#rvbplatonicweek

[arirashkae]

For Family Day, have a scene that might end up in the nebulously-outlined-at-best sequel to my Big Bang fic from earlier this year, Facilis Descensus Averno (So definite, I know)

This will probably make very little sense if you haven’t read that first, I’m afraid 😅 Not a plea for hits, just a heads-up

Emergency Drills

Characters: Samuel ‘Locus’ Ortez, Allan (OC), Edgar (OC)

Rating: Teen

Warnings: nightmares, mentions of death

--

Sam slumped on his bed and began the far too tedious task of unlacing his boots. Sow's Ear had run an emergency drill earlier that day — a double header of fire and decompression. The children only had to worry about finding the nearest safe point. Sam, however, had decided to take part.

More accurately, Captain Grzelak had strongly suggested he might want to tag along. After all, she had reasoned, the more people who knew what to do in an emergency, the better.

More likely, she wanted to assess how he handled himself in a crisis, and if he would be a potential hazard. At least, that was what he’d managed to glean from the gossip.

She hadn’t confined him to quarters, so he supposed he passed muster. Even if he was exhausted.

He finally tugged the second boot off and rubbed his aching feet. Next stop, he was making “good boots” a priority. These had gone far too long and needed replacing. Socks, too; the ones he had were getting too worn to cushion properly. More things to add to the list. In the morning. He’d check over his supply list in the morning. When his head was a little clearer. He should probably make sure the others were properly equip—  Properly clothed.

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Civilians needed clothing, not equipment. They’d been with him near-on a year and he still had to correct himself.

Old habits, huh?

“Go away.”

~Talking to yourself is a sign of lu-nacy.~ Hearing that sing-song voice was certainly enough to drive him mad. Madder, anyway. At least when Felix was actually alive, Sam could have found one way or another to make him be quiet. Now it was no more than his own memories and imagination pestering him. And he’d never been that successful at hiding from himself on his own.

He felt like he had barely laid down and closed his eyes when there was a rapping at the door. The clock, however, disagreed by several hours.

Tap. Tap. “Sam?”

He sat up, knuckling his eyes. What could Edgar actually want this late? “What is it?”

The door slid open to silhouette both brothers in the soft running light of the common room. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, hands tightly linked between them. Now that they had his attention, they were silent.

Kinda looks like a horror movie setup, doesn’t it?

He ignored the stray thought and swung his legs off the bed. “What’s wrong?”

They looked at each other, and somehow managed to huddle closer together. “Can- can we stay with you tonight?”

Sam blinked, taken aback by the timid question. “Why?” They had never evidenced being afraid of the dark before.

They shrank back. “Never mind,” Allan mumbled.

Sam sighed. “I didn’t mean … Come here.” He held out one hand

They scrambled onto the bed and plastered themselves against him, one on each side, trembling.

Well, that was unexpected. He considered what could have caused this. “Did the emergency drill upset you?”

Edgar mumbled something that sounded negative while Allan just shook his head.

Liars.

Go. Away. Sam firmly pushed any thoughts of Felix aside. Now was not the time. He just wrapped an arm around each of them until they stopped shaking.

Then he wanted to slap himself. The boys had lost their parents when the orbital platform they’d been working on suffered an explosive decompression and catastrophic structural failure. The drill today must have severely rattled them.

Just say it blew up and now they’re scared shitless, you pedantic fuck.

Apparently, ‘Felix’ was not going to be silent. That didn’t mean Sam had to pay him any mind. He squeezed them in closer. The motion made him notice that his shirt was now damp and he sighed again. “It was just a drill. Hopefully one we’ll never need to use.”

“Then why do them in the first place?”

He ignored Allan’s sullen tone. Sam had lived through a decompression scare or two himself, along with many other emergencies. Drills and their necessity were etched into his bones by now. “We do them so that if there is an emergency, we don’t waste time trying to remember what to do. By the time our brains realize what’s going on, we’re already moving.”

They were both silent, mulling over his words. “So, if we practice them, then we’ll be safe? If the ship blows up?” Edgar twisted to look up at him without pulling away.

Well, shit.

He was not suited for soothing frightened children. Felix was the one who was good at comforting lies. But Sam was the only one available. “As safe as we can be. I won’t— I can’t promise it will always be enough. Sometimes nothing we do will be enough.” Despite his effort, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Then why do them?” Allan’s question was less sullen this time. A small blessing. Perhaps the comforting lie would have been the worse choice.

“Because the only way to know if it is enough is to keep going. To keep trying.” He sighed and squeezed them close again. He could have used his own advice, years ago. “Sometimes … sometimes it just comes down to not giving up.”

They were silent for so long, Sam thought they had fallen asleep. Before he could decide whether to carry them back to their room singly or together—

“Can we stay here with you tonight?” Edgar mumbled. Allan nodded against his chest.

It would be a tight fit. The bed was barely big enough for him as it was.

“You can stay.”

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: Paranoid, Ex-Military

Summary: The problem with taking in a murderous ex-Freelancer is that. Well. Then you have a murderous ex-Freelancer.

Leading your team.

Parings: None. Warnings: Canon-typical language, ridiculous fluff.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

Written for Day 4 of @rvbplatonicweek: “Hugs/Cuddling.”

This fic was inspired by a conversation with @zalia and @comefeedtherainn, so thanks to them for letting me use their ideas. <3 Also, thanks to @a-taller-tale for the beta.

The problem with taking in a murderous ex-Freelancer is that. Well. Then you have a murderous ex-Freelancer.

Leading your team.

Tucker is so fucking dead.

He thinks that often, during the first few days after Sidewinder: I am so fucking dead.

It had seemed like a pretty good idea, fresh off the high of defeating the Meta. Wash had helped them out, so they kinda owed him. Caboose wouldn't stop whining about wanting to keep him. Two for one.

Then they make it to an abandoned simulation base, and Tucker is so tired he doesn't care about anything, just walks straight to the nearest bunk in Blue Base, shedding pieces of armor as he goes. Flops down. Lights out.

He dreams about Church.

They're on top of Blue Base together, just standing around and talking like always—except Tucker can't understand anything Church says. First his voice is staticky and garbled, like there's a problem in their helmet radios. Tucker fiddles with the settings, and then Church's voice comes through loud and clear, but he's just saying, "One one zero zero one zero one one zero zero one—"

"Hey,  man, use English," says Tucker.

But Church has turned into a ghost, pale and translucent. Then he's gone.

Tucker wakes up and remembers his best friend is dead.

Again.

And this time, he probably isn't coming back. Tucker remembers how the memory unit looked lying in the snow on Sidewinder, all of the lights gone out, and fuck, it's way too early in the morning to think about this.

He crawls out of bed and goes to start the coffeemaker. Except it's already chugging, and Wash is standing next to it, bolt upright, arms crossed.

His helmet is off. It's the first time Tucker's gotten a good look his face. Wash has rumpled, pale hair, dark shadows under his eyes, and chubby cheeks that would make him look huggable if he wasn't a deadly ex-Freelancer who murdered Donut.

Church too. Kind of.

And right now? Wash looks pissed.

Tucker stares at him and thinks, I am so fucking dead.

But if he's going to die, he's going to do it in style. So he leans casually against the doorframe and says, "Sooo. Guess we haven't had a chance to get to know each other. Ever made it with blonde twins in a waterbed?"

Wash stares murderously back at him.

So. Fucking. Dead.

That's how it goes for the first three days. Tucker says normal human things, and Wash stares at him like he's a really disgusting bug under a microscope. Tucker would complain about it, except he's trying to stay alive.

Caboose chatters happily at Wash and calls him "Church," and gets exactly the same murder stare, except he's too dumb to know it. Somehow, he doesn't get killed either.

Aside from the moments of oh shit he's gonna kill me twice a day, Blue Team 2.0 is pretty damn boring, honestly. Wash won't talk to Tucker, and Tucker's nowhere near desperate enough to talk to Caboose. So Tucker spends a lot of time at Red Base, because Grif is  actually not that bad.

Unfortunately that means spending more time around Sarge and Simmons, who suck even more than Tucker remembered. Especially Simmons, who's somehow acquired even more anxiety. He won't get more than five feet from Grif, and he won't shut up about how dangerous Agent Washington is.

"I can't believe you guys decided to adopt him," Simmons mutters, pacing back and forth behind the couch where Grif and Tucker are kicking back with a six-pack of shitty beer. "He's a lunatic and he's going to murder us all in our sleep."

Tucker thinks that Simmons is probably right, but hell if he's going to admit it. "Eh, you're just jealous that Red Team still doesn't have a Freelancer."

"Damn the International Dibs Protocol," Sarge says feelingly from the corner, where he's constructing something out of an old radio and a blender. "Grif, this is all your fault. If you had called dibs as soon as we took down the Meta—"

"I WAS HANGING OFF A CLIFF," says Grif.

"No excuse for laziness!"

Grif slurps loudly from his beer. "Whatever."

On the fourth day, Tucker gets up, and yep, Wash is lurking by the coffeemaker again. He's got the top half of his armor off today, but he's still glaring at Tucker like he's planning to carve his heart out with a spoon.

Home sweet home.

But not even death can keep Tucker away from the sweet, sweet caffeine, so he approaches. Says, "Hey, you're still around," and shoves an elbow into Wash's side to get him out of the way.

Wash wheezes and doubles over.

"Oh shit don't kill me," Tucker says automatically, but Wash is still slumped over, gasping for breath, and without really thinking about it, Tucker asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Wash gasps, and then straightens up. "Ready for action."

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Dude," says Tucker, "the only action I'm interested in is with some hot blonde chicks."

"What?" says Wash, like sex is totally a foreign concept to him.

And then the penny drops. Tucker remembers Doc saying something about Wash being nearly dead—he'd been gasping while they packed him into Church's armor—

Ever since they got to this base, he's been moving like he had a stick up his ass.

"Are you still hurting?" asks Tucker.

"I have a healing unit," says Wash, looking suspicious.

"Yeah. But does that have, like . . . painkillers?"

Wash stares at him like he's started speaking Spanish. "I'm just fine, Private Tucker."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Do you need morphine?" Tucker demands.

Wash stiffens, his chest puffing out—then he instantly cringes back, like the motion hurt him. "Freelancers train to function in the field without—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," says Tucker, and goes to raid the medicine cabinet.

He doesn't want to feel sorry for anyone who killed Donut and Church. But seriously, what is wrong with Project Freelancer?

Wash doesn't want to take the morphine, but Tucker says, "Okay, this is part of the job for Blue Team Leader," and that seems to subdue him a little. He swallows the pills, glares at Tucker, and limps back to his quarters.

That afternoon, Tucker and Grif discover that they've drunk all the beer at Red Base. Simmons helpfully says, "Well, logically Blue Base would also have beer," and then blue-screens when he remembers that Blue Base also has Agent Washington.

"Dude, he's still fucked up from the Meta," says Tucker. "And now he's drugged up too. I gave him some morphine this morning."

"Maybe he's faking! Maybe Project Freelancer gave him experimental super-soldier treatments that cause him to have an uncontrollable psychotic reaction to common painkillers—"

"Oh my god," says Grif, "he's kind of badass but he's not fucking Master Chief. Have you been reading those SPARTAN conspiracy theory message boards again?"

"Fine, I'll go get some beer and bring it back over here," Tucker grumbles, and marches back to Blue Base.

He can't help feeling a little nervous, though, as he walks in the door. Simmons is a nerd and fucking stupid, but what if he's right? What if the reason Project Freelancer trained their operatives to function without painkillers is that—

And that's when Tucker sees Caboose and Wash sitting on the couch.

Snuggling.

There's no other way to describe it. Tucker feels like he has to be hallucinating. Caboose is sitting on the couch, scrolling through something on his tablet, and Wash is cuddled up against him, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

"What," Tucker says with great feeling, "the actual fuck."

Wash looks up and gives Tucker this goofy grin that make him look like he's practically a kid, despite the bits of gray in his blond hair.

Then—lagging behind as always—Caboose looks up too. "Oh! Tucker! You are back! That is good, because I have to go to the bathroom."

"Uhh—" Tucker starts, but doesn't get any farther because Caboose rockets off the couch, grabs Tucker by the arm, and shoves him down.

The moment Tucker's ass hits the cushions, Wash attaches to him like a leech—as Caboose vanishes, the traitor.

"You're really soft," Wash mutters into Tucker's shoulder.

"Dude, don't say it like that," says Tucker. The only reason he's not leaping off the couch right now and punching Wash in the face is that he still has that urge not to die.

Wash hums, a warm puff of air through Tucker's t-shirt. He's heavy, leaning his whole weight into Tucker—and fuck, he's not about to kill him. In fact, Tucker suspects that right now, the murderous ex-Freelancer is completely helpless.

This is so wrong, and not just because Tucker has a totally manly reputation to maintain.

"You're really high, aren't you?" he says.

"Nope," says Wash. "I'm fine. Ready for duty. Kick ass and take names. Is the floor supposed to be moving like that?"

Right.

So apparently, just a little morphine is all it takes to turn Agent Paranoid Washington into a totally high, completely relaxed cuddle-slut. That explains why Project Freelancer trained him to function without painkillers.

"This is so fucked up," Tucker mutters.

Church is supposed to be here. Church, who's an asshole and who would never hug Tucker in a million years, and who's also a ghost. AI. Whatever. Tucker's best friend is supposed to be here, not Wash.

Everything is so fucked up. Right from when Tucker joined the army, hoping for a way out of Detroit and a cool scar to impress the ladies. And, okay, hoping to defend the Earth or some shit.

Instead, he got used as target practice in a bizarre paramilitary conspiracy, travelled to the future (maybe), got pregnant (definitely), spent several months as an ambassador to the aliens, and now he's on the run from the UNSC, in the company of an ex-con who, oh yeah, killed a bunch of Tucker's friends.

An ex-con who's also an ex-Freelancer.

And sure, Grif had said something about Wash trying to bring down Freelancer. But he was part of it first. He was one of those fuckers who promised them a part in the war and then used them as target practice. Who created the Meta. Who did . . . whatever they did to Church before Blood Gulch, Tucker's still not totally clear on that. But he knows it was bad.

So Tucker shouldn't be letting Wash lean on him.

But—

Freelancers train to function in the field without painkillers.

Tucker's nowhere near to forgiving Wash, but he's starting to think he and his friends aren't the only ones who got chewed up and spat out by Project Freelancer.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he sighs, but he doesn't move.

"The ducklings are gonna save us," Wash agrees.

And he's not Church and this doesn't make any sense, but Tucker is—honestly, starting to relax a bit.

It's kind of nice, thinking that Wash isn't going to kill him. That Blue Team is going to be okay.

At least, it's nice until Red Team bursts in to save him from the murderous Freelancer.

[a-taller-tale]

Adhesion

Summary: Oh no, he’s not going to cry again, is he? There’s nowhere to escape on this ship, but Locus’s eyes dart around to search for some place to hide anyway. 

Notes: Missing scene between "Objects in Space" and "Grif Does a Rescue. Hurt/Comfort prompt for @rvbplatonicweek.

Also on Ao3

“I know they’re not my friends,” Grif says, looking lost amongst the volleyballs he insisted on strapping in like passengers, with extra care for the ones painted maroon and dark blue.

Locus barely keeps himself from hitting his helmet against the console. “I should hope so,” he says instead, hoping this won’t invite further conversation.

“I didn’t mean these guys.” Grif gesturing, his helmet is off and the soldier’s manic mood is even more obvious with his wild hair and swollen eyes wreathed in dark circles. “I meant the guys. I know they’re not my friends. I don’t have friends.”

It was the first time that Grif had stopped speaking for more than a breath, even while inhaling rations like he hadn’t eaten in days. The peaceful quiet had lasted less than a minute. But Locus is able to resist any outburst. He was never as theatrical as Felix.

“El amigo,” Grif mutters to himself distractedly. “La amiga. Mis amigos. Me odian.”

Grif is holding the ball with the red helmet on it against his chest plate tightly. It represents the Red sergeant. The old man had spoken about Grif frequently when Locus was with Washington and the other simulation trooper at various federal army bases on Chorus. His recollections of “Negative” First Class Private Grif hadn't exactly been... complimentary.

But what does Locus know about friends? And what does he know about comfort? It's barely within his skill set to understand that comfort is what the simulation trooper is asking him for.

Locus frowns. “Stop pitying yourself. You are no use to them that way.”

“Lopez said they’re not dead.” It’s a true statement, but the sim trooper’s voice lilts up at the end like it’s still a question.

“They weren’t dead when they told the robot to find you and strapped him to a rocket. …That’s not an effective way to send a message. They would have been dead if I hadn’t happened to see him hurtling through space and intercept him.”

Grif’s face crumples. Apparently, that was not a comforting thing to say.

Locus pauses, thinking. “I was in the military a long time, and for every team there are certain people that hold the mission together. They unite volatile personalities and create cohesion. They’re necessary for the successful accomplishment of the mission.”

Siris was that for them. Maybe Siris leaving them was what led he and Felix to Chorus. Maybe if Siris had been with them, they would not have gone to Chorus at all. But it’s no use speculating about theoreticals. His sins are his own.

Grif is feeling the lines and stitches in the ball, turning the messily put together face of red paint and taped gold foil towards him, but Locus can feel him listening. The soldier has been hanging on his every word since Locus picked him up, despite their previous status as enemies. As though it’s been a long time since he’s heard a human voice.

It could only have been a few weeks of isolation, but Locus read the files on all the participants of Project Freelancer he’s had to deal with. A few weeks alone would have been enough for someone untrained to deal with isolation, even without any previous trauma. And none of them have that status.

“There are certain people that hold a mission together,” Locus repeats. “You’re one of them.”

Dexter Grif snorts derisively. “The most useless laziest member of Red Team, the second shittiest army in the entire universe?”

Locus does not know how fate brought him here, to give a motivational talk to this nothing soldier from a manufactured war that alone would have never stood a chance against him. And somehow the fates had brought them together twice now, in a long life of meeting and killing countless people. Locus takes a deep breath, swallows it, and decides to consider this another part of his atonement.

“You’ve had trouble before,” he says. “During your years of service.”

“Man, we’re never out of trouble. Oodles of trouble. All the trouble.”

“But you’re still alive.” Locus points out, and Grif can’t argue that point since he’s standing here, annoying him and wearing orange… just like his last partner. “When you’re with them, they succeed. You unite them. You’re the cohesive element they’re missing.”

Aiden Price would have said that Felix and Locus attempted to get a new team member as a buffer to make their partnership functional again, but the man who insisted on spray painting a shark on his helmet was a poor substitute for Siris’ logic and pragmatism. Felix talked about Sharkface a lot behind his back as stress relief. It did take some of the pressure off of Locus as the only target when the mission kept going worse by the hour.

“The only thing they’re ‘cohesive’ about is how much they all hate me,” Grif says, pulling Locus out of his own thoughts. He has to stop thinking about Felix. He has to focus on the mission. “So… I quit. I left them. I’m the reason they’re in trouble.”

“No, Dexter Grif,” he says. “You’re the reason we’ll save them.”

Grif’s face crumples again, although it looks like he’s fighting it this time. Its odd to see him like this. He had seemed one of the ones most in control of his emotions. Locus hadn’t had much reason to take note of him before.

Oh no, he’s not going to cry again, is he? There’s nowhere to escape on this ship, but Locus’s eyes dart around to search for some place to hide anyway. That’s how he misses Grif lunging forward. His first instinct is to flip the enemy over, pin him, and snap his neck, but he’s able to suppress it, quickly realizing he’s not under attack. Not a physical attack.

There are arms locked tight around his torso and Grif buries his face in Locus’s chest like he’s trying to burrow. “We have to save them. They’re not my friends, but I don’t want them to be dead. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do that. I can’t. They can’t.”

Grif’s grip tightens, and Locus knows it’s not about him, it’s about any human comfort. The military is a hard place. There is not a lot of gentle touching. After a few moments, it’s not bad to be touched without ill intent. It just takes some getting used to.

Locus relaxes as much as he can, resting a hesitant hand on the other man’s back. “We’ll save your friends.”

[anneapocalypse]

Scion

Carolina is the last of the Churches.

A poem for @rvbplatonicweek‘s Family Day. References canonical character deaths.

So it’s down to me.

We’ve never done memorials, us Churches. My mother’s plasma vapor, scattered to space, or rained back down. We had nothing, not even a stone, nothing to mark her dissolution but our slow collapse in its wake. And my father, even in life shrouded himself in stony silence and closed doors, and in the end entombed himself.

And you-- like the ones before, you went out prismed, nine beams of light. Nine names you could not forget. You were made of what he did to you-- but you were more than him, too, and you went out bright.

I can rest on that, at least-- if I can rest.

Figured I’d go like her, if we’re being honest. Didn’t we all? With the circle tightening every day, in glass and glass and glass we saw our faces mirrored in the dead. We fought, but we were all waiting for the end

and I’m still here. I don’t know how to feel. Don’t know what it means to be older than my mother, to have survived one war, and then another. Some days I feel like a ghost. Some days

my head gets echoey without you. I don’t miss their voices. I know how much of them were lies. I know what gone means now, when I close my eyes,

but I’m still here.

[rvbplatonicweek]

RvB Platonic Week is one month away!

Friendly (get it?) reminder that RvB Platonic Week is October 15-21. Which means you have one month left to get your fanworks ready. If you haven’t decided what you want to contribute, now is a great time to start thinking about it!

The schedule: 

Day 1 - Oct. 15 - Opposite Sides Day 2 - Oct. 16 - Ladies Night Day 3 - Oct. 17 - Hurt/Comfort Day 4 - Oct. 18 - Family Day 5 - Oct. 19 - Hugs/Cuddling Day 6 - Oct. 20 - AIs Day 7 - Oct. 21 - Alternate Universe

(Every day, of course, is leg day.)

Remember that we have an about page with more rules and details, as well as a page explaining all the prompts. And the askbox is still open!

PLEASE NOTE: there was an error in the original announcement post. The correct tag for the event is “rvb platonic week.” When you post your works in October, please use that tag, or else mention @rvbplatonicweek​ in the post so it turns up in our notifications. 

(The original announcement post used hyphens instead of spaces in the tag. Unfortunately, Tumblr can’t track tags with hyphens in them.)

[quetzalcactus]

Inktober 19! A sarge & locus hug for @rvbplatonicweek :)

[taki118]

RvB Platonic Week

Day 1 - Oct. 15 - Opposite Sides

@rvbplatonicweek

[quetzalcactus]

Inktober 20 for @rvbplatonicweek AIs! A voice in his head to haunt him forever.

[taki118]

RVB Platonic Week: Day 2 - Oct. 16 - Ladies Night

“Wow never thought I’d say this but god you suck.” The pilot laughed making the short, but now slightly dangerous trek back to her seat. 

“Shut up I think I got it.” Confidence brimming in the competitive woman voice as she fumbled to level out the ship, never noticing 479er not sat beside her.

“Yeah cause I took the reins back.” She snarked, knowing all too well that she was being glared at under the teal helmet. “Don’t worry I won’t tell that you almost crash while I took a piss.” 

“I hardly almost crashed.” She huffed crossing her arms.

“So you can’t fly a ship big deal....you know it makes you seem more human.” The perfect solider Carolina, sometimes the pilot wonder if she really was a robot. 

“You don't think I’m human?” Her voice almost sounded hurt by that. 

“Look don’t take it the wrong way, but nothing seems to stop you. Nothing too tough or dangerous you just power through and keep going. It’s amazing but...well makes us normal folks wonder....” Shit she’d upset her. Well this would be an awkward flight now. As though flying close to twenty four hours wasn't hard enough.

“It’s not just flying I’m bad at....” She spoke up clearing the air.

“oh yeah?” 

“I can’t sing to save my life. My....dad, heh, he use to discreetly hid all my toy microphones.”  She laughed at the memory. 

“Aww didn’t have the heart to tell his little girl she's tone deaf?” The pilot joined in the laughter. “Well now you and I gotta go to a Karaoke bar.” 

“Oh no no nononono.”

“Oh yes yesyesyesyes we are going. Don’t you fight me on this Carolina.”

“Not like you’d be able to win.” “Yeah but if you did kick my ass then you’d feel obligated, so I win either way.”

The two laughed and joked until they arrived at project freelancer. Carolina never was able to go out singing with the pilot but years later in a crumbling cave on an isolated planet maybe she did sing her heart out in memory of the old friend.

@rvbplatonicweek

[rvbplatonicweek]

RvB Platonic Week Starts Tomorrow!

Please get your fics/fanarts/gifsets/illegally created AIs ready! RvB Platonic Week starts TOMORROW.

A quick reminder on the schedule:

Day 1 - Oct. 15 - Opposite Sides Day 2 - Oct. 16 - Ladies Night Day 3 - Oct. 17 - Hurt/Comfort Day 4 - Oct. 18 - Family Day 5 - Oct. 19 - Hugs/Cuddling Day 6 - Oct. 20 - AIs Day 7 - Oct. 21 - Alternate Universe

Post them with the tag “rvb platonic week” and/or mention @rvbplatonicweek in the post.

Remember that we have an about page with more rules and details, as well as a page explaining all the prompts. And the askbox is still open!

[taki118]

RvB Platonic Week: Day 4 - Oct. 18 - Family

AKA Why I can’t Ship Any of the Reds (yes even Grimmons)

So this is a thing I’ve been meaning to write for ages and as always if you ship the Reds romantically thats fine we all got different tastes. This just why I personally can’t

To put it simply I see the Reds too much as a family unit. While the Blues have always felt to me like a bunch of close roommates who just can't seem to get away from each other no matter what. The Reds have always been so close knit through that I can’t see it any other way. 

Sarge is the gruff but loving parental figure 

Grif is the underachieving eldest child

Simmons is the overlooked middle child

Donut is the youngest child who can do no wrong

And Lopez flounders between Uncle that no one listens to and cousin the parents dote on

The group sometimes reminds me so much of my own and other families I’ve seen its kinda scary. 

No matter what they do to each other they are always there for each other, they are really a family to me.

@rvbplatonicweek