#little fic snippet

[charlotte-zophie]

" I'll never leave you again..." his soft whisper was barely audible through the sound of the rain.

Tenderly he touched his cheek and without a hint of doubt and with the feelings of thousands of years, their lips finally met in a burning all-consuming and yet infinitely gentle kiss.

Maybe i will draw another Version of this. Maybe with colour. Or not. I'll see.

Have a nice day/night!♥️♥️

[kabsey]

The moment the last of the Antaam fell, Rook dashed across the battlefield, hurrying to Harding's side. Lucanis shielded his eyes from the Rivaini sun to try and see what had prompted such a response, but all he saw was Harding laughing as Rook tugged her down to sit on the grass. Then Rook's gaze swept the area, and when it landed on him, she called his name with such urgency that he found himself moving just as quickly as she had.

"Keep her upright," Rook ordered as he knelt beside them, and he immediately placed a supportive hand on Harding's back.

"Rook, I'm fine. It's barely a scratch," Harding protested. "I'm not going to faint at the sight of a little blood."

Rook didn't answer; she was too busy dumping the arrows from her quiver. When they lay scattered, she reached into the quiver to her shoulder and fished out a circular leather case. When she unlatched it, it split open. One half held a set of miniature tools, and the other bristled with tiny vials in a rainbow of colors that sparkled in the afternoon light.

"Rook?" Harding's voice had gone quiet.

Rook glanced up with only a hint of her usual boisterous smile. "You're going to be fine. I promise."

She went straight back to picking at the wax seal on one of the vials. Lucanis shared a glance with Harding and then they both silently watched Rook work. He had never had the opportunity to see her perform such a delicate task or to witness her concentrate with a singular focus. In the short time he'd known her, constant movement had seemed to be her natural state. In combat, she flipped and flittered from enemy to enemy, and outside of it, she seemed to relish the simplest motions, always pacing or stretching or even dancing when the mood struck. He had found himself wondering how someone as cerebral as he knew Viago to be wound up with a protégé so steeped in the physical.

As he watched Rook's hands measure out precise dropfuls of liquid into an empty vial, she suddenly appeared as a de Riva to his eyes. Her fingers were long and elegant, tipped by shaped and buffed nails. Unlike nearly every other part of her, the backs of her hands were free of freckles. They looked pale and soft in the sunlight, though he knew they were likely as calloused as his own. Their weapons were similar. Did her calluses match his? Palm to palm, would they be mirrors of each other? And why did that thought strike him as familiar?

He hadn't intended to lapse into reverie, and it broke at the sound of Harding swallowing heavily.

"I feel a little strange," she admitted.

Lucanis glanced down at her again and was alarmed to see her face had gone white behind her freckles. He shifted closer, allowing her to lean against his side.

"You have nothing to worry about," he assured her.

"Oh, yeah?" She lifted one of her booted feet in a weak poke at Rook's side. "You could have mentioned I was poisoned."

Rook only flashed her a brief smile before resuming her work.

"Every Crow in Antiva knows that Viago de Riva is the best among us at creating poisons and antidotes, which means he is likely the best in the world," Lucanis told Harding. "You've met him, yes?"

Harding nodded, her head lolling a bit against his chest. "He trained Rook, right?" The last word came out as barely more than air as her breath ran short.

"Yes. For many years."

"But you and Rook... never met?"

Lucanis shook his head. "Perhaps he did not want her entangled with the Dellamortes. My house has many enemies."

"More likely he thought I'd embarrass him," Rook said. She held a vial to Harding's lips. "Drink."

Harding obeyed, though she seemed to have a bit of trouble swallowing whatever antidote Rook had mixed. Lucanis shifted again, trying to guide her head to tip back slightly against his shoulder. When she finally drained the last drop, he let out a soft sigh of relief, one that Rook echoed.

"Well, that was fun," Rook remarked.

She rocked back on her heels and began tucking the various elixirs and tools back in their case. Once that was safely settled at the bottom of her quiver, she scooped up her remaining arrows, dropped them in, and then swung the quiver over her shoulder. A moment later she was on her feet and stretching her arms over her head.

"Thanks, Harding. I was afraid I was getting rusty."

"Don't mention it," Harding replied drily.

Already her voice came steadier, and Lucanis thought her color was returning, though it might have been wishful thinking coupled with the ruddy light of the setting sun. Rook grinned, her usual good humor restored. She trotted off down the beach, searching the Antaam corpses for potions or coin or Maker knew what. Lucanis stayed with Harding, and they sat in comfortable silence broken by nothing but the waves, the birds, and the flies buzzing around the bodies. He took a moment for gratitude that none of his new allies were among them. They were all still reeling from the devastation they'd seen in Minrathous; Neve had not yet returned to the Lighthouse. To lose one of their number—and one with such a vital spark as Harding—might have broken the fledgling team.

Instead, thanks to Rook, Harding was getting to her feet with Lucanis's help in a matter of minutes. She scowled down at her torn sleeve and the still-bloody scratch in her arm that had nearly been her end.

"I'm gonna go wash this off," she said and headed down to the shoreline without the slightest waver in her step.

Soon after Rook returned to his side and showed him a simple but sleek-looking throwing knife that ended in a loop with a red tassel. "The Antaam's favored delivery method for poison."

"How did you know?" he asked.

"All part of a de Riva education." She tucked the knife carefully into a pouch at her waist. "Fortunately they generally use a fairly standardized compound across all their troops. Probably brew the stuff by the wagonload in Par Vollen."

She sighed, and her brow pinched in thought. "I'd love to carry the antidote premixed, but as soon as you add the reagent, the efficacy starts sliding down a steep cliff. If you wait too long to administer it, you're left with nothing but a foul-tasting tea. And it's not even hot."

Gazing at her as she pondered her alchemical dilemma, Lucanis was struck again by the feeling of familiarity. His eyes traveled over her face and caught on the little wrinkle that furrowed the space between her eyebrows. He knew she and Viago shared no blood connection, but some sort of resemblance teased at him. He remembered the summer nearly a decade before when he and Viago had worked together to track down a target who had poisoned several members of a rival family. Working side by side with the man, witnessing firsthand his intellect and confident competence, had been the first time Lucanis had ever understood the attraction his cousin seemed to feel for every woman that walked past him.

Rook tilted her head at him, and he noticed the smooth line of her neck, the way the strands of long hair that had escaped her messy bun teased at the skin there. He was surprised to find he was curious about that spot as well, how it would feel beneath his fingertips.

How it would feel beneath his lips.

Rook raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Lucanis blinked at her, caught with a wandering mind for a second time in a single afternoon. "What?"

"What's that look?" she asked.

"There's no look."

"Uh-huh." She smirked at him. "Hey, Spite. What's Lucanis thinking right now?"

In a moment of instinctual panic, Lucanis snapped his head to face the demon, who grinned back and crowed, "He Likes! Rook! Wants to Kiss! Rook!"

He felt a hint of warmth suffuse his cheeks as he turned back to Rook, whose smirk had widened to an open grin.

He frowned. "Why would you ask him that? You can't even hear his answer."

"No, but you can," she said. "You're cute when you blush."

He huffed in annoyance despite how one corner of his lips twitched with the urge to curl upward. "It's just from the sun."

"Uh-huh." She turned and began walking backward toward the water. "Let's go make sure Harding hasn't gotten into any more trouble."

She twirled again and then marched down the sand with a long, easy stride, arms swinging, as though she hadn't a care in the world. She moved with the grace all Crows were trained to, but on her it seemed effortless, natural.

Lovely.

"Mierda," he muttered to himself. Suddenly it didn't seem like Harding was the one in imminent danger.

[quadrantadvisor]

Ranch 2 has infected my brain and I blame u lol

LMAO WELCOME TO THE CLUB, it really does just do that. Someone needs to get this boy some ectoplasm I am so serious rn.

prompt | pt 1 | pt 2 | (inspo)

You inspired me to keep going for a bit, so here's a direct continuation from what I posted in pt 2!

“Did you see that?” Tim asks. “Uh, yeah,” Duke replies, unthinking. Tim is suddenly in his space, eyes wild. He grabs Duke by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Duke. Duke, you have to tell me what I just ate.” “I dunno, man!” Duke is at a loss for how to deal with this. He has the training to handle freaking out civilians, but it's somehow different when it's Tim. Tim's the one with the plan, the one who's supposed to know what's going on. But he doesn't, and Duke is embarrassed to realize that it's leaving him floundering. “They're just- I mean- there's these little pockets of energy, I see them floating around Gotham sometimes, I don't really know what they are! How did you grab it? How did you eat it?” Tim goes still and serious, and grips Duke's shoulders harder. “I don't know either,” he admits, “but that was it.” “That was what?” Duke asks, still feeling unbalanced by the manic gleam in Tim's eye. “That was ranch 2.” Duke gapes. “You're messing with me.” Tim shakes his head. “That was it,” he says emphatically. “It had the spark, the zing feeling I was looking for. Whatever sort of energy that is, my soulmate needs it.” Duke gulps, then nods. “Okay. Okay,” he says, trying to calm the both of them. “Then we'll get it for them.” Some of the tension falls out of Tim in what looks life relief.

[butch-buckley]

“So, you told him you were gay.”

Jake nods.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Javy,” comes Nat’s voice from in front of the dartboard. Bob hands her another dart, and she tosses it at the wall.

“I never said there was!” says Javy defensively. 

They’re drinking at the Hard Deck, something of a send-off before their collective two-week leave. A leave that, unfortunately, falls directly on Jake’s high school reunion. Apparently, being a hero means everything begins to fall into unfortunate place.

Javy takes another sip of his beer. “What’s the wrong part, then?” asks Fanboy, sitting next to him. 

“He assumed I had a boyfriend,” Jake sighs.

“And you had to awkwardly correct him, and he thinks it’s going to be weird that you’re the only one there without a partner,” says Javy.

Jake purses his lips.

“You did correct him, didn’t you?” the other man asks, slowly looking up from his beer.

Jake is silent. 

“Seresin. Tell me you corrected him.”

Jake covers his face with his hands, his confident demeanour all but destroyed by that fateful conversation. “I didn’t know what else to say! He was talking so fast, and he was so excited, and I’m—”

“—painfully single and embarrassed by it,” finishes Fanboy.

“I wouldn’t say painful. Or single,” adds Javy. “Embarrassed, yes.”

Jake glares at the both of them. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m… waiting.”

“Yeah, waiting with your legs wide open,” calls Nat. Bob sputters next to her.

“Don’t slut-shame me, Trace,” Jake says, pointing a finger at her.

“Stating a fact isn’t slut-shaming. You’re not exactly closed for business,” Nat points out. 

Bob shrugs. “He’s right, Nat. It’s not very feminist to talk about how the guys Jake chooses to bring home. Or how many of them there are.”

“Wise choice, mansplaining feminism to the female pilot holding a dart,” says Nat, pointing the projectile at Bob’s chest. He raises his arms in surrender, and she flicks it at the target.

“What’s this about mansplaining? I thought that was Hangman’s department,” comes a voice from the doorway.

And there’s Rooster, sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, a shining grin plastered on his face. He’s next to Jake in an instant, taking the empty seat beside him. “Or is Bob usurping your role?”

“Can it, Bradshaw,” Jake says. “I’m no misogynist.”

“That was just the repressed homosexuality talking,” adds Nat.

Jake shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[ghost-bxrd]

Scrapped part from the JayTim spite fic that I judged a little too cracky but still wanted to share anyways 😂

[idliketobeatree]

(gif by mellxncollie)

@wordsinhaled was wondering if "edwin thought he was gonna get kissed here. the way he like. almost draws himself up a little like he's not ready omg. or what he thought charles was gonna say"

and. in another universe.

—

Edwin sees Charles' eyes flutter close as he moves in. His confession hangs in the air, heavy and flaming like the wisps of Hell lapping at their heels and everything comes to a halt when he creaks out, "wait!"

Charles stills. The air around them, too.

"Oh— shit, I mean— sorry!"

And Edwin is in a desperate need for another breath but his lungs are too full, pleurae stretched to their capacities. He shakes his head quickly, almost throwing them off-balance, down the staircase, to where the demon spider-doll's mantles are steadily dripping with Edwin's real blood, to certain fucking doom. And then he thinks, hysterically, I wasn't ready. I don't look nice. My mouth tastes like blood. I've been crying—

"No, you misunderstand, I want this— I want you. I am merely—"

What a terrible time, for Charles to not understand what he's trying to say at all.

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | ... |

and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!

if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd

go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3

[hiding-under-the-willow]

...

Alex Heath // ✨ // Melissa Broder // Haruki Murakami // ✨ // Tory Adkisson // ✨ // Richard Siken // Tennessee Williams // ✨ // Heather Havrilesky // ✨ // D.H. Lawrence // ✨ // Ruth Madievsky // ✨ // @.papayajuan2019 // Kerry Maniscalco // ✨ // James Baldwin // ✨ // Anaïs Nin

[yasmindifference]

so @aceofshitposts and I did a little challenge where we spent an hour(+ change) writing for the same prompt! the prompt was Have one character brushing the hair away from the face of the other and here's what I came up with:

Before Robin, Tim was a normal latchkey rich kid—nannies, housekeepers, postcards from his world-travelling parents. He took martial arts with his mother’s bemused approval, but it was all carefully structured, closely supervised katas. Neither of his parents ever imagined he’d need to actually defend himself.

After Robin—well. Bruce very much imagined he’d need to defend himself (ensured it, in fact), but he viciously hated guns. He taught Tim how to handle them safely, but no more than that. There were certainly no lessons on firearms maintenance.

Of course, Bruce never could have guessed what a disadvantage that would leave Tim at, here after the end of the world.

“Wrong,” Jason says without looking up from his own work, and Tim sighs.

“How wrong?”

“Very.”

Tim sighs again, louder, and takes the half-assembled revolver back apart to start over. “I’m not getting better at this.”

“Sure you are,” Jason says. He’s still focused on the gun he’s cleaning—his fifth, while Tim struggles to put his first back together. “You’re only fucking up because you’re rushin’ it. Take your time and you’ll do fine.”

Sounds nice in theory, but—“I need to be fast.”

“Can’t be fast until you’ve got it down,” Jason reminds him, which Tim knows. Of course he does. It’s not just Firearms 101, it’s Anything 101. He didn’t start at disarming bombs in under 15 seconds, he started with hours and worked his way down.

But that was then, back when he was a kid in the safety of the Cave, in danger of nothing more than Batman’s disapproval.

These days, taking too long to do anything—especially weapons maintenance—could get him killed. Or worse, could get Jason killed.

“Freaking out won’t help either,” Jason says.

Somehow, he’s moved on to his sixth gun. His sixth, while Tim is sitting here struggling with his first. He’s got three guns to clean, Jason’s got more than ten, and at this rate, Jason’s going to end up cleaning Tim’s other two while Tim struggles with basic assembly in a way he didn’t even struggle with literal rocket science—

“Hey, hey,” Jason says, and suddenly he’s there, pulling Tim away from the table and sinking to his knees in front of him, brushing Tim’s too-long hair out of his face to kiss him.

It’s sweet. Gentle, soft. There’s no force behind it, but it punches right through Tim’s panic anyway, like a little puncture to let all the anxiety spill out of him. Tim melts into it—into Jason—leaning forward further and further until he ends up sliding out of the chair and into Jason’s lap.

Then they’re both on the floor, a spread of half-cleaned guns on the table above them plus a gun on each of their hips.

“There you go,” Jason murmurs against his mouth. He kisses Tim again once, twice, and then pulls back to look at him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Tim lies. In reality, he’s embarrassed that he almost worked himself into a panic attack over weapons maintenance—that Jason had to interrupt his own work to calm him down—but embarrassment’s still an improvement over hyperventilation, so…whatever. Close enough.

Jason’s eyes narrow. “Are you lying?”

Tim groans and buries his face in Jason’s neck. Jason, surprisingly, lets him. Instead of dragging Tim up by the hair to face him, he just cups the back of Tim’s neck, one thumb sweeping soothingly over the skin behind Tim’s ear.

“I told you it’s not the end of the world if I have to handle the weapons maintenance,” he says.

“It’s the end of the world anyway,” Tim mutters, and Jason laughs a little.

“Well, yeah,” he admits. “But still. What’s got you so upset about this? You’re not usually this picky about the division of labor.”

Tim laughs humorlessly. Division of labor, right. As if he’s contributed anything at all.

“Hey.” Jason’s hand tightens in his hair, and now he pulls Tim back, forcing eye contact. “What was that? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Tim echoes. He wants to—to laugh or scream or cry or something. “What’s wrong is that you’ve saved my life a dozen times in the last two weeks and I haven’t been able to do anything for you.”

Jason scowls. “That’s bullshit.”

It’s not. It’s really not.

The world is falling apart and all of Tim’s skills are worthless. He’s worthless.

Three weeks ago, a coordinated strike took out every power grid in North America. Not all at once, no, but ten simultaneous major failures took their toll on connecting systems, causing cascading failures until nothing was left.

They could’ve recovered from that. It wouldn’t have been easy or fast, but it could’ve been done.

Then the virus hit. In Gotham, the hospitals were the first to fall, but far from the last. A wave of zombies—actual fucking zombies, like something out of a movie—swept across the entire city (the entire world, they suspect, but haven’t been able to reach the Justice League to confirm), and hundreds of thousands of people died.

All of Tim’s skills, all of his training—none of it helped. He’s spent his entire career as a vigilante honing himself into a carefully, purposefully nonlethal weapon…and only lethal action works against the zombies.

If not for Jason, he’d have been dead the first day.

If not for Jason, he’d have been dead every day since.

And Tim can’t even pay him back by helping take care of the guns Jason has been using to keep them alive.

Maybe Tim accidentally says it aloud, or maybe Jason can just read him that well by now. Their casual fuck buddies relationship turned serious really fast after the zombies showed up.

Either way, his scowl deepens.

“You think you’re not helping me?” he demands. “You think I’d have gotten half this far without you watching my back?”

“If you didn’t have me to protect—”

“If I didn’t have you to protect I’d be losing my fucking mind,” Jason interrupts. “If I had to do this alone—if I had to actually think about what’s fucking happening here—”

He stops and swallows hard. Tim closes his eyes.

They don’t know what’s happening outside of Gotham. Their phones are charged, but don’t get a signal, and none of their communicators are working. Tim shouted himself hoarse trying to get Kon’s attention with no response.

And inside Gotham—inside Gotham—

Tim wrenches his mind away before it can go back to the Manor and what happened there. Hoping to distract them both, he kisses Jason again.

Jason lets him. Jason kisses him back. Not gentle this time: deep and hard, something filthy that makes Tim’s blood sing.

And when it stops, Jason presses their foreheads together, one hand cupping the back of Tim’s head to hold him in place.

“I don’t give a fuck if you can’t clean the damn guns, baby,” he says. “I don’t need you to help me keep us alive, I need you to keep me fucking sane.”

A sweet sentiment, but—“I need me to help keep us alive.”

Jason takes a deep breath, then another. Then he kisses Tim again and sits back.

“Okay,” he says. “I get that. But you gotta chill, okay? Your shooting’s getting better a lot faster than your maintenance is. Prioritize.”

Well, fair enough.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Yeah, okay.”

Jason brushes his thumb over Tim’s cheek, then brushes his hair out of his face again, this time tucking it behind Tim’s ear. It’s the kind of tender gesture that always puts Tim’s heart in his throat.

“Ready to try again?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

[s-h-a-s-e]

Dad!Stan for the win!! Surely his parenting will have no lasting impact on the twin's moral and ethical code!!!!

based on this super cute fic that I love :)

[beardedjoel]

smother, part xvi

You weren’t some thing to be shaped and molded to his whims, and Callum implying that was what had happened with Joel… it was wrong, wasn’t it? Joel had only brought out sides of you that you’d never known existed, pulled forward parts of your personality that had always been there, just begging to be nurtured.

coming tomorrow! january 22nd at 11:00am pst! ✨

[sy-on-boy]

"Anya, are you... feeling okay?"

Anya stared at Becky with with big, blank, buggy eyes. "I don't understand," she said in a monotone.

Becky squinted at Anya. Anya was usually weird, but Becky knew her well enough to discern Anya's different types of weirdness. "Are you trying to be like Damian's creepy older brother?"

Ewen and Emile heard and quickly turned around to defend their best friend's brother. "Oy, don't insult Demetrius!" "He's not creepy, he's a genius! His mind operates at levels we cannot understand!"

"You guys are talking about my brother?" Damian's voice came. "What's all this fuss?"

Becky sighed, then deadpanned, "I think Anya's trying to be like your brother. For some reason."

Damian jumped and instantly scowled. Anya continued to silently stare at Damian with her buggy eyes. Damian backed away, weirded out (and oddly jealous) by Anya imitating his own brother. "Ugh, what's wrong with you, Forger?" he spluttered out, cheeks turning pink.

Upon seeing Damian's distaste, Anya blinked, dropped the act, and looked normal again. "Super Sy-on boy is a genius so I'm going to be like him until I become a genius. I wanna get stella stars like Super Sy-on boy."

"But Bossman also has stella stars," Ewen said innocently.

"But Super Sy-on boy has more stella stars," Anya interjected just as innocently. Damian's face instantly darkened.

Becky noticed and nudged Anya. "You didn't have to rub it in his face!" she hissed to Anya.

"Rub what in Sy-on boy's face?" Anya might not understand the saying, but now she knew she shouldn't had compared Damian with Demetrius even if it was unintentional. Anya gulped and nervously glanced at Damian, who was looking solemn and suddenly older than he was.

"Of course my brother is always better at everything. Even an idiot like her can see it. I don't like how she's imitating Demetrius (hah, a commoner like her would never come close to us Desmonds) but I see her point. Maybe I should be more like Demetrius too..."

Anya blinked. Becky's earlier words of "rub it in his face" came back to her. Face, face... Sy-on boy's face? In her mind, she superimposed Demetrius' buggy eyes and slicked back hair on top of Damian's. Hmph, a bit off-putting, but this was actually fine because Damian still looked stupid and snot-faced as he always did.

But then Anya imagined Demetrius' complete lack of expression on Damian— no more taunts, no more temper tantrums, no more of his silly red faces, but also no more smiles, no more tears, no more of that unadulterated fear she saw during the bus hyjacking, no more of that determined face of his when he shielded her from the dodgeball, no more of Damian being his annoying, crybaby, sometimes heroic self. A Damian with barely any thoughts. A Damian who didn't understand people and didn't bother with anything at all. No more Sy-on boy being Sy-on boy.

... And Anya didn't think she liked that.

"You don't have to be like Super Sy-on boy," Anya blurted out. She felt bad for making Damian feel down earlier, because she was supposed to be friends with him, and friends didn't make each other feel bad.

Damian looked at her, bewildered and somewhat taken aback. "Huh??"

What Anya thought was "your mom is weird and your brother is weird and your dad is an evil super boss. You're a jerk sometimes but you're not weird like they are, and I feel bad for you", but obviously she couldn't say that, so she simply said, "Sy-on boy is Sy-on boy. You're not Super Sy-on boy and you don't have to be like him (because I need to read your mind for the mission)."

Damian blinked, his heart warmed by Anya's unexpected sincerity. Anya wanted him to be himself? And not like his brother? She... didn't expect that from him?

Becky, intuitive as always, chimed in. "Damian, you're a bit of a brat, but don't turn into a creep like your brother."

Damian scowled. "My brother's not a creep!!"

"I'm just making a honest statement! It's for your own good!"

Anya stepped aside to let Becky and Damian bicker. Her eyes flitted over to Damian— Damian without those buggy eyes, Damian with long eyelashes, Damian with anger and scowls, Damian with thoughts and feelings and fears and likes and affection.

Then she thought of Damian's mother and brother with the odd, mysterious, and almost chilling darkness in their heads. In some way, Demetrius' apathy was easier to stomach than Melinda's tornado of chaotic and contradictory thoughts, but both of them threw her off. Damian, despite being Damian, despite being the son of the evil boss, was still... relatively normal. He smiled. He loved his dog. He was protective of his friends. He wanted stella stars. He threw temper tantrums. He wanted his family to love him. (He was scared of being abandoned.) Despite everything, Damian was still like Anya.

... Yeah. Anya hoped Sy-on boy would stay Sy-on boy for as long as he could.

[reminiscentrainclouds]

[oh-no-its-bird]

Chasing shadows chapter 7...save me chasing shadows chapter 7.......orochimaru and kid Kakashi interaction...oughhg...

[powerfultenderness]

okokokok I know I've been writing a lot of nasty no good Soap lately. So here's a cute little snippet of Soap trying to be sly and get a kiss out of Pretend Girlfriend!Reader (and the fake dating was her idea/request).

Honestly, this whole time Johnny has been nothing but a gentleman. You're sure sleeping with him-beside him!- will be fine, nothing to be uncomfortable about, you're both adults and things have been very clear. Convinced of that, you drop your phone on the nightstand to your side and reach over to turn off the lamp.

Johnny does the same, but hesitates before turning off the light.

"I think there's one thing we forgot, doll."

You pause mid shuffle and look at him, "hm? What?"

"Well, weddin's are romantic."

"Yea..?" you blink at him and sit back up.

"And when couples are feelin' romantic, they kiss."

Even as your face heats up, you let out a scoffed laugh as grins at you. His eyes are practically glowing as he wiggles his brows. "Ye don' wan the first time we kiss to be in front of yer family. We should definitely practice."

You laugh again, this time clearly nervous, but tap your chin in thought. "You do have a point..." You draw out as you think. You'd be lying if you said a spontaneous kiss from him wouldn't leave you flustered, not at all what the reaction from someone who has supposedly been dating for six months should be.

"Alright," you say and motion for him to fully face you.

His grin loses some of it's smugness as he leans in, one hand moving to gently cradle the side of your face as the distance between you shrinks. "Don' worry, I'll be-"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence as you move faster than him. You quickly press your lips to the side of his face and with extra emphasis make a loud "MUAH!" sound.

Johnny stills, hand stuck in the air with a confused, stupefied, look on his face as you giggle at him.

"Is THAT how ya kiss yer man?!"

Now your giggles are a full blown laugh. "I have never once made out with a partner in front of my family! They'd instantly catch on if I started tomorrow!"

"Really?" He doesn't push for another kiss and even he is chuckling at the way you turned it on him. "Never even snuck out to be alone in some back room or somethin'?"

"Nope." You shuffle back under the blankets. "Now get some sleep, Johnny. I need you to charm some aunties into leaving me alone tomorrow."

He lets out one more chuckle before he turns off his bedside lamp, "alrigh'. Goodnigh, hen."