#I picked hilarious things to post sorry my brain is melting

[nukenai]

Halcy-con rules

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[inthememetime]

There are plenty of posts where Justice League and Constantine sees Danny's Ghost King Form in all of its Eldritchy glory, from on being Lightning Based to one being compared to an event horizon, as he takes down the ghost that was giving the League problems and it basically freaks them out.

So when I stumbled upon this picture

I knew that this could be an excellent form worthy of a King if it was tweaked to fit Danny with ghostly elements, and maybe ice themes sprinkled with something Space related.

Like Vortex or Undergrowth is giving the League trouble, then this thing straight out of the Old Testament shows up, takes down the Ghost, and turns back to Danny who didn't know he just melted the League's brains.

Or, maybe during The Legion of Doom / The Light tries to summon the Ghost King for power/ take over the world, and Danny comes along looking like that and scares everyone there shitless.

How do you think that will go down?

I have had this in my drafts for So Very Long... Im sorry!!!

Holy *^$π, Batman!™

I LOVE the image, and 100% agree, it's an awesome base to work off with Danny.

I think it would be hilarious. Matter of fact, I wrote a fic about it. 😁 If you have an AO3, let me know and I'll gift it to you.

Ao3 here

Be Not Afraid- or Whatever

Summary: The weather god- though Constantine swore it was 'just' a ghost- had pinned down the entire Justice League. While they'd managed to trap Vortex in a two square mile area and evacuate civilians, and even arrested the cult responsible, they in turn were trapped in a small warehouse, protected only by the blood blossom spray and salt circle Constantine made.

With no way to fight it, they had only one choice: summon another ghost. Enter Ghost King Danny Phantom, stage right.

    Rain, wind, and hail pounded heavily against the metal roof and walls of the tiny back office of a warehouse. 

    Earlier today- just this morning, in fact- it had been a bright and warm summer day. The Flash flinched as a piece of hail broke through a window. Constantine didn't flinch, intent on his task. Superman was still unconscious, Batman picking out shards of kryptonite from a bullet that had hit its mark too well. 

    It was silent but for the occasional pained gasp from their Kryptonian friend, and Constantine's low mutters in what sounded like Ancient Latin to Barry's untrained ears. 

    Thunder roared, and the single lightbulb went out. Wordlessly, Batman cracked a pair of glowsticks, passing one to him so he could hold it up for Constantine. Clark groaned quietly. 

    A cult of summoners swearing fealty to Vortex, Lord of Storms, seemed easy enough to stop; Batman made the plan and coordinated with everyone. He and Superman rescued hostages and dock workers alike as Batman and Constantine took down the cult. 

    It was supposed to be easy. Simple. It was anything but. 

    The smell of the weird floral spray Constantine used- Blood Blossoms, the magic user had said- was beginning to fade. A drop of sweat fell down Constantine's face. His lips were pressed tight, white against the odd pallor of his face. 

    "John," Barry whispered, "how much longer?"

    Another window broke. Batman swore quietly. "Good news is, we've got the blood sacrifice ready," he joked under his breath. He winced then, and pressed his hand against the bandage on his arm. 

    It had bled through again, but the others were needed for Clark. In a rare event, the alien was the most injured on the team. 

    The cultists had purchased bullets laced with kryptonite from somewhere, which didn't hurt Constantine any more than a regular one. The same couldn't be said for Clark. 

    The magic-user hesitated until water started to bubble underneath the door, threatening the complicated circle of chalk and blood. He spoke, and this time it wasn't in Latin. Barry couldn't recognize it. 

    The temperature began to drop further while the air around the man began to shimmer, almost. Ozone gathered in the air, and the darkness increased until he couldn't see anything. Even the glowstick was a pinprick of light so tiny he couldn't be sure it was real. 

    A low rumble sounded and a radioactive green pool started to open. One massive clawed hand grabbed the edge. Constantine's voice cracked- but didn't stop. Another hand pulled out, and another, folowed by one more. 

    They were white as snow up to the wrists. One massive wing shot up, far too big for the office, followed by another, both black as night and covered with starry patterns. The next thing Barry made out was a crown of twisted black iron and glittering jewels, wreathed in green flame, atop two large horns, blue like sea ice. 

    The figure continued to rise as John spoke, revealing a second, then third set of wings and a mane of white hair which flowed in a wind he couldn't feel. Four sets of eyes opened, some solid green and glowing, some pitch black, some solid white, and the last a myriad of colors. 

    The thing's face was almost tan, almost the color of mortal flesh, but green scars like lightning bolts marred it. A thud alerted him of one massive foot, then another, both white and clawed. 

    The rest of its body except a shining white D was black as the void. When it opened its mouth, he had to look away, unsure if he feared or loved it, found it beautiful or terrifying. 

    Abruptly, the light from the sticks was back. He didn't dare look at Clark or Batman to see how they were doing; every instinct said he was in front of a predator, and showing the weak of the herd would be a death sentence. 

    Finally, Constantine fell silent. 

    "What's up? Kind of a weird place for a summons, you know," it said, and Barry swallowed. It sounded like a child, an old man, a windstorm, the shriek of a blizzard, the thunder of roaring waves all at once. 

    "I have summoned you, King of Ghosts, to take your servant back to your realm," Constantine managed, voice only wavering a little. 

    It leaned forward. "And the price?"

    The thing sounded almost teasing. Amused. 

    "What would you ask of us?"

    "Autographs," it immediately said. "From Martian Manhunter, Superman, Cyborg, and Wonder Woman."

    Wait. What?

    "I'm a big fan," it added. 

    "Should all of us survive today, we will do so," he agreed. 

    "Sweet. Gimme like 5 minutes. Maybe 10, Vortex is a bit of a bitch. Also, be not afraid or whatever. I'm one of the good guys."

    It was gone, then, and abruptly Barry sucked in a breath. Sounds of a fierce battle echoed from outside for several minutes before the storm abruptly stopped. 

    Slightly singed, the Ghost King returned. "Hey, does Supes over there need a doctor? I know a good one in the GZ."

    He swallowed. Batman cleared his throat. "We only need to get the kryptonite out of him, he'll be fine."

    "Okay!" It chirped, then reached over and, without so much as ruffling the suit, reached into the alien and pulled out a small handful of shards. "I'll be back in a few weeks for those autographs- I'd say tomorrow, but time is weird. Bye, guys!"

    "Wait- can I ask for a way to contact you? If you'd be willing to help in the future," Constantine asked. 

    "Yeah, sure. My Chirper handle is @realdeadguy, all lowercase, no punctuation," he said, "and you can call me Phantom if you want."

    -

    "Guys!"

    Sam groaned and Tucker covered his face with a pillow. 

    "Dude, we know you just got back from a summons, but it's 3 am."

    Danny rocked back and forth, wings twitching. "I met the Justice League! They're so cool! Batman was there! Batman!!!"

    "I thought you were all about Su-"

    "And I saved Superman's life, isn't that awesome?! I kept the kryptonite, look, real-life rock from space!"

    "Rocks aren't alive, Danny," Sam muttered. Then, a second later, "wait, what?! You met the Justice League? Was Wonder Woman there?"

    "No, but I asked for an autograph."

[samissosexyyy]

Tumblr thought it would be hilarious to delete all my work and not let me answer requests :').

YES I SHALL WRITE THE PLATONIC ANGRY PARENTS-

And thank you-I woke up and was talking to my friend in the morning and my brain just: jojo villain yandere dads. Mudad mudad mudad mudad anger.

Anyways, here they are- Do these even count as headcanons???? I dunno-

Dio, Part 1

Vampire form of course.

First thing first, We all know he'd be a great dad. Protective already, But make him a yandere platonic father? Oh boy, Trust me, You'd be spoiled and treated like royalty.

Now, I'm gonna say in this scenario you were on of his victims child. I'll say you'll be around 5 to eight.

Somehow you managed to catch his eye, Is it because your parent was just as bad as his? You reminded him of his mother? Or maybe you resemble him, and have three moles on your ear. Or, perhaps, A younger joestar? Either way, You somehow had him feeling like a father, and, according to one of my friends, Araki had said DIO would treat his children like they were royalty, And they would be so spoiled.

So, Mudad would end up taking you in, kidnapping, whichever honestly. He'd be holding you like a loving pet owner would, if you got scared, he'd probably be confused. Honestly he'd have you turned into a vampire quickly, as he knew he wouldn't be able to have children as a Vampire.

Truthfully, I think you'd end up never noticing how he'd occasionally pull you closer, or how he'd glare at anyone your age or older going near you. Or how he'd give you some strict rules, Like no dating anyone. E v e r. And why would you ever want to hurt your papa like that?! You wouldn't want to do that, right?! Of course you wouldn't! Dio knew you'd never betray him like that!!

Truth be told, he'd guilt you if you tried to go against his words. But punishments? No no, He'd never actually purposefully hurt you, Unlike his love interest, he'd NEVER want to cause you pain ever. He'd hate himself and wouldn't forgive himself for years. Centuries. Infact, he'd beg for your forgiveness.

The Pillarmen

And satannnaaaaa

First of all, You aren't a pillarchild. You'd most likely be some kind of god, vampire, or a young hamon learner. Or even related to the Joestars or Ceasar.

So, Let's say you're immortal who can walk in the sun. We all know you'd be the joestar side, Right? So, That means you'd end up hating or feeling pity for the pillarmen. First, You'd probably end up trying to make Santana hally when he awakens. Unlike with Joseph, He'd probably know not to attempt to attack you. Let's say you have symbols like Dio Over heaven, We all know how that would work.

You'd end up as a being worshipped by them, probably kidnapped after they destroy the Joestars.

Let's say they defeated Joseph and the others, and you were still a deity, You'd most likely be weaker then them in this scenario. They'd probably treat you like a kitten at first, like a baby before they all felt a connection. As if you were a child of their own, so they'd give you rules. And we all know how rules go with yanderes.

Let's say uh- you fell for a mortal.

"No. No."

[Crush name has fallen from a high place.]

"DADS WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUU-"

"NO CUSSING IN THIS CHRISTIAN MINECRAFT SERVER!"

or something like that :')

Honestly, You'd have bird dad, and a bunch of other dads. Santana would honestly be like the cool big brother honestly. You'd probably want horns too so-

They would totally buy you halloween horns to put on your head so you'd be happy baby

Now, Hamon user? They'd probably find you like a cute animal at first, probably going easy on you like it was a game of tag. Soon, they'd realize how weak and fragile you are, After all, You are just starting hamon. They'd probably kidnap you to spite Joseph and his side at first, before... Well, You didn't expect to become a vampire and treated like royalty when all you've been treated like is uh... Considering Lisalisa is your coach, I'd say you'd be happy if it was someone else doing this for you.

Josephs sibling? WOAH Joseph, When did you get a cute sibling? Pfft, Not your sibling anymore, They just adopted your ex sibling nerd.

But, All jokes aside, They'd probably be surprised that you were more mature then your brother, and...you sorta resemble a certain Coach... Oh, Humans all look the same, haha.

They'd probably kidnap you infront of Joseph just to make him feel guilt and rage, After all, Why not get their prized treasure and make Joseph angry? They'd give you more rules, until Joseph was gone, of course.

And, sadly, Not even you crying would stop them from making you into a vampire infront of your big brother, breaking both of your hearts.

Don't worry you got ice cream later smh.

Ceasars sibling? Mini pancake? Haha, They'd kidnap you as soon as they felt parent like tendencies. No denying them, infact, they'd make sure you saw ceasar get defeated by the ro ck. But don't worry! You have new parents and a brother-! Haha, Poor you.

Part 3 DIO AKA mudad!

Honest to god you'd probably have to be a stand user with a weak or strong stand, or, you were one of his kids he had with a lucky woman who survived and got a naked polaroid of him as a 'wow you lived! Congrats, now go have my kid lmao' gift. Or, Maybe you were a normal kid who was kind to him, even if he,,,,  did some questionable murder infront of you. And maybe you were a young

Now, Let's say you were a strong stand user. He'd end up wanting to use a flesh bud until he realized... He never had a kid, that he knows of, and decided to raise you! At first he'd be upset you had a strong stand like your mudad, but realized you could protect yourself from those dreadful joestars! Congrats, You became a Brando! :) How unlucky, Considering this DIO would probably force vampire masks onto you, or even using fleshbuds as a threat. Either way, You'll always be papas baby!

Yoshikage kira.

Like I said in my first post of this, He'd want to have a nice average life. You having a stand wouldn't be a problem, Since he'd probably convince you Josuke and the others are awful and rude.

Josukes sibling? Well, He'd end up telling you he can help your brother with his murder issue if you come with him. You don't exactly have a choice since Killer queen would easily overpower you if you had disagreed. You'd end up being a normal and peaceful child before long, Infact, He'd have to pretend he had adopted you behind his 'wifes' back.

Hayotos friend he never talks about? Congrats, You are now stuck with a crazy and loving father! And a mother, I suppose. And you get your best friend as a brother! You'd never be able to leave, how sad. But, You'd have your new mom and your dad to talk to-! And killer queen cuddle time.

Now, Let's say you were his own kid. Wowzers! You think its normal for your father to bring women hands home, after all, You are pretty young and your father told you most adults do this. Ah. How enjoyable.

Doppio/Diavolo

Oh dear. You poor child.

Either you were related to trish, and he somehow felt like you wouldn't be a problem before they felt more of a father love towards you, Most likely somehow getting rif of the traitors and your big sister.

"Where's big sister?"

"Don't worry about her, She's spending time with your mother."

Smh quit LIEING you jERK!

But seriously, Doppio would be like the fun mom asking you if you'd like bake cupcakes in his spare time! Read you bed time stories and whatnot! Diavolo would be awkward and "wanna play baseball or whatever kids like to do these days?" Awkward dad alert.

"My kid is fine!"

The kid they kidnapped/raised:

Casually trying to beat another kid with a baseball.❤💚💛

Honestly they'd insult everyone elses kids while here their kid is, casually scared of baseball.

Pucci

Papa priest! We all know he'd adopt you! I head canon him as gay, considering DIO and him were totally a thing.

So, He'd probably have you study Lord DIO bibles, and casually have you hate Jolyne. Probably even give you a stand, And even show you that DIO is the best! Worship! Protect yourself and all that!

Jotaro would probably scare you,  so I can see you holding onto Pucci while Jotaro appears anytime, so pucci would infact love it when you snuggle onto him lime a cute kitten. Hell, you even Sneeze like a kitten!

Honestly You'd be kept under watch 24/7, but you'd think it was normal, after all, Your father would mever do something so awful like Those Joestars claim...right?

Diego

Oh wow- dino dad :)

Let's say you were a big fan of his, Then, Well,You wouldn't mind having him as a dad, Now would you? He is your idol, Right? Yeah. Yeah!

He'd probably carry you around upside down, Hot pants just questioning his sanity as he drops you a million times. Hot pants would probably end up carrying you most of the time.

Mama hot pants and father Diego. Y es.

And, Let's say you were traveling with Johnny. Congrats. You've put yourself in a even worse situation considering Diego would become worried and paranoid over those two idiots hurting you! And he hates the idea of his baby boy/girl/child being hurt by barbarians!!!

Even though he'd probably hurt you on accident if I'm gonna be honest.

Kidnapping isn't a very easy job, so of course he had to knock you out! What was he supposed to do?! Ask you to come stay with him forever?! No! Maybe! HuawhuKaia-

Honestly not too many rules, just don't leave his side ever! Except when going to the bathroom. You'll be tied to his horse. No whining >:(.

Funny Valentine

Honestly what did you think he was going to do? Pick some random child? No no, He'd choose the PERFECT child! You were so lucky! Wow! The daughter of the mos powerful man ever! Lucky you, Right?

No. You don't get alone time unless it's you sleeping or bathing. You wear what he wants, and no.

Dating not allowed. Bad. No no no no no.

"No. No dating. Your lips will fall off."

"but mommys lips didn't-"

"Your face will melt off."

Basically you'd be bossed around and treated like royalty, as long as you listen to you dad!

Honestly I don't know if this is headcanons, if if it isn't feel free to scream at me in the comments-

AND I AM SO SORRY ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO ACTUALLY ANSWER, SO I HOPE YOU SEE THIS AND ARE ABLE TO ENJOY IT??? I GUESS???

[ickle-ronniekins]

time to be sappy!

hi my lovelies! i’m wishing you all the happiest new year for 2021. without going into too much detail, we all know how much this past year has sucked. that’s honestly the only way to describe it. it’s absolutely sucked. but i know that one thing we’ve learned is to find the light in the darkness, and it’s something i’ve really been trying to focus on as we navigated and continue to navigate our way through this pandemic.

at the beginning of the year, i was in a writing slump. i was going through some personal stuff that honestly knocked the wind right out of me. i didn’t think i’d ever find the energy to write ever again (and it’s my favorite thing to do; it keeps me sane). i was so drained of energy and love of myself that i wanted to say “fuck it” and give up writing altogether. but then, by a miracle, i found some lovely individuals, and you guys re-sparked my love of the thing i need to do in order to make me who i am. write.

there are so many people i need to thank so here we goooooo

@theweasleysredhair chloe! i remember before the twins got insanely popular on here, you were always one of the writers that stuck out to me. we started chatting back and forth and commenting on one another’s fics. and then you’d decided to take a break from tumblr. i didn’t know if you were coming back (and not to be dramatic but i was heartbroken) and THEN YOU DID and we honestly picked up exactly where we’d left off. now we freak out about one another’s stories, cackle like actual idiots at the magic that is impractical jokers, but it goes much deeper than that. we share life stories, offer advice to one another, and you’re always there for me when i need someone. and good god, girl, you can make me laugh. i hope you know that whenever i hear the word “forty” i think of you and scream FOEH in my head. so grateful for you, i can’t even explain it. also SCOOPSKI POTAYTAHS lmao love you

@harrysweasleys alexa i don’t even know how to adequately express how much you mean to me. i can’t even pinpoint when exactly we started talking deeply about anything and everything, but now our friendship spans countries and dimensions and more and i’m just so fucking thankful that we’re friends. you’re one of the kindest people i’ve met on here and i’m just so blessed to know you, write with you, freak out about books with you (even when i bring them to the post office with me LOL) and everything in between. thank you for choosing me to write a collab with. you are wildly talented beyond your years and i hope you always keep writing, because you have a gift with your storytelling. i just adore you.

@wand3ringr0s3 HALEY. you little ball of fire, you. i can’t even begin to describe how much your sarcasm absolutely slays me in our daily chats. you always have me laughing like an absolute fool and i’m so grateful for it. i know that we’re nine years apart (ew) (pls i feel so old ugh) but i feel like we’re so close in age. thank you for always being honest, voicing your thoughts and opinions, sharing stories, encouraging us to share ours, and for always, always providing the greatest, hottest, highest quality photos of The Men in the GC for us to thirst over. thank you for being you, for being hilarious, for being kind. thank you for writing the stories that you do -- your creativity knows no bounds and that’s something that’s really freaking special about you as a writer (aside from your overall general talent to break my heart) i adore you. keep shining babe.

@diary-of-an-onliner okay thea, you are honestly an enigma and i mean that in the GREATEST way possible. i absolutely never know what you’re thinking or what you’re going to say, but i know it’s going to get me wracking my brain and thinking hard or absolutely losing my shit and laughing on the ground. you never fail to put a smile on my face with your quips. i absolutely freaking adore you. AND ALSO, YOUR WRITING IS FLAWLESS, so if you ever want to share more of it, you know i’ll absolutely read it and 110% freak the fuck out, because you’re a talented little bean. remember head in the clouds/feet on the ground? because i do, and i’m honestly still cracking up about it, and cannot wait for it (if it’s still a thing). I LOVE YOU

@harrypotter-and-the-onering LINDA. i don’t think i can express with enough words just how sweet and genuine you are. whenever i see you in the group chats, it puts a smile on my face, because you always slide in with the SWEETEST COMMENTS and my heart just melts at them. i know we don’t really chat outside of the GCs much, but i’d like to change that, because i really do adore you. you’re such a bright light in this community, to out friend group, and to everyone who has the pleasure of being in your presence. you’re a beyond talented writer and i hope you continue to write more in the new year! also, whenever i eat swiss chocolate, i’ll think of you LOL

@andromedaa-tonks okay mia, my girl, you’re a solid ten years younger than me but somehow we act like we’re twins, exactly the same age, and i’m here for it! we’ve ranted to one another a lot about heartbreak and love, how frustrating it can be, how difficult it is to find, how much we yearn for love that’s true and lasting. we’ve had our fair share of difficult conversations about it but it’s really helped me to realize exactly what i want, and i hope it’s helped you too. also thank you for always indulging me when i rant to you about hot lifeguards on the beach LMAO (it’s winter and they’re not here and i’m mad, don’t they know i want to stare at them??? smh) thank you for being you. i love you. and you’ll find that love babe.

@mycupoffanfiction ellie, my deary, you sweet girl, you. i think you’re just about the nicest freaking human being i’ve ever met. i cannot think of a time where you haven’t greeted me with anything less than exuberance and excitement. i hope you know how much it means to me! and the comments you leave on my stories? they honestly bring me to tears. i cannot express what that means to me; there have been so many times when i’ve felt that my writing isn’t good enough to be able to publish anything, but you’ve reminded me with your kind words that my writing just needs to find the right reader, and for that, i cannot thank you enough. thank you for sharing your stories and your friendship, i am beyond grateful for them both, and i adore you so very much!

and to those i might not talk too as often, a few things: 1) please let’s chat 2) i’m apologizing in advance because I SUCK (like actually suck) at answering messages and it’ll probably piss you off and i’m so sorry 3) i’m v nervous and shy so pls feel free to ~slide into my DMs~ anytime because i’m awkward and probably won’t do it first LOL 4) i adore you all 5) i see your comments on my writing and i CANNOT. CANNOT. cannot thank you enough. it brings me to tears every time i read them, so thank you x

@fopdoodledane @vogueweasley @pit-and-the-pen @thoseofgreatambition @izzytheninja @acciotwinz @starlightweasley @theweirdsideofstuff @pigwidgexn @whiz-bangs78 @thisismynerdyself @gcdric @thisismysketchbook @jenniweaslee @chaoticgirl04 @writesowhatnext @loony-loopy-lupinn @boxofbadaddiction @immobulusmalfoy @cappsikle @oh-for-merlins-sake @godricsswords @valwritesx i’m surely forgetting people omg i’m so sorry i really am

thank you, all of you, for all of the wonder and imagination and magic and kindness you’ve all brought me. ALSO IT’S LATE AND I’M TIRED AND IF I FORGET ANYONE I AM SO, SO, SO SORRY I JUST SUCK ok love y’all

[ashxketchum]

Better than Usual - (another) TyHil oneshot

So I’m deciding to post this here as well, because I was super happy with how it turned out, even though the prompt for this one was dancing and I didn’t stick to it even a little bit. It has to be my favourite oneshot from the series, I think I enjoyed writing this one even more than the overprotective Tyson one, despite of that one having probably the best dialogue my brain has ever come up with in a dream.

Some background: Tyson and Hilary are in their early 20s in this one, and kind of stuck in the middle where they know they’re more than friends but don’t know what exactly. The party is Hiro’s engagement party, you can decide who he’s engaged to, I didn’t go deep into that bit!

Summary: Hilary’s mood for the night is ruined when Tyson fails to deliver a simple compliment, could dancing really be the solution to their problems?

FF.net

x

“How do I look?”

“The usual.”

Hilary felt vain and silly, but she couldn’t get his words out of her head. She hoped that the smile she had somehow managed to plaster on her face just as she had entered the venue, was enough to fool everyone into believing that she was feeling extremely happy for the engaged couple and not at all upset about the conversation she had had with her so-called best friend just about an hour ago. She was doubting their friendship because she couldn’t believe that someone who cared about her would speak so callously to her. The friend in question however, didn’t seem to be mulling over the conversation at all, she watched him dance stupidly with his friends from across the room. Grinning and laughing without a single care in the world, and as he did so, everyone around him followed like they were somehow compelled to. His happiness had always carried with it a certain kind of gravity, that automatically pulled everyone around him to feel the same, which is why she had chosen to seat herself far away, lest she got pulled in too and forgot all about the crime he had committed.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” The empty chair next to her slid back and the blond settled comfortably in it, passing her an inquisitive look as he rested both his elbows on the table and lowered his chin into his palms.

“I don’t really dance.” Hilary replied, as casually as she could manage.

She looked in front of her, at her glass of champagne lying untouched on the table and observed the bubbles popping up and about within the drink. Unlike her friends and probably every other person her age, the brunette still hadn’t managed to get used to the taste of alcohol, but was too stubborn to admit this out loud to anyone and too polite to say no to a drink in social situations. However, she had come to realize that stretching the same glass of drink from the beginning of the evening till the end had it’s own sets of advantages, one of them being that she always had something in her hand that served as a distraction from her surroundings.

“You don’t dance?” Max asked, his laugh reaching his blue eyes and they twinkled mischievously for just a moment, “Remind me how long we’ve known each other?”

Hilary shook her head defeatedly, and avoiding his gaze she picked up the glass of champagne in front of her and took a light sip, making sure to do this as slowly as possible so she could continue to avoid looking into Max’s direction.

“Let me rephrase my question, what did Tyson do this time?”

Ignoring his question, she took another light sip from her drink, letting her tongue adjust to the taste before repeating the process once again at an extremely slow pace, but next to her Max seemed completely unfazed by her actions and continued to look at her expectantly. It was a difficult task for anyone, to hold their own against Max’s big blue eyes that always carried a special glint in them that made one want to spill all their thoughts out to the blond, who seemed to enjoy listening to other people’s problems more than he normally let on.

She knew the battle was over the minute she decided to spare him a glance, just to check if he was still waiting for her to answer.

Their eyes met, Max grinned and Hilary let out a groan.

“Do you know how long it took me to do up my hair today?” She began through gritted teeth, setting the glass back down on the table, as gently as she could, “Almost two hours, Max! So when Tyson came to pick me up, I asked him how I looked and you won’t believe what he said!”

Max knew very well that he wasn’t supposed to answer when the brunette paused to take a deep breath, her face now flushed and fuming.

“He said, ‘the usual’. What is that supposed to mean?”

Hilary angrily crossed her arms against her chest and slumped in her chair slightly, not caring about creasing her dress as she had decided she was not going to vacate this chair and sulk silently until it was time to go home. She rarely ever fished for compliments from Tyson, she knew better than that. He had no filter, and most of the time asking him for an opinion on something was the same thing as starting an argument, as they still disagreed on pretty much anything except that day was day and night was night. But considering that they were both dressed up for a celebration, she had assumed that even Tyson would take note of her appearance and how much effort she had put into it, which had obviously been the wrong way to go. If she could turn back time, Hilary would go back and not ask Tyson how she looked, and prevent herself from ruining her mood and her evening by sitting in a corner and not being out there on the floor next to him.

“Well you’re more well versed in Tyson-speak than I am, so if you can’t make any sense of it, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can be of much help, Hils.” Max replied, passing her a sympathetic smile, his eyes roamed over her hair that had been braided into a flower crown that framed her head perfectly, “I know I’m not the person you want to hear this from, but your hair does look pretty. You look pretty!” Max remarked, breaking into his trademark grin once again.

Hilary felt the anger that had suddenly built up inside of her as she replayed that moment in her mind subside gradually and when she smiled in response at Max, it was vastly different than the one she had been sporting all evening.

“Thank you, Max. Now if you could just share that common sense braincell with your dear friend as well.”

There was a pause after she finished speaking, in which they both exchanged similar looks before bursting into a fit of giggles at her statement. Hilary was a bit too lost in the moment, which is why she didn’t immediately notice the chair on her other side being pulled back until after it was occupied.

“What are you guys talking about?”

Tyson asked as he relaxed into the chair, his midnight blue hair which had been neatly flattened at the start of the evening by his father, had already begun to stand up spikily in different directions like it usually did. Hilary had to keep her one hand tightly over the other in her lap to stop herself from instinctively reaching out and fixing it. You’re mad at him, she reminder herself, turning her angry gaze downwards to her lap, as if to scold her hands for moving on their own accord. Despite of being on his feet ever since they arrived, Tyson didn’t look tired, in fact he seemed to be oozing more energy than before and Hilary was afraid of the sudden lack of distance between them because she was sure she would get sucked into his flow and forget all about being angry with him, sooner than she had expected to.

“Nothing that would interest you.” Max answered, when she glanced at the blond, she noticed that the mischievous twinkle from earlier appeared again in his eyes as he met her gaze for a brief moment before he turned to smirk at his best friend.

The silence that followed was definitely more uncomfortable than when she had been sitting alone, she sneaked a peek at Tyson and saw that he was trying his best to not glare daggers at Max, who, Hilary noticed, was grinning now, taking joy in the reaction that Tyson had sent his way. She heard shuffling and saw Tyson shift his chair closer to hers, he draped his arm around the back of her chair, his fingers brushing against her bare shoulders as he did so. The warmth that always seemed to emanate from Tyson now enveloped her cheeks and Hilary hoped that the two boys being busy with their silent staring contest would fail to notice the redness on her face.

“Taking a break from dancing already, Tys? They’re still playing your favourite songs.” Max spoke finally, his smirk still intact.

“Yeah well, I saw you two talking so…” Tyson trailed off, shifting his gaze from Max to Hilary, a pout settling on his face, indicating that he wasn’t happy with being left out.

How typical, she thought and stopped herself from rolling her eyes at him.

“Hilary looked a bit lonely by herself, so I decided to keep her company.” Max shrugged, taking pleasure in the growing discomfort on Tyson’s face.

She tried her best to keep her eyes away from Tyson, because she knew if she saw him act like a child who had just lost their most prized possession, she would melt immediately. Not that Hilary considered herself to be his most prized possession, on most days she even doubted if she was his anything. They were friends that much was certain, he was her best friend, she was sure of that, but was she his best friend? This was something she could never be confident about. Even if they spent all their time together and she knew everything there was to know about him, and vice versa, there were always moments when the distance between them would become as wide as the one between the sea and the sky, even when they happened to be sitting right next to each other.

Although as disheartening as those moments were for her, it wasn’t as frustrating as trying to interpret Tyson’s real intentions towards her. Hilary couldn’t believe how much time she had spent trying to figure out what his bizarre statements meant, what him suddenly taking her hand when they walked through crowds meant. Why did he show up at her door with her favourite take-out exactly when she needed him, why when she called him at 4 am in the morning, crying over a silly nightmare, he would answer on the first ring and say exactly what she needed to hear. Why he always danced with her and stayed by her side when they went out partying, why he’d get annoyed if someone else dared to flirt with her. Her mother of course, told her she’d find the answers to these questions much quicker if she just confronted Tyson directly, but Hilary knew that she was supposed to the reach the conclusion by herself.  It was, however grudgingly she had admitted to herself,  the most difficult puzzle she’d ever attempted to solve in her entire life.  

Right now for instance, just about an hour ago he had almost expressionlessly told her that she looked normal, not pretty or gorgeous, terms that people used to compliment a girl,  Tyson had told her she looked usual. And yet, here he was scooting closer to her, putting his arm around her as if to mark territory and glaring at his friend, who anyone with a sane mind would be able to tell was just trying to get under Tyson’s skin anyway. And to add to the confusion she couldn’t stop agonising over how easily she was always affected by him and his actions. How she was still feeling upset about him not complimenting her, still feeling nervous about his hand behind her back, still feeling curious about whether he was falling for Max’s ruse and still feeling giddy over his jealousy for her.

It was completely unfair, she concluded to herself, for him to be able to be his oblivious self while he sent her feelings in disarray by just sitting down next to her for a few minutes.

Hilary finally dared to peek at Tyson, he looked disappointed somehow, thinking over what Max had said.  Then their eyes met and she looked away quickly, heart racing.

Tyson didn’t speak for a while and even Max’s attention seemed to have wavered, Hilary followed the blond’s gaze to find him amusingly watching Chief attempting to show off his tap dancing skills to Ming-ming, who Hilary noticed, seemed to be actually impressed by their spectacled friend.

“Are you going to be able to finish this by today?”

Tyson asked her suddenly, changing the subject instead of addressing Max’s statement from earlier, as he gestured towards Hilary’s almost full glass of champagne. Not knowing whether opening her mouth would lead to her berating him for his insensitive remark from earlier or bumbling like an idiot because he had edged even closer, Hilary simply shook her head silently. Tyson then picked up her glass from the table and downed the drink in one go, this seemed to have grabbed Max’s attention as he snickered when Tyson put the now empty glass back down at the table. Hilary rolled her eyes, much to her dismay, her only escape mechanism for the night had been taken away and now she’d actually have to leave this chair to go get another drink for herself.

Like an electric shock, Tyson’s hand grabbed her wrist, jolting her out of her train of thought.

“Hey, don’t you love this song?”

Was all he said before pulling her on her feet with extreme ease and dragging her to the dance floor, without waiting for a response from her. As they left the table behind, Hilary heard Max’s laughter fade and before she could process what was actually happening, she was already in the middle of the floor, Tyson’s one hand was entwined with hers, while the other rested over her back, her own idle hand shot up and settled on Tyson’s shoulder before she even willed it to.  

She was supposed to be mad at him, the thought came running back into her mind.

But then the music floated into her ears and she realized, that she did indeed love this song and Tyson had remembered.

Hilary knew there was no point in trying to hide the blush that was covering her face as she raised her head to look at Tyson. She had never appreciated the way the difference in their height had grown over the years, always buying shoes with heels to try and match his height, but even with the stilettos that she had donned today, the top of her head reached just below his chin. As always she was left no option but to gaze up at him which always made her heart race because she could never find fault with him when she looked up at him from this viewpoint, something she suspected that Tyson had also gotten aware of lately. He had been waiting for her to look up at him, when their eyes met, he grinned widely at her and somehow at that exact moment, the beat changed and he twirled her around masterfully before pulling her into him once again.

She was supposed to be mad at him, but she giggled happily anyway.

The song changed but they continued dancing, Tyson laughed and led while Hilary giggled and followed.

Their excitement rubbed off on the other guests and soon the dance floor was full with more people and couples than it had been when Tyson had grabbed her hand. The warm, happy feeling that was spreading across her made her wonder how she had managed to sit so far away from him and deny herself the bliss that came from being around Tyson. Sure he may not be an expert in showering her with compliments, but he definitely knew how to make her laugh and that was more than something most people ever got in life. It was infuriating however still, that despite of making her feel so happy, every time his hand dropped a little bit lower on her back, every time his eyes met hers, every time he smiled at her, every time he laughed with her, he still made her feel breathless and nervous and somehow all over the place.

“You’re so unfair.” Hilary murmured to herself, as she rested her head on his chest, untwisting her hand from his, she shifted it onto his shoulder, sighing contently. Tyson put both his hands around her waist and pulled her just a little bit closer into himself, making her sigh again.

“Unfair, how?”

She was surprised by his response, she thought she wouldn’t be audible but he’d heard her nonetheless. His voice was low too, and as he spoke, he lowered his head slightly to rest his chin on top of her head. She felt the warmth travel from the top all the way to her toes but she knew if she sighed again, Tyson would not let it go, so she held her breath and took in the feeling of being enveloped by him so gently, as calmly as she could.

They hadn’t been this close, physically, in a long time.

Hilary remembered the last time they’d stood like this like it had been yesterday, even though a whole year had passed since they had been stuck under the mistletoe at the Christmas party where Max and a few others had insisted that the two wouldn’t be allowed to make an exit if they didn’t fulfil the rule that came with standing under mistletoes. Just like how today he’d dragged her to the floor so suddenly, back then Tyson had pulled her into himself with such abruptness that she hadn’t understood what had happened until his lips had landed on her forehead, pulling back within seconds to crack a joke about her being too short for him to reach any other part on her face without getting on his knees, and disappeared immediately into the crowd. She remembered not talking to him for the rest of the night, maybe even the rest of the week. She had been furious with him for acting without warning her, annoyed with his jab at her height, embarrassed by the thought of being in his arms in front of all their friends, and dazed by the sensation of his lips on her skin.

Hilary knew she was partly to blame too, she always did forgive him without a second thought, most of the time she didn’t even wait for an apology and would speak to him normally the minute she’d start to miss him. Back when they were kids, she used to seethe and avoid him, forcing him to think about what he had done wrong and how he should fix it, but these past few years a day hadn’t gone by when she hadn’t seen or talked to him. Staying angry with each other over arguments became a thing of past, now they’d shout and glare and give each other the silent treatment for a while before returning to normal, the fight and it’s details totally forgotten. The stint over last year’s Christmas had probably been the longest she had gone without speaking to Tyson in years and even that had more to do with her being confused about what she was to him and how he really felt, than her being mad at him.

Of course, amongst all of this Tyson never showed a hint a discomfort.

She was the only one who was constantly battling with a whirlpool of emotions inside of her, while he laughed his way through life, never looking like being around her was any different for him than being around any of his other friends.

That’s what was unfair, Hilary thought to herself, but how was she supposed to explain this to him in the middle of a dance floor, wrapped in his arms, with her heart racing every time she got a whiff of the cologne he very rarely used.

“Unfair because, you make me feel so much, so strongly all the time,” she spoke into his chest, not even certain whether he could hear her or not, “while you get to relax and feel nothing.”

Hilary felt as if the song had slowed down for them after she finished speaking, as if time had slowed around them too.

She knew there had been other people dancing around them, but she couldn’t feel their presence anymore, it was only her and Tyson who were still swaying to that strangely warped tune echoing in her ears. She wanted to lift her head and see what was happening, she wanted to see Tyson’s face and make sure that she hadn’t slipped into some dream world where she had acquired the bravery to suddenly speak her mind to Tyson. And then a faint reverberation reached her ears and she was surprised to recognize it as Tyson’s heart beating faster than it was supposed to.

So it was possible to make him feel too, she thought, lifting her head from his chest to gaze up at him.

Tyson immediately lowered his head to her level and rested his forehead against hers, he did it as soon as she straightened up that it almost gave her goosebumps, she stumbled out of surprise but he held her steady, using it as an excuse to tighten his grip around her waist and pulling her closer, their bodies now completely pressed against one another, the tip of their noses touching gently.

Before Hilary could catch her breath, their eyes met. There was something different about the look in reflected in Tyson’s chocolate orbs, it resembled something that she had only caught glimpses of faintly up till now before he covered it up with something else, something she could read.

“Or maybe, I feel just as much as you do but I’m better at hiding it.”

His voice was below a whisper but she heard him loud and clear, and this time he didn’t rush to hide the emotions in his eyes, instead he displayed it so strongly that it would be impossible for her to miss.

“Oh.”

Was all she could murmur, once the intensity of his gaze and the meaning behind it registered in her  mind. Maybe her mother had been right along, maybe she should have asked Tyson all those questions to his face and he would have given her the answer she had been so desperate to arrive at with just one look. The same look that was always reflected in her own eyes every time she gazed up at him, and yet she had failed to recognize it when it had been directed at her.

And she had called him oblivious, when really the only one who had been oblivious all along was her.

“Yeah. Oh.” He smirked.

As he spoke he rubbed his nose lightly against hers and Hilary gritted her teeth together to stop a whimper from escaping her lips as the sensation of his touch sent mini jolts of shock throughout her body.

His smirk grew wider, and it awoke a tinge of annoyance in her.

“Well I’m surprised that you’d feel that way about such a usual girl like me.”

Hilary triumphed as his smirk faltered and he blinked in confusion, trying to put two and two together. Knowing Tyson, she knew they’d be here a while, but she decided she wouldn’t nudge him in the right direction just yet. She hadn’t gotten enough of his arms holding onto her like she was the only thing mattered. There were a few other things she was enjoying, like when she snaked a hand from his neck into his hair, he gulped loudly and she could feel his heart beat faster against her chest. She could even smell the champagne from before off of him, and when her eyes dropped to his lips, she thought if she were to press her own against his, she would be greeted with the taste of the bitter beverage that she usually avoided, but wouldn’t mind tasting it in this way.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

His confused words broke her train of thought and Hilary quickly averted her gaze back to his eyes, narrowing her own at him out of irritation.

“When you came to pick me up today, I asked you how I look,” Hilary began, searching his face for comprehension which didn’t arrive so she continued, exasperatedly, “and you said ‘the usual.’ Not pretty, or beautiful, or wow, the usual. You said the usual.” She repeated his words to him with vigour, just to make sure that he would understand what she was trying to get at. It was excruciating for her to watch Tyson’s face as he gradually recalled the conversation from earlier, finally breaking into a grin, which irritated her even more, enough to want to pull away from his comfortable embrace, but his grip on her was tighter than she had expected and he didn’t seem to want to let go.

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” he said, the sincerity in his voice made her stop her efforts from trying to wiggle out of his hold and peer at him curiously instead, his grin was more of a smile as he continued, “I spoke without thinking the sentence through.”

She rolled her eyes.

“What I should’ve explained is that even under usual circumstances, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met. That fact doesn’t change for me when you’re dressed up or when you’re not. You’re usually, always so beautiful.”

Hilary felt every inch of her body turn a bright shade of red as his words sunk in.

Tyson took one look at her bewildered expression and lifted his head and threw it back as he laughed more loudly than ever.

“That’s why you didn’t talk to me the entire ride here?” He asked, his eyes shining from laughing so hard.

“Well, yes!” She replied, flustered by the stupidity of her whole dilemma, she immediately buried her head into his chest, lightly punching his shoulder as he continued to shake with laughter. She reminded herself that he was the stupid one, not her, nobody in their right mind gave out compliments like this, “You’re such an idiot, Tyson.”

“An idiot who you wanted to kiss just a few minutes ago.”

So he really didn’t miss a thing.  

She lifted her head from his chest and stared directly into his eyes challengingly.

“And? Is the idiot going to kiss me or is my face still out of his reach?”

XX

[theartisticace]

Aftermath

I have nothing better to do so I might as well post it here as well. It’s a bnha fanfic, and I have no shame currently. This actually started somewhere else and ended up entirely different from where I imagined it. Also, this is really self-indulgent and might be out of character, so don’t expect a masterpiece.

Title: Aftermath Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia Relationships: Dabi/Hawks Other Tags: Minor Character Death mention, post-LOV defeat, implied Dabi-is-a-Todoroki, possible OOC, slight crack? Summary: A mere twenty-four hours after the League's defeat, Hawks finds himself standing in front of Dabi's cell. In hindsight, it shouldn't be a surprise.

                                                   | AFTERMATH |

In the end, Hawks breaks him out of jail.

He doesn’t know why he did it. Maybe it's because of his feelings, maybe he just decided that Dabi doesn’t deserve to rot in Tartarus. Wait, no, that’s wrong. Completely wrong. Dabi’s done a lot of terrible shit (i.e. murder, kidnapping, attempted murder, arson…) throughout his career that would land him a nice, isolated little cell in that hellhole. But he did half of that to get to his family (oh god are they messed up), so a part of Hawks decided that he didn’t deserve to be locked up with the rest of the League.

It wasn’t a conscious decision; it was one of those decisions that just happened with or without your approval.

One minute he was heading out to get a few drinks with the other pro-heroes in celebration of the League’s defeat. The next thing he knows, he’s standing outside of Dabi’s cell with a bundle of keys clutched protectively to his chest, hands bloodied from breaking a police officer’s nose. Several police officers' noses, now that he thought about it.

He blinks.

Dabi’s head is buried in his folded arms, so he clears his throat. In this situation, what else could he do? He’s already knocked a few officers out, might as well go the whole way.

The villain looks up and holy shit does he look horrible. There are bags under his eyes (no doubt from the night of endless interrogation and horrible conditions), bruises around his neck from Endeavor’s eager choke-hold, and a stitched up wound just above his left eyebrow he received from one of Rumi’s kicks. He winces, because he knows how horrible those kicks could be from personal experience.

Something in Hawks’ chest burns at the sight and after a moment he realises it’s anger. Anger at seeing Dabi looking like shit. But there's also a smidgen of guilt and a dash of something he had, until now, chooses not to dwell on.

Ah, he thinks dully, that explains why I'm here.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Dabi hisses like an angry cat, equally defensive as furious. Hawks gets the feeling that if it weren’t for the quirk suppressing choker, he’d be a dead man. Or burning chicken. Take your pick.

“That’s something I’ve been wondering about for the past five minutes,” he confesses in a low voice. At first he wanted to get this over with as quick at humanly possible (which, considering who he is, is quite fast), but now that he’s gotten a good look at his… whatever Dabi is to him, he’s realising this is going to take longer than five minutes.

The captured villain goes to stand up but quickly realises he can’t. His hands are cuffed to the table for maximum security. He sits back down and slumps, something cold and bitter entering his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Dabi’s voice sounds too tired and too old, and maybe Hawks’ heart breaks a little. “Come to gloat? Go ahead. You managed to fool me and infiltrate the League. You destroyed us from the inside out.” He pauses, eyes darkening and lips curling. “Himiko’s dead because of you.”

Hawks flinches. He hadn’t meant to. He’d actually grown to like the little psychopath in spite of everything. Her death hadn’t been part of his plan. But there had been no other way to stop her at the time, the young villain had been furious and heartbroken and she almost killed Midnight – so Snipe had taken the shot.

He swallows around his heavy tongue, searching for something, anything, to say.

“I’m sorry,” is what comes out. It’s pathetic and stupid and utterly ridiculous. Dabi won’t forgive him just after one sorry. Maybe he won’t forgive him after a thousand. Maybe he’ll never forgive him.

Dabi snorts. “That the best you can do?”

Hawks stays silent, hands playing with the keys.

“After everything that happened, a ‘sorry’ is all I get?” Dabi’s furious. His fury is unlike Endeavor’s, largely different from All Might’s. Dabi’s fury is calm and hissed and burning. If he could, Dabi would probably melt the skin right off his bones. But he can’t, because he’s locked up. He can’t, because Hawks put him in a cage he has no hope of escaping alone.

“This whole time, you’ve been lying. You’ve looked me in the eyes and told me you wanted to be a villain because society is fucked up—” a harsh laugh bubbled up from his throat. “And I was the fucking moron who believed you! Trusted you! L—” His voice cracked and he fell silent.

Hawks’ throat closes up as his eyes burn. His heart aches when confronted with Dabi’s expression – Dabi, of all people, should never have had to wear that face. It reminds Hawks of the night on that one rooftop where Dabi spilled his heart to him – his deepest fears, his secrets, his grudge. Dabi had decided to trust him, and what did Hawks do? He played the spy, the traitor, the hero. All for what? Recognition? A false sense of duty?

All of a sudden, Hawks feels sick to his stomach.

“I told you everything. God, how much of an idiot could I have been?” His forehead falls against the cold iron table. “And the whole time you were—you must’ve been laughing the whole time. Poor old Dabi with a shitty life, shitty quirk and even shittier body. You must’ve felt great about yourself, huh? Dating someone only a mother could love—oh wait.” His shoulders shook with either laughter or suppressed tears, the winged hero couldn’t tell. “Was it a pity thing? Or was it for the mission? Or do you just get your kicks from playing with people’s emotions?”

“It wasn’t that,” Hawks finds himself saying. Dabi pauses, looking up at him through his thick black fringe. Hawks’ heart skips a beat, he really is screwed up, isn’t he?

“Then what was it? You can’t expect me to believe you actually had feelings for me.” He snorts, but Hawks’s silence is telling. Eyes widening, Dabi’s head shoots up so fast Hawks is surprised he didn’t get whiplash. “Holy shit, you are one sick fuck. I don’t know whether to laugh at your stupidity or punch you in the face because of it. Do the heroes even know about us?”

“I didn’t tell them,” his mouth is so dry he can barely get the words out. “I didn’t tell them anything. I only told them about the League, nothing about us… or you.”

The implication of that settles in the air. There’s no going back now.

“Oh,” Dabi slumps and Hawks likes to think it’s relief. “So they don’t know about my family issues, huh?”

“Absolutely nothing,” and Hawks finds it a little ridiculous that after everything the heroes and detectives haven’t connected the dots. He had suspected long before Dabi’s confession on that rooftop, it was pretty obvious considering. He thinks that Todoroki Rei might know, but if she does she certainly isn’t talking. he can't say he blames her.

“… You really are a moron, aren’t you, bird brain?” The familiar nickname makes something in Hawks’ chest uncurl. He’s not stupid enough to think Dabi still isn’t furious, but it’s better. “Falling in love with you enemy is one thing, but not telling your colleagues about it and not spilling his secrets? I have half a mind to tell them myself, just to see the fallout.”

And Hawks didn’t doubt that he would do it too, if the situation was different. He can almost imagine Dabi telling everyone that ‘bird brain and I fucked’. Endeavor’s face would be hilarious. Hawks getting locked up for screwing with the enemy less so. Maybe in a different world…

He shakes his head at the thought. In a different world, somewhere out there, Dabi remains a runaway and meets Hawks under better circumstances. He’d like to live that life, but it isn’t possible. Never was and certainly never will be now.

“So why are you here then? To check up on me? Make sure I don’t spill the beans?” He leans back in his chair and raises an eyebrow.

Before he could come up with an excuse as to why he knocked out several law enforcement officers and stole the keys to his high-priority cell, his impulse control decides to throw itself out the window. “Do you want to elope?”

Hawks dies a little on the inside. That was not where he was going with this, but there are no take-backs. What’s done is done.

Dabi stares. Opens his mouth, then closes it. He stares a little more before sighing through his nose and letting his eyes fall shut.

“First of all, what the actual fuck.” That’s fair, all things considered. “Second of all, okay. I hear Iceland’s a nice place to settle down. Real private. And cold.”

Hawks’ wings poof up in surprise. He expected a rejection, a few curse words, and a fair amount of attempted murder after breaking Dabi’s heart, trust and little finger.

“Uh…”

Dabi sends him a sardonic grin. “Didn’t expect that, now did you?”

“To be honest, I didn’t even realise what I was doing until I was here.” He confesses and hunches his shoulders, trying his best to not hide behind his wings.

“So you can say you were…” Dabi’s grin grows. Oh no. Oh no. “Winging it?”

“I hate you,” Hawks tells him as he unlocks the cell doors and warily approaches the table. Surely Dabi won’t turn on him now, right? Well, Hawks did betray his trust times a thousand, so he wouldn’t be surprised if the taller man tried to kill him as soon as he was near enough.

“Trust me, I know,” well shit. Hawks screwed up a lot, didn’t he? He’s going to spend literal years making up for it.

He unlocks the cuffs first and the quirk suppressing choker next. Dabi rubs his raw wrists with a frown, expression thoughtful.

In hindsight, Hawks should’ve expected it. But he didn’t, idiotic move, trust him he knows.

Dabi’s fist collides with his nose and one loud ‘crack!’ later, Hawks’ nose will never be the same.

“That,” Dabi says with finality. “Was for Himiko.”

As Hawks hold his bleeding nose, he eyes his significant something. “Are you going to break my nose for Shigaraki and the rest, too?”

“Fuck no,” he snorts. “They’re assholes and, unfortunately, perfectly alive assholes. If they want to punch you, they’re going to have to escape by themselves and track you down.”

“Oh thank god,” his wings relax. “You have a pretty mean right hook. One is enough, thanks. Anyway, let’s go?”

“You deserved it,” Dabi shrugs. “What about the cameras and officers?”

In the end, sneaking out of the police station Dabi was being held in is surprisingly easy. Hawks is a little insulted on Dabi’s behalf. Sure, most of the precinct and the heroes are off celebrating their hard-earned victory, but seriously? Hawks expected a lot more resistance, maybe a dramatic fight or two. And if they were lucky, a chance to punch Endeavor's face in. He’s extremely disappointed.

It’s even easier to empty his accounts and pack some clothes and other important essentials a hero needs when on the run. Hawks goes and buys Dabi a large scarf reminiscent of Eraserhead’s (but more bright purple), a hoodie with a Harry Potter logo on it, a box of black hair dye for himself and other stuff they would need. While he did that, Dabi acquired two passports and papers for two whole new identities altogether.  

Five hours after Dabi’s escape, they were on a plane heading for Hungary, then from there they would go to Norway and from there to Iceland.

“You know you’ll have to let your natural colour show now, right?”

“Duh, I, unlike someone I can name, am not an idiot.”

“Rude.”

“…”

“…”

“It’s going to take me a long time to forgive you. You know that, right? Even longer for me to trust you again. Maybe I’ll never trust you.”

“I… I know. I’m okay with that. I think.”

“Hm…”

“…”

“You think they have soba in Iceland?”

“Oh my god, are you for real?”

“It’s a legitimate question!”

[literarytrashcollection]

Where Are Any of Us Going? (Part2/?): A Friend or Two

(Bucky x Reader) Follow for more! I’m just starting out, but I plan to post much, much more!

After school the next day, I raced home and immediately got showered and changed. Classes ended at four. Home by half past meant I still had an hour and a half to get across town and to the café. I was eager to see Bucky again, but I didn’t want to seem like a thirsty little fan girl, so I kept it plain.

I made myself seem relaxed by not showing up until 6:15. That was early, but not unreasonably so.

Bucky was already there though, waiting in line in jeans and a Brooklyn hoodie, hair loose under the ball cap he was wearing, his sunglasses resting on the brim of his hat. He almost looked forcefully casual. He was trying too hard.

I spent a fraction of a second fighting internally with myself over whether I should join him in line or just go to the back when he saw me, a smile spreading across his face that made my insides squirm with unnecessary giddiness.

“Y/N! Glad I’m not the only early one.” He waved me over. I shot apologetic glances to the people behind him in line as I joined him, standing uncomfortably close to Bucky as customers and waitstaff alike pushed past us with drinks and food. “I’m glad you made it, I hope you don’t mind, one of my buddies wanted to come too. He ‘doesn’t think it’s safe, me wandering around Greater New York,’” his voice changed and I immediately recognized the impression of Captain America from all of the silly safety videos that had been passed around the schools.

“You did not invite him,” I looked at him with wide eyes. “Not Cap—” he cut me off with his flesh hand pressed over my mouth.

“I didn’t invite him. He invited himself and he’s already picked a table.” He sighed. “Trust me, I would rather come myself. I can be inconspicuous. Everyone knows who he is.” We stepped forward and he started telling the server his order. I was content to wait my turn while they made his order, but as soon as he was done, he just stared at me. “Are you going to get anything?” He finally asked.

“Oh, I can p—”

“That’s not how this works, doll. I’m buying.” Bucky tucked his hands in his pockets and waited patiently while I ordered the cheapest caramel latte I could find on the menu and a cheese Danish. Bucky handed the man a twenty and took our order before the server could even offer him the change.

Walking behind Bucky was how I imagined walking behind Moses was like. Seemingly everyone and everything moved out of his way as we navigated to the table that Captain America (!!!) had chosen, a nice corner table, with his back to the wall of the café so he had full availability to survey the area and people around him.

When we approached, Captain Rogers stood up, smiling politely at me until I sat down. Then the boys both sat as well.

“Steve, Y/N. Y/N, Steve.” Bucky said awkwardly as he sat between Captain America and I.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Captain America touched the brim of his ball cap to tip it just slightly.

I wasn’t a geeky little fan girl for Bucky, but Captain America was a whole different story. Of course, I knew everything about Bucky as a side note from reading so much about Captain America. I thought about the Captain America pajama set I had, immediately felt my face go hot. I smiled politely at him before looking down at my latte to hide my shame.

We all sat in silence for a few minutes, eating our food and drinking our coffees before Captain Rogers finally broke the silence. “I’m not a chaperone or anything, you two can talk in front of me. It’s not the forties.”

“You’re kind of a third wheel, Steve,” Bucky sighed.

At the same time, I blurted. “I’ll be honest, I’m a huge fan and I’m trying really hard to be polite and not like… be a creep or anything.”

Bucky grinned down at his coffee, shaking his head a little. Captain Rogers’ face grew red and he stammered for a while before taking a drink from his mug to stall. “I told you, Steve. Everyone knows you.” Bucky flicked a glance my way and I suddenly became very conscious of my fingers gripping the edge of the metal patio table. When I released, the impression of my fingers stayed and I whined a little.

“You didn’t tell me she had powers!” Captain Rogers hissed at Bucky.

“She doesn’t have powers.”

Captain Rogers eyes went wide as they flicked between me, the table, and Bucky. “Really, Buck?”

“Really, Steve,” Bucky deadpanned. “She’s got prosthetics in her arms and ribs. They’re just tuned a little higher, like mine.”

Captain Rogers relaxed a little. “But nothing else?”

“Ask her, man. I came to get to know her. You’re the one who tagged along because you didn’t think it was safe.” Bucky grunted and looked over at me. “I’m sorry about him. This used to be the other way around, and then he became some crazy science experiment and roll reversal happened,” he shrugged. I nodded understandingly, like this was new information to me. I knew all about Captain Rogers and the experiments he’d been through.

“Fuck you,” Captain Rogers was smiling though, until his watch chimed “Language!” in Tony Stark’s voice. That’s when his face fell and he took the watch off, muttering about living something down.

“Hey, c’mon. There’s a lady here,” Bucky waved at me, which only earned him another hard look from Captain America.

“Captain Rogers, can I ask you a question?” I piped up nervously. Bucky snorted and Captain America smiled up at the sky, like he was laughing at a joke that they had shared telepathically.

“Only if you agree to call me Steve.”

I nodded. “Why did you do all of those dumb health videos for the schools?”

Bucky started outright laughing. “Health videos?” He cackled. “Steve, tell me they paid you huge to do it. Tell me they had a gun to your head.”

Steve sighed heavily. “At the time, I thought I was doing something cool. Maybe kids would actually pay attention if this stuff came from a someone they thought was a hero. Teen pregnancy still happens though, so I guess it didn’t get too far through these kids’ heads.”

Bucky was staring at him in hilarious awe. “You did a sex education video, Steve?” He was cackling again, a sound that, had it not been at my hero’s expense, would’ve made me feel all warm and tingly inside again, just like those damn dimples. Hell, who am I kidding? It made me feel all warm inside, even though it was at Captain America’s expense. I liked the sound of his laughter. “Y/N, I will pay you to get those videos for me.”

“Okay, that’s it. I’m leaving. You get into trouble, it’s your own fault. Just take care of Y/N. She’s too polite for her own good and there aren’t enough people in the world like that anymore.” Steve got up and tipped his hat to me again, then ducked out.

Bucky waited until Steve was out of earshot before he relaxed into his chair. “I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

“Well, now I’m embarrassed.” I told him, giving my coffee the wide eyed stare I wanted to level him with.

“Oh, don’t be, doll. Meeting your idols is weird. I met Howard Stark once, and let me tell you, that was a letdown.” He sighed. “Besides, your face turned the cutest shade of humiliation and I can’t get enough of it. Do more embarrassing things.” He grinned.

I shook my head, taking a drink of my coffee so I didn’t have to respond. “Well, at least we chased him off.”

He turned his seat to face me a little more and leaned back in it, eyes scanning the passing crowd before returning to me. “It would appear so. Couldn’t wait to get me alone, huh?”

Where was this cockiness the day before? He was all shy and adorable then. Now he was so… confident. And happy. And damn hot. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Well, if it means I have a shot at you, doll,” he shrugged and glanced at me for a minute. Now, I knew he’d been flirting with me, but this was outright saying it and I wasn’t sure that I was ready for that. Maybe I could just play hard to get?

You’ll look like an idiot, my inner demons yelled at me. Screw them, I could enjoy this, at the very least. I was sympathetic to his situation and he was good company.

Instead of melting there on the spot, like I desperately wanted to, I leaned in close. “I think I have a better shot at the waitress than you have at me.” I winked at him and stole a French fry off his plate. He looked mystified for a moment. Had I really rejected him? I could see him trying to process what I said, the cogs in his brain grinding. Then a grin broke out across his face again and he leaned back in his chair.

“If that’s how you wanna play it, doll, we can do that. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

I downed the last drink of my coffee. “Well, we can’t all be super soldiers.”

“I don’t know, Stark seems like he’s certainly trying to replicate his father’s work. I don’t think he’d test it on people, but who knows.” He shrugged. “Besides, you have your fancy robot arms too, you’ve got the strength, just not the stamina I’ve got.”

I snorted. “Better recruit me, my left hand freezes up every other day. I can be a comedic relief sidekick.”

Just then the waitress came over with a replacement latte for me, with a smile and a napkin that she set it on as she left with more hustle in her step than usual. It wasn’t until I looked down that I realized that she’d embraced the cliché and left her number on the napkin for me. I held it up for Bucky to see. “Told you so.”

He looked disappointed though, looking at that napkin like it had just put a wall up between us. “Are you… Is she…?”

“I’m into girls too, if that’s what you’re asking,” I took a drink of my new coffee. “But it would still be rude for me to call her when I’m obviously having such a nice time with you.”

His face flushed a little and he looked down at his plate. “Does your arm really freeze up sometimes?” I nodded and straightened my fingers out. I knew where the point was that it stretched at froze. Once my fingers were stuck, I showed him my hand, letting him try to move my fingers back into place. When he couldn’t do it, I slapped my wrist a couple times until the mechanics reset and my fingers released. “Well, let me introduce you to someone. I’m sure he can fix it.”

“Another of your buddies?” I asked.

He smiled a little. “Yeah, another one of my buddies. He likes doing this stuff though. It all fascinates him.”

So we finished our food and coffee and left. He offered me his arm as we walked down the street and I hesitantly linked mine through it.

While we walked, he told me about how New York used to be, the buildings and the people, all of it different than what he came home to after Steve got him out of HYDRA. He told me about how freaked out Steve was when he woke up. At least Bucky had Steve, Steve had no one.

I had an inkling of where he was taking me when we left the café, but once we reached the front doors of the Avenger’s tower, I was still awe struck. I’d walked past it a million times, but this was different.

He scanned his ID badge and the door opened. He guided me in, his free hand on mine on his bicep for a minute, to ease my nerves, maybe.

First he took me on the grand tour, showing me all the training rooms, entertainment centers, kitchen, the works. He ended the tour in Tony Stark’s lab, the man himself tinkering with on of his Iron Man suits. Before we opened the door, I dug my feet in, pulling Bucky to a stop.

“Listen, Bucky, this is a lot.” I knew Mr. Stark could see us, I’d seen his eyes flicker up for a moment before he returned to his work. Bucky just shrugged.

“Him and I have had our… differences. But he’ll think your arms are cool and if he can fix my arm when I literally tried to kill him, I think he can fix you for shits and giggles.” He reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear, fingers lingering at the corner of my jaw for a moment before he dropped them. “Seriously, it’ll take twenty minutes tops.”

“Am I going to end up meeting all of the Super Friends?”

“Depends on how far we go,” he shrugged and punched his passcode in. The door slid open and we were blasted with AC/DC playing loudly over the speakers. Tony signaled JARVIS to turn it down and suddenly it was dead silent.

“Tin Man, young friend, how can I help?” Tony asked. He was a lot shorter in person. I’d seen him on TV often enough, but here, he was down right miniature compared to Bucky.

“Stark, this is Y/N, she’s got a little problem with her hands getting stuck in place.”

“Sounds like a medical problem to me,” Tony glanced me over, eyes scrutinizing every detail. “Why not go see Banner or,” he pondered it a moment, “the ER?”

“I have bionic arms.” I told him at Bucky’s prompting. He pushed me further into the lab by the small of my back, cool metal fingers gentle on my overly warm skin. “They’re a couple years old, but I can always unstick my fingers when they freeze up.”

“Show him, like you showed me.” Bucky said gently.

So I did it again, listening to all of us breathe and the phantom grinding of the mechanics in my hand as it strained to move. Then I slapped my wrist again and my fingers slackened.

Tony frowned for a moment then called on JARVIS, asking him for scans of all kinds as a robot came and took his Iron Man suit to it’s proper place. “You’ve had these how long?”

“I don’t know, three or four years?”

He nodded as a 3D scan of my body appeared over his work bench. He turned the scan this way and that, eyebrows furrowing further. “Are you aware that your entire skeleton has been either coated or replaced with the same material your bionic limbs are made out of?”

Record scratch. “What?”

“All of your bones, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, all metal.”

I shook my head. “They told me it was just my arms and my ribs.”

“Well,” he clicked his tongue. “They lied.”

Bucky’s brows were pulled together too. “How would they be able to do that without her knowing? Wouldn’t there be scars all over her from them cutting in to access her bones?”

“Unless they found a way to inject it into her system and program it to somehow know to replace her bones.”

“Or coat,” I added.

He shook his head. “JARVIS is still scanning, but your bone composition looks metal too, Wolverina.”

I stared at the body scan. I was at a loss for words.

“Where did you get the procedure done?” Mr. Stark asked.

I shrugged. “Spain. Dad was military, he was stationed there.”

I’d kind of forgotten about Bucky, until he wrapped his arm around me, pulling me against his side. I hadn’t realized I needed the contact until it happened, but as soon as I was in, I wrapped my arms around him too. I didn’t want to think about what they were telling me.

“Y/N, are you going to be okay?” Bucky asked, rubbing my back as I tucked myself into him. I wasn’t going to be okay. Was this some freak mistake, something that happened as an unknown side effect of what they did to me? Or was this intentional?

“I would like to take some blood samples, if that’s okay?” Mr. Stark said, coming around with a syringe ready, whether I wanted it or not.

I stuck my arm out, if anyone could tell me what was wrong, it was Mr. Stark, right? He tied a rubber strap around my upper arm and lined the needle up with a vein, but as he tried to push in, the needle literally crumpled. He frowned again, for a fraction of a second.

“Well, I think you’ll be staying with us for a while, if you’d like. Maybe we’ll even get Banner in on this.” Mr. Stark decided. “Has it always been this hard to break skin?”

When was the last time I cut myself? I couldn’t remember. But something told me I knew how to get under my skin.

I pressed my thumbnail into my arm, biting my lip as I went until blood pooled up under my nail. “Does that help?”

Mr. Stark quickly got another syringe and sucked up as much blood as he could before the bleeding tapered off. “That’ll do for now. Go get her settled in a room.” He nodded to Bucky.

Bucky looked down at me, still cowering under his arm. “Do you want to stay?”

I looked down at myself, then at Mr. Stark. “If he can fix me, yeah.”

“The hand, no problem. But I’d like to see what’s going on with your bones.” Mr. Stark nodded.

“Then I guess I’m staying.”

Bucky looked absolutely thrilled for about half a second before he reigned it in. “Let’s go get your things, then.”

[b0ne-marrow]

Valorverse - Ships

Welp. I wanted to doodle one of the "Crack"ships I came up with after watching the recent MLP movie, and started a doodle page where I was gonna add more ships and stuff that came to mind, as I saw another Crack-ish ship that I liked and debated on as well lol I moved some doodles and made them their own drawings (The Ocellus drawing I posted recently was one of them for example) and struggled to fill the page but I remembered one of the old ships I touched upon LOL. And without further ado I shall get to the ships. 1. Derpy x Kerfuffle This is the crackship I am talking about above, lol. I don't know where it came from, but I just find this ship dynamic really sweet. Both Kerfuffle and Derpy are adorable rays of sunshine and I only imagine their relationship as a goo-y mushy mess, lol. They met when Kerfuffle came to Ponyville to visit Rarity's boutique after the Rainbow Roadtrip movie. She had to mail something out while visiting and they just hit it off right off the bat. It didn't get romantic for a while, but they were always close, bonding over their cheery demeanors and shared (But vastly different) experiences as disabled ponies. I imagine Derpy to be really romantic and kinda like a Crow/Raven, finding little things that she loves and reminds her of Kerfuffle and giving them to her. (Also I struggled with Kerfuffle's leg on this so I'm sorry if it looks off. it was hard to translate it into my style of drawing legs, plus I redesigned it a bit lol. 2. Marble Pie x Sugar Belle Now this one came kinda out of nowhere lol. It was kinda spawned from a lovely headcanon drawing piece done by :iconItsTechTock: itsTechTock that you can see here!: https://www.deviantart.com/itstechtock/art/HC-Sweet-As-Pie-808490066 They, of course, didn't ship them and talks about something completely different, but my brain started thinking about them and thought they'd be really cute together actually, lol. I feel like in the Valorverse they met through Big mac, both of them being his exes. Sugar Belle just adores how shy Marble is, even though she's trying to help her overcome that. 3. Fluery Heart x Ocellus I saw this ship (Well, Flurry Heart. Fluery's the Valoverse's version of Flurry) in an adorable drawing you can see here: https://www.deviantart.com/peachydust/art/AU-NextGen-Carina-806723551 and I've liked it since, though I have a bit of qualms with it pertaining to my nextgen. (Mainly the age gap if I'm going to be right honest but age gap doesn't necessarily mean youKnowWhat's going on.) Fluery and Ocellus met on "official" princess duties. Princess Cadence has done all she can to strengthen the bond between Changelings and Ponies since the war broke out, and because of that there's been a lot of meetings between them and other leaders around the world. Since Fluery and Skyla are both technically princesses, she would bring them along (as well as her other children occasionally) with her. For similar reasons, Thorax and Chrysalis would bring Ocellus with them. Not really being a part of the political aspects of being Princesses, Fluery, Skyla, and Ocellus would often wander off and go do something else while the adults talked things through, though it took a while for Fluery to be interested in what they did. (I'll post a writing here at some point about that.) Soon enough they would become the closest friends, even making time to go see and talk to each other outside of meetings. Though Skyla didn't go with them outside of the meetings, and eventually had to attend them herself, she was the big sister of the group making sure they didn't get in too much trouble, lol. One day, as they're hanging out, Fluery happens to drop a particuarly funny joke that gets Ocellus really laughing, and she kinda realizes that wow... she's really cute when she does that and oh... she kinda maybe possibly has a crush on her BFF. Ah shit. Skyla totally gives her shit about it though cuz she knew since the beginning lol. I might keep this just a crush on Fluery's end, Ocellus not really picking up on it or not repricating her feelings. I'm not sure though. I do at least think it'd be hilarious if Ocellus didn't pick up on it at first, lol. 4. Pharynx x Tymbal(?), Feelings Forum Changeling I kinda hinted at this one in the Ocellus drawing lol. So I saw it in a stamp: https://www.deviantart.com/cascayd/art/Pharynx-x-Feelings-Forum-Changeling-Stamp-776221176 and at first, I just found it weird and not really my ship tbh but it really started growing on me after rewatching the episode they're in the last few days, lol. Total grumpy pants that's completely soft for a ray of sunshine/calm gentle person is just a trope I like lol. Tymbal knew Pharynx before the hive transformed and they were kinda close then. She wasn't nearly as hippy-ish and theraputic as she is now though, and was actually a hardcore fighter herself. She identified as a guy before the transformation mainly because most Changeling drones/guards did. She and him were great together in battle and were buds because of it. It broke her heart to see her friend struggle so much with the new changes in the hive, wishing she knew how to help besides with the Feelings Forum and Art classes that he hated. She really couldn't reach him until after his transformation. After that, Pharynx seemed to open himself up to getting help and and participting in other things within the hive. Only then was she really able to help, getting him to vent out his feelings in a more healthy way and particpate in the creative art classes there are. Suddenly, Pharynx finds that the icky and yucky feelings and frilly bullshit the changelings did together were a lot more tolerable when he did them with people he loved and was friends with. and eventually, with all the time they've spent together, they fall in love. and Pharynx fucking HATES it and how she makes him feel. He started getting feelings for her first, and he really didn't cope with them well at all. He'd kinda lash out at her, not being able to handle his emotions, but he eventually settled down and they get together with a decently healthy relationship. He still gets flustered though, she just melts his heart lol. 5. Pistachio x Star Tracker Honestly, I was just looking to ship someone with Pistachio. I think their nerdy attitudes combine really well together too lol. Some of Star Tracker's favorite moments with Pistachio are when he starts gushing about fashion or something else he's passionate about, and he just keeps blabbing and Blabbing and BLABBING and will talk to him about it for hours. He just loves listening to him and thinks it's adorable and cute to see how long he'll go. Being a guard when he grows up, Star really appreciates the little things and time they spend together. I guess this is when they're younger and first figuring their feelings out. Anyways i'm like brain dead I'm so tired so I'm going to bed, lol. I really hope you enjoy this doodle. Adopts should be coming next!

Posted using PostyBirb

[mageyewoqirife]

Fixing a Broken Heart

Read on AO3

Inspired by this post by gale-of-the-nomads

Chapter 1

“She's just so perfect…” With a dreamy sigh and far off look in his green eyes, Adrien sat back against the cafe seat. His friends watched him with wide eyes, unsure of how to react to this new bit of information. Nino just stared at his best friend who supposedly had a crush on some beauty that he mentioned through the years on occasion, but for some reason today he seemed overcome with his love for the mysterious girl. All they can get out of him is that they met through work and have known each other for two years during which they have done their best to see each other at least once a week.

Alya's eyes swept over to Marinette who was looking down at the ground, the smallest of frowns on her lips. Heart breaking for her best friend while the boys remain oblivious, Alya opens her mouth to comfort Marinette, but gets cut off instead by a too cheerful voice.

“You should tell her! I mean - Any girl would be lucky to seen you, Adrien. I mean, to be seeing you. I mean, be Seen by you!” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before trying again. “You deserved to be happy with the one you love.”

Alya looks startled at Marinette encouraging Adrien to pursue another girl and makes a note to have a very interesting conversation with her later. Nino just seems confused, but goes with the flow. After all, his best friend is pretty awesome and he wants his friend to be happy. If dating this mystery girl makes him so content, then he should give it a go.

Adrien seems blissfully unaware of the check age in Marinette's emotional state or Alya glaring at him. He gives Marinette a dazzling smile that makes her heart pick up speed and thanks her. His eyes sparkle as he agrees and says he will bring it up next time they meet.

Lunch period came to a close and they began their truck back to school. Nino and Adrien took the lead, holding the doors open for the girls before sinking into a comfortable conversation that didn't interest their companions. In fact, Alya only had one topic on her mind.

“What are you playing at, girl! The last thing you should be doing if you want to be with Adrien is telling him to ask someone else out! What were you thinking?!” Concern mixed with curiosity in Alya's voice as she questioned her best friend. For two years Marinette had been crazy over Adrien so why was she backing off now.

“Alya, I want him to be happy. Yes, I love him, but he has been clear that we are just friends. As his friend, the most loving thing I can do is encourage him to be happy. He made his choice and I want to support it.” Marinette felt like this was a sign she was starting to mature and finally find a little bit of stability in the emotions that controlled her instead of blindly following her hormone driven feelings. Being Ladybug forced her to grow up and make difficult decisions. Time to make another. “I'm Adrien's good friend. Nothing more.”

Recognizing that her best friend had made up her mind, Alya simply let the subject drop for now. She would talk to the others in the class and maybe come up with a plan. Marinette was not good at following her own advice at all. She deserved to be happy too, but her sweet friend was willing to sacrifice her own happiness to give Adrien his own.

Every girl in their class wanted to help get them together. They make a plan to hang out that weekend at Juleka's place and invite Marinette to hopefully talk some sense in the girl. Rose starts planning, her romantic nature taking charge as she maps out Adrien and Marinette’ future relationship.

That weekend, most of the girls in their class find themselves tucked away on Juleka's house boat, giggling and having a blast ignoring their cares. The room is filled with carefree laughter and playful bantering when Marinette arrives, late as usual. Alya waves her over to sit on the floor between her and Rose who is chatting happily about the latest celebrity romance she noticed and how positively sweet it was seeing them together and so in love!

Marinette rolled her eyes and slid down to the floor, gently resting her purse holding Tikki beside her and rolls her eyes as the conversation shifts to the most popular (not) relationship in Paris: Ladybug and Chat Noir.

No matter how many times she denies it as Ladybug, people love to speculate about her and her silly kitty together. Seriously, the only way she could think that she could ever get out of it was to show up with a ring on her finger and Adr-... A random, non existent man on her arm. For so long, that man had soft golden locks and curious green eyes with a smile that made her swoon. Now, her future was tall and faceless standing next to her. A twinge of sadness made her lip twitch downward, but she squashed the flicker of emotion down and forced a smile. The future was simply unwritten and one day, she would meet her perfect match. One day.

“They have to have at least kissed or something. I mean, they have been partners for two years, both of them chase each other the city in skin tight suits and Chat Noir isn't exactly shy about what he wants.” Alix never did let anything hold her back from saying what was on her mind.

Alya shakes her head with a knowing smile on her face. “Don't we all wish. I'm all for Ladybug and Chat Noir getting together, but Ladybug still denies it. Best we can do is hope for the future. Trust me, if it happens, it will be all over my Ladyblog!” Marinette knows Alya was a fan in an out of the mask. As Rena Rouge, she tries her hand at matchmaking between the two super heros just like she does with Marinette and Adrien. If only she knew she was trying to set up her best friend with two different guys. Every time Rena Rouge gets Ladybug alone for a minute, she makes a quick joke or a suggestive comment, but the answer never changs.

Marinette grins at her own private knowledge of the whole situation and proud that her best friend chooses truth over gossip. Rose notices her grin and calls her out “Marinette, don't you think they would be sooooo cute together?” Hearts swim in Rose's eyes, imagining what she sees as the ultimate super romance.

Marinette just brushes it off, used to it by now. After all, Nadja Chamack has been trying to catch them together since that first live interview and rumors are harder to kill than cockroaches. “I think Ladybug and Chat Noir have enough going on without adding a relationship.” No one needed to know just how aware she was that neither hero had never had a serious relationship.

The conversation melts into a comfortable chatter or relationships and innocent gossip until Alix speaks up with a new suggestion: “Let's play Marry-Kiss-Kill!”

All the girls look around at each other before nodding at the simple game. They have played it before, but the combinations were endless so it never got old and several times it got one of them to admit a crush that no one knew about. “I'll start,” Alex said. “Gimme my names.”

“Max, Kim, Nathaniel”

“Easy, keep that order. Marry Max because those brains are bound to get him a good job, kiss Kim because his face would be hilarious and sorry Nathaniel. Bye bye. Rose, Juleka, your turn! Rose, Sabrina and Marinette.”

Juleka always blushes when given Rose, but she played along. “Marry Rose, kiss Marinette and kill Sabrina. Sorry.” Rose beam, happy with the answer and Marinette was simply happy she lived through the round. Now it was Juleka's turn to assign names. She always gives easy ones. “Mylene: Ivan, Nino and Adrien.”

“Marry Ivan of course,” Mylene doesn't hesitate about marrying her boyfriend of two years, but the others take a second to choose. “Kiss Adrien and kill Nino. Sorry Marinette and Alya.” She grins wide, tapping her chin with a finger until she points at Rose. “Alya, Chloe and Juleka”

“Well, Juleka is already marrying me. I'd rather kiss Alya, so kill Chloe” Beaming, she takes her pick, looking at the Ladyblogger and shifts the game from classmates to a whole new genre. “Alya, get to choose Rena Rouge, Carapace and Queen Bee!” Everybody waits eagerly for Alya's answer, but they didn't expect her to laugh.

“Easy. Carapace gets to marry me.” Alya wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, knowing full well who is behind the mask. “Rena Rogue gets the kiss because she is a foxy lady and I guess Queen Bee takes the fall.” Marinette grins, laughing quietly that Alya would rather kiss herself than Chloe.

“Marinette: Ladybug, Rena Rouge and Chat Noir.” Marinette's laugh died on her lips and frowned. She didn't want to kill any of them. Then again, she didn't want to kiss or marry herself or Alya, but her friends didn't know her personal connections. It gets quiet and Marinette realizes they are all waiting on her to answer, but this just wasn't fair. How could she chose between herself and her two best friends on either side of the mask!?

“I guess marry Rena Rouge.” Marinette did catch her best friend beam as soon as she spoke. “Can't I just kiss them both? I don't want to kill either of them.” This game was no longer fun. The other encouraged her to just pick, unaware of the war inside her. Deciding on who she would rather survive, Marinette answered honestly.

“Kiss Chat Noir, kill Ladybug.” Everyone froze. After a beat, they all spoke at once.

“You would kill Ladybug!?”

“But she can do her Miraculous Recovery magic thing and fix anything”

“You like Chat Noir enough to kiss him?”

“Ladybug…” “Chat…” “Marinette!”

Marinette flushed red, knowing none of them could understand and she couldn't possibly explain properly, but she did try the best she could. “I just think that's the way Ladybug would want it to happen. She would rather let her partner live even if it means she has to go.” The others forgot the game and started deliberating the three themselves. Some chose to kill Rena Rouge. Some chose to kill Chat Noir. No one else chose Ladybug.

Marinette decided she needed to walk about and get some fresh air and maybe a glass of water. Her thoughts followed her as she walked out, barely noticed by the others in their new heated conversation. The sixteen year old girl made her way to the kitchen and filled a glass with water before walking out on the desk and closing her eyes to the feel of a fresh breeze.

The cool air helped clear her mind along with a sweet melody playing from some unknown place. The music surrounds her and she lets her mind go blank, simply feeling each note and letting it wash over her.

“Hello, Ma-Ma-Marinette.”

[punmasterkentparson]

Sleep Talk

inspired by this post, because i think it’d be hilarious if Alexei Mashkov talked in his sleep and unwittingly inflicted it on Kent. But then feelings happened?

also on ao3.

“I love you, big rat.”

Kent is in the process of picking his clothes off Alexei Mashkov’s hotel room floor in the near-dark when this statement comes from the bed. In slow motion, Kent turns. He can just make out Alexei’s silhouette from the lights of Vegas coming through the hotel room window.

He doesn’t know which he’s more baffled by: the love confession from a guy he literally just hooked up with last night, or the attached nickname that’s either an insult or an unfortunate mistranslation from Russian.

“...Sorry, what?”

Alexei is still horizontal in bed, but he shrugs as if he’s sitting up. He hasn’t even opened his eyes. “It’s fine. Take the turtles with you, they’re lonely.”

Kent gapes. “What turtles?”

“The ones underground. Don’t feed them after midnight.” Then, as if that has concluded the conversation, Alexei rolls over under the blankets and presumably goes back to sleep.

Kent pulls on his clothes and sneaks out of the room. As he drives himself home, he wonders under his breath, “Turtles?!”

--

All-Star weekend is a gift and a curse. It’s a curse because it pulls Kent out of regular season and away from his team. It’s a gift because he loves kicking ass in the skills competitions. But mostly, it’s a gift because this year, when he’s out at a bar and spots Mashkov watching him, the hot tingle he gets isn’t residual terror from the memory of being single-handedly yanked out of a dogpile and yelled at in Russian last year.

Okay, it isn’t just from the memory of that.

The first hookup had involved a some name-calling and taken a while to get from ‘resentful opponents’ to ‘resentful opponents working off sexual tension.’ This time, it’s easier. All Kent has to do is slip Mashkov a napkin with his room number on it and then tell everyone he’s calling it a night. The guys accuse him of being a wet blanket for ditching the party early, but that just means they’re all still out when Kent lets Mashkov into his room at the hotel.

Mashkov blows him on the bed, both of them still half-dressed, then turns Kent around and fucks his way to orgasm between Kent’s squeezed thighs. It’s almost as good a workout as the day’s events had been. It’s definitely more satisfying. Lying on the bed afterward, Kent feels like his brain has melted, in the best way.

Mashkov, facedown on the blankets at Kent’s left, grunts. “We messy. Get towel.”

Kent’s legs are slippery with lube and his muscles are jelly. “You get it.”

“Rock paper scissors you for not go.”

Kent snorts but holds up a hand. They throw down, and Mashkov loses.

After they’ve wiped up the spunk and Kent has graciously tossed the towel back in the bathroom, Mashkov rolls off the bed and starts collecting his clothes. Kent watches, thoroughly enjoying the muscular flex of Mashkov’s ass whenever he bends down. “You wanna just stay over?” he asks, without even thinking.

Mashkov turns, nose wrinkled in confusion. “Why?”

Kent shrugs. “’Cause I wanna blow you tomorrow morning, and if I do it in the locker room or the showers, the guys’ll complain.”

Mashkov laughs, shakes his head, and says, “Okay. It’s good plan.” He pulls his briefs back on but leaves off everything else. Kent goes to brush his teeth, and when he comes back to bed, Mashkov is already under the blankets and half-asleep. Even with the heat on in the room, Kent gravitates to pocket of warmth on Mashkov’s side.

Even though he can’t quite admit it to himself, he falls asleep faster and easier with Mashkov there. He even drops into a deeper sleep than usual.

So when Mashkov grabs his arm in the middle of the night, Kent startles awake like he’s been stabbed.

“The fuck!? Oh, shit. Mashkov, what the hell--”

Mashkov responds in Russian.

“I don’t know what the hell you just said?”

“Oh, sorry,” Mashkov says, in what is...Jesus Christ, is that Jack’s Canadian accent? “We’re not in Russia?”

“We’re in Florida. Why do you sound Canadian?”

Mashkov frowns. “What is he usually?” he asks, his accent now closer to Rhode Island.

Kent stares, wide-eyed, and for the first time in his life entertains the notion that body-snatchers are real. “You’re Russian? But you speak English?”

“Oh,” Mashkov says, thankfully back to his normal accent. “You don’t say.” And he lets go of Kent’s arm and rolls over. Within ten seconds, he’s snoring.

Kent can’t get back to sleep for another half hour.

--

In the morning, Kent wakes to find Mashkov already sitting up in bed and scrolling through his phone.

"Do you talk in your sleep?" Kent blurts.

Mashkov jumps at the sound of Kent's voice. He puts his phone down and looks over. "Little bit? Why, I'm say something last night?" He's grinning.

"You grabbed me in the middle of the night and asked if we were in Russia. You had a Canadian accent. And you talked about yourself in the third person."

Mashkov laughs. "Sorry. It's happen sometimes. Never remember what I say."

"In Vegas you talked about turtles," Kent says accusingly.

Mashkov laughs some more and shrugs. "I don't know what it's mean. It's just my brain, you know? Say stuff, I'm not thinking."

"Your brain has weird thoughts."

Mashkov winks and puts his phone on the nightstand. "Maybe you guess what my brain is thinking about now? Give you hint, it's about your mouth and my dick."

Kent rolls his eyes and shoves him, right before ducking under the sheets.

--

They hook up twice more during the All-Star weekend. Then it's back to the regular season. They're on opposite ends of the country more often than not, but Kent somehow ended up with Alexei's phone number (and vice versa) so the distance between them seems to shrink.

It turns out that Alexei is fun to talk to even when he's NOT sleep-talking. He's a social media fiend who Instagrams everything he eats, and also things he wishes he could eat--like ice cream.

"I'm lactase intolerant," Alexei tells him over Skype one night. The video is off but they've got audio, and Kent is at home so he's multitasking by talking to Alexei and also cleaning Kit's endless toys off the floor. Alexei adds, "It was first English I learn when I come here. Because agent not want Mama and Papa kill him because I die in milk accident."

Kent laughs so hard that Kit flattens her ears. "So that's why your Instagam feed is full of cheese."

"Want to eat so much," Alexei moans. "Sometimes in off season I'm eat a little, even though make me sick and have gas. Trainer always know, always sigh like I'm disappoint her. And then ban me from office, sometimes weight room, because she say farts is smell too bad."

Kent laughs harder. "Shit, you're ridiculous."

"Takes one to know one," Alexei replies, and even through the connection, Kent can hear the grin.

A week later, Kent is in Toronto and Alexei is in Tampa. The Leafs trounce the Aces, and the Falcs lose in a shoot-out.

Kent doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He just wants to sleep. From the lack of texts on Alexei’s end, he guesses the feeling is shared. It’s fine. Everyone deals with losses their own way. Kent knows his own grief cycle by now, and how to get himself through it by the time he has to play another game. He gets on the bus to the hotel, chats with the guys who need to talk about it, and then goes to his hotel room and finds something mindless to watch for an hour. By the time he’s brushing his teeth and turning off the lights, he’s not exactly calm, but he’s not wound up so tightly that he’ll get caught in a spiral of doubt and self-blame the second his head hits the pillow.

He expects to fall asleep. He can’t.

Taking his phone off the nightstand, he checks for texts. There aren’t any. He sends a quick message anyway.

u up?

There’s no reply for such a long time that Kent gives up and puts the phone back. He’s just starting to drift when a buzz startles him back awake.

yes. skype?

Kent stares for a second. His heart thumps hard in his chest. He just sent a text, he wasn’t asking for...

He thumbs open the app and hits CALL.

Alexei answers without video. “Don’t want talk,” he says, apologetic. “Sorry. Just... sound. Room quiet, head loud.”

Kent is already lying back down, resting the phone near his head. “No, it’s okay. I get it.”

Rustling bedsheets come through the connection. “Thank you.”

Kent doesn’t say ‘you’re welcome,’ because he feels like he needs this, too. Alexei is right; the room is quiet and his head is still too loud. But with the background susurrus of someone else’s breath, he falls asleep within minutes.

Then, in the middle of the night, he stirs. It takes him a muddled moment to understand what woke him up. There’s a voice, tinny and digital, coming from his pillow, and it’s speaking in Russian.

Kent blinks at his phone, glowing in the dark. The Skype connection never cut out.

“Alexei? Are you sleep talking, or are you awake?”

“Fuck you, Santa Claus, you owe me twenty dollars,” Alexei replies, clear as day and clearly dead asleep. Kent has to bury his face in the pillow to keep from laughing. When he can manage speech, he says, “That dick. He should pay you.”

“If it’s yellow, they’ll buy it,” Alexei mutters, sounding pissed as hell. Kent puts his face back in the pillow; there are tears coming down his cheeks.

Alexei goes on, “Nevermind, it’s Wednesday,” and then two seconds later, snores lightly as he falls back into deep sleep.

It’s a long time before Kent calms down enough to sleep again. And even then, he’s still smiling.

--

The Aces’ last game of regular season is in Providence. It means nothing, because everyone has known since last week that the Falcs are going to the playoffs, while the Aces are not.

Kent works hard not to think of it as a throwaway game. He knows the team is just ready for the season to end. They missed a wild card spot by one point, which they’d have gotten if they’d pushed a game against the Hurricanes into overtime. And even though Kent knows that the Falconers win 3-2 because they’re riding the high of success while the Aces are mentally checked out, it still feels like the last nail in a coffin being lowered into a grave that he dug for himself through an entire season’s worth of small mistakes.

He doesn’t meet Alexei’s eyes when they go through the handshake line. For that reason, it’s not remotely a surprise when Alexei tries to call him after the game. But by then, the Aces are already on a flight back to Vegas, so Kent doesn’t get the notifications until after they’ve landed and disembarked.

Alexei called five times and left two messages. Kent ignores them all. When a sixth call comes through, he waits until it disconnects and then turns off his phone.

This isn’t like the few other times they Skyped overnight. Alexei can’t share this loss with him. Kent would rather he didn’t try.

--

Nashville knocks the Falcs from the playoffs in game seven of the second round. It makes Kent feel like a dick. Alexei has texted him several times and tried to call him as well, and Kent hasn’t responded, on the grounds that he wasn’t ready to stop feeling like shit. Now, Alexei will be grieving, and Kent wants to call him. But after what he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if Alexei gave him the cold shoulder in return.

He almost doesn’t reach out. But he knows he’ll be angrier with himself for not trying, than getting cut off permanently and knowing he earned it.

At 10pm on a Saturday, Kent gets up the nerve to dial. Alexei doesn’t take the call. Kent’s heart sinks into his socks and he curls up around Kit on the bed.

Ten minutes later, his phone buzzes with a text.

skype?

“I’m sorry,” Kent says as soon as the audio call connects. It’s the exact same thing as an actual phone call, but there’s symbolism at work here that doesn’t escape him for a second. “You tried to talk to me. I should have answered.”

“Apology accepted. Is okay.” Alexei sounds tired, raw. Like he’s been taking out his frustrations on himself at the gym, but instead of earning some peace, he’s just hollowed himself out. Kent knows the feeling.

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” Kent says. He’s still wrapped around Kit, one hand petting her and the other cradling the phone. If he closes his eyes, it feels like Alexei is in the room with him. “I’ll probably always be like this.”

“Could be worse. Could never call.”

Kent swallows. “Guess that’s true.”

“I know is true.”

Alexei sounds so confident that it drags a faint smile out of Kent. But it fades as he murmurs, “And, I’m sorry. For...” He doesn’t have to say it for Alexei to know what he means.

There’s a small silence, and then Alexei whispers, “Me, too. Want so much. Think we get, this year.”

“Yeah.”

They both fall silent. Neither hangs up. It’s getting late, and Kent knows he should sleep. He’s already dressed for bed. But he doesn’t want to hang up, not yet. “Do you want to... I don’t know. Talk about it?” The words feel trite as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

“No. Not about... Don’t want talk about it. But maybe just... we talk?” He sounds hesitant. Kent has never known him to be hesitant.

“That sounds good to me,” Kent says. But then he can’t think of something to say.

Alexei chuckles. “I don’t know what talk about.”

“You could just go to sleep,” Kent says. “You talk in your sleep, you’ll say something eventually.”

“Yes, ‘weird shit,’ you tell me.” There’s still exhaustion coming through, but warmth is creeping into Alexei’s tone. “Why you want hear if it’s weird?”

“‘Cause it’s also fucking hilarious. I told you about Santa, right?”

“Asshole still owe me money.”

Kent guffaws, startling Kit. “Well, Christmas is over, so you’ll have to head up to the North Pole if you want him to pay up.”

Alexei snorts. “You say I’m say weird shit.”

“You do. You know that first night we hooked up, in Vegas, you called me a big rat?”

“I call you big rat even when not sleeping, that’s not weird shit.”

“You monologue, sometimes,” Kent insists. “In Russian. Other times you’ll have halfway normal conversations with me, which isn’t even weird, it’s creepy. And you keep asking me about turtles. Why the fuck do you care so much about turtles?”

Alexei isn’t even listening anymore, he’s laughing. It makes Kent grin, still alone on his bed in the dark except for his cat, but with Alexei’s voice filling the room it doesn’t feel so awful.

That doesn’t change how tired he is, though. A yawn escapes him.

“Kent?”

“‘M here. I can keep talking. I just might fall asleep in the middle.”

“Okay.” Alexei is smiling too, Kent can hear it. “Maybe it’s same for me, too. But I like this. I like be with you when I’m go to sleep.”

Kent’s chest feels a little tight. He reaches down to tug the bedsheets over himself, and tugs the phone closer. “Yeah. Me, too.”

[sohotthateveryonedied]

My Review of Joss Whedon’s Terrible Wonder Woman Script 

I’ve seen a lot of posts about how bad Joss Whedon’s original script for Wonder Woman was, and I just had to read it for myself. And...boy was that a bad idea. This thing was atrcocious. I’m pretty sure my eyes are still bleeding. So please, because I can’t seem to suppress my rage at this, enjoy a super long post about how incredibly Bad this screenplay was. 

Warning: I’m gonna be cursing a lot because this was one of the worst things I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading in my life. Enjoy! 

Let me begin by saying that this entire screenplay is basically about Steve Trevor and what a burden it is on him to have to save the world and deal with Diana the whole time. What a fucking tragedy. If I wanted to watch a misogynistic movie about a man being weighed down by unfairly-written women, I’d watch literally any other movie in Hollywood. 

Not to mention that it doesn’t even include anything about Diana’s backstory? Like, at all? It basically begins with Steve’s plane crash because apparently he’s the most important character in this movie despite it being called Wonder Woman. My deduction is that Joss has no idea who Wonder Woman is and didn’t want to read the comics because he was afraid of what reading something about a woman hero would do to his masculinity, so he decided to just wing it and ignore her backstory completely. 

Also wow, it’s plain within the first few lines of dialogue that Steve is reduced to nothing but a sarcastically jerkface, such is the tragedy of all characters who have the misfortune of being written by Joss Whedon. Makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe, misogynistic assholes shouldn’t write movies because their characters will end up like them? Just a thought? 

Okay one: WHY IS STEVE TRYING TO MAKE HER FEEL GUILTY FOR DOING LITERALLY NOTHING WRONG?? Gee, sorry if her curiosity about the world is such an inconvenience to you, what a terrible offense. I had no idea insults were the newest form of flattery. I should have known that women actually enjoy being insulted, because of course Joss Whedon knows more about what women like than I, an actual woman, would. How silly of me. 

“‘‘Let’s keep in touch’ is American for get the hell out of my face.’” WHAT?? THE FUCK??? WHY IS HE BEING SUCH A JERK??? She saved your goddamn life and you repay her by rudely shoving her out because she’s such an annoyance despite your unfortunate situation of being executed tomorrow. Cry me a freaking river. He is in no position to be anything less than grateful that she saved his sorry life in the first place. 

Not only is he insulting her mother, he’s also using “Princess” as an insult, which is such a douchey thing to do?? And the fact that despite his knowledge that she is clearly an incredible fighter and stronger than he’ll ever be, he still thinks she’s not strong enough to take on the real world. Who is this man because this is NOT Steve Trevor this is some monster and from now on his name is Stupid Terrible and I don’t know him. If Joss wanted to make a movie about an asshole saving the world with his sidekick girlfriend, then go make that garbage heap on your own. Don’t sacrifice our Wonder Woman movie to do it. 

Oh yes, that’s right, Joss, have someone call Diana a whore. Because that’s obviously what feminists love to see in movies. *Looks into office camera* 

It’s funny that despite not being a woman, Joss Whedon seems to think he knows how we want to see ourselves depicted in movies. Newsflash, Joss! You’re not doing it right. 

I.

I CAN’T.

I NEVER THOUGHT I’D EVER IN MY LIFE HAVE TO READ ABOUT DIANA BEING TOLD TO SHUT UP BY STEVE TREVOR AND GETING SHOT ON THE SAME PAGE.

WHAT, WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, THE FUCK.

WHAT RIGHT DOES STUPID TERRIBLE HAVE TO TELL HER TO SHUT UP? THE REAL STEVE TREVOR WOULD NEVER THINK OF DOING THAT BECAUSE HE IS AN ACTUAL GENTLEMAN AND NOT SOME ASSHOLE WHO WANTS DIANA TO SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET BECAUSE SHE’S IN THE WAY OF HIS FRAGILE MASCULINITY. 

STEVE AND DIANA’S RELATIONSHIP IS ONE OF MUTUAL LOVE AND RESPECT, AND JOSS IS AN IDIOT FOR EVER SUGGESTING OTHERWISE. 

“An outfit skimpier than Diana’s.”

“An outfit skimpier than Diana’s.”

“An outfit skimpier than Diana’s.”

Do I really need to comment on this one? 

And what a surprise, Diana is being called a bitch. Someone should play a drinking game with this where every time someone calls Diana a disrespectful name everyone takes a shot. Guarantee they’d all be blackout drunk by the end of the movie, since words that degrade women are the only ones in Whedon’s vocabulary. 

Yeah that’s right, tell Diana what she can and can’t handle, that’s a good idea.

Also.

WHAT

THE

FUCK

!!!!!!!

Why is she literally naked for the entire next scene so Stupid Terrible can patch her up even though the real Diana collapsed a building by smashing into it and was completely fine and even had a cute dance with Steve right after? Diana would never be debilitated by something like that, but I guess according to Joss Whedon’s image, Diana is a weak damsel in distress who is in over her head and needs a strong male to help her overcome her fragile feminine obstacles and fix her when she’s broken. And I’ll bet you all the five dollars and forty cents in my wallet that had this horrific script actually made it on camera, there would no doubt be tons of side boob shots because, as everyone knows, movies exist only so men can see half-naked women. 😒

Just this whole page is so gross I physically cringed when I read it and screamed into my pillow. 

Oh look everybody, it’s time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for: The time in the movie when the Man must tell the woman what he thinks she is because of course he knows her better than she knows herself despite only knowing her for a few days.

And don’t forget to feel bad for the poor Male because sadly, his attraction to her is such a burden to him and she should stop being so distracting because it’ll get in the way of his manliness. 

And oh, what’s that I hear? The sound of Stupid Terrible hilariously admitting he is secretly hoping for her to flash him? Oh, well of course that’s just comic relief, obviously not contributing at all to rape culture or how men believe it is their right to see women as sex objects and sex objects only.

No problem, just laugh and agree that it’s the funniest thing in the whole world that his priority is seeing Diana naked, rather than be disgusted by the fact that Joss Whedon literally typed this page out and decided it was good enough to include in this god awful script.

Please note the fact that Diana and Stupid Terrible being rejected from the club contributes nothing to the plot whatsoever. Joss just got it in his head that the best idea was to add in a situation with the bouncer just so he could remind the audience that Diana is “fine” and it’s the only way she will ever be allowed anything.

What an inspiring message to little girls who came to see a movie where someone like them could be a hero. Sorry kids, apparently, according to the wise Joss Whedon, women can only get what they want if they are attractive enough to earn it. Thanks, Joss, go burn in hell you pig 😊

(Also, Diana being called a bitch yet again, but what else is new.)

Not only is Diana being called a bitch for I don’t even know what number time, but this guy is taunting her by calling her scared and crazy and sad. So far, nothing in this entire garbage heap of a script has included anything that depicts Wonder Woman as wonderful. 

They may as well rename the movie Pathetic Woman or, if you want some better alliteration, Weak Woman, with the way this is going.

This scene.

May this scene please burn in the depths of Tartarus for eternity.

What, pray tell, is the fUCKING POINT OF THIS? WE HAVE DIANA SEXY DANCING HERE FOR WHAT EXACTLY? SO JOSS GETS THE CHANCE TO DESCRIBE ALL THE CAPTIVATING WONDERS OF A WOMAN’S BODY BECAUSE HE KNOWS HE’LL NEVER ACTUALLY GET TO SEE ONE UP CLOSE SINCE HE IS SUCH TRASH THAT NO SELF RESPECTING WOMAN WOULD WANT HIM??

Please,, someone,,, just pick up a sniper and take me out right now. I can’t read another line or I’m afraid my eyes will melt.

Though you know what, on second thought maybe I shouldn’t get my brains blown out because judging by this script, Joss would probably just find it sexy and include it in his next movie.

Here’s a delightful example of Stupid Terrible making the misguided assumption that blaming Diana for everything that goes wrong and telling her she does nothing but create chaos is a good idea.

Here’s the deal, people. Telling someone they’re a failure and everything is their fault? Yup, not as good an idea as you may think it is.

Now, dear reader, you maybe be asking yourself right about now, Why isn’t it clear to other people that what he’s saying is awful and he should stop being an asshole and respect Diana’s ability to make her own decisions?

Excellent question!

You see, my friends, that’s the thing about Whedon Science. You notice how he slipped in that Wise™ and Insightful™ elephant and mouse analogy in the middle of his (probably menstruation-caused) pissy rant? The logic of Whedon Science clearly states that by throwing in an intelligent analogy that somewhat applies to the situation, it reverses his argument completely and shows that clearly his rant is meant to be an inspiring pep talk to push Diana to be the best she can be, rather than a gross speech intended to tear down her confidence. Isn’t science fun, kids?

And oh, the dreaded feelings. Here we’ve got Stupid being the Cool and Mysterious character by treating his feelings like a dreaded disease that will kill him on contact.

Though you know what’ll kill him faster? Me when I murder Stupid Terrible with a bulldozer for telling Diana she doesn’t know what it means to be human and she doesn’t belong in the real world.

I can’t even with this part. What kind of human being writes something like this? 

Here we have the great and powerful Male Character ranting angrily because right now his feelings are so passionate and important that they must be yelled into Diana’s face, threateningly enough to scare her. 

Now I don’t know what this reminds you of, but to me it sounds a lot like what one would picture domestic abuse as. It seems that Joss apparently thinks it’s okay for men to show women who’s the boss by intimidating them into submission. That’s emotional abuse right there, and I will tell you right now that MY Steve Trevor would never even think of doing this to Diana. Ever.

He wouldn’t yell in her face to inform her on what she isn’t capable of. He wouldn’t make her feel like trash and like she should just go back to Themyscira so she can’t mess anything else up. And he definitely, without a doubt, would never ever call her a Fucking. Tourist.

What’s an action movie without a female protagonist being groped by some disgusting perve.

And can I just say that it’s bad enough Joss spent the whole screenplay making Diana seem like nothing but a sexy prop. But now he has the audacity to compare her to a “plague dog” and make aforementioned perve toss her away for fear of catching disease?? This isn’t what we wanted when we demanded you stop treating female characters like they exist only to be desirable, Joss. Nowhere close.

*cups hands around mouth* PRINCESS DIANA AND THE REST OF THE AMAZONS CAN SPEAK HUNDREDS OF LANGUAGES YOU IGNORANT SWINE

*sigh* I don’t even have the energy for the his one. Fuck you, Joss Whedon 🖕

Why???

This entire screenplay was filled with Diana doing incredible feats that Stupid Terrible didn’t believe she could do, but she proved him wrong anyway. So of course when she tells him she can fly, his immediate thought is “Of course you can’t fly, that would be crazy.” Here’s an idea. Maybe...don’t have male characters constantly tell women what they are and aren’t capable of?  

.

So yes, this script is garbage. Every time I watch the real Wonder Woman movie, I thank my lucky stars that Patty Jenkins exists and took over this project and made it amazing. 

Though I have to say, the fact that Whedon is still planned to direct Batgirl is worse than Hitler being a fashion designer. I would rather have no Batgirl movie at all than have this guy do it. This is the same guy who made Diana sexy dance for no reason and called her a bitch at least three or four times. If Joss directs Batgirl, I guarantee there will be at least one naked scene, sexual tension between Barbara and Bruce, she’ll have an estranged relationship with her dad because according to Whedon, women aren’t capable of loving familial relationships, and she will definitely be in too over her head at some point and need Batman to save her, after which he’ll yell at her because she’s not fit to be a hero. And that’s just off the top of my head. 

So yeah. Fuck you, Whedon. 😊

[mbovettwrites-blog]

Blackbird - 500 Follow Excerpt

It’s been long enough. Let’s just get into it.

In the background, she heard the faint whistle of a late night train pulling into the station. At least something was still working at this unholy hour.

Only a few people emerged from the archway leading to the platforms, the thickness of the night outside dispersed by twinkling lights strung along the wall. The first was a businessman, which Maria learned first from his irate posture and prim expression and secondly from noting the expensive suit and briefcase. Next was a pair of women huddled under a scarlet umbrella, an elderly man with his pace defiantly brisk and his lips pursed in disdain as he glanced across Maria’s slouched shoulders, and a gang of students whose raucous laughter felt poisonous in the previously peaceful station.

The first thing she noticed about the students was that there were four of them, and the second was that they were all boys. Each of them was impossibly energised and bright-faced for such an hour of the morning, and it momentarily occurred to Maria that they were all drunk – then she grew sensible again and reminded herself that drinking was illegal on cross-country trains.

They were foreigners, obviously. More foreign than her. Northerners, from one of the many wealthy pockets of Verlinden or Adovya where they were expected to just casually take a train from one end of the continent to another on a spontaneous summer holiday.

Well, then, she thought, the voice in her head sounding far more stiff and repulsed than she had expected of herself, Let them be miscreants. Anyways, they’ve chosen a terrible place for a weekend away if they’re looking for that kind of meaningless fun.

Only one of them – the quietest, his arms swinging laxly at his sides rather than gesturing wildly in all directions – looked as though he could pass as a native to a Gulf Belt country. Ygar, most likely. But his company betrayed him. They looked like the kind of people whose company her mother would have enjoyed, if she were both young and present with her. He seemed fixated on the presence of an alarmingly skinny boy at his side, whose shock of coal-black hair did little to distract Maria from the fact that she could see the outline of his bones in his face and his hands. This boy was by far the loudest, letting of bouts of high-pitched laughter every other second that sounded not entirely unlike the train whistle.

His arm was slung around the shoulders of the shortest, who looked more out of place in Cuorren than Maria had thought possible. For one thing, he appeared to still be wearing his school uniform. Schools in Navarios didn’t have uniforms. Feeling a little pleased as the fact presented itself, she then also recalled that she’d read a study in a newspaper that said Navarios students were fifteen per cent happier and thirteen per cent less prone to stress and anxiety than those in Verlinden’s supposedly world-class academies.

Honestly? Maria was quite sure that the only people who thought Verlinden’s education was the best were the people who had been raised and brainwashed in it. Everyone she knew thought the school system was a mockery, designed to manufacture posh, well-to-do young intellectuals with no individuality or purpose beyond making money for their already dangerously wealthy country.

She could yet be wrong. They could be from Adovya which, though not by much, was a noteworthy improvement.

Goddesses forsake her if they were students at Hylin.

She didn’t quite have time to analyse the fourth before he had invited himself to sit next to her.

Her lips puckered in distaste as he offered up a lazy smile and a hand to shake. Quarter past one in the morning was not a good hour for her to be interacting with stuck-up people at, lest she bite their heads off like a five-headed hound. Tersely, she accepted the handshake. It was just like the ones she received from the white-shirted men Arabella introduced her to, sometimes because they were one-week lovers and sometimes because they were work colleagues from her lawyer world. She prayed that this boy would become neither.

“Evan Charlize,” he said, and then continued in extremely broken Agion, “A pleasure to meet you.”

In flawless Verlinden, she replied, “Maria None-Of-Your-Business. Try again when I’m not tired enough to sleep through the end of the world.”

The boy’s eyebrows quirked up, eyes widening slightly. The loud one half-cackled, half-wheezed, slipping easily past his companions and slapping his friend hard on the shoulder. Still in Verlinden, he howled, “Evan, my man, she just gave you a smack down! That was awesome! Matt, my boy, did you get that on camera? I’m replaying that at his eighteenth – ‘The One Where Evan Gets Showed Up by a Strange Girl’, anyone?”

Evan – Maria presumed that was the name of boy sat beside her – frowned. It was only when this happened that she noticed just how bushy and unruly his eyebrows were. They looked like tiny, sun-yellowed squirrel tails.

“No to all of that, Sal. That was not a ‘smack down’, that was just rude. Daj, teach your boyfriend some respect.”

The quiet one folded his arms across his chest. “Not my boyfriend, not my responsibility.”

Sal giggled hysterically again, collapsing against Evan in the process. Evan, Sal, and Daj – that left the uniformed kid as Matt. She decided to focus on him instead, since he was the only one who hadn’t spoken yet and therefore was also the only one who had yet to irritate her.

Daj spoke up again. “Here’s an idea that, shockingly, neither of you have thought of – maybe she doesn’t want you here because you’re making moves on her and she’s very uncomfortable with that. Matt, come on, you had to have picked up on that.”

Maria growled. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but I do have the basic ability to stand up for myself. I am exceptionally tired. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Sal’s eyes went wider than Evan’s. Pushing himself away from his disgruntled friend with a bounce in his step (which, given the ridiculous time of night, defied all logic and reason that Maria possessed), he swung an arm around Daj’s neck instead and let out a long whistle. It was at this moment that Maria’s observational skills fully caught up with the rest of her brain and she noted that Sal was, in fact, flaunting a crop top. Not that it was unusual – she had seen every fashion statement possible in her corner of Navarios – but she somehow wanted such a charismatic person to have the added bonus of knowing when it was chilly enough to wear a jacket over it.

She knew from experience back home that the nights in the Gulf Belt were as damp and humid as a fox’s armpit, but the air conditioning in the station was on overkill. At that moment, she would trade the lives of all of these boys for one minute in the heat of the midday sun.

“Whatever,” Evan huffed, standing up with a slight grunt. “We’re stuck here until the morning trams start running anyways. How long is that, anyways?”

“Ten to seven. They start at sunrise,” Maria interjected curtly.

“I was under the impression that Your Majesty wasn’t going to talk to us.” Evan’s eyes looked almost as chaotic and grey as the storm raging outside as he snapped back at her, all previous interests in being gentlemanly lost the moment she bared her teeth at him. She couldn’t care less. He’d apologise when the sun came up and the tropical warmth melted his temper tantrum away.

“Evan, even the Goddesses know you’re too grouchy to be socially interacting with other people right now. Find somewhere to sleep it off, you’re even starting to exhaust me.”

Matt had taken it upon himself to speak now. One hand was thumbing the corner of his shirt collar as he scolded Evan and followed it up with an apologetic smile tossed at Maria – the other was tucked tightly into his trouser pocket. At last, Evan decided that this was somebody he could agree with, and marched across the room to stretch all six feet of himself across the opposing bench. Back turned to the rest of them. Obviously.

“In another time, this would’ve been hilarious,” Sal said with a sigh. The corners of Maria’s mouth tugged up in an inkling of smile.

“You don’t say.”

He performed a walk that was somewhere between a skip and a strut as he went to join Evan, and Daj followed in respectful silence. Matt was the last one to speak and to go, talking and smiling over his shoulder as he trailed after his friends.

“He’ll be more polite come sunrise, I promise you. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.”

“Keep him and his temper! Didn’t plan on meeting you all in the first place!”

Leaving that as the closing statement of the tumultuous conversation, she unzipped one of her suitcases and dug around until she pulled out three identical crimson hoodies, draped them around her goosebump-ridden arms, and nestled in to wait out the storm still thundering above them.

So, this is about half of the second chapter showcasing the introduction of some other major characters (because as much as I love Ingrid, I love these guys too and they deserve some more spotlight). I would have put this out yesterday when I actually hit 500, like I promised, but I became swamped with work and sort of burned out and fell asleep a full two hours earlier than I’d normally even consider going to bed. So, yeah, that was a tad time-consuming.

I’m going to tag @kbcypher for being so supportive of this WIP and often seeming a little upset when updates are missed, @jade-island-lives for also being generally supportive and also being someone who keeps popping up time and time again in my notes, and @bitteredplum because they’re a cute art kid who is probably the only person I know IRL who I can actually stand.

They also drew a little doodle of Maria and Ingrid the last time they came over to my house, which I need to post soon

Thank you all again for 500! xx

[herstarburststories]

Attention ✘ Sebastian Smythe S ✘

✘ A/N: There! Sorry it got too long.

BY THE WAY: My computer isn’t working, I’m on my school’s computer right now :/ And having fun/stress about beach party! YAY!

I’LL POST A LIST OF YOUR REQUESTS TODAY OR TOMORROW! 

I don’t know if it’s really good, but/so hope you like it!

@lyss-91, thank you for beta!

✘ Request by @unapologetically-insane: Omg I love your Sebastian Smythe fanfics and smuts 😏 I was wondering if you could do an angsty/smut based off of the song Attention by Charlie Puth? And basically the reader broke up with Sebastian over something but now she feels bad and wants him back.

In the middle of my conversation with a remarkably attractive girl, I saw her, my not-so-lovely-but-still-lovely-ex, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Of all the parties in every millimeter of LA, did (Y/N) have to come right to the one I was at?

A smirk appeared on my face, of course she had to. Was probably going to any party with the mere hope of meeting me.

My brain begged for my eyes to check her out, and I let it. Focusing on her to study that body completely known by my lips. Fuck, how I missed her soft skin, her lips, her ironic gaze, all of her.

A red dress framed her body. Red. This had always been her favorite color, and it had followed her in the painting of her lips, and I noticed as she ran her hand through her hair carefully on her big fingernails that had scratched my back so many times.

My future one-night-stand continued to blab about dogs, bananas, college or whatever she was talking about. I nodded as I heard a brief pause, automatically assuming she had asked something.

I could try to remember her name, go back to the conversation and get a great night. However, my attention, and excitement, was directed at someone completely different. Too late, girl with no name.

I spent 10 seconds trying to find the girl who had vanished from my sight like smoke in the overcast sky, no sucess yet. Finally, I saw (Y/N) next to me, her usual wry smile on her lips. My icy heart tended to melt just a little at the sight of her, and I let out a grunt in denial. (Y/N) had chosen to do away with it, I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I was being strong, holding my feelings as close to my throat as possible, never letting them pass and show. She didn’t deserve this, and I certainly didn’t deserve it.

“Yet without subtlety on looking at me, Sebastian.”

“Dieu es une femme.” I smiled a half-moon smile, showered with shared irony, taking care of my features when reciting an old saying. “And she wears red.” Added.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, but she was too proud to let the conversation end here and lose our little game. I knew it, and so did she.

“I bet it this red which gotcha your attention ever since I put my feet in. And not…” She gave Amber a disgusted look — oh, I did remember her name! — who was standing with arms crossed looking at the scene with a hilarious and indicative aspect of fury.

(Y/N) was right about that, the red of Amber’s overdressed dress was dull and just tightened her body to the point of letting me wonder if she really could breathe right in that. While (Y/N)’s was perfect for her.

In the past, (Y/N) considered me perfect for her. Would she throw the dress off too?

An ironic laugh floated through the air around me, making Amber think I was laughing at her and not the sadistic humor inside my head, which made her go away.

“You’re still sweet with women.”

“Says the girl who dumped me for no reason.” Ignoring the strange mixture of feelings that the person next to me was causing, I continued to converse in an ironic tone before an argument began. “By the way, how’s it you going to every LA party just to try and find me at one?”

I couldn’t decide if I hated or loved the laughter she gave.

“I think you’re deluding yourself a little too much, Smythe.” Irony had not abandoned her since the second she arrived. “I’m just having fun.”

“You throw dirt on my name so that I’d call you is a synonym for fun?” I shot (Y/N), staring at her seriously. Her light expression faltered, and I smiled. “Well, it looks like I’m not so deluded like that, món bébé.” I said her nickname in a wicked tone, but even so, those two little words rolled out of my tongue easier than I’d like to admit.

“I didn’t say bad things about you.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, regaining a defensive posture. “I just didn’t speak good.”

I raised my eyebrow at that, about to give an answer, until I realized I didn’t have one.

(Y/N) was just standing there, staring at me after she’d said something remotely offensive. The small wrinkles on her forehead and her close eyebrows as she frowned declared that she was suprised by me still quiet waiting me to say something.

And I wanted to say.

I wanted to scream at her, wanted her to feel bad about what she did, wanted her to suffer. At the same time, I wanted to kiss her and make her mine again, remind her of how that was. I wanted (Y/N) to apologize, I wanted to love her.

And, in the last weeks, all I’ve been trying to do is not to love (Y/N). I used to think that loving someone was exhausting, but to stop loving is even worse.

Which made me sound completely stupid, like Lady Hummel. So I would never let those feelings and thoughts go into the outside world.

I was living well in my own hell, ruled by my only one.

And suppressing it all.

Because (Y/N) didn’t deserve for me to be sad, and I didn’t deserve to be bad for her. (Y/N) broke up with me because of her stupid jealous paranoia. Even if we came back, that would never change. Neither would I change my possessiveness.

We were made to go wrong.

But now, looking into her eyes, I wondered how something destined not to work could give me so many foolish feelings.

‘Cause I still didn’t answer - maybe, after all this time, I’d finally found my breaking point - and (Y/N) was watching me.

And she did the most beautiful and contradictory thing she could do; She smiled sweetly at me.

“You…” I tried to think of something to curse her, make her ill or make her quarrel with me, anything but what my tongue was begging for a chance to speak. 

“You’re the most complicated girl in the world.” I sighed in withdrawal, that was better than my subconscious wanted to do.

“And you’re the most arrogant guy in the world.” Again, (Y/N) was not going to make it cheap, of course, just like me. “But that’s why we’re good together, I guess.”

Fine, that had been like a shot and a straight ticket to paradise at the same time. Like Kurt in mute, but learning signal’s language.

“I… I’m sorry… I had a stupid crisis of jealousy. I miss you.” Before I could take it that (Y/N) had jumped her pride, my body waved goodbye to my conscious part and let my feelings pick up the reins: my lips were kissing hers hungrily.

Her thin arms curled around my neck, pulling me closer, our bodies making a dull thump as they collided.

Fuck, I’ve missed that.

I invaded (Y/N)’s mouth without asking permission, touching her tongue with mine aggressively. (Y/N) didn’t seem to care about that, about the contrary: the way her mouth contracted against my lips pointed out that she had let out a low moan, and that was what she needed to turn me on.

“What are you doing to me?” I whispered against her lips in frustration, giving up restraining myself. I raised my head, leaving us face to face. Her victory was clear, I was an addict and needed my delicious drug.

“Just what you’re doing to me.” Before (Y/N) could finish her sentence, I was already pushing her into the bathroom by the wrist. I quickly locked the door as she checked the place to make sure there was no audience.

I approached (Y/N), agilely laying her over the ceramic sink. My lips followed trail down her neck, kissing, sucking and biting the place, aware that it would leave marks on her (Y/S/C) skin later.

And I wanted those marks, so that everyone would see that she belonged to me, even if only for one night.

Her legs wrapped around my body pulled me closer, making my lower parts touch hers over our clothes. It caused me a growl and a strong bite on her neck, which made her moan loudly.

I quickly pulled myself away from her and opened the zipper of her red dress, that dress was a karma. And as I threw the piece of cloth on the floor, I realized that his whole body was my own karma.

(Y/N)’s small hands took off my shirt, and her cold fingers began the known journey on my skin, leaving a sort of electric ray through the parts she passed as my hands felt her straight curves.

“I want to prove you.” I stared (Y/N), capturing the moment her irises darkened and her pupils dilated, (Y/N)’s body language giving the confirmation I needed, but not the one I wanted. “Do you want it, babe?” I ran my fingers down her skin, noticing (Y/N)’s ragged breath. “Hmm …” I murmured as I touch (Y/N)’s intimacy over her panties. “You’re wet, why?” I kept moving my fingers over her outstretched panties, expecting her to say something, but I just got groans. I sighed in a false discontent, pushing the panties aside with one finger and shoving another inside her. “You have to tell me that, doll face. Or…” I moved my finger inside (Y/N) and she let out a moan, but I pulled it out quickly, pulling away from her then.

“Sebastian Smythe!” (Y/N) exclaimed angrily, I bet she would kill me if she found the strength to stand up.

“You have to tell me, (Y/N), why are you so wet?” I smirked, wanting to hear her words.

“I’m like this because you did it to me, Sebastian. And I need you to just come and work it out!” (Y/N) admitted in an angry tone and I laughed, approaching her again. I got to my knees as I played in her pussy with my fingers, loving how wet it felt.

“You want me to go down on you, princess?” I put one more fingers in, making her body arch. “Do you want me to prove you?” She gasped.

“Y-yes.”

“Beg.”

“What?” (Y/N) stared at me, and I smiled as I met her eyes.

“Beg.” I smirked, (Y/N) would never beg for anything, except this. What made me more excited and need for her words. “Now.” As I caressed her clit with my thumb. She let out a wailing groan, making me smirked even more.

“Please, Seb!” She cried like music to my ears. “I need you, I need you to make me cum. I need you to go down and make me yours.

“Good girl.” I smiled contentedly, then headed down into it. I placed my tongue inside one of my favorite parts on her body, delighting in the precum there. I kept licking it hungrily until (Y/N) was close. I added a finger, two inside her, which made her body tremble. I continued to delight myself there for another minute. 

Feeling my hair being pulled by (Y/N)’s hands as her legs opened and my head was pushed against my particular paradise.

Determined to end her pleasurable pain, I licked (Y/N)’s clit as I thrust four fingers into her, (Y/N) screamed and, before she came, I turned my mouth to the place it belonged, swalling every drop of her taste, the best taste in the hole world.

(Y/N) never need to warn me when she was about to come, I always knew.

“I hope you’re not tired.” I said after a few seconds of just hearing her breath catching. (Y/N),smiled at me as I licked my lower lip, which still had the taste of her.

“I’m always ready for you, love.”

Love.

Those two syllables together caused an earthquake inside me. She couldn’t call me that anymore. We were not even close to loving each other.

She wasn’t even close to loving me.

All the anger and frustration ran through my veins faster than my blood. How could (Y/N) have played so low?

I felt confused, deceived, angry, sad and yet in love. Love fucked me, and I had to discount those feelings somehow.

“You’re not coming home with me tonight.” Stated the obvious to (Y/N), staring at her treacherous eyes. Her expression dropped, and a part of me felt pleasure to at least give a taste of the pain I was feeling to the girl in front of me, in counterpoint, another part just wanted to hug her and forget what had happened.

How did I get myself like this? She messed up my life, and I allowed it.

“Sebastian, I…” I started to open my jeans and take off my shoes with my feet. My boner was starting to hurt, screaming for attention.

“You what, (Y/N)? You love me?” I laughed in irony as she lowed her head. But, of course, (Y/N) continued (Y/N), which meant that she got it up the same two seconds later, ready to reply.

“It was a mistake, Sebastian, I already apologized, you know I never meant for that to happen.” I finally got off all my clothes, though (Y/N) refused to look at my body, determined to prove her point of view.

“Maybe.” I smirked, approaching her. “But, doll face…” I gripped her waist at the same time as I pushed my body forward, entering hard and fast inside her. (Y/N) screamed in a mixture of pleasure and surprise, quickly finding support on my shoulders and squeezing them. Just being inside her gave me a increditable pleasure. “You never wanted my heart, either.” I hit her once more deeply, receiving her yelling groan as my only answers. Her hand found my back in a dance known for both of us. “You just want attention.” I waited three seconds, my heart pounding in my chest for the situation and the burning desire that her smart mouth would deny my words, but she didn’t.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N) didn’t deny her non-love for me.

I tightened my grip on her waist with even more strength, my hips moving accurately fast, making us both moan loudly between our lips. Her fingernails, as expected, scraped my pale back without mercy and I kissed her mouth in a continual anguished despair. One of my hands traveled to her boobs, playing with her nipple, which made (Y/N) sigh and arch her hip even more toward my cock. As I returned my kisses to (Y/N)’s neck, in a way too long for the good of the two, I felt her perfume against my nose; Regret, sweet and strong at the same instant.

Finally, I reached her breast, letting my other hand squeeze one while I used my mouth and tongue to play with the other. The groans that came from (Y/N)’s mouth were more than obscene, making me hard than I already was.

Pulling away from her boobs, I found myself in need of feel her mouth against mine again, but (Y/N)’s refused to turn from my my shoulder, giving small bites and quick kisses toward my neck.

I knew what she was doing. (Y/N) always had something for my freckles, she loved kissing each one of them, and her favorite was on my neck.

She reached her goal, making me sigh as I felt her bite followed by a suck in one of the most visible places in my body. (Y/N) has always loved marking her territory.

I had to come, now. I felt it in my particules, I needed it more than I needed oxygen, I had to release my anger and anguish somehow, before they took over my whole body like a snake venom.

Started to run my finger down her clit as I captured her lips, moving my hips in sync with hers.

“That’s what you expected, wasn’t it?” Growled angrily against her inviting lips, sucking her bottom lip before she could answer me. I increased the rhythm of my hips and rubbed (Y/N)’s clit more, looking at her contorted face of pleasure that second, and that was enough to make me come inside her.

The cry of deliverance that (Y/N) gave next reminded me of when she was mine.

And that she would never be again.

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 9.29.20

It was another week of soaring highs and middling mediocrity, but fortunately no DNFs. Notably, I’ve been dragging my heels on PIRANESI by Susanna Clarke, which has been sitting on my desk in gorgeous hard cover since release day. You ever want to love a book so much that you’re afraid to actually read it? No, no, me neither. Here’s hoping I get brave this week. In the meantime...

It’s Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake (Claire Christian), eBook ARC (US pub date February 2021). I loved this book so much that I’m already looking forward to owning the aBook once it’s available, just so I can relive the magic in a new way. Here’s my five-star NetGalley review: 

I have discovered the antidote to the unmitigated disaster that is the year 2020, and it is IT'S BEEN A PLEASURE, NONI BLAKE. I inhaled this book in under 24 hours and feel soul-satisfied in a way I forgot existed. NONI BLAKE is a rom-com that's so much more than a rom-com; it's as much a character study as LESS and as much a travelogue as WILD, with the sweetness of Mhairi MacFarlane, the delicious heat of Sally Thorne, and the humor of every best friend you've ever gotten drunk with. It is, in a word, perfect.

When I say this book has it all, I am not kidding. In it, you will find: - an average-bodied woman finding sexual empowerment and body positivity - a Scottish book boyfriend for whom you do not need to travel through time - healthy adult friendships - A+ Bechdel Test score - adventurous, consensual sex that is at times hilarious and at other times really, really hot - situational comedy that will legitimately make you laugh out loud - adults who talk openly about their feelings in an authentic, mature way - portrayals of grief that range in severity from mourning the loss of an unborn child to coming to terms with years of self-criticism and negativity - rich, descriptive prose that does not drag down pacing - excellent plotting, perfectly balanced with the protagonist's complex internal journey

...the list goes on. This book is joy exemplified. I can't wait to give it to every woman I know. My only complaint is that the world needs this book immediately to inoculate us against the tidal wave of awfulness bombarding the globe, and yet it won't be released until 2021.

Notably, Australian readers have access to NONI BLAKE as of... today (!), so if you happen to be reading this in Australia, please do yourself a favor and buy this book immediately. And if there’s someone you especially like elsewhere in the world, maybe box up a copy and spread the love.

Act Your Age, Eve Brown (Talia Hibbert), eBook ARC (pub date March 2021). I know, I know -- how many contemporary romcoms with the exact same title structure can I read in a single week? Real answer: 2. But based on how fabulous both these titles were, I’m open to more. Here’s my four-star NetGalley review:

I've decided it's entirely impossible to read the Brown Sisters series without feeling amazing. Hibbert's writing is so smart, funny, and full of A+ banter -- not to mention scorching-hot heat -- that it almost feels like we don't deserve her books' nuances, diverse representations, and patriarchy-shaking feminism.

But we do deserve it, actually, and it's all there in ACT YOUR AGE, EVE BROWN.

If at first Eve seems flighty and difficult to connect with, don't discount the intentionality of her characterization. In a tidy narrative trick, Hibbert gives us the very experience that defines many of Eve's friendships: while the youngest Brown sister may have made a great first impression in Chloe and Dani's books, her flightiness feels off-putting once she takes center stage. But sticking with Eve -- instead of pushing her to the margins of our two-person social circle -- has a massive pay-off, as she soon reveals herself to be intensely focused on helping others, spreading joy, and baking delicious cake. It's a side of Eve too many of her "friends" never get to see -- but Reader, we do. And it turns out, Eve is a wonder.

Many of Eve's quirks align with behaviors on the autism spectrum; while Jacob's autistic presentation is perhaps more conventional, Eve's traits are equally validated by Hibbert's sensitive, nuanced treatment of the disorder. Romance + autism usually means antisocial behaviors, rigidity, and/or Asperger's-like presentation (The Kiss Quotient/Bride Test, The Girl He Used to Know, The Rosie Project... the list goes on). But ACT YOUR AGE explores the all important "spectrum" side of "autism spectrum disorder," and urges us to resist believing we understand what these labels mean just because we understand one small aspect of a very large picture.

All of this happens while a truly compelling, heart-melting romance unfolds. Eve and Jacob are incredibly fun to watch, and Hibbert keeps things moving at a lovely clip. I especially appreciated her resistance to the "h/h have to spend totally unnecessary time apart after an argument/misunderstanding" trope in Act III, which is a convention I would happily see go the way of the dinosaur.

Fair warning to your TBR pile: If you don't reread Chloe and Dani's books prior to picking up ACT YOUR AGE, EVE BROWN, you're going to want to afterward. There's simply no other way to maintain the rosy glow of post-Hibbert reading.

Finally, I'm predicting here and now that Mont, Alex and Tess are the next sibling trio to get the Hibbert treatment. (Please? Like...PLEASE please?)

Set My Heart to Five (Simon Stephenson), aBook (narr. Christopher Ragland, Rachael Louise Miller, Lance C. Fuller). If you combined the signature humor/love combo of David Nicholls, the deeply felt nostalgia of Ready Player One, and the bots-with-feelings hypothesis of Spielburg’s AI, you might come close to understanding what makes SET MY HEART TO FIVE so good. In the year 2054, the world has taken some unexpected turns: humans have accidentally locked themselves out of the internet, Elon Musk blew up the moon (also accidentally), and humanoid bots have been integrated into society as second-class pseudo-citizens. We meet Jared -- bot, dentist, cat-owner -- who has begun to experience curious malfunctions. With a friend’s help, and a heaping dose of old movies, Jared realizes he can feel real emotions. He resolves to journey west to Hollywood, where he’ll write a movie that changes the way humans view bots and paves the way for his bot brothers and sisters to enjoy the full range of human experience. 

Jared’s explanations of human behavior provide a satirical commentary on our curious, often contradictory behaviors (”Humans. I cannot!”). Since films from the pre-bot age figure so prominently in Jared’s emotional awakening, that same satirical analysis is applied to movie synopses, which are rendered with necessary frequency but occasionally feel like overkill. The book relies heavily on a lovely trick of narrative reciprocity; Jared is on an archetypal hero’s journey, even as he strives to write a formulaic screenplay according to the “golden rules” of the fictitious script expert, R.P. McWilliams. But SET MY HEART TO FIVE never feels hackneyed, and in more than one way proves the rule that great stories are all in the telling.

With the innocence and clarity that can only come from being something of a stranger in a strange land, Jared embraces his existence with infectious enthusiasm and charm. It’s virtually impossible not to cheer for his success, even as we’re warned again and again that a great story will “eff us in the heart” at its conclusion. Audio is brilliantly narrated by Christopher Ragland, who manages to imbue the bot cadence we expect with believable nuance and big style. 

Well Played (Jen DeLuca), aBook (narr. Brittany Pressley). I’ve got bad news for fans of WELL MET: If you wondered whether your enjoyment of Deluca’s ren-faire romcom debut of 2019 was due in large part to the book’s setting -- and more specifically, the way h/h’s interactions at the faire advanced the storyline -- the answer is yes. And why is that bad news, you ask? Well, because WELL PLAYED has none of the crackling Emily/Simon tension that carried the first book through its narrative stumbles. In book 2, the glacially slow Act I relies heavily on Stacy’s recitation of what makes her life humdrum, and a long series of email exchanges we *know* are coming from the conspicuously introduced Daniel -- even though Stacy, apparently suffering a traumatic brain injury, convinces herself it’s idiot playboy (and Daniel’s cousin) Dex. Sorry not sorry for the “spoiler,” which is impossible not to see coming from many miles away. Once this pseudo-conflict is resolved, the book boils down to situational fluff: a wedding, a squeaky mattress, the literal number of pumpkin spice lattes Stacy drinks over the course of a month. If it sounds like this is not a plot, that’s because it isn’t. The romance is low-stakes, the “uncrossable divide” that eventually separates h/h is the width and depth of a puddle, and the last third of the book is pretty much solely devoted to setting up a Mitch/April romance in book 3.

Notably, I found references to Stacy’s body-consciousness extremely strange. If we want to normalize average-sized women in romance, maybe we do that by not including, apropos of literally nothing, how “unflattering” woman-on-top sexual positions are?! Stacy is not characterized by self-consciousness, so the moments when her interiority veers toward self-criticism don’t feel necessary. I’m not saying these aren’t authentic thoughts and feelings plenty of women have, but an editor should have pushed DeLuca to answer the question to what end? Why include body hyperawareness in the precise moments when it appears? Like too much of the prose in WELL PLAYED, these inclusions felt like word-count boosting instead of dynamic character development or plot production. Sad as I am to say it, this book was a missed opportunity that shows the danger of rushing book 2 to market. 

The Lady’s Guide to Celestial Mechanics (Olivia Waite), aBook (narr. Morag Sims). This book has been on my radar since its publication last summer. Gorgeous cover aside, I’m always here for diverse historical romance. Sadly, for me, the external stakes here were simply too low, and relied overmuch on the baffling revelation that men -- especially in this historical moment --  underestimate and undermine women. I never felt discernible chemistry between Lucy and Catherine. This could be due, in part, to Morag Sims’ narration, which pitches Catherine’s voice in a low, husky range that accentuated the women’s age difference. From the outset, we learn that Catherine is the widow of one of Lucy’s father’s colleagues; while Lucy is the more sexually forward woman in this partnership, there’s something a little An Education about the whole arrangement. 

On my radar this week:

Piranesi (Susanna Clarke) 

A Deadly Education aBook (Naomi Novik)

We Can Only Save Ourselves ARC (Alison Wisdom)

Angel in a Devil’s Arms (Julie Anne Long)

The Project ARC (Courtney Summers)

The Love Square ARC (Laura Jane Williams)

[the-vorkosigan]

Stony post-cw fix-its recs (MCU mainly)

Since I didn’t have the time to actually create anything for the 10th Anni of Stony, this rec list is my pseudo-contribution.

Since I don’t know how to make it a part of the event otherwise (sorry!), I’m just going to tag @cap-ironman

For more recs, check out this post by @civilwarbrokemyheart. I’m not going to repeat the recs that are already there.

This is in no particular order, and the fics are loosely grouped by absolutely arbitrary criteria :)

Mind the ratings, I guess.

Enjoy!

Romantic, Sweet and/or Funny

Can’t start a fire without a spark by @gottalovev

The Avengers might be reunited, but they are holding together with a Band-Aid and a severe case of Tony pretending nothing happened. The superficial truce is shattered the day Steve takes control of Tony's suit and forces him to go to medical in a tense situation. When Tony is ordered to take a vacation, Steve volunteers to go with him.

one-shot, 36k words

vorkosigan: It’s a roadtrip fic! Steve and Tony go shopping unexpectedly! Tony sings karaoke in a roadside motel! There is also a threesome with an OFC, but it just serves to bring T and S closer together, honestly. The sex scenes are brilliant and detailed, everything else is sweet and wonderful and there is pining :) Mainly Steve PoV as far as I remember. 

You’ve Been Sleeping in the Wild by skyline 

With a pint-sized sneaker dangling somewhere near his nose, and another jabbed into his collar bone, Tony takes out the phone Steve gave him.

Nearly punching the buttons, he types, Vision made my kitchen smell like Staten Island and Clint’s kid is nesting on my face. I need you to stop being a child and come home.

(Or, Tony abuses the bat phone.)

one-shot, 4k words,

vorkosigan: Fucking hilarious! Also v. sweet. Also, informative regarding the workings of the UN, but it doesn’t detract from the story. Just... too funny for words.

Evidence of Things Unsaid by @sheronm (whom I apparently can’t tag for some reason??)

The Avengers (and ex-Avengers) are forced to socialize at a PR event. Why is there never a monster around to attack New York when you need one?

one-shot, 4k words

vorkosigan: Tony cuts his hand and Steve fusses over him. Romantic and sweet, somewhat melancholic, very carefully written and mindful of all the tiny little details I like to see in fic. There’s handholding that melts my heart every time.

I Hope You Have Unlimited Text Messaging by Misscar

:For the first time in their entire acquaintance, Tony and Steve start having really honest conversations with each other via text message, of course.

Or Tony and Steve try to repair their relationship before the next apocalypse. This may take a while. Actually, battling blue and/or purple aliens would be preferable to working through their feelings.

WIP, 52 chapters, 65k words

vorkosigan: My fav texting fic. Occasionally really hilarious, occasionally a bit angsty, but mainly sweet. It’s updated all the time. Also works really well when read in installments. Taking into account politics and world events. I mean, it’s texting, but there’s outward plot too. Tony and Steve are acting really maturely here.

Plotsy

A World Apart by @dapperanachronism

The accords are in pieces, the team is scattered and divided, Steve is in hiding, Tony is trying to move on, and both are left trying to pick up the pieces of what little remains. But the threats that drew them all together in the first place are still out there, and picking up the pieces means finding themselves pulled back together whether they're ready for it or not.

chaptered, completed, 49k words

vorkosigan: Deals with law, politics and things. Then gets really REALLY feelsy towards the end. There’s action too. There’s EVERYTHING. Tony is really angry but at one point gets REALLY worried for Steve (his Steve, whom he loves! <3).

Time travel and interdimensional hopping (because they deserve a category!)

The Breach by Chaylay23

After the war, the remaining Avengers have to rebuild the team and their headquarters. A new armored superhero shows up to help.

chaptered, 76k words, finished

vorkosigan: A multitude of interdimensional Steves! Natasha Stark is a good bro to Tony! Dimension hopping! Plot! Pining! Really, really pining (MCU Steve, I’m looking at you). Hurt!Steve. It’s wonderful!

A New Way For Us by ann2who ( @stark-spangled-lovers )

They fight Thanos—and they’re losing. And before Tony knows what’s happening, he’s standing with Doctor Strange in front of the Eye of Agamotto and gets send back in time. Can he find a way to fix things this time around, or are they doomed to fall apart all over again?

chaptered, finished, 24k words

vorkosigan: Tones returns to the past, to his pre-Ultron body, but keeps his memories. Does things differently. Gets really close with Steve, for one. LOTS of very sweet Stony moments. Real focus on development of the relationship. Not too heavy on angst (as these things go).

Oh, the ANGST

No Amount of Guilt (can change the past) by kiminsocks

Tony's in town for an Accords conference. Steve is in town to make sure nothing happens at that conference. They meet in a bar, and it's a second chance for first impressions.

one-shot, 6k words

vorkosigan: Steve wears a different face, and it’s post-CW identity porn. I’ve read it only, oh, half a million times. It’s the saddest and the gentlest, and ends on a really hopeful note.

Last Train Home by @erdesque

Steve writes letters to Tony that he never sends. By the time he hands them to their rightful owner, Tony has had a brush with death, has retired as a superhero, and now has a small town workshop of his very own. But it's okay, Steve has gone into retirement too.

one-shot, 11k words

vorkosigan: It’s rolling-on-the-floor-clutching-stomach type of angst. Steve’s pining is palpable. The getting together is BEAUTIFUL and super-romantic. The ending is sweet as can be.

Bring Him Home by seventymilestobabylon

Tony misses Steve very badly after the Accords. Some days he deals with it better than other days. (a fic featuring the booty call flip phone, minor kidnappings, and time jumps between chapters because the election has been happening and my brain has been too mush to make a proper plot)

chaptered, finished, 14k words

vorkosigan: Tony PoV, for change, if I remember correctly. Tony decides to fix Bucky because he thinks Steve loves Bucky. And Tony loves Steve. And, needless to say, Steve loves Tony. (And Bucky kinda loves Sam). The piniiiing all around. Wonderfully written, deceptively easy to read. Unputdownable. One of the best sex scenes in all fic ever, if you ask me.

How to Fall in Love (in Four Easy Steps) by morphia 

Tony and Pepper's relationship is open, with only one clear rule: they must never let the other catch them with a fling. Soon after the events of The Avengers, Tony finally uses his license to sleep with others--with Steve. And Steve knows that their sexual encounters are intended to be strictly casual, but that doesn't stop him from falling hopelessly, stupidly in love.

Or: What if they were actually banging behind the scenes?

chaptered, finished, 25k words

vorkosigan: Missing scenes (sex and feels), all the way to the aftermath of CW. Steve PoV (I think), and LOTS of pining. Very romantic and feelsy. Super-rewarding happy ending.

All Roads by lastdream AND Unweaving by Night  by lastdream

All Roads, in which Steve is a terrible nomad and a terrible flâneur, but he might just be an alright Odysseus. (one-shot, 5k)

Unweaving by Night,  in which Tony is a terrible traitor and a terrible jackal, but he just might be an alright Penelope. (one-shot, 5k)

vorkosigan: Parallel stories, character studies, super-angsty, full of pining. Very original writing style. I’d read All Roads first. Hopeful open ending.

Causality, Catastrophe and Consequences by @winterstar95

Atonement, forgiveness, guilt, and consequences. One year later and no one has come out of it unscathed.

chaptered, finifshed, 36k words

vorkosigan: Interchanging PoV’s. Steve is on the run. Goes to see Tony’s speech, prevents his assassination, ends up in coma. They haven’t quite forgiven each other. HURTS to read. One of the angstiest things I ever read. Super-original, writing-wise. Every small moment of tenderness is very rewarding because EVERYTHING IS ANGST. Hopeful open ending. Not very shippy.

WIP (will the fix-its fix anything?)

From the Ashes (series) by @erdesque

Out of the black

If he had known, he wouldn't have trusted Rogers so blindly. He wouldn't have begun to think he could understand his dad a little better just because he could finally see what a young Howard Stark had seen in Captain America. Tony doesn't want anything to do with Steve Rogers ever again, or so he tells himself. (chaptered, finished, 15k words, non-shippy)

From the ashes

I’m not quite myself if you’re not there to be my foil, and that has to count for something. Steve tries to mend his relationship with Tony. His intentions aren't well received, but at least Tony is speaking to him now, and that's a start. (one-shot, 3k words)

Unshattered

It's really a split of a second, but for a moment there both of them remain in silence staring at each other, and it's a throwback to that moment in Siberia where a truce seemed more likely than shit hitting the fan. Steve picks up the pieces from their relationship and tries to make them better. As the official tinker of things, Tony isn't happy with Steve's shoddy work. At first. (chaptered, WIP, 56k words)

vorkosigan: This is absolutely wonderful But, although it’s good from the start, it really came together for me in the second part, and the third part is AMAZING. Also, so steeped in angst you’ll barely be able to read (which is why everyone should read it, obvs)

Irreparable by @aslightstep

It's a mistake destroying Steve's gesture of goodwill, Tony thinks, even as he takes an unholy amount of glee smashing that stupid phone to bits down in his lab and DUM-E waits eagerly with a fire extinguisher for the last of the letter to burn down. But it's a mistake Tony is happy to make.

WIP, 100k words, chaptered

vorkosigan: You’ve read this one :) Also, even if it never gets finished, it’s absolutely and indisputably worth reading.

Porny, with a chance of feels (fix-its that solve things mainly through sex. or, as my 12 y.o. mind calls them, sex-its)

weigh the heart, tip the scales by carzla

It was the first time they’d seen each other since Siberia. It was probably one of the worst possible ways to have an unscheduled reunion. It was also about to get worse. A lot worse.

one-shot, 14k words

vorkosigan: Aliens made them do it, sort of. Super-angsty. Dom-sub undertones. With feels. Also, Steve is tied to a chair. And he’s got super-sensitive nipples. Somewhat-hopeful open ending.

Postscript by synteis

When Steve and Tony accidentally meet up in Vienna a month after the events of Civil War, things don't go quite as expected. There's a lot less yelling for one and their main problem is that no one thought to bring condoms.

one-shot, 4k words

vorkosigan: Tony PoV. Unexpected (and easily deniable) feels. Very good descriptions. Blowjobs in a storage room of a coffee house. Rather hopeful open ending.

Fixitish, Almost-fixits, Bordering on fix-its

Exposed by trollmela

The Avengers are back together, but nothing is okay. In public and with the team, Tony and Steve are coldly professional. The team at least knows that they still argue behind closed doors. Then the world finds out that Tony and Steve are having hate sex. Nothing is okay.

two-shot, finished, 3k words

vorkosigan: I ADORE this. I’ve read it so many times. Starts with hate sex. Ends rather tenderly. A good, honest to god punch in the gut, but with a happy-ish ending.

the calculation by tonystarxk (romanoff)

One year post-Civil War, and the team are back together.At least they're back living together. As in cohabiting the same space. 'Back together' is probably too optimistic.

one-shot, 7k words

vorkosigan: Another one that starts with hate sex and ends hopefully, but not as hopefully as Exposed. But still. I’ve reread that happy-ish, hopeful-ish ending SO many times, because asdfjkl; It’s so horrible, but it’s so good.

Put my Head Under My Pillow by lazywriter7 

Tony uses the BARF tech to get over his nightmares of Siberia.

one-shot, 10k words,

vorkosigan: Tony tries over and over to fix his memories. Steve watches the recordings. It’s super angsty, but again, ends on a hopeful note, there is catharsis. Amazingly written.

Lines of Communication by @cptxrogers

And you think you could take me, do you, Stark?”

“I’d give it a good fucking try. I’d like to shove you into the nearest wall and wrap my hands around your damn neck.”

“Oh yeah? And then what?”

Post-CACW, a series of phone calls between Tony and Steve.

one-shot, 5k words

vorkosigan: Fighting and dirty talk and phone sex, oh my! It’s perfect, it really is, and it really, really works.