles. who wouldn’t be be terrified of a 6’10”/~208cm man, let alone a man with writhing, eldritch tentacles? he’s either scared off fellow soldiers or had others try to mock him - the latter not ending in their favor

but when you come up to him? wide eyed and awed? Monster!König is weary, a man like yourself should know better than to get close to him… or if this is a ploy to make a fool out of him? you’d be a brave example to anyone else trying to play with him, “You better run back to your friends, kleiner Mann.”, voice low as he walks past you

but does that deter you? of course not, a brave little thing. your efforts start small - an attempt to break past Monster!König’s walls. knee bumping against his when you sit down in the mess hall, fleeting touches when your fingertips graze his. his gaze is always cast down towards you when it happens, a silent look asking what you’re doing

it’s slow, almost painfully slow trying to befriend him, let alone touch him. but the voice in the back of your head eggs you on, “He’ll open up. He’ll trust you eventually.”. the little game you started changes; those brief touches start to hold more meaning. yes, you want to feel his tentacles against your hand… but you also want him. for him to trust you enough that he seeks out your touch, is okay with it

so when Monster!König pats your back after a day of training, casts his gaze down on you again, it sparks hope. “Nice work, kleiner Mann.”, voice letting go of any malice, replaced with… you can’t say, but it’s friendly. when he pulls his hand away, how long had it been there? a warmth spreads in your chest

it’s a couple days before anything significant happens, but it was something that had your heart racing and palms a little clammy. it had been raining out, a storm sweeping through before the sky was clear and sunny again. soldiers shouldn’t be deterred by a little water, so training was held outside - maybe it was just your shoes against the wet grass, maybe it was kismet?

running laps with the group after hitting the gym for a few hours last night had left you with wobbly legs, trailing behind the others on the field. eyes half lidded, nodding off a little, it’s only when your heel slips and you’re falling backwards do you fully wake up. already bracing for the impact of the ground, you’re caught off guard - and quite literally - when you feel an arm under back, a hand on the nape of your neck

“Careful, Kleine.”, accent a little thick as he holds you, icy blue eyes looking down at you. you’d meet his gaze if it weren’t for the angle - you could see up his hood from here. a mess of tentacles wrapped securely around the Austrian’s neck, catching little reflections of light. you blink and suddenly you’re standing upright, his hand still on the back of your neck. a gentle squeeze, barely any pressure, then his hand is pulled back, “Try not to fall again, ja?”

after that? it only amped up - suddenly you were on the receiving end of featherlight touches. walking side by side, the heat in your cheeks is only fanned when König’s rough hand eases against yours. for such a broad, brutish man, König’s touch is delicate, careful. turning a corner, his grip tightens ever so slightly, stopping in his tracks

as you look up at him, gaze meeting his, your eyebrows knit slightly, “König? What—“. words dying on your tongue as he kneels down, he looks up at you, gaze smitten. and only when he squeezes your hand do you feel a new sensation around your bicep - poking out from under his mask, a tentacle had wrapped around the muscles of your arm, “You’re a patient man, ist es das, was Sie sehen möchten?“

it’s suddenly hard to breathe as it moves down your forearm, replacing his hand with the appendage, “Ah— König.”, you choke out

[thevioletcaptain]

For the 5 sentence game:

Dean/Cas

How long had it been since he’d seen sunlight?

How long had it been since he'd seen sunlight?

Pressing his hands to the ground where he landed, Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the warmth of day-baked earth; the golden-green dapple of shadows cast through the leaves of a sprawling sycamore; the dusty-sweet scent of hay that carries from the nearby barn where Dean is waiting.

Dean is waiting.

He's been waiting for weeks, months, years -- Castiel doesn't know for certain -- but he's felt each instant of Dean's longing as it grew and grew and grew, until finally it was strong enough to pierce the fabric of the empty without him even trying, like a fallen ember burning through black velvet.

Rising to his feet, Castiel makes for the barn with a single thought at the forefront of his mind -- the sun can wait. He has Dean's love to bask in.

[for this askbox game if anyone else wants to send me a prompt]

[loopyarts]

Day 2 First date Niji x Galette.

Hmm, I think their first date as fiancés went smashing. Is Niji having an actual nosebleed because how hot she is or did she give him one with her love you decided.

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

📖 🔫 🩹 ? Love ur writing btw :)

Use Your Sharp Claws to Hold Me Gently - Murdoc/Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, gender-neutral reader, no use of Y/N, pet names, lonely!reader (he fixes that don't worry).

Wordcount: 2354

Summary: You were alone, he knew it the moment he entered your apartment and saw only you in every inch, but you were also interesting, and that was something he couldn't let go of.

Notes: Thank you so much QwQ I was SO tempted to make the reader take care of Murdoc as I was song hunting to set the mood, so if I get this combo again know that I won't be able to resist hehe I ended up going with this song, full disclosure, and it fueled me so much that I blacked out and when I came to this was written so I hope you enjoy, cause I really like this one a lot ���💗💗

He was in town again, his only warning the single text from his unlisted number, the other end going dead as soon as the message was received, no number to save to your phone and reply back to. You’d been doing this for a long while now, your arrangement to keep him close carefully discussed behind closed doors the night before he had to hop on a plane and become scarce again. You understood completely why that was, it didn’t scare you like he’d expected, but then again, he’d expected a lot of things to scare you, things that would scare anyone else for very rational reasons.

Not you though, not once you’d stared down the barrel into those brown eyes and fallen hard.

You were never supposed to be on his list, your presence a prime example of Wrong Place Wrong Time as you’d stumbled upon his hit just moments before he’d pulled the trigger. His target had pleaded with you for help when he’d seen you, money offered in sums you couldn’t dare to imagine owning, tossed around like it was nothing as he put a price on his own life. You never accepted, knowing that if you did then you’d be putting that same price on your own as well, wanting to risk your slim chance of survival as you just stood there, blocking off the alley so no one else would find themselves in the same situation.

He’d shot the man in that same instant, the gun pointed at you next without a hint of mercy.

You’d just stared him down, knew it was inevitable the moment you interrupted his carefully planned work, everything about him gave off the essence of preparations and structure and purpose, you were a fly in the wheel of all that to him, nothing more.

‘Just get it over with,’ you told him as you shut your eyes, trying to hide the fact that you were trembling and it wasn’t from the downpour currently soaking you to your now very tired bones.

He never did, wet footsteps approaching until you felt cold steel against your forehead. ‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ he asked you, eyes seeing right through you, down to your soul as he tried to find the answer. You opened your eyes then, his voice so much softer than the gun held in his leather gloved hand, rain dripping from his ginger-dyed bangs, the colour almost fully grown out from what had to have been a past disguise, and running down his face in streams. He was beautiful, you thought even as the thunder roared high above, the sounds of the city telling you that you still had a chance to run, salvation was only steps away, but you didn’t move, you couldn’t.

‘I am,’ you confessed, but it almost felt like a lie.

‘You should be,’ he replied lowly, and it held the same weight as your confession.

You took the back ways to your apartment, unable to miss how he dedicated every way to get inside without being noticed to memory, a silent promise that if you survived and told someone what you saw then he’d know exactly how to find you. You told him which window was yours, the fire escape leading right up to it, that fact the only reason you’d bought it in the first place; those metal stairs meant freedom for you in case of emergency, something you’d never had before as you moved to the big city and lived through too many unfortunate events to count.

He was taking that away from you as he jumped up, hoisted himself onto the stairs with such ease that you knew you’d never be able to outrun him even if you started now, no amount of window latches able to keep him out. You used the front door and met him upstairs, the security cameras sparsely spread throughout the building only catching you heading home, drenched but not giving away a thing. He hadn’t waited outside as expected, the window unbroken but still wide open as he dripped water all over your hardwood floors, shoes tracking mud over the thrift store rug in the living room.

He was seeing what you had to lose, but it wasn’t much he was soon to realize, your walls and surfaces bare of photos outside of the rare empty frame you’d bought but forgotten to fill, the default photo showing strangers looking happy behind the dusty glass. He lifted one of them up, knew they weren’t yours, and you heard him laugh at your loneliness, the sound so hollow like he didn’t even know what a laugh really was and was simply acting the emotion out. 

Maybe he was lonely too.

You offered him tea or coffee, not knowing what to do to fill the time until the gun would surely reappear again but he refused, his attention now on you like he hadn’t even noticed you come in. He walked over to your tiny kitchen, searching through your cupboards until he found a glass; he went to the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of filtered water, poured himself some without asking, left everything out for you to clean up later if you’d even get the chance. ‘Expecting anyone?’ he asked casually, eyes looking for any sliver of a trace that you shared your life with anyone, the answer in his head before you could even open your mouth. ‘No, you aren’t… don’t you know it’s dangerous to live on your own in a place like this?’

It held no real concern. You offered him no real worry as you just shrugged.

The lights remained off as he let you get on with your night, his eyes always on you as you grabbed a towel to pat yourself and your clothes dry, the takeout you’d gone out to get reheated as you sat at the table and ate. He was never out of sight but he never approached you either, the only other thing he grabbed being one of the kitchen knives from the hand-me-down block you’d stolen from home when you moved out. You wondered if he might throw it at you like a circus performer, maybe it’d hit its target, maybe it’d fly right past and embed itself in the wall behind you, a trick to be applauded for either way, but it never left his hands, the blade occasionally catching the light as he spun it in his fingers.

You thought he might be coming to slit your throat when he walked behind you as you tried to cut through the too tough meat, his arms around you and making you still as the knife was pressed down and sliced through with ease. His movements were so delicate like that of a dancer, he was well trained in what he did, and when he was done he lifted the knife up to his mouth to lick away the sauce before going back to the kitchen. It was tossed down loudly into the sink now that he’d dirtied it but you didn’t jump at the sound, your eyes on him as he then strolled over to the couch and sat down, recently dried mud flecking off his shoes and onto your coffee table as he got comfortable.

He let you finish eating in peace, your last meal no doubt, before taking the gun out again and motioning for you to go to the bedroom, your body freezing cold but surprisingly calm as you did as you were told. There was no rush at all as you both walked in, the door wide open and letting you know that you weren’t trapped, and you waited for his next command when the gun was set down in plain sight on top of your dresser. It was perfectly spaced between the two of you, only two steps away with the grip facing you, an open invitation to grab it and defend yourself.

Images of trying flashed through your head. You didn’t act on them, his eyes shining the longer you just stood there; there was no point, you didn’t have much of a life anyways, the empty photo frames reminded you of that every day.

‘Aren’t you an interesting one,’ he thought aloud, your hand twitching only once towards the dresser before you fell still again. ‘My job is done tonight, and I might have a bit of time free in my schedule if you’d like to hire me, little rabbit,’ he then told you, his eyes meeting yours even as half of his face was shrouded in shadows, the light from your bedroom window making the only parts visible practically glow between his dark hair and even darker outfit.

‘What do you do?’ Your voice didn’t tremble, he was impressed.

‘I make problems disappear, for a price.’

‘Can you make more than problems disappear?’

This interested him even more, and he took a few steps closer to you, your head tilting back so you could look up to him. ‘What did you have in mind?’

You couldn’t say it, he already knew the answer already, and he considered what you wanted before taking off his coat and folding it up, the slightly damp leather creaking as it was placed on your dresser next to his weapon. He opened his arms to you, the gun still just in reach as he waited, and you could only stare at him as you walked forward; he wrapped his arms around you as you let your head fall against his shoulder, and the hug held nothing but the transaction as he attempted to make your loneliness disappear. He was warm as the rain continued to fall outside, his controlled breathing rustling your hair ever so slightly as the trembling began, your shaking hands reaching up to cling to his black sweater.

When you’d awoken the next morning you’d found your apartment empty again, although there was a text from an unfamiliar number on your phone telling you, ‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful,’ the line pulled directly from your copy of Frankenstien, the book open to the page and waiting for you to notice it on your dresser where the gun had been.

He’d returned to you a few months later, another new number with a quote alerting you to his arrival before you’d heard him tapping on the window, this time waiting for you to let him in. This situation repeated many times over the year, each time with a text, each time the two of you just retreating to your bedroom where he held you and stole your loneliness for hours at a time, never once telling you about where he’d been or what he’d done. Your frames were still empty all the while, and with every visit he’d hold you closer, share his warmth with you as he threaded bare fingers through your hair, let you lay there in silence or cry into his chest if you needed to.

He slowly filled all your empty spaces, even if just for a little while, and you wondered how large your bill must be getting with each press of split lips to the top of your head and bloodied knuckles tracing the curve of your flushed cheeks. You never asked for something of his to remember him by until the night you finally spoke, your body completely in his lap as he held you, your fingertips brushing over fresh bruises spreading over his bare chest.

‘I might not be able to afford you at this rate,’ you murmured, and when he breathed out a laugh it didn’t feel like he was acting anymore.

‘I do the jobs that interest me for free, you know,’ he whispered into your ear, hand coming up to run over your jaw until you couldn’t help but look up at him. ‘That was just the first time, though.’

‘What about now?’ Something inside of you told you to be afraid as you looked into brown eyes so dark they almost looked black, the red and purple painting his eyebrow to his cheek warning you of the danger, but you weren’t afraid, you never had been.

He didn’t answer you, his mouth finding yours as colours shone through cheap curtains and shrouded you both in a halo of store neons and street lights.

That was months ago, his latest text reading, ‘There are darknesses in life and there are lights; you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.’ Bram Stoker, tonight, Dracula. You screenshotted it as you did with all his quotes, it saved to your phone with all the others before deleting the now useless chat and unlocking the latch over your window. He arrived less than an hour later, the smell of cheap takeout making him smirk as he looked at the feast laid out for him. ‘Hello again, little rabbit,’ he said into your neck as he wrapped his arms around you, his gloves already removed so he could feel you against his hot skin.

‘Hello, Murdoc,’ you greeted him back, his canines grazing over your skin and warning you of the danger as they always did before he noticed the frame you’d placed by your TV, front and center in the gap between the device and the edge of the stand they rested on. He let go of you and walked over to it, lifting it up and laughing genuinely at the sight of himself in your bed, a secretly stolen photo you’d taken when he’d fallen asleep in your arms.

‘You really are interesting,’ he mused as he put it back, still shrouded in darkness as he turned on his heel to face you, the sight so familiar as he filled up every last empty space inside of you.

Maybe he really had been able to make your loneliness disappear that first night, but he’d have to figure that one out himself as you pressed yourself against his chest and kissed him.

He smiled against your upturned lips like he already knew.

[singsweetmelodies]

Hello Katie 👋🏼👋🏼 :D

For the 50 romance prompts ask meme, I'll like to request for 44: soulmate AU: timers <3

but if possible... with a twist...? (you don't have to include a twist if it's too difficult to work it in!)

The twist being, for whatever reason, their countdown timers for each of them to the time they meet their soulmates doesn't match, so they think "we're not each other's soulmates. that's cool. (no it's not)" but it turns out that they're each other soulmates anyways. or they choose to be with each other in spite of not being each other's soulmates. idk. *nervous laughter*

hiiii charlotte 🥰 first off, i am SO sorry for the incredible delay with this answer!! i saw this prompt and i absolutely LOVED IT (and the twist!! 🙏 *chef's kiss*) but unfortunately i got struck with a horrible case of writer's block/work deadlines, and just couldn't get to it at all.

until yesterday: i decided to just open my inbox and see what came to me. no thinking, just following the vibe of a prompt and writing. and uh. this happened... not only did it get ridiculously long (oops?) but it also somehow became a mini "investigate montreal" fic?? so in that vein, i'm tagging @1016week and submitting a belated entry for Day 6 "Montreal"... ❤️

i love this one. hope you love it too!! 👀⌚

~

Charles' soulmate timer stops when he is seven years old, and he meets the boy with the bluest eyes he's ever seen.

He's been vibrating with excitement all weekend - not just because it's a karting cup, but because his soulmate timer has been ticking down to this day for months now. Well, not just months, not really. It's actually been his whole life, but Charles doesn't remember all of that. He only remembers the past few months, when the little numbers had been getting smaller and smaller, until there were only ten days left and Charles gasped when he realised that the day would fall on the same day as the Bridgestone Cup.

"Of course the girl I marry is going to like racing, too," he'd told Maman and Papa, confidingly. Not a lot about soulmates made much sense to him, but this did.

His Maman had tried to smile, and Charles had hugged her tight to let her know it was going to be okay. He would find his soulmate, and then everyone would be smiling, because that's what people do when you meet your soulmate.

(Later that night, when Charles had been too excited to sleep and he'd gone to the bathroom quickly, Charles had heard his parents having an argument in their room. The door was closed, so their voices were muffled, but Charles could still make out his Maman saying "I just don't think it's a good sign, to meet your soulmate so young!" But Papa had countered, "Many people do, and they have beautiful stories. You have to trust that our Charles will meet his perfect match tomorrow." And then there had been an icky noise, like kissing, and Charles had flushed the loo quickly and ran back to his room.)

Now, with the beautiful blue eyed boy standing in front of him, Charles thinks of Papa's words again. Our Charles will meet his perfect match tomorrow.

Charles thought it would be a girl who really liked karting, but this is even better. This is a boy who wins at karting, because he's holding a trophy in both hands and grinning like he couldn't be happier.

Of course Charles' perfect match would be someone who wins at karting. It's only right, because Charles also wins at karting.

Charles clears his throat. "Hi," he says shyly, and the blue-eyed boy jumps.

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," he says apologetically, and then he laughs. He has a nice laugh, Charles thinks - like he knows how to have fun. "You are a bit short," the blue-eyed boy adds, and hey.

"Hey," Charles protests. "I'm tall for my age. I'm seven."

"Well, I'm nine," the blue-eyed boy says, like that's the most impressive age in the world.

It is a bit impressive, but not very, because Lorenzo is much older than that. Still, it is a little scary - Charles is only seven. What if this blue-eyed boy doesn't like him because he's only seven? Older kids can be mean like that.

No, he is your perfect match, Charles reminds himself. This blue-eyed boy won't be mean to him, because that's not how perfect matches work.

Charles takes a deep breath, then he sticks out his hand. "I'm Charles," he says.

The blue-eyed boy takes his hand, and it feels... weird. A little bit like when you get shocked by static electricity.

Charles giggles, unable to stop himself, and the blue-eyed boy smiles, as though he likes that.

"Hello, Charles. I'm Pierre," he says, squeezing Charles' hand. His eyes widen a moment later. "Oh! You've met your soulmate?!"

Charles doesn't understand what he means. "Well, yeah," he says. "It's y-"

And then he notices it.

Pierre's soulmate timer, right there on his wrist, right above where Charles is gripping his hand - it's still ticking.

Now, Charles doesn't know a lot about soulmates yet, but he knows that that's not good. Not good at all.

"I, um," Charles stammers, and then he does the one thing Maman and Papa said you should never do to your soulmate. Charles lies.

"I met so many new people today. I don't remember who it was."

Pierre's face falls. "Oh," he says, and he sounds unbearably sad for Charles. "But..." He chews his lip, shaking his head with a deep frown.

Then, mid-shake, Pierre's expression changes to one of determination. "I will help you find them," he says, with the kind of confidence Charles can only dream of when he's not on the racetrack.

He tugs on Charles' hand - which he still hasn't let go of - and Charles is helpless to do anything but follow.

~

They don't find Charles' soulmate anywhere, of course, and then Charles has to go win his race - but Pierre makes him promise that they will find each other at the next French karting event, and Charles will tell him all about his soulmate.

Charles promises, even though the idea makes his stomach feel all funny. I shouldn't be lying to my soulmate, he thinks, guiltily.

But Pierre's soulmate timer didn't stop ticking, and... that's not how soulmates are supposed to work.

The moment he's in the car with his father after the race, heading back home, Charles asks him about it.

Papa is quiet for a long moment, then: "Are you sure there wasn't someone behind Pierre, Charles?" he asks, in his careful, kind way. "Someone who's timer stopped at the same time as yours?"

Charles thinks about it for a moment, but even the idea of that feels - wrong, somehow. Like going into a corner and knowing you braked too hard, and you're going to flip the kart.

He shakes his head decisively. "No," he says. "It's Pierre."

He hears rather than sees his father blow out a soft sigh. Charles catches his eye in the rearview mirror, feeling confused and a little shaky inside.

When Papa sighs like that, it's never good news - it's usually something about sponsorship, which is a word Charles is already coming to dread.

It doesn't make sense how this could be about sponsorship, though. It probably isn't.

Charles waits for his father to gather his thoughts, like he needs to do sometimes to make sure he says exactly what he means. (It's something Maman keeps telling him he should try doing as well, but he's not so good at that yet.)

"You know how even the greatest racing drivers make mistakes sometimes?" Papa asks.

Charles frowns, but he nods. "Yes?"

"Sometimes the universe is like that, too. Sometimes the universe makes a mistake, and stops the timers too soon," Papa explains.

Charles frowns. He hasn't heard about that before, but he guesses it makes sense. It's true what Papa said - not even Senna was a perfect driver who never made mistakes. It makes sense that the universe is the same.

"But this doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate, okay, Charles?" Papa says before Charles can spend too much time thinking about the whole thing. His voice is firmer than Charles was expecting, and he reaches up to tilt the rearview mirror to see Charles better.

"It doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate," he repeats, like he doesn't want Charles to ever doubt that. "It just means it's going to be a little harder to find them."

Charles frowns, and he can't help but be a little annoyed. Isn't the whole point of soulmate timers to make it easier to find your perfect match?

It's just his luck that his soulmate timer doesn't work properly.

"I understand," Charles says, though, because he can tell it's important to his father.

Papa nods, but he keeps watching Charles in the rearview mirror for the rest of the drive, like he sometimes does after a race where Charles crashed the kart badly and he needs to keep making sure that Charles is fine.

Of course Charles is fine. He doesn't think this is comparable to a bad race at all! It's a little annoying, yes, but it's not that bad. It's just a bit of extra work, isn't it?

Charles shrugs his shoulders, glancing quickly down at the stopped soulmate timer at his wrist.

Whatever. Racing is more important than soulmates, anyway.

~

Almost twenty years later, Charles still says that to himself almost every day, even if he doesn't believe it with nearly the same careless seven-year-old confidence anymore: racing is more important than soulmates.

It is, because it has to be.

The thing is this: his father's explanation to Charles' seven-year-old self had been true - if a little oversimplified, and painted with an overt layer of kindness.

The truth Charles knows now is that there are two reasons, two categories, for people whose timers stop when the other person's keeps running.

One is, like Papa had said all those years ago, a simple case of mistaken timing - cases where the universe or fate or whatever controls it all stopped one person's timer a little too soon, or the other's a little too late.

It's harder to find each other in those cases, but it's still quite possible.

And then there's the second category. The unrequiteds. People whose timers stopped at the right time - when they met the person who would be their perfect match - except that they are not that person's perfect match in return. It only goes one way.

It's rare, but it happens sometimes. No system is perfect, after all - not even a system of soulmates.

For years and years, Charles tried to convince himself that he fell into the first category. His soulmate timer simply stopped too early, by some cosmic accident - but it's okay, Charles insists to everyone who asks and to himself as well, because what it's done is given Charles more time to focus on his racing instead. He's not constantly glancing down at his wrist and wondering when his timer is going to stop ticking - he can just get on with the racing.

He'll find his soulmate eventually, but on his own terms. There's nothing bad about that, surely.

Charles believes that. Really he does.

Except.

Except, if it's true and Charles falls into the first category - the mistaken timing category - then it would mean Pierre isn't his soulmate.

Pierre, who kept the promise he'd made to a seven-year-old who wasn't even his soulmate (because, yes, he had found Charles at the very next French karting cup, and he'd asked to meet Charles' soulmate - and when Charles had to admit that he still hadn't found them, Pierre had hugged him and told him not to give up and that he would find his soulmate someday. Pierre had held Charles' hand and explained that his parents almost didn't find each other, but they did. So it might take Charles some time, but that was okay, because it had taken Pierre's parents some time too, but now they were happier than ever. He'd been so convincing, firm but kind and absolutely sure of himself, and he'd made Charles believe it. He also made Charles smile, genuinely and truly, when he promised he'd stick by Charles' side no matter what anyone else said or whispered about his stopped soulmate timer.)

Pierre, who kept that promise about sticking with Charles, too. Pierre who never stopped being kind, and loyal, and the best friend Charles could ask for, whether he was seven or thirteen or nineteen or twenty-six.

Honestly, how was Charles supposed to not fall hopelessly in love with him?

He tried to deny it. For years and years, Charles tried to deny it - I will find my soulmate someday and it will all make sense, he'd tried to convince himself - but the thing was, what made more sense than Pierre being his soulmate?

It was roundabout the time of Pierre's first win (when Charles was standing under the podium in Monza with an aching back but a heart soaring with joy for his best friend despite the disaster of his own race) that Charles resigned himself to the truth: Pierre is his soulmate.

He has to be. Isn't a soulmate meant to be your perfect match; the person who understands you better than anyone and makes you happier than any other person in the world?

There's nobody else who could make Charles as happy as Pierre does. Nobody, nobody. There's no point in even trying to deny it anymore.

Pierre is his soulmate. But he is not Pierre's.

And that's okay. It's okay.

It has to be.

~

It isn't okay, not really, but that's true of a lot of things in Charles' life, and he's learned how to deal with them. He can deal with this, too.

On the whole, Charles thinks he does a pretty good job of dealing with it. He gets to be Pierre's best friend, after all - isn't that just a different kind of soulmate? True, Charles might want more, but it isn't like he has nothing. He has Pierre, and he will have Pierre for the rest of their lives.

Not in the way he wants, but - at least he will have Pierre.

The one thing he tries never to think about is Pierre's actual soulmate. Because Pierre has one, he knows, and he will meet them at some point.

Charles doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to look at some soulmate of Pierre's, and smile at her, and not be hopelessly, heartbreakingly jealous.

(He will do it, though. He will learn to smile at Pierre's soulmate - for Pierre's sake. He'll do it for Pierre.)

But that's a bridge he will cross when they get there. He doesn't have to worry about it yet (or at least, that's what Charles keeps telling himself even as the months tick by, and he knows there aren't year figures left on Pierre's soulmate timer anymore. Just months now, and then... weeks.)

Charles isn't thinking about it. He's put it out of his mind completely - which is easy enough to do, thankfully, given everything that's been happening on-track this season.

That's probably why he accepts Pierre's invitation to dinner in Montreal without thinking twice about it. (Even if he had realised, though, Charles doesn't think he would have been able to say no, either. He would give Pierre everything, if he only asked.)

So they go to dinner in Montreal, and it's perfect, and wonderful, and laughter-filled, and all in all exactly what Charles needed to distract himself from the fact that he has yet another engine penalty, and the sinking feeling that the championship is beginning to slip out of his reach.

Pierre seems to realise it, because he's in even finer form than usual - teasing Charles and tickling his ribs playfully and making him laugh at every possible opportunity.

Even on the drive back to the hotel: they stop at a red light, and Pierre steals Charles' cap, and Charles is giggling and filming it while Pierre is giggling back, and he's pretty sure neither of them are thinking about it at all, until-

Until Pierre's face changes from laughter to something almost ashen. "Charles," he says, and for all the years Charles has known him, he's never once heard Pierre's voice like that. "My soulmate timer just stopped."

For a few seconds, the words don't even register in Charles' mind.

Then they do, and Charles can feel his heart drop. "What?" he breathes.

His hands shake, and he doesn't even register the fact that the light has gone green as he glances all around them, craning his neck to see if there's anyone behind the white Ferrari, or around to the side.

Just a few minutes ago, their car had been surrounded by fans on all sides, all jostling to try and get pictures of them. But now, somehow, they're all alone in the Montreal night.

(The irony of it all is not lost on him - is this how Pierre felt all those years ago, when he was trying to look for Charles' soulmate at a karting cup, but not finding anybody it could be?)

"Are you sure it stopped just now? And not earlier?" Charles asks, willing his voice not to shake.

"Yeah," Pierre whispers. He sounds... devastated.

"But," Charles says, and then he has to take a deep breath. "But there's no-one else here, Pierrot."

"I know," Pierre says, somehow even softer.

Charles' fingers clench reflexively around the steering wheel, and he's moving in blank autopilot as he puts the car into gear and starts driving forward again.

He doesn't even realise he's shaking his head until Pierre says softly, "Charles." There's something wounded about it.

Charles stops shaking his head and slams on the brakes instead, jerking the car into something he hopes is a parking space at the side of the road.

"I don't understand," he says, far more calmly than he feels. "You can't - I can't be your soulmate."

Okay, maybe he's not so calm after all. But he doesn't think... he doesn't think anyone would be calm, in this situation.

Pierre makes a sound that could almost be a laugh, except that it sounds too strangled. "Do you know," he says, "that I have spent half my life wondering if the soulmate system got something wrong in my case? Because if you're not my soulmate, then who is? Who could possibly..."

Pierre does laugh this time, shaking his head. "You know, I asked to go out with you tonight for a reason. I knew - I knew it would happen tonight, so I needed to..." He swallows. "I needed to see you, one last time. Before I wouldn't be allowed to love you anymore."

It jolts through Charles then, what Pierre is trying to say. "Pierre," he breathes, and now it's his turn to say his best friend's name in a way he doesn't think he's ever said it before.

But Pierre's not finished yet. "I thought I could have one last night with you," he says. "One last night, before I had to say goodbye to my feelings, and try to love someone else."

My feelings. Try to love someone else.

Charles Leclerc is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them. He knows what Pierre is saying. He's...

Pierre loves him too. All along, Pierre has loved him too.

Only, he never had the option of thinking we're soulmates, Charles realised, and his heart twists in his chest.

Because Charles, for all that he accepted his soulbond toward Pierre was unrequited - at least he'd had the option of them being soulmates. Yes, it was in a twisted way, but at least he'd had that.

Pierre didn't. And he still fell in love with Charles.

The thought hits him like a shell-shock, and it's enough that Charles can only sit there for a moment, staring blankly, as Pierre continues talking beside him.

"I meant for tonight to just be a quick dinner together, something fun but normal for us," Pierre is saying, wringing his hands. "But I lost track of time. I always lose time when I'm talking to you, Charlito, I could talk to you forever - but the point is, I forgot to tell you I need to go back. I forgot that I was meant to meet my fucking soulmate tonight, because I was spending time with you, and - "

He takes a deep breath, and then he laughs again, leaning forward to drop his head into his hands. "I felt it happen, you know? I knew exactly when my soulmate timer stopped, because I could feel it, and it's - it was when I put that fucking cap on my head, Charles."

The cap that he's still wearing. Charles' 16 Ferrari cap.

Charles' hands shake as he reaches out to touch it, just the brim. "Your soulmate timer stopped when you put my cap on," he says, because a part of him still can't believe that this is real, that he's not living in some kind of heartbreakingly wonderful dream.

Pierre straightens up so fast that Charles is left with his fingers dangling awkwardly in mid-air. "Yes," he says, suddenly looking wild, "but this doesn't have to change anything, Charlito, I promise. I will still help you find your soulmate, and I will - I'll learn how to live with an unrequited bond, it's -"

"No!" Charles interrupts, half-throwing himself across the car to catch hold of Pierre's hands. "No, no, no, no. No more unrequited bonds, Pierrot."

Pierre starts to shake his head, but then he stops in the middle of the movement. "What do you mean," he asks, very carefully, "no more?"

And suddenly, Charles feels giddy, of all things. "I mean, your timer didn't stop when mine did. So for years, I have thought that we can't be soulmates, or at least that you couldn't be my soulmate. But now your timer stopped when you put on my cap, so -"

"Stop, stop, stop," Pierre says, squeezing Charles' hands tightly. "What do you mean, my timer didn't stop when yours did?"

"Oh," Charles says, and then he winces, the weight of the only real lie he's ever told his best friend (the only real lie he's ever told his soulmate) settling onto his shoulders with uncomfortable heaviness. "Um. Well. Do you remember when we met, and you thought I already met my soulmate?"

"No," Pierre breathes, but it's not the kind of no that says "no I don't remember." This no is more like "no way."

"Yeah," Charles says, and he can't help but look down at his own wrist, where the soulmate timer has been stopped for years and years. "My timer stopped the moment I met you, Pierrot."

"You..."

Pierre doesn't look like he knows how to finish that sentence, but Charles understands him anyway. "How was I supposed to tell you? I was seven, Pierre, and your timer didn't stop. I thought it was a mistake for years."

"But?" Pierre asks, like he can tell there was a but.

Charles beams at him. "But, I realised that there was nobody else who could be my perfect match. So I thought you were my soulmate after all, but it was unrequited."

"Never," Pierre says with a fierceness Charles doesn't expect. "Charles, never. If I knew... if I thought I had even half a chance, I would have been with you anyway."

Charles tries to laugh, but it comes out all breathless. "No you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would," Pierre argues, and his voice is heartbreakingly sincere. "I don't care. I would have chosen you."

Charles hears a punched-out noise, and it takes him a moment to realise it came from him. The next moment, he's unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing awkwardly over to sit on Pierre's lap.

It's not quite comfortable, because for all its luxury, the white Ferrari does not have a lot of leg space - but Charles doesn't think either of them give a single fuck, in this moment.

"I love you," he tells Pierre, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I've always loved you, but I never would have stood between you and your soulmate."

"Funny," Pierre says, his hands coming up to grip Charles' hips, "because that's exactly what stopped me from kissing you senseless."

"Well," Charles says, and if he grinds down just a little on Pierre's lap, he'll swear to everyone who asks that it was accidental. "It doesn't have to stop us anymore."

"Never again," Pierre agrees, tightening his grip on Charles' hips. "Never."

"So kiss me senseless, please," Charles whispers, and then he adds "soulmate," and that's what does it. Pierre surges up and kisses him, wild and desperate and more than a little clumsy, but without question the best kiss Charles has ever had. His own cap digs into his forehead a little, but Charles can't even bring himself to care about that - they owe too much to this cap now, honestly.

Maybe the universe does know what it's doing after all, Charles thinks. Maybe the universe just wanted to write a good story for them. A story that goes like this:

Charles' soulmate timer stopped when he was seven years old, and he met the boy with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

Almost twenty years later, Pierre's soulmate timer stopped in a white Ferrari in Montreal, and Charles finally got to kiss the boy with the bluest eyes he's ever seen, the man who is his best friend and his soulmate.

The odds of it working out this way have to be... a million to one, probably, or maybe even less.

But then again, what are the odds that two boys who met at a French karting cup and became friends with a shared dream would both make it to Formula 1?

Maybe the answer is just that Pierre and Charles have always liked beating the odds.

~

(50 Romance Prompts Ask Meme) <- not currently taking more prompts, sorry!

[daryfromthefuture]

mcflyjuly 2024//🌲🌲//day 5: "don't need money, don't take fame"

01/02/84

I'm like, one day late, but happy new year! I'm NOT excited to go back to school soon. It was always very fun to say "I don't have school until next year!", but unfortunately, that won't work anymore. Luckily, I can't get enough of the album Huey Lewis released last September, especially because I got the vinyl for Christmas, and as well a poster for my wall. My favorite song has got to be "Finally Found A Home" - it's a gem to learn on guitar, and I've already bothered Jennifer to hell and back with it. She doesn't mind.

Speaking of bothering people with Huey Lewis, today is my family's turn. My grandparents don't like loud music, and so I couldn't play at the Christmas party, but I've arranged a little concert for today. Just some quality family time.

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Update on my Whumptober thoughts: Not all the prompts will be posted, I have all 31 planned out but I found out that you don't have to post all 31. If a fic is finished, I'll post it but there's some big beasts that I want to write properly instead of rush. Also, I might not even write all 31. I want the completionist title but I don't have the time nor energy to force myself to write all the prompts and I did it last year and it wasn't like life-changing. I like Whumptober because the prompts help my creativity, spark some inspiration (talking about my Delancey Brothers Fic) but the perfectionist in me just beats myself up about not getting enough fics done before October or not writing enough each day to get them finished and then writing fics that all sound the same or the ideas being kind of shitty because I'm forcing them. I want to do my ideas justice rather than mass produce shit I don't like because I feel I need to, it's a constant line I walk between "I want to write something well and that I'm proud of so might be inactive for a while on AO3" and "I want to get this idea out there so need to post a bunch of stuff now"

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 20 / 31 * LOCAL LEGEND 」

December 5, 2000, 22:54

1646 Riverside Drive, Hill Valley, California

Divergence: Twin Pines(α) — %.5382217

“Doc!!” Marty shouts, leaning so far back in the chair that, for a moment, he experiences that panic-inducing sensation of falling that has him scrabbling for the edge of the desk as his life flashes before his eyes. “Doc, he’s on! Joseph Cabret! He responded to our email! Get over here!”

Emmett grunts his acknowledgement, casting one last long look at the mess of wires hooked into the housing of the Flux Capacitor before he drags a second chair over to the computer. The cursor is already in place over the single unread email in the box and Emmett can see Marty’s finger twitching in anticipation, his eyes glued to the screen.

“Go ahead, Marty,” he prompts, only barely finishing the word go before the email pops open to an intimidating wall of black text. Marty whistles, scrolling down to the bottom of what looks like a very long-winded, very complicated scientific dissertation regarding alleged time-travel that reminds him of most of the papers scattered around the garage right now.

Dear 1.21_Jigowatts,

Emmett groans upon seeing their ridiculous username come back to haunt them in the reply and Marty throws him a lopsided grin and a shrug that says it’s way too late to change it now, Doc.

“It’s the Internet, Doc—who cares? Nobody knows who we are.”

That is the last time he lets Marty pick the name for something without reviewing it first.

Before I address everything you wrote in your email to me, I wanted to comment on your username. Were you aware of its significance in relation to time travel when you joined the forum or did you simply happen upon it by chance? Could it be that you’re a time-traveller too?

If so, I’d love to share stories while we can.

I’ve been getting a lot of questions about the future, often all limited by the scope of your present time asking for answers to inconsequential things. The next election results, lottery numbers, things of that nature, as if that’ll verify my time-traveller status. And while I can’t say I’m surprised—I’ve studied your current time carefully and unfortunately, your time is remembered for being one of the most chaotic and selfish, so it’s not like I can fault those who ask—there are some, like yourself, who have been asking complex and meaningful questions that show a genuine interest in the possible future and in time-travel that I’m all too happy to answer, as best as I can.

To answer your simplest question first, the reason I stopped in this time is an entirely selfish one. Where I’m from, most of the people I care about have been killed. There was someone very important to my Dad and my family who was killed when I was very young that I wanted to finally meet. I know he's alive now, so I'm here. Even if you think it’s a waste of time, remember that time is of no consequence with the time machine.

Now, to the bulk of this message. I see you’re intimately familiar with the Everett-Wheeler model of quantum physics, which saves me a lot of explaining. You must be a man of science. That model is correct. When I say worldline, I refer to what you’d call an ‘alternate reality’ or an ‘alternate timeline.’ So, each individual worldline represents a set of paths and limits—possibilities, if you would—taken through space-time. These are all subject to the laws of special relativity. No two are exactly the same.

There is a device installed in my time machine that measures the change in each worldline I visit. Its inventor is dead, so I can’t tell you too much about how it works other than a general overview and how to read it, but from what I understand, it collects information from the ‘current’ worldline and uses that to establish a baseline. Then, upon the next jump, a second reading is taken of the new worldline and measured against the first one. The difference—or Divergence, as the device’s creator named it—is expressed in percentages. That's how I know.

The email continues on for several more paragraphs, each delving deeper and deeper into the realm of quantum mechanics with lengthy, detailed answers provided to each question they'd asked in their initial email. A dull ache throbs at the base of Marty’s skull as the words start to blur together and he leans back in his seat, needing a little more space between him and the screen.

Unlike him, Emmett has leaned forward, elbows propped up on the table and his fingers laced tightly together as he takes in every word, unable and unwilling to stop now.

For once, Marty can’t quite get a read on what his friend is thinking based off his strangely serious expression and the occasional noncommittal noise he makes while his eyes dart across the screen. The Doc’s thinking about something—he always furrows his brows like that when he’s deep in thought, puzzling out some scientific conundrum—that he knows he’ll share with him once he’s had the chance to process the information.

He himself isn’t quite sure what to think. After all, he’s heard some of these terms thrown around by Doc in the course of their testing and refinement of the Flux Capacitor. It has to mean something that Joseph Cabret knows it too.

Emmett finally breaks his attention away from the screen to train his still-thoughtful gaze on Marty.

“What do you think, Doc? You think there’s any truth to what he’s been saying the last couple weeks or you think it’s all bullshit?”

The words I look forward to your reply, JC stare back at them from the bottom of the screen and Marty doesn’t know why he suddenly feels self-conscious.

“I think—we can’t entirely rule out the possibility.”

“You mean—seriously?”

“I’m not saying definitively yes or definitively no. A lot of the science he talks about is sound. I’ve come to many of the same conclusions in my own work, as you’ve seen in the tests with the Flux Capacitor. We know time travel is possible. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean everything he says is true. Without any proof positive or photos of his time machine, we’ll have to take everything else he says with a grain of salt.” A flicker of uncertainty passes across Emmett’s face, there and gone in the span of a blink.

He pushes the chair back as Marty asks, “And?”

Emmett blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I didn’t read all of that,” Marty admits somewhat sheepishly. “I tuned out somewhere around black holes or wormholes and I figured you’d fill me in if there was anything important on the science end I needed to know. But I watched you read it and I saw that look on your face. There's something else bothering you about this.”

He doesn’t answer right away and Marty doesn’t rush to break the silence. Finally, he sighs, turning back to the screen. “No, you’re right. There is something that jumped out at me, but let’s wait and see what else he has to share with us before I start getting ahead of myself.”

 “You’re going to answer him back?”

“Why not?” Marty beams, clearly pleased. “Let’s take a couple minutes to sit with this and then I’ll start working on our reply. If it all turns out to be for nothing in the end, at least we pursued the possibility rather than let it pass us by.”

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 6: Halcyon

“What are you doing?”

Azem looks up at him, their eyes dancing with that bottomless sense of mirth. “Is it not obvious? I’m making flower crowns.”

They present the flowers to them then, pretty little things Emet-Selch could not name even if he tries. He knows he’s seen some of them before, their depictions classic in literature, with their gentle white petals or bright sunshine hues, but there are many others that he doesn’t. Unusual multi-colored leaves attached to the stems of gentle cool-toned flowers, some with petals more geometric than round. 

“Do you even know what flowers you’re working with? They could be poisonous.”

They laugh, though Emet-Selch would not know if it was they had caught his ignorance or if it was that Azem, as always, charged ahead despite the dangers without a care. “Only one way to find out.”

And before he can protest, they reach for a disorganized pile, pull something out of it, and plop it on his head.

He sputters, reaching for the apparently finished crown Azem had been hiding, because of course they were, but doesn’t remove it from his head. “I wasn’t aware I was summoned to be a test subject.”

“A test subject, and company,” Azem’s grin, somehow, broadens, as they resume weaving the stems together with practiced movements. “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to see each other.”

The tone shift is jarring, the wistfulness in their tone almost unexpected. The words are a gentle punch that has him slumping beside them. 

It’s true that it has been some time since they had seen each other. Things have been busier as of late. Azem was out on adventures, as always, and some of the others among the convocation had been sent away from Amarout for miscellaneous tasks. 

Some might call it fortuitous that his responsibilities had sent him Azem’s way, for once, though Emet-Selch would vehemently protest and insist the universe was playing some sick joke on him instead. Truly, the others underestimated Azem’s penchant for trouble, somehow doubling whenever he was in the vicinity. 

“Do you think the three of us will see each other again?” Azem whispers, enough that Emet-Selch has to strain to hear it. 

“It wouldn’t take much to get Hythlodaeus here,” Emet-Selch murmurs. 

Azem laughs, but there’s something about it that’s off. Like a cry, squashed away and hidden away. The stem between their hands snaps, and Azem stares down at their hands forlornly. “Maybe it wouldn’t have, once.”

“We’ll be together again,” he insists, setting his hand on their shoulder. The touch is enough invitation for Azem to lean over, into him, bonelessly collapsing in a way that he was all too familiar with. In seconds, their head is in his lap, and his fingers are now in their hair, playing with it with practiced ease. The flowers Azem had been weaving fall away, some rolling back onto the ground while others cling to their robes and tuck themselves within the folds of the fabric. 

There’s something soft and torn in Azem’s gaze as they look up at them. Their hand, now free of flowers, rises to trace his jaw and settle on his cheek. All the joy Emet-Selch is used to seeing on Azem’s face is gone, as if it had never been there at all. 

“Not for many more lifetimes,” they say, mourning, and Emet-Selch’s own heart sinks deeper and deeper with the weight of it. “I won’t regret it, but I am sorry, my dearest Hades.”

“Thalia? What are you—”

“You can’t hold onto me forever. It’s time to wake up now.”

As if a spell is cast, his gray robes shift to imperial black, white gloves distance him from the softness of Azem’s hair, and he can feel their solid weight against him fading away. 

“Thalia, wait.” He grasps her wrist, he blinks, and they—she flinches when his hand tightens its grip. Those damn eyes of hers are wide, the exact same shade of violet, made brighter by the light of the Rak’tika Greatwood. “What were you doing?” 

“I…” the Warrior of Light clears her throat. “I was just getting this out of your hair.”

As if proving her point, she rubs the stem of a leaf between the fingers of her captive wrist.

“Why bother with such a paltry detail?” He snaps. 

Ellida is silent for a long moment, her expression shifting only into a deeper frown. 

“I was surprised to see you asleep,” she says instead of any meaningful answer. 

He scoffs, drops her wrist. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he wants the answer himself, at this point. She had ripped him away from that moment of peace so long ago, tainted the memory with her very existence. No answer would satisfy him—there was simply no excuse that made her action so forgivable. 

“Am I not allowed a moment of rest? I certainly thought you and yours would have preferred I kept my distance.” 

She puts more space between them, now that the choice is hers. “We do.”

“Well then, go make some distance, for however long you can.” He waves her off. “Do you not have better things to do, hero?” 

She’s staring at him. It’s uncanny, how long her gaze lingers, as if she sees something he doesn’t. Her lips are pressed together, something thoughtful in the lines of her face. Whatever had her attention drops away with a quiet sigh.

“Yes, I do.” Even so, she hesitates. “Will you be alright?”

“Excuse me?”

“I—” she shakes her head. “Nevermind.” 

Without another word, she’s marching off, leaving behind a moment that, Emet-Selch knows, is best forgotten. 

[saintship]

Put a number in my inbox with a cod character for a fic! Also feel free to add a smidge of context if there's something specific you'd like :) (closed)

List under the cut >>

"How was your date?" Ghost

"Where did you go?" Ghost

"You remind of someone, that's all." Roach and Ghost

"Can I hold you?" Gaz

"Take your time." 141

“I don’t hate you.” König

“I know when you’re lying, so don’t start.” Price

“Don’t doubt yourself.” Graves

“Can I help you shave?” Soap Mactavish

“You’re safe with me.” Soap Mactavish

[belltrigger]

Hmmm Stop for the lads 🤔🤔 maybe bot emmet and botmaker Ingo :U? Or ehehe you could do yemmet and oingo 😤😤😤

-Send me a “Stop” and I’ll write a drabble about one character calming the other down (from anger, jealously, etc)

Hello!!! Stop, hm~? q(≧▽≦q) Okay okay let's see what I can do here.

Title: Just Call Me Emmet Word count: 1,196 Synopsis: Emmet has arrived in Hisui with relatively little issue. However, a habit that Ingo has unconsciously picked up has accidentally upset Emmet. Dynamic: NoboKuda, older Ingo/younger Emmet (Oingo/Yemmet)

~~*~~

"Hey Ingo?"

Emmet's light voice broke the gentle silence that had settled between them as they prepared dinner together. It was a welcome change from how Emmet had sounded when he first arrived in Hisui, tired and tattered, exhausted after a search he'd thought would go on forever. The manic joy he'd shown when it finally registered that he'd found Ingo had smoothed into a beaming happiness as Emmet firmly grasped the idea that Ingo was not going to disappear again.

It was natural enough to welcome Emmet into the house given to him by Irida-sama. Memories or not, the easy comfort he had with Emmet could not be ignored, and the idea of Emmet living with him felt right. Despite not seeing each other for so long (longer for him, with the physical changes that came along with it), they fell into an natural rhythm. Though Ingo only barely remembered him, it didn't deter Emmet. Every day, his twin smiled brightly at him, and told him a little bit more about their shared life before Ingo had vanished. Although he refrained from doing it in public, substituted with merely brushing their knuckles together when they stood close enough, Emmet held his hand whenever possible in their home. Emmet spoke warmly of their closeness, and had even revealed the truth of their relationship. In addition to being twins, they were also lovers, and that Ingo had been the one to first confess.

As honest and true as it felt, Ingo thought it improper to reveal the nature of their relationship to those around them. So, he introduced Emmet as his brother to everyone he knew, and his twin's easy cheer endeared him to nearly everyone they met. If anyone thought it odd that Emmet stood so close to him, then they kept it to themselves.

Today, though, Emmet had met Melli. The long-haired man had long proven himself willing to cause trouble for others just to hassle Ingo, but it would have been rude to exclude him from meeting Emmet. After all, his issue with Melli was solely because his mischief caused safety concerns for other people. Emmet was an adult, and astute at reading people, so he should be free to create his own opinion of others.

"Why does Melli dislike you?" Emmet casually chopped some vegetables, only looking up at Ingo when he'd paused cutting and set down the knife.

"Hm, I honestly cannot fathom his reason." Where Emmet had been in charge of the vegetables, Ingo worked on preparing the stock for their stew. "Gaeric-sama believed he wanted my attention, but that seems like a pretty fool-hardy way to receive it."

Emmet made a sound, one that Ingo could not place. It was like a hum in thought caught in the throat, smothered in an attempt to hide it. Glancing up in confusion, his eyebrows knit together at the state his twin was in.

He could practically see Emmet vibrate, expression somehow becoming more intense despite his lips still turned up in a v-shaped smile. The young man who looked like he must surely have once, when he was easily decades younger, watched him without blinking. It was almost like staring down an angry Alpha pokemon.

"Emmet-sama?"

The smile on Emmet's face stiffened more. "Emmet. I am Emmet." Ingo tilted his head in confusion, sure that was what he'd said. The name was firm in his heart, a knowledge that had been just on the edges of his faded and blurred memories from before.

"Yes," Ingo said softly, trying to gauge where Emmet was going with his sudden mood change. Emmet turned to him, hands balled into fists at his side. He'd not realized the meeting with Melli had angered him so much.

But, instead of anger like he'd anticipated, Emmet's expression started to crumple. Although the smile remained, the skin under his lip bunched up as if Emmet was incapable of frowning. "Just call me Emmet," he choked out. "Don't call me the same as everyone else..." He brought the heel of his left palm up to his eye, already rubbing to hide any wetness that sprung up there.

Very gently, "Oh Emmet," came out before he could think of anything else. and he reached out a hand for Emmet's other. Without hesitation, despite still scrubbing at his eye, Emmet took his hand. Giving his twin's hand a squeeze he hoped was comforting, he brought his other hand up to try and coax Emmet to stop rubbing at his eyes. "My apologies, I did not mean to upset you."

"Does Ingo like someone else? Someone he doesn't call the same way?" Emmet stubbornly kept one hand up to his eyes, so he couldn't see the surprise on Ingo's face. In fact, he also didn't see the furrowing of Ingo's brows that quickly followed after. "Is it Mel--"

Emmet couldn't continue, because Ingo kissed him then, firmly, sternly. It was not romantic, not by half, and Ingo would surely make up for it once he convinced his quite silly twin that his worries were unfounded. Releasing both of Emmet's hands to wrap his arms around his younger brother's waist, he put their foreheads together. Emmet had no choice but to lower his hand, and after a moment he placed both of his hands on Ingo's now much thicker biceps.

The little flick of Emmet's eyes to his arms was not missed, but he would approach that later. "Do you think I would kiss anyone but you? My memories have failed me, that much is certain, but I still thought of you every day. This mouth is reserved for the Man in White only." The amusement in his tone for the last sentence eased a bit of tension out of Emmet's shoulders, and his lip no longer quivered.

"Only the Man in White? If I wore green would you have not recognized me?" It was half a tease, suggesting Emmet worried even over something so silly.

"Best not wear green. These old eyes aren't quite what they used to be. I'd have to lean in close to recognize your cute face." Another tease, and he rubbed their foreheads together, pleased when Emmet let out a quiet chuckle.

"Then I would get another kiss!" Emmet declared, turning more playful by the moment now that his worried had finally been spoken. "I am Emmet. I will wear many colors!"

With an approving hum, Ingo hugged his younger brother tighter. "I'll just keep kissing you to be sure, then."

Emmet slid his face down to rest his forehead on Ingo's shoulder, though his hands didn't move from Ingo's biceps. "And hugging?"

"And hugging, of course. I will give you anything you need for proof." They hugged for a few minutes, the sound of their stew stock bubbling away as they simply enjoyed the embrace. Finally, Emmet leaned back and seemed to feel much better. His smile was bright again, no longer strained, and he cheerfully went back to finish the vegetables.

After that, Ingo made certain to always allow Emmet to brush his knuckles against his. And, he even held his hand in public on occasion.