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[saileshjain]

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[eagleconsumer]

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[lizzieolseniskinda]

RAFE CAMERON - i’m here for you, always

x FEM!reader (POC!friendly) - MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: rafe takes care of reader who has pneumonia

WORD COUNT: 792

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: not proofread, soft!rafe cameron

the october rain drizzled gently outside. you didn’t remember how long you’d been lying there, staring at the ceiling, bundled under layers of blankets. your whole body aches, ribs burning every time you cough or breathe in, your lungs feel like they’re on fire. pneumonia had taken everything ounce of energy out of you, between the fevers and the breathless nights.

rafe pushed open the door to your bedroom, his steps light but quick as he made his way over to you. you were so lost in the thick haze of your fever when you felt someone’s touch—gentle and a little bit hesitant at the same time. you blinked, squinting to see the familiar silhouette of your boyfriend standing by your bed, eyes full of concern.

you hadn’t wanted rafe to see you like this—tired, vulnerable, so weak you could barely keep your eyes open. but he’d insisted in coming, claiming he wasn’t going to let you face it alone. and right now, you were grateful for his stubbornness.

“hey,” he murmurs softly, brushing a stay hair from your forehead. his hand lingers, checking the warmth there. “still burning up?”

you nod weakly, barely able to muster the energy to respond, and rafe lets out a small sigh as he moves around the room. there were soft sounds of him organizing things, and a minute later he’s beside you again, propping up pillows behind your back with careful movements, trying not to jar your bruised ribs.

“easy, okay?” he says, lifting you gently so you can rest against the cushions without straining yourself. you wince, but he’s quick to stroke a comforting hand over your shoulder, steadying you.

“it’s alright,” he murmurs, “just relax.” he grabs a glass of water from the nightstand and brings it to your lips, holding it steady while you take a slow sip. he’s quiet, a little too quiet for the rafe you know. there’s no sarcasm, no teasing edge—just worry lining his expression.

“rafe…you shouldn’t have come,” you croak, voice barely a whisper. “you’ll get sick.”

ge raises an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips, but you can see the worry in his eyes. “and leave you like this? yeah, not happening.” he brushes his thumb against your cheek, lingering in the small gesture. “i know you’d never admit it, but you’re too damn stubborn to ask for help”

“so, i won’t leave, i’ll be right here with you.”

you almost want to laugh, but the motion would hurt too much, so you settle for a soft smile. rafe shifts closer, his hand finding yours under the blankets. he gave it a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbing comforting circles over your knuckles.

“if you need anything, just tell me,” he says, voice low and soft.

he reaches for a damp cloth, pressing it to your forehead, easing some of the heat. the cold feels like heaven, and you close your eyes, savoring the relief.

“you really don’t have to do this,” you whisper, feeling a little self-conscious.

rafe’s fingers trail down your cheek as he looks at you, a look in his eyes you’ve rarely seen. “i want to.” his hand moves to rest over your bruised ribs, as if he can protect you from the pain. his thumb strokes soothingly, gentle enough not to hurt. “and i’m not going anywhere until you’re better.”

as you leaned back in your bed against the pillows, he reached into a bag he’d brought with him, pulling out your favorite soup in a thermos. “you need to eat a bit,” he said. “just a little bit, alright?”

despite the pain and discomfort, you managed a small smile as he carefully fed you some soup, his touch gentle and reassuring. after you’d eaten as much as you could, he adjusted the blankets around you and sat by your side, his hand still in yours.

for a while, the room was quiet, with just the soft patter of the rain and the warmth of his hand in yours. you drifted in and out of sleep, rafe’s presence a calming anchor. each time you coughed, you could feel his hand tighten around yours, as if he could somehow take on the pain for you.

at some point, you opened your eyes to find him brushing his thumb over your knuckles and his phone in this other hand, his gaze soft. he met your eyes and offered a small smile.

“get some rest, okay?” he murmured, tucking you back under the covers. “i’ll be right here if you need me.”

“i’ve got you.”

and you knew, without a doubt, that he meant it. besides, he knew you’d take care of him when he’ll get sick. (probably catching a case of pneumonia;))

[dollishbabess]

MY ONLY LOVE ⋆. 𐙚 ˚- DOLLISH

── .✦

(Song ── .✦ here)

A/n: literally I’M BACKKK (let’s knock on wood now..) but omg college got so busy atp that I disappeared from here oml but I can’t wait for xmas break but also I wanted to say that sadly romance-tober has been canceled until further notice and the amount of dms I got asking for the romance-tober posts are so much omg tyy but a lot of people are demanding a spin off but I’ll see if it fits my schedule tbh but I can’t wait!, but you guys my birthday is in like December 7th so only a month left so we’ll get a series but not romance-tober (maybe 2025??) but a birthday series in December will be going up till the 7th of December and I’ll list a q&a for that too.

Tags: jason todd x fem!reader

The sun was starting its slow descent, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and lavender, the kind of colors that only showed up during those fleeting moments before dusk. There was a chill in the autumn air, gentle enough to be refreshing but sharp enough to remind you that fall was nearly over was here, with its promise of longer nights and cooler days. The park was nearly empty, just a few distant figures walking their dogs, and a breeze rustling through the trees.

You had spent the afternoon setting up a small picnic, knowing that Jason would appreciate the gesture even if he pretended otherwise (he has a fear of gun shots going off at the park randomly.) The plaid blanket was laid out on the grass, anchored at the corners with smooth stones. A few candles, placed carefully in glass jars, flickered with warm light, casting a soft glow over the spread you had prepared. You had brought everything he liked simple sandwiches, fresh fruit, a thermos of hot cocoa. There was even a little bouquet of wildflowers, arranged haphazardly but with care, because you knew he’d like that kind of thoughtful imperfection.

Jason arrived quietly, as he often did, a shadow that melted into your line of sight as if he’d always been there. You saw the flicker of a smile when he spotted you, his eyes lighting up in that way that made your heart feel warm and full. He walked over, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, looking like he belonged somewhere between a dream and reality, with the way the dimming light hit his features.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and familiar, as he sat down next to you on the blanket. “This is nice.”

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I thought you’d like it. Figured you could use a break.”

He nodded, a little stiffly, but there was a softness in his gaze that he didn’t bother hiding. “You thought right.”

For a while, the two of you just sat there, sharing quiet conversation and comfortable silence, with only the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional distant bark of a dog breaking the stillness. He leaned back on his hands, his posture relaxed, and you couldn’t help but watch him. The way the fading light caught in his eyes, the way his hair fell across his forehead he looked at peace.

“I always forget how pretty it is out here,” Jason said, breaking the silence, his eyes fixed on the sky, which had deepened to a rich indigo. “Gotham doesn’t look like this.”

“Gotham doesn’t get to see you like this,” you replied softly, your voice almost swallowed by the night. He turned to you, a little surprised by the quiet honesty in your tone. “Calm, not on edge. Just… here.”

He chuckled, but it was a gentle sound, devoid of the usual sarcasm. “I guess you bring out the best in me.”

You reached over, grabbing the thermos, and poured him a cup of hot cocoa, the steam curling up between you. “I just want you to have moments like this,” you said, handing him the cup. “You deserve them.”

Jason took the cup, but his attention was on you, his gaze lingering, as if he was trying to commit every detail to memory. “You know, I don’t think I ever really thanked you,” he said, his voice a little rough, like he was trying to find the right words. “For all of this. For… you.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to thank me, Jason.”

But he shook his head, more insistent. “No, I do. You make everything feel less… heavy. Like there’s more to life than just fighting and surviving. And I know I’m not the easiest person to care about, but… I’m glad you do.”

The words hung between you, heavy and light at the same time, as if they carried a weight but also set something free. You didn’t know what to say, so you leaned in closer, closing the distance between you. He put his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and you nestled into his warmth, breathing in the familiar scent of his jacket.

The stars were starting to come out, tiny pinpricks of light scattered across the sky. You looked up at them, feeling the world slow down around you, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, suspended in this soft, glowing bubble of time.

“Stay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Just like this.”

He tightened his hold on you, resting his chin atop your head. “I’m not going anywhere babe.”

The world could be cruel and chaotic, but here, under the stars with Jason’s arm around you and the scent of wildflowers mingling with the crisp night air, everything felt achingly beautiful, like a song that played softly in the background, lulling you into a moment you wished could last forever.

@dollishbabess work not yours, do not repost or copy or translate.

Divider: @cafekitsune

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

Fine Addition

ModernAU! Dr. Frankenstein!Steven Grant x fem!reader

A/n: Please don't ask me what I thought about turning sweet Steven into Dr. Frankenstein.

Cw/triggers: Smut, slight bondage at first because reader is strapped on a table, p in v, fingering, nsfw, Steven's a bit horny, soft dom Steven energy, Stockholm syndrome(?).

You didn't even knew how you've got here, strapped on a cold autopsy table in nothing but your underwear. To your right were tools straight out of your nightmares.

Screaming wasn't an option either with you mouth being taped shut. Your eyes had to adjust to the darkness of the place, the only light coming from the monitors and buttons.

Just a moment later, the heavy door creaked open, the light shining just past you as the person stepped in and turned the lights on. The bright light caused you to squint your eyes in order to adjust.

You looked to the side, seeing a guy in a what looked like a doctors coat, messy curls, and glasses on his nose. In his hands he had a thermos and a book. He didn't seem to notice you being awake, he just walked past you, moving to sit down at a desk to mind his own business. You could see him just reading the book, taking occasional sips from his thermos.

You began to struggle against the restraints to get his attention.

It worked, he turned to look at you. "Oh y're awake." he said nonchalantly, getting up to walk over to you. "Y'see, after my last creation- err, or let's say 'monster' like those twits call it has been killed... I of course needed a new one."

You noticed a name tag on his coat. Steven.

"And this is," he reached into his pocket, pulling out a marker "where I thought you'd come into play." with a firm but still soft grip he held your wrist in place and drew a line down your arm to your wrist with the marker.

Steven swiftly removed the tape from your lips before moving on to hold your leg in place, marking it up aswell. "It's a bloody shame it has to be you though," he sighed softly, his eyes wandered over your body appreciatively "you're a true gem."

He took off his glasses, setting them down on a nearby table.

You began struggling against the restraints holding you down. "Ah ah, stop struggling, love." Steven tutted, giving you a small smile at seeing you trying. "S'not gonna get you out of here, y'know." Steven shrugged, pressing a button on a console.

Steven turned back to you, leaning against the table, his eyes raked over your body once more. "You stay put for a while, yeah? I'll be back." he smiled softly before leaving the place. Steven took a breath, leaning against a wall.

"She's too beautiful." he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Steven chewed on his lip, debating whether he should just let you go and risking the possibility of getting caught or not.

"I let her go. Yeah, I let her go." he nodded to himself, making his way to the door. The heavy door creaked again as he opened it, his eyes landing on you once more.

"Lucky you. I will let you go." he sauntered over to you.

"You let me go?" you asked skeptically, not sure if you believe him or not.

He nodded, moving to stand beside your leg. "Yeah." placing his hand on your ankle, ready to remove the restraint. Steven couldn't help but let his gaze rake over your body once more, taking in your beauty.

Steven's hand slowly drove its way upwards your leg, aiming for your core. "But promise me you'll behave, yeah?" he demanded softly.

"Yes." Your voice trembled, but the way his warm hand travelled up your thigh made your pussy leak onto the table, his hand settled on your core rubbing your clit in slow circles.

"Y' love that, yeah?" He teased, supporting himself with his hand at the edge of the table near your shoulder to lean down. "You have such a lovely body."

Steven slid two fingers inside, feeling your pussy gripping them. "You're already so wet f' me." he thrust his fingers in and out of you, feeling them get soaked up in your wetness. The occasional moans and whimpers coming out of you were like music to his ears, his fingers curled inside of you, hitting your spot making you flutter around his fingers.

"Your tight cunt's 'bout to get it." Steven said, he withdraw his fingers, his hand went down to undo his pants, rubbing his hardening cock through the material. He released the restraints, making you sit on the table. Steven spread your thighs wide, stepping between them and pulling his pants down, revealing his thick length.

He rubbed the tip along your soaked folds, slickening himself up before he pushed inside, your walls met him with a tight grip, your mewls getting needier as he began to move. "Fuck," he groaned "gotta search for a new way to create a monster," each word was acompanied by a hard thrust. "but it's worth it if I get to keep this wonderful cunt..."

Your pussy fluttered around him once more, you couldn't think of anything other than getting fucked on an autopsy table by this crazy but handsome madman.

Steven slowed his pace, rolling his hips just right to hit the spot deep inside, it make your pussy squeeze him, causing him to gasp. "P-please don' do that it's -fuck- killin' me." Steven whimpers almost needily.

The sweet whimper escaping him made your mind go dumb on his cock, how it stuffed you, how it stretched your cunt so deliciously.

"Faster please!" you whined, wanting nothing more than to chase down your sweet release. Steven quickly complied your plea, his breath quickening as he slammed into you all over again.

His thrusts became erratic, sloppy even as he had lost himself in the pleasure of ruining your cunt from the inside out.

"'m 'bout to cum, get ready dove." he warned, letting out a groan a few seconds later as he shot his load into you. Your orgasm was close too and when you felt his hot, sticky cum spurt into you, it pushed you over the edge, your pussy gushed all over his cock.

When he pulled out, a mix of his cum and your juices trickled down your thigh and most of it got on the table beneath you.

"You were so good f' me. So good." Steven praised, he tucked his softened cock back and pulled his pants back up.

You catched your breath, calming down from the intense peak you had. "Am I free to go?"

Steven looked back at you. "Yes. But maybe you'd like to be my assistant?" he cupped your cheeks in his hands. "Think about it love. We. Side by side..."

To be honest, his confession caught you by surprise, but on the other hand it was tempting... being the partner in crime with a crazy but handsome doctor.

"I'll be your assistant, Steven." you accepted.

Steven smiled, pleased with your desicion. He helped you off the table and showed you the room you'll be staying in.

Steven is looking forward on having you as his trusty partner in crime.

[steviewashere]

Dream Come True

Rating: General CW: Minor internalized ableism on Steve's end Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Adopting a Child, Parenthood, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Let Them Live a Quiet Life God Damn It, Mild Hurt/Comfort

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is about healing each other's wounds."

💕—————💕

They haven’t discussed children since the second month they were together. Was that probably a little too early in their relationship? Probably—Eddie will be brave enough to admit that right now. But, considering where they’re at now: Steve is forty-seven and Eddie’s forty-eight, their wedding bands are simple and gold (something easily spotted amongst the silver ones that Eddie still wears), the house they took a loan out for is painted yellow with white shutters installed (well, they paid Dustin and Will to do it. They were happy to help), they live in Massachusetts away from public eye, and though they don’t have a dog—not yet, the service dog process has been a long and weary one on Steve’s end—they have their little brown tabby cat. They’ve got a well furnished home. And years of love between them.

Nearly twenty-eight years in total. Nineteen years wedded. Six years of that are legally recognized. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is they stopped talking about the prospect of having kids.

Eddie’s initial answer at the beginning was, “Maybe. I think it would be neat. But, I’m gay, Steve. That isn’t really a possibility.” He chuckled a little bit. “I meant like adopting, but in a technical sense—Considering what’s in my pants, the possibility is still out the window.”

Steve’s was changed from what he told Nancy in that Winnebago. “I still want children. Or, just one. I want a quiet life. Even if you make it as some big rock star, I want a quiet private life.”

It was doable. What Steve had whispered on Eddie’s shoulder, that was doable. The question for years though was, When does he want that? And also, When will he leave to pursue that?

The answer was clear. Steve was never going to pursue that. That, sure, they’d have the quiet life. But never have children. And Eddie saw him wilt a little further and further. When they passed by the playground at the park. The daycare up the street from their home. After the seizure diagnosis, Steve stopped looking and thinking about it all together. It hurt Eddie’s heart.

He may have got the quiet life. And Eddie may have lived out his simple dream. He’d been a rockstar for a little bit in the late nineties and early two-thousands, retiring before they got married. But…Steve hasn’t lived his dream. Eddie hates that he thinks it’s being held back from him. Eddie’s determined to heal that hurt inside him.

——— Steve comes home from his Wednesday teaching shift around four in the evening. Eddie’s already on the couch, combing Poncho’s fur, watching the local news. He’s got a very important print out laid neatly on the coffee table. He hears Steve set down his briefcase on the dining table, his footsteps retreating to their kitchen to rinse out his thermos, coming back to the front door and placing his loafers on the shoe rack, and he hangs up his coat. Then, he enters the living room, hands scrambling to undo his tie, body leaning over the arm of the couch to press a kiss against Eddie’s mouth.

But then he pulls away, turning his whole body to watch the news. And that’s when he spots it. The flyer. He shuffles over on his mismatched socked feet, hands falling away from the collar of his dress shirt. He swipes up the paper. Behind his glasses, he squints.

It’s advertisement for the adoption agency some forty minutes out. Eddie hopes, by everything, that this will heal the pain in his own chest, and the emotional line of thinking in Steve’s brain. Hopes with everything that his body can physically give.

“What’s this about?” Steve asks. His voice is neutral. Almost…dare Eddie say, steely. Okay, maybe he made the wrong move. “We haven’t even—“

“I know,” Eddie immediately says. “I know we haven’t talked about it. But, sweetheart, just listen to me, alright?” At Steve’s confused and hesitant nod, Eddie tries to arrange his words. “This is something you’ve been wanting since forever ago. And I know that I haven’t really voiced my wants on it. But I also thought that it would never happen.

“That it would never be something people like me—“ He raises his eyebrows and points to the keyring attached to Steve’s belt loop. The short rainbow garland that sits discreetly among his keys. “—Would ever get the chance to do. But I—Steve, god, I want it so bad. I want to be able to be a dad and chase around a kiddo of our own while you’re busy at work. I want to see one off for school for their first day and cry like I’ll never see them again. Wanna make them a lunch they can bring to school, the same time that I make your lunch for your school. I want to watch them grow up with your goofy dancing skills and our combined love for music. And I—I want to be a better parent that I could’ve ever imagined.

“I want it with you,” Eddie breathes. “I want all of that with you. And I know that you still want it. Your forlorn looks at couples with babies. Every time you see Lucas and Max and their spitfire teenager, your eyes get this brightness to them that I—I have to be honest, I don’t think I’ve seen you happy like that since we got married.” He swallows at some of the implications there. And it’s not meant to be accusatory, but gosh does Eddie notice. The way his sunflower wilts. “This is just something for you to think about, okay? I know my decision on it. But think about it.”

Steve’s grip on the paper trembles. And his eyes are searing Eddie in a way that melts him. Blazing with adoration and love. “You want that?” He shakily asks. “You want to raise a kid with me?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah, baby. I really, really, really do.”

“Even though…Even though I have seizures that could scare them shitless? And I get so angry some days that all I can do is hide in our bedroom and cry? And I—You want that with somebody like me?” He hesitates to ask again. Eddie doesn’t answer, but his arms open in comfort and his eyes soften with earnest. Steve doesn’t move from his spot, though. He looks back at the paper. “What’s the—Our first step?”

“We apply. And they determine if we’re worthy and that it’ll be safe,” Eddie answers. “If they see us fit, they’ll look at our house and things like that. We’ll come back to that later on. If that’s something you still want.”

“Okay,” Steve states with fervor. “Let’s do this.”

——— After a tedious process, Eddie realizes how correct he was.

It’s a Saturday. The curtains are open. Dinner is simmering on the stovetop. And Eddie stirs the soup while he listens in on Steve’s activity in the living room.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Steve is cooing. “Good job, Carmen. Look at you.” He’s been supervising her tummy time everyday he’s able to. Loves being able to lay on his back on the floor, eyes watching their daughter, his fingers combing through her hair as she uses her wide brown eyes to wonder about the world around her.

Eddie bites back a smile.

“That’s Poncho,” Steve is saying. He’s introducing them like they’re all acquaintances around a water cooler. Eddie, maybe, snickers a little bit behind his hand. “He’s gonna be your buddy. He likes the space between his shoulder blades scratched. Just like you, huh?” And hears the moment that Steve dully traces his fingernails on Carmen’s back. She gurgles a little excited babbling. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” Steve murmurs. “Daddy likes that, too.” He’s talking about himself. Because he practically fought tooth and nail for that title. Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.

From the kitchen archway, Eddie surveys the display on the living room floor. And Steve’s on his back in his pajamas. Glasses smooshed awkwardly up his face as his cheek is pressed against the carpet, eyes gone soft and glistening while Carmen is on her belly. Her hands are sprawled in front of her, squeezing at the soft toys they had gotten. He’s brushing his fingers through her short, curly wisps of brown hair. Then, his hand travels back down to massage and scratch at her back again. She’s wearing a pink striped onesie and a pair of white socks on her little feet.

He clears his throat to make himself known. Steve looks up at him, softly smiling. “I reckon things are going good in here?” Steve only nods, too enamored with petting at Carmen’s back. Eddie finally smiles at him. “Good,” he whispers. He leans his weight on the doorway. A dish rag thrown over his shoulder, arms crossed low over his belly, hair thrown up in a loose bun on his head. Domestic life has really begun to suit him, if he’s honest. He finds himself at ease about it now.

As he turns back to the kitchen, to serve up their bowls of soup, Steve calls his name. He immediately turns back around. Greeted with his husband’s soft face, his deepened smile lines, his messy hair spread on the carpet. He’s more youthful than ever, fatherhood has changed him for the better, at least Eddie thinks so. He hums to see what Steve needs, because by god, he’ll do anything for him.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers.

“For what?”

“Making my hurt go away,” Steve says. But Eddie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. And Steve clarifies, “Allowing me to accomplish my final dream. I’m really happy that it’s with you.”

Eddie crosses into the living room, crouching down to kiss Steve’s forehead, pecking Carmen’s soft head, too. He combs his own fingers through Steve’s hair. Smiling at the way he keens. “You made me believe that I could be a good dad,” he admits. “I can’t wait to do this right.”

Steve brings a hand to Eddie’s cheek. His index finger softly tracing down the side of his face. “Love you,” he murmurs.

Turning his face, Eddie kisses the tip of Steve’s finger. “Love you, too,” Eddie easily says in return.

Sure, he got to be a rockstar, but he thinks that this life—Steve soft and middle aged and smiling at him, petting down their daughter’s back, cooing soft as if he’s not almost fifty—is much better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed. Maybe filling the hole in Steve’s soul, the remedy that their daughter brings—Maybe that heals something for Eddie, too.

💕—————💕

[feralbutfluffy]

Give a Man a Mask

The man who caught Aziraphale’s eye was lounging rather indecorously on one of the many benches lining the walls of the ballroom. He (because despite every inch of them being covered, Aziraphale was sure it was a he) wore a well-tailored black velvet suit jacket that fit snuggly over a black waistcoat intricately embroidered with gunmetal filigree. Underneath the waistcoat, Aziraphale could just make out a black shirt and a flash of burgundy lace at the man’s throat. Black leather gloves laced up around his wrists, and matching knee-high boots fit snuggly over the man's fitted black trousers.

Aziraphale sighed with envy. He could never pull off something like that.

Of course - he told himself - it wasn’t the man necessarily that had caught his eye. It was the clothing; he had always noticed and admired fine clothing, and his outfit really was exquisitely made.

Besides, it was hard not to notice someone who had dressed in such stark contrast to the rest of the guests. It seemed everyone else was dressed to excess, resplendent in feathers and lace, gemstones and pearls. This man’s costume, by contrast, was downright modern; minimal but striking, yet still in keeping with Carnivale. The handstitched leather Plague Doctor mask beneath a black tricorn hat completed the look. It should have looked offputting, really...

It did not.

The man looked less like a man, Aziraphale thought, and more like a long black shadow curving against the wall. Aziraphale popped a fritelle into his mouth and chewed it slowly before swallowing. 

If he was honest with himself (which he would prefer not to be, all things considered) he knew what had really attracted his attention; there was something about him - the lazy confidence evident in the way he was sitting, or the dark clothing perhaps - that made him think of Crowley. He hadn’t seen the demon in a few years, and although he was absolutely loathe to admit it even within the privacy of his own mind, he did rather miss him.

Well. He missed him and worried about him in equal parts. Handing over the thermos of Holy Water a few years before had certainly ramped up his anxiety.

He was extremely glad of his full-face volto mask as he watched the figure out of the corner of his eye. He popped another fritelle into his mouth under the mask, chewed, and swallowed with a little groan of pleasure. They really were delicious.

The Plague Doctor swiveled to face him as if he had heard him, and although there was no possible way the stranger could have heard anything of the sort from across the crowded ballroom, Aziraphale blushed ferociously. The heat of it was almost unbearable behind his full-face mask.

He turned his body away from the man, staring down at the sweet delights laid out on the banquet table, and tried very hard to ignore what felt like a heated stare. He gazed down at the galani, his mouth suddenly dry.

Although he was almost expecting it, the dark presence at his elbow a moment later made him start.

“Buonasera, come sta?” said the Plague Doctor in perfect Italian, tipping his hat in a quick formal bow.

Aziraphale had been right about it being a man.

He jerked back at the greeting, startled by the man’s sudden proximity, and scrambled for a reply. 

“Oh! Buonasera!” Aziraphale could think of nothing else to say. He cringed behind his mask and wondered if he could miracle his way out of a conversation that was embarrassing before it had even begun.

The Plague Doctor was wearing a zendale beneath his tricorn, and the silk hood concealed every part of his head not covered by mask or hat. He tilted his head, looking like a curious raven, and rested both his gloved hands on top of a cane Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. His tight grip - Aziraphale could see his knuckles straining against the leather of his gloves - obscured most of what looked like a beautifully carved gunmetal handle.

He looked up. The large eyesockets of the mask were filled with dark glass lenses, revealing absolutely nothing. Aziraphale smoothed down his more traditional costume. The cream and white concoction with gold embroidery and an abundance of lace ruffles had rather delighted him when he’d stepped out this morning, but it felt quite indulgent next to this austere creature.

“I trust you are enjoying yourself?” said the Plague Doctor in an extremely thick Italian accent, leaning forward on his cane so that the beak of his mask almost punctured his bubble of personal space.

“Oh yes, very much so!” Aziraphale nodded, wondering what had drawn this man to his side and how he could possibly reverse it. For all that he had been intrigued before, he hadn’t intended to actually engage the stranger in conversation. There was something extremely unsettling about him up close. Perhaps it was the costume, or the way he was standing; it was patient, watchful, almost… predatory.

Aziraphale shuddered, and the Plague Doctor’s head tilted the other way, making it clear he had noticed. 

“Va bene, Signore?” Are you well?

Aziraphale nodded quickly. “Oh yes… Sto bene!” I am well. There was a brief pause while he summoned up formal Italian and hurriedly added a thank you. “La ringrazio!”

The Plague Doctor nodded. “How did you come to be here?” The words came low and slow, and Aziraphale felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin prickling with awareness.

He had always had a bit of a weakness for the Italian accent. 

“It was suggested to me by the concierge at my hotel,” he smiled, even though the man couldn’t see it. “He thought I might enjoy it, and he was right! I am enjoying it tremendously! The food alone...!" He made an appreciative noise. "How did you…? Are you local to the area?”

A slight tilt of the head as if the Plague Doctor were considering his question. It was surprising how demonstrative he was able to be without a single facial expression.

“Not exactly,” he said, and Aziraphale thought he could hear a smile in his voice, “Although for tonight... Certo. If you like.” 

The man swept into a much deeper, more theatrical bow than before. The black feather in his hat almost grazed Aziraphale’s chest. “This is my palazzo - my festa - and I am your host for the evening. You are…” he said, and straightened, holding out his hand. When Aziraphale hesitated, the man crooked his fingers impatiently and for some reason Aziraphale obeyed, quickly placing his white silk-gloved hand in the man’s leather-clad grip. 

“... You are extremely welcome here,” the man finished, bringing Aziraphale's knuckles to his mask.

It didn’t seem to matter that there were no lips there to brush against his hand; Aziraphale felt it as if the man had kissed his knuckles open-mouthed. A dart of something hot and unutterable shot through him, flared up and burnt out, thankfully vanishing before Aziraphale had time to recognise it and panic.

“Yes. Well. Thank you. La ringrazio,” he said, feeling flustered.

“No need for such formality, Signore,” the Plague Doctor said warmly, tugging his hand without warning to bring them shoulder to shoulder. He tucked Aziraphale’s arm into the crook of his elbow and patted his hand as if to reassure him that it was alright.

Aziraphale thought that it was probably not alright.

Surely it was not alright to walk arm in arm with a total stranger? Surely there was something morally grey about taking a turn with a mortal Italian dandy who apparently owned a palazzo and, by extension, the many sweet treats Aziraphale had been helping himself to throughout the evening?

If nothing else, surely he should feel some guilt or shame about enjoying the closeness of a stranger who reminded him so much of Crowley?

Continue reading...

[lamaery]

Since the line art / sketches for these have been reblogged more often, than the reblog with the coloured version (and I like the coloured version), I dare to repost this one. So that it may be shared and seen more as well. At the danger of being repetitive... Have an additional Mr Spider :D

Now with colour and description (thank you @saintbleeding for that, I expanded on it a little bit) ------------------------ [ID: Two versions of a sketch page of characters from The Magnus Archives (the first is the sketches, the second has them rendered in full colour): Martin is pale and freckled with light blond hair and light violet glasses and is holding a thermos and cup, with text in the steam billowing from them reading “Let’s hope it’s not oolong”; Jon has a brown skin tone and dark wavy, grey-streaked hair coming down to his shoulders, He watches with a sad, wide-eyed, stare, His eyes are glowing in a bright, green and small eye symbols are forming around his head; Tim smiling and looking slyly to the side; a small, low-detail bust of Sasha with dark skin, round glasses and a large blob of dark her bound to the back of her head, behind a larger, more detailed bust of Not!Sasha looking over her shoulder (not by op: both of them are meant to be differing designs for Sasha, but the bigger sketch showing a young woman with a blond bob of hair could work for Not!Shasha quite well); Jon and Martin grinning smugly, Martin has a purple towel hanging over his shoulder, Jon is wearing a soft salmon colored hoodie, which is too large for him; Tim lounging on a wheely-chair and wearing an open Hawaiian shirt, holding a mug with a paper umbrella and smiling; Georgie is dark-skinned with short curly hair that has a red shade to it and freckles on her face. She is looking mistrustfully off-camera with an arm around Melanie, whose face is downturned. She has dark glasses concealing her eyes. The second image is a stylized, spidery figure consisting of a dark black, uneven blob for a body, a smaller black blob for a head, with almond shaped eyes scratched roughly and randomly across it, including a small bowtie at its non existent neck. Thin, scraggly, slightly hairy lines bent in many unnatural angles for the eight legs of the creature. A tiny hat adorned its head. It is with a splatter of bright red. End ID.]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

If You Can't Dance 7

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, other possible triggers. Proceed with caution.

Note: this is what you get when you encourage me. Please leave any and all feedback! 😍

Part of The Club AU

You spend the rest of the day in a void. Your migraine keeps you hidden beneath a pillow, curtains drawn, unmoving and uncomfortable. When you finally manage to sleep, the dull pain remains, throbbing in your forehead until you wake in a sweat. 

It’s still early, the sun has yet to rise. You push the blankets off of you and put your head on top of the pillow. You don’t move further than that, wary of the shadow of the migraine hovering in your skull. You sink into a daze until your alarm goes off and you sit up stiffly, dreading a new day ahead of you. 

Now that you’re required in office, you have to get up even earlier. You pick out a purple turtleneck and a long pleated skirt with black and white stripes. You throw a necklace of plastic beads around the cowl of the shirt and tuck your feet into a pair of velvet loafers.  

You ready your lunch and a thermos of tea to take with you. You’re running out of time. As your phone vibes, you don’t have time to check it. You’re still trying to shake off the fog from your migraine as you shamble out the door and to your car. 

You drive slow, overly cautious, and tense as a rod. You wish you could just stay home and hide like you always do. You’re sure you can find something else from home but for now, you need to stick with this. Besides, you’ve worked your way up the pay ladder. Starting over isn’t exactly ideal. 

As you pull into the lot, you reach to grab your phone from the little slot between the cupholders. The screen flashes to remind you of your unchecked notifications. It’s a Teams message. Shoot. Jonathan. Your de facto boss. 

You tap the message. 

‘Good morning. I hope you are feeling better. Should you wish to work from home, you may connect to the remote server. Please let me know if I can offer any support’. 

The message is unusually concerned. Typically, you use an automated portal to put in for absences or vacation and if you need to be offline, you email Jensen and rarely get more than a thumbs up in return. It’s too late now anyway. 

You grab your bag and keep your phone clutched tight. You get out and lock the doors, treading heavily over the tarmac. You look up at the shining glass panes that line that outer walls. Everything here is so bright and open. You hate it. 

As you get to the front door, another figure approaches from the other corner of the building. G doesn’t say a word as he opens the door and holds it for you. You thank him and he follows you inside. You note that he hasn’t traded his gray hoodie for a blazer or dress shirt. He doesn’t seem the type to care or the heed warnings. 

He walks at your back as you try to recall your way through the hallways. You stop and he hits your shoulders, putting his hand to your back to still himself. He apologise and pulls away. 

“Sorry, I forgot where I’m going,” you murmur. 

“Mm,” he grumbles, “wish I could help. I hate this place.” 

You want to agree with the sentiment but you wouldn’t want to be overheard. You give him a strained look and shrug. He frowns. 

“Question,” he says sharply. 

“Yes?” You’re suddenly nervous. 

“Do you have other tea suggestions? I like the mint but I want something new.” 

“Oh,” you think and scrunch up your lips, “anything in the same brand is good, I find. They have a toasted coconut flavour but it’s hard to find.” 

“Toasted coconut,” he repeats. “I’ll look out for it.” He looks down the hall and sighs, “see ya ‘round.” 

He stalks off before you can respond. He’s strange like that. Abrupt, awkward, and slightly scary. You peer around and orient yourself according to the breakroom. You think you remember. 

You go to the exact wrong corner of the building and have to turn back before you find the correct door. Your name is the only assurance that you’re not entirely lost. It still says ‘senior developer’. As long as the misplaced title doesn’t come with the extra work, it can’t matter that much. 

“Ah, there you are,” your name draws you back before you can escape into the office. You turn to face Jonathan as he struts down the hall, “you didn’t respond to my message. I assume you are feeling better.” 

“Um, yes, I only just saw it,” you say, “sorry, but appreciate it.” 

“Again, I must apologise about the flowers, if I’d known...” he lifts his hand and shows the paper gift bag hooked around his fingers, “I’ve found a suitable welcome gift this time.” 

You look him in the face then at the bag, “oh, you don’t need to--” 

“It’s what we do here. All our new members received their own welcome. I do feel terrible that yours backfired so egregiously.” 

“No, it’s okay,” you take the bag with some hesitation. “Thanks. Um, I should get settled, I’m probably already behind.” 

“As I said, if you should require any support, you only need message,” he insists, “and please, take care of yourself. Do not put the work above your health.” 

“Mm, okay.” 

“You’ve something in case, for headaches, I mean?” He asks. 

“Uh, tylenol,” you shrug, “really, I’m feeling alright.” 

“Very well, I made certain the cleaners did a thorough scour to be sure no pollen was left behind,” he states proudly. “Oh, and do let me know if there’s anything else? If you need anything for your office? Or perhaps would like to relocate. I know the sun can come in at the wrong angle after noon.” 

“Really, it’s fine,” you say, biting down on your exasperation. You just want to work. You want to be left alone. “Thank you.” 

“A pleasure,” he grins. 

You nod and slowly back away. You turn and enter your office but don’t close the door. That feels like too much. You cross to the desk and put your bag beside the chair and the gift on top. You’ll deal with that once you get signed in. Or maybe when you get caught up. You really don’t care. 

[yeyinde]

how do you think the boys would look after you when you’re sick? i think Soap and Gaz would wind up getting sick because they couldn’t stay away from you

they definitely seem like the type to coddle. as for the rest—

GHOST—

It's short. Succinct. He prefers blunt honesty, and that's what you aim for when, sniffling pathetically, you open up your messages, and type out: Can't make it. Came down with something, and hit SEND. 

It goes unanswered. 

You pretend, through the hazy spool of your fever, the one that clots inside of your head until you're shivering, teeth chattering, and yearning, that you aren't surprised. That it doesn't prickle somewhere inside of your chest with the distinct flavour of disappointment.

You toss your phone aside, head swimming, and try to get some sleep. You need rest.

You dream of vague touches, and low words dripped in condescension but carrying a tinge of worry. Of care. It's a mess inside the gummy spool of sickness, but it's comforting. The phantom hand on your forehead makes you sigh. 

When you wake up hours later, there is a bag from the pharmacy filled with electrolyte water, cold and flu medication, canned soup, and something to reduce your fever. No note. No phone call. No text. The message is clear.

(Next to the bag, is tea in a thermos. No brand. You taste it and know he made it himself.)

—distant, reserved. He sends you a care package, one he delivers himself, but doesn't linger. If you ask him about it, he'll roll his eyes, maybe mutter a fuckin' hell as he walks away from you. 

—(if you'd touched the seat across from your bed, you'd find that it was still warm.)

GAZ—

He shows up wearing a mask, and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Says, as he makes his way inside, that he'll fix you right up. All you can do is baulk when he storms your kitchen, pots clattering loudly together, and tells you to go sit. He has it covered. 

(It surprises you a little bit when he does.)

He brings spicy soup that, according to his auntie, is going to clear your sinuses. He fluffs your pillows and drags a blanket over to you. Tucks you in, nice and tight, and turns on Taskmaster for you.

You spend the evening drifting in and out, caught in the throes of a fever nap, but he stays by your side the whole time. 

You wake up late at night, startled awake by some ALDI commercial, and find him snoring on your couch, your feet in his lap. The mask is lopsided. His hair is moussed. He left you some medicine and a glass of water on the coffee table. 

His phone chimes with the sound of an alarm. When you check the notification, all it says is: MEDICINE. EVERY FOUR HOURS. You turn it off, and a notes app pops up. You don't mean to look, but the sight makes you a little misty-eyed.

how to care for someone who is sick

All the boxes are ticked. Spicy soup. Water. Blankets. Rest. Medicine.

You throw the end of your blanket over him and snuggle into his side. 

He wakes up hours later, and you watch trashy reality television together until he carries you to bed.

—no getting rid of him. He wants to make sure you're taken care of. It doesn't surprise you at all, when, a few days later he rings you up, and says he's sick. He's a surprisingly adept caretaker. 

SOAP—

The last thing you remember is texting Soap about something—sick, can't make it—before the medication and the sickness dragged you under. 

You wake up, sticky and wet from the cold sweat of a fever—edging, somehow, on the equilibrium of being both incredibly hot to the point of panting from the inferno blazing through your veins, and absolutely freezing, near hypothermic with goosebumps, and chattering teeth. Nothing sticks in the oil-slick lining of your head. It doesn't make sense. You're dizzy and disoriented. The room spins. You kick the covers off of your burning legs, but pull the comfort tighter around your torso where an arctic chill has settled in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to move, but you're chained down. Locked. Trapped. You nearly panic, but a noise cuts through the wave of terror—

"Stop wigglin' so much," it's slurred into your shoulder, humid breath ghosting over your sweat-slicked neck. "M'tryin' t'sleep…"

His mohawk tickles your nose, his scent thick in your throat. Soap pulls you closer, tucking you deeper into his embrace, and murmurs soothingly until you settle. Until the wave of nausea passes, and the throbbing in your skull is abated by the warm milk and honey smell of him that floods you. 

Clumsily, he reaches for a bottle of water he tucked beneath his pillow, eyes lidded and groggy with sleep. 

"Drink," he urges, pressing it into your hands. 

"I can't drink right now, I'll be sick—"

"Y'need water," he rasps, rubbing his cheek over yours. "Need to drink so you don't get dehydrated."

You huff. "I'll need to sit up for that." 

The prospect of moving makes him grumble softly. His arm tightens around you, refusing to let go. 

Then he stills.  

The curve of his smile on your skin spells trouble. You're already shaking your head before he pops up, smirking. The sleep fades from his eyes in an instant. "I know a way—"

"You'll get sick," you warn, but he's already twisting the cap off, and spilling the water into his mouth

It bulges his cheeks. He looks ridiculous, and you scoff. 

"There is no way—" 

His lips seal over yours. Water runs down your chin when he pushes it inside the melting cavern of your mouth. 

He doesn't need to slip his tongue inside, but he does it, anyway. Nips your lips when he pulls back, eyes glazing over as he watches you sputter and gasp. 

His hand settles on your throat. "Swallow it. Got the whole bottle to get through." 

His eyes trail over your wet cheeks, darkening when your throat bobs under his hand. 

"Good girl," he breathes, and brings the nozzle up to his mouth again. His hand leaves your neck, and slips under the covers. There is a promise in the tips of his fingers when they glide over your molten skin. "We'll work on sweatin' your fever out next, bonnie. You're burnin' up." 

—Soap's definition of caretaking is coddling you. He's a firm believer in sweating it out. 

—it doesn't surprise you when he sends you several articles about how sex is good for colds, and you only feel slightly bad when his voice cracks a week later. 

PRICE—

For a man who lives off of Maduro and scotch, his immune system is surprisingly resilient. 

("It's the cigars," he husks, leaking smoke from his pores. "Keeps me in top shape."

You know better than to argue. It's never a battle you'll ever win.)

You, however, do not survive on miracle tobacco and malt. 

Price doesn't answer the text you send—sick, can't make it to dinner tonight—but nine times out of ten, he usually doesn't. It doesn't surprise you, and you're not worried. He has other things to do—reports, interviews with new cadets, and planning recon missions for men in precarious situations. You turn your phone over on the coffee table, prop your heels on the edge, pull a blanket over your legs, and turn on the trashiest reality television you can stand.

A cup of tea sits by your ankle. You'd taken some medicine, and expect to be napping in a fugue state for the rest of the day. 

It's just a tickle, really. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing that needs immediate attention. You're used to dealing with it alone. 

Somewhere between Gemma blinking at the camera in confusion, you fall into a fitful sleep. Plagued by fever demons that ravage your body until you're drenched in sweat, and moaning in discomfort. Everything feels wrong—

A worn, rough hand settles on your brow. Words clipped, gravel thick. 

Just gotta let it work itself out, love. 

Your stomach churns. You whimper. Arms slide under your knees, bracketed around your back. Flying. Weightless. You sniffle into a warm neck that smells of smoke, and hickory. 

Adrift in the sea. The waves lap at your body. You cling to the thing keeping you upright amid the waves that try to drag you under. 

It sets you down on a lush shore, sand billowing around you until you're tucked inside a cocoon of sun seared warmth. 

It pulls away. 

Your hand snaps out. "Please, don't leave me—"

Gritty hisses whisper in your ear. "Shush, shush. M'not goin' anywhere, but you need water and some medicine. Stay here, love. I'll be right back." 

You find comfort in the raw, rasping tone. Pitched low, and brassbound. You nod, head carving out a piece of bliss in the sand beneath your head. 

It's a blur, really. You remember the weight of a hand holding your head in a plinth, water slipping down your aching throat. A hand brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on your forehead. Dry lips pressed to your crown, susurrus murmurs leaking out into your skin.

You wake up hours later. The island fades into shades of familiarity. There is a weight in your palm. You blink the dredges of fever away, the gossamer of sick that sounds like the waves crashing on the distant shore.

Price. He's sat in an armchair pushed as close to your bed as it'll allow. Your fingers threaded through his. The other hand falls on his lap, resting over a manila folder.

His head dips, chin tucked into his chest. Soft, brassy snores fill your bedroom. 

On the table beside you sits two glasses of scotch, a bottle of water, an ashtray, and medicine. 

You smell something robust and meaty wafting into the room. On your dresser is a bag of takeaway from the Vietnamese restaurant you were supposed to go to. The heady scent of Pho fills the air.

Your fingers squeeze his, a gentle pulse. Warmth blooms in your chest. The heat is enough to rival your fever.

He stayed. 

(He snorts awake a few moments later, and makes you sip the scotch between mouthfuls of the electrolyte water. Good for you, he says. Drink it up, now. 

Once you've drunk as much as you could, he hands you the pho, and watches you sip the broth.) 

—firm, like everything he does. No room for arguments: he's taking care of you whether you like it or not. 

—he keeps you tucked to his chest, and turns on your favourite movies, making snarky comments from the corner of his mouth that make you laugh. You feel instantly better with him by your side. 

He, of course, does not get sick.

[five-rivers]

Bring Your Ghost To School Day

AO3

For @phantomphangphucker

Valerie felt pleased with herself.  Sure she would have preferred to catch the ghost dog, or Phantom (take him down a few pegs), but if she was being honest with herself, showing up to the Paranormal Self Defense class practicum with Phantom in tow would have raised way too many questions.  Most of her classmates would probably come in with blob ghosts.  

Although she has heard a few scheming to get the Box Ghost…

Whatever.  Finally catching that slimy, scaly, slippery giant ghost worm nicely straddled the line between what was feasible for her from an outside perspective and what she, personally, considered an accomplishment.  

She walked into the classroom with her head held high and set her Fenton Thermos mk. 10 (the only containment device approved for the class) squarely in the center of her desk.  

Star twisted in her seat to face her.  "Hey, Val, what didya get?"

"Giant ghost worm."

"Nice.  That'll be pretty unique.  Pauli and I tried to tag-team some ectopuses over the weekend but we were only able to get one.  Good thing I had a backup blob ghost, right?"  She sighed.  "They're so fat and cute.  I wonder if they can be domesticated."

Valerie doubted it, but she shrugged noncommittally.  The rest of the class dribbled in over the next fifteen minutes, with Danny sliding through the door just before the bell rang, as usual.

"Alright class," said Mr. Lancer, wheeling forward the class's Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™.  "As you all should know, today, your practicum is due.  You will be coming up one by one and releasing your ghost into the-" he sighed, then inhaled deeply, "-Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™, whereupon you will explain to the class how you located and captured the ghost in question.  When you are finished, you will recapture the ghost and place your thermoses on that shelf, to be picked up by the Fentons for, yes, Miss Manson, ethical release into the Ghost Zone.  Any questions?"

Dash raised his hand.  "Can I get an extension?"

Mr. Lancer turned his gaze briefly towards the ceiling.  "See me after class, Mr. Baxter.  Any other questions?  No?  Then, do we have any volunteers?"

All hands stayed down.  Hey, Valerie was proud, but not volunteering to present first proud.  That was crazy.

"That's fine, I'll just pick randomly, then.  Mr. Gregor, you're first."

Elliot stood up and made his way to the front of the classroom like a man made to walk the plank.  He stuck his thermos into the socket on top of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ and hit the release button.  Blue-white light briefly filled the space.  When it cleared there was…

Nothing.

"Hey!" shouted Dash.  "It's empty!"

"No, it's not!  It's Youngblood!"

"I must confess," said Mr. Lancer, "it does look empty."

"You just can't see him because all of you are adults already, and I don't turn eighteen until July!"

Danny raised his hand.  "Neither do I."

Elliot looked like he wanted to argue for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped forward.  "Aw, man.  You couldn't let me have this?"

Mr. Lancer tapped a dial on the front of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ with his pen.  "The ecto-detector would have outed you–" 

There were a number of snickers from the jocks' side of the room.  

"--in any case, Mr. Gregor.  You can return to your seat, now."  He made a note on his clip board.  "My homework is invisible to adults is a new excuse for the books, though.  Mr. Fenton, you're next."

"'Kay," said Danny, passing Elliot on his way up.  "Prepare yourselves to be amazed!"  He slotted his thermos into place and hit the release button.  

Valerie shielded her eyes from the light and suppressed a laugh.  She was glad Danny had actually gotten something, considering how skittish he was about ghosts, but that intro was–

"Daniel!  Release me this instant!"

Wait, what the heck?

Valerie looked up to see Vlad Plasmius glaring at Danny through the walls of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™.  Vlad Plasmius.  Better known as Vlad Masters.  Mayor of Amity Park.  Richest man in the world.  Scarily powerful ghost with a great disguise.

She felt her jaw drop.

"May I introduce to you, the Wisconsin Ghost!"

"It's Plasmius, you insufferable brat!"

Mr. Lancer cleared his throat.  "Mr. Fenton, did your parents help you catch this… Plasmius?"

"I borrowed some equipment from them, but that's within the rules, right?"

"Let me out!"

"Hey, you heard Mr. Lancer.  You'll be released into the Ghost Zone after school with everyone else."

"Speaking of which, you should start your presentation."

"Oh, right.  So, what happened was that I snuck up on him while he was monologuing in his evil lair and hit him over the head with–"

"You did not!  And I don't have an evil lair!"

"That's debatable, but you know what?  Fine," groaned Danny.  "Spoilsport.  Anyway, I started by baiting my trap with cheese–"

"Daniel!"

"I pretended to be the mayor of Green Bay and called–"

Plasmius hissed at him.  

"Okay, okay, what I really did was tell Mr. Lonely Cat Guy that I'd tell him my mom's number if he helped me with a school project."

"Mr. Fenton," started Mr. Lancer, obviously concerned.

"It was a lie, of course!  Guys and girls, the only ghost you should give digits to is Phantom."

"That is not what happened!"

"My man, I'm trying to make this less embarrassing for you.  Work with me here."

"Mr. Fenton, must I remind you that this practicum is a graduation requirement?"

"No, no, I've got it.  But it is, like, super embarrassing for him."

Honestly, Valerie didn't know why she was surprised at this point.  Danny never had normal presentations.  Not since the gorilla thing.  

“What are you talking about?” snarled Vlad.  

“Aw, it sounds like it was so traumatizing he doesn’t even remember it…”

“Mr. Fenton, please.”

Danny shrugged.  “I told him I’d be more likely to consider letting him adopt me if he could win a fight with Fright Knight, because, like, that’s something I could do in Freshman year, and he’s never beaten him, and when he showed up afterward to gloat I snuck up behind him and souped him.”

“Backstabber!”

“The worst part is that I didn’t even think he’d do it.  Like, I’ve made exactly zero attempt to hide the utter disdain I feel for this man.  It was a joke.  I said I didn’t expect him to do it, but apparently he took that as a taunt or challenge or whatever.  I was just going to bring Wade, but then he showed up this morning, so I was like, why not?”

“Wade?” asked Mr. Lancer.  

Danny reached into his hoodie’s front pocket and pulled out the teeniest tiniest blue-green blob ghost.  “This is Wade.  I call him that because I found him in a pool.”

Wade squirmed out of Danny’s grip and flew up to chew on his hair.  

“You know you aren’t supposed to bring uncaptured ghosts into the school,” said Mr. Lancer tiredly.  

“That’s what your focus on?” ranted Vlad.  “And you call yourself a teacher–” 

“And that’s enough.”  Mr. Lancer reached over to hit the capture button and disengaged the thermos.  “You can go back to your seat now, Mr. Fenton.  Mr. Ishiyama?”

Kwan bounded up to the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ and gleefully slammed his thermos down into the socket.  “I caught the Box Ghost!”

“Oh, no,” muttered Danny.  

“BEWARE!  I AM THE BOX GHOST AND– Oh, my, this is a lovely box.  Is it for me?  I ACCEPT THIS TRIBUTE!  FEAR ME!”

The Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ began to levitate.  Valerie pulled her class-approved ecto-pistol from her bag.  Honestly, in retrospect, something like this was bound to happen.  At least, she noted, seeing all of her classmates pull out their approved ecto-pistols, she wouldn’t be the only one stuck fixing it this time.

[saileshjain]

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[cupidskissx]

Thanks for the fics! Are you thinking about writing something Christmassy? If you use this ask for that, I wouldn't care...lol

kisses and happy new year

Hello sweet anon,

Happy belated Christmas to you and those that celebrate!

I started this yesterday with no intention or direction whatsoever. By some Christmas miracle it’s the first thing I’ve “finished” in 6 months. I hope you enjoy ~1k of something for you ❤️🎄

***

When Max’s phone vibrated on the glass-top table the last thing he expected to see when he turned it over was a notification from Charles Leclerc.

Merry Christmas 🎅

He stared at the simple message, unsure what to make of it. They hadn’t spoken since before Max missed their padel game — his previous one line apology left unanswered.

Twisting his wrist, he checked the time and did the calculation. He frowned, it would be past midnight in Monaco, he couldn’t reply and wish him a happy Christmas now.

He picked up his phone and excused himself from the conversation. He walked inside while opening Charles’ contact and clicking call. Max didn’t know why he felt so compelled to speak to him, but it was too late now, he was closing the door to the guest bedroom when Charles answered.

“Hey,” a muted rustle followed Charles’ greeting, likely him rolling over in his covers.

“Hey,” Max sat on the end of the bed. “How was your Christmas?” Max asked.

“Nice, how was yours?”

“Yeah, nice,” Max didn’t know what else to say, maybe calling wasn’t the best idea.

“That’s good,” Charles stifled a yawn, then he asked, “How’s Brazil?”

“Hot. How’s Monaco?”

“Chilly.”

“Checks out.”

“When do you get home?” Charles changed the subject, taking Max by surprise that he’d want to bother keeping up their stilted conversation.

“Err, in a couple of days.”

“We should catch up before I head to Maranello.”

“Really, why? Have you missed me?” Max joked.

“A bit. Which is weird.”

Charles was kidding, surely, Max was the one who was left on read, “How much did you have to drink today, mate?” Max laughed, until he registered Charles’ mumbled response.

“Not enough.”

Oh. Max laid back on the bed and stared at the crack running through the plasterboard ceiling.

“I guess I just miss racing,” Charles clarified, now that is something Max can relate to. He supposed he missed Charles too, in the same way he missed Sunday morning briefings. Because setting the strategy meant driving, and driving meant racing and racing had always meant Charles. Except Charles didn’t only mean racing. Not anymore.

“I really am sorry I missed that game.”

“No you’re not,” Charles was the one to laugh that time.

“Okay, not the match so much, but I am sorry that I let you down.”

Charles was quiet for a long moment, “How’s Kelly’s family?”

Max closed his eyes. “Most of them are drunk and diving into the pool, not the best combination.”

“No, not the best.”

“How’s your family? How’s Arthur, I heard he lost his seat?”

Charles rustled on his end of the line again, “Yeah, he’ll be okay, but it’s still shit. We tried not to talk racing at dinner and that helped.”

“And your mum?” Max asked. The vision of Pascale in his mind was still the one he formed at karting tracks when they were young. When Max was shorter than her and she’d bring a pack lunch in a wicker picnic basket, an old thermos full of coffee never far from reach. One miserable afternoon in Italy she’d let Max hold it to warm his hands while they waited for the rain to clear.

“She’s good,” Charles answered, “Having us all home together makes her happy.”

“Because she can keep an eye on all of you at once for a change?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Charles sounded like he was smiling, Max wouldn’t have sounded much different when he replied.

“My mum is the same, she’ll pop her head in to my room at 6am just to watch me sleep.”

“Mum has definitely walked into whichever room I’m in to make sure I haven’t evaporated if I’m quiet for too long.”

“Typical mums,” Max rolled his eyes fondly at the same time Charles said: “I guess we’re the lucky ones.”

“Yeah, we are,” Max agreed because Charles had a way of making him more honest with himself.

“Will you go see Sophie for Christmas?”

“I’m flying up after New Year’s.”

“So you’ll be in Monaco for New Year’s Eve?”

“If everything goes to plan. Will you?”

“Yeah, I don’t leave until the 3rd. You should come over, I’m doing a small get together, nothing crazy.”

“I’ll check and let you know.”

“Good.”

“And if I can’t make it?”

“Then I guess I’ll see you when the season starts.”

Max’s heart performed a peculiar acrobatic act against his ribcage. “You won’t be home in between?”

“Not really.”

“Well I suppose I do owe you a game before you leave, if it can’t be New Year’s.”

Charles all but giggled on his end of the line, “So now you want to play?”

Max opened his mouth, the words: no, I want to see you nearly tumbled out but he caught them before he had to think too hard about what they meant. “I wanna beat you,” he said instead.

“Naturally. We’ll see,” Charles said but Max didn’t appreciate the open-endedness.

“Afraid for a little one-on-one, we both know Tom carried you last time.”

“You talk big game for someone who lost.”

“Guess there’s only one way to—” there was a single knock on the bedroom door before it creaked open, “I better let you go.”

“Oh, okay, yeah, see you soon then.”

“Yeah, book a court and I’ll be there,” Max started to pull his phone away from his ear when he was called back.

“Max?” Charles asked, voice wavering.

“Yeah?” Max’s brow pinched as he kept his eyes focused on the ceiling. Not quite ready to sit up.

“Get ready to lose again.”

Max snorted, “Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming.”

“I will,” Charles was smiling again, “Night.”

“Night,” Max ended the call. He settled his smile into something less cheesy and pushed himself up onto his elbows to find himself alone in the room.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Phantom Frequency

🚛 "Phantom Frequency" - A Halloween Short Story

On a rain-slicked highway in 1969, lonely trucker Elvis Presley nearly dies in a collision with a mysterious red car. Seeking refuge at a remote truck stop diner, he meets Grace—a hauntingly beautiful waitress with a gap-toothed smile and eyes like sea glass. Their connection is instant, electric, and impossible... because Grace died exactly one year ago, killed by a driver who never stopped.

CW: car accidents, death, supernatural themes

Later—much later—Elvis would remember that night and think: That's when everything went to hell. That's when I learned some roads don't wanna let you go.

But on that Halloween night in 1969, he was just trying to keep his rig between the lines while Merle Haggard fought with static on the radio. The windshield wipers beat a rhythm that reminded him of his mother's old metronome: you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die, you're-gonna-die.

(He was right about that, of course. Everyone dies eventually. But some folks—like the pretty waitress he was about to meet—were already well ahead of him.)

His hands gripped the big wheel of the Peterbilt, those same hands that had once strummed a Gibson guitar in Beale Street dive bars, back when he still believed he might be the next Johnny Cash. Now they just guided eighteen wheels through the dark, counting off the miles between nowhere and nothing much.

The cab of the truck smelled like every long-haul ride since the dawn of diesel: cigarette smoke, coffee gone cold in a plastic thermos, and that peculiar mixture of loneliness and diesel fuel that seems to seep into a trucker's bones after enough years on the road. Elvis had been driving for Yankee-Lines Transport for going on ten years now, and he figured he'd probably die behind this wheel.

(He didn't know how close he'd come to being right about that, too.)

The radio crackled, and through the static came Hank Williams singing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry." Elvis reached for the dial, but something made him hesitate. Later, he'd wonder if that hesitation saved his life. Or maybe it had already been too late by then. Maybe it had been too late the moment he'd pointed his truck down Highway 61 on Halloween night.

That's when he saw the headlights in his mirror.

The red Chevrolet came out of nowhere, moving like a bullet with Satan's name on it. Elvis had just enough time to think Jesus Christ on a bicycle before everything went sideways. Literally.

The truck slid like it was auditioning for the Ice Capades, trailer swinging wide in a move that would've scored a perfect ten from the Russian judges. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Elvis had a crazy thought about that old Roy Orbison song—pretty woman, walking down the street—before physics finally called it a night and let everything settle into silence.

When his heart stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest like something from an Alien movie (not that those existed yet in 1969, but Elvis would think of that comparison later), he keyed the CB radio with shaking fingers.

"Breaker one-nine, this is Hound Dog," he said, and wasn't that a laugh? He'd picked that handle years ago, back when he still thought he might make it as a singer. Now it just felt like God's own cosmic joke. "Nearly got sent to the big truck stop in the sky by some maniac in a red Chevy. Anyone copy?"

The radio crackled—everything seemed to crackle that night, like the whole world was sitting on a bed of breaking bones—and a woman's voice came through: "Hound Dog, this is Grizzly Bear. Get yourself to Bud's Chalet at exit 117. Ain't safe out there tonight."

(Ain't safe. No ma'am, it surely wasn't. Ask Grace Maxwell about that. Oh wait, you can't. She's been dead a year. But don't worry, you'll meet her anyway.)

Elvis found the exit and pulled into what had to be the saddest excuse for a truck stop this side of the Mason-Dixon. Bud's Chalet looked like something that had fallen off the back of a Swiss tourist's postcard and landed in Arkansas by mistake. The kind of place where the coffee's always burnt and the pie's always old and the waitress is always named Flo.

Except the waitress wasn't named Flo.

She was standing behind the counter when he walked in, and for a moment Elvis forgot how to breathe. She was beautiful in that small-town way that breaks hearts and pens a thousand country songs. Strawberry blonde hair piled up in a beehive that would've made the B-52s proud (another reference that wouldn't make sense until years later), eyes green as summer lawn grass, and a gap between her front teeth that would've made Madonna jealous (there he went again, getting ahead of himself).

Her name tag said GRACE.

(And that's when the cosmic joke really got rolling. Because Grace had been dead exactly one year, killed by a red Chevy that didn't bother to stop after it sent her on her way to the ultimate coffee break. But Elvis didn't know that yet. He was still living in the world where pretty waitresses were alive and coffee got cold and clocks actually moved forward.)

"What'll it be?" she asked, and her voice was like warm honey over cornbread.

Elvis ordered coffee, black as midnight in a mine shaft. She poured it and steam rose from the cup like spirits escaping purgatory. He couldn't help noticing that she moved without making a sound, that the fluorescent lights dimmed when she passed under them, that her touch when she handed him the cup was cold as November rain.

They talked. Lord, how they talked. About roads and dreams and loneliness. About his failed music career and her daddy's trucking days. The coffee never got cold. The clock on the wall never moved. And outside, in the Arkansas night, something that drove a red Chevrolet waited patiently for its next victim.

When Elvis came back a year later—because of course he did, that's how these things work—the truth hit him like a load of concrete blocks. The photo on the wall. The brass plaque. Grace Maxwell, dead one year before he'd met her, killed by a hit-and-run driver in a red Chevy.

The same red Chevy that had almost sent him to join her.

Elvis ran out of that diner like his ass was on fire and his hair was catching. But as he reached his truck, the radio came to life all on its own. Through the static came "Peace in the Valley," and the smell of apple pie drifted on the wind.

He never drove that stretch of Highway 61 again. Some roads, he learned, have their own stories. Some roads keep their dead. And sometimes, if you're lucky (or maybe if you're not), those dead reach out to save the living from joining their lonely highway vigil.

But on quiet nights, when the moon is full and the radio won't quite tune in, Elvis thinks about Grace. He wonders if she's still there at Bud's Chalet, serving coffee that never gets cold to truckers who don't know they're being saved.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he finds himself humming "Peace in the Valley" and thinking about a pretty waitress with a gap-toothed smile who died on Halloween night but stuck around just long enough to keep him from joining her on the other side of the veil.

(Ain't that always the way? The dead looking out for the living, keeping us from stumbling too soon into their dark territory. And if you don't believe it, just take a drive down Highway 61 on Halloween night. Stop in at Bud's Chalet. Order some coffee and apple pie. But whatever you do, watch out for that red Chevy. It's still out there, waiting. Always waiting.)

THE END

[sleepyfan-blog]

Funeral Preparations One

Author’s Note: This is the next part in Cedric’s adventures in the Astartes Husbandry AU, and specifically the Introducing New Primaris Black Templars arc. For other adventures click here and here. First. Previous. Next.  

Tagged:  @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34 @undeaddream

Warnings: Feelings of being overwhelmed, grief, funerary practices, consumption of humans (ashes), mention of cremation, hurt/comfort

Summary: Cedric talks to Lykus about his dead brothers and funerary practices. 

Cedric made his way to the beautiful church where he’d encountered Chaplain Lykus, silently wishing that he was seeking the other out for less unhappy reasons. The young Black Templar paused in the entrance room of the church, allowing himself a couple of moments to once more silently appreciate the beautiful stained-glass images that made the windows of the church. 

Feeling slightly calmer, he made his way over to Lykus’ office, knocking on the door and waiting for the other marine to acknowledge him.

“Please come in.” The Word Bearer called out a couple of moments later.

“Yes sir.” Cedric responded before obeying. He closed the door quietly behind himself as he walked over to one of the chairs in front of Lykus’ desk and sat in the one made for Astartes, trying to keep a calm expression on his face. 

Lykus smiled a little as he looked Cedric over. “Good afternoon Cedric. What can I do to help you?”

Cedric fidgeted with the bandages on his hands a little, as he’d decided to wrap up his skinned knuckles after his brief fight with Algrets earlier today rather than waiting for them to heel… And it was bad form to show up to a strange Chaplain’s office visibly injured. And not tended to. It invited scrutiny and potential punishment. “I…I’ve come to make a request.”

“Is this about finding a time and day where you and your Brothers can gather to worship without dealing with comments and judgment?” Lykus asked curiously.

“... It is somewhat related to that.” Cedric answered, biting the inside of one of his cheeks until it bled. The physical pain helped him keep his roiling emotions in check. He wanted to keep his voice even and calm, and show no outward signs of distress or emotional weakness. It would slow things down, and Lykus was not the only person he needed to talk to today. 

“Please explain, and I’ll offer what assistance I am able to… Are you alright? You seem… Unsettled.” Lykus asked, his gaze lingering on the bandages that Cedric was fidgeting with.

“I am functional.” The young apothecary answered as he immediately put his hands in his lap, out of the other’s line of sight. He swallowed hard, mentally counting to ten before answering in as even and unemotional a tone of voice as he could manage “Recently, two Black Templars arrived on Holy Terra, critically wounded. Despite every effort to save them, both died. I, and the rest of the unofficial Crusade who live here in Gannet Point would like to put them to rest properly, in the manner that our chapter does. I was hoping to have the memorial service portion of that completed here, within this church, if you are willing. There would be maybe a dozen people attending, most if not all of them being Astartes. The service would not be longer than an hour, as both Black Templars who died  were apprentices… The term I believe your legion uses is Scouts, so the recitation of their deeds and greatest battles will not… Not take very long.”

Lykus seemed to be listening intently to Cedric as he spoke. Once he finished, the Word Bearer took a long sip from the astartes-sized thermos on his desk and swallowed before answering “Do you know when you would like the service to be held? Apart from Sunday mass and Wednesday bible studies, most of this next week is fairly open, though there are smaller services that are going on for an hour or two at a time throughout the week, most of them can easily be rescheduled due to an event like this. What is the plan for their bodies, once the service is over?”

“Their bodies will be burnt to ash and the remains will be forged into Blades of Remembrance per the custom of our chapter.” Well… Some of their remains would be used in forging Blades of Remembrance the rest would be consumed as part of the remembrance feast, but that was going to be taken place after the bodies had been cremated and the blades forged and tested. Cedric was keenly aware of the fact that consuming the dead was not a practice that most Astartes chapters practiced except under dire circumstances, or to get information from the dead. “But the burning of their bodies and forging of the blades will happen elsewhere.”

“I see. Do you have an idea as to where their bodies are going to be burnt? The baseline mortals have laws about where such a task can be completed, for a variety of reasons.” Lykus revealed, having slowly gotten up out of his chair and started to walk around his desk, moving closer to Cedric. He sat down in the chair next to Cedric’s.

“... Oh. I hadn’t known that.” Cedric responded, shifting a little in his seat, trying not to visibly tense up at the other’s approach. “I… I’ll have to.. Research an appropriate place, then. Which is probably going to delay the memorial service and-” It felt as if there was a never ending list of things that he had to do in order to try and ensure that his brothers could properly Rest - or come back and serve in another way, should their spirits decide to inhabit one of the Blades of Remembrance forged with their remains, as that did happen occasionally. 

“I do have the phone number for several different funeral homes and crematoriums. Funerals and other kinds of rituals involving mourning the loss of a loved one are commonly held in churches and similar places of worship such as this one in M3.” Lykus explained, voice gentle and… He sounded almost coaxing? As if he was trying to coax a spooked serf out of an air vent after a minor misstep that they weren’t going to be punished for accidentally committing. “If you wish, I can either introduce you to the mortals in charge of those places I know, or give you their numbers so you can talk to them at your own pace.”

Cedric stared at the carpeted floor of Lykus’ office as he tried to make that decision. On one hand, part of him balked at the implication that he needed someone to help him talk to baseline humans. On the other, the young Apothecary was struggling to keep a handle on the roiling warp-storm his emotions had become after… After Lestras and Malachai had both been found and he’d been unable to save them. He was still seething at the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to observe as Chief Apothecary Melinth and several other firstborn Apothecaries did their best to save Malachai. “I…” His voice cracked and his eyes stung and burned fiercely as a wave of emotions he could not name threatened to overwhelm him.

Lykus dragged Cedric out of his seat and pressed his face to one of the Word Bearer’s robed shoulders “Easy… Easy. I’ve got you,young one. You’re going through a great deal right now - please don’t try to fight me, I am trying to comfort you. I’m honored that you reached out to me… But isn’t there a chaplain in the base you live in you could go to, to help you arrange things?”

“I do! Ramiel is doing his best, but he… He’s also struggling with the loss of two of our Brothers as well. Even… Even though they’d only just arrived on Holy Terra.” Losing them twice was a unique form of torment for both Ramiel and himself. Cedric felt a little strange, being held by the older Marine, but the hug didn’t feel threatening… Also hiding his face in the other’s shoulder helped Cedric keep pressure on the emotional fissures running through his hearts “He’s also going through his chaplaincy trials.”

“... Are you referring to the Chaplain in training? I’ve met him a couple of times, and he’s a clever and good-hearted lad, but to arrange something like this might be a little out of his area of training on his own.” Lykus murmured, a small frown appearing on his face. 

“That’s why I’m helping him by finding a place to hold the ceremony, and apparently a place to have Malachai’s and Lestra’s bodies burnt without causing problems… And before you say anything, I am aware of the fact that there are facilities on base to process dead astartes. But I don’t want them to handle their bodies. They’ve done quite enough already.” Ah. That was a lot of bitterness leaking in his voice. 

Lykus’ arms tightened around Cedric, but it didn’t feel restricting in a worrying or threatening manner. “I see.” 

There’s an astartes sized hand on Cedric’s head, now. Fingers running through his hair. It feels… It feels soothing, and why can’t he stop crying today? This is the second time in a handful of hours his tear ducts have decided to leak all over a firstborn Space Marine. It was embarrassing, and something that he would need to look into, later. “We’re doing our best… Just gotta get it done quickly.” Cedric didn’t want either Malachai’s or Lestra’s bodies to mysteriously disappear, if they lingered for too long in the base’s morgue. He’d denied others their desire to tear apart their bodies once, after all. They might give into temptation, the longer it was there. “Ramiel says it’s going to take him several days to get the stuff he needs together so… Maybe on Saturday? I’ll have a firmer answer for you tomorrow, or the day after. And… Assistance in speaking with the mortals would be nice. I don’t know how to negotiate with them for goods and services.”

Lykus hummed in acknowledgement, still hugging Cedric. “Alright. I’ll arrange for meetings. When are you up to speaking with them? I should be able to get an appointment sometime this week.”

“I’m going to be working in the clinic for the next several days, but that’s only from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, so I’ll be available outside of those times easily. If they’ll only meet sometime during it I… I can either ask Ramiel to go instead, or sneak out for the appointment time. Hura and Zariel’d cover for me, as long as the appointments don’t take too long.” Cedric murmured. He tensed a little as he realized that he admitted to being willing to skive off of his assigned duties to a chaplain - even thinking such things was a sin worthy of punishment. He swallowed hard and waited. 

Lykus only hummed again in response, the hand in Cedric’s hair still gentle and soothing. “I’ll keep that in mind, while arranging the appointments. Is there anything else I can do to help you and your brother Ramiel during this time?”

“I… I don’t think so? At least, not on my end. I’ll tell Rami to come talk to you. He may need help with Chaplain Things that he can’t or won’t talk to me about ‘cause I’m not a chaplain.” Cedric answered earnestly. He snuffled a little, pressing his face a little harder into the other’s shoulder, his body shaking a little. 

“Alright. Well, if you do think of something, or if something comes up, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.” Lykus hummed “Do you have any pressing matters to handle today?”

“Need to tell my Crusade leaders’ ‘bout the dead Brothers. They live with their bonded in the city. They… Don’t know yet. Gotta do that before sundown. ‘Cause the Base Commander’s given me a curfew to be back at the base by.” Cedric responded, anger - an old and familiar feeling of his breaking through the misery he was trying not to drown in - spiking.

“Hmm? Why’s that?” The chaplain asked curiously.

“Got into a fight with a Space Wolf ‘cause he was being a shitty bastard about my dead brothers. He whined about not getting to cut them up with his mentor and I… Didn’t react well to his complaints.” Cedric admitted. He refused to apologize for striking and strangling the fucker.

“I can understand why that would upset you. Space Wolves, while brilliant fighters are… Difficult to endure in certain social situations.” Lykus hummed. The Word Bearer seemed content to hold Cedric for forever, it seemed.

Which was nice, if a little disconcerting. He hasn’t hugged someone who wasn’t a fellow Primaris Marine this long… Ever. The other’s embrace was helping him find balance, at least for now. Much as he’d like to linger for as long as the Chaplain would tolerate, Cedric was starting to feel ravenous . Which was odd, as he’d been feeling mildly nauseous during the morning (before and during his brothers’ autopsies) and had then been too upset to so much as think about eating anything… “I should go and get something to eat, then talk to my Crusade leaders. I… Thank you, for your help, and for… This.” He squeezed the Word Bearer gently “It’s… It’s helped quite a bit.”

“I do have some astartes-grade snacks in my desk, if you’d like company while you eat.” Lykus offered with a gentle smile, slowly letting Cedric go.

The Primaris marine shook his head as he slowly got up “Thank you for the offer sir, but I should eat a full meal.”

“Very well. Thank you for coming to me, and I’ll message you when the appointments are scheduled.” Lykus murmured, smiling a little.

“Thank you sir.” Cedric answered with a nod, hurriedly wiping the tears from his face before leaving. He planned on stopping by the base to eat and change - as he’d managed to partially soak his own shirt with his tears, and even though the walk over would dry it… The last thing he wanted to do was to show up in Roland’s Beloved’s bakery smelling of tears (and Word Bearer) with red-rimmed eyes. He’s pretty sure that would end really badly.

[pedge-stuff]

thermos (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked.” drop a line if you have a sug. (:

summary: sometimes, love boils on the stove. (set 2021.)

————————————————————————

It had been a long fucking day.  Delayed table read, late picks, emergency rewrites—  the perfect storm at SNL.  

The steady pressure in your temples had gradually increased throughout the day, despite the Excedrine you'd taken early on. This had morphed into an ache at the back of your throat, because of course it had— bad things always came in waves. 

Halfway through the last-minute pitch meeting post-rehearsal, you'd missed a call from Pedro. The same time he called every day,  usually timed well with your walk home from midtown. Sending him to voicemail was out of character. 

Sorry, you'd texted. Rehearsal tonight. Lightly sautéed, gonna crash after work, talk tomorrow? Love  you very much x 

He'd shot back a " :( " and then had been typing for several minutes, the little bubbles appearing over and over. OK, he finally said. Love you too. 

It tweaked your heart, a bit. The two thousand miles between your phones was hard to stomach, sometimes. Alberta felt, for reasons unknown, so infinitely farther than LA, though the mileage was comparable. You picture him, alone in his trailer, reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolls his phone, waiting for wrap to leave and tuck his old bones into bed.

Ultimately, you are a little too tired, and achy, and frustrated with work, and maybe a little cranky, to dwell on the finality of his "OK."  There's nothing he can do for you, from Alberta; it's not worth worrying him. 

You drag yourself home, resigned to making a weak cup of tea and curling up with the dogs. (Home is your studio apartment, while he's gone, though he maintains a steady campaign for you to just move into his. You haven't yet been able to articulate how fucking lonely his Brooklyn townhouse is without him.) Politely squeeze past the elderly couple who have pushed their sidewalk table all the way in front of the door to your building. Check the mail, of which there is none. Climb the stairs, a slow shuffle, fumbling with your stupid keys, music still playing at street volume in your headphones, eyes burning, lock turning— 

Fuck, fuck. 

Pedro turns the stove off, offers you a shy smile. Your bag drops to the floor. Something inside you snaps, pulls loose. You burst into tears. 

"Oh," he says, and you forcefully close the distance, wrapping your arms around him as you try and stifle quiet sobs. Wonder, for a moment, what the fuck is happening. "Surprise?" 

You laugh, weakly. Run a hand down your face. "Sorry, sorry." 

He pushes you back, apprising you with a gentle and skeptical look. Holds your face in his hands and thumbs away the fresh tears. Frowns. Presses his palm to your forehead. "You didn't tell me you were sick."

Leaning into his hand, you shake your head. "Not sick. Just tired." You pull back. "I can't believe you're here. Jesus. How long are you here for?" 

His attention is drawn back to the stove, beside which he has set your green travel mug. He smiles sheepishly. "Was trackin' ya on Find My." The kettle spits a small whistle as he pours the water. Your heart clenches; this stupidly thoughtful man. 

"I can rally," you offer, even as he ushers you into the bedroom. There is a suddenly conspicuous absence of dogs. 

"They're in Brooklyn. Figured you'd wanna get some shit here, and then we Uber that way?"

"You really thought this through, huh?" There are clothes and toiletries at his place ("our place," he calls it, though the studio is decidedly "your place."), but you pack a few things, just in case. 

It's not a secret that he doesn't love your apartment— it's a little cramped, for two men and two dogs. Plus, his apartment is more of a full condo. And the bathroom's nicer.

He watches you pack, perched on the edge of the bed. It's hard to focus on anything other than studying the soft lines of his travel-weary face. The rise and fall of his chest. Bits and pieces of him that the front-facing iPhone camera cannot pick up over FaceTime. 

— 

In the back of the Uber, mindful of the rearview mirror, you have his left hand trapped between both of yours. The skin of his palm has toughened, calloused slightly from whatever they have him doing in the woods of Canada. It still feels the same as you press your lips to the center. 

"I'm still a little confused," you whisper, "but I'm so happy you're here." 

His steals his hand back, to card it through your hair. "Me too. Was going crazy, trying to keep it a secret. We've got the long weekend off for Veteran's day, so I thought..." 

"Mm. Do you have an agenda this weekend?" 

The Uber makes its final turn. "Yeah. I would like to sleep for one million years, in a bed, with you. And probably see Oscar and Elvira, at some point. Also maybe order Empanada Mama. I ate a Canadian empanada last week that legitimately made me sad." 

You hold onto his hand as you exit the car, cross the street, key in. The tea put you at ease, but with the shock of the surprise wearing off, the weight of the day resettles as an ache across your shoulders. 

The dogs bound down the hallway as you key in. Pedro's suitcase has not made it much farther than the front door, though it has been cracked open and partially rummaged. "I was in a rush," he said sheepishly.

"Mm. You showerin’?” 

“Probably should. We heading up?” 

You nod, kneeling to re-zip his bag; the duties of young knees. (The age gap is disregarded, unless he plays the old card to his advantage.) Edgar pounces on you while you’re accessibly low. Ten different questions die in the back of your throat. Every step between you and the king sized bed on the third floor feels impossible. 

— 

He smells clean, as he wraps his arms around you, skin still damp and warm from the obscenely hot showers he prefers. You have a long day of rehearsal ahead of you tomorrow, then an even longer show day— but none of that matters now.

"Thank you for coming." You mumble, sleepily, into the worn fabric on his shoulder. Fingers card through your hair, brush gently over your temple. You've got a hand beneath his t-shirt, splayed across the base of his ribs.

Pedro makes an indignant noise, low, from his chest. "Not a place on Earth I'd rather be."