#cw: MCD

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Yours, Always and With Love

Warnings: (implied) MCD, angst

For @longdaytogo 🫡🥲

~

Dear "Mycroft",

I think I've finally figured out who you are. And I think it is bloody bollocking funny that I ended up with you as my pen pal. Are you really in the States? Merlin, I want to know what they think of you over there.

And you're wrong. There are people who miss you where you used to live.

You fucked up my nose,

HP

~

I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not that person. You're not always right. You're can't be all good. People like you don't survive for long. I'm nothing like you and even I barely made it. You think you're special but you're just another fool like me. Find a new life like I did. Your government does not deserve your loyalty.

You deserved it for spying on me,

D. Mycroft

~

Malfoy.

I don't do what I do out of a sense of loyalty. I do it because I want to be of some use. I'm definitely not all good and am most certainly a fool, you're right.

People keep writing about my bravery. They don't know I fake it. They don't know how afraid I am all the time. If I were less afraid, I'd find that new life.

HP

~

Dear Potter,

I think I might enjoy tales of your masked cowardice. Write some down and send them along with your next letter.

You do what you do because you were brainwashed into thinking that it is your purpose in life. It is decidedly not, I assure you.

Fake it one more time and find that new life. You'll thank me for it. And maybe you'll stop whinging about your crooked nose.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy.

~

Dear Malfoy,

Is my nose actually crooked because Hermione insists it's not, and Ron always starts talking about Ludo Bagman's nose? Needless to say, they're not very convincing. I now know why my dates never owl me back.

Speaking of which, I've had help throughout all of my many celebrated adventures. Perhaps if I had help (read: company) I might actually go start that new life. Find a new name too, maybe, while retaining my real initials of course. I'd hate to have to change my signature.

What do you think fits well with "HP"?

Best,

Harry

~

Dear Hideous Pumpkin,

I think your dates might owl you back if you shaved that scraggly beard off and found new glasses. You look like an expensively dressed homeless person in all your press photos.

We have a way of finding what we seek, I think. Three weeks ago, all I really wanted was to make a connection. Now I'm writing this one prat every other day and it feels quite fulfilling, rather.

You do have company. Look closer.

Best,

Draco M

~

Malfoy,

Sorry about the late reply. Work-related rubbish that you're probably not interested in.

I actually have been considering new frames. Do you think I should get bedazzled ones? I think they're in vogue now. They might help bring out my eyes or something.

It's a funny thing: connection. Kind of unpredictable where one might find 'em, right? I think I'm glad the pen pal agency connected me to you. It's definitely a fulfilling connection.

I'm writing this at 3am right before I run into work and get assigned a new mission. I'll be undercover and incognito so receiving/sending mail won't be possible, so I'll respond next when I'm back home. To make up for it, I've written down some of my earliest memories of my life in the cupboard and how I once locked my cousin in there. Go nuts and I hope you pull something as you laugh at me, you prat.

I'll be thinking of you.

Harry

~

Dear Potter,

I enjoyed your little collection of memories. You really were always an idiot, I've learnt. I don't know what on earth possessed you to believe that any of it would make me laugh, though. You rightfully blame me for a crooked nose but you don't think to unapologetically ruin the people who stomped on you like a bug when you were a baby and then proceeded to keep you under their boot until you were eleven?

I'm flying to England on the 24th. I'll be staying at the Ritz, London. If you're back from your mission and you're well, ring me at the hotel and ask for D. Mycroft. We'll have dinner or something. My treat.

I truly despise your job. I don't like the idea of you cut off from me the world like that.

I hope to see you soon.

Draco

~

Potter, I'm writing only because it would be incredibly rude of me to leave without telling you. I don't know what you think of me after last night. I might have asked you, if you'd been here when I woke up.

I'm sorry.

Malfoy

~

Draco, you absolute fucking idiot.

You write to me instead of ringing me on the number I gave you? And then I stroll into the fucking Ritz clutching sausage rolls and shitty coffee and the receptionist has to politely insist that I bugger off because "Mr. Mycroft has checked out already"?!

TEXT ME with your phone number and address. I'll book the next available flight to you.

You fucking idiot oh my god.

Harry

~

Dear Hideous Pumpkin Head,

You left three of your socks here and none match. Also, I know we only just hung up but I still wanted to write because somehow it's harder to insult you when I'm in front of you or listening to your voice.

My sheets stink of you. I'm never leaving this bed, I think.

Draco

~

Draco. Can't call. Destroy your phone and SIM. Stay within wards. Don't lose sight of your wand.

I will contact you as soon as possible. I am so fucking sorry. My god please be safe I am so sorry.

I love you.

Harry

~

Harry,

Did I really need to get a new owl? I'm perfectly safe and I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not when I have you.

I'm hoping that when you write me back, it will be to tell me that you've handed in your notice. The new flat here is enormous and it feels empty without you. Tell me when you'll be shipping your stuff and I'll make arrangements to have them brought here.

I can't wait.

Love,

Draco

~

Harry, why won't you answer your stupid phone? Honestly, I'm tempted to write to the Ministry right now, if only I hadn't spent the last fifteen years wiping away all traces of my existence. How's the notice period going? Have you started packing yet? It's very, very quiet here and it's unsettling. I may end up getting a talking bird and it'll be your fault.

Please call me.

Love,

Draco

~

Harry your phone is turned off and I can't think why and I am writing separately to Granger as well. If I don't hear from either of you in three days, I'm coming back there and I don't care about fucking dark wizards. I'M a dark wizard, as I was reminded often. We'll fight them off together.

Please I can't bear this respond.

Draco

~

Granger says you went missing eleven days ago. I don't care if you're undercover. My owl won't come back without finding you first.

~

Dear Harry,

Today I woke up and looked out the window and it was snowing. Almost Christmas already! That night at the Ritz you talked about your horrifying Christmas experiences as a child and I vowed to rectify that as soon as I'm able.

I've hung up twenty-two stockings, my darling, and they all have your name on it. I have a list of things I think you'd have loved and I'm going to find them all and stuff those stockings until they're bursting.

I'm getting our tree today. You said you'd always wanted a real one. I wish you were here so we could decorate it together. I hate ladders.

I keep thinking about I can't believe it's been six months alre I want you here I can't pretend anymore Please come take me away with you

I miss you. Every second of every minute, I miss you. I love you more with each passing day. I want you to come back Harry plea

Yours, always and with love,

Draco

~

[skeptiquewrites]

Microfic: Maybe Someday

for @drarrymicrofic prompt 'little person' by matt maltese. cw: major character death.

Scorpius,

If you're reading this, I am no longer with you. I'm sorry to give you one last task during a difficult time. Enclosed is a rail ticket. I've kept it with me all my life. Please give it to Harry Potter.

An explanation: a long time ago, Harry and I were very much in love. He asked me to run away with him. We were supposed to meet at King's Cross. I never showed up. I kept the ticket.

I loved my life. It gave me you. Please don't ever doubt that.

Harry should know I loved him, too

[waitingtobelit]

See the thing that makes me think Bobby's death is likely real this time is the fact that he had a NDE last season and they did tease whether or not he survived before we found out that he did, in fact, survive. And I also keep thinking about how they brought up the fact that he has some kind of DNR order before he woke up in the hospital bed. 😭

And I know 911 loves to recycle plotlines but like. For the same character, one season apart? 😬

Like, I hope I'm wrong, obviously. On the bright side if the worst happens? The Nate Fisher/Bobby Nash death gif comparisons will absolutely eat.

[smallangstdemon]

(CW: Implied MCD)

I couldn't decide which one I liked best, so have both!

Here is my submission for the KakaIru Maze Challenge 2024, prompt being "Angels and Demons". Here is Kakashi as a fallen demon, looking down in shock at a lone halo, beloning to Iruka... I had in mind that Iruka died and what's left is his halo, but what happened is 100% up to interpretation.

Close-up:

Style-wise, I'm not so happy with the colouring but the composition and feelings mostly came as I wanted, so I quite like this piece even if it doesn't showcases my best

[fastcardotmp3]

Spring, in their own words, before and after the war. Steve, in their own words, before and after never again.

read on ao3 (part 3/3)

part 1 | part 2 for the lovely @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Spring Challenge 💛

“Here, tell me this,” she stays propped on her elbow but rests her head in the palm of her hand as she looks down at him, gets looked at with vague distrust in return, “why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Ask if you’re reading the situation right.”

“To find out if I’m reading the situation right,” he says with dripping, viscous pointedness that only tickles Robin further. 

“Alright,” she grins. 

“What the fuck is happening,” Steve deadpans. 

“Do you want me to tell you why I think you do it?” she can’t help herself, she pushes herself all the way upright and sits with her legs crossed, pulling at blades of grass and snapping them between her fingers just for a place to put the excess energy in her bones. 

Steve, for his part, settles into the familiarity of the moment, hands pillowed behind his head and letting his eyes fall shut as he chuckles, “who am I to stop you from your favorite hobby?”

Robin sprinkles grass on his face just to get him to sputter and knock at her hands so she can make the mood light before she has to tell him—

“You don’t trust yourself like you should.” 

[m0srael]

Some Sentences Sunday!

Thanks for tagging me, @orange-peony! I loved your snippet! I'll pass it along to @avenueofesc, @cluelesspigeons, @slytherholic, @nv-md, @sorrybutblog, and @basicallyahedgehog 💕 I've recently returned to a WIP that I started a year ago (!!), and I'm feeling really jazzed about it. It's (so far) got a few of the greatest hits: temporary MCD, time travel, a steamy, time-travel induced age gap, fuck-or-die, loopy magical theory. Here's a particularly heart-shattering snip from the interlude between acts 1 & 2--cw MCD.

Pansy stands, too. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides and she stares at Harry like he’s the worst, most evil person she’s ever seen in her life. “I’m not sorry I did it,” she says. 

Harry sucks in a breath, trying to keep the nausea at bay. “Did what?”

“Tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord. I should have tried harder. If he’d taken you, if he’d really killed you, my best friend would still be alive.” 

Harry wavers from foot to foot, trying and failing to meet Pansy’s unforgiving gaze. Tears start to roll down his face, hot and wet. “He’s dead?” he asks, his voice small and broken. 

“He’s dead.” Pansy says, with finality. She stares at Harry for another beat, and then turns on her heel to walk away. 

Before she can make it to the corner, Harry calls her name. She stops, but doesn’t turn around. 

“I wish he’d really killed me, too.” 

She hesitates, and then rounds the corner, and Harry is alone. 

[wisedawn13]

#xiantober Day 4: Ghostxian

CW // MCD

Lan Zhan stares up at the abandoned house in the dark of night, wondering how his life came to this. Objectively, he knows how: Nie Huaisang begged him to be the "skeptic" on his new ghost-hunting show and their brothers asked him to join.

(He's pretty sure he's really here to be eye candy)

Still. He wonders how it came to this. He hadn't wanted to say no; Nie Huaisang is one of his only friends even though they aren't particularly close. He probably should have said no.

Alas.

It's been a whole 3 months of scouring various "haunted" sights in the hopes of collecting any concrete proof that ghosts exist.

It's been 12 different sights and nothing.

Tonight is the 13th sight. Lan Zhan has no hopes of being proved wrong and he just wants to be at home.

Nie Huaisang hops out of the van with his bag of "tools" (Lan Zhan rather thinks of them as toys, but to each their own) and runs over beside Lan Zhan.

"Ready?"

Lan Zhan sighs. "Mn."

Nie Huaisang pulls up a camcorder and hits record, gesturing for him to do the same. He does.

Once they are recording, Nie Huaisang launches into his intro and spiel about the haunted history of this house. Lan Zhan knows it all already, he read the website. A young man who fought to save a group of people was murdered here 130 years ago. They never found out who did it.

There is talk of other ghosts and spirits being here, claims of sightings of a boy running the halls, an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a tall man who stands in the corner and stares at you, the feel of being pricked by a needle, and disembodied laughter.

Nie Huaisang's goal—aside from proving the existence of the preternatural—is to meet the man who was murdered here and find out who killed him.

Lan Zhan would just like to get the investigation over with.

They make their way in, going through the various rooms.

In the parlour, Nie Huaisang sets up a rem-pod on the rocking chair where people have claimed an elderly woman sits. There are minor spikes in temperature but nothing else happens.

In one of the corners of the house, he sets up a maglite in an attempt to communicate.

Lan Zhan has never been very fond of the maglight specifically, given that it can randomly turn off and on, but Nie Huaisang is very fond of the tool. No ghosts respond (shocking, he knows) and they move on to another area of the house to use the spirit box.

They make their way through, Nie Huaisang predominantly being the one to communicate with Lan Zhan rarely making comments or asking questions. Again, no clear answers come with the spirit box, though the feedback from it was definitely more chaotic than usual.

Nie Huaisang seems excited at that, claiming that proves that there's a lot of ghost activity here. Lan Zhan doesn't comment.

They end their joint investigation (they will be doing solo investigations after) in the basement, where the young man was found dead.

"Let's use the ovilus and SLS cam down here," Nie Huaisang comments, setting his EVP recorder and camcorder down before pulling out the SLS camera.

Lan Zhan sighs to himself and pulls out the ovilus, turning it on and aiming his own camcorder at Nie Huaisang.

Nie Huaisang explains what the equipment does (whether it's for the ghosts or for the viewers at home, Lan Zhan may never know).

"Hello! To any and all who may be down here in this basement, my name is Nie Huaisang and his here is Lan Zhan. We would love to talk to you."

[SEXY]

They freeze and Lan Zhan looks down at the ovilus. Nie Huaisang giggles, moving the SLS camera around the room. "Do you think I'm sexy?"

Nothing.

Nie Huaisang hums. "Do you think Lan Zhan is sexy?"

[HOT]

[MAN]

Nie Huaisang breaks into raucous laughter at that.

Lan Zhan, for his part, feels himself blush slightly. The ovilus has said many things before but never has it so perfectly seemed to compliment him in such a blatant way. Nie Huaisang is enjoying this far too much.

[VOICE]

"I think it wants you to speak," Nie Huaisang says.

"Hello," Lan Zhan says. "My name is Lan Zhan."

[SPARK]

[HEART]

[WARM]

Nie Huaisang is giggling, wiping tears away with his free hand and panning the SLS camera back over the room when he freezes with it aimed at Lan Zhan. His eyes widen as he looks at the screen.

"Looks like you've got company," Nie Huaisang states.

"What?"

Nie Huaisang continues to stare at the screen. "I can see you here, but there is also a clear secondary figure showing up. The stick arms seem to almost be wrapping around you from behind."

Lan Zhan's brow furrows.

[DON'T]

Suddenly, Lan Zhan feels the slightest chill breeze brush his neck. He sucks in a breath and glares at the old window behind him. Old houses are always so drafty.

Nie Huaisang clears his throat. "It's gone. Anyway, we got distracted by you getting hit on by a ghost."

Lan Zhan shoots Nie Huaisang an unimpressed look.

"I would like to speak to the man who died in this basement," he calls out. "Are you here now?"

They wait in silence for a beat.

[KILL]

"You were killed here, yes."

[HELP]

"You need help? What do you need help with?"

Silence.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?"

[ARREST]

[LOUD]

"Arrest and loud?" Nie Huaisang mutters. "Not sure what that means."

Lan Zhan shrugs minutely. "It's time."

"Right, okay ghosts! We're turning off the ovilus now, but we'll be back in alone soon."

With that, Lan Zhan shuts the equipment off and heads to the stairs.

"Ah, ah! Wait up!" Nie Huaisang exclaims, floundering to put his equipment back into his back and catch up. Together they walk out to the van and drop their stuff off.

"Okay, I'll go first this time."

Lan Zhan nods and sits down, picking up one of the walkie-talkies and waits to start the 30-minute timer once Nie Huaisang enters the building. Time passes slowly in the van at night, but he uses it to meditate. The timer goes off and he radios Nie Huaisang to let him know.

They trade off equipment and then it's Lan Zhan's turn to go in.

"I put the walkie where flirting happened," Nie Huaisang says with a smirk.

Of course. Lan Zhan nods and makes his way into the house and down to the basement. He finds the walkie in the far corner of the room.

"Found it," he radios.

"Good," Nie Huaisang replies. "Now I want to you sit in the middle of the room with your eyes closed for a minute while using the spirit box."

Without bothering to respond, Lan Zhan does as told. The annoying static of the spirit box drones on.

"Is there anyone here? Can you tell me your name?"

***** W— ***** Wei— *****

"Wei? Is that your name?"

***** Ying *****

"Wei Ying?"

All of a sudden, the sound of the spirit box cuts out and an eerie silence falls over Lan Zhan. He feels a chill brush over his skin.

~Lan Zhan~

A whisper of his name by his ears makes him jump, his eyes shoot open and he could have sworn he saw a beautiful man's face smiling in front of him, but when he blinks it's gone. Trick of the light in an old, dark basement.

Yeah.

And yet...

Lan Zhan, skeptic of the super/preternatural, finds himself starting to doubt what he previously believed as truth.

He feels something here, in this basement. In this house.

Slowly, he reaches his hand out, palm facing where he thought he saw a man. "Wei Ying?"

Nothing happens for a suspended moment and then he jolts when he feels something on his hand. The sensation slides and spreads over his palm before wrapping around as if another hand is threading their fingers between his. He lets his own fingers fold down.

Lan Zhan gasps quietly when he finds that he meets resistance as if there truly was a hand there, and yet he cannot see one.

~Lan Zhan~

The voice again, slightly louder this time. Definitely not the wind. It's a low, smooth voice; one that isn't familiar to him at all.

Well.

Lan Zhan loses track of time in the basement, holding onto a phantom hand, catching flickerings of the man's—Wei Ying's face. He feels unmoored.

He feels at home.

Until Nie Huaisang's voice rings throughout the house, calling his name in a frightened tone.

Lan Zhan starts, glancing at Wei Ying once more.

"I will return," he states. He has to. He will.

He feels a squeeze on his hand and then nothing. Wei Ying left.

With some reluctance, he stands up and grabs the dead spirit box.

"LAN ZHAN!?"

"I am okay!" he replies loudly.

"Oh, thank fuck!" Nie Huaisang yells. When Lan Zhan reaches the front of the house he finds a frazzled-looking Nie Huaisang pacing around. "You! Why didn't you respond to me?"

"What do you mean?"

Nie Huaisang groans. "I radioed you a bunch! You never replied!"

Odd. Lan Zhan never heard that at all. He reaches for the walkie and presses the button. Nothing. He fiddles with the power switch and tries again. Still nothing.

It seems that more than just the spirit box died when Wei Ying appeared. He wonders if that means the video stopped.

"It died," he states simply. "I apologize for scaring you. I merely lost track of time."

Nie Huaisang studies him closely. "Did anything happen?"

For some reason, Lan Zhan feels compelled to keep what happened a secret. He settled on, "All of the equipment seems to have died."

Nie Huaisang's face falls. "Does that mean we lost our footage?"

"We won't know until we check it."

"Right... Right, let's head out." Nie Huaisang walks back out to the van.

"Mn."

Lan Zhan pauses in the doorway, turning back to look into the house.

He feels a gentle caress on his cheek. He smiles softly. He'll be back.

~

They find out that the footage on Lan Zhan's equipment was, in fact, lost, meaning that a solid amount of the footage overall was lost given that some of that equipment was shared.

Nie Huaisang bemoans the fact that they didn't end up with enough content for a video but Lan Zhan finds he is quite pleased with that as he begins looking into how to buy that house for his own personal use.

It takes a while, but eventually, he becomes the owner of the house.

Lan Zhan moves in and lives his life in a haunted house. Wei Ying is the most present, but over time he comes to encounter the others who reside there too. His life is unconventional, but he finds joy in the moments he spends around Wei Ying, however fleeting they may be.

Sometimes Wei Ying has a stronger presence on Lan Zhan's plane of existence, other times it's a challenge to feel him at all. But they make things work.

Lan Zhan also finds ways to ensure that the house becomes protected so that no one else can buy it and tear it down.

And then, years and years in the future, Lan Zhan peacefully passes away in his sleep, the feel of comforting arms wrapped around him.

And when he opens his eyes, he finally sees Wei Ying, fully as he was meant to be seen. Lan Zhan smiles.

"Wei Ying."

Wei Ying turns to him.

With a wide smile, Wei Ying runs over and wraps him in a bruising hug. "Hey, sexy."

Lan Zhan laughs. A little nod to their first meeting, the start of the rest of their lives together. "Am I in my 30s again?"

Wei Ying nods, eyes roaming over him with a burning hunger. "Yup."

"Why?"

"The house remembers."

Lan Zhan tilts his head in question.

Wei Ying brings a hand to trace along Lan Zhan's jaw. "It remembers how you were at your happiest here, and it preserves that."

Not one to question that which he doesn't understand anymore, Lan Zhan nods.

"Hey, Lan Zhan?"

"Mn?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Lan Zhan doesn't bother responding with words, instead, he leans in and lets his actions speak for themselves. It's a wonderful thing, finally being able to be with the man he loves.

He spends the rest of eternity exploring Wei Ying's body, basking in the love he feels. The rest of the ghosts easily welcome him into their little family. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan all but adopt the little boy, A-Yuan (despite him having been elderly when he passed).

The house remembers them, and they remember it in turn. They find joy in their unending time together.

Their little family is odd, but Lan Zhan wouldn't have it any other way.

----------

Link to thread

[sourw0lfs]

floating away

written for STWG daily drabble prompt: island

wc: 400 | T | cw: shipwreck, dehydration, implied MCD

Eddie isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating from dehydration or if there’s actually an island looming in the visible distance. The image sways before his eyes and his head spins as he sits up to try and see it more clearly. Each breath feels like a chore from the heat beating down on him, blistering into the sunburn splattered across every inch of visible skin. But he makes it up, leaning heavily on arms that shake with his weight as he peers over the edge of the lifeboat. 

“Hey!” he rasps, throat burning with each syllable as he turns his attention to the others in the boat. “Guys! There’s land!”

He doesn’t get a response, but no one’s really been talking the last day or so. The quiet doesn’t alert him to anything just yet. Or maybe it’s the dehydration again, sapping everything in his mind, body, and soul as they drift through the open ocean. 

The island is getting closer, drawing up on their little boat like a giant in the sea. Eddie no longer questions if it’s real or fake. Not when the first beat of shade washes over flushed skin, soothing it gently, or when the bottom of the boat scrapes along the sand when it beaches itself. 

Pulling his body out of the boat feels insurmountable, but somehow Eddie manages, fingers curling around the edge as he tumbles down onto dry land for the first time in three days. At least, he thinks it’s been three days. There’s a chance he lost count at some point. 

He’s the only one that tumbles onto the sand. Steve, Robin, Nancy... None of them move from the boat, from where they’ve tried to tuck themselves under the seats to escape the sun. “Hey!” Eddie tries again, voice straining to hold any sort of volume. “Guys, c’mon. We gotta find water!”

Not waiting for a reply, Eddie drops to the sand again, eyes locking on the treeline in front of him as he tugs his worn out body towards it. Every inch feels like it takes an hour and he has to stop before even making it very far. The others still haven’t moved. Eddie doesn’t want to move anymore either. Maybe if he just rests now, he can find the water later when the sun is down and it’s cooler out. 

Deciding that’s a good plan, his eyes slide closed. 

[hpffwritersguild]

Day 4: Only me in the limelight

[srfiv]

this is never getting finished

[amikoroyaiart]

Just let me go or take me with you

[8-rae-rae-8]

Thought about Ghost being pissed with Price for being the reason Johnny's dead. He's the reason his Johnny is dead. Shouting and angry as he confronts Price for letting his soldier take the blow because 'we are supposed to protect them', but all Price does is wait for Ghost to break, he waits to cradle the broken pieces of Simon. There's nothing he can do, they both know that, it's too late. Price can only hold Simon as his angry shouting turns into sobs on his shoulder. He'll hold him through the night if Simon wants, against his chest. He can't fix it, but he'll hold him, day after day if it eases the burden

[beau-bunny]

the “garroth is freaky as hell” propaganda continues

[fastcardotmp3]

Spring, in their own words, before and after the war. Steve, in their own words, before and after never again.

read on ao3 (part 1/3)

for the lovely @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Spring Challenge 💛

“You know,” he sighs, because things are different now, “there were only the three of us there that night.” 

He lets it hang, looks down at his cigarette as he ashes it onto the ground by his feet but feels the flit of Steve’s gaze at the periphery of his awareness. There’s a heaviness here, in the shared knowledge of just how intertwined their lives are from now on just based on the fluke of Steve discovering the apology lobe of his brain at the exact wrong time. 

No matter what happens from here on out, they share something beyond the fighting over of a girl, and it matters enough to let it hang, but it matters enough to keep going too. 

“It’ll always have just been the three of us,” he finally looks up at Steve, finds those eyes already on him, and against all odds, feels something release with the nod of Steve Harrington’s head. 

“Yeah, guess you’re sorta stuck with me,” he says, a twist of a self deprecating smirk at his lips, “sorry, Byers.” 

“Stuck with each other,” Jonathan replies in kind, if not entirely kind. 

And they will be, stuck with each other, right up until the moment it matters that they’re not. 

[queermentaldisaster]

Damian and Jon being thick as thieves.

It's almost impossible to see them apart, especially when on patrol or out in uniform, hell, even in civilian wear, they're side by side.

There's a fight.

Usually they can pull through. But they know one of them isn't making it through this.

But they'll be damned if they're letting the other go.

So, side by side. As it's always been.

Jon, already weak from Kryptonite and his wounds, takes Damian's hand.

Damian, bleeding out from a gash in his side, takes Jon's hand.

They charge back into the fray, determined to finish this...together.

Their stories will end at the same time, whether fate wills it or not.

[goodlucktai]

16 for the dialogue prompts?

dialogue prompts

16. “God, I’m so sorry, it’ll be over soon, I promise.”

@dandywonderous im so sorry about this in advance 🥹

x

When they were little, and they started wearing masks because Mikey wanted to be like the heroes he watched in Saturday morning cartoons, Donnie asked Splinter to cut the tails of his short so they wouldn’t get in his way.

Leo thought that was a crazy decision, because if the tails were short they wouldn’t match Raph’s. 

“So?” Donnie said, unscrewing the bottom panel of the oscillating fan he stole from Splinter’s room. 

“So what?” Leo said. 

“So what if I don���t match Raph? I don’t have to,” Donnie pointed out, a seven year old at his most reasonable.

His twin blinked, then his striped cheeks puffed out, brow furrowing, fully not understanding the question. He wanted to do everything Raphie did, but denied it when anyone told him so. 

This certain proof of that behavior made Donnie smile, quiet and indulgent the way he only ever was for his other half, but only when it was just the two of them. 

Leo whined and kicked his feet but Donnie wouldn’t tell him what was funny. 

Those long blue mask tails are sodden and heavy as Donnie shifts them out of the way, leaving a sickening trail of red where they drag against Leo’s neck and shoulder. 

They’re pinned down, what’s left of the tunnel groaning and shifting around them, at least three Technodromes filling the sky outside. Donnie can feel the hum of impending doom in his teeth. 

“Hush, Nardo,” Donnie whispers, hand clamped over Leo’s mouth hard, even though it cuts him to have to do this. “You can’t scream, mellizo. Hush.”

His twin writhes, digging at Donnie’s grip with desperate fingers. His chest is heaving, eyes wild with pain. The rosy glow of Raph’s ninpo is all they have to see by as the projection hovers above them in case of another collapse. In the dim light, Donnie can almost pretend it’s mud he’s kneeling in, warm and slick and pooling at an alarming rate from the slab of concrete that Leo’s right arm has been crushed under.  

The safe zone has been compromised. It’s devastating, but not at all surprising. Two of their scouts didn’t report in when they should have, baseline humans who didn’t have a hope of resisting the Krang’s method of interrogation, so it was only a matter of time before the enemy came knocking. 

April, Mikey and Cass have been evacuating their people and transporting supplies in and out of sunny orange portals all morning while Draxum, Hob and Usagi guarded their every move with eagle-eyed vigilance. 

Donnie, Raph and Leo were holding the Krang at bay for every extra second that they could, but they stayed out there a second too long. 

Now Leo is bleeding and the Krang hounds are prowling, their horrible faces scraping the ground as they sniff out that rich source of life, and Donnie’s mind is blank with panic. They’re trapped, and if he lets go then Leo will scream and bring death down on them, and if he doesn’t then death will come anyway, with teeth and venom.

“Shhh, Lilo,” Donnie tries to soothe, imagining Leo’s sweet, bright ‘shhh yourself, Dodo!’ in place of the uncomprehending whine he gets in response. “God, I’m so sorry. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

Maybe we should pray, he thinks wildly. Not to god, because that would be a spectacular waste of breath, but to one of the people who left the party early and might be willing to toss a miracle or two in their direction. Papa, or Gram-gram, or April’s mom. 

The red projection surrounding them begins to shrink. Slowly, making sure the rocks above and around them won’t shift, until the ninpo is just a warm glow beneath Raph’s skin. Donnie feels a rush of relief and anticipation—Raph has a plan, Raph will tell him what to do. 

Raph puts one arm around Donnie’s shoulders and cups Leo’s face with his other hand, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Blood smears beneath his fingers. His expression is hard to read in the dark underground. 

“You’ll be alright, big man,” Raph murmurs, all conviction, as if he can make it true out of sheer love. If anyone could, it would be him. Then he says, “Donnie, can you cut him out?”

The question makes his stomach lurch with nausea, bitter and acidic, but it’s a question that he can answer. After fighting in a three-turtle team for the better part of two hours, Donnie’s ninpo feels like coffee dregs left in the bottom of an empty pot. He has enough strength left that he could summon a tool for an emergency amputation, but only that. 

“Not quickly,” he says pointedly, “or quietly.”

Raph nods. He just sits there for a minute, holding them. They don’t have a minute and Raphie knows that but he’s just holding them. Donnie’s heart begins to race in a brand-new direction, some frightened thing in his very center sitting up and taking notice. 

Donatello has always been an incredible number of things, not all of them good or noble or worth bragging about, but above all else, at the end of each and every day, he was Raphael’s little brother. 

Donnie didn’t imitate him when they were kids—didn’t wear his mask tails long or find reasons to follow him around—but he was every firm hug Donnie needed to keep his skin from itching when life got too loud. He was an attentive, listening audience when Donnie had to talk about the things pingponging around in his mind without being interrupted or he’d scream. He was the large hands that held Donnie’s, the snaggle-toothed face that smiled in encouragement, when Donnie learned to walk. 

Donnie knew him fundamentally. Intrinsically. A textbook he never had to study, knowledge that grew up with him from the first moment he opened his eyes to the big, bright world. That’s how he knew what was about to happen the second before it did. 

“No,” Donnie says hoarsely. “Please don’t.” 

“Raphie’s gotcha,” Raph says warmly, the last steadfast and solid and remarkably kind thing left in the apocalypse.

He reaches down and presses the panic button on Donnie’s gauntlet. The alert activates with a bright pinging sound effect, echoing twice in their little disaster-made cavern as it’s received by Leo and Raph’s comms, and the Krang hounds nearby whine and bark in excitement. Their claws churn up earth and rock as they start to run.

Raph spares a second to press a kiss against Donnie’s temple, and another to Leo’s forehead, and then he’s gone. The light goes with him. Donnie shakes like a leaf, unreasonably cold, unable to think. 

Leo is half out of his mind by now, sobbing and jerking at his trapped limb, but all his agony is soundly drowned out by the brutal battle Raphael is leading far away from them. 

“Hush,” Donnie whispers, eyes stinging so badly he can hardly keep them open, tears dripping endlessly down his face. “It’ll be over soon.”