#to say that the Sirens are revealing the truth of the Universe

[violetmuses]

Tough Days - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹

Title: Tough Days - A. Aretas ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Main Storyline: Former criminal Armando Aretas and Detective Marcus Burnett try to build their unexpected relationship. 🏷 @adoresmiles

====

2024

Though facing many questions or encountering different secrets over time, famous detective Mike Lowrey would now stand up as the biological father of previous criminal Armando Aretas.

Because the Miami Police Department handled operations, even Mike's longtime partner and best friend Marcus Burnett crossed Aretas as well.

After hiding overseas and safely returning to Miami, Florida, Armando would stay at home with Mike, but continued helping the known precinct.

_____

“Are you still mad at me about the campfire thing?” Marcus leaned toward Armando from his desk.

“No, but you talk too much.” Aretas took Skittles from Marcus without looking and veiled the candy

“Hey!” Upon realization, Marcus glanced around for sweets. “Can't let me enjoy shit, just like your father.”

Tossing the candy to Mike, Armando jutted his chin and headed to the briefing room.

“Catch up with your nephew right now before I call Theresa over the junk food.” Mike arched his brow toward Marcus and even mentioned Burnett's wife Theresa.

“Really, man?” Marcus immediately defends himself while trailing everyone inside.

“Go.” Mike clenched his teeth. “You survived the heart attack, but you're still my brother.”

“I know.” Sitting down, Marcus and Mike prepared themselves for work as usual. “How's Armando doing?”

“Ask him yourself. Are you scared?” Mike nearly chuckled.

“Hell no. He just doesn't express himself.” Marcus told the truth.

Armando's still learning.” Lowrey responded back this time around, sipping coffee. “Let's focus.”

“Fine.” Marcus stopped playing around while looking forward. Captain Rita Secada stands behind the podium and heads this meeting.

Another hustle is coming up. Burnett thought.

____

“Why do y'all always put Armando near the clubs?” Marcus reviewed files of their next case.

“Even I can't go anymore.” Mike answered Marcus. “Times have changed, man.”

“So we're old now?” Marcus squinted toward his best friend.

“To be honest, yeah.” Mike shrugged. “And let's just say that Armando has a better chance of catching these fools.”

“How can Armando work better than us? We've been in the game for years, Mike.” Marcus glanced between Lowrey and Aretas, curious.

“No suspicion.” Mike cleared his throat. “If you and I step foot anywhere, folks start running before we can even question people.”

“But I still don't like what's happening.” Marcus vented. “Every time we go out like that, Armando pulls some charm and he ends up getting phone numbers.”

“Networks.” Mike nodded. “It's a distraction to reach the criminals before we swarm everything.”

“Yeah, right.” Marcus casted both eyes toward the ceiling. “You're just putting Armando outside for no reason at this point.”

“I won't leave. It's still work.”Aretas finally spoke up and chime in.

“You don't even talk to the ladies, man.” Marcus judged Aretas.

“Hey, that's none of your business” Mike warned Marcus over boundaries as usual.

“It is. We haven't met anyone.” Marcus shook his head. “I want another case. Talk to Rita.”

“Shut up, man.” Mike planned to keep going, but radio signals buzzed around the precinct.

“There's a chase, let's go.” Armando revealed slightly accented English and stood up, grabbing car keys.

Given no other option, Mike and Marcus hustled to follow Aretas.

_____

“I know damn-well that Mike never taught you how to drive!” Marcus worried from the passenger seat. “Slow down, Armando.”

“Not now. Please!” Aretas punched the gas while speeding regardless. Sirens wailed in all directions this afternoon.

“Shit!” Marcus just kept yelling. “Is this motherfucker driving the Batmobile?”

“Lamborghini.” Armando name-dropped the vehicle in pursuit.

When the Lambo turned, Armando caught this chance right away and immediately stopped driving.

“Freeze!” Marcus and Armando yelled together while the AMMO squad gathered near this big-time car.

“Don't touch me, pig!” This criminal shouted once Mike handcuffed him, but Armando lowered his gun.

“Zway?” Armando then narrowed his eyes past the Florida sun.

“Hey, help me out, man! I can hook you up right now.” Zway Rodriguez lived.

“Nah, you still get on my nerves, Zway. Take him to the station.” Armando nodded to Mike once more.

“How the hell is Zway still breathing?” Marcus stood flabbergasted. “We torched his ass!”

“No.” Armando corrected. “Zway dropped from my helicopter like Mike, but I didn't know what happened afterwards until now.”

“Damn.” Marcus returned to their car. “Do you think Zway connects our new case here?”

“We'll see.” This time, Armando started driving without trouble and headed back to the precinct.

_____

By nightfall, bright lights painted almost every corner of South Beach once more.

“All jokes aside, how are you doing?” Marcus and Armando joined the back of this limousine.

“Better, I guess.” Aretas tried. “I'm not running anymore.”

“Of course not.” Marcus then revealed more truth here. “Shit might be difficult for a while, but we got your back now.”

“Thanks.” Armando nodded, ready to handle business.

“We look good, but don't act up tonight. I'm still around.” Marcus glanced near Armando before entering the club.

Ignoring Marcus, Armando recognized security first.

“Sup, man?” One guard dapped up Aretas while standing between overhead neon lights. “What are you doing with Burnett?”

“It's another case.” Armando whispered. Even Marcus nodded, impressed.

“Damn.” That guard shook his head. “Who's the culprit now?”

“Where's Spark? I need to catch him before the drop hits.” This large-scale supply of drugs would funnel Miami soon.

“VIP waiting on our second floor. Get his ass, all right?” The guard pointed, leading directions for Armando and Marcus.

“Got it.” Aretas took charge and Marcus followed, ready.

______

“That's Spark? He's not special.” Marcus chuckled near Armando.

Spark wore this knockoff designer outfit as people gathered around the VIP section.

“The Aretas legacy is thriving. Hello…” Spark barely introduced himself before yelling woke up this venue.

“Hands up!” The AMMO squad pulled up once more, led by Mike and Rita.

_______

Sooner than later, red and blue overcasts brightened Miami.

At long last, Spark met the patrol vehicles for his crimes and another righteous bust threw down.

“Good job, Armando, but I still have a question for you.” Marcus asked.

“Yeah?” Aretas looked toward Burnett.

“Are you ever coming by the house? We don't bite.” Marcus invited Armando to see his family.

“Maybe.” Aretas shrugged and left the scene with Mike as Marcus returned home.

Progress is better than nothing.

[cierraonline]

S1EP8: SEASON FINALE! BILLIE'S SECRET IS REVEALED! THE ITALIAN MAFIA! PART TWO

1

2

3

Rolling . . . . . 

Whatever TF This Is Podcast

Season 1 | Episode 8

SEASON FINALE! BILLIE'S SECRET IS REVEALED! THE ITALIAN MAFIA! PART TWO 

"And we are back," Rodrick announces as everyone comes back to their seats. 

"Do you have something you want to say, mio caro (my darling)?" Lorenzo turns to his wife, whose arms are crossed. 

"No," Rose shakes her head, not believing that anything she has to say should be said on camera. "We will talk about it later." 

"Yeah, they shouldn't do this on camera," Maggie agrees with the maternal figure of the Vixen family. 

"Yo!" Dre walks down the stairs with Zoe behind him as they take a seat on the floor since there are no more chairs available. 

"You guys are still filming?" Zoe asks, thinking filming was done since she could've sworn everyone was in the kitchen a few seconds ago. 

"Only for like five more minutes," Billie speaks up. "I want to reveal my secret before we end." 

"Well, after Bob's secret, can we go to that new place, Billie's Italy?" Dre asks. 

"Ouu, I heard about that place too," Rose perks up. "I was gonna have Lorenzo take me after this." 

"We're banned," everyone in the room besides the Vixen grandparents, Travis, and Siren says. 

"How the fuck are y'all banned? It just opened yesterday," Dre's brow furrows in confusion. "What the fuck did y'all do?" 

"Siren banned us from going," Finneas chimes in. 

"We can't even look at videos about the place," Billie adds. 

"Well, I want to go," Dre shoves his hand into his pockets. "So let's go." 

"Vse nastroyeno," (everything is set up) Travis speaks up for the first time since filming. 

"Pozvoni voditelyu," (call the driver) Siren orders her older brother, who follows directions, taking out his phone. 

"There they go speaking that mafia lingo again," Rodrick comments on how the siblings are interacting. 

"It's Russian, dumbass," Siren snarks. 

"Wait! But like on a serious note, are you part of the Mafia?" Dre instigates as a joke, not really thinking his best friend is in the Mafia. But when he sees how the Vixen family members look at the patriarch, it signals something to him. "Seriously?" 

"The Vixen name holds power that was built when I was in my late teens and mio caro and I were aged out of the foster home and expecting," Lorenzo answers the question. "We aren't tied to the Mafia, but we carry similar power." 

"I never knew this," Billie turns to look at her wife. "As a matter of fact, you guys don't really say anything family history-wise besides that you guys are Italian." 

"It's family law for us not to tell our history; only nonno (grandfather) can," Siren clears her voice. 

"The Vixen family didn't exist until 1979. Rose and I were expecting and had just gotten kicked out of the foster home in Florence. We had no money, and it was like the universe knew what we needed. I had just finished my shift at the local butchery and was taking a smoke break before I started my twenty-minute walk home when a man in a suit walked up to me and asked if I knew about the local gangs. I'm observant and told him everything I knew, but at a basic level that anyone knew about the crime in Florence. And he knew what I was doing, so he got closer and told me, 'I can change your life if you give me the truth.' I looked at him like he was crazy, but then I saw the tattoo; it was a cross with angel wings, and the only people to have those tattoos are the Al Capone Boys." 

"Wasn't Al Capone American?" Dre asks. 

"And hated in Italy because he wasn't a mafia leader; he was just a prohibitionist who took the title that the FBI gave him. That angered the real Italian Mafias, especially when more families started to build, weakening what it meant to really be the Mafia. The Al Capone Boys were a group of young men who wanted to basically outdo Al Capone's legacy and show what the Italian Mafia was really about. The man who asked me about the gang was their leader, Vincenzo Sangue, at the time the most powerful man in Italy. Right then and there, he gave me 50 grand, and I told him everything I knew in depth. I went to walk away after, but he stopped me and demanded I show him where I lived. At first, I was scared to because who knew what he would do to me and a seven-month pregnant Rose with Enzo, but I did it anyway because I felt the presence of my mother whispering in my ear to listen. I took him to meet my Rose and our small apartment. For the next two hours, every move we made was out of fear of upsetting him. He looked around and asked questions about where we came from, then the questions turned to more about the gangs. Rose asked him how he was going to change our life, and he simply told us, 'I'm going to make you the most feared person in the world because you did what my boys failed to do. You watched.' And he kept his promise. By the next month, Rose and I were moved out of our little apartment and into a mansion with one billion dollars stashed under our bed. I changed our names to Vixen as a way to leave behind the old us and promised my mio caro that we would never be poor again. So I built, invested, and watched. Everyone knew the name Vixen. The thing with Vincenzo, he didn't want an informant; he wanted a son. Someone he could teach, build, and observe. But lastly, he wanted someone who would take his fortune and double it when he was no longer on the earth since he didn't have a family and didn't trust the Al Capone Boys to be smart. He chose me. And with that, Rose and I built a legacy that couldn't be disrupted because we kept it in our blood. We have the eye; I know everything that goes on even when it seems like I'm not watching. That's how I knew something was wrong with Siren. We have my Rose, the seductress, the embodiment of feminine power, able to bring any man to his knees with just a glance and smile. My son, Enzo, the talker, knows how to network and get anyone to sign a deal with just three words. My grandson, Travis, the businessman, knows how to flip a dollar and make it a million. And lastly, my rosa scura (dark rose), Siren, the baby girl named after the humanlike beings with alluring voices. She's the joker of the family." 

"The joker?" Billie looks confused because how was that a compliment. "Why the joker?" 

"Because when the joker takes off his mask, another face is revealed," Lorenzo smirks, admiring his granddaughter. "She portrays the wild child, but when she takes her mask off, she's always the smartest person in the room. Siren is always a hundred steps ahead, with everything thoroughly planned out in that brain of hers. IQ of 550, ability to turn on and off her emotions, reads about 50,000 words per minute, and remembers every single little detail. She works harder than anyone, not for the money, but because she thrives off of the power and influence the work gives her. She gets things down to a science. Why do you think Goosebumps is still paying for everything six years later when it had no marketing?" 

"This got scary quick," Rodrick fills the silence. "So I'm guessing that's why your hand has the skeleton smile." 

"Yup," Siren nods her head. "We all have tattoos symbolizing our position in the family. Nonno has the Illuminati pyramid and eye on the back of his neck. Nonna has a rose on her ankle. Daddy has a kiss stain tatted on his chest. Travis has a stack of cash on his arm. And underneath them says 'Vixen family.'" 

"That's so cool," Billie gawks. "The only family history story we got is that our grandparents died at a young age." 

"Hold up, I'm still confused about something," Dre interrupts. 

"What?" 

"Yo, Mama Rose, you're really telling me Enzo is your child because, no offense, he doesn't look like he has a tint of black in him like you and Siren." 

"I said the same thing, Dre, after I pushed him out," Rose laughs. "All nine months of carrying his six-pound body and not a tint of color," Rose shakes her head. "My mother was part of the Panther Tribe in Wakanda (let's just pretend), so that's where Siren and I's melanin and hair come from. And my father was a full-blood Italian man with blue and green eyes." 

"This is the most we've ever heard about you guys' history," Maggie smiles. 

"Furgon zdes'," (van is here) Travis announces to Siren.

"Okay, let's go," Siren stands up. 

"Where are we going?" Billie asks as everyone besides Travis looks at her in confusion. 

"You said you wanted to go to Billie's Italy, so let's go," she points to the door. 

"Right now?" 

"You're asking dumb questions. I'll be waiting in the van." With that, she walks out with Travis following behind.

"Are we bringing the camera?" Billie turns to Rodrick, both unsure of what to do next.

"I-"

"What is taking you guys so long?" Siren walks back into the house.

"Are we bringing the equipment?" Rodrick asks.

"No, I have a filming crew waiting for us there," she shakes her head. "So can we please just get in the van?"

With no more questions, everyone gets in the van, heading to Billie's Italy.

---

"This is the location I was negotiating with the state board for three years before someone outbid me," Enzo stares at the place in recognition. "I wonder what developer bought it."

"Oh, then we don't need to go in," Rose shakes her head. "Why should we frolic in a place that could've belong to the Vixen family?"

"Mio caro, it's not that serious," Lorenzo shakes his head.

"Like hell it is," she snaps at her husband. "What do I look like wearing a rich Dolce and Gabbana outfit to the competition's investment?"

"Are you guys done?" Siren turns to her family members. "Anyways, Billie, read this." She passes her a piece of paper.

"Do I have to read it in the parking lot?" Billie looks confused as the family stands in front of the place. "Okay then," she sighs once she sees the glare her wife gives her. "October 2012... Is this from my old diary?... Sitting alone in my room writing in my diary because I miss Siren. She just left an hour ago to Italy to visit her grandparents, and I really wanted to go but couldn't because I have a children's choir trip next week. The way she describes Italy makes me jealous because I wish to see it in person. Siren asked if I would want to move to Italy with her when we're older, but I don't think I can. I would miss my parents and Pepper... unless I take them with me, but I doubt we can afford it. I told her no, so she said she would bring Italy to me and she'll call it... Billie's Italy—"

Gasps fill the air, and tears start to fill her eyes as she flips to the next page. "It would be our f-f... It would be our forever home surrounded by golden gates." She lowers the paper, revealing the golden gates with golden arches above spelling out Billie's Italy. "Y-You. No!"

"Are you going to cry or go in?" Siren smirks, standing next to her brother.

"You kinda have to go in now because you're blocking others from entering since we closed the gates," Travis informs her.

"I-I," Billie stutters, just looking at the gates and imagining what the inside looks like.

"Come on," Siren walks up to her, grabbing her hand and guiding her towards the gate, which automatically opens as they get closer.

"Oh my God! Siren!" Billie's mouth falls open at the sight in front of her.

"Let's keep walking," Siren pulls her. "Do you want to walk or get on the trolley?"

"You bought a trolley?" Rodrick questions from his place behind her.

"Billie is obsessed with them."

"Because they're so cool and vintage," Billie smiles widely. "I want to walk."

"Okay, so everything is Italian from the music stores, clothing stores, restaurants, and bakery," Travis lists as they walk through, looking at the stops before stopping at a fine dining restaurant.

"Miss Donahue, I've been waiting for you," a feminine voice calls out as they walk out the side door of the restaurant.

"Me?" Zoe points to herself.

"Chelsea?" Enzo furrows his eyebrows, seeing one of his agents from his real estate company walk over to them.

"Here are the keys to your new apartment," Chelsea smiles, handing the keys to a shocked and confused Zoe.

"Apartment?"

"I'm sorry, penthouse," Chelsea smiles, making the correction.

"Penthouse?" Zoe turns to look at Siren, who passes her a paper. "I, Zoey101, will have my dream apartment. It will be one of those fancy apartments that look vintage but also me. It will have a nice doorman who greets me every time we see each other and have small talk. And it will be on top of a fine dining restaurant," she reads the paper she wrote when she was ten or eleven.

"Would you like to see your apartment?" Chelsea offers with a smile.

"She would," Siren answers for frozen Zoe, who is still looking at her new home.

"Well, let's go inside, shall we," Chelsea walks in front of the group, opening the door for them.

"Hello, Ms. Donahue," an older man who resembles Bertram from Jessie smiles, tipping his hat.

"Hi," Zoe cheekily waves, looking around the hallway that exudes rich and cultured architecture.

"Here we have the residence-only entrance to 'Mario's Fine Dining Experience,'" Chelsea points out the restaurant door. "And right this way are the stairs or the elevators. For you, I recommend the elevators as you are on the top floor. And boss, this building has 15 units, mostly 1-2 bedrooms and 1 full and 1 half bathrooms. Each unit has a balcony. And since Billie's Italy is car-free, the parking garage is underground and leads to the back entrance for residents only." Chelsea explains the description of the building as she pushes the elevator button.

"Why are you telling me?" Enzo turns to her, taking in each corner of the apartment.

"This apartment building is contracted under Vixen Real Estate, meaning you own it," Travis answers the question for the agent as everyone steps into the elevator, which is slightly faster than a normal elevator.

"Billie's Italy only offers rentals that we get back the money it cost to build the building," Siren answers.

"How many units are sold, Chelsea?" Enzo goes into real estate agent mode.

"All of them for $1100 a month, including utilities," Chelsea smiles, proud of herself since she was the agent in charge of selling this building. "The rent is lower than what we would normally price a place like this because affordability was a big thing for Siren when it comes to this building."

The elevator dings, and with the tap of the assigned key tag, the elevators open to reveal Zoe's apartment.

"AHH!!" Zoe screams, looking around the place with excitement.

"I'm guessing she loves it," Chelsea laughs.

Seeing more, Zoe runs around the place to view each room. "It's my dream place!" She runs back to the living room where everyone is and gives Siren a rib-crushing hug. "I'm so happy. I don't even care that you don't like hugs. I love you so much."

"Get off of me," Siren pushes her off. "Come on, we still have other places to see."

---

The group heads back outside, exploring and stopping whenever something catches their eye. Billie's Italy is a little replica of Italy, exuding romance and luxury. Once again, they find themselves in front of two connected townhouses.

"Don't say I never gave you anything," Siren passes the keys to Rodrick and Dre, who quickly take them.

"Me first," Rodrick runs to the door, not even waiting to hear which door is his.

"That's not his door, is it?" Dre smirks, watching Rodrick struggle to get inside.

"Nope," Siren shakes her head, smirking. "Looks like you're up first." Walking up the steps, Dre pushes Rodrick out of the way with one hand and opens the door to what he will call his 'bachelor pad.'

"This is cool," he shrugs, externally showing that he's not phased while internally geeking out.

"My turn," Rodrick yells, heading out the front door and to the one next door. It's basically the same as Dre's place but more Rodrick's style. "I can't wait to throw parties and have girls up in here."

"Yeah, like you actually get any," Siren scoffs.

"With a place like this, I might actually find my future wife," Rodrick smiles, looking around. "Or sister wives."

"Eww," Billie groans in disgust.

"Have some respect, Rodrick," Rose rolls her eyes.

"Well, let's keep looking," Siren announces, pushing everyone out the door. "We have to get on the trolley for the next location."

"This is the residential block," Travis points out as they leave the shopping area for a more secluded one. "You need a key tag to enter this area, and there's a security house in the middle."

"Ooh honey, look at that house!" Rose points out the window. "It looks like ours! Trolley driver, please stop; I want to look at that house!"

"Yes, Mrs. Vixen," the driver tips his hat, slowly braking the trolley bus to a full stop. Not waiting for anyone, Rose rushes off the bus in her So Kates. "This is exactly like our home in Venice! What is going on?"

"Well, mio caro, you always say you wanted to move to America to be with the kids, so I had Siren and Travis rebuild our home so you wouldn't miss it back in Italy," Lorenzo smiles at his wife of 30 years.

"You did that for me, you big bear," Rose turns away from the house to look at her husband with admiration.

"I know I would do anything for you, mio caro," Lorenzo pulls his wife close for a deep kiss.

"I would say let's go inside, but I'm scared you guys would try to give Dad a sibling. Let's go across the street," Siren shakes her head, shivering in disgust at the thought of her grandparents making out.

"What's across the street?" Billie asks, excited to see more.

"Maggie's dream home," Siren smirks, throwing the keys to Patrick, who catches them and looks ahead to see something straight out of his wife's dreams. It is, in fact, Maggie's dream home.

"Oh, it's beautiful," Maggie gawks at it with tears in her eyes, walking a little faster towards it.

"It's like that cabin we went to in Aspen that mom didn't want to leave," Finneas laughs.

"Do you want to go inside?" Patrick asks his wife, rubbing her shoulder. She shakes her head in response.

"No," she whispers, wiping the tears. "If I go in, I know I will fall in love with it and wouldn't want to leave. L-let's keep going."

"Our next stop is Dad's place," Travis pats his father on the shoulder.

"Wooden palace, right?" Siren smirks, pointing to an architectural masterpiece.

"So first you take my developing location, and now you gift me my dream house?" Enzo looks at his children with pride written all over his face.

"Yeah."

"Yup."

"Have at it," Travis throws him the keys. Everyone heads inside to look at the home, which perfectly fits Enzo's personality—masculine and sleek.

"Maybe this house will urge him to give me another grandchild," Rose comments. "I miss having a baby in my arms."

"I'm not having another kid, Mother," Enzo rejects his mother's statement, looking around his new home.

"Well, how about a wife? You've never had one of those..." she points out.

"Because I like being single."

"No one likes being single, baby boy," Rose shakes her head. "Being single only brings loneliness. I mean, look at Rodrick."

"I am not lonely!" Rodrick denies dramatically.

"Yes, you are," Siren and Dre correct him.

"Samantha is at the complex site," Travis looks up from his phone.

"Back on the trolley we go," Siren instructs everyone as they head over to the second residence site.

---

"Welcome to Italian Plaza, where luxury gets a taste of Italian architecture," Samantha walks out of the building. "All 20 units sold to rich people with the kind of money that makes you question what they do for a living. 2-3 bedrooms, 2 full bathrooms, the usual amenities we offer, and $12,500 a month plus utilities. All contracted under Vixen Real Estate."

"Do I now own all the buildings?" Enzo turns to his kids.

"And the stores and restaurants that are under lease," Siren adds

"Yup, and there's no website for any of the buildings," Travis smirks.

"You have to be invited by Vixen Real Estate to apply to live here," Siren tells her father.

"And your new office is right there," Travis points to the tall structure standing next to the complex. "We know how you don't like doing work at home and have been looking for an office building."

"So we built you one," Siren shrugs.

"Wait, so where do you guys live?" Finneas asks.

"We have to head back to the shopping area," Siren states, heading to the trolley while holding hands with her wife.

---

"Is that a black panther?" Rodrick exclaims, taking a look at Travis's place, which is designed to be overly dramatic and very Travis.

"Why is it all black?" Lorenzo comments, not seeing an ounce of color anywhere besides the warm lighting.

"Because Travis likes to act like he's allergic to color," an unfamiliar female voice speaks up, walking down the steps towards the group.

"This is Medusa, my girlfriend," Travis wraps his arm around the woman's waist.

"It's nice to finally meet the Vixen-O'Connell village. I've heard so much about you guys," the brown-skinned woman offers a charming smile, showing off her pearly whites.

"That's weird because we haven't heard anything about you," Rose comments, glaring at her grandson. "Why do you guys hide things from me? Am I a hard person to approach or something?"

"You can be a little overbearing," the children murmur under their breath.

"Well Medusa, are you Italian?" Lorenzo asked his grandson's girlfriend.

"Um, no, sorry," she chuckled. "I'm from Wakanda, the River Tribe," she proudly stated.

"I love her, keep her, marry her," Rose nodded her head approvingly.

"Welcome to the village, Medusa," Enzo smiled at the young woman.

"Wait, where are you two going to live?" Finneas asked, pointing to Billie and Siren.

"Yeah, where are we going to live? Because I swear if you tell me we're staying in our house, I'm going to be highly upset," Billie crossed her arms.

"Calm down," Siren rolled her eyes. "We live next door at the end." Siren walked out of Travis's place and toward the cement arch doorway with a metal door. Entering the keycode, the door opened to reveal the outside of their home. Since Billie got her dream house last time, Siren made sure she got what she wanted this time.

"Oh, this is beautiful," Maggie commented as they took in the outside area of the home.

"Inside is even better," Siren smiled. "Welcome to my dream home." She rushed up the stairs and into the house.

"This is exactly what you wanted, baby," Billie smiled, looking around. "I can't believe this will be our forever home."

"Let me show you what I think is going to be your favorite room," Siren smirked, grabbing her wife's hand and dragging her upstairs with everyone following. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Billie nodded her head frantically. With a twist of the knob, Siren opened the door and let Billie go in first, followed by the rest of the family.

"Billie, do you finally want to reveal your secret?" Siren smirked. Turning away from the room, Billie faced the family, who looked around the room, confused about what they were seeing since it was an empty room.

"Siren is pregnant."

[daughter-of-melpomene]

supernatural creatures au w/ Lark?? -🍂

Oh ho ho, this idea is so fun!! Thanks, Alvita!! (And once again, we’re tagging the gang @auxiliarydetective and @supermarine-silvally!! <3)

Okay, so obviously Lark is a siren in this AU. And rather than just parading her around as a showpony, the World Government actually uses her as a weapon, forcing her to use her voice to brainwash Marine cadets into becoming unquestioningly loyal to the organization and even some captured pirates to completely turn against their ways and become Marines. She knows it’s an absolutely disgusting abuse of her magic and she hates it, but her handlers have made it abundantly clear that it’s either that or death, so she goes along with it.

But then one day when she’s in a small village on a World Government assignment, she meets a little psychic empath named Luffy who can clearly sense her conflict and how much she hates what she’s doing, and offers her a way out. She takes it, obviously, and runs away to join his pirate crew, which consists of Luffy, vampire Nami, werewolf Usopp, kitsune Zoro, and kitchen witch Sanji.

We’ll imagine in this universe that sirens can sing without enchanting people, it’s more a matter of intent when they start singing than anything else, but Lark still refuses to sing for a while after joining the Straw Hats because she just doesn’t trust herself to use her magic responsibly anymore. It isn’t until Sanji hears her absently humming to herself one night when she thinks she’s alone - because even if she doesn’t outright sing, music is in her very DNA, she can’t give it up entirely - and says that he bets she has the most beautiful voice he’s ever heard that she agrees to start singing for fun again. She still refuses to use her siren song for battle, though, a decision that the rest of the Straw Hats are of course okay with.

Sanji also absolutely makes the best magic-infused food in addition to how amazing the regular food he makes is, and it’s actually what leads to him and Lark getting together. He’s testing out a magical recipe he found that basically acts as an hour-long truth serum to anyone that eats it, and Lark winds up eating one of the prototypes without knowing what it is and blurting out that she’s in love with him. She refuses to speak for the rest of the hour after that, not wanting to reveal anything too embarrassing, but Sanji still admits that he loves her too.

Luffy, because of his empathetic powers, can sense that Lark and Sanji have started dating before anyone else because he can feel the love radiating off of them now. He then proceeds to do something completely out of character for him and actually manages to keep it a secret until they reveal their relationship to the rest of the crew themselves, just because he loves his friends and respects them that much.

send me an oc + an au and i’ll give you five headcanons for that au!!

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 1

Updated Every Other Thursday (hopefully)

Foreword:

Hello and welcome. This is the first piece of fiction I'm posting anywhere public since grade school, and I'm pretty excited and nervous about it. It's about a lot of things, many unsettling and esoteric, and is set in the BattleTech universe. However, I'm trying to not get too overbearing on the lore, for everyone's sake (including my own). Also, fair warning: these characters are stolen from my other, more central projects, so don't be surprised if they show up in a completely different setting. All in all, thank you for having a look!

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: alcohol abuse, vague mental illness, vomit mention

"I had just one quick glimpse out the porthole, to see the frosted dot in the distance becoming slowly massive, before the alarm went off. Sirens and red lights flashing all around put me and my lance into a run toward the 'mech bay. We stripped to reveal our um... coolant vests, and scrambled up the ladders into the cockpits of our veritable killing machines. The 'techs sped through the startup checks and then my Hatchetman, Jester, came alive. I felt Her warming me in livid spite of my wellbeing. Then, the commander came in over the comms, 'get those asses in gear, Alpha Lance! We've got Marik ‘mechs at the drop zone, so break a leg!' Jester spun around in her bay, and the world went silent."

You spent two months running patrols on some planetoid so devoid of life it couldn't even be considered backwater. Though, the mining company operating there was scared to shit of the inter-House war that had just broken out, even when it had just been rumors and speculation, so it was good money that got better daily. The patrols were so desolate. You only had the massive snow drifts and whoever was on comms to keep you company the whole time. Being so alone was perfect.

"The bottom of the bay dropped out and sent me into the fray. I came in right on top of an Atlas (you know what that is right?), and embedded my axe directly in his cockpit. Those fuckers are tough though, so it threw me off, and I got a torso-full of lasers at close range. It wasn't enough to take me down, though, and I got another chop in with a blast from my own weapons. That's when the rest of my lance got a good shot, and the ‘mech was lost in a barrage of shells and missiles and lasers. But, shrouded in the smoke coming off his melting armor, he kept coming. I used my other arm to get up close and push the weapons in his torso off angle, pulling the Atlas into a grapple. That sent his autocannon shots wildly off, but his missiles still got a bad hit on one of my lancemates. I knew at that point it was do or die, so I shoved my torso cannon right up against his viewport, and boom!!"

House Marik had arrived in just one dropship and launched an assault on the mining complex. It must’ve been producing something important, because they sent a lot of firepower at you. You had been out on patrol at the time they first popped up on sensors, and while the rest of the crew scrambled, you made the right choice to beat a hasty retreat. The truth is, you never stood a chance. In the following skirmish, it took all the skill your lance could muster and losing your hatchet arm to take down a single assault ‘mech, and the engagement had just let the other enemies slip by and annihilate the target. You probably could have taken at least two more, but not without losses.

"The blast almost tore my arm clean off, but the Atlas went tumbling into the ground, quiet as the void. Then, we turned our sights to 'mech two, a slightly smaller one that was trying to flank us. It was a bitch to hit, but we adapted-"

You ran and left them to burn. Another city to ashes.

"Mat! What the hell are you on about!?"

Your surroundings come flooding back into focus. You're at a bar somewhere you can't quite remember right now. How many drinks has it been? Last count says two, but that's beyond doubtful now, making your ability to rattle off that story coherently a feat in itself. There's a woman opposite you at the table. She's picking at a scratch in the finish and is almost certainly checked out of the conversation. You're sure there was a reason you were telling her about this encounter, and that it's extremely important that you make it impressive. However, the lack of oxygen in your brain had lost that reason paragraphs ago. Ashe, the lancemate who interrupted your flow, is certainly less far gone than you and looks bemused. She continues, "If you're going to be spinning tall tales about our exploits, at least make them believable. Who the hell’s going to think you actually chopped an Atlas in half like death from above?"

You feel the heat of embarrassment overtake that of inebriation. She could have just stayed quiet, because you have a good ending planned out and everything. What's her problem anyway? She has enough friends to go bother in the company, and her boyfriend is like right over there… somewhere. The woman across from you, who you'd neglected to get the name of like a prick, looks up with a bit of surprise and chimes in, "Oh! Sorry, I was listening, promise. It's a nice story and all. I mean, nothing like what it's actually like on the front, from what I know, but it would make a good story for one of those pulpy war novels or something."

This makes you indignant. You huff and say something stupid, "And, how would you know?"

She smiles back at you, barely wounded, and replies in practiced rhythm, "Corporal Hannelore Geelen, 57th Lyran Armored. A pleasure to meet you, MechWarrior."

Ashe laughs her head off in the background, while you- Wait are you crying? Why are you crying!? Ashe and Hannelore both look at you in different flavors of mortification. You didn’t even do anything that bad, but now you're saying sorry over and over again, while insisting you were a complete asshole. Be thankful your spontaneous bout of sorrow is quiet enough to avoid the attention of the whole damned bar. Some fear of predatoriness has clearly flitted into your mind and been amplified by alcohol, since you keep apologizing for being a dick, and a bastard, and a whore and really any bad word you can think of, without a care for relevance. The pair of voices in the background started to sound like a chorus,

"Hey hey, it's ok. The story wasn't that bad."

"Mat, what the fuck? Are you ok?"

Et cetera.

Et cetera.

Then, after some quick consideration, Ashe says something akin to "fuck it" under her breath and scoops you up into a fireman's carry to whisk you out of the public eye. That's quite the blow to the barely smoldering embers of your self esteem, and as if to spite you a fifteenth time over, the corporal you had accidentally been trying to have sex with gets up and follows along with you. A brief conversation occurs in the twilight of your perception. It's just mumbling to you really.

"I'm very sorry for this, Corporal. I can take care of them from here."

"It's no problem. I was bored anyway. Plus, I'm sure they'll be better company sober."

You pass out after that, which is likely for the best.

The air flees your lungs, as if they were cursed. You cough and writhe on the grassy hill you had been dropped upon not too softly.

“…and you didn’t have to drop them.”

“Didn’t mean to, but they’ll live.”

They’re talking about you, probably. You still feel the embarrassment lingering from the bar, but there that anger, still present and bubbling to the top. Being manhandled out of a public breakdown is a disgrace, but despite your clouded take on things, it’s clearly your fault to begin with. The figures towering over you are out of focus and haloed in blinding artificial light. Your brain cobbles together a pretty, angelic simile, which just makes you more angry. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Only in port, usually. They're a normal amount of feckless in a ‘mech.”

A mumbling starts to burble out from your lips, growing louder as you focus control into your fricatives and plosives and whatnot. It gets to a point where one of the angels stops mid-sentence to address you, “Care to share with the class, Mat?”

You think very hard about the words you want to say next. They have to be finely crafted and powerful enough to win you a quiet evening to recover from whatever this was. You take a deep breath, steel your gaze, open your mouth and rasp just barely audibly, “Fuck you. I am prestige. I outrank everyone here.”

Why do you keep claiming honor that's not yours? It's insulting.

The blindingly bright angel snickers, and its duller yet equally holy counterpart cocks its head in curiosity. 

“Is that true, Ashe? I took you for lance commander.”

“Maybe it was, but sure as fuck hasn't been for a while now.”

“Really? How's that?”

“Well, back in the Third Succession War…”

You feel their insolence radiating into you. It's unthinkable that you, the champion but inches away from nobility, the company commander with so many medals you jangled like a children's toy, the only mechwarrior with more than half a brain cell in this whole system, could be so debased. But, who are you to argue with heaven? Because, despite their angelicness being only a ruse, they can see you for what you really are in this moment.

“Wait a second, do you know if they've been drinking anything other than shots?”

“Wouldn't know. I was doing my best to avoid babysitting this time.”

“I see. But, in that case, I'll be back in a second.”

Once the other had left earshot, the remaining harbinger turns to you and speaks, “I swear to fuck, Mat. You're lucky she's nice. Otherwise, I would've dropped you in a drainage ditch and called you in M.I.A. Between the shit you and Ed pull, they wouldn't even question it.”

You say sorry.

“I don't really care about apologies. We have drills tomorrow, and you better be on point or I’ll make you as armless as your damned ‘mech.”

You say sorry again.

“I don't know what your problem is, but you really have to start thinking about how you're not the only one with them. I try to help, but I'm reaching my limit. We all are.”

You say sorry again. And, again, and again, and again, and again. You're curled into a ball now, trying to block out as much sensation as you can. A fleeting thought hits you, letting you know you'd make a good physics test question right now. It was kind of funny, but you find the idea insulting. You ask yourself where you're going from here, as if you could even stand in your state. You wonder what catastrophe will play out tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever comes. You ponder if the ground could just swallow you here and now. A hand lightly taps you on the shoulder.

“Hey, Mat right? I got you some water. I suggest you drink now, before you regret it later.”

She set a bag of water next to you with a crinkle. It's probably one of the three litre ones they have in the stores here, the ones with the scenic river on the label. You should be thankful for this. You agree and say thank you as audibly as you can. She probably hears you. You take the water as an opportunity to distract yourself from the noise of thinking for a second and take a series of greedy sips from the plastic pouring tip. 

“Hey. Hey! Slow down! I'm not helping you back to housing if you piss yourself.”

You comply, and that's probably for the best because in your haste, you upset your stomach. You vomit about a third of the bag of water and a year’s worth of alcohol onto the grass. God knows how you were able to hold it back until now. 

“Eugh…”

“They haven't eaten, looks like.”

“Corporal, with all due respect, gross.”

Hannelore shrugs. You don't remember not eating, but you don't remember eating either. That's probably not a good sign. You try to push yourself up off the ground, so you don't have to sit next to the mess you made anymore. You do a decent job of putting your feet on the ground. The balance is harder, and you start to careen just as Ashe catches you by the shoulder.

“Alright, Sergeant [that’s you], that's enough embarrassing yourself for one night. I think it's time to get you home.”

“That's probably best for the both of you. It's a big day tomorrow.”

“Seems like it. I'll see you then, Corporal.”

“Stay safe, you two.”

You take a second to process the detail left so casually in that farewell. When you finally get it, you look at Ashe with a panic and say, “Wait, what!?” She laughs back at you and just says, “Tomorrow's going to be a weird one for you, that's a given.”

You think of all the different ways to get out of drills tomorrow. There's plenty, many of which involve some fairly unnecessary self mutilation, but you won't act on any of them. It's clear the thought of being in your warm bed all alone is too tantalizing to be interrupted by even the strongest self hatred. Outside your head, the walk home is quiet. Ashe seems to soften toward you along the way, but probably from fatigue over anything else. She leaves you alone, and you just try your best to focus on the path ahead of you.

Before you know it, you're back in your dormitory room, double locking your door behind you. You hold a heavy debate over whether you can handle a shower, but something distracts you, another stray thought. This is a bad idea, but you won’t be dissuaded. Now, you’re digging through your duffle that had been tossed into a corner and lived out of for the past couple days. Toward the bottom, there's a slightly crumpled piece of photo paper. You almost instantly notice a few creases that had appeared since the last time you saw it. That hurts you. It reminds you that this fragile memory will be gone one day. You cry again. It's ok to this time; it won't hurt anyone. I silently accompany you because, despite the fact I never held a name that wasn't yours, it’s impossible to not miss how I looked in those royal guard dress whites. It was commissioning day. She was there too, looking happy for the both of us, but like me, She also lost her name somewhere down the line. I feel bad now. I wish I could apologize for being judgemental and cruel, but you didn't hear me say it at first so can't hear me repent. I wish I could hold you and you me, so we could mourn together and maybe you would hear me say, “it's ok.” Then, things might get better, even slightly. However, that's not possible, so you suffer drunk and alone. I’m sorry. 

Thankfully, sleep catches you at some point, despite you being fully dressed and leaving your lamp on. I hope beyond hope that you have a better day tomorrow.

[husbandohunter]

What they love about you (part 1) [Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: It was as if the universe had changed when they saw you.

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya, Xiao, Venti x female reader

Part 2 here

(A/n): Okay okay I know I have some requests yet I decided to write something super indulgent. I'M SORRY! This past week I've just been writing so much angst *looks at inbox* AND MORE ANGST TO COME I really need that dose of Vitamin F(luff) 😭

===========================

Noctua's Heartbeat (Diluc)

For a man who had the whole world in the palm of his hand

With looks, fame and all the wealth he could demand

But what stole away his breath was something not to be bought

For it was merely the calming presence of your living and beating heart.

Your heart was a dignity born for empathy, so beautiful and magnificent with the kind of charm similar to white Cecilias blooming across Mondstadt's fields. Diluc would watch from afar, admiring their glow. It shines without reservation, blissfully unaware to a fault that he couldn't help but feel afraid knowing how the real world would simply pluck you from your roots and shape you in the way they wanted to. People who were tainted souls with tainted soles roaming from the shadows, constantly trampling on other's beliefs before leaving them to rot.

Ah but of course, Cecilias are wildflowers. No matter how many times they were stepped on, they could still withsand any force nature throws at them. Whether it'd be raging storms or scorching heat from the summer sky, you were the same through it all. Love. You were in love. You were in love with the wind, you were in love with people, you were in love with the world and everything that lives in it.

And so, Diluc wonders if that was the reason why everything suddenly began to shimmer.

He treaded on a path fated for loneliness while longing for the dawn to appear out of the night horizon-- where emotions once frozen until you came in to melt the ice. He blocked his heart but you tore down those walls. Diluc swore to never feel if it meant protecting himself and yet you held onto his shattered pieces tenderly, dearly, blowing the love of life and teaching it how to beat again.

Your heart was like a fountain of all the hopes he abandoned years ago and the dreams that no one had the courage to envision, cleansing everything within it's reach and freshening them anew. You were a being so in tune with your emotions that it sang through all that you did, laughing despite your obstacles and shedding tears when overjoyed, a single drop it was but still held the depth of the entire ocean. Diluc vows to protect you for your heartbeat was also his own. He'll gladly lay down his life because losing you deemed far worse than any death he could imagine.

~xx~

The other eye of Pavo Ocellus (Kaeya)

The knight's shining armour serves only as a disguise

When beauty from the surface is one's own demise

He used it to protect himself, decorating his words with pretty lies

But unmatched when facing against your truthful eyes.

They say the eye was an open window to a person's true colours. If that were the case then the painting inside him must have been an unsightly one.

Every once in a while the people of Mondstadt would speak about their Cavalry Captain's eyepatch, whether he was injured after being sent out on a mission or if he wears it for the sake of image. No one knows, it was rather unsettling, why someone would cover their eye despite not being injured. Secrets? Perhaps. Kaeya was known to be a man shrouded in mystery after all.

Your gaze was his Death After Noon. Sparkling upon the surface yet with the tasteful allure so captivating that it was almost dangerous. Just one glance and he was intoxicated, eventually leading to a slip of the tongue, revealing what was buried deep within his contaminated essence. Kaeya hated that you had the uncanny ability to see through his mask. Your innocence so contrasting, he felt like looking into a mirror, reminding just how much of an ugly person he truly was in comparison.

But mirrors are easy to break, no?

The thought delivers a sinister smile on his face. Pitiful-- is the state where you were. Pitiful-- it's what he is. How could he think of such things when all you offered was kindness? Unlike Kaeya, you were an honest person, always wearing your emotions on your sleeve and unaware of the devil's vicinity. He was tempted by the invite to crush you and run away like the coward he was meant to be. However as he stares deeply into your eyes he realized they weren't made of glass. They were gems. The most precious gems hardened by the pressures of experience.

In the shine of thine eyes resides the stars and the moon as if stolen from the Abyss, leading to the edges of the universe that was blessed within your mind. The look of curiosity filled with rich hues all held by a soulful stare while they pierced through the armour shaped around his heart. It was your ability to recognize beauty amongst the most wretched of things that he fell so hopelessly in love with you because for the first time someone had seen him-- his flaws and his faults, his abyss painted darker than black but loved him despite it all. As he drowns himself in the world of your gaze, Kaeya prays to never be the one who will steal away those stars or moon because they looked the most beautiful on you.

~xx~

The Winged Nemesis who flew towards the Sun (Xiao)

He looks at your face as if he saw spring for the first time

An unsual encounter, wondering how could something be so sublime

The yaksha stands upon the corpses while reaching for the sky

Seeing the sun in your smile that he wishes to fly

Xiao has dealt with the cards of death and won through many of it's games. But his life was a gamble as the karmic binds may one day bring the same fate that was done upon his comrades-- insanity, murder and corruption. So he swears an oath to his god and himself, ensuring the darkness only he could bear does not seep into the light.

A gust of wind sways in when you pass by, he was struck by pensive bewilderment because happiness was a feeling unknown to him. It was the expression you made whenever you greeted him good morning. The complexion you had while charging through life's challenges. And the face you wore even during the times where there was no reason to smile. Xiao has felt the might of the sun for her light will never be exstinguished by his darkness, he could only succumb to it.

But you were not just the sun, you were the flowers that bloomed beneath her heavenly sky and the birds that chirped upon those earth-like trees. You were a whole new world he didn't dare to touch because dreams were delicate and his cursed self would only devour them until nothing was left. Still, the mighty sun shines through it all, stretching out her rays like a welcoming embrace until the universe had been revitalized, giving birth to new life after winter's storm.

If pictures told a thousand words then he had a thousand reasons and more to love you. Xiao witnessed the sweetest joy decorated by pink petal blossoms dancing around him, the one who pulled him out of his spiraling trance of darkness. The breath he takes no longer felt suffocating and instead was replaced by the smell of nature's greatest gifts: you. Stay away, he says, because there were times where you shone so brightly that he had to look elsewhere. Your rays burned him and he thinks it might drill holes into his wings. Painful it may be but if the splendor of spring could only be admired after the harsh cold snow, then maybe pain and love were only two sides of the same coin.

A world without the sun--such unfathomable thoughts--is a death he does not wish to deal with.

~xx~

A song she sings for the God of Wind (Venti)

Man lives by the power of the tongue,

Whatever Man speaks is aligned with Man's choice.

Hearken when she talks for her words are to be sung,

Because not only was she lovely but so was her voice.

-Venti

There were many reasons why Venti loved music. The freedom to express oneself when words weren't enough, allowing one's spirit to flow out of their mouth and be with the wind. It was the feeling he had when he listened to you because your voice was sweeter than any song he sang or played.

When you speak it was as if the world around you danced, bringing them to the mercy of your stage. Like standing upon the soft grass while letting the sparks of dandelions dust against his own skin, Venti would close his eyes as he hears you speak-- it was you, just you and that was all he needed. He swears that no one in the world could sound as living as you did because it was the words you say that stole his heart away.

The vibration in your tone was fleshed with kindness yet so sure and firm to the point it could even bring a god to his knees. If he were a sailor then you were the siren, enchanting him with your bell-like voice and bringing him to a territory where he can never escape from. It was the spell of your divine song, his Carmen Dei, that tricked the trickster. Venti did not mind as long as he was able to feel the blessing amongst his ears.

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel

Helmetless + Death!Din and Female + Cupid!Reader.

Just a random idea that popped into my head. A little universe that’s a mixture of Mandalorian and my own made up AU. I don’t have anything planned or outlined following this, but if anyone wants it to continue I’m willing to add more.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,100

Warnings: none I think except some light pining on the reader’s behalf, but this is my first writing post so let me know.

Part 2

Loosely based on this lovely photo:

You find Death at the train station’s entrance wearing a gray wool overcoat. He’s dressed as a civilian, but he exudes an air of power that has the few people out this late giving him a wide berth. Any onlooker would think he appears patient, expression neutral as he waits beneath the station’s lone working lamppost. You know him better than them though, catching the way he fiddles with his leather gloves, a bad and unmistakable omen. He’s restless tonight.

Adjusting your coat tighter around your body, you begin your approach, mentally bracing yourself for the upcoming conversation. This is the part of the job you hate the most, how unpredictable he can be, you think to yourself right as brown eyes lock onto you with the same intensity as an arrow to the chest. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you steadily meet his gaze and pause at the edge of the circle of light, ready to disappear into the shadows if a hasty retreat is necessary. You know he’s aware of your nervousness by the way his mouth curls up in the faintest bit of a smirk, betraying his internal amusement. Irritation has you huffing out a sigh, cheeks warm against the winter chill. He’s insufferable. So smug and self-assured; a complete contrast to your...well, everything. Your bosses said you’d get used to his behavior, adapt to it the same as you would every other aspect of your job, but it’s been nearly a whole year of meeting him every full moon and you’re fully convinced they had been lying to you.  The fact of the matter is this: Death is an asshole. A charming, unfairly attractive asshole who pushes every one of your buttons and makes you feel like you’re two seconds away from catching fire whenever he looks at you.

And yet, despite all that, you can’t commit yourself to requesting a transfer. 

“There’s my favorite angel,” he greets, voice a unique mixture of smoke and honey. A siren call meant to seduce and lull unsuspecting victims into a false sense of peace. You stubbornly ignore the subsequent bloom of warmth unfurling deep inside your chest. It’s not a pet name, no matter how it sounds to any eavesdropper passing by or how much that tiny voice at the back of your mind wishes it were. He thinks he’s being cleverly funny, outing your designation as a Cupid without any mortal being the wiser. His sense of humor is twisted to say the least. “What do you want,” you reply flatly, not bothering with pleasantries as you adjust the beanie on top of your head, making sure it covers your ears. Your Cupid status protects you from illnesses, but it does little against the chilly air. “To see you, of course,” he says, unaffected by your gruffness. If anything, he looks even more amused. You pointedly look up to the night sky, noting the half sliver of moon hovering over your heads, before turning back to him with narrowed eyes. “If that’s all you wanted then you could have waited another week. I’m busy, Death, you can’t just—” “Din,” he cuts you off, so soft you nearly miss it. You blink. “What?” “You told me last time we met I needed a name, something you could call me when we’re in front of the humans. I thought I’d give it a try.” You remember that conversation. Of course you do, because he’d been quick to suggest you calling him ‘darling’ which nearly had you walking face first into a wall. You, wide-eyed and heart threatening to explode from your chest, had sputtered some excuse about workplace professionalism while he’d simply smiled back at you, that damn dimple of his on full display on his scruffy face. “So you picked...Din,” you finally say, your traitorous heartbeat spiking loud enough you worry he can hear it. It’s just a name. Three letters and not all that memorable considering how many thousands of names you deal with on a monthly basis. But the fact that he invented it for you, meant to be spoken by your lips alone, fills you with a rush of giddiness. You bite down harshly on your bottom lip to contain your smile, not wanting to make an utter fool of yourself. You clear your throat. “Ok, Din, tell me why I’m here. The truth this time, please.”

“It is the truth. I summoned you because I needed to speak with you. You’re the only one I trust with this matter,” Din says, and his blunt sincerity steals the breath from your lungs.  His gaze falls to his hands as he fiddles with his gloves, looking oddly hesitant all of the sudden. It’s unnerving, to say the least, seeing Death resemble a child awaiting judgement from his peers. You’ve seen him kill people and reap their souls without hesitation, but never have you seen him appear so...lost. It’s only when his right glove comes off, revealing callused bronze skin, that you make sense of his behavior. “That’s a soulmate marking,” you blurt out dumbly. The black lines forming a heart in the center of his palm are unmistakable. The universe has declared Din ready to meet his one true match. Someone who will shake his hand and will make his whole world tilt on its axis and rain down stars. Someone who will love him unconditionally with every speck of their being.

Your fingers itch to reach out and touch the mark, but you fight the urge. Din has an aversion to physical contact. He does all he can to avoid anyone brushing their skin against him, innocently or not, by covering his body in layers. In his armor, there’s no chance of it, body covered head to toe behind impenetrable beskar steel, but when he comes to meet with you he dresses in long-sleeves and pants, desiring to blend in. Sometimes there’s a scarf around his neck, maybe a hat covering his fluffy brown curls, but one accessory that you can always count on to see is his favorite pair of leather gloves. 

You guess that will have to change now that he has a soulmate to meet. 

“In all my existence, this has never happened before,” he confesses, fingers curling into his palm self-consciously when you continue to stare. 

Your eyes slowly drift up to lock with his, startled by the spark of determination you find burning within them.

“If anyone can find my soulmate,” Din says, voice unwavering and confident, “it’s you, angel.”

Din Djarin Taglist: @a-skov @pedrosbisch @stevie75 @quica-quica-quica @iamskyereads @banga-sama @dincrypt @ohlawdthebirds​

[boneswriteswords]

Just A Little Longer - Michelangelo

A/N: Here is my self indulgent Mikey goodtime lime. Let me live. (It isn’t a lime. Its a lemon. But lime rhymes with time.)

Unbeta’d because no one has the time for editing.

Also I have no idea if any of it makes sense so.....

~~~~~~

The bright neon LED lights of the alarm clock on your nightstand stood guard over you as you blinked awake. 2:04am. Awareness came slowly, your eyes dripping sleep even as the rest of you came online. You shifted, extending your body into a stretch, grinning when a muffled groan erupted from behind you.

A thick leg forced its way between yours. A heavy arm landed across your abdomen. A hard chest molded into your back.

Beyond your apartment walls, sounds of the city rage on. Waves of muted color trickle through the crack in your black-out curtains. Lines of yellow light bleed over the room. There are police sirens passing by as the house party three doors down blasts the newest Ariana Grande album. Someone honks their car horn in vicious repetition. If you strain, you can hear an muffled fighting and the shuffling of clothes as it turns physical.

All the noises harmonize and fade into nothing as you flip over, encouraging the limbs of your bed partner to stay entangled with yours. You’ve lived in the city long enough that the noises and the people and the lights don’t register much to you unless you focus on them. You know the sounds of danger from the sounds of the loud and that’s all you really need to know. Rainbow noise guided you, filtering through all the memories that you have access to you, and anything less has no space in your life.

Quiet nights are eerie after years of noise and you are more than happy having Mikey hold you in bed while the world keeps going around you.

REM does not return after closing your eyes again and you concede to being awake. It isn’t awful, not with the way Mikey clutches onto you as he shuffles - head nuzzling into whatever crevice he can reach. You can tell he is waking.

He can never remain asleep if he feels you are awake. He struggles to remain in a plan of existence where you aren’t. He fights himself awake and you never know if you need to be concerned or flattered by it.

You watch the lights as they bounce off objects in your room before looking back at him. Blurry lines. Soft shapes. Calming motions as they dance back and forth. They are beautiful but you’d much rather look at Mikey.

He has an arm curled loosely over your side while the other is resting under the pillow you both were using. You both liked long thick pillows that went from one side of the bed to the other. A small commonality made sweeter by your domesticity. His hand is curled limply and you remember that he had been stroking your head when you had fallen asleep earlier.

The muted light makes his green skin lighter. Shadows dip into the crevices of his skin and scars, revealing texture you usually only can feel. There is a darkness under his jaw and around his eyebrow ridge. You find yourself tracing the lines of shadow and light with your eyes, hurling the idea that anything could be more captivating out of the window. His breath is steady but his eyes are twitching behind his eyelids.

You see his eyes open. Three blinks and he is awake. You are jealous of how easy it is for him to go from one state of being to the next. He falls asleep quickly and he awakens even quicker. Deep blue eyes find yours and he smiles, moving his arm to drag you the tiniest bit closer. His lips twitch as he draws slow circles in the space between your shoulder blades.

There is an ache in your body, a reminder of the way he had rushed into your apartment as soon as the sun was down. The impact into the wall. Manic energy. Breathless laughter as pent-up passion bubbled over.

Your fingers trace down the side of his face, dipping down from the line of his throat to the pools of his collarbones below his plastron. He churrs the tiniest bit in response and it sounds a lot like the noise he makes when you tease the skin of his neck between your teeth.

You can’t leave marks on him. His skin just doesn’t color the ways a human’s might. Its thicker. Denser. Darker. Scalier. You can’t leave scratches either. It was a bit disappointing to find this out but knowing that he’d enjoy your marks if he was able to have them seizes you in ways you have never experienced. You imagine lining little rouge starbursts down his next and across the broadness of his shoulders and the way he would walk around with them proudly. Red lines connecting red flowers like vines.

His eyes scan over you. He is visual.

Its not always like this. You and him alone. Some nights its you and Mikey and the ghosts that follow you both. There are eyes in the shadows and they have many names and you never know who you are speaking to. They lurk while he cleans his weapons in the living room. They boldly take a seat next to you while you watch a movie tucked under his arm. Some nights, you pull up a seat at the table and serve them as Mikey makes a joke about something that happened during your day.

They exist and they try to make their home in your spaces and they take a toll on the nights when you are too weary to kick them out. A mix-match of traumas that spiral and float and smother and linger.

Mikey doesn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve. He rips open his chest and holds the organ up into the light directly. Makes you watch as it beats and pulses and moves his lifeblood through his body. There are no questions about what he does, how he feels. He is on display by choice, flitting about vulnerable as if there are no monsters in the world he lives in.

But there are days where he wraps himself up behind a glass wall to separate himself from the rest of the world. Deep-rooted hopelessness drains his light, his strength a house of cards edging towards collapse. His voice cracks and wavers. Its never his fault. No one asks for trauma. No one asks to be too late. No one asks for the life he’s lived.

Only recently has a door appeared in the glass. He always tells you where the key is so you can open it. You make sure to crack open the door and wait for him to invite you in further. If he does, you sit inside with him. If he doesn’t, you sit outside and wait for the wall to come down.

And then there are the days where you are translucent. You look down at your body and see through it, faintly incorporeal. A ghost. Light bleeds through you as you walk under the sun. Intangible and lost. You don’t feel real even as your ribs ache and the steady stream of your heartbeat remains. All that exists is quiet breathing.

All your worst nightmares are of you reaching out to hold Mikey’s hand but it goes through him. You can’t grip onto him and he walks away because he can’t see you.

Mikey tells you that he sees you. He grips your hand and squeezes and pulls you in close on the off chance that you feel like your floating away. He won’t let you but he doesn’t begrudge your fear. No one asks for the life you’ve lived.

Jeers erupt from outside but neither of you flinch. You just lean closer into each other. Mikey runs his hand up and down your spine, eyes wet, and you are astounded once more how stubbornly he loves you. How intensely he feels for you. How he believes so much that you both are it. The endgame.

You wish you could take the shadows that live behind his eyes and demand they leave. “You can’t have him,” you imagine you’d say, “He is mine. And I’m not scared of you. I love him too much.” If that meant pulling a seat up for them in the living room and offering them a whiskey laced with intention, you’d do it.

Mikey’s hand slips under your night shirt, his palm flat against the skin of your back and you melt against him. You have studied those hands and all the ways they make you feel things and you exhale harshly and slowly so as to not disturb the rays of muted light.

“You doing okay?” Mikey asks, voice dripping with drowsiness despite the awareness present in his baby blues. “Its late. Or early. Whatever. Was it a nightmare?”

“No baby,” you respond, pressing your mouth against his beak, “No nightmares tonight.”

“Good.”

You press another kiss to his beak before ducking down a little and pressing another one to the side of his mouth. The arm under the blanket shifts. His fingers stroke your head.

There is a lull.

“I love you.”

Its comes out unexpectedly but you aren’t ashamed of it. He already knows. That relationship milestone has long since passed. Even so, the words are splintered, cracked around the edges and easy to be drowned out by the sounds of screeching tires on the road and idiots on the street.

But the impact is till the same. The look he gives you is blue fire and he guides you closer for a kiss. It starts off light, gentle, a nudge against your mouth but his fingers cradled the back of your head as he deepens it. “Love you too. So much” is mumbled as he presses further into you.

Arousal simmers on the back-burner as an afterthought. You had fucked hard earlier - a frenzy, a reconnection after a week of only facetime calls and voice memos that left you worked up and over. You know you will fuck again when the sun is up because Mikey loves starting the days off right when you are both in the same place.

Right now is the time to relearn the shape of his mouth as he kisses you lazily. You pull back slowly. You stare at him and he stares at you, movements slow.  

A beat.

Two.

Three.

“You remember the talks we had?” you whisper before you could stop, brushing your nose over his, “when we had just met? The ones that lasted days at time?”

“Yeah,” he responds, his voice low, “That was a long time ago but I do. I don’t think I could ever forget.” There are flashes of light behind his eyes and you know he remembers each call. Each text thread that was either memes or philosophical questions that had you trying to unearth the truth of the universe. Each conversation that spanned days because real life creates lulls between responses.

“I fell in love with you there,” you whisper back, “Somewhere in those calls, I turned over to look into the phone and realized that you were mine and there would never be anyone else for me.”

“Yeah?” its a soft question that, from the look on his face, doesn’t require an answer, “You too?” You nod anyway. He deserves to see it.

He grins.

“I’m glad that we took our time,” you continue, wiggling as his hand scratches at your back the tiniest bit, “I like that we are friends. I like that I can say “Mikey is my best friend” when they ask me about my boyfriend. I’m glad that I got the chance to like you.”

“I like you too angel,” he whispers, his voice getting softer, warmth bleeding in the spaces between words. Heat singes around his eyes, “I like you so much.”

You hold him tighter, “no one knows my soul like you do.”

Mikey surges forward to kiss you again, his hand running down from your back to the side of your thigh. He rolls you both so he is half on top of you, maneuvering a thigh between your legs and pressing your chests touch as he slips his tongue between your waiting lips. You arms reach up to rest along the broadness of his shoulders, fingers dancing along the lip of his shell.

When he pulls back, his breathing is harsh, “you know mine angel.”

There is a sense of peace with knowing that all your exposed parts are being kept safe. The storms pass. Smoke is cleared. Petrichor sweetens the air. The dead are laid to rest so flowers can grow on their remains. The sun is bright.

Between you, pleasure kindles slowly. Hands roam and tug and cup. Kisses are scattered like constellations. There are murmurs of praise and whispers of awe. Time blurs as you sink down into it.

Mikey brushes his lips along the side of your face as he glances as the clock, the sun peeking its head above the skyline from the window, “Do you want me now?”

“Now.” You punctuate the word with a roll of your hips against his thigh. “I want to feel you.”

He sighs under his breath, hands shifting you until you are where he wants you. Your night clothes are removed and dropped by the side of your bed. His shorts follow, landing right on top of yours. He nestles firmly between your open thighs. “Okay angel. You can have me. You can have everything.”

The vulnerability in his voice shakes you. The slide of his cock into you has you gripping onto him. He draws it out, indulgent in the way you stutter and writhe against him. Its a seamless fit, despite his size. You are still prepped from earlier, wet and accommodating, and he drips like a faucet.

Mikey had never known sex could be like this. He always expected that sex would be purely physically, a thing that couples did to feel good and sate any hormonal urges. No one ever told him about how it feels when hands grip onto him, leaving trails of sparks and comets and tingles across his body that linger for days. No one ever told him that his lovers moans could vibrate along his vertebrate and resonate in the parts of his unknown. The void in his chest fills with liquid gold when he hears his named sobbed against his skin.

You hadn’t known either.

And even though you both do now, even though you crave each other more fiercely than you crave air, it always feels new when you collide. Every sensation has been redefined. Vulnerability has never felt so powerful.

You cry as you feel his cock pulse inside of you as he bottoms out and grinds forward. He grunts, his arms keeping your hips flush against his.

“How do you always feel so good?” Words emphasized with deep thrusts. Hard, slow, tapering into a grind before pulling back out. ”Always so good for me. Meant for me. Made for me to love. Made to take me.”

“Yes,” you hiss back, breath hot against his neck. Mikey adjusts, one of his hands remaining on your hip while the other slides to grip your arms behind your back. He presses you flush against his plastron, back arched off the bed and supported by the strength in his arms as he holds you. “Meant for you. And you found me.”

The casual, effortless show of strength spreads a warm haziness across your mind. You lean into it.

“Fuck - Mi...I-” There are tears in your eyes as you gasp and shudder as Mikey picks up the pace. Without warning, your mouth is covered by his and you can feel his smile against yours. A laugh bubbles up from somewhere and tapers off as the kiss turns hungry.

“Shh I have you,” he gasps between his own pleasured noises, “I have you. You are safe here. What do you need?” His hand strokes along your face as he rocks into you. His voice is breathless but full of intent. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” you babble as he grind right up against your good spot, “I want everything with you.”

He groans, breathing deep as the colors blur into shapes. He tucks his arm back under you, grinding harder, your clit catching along the hardness of his plastron. Your legs tremble around his hips. Mikey kisses you again before he ducks down to your neck and shoulder, his mouth hungry and burning. Ravenous.

Something about romance ignites a wildfire inside of Mikey. You exploit it as often as you can and he lets you because you both know that nothing is said without intent, without meaning. Honesty burns under your skin and shines through your eyes every time you press words of love into his skin like galaxies in a telescope. He basks in the attention. He worships under it.

In return, Mikey spills filth into your ears. The kind that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is but god does he know what you need to hear.

(”You feel perfect, hot and tight.”/ “I’m yours.”/ “I can feel you. You are real.”/ “I know, angel, I know. You’ve been wanting me so much. You need me. I need you too.”/ “I’m going to show you I love you. You’ll never doubt it. You’ll never doubt that I love you.”/ “Angel I’m not scared of your ghosts. They are scared of me.”/)

Mikey’s voice is serrated in ways no one but you have heard. Raw and carnal and deeper than most would expect, flashing dark around the edges the more passionate he gets, the more he reaches down inside of you to pull out the parts of you only he sees. 

You fall apart from the inside and can do nothing as the bottom drops out. You aren’t scared, not with the way Mikey holds you and chases away anything that could ruin this. His “I loves yous” bleed into your skin and you take hold of his pain and strangle it. There is no room for the grief and emptiness as violent tremors rack your bodies and hands cradle exposed hearts. The lights flash and dance as the decrescendo halts everything around you.

Heavy breathing fill the room. Whispered praise is soft and there is shuffling. You wipe each other down as best you can with the wet wipes you keep by the bed before pulling each other closer. The morning light is higher, peeking between the blinds and under the edges of the curtains. 

Eventually you’ll get out of bed. Clean up properly. Make food and spend time together with your clothes on. Relax in the knowledge that the day is a good one with no dark figures hanging in the corners, waiting to come in. But, thats for later.

For now, you lay close, breathing each other in. Hands are still roaming. No one has faded and there is no cold glass protecting warm skin. Mikey murmurs something and you smile. Your smile meets his smile and laughter joins in, glimmering in the light. You peck at his mouth and his fingers dig into the skin of your flesh before he grabs the comforter and hides you both underneath it.

Everything can wait. Just for a little longer. 

~~~~~

[mc-lukanette]

so... i know you already posted two truth fix-it stories, but i was wondering if you had any more? or anything lukanette-related? i’m starved for some good lukanette content after that mess of an episode and you always have great fics and aus with them!

Aw, thank you!!

And--well, not related to “Truth” specifically, but I can do what quite a few Lukanette creators did on that one WIP Wednesday and share a bunch of idea names I have (not written - some might have a few little pieces or dialog but yeah - but developed/extensive) and you guys can ask about them if you want?

“Canon”

Fake-not-Fake Dating (Silly) Sleeping on Love (Silly) (Trash) (Bed Sharing) (Idiots to Lovers) Break-up Fix-it (post-”Season 4 break-up”) (made before “Truth”)

No Mention of Miraculouses Swimming Lessons (Luka Can’t Swim) Heartfelt (Trash) (No Medical Accuracy Whatsoever) (Totally Not Made For the Sole Purpose of the Like Two Lame Lines I Could Have Luka Say) Marinette Begging to Help Luka Physical Comfort (Physical Contact and LOTS of It) (Fluff) (Luka’s Heart Won’t Make It Out Alive ;P)

Aged-up

Marinette Helping Luka Be Selfish (Model Luka) Introvert Luka (Rock Star Luka) Charity Auction (Trash) (bonus Adrino)

No Mention of Miraculouses Travelmates (Silly) Luka Mistakenly Breaks Up With Marinette (Luka is Flawed and Meant Well I Swear)

Canon Divergence

Clumsy Lukanette (Luka is Clumsy Like Marinette) Butterfly Feelings (Butterfly Brooch Picture Changes Based on Owner) Height Swap (Silly) Lukattractive (Trash) (Absolute Trash) (Luka is Objectively Attractive to Everyone) (Marinette is a Dense Fool) Akumute (Akumatization Side Effects) (Temporarily Mute Luka) Meeting From Long Distance (Luka Lives in America With Jagged) (Eventual Viperion) (Confidant Luka) Change in Future (Time Travel) (Future Adjusting) Guardian Reality Shift (Miracle Box Magic Adjustment) (Angst(?) With a Happy Ending)

No Miraculouses (or at least no mention of them) Loving Bluntness (Rock Star Anarka)

Episode-specific ''Miracle Queen'' Rewrite (“Miracle Queen”) Change in Ice Cream (“Glaciator”) Under the Bed (“Captain Hardrock”)

Team Change/Kwami Swaps ViperCrush (No Ladybug) (Eventual Multimouse) (Leader Viperion) (Vipernette) (LOTS of Vipernette) (Luka is a Goner) Chat Gives Up Ladybug to Viperion (Marinette and Luka Haven’t Met) (Permanent Heroes) (Identity Reveal)

Aged-up "Demurrage" AU (Viperion is a Permanent Hero) (Marinette and Luka Never Met as Teens) (Angst(?) With a Happy Ending)

No Miraculouses (or at least no mention of them) Ice Cream AU (Marinette Briefly Apprentices Under Andre) (Soft) Phone Feelings (Marinette and Luka Meet Over the Phone) (Takes Inspiration From ”Silencer”) Meetings Outside the School (Luka Picks Juleka Up From School) Diner AU (Couffaine Family Diner) Aged-up Mute Curse (Temporarily Mute Luka) (Curses) Luka Delivers to Marinette (Baker Marinette) (Delivery Boi Luka) (Different First Meeting)

Fantasy-based

Mirror World (Dimensional Communication) (Magic User Luka) (as all of my followers exhale “I get this feeling that you like alternate universes) Star Caretaker Marinette (Star Caretaker Marinette) (Former Rock Star Luka) Shooting Star Luka/Marinette (Two Different AUs, Same Premise But Different Character Because I Couldn’t Decide Who I Liked Better For the Role) Magical Miracle Box (Personality Changes; Don’t Worry It’s Temporary) Godly Disguise (God Luka) (Royalty Marinette)

Transformation/Creature Love Absorber (Demon Luka But I Promise He’s Still a Soft Boi) Naga in the Human World (Naga Luka) (Dimensional Travel) Siren on the Ship (Siren Marinette) (Voyager Anarka)

Media-Based

“Love Spell” AU (Love Spell: Written In the Stars) “Mystery Skulls” AU (Mystery Skulls)

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Lucien’s R&S - The victim who disappeared (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (消失的遇难者) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN🍒

Angst warning!

More Lucien R&S from this event:

> regarding what books don’t say (important to read this first!)

> my love rival older brother

> the victim who disappeared ♡

> since that rainy night

[ Chapter One ]

Recently, the girls in the precinct have been addicted to a variety program called “Miracle Finder”. When it’s time for lunch, there’d be a bunch of them piling in front of the computer screen, watching and exclaiming.

Filled with curiosity, I lean over to take a look. The girls immediately stop me, recommending it fervently.

“Captain Fan, do you watch this program too?”

“This week’s guest is Professor Lucien. He looks so handsome!”

I shake my head in resignation. “You girls only know how to look at appearances the whole day.”

“Captain Fan, you can’t say that! Our Professor Lucien became a neurologist at a very young age.”

“Exactly, exactly! He’s also a guest professor at Loveland University!”

“Sigh. If I had such a handsome teacher back then, I’d have definitely worked hard.”

Watching the girls chat, I can’t help but tease them. “Don’t all of you have an even more handsome-looking superior? It isn’t too late to start working now.”

The moment I finish speaking, their exclamations completely cover my words. Seems like the young and gifted “Professor Lucien” they’ve been talking about has appeared on the screen. Seeing his refined manner and gentle appearance, I actually feel a sense of familiarity.

“Hurry and look! Even Captain Fan is dazed!”

“We were right, weren’t we? Doesn’t he have an especially good temperament!”

The crinkled and smiling eyes of that boy in my memories overlap with the person on screen. That unresolved case which almost disappeared finally has a favourable turn after so many years. Even though I know that the chances are slim, I still wish to grasp this new lead.

“What’s his name again?”

“Oh? Wasn’t Captain Fan completely uninterested just now?” The girls notice the change in my attitude, becoming enthusiastic in an instant. They start introducing him, their words pouring out in an unceasing torrent. “His name is Lucien, a neurologist who returned after studying abroad. I heard that the thesis he released at twenty was published in an internationally renowned science magazine...”

“Isn’t he just as intelligent as that boy?” I mutter softly, the hope in my heart brightening by a few notches.

Although the name doesn’t fit, if that child managed to survive after that incident 19 years ago, it feels as though he would have gone down such a life path.

“Uncle has worked very hard. Kid, have you been doing your best over the years too?”

Even though I’m unable to find concrete evidence to make public the incident 19 years ago, the least I could do is to shed some light on the truth concerning that kid and his family. 

In the midst of a cruel reality mixed with tears and blood, and the truth which cannot be found, the me of the past finally decided to step out of the days of living in a wasteland, plunging deeper into a depthless pool of truth.

-

[ Chapter Two ]

At night, I dreamt of that day yet again.

It was that boy’s 7th birthday.

Early in the morning on that day, he had headed out with his parents. Before he left, he specially gave me an invitation card to his birthday party in the evening.

He rarely revealed the innocent smile a kid should have. Instead, his mouth remained merciless, saying something unadorable. “I’ve already spoken with my dad. Tonight, he can tell you how to play chess. If you don't improve in your chess skills, I won’t know how to play with you anymore.”

I snatched the invitation card in his hand in an impolite manner, deliberately provoking him. “You’ll have to make do with it, little genius. I’m the only one who’s willing to play with you.”

In a huff, he ran over to where his parents were waiting for him not afar off. Taking their hands, they left while talking and laughing.

I rarely saw this busy couple accompanying their child outside over the weekend. They must have taken a day off from work specially for his birthday.

“Kid, have fun!”

“Mm.”

“Also, happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Brother Fan.”

His parents and him turned around to wave goodbye at me, the three of their smiles under the sunlight, sparkling and bright.

On hindsight, I should have given him his present then.

It was a sci-fi novel which was popular amongst kids, and I’d frequently see children gathered in the yard discussing it together. Although I didn’t know if that kid liked reading other books aside from those profound science materials, I felt it wouldn’t hurt for him to engage with things people his age liked.

He was still a child. From the bottom of my heart, I hoped that he could live a little more like a child.

However, this wish that I never said aloud was completely shattered by that car accident.

That evening, which should have filled with presents, cake, and the sound of birthday songs, only welcomed pattering and whistling rain, as well as blood stains on the asphalt road which couldn’t be washed off even with a scrub.

Sirens from the ambulance and police cars intertwined. Mixed with the sharp cries of passers-by, they composed the saddest and shrillest background music.

-

[ Chapter Three ]

“Oh my goodness, that’s so horrifying! Those two people are covered in blood!”

“Let’s leave, it’s too pitiful.”

The crowd in the surroundings remarked in soft voices, showing sympathy towards the victims they weren’t acquainted with.

The incident happened on the road outside our estate. After receiving the task, I rushed over to the scene. When I saw the names of the casualties, I was both shocked and had a flicker of hope in my heart, praying that they were people who happened to share the same names. However, after confirming the identities of the two bodies underneath the white cloth, coldness rushed through my body--

Those were the parents of the little genius.

In just the blink of an eye, the couple who had greeted me with warm smiles had turned ice cold, lying in a pool of blood. I didn’t dare to imagine how such a young kid would be able to face such a cruel reality, and my insuppressible tears, along with the rain, drenched my face.

The captain came over to pat me on the shoulder, consoling me with a lowered voice. “Settle your emotions, and do a proper investigation.”

I nodded my head silently, lifting my hand to wipe my tears away. After that, I started taking down records of what the witness had to say.

The witness was a boss of a news-stand nearby, around 45 years of age. He was in a state of fright, hugging his elbows and shivering.

I asked if he needed a rest before supplementing the record, but he shook his head repeatedly, saying that it’d be better to record it early, since he wouldn’t want to recollect such a horrifying image afterwards.

According to his description, the cause of the accident was a large truck which had lost control. It was yet to be confirmed whether the reason for the loss of control was due to a human error, or the slippery road.  

After realising that there was an issue with the truck, the driver had frantically tried to turn. But in the end, it still ended up hitting the family of three who were walking on the zebra crossing.

The three of them were sent flying a great distance. The places where they fell turned into pools of blood not long after.

As for what happened after, the boss of the news-stand expressed that he didn’t pay attention due to fright.

After handing him over to the medical personnel to console his emotions, I continued making notes for the next witness.

The images described by all the witnesses were virtually the same. From the various indications of the scene, this tragedy could have been a normal traffic accident.

When I finished making the records, the scene was more or less cleaned up. After wrapping up my work, I inquired about which hospital the boy was taken to. But I was notified that no injured child was found on the scene.

“How’s that impossible! That sketchbook over there belongs to him! That boy suffered such grave injuries - where else could he have gone!”

Agitatedly, I pointed at the exhibits collected, one of them a sketchbook coated in blood. At a glance, I recognised it as the book that boy would carry with him all day. That’s because the flower garland on the cover was a work he was proud of, and it was exactly the same as the one drawn on his birthday invitation card this morning.

He was definitely at the scene when the accident happened. Also, he definitely couldn’t have left on his own.

“Has the scene been investigated? Are there any other suspicious areas or areas we’ve overlooked?”

"Didn’t all the witnesses say there was a family of three at the scene? There’s definitely one more kid!”

“How much time passed after the incident before the scene was cordoned off? Could the kid have been taken away before that?”

I tossed out points of contention in succession, but the expressions of my colleagues remained confused and blank. In a moment of anxiousness, I burned with impatience and went to check the surveillance tape on my own. However, I didn’t notice any suspicious people entering or exiting the scene before or after the incident.

I didn’t have a single clue regarding his whereabouts, and could only hold onto hope as I contacted his relatives one by one.

They were generally not from the city. Most of them didn’t even know that the family had met with an accident, much less the whereabouts of the boy. After consoling their emotions, I hang up dejectedly, turning back to the scene of the incident.

The police cars stationed around earlier had long since left, and traces left on the asphalt road had been washed clean by the rain. Everything returned to peace and quiet, as though nothing had happened. Only the lingering grief served as a reminder that it wasn’t over yet--

The sudden car accident, the missing child, the ignorant relatives - all of these seemed to remind me that this wasn’t a simple traffic incident.

Without any orderliness, I started investigating the vicinity, imagining countless times for that smart fellow to suddenly lunge out from a dark corner, telling me that this whole thing was just a prank he pulled.

However, that didn’t happen. Even after checking every corner of the large streets and small alleys, I ended up empty-handed.

In the end, I sat down tiredly along the side of the road, looking at the pitch-black sky as it started turning into a grey dawn.

Although it was dawn, the truth of the matter would forever be hidden in that dark night.

All my hopes and hopelessness fell into pieces, leaving behind a maze of doubts, akin to a dense fog.

-

[ Chapter Four ]

On the morning of the second day, without even washing my face, I headed to the news-stand to buy various newspapers, looking through them seriously to search for any reports on the matter.

As it was temporarily classified as a normal traffic accident, the length of all the articles were very short. Also, they were placed in nondescript corners.

I closed the final set of newspapers, realising in disappointment that none of them mentioned the missing child.

It’s as though he had evaporated from the world. Aside from me, no one else remembered his existence. 

I couldn't stand for the case to be closed just like this, and finally understood the anxiety family members felt when they asked for our help in conducting investigations. As long as it was related to a living person, there wasn’t anything not worth investigating.

With a determination to investigate the matter and leave no stone unturned, I once again returned to the scene of the accident. I asked around the small shops along the roadside, hoping to obtain just a tiny hint.

Heaven will not disappoint the person who tries. From the lips of an owner of the shop facing the zebra crossing, I received an important lead which wasn’t brought up before - a black car.

“When the accident occurred, I was busy, and even had a scare when I heard the truck braking. By the time I set down my stuff to watch, the police cars and ambulance weren’t here yet. But a black car was stationed here for quite some time.”

Regarding this lead, I first expressed shock. Then, I had doubts.

Based on the surveillance tape I watched on the day of the incident, no suspicious cars appeared. If this person deliberately toggled with the surveillance footage to capture the kid, the remaining investigations would likely be a bitter struggle.

“Why did he take the kid away?”

“Could there be a conspiracy behind this?”

That black car had taken both the truth and that boy, disappearing into thin air.

The scene I had witnessed, the images depicted by the witnesses, the true footage of that surveillance tape, pieces of evidence which weren’t able to fit together, created paradoxes. The entire incident was akin to a vicious cycle, tangled and complicated, twisting and turning, unable to grasp a hint of it, and left one spinning around on a superficial level.

In the end, the police classified this matter as a normal traffic incident. And I could only continue investigating in the dark.

-

[ Chapter Five ]

Many years passed. From a small police officer who had accomplished nothing, I struggled and worked hard, becoming a captain who solved countless cases.

Even so, the unresolved case concerning that boy hasn’t had a breakthrough.

Over ten years, I found some leads, but they would ultimately be flawed fragments. And along with the passage of time, they’ve eroded even more.

This time, the person called “Lucien” was probably the finally hope of this case.

-

I visit Loveland University over the weekend, asking the kids about this “Professor Lucien”, but receive scant results even after a long while. He’s indeed very popular amongst students. But regarding his personal life, everyone expressed that they weren’t clear about it.

“Then again, which student would be so free to ask about a teacher’s personal life?” With a wry smile, I take a seat at the resting area of the math building. Without realising it, someone sits beside me. While feeling puzzled over why someone would choose to sit next to a middle-aged uncle when there are so many other empty chairs around, I see the face of the person I was looking for.

“Lucien?!”

“I heard from the students that you were asking about me. So I thought, why not let you ask me in person directly?” His tone is as calm as what I saw in the program, but I can vaguely sense a hint of irritation.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t mean to offend you.” I find an excuse on the fly. “It’s just that after watching your program, there were some issues I didn’t quite understand, and wanted to consult you.”

He listens patiently to the many unorganised questions I have, and explains them thoroughly. That look of concentration makes me think about the boy again.

Finally, I can no longer contain myself. When I’m about to bid farewell to him, I ask, “It might be a little presumptuous of me, but could I ask if you’ve always been living abroad since young?”

There doesn’t seem to be much change in his expression, but he raises his eyebrows slightly.

“In that case, could I be also be presumptuous and ask why you have such a question?

Since things have already reached this stage, I decide that there’s no longer a need to conceal anything. So I tell him the honest truth. “You kind of resemble a kid I used to know, but he’s gone missing.”

Upon hearing this, a sadness dyes his eyes in an instant. He lowers his eyes, his expression sad, as though he had also once known that pitiful child. “I feel deeply sorry for that child... but it’s a shame that I’m not the person you’re looking for. From the moment I could remember, I’ve been living in an orphanage.

“Ah... sorry about that.” I feel uncomfortable knowing that I’ve rubbed someone else’s sore spot. As though he’s talking about matters pertaining to somebody else, he says relaxedly, “It’s all right. I hope you can find that child soon.”

His eyes really do resemble the boy. It’s just that he’s much more modest in how he conducts himself. I increasingly hope that if the boy were still living on this earth, he must definitely be a person who is just as well-liked.

“Many years have passed. To tell you the truth, I think whether or not I find him isn’t that important.” I look into the distance, making a wish from the bottom of my heart. “I just hope that in a corner of the world, he’s living happily and well.”

After Lucien hears this, he chuckles lightly. “I’m almost envious of that boy - that he was able to meet a kind-hearted person who would think of him even after such a long time.”

[mistyeyedbi-archive]

The Art Of Seduction

Or alternatively: Zuri asks Nate for advice on how to woo Adam.

A little thing I wrote a while ago and forgot to post, based off of this ask. No warnings! Just pure shenanigans!

-

She was knee-deep in her research on sirens, her nose buried between the slightly worn pages of a heavy tome, grumbling beneath her breath whenever one of her theories were debunked. Zuri spent a large amount of her childhood (and, if she's being honest, hour long phone calls with Tina and Lucille well into adulthood) speculating about the existence of supernaturals. The world, the solar system, the universe, all seemed too large for humans and animals to be the only beings that existed. There had to be something else, they had to be real, whether it came to be due to freak accidents in labs or evolution.

One could only imagine her delight when she was proven right (though she held in her squeals when the truth was revealed; they were living beings, not something to pick and prod at). Ever since then, she soaked up all she could find about them, tracing myths and legends back to the tomes with enthusiasm. Something Nate seemed to appreciate about her.

So there they were, sequestering themselves in the library and soaking in the contents of books that had lived longer than her, each one possessing glaring characteristics, words written by different hands and dog-eared by another.

She had grumbled twice more before Nate tore his eyes away from the book in his hands, glancing at her with a raised brow. "Is everything alright?"

With that, she whipped off her reading glasses, carefully setting the tome on the table in front of her, nodding at his grateful smile before launching into a rant, brows pinched together as she listed each inaccuracy on the internet with her fingers. He watched on, eyes wide and dancing with amusement.

And then the conversation took a different turn.

Seduction and sirens were two words that fell hand-in-hand in most discussions revolving around the sea creature, despite the falsity surrounding the subject (and his smile strained for a split second, as if he was pinched and forced to swallow a hiss. Her train of thought slowed, something sinister creeping out of the shadows of her mind because that wasn't good. That was her fault and she should lea-)

"Adam."

His name leapt out of her mouth with the eagerness of a kid learning to curse (getting to the point was a surefire way to get out of his hair swiftly). Nate's lips formed an oh before curling into the wisp of a teasing smile. He knew what she was going to ask.

"You know him better than anyone," she said, shifting on the velvet couch to drape her legs over the armrest, her muscles aching from sitting cross legged for so long. "How would one, hypothetically, go about uh - for lack of better words - seducing him."

His answer? Subtly. Gently, slowly and subtly.

Zuri pursed her lips. She thought she was well versed in the art of seduction; a wink, a smile, genuine compliments, a spritz of perfume and a blazing, brief touch, stimulating the five senses enough to leave her prospects wanting more. But that was easy to do when people loved the idea of you. Coaxing someone, drawing them out of the corner they pressed themselves against in fear, is not something she has had to do in her love life.

"Is that all you're willing to give me?" She asked, her lips purposefully trembling as she pouted. The puppy dog eyes had an eighty percent success rate, and previous occasions have shown that Nate is not immune.

And yet…

He perked up, his smile growing as he glanced back down at the book. "Perhaps we should see how well you do with the information you have."

"Please? I'm sure you have more spine-tingling advice tucked away in that beautiful brain of yours."

He chuckled and turned to the door just as it swung open.

Her heart seized in her chest, a pause in its steady rhythm.

He's here.

Adam stepped into the room, lips parted as if he was going to say something, words catching in his throat as their eyes met.

A smile crawled onto her face, and before she could stop herself, words escaped her lips in the form of a dreamy sigh. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Gently, slowly and subtly.

Shit.

She ducked her head and facepalmed, a resounding smack accompanied by the sound of Nate's stifled laughter.

------

Tagging: @lilyoffandoms @amlovelies @vienocalledmebuddy @crackerdumortain hmu if yall wanna be added!

[frogsmulder]

Maybe There’s Hope: chpt 4 Home is What I’ll be Dreaming of

Starting from the final events of 09x20 The Truth,  Mulder and Scully tackle their new reality as fugitives. When they  finally settle into things, Scully finds out she is pregnant again. A canon divergent AU where I thought, what if Scully got pregnant whilst on the run instead of at the end of season 11?

6k words; rated e; tagging @today-in-fic; read on ao3

  "Mom?"

 "Dana?"

The image of opening the door to her daughter's frightened face flashed before her eyes as she put the key into the lock of Dana's apartment.

 "I'm sorry, mom, I don't have much time... but I'm leaving."

 "Leaving where? Dana, you're not making any sense."

Margaret Scully stepped into her daughter's world still smelling fresh like the owner had popped out to work that morning. She half expected Dana to appear around the corner at any moment.

 "I can't say. I don't even know myself. The trial– it's–"

 "Fox. I understand."

Running her finger along the top of a cabinet, she rubbed the particles into the pad of her digit– the dust had barely started settling on the surface. She remembered embracing her daughter, Dana clutching back like it would be the last time she would get to. Maggie liked to believe she had more faith than to believe that.

 "Mom, there's something I need you to do for me because I won't be there and I don't know if I'll be back."

She picked up the envelope on the side; held it firmly in her hands as she took a long look at the room; all the idiosyncrasies scattered about, neatly organized on bookshelves and the mantelpiece in the way that was so Dana. Sitting down on the couch, she sized up the task at hand: pack a life into boxes, for everything must go. She opened the envelope– the lease on the apartment ended next month.

She started in the bedroom, where all of Fox's possessions hadn't been unpacked yet. They were stuffed into the bottom of the closet, hidden away like bad memories. Maggie knew what it was like with her husband away at sea, not knowing when– if he'd be back. But she'd had her children, her friends, her church group, her faith. She may have felt lonely at times, but she was never alone. She knew her daughter; knew her tendency to shut people out when she needed them most; her need to prove her strength. She worried for Dana.

Pulling the first box out, she lifted the lid and looked inside. Scraps of newspaper clippings littered the bottom, disguising a picture frame and what she suspected was a case file.

"Oh, Fox," she sighed, returning the lid and his privacy. She was transported back to her own doorstep again, hugging Dana before she left. "You promise me one thing: you look after him."

In another box were all of his university books, editions of the Lone Gunmen magazine; another family heirlooms like silverware sets, photographs, inscribed books, a velvet box, a pocket watch. Maggie sat down on her daughter's unmade bed: the only sign that Dana had left in a hurry. The pillow askew revealed a knot of cloth, the top of William's baby hat. "Oh, Dana." She whispered like when she had hugged her tighter on the doorstep. "And you let him look after you."

Maggie shook her head. She wouldn't do it. All of their things, they were not things to be thrown out. She took the hat and carefully folded it, putting it away in a box, saving the good memories, saving all of them.

----------

 "Mom?"

 "Dana?"

Dana stood dumbfounded on her mother's step, pinching herself with excitement, relief, and nervousness. She rushed into her mother's waiting arms, finally coming home after what had been an eternity. "Oh my God, mom, I've missed you so much!"

The thud of crashing into the embrace jolted Scully, opening her eyes to the bright Mexican sun beating down through the windscreen of the car. Gasping, she bolted upright, clutching her hands by her thighs, before she bolted out of the door. Stood in the bright sunlight, she caught and held her breath. In. Hold. Out. It wasn't the first dream like it she'd had, but she was shocked every time by how real they felt and how tangible her mother seemed. Calmer now, she looked at Mulder in the passenger seat, drifting roughly in and out of sleep. His eyes opened groggily as he slowly stirred, stretched, and groaned. He offered her a warm smile that melted some of the ache in her chest and watered a different, better kind into bloom. When he stumbled out of the car and over the dusty ground to join her, Scully turned away, looking out across the open land. He slipped his hands around her waist from behind, stooping to rest his chin upon her shoulder.

"You had a bad dream again," he mumbled into her shoulder.

Scully leaned her head defeatedly against his. She turned in his arms and buried her face into his t-shirt, breathing in his warm, sleepy scent and sighing. Rubbing her hands up and down his sides, she huffed and pushed herself from the wrap of his arms. "I thought I was home again," she said simply, looking up at him.

"Yeah, me too," he hummed. "Well, actually, we were in the office and you were throwing paperwork at me, telling me you would chew my ass before Skinner could even get to me if it wasn't done on time."

She might have chuckled but Mulder doubted that she would share her dream so freely, despite his effort to tease it out of her. He understood her need for privacy but he wished at times she would be a little less unforgiving, building her walls twice as quickly as he could chisel them away. Resolutely, he stood up straighter, holding out his hand out in invitation. She queried him with her eyebrows, so he flexed it imploringly. "Take a walk with me."

"Where?" she laughed.

"Anywhere, everywhere." He chipped away at her guard with a smile. "This fine foreign land has many fruits to offer."

"Okay–" she took his hand cautiously– "but not too far."

They ambled awhile aimlessly with no destination in mind. Taking each step at a time, it was pleasant living in the moment with no expectations. The liberation of no judgement from the open expanse drew them closer together. Between them, they spoke in silences, admiring the craggy landscape decorated with scraggy bushes. As Scully walked along, her thoughts drifted like the thin, wispy clouds on the breeze, back to her mother and the home she no longer had. She hadn't told Mulder yet, not because she couldn't bring herself to tell him, but because with all that had happened, it had slipped her mind. Everything she had now was all ahead of her and everyone to the side of her, holding her hand and swinging it gently like a pendulum. Life seemed simple when reduced to its basic measures: food, water, shelter, Mulder. She wondered how long she could live on that.

Mulder's voice broke through the cloud of her thoughts like a siren returning her to the moment. "Tell me what you're thinking."

Scully looked at him, surprised that he could see into her mind so easily.

"You may keep things closer to yourself these days, but I know your thinking face when I see it." He said it kindly but the honesty of his words punched a hole through her gut. She tried to tell him these things but she also had to figure them out for herself first. She only regretted that she'd ever hurt him in any way being caught in the brunt of her storm.

"It's been a month." The words surprised her as they tumbled out without her knowing.

He cocked his head. "What has?"

"Us..." she breathed. Scully made a point of looking him in the eye, even if it stole the breath from her lungs to see him focused on her so intensely. "... living like this."

His thumb shakily stroked the back of her hand. "You're counting?"

"I find it hard not to."

Mulder nodded.

She sighed. "I– I couldn't tell you what day it is, but I... I don't know– have the need to keep a tally; a record of some kind." It was like her body clock was scratching tally marks on the walls of her mind. Like she was a prisoner in her own skull. "I do it to keep me sane but does it make me mad?"

"Sometimes the only sane response to an insane world is insanity," he answered.

"That's not helping."

"Sorry." He paused in thought, taking a breath whilst trudging onwards. "I know what you mean... When Samantha first went missing and I was waiting for her to come through the bedroom door, I used to count the nights she didn't."

Curiosity claiming the better of her she asked, "When did you stop?"

"If I'm honest, I don't think I have. I just lost count somewhere along the way; found other days to count. Like when I was in hiding–" He took her other hand and pulled them to a stop, standing in front of her and looking into her blue eyes flickering with worry. Mulder could tell she would take what he was about to say the wrong way, so he tried to assure her with a squeeze of his hands and a loving look. "Every night I would cross off another day until I could see you and Will again... Sometimes that was the only thing that kept me going."

He felt her tense in his hands anyway, saw her eyes mist up as the walls grew thicker, yet she refused to let the tears spill. He steadied her at the shoulders, rubbing tender circles gently through the cloth of her t-shirt. Bending lower, he brushed his lips softly over hers, pulling her from the pain she harboured. Yet Scully remained frozen, unresponsive to the warm life of his lips, the hole in her gut tearing a little more. Pulling away to see her stone-faced, he whispered, "Scully, please don't do this to me. You have nothing to be sorry for."

She licked her lips and swallowed, allowing herself to sink to the bottom and the troubled waters calm over the top. Moving out of his grasp, she continued on their wander as if she could physically leave the memories behind.

Mulder's hand loosened on her shoulder, trailing down her arm as she walked away. A sharp tug drew him from the well of despair. As their hands met, she held on tightly coaxing him to follow, which he did so gratefully. She stopped them after a few paces, placing a hand upon his chest. On tiptoes, she raised herself to meet his lips, returning his kiss with mellow grace, not breaking until she had to breathe.

"Scull–" he questioned but was cut off by the press of her lips back against his, delicately answering him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled against his mouth.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he repeated in a whisper. His hand rested at the small of her back, guiding her as he turned back the way they had come. "Come on, let's get some breakfast."

----------

Along the back roads of Mexico, they traveled for some time before they came across a small town. The one street through it was lined with sand-coloured buildings that glinted in the sunlight, some rising tall, others spread wide. All of them looked welcoming and homely and Scully, gazing out of her window, wondered what it would be like to live in one of them. As they drove past, she wondered about the lives of the people who did live in them. Did they argue about who took the trash out? Did the children constantly ask what was for dinner? Did they gather around a television in the evening with their families? It was a life that for the longest time she had dreamed of and at one point had mourned the loss of. Now, she was indifferent to the idea of getting out of the car, hardened by years of abnormalcy, or so she told herself. Home was just a dream; the car was all she had for a life. Yet still a small part of her dared to dream; dared to envy the people in this town of their families and their homely comforts. And at the same time, she feared that normalcy wouldn't be enough for her.

Mulder pulled up outside a storefront, eyeing the swathes of people moving in every direction. Despite its size, the town was full of bustling people going about their daily lives.

"How good's your Spanish, Scully?"

She gave him a withering look. "You know I took German in college."

"Mhmm, and I did French in high school. Where's Monica when you need her?"

Scully followed his line of gaze to the crowds of people. "Mulder, I don't think we should go in together."

"What?" He whipped his head around to look at her. "Scully, we're fine. Nobody knows us out here."

"I still think we'd be better off if only one of us went in."

"But what if one of us needs help?" he questioned quietly, scared by her sudden urge to be alone.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," she smiled, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Anyway, you need to drive the getaway car."

Scully left him in the car to his own thoughts spiraling with concern.

It was eerily quiet inside the store. The jingle of the bell above the door and the radio playing quietly in the background only heightened the silence within. Scully perused the shelves, picking up odd pieces like cereal bars, bottles of water, and a packet of sunflower seeds. By the counter, there was a rack of postcards, mostly just pictures of the map of Mexico or the flag with writing she didn't understand. She picked one up and thought of her mother who had no idea where she was or how she was. It would be too complicated to send without revealing their location, she knew that, but maybe when she got home she could give it to her mother like documentation of where they had been.

Scully had always wondered what it would be like to go traveling– her father's worldly trips had partly inspired her and she had been raised with what he called the Scully Adventurer's Spirit. Charlie had started his world trip in Mexico, although his journey had been an entirely legal affair. He hadn't crossed into new territory miles away from border control. Scully turned the postcard over in her hands, reminding herself how far from home she was. Yet strangest of all, she didn't feel like she was.

"Do I know you?"

The voice made Scully jump and instinctively she held the postcard behind her back.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, trying to keep her tone as calm as possible whilst blood pulsed in her ears.

A man, who looked to be in his late forties, had appeared behind the counter with his brow furrowed in concentration and his sight set on her. He rubbed his chin contemplatively. "I know you. You are American, no?"

Scully stuttered, unsure of how to answer. "No, I– I don't–"

"Yes!" he interrupted her. His smile grew with his enthusiasm, unnerving Scully more by the second. "I see you before somewhere, on the television perhaps?"

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

Scully left some money on the counter and swiftly weaved back through the aisles. At a brief glance, she plucked a random box of hair dye from a shelf, self-conscious of her entire appearance. If she had to, she would scrub down her skin until she looked like someone else, but first, she had to get out.

The man behind the counter clicked his fingers in recognition. «¡Ah! ¡Cops! ¡Y el hombre lobo con el FBI!» he laughed and shook his head.

Mulder saw Scully burst out of the shop, arms laden with groceries and an expression he couldn't fathom. She crumpled into the passenger seat, quickly stuffing the things into the footwell. "You'd be no good in a robbery," she quipped.

"Scully, what's wrong?" he immediately asked.

She gave him her usual answer, passing him a cereal bar and his seeds. "I'm fine. Let's just get out of here."

Mulder took the food and started the engine, driving away despite the uncomfortable feeling that told him she was hiding something. He didn't want to press her further though, so he bit his tongue and focused on the road.

After a couple of minutes, Scully turned to him, worrying her lip between her teeth. She relented, speaking softly. "There was someone in there, Mulder, he recognised me."

Mulder let go of a breath that he didn't know he was holding, relieved that she had finally said something. "Are you sure? I mean they couldn't have been mistaking you for someone else?"

She shook her head, doubting herself already. "I don't know, he said he'd seen me on TV. Mulder, what if they have our pictures out on the news?"

"I don't think they'd do that. They don't want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves," he reasoned.

"But they could dress it up as something else. Get the unsuspecting populous to do their dirty work without telling them who or why. Mulder, seriously, how haven't we been caught yet?"

"Don't know, but I'm not going to question it either."

"But don't you think it's strange that if they really wanted to find us they could have easily done so already?" She looked at his profile, judging the minute movements of his jaw muscles, saw them flex unconsciously as they did whenever he was forced to admit a hard truth.

"Perhaps we're not as important as they would have us believe," he tried, glancing at her for reassurance. "Maybe they're busy developing a vaccine or ordering their super soldiers into neat, indestructible lines. Everyone's got bigger aliens to fry." He chuckled perfunctorily.

"Mulder, they were determined enough to kill you that they rigged your trial," Scully turned to gaze at the roadside zipping past and said quieter, "I think there's something bigger at play here."

Mulder properly laughed and she stared at him with a frown stitched upon her brow.

"You're doing a very good impression of me, Scully," he chortled.

She smiled despite herself, trying to hide it in a dip of her head. She hummed, having to agree. Maybe she was being paranoid, maybe she should be. The little Mulder voice played in her head, It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you. Shifting in her seat, Scully scuffed her feet on the box of hair dye in the footwell. She was reminded of the haunting feeling of being reeled into the snare, the need to change shape and escape. I see you before on the television.

"Could we find a motel tonight?" she asked warily, cognizant of the contradiction to her previous argument.

"Yeah, sure." He reached out for her hand, lacing her fingers with his.  "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes," she smiled. "I'm fine."

----------

Scully stood behind Mulder at the front desk, listening vaguely to him trying to communicate to the owner of the motel. She stared out of the window at the fading light, smiling as she clutched their only bag of belongings. Resting her cheek to Mulder's shoulder, she heard the muffled sound of his broken Spanish.

«Uno habitación. Uno err noche,» he stuttered earnestly.

She chuckled, remembering of all the times they had booked two rooms just to keep up appearances and Human Resources of their backs. It wasn't that both rooms never got used, more the connecting door left open was an invitation too tempting to resist taking. Mostly, she relished the frequent nights he had slipped into her bed under the cover of darkness and fallen asleep curled around her.

«¿Te gustaría una o dos camas?» The man nodded towards Scully and she smiled politely.

«¿Excusa?»

«¿Una cama o dos?» the man repeated.

«Una cama por favor, señor,» Scully answered.

Mulder muttered, "Feel free to save me from looking like an ass any time."

"I was enjoying listening to you butcher a beautiful language," she teased.

As soon as Mulder was through the door, he flopped onto the bed and sighed contentedly. "One day, Scully, we'll have a place of our own and I will never sleep on a couch again."

She eyed him suspiciously as she rummaged through their bag. Was this where he thought this was going? The end goal a house out in the country with a little wooden porch and surrounded by fields to play baseball in? She tried to imagine it, sitting on the porch, drinking ice tea on a sunny day, a good book and Mulder for company. A cozy log fire crackling in the stone fireplace on long winter evenings. She sometimes thought about the fairy-tale ending but she couldn't imagine herself in that story. Somehow, Scully was always on the outside looking in.

Clutching the box of hair dye behind her back, she stood purposefully. "I'm going to use the bathroom."

Mulder followed her with his head until the door clicked shut behind her. Hearing the water run in the en-suite, he turned over on his side. The creaking of the pipes was oddly comforting and he closed his eyes to it. The mechanical lullaby was, however, annoying enough to keep him from drifting off even though it was the first time he'd laid his head down on a pillow in a month.

A month– Scully was counting. Every day he had woken up next to her and gazed into her clear, blue eyes, she had been counting. He now understood half of what had been wearing her thin, forcing her to guard herself as he'd forged ahead to try and break through. Maybe now was not the best time to pick at her walls. Instead, he promised to find a small window and let in some light. He lay flat on his back, exhausted, and rubbed his hands down his face. Maybe he shouldn't find a window. What if he did find one and somehow manage to block the light out against his own intentions? Perhaps all she needed was space and time to heal. Time away from him and pain he brought with his existence. It was so hard to know what to do when she didn't speak to him. Not about the important things; the things that truly mattered. Not that either of them had been very good at it in the past. It had only ever been drips of conversation at a time, providing a Petri dish for overthinking and false assumptions and doubt. Things that built up like a damn over time until the structure burst and it all came flooding out at once. He didn't want to lose Scully and he didn't want her to get lost.

Restless, he turned onto his other side.

Emily's little face peered up at him from over the side of the bed.

"Jeez, Em," Mulder laughed nervously. "You scared me."

Her young face, too innocent still to be morose, hung dejectedly before him. Her eyes were wide, almost tearful, trying to tell him something he wished he could understand.

"Emily, what is it?"

She simply padded over to the bathroom door and pointed.

"Dana," he breathed, rushing onto his feet and knocking on the door. "Scully? You okay in there?" he called urgently.

"It's open," she replied and he noticed how she avoided his question. Turning the handily delicately, as if he was intruding, Mulder opened the door ajar and peered inside.

"Scully?"

Her t-shirt was crumpled on the floor with a towel next to the bathtub. She had her head hung over the ledge, damp tresses of hair dangling before her face. Various bottles from a box were scattered around in an unorganised mess that was so unlike her.

"If you need to use the toilet, just be quick," she said.

He cleared a path and kneeled down beside her. "Scully, what are you doing?"

Scully turned her head to look at him, dragging her tongue across her top lip in a condescending manner. "Mulder, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Is this why you wanted to stay in a motel tonight?"

"Does it matter?"

He carefully reached for her hands, untangling them from the ribbons of her once red hair. "Of course it matters. Why didn't you tell me?"

She looked down at their hands. "Am I obligated to tell you everything, Mulder?" she quizzed, returning her gaze to him as she uttered his name.

"No," he searched her eyes for some meaning, but it was hidden away in some depth he couldn't swim to. "But you hardly tell me anything anymore. I think I see a glimmer of what you keep locked away in your heart, but I don't know if it's just a smokescreen, Scully, I can't tell."

She pulled her hands away, combing her fingers through her hair again. "I would never lie to you, Mulder," she said candidly.

"That's not what I said."

Huffing, she stopped, resting her arms over the rim of the bath and giving him her full attention. "Then what are you saying?"

He didn't know. He'd lost sight of his thoughts when he'd seen her troubled; only ever her in mind. He paused, taking a breath. "Why do you need to change yourself?" he uttered softly.

"I'm not changing myself, I'm just dying my hair. It's nothing new or special."

"Why now? Why so suddenly?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "I told you: someone recognised me. I can't just shrug that off like it didn't happen because it did. This is our reality, Mulder, we can't wander through it blindly an– and just hope we'll make it out alive!"

She caught her breath, taken off guard by her own sudden outburst. Licking her lip, she composed herself, affecting an even tone. "I'm not shutting you out, Mulder, if you'd just listen..."

He watched her silently, absorbing her words. Eventually, he nodded timidly. "Let me help then," he whispered.

"No, I'm fine," she brushed him off.

But he refused to lose her. "Scully, let me help."

She sighed, giving in. Snapping of the rubber gloves, she handed him the pair: they had been too large for her hands anyway. "I've died my hair before, but this is bleach, and all the instructions are in Spanish," she admitted.

"I think you're doing fine, Scully," he smiled, rubbing the mixture from the tips all the way to the roots of her hair. Once he'd checked everywhere was covered, he sat with her, waiting patiently by her side until it needed to be washed out. Grabbing the showerhead, he made sure that the water temperature wasn't too hot and massaged her scalp. Scully hummed in appreciation as the warm water cascaded over her head and his fingers worked their magic.

"Do you think I should bleach my hair too?" he asked, partly to make her laugh and partly because he knew that she was right: this was their reality. And she did laugh: the shaking of her shoulders accompanied by a small chuckle made him sigh in relief.

"What's so funny?" he teased. "Would I not look cool with bleach blond hair? I could take up surfing."

Laughing again, Scully elbowed him playfully, making the shower spray everywhere. Her giggle was a welcome sound for sore ears, breathing life back into the empty silence that had followed the burst of the damn.

He turned off the water and handed her the towel. She sat on the ledge of the tub, patting carefully at her now blonde hair, eyeing the alien colour curiously. Mulder grabbed another towel and started on her other side, drying her hair with just as much care. He seriously thought about how he should change his appearance, although he didn't want to. He didn't want to look in the mirror and see someone else's reflection staring back, his own image lost and forgotten. Seeing Scully now, she didn't look like the same person he had known for nine years. The blonde brought out the ice in her blue eyes; her stares once hot like fire now cold and hard. He knew it was just a costume to wear; an act to play, but he feared it becoming a warped version of reality. He should find his own costume to don too; if not becoming the obnoxious surfer-dude type, then what other outfit should he assume? Mulder doubted novelty glasses with the big nose and moustache would cut it, not least because he already wore reading glasses and his nose– well...

Absentmindedly, he asked, "What if I grow a beard?"

Scully turned suddenly serious. Her icy, blue eyes, still fiery, melted his heart.

"Don't," she said definitively and pulled him into a searing kiss. Her fingers curled through the hair at the nape of his neck, dropping the towel and bringing him closer. She felt a well of hunger for him build in her like she'd been starved of his touch.

His hands traveled from her sides, down around the shape of her thighs, lifting her from her perch on the bathtub. He pulled her body into his, pressing them together, all the while she stole his lips with fever. With his hands under her ass and her legs wrapped around his waist, Mulder maneuvered them towards the bedroom.

"No. Here," she breathed.

"Dana–"

She rested her forehead again at his. "Please."

Mulder turned around and placed Scully on the corner of the sink unit. Grinding softly into her, he traced a hand up to cup her jaw, locking lips reverently. She tightened her grip, pulling him closer at the hips and binding her ankles behind his legs. She sucked his full bottom lip, ripe and refreshing like a plump summer fruit, biting it and soothing it with a swipe of her tongue. He hissed when she continued down his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses and lovebites until she reached the neckline of his t-shirt. Impatiently, she tugged at it and set him free, dropping it by his feet.

Her hands wandered his torso. It was softer than before, leaner and less muscular. There was still tension in his muscles, a defined shape to them, but she could feel the difference. She reached the waist of his jeans, slipping her hands down further, but Mulder grabbed her wrists, making her look up at him. When Scully saw into his eyes, she understood that he wanted to slow down, but there was a fire unfurling through her, setting her body alight and cultivating an insatiable thirst. The last time they had taken things slow, she'd had too much time to think, and she didn't want to think: just feel.

The moment passed between them, eyes locked onto one another, their telepathy flying with the sparks.

Mulder tenderly let go of her wrists and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb across the rose flush that tinted it. Scully sighed, leaning into his hand and placing her own on top. He bent down to capture a kiss, his lips soft yet firm with resolution. She responded in kind, opening up to the taste of his tongue, of desperation, of hope, of the sunflower seeds he cracked between his teeth all day. Her fingers wound around his hand, bringing it from her cheek to her hip. She slipped down off the cabinet and he unbuttoned her pants. They fell to the floor with a rumpling sound that seemed to echo off of the tiled walls. She stepped out of them, climbing on top of the unit, tugging him between her legs. A second rumpling of jeans and he was buried inside of her, clutching her closely.

He began to move leisurely, kissing her with indulgence. But his body was strung like an archer's bow, taut with resistance, holding something back. Scully moved against him insistently, one hand scratching at his shoulder, the other twined through his hair. She kissed him like a diver plunging into deep waters; the taste of exploration too sweet not to bite.

"Faster," she pleaded in his ear.

Mulder complied, giving in, releasing built-up tension with the snap of his hips forward. In quick and jarring thrusts he drove into her until it was too much and she came with a gasp, collapsing into his chest. Time seemed to slow. The pulsation of where they were joined throbbed up through him to his ears and pounded through his chest. He heard every lungful of air he took; every small, panting breath Scully puffed. Every plunge pushed him further until he too, gasping for air, broke the surface, floating euphorically on the waves of the ocean.

An indeterminate amount of time later, when it was moving at roughly the normal speed again, Mulder lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling with his arm outstretched and Scully's head resting on it. She was drawing aimless patterns around the scar tissue of where she had shot him. Moby had been rescued from their bag of belongings and the white whale was snuggled in the space between them. Everything should have felt easy.

"Scully..."

"Yes?"

"I– I..." He thought of Emily's face staring up at him. He wanted– needed to tell her about the hallucinations that haunted him but he didn't know if he could place that kind of burden on her. He shuffled onto his side and watched her watch him back. He was about to open his mouth when he saw Emily sat on the bed behind Scully, frantically shaking her head. He itched to make Scully turn over and see for herself the impossible. But there was something in that little girl's eyes, so like her mother's, that made him think of Scully first: how angry she would be if he said he could see her; how broken she would be if she saw her for herself.

"Why did you get those sunflower seeds?" he eventually fabricated to fill the silence, bottling his ghosts up and burying them for another time.

"What?" she asked, understandably bewildered.

Ignoring the nagging feeling that he was walking down the wrong path, aware it was still early enough to go back, Mulder sighed and continued, "You didn't have to get them, so I just wondered why you did."

"Because you like them and I saw them." She leaned away from him, questioning him and trying to gauge what was running through his mind. "Did you not want them?"

"No, it's not that. I wasn't expecting it– I didn't ask you to get them..." he continued to ramble.

She silenced him with a kiss, smiling. "You didn't have to."

When Scully pulled away from him, Emily had disappeared and he wondered why at all he was taking advice from his own deluded mind. Mulder looked up at the ceiling again. There were things he needed to get off of his chest, but Emily was right, even if she was only an apparition or a figment: he couldn't tell Scully, not at the moment. Maybe sometime in the future when the moment was right. Yet the longer he left it, the harder it would be to explain what was happening– to explain why it had taken so long to confide in her. The longer he left it, the harder it pressed against his chest; another weight to carry around. The harder it pressed, the more it weighed on his mind; another thought to worry about. The more he thought about it, the harder it pressed against his chest. It was like something inside him wanted to scream when he reflected upon it. So, he didn't. Instead, he pulled Scully closer and lost himself curled around her. Her warm skin against his own grounded him; her scent wrapped itself around him and tied him down. He focused on her breathing, matching his own to the same pattern until he was made up of a tiny piece of Scully that kept him sane and whole.

"Mulder," she mumbled. "Are you okay?"

"Shh, it's nothing," he whispered. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. "Try and get some sleep."

[boykingsofhell]

3,6,20,27,64

3) Describe the different ways in which liminality shifts as a central theme in Supernatural (or a specific arc/character given)

Liminality is super interesting regarding both Winchester brothers because they both straddle the line between the more normal and more deranged brother at different times. Sam is the boy with the demon blood, black eyes and blood dripping down his face, and he is the man with a white picket fence and a house in suburbia. He is the man who left Stanford thinking he had something he could come back to. Dean is dreaming of suburbia and fast cars in the same thought, normality whilst “it was always going to end like this for me” rings through his head. Dean is alienated from a suburban life and his obsession with hunting further alienated himself. Liminality in spn rests so deeply on the boy’s childhood, in the space between scenes where we understand the boys have never had somewhere to come back to. This shifts in season 8 with the introduction of the bunker, but the bunker and their father’s legacy is just a new form of alienation from their family and from “normal” people.

6) Do you have any psychological headcanons (or canon interpretations) of the characters?

Dean has ADHD (you know I’m right, he is whip smart yet struggled in academic settings and can’t keep attention on things that aren’t interesting to him, what does that remind me of???) Cas and Jack are autistic (I love them) and Sam has chronic not-quite-right syndrome in the way he will never let himself or anyone else try to understand. 

20) What is your favourite part of season 3?

I am Obsessed with the scene in 3.10 where Dean says “my father was an obsessed bastard! All that crap he dumped on me about protecting Sam, that was his crap. He's the one that couldn't protect his family! I don’t deserve to die, and I don’t deserve to go to hell” or something like that not like I memorised it haha. But anyway it’s such a cathartic scene, Dean simultaneously realising his own self worth AND stopping blaming himself for his father’s actions. I would have loved for spn to contend with this more because it was a great start in an arc of Dean recognising his past and abuse and moving past it, rather than just. never criticising John Winchester again.

27) How do you think the angels fit into the species ecosystem of the Supernatural universe? how do monsters? are monsters grouped together in your mind in some way other than the fact they are hunted?

OK SO I am currently doing my degree in politics AND a class in philosophy for context. But how we classify groups of people is inherently political and reveals as much about our own biases as the other groups. In my head, angels are classed as beings in the same way as many of the (culturally butchered) pagan gods. Also, monsters as a category are used to dehumanise the Other, by grouping non-sapient creatures in with groups which are basically Humans With A Disease/Powers, like werewolves. Using monsters as a broad level enables hunters to indiscriminately perpetuate violence towards non-humans, regardless of the threat they actually present to the public. Some hunters would classify witches as monsters. Is this how they justify killing them? Long story short, in my head for all supernatural beings that could be classified as monsters, there are two categories, creatures (like the scarecrow), and nonhumans. Because nonhumans can include any supernatural nonhuman creature, like vampires, werewolves, or sirens. Some of these creatures are definitely evil most of the time but! like we’ve seen with Garth this isn’t always the case and is a more neutral definition. tbh with other “monsters” like psychic kids or witches, well, they’re just humans with powers.

64) What are the central themes of Supernatural to you? Did the finale counter or reinforce them? Shape them?

Rem you are too bigbrained with your smart questions. HOWEVER I will attempt to answer. I think the central themes are loss, perseverance, family, and alienation. The others are self explanatory, but there’s the canon alienation of both the Winchesters and many they know from normal life, alienation from their relationships with each other, alienation with how most people see the world, as a place without monsters whilst they know the truth. Ultimately, whether spn wanted to be or not, it is a tragedy. A downwards spiral that never lifts, and ends with two main characters dead and another trapped in a hollow ending in the suburbs. The ending reinforced the theme of loss, as per the tragic tone, but it challenged that of family. The idea that “family don’t end in blood” is pervasive and explicit, yet isn’t textually supported, as Sam and Dean’s most important relationships are almost always with each other and other biological family members. This is blatant in the finale, with Sam seemingly rejecting the family he’s built with other hunters and people in the community to embrace a nuclear family model based on biological ties. The theme of perseverance, to “always keep fighting” was textually explicit in the finale, yet was contradicted by by Dean’s death. Dean, a depressed and at times suicidal man accepting death easily is not a triumph of perseverance, it’s cowardice on the part of the writer’s. The theme of alienation is deeply contradicted by the finale! white picket fence and kids! blurrywife! You know what I’m talking about!

Anyway I hated the finale.

THANK YOU so much for the quiz, it’s super cool and the questions are really insightful :)

[vikingpoteto]

27, 9, pick any two bats

 To no one’s surprise I pick Jason and Tim + cleaning wounds + “Listen, I know it’s hard, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Red Robin looks around his kitchen and tries to list 5 things he can see. The pictures of his friends held by magnets on the fridge. The pile of dirty mugs in the sink. The unread papers spread on the table. The closed window. The trail of blood leading to the counter where he’s sitting. He makes a mental note to clean that up in the morning. Before that train of thought leads him somewhere else, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 4 things he can touch now. The leather of his cowl that he slowly peels away. The cold surface of the counter. The hard wall behind his back. The needle between his fingers. Another deep breath. 3 things he can hear. The clock ticking against the loud silence. Traffic and distant sirens. His mildly ragged breath. He opens his eyes, hoping he doesn’t have any cracked ribs. Another deep breath. He can smell antiseptic and also something coppery. He licks his lips. The one thing he can taste is the bitter pang from the antibiotics he took. 

Tim Drake glares at the needle. This isn’t the first time he had to stitch himself up. This isn’t the first time he had to take care of his own wounds. 

However, this is the first time he’s the one and only responsible for it. 

In another life, he would do a patch job, emergency stuff only, and then get to Alfred as soon as he could for a double check. In a time that felt like a dream now, he would have the latest health tech available and Cissie hovering over his bed while Cassie fussed about how he irresponsibly hurt himself, Bart made a joke out of everything and Conner, of all people, would be the one getting Tim proper care. Less than a month ago, the most deadly organization of the world was making sure Tim was getting the best care available. While his trembling fingers put the thread in the needle, he thinks of the almost healed scar from a damn splenectomy. He doesn’t know what Ra’s people had done to him, but he’s been recovering unnaturally fast, especially considering his immunity. 

Tim bites his tongue and looks down at his battered outfit. He could go to Leslie’s clinic. But it’d be stupid to go all the way there for a couple of bruises and a wound that would probably take less than five stitches. Tim could go to the cave, but… No. He puts the needle down and starts pulling his shirt out. He can’t completely muffle a pained groan and he hates the way it echoes in his empty kitchen. It’s been less than a week since he left Dick, Alfred and Damian. He’s an emancipated adult by all means. Bruce trained him to be independent. He can do this. 

Except… as soon as he reaches for the antiseptic, he hears a noise coming from the living room. Tim freezes. You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the nights to have a robber breaking into his apartment, tonight? Did it have to be tonight? 

Painstakingly, he jumps to the floor and reaches for his staff. He has half a mind to get his cowl, but he thinks Tim Drake defending himself with what could’ve been a broomstick is easier to explain than Red Robin just hanging out at his place. If he’s lucky - and, after tonight, he feels like the universe owes him - he’ll knock out the robber before they see him. 

The most ridiculous thing about all this is that he feels like crying. He doesn’t know why. He barely remembers the last time he cried. Probably right before he realized Bruce could be alive. As much as he’s in pain now, this is no reason to cry like a baby. Especially not in front of a robber. 

Tim silently hides by the side of the fridge and listens. The person in his living room is good. He can barely hear their steps. He can tell there is only one of them, however, and, judging by the way the sound become louder, they’re coming towards the kitchen. Partly to focus on his hearing, partly to ignore the way his eyes are glazing over, he closes his eyes, listens and waits. He waits. He waits a little more.

Ignoring the way his muscles ache in protest, he swirls around and aims for the gut, hoping to knock the air out of the robber. Gloved hands grab his staff and the invader takes a step back before recovering his balance.

“Woah,” he says in a familiar voice, “easy there.”

Tim raises his gaze to face him. Red Hood lets go of the staff in order to remove the helmet, revealing Jason Todd’s frown. Tim feels his shoulders slumping.

“What the fuck, Jason?” Tim hisses. He feels his voice will break if he tries to speak up. 

“I should be the one asking that.” Jason puts his helmet aside. He takes one second glancing around until he finds Tim’s medical supplies. “Is this sanitary? Shouldn’t you be doing first aid in your high tech basement?”

He should. It would’ve been more practical than getting the whole first aid kit and bringing it up here. However, using his medical bay for the first time… It would make it all too real. Too definitive. Tim can’t tell Jason that.

“Medical bay isn’t finished. Kitchen or bathroom were my best options,” he lies.

“Hm,” Jason says as though he doesn’t believe him.

Tim could lie to Batman if he needed to, but, for some reason, Jason seems to always know the truth.

Without another word, Jason takes off his gloves and leather jacket. He drops them aside and walks to the sink. Tim doesn’t ask Jason how he knows where Tim lives - he won’t insult Jason’s detective abilities like that - but he does frown at the older boy as he strides through Tim’s kitchen like he owns the place. 

In fact, Tim doesn’t want to ask anything. He wants to scream at Jason to go away. He wants to lie down on the cold floor and not move for days. It’s comical in a twisted way that Tim had been just thinking longinly about the time in which he wasn’t alone, and, now that he has company, he wants nothing but to go back in time and hide inside the cupboard until Jason goes away. 

“What are you doing?” Tim croaks. 

“Washing my hands,” Jason says simply. He turns to Tim and waves at him to come closer.

It’s a testament to how miserable Tim feels that he does it without questioning. Jason arches an eyebrow at him and points at the counter where Tim had been sitting not long ago. Tim doesn’t move, even as Jason wipes his hands dry with paper towels and reaches for the hand sanitizer in Tim’s medical kit. 

“Jason,” Tim insists. “What are you doing?”

Jason sighs. “One of my guys told me this new vigilante, this Red Robin guy, took an ugly beating near the harbor while he took down one of Sionis’ turfs.”

“It wasn’t an ugly beating,” Tim mumbles.

“Wasn’t it?” Jason asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Was it easy to fight fifteen guys at the same time, Superman? Did it feel wise to bring a freaking staff to a knife fight?”

“I won!” Tim says. 

“Yeah, and which victorious mighty hero is bloody and purple all over?” Jason barks. “Sit your ass down, Replacement!”

Tim flinches and… freaking hell, his eyes are stinging again, which is the most absurd thing ever. 

Jason sighs one more time, but this time he sounds… Well, annoyed isn’t quite the right word. He does sound somewhat irritated, but there is something else in his tone. Discomfort? Embarrassment?

“That’s not… Ugh, I’m sorry, alright?”

Except that’s actually worse. 

Moments ago, Tim wanted nothing but to be seen. It was pathetic. He wasn’t even that hurt and tonight hadn’t been special. It was just the first time he went out for patrol since he moved into his new apartment. He didn’t stop Poison Ivy, didn’t get into a scuffle with Harvey Dent. He just put away a bunch of low level henchmen even if he miscalculated how many of them would be there. Such a small feat, but there was a part of him that wanted someone to acknowledge that. To see all the bruises and bloody scabs, to pat him on the back and tell him he was great for how hard he was working.

How childish. 

Now that there is someone and he seems to be fully aware of Tim’s misery - enough to apologize for speaking a little too loud - Tim only feels small and stupid. He should’ve hidden it better, he shouldn’t be in this sorry state at all. 

The last time he saw Jason, they made amends. Just returned to Gotham after his mishaps with the League of Shadows, Tim found him to let him know he was aware that Red Hood was active again. Jason had said - albeit not in so many words - he lamented trying to kill Tim one year ago. Tim had told him it was water under the bridge by now and they agreed to work around each other, even if Jason still didn’t meet Dick eye to eye after last year. Then Tim had promised himself he would become strong like that. Jason had been through hell and back so many times and he always bounced back on his own. Why couldn’t Tim?

Maybe that’s why it felt like rubbing salt to the injury when Tim glares at Jason, the boy he was supposed to replace, the man whose shoes were too big for Tim to fill, and Tim’s vision is blurry with tears and his voice is overflowing with frustration when he asks yet again:

“What are you doing here?”

Jason meets his gaze. His brown eyes show clear unease, but he doesn’t look away. His brow is furrowed as though this is painful to admit, but he finally says:

“I heard you were probably hurt like that,” Jason gestures at Tim’s bare torso. “I knew you weren’t going to the cave for aid, so I brought the aid to you.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because if it were me, I wouldn’t go there either,” he states simply.

Tim bites his lip. “You dealt with your wounds alone after you came back.”

“Yes,” Jason says. He gestures at the counter again. This time, Tim sits. “I know it sucks. You ever tried stitching your own back? It’s really fucking hard.”

Tim looks down and doesn’t say anything. Jason brings a damp cotton ball to Tim’s wounds and stats methodically cleaning them. Tim doesn’t flinch, even when it really stings. Even when he feels like shame and guilt are all going to drown him.

“How did you do it?” Tim finally asks.

“The back stitches? A mirror and one of those grabby claw things, whatever they’re called…”

Tim glares at him. 

“So serious,” Jason complains. Then, in a calm voice, “I did it the same way you were doing before I got here. If I didn’t I’d die. Guess I wanted to keep living. You’d be impressed with the things people do when they have no other option.”

“You’re incredible,” Tim admits quietly. “I’m not like you. I’m not strong or… I gotta do this alone. I don’t know how.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying out loud all the things he struggled to keep hidden for so fucking long. Jason doesn’t seem surprised with the confession though. He keeps calmly checking Tim’s injuries. 

“Not strong, huh? Which one of us took fifteen guys in a fight and won?”

“You know what I mean, Jason.”

“Yeah.” Jason grabs the needle Tim picked earlier and checks it before starting to work. “I know. Except you don’t gotta do anything, Timbers. And I don’t mean the vigilante thing. Fuck, I know none of us can quit this fucking life. We’re in too deep. I meant you’re not supposed to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. That’s what fucked up the old man. That’s how you lose yourself.”

“What’s that?” Tim scoffs. “You sound like a shrink.”

Jason looks up and smirks. “Maybe I have a shrink.”

Tim frowns. “Who?”

“Guess.”

“Jason.”

He chuckles. “Okay, so… I know it seems crazy, but she found me and asked me to join my crew in exchange for taking off this explosive thing that Amanda Waller put in her. And she’s crazy competent, so…”

“No,” Tim interrupts him. “You did not let Harley Quinn join your crew.”

“Actually, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy,” Jason has a shit eating grin even as he finishes his stitch job. “They’re a package deal. Ivy showed up a couple of days after Harley and I couldn’t get her to leave so…”

“You’re working with Harley Quinn and letting her give you therapy sessions,” Tim says. “Am I on a parallel Earth? Have those guys killed me and I’m hallucinating?”

“A lot changes in a year, Timbers, you’ve been gone for a while,” Jason shrugs. “People change too.”

“Not that much!” Tim protests. 

“Is that so? Then how come you gave me, what now, three, four second chances?” Jason glares at him.

That catches Tim off guard. He takes a moment to realize what he’s talking about. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Tim asks, genuinely confused.

“I came back, I tried to kill you. You let it go. I get arrested, you help me to break out. I thank you by losing it after seeing B’s clusterfuck of a testament. You come back like it was nothing and tell me you hope to do business in the future. And you think I’m insane for giving shelter to an abused lady?”

“I’m not saying you’re insane for helping her. I’m saying I wouldn’t trust her advice,” Tim corrects. “Besides I know what you’ve been through. I understand, even if the others don’t. You’re still a hero. Why wouldn’t I help you get back in the game?”

“Because I could hurt you again, you moron,” Jason frustratedly points out.

“You could also be helpful. I decided it was worth taking the chance,” Tim states.

“Yeah, you did,” Jason whispers, using the bandaging as an excuse to avoid Tim’s gaze. “You’re the best of us, Tim. I’m not letting you crash like I did so many times.”

Tim just stares, his lips parted in shock. 

That’s when he feels the dam breaking and tears finally start to stream freely down his cheeks. He sniffles and makes that horrible choked up sound of someone vainly trying not to cry. Jason keeps tending to his injuries even as Tim’s body shakes with barely contained sobs and Tim doesn’t know if he’s ignoring the meltdown out of mercy or because he simply doesn’t know how to deal with it. It’s probably both. 

By the time Jason finishes wrapping up Tim’s many scrapes and rubbing medicine on countless bruises, Tim has managed to contain his sobs and is gingerly trying to wipe his face and pretending he doesn’t feel like he almost drowned.

“Listen, I know it’s hard, Baby Bird,” Jason mutters, a tad awkwardly. “But I’m not going anywhere. It’s not just you against the world.”

“Then what, is it the two of us against it?” Tim tries to quip.

“Maybe,” Jason says. “You did a lot for me. It’s about time I start deserving it.”

“I didn’t do it because I wanted you to pay me back.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here, dumbass,” Jason takes a step back. “I’m done. Go get changed into a pair of sweatpants or something. I’m gonna introduce you to the wonders of 2am cereal.”

Tim lets out a chuckle. “I’ve eaten cereal at 2am before, Jason.”

“Not mine, you haven’t. Chop, chop, kid, we don’t have all night.”

Tim listens to him. 

He should know better, after all he had experienced new beginnings before. All of them inevitably lead to crashing and burning, some rather spectacularly too.

However… There are a few firsts here. This is the first time someone truly understands. This is the first time Tim doesn’t feel like he’s entering a challenge, that he has to earn his place as Robin, as Young Justice’s leader. He feels like his place had been earned, like there’s a small beacon of hope after a long struggle. 

Tim lets himself accept it.

[diyunho]

The Joker X Reader - “Ghost Driver”

When The Joker says you’re his, it means you’re essential to him because he needs your services for his own gain; it literally has zero affectionate connotations. Turbo is The King’s Ghost Driver and although she’s a legend, her life is far from perfect.

Part 2

“Where’s all your stuff?!” Frost asks since the apartment is pretty much empty.

“Gave it to Adam,” you sulk. “He wouldn’t sign the divorce papers so I gave in; I don’t even care… I’m glad he’s out of here.”

Jonny gazes at you in silence, a million words rushing through his mind and The Joker’s henchman can’t articulate anything close to what he would like to vociferate besides foolish small talk:

“How are you holding up?”

“Not sure… I don’t even know what the hell happened to us…It used to be so great and then he started making comments about my weight, gossiping with his friends behind my back, then cheated… I couldn’t handle it,” Y/N confesses although Frost is already acquainted with the dreadful story of her crumbled marriage.

“Not what the hell happened to us,” he decides to underline his personal opinion. “I think the question should be what the hell happened to him: you didn’t do anything wrong. And I believe you look perfect,” he mumbles the last sentence.

“What was that?” you search the fridge for his favorite soda.

“Nothing... nothing…”

“Here you go,” you offer the cold Fanta to a distraught companion.

“Thanks, Y/N. Here’s the money for tonight,” he gives you the envelope. “As usually, half now , half after the job is done.”

“OK,” you accept the terms without issues because it’s how The Clown Prince of Crime pays for your services. “Jonny, why is there an extra thousand dollars in here?!”

“Ummm…” the man tries to find a reasonable explanation yet Y/N can’t accept his strategy.

“Should I text Mister Joker and thank him for the bonus?”

“Nope,” he bites on his lip.

“I appreciate it,” you return the extra cash to Frost. ”I’m fine. Really.”

“Well…” he takes the bills and stashes them in his wallet, “… let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“I promise I will, “ you smile. “I swear on my Turbo honor,” the joke makes him smile also.

“Hey Y/N… I was thinking… maybe one of these days, if you feel like it, we could… and it’s entirely up to you, no pressure… maybe you would want to… ”

Frost’s phone keeps ringing and he retrieves from his suit’s pocket, annoyed about the interruption.

“It’s Audra,” he huffs while declining the call.

“Might be important,” you sort of urge him to answer.

“Meh, I doubt it. She will chew my ears off regarding our relationship that ended 3 months ago. I’m not interested,” he strolls towards the exit due to another pressing matter he has to attend. “I have to go, Mister Joker has a meeting soon; I’ll see you later, Y/N.”

“See you,” you wave and lock the door when your cell alerts of an incoming text from The Joker.

Downloading two pictures… Pictures?!

“Oh…my… God…!” you hold your breath when the first image depicts a totally naked King of Gotham reflected in the mirror at his gym and squeal when the second one shows a close up of his mid-section.

“Oh my God!” you burst out laughing as you admire the unexpected missive. “Heeeelllo Mister Joker,” you mutter and actual phrases pop up on your screen.

“I sent these to the wrong number, Y/N. Ignore and erase them!”

“Of course, sir!” you immediately reply with no intention of doing it for the moment.

Why?

The hilarious error shook you up from apathy and it’s worth saving those pics for a bit longer since you can’t remember the last time something got your attention after the messy divorce.

***************

11:49 PM

The Joker is the first one to get in the car next to you, firmly clutching to his suitcase full of diamonds freshly stolen from “Diamond Emporium” store on Glissan Avenue. You notice the other goons sneaking to the cars deliberately positioned around nearby streets for tonight’s robbery. How come J doesn’t go with them?

The dilemma is simple:

The green haired menace typically arrives with his regular crew when he plans heists but has Y/N pick him up after the job is done.

“Hi Mister Joker,” you greet your employer.

“Hey,” he acknowledges your presence. “Did you delete the pictures?” The Joker gets straight to the point.

“Yes,” you lie and tell the truth in the same time: you erased the whole body image but kept the close up one for future reference.

“Good. What did you think?” the hasty interrogation prompts a careful chosen response.

“You look very…,” and you pause in order to find the correct term since a tiny mistake could set him off. “… Healthy, Mister Joker.”

“I do,” he huffs quite pleased with your statement.

You wish to add more but Frost and the new hire squeeze in the back seat awaiting orders.

“You’re in luck kid,” Jonny places a box filled with precious gems at his feet. “Your first assignment and you get to meet Turbo.”

The young man opens his mouth in amazement as you move the fingers from your right hand in the air instead of a proper introduction.

“You’re Turbo?! I thought you’re a guy!” Nick blurs out and Frost punches him in the head, displeased with the observation.

“Sounds empty,” you growl while The Clown snorts.

“My Ghost Driver A GUY??!! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” the unnerving, screechy noises make the newbie shrivel up. “Turbo, A GUY!” he continues to amuse himself before giving Nick a psychotic glare.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, I meant no disrespect,” he nervously stutters especially since J called you “his”.

The poor bastard’s oblivious about what the label implies in The Clown’s universe: when The Joker says you’re his, it means you’re essential to him because he needs your services for his own gain; it literally has zero affectionate connotations.

“Where the fuck did you find this buffoon?” you chew on your gum, irritated.

“He’s Richard’s nephew,” Jonny sucks on his teeth.

“Uncle Panda is infinitely smarter,” Y/N barks at the revelation.

“I’m truly sorry,” Nick apologizes again and you cut him off.

“Save it!... … I hear sirens,” you slowly inhale and The King calmly articulates:

“I forgot to mention I accidentally triggered the silent alarm.”

Translation: he did it on purpose.

You snicker at the first lights blinking in the distance, excited to have some fun after stressing so much in the past weeks. The vehicles belonging to the gang scatter in different directions as you step on the gas pedal, accelerating towards the numerous police cars answering to the 10-64 code.

“That’s my girl!” J cracks his neck, already hyped at the adrenaline rush burning his veins: The Ghost Driver is perfect to offer him what he craves and she always delivers.

That’s why Turbo is his.

************

4:37 AM

“Hi…Mister…Mister Joker…” you attempt to talk without slurring.

“It’s Ella,” his girlfriend snarls.

“Why…where is he?” you guzzle down half of glass of wine, adamant in having a chat with your boss.

“Well, after you two had a merry time being chased by cops all over town, he came home and now he’s sorting out the diamonds,” the woman bitterly reports.

“I wanna talk to him,” you sniffle and drink some more alcohol.

“You just saw him. I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it can’t!” you shout. “I just received important information he’d be i…interested in,” you finally make it through the whole sentence.

Ella stomps in the living room, vexed at your behavior.

“It’s Turbo,” she shoves the phone in his fingers. “The bitch is wasted!”

“What did you call me?!” the appalled Y/N is about to burst when The Joker’s deep voice resonates I her ear.  

“Yeah?”

“Sir,” you correct your bitter tone. “I h-have very important news!”

“I’m listening,” J ignores his woman as she cusses you out.

“I have to tell you in person, sir. Let’s go on a date and I’ll reveal the entire shocking...”

“Huh?!”

“I have crucial information…”

“Quit repeating yourself!” The Joker interrupts. “You’re not making any sense. Go to sleep and we’ll catch up after you sober up.”

“But I wanna go on date Mister Joker,” you gulp the rest of the wine and prepare for a fourth round.

“Why, because I look healthy?” J mocks and Ella sighs, not understanding the odd conversation she’s witnessing. “… …. … Hello?”

A loud thud, then dialing tone at the other end of the line.

“I think she passed out,” The King of Gotham concludes, not particularly worried at the sudden halt of your monologue.

***************

3 Days Later

The late meeting is almost done: the buyers already purchased the diamonds J had for sale, among them your ex-husband Adam that has a small crowd gathered next to him; he’s supposedly famous for his crappy attitude enjoyed by jerks sharing the same ludicrous humor.

“You know I’m sensible when it comes to challenges and I couldn’t grasp why she doesn’t want my help in shedding a few pounds. What’s the harm in that?! I love curves but sometimes I don’t, ya’ know?” he winks and the group laughs.

The Joker is arranging money in duffle bags, his concentration diverted by the impromptu comedic performance. What the heck are they yapping about?

Frost is certainly in a foul mood: J can guess his trusted henchman is worked up since the usual chilled Jonny can’t control his anger.

“What’s wrong with being voluptuous, hm?” he addresses Adam and it clicks for The Joker: this is about Y/N.

“Nothing at all,” he smirks and the laughter around the room dies out because not too many dare screwing with Jonny Frost. “I was merely emphasizing that if a woman can’t lose weight, she’s doomed. Y/N lost me, how is she going to get another stud if she…”

“Perhaps she’s not interested in pieces of shit; definitely had her share!” Frost grumbles at the absurd remarks.

The Joker has no clue about what’s going on, yet he won’t deny today’s entertainment is far from boring.

“Give me a break!” Adam scoffs. “Who’d sniff her tail if she refuses to get skinnier? Ooohhh, wait a minute, we might have an admirer,” he arrogantly slides your cell out of his coat. “I was browsing her pictures and what do you know? A gentleman sent Y/N a picture of his junk three days ago. I am deeply sorry, my bad. She does have somebody sniffing her tail. What kind of loser sends images of his dangling goodies to another dude’s wife?!” 

“Ex-wife!” Jonny sneers whilst J’s calculation leads to an easy verdict: you kept one pic.

“Whose junk is this?! Is it yours?” your estranged spouse accuses Frost without any evidence.

“It’s my junk,” The Joker’s serene revelation makes everyone freeze: they have no idea how to react at the puzzling escalation of events.

Is he bluffing?!

“I wasn’t aware I require permission in order to text whatever I desire to whomever I want.”

Awkward silence and Frost approaches Adam, boiling with indignation.

“Why do you have Y/N’s phone?”

Your husband doesn’t have a chance to justify his action: Jonny’s punch throws him to the ground, immediately followed by his unsettling ultimatum.  

“You son of a bitch, what did you do to her?”

Your former husband gets on his elbow ready to attack when The King’s stern inquiry stops his motion:

“WHERE.IS.MY.TURBO?”

****************

After 1 hour

Frost lifts you higher in his arms while you keep wheezing, trying to regain control.

“I’m sorry…I attacked you,” the weakened Y/N whispers. “I thought you were Adam...”

After being abducted and left to starve for the last 3 days, you had one clear purpose: to kill the guy that did it. Adam surely crossed the line with his despicable plan of making you lose weight: he creeped in your apartment, kidnapped you and took you to his home where you were chained in the cellar until Jonny found you. The basement was dark and you couldn’t see, that’s why you used whatever strength you had left in order to attack the individual responsible for your misfortune.

Turned out it was actually a rescue party although Frost is now the proud owner of a beautiful bump courtesy of Y/N.

“No problem,” Jonny takes you to his SUV, carefully laying you down in the passenger’s seat. “How’s your head?” he wipes the dried blood on your cheeks since Adam knocked you out unconscious while you were talking to The Joker after the heist.

“I’m OK,” you start crying, mostly mad at yourself for being such an easy prey, yet you didn’t see it coming.

“You know… It’s OK not to be OK,” Frost opens a bottle of water and gives it to you. “I’ll take you home, you can take a shower and I’ll have the doctor come for an emergency evaluation. Are you hungry?”

“I’m so hungry,” tears stream down your face and Jonny has a great proposal.

“I’ll order some food and if you want me to I can stay with you. After you feel better, we could… and it’s entirely up to you, no pressure… maybe you would want to…”

The Joker rolls his eyes, deciding to emerge from the shadows.

“Wow, this is painful to watch. Frost believes he’s still in high school: basically he’s asking you on a date. There, done. No need to beat around the bush. Jesus!” J scolds about a subject he shouldn’t mess with. “I have a heist next week, you better be good to go by then!” he gestures at the confused duo. “If you’ll excuse me, I have my own date to honor. We’re done here, yes?”

“Yes sir,” Jonny replies for both, unwilling to split hairs with The Joker and his obnoxious aberrations. “Here’s your cell,” he returns the item to you and you snatch it, relieved. You seem to have an outburst of energy as you unlock the secured folder.

“Where’s Adam?”

“I don’t know, we had an altercation at the warehouse then he scrammed,” Frost reports, ogling a strange looking Y/N typing on her phone.

“He won’t be able to hide,” you grin and send the attachment to The Joker.

*************

“We’ll be late for dinner,” Ella kisses The Clown. “I’m not a 100% positive why we had to waste precious time and come for her,” she pouts and drags him after her towards their vehicle.

J’s phone chimes and he stops in his tracks, not expecting a message from you seconds after the encounter.

“Mister Joker, you were very generous to share pictures with me.

Allow me to do the same.

Your Turbo.”

Imagines downloading and he’s not sure what to do when pics appear one by one: frames taken by the private investigator you hired to follow Adam when you suspected he was cheating. The bastard was diligent, but he was eventually caught in the act three days ago.

Who’s the woman he’s with?

The Joker’s Queen.

“What’s wrong?” she frowns at the visible switch in his temper.

The Clown ruthlessly slams Ella against the hood while her cell also receives a text from Y/N:

“Who’s the bitch now?”

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and Ao3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[basilone]

So, I'll fully admit I applied your AU to Andy and Eddie last week, and if I'd known you were kind enough to let other people (and non-BoB stans) play in your sandbox, I'd have told you I imagined Eddie being chosen on Guadalcanal. Everyone thinks he's an avatar of War, because look at the guy. 10 years a marine, angry hill country man, that's fine. That fits. Andy (who I didn't think of Peace for but fuck yeah to that too) has to deal with this, loving someone his god hates. (cont)

(cont) Except Eddie isn’t War. Not that he realises, because his god won’t tell him it’s name. (And, trust me, it’s can only be described as an It.) Not until that night on Peleliu when Andy leaves him in charge. He brings that shovel down on that poor boy’s head to keep him quiet and something clicks. Haldane comes back to find K Company in a panic, Lieutenant Jones won’t speak to anyone, Captain! They sit together, alone. Eddie looks at him and says It’s not War, Andy. It’s Death. I’m Death.

*has a minor freak-out over how cool this is* 

Absolutely, I fully welcome anyone who reads it and goes “!!!!” over it to please indulge and play around in this sandbox of mine. I think it strikes a chord with a fair few in the HBO War fandom, for which I’m very grateful, and I love seeing what kind of things people come up with for this ever-expanding universe. I might have my own ideas about some things inside it, but I’m no creative dictator and I can flow with just about anything. (The lone exceptions to that rule are Ron Speirs being War-chosen, and the eventual ending to my fic the long bright dark. Those two things are non-negotiable decisions, which I’m hopeful people will understand.)

I love, love, love that you and I both decided that Eddie would be chosen on Guadalcanal. I think that this is really the best place for that to happen, given that he received his commission for his actions there. It’s fun to see Eddie through that lens of War-chosen for a bit, too, to tell you the truth? It plays really appropriately on what people think War’s chosen must be like: perpetually angry, physically imposing people. (It’s not until those people meet John Basilone and see the shadow pass through his eyes that they realize War only chooses those who will fight even when they have nothing left to lose.) And I’m geeking out something fierce over your mention of Andy in that light -- loving someone his god hates, ugh, the angst potential!

Your eventual reveal of Eddie’s god? So good. So, so good. I really like the idea of Death walking the sands with Eddie and being with him in the utter wasteland that’s Peleliu. And, let me tell you, I think it might still slot into the AndyEddie tidbit that I wrote earlier almost seamlessly? I don’t know what you think, though, so bear with me? I was on the hunt for Eddie’s god, as one does, and I stumbled across the Norse goddess Rán.. who is described as “the ruler of the realm of the dead at the bottom of the sea to which people who have drowned go; the embodiment of the sinister side of the sea”. There’s a strong death-association there which essentially sealed the deal for me, especially since Eddie’s known for his singing and that reminded me of the siren’s song that lures sailors into the arms of the ocean. (I don’t know, I’m just vibing out loud here because I adore your writing and really click with the idea put forth in it so much!! Haha! Thank you for indulging me, this is fabulous!)

[writerlyhabits]

Salutations! I just read you otp prompt about throwing scissors and absolutely adored it! I was wondering if I might be able to request #59: “Can you dance with me?” - “You’re not mad?” Thank you so much for your time and consideration!

At long last, here is your request!! I am not in love with it, but I definitely don’t hate it, and you deserve to have your request answered! I recognize your username from a bunch of my other pieces, you always leave such lovely comments! So I want you to know how much I appreciate it, they always make my day!! I really loved this prompt, it allowed me to explore a balance between something angsty but also soft, and I feel like that’s a good happy medium to find our Doctor in! Thanks so much for requesting this, I hope you enjoy!! 

59: “Can you dance with me?” - “You’re not mad?”

Every day with the Doctor was an adventure. There were days where you would laugh your way through every crazy event, and there were days where your adrenaline was the only thing keeping you moving. But there was always something to smile about at the end of it all, when the two of you would return back to the TARDIS. 

Today, however, there were no smiles to be had. Upon entering the wooden doors you  collapsed onto the pilot’s chair, and after finding a spot in the cosmos to leave the TARDIS, the Doctor disappeared into the depths of his ship without another word. 

It had started with something normal. The Doctor gave you a list of things not to do. Don’t wander off, don’t look directly at the large plants in the corner, and don’t go near that purple chair in the middle of the room. It sounded easy enough, but that’s how it always started. There always has to be something to make following his directions harder … which might be why he gives them in the first place. You try to listen, you really do. But when it means the difference between saving the fleet and watching them all get shot down … 

So you sat in the purple chair. And it hurt like hell. And you could still hear an echo of the Doctor’s cry, begging you to stop. That the force could kill you, that he would find another way. But the truth of the matter was that you had no time to figure out a different solution. You sat in the strange chair, gritted your teeth to hold back your own screams of pain, and it took everything in you to shut the systems down. 

The details were slowly coming back to you, since your body had been too tired to take notice of anything after you had gotten the job done. From the flashing lights and sirens around the chair, to feeling the Doctor’s arms help carry you through the ship to the TARDIS doors. Now you sat in the dark console room of the TARDIS, the ship having turned off her lights and opened her doors to let the light from the colorful galaxy into the room. She was good at helping you calm down after particularly difficult days, and this was one of your favorite of her methods. 

What seemed like hours later, the Doctor timidly entered the console room, his hands in his pockets. You didn’t acknowledge him, not moving from your curled up position. He hesitated a moment, turning to look at the galaxy outside before seemingly making up his mind. He moved slowly towards the console and gently pushed a few buttons, a soft sound of unfamiliar music playing through the room. 

“Can you dance with me?” He asked, appearing before you and holding out a hand. 

“You’re not mad?” The doctor chuckled a little, gently taking your hand and pulling you up into his arms. He held one of your hands in his, and kept one at your waist. You rested your head on his shoulder, your body still exhausted from the events of the day.  

“I don’t think I could be mad at you, even if I really wanted to.” You positioned yourself so you could look up at him. 

“But, you told me not to go near the chair. I not only went near it, I sat in it. If I had listened-“ 

“If you had listened, none of us would have made it.” He cut you off, his gaze still focused around the room. “As much as I didn’t want it to be, you were right. We didn’t have time to do anything else. But I didn’t want to risk losing you. You risked yourself in order to save everyone else, and that is something I will never ask you to do.” He let go of a shaky breath and looked down at you, his eyes shining in the starlight filling the console room. “I would have rather died in that chair knowing you were safe than let anything happen to you.” 

Too tired to say anything, you simply held his gaze, watching all the love he held in his hearts flicker across his eyes. As if he was afraid of revealing himself, he placed a kiss on the top of your head and looked back out at the stars in front of you, holding you a little bit closer. 

The two of you swayed to the slow rhythm playing through the room, finding comfort in  the fact that you were both still there. That for this brief moment, everything was okay. That you weren’t alone. That against all odds, against common sense and reason, you loved each other. That everything in this chaotic universe brought the two of you together, and allowed you the happiness of each other’s company for one more day, and that’s all you really needed. That even if you had nothing, you had the Doctor. And that, despite everything he’s lost, the Doctor had gotten you.