#I'll post it to AO3 tomorrow!

[reineydraws]

happy 10th anniversary to the finale of the show that gave me my first real fandom community experience! 🥰💖🎉 so here's some art of merlin ✨️just holding✨️ arthur, then and now. (cries)

anyways arthur's back and he's cuddling with merlin and learning how to use a smart phone because i said so. that's the real ending. 😤

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[aimbutmiss]

The day started like any other normal day. And it was, to Mihawk at least.

Yes, it was his birthday, but he never really cared for the occasion. Was he grateful for the life he was given? Of course he was. But he never saw the point in celebrating. He remembered the day when Shanks had showed up out of nowhere, ten years or so ago. He was overjoyed to see the man, hands itching to reach for Yoru, but the man stopped him with a whine.

"Nooooo, I come in peace! We can't fight, not today of all days!"

He held up the bottle in his hand with a bright smile. "We're gonna party until the sun goes down and comes back up!"

A frown pulled down on Mihawk's face, who was not quite understanding the situation. "What are you talking about?"

Shanks' smile quickly dropped too. "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday."

Ah, right. So that's what this was about. The man had told him his date of birth some time ago, and in his surprise and perhaps slight tipsiness, he had admitted that they shared the same birthday. In hindsight, he should have known the red head would pull something like this. It was definitely in character. He sighed in frustration.

"I'm not quite the type to celebrate. You know I don't like to party like you folk."

"That's nonsense!" Shanks walked up to him and slapped a hand on his back, strong enough to send a normal man flying. But of course, Mihawk didn't move an inch. "Parties are like, the best part of being a pirate! And even if I respect your mysterious and lonely guy schtick, it's your damn birthday! You can make an exception for one day of the year."

He looked up, reminiscing about the past. "The captain was very firm about that. He would throw me and Buggy the most extravagant parties. He never once forgot; can you believe that?"

The captain he was talking about was indeed the King of the Pirates, Gold Roger. It had shocked Mihawk at first, learning about Shanks’ past. But the more he got to know the man, the more it made sense. A man of his caliber couldn’t have come from anything else. Shanks was a very talkative drunkard, so Mihawk was used to listening to stories about that time of his life. And frankly, he quite enjoyed it. These men in his stories and the stuff they went through were like straight out of legends... He gave a small smile to the excited man in front of him. "I guess I could indulge you just this once, but only because it's your birthday too."

He snapped out of the memories and slowly got out of bed, having had enough nostalgia to last him the day. But he was stopped by a floating hand pulling on his night gown.

"Stay."

Mihawk looked to the source of the muffled protest, which happened to be the blue mess in his bed. "Let go, Buggy."

"Nooooooo..."

He sighed as he sat back down on the bed, fingers immediately going for the soft blue locks. An approving hum came from the clown as he brushed through his hair with his long fingers.

This sleepy man, with whom he shared a bed, was one of those from Shanks’ stories. Except he was nothing like them. He wasn’t brave and fearless like in the stories, he was weak. But he knew exactly what he was and what he was capable of, and Mihawk loved him for that. He was charming beyond words, and a little stupid, but Mihawk was into that, as embarrassing as it was.

“Get back into bed and get your birthday cuddles.”

Mihawk chuckled at his partner. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

He got up to leave for the bathroom. “Do you know where Crocodile went?”

“Nope! How should I know?” Buggy answered way too quickly, which made the swordsman’s brows furrow.

“Hm. He’s probably in his office like usual.”

“Yes! That’s it.” Buggy exclaimed in triumph, for what he didn’t know. “He’s such a workaholic.”

“Indeed.” He replied nonchalantly as he reached for his razor.

“Wait!” Buggy ran out of bed to his side with a smile. “Let me do that for you.”

Mihawk stared at him with a raised brow. “You want to help me shave? For what reason exactly?”

“It’ll be relaxing! I’m good with my hands, you know.” Buggy wiggled his brows suggestively, which made his lips curve just the slightest bit. The clown could be funny sometimes, mostly when he wasn’t trying. Oh, how he loved this silly man.

“You literally have no reason to do this.”

Buggy sighed in frustration. “I’m just trying to pamper you, birthday boy. Take it or leave it.”

Mihawk thought about it for a second, and reluctantly gave the razor to the clown. “You better not mess this up. I have a very particular- “

“I’m aware, dear. Just trust me.”

He gently held his face and got to work, carving out the intricate design with capable movements. After he was done, he wiped his face with a fresh towel and gave him a kiss on the cheek to seal the deal.

“Was that a part of the service?” Mihawk jokingly asked.

“Only for you, handsome.”

Mihawk was never one for being coddled, always believing that being spoiled was being looked down upon. He didn’t need special attention and privilege to make it in life. But this, this he could get used to.

He pulled Buggy into a kiss that started innocent, but quickly grew more desperate. He was sneaking his hands under Buggy’s polka dot pyjama shirt when the man pushed him away.

“Nuh uh.”

“Nuh uh?” Mihawk stared at his boyfriend in bewilderment.

“Not now. I’ll give your birthday gift at night.”

Mihawk frowned. “It’s my birthday now too. What difference does it make?”

“God, you’re impatient. Night. No negotiating.”

Mihawk pursed his lips and didn’t protest. He was not happy, though.

Buggy stayed with him throughout the day, keeping him company and making sure he stayed away from the beach.

Yes, Mihawk could tell. But to be fair, Buggy wasn’t exactly being subtle. But he didn’t say a word, indulging in whatever the man was planning.

A surprise party, perhaps? God, he really hoped it wasn’t that. Crowds and being the center of attention didn’t agree with his constitution.

And where was his other partner (both in romantic and business contexts), Crocodile? He wasn’t in his office like he initially assumed. He was sure Buggy knew where the man was but refrained from asking questions. He was quite sure the two situations were somehow connected.

That in itself was quite ridiculous to think about. Crocodile didn’t seem like the type of man to care about birthdays either, like himself. Maybe Buggy had somehow convinced him? It all seemed very unnecessary. He knew the clown had good intentions, but he would have been fine if no one acknowledged his birthday at all. It wasn’t of importance to him, simple as that.

Then why was this bothering him so much? He tried to focus on Buggy’s rambling but that feeling did not leave.

Why did it feel so wrong to be celebrated just for existing? To be loved and cared for?

Don’t get him wrong, he wasn’t unhappy with it. Quite the opposite actually. But it just felt so… foreign. He needed time to adjust, to make his peace with it.

He thought he had gotten over this particular problem after he formed a relationship with his two business partners. It had taken a lot out of him to simply let them in, to feel comfortable in their presence, to not fret from every touch… And even though he trusted them completely, here he was doubting his place.

It just didn’t make sense. They were wasting their time and effort for an inconsequential event that would pass by, leaving nothing changed. So, what if he got a year older? What did that change? Why did they care so much about something he himself didn’t care for? To show their love? But Mihawk already knew they loved him.

“Earth to Mihawk, hello?”

Mihawk snapped out of his thoughts, staring at Buggy’s concerned eyes. “Hm? Sorry, I got lost in thoughts. You were saying?”

“I was saying I want to walk along the beach… You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m alright, just a bit sluggish today. And sure, we can go for a stroll.”

He walked hand in hand with Buggy, trying to ease his mind and keep small talk going. He wasn’t big on physical touch, but he really appreciated the warmth of Buggy’s hand then. The clown always had a way of comforting him without trying. Mihawk stopped walking when he saw the dinner table placed on the beach. That certainly wasn’t there before. It was adorned with red roses and lit candles, setting a romantic atmosphere. Crocodile was standing beside the table, looking at his pocket watch.

“You’re late.”

“I know! I got lost in my speaking, and hawk eyes didn’t try to stop me so I lost track of time…”

“You and your big mouth… I guess it’s alright, we didn’t miss the sunset.”

Crocodile walked up to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and sharing a chaste kiss.

“Happy birthday, hawk eyes.”

“Thank you.” Mihawk broke the eye contact as he felt his cheeks get hotter.

Crocodile gave a sly smirk. “Someone’s being bashful.”

“Well, I didn’t expect… this. I was convinced you were throwing me a party.”

Buggy frowned at the thought. “Of course not! That would make you uncomfortable, wouldn’t it? That’s the last thing I would want on your birthday. A private dinner on the other hand…”

“Is much more your style, is it not?” Crocodile completed Buggy’s sentence.

Mihawk was the luckiest man alive. He gave his lovers a small smile. “Yes, indeed it is. You are too thoughtful.”

“It’s literally the bare minimum but okay.”

“I can’t believe this, but I agree with the clown. What kind of partners would we be if we didn’t know your preferences?”

Mihawk sat on the chair the taller man pulled out for him as Buggy poured him a glass of wine, one of his favorites that happened to be quite expensive.

“I just don’t quite get what’s so important about this day, or what you would go through all this trouble for.”

Crocodile and Buggy shared a glance and turned to him with sad eyes.

“Because it’s the day you came into this world, and therefore to our lives? Because we love you?”

“Indeed. I don’t see what’s so confusing about us wanting to cherish the man we love, to show him how much he means to us. Is that a problem?”

Mihawk stared at the two in astonishment and eventually, a big smile stretched across his lips. “No, not at all.”

The swordsman had a lot to learn about love, about being loved, but he had two perfect partners to help him through the steps. He could get used to celebrating his birthday if it meant he got to share it with the people he loved. Maybe that’s what he had been missing all these years to give this day a meaning. Company.

And after dinner, Buggy didn’t forget about his promise from the morning. Easy to say Mihawk went to sleep a very tired but satisfied man.

[plainclothesdisaster]

Red Knight Chapter 3 - Ghosts in Gotham

DP x DC | Dead on Main

Jason Todd encounters one Danny Fenton in the streets of Gotham and suddenly he's thrown into a world of ghosts and monsters. Will he embrace this life? Or will it just end up with him dead again?

Read on AO3 | Beginning | < Prev | Next >

--

Jason didn’t go home. Instead, he melted into the shadows across the street from the diner and waited. A few minutes later Danny emerged and got on his motorbike. He revved the engine and began to speed away.

Jason would find out who the hell this guy was. (And if he was totally full of shit). He waited a moment before shooting a grapple line and pursuing.

Fifteen minutes later he found himself on a rooftop across the street from a simple apartment on the fourth floor of an old building. Using the binocular zoom on his helmet he watched Danny inside. He looked tired and utterly human as he went though the motions of getting ready for bed. As he took off his shirt Jason winced at the scars all across his body— most noticeably the Lichtenberg figure that cascaded up his arm and over his shoulder. The amount of electricity needed to leave that kind of mark— something like that should have killed him.

Maybe it had.

Minutes later Danny turned out the light and went to sleep. Jason didn’t leave. The pit was quiet. It stayed quiet all night.

In the morning Jason followed as Danny took the train across the city to Gotham University. Jason blended with the other students as he tailed him through the halls until Danny entered what appeared to be an upper level mechanical engineering lecture. Instead of following him in He headed back to Danny’s apartment.

He opted to pick the lock— better not to leave a trace. Inside he found a fairly typical college apartment. Sparse furnishings, a couple faded band posters tacked to the walls, game controllers strewn about. It was homey. Nice.

Jason found nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen, nor the closets. No laptop or phone— must have taken them with him. Jason rifled through papers on the messy desk- lecture notes, sketched diagrams, grocery lists- and started to think that he really wan’t going to get anything good on this guy. Then he touched something that jolted him with an electric shock.

Jason pulled his hand away with a whispered curse while shuffling off the remaining papers, revealing some kind of metal belt. It had wires sticking out, chips exposed, clearly an unfinished project. What gave Jason pause was the faint strange glow about it, green with the same energy he saw in Danny’s palm and in his eyes.

He reached a hand toward it again. As soon as his fingers got close he felt the buzz of energy start to sharpen. The pit under his heart snarled. He pulled his hand back.

Mysterious gadgetry certainly was a little suspect, but by itself didn’t point to any nefarious intention. He thought about taking the belt to study it further, but doing proper diagnostics would require help from Tim, or worse, Bruce. No, thanks. Too many questions he didn’t want to answer.

He glanced at the papers again. He saw a full name there. Danny Fenton.

Danny Fenton. A powerful not-meta meta. Also, by the looks of it, just some average guy. That didn’t mean Jason would take his guard down. He knew that metas and monsters often hid in plain sight. And the ones that did it well were the most dangerous.

//

Jason went back to his apartment and slept through the rest of the day.

He woke up that night with a gun in his face.

A shadowed smile leered down at him. “So you are the new ghost boy. You’ll make a fine addition to my collection.”

A green blast split his bed down the middle as he leapt out of the way just in time. Who the fuck?

Jason grabbed the bat he kept next to his nightstand and took a wild swing at his assailant. As the sleep cleared from his eyes a seven foot tall robotic guy with a flaming green mohawk came into focus. His attacker stopped the bat in his hand with surprising strength.

“Ah good, you do have some fight in you.”

The robot guy punched Jason in the gut, launching him across the room. That hurt, way more than a hit from a common goon. What the hell was this guy made of?

Jason pulled himself up and grabbed a gun off the kitchen counter. He leveled it with easy precision. He planted one shot in the robot guy’s chest, the other between his eyes.

His aim was perfect.

Neither shot connected.

The bullets passed right through him. Jason’s mouth went dry.

“Hah, those puny weapons won’t work on me. Now this-“ what could only be described as a rocket launcher emerged from the robotics on the robot guy’s shoulder- “this is a real gun.”

The rockets fired, fueled again by that green energy. Jason bolted for the window and crashed out onto the fire escape, taking a hit to the side as he did. The blast burned but thankfully didn’t break the skin. Still hurt like a bitch though. The pit screamed, but the rage felt more focused now than it had before. Methodically he swung his way down to the street, landing bare-footed and in his sweats, unmasked and unarmed except for the useless gun in his hand. His attacker pursued, emerging through the wall and flying after him.

Jason gritted his teeth. The green energy, the familiar powers— it was too much to be just a coincidence. Ghost, he named his attacker in his head. Like Danny.

He ran.

The ghost caught up with him before he’d made it two buildings down. “Is that all you can do? Scurry around down there like a scared little mouse?”

More blasts assailed him from more varieties of guns. Jason dodged, but just barely. If he could just make it to his safehouse then— then what? He could shoot this guy with more guns that didn’t work? Hide behind walls that the ghost could walk right through?

He heard the next shot too late. A glowing rope wrapped itself around his ankles, sending him stumbling to the asphalt face first. Weak, he thought as he spit out gravel. He’d never felt so weak, not since coming back. For the first time since he emerged from the pit he no longer felt invincible.

His attacker landed with a metallic clank. Jason glowered as the ghost cracked a jagged smile. “That’s it? Your combat is weak. Your banter is lacking. Your head is hardly worth mounting above my mantle.”

Anger smoldered beneath Jason’s heart, pulling in on itself versus the usual explosion. His legs were bound but his hands were still free. He tightened his grip on his pistol.

With a roaring yell he heaved himself half up and swung the gun on the ghost again. He focused his anger, focused that pointed energy, and pulled the trigger.

A bullet shrouded in green flame exploded from the barrel. It connected with the ghost’s stomach, sending a shower of sparks spraying as it tore through the robotics.

The ghost looked down in shock.

Jason smiled in triumph. “How’s that for a real gun.”

Then Jason unloaded, pulling the trigger as fast as he could make it go. He kept shooting even when he should have run out of ammo, each shot a flaming green spark that took a chunk out of the robot ghost with every hit.

“What is this? Impossible!” The ghost took off yelling, retreating back down the street. Jason ripped the rope from his ankles and got on his feet to chase.

Ghost or not, this part Jason knew. Bad guy on the run, him in pursuit. He let his shaken nerves melt into a familiar resolve. The ghost shot back at him but Jason’s focus was unshakeable. His phantom bullets took the guns clean off the robot suit till it was covered in shredded metal.

Finally the ghost flew up, desperate to get out of range, defeated. “I underestimated you whelp. Until next time.”

With that the ghost activated his jet pack and flew away into the night. Jason kept shooting till he vanished over the rooftops.

//

That was not the last attack. They came nightly after that, some new kind of ghost would appear and stir up trouble. He’d notice them on patrol now- glowing vultures on the roofs or a green lion stalking in the park or translucent octopi floating down the streets. Had they always been there and he just hadn’t noticed? Or had they just showed up? The more he watched the more it seemed that other people didn’t see them.

Or maybe they just didn’t care. Just another one of those Gotham things.

Most ignored him entirely but caused trouble in different ways— lurking in sewers and tugging at people’s hems or floating through stores causing electronics to malfunction. Harmless mostly. But ever present. Those ones eventually noticed Jason watching and they’d always look back at him with surprise or curiosity or a sick kind of delight.

Sometimes Jason would pick the fight. He punched a ghost creep following a lady too closely as she walked down the street. Chased off a demonic possum that was oozing some kind of goo into the river. Other times the fight would pick him. He stared too long at a vulture and it swooped down on him, brandishing impossible teeth. A headless guy jumped him outside his safe house. He looked awfully similar to one of Gothams former gang bosses.

He was getting bette at harnessing that green energy and he could reliably shoot energy bullets from any of his guns. He also found that an old fashioned punch would also do the trick.

Once he saw an oily black creature at the edges of his vision, larger and more sinister than any of the other ghosts he’d encountered. A brawl in the street broke out a moment later so he didn’t get to investigate but somehow that one made him feel more unnerved than all the rest.

He didn’t understand where they were coming from or why they were here. He knew someone who probably would.

During daylight hours he gathered intel on Danny Fenton- or at least he attempted to. It was like the kid didn’t exist before he showed up as a student at Gotham University. The internet was shockingly clean of any records or photos.

Jason was beginning to think Danny Fenton was just a pseudonym until finally he got a relevant hit. He found an article published in a now-discredited scientific journal by Dr.s Jack and Madeline Fenton, detailing their paranormal research. The paper theorized about a separate dimension of post-concious beings. Suggested ways to make a portal there. It was too similar to what Danny described to be coincidence. Those were his parents, that was the portal that killed him. Maybe it was all true.

But Jason didn’t find any evidence that they had successfully created the portal. The paper talked about it in theory, not practice. The only evidence of them making it real was Danny himself. If he even believed Danny’s story.

Using a trick he stole from Tim he searched the housing records database and found a property under their names in Amity Park, Illinois. Satellite imaging showed a house that looked like a ufo had crashed landed on top of it. He chuckled to himself. That must be the place.

He was out grabbing a bite of dinner and considering a little field trip to Illinois to investigate further when the next ghost attack happened.

One second he was biting into his sandwich, the next three giant glowing green rats, just like the nasty ones that roamed Gotham’s sewers except 10 times bigger, burst out of the kitchen of the restaurant and out into the street.

Jason abandoned the sandwich and chased them out the door, pulling out his gun as they ran down an alley.

“Quit causing trouble on my turf,” Jason growled as he loosed a few blasts in their direction.

The rats stopped and turned back toward him halfway down the alley. The biggest one sat up and looked at him with sharp eyes. “Your turf? You got it twisted buddy. This here is our turf.”

Out of nowhere a fourth rat tackled him from behind. It’s boxy teeth clamped down on his shoulder with a sickening crunch. Jason yelled as he was thrown to the ground and suddenly all of them were on him, clawing and biting.

Jason clawed and bit back. He carried a gun even in his civvies (obviously) but couldn’t reach it in the thick of it.

He was truly starting to get pissed when suddenly the temperature dropped ten degrees. A voice came from down the alley.

“Hey.”

The rats froze. As a group they all looked toward the voice. At the mouth of the alley, plastic bodega bag in hand, face stern, stood Danny.

“What the hell is this?”

The head rat spoke up. “This is our turf. Tell the new guy he needs to buzz off before we make him.”

Danny folded his arms. His face was stoic but his voice had an icy edge. “I think you should be a bit more friendly to your neighbor.”

The rats reacted immediately, untangling themselves from Jason. “Jeez your majesty we were only joking. Mi casa es su casa and all that.”

“Good. Now scram.”

They scrambled away down the alley with a skittering of claws, running like they had hellfire under their asses.

Jason let out a long breath. Danny looked at him with complete recognition even though he was bare faced and in street clothes. Of course he could clock him out of costume. Why didn’t that surprise him?

Jason propped himself up on one arm. “Your majesty?”

“They don’t mean it as a compliment.” Danny huffed as he knelt down next to Jason, reaching out a gentle hand to inspect his wounds.

Danny’s jaw tightened as he ran a thumb over a gash in Jason’s arm. Jason pulled back.

“I’m fine.”

Danny reluctantly sat back. “There has been more ghost activity lately. Sorry I didn’t catch these guys quicker.”

“It’s okay. I dealt with the rest just fine.”

Danny tensed. “The rest?”

“I’ve been dealing with them since we got coffee. Nearly every night.“

Real anger flashed in Danny’s eyes for just a moment. It surprised Jason, and reminded him how much Danny wasn’t telling him.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Danny looked at Jason with such bare concern it made his heart feel sticky.

Jason grumbled. “I had it handled.”

“How??” Danny whined.

Jason pulled out his gun, pointed upward. Danny frowned, skeptical, until Jason pulled the trigger. A green blast shot into the sky. He shouldn’t have gotten so much satisfaction from surprise on Danny’s face.

“Oh,” Danny said. “Neat trick. That’s new?”

Jason nodded.

Danny sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Despite that, there’s no way I’m letting you deal with these ghosts on your own.”

“Let me?” Jason scoffed. “I don’t need your help.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “So you were planning on being rat food just now?”

“I almost had them.”

Danny chuckled. Jason didn’t waver. Then Danny got that glint in his eye.

“Okay. Then prove it.”

“What?”

“Show me you can actually handle a ghost attack and I’ll leave you alone.”

Jason wanted that, right? To not have to think about Danny Fenton popping up randomly in his life again? He ignored the twist of confusion in his gut.

“How? There’s no ghosts.”

Danny stood up and gestured to himself with a smirk.

“You’re joking.” Jason deadpanned.

“Try me.”

Guess that was always how this was gonna shake out. Sure, why not. Stone-faced and without hesitation Jason pulled a second pistol out of his belt and shot a green blast directly at Danny with a sizzling crack. Danny took the hit on the shoulder with barely a flinch. He glanced down at the burn hole on his shirt. The skin beneath was unbroken.

Danny’s smile widened, and there were those fangs again. “That it?”

Jason clenched his teeth and sprang into action. He launched to his feet as he brandished both guns in front of himself, shooting rapid fire.

Danny moved like a practiced fighter, ducking and weaving around the shots. A handful hit him but they didn’t break his focus or his stride. Jason stepped back to keep distance but Danny was quicker. Suddenly he was close enough that Jason felt the coolness of his breath.

His fist came quick. Jason threw up his arm to block. He barely managed to keep his feet under him. The next punch connected with his gut and sent him shuffling backwards, but still upright. He used the space to pull up his guns again and fired.

Danny jumped and suddenly he was lighter than air, floating and flipping over Jason’s head. Jason tracked him with the guns and spun as Danny landed, again too close.

Jason holstered the guns and opted to grab Danny by the front of his shirt with both hands. He turned and slammed Danny into the alley wall.

“You are strong I’ll give you that,” Danny said, the amused grin on his lips mere inches from Jason’s, “But ghosts have tricks.”

Suddenly Jason was holding nothing but air. His fingers clenched into fists.

Barely a breath later Jason felt a cheek next to his, behind him.

“Boo.” Danny said directly in Jason’s ear. Jason elbowed backward reflexively, connecting with Danny’s gut. Danny let out a satisfying oof before slipping out of reach.

It fell into the rhythm of a brawl then as they traded blows. But even with the bits of ghostly flair Danny threw in, it felt off. Danny wasn’t fighting like the other ghosts he’d faced. He was fighting like a human. He was holding back.

Jason ground his teeth together as his anger bubbled to a boil. Stepping back to steal enough distance, he pulled out his pistols. He let the anger swirl and coalesce under his heart. He focused and pulled both triggers at once.

A massive green fireball exploded from the combined gun barrels, hurtling toward Danny.

There was no time for Danny to dodge. Jason relished the surprise on his face. But right before the fireball collided, Danny extended a palm and a translucent green shield appeared, covering him. The fireball dissipated on impact.

Jason groaned in frustration. Another power he didn’t know about? How was that fair?

“Why are you holding back?” he demanded.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Danny’s shield disappeared. “But I could ask you the same question.”

“What?” Jason was barely keeping up as is.

“I think you can do better than this.” Danny challenged.

Jason tightened his grip on his guns. Danny relaxed his fighting stance. “Can’t you go toe to toe with Batman? Even my sister would at least be making me sweat.”

Again that roiling focused anger under his heart, swirling like a supernova. Danny just looked at him with that shit-eating grin. He let the fire of anger burn hotter to cover the rising of something else underneath.

“Be serious.” Jason growled.

“Make me.”

With a roar Jason blasted another huge fireball and the fight was back on.

Jason actually wanted to hurt Danny now. He wanted to prove to himself that he could. He moved faster, punched harder, let out more of that fire with each shot.

The next time Danny got up close and Jason swapped to his fists, Jason noticed a green fiery glow had formed around his hands. Danny did too, when he winced for the first time after a punch connected. The pit under his heart hummed in triumph.

After that it was less easy for Danny to slip away into intangibility, more easy for Jason to press the offensive. Finally Jason swept Danny’s legs from under him and pinned him to the ground, a mirror of the first night they met.

Jason’s breath came in pants. He gripped Danny’s shirt tight in his fist.

“Not bad.” Danny flashed his fangs.

Jason lifted a fist to punch that stupid smile off his jaw but Danny threw up a hand and caught his fist, inches before it hit, stopping it with unshakeable strength.

“Believe me now when I say I’ve got it handled myself?” Jason kept his tone even.

Danny eyed Jason’s still-glowing fist. “More now than before, yeah. But-“ Danny pushed Jason’s fist aside with infuriating ease. He pulled his legs out from underneath Jason with intangibility and floated smoothly to his feet.

“I’m still going to help you.”

“That wasn’t the deal. You said if I-“

A blast of green energy to his stomach cut him off, stronger and faster than any of the punches they’d traded. Danny grabbed Jason by the jacket and they flew, up to the top of the twelve story building. Danny looked at him with empty eyes. And dropped him.

Jason didn’t scream. He scrambled for his grapple gun. He was falling too fast. He got a hand on it, too late- but it didn’t matter. Danny swooped down and pushed him intangibly through the ground at the moment of impact. He felt himself being dragged up through darkness until-

He was stuck in the alley pavement up to his waist. Danny crouched next to him.

“I promise this is a warning not a threat. I didn’t realize that patching up your core would put you over the threshold to get ghostly attention. They won’t stop bothering you. And they won’t all be small fry. If you won’t let me take care of them for you, at least let me give you a fighting chance.”

Jason glowered up at him. “You’re not going to let me out of here unless I say yes.”

Danny smiled, the most brilliant thing in the dark street. “Bingo.”

Next >

[m4rs-ex3]

surprise

i got it!!!! technically not late!!!!!!!!!

enjoy(ish)~

[buckera]

Wip Wednesday ☔️

Tagged and tagging @diazsdimples @theotherbuckley @exhuastedpigeon @nmcggg @disasterbuckdiaz @ladydorian05 @daffi-990 and my lovelies @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns mwuah mwuah💛💛

Guess what, guys? The first chapter of the mudslide fic is getting posted tomorrow! Which is just so unbelievable to me?? Despite posting 10 fics prior to this one, it was the first fic I started writing for this ship and I've been working on it (on and off) since september and now here we are... absolute bonkers if you ask me.

Now, I know there are like 4 people who are actually interested in this fic – and that's fine, honestly –, but I for one am very excited. So I thought I'd give you guys a longer snippet for today. I actually shared parts of this scene in like 3 different instalments from both of their povs lmao but this one is from chapter one so you'll get the full(ish) picture tomorrow.

“Eddie, a-are you sure you’re alright?” “Yeah, sorry. I guess I’m just tired.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Eddie, if there’s something going on, you have to tell me.” “There’s nothing going on, I promise.” Buck raised his eyebrows challengingly and as it had so many times before, it made Eddie sigh in defeat. “It’s. It’s the weather.” He gave in with a heavy sigh and it didn’t quite stop Buck from frowning, but he had to admit, it made sense. It’s been raining for over two weeks now as a storm came to California and Buck would be lying if he said that it didn’t affect him in any way, but he was handling it. The only thing he didn’t account for was that maybe Eddie wasn’t. “Hey, it’s okay.” Buck stepped closer and for some reason Eddie was avoiding his gaze now, so he didn’t stop walking until they were standing toe to toe, the proximity forcing his eyes back onto Buck’s face. “Look. This?” He pulled the neckline of his shirt aside to show Eddie more of the scarring over his neck and chest. “This is a reminder that I pulled through.” He knew what kind of marks a lighting strike could leave on someone’s body, but he never really got to see his own. By the time he woke up from his coma, the patterns were gone — unlike the painful and itchy blisters that took over their place; they lasted for nearly two months and despite all the cold compresses and cooling gels, they still left a hefty amount of scar tissue behind, in the shape of abstract lines and ragged edges. Eddie reached out and traced some of the lines above his collarbone with his fingers and Buck couldn’t help but let his eyes flutter shut for a second with the softness of his touch. The pads of his fingers were warm as they brushed over the shiny silver lines and patches, yet Buck could still feel goosebumps build on his forearms and thighs with every microinch he covered. Suddenly, Eddie’s fingers were gone, pulled away abruptly, almost as if they got burned by the contact, leaving his hand to float in the air between them aimlessly. “Sorry.” Eddie whispered and they were just so close. All the what ifs have started to murmur in the back of Buck’s skull with renewed vigor, buzzing like radio static behind his eyes, begging to be turned up for clarity. “Eddie I—” “It’s okay, Buck.” He flattened his palm over Buck’s heart, only the thin layer of his shirt separating them now. “Thank you, for this.” Eddie patted his chest and stepped back, leaving Buck dumbfounded as to what exactly just happened.

[vinelark]

all caught up on the bbts reread 💪💪

just in time!!!

[presumenothing]

so we all know the drill, yeah? my keyboard slipped etc etc and thus i present: 吉祥纹莲花楼 aka LOTUS CASEBOOK (the novel) CHAPTER ONE: TASTER EDITION further aka "the first chapter, but minus the Case Exposition bit because wow noooope". note also that this is not as serious nor thoroughly-edited as some of my other TLs (nif fandom alumni may remember me from known, unknown aka this absolute unit/research spiral of a post-canon fic; this is Not That and also, hi!!). and now with that out of the way, enjoy! ETA: fixed some missing bits that got eaten while posting to tumblr + only maybe 30% on-topic footnotes over here

PART THE FIRST: A GHOST, MURDER, IN THE GREEN GAUZE WINDOW

Changzhou City, Xiaomian Inn.

The seventeenth of the sixth month, just around midnight.

It had been two days since Cheng Yunhe, the head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company, started escorting these sixteen boxes of precious goods. Though all had been well so far, he felt tight-strung with exhaustion, and despite having fallen asleep he woke up without quite knowing why.

Silence permeated the dark room.

Outside the window… there was singing.

Faint waves of sound, barely discernible, as if someone was singing; and apparently quite in earnest, too, but in an incredibly odd tone… just as if… someone was singing with their tongue cut out. 

He opened his eyes, and looked at the window directly across from his bed.

Amidst the darkness, green flecks flickered dim and sudden across that window, now far then near, and only on this one window across from him.

Outside the window, the faraway song continued, that broken tongue singing a tragic melody that no-one living could possibly understand…

He’d already practised almost forty years of martial arts, and though his hearing and sight might not be the top in the jianghu, it could hardly be weak either, but he… could not make out the sound of anything human.

As the wind whistled through the slightly-ajar window, he stared at that window with its flickering green shadows – and for the very first time in his life, he thought of a word – ghosts?

–

ONE: LUCKY PATTERN LOTUS PARLOUR

The broad daylight of a sunny day.

Bingshan Town was not a remarkable place by any means; it had neither rare treasure nor great legends, and just like the vast majority of places in the jianghu, its denizens were a little boring, its crops a tad skinny, its rivers a tinge dirty, and its post-meal conversational topics a touch lacking… far too lacking, actually, so whenever there was something everyone had to delight in it for the longest time – not to mention how that recent happening was an odd one indeed.

The tale so far: on this day, the eighteenth of the month, when the people of Bingshan Town opened their doors to sweep their stoops, they abruptly found that their only-too-familiar main street had suddenly sprouted a two-storey wooden building. This building was hardly a short one, either, fully capable of housing people inside, and in spacious lodgings no less; it was made fully of wood, and engraved with patterns unusually fine and ornate, that even a blind person could recognise by touch – none other than lotus flowers and auspicious clouds.

After a good half-day’s worth of discussion, some eagle-eyed people recognised at last how this building had “suddenly appeared”: though its structure was that of a building, it turned out that it was not connected to the ground… at any rate, this building had been pulled by someone with a cart, here to the main street of their Bingshan Town, and put it there. Everyone expressed their amazement at this, but nobody could comprehend why anyone would bother dragging over such a large building in the dead of night just to leave it on the street, or what it could possibly be for. Perhaps as a shrine for their town god? Though speaking of which, their local shrine had indeed fallen into disrepair and gone unworshipped for many years now…

Such debate continued for three days straight, up until an express convoy working at some company who happened to be coming home was struck dumbfounded upon seeing it, screeched “The Lucky Parlour!” and there and then turned to run madly away without even returning home, still yelling “Lucky Parlour!” along the way – and thus the building abruptly became a haunted house, that would drive anyone who saw it right mad.

Only seven days later, when that express convoy suddenly brought the entire convoy company back to Bingshan Town, did the masses discover that said building was not in fact some haunted house. 

Not only was it not a haunted house, it was actually an auspicious building, a super-duper auspicious building. 

The “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” was a medical clinic.

Its master was of surname Li, named Lianhua.

What kind of a person was Li Lianhua? As a matter of fact, nobody in the jianghu knew either. Whether his master, his background, the level of his martial arts, his age, or even the matter of his looks: all of it was unknown. Six years had passed since this person appeared in the jianghu, and in total he’d done only two things, but just these two things alone had been enough to turn the “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” into the single most fascinating legend in the jianghu.

The two things Li Lianhua had done: the first was bringing back to life the martial scholar “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, who’d been buried for many days after dying from major injuries after a decisive duel. The second was bringing back to life “Ironflute Hero” He Lantie, who’d also been buried for many days with all his bones broken after dying from a cliff fall.

Just these two incidents alone had already made Li Lianhua the one figure in the jianghu that people most wanted to acquaint themselves with, but there was also the matter of his strange house that he always brought along with him – this only made Li Lianhua more of a legend amongst legends.

The head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company led every last one of his men on swift horseback to Bingshan Town, and after three days of clean baths and devout incense, finally delivered on great tenterhooks a letter of greeting to that building carved of precious softwood: Cheng Yunhe of Hexing Convoy Company wishes to consult on an important matter.

Said letter was pushed in via a window gap.

All forty-odd men of the company waited alongside Cheng Yunhe, as if it was the King of Hell inside of that building, passing judgement––

Soon after, that building that had been so silent as to seem unoccupied let out the faintest of creaking sounds. All of Hexing Convoy held their breath, and even the rubbernecking passers-by caught theirs, too, widening their eyes to better await whatever creature could possibly emerge from this building.

The door swung swiftly open, and not in the slow swing of everyone’s imagination.

A large cloud of dust burst forth with a bang, blowing all over Cheng Yunhe, and the figure in the door made a sound of dismay, saying with great apology: “I was tidying up odds and ends, and didn’t even realise I had guests, my apologies, apologies indeed.”

All of Hexing Convoy, now covered in dust and sawdust, stared in astonishment at the one who’d opened the door with a broom in one hand; the very same broom where that bright red greeting letter was now stuck on. He looked very young, no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and perhaps even a little younger than that if not for the much-mended grey robes he was wearing; his skin was fair and his looks refined, but neither was he so beautifully handsome as to be unforgettable from a glance. He held the broom in his right hand and a dustpan in his left, and looked out at the dozens-strong line outside his door with a face full of apology.

Cheng Yunhe gave a heavy cough, and saluted in greeting: “I, “Thousand-Mile Crane” Cheng Yunhe, humbly greet Li-xiansheng of the Lucky Parlour; may I perhaps request that you pass a message to him that there is a matter I wish to consult him on?”

“Ah,” said the grey-robed young man. “A message?”

Cheng Yunhe spoke gravely: “I fear we must meet with Li Lianhua, Li-xiansheng himself, for there is crucial business to discuss.”

The young man set down the broom. “I am indeed Li Lianhua.”

Cheng Yunhe’s eyes widened abruptly, mouth falling open, and in that moment every last bystander wanted nothing more than to toss three or five eggs into his mouth. Very swiftly he shut it again, and gave another heavy cough. “Your good reputation precedes you, Li-xiansheng…” 

And then he found himself at a loss on how to continue, for he had already detailed the ins and outs of the matter on the greeting letter, but that same letter was now stuck on Li Lianhua’s broom.

Li Lianhua said: “Apologies, apologies… my residence is covered in clutter at the moment…”

He raised a hand to invite Cheng Yunhe inside.

The Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour was indeed covered in assorted junk; from nails to hammer, saw to axe, dustcloths to broom, sawdust and dust everywhere, and a few boxes holding who-knew-what. The front room held only one table and chair each, both made of bamboo and not worth even twenty bronze coins. Cheng Yunhe felt heavy doubt in his heart, but what with the sheer reputation of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, and this grey-robed man to be sitting in it, he dared not to suspect him to be a fake, either; and thus he was left with no choice but to sit respectfully across from Li Lianhua and recount every part of those fearsome events he’d encountered a half-month ago.

[––CASE EXPOSITION CUT FOR SANITY––]

Such was the tale of the “Green Window Ghost Murder” that had thrown the martial world into heated debate over the last half a month. Yu Mulan, heartbroken over the senseless death of his beloved daughter, flew into a rage and commanded the death of all the swordsmen who had been escorting Yu Qiushuang that night, alongside a kill order for the entirety of Hexing Convoy Company. Cheng Yunhe, pushed to his wits’ end, had been about to bring his family and disband the company for a scattered escape when he heard the news of the Lucky Parlour.

Li Lianhua could bring the dead back to life – and so Cheng Yunhe suddenly thought: if Li Lianhua could resurrect Yu Qiushuang, wouldn’t that resolve everything? Resurrection was not something he would have ever believed in, just a half-month ago, but with matters the way they were now he could only work with what he had, dead or otherwise, and since the heavens had seen fit to let him come across Li Lianhua, why not give it a try? After all… if the legends were true, all could not but be well.

But even until he’d finished recounting the “Green Window Ghost Murder” incident, he hadn’t heard any startling insights out of Li Lianhua, only an ah and a nod of his head.

After finishing his tea, Cheng Yunhe had no choice but to leave. He truly could not think of any good reason to remain any longer in that empty building of Li Lianhua’s, full of assorted junk and Li Lianhua’s expression full of gentle incomprehension. 

Cheng Yunhe departed.

From the second storey of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, someone said, leisurely: “Even five years later, you’re still plenty famous, aren’t you…”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, drinking tea. “Ah…”

Who even knew what he was ah-ing about.

“Actually I’ve never been able to figure it out.” That figure descended slowly from the second storey. He was thin and pale, all skin and bones, and perhaps if he gained twenty pounds he’d be a elegantly beautiful young man, but as it stood he mostly just resembled a victim of starvation. Yet this particular hungry corpse also happened to be wearing a set of rich white robes of particularly meticulous workmanship, with the tassel and jade ornaments favoured only by those fine young masters untouched by worldly troubles, and a long sword with an unusually elegant shape to its hilt. “How could anyone in this world possibly believe in something like resurrection? It’s been five whole years, and yet nobody has forgotten those two scandals of yours…”

“Because none of them are as smart as you.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly, stood up to stretch, then picked up his broom and resumed sweeping the floor.

“Can you not sweep the floor?” The hungry corpse from the upper storey suddenly glared. “How can you possibly keep sweeping when I, the great Fang-dagongzi, am here right in front of you? Do you realise that if Cheng Yunhe had known I was in here just now, he’d definitely kneel down and beg me too ask that old geezer Yu not to slaughter his entire family? You have a young master of my handsome looks and eminent status in front of you, and yet you’ve been doing nothing but sweep the floor?"

“I can’t.” Li Lianhua said: “I haven’t cleaned and repaired this building in too long. It’s very dirty, and leaks when it rains, too.”

The white-robed corpse kept up the wide-eyed glaring for many moments longer, before suddenly letting out a sigh. “Someone like you who can’t fight and can’t treat diseases, who doesn’t plant crops or commit theft either – how have you even managed to survive all these years in such fame? I really don’t get it.” 

This white-robed hungry corpse was “Melancholic Young Master” Fang Duobing, the eldest son of the of the Fang martial family. He’d known Li Lianhua for an entire six years, long enough that he even knew exactly how this same person had come to fame – Shi Wenjue had suffered major injuries in his duel and used the Turtle’s Breath method to close his qi and recover, the local villagers had taken him for dead and buried him, Li Lianhua had gone to dig him up, and thus Shi Wenjue had naturally come back to life; He Lantie, on the other hand, had staged an entire cliff jump after failing in his pursuit of a wife, played dead and buried himself in the ground, and Li Lianhua who’d just happened to be passing by dug him out yet again. The whole world was wondering how Li Lianhua had managed to bring the dead back to life, while all Fang Duobing wanted to know was how he knew where on earth (or under it) there’d be a live person to dig up.

“I did still have some silver coins, a while ago.” Li Lianhua carefully swept the front room, then put away the dustpan. “As long as you plan well, you can still make do.”

Fang Duobing rolled his eyes. “And how much silver do you have now?”

“Fifty taels.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly. “That’s enough to use for a lifetime, to me.”

Fang Duobing tsked. “To think that there’s losers like you in the martial world, who only plan to spend fifty taels in their whole life, it’s practically a shame upon the jianghu. Had Cheng Yunhe known what kind of person you are, I’d like to see whether he still would’ve come asking for help… heh, asking a ‘miracle doctor’ who doesn’t know a drop of medicine and has to go everywhere with his house on his back because he’s too stingy to stay in an inn, to go treat the dead, I can’t believe he thought of that.” Fang Duobing rolled his eyes again for good measure, and eyed Li Lianhua up and down. “Though I can’t actually tell whether you are going to help him go treat the dead or not.”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, fingers still meticulously fiddling away with the interlocking joint on that squeaky bamboo table of his, and gave a small smile upon hearing this. “Why wouldn’t I go? After all, I don’t know how to plant crops, or sell vegetables, and I’m not in want of coin. Wouldn’t life be incredibly boring if I didn’t have something to do?”

“When that old geezer Yu finds out that you’re a fake miracle doctor and decides to kill your entire family, Fang-dagongzi is absolutely not going to save you,” Fang Duobing said, leisurely. “Go on then, don’t expect this young master here to see you off.”

And so it was that Li Lianhua spent a whole three days tidying up inside the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, packing who-knows-what into that small parcel of his, and after meticulously writing a lengthy missive temporarily entrusting the parlour to the care of “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, he set off at last.

He was headed to Yu Fortress, to see the corpse of Yu Qiushuang.

[anto-pops]

I'm not gonna lie, Ao3 being down all day feels a lot like the burning of the Library of Alexandria

[rapono-writes-stuff]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Lethal Company (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bracken | Flower Man (Lethal Company) & Reader Characters: Reader, Bracken | Flower Man (Lethal Company), Employees (Lethal Company) Additional Tags: inspired by a tumblr post, Unusual monster behavior, Horror, somber, Hurt/Comfort, Giving Up, I'm back on my bullshit (positive), lethal company is not immune to my tropes, being hunted by the Bracken is terrifying and that's why I love them, ambiguous ending Summary:

You're alone in the abanonded darkness, aimlessly searching, when it finds you. There's hands around your neck, and you know there's no use in fighting them.

---

*whips* 

Hey guess who's not dead (and went to therapy!)

[curiouscalixte]

just finished writing a JJK fanfic in 30hours, feeling like God

[harri-etvane]

Full list is here.

[leadandblood]

(part 1) (Previous part)

Smells Like Honey, Feels Like Home (part 13)

He was unsure about what to do. Where to start. How to do anything at all. Should he even talk? What are the customs? The rules? Should he take his boots off...? That seems like a good way to start. He let go of Harry's hand, took both off and set them by the wall. Unsure about anything else he could do, he took Harry's hand again.

"We'll walk you through it," Henry smiled up at him.

"Thank you."

"I do think we should move this away from the wall," Harry pondered, as he looked around. "I don't think it will be comfortable for long."

"Agreed." Henry tapped Edward on the shoulder and shuffled from under him. He stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders back. There was a lot of him. Not only in mass, but in height as well. He was an impressive man. Thomas couldn't but stare at the exposed bit of stomach, as his sweater was pulled up by the stretch. When he caught himself, he flinched and looked away.

Henry laughed. "It's quite alright." He took one of the blankets Thomas brought and spread it over the ground. "Here should do, I think," he said and lied down on his back.

Edward was immediately beside him, like a magnet.

Harry nodded approvingly. Then he gestured for Thomas to lay down.

He knelt on the soft bedding and shuffled to sit beside Edward. "Hope you don't mind..."

"No, Thomas. I'd like you here," he kept avoiding his gaze, but raised a hand to awkwardly rub Thomas's arm. He quickly retreated and cleared his throat.

"Right." Henry turned onto his side, facing them and propped himself up on one elbow. "I assume you want to face Thomas?"

Edward bowed his head, like a freshly punished school boy. "Yes."

Henry briefly closed his eyes, then looked up at Harry with a grin, mouthing something. "Alright. Come here." He opened his arms and waited for Edward to shuffle into position. When he did, Henry wrapped one arm around his waist and pulled him even closer.

Thomas could barely fight the heat building up high on his cheeks, watching Henry bury his face into Edward's hair from behind. Something about the image sent shivers down his spine, but not the unpleasant kind. The kind that gradually changed into warmth in your chest and tingled in your stomach.

He figured what he had to do now. He lied down, facing Edward, but couldn't find the courage to look at him. Instead he focused on his chest, where his shirt disappeared under the waistcoat. He kept enough distance for their antennae not to touch, but Edward kept - consciously or not - reaching towards him. He could feel it.

"Thomas?" Harry asked, still standing over them.

"Hm?" he looked up.

"Would you like me to lay next to you?"

He's nervous... But by god, doesn't it sound nice? Surrounded on both sides... And Henry could probably get his arm far enough to hug Thomas as well.

He quickly nodded.

Harry smiled. It was a different smile than before, but just as sweet. Maybe even sweeter. Thomas watched his every move, as he slowly sat down beside him, then layed down. "Can I put my arm around you?"

A new heat wave rolled over him. His ears were burning. "I think that might be nice."

With a nod, Harry slowly placed his hand on Thomas's waist, then slid it down, over his stomach. "If you want to stop-"

"No," he rushed and put his hand over Harry's. "No, this... This is nice." It indeed was. More than nice. It was perfect. Well, near perfect...

He turned his head back around to face Edward, who'd been awfully silent for the past minute or two.

It was as if a wild deer were staring back at him. His eyes were dark and big and... Wet. With tears. They hadn't yet overflowed, but they threatened to do so any second.

Thomas moved closer without thinking. Their antennae briefly touched. It wasn't as violating as he thought it should, given they were so far removed genetically. In fact... He leaned closer yet. Then he finally understood what Henry was so cuddly with him for. Edward smelled... Like freshly cut grass. Like a forest in the morning. Like a life worth living.

He raised one hand to cup Edward's face and rub his thumb over his cheekbone. "Thank you for the invitation... Edward." It felt strange on his tongue, but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all. He'll definitely be looking forward to saying his name more often.

"You're..." he struggled with the next syllable for a moment, "You're most welcome... Thomas." And then he smiled. It was the handsomest yet adorable smile he had ever seen. And it was contageous.

He grinned back, sliding his hand up to guide a strand of hair off Edward's forehead.

"You. Are. Both," Henry began, pressing a kiss to Edward's hair with each syllable. "Ab-so-lute-ly pre-scious." The last one he made extra loud, getting a chuckle out of Harry and an almost inconcievable little sound out of Edward.

[themadknightuniverse]

writing prompt suggestion? Nacho taking care of an injured Lalo or vise versa :>

Here are the two versions! I got inspired haha So you can find a short one mostly for fun, and a longer one much more dramatic but no bad ending in sight. Thank you for this ask I was just so happy when I saw it 💖 Of course, warnings : injury, blood, violence.

Lalo takes care of injured Nacho

Nacho winces, hissing between his teeth as blood drips on the counter top. Lalo turns away from the stove, looking at Nacho as he speed walks to the sink. “What’s wrong?” Nacho turns on the tap, carefully rinsing his hand under the water. Lalo notices the blood on the counter, on the knife. Lalo snorts “You cut yourself, darling?”

Nacho sends him a look over his shoulder, a bit annoyed “Yeah.” Lalo puts one of the two pans to the side and pads over to Nacho who’s looking at the wound. “Let me see.” Nacho removes his hand from under the water and lets Lalo take his hand, the man careful to avoid touching the wound. It’s a deep cut, right on the side of his index. Nacho can still move his finger fine, so it’s nothing too bad. The blood keeps running tho, snaking along Nacho’s finger, coating Lalo’s fingers as he observes the wound. “I think you’ll need one or two stitches. You really made a mess of yourself.” Nacho sighs “Yeah. Or your knifes are far too sharp.” Lalo laughs “There no such things as a 'too sharp' knife, cariño.” A minute later Nacho is sitting on a stool by the counter, Lalo sitting on another one right beside him. On the countertop rests a first-aid kit. There is everything needed to do stitches, of course, you don’t work for a cartel and don’t have such things in your home. When you're a Don at least. Nacho presses a clean dish-towel on the cut, staining it red, while Lalo is passing a thread in a needle. “You want something for the pain?” Nacho considers the question. The cut is stinging but it’s nothing compared to what he had been through in the past. There is a bottle of anesthesia product in the kit, but it seems ridiculous. It would be much more useful for a bullet wound. Nacho shakes his head. He removes his hand from the towel when Lalo invites him to rest it on the counter, and Lalo goes to work. Ignacio grits his teeth as Lalo works. It's stupid how much a cut on the hands can hurt. Lalo smirks at him as he cuts the thread after the first stitch is done. "Stay strong Nachito, if you don't cry you'll get a lollipop when I'm done."

Nacho glares back at him "I'm not a child." "You cut yourself while chopping carrots. It only happens to children." Lalo answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Nacho looks away, cheeks warming up a little no matter how much he tries not to feel embarrassed by how stupid all this was "It's not true, and you know it." "Yeah, because with your gigantic experience in a kitchen, you would know better than me." Nacho looks back at Lalo, frowning "It happened to my dad." "Well then your dear papa must be a real chef!" Lalo answers with a shit-eating grin right before passing the needle in Nacho's finger. Nacho barely contains a little groan of pain as it stings, preventing him from delivering an insult. Lalo ties the second knot neatly, and cuts the excess of thread. Nacho must admit, he did a really nice job with how good the stitches look. "There. All fixed up." Lalo says as he takes Nacho's hand in his own with the same care from earlier. He uses the towel to dab away the blood on Nacho's hand, removing the worst of it. It isn't unusual for Lalo to give him so much attention, but it somehow never stops to amaze Nacho. Those hands that are so good at hurting, destroying, set fire, killing, but can also be so gentle. And as always, it makes something flutter inside Nacho. The people Lalo treats with such delicacy are so rare, and, somehow, he's one of them. "Thanks." Lalo looks at Nacho, and the man seems to notice something in his eyes, because this time when he smiles, it's more tender. "Anything for you, mi corazón." And then Lalo is bringing Nacho's hand to his mouth, and he drops the softest kisses on his knuckles. Nacho's breath catches in his throat, his cheeks warming up. Damn this man and his stupid charm. "Do you want a band-aid on that? I have some with super cute little blue flowers on it." Lalo says, his stupid grin back on his face. "Oh shut the fuck up." Nacho mumbles and removes his hand from Lalo's grip, leaving a laughing Lalo behind him as he steps away.

Nacho takes care of injured Lalo

It should have been alright.

It was just one of their usual visit to Albuquerque. Checking if everything was in order, maintain a real contact with their men in town, and of course, remind everyone who they were working for. Nacho and Lalo were highly respected, two living legends forming a single deadly entity, thanks to the brilliant plan they pulled up to make Fring fall. And the rumors circulating inside the cartels were probably exaggerating their real exploit, even if it truly had been a hard mission to accomplish, but none of them would say otherwise. Nobody dared to bring up the “Chicken Man subject” in front of them anyway. They were just this insurmontable obstacle for anyone else trying to get a higher rank in the cartel.

And this time around, everything was going well, because nobody really tried anything since they were both sitting side by side on the Salamanca throne. Domingo and Tuco, freshly out of prison, had organized a little special thing to celebrate what Tuco liked to call “a family reunion” even though it was just a party at Domingo's house with the other members of the cartel working under them all, and their companions.

It would have been like the precedent times, Lalo and Nacho taking the time to pass by the Salamanca's guest house to leave their stuff for the time they'll stay in town, take a quick shower, Lalo intruding while Nacho showered like he often did, sharing wet kisses under the water, maybe exploring each other's body in a heated embrace, before finally getting ready. And this went well this time around too, what truly changed was during the trip over to Domingo's place.

They should have thought about it, honestly. But retrospectively, they were both so lost in the feeling of power they had over their territories they became sloppy when it came to being unpredictable, and so making them an easier target.

When cars pulled up before the Javelin at a crossroad, arriving out of nowhere, Nacho barely had the time to press on the brakes. His instinct struck back immediately, turning the car hastily as men came out of the cars, weapons in hand. Lalo was shooting at them through the window in record time, reacting just as fast at the ambush. Bullets pierced the doors, exploded the windows, as Lalo kept on shooting, arm out of the car without a doubt in the world he wouldn't get hurt.

Nacho grabbed his own gun as he was rushing back the way they came, dodging as bullets flew through the window on the back of the car. Nacho cursed and hit the breaks again as a large SUV came to cut their way too, blocking their only other escape route. Three men got out of the car, two armed with pistol, and another one with a freaking Tommy gun. Nacho grabbed at Lalo, pulling him with him so they both were protected by the front of the car as bullets rained on them.

They were going to fucking die, Nacho couldn't help but think. His hands were grabbing at Lalo's shirt strongly enough to rip the nice fabric of it. No. He had to think. Bullets had stopped coming from behind them, surely Lalo had put down these men. How many were they? Five? Six? Nacho didn't had the time to count before he had turned the car around. Bullets were still coming, they were gonna explode the fucking car. A plan. They needed a plan.

His internal monologue took a brutal end when the bullets slowed, only the guys with the pistols shooting now, but what stopped him was Lalo moving away from him. He tried to grip at Lalo's shirt as the man was opening the door on his side, and stepping out while keeping his head low.

“Lalo no! What—“

Nacho could only look at him, baffled and furious at the risk Lalo was taking. The man sent him a look as bullet were piercing the door, stopped by the thickness of it, and fucking winked at him, a smile accompanying it. Lalo peered over the door, and started shooting back.

Nacho decided he would get mad later. He had to focus on eliminating whoever these men were before pulling at Lalo's ear and give him the worst earful of his life. The bullets were calming down, the men recharging their weapons. Lalo took advantage of the change, shooting one of the men in the stomach and the shoulder. Nacho tried a look over the hood of the car, witnessing the man falling down with a cry of pain. Through the smoke coming from the engine of the Javelin, he could see the other man with just a pistol circling the car to his side. But he also saw that the guy with the heavy weapon had finished recharging. He barely had the time to duck down again that the car body was pierced by more bullets. Nacho turned himself toward his door, trying to anticipate the arrival of the man with a light weapon, waiting as patiently as he could for the idiot who was shooting entire cartridge at them to finish.

A yelp came from his right. Nacho's blood ran cold. Lalo. When he looked over, Lalo was clutching at his chest, face grimacing in intense pain. Nacho's blood ran hot. No, it ran into lava, awakening a furnace of ferocity inside of him. He didn't think. He grabbed at Lalo and pulled him inside the car like he weighted nothing, bullets still raining on them but Nacho couldn't care less. His vision has turned red.

He snatched the gun from Lalo's hand, the man not letting go of it despite being hurt. Lalo tried to speak to him but Nacho couldn't hear a thing. There was only his blood rushing in his ears, and this terrible beast inside of him telling him to tear, burn, annihilate. Nacho sat up, and fired. His aim was perfect, the single bullet piercing the skull of the man holding the Tommy gun. In his fall, the man still had his finger on the trigger, and he fired a line of bullets up towards the sky, projectiles hissing as they passed right next to Nacho who didn't flinch, his eyes finding the man who was recharging his pistol. Nacho didn't fired. He opened his door, and pushed it open with a foot. He was out of the car then, his eyes pinned on his target who started to panic, not managing to insert the cartridge correctly.

Nacho didn't shoot still. He crossed the distance in quick steps, the man loosing his composure, still desperately trying to insert that damn cartridge, but it was too late because Nacho was there and he punched him right in the face. The man's gun scattered away as he felt on the ground under the strong impact. Nacho was over him in an instant, grabbing at his t-shirt, and started to beat the shit out of him.

Nacho wasn't the kind to deliver a slow and painful death. And he wasn't the kind to inflict such a sentence to a pawn. But something in him had snapped. And by the time his fist was covered in blood, not a single drop his own, the fog in his mind started to dissipate. He let go of the man's shirt and grabbed one of his weapon he had tucked in his jeans, and fired at the man's head, ending his slow agony.

Nacho went back to his feet with his breath short. He looked around. There were bodies everywhere. Blood everywhere. And one man still breathing, the one Lalo shoot last. Nacho quickly went over to him, interrogated him about the attack. It seemed like they had new pseudo cartel Don to deal with. Nacho put a bullet in the man's head.

A sound coming from the Javelin picked his attention. Lalo. He was sitting up in the passenger's seat, looking at him, gaze unreadable. That's when Nacho registered the blood running on Lalo's temple, all the way down his cheek and jaw, staining his shirt even more than the wound he had in the shoulder. Nacho tucked both gun in his jeans and went to Lalo's side, somehow reconnecting with the reality a bit more. They had to go, now. They were in an industrial zone but the cops wouldn't delay their arrival much longer, especially now that the shooting was over.

“I think I'll need your help, Nachito.” Lalo smiled up at him as Nacho peered inside the car at him.

Nacho said nothing and helped Lalo out of what was left of his precious Javelin. He carried Lalo over to the cars blocking their way, Lalo's valid arm slung over his shoulders. But Lalo was becoming heavier and heavier as they progressed, the man's feet loosing their footing under the speed at which Nacho was going. When Lalo grunted, Nacho started to worry much more. He stopped and slipped an arm under Lalo's leg and carried him as best as he could to the black SUV.

Once he had installed Lalo in the passenger's seat, Nacho took his face with both of his palms, pushing away the strand wet with sweat and blood. That was a lot of blood now.

“Hey! Hey look at me Lalo. Open your eyes.” But Lalo just groaned, his head lolling to the side. Nacho kept it upright. “Com'on Eduardo, focus. Open your eyes. Open your eyes for me, mi sol.”

Lalo blessedly opened them. “Cariño... me siento... extraño...”

Nacho tried to make eye contact with the glazed dark orbs “I'll get some help.” Lalo blinked and their eyes finally locked. “I need you to stay awake. You can do that?”

Lalo hummed an affirmative noise. Police's sirens arrived in the distance, their lights not visible yet. Nacho reclined Lalo's seat a little so he wouldn't fall forward and clipped his seat belt tight around him. The key was still on when he sat in the driver's seat. He didn't wait any longer and propelled the car down the road.

He couldn't go to the hospital, not after the police had been alerted, and not with their identity. He fished his phone in his leather jacket, calling the second number registered in the shortcuts. He took a few deep breath as he waited for the call to be answered, trying to stay focused on the road. His eyes kept returning to Lalo's form, making sure he was still breathing.

“You with me Eduardo?”

Another humming sound answered him. That will have to do.

“Okay. Don't fall asleep mi sol. I want you with me.”

“Eres el amor... de mi vida.” You're the love of my life.

Nacho quickly looked over at Lalo, and there was that same way he looked at him minutes ago. He looked back at the road and tried not to think how much Lalo's declaration sounded like a goodbye.

“Yeah, Nacho?”

Domingo's voice almost startled him, pulling him out of his thoughts. Nacho felt Lalo's hand coming to rest on his thigh, he didn't let it distract him. It was reassuring to feel it resting there, it meant Lalo was still conscious.

“Mingo, I need you to call the doctor, now. I'm heading to your home. We've been attacked on our way to your place, Lalo is badly injured. I'll be there in 10 min, I'll try to make it 7. Get everyone out, I don't want anyone else but you and the doctor when we arrive.”

“Uh- Okay. You're okay?”

Nacho looked over at Lalo who was visibly fighting to not loose consciousness.

“Yeah. Just do as I said.”

Nacho hung up without waiting an answer. He focused on the road, trying to rely on Lalo's hand presence on his leg as a source of proof the man was alright, fighting the need to actually look at him to make sure. They were almost there, Domingo's house at the end of the road, when Nacho felt Lalo's hand slip from his leg.

“Eduardo you're still with me?”

No answer. Nacho looked over. Lalo's head was lolling to the side, the dark blood covering half his face. Nacho looked back at the road. The last car of the invited men was leaving just before Nacho drove right into the empty parking spot that was the nearest from the entry. Domingo was opening the door while Nacho was already pulling Lalo out of the car, carrying him bridal style, Lalo's head falling on his shoulder. Tuco appeared in the doorway just as Nacho was approaching.

“Who the fuck did this?!”

Nacho just gave him a name as he entered the house, rushing to the biggest room of the whole house. Domingo had cleared the table of the dining room, visibly understanding they'll need to deal with real bad injuries.

“Where is the doctor?” Nacho asked Domingo, and maybe he sounded harsher than he realized because Domingo took a step back.

“She's on her way. I called her right after your call. She told me she would be there in 10.”

Nacho had drove fast, she would be there any minute then. Tuco's voice erupted from the entrance hall, he was calling his men to get informations about the name Nacho gave him by the looks of it. Nacho decided he would leave him to take care of this for now, he had more important things to think about right now.

“Go fetch a bassin of water, some towels, and-”

Nacho cut himself as he witnessed Domingo bringing exactly what he was asking for over to the table. He had prepared these before they arrived. Nacho sometimes forgot how well Domingo had learned to play his role in the scheme of the cartel. He knew the deal by now.

A groan came from the table. Nacho was leaning over Lalo in a flash, eyes jumping all over his face. He brought one of his hand to Lalo's bloodied face, pushing the wild messy curls away again.

“Hey, you're back.”

Lalo hummed. “I'm tired.”

“It's okay, the doctor will be there in a minute.” Nacho tried a smile, and it made a similar one form on Lalo's lips. “You'll be on your feet soon, and then I'll tell you all about what I think of the stupid decision you made back there.”

Lalo let out the huff of a laugh. “Can't wait.”

One of Lalo's hand came to cup Nacho's around his face. He held it there as he barely turned his head toward it, nuzzling it, before kissing Nacho's bloody palm.

“No soy.. nada... sin ti.” I'm nothing without you.

Nacho's heart seized in his chest. Lalo never missed a chance to cover him with the most sweetest words, to the point of becoming cheesy sometimes, but it always made something radiate inside of him. A burning sensation that made him feel good, that was giving all this madness of their shared a life a real meaning. And tonight it was burning so bright it was almost painful.

Nacho caressed Lalo's hair with his other hand “I'm not going anywhere.”

Lalo's glassy eyes found his, and there was that look again. And now that he had the time to observe it, Nacho could label it. It was pure liquid adoration swimming in those dark orbs. Nacho briefly wondered why Lalo was letting him see that now, after all this time spent together. Was it because of what he did? What Lalo saw of him? The way he punched that man almost to death out of ferocious protectiveness? But his questions were cut short by the arrival of the doctor.

“The doc is here, I'll let her work, alright? I'm right there.”

Lalo hummed again, on the edge of loosing consciousness again, letting go of Nacho's hand with confidence still. Nacho stepped away as the doctor entered the room, opening her bags next to Lalo, accompanied by her usual assistant. Nacho gave her the informations she needed to work and then came to stand beside Domingo who had went to stand a bit further away when Lalo woke up, leaving them at their private conversation.

At some point Domingo asked him what happened and Nacho went through the events. The anger from earlier coursed through his veins again, but it wasn't as vicious at least. Seeing the amount of blood still on his hands was a good enough reminder for him to keep his calm. Lalo was safe. He didn't have to beat and kill anyone to protect him. Not yet at least. Nacho wasn't going back to Mexico before having the man responsible for all this at his feet, begging for mercy.

It was hours later when Lalo regained consciousness. Nacho was laying beside him in bed, in one of Domingo's guest room. Nacho barely slept, monitoring Lalo even if everything went fine during the time he spent under the care of the doctor. But he couldn't help himself. It was the first time he really feared for Lalo's life. They didn't found themselves in such a dire situation since Fring. And even then neither of them had been badly injured. Lalo had lost so much blood. The bullet that scraped at Lalo's temple had left a deep cut. A little more to the right and they would never had the chance to exchange any last words.

Nacho looked as Lalo's eyelids fluttered open, trying to shield the sensitive eyes to the little light that was illuminating the room. There was nothing but a thin ray of sunlight passing between the almost closed curtains, bathing the room in a very soft orange light. Lalo turned his head, noticing Nacho's presence with a delay, and smiled softly.

“You're there.”

Nacho smiled back, eyes dancing between Lalo's. “Told you I wasn't going anywhere.”

“Right. But I never know when I can trust your words.” Lalo answered with a mischievous little smirk.

Nacho groaned, frowning, and pushed himself on an elbow to lean a little over Lalo. “You're really bringing this up now?”

Lalo smiled, showing all his teeth. “I'm just playing with you, cariño.”

Nacho kept on frowning at that man he unfortunately loved. His heart squeezed in a bad way when he thought again that he almost lost him last night. They had been neglecting their security. Nacho would make sure it didn't happened again. He had a sun he wanted to keep shining bright at his side. He lowered himself over Lalo until their lips brushed, soft and delicate. A chaste kiss. His hand cupped Lalo's head with care, a fingertip running under Lalo's wound running along his head, careful not to touch it.

“No soy nada sin ti.” I'm nothing without you. The sincerity and weight of his own words felt almost unreal. Never before did his words carried more truth. “Estoy perdido sin ti.” I'm lost without you.

It seemed to shook Lalo has much as himself. The adoration was shining bright in his eyes, and when he blinked a tear ran down his temple, leaving Nacho stunned by the vision.

“Te creo.” I believe you.

Lalo pulled Nacho into a fierce embrace, not giving a single care about the pain in his shoulder. Nacho hugged him back just as tight.

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

I regret to inform everyone we're back in the white space. Expect the fire alarm to go off periodically in typical fashion of whenever it detects a steaming pile of garbage on the way. Like me! [i'll give a cookie to whoever recognizes where the sfx is from!!]

[leighsartworks216]

Posted a super short Astarion drabble on AO3. Get it while it's hot: Link to fic