#i want to get the other prompts done first

[parfaitblogs]

over the moon ❀ s. reid x reader

in which a bout of insomnia prompts the usage of your arguably overworked baking equipment. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. cliché flour fight into kissing... sorry... no i'm not. use of pet names. make out sesh (obviously).  word count: 1.4k a/n: also known as spencer and reader take on the margotlia bucket list for margovember!!! happy birthday to my lover @pathologicalreid!!! who has very quickly become my other half on this silly little side of tumblr. a prophet told me there are snickerdoodle cookies and a smithsonian date with our names on it in our futures ♡

"Honey, please tell me the light on in the kitchen is you getting a glass of water."

Like a deer in headlights, you're frozen in your beelined pathway between the fridge and the countertop of Spencer's kitchen, the carton of eggs in your hands preventing any attempt of a lie to him.

"Uh..." Your eyes lock with his, and he's visibly deflating upon spotting the pantry's baking ingredients arranged in front of you. "I'm just getting water?"

"I didn't realise you put sticks of butter into your water," he counters, voice meticulously picking apart your lie in front of your face. "Does that taste good?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure," he nods his head, his feet carrying him over to you behind the counter. "What recipe have you chosen to victimise today?"

"Snickerdoodle cookies," you mumble, as his arms wrap around your waist, and his chin sits on your shoulder, eyes peering at your phone screen that had the cookie recipe open. 

"Any particular reason?" 

"I couldn't sleep," you explain. "Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah," he nods, and a beat passes where you mumble a quiet apology to him, before he's pulling away from you and picking up your phone. "Where do we start?"

It wasn't the first time you had baked instead of sleeping, and it certainly wasn't the first time Spencer had woken up to the sound of your hand mixer combining sugar and butter, or the oven timer dinging to accompany the smell of freshly baked muffins. In fact, he had become accustomed to not getting through an entire fortnight without at least one tray of baked goods taking up counter space. 

It was the first time he had offered to help you, though. He either accompanied you and watched you bake, or sat at his desk to get paperwork done (he said he should use the extra time spent conscious wisely). 

"You don't have to help," you're shaking your head, but he's already going to the sink to wash his hands. 

"You only slept for two hours before waking up to do this. I'd like to get you back to bed sooner rather than later," he answers, patting his hands dry. "I won't sleep until you do, anyways."

"Okay," you relent, staring at him almost stunned, before you return to the recipe you had up on your phone. "Um... could you combine the sugar and butter?"

Baking with Spencer Reid seemed to make everything a lot easier. Ignoring the obvious (the help an extra set of hands provided), his eidetic memory meant you could throw a step his way, and he'd know exactly what he was doing. Having asked him to add the eggs to his sugar and butter mix, he was already separating the yolk from the whites before you needed to say a thing.

"Have you ever stuck your hand into flour?" you ask him, and he lifts his head, eyebrows frowning together. 

"No. Why would I do that?"

"To know what it feels like," you say, dryly, though there isn't any malice behind it. "Have you never wanted to know what it feels like?"

"You can use context clues to figure out what it would feel like," he replies. "Correct?" 

"Spencer, you're entirely missing the point," you shake your head, and though he lifts his head from his sugar-butter-and-egg mixture to question you, he doesn't even remotely expect a large fistful of flour to explode across his chest. 

Then, you're laughing, and he's still battling with the initial shock of your flour attack for a few more seconds to laugh with you. But, when he does, he's almost mocking with it, and your face falls when he's putting his own hand into the container labelled flour, lifting it, and dragging his hand over your stomach. 

"Oh my God!" you say through a laugh, looking down at the smear of flour on your t-shirt. "Spencer!"

"Reap what you can sow," he retorts. 

So, you do.

You aren't too sure when the flour fighting gets more intimate. Somewhere between your fingers running it through his hair, and his hands landing on your ass, as he tugs you into him.

You're heaving, though the smile on your face is perfect, and he's certain he might be falling in love with you all over again. Cheeks stained in flour and all. 

"Hello," you sing, lifting your chin up to smile at him.

"Hi, sweet girl," he replies, ducking his head down to brush his lips against yours, and you pull a face at the faint taste of flour on them. 

Your finger lifts up to brush his lower lip, face growing concentrated as you brush the powder off it. "You've got a little... something..." 

"Do I?" he asks, condescendingly, and you're firmly nodding your head. 

"Yep. This is why I bake alone, Spencer Reid," you tut. 

His eyebrows raise. "I don't know if I want to even try to prove you wrong."

"I wouldn't recommend it."

"Duly noted. Anything you do recommend?"

You pause. "Kissing me might help in my journey of forgiving you for this mess."

If he's got any plan to defend himself, it crumbles beneath the words of your request, and his lips are stretching into a smile. 

"I'll do whatever I can."

His lips have a film on them from the brushed away flour, making them softer than they usually are, as he presses them against yours. Hands that were once resting almost teasingly on your ass lift to your hips, and your own drop to the countertop behind him as you lean into him.

As you usually feel in your slow moments like this with him, you feel your heart soar, your head tilting to the side as you accomodate his face being so close to your own. 

Arguably, his favourite thing about kissing you for longer than half a second, is the mewls and hums that leave your lips. Never too much to prompt anything more, but instead just enough to tell him just how much you enjoy kissing him. A feeling that is entirely mutual.

As soon as it starts, it's over. Which can't really be true, for you are panting when his head pulls away from yours,  and he's got that glassy look in his eyes that always makes your body warm. 

"We need to go shower," he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You want to decline, just to stay standing right there in the kitchen with him, the urge to keep kissing him almost overwhelming. But his fingers have lifted to brush against a patch of flour on your neck, and you're surrendering at the feeling. 

"Okay."

Thus, forty-five minutes and one unreasonably long shower later, you were standing back in the kitchen, a bowl with cinnamon and sugar in front of you. Spencer's t-shirt hanging off your body — after you had expertly coerced him into letting you wear it — and a fork in your hands as you whisk the two toppings together. 

He's sitting on a stool on the other side of the bench, stirring the dough together after you had complained it was too thick. He argued it was supposed to be. 

Heading over to Spencer once the cinnamon and sugar was combined in a bowl, you mumble, "Okay. 'm tired," your head buried into the crook of his neck. 

"Yeah, weaponising that flour probably exhausted some energy," he muses, letting go of the wooden spoon to wrap his arms around you. "We still need to bake these, though."

"Cookie dough is yummy too," you retort, hand reaching out to pinch a piece of the dough. 

"Cookie dough isn't safe for you to eat," he answers, catching your wrist before you can get ahold of any batter. Upon seeing your pout, combined with the tired look in your eyes, he relents, letting you pick up a small piece just to eat. "How about we put this in the fridge, and we bake them tomorrow?" 

"I like that plan."

"I thought you would."

Helping him with the clean up consisted of you putting the dough in the fridge and cinnamon sugar in the pantry, and him doing... everything else. He didn't seem to mind, though, and his hands found their place on your waist as he walked you back towards the bedroom. 

"C'mon, sleepy girl."

He laughs at your incoherent grumble towards the name calling, letting you drag him back into the bed adorned with wrinkled sheets. 

"Thanks for baking with me," you say, voice layered with your exhaustion as you're curling up next to him. 

"Thanks for attacking me with flour."

"And I'd do it again."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[majoringinsarcasm]

The way fanfiction has become “Content I can complain about when there’s not enough of what I want to personally see” rather than “this person is so passionate and unhinged about this setting or these characters or their own original characters that they spent days or weeks or months or years or many sleepless nights writing from their brains to make this story happen and then posted it for free in the hopes others would connect with them about it” is really strange and upsetting and annoying.

If you don’t have the energy to write that’s okay! Many writers don’t some days or they fall into writing slumps. But the fanfic you read and think highly of did not happen out of nowhere. Nobody writes anything perfectly the first time. It takes time and effort and practice to get better at any craft and fanfic is no exception

But to say using AI to write fanfic because “not everyone has the time or energy” says more about how you view it than anything else. Fanworks of any kind are labors of passion and love above all else even if your goal is to share it in the hopes of getting attention. You have to write it first. Effort DOES matter.

Also unless you’re commissioning someone fanfic IS FUCKING FREE SO CAPITALISM HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. Write shit badly on your own. Learn story structure. He’ll make a bullet point list of scenes you want and dialogue you’re thinking about. The idea that AI fanfic aka the thing you do when you LIKE SOMETHING ENOUGH YO PUT EFFORT INTO is totally fine is wild. Why would I spend time and energy reading something you couldn’t bother to put time and energy into making. You didn’t care enough to try and fail until you got better so why should I care enough to look at it.

Fandom is not capitalism. Fanworks are not content to passively consume and wait for others to make For You. It’s sharing with the community and hoping you connect with people. It’s WANTING to make something. It’s learning how to make something. Why are we staying away from that so easily

Why would you want a computer to do your hobby? Is it the instant gratification of having it right there ready for you? I wish a lot of the fics I write could just be done so I can enjoy reading them. But I soldier on anyway because the alternative is that I just don’t write fanfic anymore. I do it for fun and because I enjoy it even with the road bumps in the way. I would rather struggle to find my own voice rather than showcasing a voice that will never be mine no matter how many Good Prompts I give it

just saw a fanfic on ao3 have a dedication for chatgpt... that section is meant for your horny perverted mutual who proofread your work, you violated sacred law and you will be torn apart and laid bare btw

[ssentimentals]

what about… seungcheol, suggestive prompt number 40 😼😼

seungcheol and 40 sounds great hehe ;) thank you of course for requesting, hopefully you will like it! 💜

suggestive prompt: 'yell at me again and i'll give you reason to scream.'

'i am this close,' you pinch your fingers together leaving a tiny space in between, 'to start throwing stuff at you. don't tempt me, seungcheol.'

normal man would've huffed and walked away. normal man would've apologized and tried to stop the fight. normal man would've tried to calm you down. but seungcheol is not normal, so he only goads you on with that goddamn smirk on his face: 'i'd like to see you try with your shitty aim.'

shout that you let out is almost not human. you grab whatever you can reach first - remote from tv - and fling it at him with the force that you didn't even know you possessed; it flies past his head and slams on the wall behind him. seungcheol turns back to check and huffs: 'you can't even break stuff, babe.'

you groan loudly. seungcheol starts coming close and you rush to the sofa, grabbing pillows from it and throwing them at him without any coordination, somehow hoping that this influx of pillows will stop him for reaching out. it obviously doesn't, but what it does is amuse him to no end. seungcheol is grinning like a madman by the time he reaches you, pinning you to the sofa with his whole body. 'are you done?' he questions, arching both eyebrows. 'there are no pillows left.'

'get off me,' you press, knowing that trying to push him away will not work. seungcheol doesn't listen though, only presses his body closer to yours. it wouldn't be the first time for your fights to end up in something less about fighting and more about fucking, but this time you're way too angry. 'i said get off me!'

your scream surprises both of you. you have this pact, this unspoken agreement that you two don't scream at each other under no circumstances. this is not what any of you is willing to tolerate and you know it, that's why this scream leaves you shocked as well. seungcheol stares at you, unblinking and you instantly deflate, embarrassed at this outburst. it's okay for you to shout or groan loudly but never at him.

'yell at me again and i'll give you reason to scream.' he mutters, eyes full of intent. you gulp and he softens just a little, gently reminding you: 'we don't scream at each other, baby. remember?'

you nod. 'yeah, i do. get off me now.'

he easily complies this time, giving you his hand to help you stand up as well. you both stare at each other in silence, breathing heavily before seungcheol whispers: 'let's go to bed.' at your quirked eyebrow he adds: 'not for that. to talk. but it can be for that too, if you want.'

'god,' you moan, hitting him lightly. 'you're such an idiot. i hate you.'

seungcheol grins, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you towards the bedroom. he kisses your head and smiles at the way you lean on him, tired of the fight. 'i know. you tried to kill me with the remote, afterall.'

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

[unfortunate17]

Hi! "Are you sure everything is okay?" for the 5 sentence thingy? 💜 ive been thinking about the new fools in a fable chapter all day idk how i will ever recover

Tina!!!!! Thank you for the lovely prompt, here is…..a Wilmon!soulmate/soulmark something 😖 hope you’re somewhat satisfied haha.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?”

Wilhelm looks away, gnawing at the ragged flesh of lip. Despite Erik’s voice echoing faint and tinny over the phone, his tone is far too knowing for his liking. “Yeah,” he repeats, slamming his locker closed. “I’m fine.”

“Wille, you know I can’t help you if you never tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he insists, “I’m just really fucking tired.”

“Fine,” Erik sighs, sounding exasperated, “if that’s how you’re going to be, then - ”

“Then what?” Wilhelm snarls, “if I’m going to be like what, Erik?”

“If you’re going to be like this,” Erik snaps, sounding frustrated. “I just called to check up on you, Wille, you don’t need to jump down my fucking throat about it.”

“Yeah, well, what part of I’m fine do you not fucking understand?”

There’s a long moment of silence. Then, Erik scoffs. “Okay,” he huffs an annoyed laugh, “you can call me back when you’re done being a dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah,” Erik says coolly, “fuck you too, little brother.”

The line goes dead then, and Wilhelm has to fight against the urge to throw his phone across the hallway. Instead, he finds himself slamming a palm against the front of his locker, the metal rattling loud and sudden around him. The resulting, sharp pain makes him hiss, even if his body is still thrumming with tightly wound rage.

He blinks down at his hand for a long moment and the cheery, golden heart etched into the back of it stares back at him mockingly. What is supposed to be a promise of love and understanding has quickly turned into Wilhelm’s worst nightmare. There has to be some way to get rid of it. Wilhelm can’t spend the rest of his life looking down at it, imagining and wishing for what could have been.

The soft sound of a throat clearing behind him interrupts his spiraling, and Wilhelm spins around at once.

Sure enough, it’s Simon standing there. Because of course it is. Simon in all his beautiful, curly-haired glory, looking as though he’s been touched by the sun itself.

He’s clutching a set of notebooks to his chest, eyes wide and worried. Wilhelm can’t help the way his own gaze zeros in on the back of Simon’s hand, desperate for even a glimpse of the matching golden heart that resides there.

It’s easy to find today, peeking out from behind Simon’s deep purple sleeve.

“Hey,” Simon says. He sounds awkward, hesitant.

For a second, Wilhelm is seized with the hope that Simon has sought him out, that maybe, Simon actually wants to talk to him. He wipes his palms on the sides of his jeans. “Hi.”

They stare at each other for a moment, caught in a breathless dance of silence.

Then Simon tilts his head towards the lockers behind where Wilhelm is standing, gesturing to the books in his arms. “Sorry, could I - ?”

The hope rushes out of him so fast that Wilhelm feels woozy with the loss of it. “Yeah,” he slumps, moving over, “sorry, go ahead.”

He watches as Simon moves to his own locker, twisting the lock open with long, elegant fingers. As he slides the books in though, he hesitates, eyes flickering over to where Wilhelm is still standing there, staring. “Are you - okay?”

Wilhelm swallows, his voice coming out hoarse. “Fine.” He grits his teeth against the urge to do something pathetic. “You?”

Simon’s arm jerks as he closes his locker door, turning the lock once more. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

At that, Simon’s eyes narrow. The first sign of a fight. “Should I not be?”

“I don’t know,” Wilhelm scoffs, “you tell me.”

Simon makes an aborted movement, almost like he’s contemplating making a break for it. At his side, his hands turn to fists. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Wilhelm asks incredulously. “What the fuck is your problem?” There are distress flares going off at the back of his mind now, but Wille stamps them out as quickly as they light.

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean - I’m not - ” Wille gestures wildly between them, “I’m not the one who doesn’t want this. Us.”

Simon’s expression crumples. “Wille - ”

“No, like, it’s fine, it’s not that I - care that much. But - ” Wille laughs, the sound ringing hysterical in the empty corridor, “you’re supposed to be mine.”

Simon’s face floods with color. He looks outraged. “Don’t ever say anything like that to me again.” He turns his back to Wille, turns to the door, turns to leave him behind once more, and a panic so vicious claws its way up Wille’s chest that he can barely breathe.

“Wait,” he begs, reaching out to grip Simon’s warm shoulder. “Wait, Simon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Simon stills, uncertain eyes flickering back to him over his shoulder.

“What I mean to say is,” Wille struggles for air. He has to get this right. It might be his last chance. “I’m yours. We - we’re a match.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, it’s only to say, “So?”

“So - we - we’re supposed to be together,” Wilhelm hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s begging but he’s not sure if it’s really working.

“Says who?”

Wille swallows tightly, tracing the soft, delicate curve of Simon’s jaw with his eyes. “I don’t understand. Did I - did I do something wrong, Simon? Is that why you don’t - want me?”

Something jolts across Simon’s face then, a raw emotion that’s gone before Wilhelm can fully catalog. Suddenly, he scrambles towards the door. “I have to go,” he tries to duck out of Wille’s grasp. “The bus is going to - “

Wille catches his wrist, tugging until Simon turns to face him, his eyes wide and wet. “Just tell me why,” Wille begs, “I’ll leave you alone after this, I promise. Simon. I’ve had this mark since I was four. I’ve been looking for you for - for - ”

“And I’ve had this mark since last Wednesday,” Simon breaks, voice loud enough to make him wince.

Wille flinches, his insides going cold. “What do you mean by that?”

“Come on, Wille,” Simon rolls his eyes. He looks angry, brows pulled together unhappily. “Your friends shit on me all the time. Your cousin shits on me all the time. And you just stand there and laugh.”

“I don’t laugh!”

Simon looks at him in deep disbelief. “Uh - yeah you do. And it’s whatever. It’s not like I expect you to stand up for me or something. We barely know each other.”

“But we could get to know each other,” Wille shoots back hotly.

“For what?” Simon lets out a breath of bitter laughter. “It’s not like you would’ve looked twice at me if it weren’t for that fucking mark.”

Wilhelm feels his mouth part in shock. He does a double take of Simon, of the lovely silhouette of his slender shoulders, his soft looking curls, his smooth, unblemished skin, the button nose, the fire that lights his dark eyes, the steel that lines his spine. “That’s not true.”

But Simon only rolls his eyes. “Wake up, Wille, we literally have nothing in common. You’re not my fucking soulmate.”

Wilhelm bites back a sharp flare of hurt. He lets go of Simon’s wrist. “Okay. Fine,” he concedes, vision blurring with tears. “Maybe I’m not your soulmate. But you’re definitely mine.“

From his pocket, his phone buzzes twice. Wilhelm shoots Simon one last smile, drinking in his sweet, wide-eyes gaze before he turns, pulling the offending device out just to give his hands something to do. Perhaps he should call Erik back now, maybe even come clean about everything.

He waits for the telltale sound of receding footsteps, but they never come. Instead, there’s a quiet shuffling, followed by a blissful line of heat pressed along his back.

Simon buries his nose in crook of his neck, and Wilhelm almost jumps out of skin from how good it feels. The heart on his hand feels like it’s singing, warm and alive.

“Alright,” Simon whispers, looping an arm around his middle. The fear in his voice is palpable. “Let’s try then. If you’re so sure.”

Wille reaches down to thread their fingers together, hearts lining up as one. He shakes his head. “Not if you don’t want to, Simon.”

“Of course I do,” Simon’s voice is very quiet, “that’s what makes it so scary.”

Wilhelm squeezes his hand tighter, too afraid to breathe. “You can trust me.”

There’s a long moment of silence, weighted in its intensity. Against him, Simon’s frame shakes. “Okay.”

Wilhelm exhales deeply, nodding. He tries his best to ignore how it sounds like Simon is lying.

[coffeeghoulie]

“Wanna practice?/You’ll have to teach me” with Swiss/Aeon. Particularly Aeon being a bit more eager than Swiss realized for the kiss prompts

i giggled when i got this prompt because it's so damn cute. god they're so good.

prompts from this list

divider by @ghuleh-recs <3

Swiss listens to the junebugs sing, eyes fluttering shut as he bites down into a blackberry. The dock is sunwarm under him, his feet trailing through the much cooler water, pant legs rolled up so they don't get wet. All and all, one of his favorite ways to spend a summer day with no responsibilities.

But what makes it better than normal is Aeon tucked against his side, lilac fingertips stained darker with juice as they grab a few berries from the bowl in his lap. The two of them had wandered through the forest surrounding the Abbey for the last hour, gathering enough fruit for an afternoon snack. And when the sun had gotten too hot, sweat soaking through their shirts, they'd retreated to the lake hidden in the middle of the woods to feast on their bounty.

Aeon's foot splashes through the water a little louder than they intended, legs dangling off the dock. Their boots and socks rest together in a pile on the shore. "You were right," they mumble through a mouthful of fruit. "This is so good."

Swiss grins, turning to glance at them. Their lips are stained ruddy violet, and his probably aren't faring any better. He ruffles their hair, and Aeon leans a little further into him. "Told you so."

They huff, rolling their eyes as they glance up to him, swallowing with a gulp. Swiss chuffs, grinning even wider as their mismatched eyes drop from his gaze to his mouth. "Oh, buggy," he teases, arm slung around their shoulders. "I know what you want."

Aeon's tail pats against the dock with a nervous rhythm. A blush spills over their cheeks, the exact same color the berry juice has stained their fingers and lips. "You're so good at kissing, and I'm. I'm not so much. I want to learn. I wanna kiss, well, the others, but I don't know really what I'm doing," they ramble. "I mean, I wanna kiss you too, you were my first and you're really good and I want to be good."

Swiss arches an eyebrow. Remembers the hotel the night after they'd given him their first kiss. The way they'd curled up together in a queen bed and done nothing but kiss until they'd both fallen asleep. He remembers the way they'd begged him to do it in Los Angeles. Waited for them to be confident enough to initiate themself.

But he's in love with Aeon, hasn't been able to leave their side since the end of tour. He grins, kind and easy. "Well, I see one way to make sure that happens," he says, slowly, like he's pondering it. Aeon perks up. "You wanna practice?"

They grin, even as that berry colored blush spreads on their cheeks, making the scar running over their eye stand out. "I mean, yeah," they say, crooked fangs on full display with the size of their smile. "You'll have to teach me. You're very good."

Swiss puts a hand over his chest, his tail curling around their waist teasingly. "Oh, of course I'll teach you, buggy. Gimme a kiss so I can see where I can help you improve."

The next thing Swiss knows is his breath leaving his lungs as his back collides with the dock. Aeon's, lightning fast, straddled his lap and surged up to kiss him. The force of it, the surprise, had let them shove him back with momentum. He only just manages to set the bowl of blackberries onto the dock next to him before they're strewn out with the sheer force of Aeon launching themself at him.

Swiss's eyes go wide as their mouths collide. His hands curl in the back of their shirt, their own cupping the sides of his face. He groans as the shock leaves him. He kisses back, letting them lead.

For all their apprehension about their skill, Aeon's a surprisingly good kisser. They shift over him, settling a little more comfortably above his hips.

When they pull back to breath, white and violet eyes wide, Swiss laughs breathlessly. Their face falls, and Swiss slides his hand up their spine to tangle in their dark hair. "Not laughing at you, bug," he says, petting through their hair as his chest heaves. "You just taste like blackberries."

They huff a little laugh, still straddling his hips. The sun haloes them. Strange, that a demon like the two of them could look angelic, but here Aeon goes proving the impossible once again.

They stare at each other for a beat, two, before Aeon shakes their head. "So, where can I improve?"

The corner of Swiss's mouth quirks up, pink tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He's not sure where the taste of the blackberries they'd been eating starts and where Aeon's natural taste begins. And honestly? Swiss doesn't want to find that line.

"Well, bug, you're very eager," Swiss says. "Not a bad thing!" he's quick to assure, smoothing a hand up their bicep as their gaze drops. "I thoroughly enjoyed that. It's very, sweep you off your feet."

Aeon laughs, pushing up against Swiss's chest and holding themself above him. "I'm looking for areas of improvement, there has to be somewhere to get better."

Swiss hems and haws until Aeon's cheeks dimple with the force of their smile. He reaches up and tucks a strand of white hair off of their forehead. "I think you need a little more practice with kissing slow."

Aeon raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?" Swiss grants himself one more moment to stare at them above him. "Are you going to teach me?"

Swiss doesn't respond. Instead, his hands find their waist with a playful growl rumbling in his chest. Their eyes go wide a split second before he's rolling them over until he's on top of them. He smooths his thumb over their cheek, delighting in the little chuff it draws from them.

"Of course I'm gonna teach you, buggy," he coos, slowly lowering himself until the tips of their noses touch. Aeon's eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. "What kind of help would I be if I didn't?"

[peppermintquartz]

hii could you write something about when tommy and buck meet at madney's wedding, but this time tommy comes as chim's friend instead of buck's date. maybe it’s a year after the breakup since maddie wanted to wait to have the wedding until after she gave birth. maybe in this scenario buck and tommy are on good terms (or not? for more angst? it's up to you) and one of them asks the other to dance? honestly, I just want to see them dance😭 thank you! 💖

I tweaked the prompt slightly because there's a special party for the first birthdays of a Korean baby, and I thought it'd be sweet to celebrate that culture

---

Doljanchi

---

The music is cheerful and everyone is in high spirits. Buck is moving around the party, taking the opportunity to top up the trays of pastries and snacks while baby Joon-ki is propped on his little 'throne', dressed in an adorable green hanbok, after he finally woke up from his afternoon nap.

Everyone is waiting to take photos with him, and so no one is really looking at the door. Buck is counting the number of eclairs and thinking if he will need to run out for something when he hears someone clearing their throat softly.

"Buck."

Buck stands and turns around, heart involuntarily skipping a beat. He knows Tommy has been invited - Chimney told him - but seeing his ex in the flesh is still startling. Tommy's in a navy blue sports jacket and a pale gray polo over those jeans that hug his thighs.

"Tommy," Buck says, smiling politely. They've bumped into each other a handful of times since the breakup, and each time it was awkward, but they have not really had the opportunity to talk to each other, except for brief hellos and goodbyes.

Buck has found time to 'explore his options' since then. Men and women. Dated two other guys, never for more than four months. And he took the time to really think about which part of the rainbow he belonged to - he hadn't done that while he was with Tommy, because he thought it didn't matter, he had his boyfriend and that was enough for him - but then he went on a learning binge after.

He still thinks Tommy's statement about protecting his own heart is bullshit.

Tommy hands him a wrapped box. "For, uh, for the baby."

Buck takes it and tucks it under his arm. "Thanks. Help yourself to the food. I'll, uh, I'll get you a drink."

"Okay. Thanks."

It's so stilted and tense between them. Buck hates it. Fleeing to the kitchen, he digs out a bottle of the beer Tommy prefers. (He knows Tommy is going to be here. He's helping Maddie and Chim be good hosts. That's all.)

When he gets back to the living room where Joon-ki is holding court, surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents, he can't find Tommy. Part of him thinks that Tommy's gone again, too much of a coward to stay and pretend they can be friends.

And the other part of him wishes he can let it go already.

Then he spies Tommy kneeling on the floor in the corner where Jee Yun is, her little face pink and her lips pouting. Tommy has another wrapped box and he's giving it to her with a flourish, and she beams at him and hugs him around the neck.

She liked him, Buck remembers.

After the girl runs back to the table where her little brother is perched, Buck goes to Tommy and offers him a hand to stand up. Tommy glances at him, startled, and takes the assistance.

"Here," Buck passes him the beer. He checks his watch. "They're gonna do the doljabi in about five minutes."

"The what-bee?"

"Doljabi. It's some fortune-telling game. Supposed to tell what the baby's gonna be when he grows up."

Tommy stays for the game, stays to shake Maddie's hand and to give Chimney a hug, to take photos with Jee-yun and Joon-ki.

He stays late enough for dinner - the Lees supplied them with a dazzling assortment of Korean dishes - and it almost feels friendly, a few jokes traded around the adults while the kids have their own fun.

Baby Joon-ki is already in his cot, and Buck takes a moment to watch over his sleeping nephew. Then a shadow blocks the light from the hall.

"Hey," says Tommy softly.

"Hey." Buck smiles at him, genuine now. Tommy comes into the room when Buck inclines his head in invitation. "Kid's wiped out."

"It's been pretty momentous." Tommy slips his hands into his pockets. "Adorable kid though."

They stand side by side, watching the baby, and music filters into the room. For a moment, Buck could almost believe this is my child, this is my husband.

"How have you been?" Buck asks. "Anyone new in your life?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Haven't had time." He takes a deep breath. "I heard from Eddie that you, uh, you broke up with that lifeguard. Jay?"

"Ray," says Buck. Then he licks his lips. "We never did dance at Maddie's wedding. Can I ask you for one?"

"Now?"

Buck holds up a hand and tilts his head, a small flutter of a smile on his lips. "Now."

For a heartbeat, Tommy looks like he wants to refuse. Then he exhales and takes Buck's hand, accepts the other hand at his waist.

As they sway to the music, Buck looks directly at Tommy. It helps that they are of the same height. "I miss you. It's been over a year, and I still miss you."

Tommy blinks at him, perhaps surprised at the confession. His answering smile is small and tentative. "Yeah, me too."

"Can we try again?" Buck asks, still swaying slowly, guiding them in a small circle around the baby's room. "You can't say that I don't know what I want now. I've done my exploring. I've done my learning. And I am more than ever certain that you are who I want to be my last."

"I want to try again," Tommy replies, equally quietly, reverently. "I went to therapy again, unpacked... unpacked a lot of the shit I said that night. It was unfair to you."

"Not entirely untrue though."

"I wouldn't know." Tommy pauses, and then adds, "I'd like to find out."

Buck smiles. He feels lighter, clearer than he has for a long time. "So... you'll call me Evan again?"

Tommy sighs, smiles back. "I never stopped thinking of you as Evan. I'm sorry I ran."

"Good. Be sorry." Buck cradles Tommy's cheek and draws him in. "We'll try again. No more running, okay? Rough times, or if either of us do something stupid, we talk it out. Promise me that."

"Of course."

[tunglo]

I would so love to watch/read that! Here's my own little bit of personal history with it:

I went in from Gotham after getting a human/android fic prompt based on the game (after which I ended up watching a run through on Youtube in German, a language I hadn't done more than read an occasional news article in since high school, and that was my only actual engagement with the gameplay...), fully expecting to write Hank/Connor, but I just could not deal with Cole's death. Like, it's a cornerstone of Hank's story, but I can't bear to think about losing a child. (Parenthood ruined true crime for me too. Just gotta stick my fingers in my ears and find something where everyone was an adult instead...)

But! There were a few people trying out Gavin/RK900 instead and, now I'm back on my wireplay bullshit, so I figure I'll give that a go. For ages I had been thinking about writing some Paul/MX-43 (Almost Human) fic but, you know, you've gotta get a new characterisation right, work out how an MX would *think*, etc. Here, on the other hand, I can write basically the same dynamic with little to no restrictions on how I want to characterise, backstory, etc, etc.

At the time there were only a few pages of Reed900 fics on A03, and a lot of them were quite heavy BDSM stuff that just wasn't my thing. I like my characters to be kind of sickeningly, adoringly in love with each other after the obligatory enemy stage - so RK900 would have to drop the cold characterisation that had been gaining favour.

Then I read a Hank/Connor fic (cos that was still overwhelmingly the main ship), I can't remember who by, that was genderswap with the idea that Connor's face was fixed into a polite smile and the resulting restrictions that placed on her.

That! That was the answer. RK900 just had extreme resting bitch face. He's not created to be public facing, it really doesn't matter to Cyberlife whether he can express emotion or not. The more android the better, in my book.

Re. the name. Nines was already widely used (this was late July 2018) but I didn't particularly like it. The designation was nine hundred. It was early enough that I didn't feel compelled to use it though, especially as what I wanted to write wasn't going to fit with much of the existing fic, so I shortened to RK instead.

I didn't really expect to get much response because, like I say, the 'norm' for the ship seemed to be pushing in a different direction and, more to the point, I'm essentially playing in a sandpit with OCs. But, to my delight, my Tumblr inbox quickly filled up with all kinds of prompts for me to write and I churned out nearly 200k before exhausting it and moving onto the next thing.

I was already on that when the first short film was announced, but I had to come back to watch that and the follow ups. It was so wild to see how much the general characterisation, etc, had changed since the beginning. I feel like, if he had the ability, the ruthless RK900 I started reading about would be sick at the thought of the character he became - even if I infinitely preferred it! xD

I need someone to make a 3+ hour video essay about the history Reed900

The origins, where it came from

The first art, fic, other fan content made for it

The most popular head-canons, Nines getting a name, different interpretations of the personalities

How the most agreed upon quality of Gavin Reed, loving coffee, comes from a scene, where the importance of him asking coffee is minuscule and it is not even confirmed that he even likes it, and it leading to the other super popular head-canon of him having insomnia

The mods and modding community

The most influential fics

The comics, and the shear amount of dubbed vids of them on youtube

The movie, the short film and the behind the scenes stuff for it. Neil Newbon engaging with the cast

It becoming the top DBH ship, with basically nonexistent characters

[siriuslylantsov]

clay pigeons

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: in which joel teaches you how to skeet shoot.

tags: fluff, established realtionship, no outbreak, shooting, detailed decription of a shotgun, little kissing, super brief mention of hunting.

a/n: i have no idea what im talking about! so take this with a grain of salt. all my info is from google (thank you wiki how). first joel fic :) ending is sloppy because i just wanted to finish it. happy reading!

wc: 953

“you're full of shit.”

you grumble, watching joel make a precise shot at the clay pigeon that flew through the air, it splinters into multiple pieces at impact. he laughs, amused but smug, as he turns to face you, shotgun laying over his shoulder. 

“it's all about the cheek-weld,” he explains matter of factly, like that's supposed to mean something to you.

“oh, yeah. of course it is,” you spout sarcastically before shaking your head.

this only makes him laugh again, and now determined to annoy him, you keep going. “also, skeet shooting? i don't get it,” you continue as he walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist pulling you closer. “you shoot clay pigeons? they're not even pigeon shaped,” he hums out an ‘mhm’, patient as ever. “what happens if you shoot a real pigeon? do you eat it? what happens if a clay pigeon hits a real pigeon? they shouldn't even be called clay pigeons, they should be called orange saucers, which they are…” you trail off when he slowly kisses you, you sigh into the kiss, significantly deflated. he chuckles at how you melt, trailing down to kiss your neck. he can always unfailingly make you like this, he can make you shut up.

“joel-” you breathe out and he hums into your skin, vibrations making you shiver slightly. you push at his shoulders, feeling a little embarrassed. “you're making your pigeon dispenser guy feel awkward,” you whisper pointedly, extremely aware of the man that stood behind you near the machine. 

he lets up and drops his arm, shooting the man an apologetic look that he brushes off with a smile. you decide you want to try it, skeet shooting, so you put your hand out expectantly. he raises his eyebrows in shock, passing the gun to you, tentatively. “can you even shoot?”

you gasp, indignantly, replicating how joel held the barrel, butt of the gun snuggly tucked into your shoulder. 

“pull!” repeating what he’d said, though with much less confidence, and you watch as the piece of clay launches into the air, you pull the trigger. it goes nowhere near the target, steel pellets flying much lower. the empty shell falls with a lame thump and the recoil makes you stumble back a little and joel is quick to steady you. 

you cringe at your failed attempt as he moves you upright. “nothing but net,” you let out in mock despair.

“that's basketball,” he corrects, and you sneer at him. “i gotta admit though, your form was pretty good,” he mumbles, to which you turn your head and grin at him, suddenly pleased.

“but don't get ahead of yourself, your aim is shit,” he continues, and you pout. prick. positioning himself behind you, he sticks a leg between yours, prompting them to move further apart. “feet at shoulder width, knees bent. that way you won’t lose your balance,” he instructs, and you realise what's going on. he's teaching you!

he wraps his hand over yours on the barrel, and the other on top of yours on the grip, effectively caging you in. “you got the form right,” he praises, impressed by your replication, before pulling the gun more firmly into your body. “just make sure the butt is held tightly against your shoulder, then it won't move much during recoil.” you giggle at him saying butt, making him roll his eyes, but there's no bite as a smile breaks out. “impossible girl.”

his head is perched on your left, his breath warm on the side of your neck. he nudges you to press your cheek to the stock of the gun. “like this, your eyes are directly aligned with the bead, that part at the very front. it’ll give you a solid aim if done right.” 

your face fills with realisation. “cheek-weld,” you drag out and he nods with a light chuckle, chin bumping against your shoulder. 

“think you can try again?”

you ponder, applying all the techniques he told you, giving it an experimental rise. satisfied with the tension you have on the firearm you give him a curt nod. reloading the gun, he takes a step back, giving you some space.

“pull!” you half-shout, firmer that earlier. you trail the ‘bird’ with your eyes, following it with the bead. when it's almost at its highest you pull the trigger, anticipating the distance the bullet will travel. it hits perfectly, and this time you keep your footing. 

joel whoops behind you and picks you up. you squeal giddily and he gently puts you back on your feet. “that's my girl,” he drawls, and you blush profusely. “didn't even tell you about the delay.”

“used context clues,” you offer.

“clever.”

you shrug, feeling a little too good about yourself. and he can see how your ego inflates, preparing himself for the brunt of it.

“so now that i've basically mastered skeet shooting, i think i'm ready for the real thing.” 

he huffs at the shit-eating grin that spreads over your face, “the real thing?”

“hunting. i need to hunt so we survive the winter,” your voice drops to a low serious tone and he barks out a laugh. there isn't a chance in hell that you're gonna kill an animal, much less hunt, but he indulges you anyway, loading the gun, “okay, darlin’ do it again and i'll take you to the woods.” 

“you better,” you say, re-aligning yourself. “this is serious business.” your grave expression fathering a little when you meet his eyes. it's reverential, how he looks at you. it makes your stomach flip violently. leave it to him to reduce you to a sheepish mess. but you swiftly regain your composure, smiling to yourself regardless. 

“pull!”

[morallysuperiorlips]

Oddly Specific Romance Prompts Vol. 6: Rivals Catching Feelings

The overwhelming winner of my first poll! Thanks to everyone who voted, and I hope you enjoy 🤍

“God, I’m supposed to hate you. Why don’t I hate you?”

“When we’re done here, we can go back to hating each other. Deal?” “You’re not going to believe this, but I think I actually prefer things like this.”

“So…why’d you help me?” “Because nobody is allowed to beat you except me.”

“Admit it, you missed me.” “I certainly missed kicking your ass, if that’s what you mean.”

“So, what are we? Friends? Rivals? Friendly rivals?” “Well, that kiss we just had might point to another option…”

“What’s not to like? You’re the only person I know who stands a chance of beating me.”

“I’m a simple creature. I like somebody who can keep up with me.”

“Something tells me you like me.” “No! I just…wanted to make it clear that we don’t really hate each other, okay? Don’t get it twisted.”

“Why are you so red?” “Why are you so fucking annoying?” “I asked you first.” “I asked you second.”

“If I beat you, you have to kiss me.” “That’s—wait, what?”

“I’m falling in love with my rival; can somebody check my temperature? I think I’m sick.”

“We can still…kiss and stuff and still be rivals, right?” “Only if that’s what you want.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about me.” “Don’t flatter yourself; I just care about being the first one to beat you, that’s all.”

“You can’t just…kiss me to win a fucking argument, [NAME]!” “You’re right…but did it work?”

[aparticularbandit]

Donuts and Lavender Tea

Summary: Mukuro works at a small town coffee shop and bakery and spends her free time playing COD competitions online. She's intrigued by one of her COD squad members, but she doesn't think she can just slide into her DMs. (She also desperately wants to flirt with one of her customers, but she doesn't want to make things awkward.)

What's a poor girl to do?

For DR WLWeek 2024: Prompt Three: Talentless.

Rating: T.

AO3

“Cover me, cover me!”

“I’m down!  I’m down!”

Mukuro hides along the outside of the broken down house, clutching her gun to her chest.  She breathes easy – the adrenaline will come later, after they’ve won (or lost).  Right now, though, she’s relaxed, even as her comms fill with the cries of her squad falling one by one.

They haven’t gotten Ghost yet, though.  They haven’t gotten Ghost, and they haven’t gotten her.

Everyone else is just to distract them.

Ghost never communicates when they’re in the thick of things.  Mukuro rarely does either – only when things are getting drastic, only when she can feel herself going down.  Then Ghost needs to know.

(Even alone, Ghost wins.  Ghost always wins.)

Eventually, while Mukuro waits, their squad count drops.

Then there’s only the two of them left.

Mukuro smiles.

~

The Clean-Up Crew wins the match.

Of course.

They always win.

(But they put on a good show while they do.)

~

After the match, Mukuro pulls up the Ghost’s DMs.  They’re empty; she’s never worked up the ability to send an actual message.  No good games, no good jobs, no see you next times, no nothing.  Her fingers hover over the keyboard.

Eventually, she closes out of it again, just the same way she always does.

Next time.

She’ll be more prepared next time.

Besides, she needs to sleep.  She has to get up early for work in the morning.

~

~

Everything’s Coming Up Roses – a small, local coffee shop and bakery in the midst of Sunset’s old town downtown, only a few blocks from the local university (Hope’s Peak), home of the best coffee in the entire small town, and Mukuro’s job.  It doesn’t pay much – not even enough to pay the bills – but it comes with a lot of free coffee and a handful of free donuts every now and again.  Most importantly, Mukuro likes the job.  The pay offsets the prize money she gets from the Clean-Up Crew, so it’s all about the enjoyment anyway.

And there’s one more thing.

Kirumi Tojo, a professor at the local university, the first customer there every morning after Mukuro takes her shift, who always offers her a small smile when she orders.

It’s the best part of Mukuro’s day.

They never say anything much – just small talk.  Mukuro asks about Kirumi’s day, Kirumi says she can’t give information on her students (but often mentions something in passing anyway and gives that amused little smile), and that’s it.  Kirumi wishes her a good day.  It lasts all of five minutes – ten, at most – but it’s enough.  Every now and again, Kirumi returns at the end of Mukuro’s shift to grab lunch – one of the wraps that Clara, the owner, keeps on hand for her – but not often.  Still, Mukuro stays late most days anyway.  Just in case.

Today looks to be no different.

Except that this time, when Mukuro asks Kirumi how she’s doing, Kirumi avoids the discussion.  Her eyes grow dark.  “I….”  Her voice trails off, and her lips curve in a little frown.  “Nothing.”

“Something big coming up?” Mukuro asks as she gets Kirumi’s lavender tea ready.  (She’s considered having it ready and waiting before, but she’s never actually done it.  Maybe tomorrow….)  “Something…bad?”

“No.”  Kirumi sighs.  “Yes.  I’m not at leisure to discuss it, unfortunately.”

“Of course.”

That’s normal.

Mukuro wants to press further, but she suspects that trying to do so will only make Kirumi uncomfortable.  So instead, she hands her the cup of tea.  “Here,” she says.  “On the house.”  She opens her mouth as though to continue, closes it again, and then says, “And a donut.  They always make me feel better after a rough night.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine.”  Mukuro doesn’t smile, just rests her arms on the countertop and gives her a little nod.  “Just tell me which one you want.  I’ll take care of it.”

A blush spreads across Kirumi’s cheeks, and she nods once.  “Okay.”

~

Mukuro usually crashes immediately after her shift at Rose’s.  She sleeps during the afternoon and then spends the night and early hours of the morning playing COD.  Casual games, usually, or warm-ups for weekend competitions.  That’s no different today, and just as always, she pulls her phone up to check her DMs while she waits for the game to load.  Only this time, she has a message from the Ghost.

Her eyes widen.

Of course, Mukuro doesn’t have her settings to keep randos from sending her DMs, and since she and the Ghost share a common server, the Ghost can send her a message easily enough, just like Mukuro could send her one.  It’s just never happened before.  She takes a deep breath.

hidekisghost: are you free?

It’s been a couple hours.

Shit.

corpsey_mcmurderface: free now. corpsey_mcmurderface: sorry. crashed after work. corpsey_mcmurderface: what’s up

The Ghost probably isn’t available anyway, or she might be asleep, or—

hidekisghost: are you free to play a few games? hidekisghost: it would be beneficial to let off some steam. corpsey_mcmurderface: bad day? hidekisghost: you could say that. corpsey_mcmurderface is typing…. hidekisghost: thanks. hidekisghost: for being available. corpsey_mcmurderface: any time.

~

Mukuro loses count of the games that the two of them play – the games they win.  There’s no competing with them; the Ghost picks up when she falters.  Mukuro’s not bait, of course; she can take care of herself.  But whenever anyone gets close to her, the Ghost blows them out of the water.

Letting off steam indeed.

But eventually—

hidekisghost: i should go.  i have an early morning waiting for me. corpsey_mcmurderface: so do i corpsey_mcmurderface: i stay up and crash later hidekisghost: what a great schedule hidekisghost: but i’ve got people depending on me.  i can’t stay up too late. corpsey_mcmurderface: what, like a family? hidekisghost is typing…. corpsey_mcmurderface: not that that’s a bad thing corpsey_mcmurderface: families are cool corpsey_mcmurderface: expert cod player for a parent sounds super cool tbh hidekisghost: i’m not a mom corpsey_mcmurderface: you could be a dad hidekisghost: not that either. corpsey_mcmurderface: no offense hidekisghost: none taken. hidekisghost: funny that your first thought was parents. corpsey_mcmurderface: what else? hidekisghost is typing…. hidekisghost: nothing. hidekisghost: it’s nothing. hidekisghost: i’ll talk to you tomorrow. corpsey_mcmurderface: can’t wait.

~

~

Kirumi is whistling the next morning when she arrives at Rose’s.

Mukuro can’t help it – between having an actual conversation with the Ghost and Kirumi’s apparent cheer, she smiles, too.  Not much, not flashy, the way her sister might, but there all the same.  “Good morning?” she asks when Kirumi approaches the counter.

“More like a good night.”

“Oh.”  Mukuro’s smile freezes, so it’s a good thing that she’s facing away from Kirumi, fixing her tea.  “Good date?”

Kirumi smiles, a small thing easily hidden as she brushes her fingers through her hair.  “You could say that.”  She has the money set on the counter when Mukuro turns around.  “Thank you, for yesterday.  I didn’t deserve your kindness.”

Mukuro hands her the tea.  “Don’t mention it.”

“And you?” Kirumi asks, warming her hands on the cup.  “How was your evening?”

“Good,” Mukuro says, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face.  “It was really good.”

~

Mukuro doesn’t notice until after Kirumi’s gone that she’s left more than enough to cover her drink – more than enough to cover what Mukuro’d put on the house the day before.  Too much to be just a tip, even if Kirumi always tipped well.

It makes her smile.

It makes what already looks to be a good day even better.

[starry-bi-sky]

"Stillborn? No, no, still born." -- DPXDC AU

Based off a comment I saw where Bruce knew about Talia's pregnancy in the earlier comivs, and was ecstatic to be a father. So much so that Talia feared he'd give up being Batman for it, so when she gave birth she put the baby (Damian) on a doorstep and (seemingly) told Bruce that the baby was stillborn.

Instead of Damian, that baby was Danny! Meet Daniel Brown, the 14 year old foster kid whose been living with the Fenton family for the last two years. He's about two years older than Damian.

His last name, "Brown", was a generic surname given to him because the note he came with didn't have one on it. It just had the name "Danyal" on it, but albeit 'Daniel' was the one that had been put into the system for, I'll be totally frank here, racism reasons.

(I looked it up to make sure, and it's generally not permissible for foster parents to change the names of their foster kids even if it's a permanent residency, and for that reason Danny doesn't have the last name "Fenton".)

Danny's got ✨~issues!~✨ He's been through a handful of homes growing up, most of them terrible for a variety of reasons. Which has, as a result, left lasting scars. He's generally a very sweet kid, just very distrustful and jumpy. He's got the signs of a kid suffering from PTSD, and a handful of other issues including attachment and insomnia. His inferiority complex could rival Damian's, and that's going to make for an interesting mutual hatred for when they finally meet.

(something I'll get into later)

He still has the blanket he was found in. It's made of a very high quality material and is a beautiful emerald green with little golden thread accents, it's high quality as a result has Danny clinging onto a desperate hope that his bio family might be out there, and the only reason they gave him up was because of some outside factor. It's been taken a few times in old foster homes, and he's flipped out each time.

While he still calls Jack and Maddie by their names, he likes them well enough. The bar isn't that high though, and while they're some of the better foster parents he's had, "better" doesn't equal "safest". Their laboratory malpractice. Basically, C- Fenton Parents. They're negligent by virtue of being engrossed in their work, but they do care equally about Jazz and Danny. So he doesn't hold it against them that much.

He kinda prefers it that way, their loud affection is overwhelming and Danny doesn't know what to do with their attention, even if he craves it. It's a bit of a complicated situation.

They took in Danny because they genuinely wanted another child, but didn't want a big age gap between them and Jazz. It was actually Jack's idea to foster, and they discussed it with Jazz beforehand. She was all for the idea. Thus, a handful of weeks later, a ton of paperwork, and inspection later, and Daniel Brown entered their household with a trash bag in one hand and eyes like shards of stained glass.

His relationship with Jazz is kinda strained, but that's by virtue of her constant psychoanalyzing and helicoptering. Like with the parents, Danny's overwhelmed by the attention and also just, straight up doesn't like the fact that she's telling him that there's something wrong with him. He knows that, thank you. He pushes her away when she does this.

Other than that though? When Jazz isn't smothering him and is acting like an actual sibling and not a third parent, they're pretty close, and Danny really likes her. They've hung out a few times on their own volition, and Jazz showed him how to take better care of his long hair.

His school situation,, pretty similar to canon with the bullying, albeit with a few more instances of him blowing a fuse and lashing out against his attackers. He's a rather angry kid, but it's quiet. It builds up, piles on top of itself, until eventually, like a volcano, it erupts and burns everyone within radius.

Danny's got a fire core, not an ice core. Phantom's hair is made of white magma; thick and heavy, setting itself on fire when his anger runs hot. When he gets angry, his skin begins to char and split open to reveal pulsating lava underneath, and he crackles and pops like a raging forest fire.

I haven't decided yet on how he meets the batfam -- i've got two ideas but they're both in opposition to each other, and drastically alter how the rest of the plot goes. But I do know that him and Damian hate each other in the beginning. And it has nothing to do with inheritance or "being the blood son" -- although their blood relation absolutely plays the major role in their disdain for each other.

Simply put, they're jealous of each other for the same thing: thinking that the other was wanted.

Damian hates Danny because, unlike Damian, Bruce knew about Danny since conception and wanted him from the moment he heard about him. He had a whole nursery set up, and still does. He never took it down -- just locked the door. Damian was thrust upon Bruce without warning, and he feels like he forced himself into the family. And while on some level Damian knows and understands that Bruce wants him and loves him as much as his other children, that doubt and feeling of inferiority still remains. He looks at Danny and sees him with what Damian always feels he needs reaffirmed.

Meanwhile, Danny hates Damian because he looks at him and sees him with everything Danny's ever wanted. He hates him because Damian grew up knowing both of their parents, with one of them for most of his life, and then moved over to the other. There was never a moment where Damian was (seemingly) left to doubt his place within the family. Damian was raised with the very same woman who left Danny on a doorstep, with no clue to his identity beyond a little green blanket and a note with only a first name. Damian was wanted everywhere, and Danny was wanted nowhere. Damian is Danny's replacement in his eyes.

(It's the little revelation that Damian grew up with their mother that elevates Danny from being quietly envious of Damian to downright despising him. What did Damian do, that Danny didn't? He could live with Damian living with Bruce -- Bruce didn't know Danny was even alive. But him living with their mom? Are you fucking kidding him?)

Damian never outright attacks Danny physically, but it's not like he hides that he didn't like Danny. Meanwhile, Danny, in all his repressive anger, quietly despised him from a distance until finally one wrong snide side-comment has him blowing up and it becomes a screaming match. They're both just enough similar to each other that when they look at each other they really just see a mirror.

They'll work it out together, eventually. But it'll be ugly and cruel and explosive, and they'll start mending the bridge to become brothers in more than just blood relation in the end.

But yeah, stillborn Danny has... a lot going for him.

[ghostreblogging]

Damian stands before the corpse of his brother.

Is it a corpse? He doesn't know.

They had come to this lonely stretch of land that was once called amity park because something something. Damian hadn't really cared. It was supposed to be a simple get in and get out situation . They were already much busier with their own cases .

Eerie ruined houses and buildings seemed to paint a rather depressing picture. Because you could feel that people used to live here. Half drunken bottles and stollers were out. Just like if everyone just disappeares while walking. But the rotting flesh In the strollers seemed to suggest that darker things have happened here. The everyday norm seemed to frame the gateway to hell. The green glow was the only thing that was truly out of the ordinary.

Perhaps it's just an opening to another Lazarus pit.

But It doesn't feel like a normal Lazarus pit . Damian would know that better than anyone. It somehow felt brighter. And an electric buzz permeated the air. It felt sickening. The destroyed sign makes somewhat of an archway for the entrance. It says Fen- something something? The letter had long fallen off from the elements

"God, bloody hell. This place just reeks of infinite realms," the laughing magician commented before pulling another cigarette from his pocket.

"Infinite realms?" Father grunted

"Don't get your panties twisted. There's a reason I didn't tell you about them, the more you know the harder they are to deal with"

There were more mindless chatter between his family. But Damian ignored that in favor of staring down the archway . It felt like a cold shiver on his back and a horrible burning sensation on the palm of his right hand. Weird.

Damian knew that what awaited him was death. He didn't know whose though.

"Do you feel that?" Damian asked before he could stop himself

Grayson turned to look at him, raising his eyebrow. "Babybat, what? What feeling?"

Damian knew he already walked into communication.

"The cold shiver, and the burning sensation on your right palm"

"Ha! Just sounds like your scared demon brat"

"Forget it"

And they promptly walked into hell.

Damian I've missed you so much! But it's dangerous here. You'll get caught by him

Inside Damian felt as if he was walking for years. All with that , horrible disgusting smell. Burnt flesh and plastic. So overwhelming that his eyes stung even through his mask. He had to wake with his eyes half closed. Stumbling his way through the uneven terrain.

Winding corridors made out of crushed rubble.

Damian , be careful there is sharp glass there

Eerie glow that never seems to get closer.

Damian? I really don't like the Lazarus pits

It was dark and an encompassing ceiling above him felt like spiderwebs, a trap. But beyond that you could see the sky.

Hey Damian? Let's go stargazing again!

Hey Damian please don't go further

Something kept bothering him but he didn't know what. But he kept on walking.

And eventually they found themselves in a big chamber. Lazarus pit waters filled the caver like a lake. Beautiful flowers that seemed misplaced grow up to the sky.

The sky.

Maybe that was the source of the discomfort?. They came in at dawn.

It shouldn't have been dark .

And the stars were wrong. How long did they walk for?

Long enough. Just go please

There was a huge rift. Beyond were Lazarus green lands with floating landscapes. Sometimes you could see something big float by . Damian wonders if they were living or just a part of the landscape.

Beautifully enchanting. Like freedom, feeling of wind on your ski-

And then Damian's eyes fell on the thing. How could he have not noticed that.

Please get away that is not me that is not me that is not me that is not me

Like some kind of a lost puppet it was hung in front of the rift. That was the source of the smell. A white suit that once had been sterile, burnt and fused with the flesh below. Dark burnt hair that hung and thankfully concealed the empty eyes.

For once Damian was thankful he couldn't see something. He just felt that if he saw the thing's eyes, he would never recover.

Because that face.

He knew that face

It was one of he had forgotten a long time ago.

Damian please that is not me plEase. I aM LOSiNg my SeLF

A brother that went missing during a mission.

"God what the fuck is that" Grayson's voice broke Damian's trance.

Damian frowned. It didn't feel appropriate to talk here.

Hide. Hide hide hide hide

A voice broke the silence soon after.

"I advise you to leave immediately" a familiar voice. From the oh so familiar corpse . It grated against his ears. And the corpse moved in tandem. Exaggerated and cartoonish but in a horrid way like a machine struggling to run in their later years. It felt like it was coming from everywhere at once.

Hey Damian let's not go here

Damian it's not a good idea to be here take you family and leave

Damian, let's go another route

I can barely maintain luciedicy please listen to me

"I advice you to leave immediately" just like clockwork. The exact same tone, the exact same horrid little dance.

"Well we can't. Well we can't before we know why In the everliving earth there is a direct portal to the infinite realms here." Constantine seemed to have nonchalance as he spoke but Damian saw his cold sweat. And eyes darting , trying to look anywhere but directly at it .

The corpse directly ignored Constantine. It turned to him . Each movement sharp and gutted.

"Damian we are finally together again :) "

[sysig]

Well aren’t you so popular (Patreon)

[seaofolives]

🎭 #torokatober2024 day 31/31: memories 🎻

“Do you remember what it was like?” Trowa asks. “Before we met?”

He’d come home from the circus yesterday, and they’d spent all night in bed, up to this morning. Trowa is still on his back, Quatre on his knees; he’d been about to start the day when Trowa caught his hand and pulled him back.

“I do.” Quatre nods. “Why do you ask?”

Trowa shakes his head. “‘Cause I don’t anymore. When I think about how I started wearing my hair like this, I remember your fingers on my scalp as you shave my nape. And I don’t remember what my tent was like without your voice in it. Even all the wars I fought, I don’t remember them without hearing you calling to me. Is it like that for you?” It isn’t.

But Quatre knows what he means. “A little,” he says, smiling slightly. “I remember what it’s like to feel like a speck searching for a purpose in all this space dust. But…I don’t remember how I survived that. Until we met.” He tightens their hands together. “And I realized that I’m never truly alone, after all. Not with you living in the same universe as me. That’s how I know we’ll always meet again, whatever happens. And that all the pains of today…we’ll heal from them in the future.”

“The future…” Trowa whispers.

Quatre nods. “Do you never think about the future?”

Trowa shakes his head.

He sits up suddenly. After a pause, he says, “Left hand,” reaching up to his crown.

Quatre holds his breath, but offers it.

Trowa tugs a lock of hair free, and ties it up several times around Quatre’s fourth finger. “I never thought about the future. Not until we met.” Enclosing Quatre’s hand in-between his, he asks, “Quatre. Will you let me build that future with you?”

That breath Quatre has been holding goes out with a laugh. Trowa has always been full of surprises, ever since they met. “I…” Quatre shakes his head. “Wouldn’t even dream of that future…without you. Mister Triton Winner.”

Triton smiles brightly.

He pulls Quatre into a kiss, and several more after, each one a promise of more mornings shared, conversations in the grass, a hand to hold amid the darkest traumas.

“But,” Quatre gasps when they part, “if you want a different name, I can—”

“Quatre,” Triton looks into his eyes, “I’m building a future with you. I need your name in mine.” Well. Trowa...Triton has always been a sensible man.

Smiling, then, Quatre nods. And laughs with the man who’ll share his future.

find the list of prompts here!

[caramelmochacrow]

um. *taps mic* hello other yukaeso fans... uhhhh im planning a yukaeso week and i kind of need help with what sounds good and planning things (please help me...)

(put a cut bc im talking a lot and dont want to disturb people)

i originally wanted it to go from when peaky stormy story began (stormy link) and the event went from september 17 to 26. problem is the 17th is in the middle of the week. i could make it start from the 15th to the 21st or the 22nd to the 28th but they only stay in the event's runthrough for only five days.

another thing i could do (similar to naru//mitsu or sayo//tsugu) is use yuka and esora's full names with numeric substitution so i can figure out the first day of the week (here we go--)

9 in japan is sometimes pronounced as 'kyu' so it can make up the 'yu' of yuka. 5 in japan is pronounced as 'go' or 'ka' sometimes as well so yuka's name would be '95' or 'kyu-ka'. for her last name, it would be 335 or 'sa-sa-go'.

the english transliteration of 8 in japanese is 'eito', the closest thing i can get to 'eso'. 6 covers the other part of esora since it can also be read as ra. so her first name would be 86 or 'eito-ra'. (<- im stretching this i think) for her last name it would be 43 or 'shi-mittsu'. (shimizu)

so with all of these facts, the week can start at 9/8 (kyu-eito or yu[ka]eso) or 8/9 (eito-kyu or esoyu[ka]) if you want to go for their first names. for their last names (i think going for this is a bad idea to be honest with you) it would start at '3/4' (sa[sa]-shi), 4/5 (shi-go) or 3/3 (sa[sa]-mittsu).

the only dates that go on sunday is 9/8 and 3/3. if you want to go for monday, it would be 3/4 only. so, to me, it would be best to start at one of the sunday ones.

another fact i'd like to tell is the fact that esora's birthday is 9/9 so one of the prompts could be 'birthday'. (problem tho is that idk what to prompt i would pair it with)

also, speaking of prompts, ive already decided a 2 prompt pairs. (haven't decided what days they'll be or if theyre good)

summer and winter (summer bc of how summer-y these two are and winter bc of christmas being the important day of peaky)

ao to natsu and fuwafuwa time (solo covers about love, the first one being someone deciding to seek out the love they want while the other is them not knowing how to go about getting their love)

im not sure what. uh. stuff to pair up and also what would be good prompts (im not good at that....) so. yeah. that's all ive got.

the last day, i know, is gonna be a free day. so. i p much dont know what to do. im stuck. pls help.

[todayisafridaynight]

tumblr keeps showing me Actual Genuine Coochie on my damn dashboard so they better not burst a blood vessel the second i start posting dicks