#hear the queueing thunder

[arcanecovcn]

@lungsandlips gets a continuation from this post.

Well, Brandon now felt fucking ridiculous. Kade was right, the username displayed on the top-left corner of the screen was very much his: fleefromfleehan had been his username since middle school, how could he have missed it? He felt dumb, ridiculous and worst of all, embarrassed. He locked the phone, tapped it a couple times on his open palm then placed it on the counter separating him and Kade.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, eyes downcast for a second before he looked up and searched for Kade's eyes. "I should've given you a chance instead of... believing what they told me about your reputation. It was wrong, I'm sorry."

Gently, he pushed the phone towards Kade, inhaled deeply one last time and continued.

"For what it's worth, you have an awesome dick." An attempt to lighten the mood, even if he had screwed up massively. "I-I know I fucked up by violating your privacy and also know I just broke whatever trust you could have in me but Kade... let me start over. No going through your phone, no-- hanging on your reputation. Just us, getting to know each other so we can make this work, yeah? Please?"

[arcanecovcn]

Once the initial hurt passed, Brandon could not blame Chris for being hurt. Brandon had left, a quick apology as a means of explanation —and that wasn't an explanation, he had just kidded himself back then— and a departure kiss that broke his heart just like he could tell it broke Chris'.

At the very least, he owed his ex-lover an explanation.

"Technically, I'm not allowed to discuss this secret with anybody outside the Verbena Circle," Brandon explained, following in Chris' stead. "But fuck it. Fuck it, you deserve an explanation." A small pause floated between them as the mage pondered where to start and if he should make this a detailed story or a summarized one. He decided on the latter, he could always provide details in case Christopher asked. "I went abroad with four men who are the embodiment of nature's spirits; more specifically, the physical representations of the elements."

Brandon took a deep breath and let those words sink in. It was the first time he'd said them out loud and it was baffling, for sure. "As it turns out, I'm yet another spirit, the mundane representation of the storm. Surprise?" He twirled the glass between his fingers, adopting a pensive stare. "And yes. I will be staying for good. The businesses they needed me to attend were all taken care of. I'm staying, yeah."

He could tell some of his words had an effect on Brandon just by the way he shifted his weight. It had always been a problem of him, to be so blunt and tactless. As much as he had tried to become better at speaking assertively, the presence of his favorite mage was unexpected and it moved more heart strings than necessary.

But since throwing daggers would help no one, he tried to remain as calm and sensible as possible.

"No, that's not hard to understand at all," he shrugged, taking a small sip of his own drink. "But I'm a man who's always focused on the future... So I guess I'll put this bluntly. I have two questions that will determine how happy I allow myself to be about this..."

He made a small pause, looking at Brandon now and inviting him to sit down with him on the small couch he had on the balcony.

"First... Will you be staying for good this time? And second... Will you finally explain to me why you left?"

[zorkaya-moved]

𝘖𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵.

PERSONALS DO NOT REBLOG. DO NOT REPOST. DO NOT REUSE. MUTUALS W/ ZARINA'S TAG ON THEIR BLOG ARE ALLOWED TO REBLOG.

[arcanecovcn]

@demonicescort continued from here.

"No shit, Captain Obvious," Brandon grumbled, his voice dripping with the annoyance he felt nesting in his chest. Deep shit didn't begin to cover it, especially when he refused to ask other organizations ‐actual superhero organizations, that is- for help. "A drug that grants you powers can only cause chaos and while I'm not the most-- let's say, orderly guy there is, it could be bad for humanity as a whole."

If he looked at it from a certain angle, it wasn't his problem either. He could very well leave it be, let things run their course, and deal with the outcome but his upbringing -as well as his selfishness of not wanting to deal with it after the chaos ensued- forced him to take action early on.

There was, however, one tiny problem.

"I'm not sure whether or not Lebelle is behind this. I'm at least an eighty-percent sure he is, but I can't go off chopping heads based on that measly percentage. I need more proof."

He was stressed. The tension in his muscles, the sleepless nights, the constant what-ifs plaguing his mind... truth was, Brandon was letting this case consume him, almost as if he were a novice. Maybe he needed to lay back, rest for a bit instead of obsessing with a solution that was clearly not coming to him anytime soon.

"Sorry for being a snarky little bitch," he grumbled his apology, leaning back into Patrick's touch. "I am stressed and overthinking. Normally this doesn't happen."

[arcanecovcn]

Without the added pressure of a classroom full of people locking their eyes on you, settling the whole weight of their expectations on your shoulders, Brandon realized it was easier to concentrate on one thing at a time. Sure, there were many factors added to this particular equation —like the fact that no bustling sounds were bombarding him from every direction or shiny things grabbing his attention— but, truly, he hated how many people were right about one thing in particular: if you set your mind to one task only, concentration won't be a problem. What they weren't right about was how Brandon's mind couldn't focus on one thing at a time for extended periods of time before it inevitably wandered, but he was working really hard now for Walter's sake.

Of course, the man had to go and put his determination to the test by pressing himself closer to Brandon, grabbing him by the wrists and basically kissing his ear. His concentration almost shattered the second he felt contact, but the younger man gritted his teeth and pushed through the distraction with difficulty. He could do this, right? He could focus on something that wasn't the warmth of Walter's skin or the sweetness of his smell. He could allow himself to be guided through the gentle dance the other was putting him through without breaking his concentration, without letting his rampant feelings get in the way, right? He swallowed hard, breathed through his nose, and pushed and pulled with the lull of Walter's movements. He even opened his eyes when instructed to and saw the slithering stream he had created.

"I-- I did that?" the question was rhetorical, of course. He could feel that tell-tale pull on his gut, right behind his belly button, that let him know it was his power controlling the elements. "Look, Walter--!" The younger man turned his head a small fraction of the way, momentarily forgetting how close the other was... and then everything stopped.

Their noses bumped. Brandon gasped and closed his fists. Instead of dropping back onto the stream, the small boa of water he'd manipulated froze mid-air, in time with the skipped beat of his heart. How he managed to do that, Brandon didn't know. As much a prodigy as he was, that had never happened before, but that was for a later analysis. Brandon stood still for a second or two, the tip of his nose still touching Walter's, and then he took a step forward, away from the man's embrace.

"Uh-- sorry. Sorry, I forgot how close you were. I uh--" but he trailed off. What exactly could he say in such a situation? "Thank you for helping me concentrate?" And yes, it was poised as a question because Brandon himself wasn't sure of what he wanted to say.

He remained close to Brandon in order to ensure that his presence would soothe him and help him block away any and all other external factors. He didn’t want for Brandon to feel pressured. They were not in a tight schedule that demanded students to master their abilities in record time. To master their gifts was not something that happened overnight. There were even some adults that had issues with their own powers, no matter how many tries they attempted to master them. That didn’t mean that they were broken - but it meant that there should be no pressure to achieve such a goal. Walter often liked to compare mastering their abilities with the flow of the water. It was a simple analogy really: if it was a small stream, one could direct the path by adjusting the flow. It was easy to make it bend or stop it on its tracks. But when one’s abilities were similar to the raging sea on a storm – there was no containment. There was no chance to push it away or make it cease. One simply had to ride it out. Way for it to pass.

“That’s it.” Walter kept his hands on Brandon’s shoulders, feeling his body relax as he slowly centered himself and became more attuned to his surroundings. Nothing else mattered now – just the sound of the water rushing down, the sensation of how the cold wetness would feel on their skin. “Keep breathing.” His hands slid down Brandon’s shoulders down to his arms, long fingers gently grasping at his student’s wrists as Walter did his best to guide Brandon’s movements. It was like a dance, really. There were no one, two steps but the elegant movements were incorporated. “Don’t lose focus on the water.” His lips brushed gently over the shell of Brandon’s ear as Walter guided both of the other man’s arms up and then down, left and then right. “Don’t resist. You are one with the water you now feel.” Again – up and down, left and right. Walter’s gaze turned to the stream – the water raising from its designated path to slither in the air like a snake enchanted by the musician’s flute. Up and down, left and right. The same pattern over and over again. “Don’t lose focus, Brandon…” Fingers gaze the other man’s wrists a gentle squeeze, reminding him that he was still there. Right behind him. “Open your eyes now – see what you accomplished.”

[ofglories]

"i wish i were a watermelon..." caelus looking at jing yuan and his watermelon crushing techniques.

“Hmm?”

Jing Yuan paused, head tilted ever so slightly to the side in thought as he cast a curious glance towards Caelus. What an interesting comment! Admittedly quite odd, in his opinion, as well. Why would anyone wish to be a watermelon especially after the general had just demonstrated why with the right application of pressure and strength they could be easily crushed between someone’s thighs-

Oh.

Snorting, he turned away to focus on wiping stray bits of crushed melon from his pants.

Ah, the joys of youth! No wonder Fu Xuan and Yanqing asked him to find other methods of demonstrating combat techniques being used in every day life. Chuckling, Jing Yuan considered the watermelon for a moment before picking up the largest piece. This would make a good snack later, with some proper carving.

“Far be it from me to judge someone’s preferences but, Caelus, I wouldn’t recommend wanting to be a watermelon.” Slowly he turned to look over his shoulder, a teasing grin on the general’s face. “They’re usually eaten fairly quickly.”

[rhalgrsrightfist]

ᴛᴀɢ ᴅᴜᴍᴘ 𝟏

☀⊱••• ⸺ dys an sohm in，rohs an kyn ala na! ⧼ ooc ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ bow down，overdweller! ⧼ submission ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ (hear) answer (look) answer (think) answer together. ⧼ answered asks ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ children of the land，answer this: ⧼ ask prompt ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ gobbies gonna rise up，boom like thunder! ⧼ promo ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ broken，faded，how long have i waited. ⧼ queue ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ come and play，for the night is bright and you can sleep when you're DEAD! ⧼ dash games ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ we are the dreamers. ⧼ dash commentary ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ pa-paya，paya pa-paya paya pa-paya! ⧼ crack ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ rise with me，rise with me，rise with me (RISE UP!) ⧼ self-promo ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ i'll be your idol，your only one. ⧼ video ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ o wide open midnight sky，please carry my voice aloft. ⧼ my art ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ oh i have awaited you patiently all this time; past every fate. ⧼ closed starter ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ foward and back and then forward and back and then go forward and back，then put one foot forward! ⧼ thread ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ for this journey's end is but one step forward to tomorrow. ⧼ thread end ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ flee from what you do not see. ⧼ dni ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ our song of hope，she dances on the wind higher，oh higher! ⧼ music ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ one brings shadow，one brings light; one more chapter we've yet to write. ⧼ wip ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ in monochrome melodies，our tears are painted in red. ⧼ art ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ come play with me，darling; you'll bе surprised! ⧼ open starter ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ deep inside we're nothing more than scions and sinners. ⧼ introspection ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ authors of our fates orchestrate our fall from grace. ⧼ one-shot ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ thou must live，die，and know. ⧼ psa ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ well come and well met，my brave little spark. ⧼ pinned ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ good king moogle mog，good king mog! ⧼ meme ⧽ ☀⊱••• ⸺ silent steel breathing，breathing. memory writing，reading. ⧼ saved ⧽

[pseudowho]

Yagi Toshinori/All Might x Reader

Fluff, suggestive

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

All Might was strong, and soft. You knew this before you started dating (which was an operation performed strictly in secret, so wildly publicised would it be, to be seen on his arm in public).

Candlelit dinners in Musutafu's finest, instead became quiet nights in, with faithful security guards ushering you to the Might Tower penthouse where Toshinori waited, fizzing with excitement.

Instead, Toshinori took delight in stealing your blushes through deliberately poorly-timed whispered compliments. His array of vintage pet names would sound corny, were he any less sincere. It hadn't taken Toshinori long to cotton on to the glee to be found in a secret love affair.

And it hadn't taken long for you to retaliate; which was how you found out how soft the powerful All Might really was.

"I set you free for the rest of the afternoon, young ones! Spend your study time wisely! Strive to be the best you, that you can be!" Toshinori boomed over the heads of the students, filing out before him.

He spun, turning and bending down to you with that familiar trademark grin...only, heartfelt and wicked now, instead of fixed. His voice lowered barely enough to escape the students' notice.

"Of course," he intoned, his breath grazing your ear, setting a shiver down your spine, "my honeybee is already the best she that she could be."

You slapped a handful of books down on the desk, a frisson of electric sending you erect as you turned to him with a warning look in your eye. The warning look quickly died, at his boyish smile and natural warmth, unable to fight a man that you knew absolutely meant it.

Later, you approached him in the busy corridor, schooling your expression to that of polite disinterest in greeting a passing colleague.

"Yagi-san--"

Toshinori jostled you, sending papers tumbling to the floor, and apologising profusely in a dramatic hush, bending with you to collect the scattered reports from the floor.

"I apologise-- I really am sorry-- gosh, what a mess!" As people channelled around you, Toshinori's fingers plaited briefly with yours, his voice lowering again. "Not that messy is something my pookie identifies with, though. Not yet."

You dropped the rest of your papers, stuttering as Toshinori scooped them up with a flourish, standing with you and bundling them back into your arms. You stumbled, blushing as he clapped an enormous hand onto your shoulder with a laugh, and a thunderous farewell, leaving you stranded and skittish in the corridor.

In the lunch queue, you felt a shadow darken your tray, and turned, looking up. This time, Toshinori barely even bothered to alter his tone, instead hiding behind the student and faculty's food-related distraction. He plucked a tiny steaming basket from the self-service window, dropping it onto your tray with a muted thmp.

"Dumplings...for my dumpling."

You snapped, grabbing his usual cold brew from the fridge, and popping it onto his tray, smiling sweetly up at him.

"I'm lucky to have such a cute guy choosing lunch with me."

A blush burned over Toshinori's cheeks like you had slapped it on him. You felt a roar of success as, when you were called forwards, you saw Toshinori fumble his tray with enormous hands, his coffee splatting to the floor to his stuttered apologies. You left with a flick of the skirt and a smirk on your lips.

Between lessons, in the stream of shouting students, you felt yourself scooped in one great palm and effortlessly shepherded aside, hearing Toshinori's gravelly tones announce your departure; "My dear, could I borrow a moment of your time to discuss a lesson plan?"

You loaded a bullet as Toshinori pulled you round the corner, sniping him before he could take his shot.

"Darling, I must say--"

"What's such a handsome bear needing with me, in a narrow little corridor?"

Toshinori gasped, a single broad palm pressed to his chest, staggered by the force of his b-dmp. His blush rose from the collar up. He reached one trembling hand out to you as you walked away, leaving him stunned in your wake.

As the day wound to a close, you entered the staffroom, to find Toshinori and Aizawa stood, talking at the window. Toshinori grinned, faltering just so as you approached him with a honeydew smile.

You looped your hand through the crook of his elbow as if you were in black and white, pecked his cheek in a chaste little kiss, and fired off the killshot.

"I've missed you," you chirped, "Hubby."

A strangled choke left Toshinori's throat, and he almost buckled, gripping the window frame hard enough to make it crack with another hand clutching his heart.

Aizawa shot you a look of despair as you walked away, looking between you and Toshinori, who had yet to regain his usual colour. Aizawa called after you as you left, sniggering.

"You can't just do that to him. Hey! Come back! You can't do that to an old man--"

"Aizawa-kun, please--"

You called back over your shoulder. "He had it coming, Shouta. Turns out he can dish it out, but he can't take it!"

[arcanecovcn]

"Brandon Fleehan." Even if his handshake was firm, almost curt, the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips served as proof to let Michael know it was merely a front. First impressions were important, his father had once told Brandon, and a firm handshake was as good an introduction as any. "The city can be a bit imposing at first but you'll get the hang of it. I could also play tourist guide if you'd rather explore these parts with a seasoned local." After letting go of Michael's hand, Brandon ran his fingers through his already messy hair. "Yes, please. Just- not too hot, I get scalded easily."

OPEN STARTER: ( click here for more details )

"I am Michael Schäfer. I'm... new to this area. I don't believe we've been introduced." Even in another universe, his newly chosen names had meaning, a deliberate and constant reminder of where he'd come from and the life he was trying to attain. All he had to do was play the part, be anyone but Magneto -- - it was easier said than done. "Hm... can I offer you a cup of tea?"

[ghost-in-the-hall]

Slipknot x Musician! Reader (FLUFF)

Hi hello! These drabbles are a request I got a while ago, sorry it took so long for me to get around to them! Thank you so much for reading and for being here! Please feel free to comment or send me and ask, I love getting to chat with you guys! If you'd like to be added to my tag list please let me know!

WARNINGS: None, the sweetest of fluff

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link! ~ Tip Jar!

Corey:

“I'd like to invite a special guest to the stage if that's alright.” You smirk as you glance in Corey’s direction. He was already laughing, shaking his head as he waited to see just what you had in store for him. The crowd's cheers thundered through the venue, wondering just who you would be bringing out to perform with you tonight. You stand at the edge of the stage, taking Corey’s hand in your own, keeping him just out of sight. The crowd falls silent as you bring the microphone to your lips, waiting in excited anticipation. “Have you met my boyfriend before?” You can't help but laugh as the room explodes with cheers. You tug him after you, presenting him to the crowd. “Think it would be alright if he sang a song with me?” You ask playfully, Corey laughs and squeezes your hand at the crowds over the top response. You motion to your band, who starts to queue up the next song, one of your stage techs jogging out to the middle of the stage to give Corey a mic. 

“You look incredible out here tonight, baby.” He whispers in your ear, hand pawing at your waist as he pulls you closer. You can't help but laugh as Corey tips you backwards, pressing his lips to yours in a passionate kiss.

Sid:

Today was one of the days on tour where you just didn't stop moving. You had to run to an interview first thing in the morning, get through sound check for your show tonight, and had to get ready to do a meet and greet all well before noon. You thanked the girl that was currently in front of her, giving her one last hug goodbye before she left the signing table. You're in the process of sitting back down when the next person approaches. You greet them happily, freezing when you notice what they had placed on the table to be signed. It was a framed picture of you and your boyfriend that you just happened to remember seeing on your entryway table before heading out a couple weeks ago. “Come here often?” You can't stop the laughter that bubbles up in your throat in response to his question, a smile instantly spreading across your face when your eyes meet Sid’s.

You rush around the signing table, letting him crush you in a tight hug. “What are you doing here?” You ask, giggling as he peppers your face with kisses.

“I'm your biggest fan, do you really expect me to miss a meet and greet?” He teases with a wink.

Chris:

Chris loved watching you perform, but it was no secret that he got a bit jealous about all the guys trying to catch your attention from the crowd. You were a phenomenal performer: you had an absolutely intoxicating stage presence, the voice of an angel, not to mention you were just so incredibly sexy. Chris didn't blame them for being in love with you, but he didn't like there being any confusion about what belonged to him. Half way through the show, after hearing one of the guys in the front row shout your name one too many times, Chris has decided he has had enough. He walks out onto stage, waving to the cheering crowd. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He waits for you to finish your verse before crushing his lips against yours. You can't help but giggle as you feel his hand wander to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze. You playfully swat his chest, laughing as he steals a few more kisses before jogging off stage, leaving you a flustered mess in the middle of your performance.

Jim:

You ran off stage, exchanging hugs and high fives with your hand and the rest of your crew. “Amazing job tonight everyone, thank you so much.”

You stop when someone calls your name, “there's someone here who wants to meet you!” You hurry over to him, expecting someone's sister or friend. You weren't expecting the hulking mass of man that looked a little too familiar to you. He can't stop his eyes from flickering over your small form as you approach, making your cheeks grow warm. He sticks out his hand for you to shake once you're close enough, a gesture you kindly accept. Your eyes meet his, and that's when it hits you.

“Oh hey, Jim!” He chuckles as you finally recognize him. You had met Slipknot’s guitarist a few times in passing, but this was the first time you had ever seen him in person without his mask. The two of you would always end up passing flirty remarks and glances by the end of the night. He seemed almost impressed that you remembered him. The tech that called you over politely excuses himself. “I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to see you here. I didn't think I would make it very high on your list of shows to attend.” You joke, making him chuckle in response.

“What can I say? Every video I've seen of you perform you are absolutely intoxicating to watch,” your cheeks grow warm at his flirtatious tone, “and it's pretty safe to say you're even more stunning in person.” He smirks slightly, not missing your flustered expression. “I was hoping maybe you'd like to join me for dinner?”

Mick:

You had a couple weeks left until you were able to return home from tour. It was getting to the point where you wanted nothing more than to be able to fling yourself into your husband's arms, being away from home was always just a little bit harder when he wasn't there. But, if there's one thing Mick loves, it's a surprise. 

You were taking a quick sip of your water when the room erupted into applause, making you jump and drop the bottle in the process. You turn to see just what all the commotion was about, freezing when your eyes land on the familiar masked man at the opposite side of the stage. You scream his name, tripping over yourself, your shoes slipping across the stage as you bolt for him. You threw yourself at him, his strong arms ready to pull you into his waiting embrace. You hide your face against him, trying your best to keep your emotions in check. He carefully cards his fingers through your hair, pressing a kiss to your head through his mask. “I missed you too.” He says in your ear, successfully opening the floodgates. “Come on love, we got a show to finish.” He chuckles.

Joey:

“That’s my fucking wife!” The crowd erupts into cheers and applause as Joey screams from his place right in front of the stage. You can't help but laugh, dropping the mic away as you playfully roll your eyes. You smirk slightly as your eyes land on him. Joey was by far your number one fan, always front row at every one of your shows he was able to attend. You motion to him, strutting your way over to where he was.

“My husband, ladies and gentlemen.” You laugh again as the venue once again erupts. You hold up your hand, effortlessly silencing the crowd. “Mr. Jordison, would you like to join me for a song or two?” Every time you invited him up on stage he always got the brightest smile, one that makes your heart flutter, unable to stop a matching grin of your own from spreading across your features. He vaults over the barrier, pulling him up onto stage with ease. You scream as he tosses you over his shoulder, carrying you with him as he makes his way to the drum set. He settles onto the stool, dropping you in his lap. You grab his face, pulling him into a passionate kiss that has the crowd roaring. He smiles against your lips, lucky to have someone as perfect as you.

Paul:

“Sing for me? Please?” Paul asks you sweetly.

“You want me to sing for you?” You ask with a soft smile. “Why?”

“Because I never get tired of hearing your voice.” You can't help but laugh slightly in response, pulling him in for a tender kiss.

“Okay, but you have to sing with me.” He hums softly in agreement, his lips brushing over yours as he steals a few more gentle kisses. You loved when Paul sang with you. No matter how much he would try to convince you he has a terrible voice or how ‘screaming into a mic all the time' fried any vocal talent he could have had. But, you adored the subtle rasp in his voice as he harmonized with you, the way he would chuckle and bashfully look away whenever your eyes met his. No matter how embarrassed he might have felt, Paul would do anything to hear his little song bird sing.

[that-angry-noldo]

destiel || m || 2.5k || ao3

Being a demon comes with music.

Oh, it's music alright. His drums are blood pumping unrestrained, its rhythm unchanged in fight and fuck and sleep alike: boom, boom, boom, a rush to his head, full of oxygen and adrenaline and endorphins. Boom, a blow coming down, boom, his teeth sinking into some hooker's shoulder, boom, cold beer washing down his throat. His body is a symphony in itself, and he has never been more aware of it; it sings and it bends and it is tuned to his command to an extent that is dizzying, terrifying. His laughter: he laughs a lot, when it's appropriate and not, and it is deep, it is melodic. His smile bears a thousand shades, sharp and cruel and pristine. The ground recoils from him, an abomination walking. The earth reaches for him, with its lies about eternal rest. The Mark chants and weaves it all together, into harmony that Dean is, into fire all condensed beneath his skin. The Blade sings in his hand.

To think anyone would want to contain this. Would think this could be contained.

The thing is, Dean gets it, the years behind him all in perspective now. He gets it. The human blood and human organs and human fat and human meat and all the monsters scrambling for it. If this is what being inhuman feels like? Fuck him, Dean should have signed up long ago.

He laughs, licking the blood off his Blade. Some poor schmuck's lying at his feet, and Dean does not resist; crouches, smears his fingers through the dead guy's blood, brings it to his lips. Grins. Dammit, he gets Sammy now, too. He doesn't get the rush, not like Sammy did, but oh, if this is what it felt like, to have demon blood sing inside you? He should've fed Ruby to Sam himself.

The skies crack with thunder. Dean can't help it; if Sam's tracking the omens, let him come, if he so wishes, let him try. The truth is, being human? Not Dean's thing anymore. He looks back in time and he snares at the Dean staring from behind the mirror, sadness and guilt and pain behind his eyes, and he laughs, and says oh no, fuck you, well and truly, and he lets the skies burst with power contained beneath his skin.

Not just him. A dozen or so of them, black-eyed bastards and bitches cackling and burning in clouds of smoke, spinning in Hell's terrible dance. Crowley can attempt a bureaucracy if he wants so, can look at fire and bloodlust and thirst and anger and put it to numbers, make it into forms and offices and queues—but Hell is wild. It is uncontained. It is free.

So Dean lets himself loose. Gets drunk on beer and whiskey and music, always music, and spins in dance, and his heart drums—boom, boom, boom, and his blood sings and his body is wild, wild, wild. Untamed and uncontained.

He died, and opened his eyes, and was free ever since. And free he will remain.

~

The things that call him brother and sink their claws into him and spin him know this music better, know this music to its very core. They tug him and chase him and laugh in his ear and he gets drunk on their blood and they get a load of his, and they dance and cackle through the fields of this land, through its churches and highways and crossroads, and if some poor bastard finds himself in their way, they spin him, too. They sink their claws deep into his shoulders and yank and tug and laugh, and Dean did not hear it before but he does now—can you feel the pull of Hell? Can you hear its drums and bells and citadels?—and the bastard before them looks and says instead, can't you hear the lay of the land? Can't you feel the pull of the ground, swallowing you, promising you peace?—and they screech and scream, for no mortal hears the pull of the songs, no human gets to drink of their magic.

Dean lurks behind the things that call him brother, quiet in their chaos, only rain remaining. Rain, and boom, boom, boom of his heart, blood, blood, blood of his Mark, bleed, bleed, bleed of his Blade. The poor bastard does not move, unphased by the demons around him. His hair sticks to his forehead beneath the streaks of rain, and the things that call themself his brothers screech about murder in his eyes, steel in his sleeve, blood on his hands, strength in his gaze. It is quiet now, and Dean knows he knows these eyes, and knows they know him. His hand itches for his Blade.

The thing that is not a man looks at the odds before him with a resigned sort of calm; the thing that is not an angel looks at nothing but Dean, and oh, Dean thinks, how wild you once were, how untamed, your gaze a lightning condensed, your voice enough to make me weak in my knees. Oh, look at you now.

Aloud, he laughs, and the sky laughs with him, and the things that are not his brothers cackle. The thing that is neither man nor an angel does not resist their grip; does not resist their pull. The things that pretend to be his brother grin and drag him before Dean; the things that bare their teeth and flash him a smile want to make the bastard kneel.

The things that fear him screech at the flash of the blade. The things that hate him gather into shadows, linger out of reach.

The Blade sings in his hand, and Castiel hums with it.

"You're changed," the thing that is Castiel says, and Dean laughs. Do you hear the power, the fire, the song?

"Didn't think it would be you to find me first," he yells through the rain. "Figured it would be Sammy, you know? Not that I'm complaining, Cas. Damn, it's good to see you."

It's good to see you, he says, and thinks of blood on his tongue, and thinks of heat coiling under his Mark, and thinks to sink his Blade into Cas's gut and eat his heart out; thinks of licking his fingers clean while the light goes out of Cas's eyes.

Cas looks tired. There are bags under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, and he sways with his entire body. Dean knows the emotion behind his eyes, decides envy looks good on him. He's still drinking Dean in. Does he see how much he's changed? Does he see the smoke coming out of his mouth, the fire licking at his skin?

"Gee, man," he says. "Eat me up, why won't you." He arches his eyebrows. "Like what you see?"

He sees the hesitation, a flash second of it, before something of the old light returns to Castiel's eyes; before he squares his shoulders, tilts his head, squints, just a bit. "Very," he says. "Hello, Dean."

Despite the bravado, Cas is afraid. Must be afraid, when Dean flexes the blade, when the shadows howl at the flick of his wrist.

Despite the fear, Castiel's grip on his own blade does not falter. But there is resignation in his eyes, some sort of fucked up peace. Dean's seen Cas face all manner of demon before—fuck it, the guy's lay siege to Hell—and of course, in Purgatory he all but ripped things apart with his bare hands; Dean knows his style, is the point, and whatever this is? This looks like Cas resigned. Cas given up.

Dean tilts his head, not moving. Cas does not run, does not plead. Dean cannot deny his disappointment; he expected a bit more of stop, baby, that's not you or please, Dean, I know you're still in there and so far there is none of it.

"Mm," Dean says, and tilts his head back. "Can't say the same about you, sweetheart."

Cas shrugs. Dean expects his expression to harden, but it does not. The Blade murmurs in his hand. Where's your grace, man? Dean wants to ask, and doesn't. Where's your power, where's your song?

He looks to the sky, to the rain pouring down. "Come on, call Sammy. That's why you're here, isn't it? To bring poor, lost, wayward Dean home." He's goading, trying to pull Cas out of his goddamn equilibrium. He itches for a fight. "Isn't that right, Cas?"

Cas sighs. "I follow none of Sam's delusions regarding you," he says. "He will know you were here sooner or later. Calling him now will be proven useless and redundant." Dean nods. Castiel holds his gaze. "I assume it is pointless to ask if you want to return."

"Damn right," Dean grins. "I like the deal I've going on. Being like this, Cas? It's liberating." He laughs again, euphoria of someone knowing, someone understanding what it feels like getting the best of him again. "Is this what you hear all the time, man? Heaven split open and ground beneath your feet?"

"I used to hear it sometimes," Castiel says. "Though my song is ringing of heaven and murmur of billion souls and chatter of million angels and radiance of myriad stars." He taps his head. "It's quiet now, most of the time. Not enough... ah. Not enough juice left."

Jesus, complete with the air quotes. Dean wants to laugh, so he does. Dean wants to sink into him, tear into his meat, eat it raw and gorge on it, so he snaps forward, curls around his angel, hold his Blade so close to his throat he can feel it screaming in his hands.

Cas tenses.

Dean waits, plays with the Blade. His Mark drums steadily as he flicks it up and down, up and down, teasing, deadly. Cas' head is on Dean's shoulder, and it would be so easy to turn this into something else.

Dean's not an idiot. Dean knows what he wants, with clarity he lacked before. Unlike the Dean-behind-the-mirrors, he's not a coward; he's got no need to hide his desire behind the madness of Purgatory or the shoulder-clasping or the pathetic I need you.

"What do you want then, Cas?" he murmurs, and hears Castiel exhale. Feels Castiel's hand slacken on his blade. Feels Castiel relax in his hold.

"Make a deal with me," Castiel says.

It's said easily, like enough thought was put into it, like Dean isn't holding Cas at knifepoint, breathing down his neck.

Dean arches his brow.

"A deal?" he asks. "You're an angel, sweetheart. There's no soul to sell."

"Not that kind of a deal, then," Castiel says.

"What's in it for me?"

"I die."

Dean's hand freezes, for just a second, before resuming the up and down, up and down. "What's in it for you?"

"You're the one to kill me."

Dean barks a laugh. "Really, Cas? Out of everything you can ask of me? It's a demon deal. I can give you the world, man."

"I'm dying, Dean," Cas sighs, irritable. "My grace is rotting within me, and when it burns out, I will, too. I'll die in some ditch of a motel, slowly, or your brethren in the shadows will tear into me as soon as you let go. I'm not asking for it to be clean, Dean. Draw it out, if that's what you do now, carve into me if you so want, but let it be you."

Dean thinks. He is thinking as he breathes in the smell of Cas's skin, sweat and rain and motel soap. Thinking as his hand digs into Cas's hip, as his lips ghost just over Cas's ear. Why couldn't he ask for a fuck? What's stopping Dean from taking it anyway?

"That sounds a lot like mercy to me, Cas," Dean finally murmurs into his ear. "And I'm not a merciful guy anymore."

Cas growls, but does not fight to free himself. Instead his hand clasps Dean's wrist, and the Mark explodes, screams, burns as he holds Dean'd hand steady, the Blade surprisingly cold and quiet as if it can scent the promise of a kill.

"Dean," Cas says. "Please."

And it's fucked up, isn't it? And Dean is angry, so fucking angry. The song is not a Song anymore, it's a cacophony of screams and cries. He gets lost for a month, he wants not to be found, and Cas finds him either way, and puts the blade in his hand. Who is he to demand that of Dean? Dean-in-the-mirror be damned, but Dean still remembers the fucking trenchcoat, stenching of river mud and rotten water, still remembers the shellshock of Purgatory. What is it, some fucked-up penance shit again? The easy way out, while all Dean gets is to be this, until the end of his days?

He fists his hand into Cas's hair and yanks it back. "See, Cas, you made your first mistake," he says, voice even, even with his lips so close to Cas's chin. He remembers he needs no permission, and drags his lips down the side of Cas's face before biting his eartip, before pressing the Blade to Cas's skin. "Next time, lie about what you want." His voice drops. "You do not get to leave. You do not get to have your R.I.P. while I'm left walking the earth. And you know what?" He grins again, meets Cas' eyes. "Walk the earth we will."

He sinks his Blade into Cas's throat.

Not deep. Enough to make Cas gasp, his lungs spasm. Enough to seek that string of gleaming something, to grin when he sees it pouring out.

He looks Cas in his wide, blue, startled eyes as the grace unwinds itself, tears from Cas's body and mind and soul, blinds the night around them. Opens his mouth, and watches Cas watch it flow right between his lips, Cas's choked, terrified gasp the only sound. It burns inside him, recoils at his essence, brands into his bones and he's still grinning, still watching Cas watch him burn. The Mark does not care whether it's demon blood or angel grace: Dean is far beyond both. Dean can swallow stars and walk away unscathed.

Dean leaves just enough of it for the cut to heal. Cas is struggling in his hold, choking on air. Dean does not let go just yet.

"Seek death by someone else's hand, sweetheart," he murmurs over Cas's lips. "This shop's closed for the day."

"Dean," Cas chokes. Begs. Please, remains unsaid, and what does he plead for? Dean's touch, Dean's blade, Dean's mercy? Something else entirely?

Dean steps back. The Mark hums on his arm, and the Blade chants in his hand. Not today, Dean thinks. Not today.

It rains like hell, and Dean can hear his Song calling, the shadows murmuring.

He doesn't join the dance again.

[arcanecovcn]

@demonicescort continued from this starter.

So, based on Patrick's reaction, he looked worse than he initially thought. And okay, maybe he was playing it down in his mind so the adrenaline he felt wasn't replaced by panic or another emotion that would make him crash and burn into a tired, bloody mess... but it seemed like he'd gone too far with pretending he was okay. And if not okay, at least somewhat decent.

"Please don't yell," he begged, slumping a little further into the chair -that he ruined- and pressing a bloody hand to the most worrisome wound -that didn't stop bleeding. "I'm sorry for being such an imposition."

He did feel bad. Stumbling through his friend's window at an ungodly hour of the night was violating at least three state laws and the code of friendship he ruled himself by. 'Do not get your friends involved in your supernatural/vigilante-y activities' had been the number one rule... and now it was broken.

"I got trapped inside a warehouse packed with a stupidly large amount of guns. They all had guns, some of them had knives..." his words came out interrupted by heaving gasps. Even though he wasn't dying -technically-, everything hurt on at least six different levels, so even speaking -or breathing- was kind of a chore. "I made it out, but barely. Do you have-- hypoallergenic mycropore tape? That'll come in handy to help tape the wounds together--"

Had he done this before? Maybe. Had it been this bad? Not remotely. Did he have the scars to prove it? Yes, of course, he did, engraved in the skin of his thighs in the same manner Patrick's naked body was now engraved in his mind for the rest of eternity. Not a bad sight, not a bad sight at all...

"And- hydrogen peroxide can help clean the wound--"

[arcanecovcn]

One skill he had yet to master in this vigilante business was- to stop himself from being caught when sneaking. He was a little too clumsy to be sneaky, hence why he had a gauntlet aimed at his face. "Whoa, dude! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Bran- Tempest. I go by Tempest and I would appreciate it if you put that thing away before it blows me to pieces." Slowly, Brandon took a step back and raised his hands in the universal 'I give up' sign. "I mean you no harm, promise!"

“And who are you supposed to be?” One of his hands is extended forward, the gauntlet of his armor ready to be used if necessary. Though Logan doesn’t actually plan to fire at the other person—not even as a warning—he keeps it ready, just in case. After all, he hadn’t expected a confrontation while heading home after a small mission, but here he was. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you around.”

@stormbringcr // liked for a starter !

[asilentguardian]

Rituals

also on ao3

Gotham isn’t quiet when it rains.

Most cities slow down, become near empty, when rain is pouring from the sky. But Gotham continues, despite the rain mixing with the rot of the city and bathing the streets in the smell of mildew and seafood. Despite the streets that always flood, roads built on old rivers and inlets. People have jobs to do, families to protect. It becomes easier to hide, to exchange money and drugs and guns in the cover of rain clouds and the water rushing towards the sewers. 

Gotham isn’t quiet, so neither are the Bats.

They’re built for this. All of them live and breathe with the city, they’ve grown up here and the city has grown around them. Rain doesn’t deter them, and waterproof and insulated armor shields them against the rest of it.

The feeling of raindrops pelting his cowl keeps Bruce grounded as he stands over the city. The others–just Damian and Cass tonight–are already steadily making their way home, swinging across rooftops and dipping down to the streets when they spot someone in need. But Bruce stays here, standing and watching as the night creeps into dawn and the night shifts give way to the morning shifts. It’s become a ritual, of sorts.

Down on the streets, the city becomes a jagged, haphazard array of the various shades of horrible things people are capable of. Every block can feel like a new, solitary ecosystem of politics and gangs and survival. But up here, on a tall roof in the outer edges of Gotham, the city becomes the living, breathing thing that Bruce knows it to be. Sometimes, if he’s still enough, Bruce swears he can feel the pulse of it. He can feel the cars speeding down Murphy Avenue, he can feel the quick steps of morning runners in the Diamond District, the shuffling through Park Row, the fear, the anger, the sadness, the hope.

He tries not to examine this too closely.

The rain drowns out any hope of feeling it tonight, anyways. Street lights in the distance begin to flicker off, and Bruce takes that as his queue to follow his kids home. He slides down the ladder on the side of the building, down the stairs, and off the shortest ledge into the alley where he left his bike. The rain has begun to let up, but he still fits his goggles over his eyes.

The ride back to the manor is always quiet at this hour, no one braving the empty roads before the sun peeks over the horizon. Bruce doesn’t pass Damian or Cass on the way there, quiet check-ins on the comms telling him they’re already home, probably eagerly peeling off their armor and racing towards Alfred’s hot chocolate. On nights like tonight, where the rain is constant and cold, even Bruce doesn’t bother with proper reports or storing his gear. Sweating in the cold rain of Gotham is a different kind of hell, and a warm bed is all that’s on all of their minds.

Bruce rumbles into a predictably empty cave, quickly parking his bike next to Cass’ and shutting it off. He pushes back his cowl and sits for a moment. This, too, is a ritual. The cave is never really quiet. The hum of computers and machines, the roar of a waterfall, the chittering of bats. The background noise never changes. It’s too far underground for the sound of rain or thunder or footsteps to reach. There could be a full house upstairs, and you’d never know. 

There’s no one around to hear the way Bruce grunts as he pushes himself off the bike. His bones creak, his muscles protest, and his back reminds him just how cold it was tonight. He’s getting old. Here, where there’s a myriad of evidence of his children, the thought doesn’t scare him as much as it used to.

His bed is just a few hundred feet away, but he’s still careful to put his armor in a vaguely neat pile, still starts uploading the night's footage before he makes his way to the elevator. Bruce pushes the grandfather clock aside to an empty, but warm, sitting room. The warmth of the house slowly begins to chase away the chill in his body, and Bruce gently replaces the clock and heads to his first stop of this third ritual; the kitchen.

The light is brighter in here, but still warm and easy on eyes that have spent hours in the shadows. Cass and Damian sit at the counter, their mugs in front of them. Damian is half asleep against Cass’s shoulder, and, despite the concern Bruce feels, there’s a burst of pride that makes its way through his chest. Damian has had a rough time adjusting, but he’s come so far with all of them. 

Cass’ eyes snap to Bruce as he enters, still alert and fully awake. Bruce knows that she usually doesn’t sleep after she patrols, that she can’t, most times. He used to worry about it, but she insists that the time to herself is helpful, that she uses it to recharge. He tries to trust her on that.

Bruce nods towards Damian. Is he okay?

Cass gives him a sheepish smile and nods.

“Raced to the bike,” she whispers. Bruce sighs. He has long since given up the battle of preventing his children from making a competition or game out of patrol. It always exhausts them, always causes squabbles. But it keeps them young, keeps laughter ringing through the comms, and brings smiles to their faces. It was never a battle he would win.

He still snatches a sip from Cass’ mug in retaliation. She glares at him after he returns it, wrapping a protective arm around her mug and Damian’s. Bruce chuckles, ruffles her hair and lightly touches Damian’s shoulder before moving to the next stop. Damian lets out a vague mumble. Cass will deposit him in his bed eventually, after their own post-patrol rituals. Present and accounted for.

The stairs to the second floor have always creaked and groaned, even when Bruce was young. The only difference now is the loose third step, evidence of a young and energetic Dick Grayson and a Bruce who didn’t know how to handle all of that energy. He carefully skips that step, making a note to fix it, which he will forget to do as always. He makes his way down an equally old hallway, deftly avoiding the noisy floorboards. He has less stops to make than usual tonight, the manor a little emptier, a little quieter. Closer and closer to an empty nest, as Alfred would say. 

Dick’s room is empty, and so is Jason’s. He still places his hand on their door frames, marking his progress. Tim’s door is cracked, his lights off–thank god–and his sheets a chaotic mess around him. He never stops moving, even in his sleep. Cass’ door is open, light spilling into the hallway. Her closet door flung aside and the Black Bat uniform on the floor amongst various other clothes. Bruce rolls his eyes and collects the pieces, tucking them away from view. Its displacement will be reprimand enough. He can never properly scold her for feeling comfortable enough to do it, anyways. 

Duke’s door is firmly closed, and he’s a light sleeper, so Bruce settles with pressing his ear against the door, waiting until he hears Duke’s light snores before he moves on. He’ll lay eyes on him in the afternoon, he reminds himself. Damian’s door is open, too, revealing a much neater chaos than Cass’ room. There are piles everywhere, books and sketch pads and games all in places that only make sense to Damian. Titus lifts his massive head and wags his tail as he spots Bruce, but remains curled up on Damian’s bed. Bruce gives him a scratch behind his ears before moving on to his last stop.

He passes the door to his room—still firmly closed—towards Alfred’s door. It’s wide open, as it usually is. Alfred is sitting upright in his bed, book open in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. The sheets are still the same ones from Bruce’s childhood, though they’ve since faded. Bruce still remembers how it feels to be cocooned within them, to have them and Alfred be the last and strongest defenses against the rest of the world. Alfred looks up, still able to sense the barest bit of movement in a way that eludes Bruce, and quietly shuts his novel. They’re both silent for a moment, taking the other in.

“Go to bed, Bruce,” Alfred says, as he always does. 

“Only after you do,” Bruce always replies. It used to be a longer conversation, and before that it was a heated argument. It used to grate on his nerves, the way Alfred would sit and wait for him in those first few years. He took it as silent judgement, or worse, distrust. Bruce would demand he just go to bed, would snap at him in a way that made him feel 16 years old again. Alfred never budged. And then Bruce became a father, and he understood. Still, in the back of his mind, a distant worry. If Bruce is getting old, what does that make Alfred? Alfred would not approve of that line of thinking, so he’s never voiced it aloud.

Bruce’s father smiles at him and Bruce nods back, softly shutting the door behind himself as he leaves. He retraces his steps to his own door and stops in front of it. Breathes in, and breathes out, tries to shed the worry and anxiety of empty rooms. It gets easier every night. It gets harder every year.

Bruce pushes his door open and stops. Shifts a few things around in his head. Takes a moment to rearrange his routine.

Hal Jordan, ever present wrench in his plans, is asleep in his bed. Home early, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, and curled up on the side furthest from the door. He came in through the window, if the trail of clothes is anything to go off of. Bruce picks them up and tosses them in the hamper, trying not to be overly annoyed about it.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Hal, safe here in his bed, before he slips into the bathroom. His clothes are shed quickly, pointedly tossed into a hamper. The walls are thick enough that the shower shouldn’t wake Hal, but Bruce still moves through the motions with brutal efficiency, scrubbing away mud and sweat and the last of the cold Gotham air clinging to his body.

The steady pelting of the shower grounds him in a way that the cold rain doesn’t. Here, it’s soft and warm. If Bruce stays here long enough, he’ll feel a different pulse underneath his feet and in his chest. Steady breathing in and out, the pitter-patter of four-legged creatures, the settling of a centuries-old house. This, too, Bruce doesn’t examine too closely.

Bruce shuts the water off and dries himself with a towel, continuing to move through the familiar rhythm of his routine. He exits the bathroom and blindly grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, a lifetime of children at his door dissuading him from jumping straight under the sheets.

He carefully pulls on the pants, distantly registering the Ferris Air logo down the sides, before turning towards his bed. Hal is now facing him, brown eyes silently watching Bruce. Bruce doesn’t bother suppressing a soft smile as he makes his way over and crawls under the covers as Hal lifts them up. Bruce settles in, and Hal drops the covers.

“Hi,” Hal whispers. Bruce clings onto that single word, already picking it apart from every angle, trying to determine how Hal’s feeling, where his head is.

“Hi,” Bruce whispers back, still watching Hal’s face, still searching for any changes. Hal reaches out and rests his hand on Bruce’s face, his thumb tracing his brow, his cheekbone, his lips. Bruce catches his hand, presses a kiss to his palm, and intertwines their fingers.

“Okay?” Bruce asks. A single word, a compromise between silence and a veritable interrogation. Another product of well worn arguments. Hal’s answering smile is soft. Fond.

“Yeah. You?” Hal asks. An admission of the same fears. A lot can happen in just a few days.

“Yeah,” Bruce responds. Hal tugs on their joined hands, and Bruce shuffles closer, bodies slotting together. Their lips meet, and the last piece of Bruce shifts into place. His muscles relax, starting at every point of contact between him and Hal. Hal’s lips shift to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, and Bruce’s eyes drift shut.

“Sleep, baby,” Hal whispers into his hair. Bruce hums an acknowledgement and lets the warmth of Hal pull him under, lets the hand caressing his neck lull him towards sleep. 

-----

Awareness comes quicker than sleep, a habit Bruce doesn’t think he can ever get away from. It’s a trait that he foolishly hopes his children didn’t pick up. He knows better.

His mind is quick to catalog his surroundings. The bed beside him is empty, but warm, recently vacated. The light streaming through the window means it’s at least 11, six hours of sleep more than Bruce had expected. The rain has passed. The door is slightly ajar, and the laundry hamper is missing. Bruce huffs a laugh. Message received and heard.

Bruce lets himself be sluggish in his movements. He slides to the edge of the bed and checks his phone. No urgent notifications or alerts about the end of the world, so Bruce braves a glance at the perpetually-muted family group chat. A slew of incomprehensible jokes and minor arguments. A good morning dweebs from Dick, sent two hours ago. A middle finger emoji from Jason in response. Accounted for.

The most recent text is a picture from Tim of Alfred the Cat sitting on his laptop, captioned come get your spy dami. He taps out a quick reply.

Bruce: Good cat.

There's an onslaught of reactions and responses, and Bruce is quick to shut off his phone.

He finally gets up, finds a sweatshirt that he’s pretty sure is his, and exits his room. A glance at Alfred’s door, open and room empty as anticipated.

Damian’s room, empty of the boy and the dog. Duke’s room, also empty, but with a perfectly made bed. Cass’ room, empty with a closet door pointedly closed. Tim’s room, occupied.

Bruce pauses and taps on the door frame. Tim glances up from his desk, free of its feline occupant, who has made himself comfortable in Tim’s lap. Tim, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, his voice still gravely from sleep. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, turning back to whatever more interesting thing he’s working on. Bruce shakes his head. Teenagers.

Jason’s room, empty. Dick’s room, empty. The floor creaks. The third stair is loose. The kitchen lights are brighter, there’s soft voices in the dining room. Bruce follows the noise.

Hal sits with his back to the doorway, facing Cass. He has Cass’ full attention as he tells a–likely exaggerated–version of his recent stint in space. He’s always been a wonderful storyteller, complete with impressions and sound effects. Bruce makes a conscious effort to make his steps audible and deliberate, not wanting to interrupt the story and stop the wonderful sound of Hal’s voice.

He drops a kiss on top of Hal’s head, rolling his eyes at Cass as she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at them. Hal barely pauses the story, reaching up and squeezing Bruce’s hand.

Bruce sees the coffee on the far end of the table and gently flicks Cass’ forehead as he passes by. He lets the rhythm of Hal’s voice and Cass’ answering questions wash over him as he pours his coffee and takes his spot next to Hal, shifting so their knees rest against each other. 

“But you made it? Everything is okay?” Cass is asking, voice serious despite Hal’s smile.

“As always, Miss Wayne,” Hal responds in an exaggerated voice vaguely reminiscent of Alfred’s accent.

“Hm,” Bruce responds. Hal sighs dramatically.

“I can’t catch a break with this guy,” Hal says to Cass, gesturing to Bruce. Cass giggles, a noise that will never fail to warm Bruce’s chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce responds, desperately hiding a smile behind a sip of coffee.

“You did though. That was your I disagree with you noise. I should know, I hear it often,” Hal insists. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what other noises are you familiar with?” Bruce asks. Cass lets out a quiet ew, and Hal’s answering grin is wicked.

“This conversation is over now,” Duke says loudly as he enters from the kitchen, carrying a plate stacked with pancakes. Duke, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Maybe a little bit stiff, but otherwise moving normally. 

“Babies,” Hal says gleefully. Duke just flips him off and sits down to start eating. Bruce’s stomach rumbles loudly. Hal laughs softly and presses his knee a bit more firmly against Bruce’s.

“Go get food, Sleeping Beauty. Cass and I already got some,” Hal says, turning to look at Bruce.

“Damian?” Bruce asks. Hal doesn’t laugh, or poke fun at him, but his smile does turn slightly amused.

“Yeah, baby, he ate before us. Went to take Titus for a walk. Tim already ate, too,” Hal says. Bruce is a little startled at the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet, but nods jerkily anyways. He sets his coffee down and gives Duke another once over. Is he leaning more to his left? Hal nudges his knee harder, so Bruce gets up and heads for the kitchen.

“How’d the test go, Duke?” He hears Hal ask as he pushes through the door. He wasn’t aware Duke had a test, but his response seems positive so he lets it go.

Alfred is moving around the kitchen, cleaning and putting things away. A single, warm plate sits on the counter, pancakes made exactly like Bruce has always liked. Alfred glances over at him.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the finally is implied, “Eat your breakfast, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Bruce’s lips twitch.

“Only after you do,” he responds. Alfred nods in acknowledgement, smiling. He finishes the tidying, grabbing his own plate from the oven. Bruce grabs his plate, but doesn’t head for the door yet. Alfred raises an eyebrow at him.

“Duke?” Bruce asks.

“Pulled a muscle, is all. Now quit worrying and go sit,” Alfred commands, no room for the follow up questions burning to get out. Bruce nods, resigned, and heads back to the dining room. He holds the door for Alfred and watches as he carefully lowers himself into his seat. Alfred notices his watching and glares at him.

“Sit,” Alfred says. It’s Bruce’s turn to sigh dramatically as he returns to his spot beside Hal, who smirks at him but wisely keeps the comment to himself. Their knees brush together again, and Hal rests a hand against his leg. A steady, grounding presence.

Bruce looks at Hal again, notes his relaxed posture, the laugh lines next to his eyes. He’s okay. He’s here. Present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Bruce nods to himself, reaches for his food.

“Plans for the day?” He asks Hal.

“Not a thing,” Hal responds. Bruce smiles.

[sehtoast]

Tender Threads CH3 (Homelander x OC)

chapter three: initiation

chapter directory | slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

summary: time to make it official. speeches, crowds, and vought's guard dog watching his every move. better not mess up, bug boy.

Word was out by fault of a leak.  Before the official announcement by Vought, news outlets had plastered Spidey over every flat surface and digital medium possible.  It wasn’t the first time Ben had made international news, but it was the first time it was to a scale like this.  He’s been a hot subject since becoming one of the only ‘rogue’ supes to not choose outright crime, though vigilantism was still technically illegal.   But he had droves of public support and pretty much always has.

Spider-Man had been gasoline added to the fire in the debate of unlicensed heroes.  He wasn’t the first, but he was certainly one of the more popular ones– though Ben could never fathom why.  Within three years of first donning the mask, he found himself trending on social media on a nearly regular basis for reasons both good and bad.

Spidey Doesn’t Kill.  Spider-Man Saves Victims Before The Seven.

Debates on his morals or potential lack thereof.

He’s not getting paid for it, obviously he’s doing it because he’s a good guy. 

What if he’s just some sick freak that wants an excuse to beat up on people?  

It was… a lot.

But it’s never been anything like this.  At least the outrage of the handful of exceptionally vocal few was satisfying.  Especially that weird guy that runs The Bugle.

Ben was given a script for his formal introduction.  Vought was going all out.  A stage, cameras, a massive crowd…

It was fucking scary.

He’d met Stillwell a week prior.  Just do it the way Homelander does, she’d said to him.  As if it were that easy.  As if his entire life wasn’t just upended by both the world’s most powerful supe and conglomerate.

So here he stands, just a few blocks away from the stage in Central Park.  Waiting for his little queue.

He can hear her over the loudspeaker.  Insincerity and public posturing dripping from her voice like venom.

Ben hates these types.  He’s dealt with them a lot in his job– well, old job– and something about her was so… wrong.  The way she smiled at him when he lifted the pen from his contract, name forever etched, soul forever sold.  Maybe it was how soothing she tries to be.  Soft voice, gentle eyes, even though behind it all is just another soulless little–

“I am so thrilled to present to you,” she says, voice bouncing off buildings and into Benjamin’s ears.

His queue to jump, to dive low and arc high.

“The newest member of The Seven–”

Go, go, go!   Drag line– zip– push off the wall– dive, momentum, go for the spectacle!  Razzle dazzle ‘em, Ben! C’mon, Stillwell! Say it!  Say the fucking line!

“The Amazing Spider-Man!”

Just as the words fly off her tongue, Ben comes into full view of the crowd.  Cheers erupt like deafening thunder, seemingly drowning out the city.  He peers down as gravity corrects his display of performative agility, sending him on a dive toward the stage.

A zipline to the rafters is all he needs to stick the landing, a quick handstand to add that pizzazz that was demanded from him, and a web from which to dangle upside down as he waved like the good little performer he was.

It wasn’t without its own beauty.  Even upside down those signs were clear as day.

We Love You Spidey! 

You Saved Us!

NY ♥️s Spidey!

The cheers, the kids in shifty little homemade costumes, his signature hand gesture that releases his webbing being held high by thousands...

Even in the air, he couldn’t see the end of the crowd.

But there’s no time for his brain to blue-screen like this, especially not when Stillwell all but grabs him and directs him to the podium.

Oh fuck, public speaking.  Christ, Ben thinks to himself, okay, imagine them all in their underwear…

The roar of the crowd silences in mere seconds as they wait for him to speak.

Thank god for the mask.  And the podium… fuck, are my legs shaking?

“Hi, everyone.” Ben begins, clearing his throat awkwardly.  He had a lot to nail here.  Poise, confidence, and whatever else was gonna help make supes look competent enough to belong in that defense bill.  Yeah, Stillwell made sure he knew not to fuck up their future as Lockheed Martin’s biggest competitor.

One step out of line could be catastrophic.

“I just… I wanna start by thanking everyone, y’know?  Everyone here, out there, friends, family… the whole shebang.”  He starts, letting the thunderous applause run its course before moving on.  “But most importantly, I want to thank Vought for giving me this chance–”

Gag, gag, gag!  This is horrible!  Ben thinks to himself as he runs his script.  Part way through some babble about small beginnings, he notices a flash of red and white behind the proscenium wall of the stage.

Homelander’s here?

“I’m just so incredibly grateful to be standing here today, y’know?  I hope I make you folks proud.  Thank you,”  oh christ, here we go with the raw corporate vomit, “and god bless America!”

Blegh.

Ben takes the slightest step away from the podium, and it’s like a jet engine firing up right in the middle of the park.  Screams and cheers, applause and all sorts of noise making doohickeys.  Beside him, Stillwell ceases her own claps to gently guide him from the podium.  Then, the noise explodes.

Whatever fanfare was for Spidey becomes infinitely louder when those colors sway out from behind the wall.

“Oh, no!  Hey, you guys!”  Homelander shouts to the masses, his smile wide and happy as he makes his way to the microphone.  He claps a hand against Ben’s shoulder and pulls him back to the podium to stand with him.  “C’mon, let’s hear it for Spider-Man, eh?”

Homelander leans in as the deafening uproar picks back up.  “Bet’cha don’t get that as a vigilante, huh?”

Then, as the noise dies down, Homelander begins his own performance.

“I, for one, am incredibly glad to have this fella join our team. It’s unfortunate that Translucent was injured so badly by an unknown enemy during his last mission, and I swear to God that we’ll find whoever is responsible and bring them to justice!” Homelander pauses. “But, I know that Spidey here will bring his own incredible qualities to our team, and I very much look forward to working with him, and the rest of The Seven, to keep our country, and world, safe!”

Perfectly impassioned.  Voice strong, tone bold but somber for his incapacitated friend.  Humble and domineering, but worthy of adoration.

He’s one hell of a spectacle up close.

Homelander’s arm slings around Ben’s shoulders, indicating that he, too, should wave to the masses.  He was showing the world how friendly they are with one another despite the real deal behind the scenes.  Despite what he’d said and done to the bug.

Benjamin wasn’t going on a patrol tonight.  No, no… after today, all he wants to do is curl up and hibernate.  Maybe it was all of the dread and anxiety for his big reveal day that had weighed him down, but he felt so heavy.  There was no way he’d be able to resist a nap on a rooftop at this rate.

Besides, this was probably one of the last times he’d ever sleep a full night here.  Well, most of a full night, given his sixth sense’s tendency to rouse him at odd intervals.  

Vought was moving him in.  Sure he could keep the apartment, but what was the point?  All of his things were going to be transferred by Vought’s moving services, so all he really had to do was pack everything up even though he technically didn't actually have to– the moving team would handle everything.  Not that there was much he could have in a studio apartment, but…

He’d gotten as far as boxing up his clothes, but everything else was still as is.

Instead of doing more, though, he just grabs that same guitar whose strings Homelander nearly broke, lays back, and picks a melody until drowsiness turns to pure exhaustion.

Unaware of the eyes watching him through the walls.

The boy was… a curious thing.  Obligation had turned to fascination, fascination became fixation, and fixation became obsession a little too quickly for his liking.  But that didn’t stop Homelander from continuing with his observations.  

It never does.

He was almost grateful that killing the bug was off the table completely.  Had he done so in that alley, he wouldn’t be here now, being practically serenaded– well, all except for some singing that Benjamin has yet to unknowingly perform for him.  Everything he’d seen over the last few weeks had driven him insane.  

Why in the hell would such an extraordinary supe choose this?   The mundane, the boring, the simple.

The mud.

He could have been so much more so long ago!  And Vought?  Vought waited this long to pursue and sign him?  What a fucking joke!  Homelander would’ve taken him over Starlight in a second had they pitched him earlier.  He supposes, though, that it was because they had been taking formal auditions back then…

But what a specimen this Benjamin was turning out to be.  So bold, yet so timid.  So happy and sad all at once.  Human, yet impeccably super.  And so very fun to watch live his boring little life.  Homelander will almost miss watching the web-head scramble to make it to work on time, swinging around the city in his cheap dress shirt, spider suit stuffed in a backpack, and then doing that stupid job as a… oh, what was it..?  Some kind of tech bullshit, whatever it was.  

Suffice it to say, it’ll be magnificent with the bug living in the same building soon.  Easier to observe that way.

[mohavesun]

You see his parked car as you enter the back door of the Pizzeria. It was unlocked, which is something you weren’t quite expecting. Mike must not have locked it yet. With a quick glance at your watch, you think of his shift. It’s just a few minutes after midnight, when his shift starts. He must be running slightly late, or perhaps he simply forgot to lock the door. 
Either way, you pushed it open, the heaviness of the door creaking as you stepped inside. The hallways were lined with photos, posters, even drawings, and the smell? The smell was strange; It wasn’t exactly clean, but it was kind of a mixture of bleach and pizza layered with dust. He had gotten the job on a whim, in an old and decrepit pizza place. It certainly was weird, but Mike was desperate for a job.
You held a bouquet of roses and sunflowers in one hand, and a box of homemade heart-shaped brownies in the other. Hopefully he remembered it was your 3 month anniversary.

(anyone else’s josh hutcherson obsession come back with the fnaf movie or is that just me)

contents/warnings: 18+!! nsfw, porn with a crumb of plot, overstimulation if you squint. reader is afab, no pronouns used, no use of y/n.

You weren’t sure how you ended up with the flowers and brownies on the floor of the security office, and you certainly weren’t sure how you ended up pressed against Mike in the storage closet. 
You breathed slowly, steadying yourself. 
Mike stood behind you in uncomfortable silence, awkwardly trying to move, causing something in the closet to shift, making a slight clanging noise. 
“Mike!” You hissed between your teeth, urging him to stay still. 
You were pressed against the door, your rear against his groin. The closet was full of useless tools and other miscellaneous objects, so full that you could barely fit with the tall man behind you. 


Leaving the closet wasn’t an option. You could hear the distant footsteps of an animatronic not too far from the door. 
You held your breath, slightly shifting against him. 
He inhaled sharply. “Don’t—“ He groaned, “Please, stop moving.”
You whispered back, “If I stay pressed against this door, it’ll open, I have to!”
You felt something poking your thigh, followed by Mike trying to shift backwards once again, but only making a vacuum nearly tip over. He grabbed it, his other hand on your lower waist, attempting to steady the both of you.


“Michael!“ You whispered, stilling yourself as you heard footsteps growing closer. 
You could barely breathe. 
The footsteps were heavy and loud, thunder against the linoleum. 
Your attention switched back to the poking sensation on your inner thigh. Almost as if on queue, Mike let out a soft exhale, a sigh on the brink of a whimper. 


With a rising heat in your stomach, you realized what was happening. You became suddenly and acutely aware of Mike’s hot breath against your neck. The footsteps slowly faded, thankfully, because you decided to crane your neck to look at the man behind you. 
“What’s going on down there?“ You whisper teasingly. 
Mike’s jaw clenched, his hands tensing on your waist. “Shit.”
You slowly shifted your weight against him, pressing against the tent in his pants. 
He bit his lip, closing his eyes, stifling a slight moan. “You’re doing this now?”
“I really can’t think of a better time to do this,” you retorted, your hands drifting to his. 
He pressed a long kiss into the corner of your mouth—it was all he could reach in the complicated position. 


“Is that why you wore that skirt I like so much, then?” Mike breathed, pressing his nose against the crook of your neck. “Exposing yourself for me?”
You felt the rising sensation grow more intense, your legs shifting uncomfortably underneath you. You bit your lip as Michael’s hands found their way to your hips, slowly drifting lower onto your thighs, and hitching up your skirt. 


The stuffiness of the closet was almost unbearable. It was hot, the air was thick and heavy, almost as heavy as Mike’s breathing as he unbuckled his belt, letting it hang at his sides. He muttered under his breath. “We’re about to die anyways. Might as well come out and say it.”

You turned to look at him, only for his lips to crash onto your own. He muttered incomprehensible words between your lips, most of them curses. “God—Damn, you’re so…” He breathed heavily. “Fuck, fuck, I…”
You palmed the erection in his jeans, feeling it throb under your hands. 
Michael finally worked up the courage to say, “Fuck, I love you.”
You stopped, and your boyfriend stared at you in almost disbelief. “You… Wait, what?”
“I… Uh, sorry. It just came out, I…” Mike swallowed hard, moving his hands from your hips to buckle his belt again, figuring he just killed the mood.

“Michael,” You reached behind you, grabbing his hands and placing them on your thighs, “I love you.”

Mike’s breaths quickened, his mouth finding it’s way to the sweet spot on your neck. His left hand squeezed your thigh, the right one exploring your chest with a newfound velocity. 
He mumbled words into your neck, “Fuck, I love you, I’ll show you how much I… God, you’re so…”

His hips bucked against your ass, grinding against you with ferocity you hadn’t seen in him. Wetness gathered between your thighs, spreading to his jeans, the friction nearly driving both of you insane.

It all came to halting standstill when his watch began beeping. 
“It’s… It’s 6.” Mike huffed, his hands leaving your side and clicking his watch. “My shifts over.” 
He buckled his belt with shakey hands, and you groaned. “Fuck.” You fixed your hair before exiting the closet. 
Walking back to the office, where you stood a moment longer, you picked up the flowers. You turned, seeing Mike still eying you like prey. Hunger lingered in his gaze, his lips slightly parted as his eyes raked over your figure, before landing on your face.
“Fuck it.” Mike breathed, taking off his belt, lifting you up and setting you on the table. 
“Mikey—“ You yelped, silenced by his mouth on yours. His hands unbuttoned his pants, dropping them to just below his knees. His throbbing erection made your mouth water, the familiar heat in your core growing even hotter than before. 


Before you could even register what happened, he pushed your panties to the side and rubbed his tip against your slick, breathing almost feverishly. He buried his face into your neck, sucking and biting, murmuring some words into your skin. 
“Michael! Mike—“ You groaned, biting back your cries (and failing miserably). 


He suddenly pushed as deep as he could inside of you, pulling out and thrusting again at a harsh and deep pace. He was far more excited than you had ever seen him. 
Mike huffed into your neck, before slamming his face into yours. He moaned into your mouth, “I—Love you,” he groaned, slapping noises filling the office.

His pace grew sloppy, his hips stuttering against you and slapping against your inner thighs. It didn’t take long for you to reach your high, tightly clenching around him, causing him to choke on his words and gurgle some incomprehensible sentences. Your eyes screwed shut, letting out a shaky moan, you lost yourself in the pleasure rippling through your body, sweat covering every inch of your body.

Mike didn’t let up, still thrusting into you, chasing his own pleasure. “I—I love you. I love…” He interrupted his sentence with a moan, “Say my name. Please, tell me you love me,” He moaned again, his mouth sealing on your neck. 
“Fuck—Fuck, Michael, I love you. I love you more than anything in the goddamn world, Mike, please, come for me, I love you—“ 
He a stuttering groan, he finally let himself loose, spilling inside of you, hips still thrusting to milk every drop out of him.

He slowly dragged his dick out of you, giving you one last sloppy kiss. “Oh, my god…” He whimpered, weakly pulling his underwear and jeans back up. “That was…”
“Shit.” You breathed, wrapping your arms around him as your caught your breath. For a moment, he simply held you there, panting and trying to gain back a semblance of energy. Despite his scruff pricking against the side of your neck, you held him as well, taking in his sandalwood cologne and the smell of sex filling the air.