#do i post this on ao3 lmao

[fiyaerrigan]

Tommy kisses Buck's birthmark, but only in the most intimate of moments where no one is around to see.

It's not something frantic or passionate, so it doesn't happen when they get physical. Hell, it doesn't happen often enough to take the place of "hello" kisses when Tommy arrives for a date. But when it does happen, Buck notices.

It's not that Buck has a thing about his birthmark. It's not even that Tommy has a thing about his birthmark—At least, he doesn't think Tommy does. Based on past experience, Buck's pretty sure he would have picked up on that by now.

He's been in a lot of relationships—hookups and romances alike—so he knows when someone likes his birthmark in a way that goes beyond passing appreciation. He's had partners who have to acknowledge it and point out its unique-ness and get into his birthmark in a way that Buck never fucking judged, because it felt good—plus, it wasn't like he had gone through life without fixating on a person's physical attributes. Buck has been known to check out a redhead and appreciate a Tommy-cleft or two, after all.

At the end of the day, the Birthmark Thing doesn't really matter to Buck: people liking it just sort of happens, and he's happy to go along with it whether it's an offhand compliment or something more.

But with Tommy—even if it maybe it is a thing and neither of them knows it—it just feels different.

It happens in moments where Buck least expects it.

It happens when they're both in bed exhausted from rough shifts and staring at the ceiling maybe a few inches apart, because one of them got tired of the other's body heat after five minutes cuddling. They end up back on the subject of work, and sometimes it's funny and sometimes it's sad. Either way, something happens and Buck is pulled across the distance—sometimes, Tommy's hand traces up Buck's arm and ghosts softly over Buck's brow, other times there's an abrupt tug towards him and a decisive smek of lips against skin. Every time, Buck can do nothing other than melt in the goddamned afterglow that follows.

It's just a kiss. It's not a kiss on the lips or a kiss that's dirty and better-suited for the charged silence of the bedroom. It's just a little peck. On his birthmark.

And yet, every time it happens, Tommy stares Buck down—practically dead in the eyes—and moves so deliberately. Time seems to slow. When he doesn't drown in Tommy's gaze, Buck swears he can see the slightest fear in the other man's eyes—there so subtly that Buck hesitates to say it's present at all.

What Tommy has to be afraid of, Buck doesn't know—or maybe he does. Only he's afraid, too.

Whatever it is, Buck doesn't ask. Whatever it is, Tommy doesn't say.

All Buck knows is that in the quiet moments where Tommy kisses his birthmark, it feels like Tommy's saying something. Something that matters.

Sometimes, a feeling hits Buck so intensely—expressed by three little words he just can't let out, not yet. When Buck gets that feeling, Tommy gets this look in his eyes like maybe he feels the same way. Most of the time, Buck can hardly bring himself to believe it. Other times, he's able to give in. Sometimes, when Tommy looks at Buck that way, he kisses Buck's birthmark.

When that happens—slowly, fearfully, tenderly—Buck can't help but think the following:

Maybe he loves me too. Maybe I can say it.

But Buck is Buck. He rushes into things and then they fall apart and burn before his eyes. And, sure, Tommy doesn't seem to mind—he even seems to like Buck's Buck-ness, if Buck's being honest—but Buck isn't about to let something this good fall apart just because he got ahead of himself.

So he doesn't say it, but Tommy still kisses him.

The days begin. Buck and Tommy go to work and kiss each other goodbye. After work, Tommy keeps buying dinner until Buck looks at him and grumbles that Tommy never lets him pay. Tommy's eyes soften, and Tommy smiles at him.

Later that night, when they're alone, Tommy kisses him and it feels like it means something.

The days end. Lots of days end, actually. Buck's been keeping stock of them like little scrapbook mementos held tightly to the chest. One second it's September, and the next it's Halloween and Buck has boils that are absolutely gross all over his face. Tommy kisses him anyway. Tommy goes to a funeral for a cowboy who died centuries ago, and doesn't laugh at Buck's expense—not in this moment where it matters.

Buck holds the day close to his chest. Weeks later, when he's fanning away smoke and scraping off the black edges of a failed attempt—at baking, not forgetting, he swears—Buck finds himself alone in his kitchen and defeated enough to admit a single fear:

He still holds the day close. He holds it close to his heart and cannot let it go.

Tommy kisses his birthmark.

The feeling builds and builds and burns.

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: a tua comic.

Panel 1: Viktor says "Why are you in my apartment."

Panel 2: Five, who is in Viktor's apartment, says "We're going to a pottery class on Thursday."

Panel 3: Viktor, perturbed: "Wait, what? ...I'm busy" Five, offscreen: "You're not, I checked."

Panel 4-5: Viktor, from offscreen, says "wait-" while Five says "The flyer said to wear clothes you don't like" and disappears.

Panels 6-9: Viktor, looking bewildered, asks "Does he do this to you guys too?" Luther replies "We made candles. They... look like shit. But they smell nice!" Allison replies "We made keychains." Klaus replies "I... guess he drives me to my knitting club? I think he just does it to flirt with the old ladies."

Panel 10-11: Viktor prompts, "Diego?", who looks embarrassed.

Panel 12: Diego tilts his nose in the air and says "needle felting." Allison replies "of course."

Panel 13: Diego opens one eye and says "I'm gonna make Lila a wolf." Luther replies "of course." End ID.]

Needle felting is the stabbiest craft.

also i have though long and hard about what five should do with himself now that the apocalypse is gone, and i have decided that one of the answers is "drags his siblings to community crafting classes against their will"

(takes place not in season 4, but in the equivalent time period (ie 2024) in one of those classic "after season 2 the sparrows are quickly taken care of and they get back to their own timeline" aus, becuase season 4 was mostly ok but i don't want to play in its space.)

[quadrantadvisor]

Multiverse, Reverse Robins au, 2,514 words

-

Jason (Red Hood)

The imposters are good, Jason will give them that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he… giggles.

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

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

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

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

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

It's the Joker's laugh.

It's the Joker.

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

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

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

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

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

It'll be easy.

This is too easy.

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

The Joker just laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn't make any fucking sense.

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

He's crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright, then. This is probably fine.

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

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

Yeah. This is fine.

-

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

[patroxlos]

home base.

ultraman: rising (2024). kenji sato x reader

It's a bit cliché to have a weird on-again off-again with your childhood best friend.

It is decidedly less cliché when said childhood best friend is a baseball star, superhero and single mother all rolled into one. At least you aren't the baby daddy.

---

“Also, is it just me or has Ultraman gotten hot?”

His eyes suddenly shoot open. “I’m sorry— who?!”

“The 40-meter superhero?”

“Him?!” His voice is alert but hoarse, his throat pushing out words amidst his drowsiness.

Ch1. friends who have dinner once a week

Ch2. friends who reconnected and who certainly don't want to be more

Ch3. friends who believe in mpreg

Ch4. friends who sleep on call with each other

Ch5. friends who fuck things up

Ch6. friends who are stuck together

Ch7. friends who use their phones in bed

Ch8. friends who are for the people

Ch9. ???

Ch10. ???

Ch11. ???

Ch12. ???

Ch13. ???

Ch14. ???

[stars-and-branches]

"he would not fucking do that" but its me reworking the fic im writing because I originally had Tim doing something early in the morning despite knowing full well that he would be honk-shooing it face-first into his keyboard for like ten hours instead

[beneathsilverstars]

It's hard, taking care of a kid when you're still growing up yourself, but Pétronille does her best. She's not sure it's good enough, but what else can she do? A series of scenes following Pétronille and Bonnie, from the first time they ran away to the second.

Rating: Teen and Up Category: Gen Characters: Pétronille, Bonnie Tags: POV Second Person, Minor Original Character(s), Specifically various citizens of Bambouche, Child Neglect, Child Abuse, Bipolar Pétronille, Suicidal Thoughts, breaking the cycle, kitchen mishaps, Shoes both remembered and forgotten, Drowning imagery, Bonnie's protectee guilt, Bonnie's A+ spelling Words: 10,541

[lxvi-gloria]

Drabble Prompt: Post-canon Levi, struggling with chronic pain and mourning his dead loved ones, being visited by his still alive loved ones

Anon, you knew how to talk pretty to me <3

hihi requests are still open btw

I feel like I gotta put a disclaimer or something lmao. So, the length of my drabble requests is usually something between 100-400 words. This request is just an incredibly unexpected exception. it just happened to fit into this idea I already had been thinking of, which was how the remaining 104th would ask Levi to be part of important events in their lives because well, they like the dude lmao, so expect that sort of one-shot soon. Additionally, since I kept reminding myself that this was supposed to be a drabble, I might have glossed over the chronic pain and mourning bits so I'm sorry about that ;;

that being said, 2.4k words of Levi and Gabi be upon ye <3

Now on Ao3!

The angry hissing of the kettle makes him flinch. It brings a loud ringing to his right ear. Instinctively, he places his right hand over it, and gives his ear a couple of gentle taps; it's more of a grounding gesture, a distraction from the buzzing. He usually keeps watch over the kettle, so that he can lower the heat just right before it gets a chance to scream at him. 

He realises then that he must have spaced out while waiting. It’s alright, he thinks. It’s been like that a lot, recently. He’s been like that. Lost in thought-- lost in time, if he allowed himself to be precise. The last days, weeks even, as the temperatures started to drop, blended into each other. There’s a little calendar on his bedside table, it had been a birthday gift from Armin – or had that been Mikasa’s? He isn’t sure, he had received an absurd number of presents from the kids last year, it had been hard to keep track of who gave him what and now the fact escaped him. Turning the pages of the little calendar, with its delicate botanical illustrations on each day, quickly became part of his morning routine, and so he was sure that time was passing at all. The stillness of the routine, he guesses, made him like this.

His vision blurs momentarily while he scoops the tea leaves into the teapot. He squints, trying to will his good eye to focus, but all he gets in return is a throb in his right eye. After putting the tea canister away, he presses the inner sides of his wrists to both eyes, placing just enough pressure to relieve the discomfort. When he opens his eyes again, he is pleased to find he can read the small print on the canister an arm’s length away. 

There’s a loud slam coming from the front of the house, followed by footsteps coming further into the house.

He quickly recognizes the heavy stomping as Gabi’s gait. She’s always been so loud.

Gabi crosses the arch into the small kitchen and dining area. 

“Don’t slam my doors,” he says as a greeting, slowly turning his head to his left side, trying to catch a glimpse of her in his periphery.

“Aye, aye,” the kid waves her hand, shoots him a teasing grin, “someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Levi hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. He busies himself with placing everything they need for their morning tea and coffee on a metal tray on the counter, which Gabi takes from him as soon as it’s ready and sets it on the table.

He grabs his cane from where he had hooked it on one of the kitchen drawers. He has been leaning against the counter, his right leg supporting most of his weight all this time. He braces himself for the sharp pain that will surely surge from his bad knee, through his left hip and up his spine. Cold mornings like this one and being still in one place for long will do that to him. It’s not so bad. It could be worse.

It takes 4 steps to get from the stove to his chair, which Gabi has already pulled out for him. It sits at an angle that allows him to easily slide down on it and rest his right elbow on top of the table, leaning back and against his good side.

“I have something that will cheer you up,” she holds a couple of envelopes in her hand and waves them at him, “You’ve got mail!”

He nods at her in acknowledgement but does not take his attention away from preparing his first batch of tea of the day. There’s a ritual to it, it almost feels like, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. Not when the ringing in his ear is still there, the building pressure in the upper back part of his eyeballs, and the cold air seeping into his bones through his thick jumper. Oh, how he needs a good cup of tea right now.

While Levi waits for it to steep, he grabs the papers that she had shoved in his face, squints his eyes at the first envelope and finds that he is unable to make out much of the handwriting. He brings it closer to his face, squints harder, steals a quick glance across the table and hopes Gabi isn’t paying him any mind, too preoccupied with choosing from the bag of pastries she brought with her. It is with an impassive expression that he hands the stack of envelopes back. 

“Read it for me.” A beat and then he adds, a little reluctant: “Please.”

He knows Gabi prefers coffee in the mornings, and black tea in the evenings, so he makes sure to have a fresh brew of the former whenever he knows she’s coming over; so, with shaky hands, Levi gets to prepare her cup of coffee. While he enjoys the aroma of it, he remains faithful to tea; at first, he thought he didn’t like it because he had butchered his first attempts at brewing it. But even after Onyankopon had taught him how to do it properly and he had enjoyed his cup, it didn’t bring the same comfort as tea. It just never hit the spot.

She shoots him a mischievous grin, “Oh, you sure? What if I read something personal, hm?” 

Levi just shakes his head, scoffing at the idea of Gabi finding his junk mail fascinating.

“Is this how I find out you have a secret lover you’re exchanging raunchy love letters with?” Gabi teases, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

He lets out a tired sigh and rolls his eyes, “just wanna be done with it, ” he stirs the milk into Gabi’s coffee, which now has turned into a cup of milk with coffee. “We have a lot to prepare for tonight.”

She clicks her tongue at him, but still rips the first envelope open, “Mr. Levi, your reading won’t improve if you keep doing that,” she jokingly scolds him.

Although Levi mentally recognises handing her and Falco stuff he couldn’t be bothered reading before, that’s not the case this time. He’ll let her think that for now, though, because he doesn’t want to mention the pressure building in the back of his bad eye, it’s not important and she, a kid, doesn’t need to know his newly found ailment of the week. He can see just fine around him right now. He can see Gabi’s big eyes and playful smile at the other side of the table, and that’s good enough; smaller details, he doesn’t feel he can do them, not without making himself go dizzy with a migraine.

Levi slides the cup of coffee to her and is pleased with himself when she approves of the colour of her drink.

“It’s from Armin,” she announces as she scans the letter. 

From this angle, the soft morning light illuminating her face and thanks to his faulty vision, Gabi’s image stirs his memory. His heart faintly constricts as he is reminded of the many times Hange read their research reports to him during breakfast in the mess hall before presenting them to Erwin. Levi always wondered how they could read so fast, sometimes he even doubted they were actually reading at all, their words barely being able to catch up with her eyes; he never asked about it, maybe reading came easy to them as numbers did to him.

A high-pitched squeal from Gabi startles him, bringing him back to the here and now.

“Oh… ohh, Mr. Levi,” she starts, her smile widening by the second “This is good news!”

Gabi makes a show of clearing her throat and then starts reading “Dear Captain, I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.” 

Levi can’t help but let a sardonic huff at the irony of the greetings but doesn’t let himself be bothered by it. He has written only a handful of personal letters throughout his life, and by now he knows it’s just something you’re supposed to say because jumping straight to the point isn’t acceptable, or so that’s what he had been told. 

Gabi continues reading Armin’s words to him. For the most part, it’s a standard letter coming from him: he asks Levi how he’s dealing with the changing of the seasons, how Gabi and Falco are faring, if business at the tea shop has been good, if there’s anything Levi needs that he can’t get in town so that Armin or the others can get it for him. He tells him a little about the country he’s writing from, he even includes a photograph. Then, after the expected pleasantries, Gabi can barely hold her excitement and starts reading faster, trying so hard not to trip over her words.

“If I’m being sincere, we would prefer to ask you in person,” Gabi stops for a second to look up at him from the paper, gauging for a reaction and finding nothing, she continues. 

Armin apologises for not being able to visit him before the holidays, Annie included, and so it is implied that he won’t be attending tonight’s reunion. 

Sometime during the last five years, the Alliance brats had decided to make showing up at Levi’s doorstep together once a year a sort of custom; the first time it happened was during an early winter, a blizzard had stopped them from leaving Levi’s until the next morning. It had been a really nice evening despite the awful weather, Levi remembers, after everyone pitched in one way or another, they all shared a simple but hearty meal together. It was Connie who jokingly said they should do it every year. The following year, Onyankopon, Gabi and Falco joined them. 

This year would be their fourth, and the first someone wouldn’t make it. That fact sits heavily in Levi’s chest, stealing the spotlight from his throbbing eye.

“...Annie and I have decided to get married. The both of us would like you to officiate our ceremony!” unable to contain her excitement, she tears her eyes away from the paper and looks at Levi. “Huh?! This is good news! What’s with the constipated face?!”

That doesn’t sound right. It figures that Annie and Armin would be the first to marry; in a way, he is happy for them, they clearly care for each other. No, that part is easy to understand. Their union is logical to anyone who knows the couple. What Levi can’t figure out is why they are asking him such a thing.

He clears his throat, assumes it’s been 3 minutes and his tea is ready to be poured and so he distracts himself with that.

When he doesn’t answer Gabi, she picks up where she left off. 

He isn’t… well, he isn’t that close to either of them. He’s sure Annie must have other relatives that could step in his stead. Maybe a brother, a cousin. Even Jean or Reiner would be better options than Levi. He isn’t good with words or people like they are, he couldn’t possibly give them a speech about something foreign to him as it is that kind of love, that’s what people expect, right? His title of Captain is obsolete in this new world, so it can’t be that either. Hell, he has never been to a fucking wedding. 

Just… why him?

As expected, Armin doesn’t really go into the details of their choice but does let Levi know they do not expect a fast answer and that they do not want him to feel pressured to accept it, despite how much it would mean to them if he did. Armin asks if there’s anything in particular that he would like for his birthday, as it is a month away, and closes the letter by saying he looks forward to seeing him and everyone then.

When the letter is closed and put back into its envelope, silence falls around them. For a moment the only sound that can be heard is the clinking of tableware as Levi places the teacup back on its saucer.

It bothers him, that he knows he will be letting Armin down by refusing something that any other well-adapted person would consider an honour. But the thought of embarrassing him and himself, because he gave an awkward, most likely insensitive, speech, mortifies him. No, he can’t put them and their guests through that. He will find a way to make it up to the couple, maybe he can… he doesn’t know yet, but he will come up with something.

As he finishes his first cup, Levi realises that at some point while he was lost in thought, the ringing in his ear has subsided and now it’s back to that muffled, cotton-in-ear sensation he’s used to and he doesn’t feel his eyeball pulsating anymore. Glancing at Gabi, he notices she is trying really hard not to say something, her brow furrowed as she takes a sip of her own drink, followed by a big bite of her pastry. Flakes stick to the corner of her mouth and for once it doesn’t disgust him. Instead, it makes his lips twitch as if going into a smile.

“I can help you... if you want,” she says eventually, sounding uncharacteristically careful and small of her.

Levi quirks an eyebrow “Help? with what?” 

She shrugs, “How to… tell them you don’t want to,” she avoids looking at him for the first time, finding the flakes on her plate more interesting. She shrugs again and tilts her head to the side, a thin line of a smile appearing on her face. “...or prepare for the ceremony.”

Not unlike many times before, Gabi’s words render him speechless, if only for a moment. He spares his tea a glance and he thinks: it’s bold of her to be so upfront about offering her help to him, and had it been any other morning, one where he couldn’t think past the constant ache in his body, he would’ve chewed her head off for simply trying to help him because he himself doesn’t know how to accept that kindness.

This kid is trying her best and he can’t help but feel somewhat proud of that.

“You have shit on your face. Here,” he points to where the flakes would sit on his own face and picks his refilled teacup back up.

Gabi quickly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, getting most of the flakes off. Levi gives her a thumbs-up with his free hand.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally concedes and tries to ignore the little happy dance she does in her seat.

This time, when the amber liquid touches his lips, it’s remarkably sweeter than before.

[chrollogy]

step on me, fatui harbinger!yue 🙏🏼

[dollopole]

So I was posting my 30.000 words chapter of my Merthur fic (yes, you read that right, 30.000), and I was on my third proof-read, right on Ao3, and I was thinking about saving it, in case anything happened. It’s been some time since I posted anything, so my brain has to re-load and do everything from scratch. I was fixed on writing, so I didn’t save the draft (subtle foreshadowing.) I was almost at the end, I had corrected typos, re-wrote entire paragraphs and set another pace to the writing. Then, on automatic, I clicked X on my PC, and deleted it all. Without saving shit. Ehm, so then, I got angry, and decided I would have simply put space between the paragraphs and post it, but I needed to put the HTML at least on the first four sentences of the work (they were a phone conversation, that’s why). Apparently, there had been a typo, because I click “post”, and Ao3 posts the entire work in <strong> �� So then I deleted the draft and now I’m debating whatever I should jump from the roof of my house or in front of a passing car.

Which one do you think is faster and less painful?

[sheepiemc]

your touch (a craving)

part 1: thigh

From the moment he first met you, Diavolo knew you would be his undoing. 

This exchange program was so important to him, to what he knew the Devildom could be, too important to jeopardize for any reason - especially not something as frivolous and fleeting as infatuation. 

And yet here he was, hot under the collar because your clothed thigh was hovering dangerously close to his clothed thigh on your shared bus seat. 

The cacophony of chaos from the other riders couldn't distract him from just how close to him you were sitting. He was hyperfocused on every bump and jostle that caused you to get ever closer to him. 

How did he get to this precarious situation? 

One might say it was his own damn fault. 

Another one of “the prince's whims”, you had shown him (and the rest of the student council) a movie from the human world that featured a school bus transporting students on a field trip so obviously, Diavolo had to experience it for himself. This trip was just for the student council to test how feasible it would be to take all the students at RAD on a field trip. 

There was an argument getting on the bus about who would get to sit next to you and for how long. Lucifer settled the argument when horns and wings and tails came out, determining if they couldn't decide peacefully amongst themselves, no one would get to sit with you. 

So Diavolo watched you at the back of the bus, surrounded on all sides by the Avatars of Sin, without anyone actually sharing the bench with you. Lucifer sat on the bench behind Diavolo, barely contained annoyance masked behind a polite smile. Even Barbados, his most trusted advisor and confidant, sat on the bench across the aisle from the prince, ever-present unreadable smile on his lips. Diavolo clenched his fist in the empty space next to him. 

Facing forward throughout the bus ride, but still hearing the commotion surrounding you, Diavolo imagined what it would be like for him to be just another voice in the crowd. Through the din, he could also hear Lucifer droning about what they would do once they got to their destination, though he wasn't listening very closely. Leave it to the Avatar of Pride to have a plan for everything. 

After a while of this, something compelled him to turn around; a feeling he couldn't quite place. When he looked back over his shoulder, he saw you laughing, hard. Your eyes met his across the many seats between you and you smiled at him so genuinely. His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, and he felt his heart rate spike. He smiled warmly at you in return then turned back around in his seat. How could something so small make him so giddy, so easily? It was almost laughable. 

At their destination, Diavolo could hardly focus on anything Lucifer was saying as they went around on their tour. It was decided that the logistics of a field trip for the entire student body just weren't adding up (which even Diavolo expected). Still, the trip was a success in his eyes. 

Especially when you approached him on the empty bus and asked if you could sit on the same bench as him for the entire ride back. Of course, you didn't realize how big of a deal what you asked really was. How could you? You didn't know the intricacies and etiquette when it came to interacting with demonic royalty. Still, he was so shocked by your boldness. He couldn't remember if he even said anything, but you smiled that same inviting smile and took the seat next to him - so he must've said yes. 

Now here he was, concentrating so hard on not freaking out every time a bump in the road knocks his and your knees together. Sitting there, so close, he wondered if you would notice if he just… 

"What do you think, Diavolo?" You leaned in closer to him, your thigh now fully touching his, your words just loud enough for only him to hear. His eyes snapped to attention, searching yours. The conversation continued around him but his attention was solely on you. That smile, just as warm as ever, kind eyes inviting him to fall right in and never come out again. 

He blinked and shook his head, laughing to himself. “I must admit, MC. I have no idea about what you all have been discussing this entire time.” Your smile widened and Diavolo had to look away - out of embarrassment or because your smile was just that radiant, he wasn't even sure. 

You didn’t ask why he wasn’t paying attention. Could you see right through him? You explained the discourse and how you felt about it before you started to talk about something else entirely and no one else was on the bus but the two of you. Your thigh was pressed up against his the whole rest of the way back and the vice grip he had on his opposite knee made his hand sore the following day.

[next]

[arkaniske]

Looks at this 2k woodland witch!victor+woodcarver/lumberjack!jayce fic that’s growing legs and running my life atm

Haha

Help!!

[sourscratched]

the hand that feeds

[jasonsbruce]

someone saved my fic "slipping mask" as a bookmark noting that they're all out of character and now i never want to publish anything ever again 🤠

[wakeywakeyjakey]

I'm 35,000 words into writing a longfic about the Batman/Bruce/Matches DID system and I'm obsessed with it. It includes Bat/Joker, Bruce/Harvey, and Matches/Harv and the differences in each of those dynamics is 🤌

(Batman and Bruce know about each other but they don't know about Matches and Matches doesn't know about them--what could POSSIBLY go wrong?)

[billdenbrough]

TESTING THE MATTRESS

aftg · kevaaron · 4.6k, e. it’s reunion season at the olympic village. kevin has a mattress delivered. aaron copes. —for @naturecalls111, who loves the olympics more than anyone else i know and wanted kevaaron fucking on the olympic cardboard beds, and who also drew that shiny opening ceremony kevin up there <3 love u for keeps we’re still battling tho

“You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met,” Aaron says. Kevin shrugs, unfazed. “I prefer to think of it as resourceful,” he says, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Aaron watches his knees: up, down, up, down, up, down. He swallows. “You would,” Aaron says, but he privately agrees. It’s still ridiculous, obviously, but arranging for your own personal mattress to be delivered to the Olympics is—technically—resourceful. “You wouldn’t give Jean grief for this,” Kevin says. Aaron snorts, rolling his eyes. “Jean once didn’t tell anyone he cracked a rib for three days,” he says dryly. “Getting a mattress personally delivered to Olympic Village because he’s a princess who needs his comfort isn’t exactly on the cards.”

You can be friends with someone, see, as long as you don’t have to think about any of the times they looked at you with such raw, burning intent that kissing would have made a more convincingly platonic alternative.

read on ao3

[starlightmeissa]

Hey! I just recently found your Magneto fic and I am absolutely obsessed. Any updates coming in the future?

i’m super glad you enjoyed magneto! this ask has gotten me to finally put a discontinued in the description of magneto. it’s not at ALL because of you in particular, but i’ve realized by putting off adding it to the description i’ll keep giving people false hope. forgive me if i use this ask for a tediously long post describing why exactly i will never update magneto, so i can link it easily for anyone with similar questions in the future. 😭

so. short answer? no. magneto will probably never be updated. i’m really sorry for that. my interests have changed since graduating high school and i don’t really want to write bnha anymore.

long answer?

i started writing magneto pre-pandemic during my junior year of high school. i had seen there was only about a 100 self inserts for bnha at the time and thought “well, if i post something it’ll probably get a lot of attention, since the fandom is growing in popularity a lot and there’s a scarcity here!” 2019 was an interesting year for fanfic in bnha, since it didn't have enough content for the growing eyes looking for it.

i ended up being very correct. too correct. i actively updated magneto over the course of half a year, roughly, and in that time it rapidly climbed in attention. since 2020 ive only updated it about twice(?) and that hasn’t deterred the new readers it’s gotten. i get comments every other day asking about updates.

magneto is currently the most kudo-ed bnha si-oc on the entirety of ao3. which is fucking insane. i don’t think it deserves it, but popularity is rarely about deserving. usually it’s about being just good enough, just novel enough, and being posted at the right time.

but i digress: it doesn’t feel possible for me to update magneto for a variety of reasons.

1) my disinterest in the setting would make any future update disingenuous.

i haven’t been actively into the bnha fandom in about four years now. i don’t really read bnha fic aside from the very occasional si-oc, nor have i kept up with the manga or anime. the only fic i’ve ever written for the fandom is magneto, and it’ll probably always be my only fic for the fandom. (watch me say that and be wrong in the next few years LMAO)

it would be really rude of me to stomp into a space i don’t even like anymore and post something lackluster and lacking in passion. especially with the express intention of gaining more engagement from readers. like it or not, magneto IS the most popular si for bnha, and i think i drive attention away from better books by updating and inadvertently preserving that position in the ranking.

I can't believe no one has written any "self-insert as Bakugou" fanfics yet what a bunch of cowards by the_incidental_author and i have jostled back and forth for that #1 kudo-ed spot for the past five years. which i admit has been fun, but i would very much like for them to overtake me. it’s clear (to me, at least) that they actually enjoy writing bnha more than me and update more often to boot.

i fully welcome ANY fic to take magneto's position at this point, if only so that less people comment how poorly written it is. which leads me into my next point.

2) my writing style has SIGNIFICANTLY changed over the past five years.

when i do my yearly reread of magneto i actively cringe and have to resist the urge to rewrite every chapter in a separate google doc. in any hypothetical world where i do add to magneto, i do a complete rewrite. in no particular order, the things i would change are:

kenzo being defined by three character traits and nothing else. her exhaustion, her mild spite for her father, and her aimless wandering through the plot

better grammar. dear god the grammar errors. dear god the SPELLING ERRORS

the pov characters being more developed and feeling more like Individual People with their own personal motivations and histories that are not defined by what the plot needs from them (cough, reacting to how cool kenzo is)

not just recapping each anime episode and stating what kenzo would do in that situation

placing greater focus on the way quirk society discriminates against those with undesirable quirks and backgrounds. what does it really mean to be the child of a criminal in a world where people assume that sort of thing is hereditary?

kenzo's classmates should've been more classist in general, especially in relation to quirk discrimination. UA is a school only the most wealthy and powerful get into, there's no way there wouldn't be social disconnects that create tension between a dead eyed daughter of a villain and more than a few nepo babies.

if you have any interest in naruto, skyrim, asoiaf or dragon age you've probably read my more recent fics. fluffy clouds and a tinge of wonder, the fic i have updated the most this year, is a really good example of how significantly my writing has evolved since starting magneto in 2019. my technical skill and style have changed enough that it just would be tonally jarring for me to update magneto without outright rewriting everything.

like. im being so fr with you right now, i didn't learn how to start outlining until about a YEAR AGO. magneto was written on a chapter by chapter basis with little idea of where exactly it was going. i implied that there would be a future confrontation between kenzo and her father, but i didn't have any idea of HOW that would occur or even what the consequences of it would be.

adding to magneto as it is would be like trying to add a sleeve to a shirt that's missing it's entire back panel and most of it's front. i'd be playing catch up with the plot and end up having to rewrite previous chapters anyways.

3) bnha commentors have been kind of really mean to me compared to other fandoms i've written for LMAO

ok. please don't draw and quarter me for this. MOST commentors have been extremely complimentary, and kind. besides the occasional bomb of like seven comments in my inbox of ten hearts from one user (which, sweet, but please don't do that) the bnha fandom has been totally fine.

but a very small minority have been really pushy about making me update a fic i have clearly not touched in two years, and realistically haven't actively updated in four. from comments just saying "wow this is great. update soon." to DETAILED reviews of how bad my fic is and how they can't believe how garbage like magneto is so popular.

which like. i don't feel personally attacked by? i fully agree that magneto is bad for the previously stated reasons. i wouldn't read magneto if i were a casual reader and hadn't written it. usually the second kind of comment really annoys me because of it's presumption of importance and for how soul crushing it would have been for sixteen-year-old me to read.

bnha as a fandom, especially in recent years, has felt more and more like they treat fic like something that is created in a vacuum. souless content that exists for readers to consume. the comments don't go to an inbox, they go to a void, so really it doesn't matter if i say something really belligerent to an author i don't know about a Self Insert Fanfic They Wrote In Between Rehearsals For Their High School Play.

but whatever. if it had just been me experiencing that i would've written it off as like just my fic, but a close friend and frequent cowriter of mine Reavv has dealt with this a lot more than me.

they wrote It's a like a time travel comedy, without the comedy, another very popular bnha fic, and had to private it because people were going to their other UNRELATED fics and badgering them to update it. people still go into their comments insisting they unprivate it, oblivious to the fact that every time they ask it adds another year to reavv's internal timer for when they will.

a combination of my own experiences and reavv's have completely put me off of writing bnha i'll be fr. even if i was still in the fandom, the majority of my fics will always be about fucking dragon age and skyrim. i do not want random bnha fans coming into my dragon age fics and, AFTER NOT READING THE FIC, saying that since im active i should clearly update my bnha fics. that's a nightmare scenario for me.

in conclusion

i am so glad that people like magneto, i'm glad that i wrote magneto. the initial jump in readers i got from magneto gave me the confidence to write other fics, and the alternating pov format is a staple of most of my writing now. some of the comments i got for that magneto when i was a teenager were the only things that kept my ass going.

but magneto is never being updated. i don't even think it's gonna be rewritten. i really am sorry about that, but it is what it is. thank you for reading it, thank you for loving it, thank you for feeling ambivalent about it. good talk.

btw to the original asker, again. this is NOT a rant directed at you, you just inspired some Thoughts in me and i had to let them loose.