#i was so torn with what to draw for today's prompt

[edenfire]

💞💗 Tweek Week - Day 5 - Animals 💗💞

who could resist their lil baby, stripe🥺🌸 craig and tweek are the best parents🥰💗

[shitouttabuck]

hi hi nina!! may i prompt number 20? (absurd terms of endearment)

rae!!! thank you mwah (also requested by an anon & @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove <3)

be there on the next train

buck/eddie | 1.7k | rated t | prompts: absurd terms of endearment | ao3

The day Eddie calls him that for the first time, Buck’s tearing through the hospital at top speed, narrowly avoiding mowing down nurses as he stumbles toward Eddie’s room.

He’s okay, Buck knows he’s okay, he’s just here on concussion watch and because he needed a doctor to reset his shoulder when it was dislocated at the house fire earlier. He’d been talking and coherent when Hen and Chim bundled him into the ambulance, reassuring them all that he felt fine, terribly unconvincing given the grimace, but no cause for major worry either.

Still, Buck couldn’t ride with him to the hospital, having to finish their shift and wash off an inch of soot before hurrying to pick up Chris from school. Even rushing through his shower and haphazardly pulling on his civvies so not to alarm Christopher didn’t feel fast enough, and when Chris had started to kick up a fuss about being dropped at Pepa’s instead of coming with Buck to the hospital, he’d nearly torn his hair out.

He’d placated Chris with the promise that he’d try and get Eddie released this evening, happy as ever to volunteer to spend the night keeping watch at the Diaz house. Thirty minutes and several agonising red lights later, he’s here, barging right into this hospital room before any orderlies can stop him.

Hen blinks at him from her seat beside Eddie’s bed, eyebrows raised.

“You’re loud enough to wake the morgue,” she informs him, sipping her paper cup of coffee. “Bull in a goddamn china shop.”

Buck frowns at her good-naturedly, rounding the bed to Eddie’s other side.

He’s sat up against some pillows, bleary-eyed but smiling at Buck. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” Buck huffs, squeezing his arm gently.

“You always come,” Eddie agrees. His eyes are glassy from the mix of pain and painkillers, voice slurring ever-so-slightly. “Mi patito.”

Hen chokes on her coffee, coughs turning into laughter. “Your what?”

Eddie’s lips turn down at the corners as he looks at her, pouting. “He’s got the little tail, look.”

He gestures at Buck’s ass, and Buck cranes his head back to see what he’s pointing at. His shirt isn’t tucked in properly at the back, sticking out of the waistband of his pants in an upturned fold of fabric.

“Patito,” Eddie says again, nodding. “Little duckling.”

Hen snorts, dissolving into laughter as she doubles over in the tiny plastic chair. Buck shoves the hem of his shirt into his trousers properly, disgruntled by their amusement.

“Duckling, huh?” Hen grins. “I guess he does follow you around enough.”

“He followed me into the house today,” Eddie says, leaning back heavily into his pillows. It’s true—Buck had ignored Bobby’s shouts to stay put and raced back into the burning building after Eddie’s pained grunt had come through the radio, a badly-secured beam glancing off him as it fell. “Stupid as hell, but would’ve had a lot worse than a fucked shoulder if he hadn’t.”

Buck’s not sure if that’s a compliment or an admonishment, but it’s absolutely soaked with affection, so he doesn’t let himself dwell on it, smiling wryly back at Eddie.

Eddie’s studying his face, serious even if the corner of his mouth is tugging up on the right, smile inevitable.

“He’d follow me anywhere,” he says, confident, to Buck or to Hen or just the room at large. “Patito.”

Buck feels a sudden wave of embarrassment, caught out and called out on this thing that was never meant to be a secret but he hadn’t planned on saying out loud anyway, hoping no one would draw attention to the bottomless well of devotion he houses for Eddie. That he’d do anything and everything if only it meant he’d be beside Eddie for it. He’s scraped raw, naked under fluorescent lights for everyone to see.

Hen, perceptive to a fault, stands, ignoring Buck’s flaming cheeks and whatever shame is rolling off him right now.

“M’gonna check with the nurses about when he can be discharged,” she murmurs, leaving the room quietly.

Buck swallows, ducking his head as he sits. He doesn’t look directly at Eddie, instead fiddling with the scratchy blanket on the bed.

“Buck?” Eddie asks. Buck doesn’t look up. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, ’course not,” Buck says, shaking his head and smoothing out the blanket. “You’re right, I-I do follow you everywhere.”

“Okay,” Eddie says carefully. “Is that bad?”

Buck huffs a laugh. “No, no, it’s not. Just—revealing, I guess.”

Eddie’s silent for long enough that Buck chances a glance at him. His brow is furrowed deeply, and he’s frowning at Buck.

“I would follow you anywhere too, you know,” he says.

Buck’s heart flip-flops. He does know this, and it’s nice to be told, but he thinks all his endless adoration, the entirely unshakable loyalty with which he follows Eddie, comes from a considerably different place than Eddie’s. The roots of his wanting wrap around his heart and clench tight in ways Eddie’ll never be familiar with, steadfast friendship being the only thing he’s ever wanted from Buck.

“I know,” he says anyway, moving one hand to grasp Eddie’s briefly. “I know, Eds.”

A nurse bustles into the room, patient chart in hand.

“Alright,” she says, “hello there. Are you Mr Diaz’s partner? Will you be taking him home today? He needs regular monitoring tonight, but Firefighter Wilson mentioned your line of work, so he should be good to be looked after at home by his significant other.”

“Oh,” Buck says. “Um, yes. And no. Yes, I’m taking him home. No, I’m not his significant other—I’m just his, uh, work partner.”

“Oh! Sorry for the misunderstanding,” the nurse says cheerfully. “Shall we go over the concussion protocol before we get him discharged?”

Buck lets her run him through what to do and what to watch out for, well-versed in this rodeo but nodding in all the right places anyway. When she leaves to sort out the paperwork, he turns back to Eddie, who’s be quiet for this whole exchange.

“Actually, speaking of,” Buck starts, pulling the words out of his throat like barbed wire, “do you want me to call Marisol and, uh, let her know what happened?”

Eddie scowls at him. “Marisol? Why the hell would you call her?”

“Because she’s your actual significant other?” Buck says, frowning at the unreasonable amount of derision Eddie’s throwing his way. “And she might like to know that you were hurt?”

“She is not my significant other,” Eddie says, looking deeply unhappy.

Buck blinks. “What? Since when?”

“Since…” Eddie screws up his face as he thinks, and then screws it up in a different way when the pull of his muscles must aggravate the headache concussions so generously come with. “Since two Thursdays ago. The 14th. The day we had the fighter jet call.”

“Oh,” Buck says.

His heart isn’t sure what to do—glow bright at the thought of Eddie’s relationship crashing and burning, because Buck’s not as good a friend as he wishes he was, or sink even further at the fact that Eddie, even hopped up on heavy-duty drugs, can pinpoint with such precision the exact day they ended things, his unhappy face only further proof that the break-up was probably not his decision, if he’s so cut up about it. Which—

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Buck asks. “I’m sorry, man.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. Why are you sorry? Also, you didn’t tell me when you broke up with Natalia, so…”

“I did,” Buck protests. “I told you that day in the locker room, that day that—”

He cuts himself off, breathless for no reason.

He did tell Eddie in the locker room, the day that they had the fighter jet call. The 14th. Two Thursdays ago.

“Eddie?” he asks.

“I texted her from the station parking lot,” Eddie confesses. “After Chris’s date went home, I, uh. I went over to her place and broke up with her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Buck asks again, infinitely more hushed.

“’Cause you’d follow me anywhere, patito,” Eddie says softly, and his voice is so brimming with sadness, Buck’s chest aches. “Didn’t—didn’t know if this would be something you’d—actually want, or if you’d try anyway just because I asked.”

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, a quiet and desperate thing. “Eddie, you have to know—”

“I know you love me, Buck. And—whatever way that is, I’ll take it. Okay? I just—I couldn’t pretend that that thing with Marisol was anything more than me trying to—trying to—fill some gap while you were with Natalia. And I was a dick, but—you broke up with Natalia and I’m so tired of pretending. I’d follow you anywhere, patito, but I—I wish you’d follow me home.”

“Okay,” Buck nods, heart whirring with this new revelation and taking upon itself to glow, not in petty vindication, but with sweet, sticky happiness, honey-gold and sun-warm as it spreads from cell to cell, his whole body alive with it. “Okay. I’m following you home.”

“I know you are now,” Eddie frowns. “You have to make sure I don’t die in my sleep.”

“Jesus, Eddie, first of all, dark,” Buck laughs, “and, secondly, no, I mean I’m following you home. I mean I love you in every way. I mean I broke up with Natalia because everything was always about death and I want things to be about life and—that’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, still frowning. “Does this mean you’re not sleeping on the couch tonight?”

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I’ve never wanted you to sleep on the couch. You’re always falling asleep on that damn couch. I want you to fall asleep in my bed.”

Buck laughs again. “I think we can make that happen.”

The nurse comes back in with discharge papers, Hen at her shoulder, and Eddie asks, “Hey, what’s the medical advice about making out with a concussion?”

Hen says, “Oh, for the love of God.”

And, Buck thinks, if you’re hand-in-hand with someone the way the two of them are, who’s following who doesn’t really matter, because they’re getting there together.

[masterjedilenawrites]

Take Me Out

Bad Batch x Reader Exchange 2024

Crosshair x fem!reader | 4.7k words

Content: drinking, light angst, introspection, fluff, light humor, crushes, relationships, friendship, mentions of war and death, weapons (practice setting)

Prompts: "What am I even looking for?" - "I don't know" & "Sometimes I think some work on your communication skills wouldn't be such a bad idea."

My gift is for the event host - @ghostofskywalker! I was so excited to draw your name and I really hope you enjoy the fic. You put so much work and care into hosting these events for the fandom, it really is appreciated 🤗

I've actually had this story concept in mind for quite a while. I love that pretty much all of your prompts/wish-list items were able to fit in! We've got some platonic Hunter, romantic Crosshair, a little angst, a bit of fluff... Perfect!

Oh, and to keep things spoiler free (on my blog and for the event), this takes place before Order 66 and Omega.

Please go check out the @cloneficgiftexchange blog for all the other contributions to this great event! Fics are being posted all throughout today (4/13/24). Spread the love for fandom writers/creators by reblogging!

Vandor-3. Clone training facility: recreation sector. Winter.

You sat slumped over the bar, a drink cradled in your arms. You took lazy sips at the liquid, long past its effervescence, in between chewing on the straw. You could smell the evidence of your waning hygiene, being curled in on yourself like this. It disgusted you but not enough to do anything beyond self loathing. To say you were miserable was an understatement.

"Morning, Captain. A bit early for a drink, isn't it?"

The husky voice of the bar's newcomer was unmistakeable in who it belonged to. There were clones abound on this small moon, hundreds of identical-sounding men. But every once in a while you had the pleasure of hearing the one that was different.

You sluggishly swiveled your head and gave Sergeant Hunter a mock salute. He leaned against the bar beside you, seemingly torn between being amused and concerned by what he was seeing.

"Back so soon?" you asked, ignoring his own question. Though your speech wasn't slurred, your voice still betrayed some of the numbness you were working to surround yourself in. Which helped your friend make up his mind on how to feel.

"Easy mission," Hunter shrugged off the topic. "You okay? Did something happen?"

"No," you sighed and forced yourself to sit upright. Best to appear more in control and not give him reason to drag you to the med bay. "That's the problem. Nothing's happened."

Hunter frowned and slid onto the barstool next to you. You caught a whiff of soap as he did, a harsh contrast to your own odor that made you even more upset.

"I don't understand."

Your hands cupped around your glass, condensation pooling around your fingers, and you stared at the melting ice wishing to be as frozen and unfeeling.

"I don't understand, either," you whispered. "Why I'm still so... alone."

"Ah." Hunter placed a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. "That's right, you had that date you were going on. Another dud, then?"

You nodded, still refusing to look away from the ice cubes.

He hummed in thought. Your poor friend. How many times had he now had to come up with some sort of reassuring comment after another one of your failed attempts to find love? At least you were grateful you had such a friend, though. Where others would have made you feel guilty for admitting to loneliness, would have insisted they were company enough and all you had to do was ask for it, it's as simple as that, how dare you feel lonely when you aren't actually alone... Hunter was the one who always saw through to what you really meant. You were not what the other wanted, but you were both wanting, craving that kind of deep, romantic connection that seemed to allude you both. For Hunter, it was obviously his schedule that got in his way. For you... well, that was the mystery.

"You have to keep looking," was the sentiment Hunter settled on this time. He rubbed at your shoulder a bit, as if trying to smooth out your misery.

You huffed. His attempts to comfort were sweet, but not enough. You couldn't help but protest. "But with everyone I meet, I just find out what I don't want. What am I even looking for?"

"I don't know," Hunter shook his head sadly. "I don't know if anyone knows until they find it."

You groaned and slumped back forward, facepalming the bar top and wishing you could sink right into it. Sink down, down, down until you disappeared completely.

"Sorry, Cap," Hunter's now muffled voice attempted to chuckle, lighten the mood. "If I could track down your soul mate, I would. You know I would."

That comment was sweet enough. You forced yourself to stop sinking, lift yourself up again, and face your friend properly.

"I know. And I appreciate that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be such a bummer today. It's just... it's been getting harder, is all."

He nodded and you nodded back and nothing further needed to be understood on the matter.

"Were you needing something from me?" you changed the subject. "Or did you come to day drink as well?"

"Ha, ha." Hunter started to get up. "Yeah no, I just wanted to let you know we were back for a few rotations, see if you'd have some time to finally come out and meet the boys."

You lifted up your glass and shook it a bit. "You're too late, I'm afraid. If I'd known you'd be back so soon, I wouldn't have started on this journey of self destruction."

Hunter titled his head at you, some of that trademark concern still showing. "This isn't going to be an all week thing, is it?"

You shrugged. Truthfully, you had no idea what to do with yourself. Making decisions even a day in advance seemed like too big of a commitment in your fragile state.

"I'd rather not meet any more new people right now, if it's all the same to you."

"I wouldn't consider them new. You've heard enough stories about each other by now. It's starting to get weird that you're not meeting, quite frankly."

You wanted to laugh, but the thought of introductions, stiff pleasantries, awkward small talk... It reminded you of every first date that never turned into a second, every dating app chat thread that went nowhere, every high hope you watched turn into disappointment. Even with a group like Hunter's brothers, the Bad Batch, with a reputation of being unconventional, who you'd only be making friends with just like you had with Hunter and every other clone on this moon... it was still too much for you to stomach.

"Sorry, maybe next time."

Hunter frowned, but he didn't overstep. "Suit yourself. Door's still open though. You know where to find us."

He made to walk out but paused to turn back to you for a moment.

"And hey, don't lose hope. We'll find our people soon enough. In the meantime, take care of yourself, alright?"

You waited until the bar doors closed behind him to let your tears fall.

* * *

Vandor-3. Woodland outskirts. Spring.

You were here. Finally.

You weren't able to pinpoint exactly where the turning point occurred, between crying yourself to sleep every night and being able to wake up with a smile on your face. A small one, of course, but a smile nonetheless. You weren't even sure it was something that had happened overnight. Slowly, eventually, the frost over your heart melted, the shadows in your thoughts grew thinner and lighter. Without even realizing you were drawing back the curtains and dusting off the shelves and each day being a little more open than you were the day before.

Your loneliness still existed. It came and went in waves, so while still devastating at times, you were at least afforded with periods of relief. Periods where you could smile again, find fulfillment in your work, and even dare to allow yourself to dream again. And not to mention taking more regular showers. It was always the little things that made the biggest difference, wasn't it?

And now here you were, standing in the early morning sun out in one of the training fields, the Havoc Marauder silhouetted against the sunrise as you shook hands with its crew in a meeting long overdue.

Hunter's stories had done the boys justice. Wrecker was just as larger than life as you'd pictured, aptly choosing to push past your outstretched hand and go in for a bone-crushing hug instead. Tech, who you'd come to know as the brains of the batch, only spared a second to be properly introduced before returning to fidget with some gadget. Echo was all politeness and disciplined respect, with his scomp-salute and ma'ams. And Crosshair... well, he was still on the ship asleep, which you supposed fit with the few facts you knew about him, too.

Hunter beamed beside them, clearly happy you had finally made the effort to meet his squad. His family, really. As a Captain overseeing drill training for the GAR, you knew better than anyone the close bonds these clones formed even before they stepped foot on a battlefield. This meant a lot to him, you being here. You felt awful for postponing so many times.

Once introductions were out of the way, and some pleasant conversation had passed, you eventually ventured out to the part of the training field that actually housed elements for training - your excuse for coming out here to meet everyone. A munitions crate full of shiny new blasters was carried between you and Wrecker while Hunter ran ahead to set up some targets. Tech and Echo went back to the ship to work on repairs.

"Aaaaugh. Only blasters?" Wrecker lamented upon opening the crate.

"Sorry, more budget cuts. This was all I could scrounge up for you guys."

Hunter was much more excited by the new weapons, though Wrecker still picked one up to try out. You held one as well but only used it to demonstrate different techniques. Just because you were good at training didn't mean you were the best at actually fighting.

The three of you picked off the various bottles, pots, and pans that Hunter had set up amongst the tree branches at the edge of the field for a short while. And on more than one occasion you found yourself pausing to breathe in the air and remind yourself that life was good. Maybe not how you wanted it, but it was still good and you'd need to continue to work on appreciating what you had.

After about an hour, there were only three bottles and a pan left, all proving tricky targets due to distance and angle. Hunter had even tried slinging a few knives to no avail.

"Okay I'm calling it," Wrecker announced with a huff. "One more missed shot and I'm blowing them up."

"I'll take that bet."

A new voice, one you'd never heard before, carried across the field. It was delicate and drawling and confident. Hunter chuckled and Wrecker rolled his eyes. And you... you had no idea that everything was about to change.

It was like he was moving in slow motion. Your surroundings blurred as the lanky figure caught the corner of your eye, your heart rate slowing as you turned and took him in. One confident step planted firmly in front of the other as he inched across the field. A sniper rifle perched on his shoulder. A toothpick between pursed lips. An eye surrounded by a reticle and narrowed in determination. He didn't even spare you a glance, and thank the gods, because if he had, you were sure your heart would've stopped beating altogether.

He squared off as soon as he reached the marks, bringing his rile forward to aim in a swift and careful motion. His head rested against the shaft, his tattooed eye squinted through the scope. You imagined him taking this stance a thousand times in his short life. It looked as natural a position as curling up on a couch might look for you.

You couldn't look away, not wanting to miss a single second of whatever this mesmerizing man was about to do. He was still for a moment, impressively so. You realized you were holding your breath as you watched, not wanting even your exhale to interfere with his process.

And then he fired. Once, twice, threefourfive times. Bang, bang, bang. Each in a different direction but no less precise than the one before. The first ricocheted off the pan and hit the green bottle, just as the second hit the red bottle. The three-shot volley was aimed at the branch the bottles sat on, causing it to crack and dangle even closer to the ground. And just when you thought the show couldn't be more over the top, the sniper swiveled his rifle toward the sky at a passing bird, clipped its wing with a shot, and then whipped out a pistol from his hip and fired at the remaining blue bottle just before the branch snapped and fell to the ground.

A few seconds later, the bird tumbled on top of the pile of shattered glass and splintered wood.

"Aaaand training is now over," said Hunter with a nod of his head. He raised his voice as he called out to his brother. "You'd better clean that shit up!"

The sniper flipped him the bird before sauntering off to clean up.

"Uh, you alright?"

Hunter paused in his own packing of gear to give you a concerned look. You were still staring after the newcomer, undoubtedly the lone Batcher you had yet to meet. Crosshair. Your brain had short-circuited with what you had witnessed him do, yes. But it was more than that. There was something about him. Something intriguing and attractive. Different than anyone you had ever known, and yet, somehow feeling so real and comfortable at the same time.

After a few waves of your friend's hand in your face, you snapped back.

"That," you breathed.

Hunter cocked a confused eyebrow.

"That is what I'm looking for."

* * *

Vandor-3. Clone training facility: recreation sector. Summer.

You were insanely busy. Separatist activity was ramping up in almost every corner of the galaxy and the GAR was responding to each new threat with full force. Rotations of new clone units were frequently arriving at the facility, one after another. You'd cycle them through a few trainings to get them certified on whatever was needed and then ship them right back out. And in between were all the additional tasks that needed to be taken care of. Piles of paperwork and coordinating schedules and ship inspections and updated security debriefings.

And yet through it all, you still had time to entertain the one thought that buzzed in the background of your mind: Crosshair. Every meeting, every meal, every training sim, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He was there. Crosshair, Crosshair, Crosshair. On your mind, in your heart, driving you absolutely mad.

In the beginning you'd pretended it wasn't about him, specifically. You were simply happy to know what you wanted now, that you had a type and it existed. That was all. Hunter had turned up his nose, completely bewildered as to why that would be your type. You hadn't been able to give him much at the time; it would take you many rotations more to start describing the details of your newly discovered attraction.

But over time, it became harder to push aside the nagging thought that you hadn't found what you were looking for, but rather who. Specifically. Exactly. Why try to find someone like him when you already liked... him?

Oh there were plenty of ways you could answer that question, all of them self-deprecating and none of them productive. You could count on one hand now the number of times you had been in the same room as him, let alone interacted with him. The Batch may be frequenting the place more often as the war picked up, but not nearly as often as you needed to gauge whether someone like Crosshair would, could, or honestly even should be as interested in you as you were in him.

Today they were back on the grounds so Hunter could fill out some paperwork, and your heart had not stopped racing all morning. It was practically threatening to punch right out of your chest and run away. You weren't sure why, considering you'd probably only end up seeing Hunter this time. The rest of the Batch usually didn't venture into the facility unless they were staying overnight. But it seemed even knowing Crosshair was on the same planet as you got you worked up these days.

You carried Hunter's stack of paperwork with you now, intending to drop it off to him in between some meetings you had. As you hustled down the halls, you rehearsed a few ways you could subtly ask him how Crosshair was doing.

But as it turned out, you would have the opportunity to ask him yourself. If you could get over your frazzled shock at finding him in the rec room instead of Hunter.

The room was conveniently empty, making the silence between you that much more potent. Crosshair was standing awkwardly to the side, just behind one of the battered sofas, as if he had already been confused about what he should be doing before you pushed through the door. He stared at you and you stared at him and the moment only lasted for a few seconds but it felt like an eternity.

"Oh, um. Hi. Crosshair." You averted your gaze, despite having prayed the past several nights that you could see his face again soon. "I was... expecting Hunter."

That didn't sound right. You hoped he didn't take that to mean that you'd prefer if Hunter was here now. Obviously you didn't.

"He stepped out," Crosshair responded in that cool, even tone of his. Your eyes couldn't help but snap back to his as he talked. You wanted him to say more but he never did.

"Oh, okay. I just had some paperwork to give him."

Crosshair only hummed at first. You shuffled your feet a bit, debating whether you should make an attempt at small talk, try to coax more out of him, maybe even hint that you were interested in him. The thought terrified you, but not as much as the thought of being alone. You couldn't complain about that if you continued to let these opportunities pass by without at least trying to make a connection.

You shifted your weight again, intending to keep your feet planted so you wouldn't make a run for it, and Crosshair uttered your name hurriedly.

"Wait," he said. He'd thought you were leaving. You widened your eyes at him, waiting to hear what he'd wanted to tell you first. He seemed to hesitate before finally saying, "I was wondering if you knew what soup they were serving today?"

"Oh. Uh, potato, I think."

"How boring."

You smirked. "I know, right? They could at least serve it with some hot sauce."

Crosshair hummed.

The silence settled back in, though now you felt better about things. You'd practically had a conversation. Learned a little more about each other. It was a good start. 

Your commlink suddenly beeped at your side and you blanched, remembering the meeting you were supposed to be heading to.

"I uh, I've got to go. It was nice talking to you."

It pained you to cut off your moment with him so quickly, but alas you were left with no choice. You shuffled back out into the corridor, though you only made it a few steps before realizing you still had Hunter's paperwork and could just leave it with Crosshair.

The rec room had an old school door that swung in and out on hinges. It was slightly ajar from when you passed through, and already in the few seconds since something was happening on the other side of it. You could hear more voices.

"...the kriff was that?" First, the deep tones of Hunter, equal parts annoyed and weary.

"That wasn't the plan." Then, the resolute voice of Echo, backing him up.

"What?" Crosshair bit back at them.

"You were supposed to ask her out," Hunter clarified.

"No, that was not the plan," Crosshair countered. "I needed to lay some groundwork first."

"You call that groundwork? You were talking about soup."

"And she agreed. No one ever agrees with me on the soup around here."

"What a special connection," Echo said.

Hunter sighed so hard you swore you could feel the breeze through the doorway. "You know, sometimes I think some work on your communication skills wouldn't be such a bad idea."

"What?"

"Never mind. Do what you like. Keep pushing away anyone who tries to love you and see where that gets you. Just know that it's exhausting, watching the two of you dance around each other like this."

"And kind of pathetic," added Echo.

You were against the wall by the door, holding in your breath for so long you were about to pass out. Or maybe it was the euphoria of knowing Crosshair was interested that made your head sway. Regardless, you had mere moments to make a move or let the opportunity pass. You dug into your pocket, fished out a pen, and scribbled a note on the top page of paperwork. Was it professional? Absolutely not. But the GAR would get over it. You left the papers by the door, making sure your note was turned to face it.

There's better soups on Coruscant. Let's go out sometime.

* * *

Vandor-3. Woodland outskirts. Autumn.

You were alone, standing in the middle of the training field, the early setting sun behind you casting a dim shadow across the remains of your latest training exercise. A chill was just starting to set in, causing you to tug at your jacket and pull it around you a bit tighter. You liked these moments, rare as they were recently. A quiet time to yourself. Not even to think, but simply to be. Present and comfortable. And you.

The wind picked up and sang through the taller blades of grass as a ship approached for landing. Your moment was over, but a new happiness settled in its place. Minutes later, the Havoc Marauder was opening its hatch and spitting out its soldiers.

"Captain," Hunter gave you a two-finger salute as he passed by.

"Sergeant," you returned with a smile.

Echo was close behind, giving you a respectful nod. Wrecker hauled a munitions crate in one hand and hit you up for a high five with the other. Tech was oblivious as he hunched over a data pad.

They filed by, one after the other, headed straight for the barracks, and what you hoped were the showers. They all knew not to linger, that you'd catch up with them later. This was your time with Crosshair.

The sniper was leaning up against the hatch opening, arms folded across a plastoid chest and a toothpick lazily perched between slightly curled lips. He took you in for a moment and you could feel yourself glowing in response to his soft gaze.

"Showing those clankers who's boss, I see," he said as he made his way down the gangway. He nodded his head toward the mess of scrap metal behind you.

You gave a half shrug. "My reaction time is getting better, but I still can't get the angles right with those pucks."

Crosshair inched up to you, gently resting his hands on either side of your waist. "Have you been doing the breathing exercises like I showed you?"

You nodded. Your hands instinctually came up to his run along his arms until they found the crook of his elbows, the only place not barring your touch by armor.

"And using the laser sight?"

You nodded a little slower and Crosshair tsked.

"I want to be good without it. Like you." You added a little extra honey to your words so he wouldn't reprimand you too much. It had been an adjustment for the two of you at first, he stepping into a training role and you stepping back to receive instruction for once. Thankfully the frustrations seemed to diminish the more your relationship progressed.

"You have to be patient," he said, giving your waist a slight squeeze to accentuate his point. "You aren't like the regs you train. You're building your skills, taking care of yourself."

You hummed, more in thought than agreement. "Will I ever have to use these skills someday, do you think? Is it really getting that bad out there?"

You tried not to think about how many soldiers you had trained only to be sent to a battlefield to die. How many of the shinies you were drilling right now would likely be killed soon. How many more would be brought in to take their place. You'd thought you'd known what you were getting yourself into with this job. But the relentless cycle of it all was getting to you more and more, especially as the Republic continued to be challenged in larger scales and higher stakes. It never seemed to end.

"It's hard to say," Crosshair responded. "We have to prepare for the worst."

You hated that answer, but you wouldn't let him see it. Not yet. Your fears and your displeasures, anger and sorrow, were things yet to be fully explored in this new relationship. All in due time. So you simply smiled, plucked the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it aside. 

"And hope for the best, right?"

He smiled back, or at least moved his mouth in the direction of a smile, as much as you could usually get from the reserved man. "Yes, of course."

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. You both closed your eyes and breathed each other in. There was warmth in his embrace. A promise in the steady hands he held you with. Vulnerability in the skin that gently touched yours. To have someone this close, someone who was still more stranger than friend, though no less beloved, was what you had always wanted. And for once, what you wanted was just as lovely and fulfilling as you'd hoped. No catch. No deals. No unintended consequences. Just you and him and happiness.

All too soon he pulled away. His hand sought yours as he turned in the direction of the barracks. The longer you stayed behind, the worse the teasing from the others would be. They were only respectful of your relationship to a point, and after that it was fair game for a laugh. So you willingly followed.

"Crosshair?"

"Hm?"

"I was thinking about Hunter...."

The sniper glanced at you suspiciously.

"Well, you know he and I have been friends for a while. And he's confided a few things in me before. About what he wants. Or thinks he wants. He's changed his mind a few times on the specifics. But all in the same gist."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I don't know, I just feel like I owe him for helping me get through a tough time. And if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have ever met you. So--"

Crosshair cut you off with a groan. "If you're trying to get me to play matchmaker..."

"It would get some of the attention off of us," you quickly offered. "If Hunter had someone he was bringing around, too. Or even just interested in."

Crosshair frowned in thought. "There was a bartender on Scarif he kept checking out..."

You grinned and squeezed his hand affectionately. "See? Just keep an eye out and nudge him a bit. Who knows what could happen."

You could tell he was trying not to roll his eyes for your sake. Instead he squeezed your hand in return. "Or you could come with us and nudge him yourself?"

Your walking slowed, right as you were about to cross the facility boundary line. You would have to let go of his hand once you crossed it, keep a professional distance, share your company with others. And once the Batch's business here concluded, then you would have to let him go and watch him disappear into the sky with all the prayers you could possibly send with him. And then you would be on your own. Waiting, waiting, always waiting. And maybe he would return, and maybe he wouldn't.

And heaven forbid you would ever end up alone again.

"Or you can stay," he said. The quietness of his voice betrayed what he really meant, what he really wanted. 

And you knew what you wanted, too. Without you realizing, it was getting easier and easier for you to define your desires. And not only that, but to pursue them, too. To know your happiness was worth the risk of disappointment. It was clear to you now that you were not only worthy, but also capable. The man standing before you, holding your hand, gazing at you like nothing else mattered, was proof enough.

And so you said, "Take me with you."

Every Character Tag: @dangerousstrawberrypie, @justanothersadperson93, @arctrooper69, @sleepycreativewriter, @techie-bear, @theroguesully, @cw80831, @cdblake1565

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[yuri-is-online]

hi, there! :D I hope to be on time for the event can I request :

(Finding a confession letter in your locker) With Silver, Jade and Deuce? Plz

22. Finding a confession letter in your locker

Hi hi you are very much on time of course you can （＾ワ＾）

Also just letting you know here, I did get your other request and do not mind answering it at all (though i am going to post some other ones first), in my og post I mentioned the prompts were limited by ask, so you submitted everything correctly, don't worry!

notes: they/them pronouns used for Yuu, fluff, Jade is a red flag as usual. Check out the rest of the event requests here.

Silver

There is an unfairly pretty looking man asleep in front of the gym lockers, face down, arms at his side, but with the light still hitting his hair just right way to make him look like he has a halo. You know that Silver won't be upset if you try to wake him, but as you kneel to do so, the slight creak of an unkempt hinge draws your attention up from your sleeping senior to your own slightly open locker.

Weird, you could have sworn you locked it at the end of class.

"Silver?" You decide to try calling out to him while you examine your locker for any sign of tampering beyond the obvious. "You good down there?" Nothing seems to have been taken, but something has been left: a letter. Gingerly, you remove and settle yourself on the floor next to Silver, gently shaking him as you open it.

Yuu,

I'm afraid that if I try to simply say to you how I feel, I won't be able to fully convey just how grateful I am to have met you, just how much you mean to me. But I want to try and give you a confession you deserve so please, meet me in the courtyard after your classes. I promise to say the words to you then.

-Silver

"I wasn't supposed to still be here when you read that." A muffled voice draws your attention back to Silver, who slowly pushes himself up to look into your eyes. "But since I am, I like you prefect." The words are simple, but the sincerity of his gaze adds the weight he was so afraid of missing.

Jade

You were screwed. The instant you saw the condition of the letter inside that lavender envelope you knew it was never meant to be seen, least of all by the person it was addressed to. The paper was hastily torn from a composition book, crumpled and lightly stained with what you assume from the scent is tea. No, you can't really picture someone as collected as Jade allowing the messy parts of his thoughts to be seen

You are a mystery I want to unravel

I never get tired of your voice

I want to be the first person they think of in the morning and the last thing they imagine at night. When they are alone I want them to long to return to my side, when someone hurts them I want to be the one who repays their enemies in kind. There is a word for these emotions, something that's as wonderfully unpredictable as it is painful-

A head rests on your shoulder, two strong arms pull you into an embrace that prevents you from seeing his face as a deep sigh tickles your ear, reciting from memory the destroyed portion of the letter-

"That word is love, I am in love with Yuu." Jade smiles into your neck as you shudder in surprise. "Since you are not attempting to run away, can I assume I have something of a chance?"

Deuce

"Is it just me or is Juice acting weird today?" Ace asks, slacking off away from Vargas's watchful eyes behind you and Grim. Not that you haven't noticed, but now that Ace mentions it- "I mean he's sneaking out of class, isn't PE the one he's actually good at?" You both look pointedly towards the lockers Deuce is not so sneakily heading towards with concern.

"Um, I'll be right back." You try to hide your concern but the judgmental faces that see you off suggest you aren't exactly successful. Deuce's broad shoulders disappear into the hallway and you attempt to calmly follow. Maybe he's sick? Or has forgot something? You run through so many scenarios that you fail to pay attention to where you are going and walk right into your target's back.

"Prefect!" Deuce jumps and you fluster, both of you look away from each other to the locker Duece had been standing in front of. "I'm sorry." He looks so embarrassed. You reach to open your locker as Deuce continues. "I really am sorry, it's just I thought really hard about the right way to confess but we have almost every class together..." Sure enough there's a letter sat neatly on top of your things, sealed with a neat spade sticker that leaves little doubt about who it's from.

"Technically you just did." You laugh and bring the letter close to your heart. "Meet me at Ramshackle after school."

"Why?" He asks, clearly nervous.

"Well you wanted to properly confess right? So let me properly answer." Technically the smile on your face already does.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Bouquet

Maybe he should have brought the other man some chocolates, or maybe roses would have been the better choice. Maybe he should have gotten him a card or one of those giant stuffed bears.

But surely, Harry thought as he marched through the halls of St. Mungo’s, he should have brought something other than himself.

Before he could do anything about it, though, he was in the door to Draco’s office, staring at him. His fingers were threaded through his hair where his head rested on his hand, his glasses (only worn when he was doing paperwork, Harry knew) were slightly crooked, and he yawned as he scratched more notes in with his quill. His healer’s robe was tossed over the back of his chair, leaving him in his slightly rumpled white button up and his grey slacks. He looked like a dream and Harry just wanted to scoop him up and hold him, let Draco rest his weary body against him.

Shaking his head at himself, he knocked on the door frame and Draco startled, snapping his attention to Harry.

“Harry!” he exclaimed, tossing his glasses on top of the pile of papers as he stood and made his way over, hands already reaching out to heal, “what is it? Are you alright? Have you torn out one of the stitches on your side?” he asked, fingers tugging the hem of Harry’s jumper up as he asked, “I told you that you needed to be careful-”

“I don’t want you to be my healer,” Harry blurted.

“What?” Draco asked, his hands falling away from Harry, face pinched in hurt, “why?” he whispered, before a professional mask snapped into place and he stepped back. “You’re welcome to do as you see fit,” he said, voice cool. “Has my care been insufficient in some way, Mr. Potter?”

“Draco,” he said, realizing his mistake. “That’s not what I meant.”

“So you do want me to be your healer?” he asked in confusion.

He shook his head, “no but only because St. Mungos has rules about that.”

“About what?” he asked, drawing his wand and casting a spell that Harry knew well.

“I don’t have a concussion,” he said. “Just,” he huffed and grabbed Draco’s hands in his. “I like you. I want to take you out to dinner, I want to get to know you better. And I want to eventually kiss you and hopefully do other stuff with you,” he added, delighted by the flush covering Draco’s cheeks. “But I can’t do any of those things if you’re my healer, so I’d like a new healer, please.”

Draco blinked and him, “and if I turn you down?”

“Then I’d still like a new healer because I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye. I’d rather let my injuries kill me in the field.”

He huffed a laugh. “Dramatic.”

“Are you turning me down?” Harry asked and he felt Draco’s hands squeeze his.

“Of course not, don’t be daft.”

The smile that split his face felt like it was almost too much, his whole chest was bursting with happiness. “What day would work for you?”

“Is today too soon?” he asked, glancing at his desk. “You’d have to wait a few minutes for me to finish my paperwork-”

“Today’s perfect,” he enthused. “I don’t mind waiting.” And today was the first day of many that Harry spent waiting for the other man, but Harry didn’t mind. He knew that some things were worth the wait.

——————————

Written for @hdcandyheartsfest prompt ‘bouquet’

[flamemittens]

maybe for morgayne and gortash?

Flower Language prompts from here!

Gortash x F!Durge. 1.3k words. *Act 3 spoilers*.

*Now extended and on AO3*

Black-eyed Susan - "Revenge tastes sweet, and so are you."

The first time she meets with him is shortly after the coronation ceremony.

Her companions do not want her to go alone, but Morgayne insists. It is better this way. There is an inexorable pull towards the man that she finds she cannot ignore, and he seems to have at least some of the answers she seeks—if he is telling the truth. They have heard the rumours—from whispers that coil in dark corners, to braver shouts that ring off the buildings and cobblestoned streets—all over parts of the city and its outskirts; in his rise from upstart lordling to city ruler and protector, he has used everything and everyone—whether at his disposal or not—to ascend.

She finds him upstairs in his office, as promised.

He assures her that their plans can still be brought to fruition. He confidently directs, explains to her what they should do, and Gods, that evasive something in her wants to listen. It is all so frustratingly, distantly recognizable. Hypnotic, in a way.

There must be more to it, she thinks. To them. She recalls the torn page she found in the Moonrise mindflayer colony, and its frenetic, tormented penmanship.

“Lord Gortash. Who were we to each other? Really?”

He seems to wince, for some reason, at her use of his title. After a brief silence, he finally offers his answer.

“I meant what I said in the audience hall. You can use that as a reference if you wish.”

Morgayne frowns. “As strange as it may seem, that does not make things much clearer. I only have more questions.”

“Well then. Allow me to fill in some more of the specifics for you, in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.”

“Please do.”

“Have a seat, then.” He sees her hesitate, and adds, in a strangely gentler tone, “I insist.”

They talk for an hour before she takes her leave.

--

She returns to him again a day or two later. She doesn’t really know what draws her there; perhaps it is this nostalgic, tenuous thread of intimacy and trust that she cannot yet determine the root of.

They talk further.

“How are your memories?” he asks, after a while.

Morgayne sighs. “It’s like trying to complete a puzzle but all the pieces are broken, scattered, and some will forever be missing. However, some things are coming back to me, I think. Slowly.”

Something like delight flares in his dark eyes. Something like hope.

She stays for longer this time.

“How was your Archduke, darling?” Astarion asks later as he sidles up to her on her return to the Elfsong, amusement plain on his beautiful features.

“He is not my Archduke” she counters flatly, feeling none of the conviction she tries so hard to imbue the words with.

--

“I heard you went to the Hells today” Gortash begins the next time she visits him. “You’ve been busy, my dear.”

“Yes” she confirms.

She tells him about it all, of Helsik, of Hope, of Nubaldin. Of what the self-important rock gnome revealed before she was compelled to sear the flesh from his bones, to burn away his smug grin—but not how she later felt she had been told part of the story before. That she keeps to herself for now. She speaks of the Master of the House, and how she robbed him blind.

Any other eyes on the scene would think he is not reacting, but she sees something subtle in the set of his jaw, the rise of his shoulders, the pitch of his eyes. How one clawed gauntlet grips the edge of the table, pressing marks into the oak, how the knuckles on his other tightly fisted hand are turning white. How he won’t even look at her, his gaze fixed on the floor as she talks.

“Raphael is dead” she finishes.

His eyes flick to hers eventually, the tension bleeding out of him faster than it bloomed.

“It’s…curious, isn’t it” he muses.

She doesn’t need to ask what he means.

--

As per their agreement, she goes to him after her duel with Orin.

She tells him what happened, down there in the dark. How she defied her father. How she lay there, drained and dead on the cold, bloodstained stone. How she came to be here now, telling him about it all.

“You have our—your revenge, then. And your freedom.”

She takes a mouthful of the Marsember Blush, lets it linger on her tongue before swallowing. It’s a balmy evening, and the wine is as refreshing as it is spicy.

“Yes. It would seem I do.”

He studies her with an almost unnerving intensity over the rim of his glass.

“I always knew, Mori.” is all he says.

That’s the name engraved on the inside of the ring she wears on her right hand, she thinks.

Her Archduke looks tired tonight.

--

The letter arrives the next afternoon, precisely crafted if a little concise, and mildly fragranced like his coronation invitation. She takes it to a quiet corner to read, drinking in its scent. His scent. It is one line, with an Upper City address at the bottom.

M Come to this address tonight. I can promise you it will be worth your while.” E

Later, she slips away from the others, but is intercepted by Jaheira on the landing outside their rooms. The older half-elf appears concerned. She can’t say it isn’t justified.

“I feel we are losing you.”

“Interesting that you should say that. I feel I am finding myself.” She packs as much of an apology as she can into her smile.

Jaheira looks as if she understands somehow. “Be careful, cub” she says, after a beat.

A short time later, Morgayne reaches the building in question. It’s a sprawling, well-appointed manor like many of those in the Upper City. She glances down one side of the building, spotting a tall trellis thick with ivy that scales up to a balcony. A fragment comes back to her then—heavy rain, gloved fingers slipping on the wood before finally reaching stone.

On entering, she is welcomed and led upstairs; she notices the guards, yes, but also the minimal staff, the thin coat of dust over almost everything—he does not come here much anymore, she recognises.

She is ushered into what she is informed are his personal chambers.

Gortash—Enver—sits at a desk, nearby a large chaise that faces an unlit fireplace. Multiple pages of what looks to be Steel Watcher schematics are spread over its surface. A decanter and tumbler, both half-filled with amber liquid, sit at his elbow. He is casually dressed, save for his golden gauntlets.

“Ah, there you are. You found your way here, at last.”

He rises as she approaches, walking around to stand in front of her.

She sees it all then, plain on his face. Relief. Pride. Desire.

He leans in with a confidence, a lover’s closeness that she supposes he has already earned, long ago. Something clicks into place as she smells the whisky on him—it’s less a moment of realization and more of a punch to the chest that steals her breath away—it speaks of the past, of hushed conversations and affection and trust.

The air seems to become warmer, thicker with every passing moment. He’s orchestrated all of this, she knows now. A tableau of echoes just for her.

She believes it all, feels the truth in it.

He kisses her then, and she kisses him back. It’s clumsy at first, like a musician trying to recall a once beloved tune, but she falls into the familiar rhythm soon enough. He trails his mouth along her jawline and pulls her flush against him, as one hand slides round the back of her neck and up into the base of her braid—the cool metal against her warm skin is…grounding.

“Stay here” he murmurs into her ear. “Where you belong. Don’t go back to them.”

And Gods help her, she stays.

[pipwasreal]

Day 19: forest + ritual sex

Alternate prompt today. Electrostimulation and toys just didn't seem to fit them as well as a thinly-veiled magical excuse to finger your best friend, y'know?

Characters: Charles Rowland, Edwin Payne

Content warnings: nudity, bondage, submission, outdoor sex, anal fingering, prostate massage, handjobs

"Just mix up some of that purple stuff and I'll toss it up the tree and that'll be job jobbed, won't it?" Charles says.

Edwin sighs.

"I wish it were that simple. The 'purple stuff', as you so eloquently term it, is a potent topical fungicide. This paranormal parasitic plant is more akin to mistletoe, and requires... a longer-term solution."

He fidgets nervously with the slim, grubby book in his gloved hands. Its cover is stained and torn.

"I believe I have found a ritual which should render the plant dormant and inert for as long as a century. However, it requires, among other components, ghostly... essence."

"Ghostly essence? What's that, then?"

"...seminal fluid."

"Spunk?!"

Edwin nods, avoiding Charles' eyes. He's bent the book almost into a cylinder in his hands.

Charles' grin fades. Edwin wouldn't joke about this. The bloody plant's been eating the living and the dead alike. Desperate times and all that.

"So, what? You want me to..."

Charles makes a wanking motion. Edwin looks pained.

"I am afraid the ritual is quite... specific. The... contributor must be on all fours above the bowl, within the circle of stones. The magic practitioner recites the incantation while... performing digital stimulation, to produce the maximum volume."

"What? Performing digital... let me look?"

Edwin glances down at the book rolled up in his hands. He tries to flatten it, running an apologetic hand over its cover, before finding the right page and handing the book to Charles.

Plain English text, thank fuck, if a bit heavy on the footnotes. Charles skims it, then laughs.

"Oh. You're going to have a finger up my arse. Why didn't you just say so?"

They gather the necessary equipment and mirror travel to the manor house whose grounds border the forest with the parasite problem.

It's a short walk to the clearing with the poor old oak. The otherwise bare branches are laden with clumps of the parasitic plant. Its long leaves flutter like ribbons, despite the still evening air.

They keep their distance, Edwin setting up his potion equipment at the edge of the clearing while Charles places conduit rune stones at key points around its perimeter. He creates a smaller circle within the circle, only about two meters wide, then anoints each stone with oil. And that's him done. Well, except for the whole ghostly essence thing.

"Strictly all fours... So I can't even touch myself?"

Edwin looks up from where he is kneeling, adding powdered components to a carved wooden bowl.

"I'm afraid not, Charles. But I will, of course, ensure you ejaculate. That is rather the point of all this."

Charles is pretty sure Edwin just offered him a handjob. Sorry, additional manual stimulation, or whatever. His pants feel a bit tight all of a sudden.

Edwin looks thoughtful.

"Do you want me to... bind your hands?" He offers. "To ensure you do not inadvertently move them?"

"That's probably a good idea," Charles admits, his voice only slightly strained. "I'll just. Get naked then."

As Charles strips, Edwin busies himself tidying and packing away his potion kit. He sets a little lantern down just outside the inner circle of stones and props the book open in front of it. Charles steps into the circle, trying not to feel self-conscious.

"Wrists out, please," Edwin requests. Charles obeys.

Edwin draws the string from his pocket. It streams from his hand, beginning to glow, and wraps itself warm and snug around Charles' wrists. He tugs experimentally but it doesn't budge.

"All fours, please," Edwin says, tone carefully neutral.

Charles kneels down, then settles forward on his forearms. The position forces his back to curve, arse tilted up. It feels incredibly bloody vulnerable. He shifts a little, lets the golden glow fill his vision.

A bare finger touches his back and he flinches.

"I apologise," Edwin says. "May I touch you?"

"Yeah, of course, mate. Sorry, you just startled me."

The finger returns, brushing lightly across his skin, drawing runes down his back with the same oil as he'd used on the stones. Lavender, apparently. Not that either of them can smell it.

Charles can hear Edwin mixing some oil into the powdered components with a little wooden spoon. Then he positions the bowl beneath Charles.

Charles is half-hard already. Just from the novelty, he expects. He doesn't often get his kit off outdoors. Definitely nothing to do with the imminent prospect of his best mate fingering him and tossing him off.

"Alright," Edwin says softly. "Let's begin."

He starts chanting under his breath, the same four phrases over and over. It's sort of soothing, rhythmic.

Edwin's palm settles on Charles' left arse cheek, and an oily fingertip gently circles his arsehole, then begins to rub more firmly. Charles gasps, then bites his lip to keep from making any more sounds. He doesn't want to distract Edwin, does he?

The finger presses in, and it sort of burns but also sort of feels amazing, and he's clenching so hard around it but he can feel himself slowly relaxing as Edwin thrusts it in and out, in time with his chanting.

Then his hand shifts and he presses in deeper and Charles suddenly has to really concentrate on not moving, because if he doesn't come in the bowl, this will all have been for nothing.

But his cock is so hard and so wet, twitching and leaking, and his hips keep trying to thrust into thin air and he thinks he might explode.

"Close. Touch me," he manages to pant out.

Edwin grabs his cock, and that single touch is enough. His hips stutter between fucking into Edwin's fist and fucking himself back on Edwin's finger and he comes so hard he whites out.

No, that's the stones. The inner circle is glowing, and now so are the ones around the edge of the clearing and everything is beautifully bright and still.

Charles collapses onto his side, laughing somewhat hysterically.

"Job officially jobbed," he wheezes.

[liminalmemories21]

Hi Lim!

A writing prompt: “You go first.”

He's walked in on any number of scenes at the firehouse in the last three year, from prank wars, to foosball competitions, to sweaty one upmanship in the gym. Sometimes they're even working, although not usually between the hours of 12-1pm unless the trucks are out on a call.

When he walks in today the entirety of the 126 is standing around the kitchen table staring at something.

"It was for you, Cap," Marjan says, and there's more than a hint of aggressive innocence in her voice. "You should take the first bite."

Owen makes a dubious noise. "It was for the firehouse, as Captain I should really eat last."

Carlos raises his eyebrows, and wonders what can possibly be on the table.

"So, reverse seniority?" Paul asks. "Mateo should go first."

He's familiar with the particular silence of Mateo trying to find a polite way to say hell no to food. Granted he's more familiar with it when Mateo is presented with something Owen has made that he claims is a healthier version of something that usually tastes good, but Owen doesn't seem eager to eat whatever it is either.

He finds TK on the other side of the table, eyeing whatever it is with the expression Carlos usually reserves for the live crickets they give Lou II as a treat. He tries to peer at the table, but Judd is a solid wall in front of him, and he gives up and clears his throat.

"Hi guys."

They all turn and look at him with eerily identical expressions. "Carlos should go first, he's a guest," Nancy says triumphantly.

TK opens his mouth, hopefully to defend him from whatever the hell it is that's on the table, and then shuts it abruptly on a squawk when Tommy clearly steps on his foot, and really he wouldn't have suspected that of Tommy.

"What should I try?" he asks, and hopes he doesn't sound quite as filled with trepidation as he is.

"Kendra brought Cap a present," Judd offers, and Carlos narrows his eyes, because there's definite amusement in Judd's voice.

"Kendra very kindly brought a present for the station," Owen corrects. "She was in Italy on business recently and brought us back some cheese."

"Okay," he says slowly, because there has to be more to this story than a wedge of Parmesan. "What kind of cheese?"

Tommy flips open a card and reads, "Casu Marzu is a traditional sheep's milk cheese from Sardinian. Once considered a rare delicacy it has now been classified as a traditional food and is being introduced in the finest restaurants."

The name rings a very faint bell in his head and he steps up to the table with more curiosity. TK elbows his boss. "Read the rest of the card."

Tommy eyes the cheese and grimaces. "The ancient traditional cheese making process is further enhanced by the larva of cheese flies hatching inside the ripening cheese and adding to the fermentation process." She pauses. "The larva may be removed before consuming, but many people consider them to add a subtle nuance to the flavor and be an integral part of the experience."

He takes a hasty step back, hands behind his back. Judd snorts, but Carlos notices that he's a safe foot away from the table. "And you're actually planning on eating it?" he says faintly.

"You're a foodie," Paul says mildly.

He glares at him. "So are you."

Paul shakes his head emphatically. "That shit's moving. I gotta draw the line somewhere."

He shudders and swallows hard. TK comes around the edge of the table and takes his hand. "Don't worry baby, I won't let them make you eat Dad's weird cheese."

"Dirty," Nancy mutters, and TK scowls at her.

There's a noise behind them and Buttercup wanders in, visibly torn between demanding affection from all of her favorite people and the food on the table. Carlos eyes her and then the cheese and then her again. "What if," he says slowly, "what if you said you were about to try the cheese and then a call came in and Buttercup ate it while y'all were out."

"We are not feeding that cheese to Buttercup," TK objects, horrified.

He shakes his head. "No, we put the cheese in the dumpster," or the incinerator he thinks privately. "You just tell Kendra that Buttercup ate it."

Paul leans around Marjan to high five him. "I take back what I said about the pudding cup. You, sir, are a criminal mastermind."

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

Can I please request 🤹📖🩹❤️

Please Stay a While Longer (Please Stay Forever) - Abner Krill/Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, doctor!reader, gender-neutral reader, no use of Y/N, S.T.A.R. Labs era!Abner, training injuries, brief implications of parental abuse/neglect.

Wordcount: 1600

Summary: He was in your office again today, and you really wished you'd never have to see him sitting there ever again.

Notes: If you wanna join me in the Misery Parade, listen to this song as you read ;w; this ended up being a LOT more angsty than I expected when I saw the prompts, but man sometimes things just write themselves and you gotta go with the flow, y'know? I'll do something more comfort than hurt the next time I get that prompt, I promise!

The sight before you was a familiar one, you’d seen it almost every day since you’d started working there a year and a half ago. You were in your office when they’d arrived, almost as if on cue, the clock reading just after 4PM; training had started an hour ago, 3PM sharp as usual, he’d lasted longer this time, but still, he was there all the same, outfit torn and body sporting new burns.

You’d commended him at first at the growing knowledge of his strength, impressed with his ability to hold it in as salve was pressed to circular marks, angry and blistered but never drawing blood, so unlike the people he’d gone up against. Now you just felt sad, knowing that it wasn’t strength, it was resolve, acceptance, something forced upon him so they could drag him out again the next day to do it all over again.

He was used to it, numb to it, that’s all it truly was.

His jumpsuit was undone and bunched around his hips as you examined him, his eyes anywhere but on you and himself as he occasionally let out the odd hiss or whimper when your medical tools poked and prodded a little too hard, a whisper of apology falling from your lips each time. You didn’t want to hurt him any more than he already was, you’d learned during your short time here that that was always a possibility for him and his siblings, but he’d gotten banged up pretty hard during the training session today and it needed to be taken care of before She let it get worse.

And She would, if you didn’t do anything about it now, he was only allowed to visit your little office because it was close to Her personal corner of the building and he complained too much otherwise, after all.

‘This will only hurt a little,’ you promised him, seeing the way he braced himself as his hand clenched over his thigh when you raised the antiseptic-coated cotton swab to his side where one of his older wounds had been reopened. The coldness of it made him flinch for just a second as you offered another apology, but he didn’t accept it, something like that was nothing compared to what he was there for. Thankfully, his powers would do most of the work, the colourful dots inside of him mercifully offering him the ability to heal faster along with the curse to destroy in an instant, but you still wanted to do this much for him before it faded away to yet another scar.

He was covered in them by now, the dots never breaking the skin unlike his targets but still leaving behind reminders that he hadn’t been careful enough, he’d been too distracted or tired or, worst of all, stopped caring enough to want to defend himself anymore, and you once again found yourself wanting to offer him more than just a fresh bandage and a silent wish (plea) that you wouldn’t have to see him again the next day. But it was an impossible dream, more impossible than the virus that showed itself under his skin if he didn’t keep training, lighting him up from the inside with the constant threat of bursting, his scars a mesh to hold it all in until they couldn’t any longer.

Your hands hesitated as the peroxide bubbled over the wound, your throat tightening as he waited patiently for you to be done so he could go back to his room and wait to do this all over again tomorrow.

‘Why do you let her do this to you?’ you couldn’t help but ask, fingertip brushing against the edges of a pale scar long since healed. He didn’t answer at first, you two never talked when he could get away with staying silent, and today your voice seemed to catch him off guard, your soft tone so unlike what he normally had to hear.

‘Do what?’ he asked back just as softly, like he truly didn’t know what you were talking about.

‘Hurt you like this.’ The liquid ran down his side and soaked into his outfit, three more polka-dots needing to be sewn into it to show everyone of today’s fumbles along with all the previous ones.

‘It was my own fault, I wasn’t paying attention, I’ll do better next time, I’m sorry.’ It came out so calmly, practiced like he’d said it a million times before and he probably might have considering who his mother was. It made your chest hurt to hear it, your lip quivering as you tried to be strong for him, but for all his silence and refusal to pay attention to himself, he was so observant of you, his eyes finally landing on the top of your head as you kneeled by the wax paper covered bed. ‘Why’re you sad?’ he whispered, like if he raised his voice any higher then his own might break, and when you blinked your vision blurred for just a moment.

‘If you could leave this place, would you?’ you wanted to know, his body stiffening in your peripherals as he thought about it, the silence stretching on for so long that it made you wonder if you’d offended him for making him think of freedom, of a life outside of the windowless room he called home, away from his remaining siblings and the woman who kept them all there.

‘I… I don’t know,’ he answered honestly, back arching as he slumped forward, his shoulders sagging and dark eyes so tired as you looked up at him.

‘Abner, you don’t have to stay here,’ you tried to tell him, your hand finding his on his lap, the first real contact you’d ever made outside of fixing him up; his fingers instinctively curled over you as he cautiously flipped his own hand to hold yours, probably the only kind touch he’d received in years. His eyes rested on your clasped hands before they finally met your own, a sadness unlike anything you’d ever experienced before hiding behind them making your breath catch in your throat like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

‘Yes I do.’

A tear rolled down your cheek before you could stop it, a miserable smile on his face at your empathy for someone as unworthy as him. The hand not holding yours reached up to brush it away before he caught himself, said sorry for touching you even as he held your hand a little tighter, unable to let himself let go. You let out a shaky sob as you rested your head on his lap, feeling him still again before letting his free hand lay over your head, almost pulling away at first before deciding otherwise. He ran his fingers through your hair, offered you comfort even though he was the one who was hurting, and you once again wished (begged) that you wouldn’t see him again tomorrow.

I love you, your mouth longed to say, you having fallen for him more and more with every visit ever since the first time you’d met him; your breaking heart was torn between longing to see him, this the only time he was allowed to leave the highly secured and reinforced floors he roamed, and never wanting him to have to visit ever again. Not seeing him meant he was fine, safe, unhurt for once in his life between the testing and the training and the pain and the loss that haunted him like a growing collection of phantoms. Not seeing him meant that he was okay.

You wanted so badly to get him out of there, to let him experience the world again after a near lifetime of knowing only this, but as you sighed into the costume that’d been so painstakingly tailored just for him, his rainbow-speckled prison suit with the gauntlets that allowed him not only the ability to destroy but also to keep himself alive as his silver slotted shackles that bound him to this place, to his siblings, to Her, you knew that it was impossible.

I love you, so please don’t go back there.

One of the scientists working for Her appeared in the doorway, still flipping through his clipboard and giving you just enough time to sit back up, his hands leaving you as he stood on command, suit back in place once more before you could finish your work; it’d still heal, but it’d be messy compared to the others without your bandages to shield him, the only protection you could offer as the man in the door motioned for him to follow.

He had a few more tests to do now that he’d ruined their training session, the man told him without even looking up, She wanted to see if exposing him to the dimension the dots came from again would allow him a little more resistance against them, maybe remove the need to expel them five times a day, your body frozen on the floor in the most unprofessional manner as he glanced back at you over his shoulder, a forced smile trying to tell you it’d be okay, he’d be okay.

‘Don’t go…’ you finally managed to say but it was too late, he was gone again.

It’d be okay though, just like he promised, you knew it would be as you curled in on yourself now that you were alone again, your hand burning like a peroxide-dabbed wound or a beautiful and deadly polka-dot.

He’d be back again tomorrow, after all.

[dross-the-fish]

So, it's probably not wrong to assume that Adam wouldn't mind anon dragging him on a nature walk/hike? 😳

He absolutely wouldn't! It would be one of his favorite activities. I placed this shortly after Adam's arrival in England, everything is still a little new to him.

....

 “What has you so excited today?” Adam asked as Anon practically danced up to him one morning.

“I found a new path through the woods!” they exclaimed reaching for his hand, “I want you to come and explore it with me.”

Adam could hardly contain his smile, “Oh? What’s this? You wish to embark into forests unknown? Most would call that unwise, little friend.”

“That’s why I’m bringing you, that way if there’s anything dangerous, I know you’ve got my back,” they grinned impishly, prompting a laugh from Adam.

“I suppose I am more terrifying than most things we’ll encounter. Shall we pack some provisions and venture out at noon?”

Anon nodded eagerly and raced to the kitchens to begin selecting snacks to bring. By the time the grandfather clock in the parlor struck noon they were waiting, pack in hand, by the front door for Adam.

“I see you didn’t waste any time,” Adam gave them a pat on the shoulder and opened the door for them, “Lead the way to this path of yours!”

Once they set foot outside Adam couldn’t help slowing his pace to a leisurely stroll. It was spring, and every branch and stem sported brilliant blooms. The warm breeze carried the clean fragrance of new life waking after a long winter and Adam paused to soak it in for a moment.

Impatient as Anon was to get to their path they couldn’t help but find it a little endearing how Adam seemed to take so much pleasure in such a small thing. They waited for him to resume their walk and when he caught their eye, he tilted his head.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked.

“Nothing,” they replied, the smile broadened and without another word they took his hand.

They walked like that, in comfortable silence until a motorcar appeared down the road and Adam suddenly released Anon’s hand and darted into a copse of trees, ducking out of sight. The car passed and Adam tentatively crept back onto the road.

“Do you think anyone saw me?” he asked anxiously.

Anon frowned, “You know, you can’t always hide every time you see strangers. I promise no one is going to let you get hurt,” they assure him, reaching again for his hand.

Sheepishly, Adam drew back, “I know,” he said quietly, “but it’s still new to me, to be around people again. My appearance has never gone over well and I’m afraid if the wrong person sees me, it could end…badly,” he gestured at his tattered cheek.

“Because you’re afraid they’ll attack you?” Anon asked.

Adam’s face darkened, the contortion of his features causing the slackened skin of his torn cheek to draw taut and expose more of the red-brown flesh and glints of copper wire underneath, “That, and because I do not know how I will react should they scream and call me ‘monster.’ I may be incited to anger and they may end up dead. I am making my peace with mankind for the sake of Dr. Watson and yourself but I do not yet consider myself friend to the human race. I have not practiced benevolence since my birth and it is coming to me more slowly than I had hoped. Until I am confident that I am master of my rage I wish to avoid provocations.”

He looked down at Anon, studying their face for some sign of condemnation or disgust. He would forgive them if it was there, he knew his ugliness was more than skin deep and he would make allowances for Anon to be repulsed by his nature.

Anon regarded him for a moment, a frown crossing their features. Slowly they held out their hand to him again, reaching out in a gesture of acceptance and unexpected kindness.

Adam swallowed back a lump in his throat and grasped their hand. They smiled softly and led him onward, to a branch in the road where the afternoon sun was swallowed up by dense trees and the cobblestone broke away into to a crooked dirt path that was nearly hidden by foliage. The forest thickened, the air became dense with the sound of birds and the rustle of life moving in the underbrush. The most wonderful lush, green, smell wrapped around them as they descended, deep into the wood.

As they walked Adam was keen to stop and pick interesting blossoms, pulling a small book out of his vest pocket and pressing them between the pages to preserve them. He felt the bark on each tree, running his hands fondly over the knots of gnarled oaks and the deep groves of firs, grinning at the soft mosses and laughing in delight as when they crossed paths with a waddling badger sow and her cubs.

“I saw such creatures in Bavaria.  I know them as Dachse, how are they called in English?”

“Badgers,” Anon replied, unable to keep from grinning, Adam’s joy was infectious and they were glad they had brought him on their hike. As they continued Adam would point out creatures or plants and ask for their English names, which Anon was more than happy to supply. Their walk led them to a small clearing and they agreed it was a good place to rest and eat their lunch.

Pulling a blanket out of their pack anon spread it out so they could sit. Adam, at ease and comfortable in Anon’s presence stretched out on his side with his head propped on his elbow and helped himself to a buttered scone. Though he didn’t need to eat much for sustenance he found himself unable to resist eating for pleasure when the food was a rich pastry. It certainly was a nice change from the unseasoned fish and tough roots he’d had to consume in the artic. He’d considered it lucky when a shipwreck yielded him an apple barrel and he was able to taste fruit again.

As he licked crumbs from his fingers he paused, noticing Anon was watching him with that same affectionate smile from before on their face, “What?” he asked.

Anon buttered their own scone and giggled a little, “Oh, nothing, I’m just glad to see you happy for once.”

Adam smiled back, feeling suddenly shy, “How can I not be happy when I have such a good friend to share their time with me?”

[toytanks]

!!!!!!!!!!! Billford prompts?!?!?!?!!!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!?!!!!!!!!!!!

Okikokokokokokkkok soso like. It was hard for me to decide but I think 38 would be good?? But also 36 but also like 80% of them so. So. I'm deciding 38. That is my decision I am locking it in. Or 36.

Fuckkkkkkk okokokokokok so I. Have decided. Yes 38. 38. Yes. "You are never going to let me go, are you?"

That is- that is what I have chosen. 38. No rush. Have fun with it. It's also ok if you don't finish it. Cause I'm saving that list for later.

filled under the cut or can be read on ao3 here!

“You're never going to let me go, are you?” Ford smiled, teasing the demon, but ultimately relaxing into Bill’s grip. The demon’s tentacles slithered up and down his extremities, soothing the man as he hung in dream-space. His eyes wandered across the cosmic back drop, looking without seeing, drifting amongst the familiar stars but not recognizing them. There was a pleasurable buzz in the back of his mind that kept him content. It was probably Bill.

Ford could hear the smile in his voice when Bill replied. “Of course not Fordsy! You're mine, aren't you?” The sound thrummed in the space around them rather than coming from one specific point--Bill’s triangular form was around somewhere. 

Ford blushed. “Y-yes.” The tentacles around his limbs tightened, holding them in place as the urge to fidget welled up within him. He squirmed weakly in their grip. The demon hummed for a moment, just long enough for Ford to realize just how undignified he looked.

“Exactly!” Bill said suddenly, floating up next to him and--oh. So that's where he's been. The demon cups his now burning cheeks, soft hands tracing abstract patterns on his face. “I'm gonna keep you around forever, IQ, just you wait!”

Ford can't keep the grin off his face. "I hope you do."

~~~

“Wow Fordsy, I’ve gotta say–I’m impressed!” Bill tugged on the collar around Ford's neck, drawing the man close. A growl built up in the back of his throat as the urge to thrash in an attempt to harm the demon, but Ford exercised restraint. They were in a desolate dimension, and as much as he hated to admit it, Bill was his only life line. Violence would get him nowhere.

“Still chasing me after all these years.” His eye curved, amused. “You're never going to let me go, are you?”

Bill’s hands find their way into Ford's hair, tugging slightly. Ford's disgusted, mostly at how good it feels, and it pushes his self control over the edge. 

“Never.” He hisses, unparalleled venom in his voice. “You will never get away from me.”

~~~

“I'm glad you didn't let me go.” 

It's a whisper of a statement, an unwilling truth torn from a scarred heart. Passion and devotion displayed for him, it's a confession of sin as much as it is love. Ford doesn't look at him.

Bill hums as he smooths his hands through the ex-human’s hair, enjoying the shudder that runs through Ford's body at the familiar sensation. Bill guides his head to face him, but Ford still avoids his gaze. Bill laughs.

Truly, he adores when Ford is like this, pliable and devoted and vulnerable. It reminds him of old times. He smiles when their eyes finally meet, and it's not the same. Ford's eyes are as much full of tentative fear as they are worship, the knowledge of the divine punishment that comes with overstepping boundaries. A bolt or two jump between the chains that Ford wears, but they do not reach him. He's been good, and Bill doesn't feel like hurting him today. Ford blushes at the prolonged contact and it's almost disappointing not having the same blind trust as before, but while the past doesn't repeat, it does rhyme, and Bill thinks he might like this Ford better.

Fingers trace the researcher’s lip as Bill remembers the topic at hand. "I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit here, bud!" Bill smiles brightly, all sharp teeth and dark promises, laughing as he pulls his toy close. “You're the one who chased me.”

[golby-moon]

tried out an Animal Crossing-esque style for this prompt in @dbh-found-family's Detroit: Become Family event. I'm always torn between drawing Connor in professional clothes and giving him neon eye-searing monstrosities like Hank definitely has stashed away for vacations. today I've gone with the latter

Prompt 5:

(the bonus is because I'm soft so enjoy that)

for the clothing colors, I actually closed my eyes and took a trip around the color wheel as well as the thing that determines the color's shade (I have no idea what the real names for any of these are) and Hank somehow ended up with a good outfit by the end while Connor looks like a clown. not unlike the clothes offered in the Animal Crossing games

(05/15/23)

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

Fan Fic Writer Asks! 5, 9, 14, 23, 24, 27

5. What’s a fic idea you’ve had that you will never write?

At this point, probably any fic I had in mind for Emma/Scott, though I shouldn't say never on the off-chance my waned but still existent love for them might rear its head one of these days. I mean, I started the AvX/Wicker Man fic, but I doubt I'll ever finish it at this point. Oh I'd had a great idea YEARS ago for a Curt Wild/Arthur Stuart (Velvet Goldmine) fic. Nothing huge but very sweet and kissy-sexy and romantic, and it was based on one of the quotes in the movie. I have only the vaguest notes for it, and I can't for the life of me now remember what the fuck I was going to do with it. Chances are, I'll probably never write it, but I keep the notes in case one day my brain is sparked enough to remember what I was going to do OR something wholly new comes to me for it.

9. Do you write every day? If you wrote today, share a sentence of what you’ve written!

I definitely try to write every day. Sometimes the brain doesn't want to, and no matter what I do to coax it or appease it, it will not let the words come. I haven't written anything yet today, but I'll post the last sentence I wrote last night before I crawled into bed. It's from a Winteriron fic for my adoptable prompt "resolved sexual tension" (which is replacing a bingo square):

"Tony, having decided to use himself as bait to draw the outsiders to them, had almost been shoved into that room with the others, but Bucky came to his rescue."

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

Two, actually. I mean probably more but some of those are WIPs, so I'll give two finished fics.

Never Piss Off a Telepath; Or How Logan Opened His Mouth and Said a Stupid Thing

Behind Blue Eyes

23. How do you choose where to end a chapter (if you have multi-chapter works)?

It really depends on what I'm writing. Obvious choice is the resolution of the situation in the chapter. It's ready to move on to the next bit. Sometimes it's the complete opposite - nothing is resolved, but there needs to be a chapter break for another chapter that either could go into a flashback or even bounce to another set of characters/another scene elsewhere. The 'resolution' of what was happening in the other chapter can always come during this new chapter as whatever else was going on led up to what's going to be the resolution. It's pretty instinctual for me, though. It's whatever feels organic at that moment I'm writing.

24. Share a moodboard for (one of) your current WIP(s).

This is for the first part of my Is this a Dagger? series. I made a mood board last night, but it's for the Tony's Birthday Gala event, and since it's a part of the prompt I claimed, I can't post it yet - it's a surprise.

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?

Probably my very first fanfic that I'd written for the Jay & Silent Bob Yahoo group I'd joined. I was the new kid, and I wrote a fic, and I threw it out there, but it was like tossing out my first poetry submission to my grad school poetry workshop in the first semester. I put it out there and fully expected it to be torn apart, but it wasn't.

Thanks for the asks!

Fanfic Writer Asks.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

"Don't you dare wake them up." A reversal of my previous prompt, this time it’s Caleb ensuring that Beau gets some well-deserved rest.

29. "Don't you dare wake them up."

Caleb does not pretend to know the intricacies of Beau's relationship with Dairon, whatever that relationship may be. He is no stranger to the complexities of a mentor-student relationship, all the ways one's intestines can be knotted up and torn apart after what to the outside world would seem like a normal conversation. Having Dairon here in the Xhorhaus is helpful, he thinks, but maybe it is difficult for Beau, having a reminder of the Cobalt Soul's tight grip on her so close at hand.

It is no wonder, then, when she retires to bed early, citing a headache brought about by too much whiskey. No one pays much attention, the others too excited to dip into the hot tub or, in Caduceus's case, to tend to their little rooftop garden. Nott, however, quickly gets bored, unwilling to stick even a toe into the bubbling water, and she translates that boredom into trying to goad Jester into some fun.

"Let's go trick Caduceus into thinking the tree is talking to him!"

"Mmm, I don't know, he's probably just gonna actually talk to the tree."

Nott paces around the edge of the hot tub, careful not to get too close to the water. "We could scry on Essek, see what he's up to."

"Probably something boring." Jester's eyes light up. "Do you wanna go see what happens when we dump everything in the kitchen into a bowl and try to make a cake out of it?"

"But then what will we eat for breakfast?"

Jester sinks into the water. "Oh yeah."

Rolling his eyes, Fjord suggests, "Why don't you just go draw dicks on Beau's face while she's sleeping?"

Caleb watches the hellfire alight in Nott and Jester's eyes, but before either of them can twitch a muscle, he says firmly, "Don't you dare wake her up."

Jester pouts. "But we'll be super sneaky. She'll never even feel it, I promise."

Caleb settles his best glare on her, and he watches her relent. "Beau has had enough dicks for today." He could slap himself. "I mean, she has dealt with enough dickish people. Let her sleep."

"Fine." Jester sinks fully below the water, which Caleb cannot imagine is good for her, but she pops up again on the other side of the hot tub almost immediately, dousing a shrieking Nott in water.

"I'm going to kill you!" Nott screeches, scrambling for her crossbow as Jester cackles back against Fjord, and Caleb thinks that maybe Beau had the right idea about going to bed early after all.

[againstme]

we had a group today with self expression as the topic. the staff member handed out sheets of copy paper and colored pencils. he told us to draw a portrait of our future selves.

now, i usually have a pretty imaginative mind. i can visualize an apple being torn into shreds vividly in my brain right now. when i listen to music, i'm seeing a whole music video in my head. with books, a whole movie. that's how my brain is.

but when i thought about my future, my mind was blank. completely pitch black. an empty void, where no sound can get in or out.

and i tried, many times, to sort of reload the prompt in my brain, shake the eight ball to see if i'd get some sort of answer. but every time, pitch black nothingness.

it felt so empty.

i felt so empty.

i put nothing on my paper. i couldn't get anything out. it didn't help that i haven't been able to pick up a pencil and do actual art in over 6 months, that i just tend to stare at the paper, unable to move my hand in the general direction of my bag with my art supplies.

once time was over for that prompt, we went around, sharing what we drew. everyone had put something down, had some sort of idea, a vision, for what their future was going to look like, what they wanted to do.

and i had nothing.

i didn't have anything when we were given the next prompt to draw a portrait of our current self, either. nothing would come out. yet again, another pitch black void.

and i felt so out of place when looking around the room, seeing everyone scribbling on their papers, grabbing different colored pencils and erasing. while i just did nothing.

i felt like i was in school again. i could feel myself starting to cry. i put my hood on and put my head down on the desk, arms wrapped around my head.

i guess the work that i had to show was that i feel empty. and that i feel like i don't exist, that i feel like i have no direction, no idea what i want to do. i feel lost. my current self feels like a freak. a weirdo. i didn't want to put that down; i didn't want to be so negative in front of so many people.

so i put nothing.

i guess what i'm feeling is nothing.

[savebatsartedition]

Whumptober 2024 Day 18

Summary:

Mitsumi gets ready for her next contest. She has a little bit of blood on her hands, and it's hard to wash. Prompt: REVENGE | Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.”

Notes:

This is kinda inspired by one of last year’s goretober drawings that I made? (The one of her killing him, duh, since that’s what this is.) Content Warnings: Past revenge murder, references to cults and brainwashing, blood, dissociation, mentions of attempted suicide Words: 2,034

(Fic also under the cut.)

Mitsumi smiled at her reflection in the mirror. As expected, it smiled right back at her, and both of their faces broke into grins. The green haired woman reached out and touched her fingers to the glass, smudging it slightly as she made connection with the her on the other side. She swore she had never seen this mirror grinning so happily, and that made her grin even more, because, of course, he was that woman in the mirror.

She let her fingers slide off of the glass, humming a little tune to herself as she got to fixing her hair. (It had slid mostly out of her ponytail on the way here, and it was mighty frizzy around the edges.) Her fingers slid through the familiar green strands without all that much resistance, in fact, it was only a few times that her uneven nails caught in the tangles and clumps they found there.

She wished she had given herself a little more time to prepare for today, because this didn't really look like herself. (Nor did that girl in the mirror, so small looking in those familiar halls.) She had tangled hair, stained fingers, and nail polish that was chipped much of the way to the skin,  Plus, her hat was crooked, and one of her tall back socks had torn at the knee, revealing wet red patches underneath. Honestly, she was a bit of a wreck!

She slowed the pace of her fingers through her hair, thinking for a moment of how she had gotten into this state. She'd asked Jun for a ride on Dragonite, dropped off into the woods, and... and... and then what?

She stopped for a moment, her heart quickening. No, that couldn't be it. That was ridiculous. A dream. The dream of a silly girl. She wasn't a silly girl, not anymore. (Nor had she ever been.) She was a young woman, and she didn't have time for ridiculous dreams quite like that.

All that mattered was that she was there now. Flattening down her ruffled skirt, adjusting her hat, cleaning the blood from her face, checking her teeth for any imperfections, changing her dirty socks, and fixing up her hair. It was just like getting ready for a contest (in fact, she had one right after this), even if the bright lights around her were not those of the stage or the changing room.

Really. The whole thing was quite familiar. Not a dream, not a wish or a fantasy. Just life, and she and the girl in the mirror were living with it. (Not in it, no, with it. Mitsumi had long since told that girl that their life was not really theirs to live. ...somehow she still hadn't kicked that habit.)

Her humming clipped to a halt before starting up again, and she almost laughed as she compared herself to the skipping CD player in Professor Rowan's office. Repeating the same line over and over, clarinets on an endless path to breathlessness as their notes rang on and on, the vocalist doing a sort of magic as their voice slipped and jumped. She was like that poor CD player, a little broken, but good enough for the job if you took out the insides and cleaned them off first.

She finished up her hair, checking how it looked on the girl in the mirror as soon as she could manage it. She felt her smile slip slightly as the lights caught her eye, and the girl in the mirror did the same. (There was still a hint of red on her cheek, Mitsumi reached out to rub it off, but almost jumped when she realized that it was her own skin that was still stained.) 

The lights gave it all away, really. They always had. The last time Mitsumi had been here, her eyes had been red to the point of worrying for her health, and her cheeks had been wet with tears, not blood. But now, as she stood in the brightly lit bathroom that she had promised herself that she would never see again, her eyes were completely dry.

Almost curiously, she reached up and touched the spot of red on her cheek, finding that her fingers too were a little rustier than they normally should have been. She stared, and her yellow-green eyes stared back. They were wide, shocked, and easy to fool. (She chided the girl in the mirror not to show her emotions so easily, but quickly realized that it was pointless.)

Huh. Had she really done it then?

She reached out and turned on the sink, running the water until it was painful to put her hands into before splashing it onto her stained cheeks. When the water hit them, her face grew redder, until it was nearly impossible to tell where the blood had been in the first place, so well it matched the with the blood under the skin it sat on.

She reached for the cloth that hung next to the lightswitch. (Yes, the building owners had been rich enough to put actual towels into their bathrooms. They cared about the little things like that. Making things perfect, bright, in their image.)

Maybe it was fitting that the towel got little pieces of skin and blood smudged all over it, if it was supposed to be like them.

Satisfied that her face and hands were clean, she moved to her knees. She was almost certain that the red there was mostly born of her own torn skin, but not fully. Really, the two of them had been quite similar, if you got next to the bones and brain of them.

The same walk, talk, battle style (to completely crush, to kill), and personal understanding of their place in the world (to do whatever Cyrus wanted). They had been quite similar, if they had been born as siblings or friends, it might have even been a good thing.

Despite herself and the blood on the towel in her hands, Mitsumi couldn't help but smile at that. Imagine. Her and Cyrus. Friends. What an interesting world that would be.

She looked up at the girl in the mirror, but found she couldn't be seen. Perhaps she was crouched down on the lemon-smelling tiles just as Mitsumi was, so in her place was just the ceiling. Spiderweb free, carefully trimmed, decorated with a single ornate fan in the center. (It was patterned ruby red, a wish for the chain, but a reflection of the splatters on the floor as Mitsumi stared up at it.)

Shakily, she pulled herself to her feet, deciding that her injuries were clean enough and that the torn socks that covered them did a good enough job at covering the stains that covered her lower legs. She was going to have to ditch her boots, unfortunately, but she knew she could get herself another pair. They were the popular kind, making the green haired girl in a mirror a reflection of not only the stained tiles around her, but also the hearts and minds of so many other people in the region.

Who would she be if she didn't have a second opinion to completely change her own?

Maybe there was even a new style in the fashion magazines. Something with strings, like the strange tournament leaders of the TCG Islands? Something with stripes and floral patterns, like the picturesque photos of sandy beaches and worm holed skies that so often came in from Alola? Something that would help her get her mind off of herself, something that would let her become someone else again.

It always felt better to be led into violence than to be the one doing it. Maybe she had forgotten that when she had lifted the gun that day. (And maybe she had forgotten it again when she had lifted it again. ...and again. ...and again.) 

It had felt right, and the girl in the mirror gave her no indication that it should be any other way. Her eyes were dry, her mouth did not twitch either way. She was exactly as he had always trained her to be. Cold. Calculating. All her words in her own head and all of her blood kept clear of the floor.

The only thing different, really, was that he was not there to praise her for it. Her earpiece was missing, and she could almost imagine that she was just cleaning up before a trip into the tech wing to ask Saturn for a replacement. (The whole building seemed to treat her better if she cleared the dirt and blood from under her fingernails, even if it had been the very thing to put it there in the first place.)

She felt a little jump in her heart. Excitement? Regret? A jolt of the person who she should have been?

She adjusted her hat again, even though she didn't need to.

She didn't really have to be there, of course. She could go home. She should go home. She should step out of the bathroom, wipe the blood from the soles of her shoes on the carpet at the door, and warp outside of the confines of the underground. She could do it, even if she had been defenseless, she could always do it.

Nobody here knew how to do a thing without orders anyway. If she hadn't been able to turn away from that darker part of herself in the moment where her training became really and truly real, how could someone trained to wait for her break from theirs?

And yet...

She had owned this building with a bloody fist, but now that her strings had been cut her she was really the one holding her wrist in place, she wasn't fully sure how to use her power. She had a contest later that day, and so long as the news didn't catch onto her bloody footprints and missing boots, she could surely steal the nighttime air with her twirls and firespins. It was what she did, what she lived for.

It was the one thing that the girl in the mirror didn't always seem to understand.

She made a final decision on her hat, tearing it from her still messy hair and hugging it to her chest. (For some reason it was heaving. Maybe this all was more than she had ever bargained for.) She took a shaky step towards the door, slipped out of her boots and ducking her head into the red of the white hallway as she did.

She had killed before. Many times in fact. He had told her to, and she had done it. She'd almost killed her favorite Eevee, she’d almost killed her only real friend, and, of course, she'd almost killed herself. After each time she had sworn that she would never do it again, but promises could be hard to keep when the opportunity was just handed to you on a pretty plate.

She sqeaked her black socks on the floor, giving a little slide as the flickering warp panels passed her by. (Had anyone deactivated them? Had anyone noticed the blue hair that lay in clumps where she had torn and thrown it?) She had no reason to worry even if they had, of course, but it could be a little annoying to fight a brainwashed bunch like them. -and she should know, she had been fighting with that girl in the mirror for years now.

Mitsumi walked towards the door. Calm. Serene. Still probably smudged in blood where she couldn't quite see it.

Her heart beat fast, but she wasn't scared. Not really. She knew people on the run, hell, she'd been sort of on the run before, even if someone found out about her little dream, she'd be okay. She hadn't been before, but now that he was gone, she was willing to give it her best shot.

She smiled as she pushed through the clean glass of the doorway, greeting the snowy sky with a laugh that was more real than the sum of all of her grins across the past nineteen years. She was free.