#wips ideas and snippets

[last-starry-sky]

Had a dream last night of alpha!141 discovering omega!reader through her small “daily life” youtube channel.

Just the thought of four massive men pressed together, jostling one another to watch you on one phone screen (held in a fucking death grip) as you film yourself setting up your nest or making a smoothie.

[last-starry-sky]

A thought: he notices them but leaves them be. Little things tucked away in the moldy corner of the shower or skittering away into the dark crack between the cabinet and the fridge.

He knows that they can’t hurt him, don’t really even bother him. They keep the place free of drain flies and other, more unsavory, critters. It’s a small sadness. They can’t survive anywhere else, so why disturb them?

Freedom - a cup crushing through gossamer strings, broken home scraped away, deposited into a new, cold, world - would only mean death.

He walks away, eyes tracing the crack. No movement. It’s better just to leave it be.

Ghost kills people but he also picks up spiders inside his flat and takes them outside instead of squashing them. I cannot explain this dichotomy.

[demaparbat-hp]

Oh, Lala...

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

tagged by @theotherbuckley

hello, I need to start posting more snippets again, I have too many wips I need motivation for lol

here's my "8x11 morning after going differently fic" where im giving them the counter make out they deserve lol it uses some of the dialogue until a certain point, but then it's going how it was supposed to idc lol

(lowkey set myself a cut off point in the episode dialogue to change stuff from then on and got stuck but I rememberd I can change stuff at any point actually, who knew lol)

___

"Honestly?" Buck scans Tommy's face, leaning in slightly. He can't help his eyes falling onto his lips, that perfect cupid's bow he needs to taste again. "This was the best night I've had in this place." He smiles, feeling so light and well-rested for once, and so happy. Just, he feels right, sitting here with Tommy so close. "To be fair," Buck adds, "it's also the first night I've had in this place, but, uh, still." He licks his lips, not even hiding he's looking right at Tommy's. Craving another taste.

Buck squeezes his thighs around Tommy's hips, reaches out to wrap his arms around Tommy's neck and bringing him closer. Tommy's not protesting, his smile only growing, hands inching a little further up on Buck's thighs.

"Yeah?" Tommy tilts his head, gaze stopping on Buck's lips.

"Mhm." Buck's eyes flutter as he leans further into Tommy, their noses brushing.

"Wonder why's that." Tommy hums, and Buck laughs, shakes his head slightly, enough to not lean away from Tommy.

"I always sleep better with you next to me." Buck whispers, and hears Tommy's breath hitch before he presses his lips to Tommy's.

___

no pressure tags

@dr-shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @pirrusstuff @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @diazheartsbuckley @giddyupbuck @thewolvesof1998 @underwaterninja13 @your-catfish-friend @gaytommykinard @beyourownanchor6 @weewootruck @kirkaut @quillvice @wildfluorescent @bucked-it-up @drcloyd @girlwonder-writes @dadbodbucky @loullaby @aringofsalt @actuallyitsellie @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @hyperfocusthusly @cornerofspace @tommybuckleys @romanbridgers @evansbuck-ley @champagnetommy and anyone who wants to idk <3

[timefall-if]

i fear my hungry ass needs a snippet... preferably of M... or of black market medic MC... or both... pls and ty 🙇🏾‍♀️ (btw ur if is looking great and i cant wait to see where the story goes!)

M spits out blood, leaving a dark and wet spot on the floor. With one hand, they hold a can of cold beer at the back of their head, hissing at the feel of it and shutting their eyes tight.

The party had just finished when you walked in through the metal doors, and the mess still hadn't been taken care of yet. The walls are smeared with makeup and piss, unintelligible words written in bright lipstick and circled with smelly sprays of yellow. Ugly confetti lays sprinkled around chipped chairs, and there are a few strings of neon lights still flickering against the ceiling.

You're sitting next to M at the bar, pouring cheap vodka onto a napkin. You turn to them, holding your hand open, waiting for them to give you their other arm. M does so without so much as a glance in your direction, their eyes still closed and head thrown back.

“This will sting a bit,” you say, focusing on the deep scratches on their skin.

As soon as the alcohol touches their arm, M grunts. “Fuck …"

Their body tightens and limbs flex. You look up at them slightly, your stare fixed on their muscles. M's arms are greenly bruised, surely ugly and brutish to someone else's eye.

Not to you, though. Never to you.

"Like what you see?"

You wince at being caught eyeing your best friend. Were you so obvious?

Your back straightens and you meet M's bright green eyes for a moment. Their eyebrows are slightly raised, an insufferably teasing smirk playing on their lips.

"Shut up," you mumble, turning back to the vodka bottle and napkins on the bar counter.

The sound of M's raspy laugh makes the corners of your own mouth turn upward, your head shaking in both affection and exasperation at once. You grab your scissors and cut some white, soft gauze.

M closes their eyes again. "How'd you get all this stuff so quick, anyway?" they ask.

You snort. "Eh. Marek knows someone."

There is a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward, but there is something you have been meaning to ask, something that just keeps bugging you, and you know M could smell your curiosity from miles away.

You hesitate before moving your body in front of M again and starting to gently dress their wound. "So, wanna tell me what happened earlier?"

They sigh, "Besides getting my ass beat?"

Your mind drifts back to tonight's fight. The lights of the underground pit were bright in the centre, leaving the rest of the room almost dark. The crowd was loud and wild, crushing you, spit coming out their mouths as they yelled the name of the fighter they bet on, willing them to not let their audience lose their money.

M put up a good fight, they always do. They've fought against this opponent before too. Even though the guy was bigger and meaner, M had won every single time. Until tonight.

You don't know how it happened. One moment, M was pushing him into a corner, their fists coming up at the guy's head and hitting hard. Then their gaze slipped to the crowd and saw you, something in their eyes changing from wild and animalistic to vulnerable, then ambitious. Next second, you see M thrown on the floor, the impact knocking the air out of them. Their opponent started to blindly punch wherever his hands would land, though M kept fighting back, using their legs to hit the guy in the stomach.

But it wasn't enough. M kept sneaking glances at you, almost as if to check if you were still there. They were exhausted, bleeding from their nose, and definitely couldn't take any more hits. Marek stopped the fight and got the guy off M, but they couldn't meet your eyes anymore, not even once.

You keep your head down as you pull the gauze on M's arm tighter. "You were doing good, M. I saw you."

They shift in their chair, the metal screeching against the floor. Your hands work deftly at patching M's scratches, and your fingers linger on their skin just for a second too long. Then you let go.

But M's hand catches yours before you get a chance to turn around again, yet their eyes are still closed, head almost bowed.

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

M's eyes snap to you, finally holding your gaze for longer than ever tonight. Their brows furrow as they look at you, a scrunch between them that you move to slowly rub away with your thumb. Their stare is still trained on you—on your face, your eyes, your lips. They follow your every move, their breath hot on your skin. And you think you might know now what they were distracted by. Or more precisely, who.

They plop back into their seat, still holding your hand. "I just ... I don't know. You're right, I was doing good. And then I saw you in the crowd and I-"

M stops themselves, tongue scraping the inside of their cheek, trying to swallow back the words that are threatening to spill out of them without their permission.

"Doing good wasn't enough anymore. I wanted-fuck, I don't know what I wanted. To show you that I could do even better, I guess. And instead, I just fucking embarrassed myself."

This is what that was about? M wanting to prove themselves to you?

You tie a knot with the ends of the gauze strip, securing it on M's arm as you finish the job. They let go of your hand, allowing you to put your utensils back on the counter. You clean the scissors with agonisingly slow movements, feeling the sharp blades beneath the napkin. If you pressed slightly harder, they would cut you.

Once you're done, you sigh. The silence between the two of you stretches, heavy like a blanket. You pause before you turn to them, trying to catch their eye again, but they pointedly avoid your gaze.

Tsk. Frustrated, you grab M's face with both hands so they wouldn't be able to look anywhere else but at you. Their eyebrows raise as if they would've expected you to just let it go. They should know you better by now.

"You don't have to worry about that stuff with me, M. You're always the best. And I'll root for you ... even if you take a punch or two. Okay?"

They try to move their head from between your fingers, but you don't let them. You keep your hold firm, not breaking eye contact. "Okay?"

M looks at you and grabs your arms gently, their skin harsh but their touch as soft as a breeze. For a moment, you think they will push you away, whatever you said surely being the wrong thing.

But M keeps holding your arms instead, keeping them in place, your hands still on their face.

"... Okay."

[hedwig221b]

Six Sentence Sunday

tagged by @renmackree, thank you, love! 💕

Those weren’t scratches; Stiles was fucking lucky that Derek missed the main arteries. There was no way he was going to the hospital, because a) Dad would have a heart attack; and b) Derek would drown in guilt. Fuck, they would definitely scar, though. As if he didn’t have a set on his chest already. Whatever, none of it mattered. Not when Derek needed him.

[theoneofshame]

Harry grabs for the firewhiskey.

“Do you only ever go for the hardstuff?”

“It gets you there faster,” Harry exclaims, rummaging through the cabinets for glasses. Why in the bloody hell they were in the topmost shelf is beyond Harry. Probably Kreacher in a petty spell.

Voldemort, the giant git that he is, makes no move to help.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes, yes I do."

Prat.

“Besides, what’s the point of drinking if not to get pissed?” Harry huffs out, stretching for all his 5'4 stature allowed him. His middle and index fingers graze the edge-most cup, accidentally pushing it further in.

“To enjoy it perhaps,” Voldemort snarks. He watches Harry throw away his last shred of dignity and climb the counter to reach, like it's something fascinating to behold.

“I’ll be enjoying myself plenty, thanks,” Harry says, victorious in his plundering with a cup in hand.

"Why not just summon it?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Kreacher has objects not react to my magic when he's cross with me." Which is always. Harry stopped keeping track of the reasons.

Voldemort wandlessly summons the second cup to him. Harry flips him off.

For all Voldemort's belly-aching he still shares a glass with Harry. Then four more. They've moved to the study and drank through most of the bottle when Harry makes the comment, “never would’ve taken you for a lighter spirits fellow.”

“I prefer sweet things,” Voldemort says, slowly raking his eyes up Harry's form before locking on to Harry’s own. The way he said it had Harry’s cheeks flushing. Probably just the alcohol catching up to him. Still, his belly is warm and he's feeling good.

[petiolata]

Batcest where they're all biologically related...Bruce was just keeping up his playboy persona when he slept with that star acrobat, sex worker at a party, rich socialite and...well no one disputes he fathered Damian lol.

The truth would never have came out if it wasn't for the tabloids. Bruce's ward and his adopted son being together were scandalous enough to feed the media's invasive hunger, but some brave reporter insists that it's even worse--they're both Bruce's bastards, biologically brothers too.

On top of the media attention, there are endless posts and videos online analyzing their bone structure and coloring, the way they walk, their smiles. Everyone seems to believe it.

It picks up enough that the legal department at Wayne Enterprises pushes them to sue for libel/defamation. WE's stock prices and PR image are not helped by headlines like "Move over Folgers, there's a new incest company" and claims that the Waynes "are a modern-day Targaryen dynasty in the making" or whatever shit line the tabloids are selling that day.

So they go through with it. But to sue for libel, you have to prove that the claim isn't true. That should be easy enough, right? One DNA test will clear that up...

The results are, to say the least, horrifying. Do they stay together, despite the world's condemnation and the sickening knowledge they now possess? Can they? But how could they bear to end it when they love each other so much...

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

They need to work on their looks, unfortunately, because each one of them is a little off. Their Nightwing is too bulky, and his costume isn't made with Dick's flexibility in mind. Besides that, he's got an undercut that doesn't match the shaggy way Dick has his hair now, and his blue is too dark. And the swords. Those are different.

Their little Robin looks more like Dick, actually, Dick as he was before Jason's time, with his happy grin and his bright yellow cape. He doesn't match Damian's style at all, and Jason wonders if their intel was out of date. He tucks away his anger (the way he's used to doing, now) at these bastards roping some little kid into whatever con they're trying to pull. They can help the kid after they subdue him, and he stops trying to flip-kick people in the face.

The Red Robin outfit isn't bad, but the guy playing him is way too tall to be Tim. He doesn't use a bo staff, either, clearly preferring the armory of sharp little implements he keeps tucked away in his utility belt, including a wicked looking combat knife.

Which brings Jason to the current pain in his ass, the idiot trying to pass himself off as the Red Hood.

Yeah, they'd split off into pairs to fight. First off, for practicality's sake. Less risk of friendly fire if the only guy you're trying to punch is the one who isn't you. And secondly, it's just what you do, isn't it? Somebody gives you a set up like this, you go along with the poetic justice. No bat is immune to drama.

Jason is regretting that a bit, now. Fake Hood had taken him for a ride, leading him, he now realizes, far away from the warehouse where Nightwing and Robin had initially called in the disturbance. This other guy isn't the powerhouse that Jason is, but that doesn’t matter if Jason can't ever get in a hit. His movements are precise, deadly, and familiar in a way that makes Jason suspect League training. Jason is keeping up, but barely, and that's with the advantage of his guns. The other guy hasn't touched his, still gleaming red in his holsters, and Jason has a sneaking suspicion that they aren't filled with rubber bullets.

They're at a bit of a stalemate, standing on opposite sides of a dark rooftop, and Jason's trying to catch his breath but he can't relax, not when his gaze is locked onto his opponent, waiting for the minute twitch of muscle that will indicate his next move. He's wondering if he could get a shot off, wondering where to aim, when his comm crackles to life.

“Stand down!” Tim snaps in his ear. “Hood, Wing, the alternates aren't currently a threat. Deescalate however you can, and get back to the warehouse. We can explain this whole mess there.”

“Really?” Nightwing asks. He goes on to say something else, something about his doppleganger being incredibly threatening, thank you very much, but Jason stops listening, because there's something going on across the roof.

A mechanically distorted voice says, “What? No, I'd be able to tell. This guy isn't-” The imposter(?) cuts off suddenly, presumably listening to a response.

And then he… giggles.

“That isn't funny, Red,” he says, in contrast to the little peals of laughter making him subtly shake. “You- you get how fucked up that would be, don't you?”

Jason can't figure out what to do. Tim's intel is almost always good, but he can't get himself to stand down, not when, for some reason, that laughter is setting his teeth on fucking edge.

(He knows the reason. He'd know that cadence anywhere, he hears it in his fucking nightmares, but it isnt possible. He's in Arkham, right now, because Batman won't kill him and Jason isn't allowed to kill him and that uncomfortable truce is what got him his family back. Jason would know if he'd broken out, they wouldn't have kept that from him. They wouldn't.)

“Oh shit,” Tim says, and it makes Jason wonder how he knows, “Hood, is your alternate having some kind of fit right now?”

The sound escalates, from breathy little giggles to screeching laughter, and even with the hood's distortion, it's unmistakable.

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

And isn't this exactly some shit that Joker would pull, making a mockery of Jason's family, a twisted parody that fucks with his head? Tim's lying, he's trying to get Jason out of this situation, and Jason gets why, he does, but obviously the rest of them can't (won't) protect him from this, so if he has to take fate into his own hands, he will.

The green is creeping up, but Jason doesn't let it haze over his vision because he has to be in his right mind while he does this, not for them, for himself. As he stalks across the roof, he empties the clip from one of his guns and pulls out the live rounds, loads them into place.

He thinks Tim is calling for him, maybe the others, too, but the chatter over the comm is getting further away the closer he gets to his target. He should be smart, should take the shot, but maybe he's got more pit in his head than he wants to admit, because Joker, still laughing, pulls a knife, and Jason steps into his range to disarm him.

The strike is fast, but compared to the careful movements of before, he's practically telegraphing his actions. Jason sidesteps, and if the blade knicks him when he twists Joker's arm, he doesn't feel it. He's got the clown in a hold, now, and forces him to his knees with the gun against his temple.

If the hood is anything like his own, the bullet won't do it, not even at point blank range. Jason would like to get it off him, would like to see the life leave his eyes, but he doesn't have to. Jason moves the barrel beneath his chin, right where the armor ends. The pit rages inside of him, says this is too easy, says to make him suffer. Jason pushes it down. This is the compromise he'll make, this is what he'll do to try to maintain both his humanity and his peace of mind. The bullet will ricochet off the hood from the inside, will tear through Joker's brain at least twice, and he'll never come back from that, and Jason will finally be free.

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

“Nothing to fucking say?” Jason growls, jostling the clown in his grip, because there's always some joke, some shitty twist.

The Joker just laughs.

“Unhand him this instant!” someone snaps, and Jason's finger twitches but somehow the trigger stays still. And now what's he supposed to do, because of course fucking Nightwing- but wait, that isn't- but it is, he's right there- it's both of them, two Nightwings. Fucking fantastic. Twice the guilt trip.

“Come on, Jay,” the Nightwing who's actually Dick pleads, and hey, what the fuck, codenames? In front of the fucking Joker, Dick? “Let him go, we can explain everything.”

“I'm not doing this again!” rips itself from Jason's throat, and he'll think later about just how wrecked he sounds. “I'm not just standing here and letting him go, Wing, not when one bullet can put a stop to all this, not when I can end him.”

“Jason,” Dick says, slow with forced calm, “that's not the Joker.”

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Jason seethes.

His hand is wrenched to the side, the barrel facing open air, and before he can make a move the unfortunately familiar feeling of a high voltage shock courses through him.

By the time he's stopped seizing, Dick is at his back, supporting him with his own body and with arms under his pits and around his chest in a weird reverse hug. Technically, Jason's hands are free, but they're empty, the gun skidded to somewhere else across the roof.

Dick is murmuring into his ear, “Sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry,” and, “You're okay, you're okay, you're okay,” mantras meant to soothe his brother as much as himself. Jason wants to be angry, wants to snap at him to let go and fucking cut it out, but he's feeling strangely disoriented. He only has enough brainspace to pay attention to one thing, and that's the scene playing out in front of him.

Dick had clearly hauled them back a few steps, but Jason is still uncomfortably close to the bastard version of Nightwing (who, Jason realizes in hindsight, had tazed him while he'd been distracted by his brother, not cool) and the laughing maniac he should've killed. Nightwing is holding onto Joker's shoulders, his hands bouncing as the gasping, shrieking laughter continues.

“I'm going to remove your helmet now,” Nightwing says. He has a slight accent that Jason knows he's heard before, and his tone is professional, almost clipped. And yet, somehow, Jason can tell that this is a gentled version of the man's voice, the sharpest edges sanded away. His hands move from Joker's shoulders to the back of his head, carefully inputting whatever sequence allows for safe removal of the hood. Jason hears a hydraulic hiss when some sort of catch releases, and as Nightwing starts pulling the red metal up and away Jason can't help holding his breath.

At first, he sees what he expected to see. It's the Joker's expression, after all, his laughing face pulled into a rictus grin.

But the grin isn't right, somehow. The man is pale, but his face is unpainted, and the smile stretches wide, too wide, wider than even the Joker ever managed, and after a moment Jason recognizes the red, raised scar tissue on either side of his mouth for what it is.

Then, Jason takes in the actual features of the person in front of him. Dark hair, pale blue eyes, the cheeks, the jaw, the nose.

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

The Red Hood, collapsed on his knees in front of him, scarred face bare with no hood or domino to protect him as he struggles under the weight of his own laughter, is Tim Drake.

He's crying.

Jason is suddenly glad that Dick's holding him, because he's certain that he'd be on the ground, otherwise. Then, he realizes that he can't breathe.

Jason knows, logically, that his hood has sensors and filters that keep him safer than he could ever be without it. It is only every once in a while, when something stupid happens, that he regrets that he, a man with claustrophobia, decided to stick his head into a metal bucket.

Dick can probably tell that he's hyperventilating, and doesn't fight him as Jason gets his hands on the back of his neck and pulls off his hood.

Jason gasps in polluted Gotham air, and Tim's eyes snap onto him. Nightwing says, “I'm administering the emergency dose of your medication,” and then stalls, like he's waiting for a response, but all Tim does is laugh and stare. Jason stares back. He can't look away.

Nightwing retrieves a small tubular device, almost like an epipen, and presses it against Tim's leg. That shouldn't work. Tim's wearing body armor, same as the rest of them, and there's no way a needle could pierce it, but Jason looks as Nightwing draws the device away and there's a small raised circle of hard plastic on Tim's thigh that the head of the device fits into perfectly, like it was designed for that purpose. An injection spot, built into Tim's clothing, specifically for whatever drugs fake Nightwing just pumped into him.

Immediately, there's a difference. He doesn't stop laughing, or smiling that horrible fucking smile, but the manic tension is gone. He doesn't look like he'll shatter at a touch anymore, too brittle to be handled. The curve of his spine gentles, muscles no longer pulling it to the point of snapping. Jason watches as slowly, oh so slowly, Tim gets quieter, leans more into Nightwing's hold on him, starts gasping more than laughing.

Dick is talking behind him, into his comm, it sounds like. If it's important, someone will get his attention.

Finally, Tim breaks eye contact. “T- tell him,” he says to Nightwing, struggling between gasps and giggles, “tell him what you, gave me. Jay doesn't, he doesn't like, needles.”

The strange Nightwing turns his head, and Jason gets the impression of a sharp, searching gaze behind his domino. He's nothing like Dick, not at all, but something niggles the back of Jason's mind, some sense of familiarity regardless. He tosses something, and Jason automatically reaches up to catch it.

It's the empty tube of medication, which does seem a lot like an epipen, up close. “It's a combination,” the man says. “The antidote for Joker venom, an antipsychotic, and a mild sedative.”

“What the fuck?” Jason hears from his own mouth as he looks down at the innocuous little tube.

“It's only used in emergencies,” Nightwing adds, and does not clarify any further.

Jason doesn't know what to say to that. He shakes himself out of Dick's hold and grabs an evidence bag out of his jacket. He watches Nightwing, to see if he'll object, but he doesn't. Jason slips the medicine tube inside the bag and tucks it away.

“There you are!” Dick says in a bright tone, one meant to cover his anxiety and relief.

Jason turns, and finds that their roof has gotten a little crowded. All four Robins have arrived, his brothers mingled in with their copies, copies who don't quite match in ways that are now sticking in his brain. Tim, Jason's Tim, is standing right there, pressing his mask against his face like he'd broken the seal on the adhesive, and it isn't sticking quite right. Other than that, he's normal. He's fine.

The Robin, the one in the classic colors who Jason had thought looked a bit like Dick (oh God, could that be-?) gives a little whistle. “Trust Red Hood to cause drama!” he says in a bright tone that is too too familiar (fuck, fuck he is). “Must be a universal constant.” He grins, cheeky, looking past Jason.

Jason isn't processing fast enough to be offended for his own sake, but he turns and checks on Tim, other Tim, the Tim who apparently also has a claim to the Red Hood name. Tim is propped up on Nightwing's shoulder, looking drowsy and relaxed. He's looking back at Robin, and his lips are pressed tightly closed, but he's smiling, and it reaches his eyes.

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

Jason snorts, to get the kid's attention, and rolls his eyes. “Comes with the job description,” he snarks.

The kid lights up. Jason feels distinctly weird, having that smile directed at him, but it's not… bad.

Yeah. This is fine.

-

I'm planning to add a reblog with more information on this au/fic idea, so if you're interested, watch this space.

[fearandhatred]

the rapture

it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.

but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.

no one thinks about the screams.

crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.

here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.

around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.

he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.

trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.

it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.

[last-starry-sky]

another a+ youtube video inspo pull: Uber eats bike delivery Simon.

imagine ordering some greasy delivery at the ass crack of morning (after a night out/sick/just wanting to treat yourself) only instead of sneaking downstairs to grab your food, you run right into your delivery man: all six feet, 200+lbs of him. You’re spiraling because you’re hungry af and absolutely certain this man in all black, gloves, and a fucking mask is a commando sent to kill you if you open the door. In reality, the second he saw you lurking around like a skrunkly stray cat in last nights clothes and sweat-mussed hair; he was in love.

[baambastic]

Blüdhaven

1310 Parkthorne Avenue

7:20 AM

“In more recent news, the Office of Foreign Asset Controls, a branch of the Department of the Treasury, has administered a total embargo on trade with the island nation of Santa Prisca. To comply with this action, Congress has issued a total recall to retailers on all products produced by companies based in the island nation, including the Zesti Cola Company.”

Dick shot up from the couch, nearly knocking over his can of Zesti in the process. “TIM!” he shouted. “Come over here! You gotta see this!”

“Too loud, Dick, jeez,” Tim responded, walking into the den with a bowl of cereal and a yawn. “What’s up?”

Rather than answering, Dick gestured to the still-ongoing news broadcast.

“As most of our viewers are likely aware, Zesti Cola, the namesake of the company, has been at the forefront of the soft drinks industry in the States since the late 19th century, rivaled only in popularity by Soder Cola. While Zesti Cola’s popularity has declined in recent years, the new embargo on trade with Santa Prisca will likely only accelerate that decline. Current CEO Nicodemus Branchwater was unavailable for comment.”

Dick looked back at Tim, whose face was painted with dazed horror. Dick grabbed the cereal bowl out of the kid’s hands before he could drop it.

Eventually, Tim managed to tear his eyes away from the silver-screened harbinger of doom to meet Dick’s gaze. “We have to do something about this, right?” Tim intoned, more of a plea than a question.

Dick nodded seriously. “Did you bring your suit?”

Tim quirked his lip in a slight frown. “Left it at home. Didn’t think I’d need it for the couple days I’m here.”

Dick waved off Tim’s concern. “That’s fine. We were gonna need to stop by the Cave for a ride anyway. Let me grab my costume and we can get going.” Dick ruffled the kid’s hair on the way past to his bedroom.

The way Tim’s face lit up at the gesture could have powered Blüdhaven for a year.

[pzweigs]

wip wednesday

artpatrick, pre-canon, away on an international tennis tournament, art finds patrick with another guy

“Don’t you think your first time with a guy should be with someone you’ve known longer than one second outside a club?”

Patrick scoffs. “Like who, Art? Like you?” He swears under his breath, about to turn away, go back inside and try his luck again, and the sight of it makes his blood run cold. Art can’t watch that happen. He’s angry, and he’s jealous, and so confused—but he just can’t. It feels as if he could lose everything in a moment if he doesn’t just speak up and say—“Yes.”

He blurts out, quickly and a little too loud, but it works— stopping Patrick in his tracks entirely. He turns back to Art, rigid, eyes shrinking from shock to suspicion.

“Yes? Yes, what?”

“Yes, someone like me.”

Neither of them speak for a minute. Art’s heartbeat rattles in his throat, his entire body. They’re sliding into unknown territory now.

“What do you—Art, what do you mean?” Patrick says very carefully, enunciating his words, looking as scared as Art feels.

“I mean…” What does he mean? He’s been scrambling for sense the moment he saw Patrick walking off with some guy. “I mean, why not me?” Art asks back pathetically, a cop out but a sincere question, one not without bitterness. Amidst all the panic and confusion, Art is still inexplicably mad at Patrick, wounded that he’d seek his desires anywhere else in spite of his own reticence.

“Why not—Art, are you kidding me?” Patrick looks at him in disbelief, like he’s speaking a strange, alien language. He tugs at his own curls in his frustration, pacing, and then stopping, and then starting again. He’s never seen him so stressed: Art wants to take his hands and hold him tight. “For one thing, you don’t like guys.”

“I like you.” Art admits, like it’s a simple, easy fact, like that isn’t the tip of the iceberg of his feelings for Patrick Zweig.

Patrick’s bewilderment turns to anger. He steps closer to Art, back in his face, eyes fierce and smile bitter.

“Yeah? You like me?” His laugh is brittle. Disbelieving. “Enough to have sex with me? To fuck me?” He gets even closer. “To let me fuck you?” Art’s body heats up, from Patrick’s words, his proximity, this entire conversation. He can’t help his skin turning red at Patrick’s quite successful attempts to fluster him. He watches Art flounder for a moment before stepping back, eyes clenched in pain and his hand back to clawing at his scalp.

“I mean, fuck, Art, why are you even doing this? Just so I won’t go off with some guy? You won, ok? I won’t. I’ll be a good little heterosexual boy like you and go home. Just—“ And then, Art watches the strangest thing happen. Patrick deflates. Art watches his body shrink, small and limp, and it’s so unlike him that he suddenly appears almost unrecognizable. Patrick doesn’t even look at him, eyes shiny as they lock on his own feet. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday

thanks for all the tags for sunday and tuesday! <3

started yet another wip 🙈 I was watching oth and heard one line and got inspired lol so here's some bucktommy morning cuddles, and istg this one will be short and fluffy and hopefully done soon 🤞 haha

___

“Where are you going?” Tommy mumbles sleepily, eyes still closed, a small frown creasing his forehead. Buck chuckles quietly and can’t resist leaving another kiss on Tommy’s lips. It’s honestly adorable how his big, strong, hot firefighter boyfriend, who’s always so cool and collected, can get so grumpy in the morning without cuddles. He’s sure no one would believe him if he told them, but he likes that – he’s the only person who gets Tommy like this, who knows him like this. The thought makes his heart race and stomach flip, feeling as excited as at the very beginning of their relationship.

“Well, I was gonna go make you breakfast and then wake you up.” Buck says, fingers running through Tommy’s tangled curls. “You can go back to sleep, baby, and I’ll be right back.” he whispers, one of his hands starts drawing mindless shapes on Tommy’s back.

“Mm, no.” Tommy just responds, burying his face in Buck’s neck.

“You don’t want breakfast in bed?”

“I want you in bed.” Tommy says stubbornly, punctuated by a soft kiss to Buck’s neck and his arm around Buck’s waist tightening.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @weewootruck @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @bidisasterevankinard @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @daffi-990 @hoodie-buck @aroeddiediaz @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @tizniz @exhuastedpigeon @underwaterninja13 @spotsandsocks @hippolotamus @your-catfish-friend @diazsdimples @dangerpronebuddie @loveyouanyway @neverevan

[good--merits-accumulated]

OK so I've been thinking about that random Anderperry fic idea I had a couple of nights ago (rundown: one-room two-person narrative-less play where Neil, actor, comes into Todd's bookshop on his lunch breaks every day and they have conversations about reading and books in the vein of A History of Reading, by Alberto Manguel), and it's just kind of. Spiralling, I guess? Because in the interim my brain has gone, you know what ELSE is kind of sort of a one-room two-person play involving long discussions about interpretation sometimes? Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino! Which I read for the first time last month. Anyway this thought was insanely compelling to me once I got it into my head and now there's [gestures] this thing, I guess

[tales-of-wocdes]

When exploring and learning new things especially at the level of mc who sort of forgot everything but has enough cognitive capacity to take things in and try to understand can be an incredibly taxing thing mentally. So because of this I will be forcing Harvard and lexia to buy themselves very big hodies so mc can snuggle close under the sun with them.

Thank you for adorable thought :D They would agree with that! And that is totally a thing that Havard would allocate as a general thing into the orphanage budget :D

I am not sure how massive hoodies fit into Firgratian fashion but I am sure it will work out. A special order and a deal with some tailor shop about providing the orphanage "cuddle hoodies" or maybe "cuddle blankets" in bulk, just in case more are needed. I will admit that I don't have much eye for fashion in the first place, but I do believe it will be a new trend :D

------------------------------

"We have 600 new orders for these Head Custodian. A passing innkeeper saw the design we made for you and demanded she must have one as well. And then ordered two dozen more for...emotional support reasons." The tailor smiled apologetically. "Then word got around and now we are swamped. But I do have your order, of course! But I fear it will take considerable time before we can make more for you..."

Havard sighed.

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Though Lexia is in a pickle since she is supposed to always wear armor while on duty. Armor is no good for cuddling.... Now I am imagining a very "Lexia" solution...

--------------------------------------------------

Lexia was still wearing her armor.... and covered in pillows tied to her with string. "Come on kid! It's cuddle time!" She held up the massive hoodie...

Should you accept that? Or run away from her... Life was so complicated.