#WHOSE GONNA TELL EM

[bravevolunteer]

funniest fucking thing to happen this week is people somehow managing to think the “MICHAEL DON’T LEAVE ME HERE” audio is from the SUBMARINE💀💀

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

can I say somethin? poc Johnny with locs.

[theflyingfeeling]

I don’t know if I’m just imagining things but I feel like Olli and Aleksi are actually so close 🥺 for example I feel like they post so many pics together and I know they post with others too and it’s not a big deal but e.g. Olli has posted 5 pics with someone else this year and 3 of them are with Aleksi.. so it must mean something right?? 🥺 and I feel like they spend a lot of time together yk even ”outside the band” when they’re having a day off and they still do music (the remix) etc. together 😭

Yeah I mean I for one am so deep in the Olli/Allu delulu land that it's VERY easy for me to agree and confirm all of this 😭 they're boyfriends secret lovers special friends and it shows 🥺

Here are all the pictures of the two of them I could find on Olli's IG, for reference 💞

+ the group picture Olli posted when Aleksi first joined the band, with the caption 'so now there's six of us' 🥺

[peapod20001]

Hello did you know that I <3 can only really doodle in one class (I draw mostly eyes if you couldn’t tell lmao)

[imnotcrazyer]

Something someone actually said to me:

“One is 2 hrs and 10 minutes. The other is 1 hr and 75 minutes.”

[absolutedestinyapocalypsse]

if the locked tomb doesnt end with gideon and harrow both alive and whole having achieved perfect lyctorhood i will eat my own hat.

alecto and john are the only perfect lyctors right? alecto, who is made of several million dead people, and john who is god. youre telling me that harrow "made of 300 dead babies" nonagesimus and gideon, whose dad is god, aren't gonna do it? youre telling me harrow's biological ancestor is the only saint to never become a lyctor because she came so close to figuring it out that her cavalier was killed to prevent it. you're talking about harrow, who opened the tomb at ten with nothing but sheer determination and accidentally getting a little bit of god blood under her nails and gideon, who we keep being told cannot and will not die, won't end up alive? is that what you're saying? bc john says two things are impossible; opening the tomb and perfect lyctorhood. but those are only two things and Harrow already did one of em. does she seem like a quitter to you?

[cherrygirlfriend]

── GARDEN OF EVIL †

I - the date that wasn’t a date.

† pairing: crime boss!rafe x reader

† summary: reader's boyfriend owes notorious crime boss rafe cameron fifty thousand dollars and offers him reader in exchange for wiping his debts. rafe agrees, and tells reader that he has only one condition for keeping her alive.

† warnings / tags: dark themes, mentions of drugs

† author's note: this might become a series if you guys like it, so lmk your thoughts about it!

you watched the passing streetlights and the tall buildings, a song crackling on your boyfriend’s worn-out stereo. you bit down the wide smile threatening to take over your lips; liam had told you to get ready for an impromptu date night; you’d gotten your nails and hair done, picking out the nicest dress you own and spent an obscene amount of time on your makeup.

“babe, can’t you just tell me where we’re going?” you stuck your bottom lip out in a pout. the dark-haired man simply brushed you off, continuing to drive, “it’s a surprise.”

the two of you were in the expensive part of town, full of lavish hotels, expensive restaurants, gorgeous art galleries; an area you knew your boyfriend, whose idea of luxury was going out to olive garden, wouldn’t be able to afford. unless of course, it was a special occasion.

oh, he was definitely proposing.

liam paused the car in front of a large building, turning to you as you gazed up with wide eyes. you didn't have to be a genius to know that this place was expensive, with a capital E. "let’s go inside."

"liam, you know we don't have to go to a fancy place like this..." you mumbled as he led you through the lobby towards the elevator, a small smile still playing on your lips despite your words, "this must cost a fortune."

"don't worry about it." liam said in a slightly gruff voice, his hand tightly squeezing yours, the man tapping his foot against the marble floor of the hotel as his eyes strayed strictly on the screen that showed what floor the elevator was on. 3… 2… 1. ding! your boyfriend pulled you into the elevator by your hand, his urgency making your heart race in anticipation.

as the elevator ascended floor after floor, you could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you leaned into your boyfriend. when you reached the top floor and the elevator doors slid open, liam turned to you with a small smile, "alright, baby. close your eyes, and keep 'em closed until i tell you to open, okay?"

liam's fingers intertwined with yours as he tugged you out of the elevator, making you stumble slightly in your high heels in a way that made you let out a small yelp. with your eyes closed, you continued to be led down a hall smelling of flowers and chanel no 5. when you two stopped, liam let go of your hand and you could hear the beep of a door’s card reader.

your boyfriend's hand snaked onto your back as he led you through a door, hearing it close behind you. "alright, you can open your eyes now, babe." when you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of a man in a fully black suit. he looked between you and liam with an amused look on his face.

"liam?" you asked with furrowed brows, turning to your boyfriend, your voice hesitant and unsure, "what's going on?"

"i'd like to know the same." the man said, crossing his arms.

"i, uh, i can't pay you, mr. cameron." liam said in an insecure tone. pay him? "but i can offer you her."

your eyes widened in shock, looking around as if trying to find another girl in the room that he could be referring to, "liam, what—"

your sentence was interrupted by the suited man bursting into laughter, shaking his head, "you owe me fifty-thousand dollars. and you think offering your bitch is gonna be good? you've got some balls, i'll tell you that."

"c'mon, you know i'm never gonna be able to get 50k."

"should've thought of that before you stole drugs from me, fucking idiot." your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when he uttered the word 'drugs'. the man tsked, shaking his head as he walked towards you two in tentative steps, his narrowed eyes so icy cold they caused a shiver to run down your spine, only focused on you. the man brought a finger to your chin and lifted it, tilting your head as he took in all the details about you. "she's pretty." the man said; but you knew it wasn't a compliment, but an observation, "what's your name, sweetheart?"

you told him your name in a shaky, stuttering voice, and he nodded, pursing his lips in thought, before turning to liam, "you can get 20k off and two weeks extra time in exchange for her."

"really?" liam asked, and although you couldn't turn your head enough to see his expression, you could tell from his voice that he was elated, "thank you, mr. cameron, thank-"

"leave." the man, mr. cameron, said in a cold tone, the hint of a smirk that had been lingering on his lips no longer there. without a word leaving his lips, you could hear liam stumble his way to the door and out of the hotel room. the man pulled his hand away from your chin, turning around to face the night sky, the only thing lighting it up being the high-rise buildings that went as far as the eye could see. you watched as he took hold of a carafe, pouring some of the amber liquid into a crystal glass.

"mr. cameron-"

"you can call me rafe." the man said in a gruff voice as he loosened the tie around his neck.

"rafe..." you mumbled under your breath, fiddling with one of the rings on your fingers, your heart beating against your chest like it was going to burst, "please, don't... hurt me..."

"hurt you?" rafe let out a scoff of a laugh as he shook his head and turned to face you again, slowly walking towards you. "well, sweetheart, if i'm not gonna hurt you, then who should i hurt, huh?" the way he was looking at you was so intense, you couldn't help but lower your head, staring down at the wine-red carpet. you felt his finger on your chin again as rafe forced your head up again, making you face him, "who should i hurt, sweetheart? maybe your little boyfriend?"

"l-liam...?" you mumble softly, chewing on the inside of your cheek, "why would you hurt him? he's... he's the one who owes you money."

"aww, that's cute. you actually think he's worth his word." rafe chuckled humorlessly as his hand trailed over the chain of your necklace, his touch causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise, "that broke loser's not gonna pay me back. he never was. little liam's probably on his way to book the next flight out of the country."

"what's gonna happen to me...?" you mumbled, watching as the man took a swig out of the glass of whiskey he'd poured to himself before putting it aside.

"well that depends. i could let you go tomorrow morning, you could crawl back to liam and say that he has two more weeks of extra time..." rafe cocked his head to the side, "or you could stay. you're in luck that i happen to need a pretty girl like you at the moment."

"stay...?"

"aren't you mad? your little boyfriend sold you for a measly 20k."

"he just wanted to get out of debt, it's-"

"he sold you for twenty thousand dollars, knowing that i'd be able to do anything to you. knowing i could take advantage of you, use you as i wanted, torture you, kill you, without you being able to put up a fight." rafe scoffed out a laugh, and pulled his hand back in thought, "i should kill you. i can't have someone babbling about me to the cops. you're definitely the kind of girl to be naive enough to think that cops would be able to do anything to me."

you watched as he pulled out his cellphone and started to dial a number, "w-what are you doing...?" you asked in panic.

"oh, i don't like to kill pretty girls myself. feels like a waste." rafe tsked as he continued dialing, "i'm just gonna call one of my buddies. i'll make sure he gets it done quickly and as painlessly as possible."

just as he was about to press call, you put your hand on his muscular forearm, your eyes wide in panic as you swallowed, taking a deep breath. "fine. i'll... i'll stay."

"such an obedient girl already." rafe grinnned, throwing his phone onto the bed as his hand went to your cheek, stroking it as you bit your teeth together and clenched your jaw, "don't worry. i'll take care of your ex. and i'll take such good care of my new little wife."

"…wife?"

[teaboot]

I seriously hope you can job hop to something else cause you're not chaotic neutral man.

You're still a white Canadian whose actions and job help more the megacorps keep the status quo.

I really looked up to you but that's on me.

And yeah, I know security, cop shit and military pay good money but at the cost of my people? Fuck no.

Listen. I feel you. But there's a lot of cold, power-tripping bastards in this line of work and if I stick where I am then they don't get to have that.

I'm not a cop. I am not beholden to the justice system. Sometimes I get contracted out to people who say shit like "addicts should be put down, if you see any crackheads drag them out" and I nod and say "yes sir", and then I take their money and use it to buy those people coffee and a sandwich and tell 'em when free lunch days are at the church.

Boss sees me walking with someone and thinks I'm kicking them out, gives my boss great reviews. I'm having a great conversation with Connie, who used to by a stylist and wound up on the street after an accident that left her with chronic pain and a heroin addiction. Connie learns that there's a gap between two property lines nearby where technically nobody can call to have her removed.

There's a really sweet guy in town who's normally very nice, but sometimes flies into paranoid rage and yells slurs at people. Sometimes he forgets he's been banned from places and wanders in looking for a wife he hasn't had for nine years. Owner sends me to kick him out, and I ask "hey Mike, how are you?" And see where we are today.

One time there was a guy whose abusive ex kept following him to work, and I got to walk him to his car at the end of every day to make sure she couldn't get him alone.

Another person had a stalker who kept asking receptionists when she was gonna be there, when she was supposed to leave, if she was in today. I'd keep record of every time he came in, every time someone saw him, every time he violated his restraining order or damaged her things.

And when I wonder if I'm actually helping or not, or if I'm part of the greater problem, I remember that other people who work with me call homeless people wildlife and talk about how bad they wanna get an excuse to fight someone and I remember that I'm the one who knows where the blind spots on the cameras are, and thank God it's not him.

My position is fundamentally different from that of the military or law enforcement. I don't *need* to be buddy-buddy with most of these dickheads- I don't *need* to send people into the justice system.

I do single-person foot patrol. Nobody cares how I get the job done. They say, "Hey, faceless goon number three- make that bastard disappear" and I say "on it, boss" and give him tickets to disney world.

I once asked another guard if he knew that one of our regulars used to be an airplane technician. He said, "No, I don't talk to them". Blanket "Them". "Them" as in street people. "Them" as in addicts, or shoplifters, or ex-cons, or sex workers.

I asked why, and he told me, "it's easier if you don't think of them as people."

Anyhow, now I get calls to "watch that sketchy lady who just came in" and I say, "yes, sir" and leave her the fuck alone, 'cause that's Jolene, and people always think she's on drugs and aggressive but she's just deaf in one ear and slurs cause she has brain damage, you dickhead

so yeah, don't worry, I've spent a lot of time weighing the pros and cons of my vocation, and I still think I'd rather be in charge of my locations than someone like Darryl, who dreams of "cuffing a perp" and drives a car with Punisher decals on the hood

Also it's minimum wage but that's kinda tangential

[nerdygirlramblings]

What is the 141 up to while Ren's sedated?

previous

The team files into the conference room, settling into their usual seats. When Price closes the door, he turns to find three questioning looks.

"We're not all 'ere, Cap," Ghost says, flicking pointedly at the seat you occupied last time.

"I know," Price says calmly. "This is a conversation we needed ta 'ave without Ren," he tells them.

"Without... Captain, is something wrong? Where's Ren?" Gaz asks.

"She's in medical," he says. Soap is confused, spluttering, and Ghost is half out of his seat when Price infuses his voice with his Captain's authority and says, "Stop!" The scent of aggression simmers as Ghost sits back down.

"I need ya all," his gaze cuts to Ghost, "ta listen and not react," he stares at Soap. "If we want even the slightest chance of havin' Ren as our omega, ya will listen." He looks around the room, taking in Gaz's serious look, Soap's apprehension, and Ghost's skepticism. The heavy scents of worry and barely restrained anger are cloying in the small space. "Ren came ta me last night. Her heat was starting, an' she wan'ed clearance ta pass it under medical sedation, what she felt was the safest way available ta her."

Soap cuts in, "We're safer than whatever's gonna happen tae her at medical!"

Price raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond to the outburst. "She's not pack, yet, Soap," Price says.

Ghost slams a hand down on the table, "An' whose fault is that?!"

Price turns to glare at his second. "Enough." The command is pure Alpha, and even Ghost can't just ignore his pack alpha's command. He is sat sullenly, arms crossed. "I had no right to push her to take her heat with us. She wasn't asking for it, and she felt medical sedation was better than a heat service."

He let his words settle on the others. From the spike of rotting fish, Soap's distress is clear. Price looks at Ghost and tells the lieutenant, "I told 'er we needed ta address bein' pack when 'er heat's done."

Ghost visibly settles, and Gaz says, "So ta be clear, we're gonna ask Ren ta be our omega? Officially?"

"Yes," Price replies unequivocally. "And we're here," he says, hand circling the table, "to draw up a courtin' contract that shows 'er we're serious about it." The scents in the room level out, bitterness and rot receding, replaced with the scent of fresh linen, salt, and greenery. Once it's clear everyone is on the same page, Price presses the intercom, and Adam's voice comes through.

"Yes, sir?"

"Adam, be a lad an' get Ren's parents on the line, yeah?"

There's no mistaking the teasing lilt to Adam's voice when he responds, "Shall I tell them why you're calling, sir?"

Price doesn't rise to the bait. "Patch 'em through when you got 'em." Then he cuts the intercom, turning back to the others. "I think we all agree pushin' Ren at all is gonna send her running, so we need ta be strategic. She told me, before the London job, she uses blockers because it's tiring ta constantly control her scent without 'em, so we can't make 'er stop-" Soap cuts in with a whiney "Och, Cap! But-", before Price raises his voice over the sergeant's complaints, "-no matter how much we want that fresh berry scent."

He takes pity on Soap and says, "We can ask she use patches and a non-scent deodorant instead."

Soap huffs out a barely audible, "Guess tha's better than nothing'."

"Like us," Price motions between himself and Ghost, "Ren's not on suppressants, so ensuring she's got space for a nest in the Lake house is a must." The scents in the room sharpen as each man thinks about your next heat. The one where, if this courting works, they'll help you through instead of the travesty of a medically sedated one.

Price takes a moment to compose himself, but before he can continue, the intercom on the table crackles with Adam's voice. "Ren's parents are on line three, Captain. Do you need me to come connect the call?"

"I'll handle it, Adam. Thanks," Price says, disconnecting the intercom. His gaze flicks to Gaz and he waves his hand at the phone. "Can ya get her parents?"

Gaz moves to the phone and presses a few buttons, then the tense voice of your mama warbles through. "Hello?"

"Hullo, ma'am. I'm Captain Price-"

A sharp inhale at his name, and then Mama's voice cuts him off. "You're calling from base, but the other gentleman didn't say why. What's happened to my girl, Captain?" Gone is the warble, replaced by fear and steel.

"Ma'am, she's fine," Price quickly assures. "She's safe and healthy."

There's a slow breath on the other side. "Okay, Captain. If that's the case, if she's safe, and she's not calling me, this is about her being your omega, isn't it?"

Ghost chuckles, mutters, "Can see where she gets it."

Another voice, Mum's, comes over the line. "Gets what?" she asks sharply.

Price clears his throat. "Pardon us, ma'am and ma'am. It seems I made a right mess of things. My name is John Price, Captain of the 141 and the pack alpha. I'm here with Lieutenant Simon Riley, and Sergeants Kyle Garrick and John MacTavish." Each man says hello as he's introduced, helping your parents discern one voice from the next. "We're Ren's team. An' yer right, we wanna be 'er pack, too, if she'll have us."

"Well, if you're calling to ask for our permission to court her-" Mama starts, before she's cut off by Ghost's chuckle.

Price smirks as he says, "Ma'am, we all know yer daughter doesn't wait fer permission ta do things. And if she thought we'd asked ya fer it first, that'd be the end 'fore we even began."

Your dad's voice joins the mix as he says, "Sounds like ya have the measure of our girl, Captain. And you must know we've got a full house here, so why don't you get to why you called."

Though your parents couldn't see it, Price stood straighter. "Yes, sir. I, we, were callin' because we don't want things goin' pear shaped. We were workin' on a courtin' contract-"

"A courting contract," Mum says, half shocked, half amused. "That's too old fashioned, Captain."

"I can see where it seems that way, ma'am, but with military packs, it's a necessity ta protect all parties," Gaz chimes in pragmatically.

"Not-" Soap cuts in quickly, "-tha' we need need protectin' from Ren or this decision, mum. We're sure this is wha' we want. She is wha' we want."

"My men have the way of it. The military requires a courtin' contract fer any military or military-affiliated pack. It's ta make sure the military bit keeps runnin' smoothly no matter wha'," Price says.

Mama's voice comes through again, "So what is it you need from us, if you're not asking for permission?"

Price takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is guarded, almost weary, as if one wrong word will end their attempt before it's even started. "We know a lot, and have figured more, about what she needs from a pack, not as an omega, but as she is. But it's clear she 'as reservations about being pack at all. Do ya have any advice or suggestion about wha' we could say?"

Your dad's sigh comes through the line, weighed down and weary, sad. "Captain, I wish we had better news. She's fought her secondary designation for so long, always clawing for every little achievement, every little advancement, every scrap of recognition. Been that way since she was little, even before she presented. Being clever and sporty didn't serve her well as a girl, and when it was clear she was an omega, it raised the bars even higher. No one in her adult life, until you, ever really saw her first." They can hear the smile in his voice when he tells them, "She was right pleased when you put her name up for the boards." He sighs again, and the men hold their collective breaths. "She's so close, Captain. We could tell when she was home. She wants a pack of her own, even if she hasn't said it. Your best bet is to show her you'll still see her and not just her omega."

next

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[matoitech]

this isnt even getting into how iffy i am abt this whole common statement from ppl in the first place bcuz i feel like when 98% of these folks go to list out what they wish was happening with/to lgbt characters in media they just describe stereotypes and bigotry that makes up the majority of media anyway

u guys cannot keep only watching kids shows and then complaining about being sick of 'good' gay rep 😭 please put heartstopper down and watch something not made for kids i promise you will find the messy lgbts u so desperately crave. please tell me u understand why childrens cartoons focus is on being cute

[saudad3]

Childhood friend! Sammie, whose first love was the blues and second love was you. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who, since diapers, had been inseparable from you. Your mama was a member of the congregation at his father’s church, and the two of you would steal away from the sermon to play behind the small, white building, kicking up dirt and rolling around in the grass. You remember earning several pops from your mama for ruining the pristine white church clothes with mud and grass stains.

Childhood friend! Sammie, who, as yall grew up, was the shyer one of your dynamic duo. He stood just two paces behind you (and three inches shorter), eyes downcast and knuckling the neck of a guitar 3/4ths the size of his body, whilst you flew away at the mouth, telling the older boys that fucked wih him to go straight to hell!

Childhood friend! Sammie, who couldn’t shake the habit of lacing his fingers with yours even as he grew up, just now only opting for private spaces and quiet moments between the two of you. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who when you got your first “boyfriend” at the age of eleven, cried and cried for days, terrified he would no longer be the number one “man” in your life. You crassly reminded him that your daddy was the number one man in your life, which made him wail even harder.  

Childhood friend! Sammie, who stuck his chubby little finger out and made you promise you’d be his wife when y'all became grown, snot running down his nose and face puffy from how much he got worked up from this whole ordeal.

Childhood friend! Sammie, who chuckled softly when you hooked a finger under his signature brown fedora, which was always leaned three more inches to the right after he came back from hanging with his older cousins, Smoke and Stack. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who was your first kiss. You both didn’t wanna enter your late teen years not having experienced something as small as a lil kiss. Oh, how his heart nearly pumping out his chest when you leaned in, eyes closed and clearly more sure of this than him. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who always gloated about how cool his older cousins were, eyes sparkling whenever he brought em up. He ain’t give a rats ass about the rumors of all the unpleasant things they were doing up north, and continued to let you know how he was gonna convince them to take the both of you up to Chicago on their next adventure. 

Childhood friend! Sammie, who always included you in his plans for the future. When he became a big blues musician in the big cities, he was gon’ put you to work as his manager and split the profits with you. The features on his boyish face fell when you vehemently disagreed, saying you've been his bodyguard since he was eight, and he needa find someone else to do the job.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

[suzukiblu]

. . . so like, no PROMISES for doing the whole month, buuuuut . . . day one of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Oh, should I? In all the spare space I’ve got in here?” Tim asks, still sounding wry. 

“Buy a bigger boat, babe, I don’t know what to tell you,” Bernard says reasonably. “How’re we gonna keep a kept boy without a bigger boat, huh? You want a big pet around, you gotta have a big space for him. Let him really stretch his legs, you know? Or spread ‘em, whichever.’ 

Kon buries another laugh in his arms and Tim rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. Jokes aside, they really are crammed in pretty tight on the bed–it is just not that big a bed to be fitting three people in–but Kon minds literally nothing about that. Not even a little bit does he mind that, in fact.

He likes it, more like. Likes being all up in someone else’s space even without anyone actually fucking each other or even making out or like–just, anything, he guesses. He doesn’t get to do that often enough, it always feels like. Everybody’s always–busy, or moving, or . . . 

He just wants to, like . . . get to do this kind of thing more often, he guesses. 

Doesn’t hurt that it’s Tim whose space he’s currently all up in, either. Like–he has definitely not gotten to be all up in Tim’s space too many times that weren’t directly related to one of them saving each other’s ass in a crisis situation. Or, like, occasionally being transportation to a crisis situation; that has also been a thing more than once. 

. . . actually, fuck, thinking too much about being Tim’s usual designated transportation or just being all shoved up in each other’s space while the world was trying to end while he’s gay is not something he’s gonna be able to be normal about, huh. 

Like . . . wow, yeah. Not even a little bit normal. 

Jesus. 

“Oh, I see, so this is just another excuse to try and get me to trade in my perfectly sound and perfectly outfitted boat,” Tim says, which sort of distracts Kon from his own personal Chernobyl: Horny Edition. Like, kind of, anyway. “Is there literally anything that we have not managed to do in this bed? Genuinely, please tell me what position you have in mind, I’m honestly curious.” 

“Well, what about letting your boy sleep at the foot of the bed?” Bernard asks even more reasonably, which actually just made Chernobyl: Horny Edition like, twelve billion times worse, probably. Just–Jesus, again. “You think you’ve got the real estate for that on this mattress? No you do not, because you’ve failed to plan ahead and you should be ashamed.” 

“Yeah, Rob, shouldn’t you have a Bat-contingency plan for that?” Kon teases past more laughter, and Tim sighs. 

“You know, I did worry if you’d get along with each other or not, but I think it’s worse that you do get along with each other,” he muses, picking a peach slice up off the plate in his lap and eyeing it assessingly, because Tim is literally incapable of not assessing things, apparently, boyfriend-delivered breakfast or otherwise. “Actually, no, it’s worse that you encourage each other.” 

“I’m a very encouraging person, man, what can I say?” Kon says, flashing him a sharp grin. Tim rolls his eyes again, but with that little fond smile again, and Kon feels warm and heady and a little bit desperate to get his mouth on his cock again or, like–get kissed again, maybe. 

It’s maybe a little stupid, how he can’t really tell the difference between those things. Like–which one he really wants, he means. But like, in his defense, he is still experiencing his own personal Chernobyl right now and he’s just doing his best with the resources he’s got available, okay? 

“Oh absolutely, yes, I’m always so encouraged in your presence,” Tim says wryly. Kon grins at him, then sticks his tongue out at him instead. Tim drops the peach slice on his tongue like a weirdo, and Kon represses another laugh and pulls it into his mouth. What, it tastes good. And it’s not any weirder than getting hand-fed a protein bar was, either way. 

Well–maybe still a little weird, but whatever. 

Tim picks up a piece of waffle–Bernard cut them up in quarters, Kon guesses–and holds that out to him, and that . . . Kon hesitates a bit over that, because . . . 

“Sorry,” Tim says. “Don’t want it to get cold.” 

“That’s, like–your plate, man,” Kon says, his face feeling a little hot as he flicks his eyes up from the offered waffle chunk to glance at Tim’s face, because for some ridiculous reason his brain’s gotten stuck on that over a waffle, even after not really thinking of it with just the peach. Though that seemed . . . less deliberate, maybe, so . . . 

“No it’s not,” Bernard replies matter-of-factly, shaking his head as he picks up a banana slice off his own plate and pops it into his mouth. “Tim’s plate has way fewer waffles on it and blueberries instead of peaches. Also oh my god, Tim, don’t feed your boy dry-ass waffle with nothing on it. There’s whipped cream and caramel sauce over here, you want any, Kon? Also butter, if you’re feeling basic. I won’t judge, sometimes the vibe is just butter.” 

Kon takes a long moment to process the fact that Bernard put the plate he made for him on Tim’s lap, and also that Bernard went to the effort to make his plate different, for like . . . whatever reason. 

“. . . um. Caramel, if that’s cool,” he answers, a little belated, and wondering if Tim, like–told Bernard he likes peaches, or . . . well, he’s pretty sure peaches and caramel sauce are not standard waffle toppings, or at least not standard in most people’s usual breakfast setups, so like . . . “Uh–thanks.” 

“Gotcha, man,” Bernard says easily, reaching over to the tray and coming back with, weirdly, like a little, like–carafe, or whatever? pitcher? like the kind of thing people put coffee creamer in, except just full of caramel instead–and passing it to Tim. 

Which . . . okay, low-key weird that Bernard felt the need to pour out the sauce bottle into a fancy little pitcher, but Kon isn’t gonna lie, he’s a little charmed by it. Like, it’s just a funny little quirk, but . . . 

“You’re so fucking cute, man,” he says, laughing again and then grinning at Bernard in amusement. “Like, A+ hosting, don’t get me wrong, totally killer hospitality, but I wasn’t gonna knock down Tim’s Yelp rating if the bottle was sticky or whatever.” 

“Huh?” Bernard asks, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression, then seems to realize something and clarifies–“Oh, no, Tim only has the shitty cheap syrup that makes a shell when you put it on ice cream or whatever, I wasn’t gonna put that on waffles, I just made my own.” 

“You made it?” Kon says in bemusement, a little startled by the idea. That’s like–a thing? “Like–what, from scratch?” 

“Yeah, Tim said you liked caramel but again, the only caramel he had on deck was shitty cheap stuff,” Bernard replies with a shrug as Tim pours some sauce onto–Kon’s plate, apparently–and swipes the waffle quarter he’s holding through it. “Personally I’m more the whipped cream type but like, caramel is way less annoying to make from scratch when you don’t have a stand mixer, which your bestie continues to refuse to invest in because of some nonsense about ‘limited counter space’. So like, normally he whips the cream, because it’s his fault I gotta do it by hand anyway and also, you know, he’s got all those sexy, cream-whipping vigilante muscles that I was pretending not to notice but was not above taking advantage of. But we didn’t want you to come up without somebody around, so today my arm is sore, fuck you, babe, buy at least a hand mixer already.” 

Kon . . . blinks, once or twice, and feels–weird, maybe, because that rattled-off chatter makes it sound like . . . like Bernard made that sauce, like–specifically for him? Like . . . just because of him? 

Did he? 

[writingunderneathawillow]

20 questions

warnings: nothing, just fluff word count: 530 a/n: my first work for steve, yayyy!! just a quick drabble :)

You had been playing for a while now, questions about anything and nothing exchanged between you and Steve when he asked: “What’s your plan for the future?”

In surprise, you looked up at him. It seemed like a very direct question, one that was slightly loaded.

You leaned back a little, gazing at him before answering.

“In the far – and I mean far – future, I’d like to settle down somewhere nice. In the countryside maybe, but not too far away from the next big city,” you replied honestly while watching Steve’s face intently.

“Settling down, huh? How’d that look for you?” He asked. His eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly, soft lips parted as he waited for your answer. One could practically see the inner workings of his brain, trying to figure you out as best as he could.

“Well, a nice house with a pretty garden. I want a place where you don’t have to lock the windows and doors every night, somewhere where you don’t have to install a security system. And I’d like to do that with someone special,” you explained slowly, “Someone by my side.”

You and Steve hadn’t been dating long enough that talking about growing old together felt comfortable, so your answer ended up being rather vague.

“Someone special,” he repeated, a soft smirk on his face that caused the skin next to his eyes to crinkle ever so lightly. “What would that someone special be like?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle as he stretched his arms, interlocking his hands behind his head as he kept his eyes focused on you.

“Well,” you began, a sly smile dragging the corners of your mouth upwards, “He’d have to be handsome. And rich, of course,” you teased.

“Of course,” Steve echoed, amusement written over his face.

You continued: “I like ‘em blond. Blue eyes. Abs for days. Handsome guys, you know.”

Warmth spread through your face and neck as his smirk deepened.

“Sounds like you got a pretty specific type, don’t ya?” His voice dripped with delight as he took in your words, and you could tell that he felt rather smug.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” you replied, now leaning in closer to him.

“You know anybody like that?” He grinned from ear to ear, releasing his hands from the back of his head and he also shifted towards you.

“Oh, well, Thor’s a really great guy, don’t you think?”

The way his smile dropped, and his breath hitched almost sent you keeling over. Steve Rogers was a man of many talents, but his ability to look like a kicked dog was almost uncanny.

“Thor,” he repeated, feigning hurt at your words. “You gonna choose a god? One whose biceps the size of my head?”

You couldn’t keep your laughter in any longer, the sounds bubbling from your throat as you rested your hand on his thigh.

“I’m kidding,” you giggled, “Guess I’d be okay with settling for a guy with a shield. But it has to be really cool one.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “My shield’s the coolest. That’s gotta mean that I’m in the running, right?”

“I guess you qualify.”

thank you for reading :) gentle reminder that likes are more than appreciated but comments and reblogs make the dream work

[darlingdaisyfarm]

This honestly might be a downer or stupid, but I just got fired and I am having a really hard time. I just want to bury my head in Stan's chest and sob. I was wondering if you could write how the Stan and Ford might react to the reader being suddenly fired and maybe how they'd comfort them? I'm also really excited for the next chapter of your fic!

✧˚⋆ Stan & Ford supporting you when you need it most ⋆｡♡˚

oh sweetheart, im so sorry ur going through this, holy shit. just the moment i received this ask, i knew i had to write smth when ill get free time today, because i feel so sorry for you. i hope these two old men gave u even a tiny bit of comfort, please be kind to urself right now, youre gonna get through this, i promise. sending u all my love !! stay strong please 🫂🫂

STANLEY

the thing about Stan is that he gets it. he gets the feeling of being chewed up and spat out, of having doors slam in your face, of working your ass off and still being told you’re not enough. he gets the quiet humiliation, the bitterness in the back of your throat, the way your hands shake when you try to act like it doesn’t matterm

you don’t even remember how you got here. your feet must’ve carried you through the streets, past strangers whose lives weren’t just ruined, past cars honking, past buildings that still stood while the whole world inside you had collapsed.

“hey, hey. what the hell, sweetheart, breathe, alright? you’re okay, you’re right here.” his rough but worried voice reaches you when you slam mystery shack's door open, standing in the doorway with shaking hands, red-eyed.

“i got fired, Stan. j-just gone, outta nowhere. i don’t know what to do, Stan, im so lost.” your throat burns

before you can say anything else, he's opening his arms. “c'mere.” and you don't even hesitate as you crash into him like a wave, burying your face in his chest. and he holds you, one big arm wrapping around your back, the other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head

“there we go. you don’t gotta keep it all in, sweetheart.” the words hit you harder than you expect. you're so used to holding it together, to swallowing everything down, to being strong. and Stan, who’s built himself up from nothing, who’s taken every punch life threw at him and still kept standing, he’s telling you it’s okay to break.

so you do. you bury your face in his chest and cry until you’re dizzy, until your breath stutters and shakes, until all the anger and hurt and fear bleed out of you. Stanley doesn’t rush you or tell you to stop. “let it out, sweetie, s’gonna be okay.” he holds you close tightly because he’s spent his whole life holding people who needed it more than he did.

“it’s not fair,” you gasp, clutching on his clothes.

“no, it ain’t.”

“i worked so hard.”

“i know.”

“i feel like—like nothing i do is enough—”

Stan tightens his hold, pressing his chin to the top of your head. “hey. you listen to me.” his voice turns serious. “some suit in an office makin’ a crap decision got nothing to do with who you are. they're dumb. absolute morons for lettin’ you go. betcha the whole place is gonna fall apart without you because you were the best thing about that shithole. if they couldn’t see that, then screw ‘em. they lost you. not the other way around.”

you shake your head, clenching your fists. “but—“

“no buts,” he growls and then, softer: “you're not trash just ‘cause some idiots don’t know how to treat their workers. you're not worthless just ‘cause some suits decided you were expendable. you are not nothing.”

Stan pulls back to tip your chin up, making sure you’re listening. his thumb wipes a tear off your cheek. “i mean, you still got me, sweetheart. ain’t no job in the world that could change that.” he smiles genuinely at you.

you close your eyes, giving him a tiny sad smile back. you let yourself breathe, let yourself believe it, hiding your face in his chest again. Stan's grip stays strong and unshaking, shielding you from the whole world as you cry until you’re too tired, so all what you do is sob into his chest. you’re just leaning into him, exhausted, letting him hold you up.

Stan sighs, resting his cheek against your hair. “ya ever heard the story of the biggest screw-up in New Jersey?”

you sniffle. “what?”

”lemme tell ya, kid grows up in a house that don’t want him. gets kicked out. loses every job he ever had. ends up in a broken-down shack in the middle of nowhere. total loser.”

you shift against him. “Stan—“

“but he keeps goin’. and somehow, somehow, that dumbass loser ends up with people who love him. ends up holdin’ someone who needs it. ends up tellin’ the best damn person he’s ever met that they’re gonna be okay.”

he lets you lean into him again, lets you breathe him in, lets you stay as long as you need. tells you stories about all the bosses he’s scammed just to make you laugh.

at some point, when the tears have slowed and the weight in your chest isn’t crushing anymore, Stan ruffles your hair and leans back, arms crossed.

“y’know, i could use an extra set of hands around the shack.“

you blink up at him, sniffing. “what? you. . .you want me to work here?”

“yeah, id rather have someone i actually like workin’ here instead of hiring some random kid who’s just gonna rob me blind.” his usual gruff tone is back, but his gaze is what speaks louder, soft and certain, making it obvious that you belong here.

you open your mouth, but he cuts in, pointing a finger at you. “and before ya say some crap about not bein’ good enough or whatever, shut up. i’m the boss, i decide who’s good enough, and i say it’s you.”

you let out a shaky laugh, wiping your nose. “wow, such a heartfelt offer.”

he smirks. “hey, that’s as heartfelt as it gets, sweetheart. but seriously. think about it, okay? i got a spot for ya.” Stanley is not just offering a job for you, he’s offering a place, a place where you’re wanted, where you’re needed, where you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.

you take a deep breath, feeling lighter for the first time all day. “yeah. yeah, i’ll think about it.”

“good,” Stan smiles and ruffles your hair again. “now, wanna eat somethin’? watch a dumb movie? beat me at cards? or you want me to egg their car?” about the last thing, he's joking, probably. but if you say yes, you know he’ll do it.

STANFORD

Ford finds you sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed on the surface, face buried in them. you haven’t moved and spoken in a while, just sat there, motionless, like a puppet with the strings cut.

he clears his throat, stepping closer. “i, ah. noticed you didn’t come in for dinner.”

you don’t respond. his brows knit together, concern creasing his forehead. he takes the seat across from you, folding his hands on the table. “would you like to talk about it?”

for a moment, nothing. then, muffled: “i got fired.” slips from your mouth. so that's what happened. Ford doesn’t say oh. doesn’t say im sorry. doesn’t say what happened? he understands you because Ford Pines knows what it is to be discarded. he knows what it is to dedicate yourself to something, only to be told you are wrong. to be shoved out, unmoored, drifting in the space between who you thought you were and who they’ve decided you are now.

he knows what it is to look down at his hands and wonder if they are still meant to build something. after being betrayed.

he frowns thoughtfully. “that was. . . rather sudden, wasn’t it?”

you nod weakly. Ford exhales through his nose, gaze sharpening, analyzing. you. your sadness. the whole situation.

“it must feel unfair.“ he doesn’t just acknowledge the loss, but the injustice of it. and it makes your throat close up.

you lift your head slightly, looking at his face. “it- it is. i tried so hard. i put so much effort into that stupid job, and now it’s just—just gone.”

Ford hums. “tell me something.” he leans forward, putting elbows on the table. “do you think your value was in the work you did?”

you blink at him, but he doesn't even let you answer. “because if that were the case, then the moment you lost that job, you would have lost all worth as a person. but that’s not true, is it?” his voice is always so calm, full of absolute certainty.

you shake your head slowly, unsurely and Ford nods, satisfied. then, after a brief pause, he stands. “wait here” you don’t have the energy to question him. you just sit, staring blankly at the tabletop, until he returns a moment later with a notebook and pen.

he places them in front of you.

you glance up, confused. “what’s this for?”

Ford takes his seat again, tapping a finger against the cover. “do me a favor, darling. write down five things about yourself that have nothing to do with your job.”

your face looks tired and skeptical. you stare at the paper. “Ford, i—“

“anything,” he says softly, smiling at you. “everything. what you love. what you’re good at. what excites you, what makes you feel something. what matters to you.”

your fingers tighten around the pen. at first, you don’t know where to start. but Ford doesn’t rush you, just patiently sits beside you.

so you write. you write about the things that make you you. and at first, it feels stupid and awkward. it starts small, your favorite books, your favorite songs, the way you love thunderstorms, the way you always make extra coffee just in case someone else wants some.

but then it gets bigger. the things you’ve created. the things you’ve learned. the times you were kind when no one was looking. the people who love you, who see you. the way you keep going, even when it’s hard

Ford watches as you write, nodding approvingly at each entry.

“now tell me: did losing your job take any of that away?”

you stare at the words. the little pieces of yourself you hadn’t even thought about in the wake of everything. softly, you shake your head

Ford’s expression gentles. “then you’re still you. and you’re still worth just as much as you were yesterday. because no job, no institution, no single event defines you.” you swallow hard. Fords voice drops lower. “you are more than what you do, more than what you produce, more than what some company decides you’re worth. you are your thoughts. your curiosity. your kindness.” he gestures to the list. “you are all of this and nothing can take that from you.”

your breath wobbles. Ford’s gaze softens further. “come here, sweetheart.“ you hesitate but only for a second, then stand and he meets you halfway, arms wrapping around you. and Ford isn’t Stanley, isn’t someone used to giving big, open, thoughtless affection. but what he lacks in ease, he makes up for in intent.

because he means this. his big hand moves up and down your back slowly. “you’re not alone in this,” he murmurs into your hair. “we’ll figure something out. and until then. . . you are still extraordinary.“ his voice is so certain, and suddenly you don’t feel quite as lost.

“th-thank you” you bury your face in his sweater, hands gripping his sleeves

“and don’t let anyone ever tell you you aren’t smart or brave or worthy enough.”

you stay there a while. until Ford gives your shoulder one last squeeze and pulls back, adjusting his glasses. “now. i assume you haven’t eaten?”

you smile at him, shaking your head. “no, wasn't in the mood.“

“come, sweetheart, let’s fix that.”

[notyournecromancer]

I totally adore you and have always loved everything you’ve recommended on any platform. I’ve only read marauders fics though and not sure anything can top Jegulus and Wolfstar for me. But I’m curious what the Drarry fuss is about. Do you have any advice on where to start? Something to get me into the characters everyone loves, like Blaise, Theo etc. And then I’ll go down the AFTG and Raven Boys rabbit holes! And probably never sleep again. Or be productive. Etc. But I’ll be happy.

SWEET SUFFERING JESUS i cannot TELL YOU how happy this makes me. DRARRY RECS INCOMING BELOVED!

first and foremost, i simply must tell you of the journey that is Led by Light of a Star Sweetly Gleaming which is the most GLORIOUS wolfstar - hear me out, the sequel to this is a Drarry, called Pages of You . These are by the most wonderful writer @wolfpants - I won't embarrass them by emotionally leaking all over the internet but fucking hear me out, babe, you're gonna wanna read every drop of Drarry they have to offer. While you're having a stalk, go and check out Terrible People and Everybody Hates a Tourist.

Next up, another favourite of mine: Draco Malfoy and The Mirror of Ecidyrue. this badboy is good if you fancy a canon retelling with some fantastic twists and fixes thrown in. each year gets better than the last and I think its such an interesting take on the whole thing.

Alright, another FABULOUS one with such a good little twist: Way Down We Go by @xiaq - a phenomenal writer whose original works you should also absolutely check out. This fic actually has Harry as a Werewolf which I absolutely convinced myself was a plot twist until I later went back and read the tags and realised it was there the whole time. LOVE this one. so good. side note - the supporting cast? unrivalled.

Okay here we have What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym. this was lovely - I thought the characterisations were really spot on for canon adjacent/continuation. adored this.

Now for something a touch more whimsical, may I present you something unlike anything else I've ever read ever in life? It's called Running on Air by Eleventy7 (they are on tumblr I believe but for the life of me I cannot find their @) anyway. this is just the most stunning thing. it sort of plays out like a movie in front of you while you read it. its gentle and clever and thoughtful and intricate and just one of the most creative stories I've ever crossed paths with. i challenge you not to fall in love.

Here we have Is This The Place by the most gorgeous writer @januaryfirstreads - I promise you you aren't going to find someone who loves drarry like this writer does. and its so clear in every word she writes. This one of her's is lovely, so soft and full of the love of these characters, it does them justice in the most beautiful way.

Alright, if you know wolfstar you probably know @brigid-faye - and if you don't, all you need to know is that I trust brigid with my life. one thing about brigid? these characters are gonna be treated so well its gonna be hard to let go of 'em. here's a drarry brigid wrote a while back, its all the things her writing always has. which is to say, nothing you wanna miss. It's called Breeze (Move Me).

Okay, if you're a Red White and Royal Blue fan, the one and only itsgivingcamp has a FABULOUS ONE which you can find here: it's called Red, Green and Toil Too . now, I may perhaps be biased, but I happen to prefer this to the original. but like I said, maybe biased. but also, correct.

Alright, some classics. I may have read some of these or started them/downloaded them but I fear I've rambled on long enough. so here's the failsafe drarry recs to lead you down the right track:

Dwelling by Aideomai

The Devil's White Knight by Orphan_Account

Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey by sobsicles

Chasing Dragons by The_Sinking_Ship

and lastly i'm going to do the cheekiest of little self recs. i have a multi chap drarry that will one day be finished called Cold Coffee and a banter-driven little Christmas-themed one-shot named The Weather Outside.

anyway, there are so many bloody more. drarry is the most wonderful thing. its also (in my opinion) so disgracefully canon that it's hard to escape once you get into it. (like hello? the train scene?) so I wish you the best of luck on this journey.

you just come and give me a shout when you're ready to yell about AFTG and The Raven Cycle. I am here ready & waiting!

love you bye xoxoxoxo

[unclewaynemunson]

"What. The. Fuck."

Over years of living in a trailer park, Eddie has seen his fair share of weird shit. But this right here? This surpasses everything.

Wayne is sitting on the couch in the living room, with an actual baby in his lap and a completely deadpan expression on his face like this is something that happens every day.

"Hey, Ed. Meet Sasha Munson."

"Sasha Munson?" Eddie repeats, hoping that saying the name out loud will make this whole thing less surreal. It doesn't, so he automatically switches right into disbelieving panic mode instead. "Sasha Munson?! What the fuck? She isn't mine, I promise, it's literally impossible, someone must've - Wait, hold on - Is she yours? Aren't you like fifty years too old to knock someone up? What the fuck did you do? Who's the mother? What were you thinking, man, we can't take care of a -"

"Eddie, sit down."

"No, I'm not sitting down, this is ridiculous, what the fucking fuck, we can't -"

"She ain't mine and she ain't yours."

"What the-" It takes a few seconds before Wayne's words sink in. Then, Eddie freezes mid-sentence, giving his brain a second or two to catch up to what Wayne just said.

"Wait, what?" he asks.

He gives the sleeping baby a distrustful look. It's small - too small to be a human, if you asks Eddie. It scares him a little bit.

"Then whose is she?"

"I told ya to sit down, Ed."

And Wayne's voice is so strict and serious that Eddie can only obey.

"Your dad was here earlier."

Those few words are enough to tell Eddie exactly what happened. He immediately feels sick to his stomach. He wants to cover his ears, or walk out of the trailer and never come back. But instead, he keeps sitting, frozen in his chair, and listens to what Wayne tells him.

"Sasha is his daughter. He had this girlfriend, Melody, 'bout a year ago. She's much younger than him, is all I know 'bout her. I think they were kinda serious at the time. But Clyde went and messed it up, of course. Cheated on her. She dumped him. Then showed up again a few weeks later all sobered up and told him she was pregnant. Far as I know, things went okay for a while after that. But she caved right after she gave birth. It took a toll on her, Clyde said. So she needed the drugs again. He left her; he didn't see a way to help her and he was worried 'bout Sasha's safety. So he took Sasha with him and brought her to me. Said he couldn't take care of a baby and that was that."

It is a story eerily similar to what Wayne told Eddie about his own early years, whenever he'd ask him questions about his parents.

Eddie looks at the tiny human in Wayne's arms. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is just slightly agape. She's wrapped in a blanket that has a soft shade of pink, with tiny elephants printed across it.

"He never learns, does he?" Eddie remarks with a sigh.

"He doesn't," Wayne affirms in a soft voice, shaking his head. "But you know what, if these are the consequences of his actions..." He first looks up at Eddie, then down at the baby in his lap again. "I can't even be too mad at him for it."

"Jesus Christ, what a mess."

"Don't think too badly of him, Ed," Wayne says. "He wanted to help them. Both of 'em. But he didn't know how. He did what he thought was gonna be best for Sasha. Just like he did with you. He ain't evil. Just a coward who makes bad decisions."

Eddie swallows thickly.

"We'll make it work," Wayne says with certainty in his voice. "It'll be tight, but we'll survive. We did it before, we can do it again."

Eddie nods.

"You wanna hold her?"

He shifts uneasily. She seems so fragile. He doesn't know a single thing about babies; he is his father's son, after all, not Wayne's, no matter how much he wishes he were.

"C'mon, Ed, she's your sister."

It's only now that Eddie notices how well it fits, Wayne with a baby in his arms. Like he was made to be a father. Like Sasha belongs there. There aren't any pictures of Eddie as a baby, as far as he knows, but he imagines it must've looked somewhat like this scene: the exact same couch, a different blanket, and a younger version of Wayne. One with less wrinkles and more hair; less worn-out by the sorrows Eddie has given him over the years. It's simple for Wayne, in a way it isn't for Eddie's father, and in a way that Eddie fears it won't be for him. To hold her gently and let her sleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. To sit with her quietly and do nothing else. To give love and patience without expecting anything in return.

Eddie rises from his chair and sits down next to Wayne on the couch. He utters a shaky breath, trying not to show his nerves, and wipes his sweaty hands over his jeans before holding out his arms.

“Just like that,” says Wayne softly while he places Sasha in Eddie's arms.

She's warm and has that specific newborn baby scent clinging around her. She's heavier than Eddie expected. She stirs a little bit and makes a tiny sound, but then she continues her peaceful sleep. He studies her: her closed eyes, her tiny nose, the way her head rolls around helplessly if he doesn't support her steadily enough; the hand that's hanging out of the blanket, with minuscule but fully developed fingers that grab around nothing. He listens to the steady sound of her breathing and imagines the tiny lungs inside her body working on pure instinct to keep her alive. His sister.

He looks up and finds Wayne staring at the two of them with tears in his eyes. He only catches Eddie's gaze for a fraction of a second, then he looks away, to the window on his right side.

“You're wrong, you know,” Eddie says.

Wayne turns his head back to him.

“Bout what?”

“She isn't his. Neither am I.” He looks up from the girl in his hands to meet Wayne's eyes. “We're both yours. He didn't do jackshit for us, just dropped us here with you and ran away. You're the one who raised me, Uncle Wayne, and that makes me yours way more than his. And Sasha? We're both gonna be here for her, every step of the way. We're gonna change her diapers and feed her milk - I don't really know anything else about babies, but we're gonna do all of that, together. We're gonna see her grow up and become a person. She's ours.”

Wayne produces a noise that sounds somewhat like a choked-off sob. He puts an arm around Eddie and drags him closer towards him. He doesn't say anything, but Eddie didn't expect him to. He understands.