#it got so angsty lol

[little-cereal-draws]

"Laters Gators" (MKtober day two)

Voicemail 1 out of 42, May 2nd, 2024, 11:49 AM

Beep

"Hiya, Mum! It's me! I just got to the flat you're renting me and let me just say it's gorgeous! Super spacious and has a wonderful view of the street! Yeah, I'm looking at it now. All the people look so small."

Laugh, traffic noises in the background. The sound of a window closing, the traffic is quieter now.

"Anyway, Mum, I was just calling to say thank you so much again for letting me live here a while until I can get on my feet. As soon as I finish unpacking these boxes, I'm going to start job hunting. Yeah, might take a day or two for me to get through them all though, there's a lot."

Uncertainty, lying.

"Um, yeah. But anyway, hopefully I can find a job soon enough. I mean it's a big city, someone has to be hiring."

Laugh.

"Call me back when you can, I know the time difference makes it wonky. Love you. Laters gators."

--

Voicemail 2 of 42, May 10th, 2024, 3:44 PM

Beep

"Hi, Mum! Good news!"

Traffic, wind, definitely walking outside.

"I just got out of an interview with a school, and I think it went pretty well. I'm applying for a librarian position. Work with kids and teach them, y'know? I really think they liked me! They certainly seemed more interested in me than that bookstore. Hopefully they call me back soon! Anyway, I would love to hear how you've been, call me back when you can. And I'll let you know if I get the job. Love you. Laters gators."

--

Voicemail 5 of 42, May 24th, 2024, 6:37 PM

Beep

"Hiya, Mum. I've been doing well."

Sad, tired, light sounds of clanking metal in the background.

"I'm cooking dinner right now. I'm still job hunting. It's been a bit tougher than I thought. I mean, I don't have any credentials or schooling for one. Also, I don't have any proof of my identity. It's a bit silly but since I don't have a driver's license or a passport or a social security card, I've started carrying around that postcard you sent me as proof. It's like 'Look, mate. I'm sitting right in front of you, that's my name and address on the card, and I exist, don't I? You can hire me!' but I understand why they can't do that. Criminals and all that. Stealing people's identities or whatever."

Slight laugh that ends in a long sigh.

"So, I'm working on getting an ID first and then I'll get back to job hunting. That postcard looks fun though, I've always wanted to go to Rome. Roma. Well, call me back and tell me how it went. Love you. Laters gators."

--

Voicemail 15 of 42, July 1st, 2024, 6:18 PM

"Hi, Mum. I was just calling to let you know how the first day of my new job went! The one at the museum. I'm, um, a tour guide like I was telling you, yeah."

Uncertainty, lying.

"It went really, really well. I met so many new people and I think I really inspired them, y'know? My boss Donna is just a peach. She calls me Stevie. It's like an inside joke we have."

Tense, gritted teeth.

"We just get a long like peas in a pod. No problems there! Everyone is just so nice!"

Nervous laugh.

"Everything's going just great. I loved your postcard from Bejing. All the signs and lights. Looked really cool. I know you've always got loads of work and you're always traveling but call me back, please. I miss you."

A long pause. A throat being cleared.

"Um, right, yeah, ok. Anyway, I'm home now so I gotta go. Love you. Laters gators."

--

Voicemail 24 of 42, August 24th, 2024, 8:11 PM

Beep

"Hi, Mum. Sorry for calling so late, though I suppose it's not late there, I don't know. I had to stay late to do inventory. Again. Not as punishment, I just enjoy endless counting and scanning. It really gets me going."

Tired, so tired. The sound of a bag being dropped on the floor. A long pause.

"Ok, Mum, just tell me when you're free and I'll call you then. It doesn't matter if I'm at work, I'll just step into the toilet and call you there. You haven't returned a single one of my calls. You send postcards all the time, and I love those, but the messages -if there is one! - are always very short and terse."

Footsteps followed by the sound of papers rustling.

"'Hello from Caracas!' 'Sending love from Karachi!' This one says, 'Hello from Casablanca. Love Mom.' That's the longest message you ever wrote me! Please, Mum, I want to know how you're doing! I want to hear about your day! I want to hear your voice-"

Voice breaking, long pause, slight sniffling.

"Please, Mum. I- I miss you. I've- um, I've been having a really tough time actually. London's been hell. I don't have any money or friends and I hate my job; everyone bullies me there. I'm actually a stupid cashier in the gift shop not a tour guide like I told you."

Getting more choked up.

"I can't even have a peaceful homelife! I've got some sort of sleeping disorder and I keep waking up in weird places with horrible injuries. It's only a matter of time before I get arrested for trespassing or some other crime! I can't rest in the day, and I can't rest at night! I hate my life; I hate it so much!"

Sobbing.

"I am so lonely!! I don't- I don't-"

More sniffing and sobbing.

"Mummy, please... call me back... I need you..."

Sobbing.

--

Voicemail 25 of 42, August 24th, 2024, 8:47 PM

Beep

"Hiya, Mum."

Voice hoarse, uncertain, tired.

"So, um, about the message I just sent you. I was um, just... drunk. Yeah, that's it."

Uncertainty, lying.

"But I'm better now. I threw up and had some tea and potatoes. I, um, did that all really fast. So, um, sorry about that. Please disregard that last message, I don't know what I was going on about, I'm actually doing quite well."

Forced laugh.

"Anyway... I'll stop bothering you now. Let you get back to whatever you're doing. Love you. Laters gators."

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

IF I FELL THROUGH THE FLOOR I WOULD KEEP FALLING ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; geto knocks at your front door one morning ten years after leaving everything he knew behind, fully expecting to be met with a middle finger or a hand to the throat. when you invite him in, instead, he can’t help but feel somewhat perplexed.

word count; 7.5k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, geto-typical angst with lots of yearning, hopeful ending (but also not really), geto’s pov, reader is a softie, intense mutual pining, tea as a metaphor for love <3, geto is terminally bitter and terminally lonely and also kind of a bitch but we love him

a/n; i’m extremely normal abt suguru geto and the debilitating loneliness he must’ve felt during the ten years after he left <33

”it’s been a while.”

the smile on his face must be sweet, he thinks, illuminated by the blurry light of the morning sun. as charming as it’s always been. coated in a thin layer of lighthearted deceit, a cruelly projected sense of normalcy. with a hand raised up in cheerful greeting, geto gazes down at you.

admittedly, he’s a little underwhelmed by your reaction.

astonishment or bafflement was maybe a little too much to ask for — you don’t look very surprised to see him at all. almost as if you were expecting him to show up in front of your apartment, at the break of dawn. and, really, maybe you were. satoru must have told you already. why wouldn’t he let you in on their touching reunion, the promise of war that spilled so easily from his lips?

of course you would have heard of it by now.

still, geto can’t deny that it’s just a little bit disappointing. he would’ve liked to see your wide eyes, would’ve liked to hear you stammer a bit. the expression you’re currently sporting is something else entirely.

(you look sad.)

there’s a fondness in your eyes, though, unmistakable. a spark of it, entirely impossible to ignore, that catches him off guard. and there’s a softness in the way you raise your head to look up at him, a familiarity that flickers in the depths of your irises. something that welcomes him back.

geto is just a little bit put off by it.

it looks the same as always. you look the same as always. and geto’s heart constricts, where it rests, tucked away deep within the confines of his ribcage.

a moment passes. the sun peeks out from beneath the curtain of the horizon, the violet and indigo of the morning sky melting into that familiar burst of ochre. and geto is content, to silently admire the way that you glow in its light. he waits, patiently, for your expression to shift — to melt into one of anger, or repulsion, or any other kind of bitter hue.

it never does.

a sigh flows from your parted lips, instead. a soft little breath. in the bitter cold of a morning such as this, it turns into vapour as it drifts through the air.

you blink, tiredly, eyelashes fluttering with something akin to exasperation.

”you’re a cruel guy, you know that?”

geto blinks. a fickle moment passes.

then, he smiles.

you’re admonishing him, but you’re doing so almost gently — with an easygoing kind of disapproval. as if you’re still in high school, huffing over the teasing bout of laughter he lets slip when you trip over air.

geto’s lips curl up, smoothly, an action he’s grown awfully used to over the years. smiles are a form of currency, he has come to realize — smiles of deceit, of fondness, of barely contained disgust. all kinds of smiles, whether plastered on or genuine. a means to meet an end. a single tug of his lips, encompassing an immeasurable number of unspoken words.

the smile that geto graces you with is an amused one. it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s friendly enough. ”so i’ve been told.”

for a minute, you do nothing but observe him. there’s a turmoil behind your eyes that seeps out in the way you look at him, the way you shift from foot to foot and gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. geto doesn’t interrupt, observing you in turn. waiting for one of you to move the first piece of this little morning game of chess.

in the light, he can almost delude himself into thinking that your eyes change colour, different shades and hues dancing around your dilated pupils. as you gaze over the contours of his face, a certain kind of affection blooms within them, one that geto expected to have faded over the years. 

but it’s still there. and it’s the same. a little more blurry, maybe, a little faded at the edges — more matured. but still the same, despite that. 

(a memory comes to him. one of you, and him; sharing a bag of chips on the school’s rooftop when neither of you could sleep.

bathed in the light of the moon, your eyes glimmered with that very same affection, like a shooting star breaking out across the night sky.)

one long, careful, tender moment passes by. 

the intense contemplation on your features is almost enough to coax a chuckle from the depths of his throat. an urge to tease you creeps up on him, slowly, but before he can open his mouth you seem to come to a kind of conclusion.

and so, you step to the side — allowing him to see inside your apartment, catch a brief glimpse of the interior. you look oddly comfortable, at peace, having made your move; the next piece is his to place.

what a surprising move, though. geto can’t help it if his eyes widen just a smidge, if he blinks in a way that could almost be interpreted as briefly confused. out of all the possible scenarios he’s played out in his mind over the years, this wasn’t the one he expected to merge with reality.

”wanna come in?” you ask, tentative. your voice is inviting. a little clumsy, although he supposes that could just be because of fatigue. it is early, after all.

geto takes a moment to think.

as far as he can tell — and he always can, in one way or another — there is no deceit hidden in your expression. no signs of bloodlust, no spark of violence, no quiet resentment bubbling beneath the surface. earnest. that’s all it is. a little awkward, but candid. pure, in a way.

you aren’t trying to trick him. you’re genuinely, seriously, honest-to-god inviting him inside your apartment.

the next move is his to make.

and geto knows exactly what he should do. he should decline, politely, excuse himself with feigned remorse and a jovial invitation to his own personal hell.

(surely, you already know. the others have almost certainly told you by now. geto just wanted to personally invite you, himself. face to face.)

right. that’s what he should do. that’s the winning move.

and yet, he finds himself moving.

lips curling up on their own, without his approval, geto moves forward. one step is all it takes for him to cross the threshold of your home; a boundary he didn’t expect you to offer up so callously, truth be told, but who is he to deny the wishes of a dear old friend?

”why, thank you,” he smiles, voice pleasant, smooth like silk.

(for just a little while, he supposes he can indulge himself in the opportunity you’ve so graciously given him. just for a bit.)

geto doesn’t bother taking off his footwear, and he knows you couldn’t care less either way. allowing him to pass you by as he waltzes into your very own space, you close the door behind him. he half-expects to hear the click of the lock, but it never comes.

a particular scent envelops him, as he stands by the coat rack, unmoving — he has no intention of taking off his robes, heavy with his carefully nurtured devotion. a symbol of his choice.

the scent is familiar, but also unlike anything he can recall within the borders of his memory; a soothing blend between fresh laundry, and sunlight, and cat fur, and something rather sweet.

there’s more to it than that, though. a certain scent geto could only ever describe as you. 

(his heart aches with longing.)

as he ponders the intricacies of the fragrance, geto is acutely aware of the stare burning into his back. how careless of him, to leave it facing you, unguarded and vulnerable.

what a perfect opportunity he’s presented you with; the great curse user suguru geto, forever exiled and wanted dead, now merely a fly at the mercy of the web you’ve created. trapped in your apartment with his back turned to you, a mere lamb to the slaughter.

how easy it would be, for you to plunge a knife into his flesh. to curve your way along his spine.

you do nothing of the sort, though. and for some reason, the realization that you aren’t going to irks him, even though deep down he knew that would be the case. still, it crawls its way under his skin, along the arteries of his forearm, an itch he yearns to claw away.

how foolish. how very like you.

(what a cruel thing change can be, when no one else seems to succumb to it.)

unable to do anything but accept it, however, geto turns towards you once more. you stiffen, as if burned by his gaze, and a part of him delights in it.

”how have you been?” he asks, bright and courteous. there’s a genuinity to the question that geto can’t deny. something about this situation sends a spark of fondness running through his veins.

at the sound of his voice, your eyes soften again. it’s a subtle shift, but he doesn’t miss it. doesn’t think he ever really could, because even though the light inside your eyes makes him uncomfortable, down to the very marrow of his bones, he can do nothing but bask in it. in your attention, in that heavy gaze.

a single word could never hope to faithfully describe the emotion smouldering inside it — but if forced to, geto would humbly settle on resignation.

it’s almost as if you still haven’t fully accepted it, ten years down the line, that you’re only just beginning to. like even now, you’re convinced that it’s nothing more than one big joke; that he’s about to reveal a hidden camera, and gleefully tell you that it was all a prank to get back at satoru.

naive, naive, naive. but geto can’t deny that it tastes sweet, on his tongue — to imagine that you might still have some faith in him, after all this time.

a sigh leaves your lips. you sound a little bit exhausted. it sends a pang of ache to the very center of his heart, and a part of him yearns to soothe you. another part relishes in the pain he must have brought you over the years.

the rest of him smoothly tucks those stray thoughts away, as he brushes non-existent dust off from his robes.

then, your eyes take on a more tender hue. you ignore his question entirely, and speak in a low voice. raspy and sincere, and maybe just a tad bitter, given everything.

”those robes don’t suit you, suguru.”

— a shiver travels down his spine.

suguru.

(the way your lips form around the syllables is still so lovely.)

you’re full of surprises, as always. at least to a certain extent, he was expecting you to settle on geto, to draw a firm line in the sand between him and you. the ocean and the land, always meant to be separated by that thin line, kept apart in each other’s best interest.

but geto is beginning to accept that you’re going to do this your way — sincerely.

the statement is a veil, obscuring a million unspoken thoughts, double meanings that aren’t particularly hard to discern. a silent rejection, a quiet disapproval. there’s a grief to it that sits heavy on your tongue.

taking a moment to collect himself, geto meets your gaze, and all its weight. his lips curl up into a sad smile, a little fatigued. he wonders if you can hear it, in his voice.

(maybe it was stupid of him, to think he could keep this meeting professional.)

”… is that so?”

you continue to look at him, as if waiting for something else. but geto doesn’t give you what you want, that touch of tender honesty he’s sure you’re hoping for.

”i think they suit me just fine,” he playfully disagrees, instead, tone bordering on something childishly stubborn.

you wait just a single moment more, still clinging to that hope for something sincere, anything. 

then you huff. it sounds vaguely amused.

”you look like a con artist,” you deadpan, eyes flitting down to examine the outfit again. geto would be offended by your rudeness if you didn’t also happen to be right.

”how sweet of you,” he purrs, shooting you a smug smile. the words are lighthearted, mildly teasing. “that’s exactly what i’m going for.”

you give him an unimpressed look, that he mirrors with a perfect smile — and then you give in to another amused exhale, paired with a soft shake of your head.

there it is again, geto thinks. that sense of déjà vu. it’s equal parts eerie as it is comforting.

silence lingers in the air around you, as hazy sunlight flits in through the gap between your curtains and cascades across the floorboards. until you clear your throat endearingly, and walk past him.

”well, make yourself at home,” you murmur in passing.

considering the circumstances, the words are spoken fairly naturally, and geto has to resist the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. inviting a wanted criminal into your home, a literal mass murderer, and treating him with the same politeness you’d show to any other guest.

what would the elders think, he wonders, if they knew? would they brand you an accomplice, question your motives? put your head on the chopping block right next to his? he wouldn’t put it past them, the pieces of shit.

but despite his amusement, geto doesn’t laugh. he only watches as you make your way to the kitchen counter, a firefly catching his eye in the summer night.

(except you aren’t a firefly, and it’s not summer. it’s winter, and you’re someone geto wishes he didn’t still care for.)

”i was thinking of making tea,” you hum, voice soft but still easy for him to discern from his spot in the living room. ”do you want some?”

geto’s lips quirk up into a tiny smile. his voice is teasing, as it flows out from his lips.

”how generous,” he chirps, still idly watching the way you move around the open space, your hair changing colour in the flickering light of the sun. ”satoru could learn a thing or two from you.”

he expects you to flinch. a suitable reaction, to how casually he brings up his reunion with his best friend, like it’s nothing. like it means nothing. like nothing’s wrong.

geto knows it’s cruel, which is exactly why he does it.

but you don’t flinch. you don’t even stiffen. and he senses no anger in your body language, in the silence that settles in the space between his words and yours. all you do is exhale sharply, a little exasperated.

”you shouldn’t be so cruel to him.” a beat. your voice sounds just a little smaller when you continue. ”he’s missed you, you know.”

the reply is nearly instantaneous, and it’s bare. honest. you sound like you’re scolding him, but it’s more protective than angry. and it’s gentle, like you’re patching him up after a mission, reprimanding him for not being more careful.

at this point, geto can tell you have no intention of playing along. how annoying. he wishes you would — that earnest sadness and regret of yours is almost unbearable, and the gentle bluntness you present him with cuts much deeper than his casual cruelty ever could.

you aren’t going to play along, aren’t going to pretend you don’t care. geto wonders why you won’t, why you’re the only one who still refuses to.

satoru certainly has no issue with it. playing along, putting up a front. attempting to treat him coldly, as an enemy. but geto knows him, knows his soul like the back of his hand, and he could tell it was trembling when their eyes met. from underneath those bandages of his, the thin layer of cowardice that shields those precious eyes from the rest of the world. from geto.

and shoko is just as unbothered as ever. always playing it cool, never caught off guard or shaken to her core. geto can’t even tell if it’s an act or not, anymore. but he knows that she was angry, when they spoke that day, ten years in the past. knows she wanted to tell him off, but chose not to.

both her and satoru are like that. always have been. closed off, accustomed to bearing an unbearable weight, resigned to the ache that it brings them. acting distant in a desperate attempt to mend it.

you, though?

you were always a little too sincere for your own good, a little too true to yourself. it must hurt you, he thinks. it must hurt you even just to look at him. yet you continue to do so, unflinchingly.

that’s simply how you are.

you’ve always enjoyed dipping your toes into the grief of it all, leaning into the pain. always the first to take that step into the abyss. content to tear yourself open for everyone to see, even if no one follows suit.

never averting your eyes. never taking the easy way out.

(unlike him.)

geto hums, smiling a little at the sickening irony of it all.

the gentle clinking of ceramic resounds throughout the kitchen, and geto’s ears perk up. his gaze follows your hands, as they move to grab two cups from the wall cabinet. floral designs, he dully notes. blue bells on one, red camellias on the other. a porcelain teapot rests on the kitchen table, but no flowers adorn it.

without your expressions to keep him entertained, geto decides to wallow in the fleeting peace and quiet. aside from your soft breathing and the occasional clinking of teacups, there are no sounds to be heard. 

a moment that seems to exist outside of time and space, where time passes backwards and your shuffling in the kitchen is his only concern.

eager to satiate the mellow boredom in his chest, geto’s eyes begin to flit across the space of your apartment. greedily drinking in every detail he can see, as if he’s trying to memorize it all. maybe he is.

everything he can see is a piece of your existence, in one way or another. every inch of the apartment is littered with your fingerprints, your choices and fickle tastes.

like the rich yellow of the curtains you’ve picked out to frame the glass of the windows, bright and stark and blending smoothly in with the cream colour of the wallpaper surrounding it. or the forgotten cup on the table in front of the tv, a faded green. he vaguely remembers seeing you drink out of it back when things were still good, when you both thought of the school as your home.

a book rests on the duvet pillows of your couch, but he sees no bookmark peeking out from between the pages. geto wonders if you still dog-ear your books, and thinks to himself that a crime of that calibre would warrant your own exile if the world was only fair. alas, it isn’t. war of the foxes, he reads from the cover. ironic.

along the windowsills are potted plants, stacked up next to each other, green and flourishing despite the snowy wonderland of the outside world. their leaves differ in shape and size, some accompanied by blooming flowers. he imagines you watering them, dutifully, nurturing them with gentle hands and sleepy smiles. 

there are many things to look at, more and more little fragments sprouting up the longer geto continues to do so. a knitted sweater thrown over the wooden armrest of a chair. colourful candy wrappers littering the table. an old radio tucked away in a corner of the room. 

geto drinks it all in — a home you’ve painstakingly created, that you’ve allowed him into. he examines it thoroughly, the way an art dealer judges a painting on display. turning the image over inside his mind, twisting it, burning it into his retinas. soaking in every little detail he manages to find. 

your home.

(it’s so like you that it hurts.)

finally, geto thinks he’s had his fill of the living room. so he ventures into the kitchen, only a couple long strides away.

the scent that greets him this time is comforting, homey. the aroma of coffee grounds, a touch of leftover curry, a strong fragrance of blooming hyacinths and dried lavender sitting contentedly by the windowsill. through the translucent glass, geto sees layers upon layers of snow on the rooftops, and the gradual rise of the glittering sun. 

the quiet buzzing of the electric kettle is the only sound he hears, along with the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, as his eyes wander along the kitchen.

the shelves are stacked with a variety of different spices, and glass jars of honey and jam. along the counters rest a wide array of kitchen appliances, from blenders to rice cookers to french presses. mugs with silly designs are stuffed into an opened wall cabinet, and geto recognizes some of them, to his silent delight. 

there are colourful post-it notes stuck to the fridge, messy scribbles of recipes and reminders. meetings, birthdays, grocery lists. even just little doodles, smiley faces and napping cats that make his lips quirk up. and polaroids — he tries not to let his gaze linger on the picture of satoru sleeping in the most uncomfortable, inhumane position he’s ever witnessed, nor the blurry image of shoko smoking by a balcony railing, sleeves cuffed and expression forlorn. he can’t imagine either of them noticed you snapping the photos.

(no polaroids of him. of course not. why would there be?)

geto tries not to look over at the fridge again, examining the floor and furniture instead. over in the corner stands a bowl of cat food, seemingly untouched. the kitchen table is covered with a checkered cloth, kept down by a plate of chocolate chip cookies. 

your kitchen is fairly small, but it’s cozy. rays of fresh sunlight envelop it in a giddy, ruminating glow. like something out of a dream.

when geto enters the space, your eyes flit over to him briefly, and he shoots you a friendly smile. your eyes do that thing, again, where they crumble a little at the corners and get a tad softer. like you’re looking at an old friend.

(he supposes you are.)

you clear your throat before speaking, as he takes in all the sights.

”what kind of tea do you want? i’ve got, uh…” 

with gentle movements, you open a wall cabinet, eyes swiftly scanning over the different labels of the many boxes, jars and sachets of tea inside. dutifully, you list off the ones you can see. 

”earl grey, chamomile… oolong, rooibos…” you continue, seemingly never running out of options, fingers tapping at the handle. ”ah, this one’s kinda weird. it’s supposed to be, like, cherry flavoured? don’t ask, satoru picked it out — but it tastes more like laundry detergent.” 

a pause. 

”it’s pretty good, though.”

geto can’t help it. the comment coaxes a chuckle from out his chest, and he’s surprised at how genuine it sounds when it spills from his lips. 

you seem to notice it, too, seeing as you perk up where you stand by the counter. out of the corner of his eye, geto thinks he almost catches the fleeting glimmer of a tiny smile on your lips.

and for a moment, everything feels familiar. eerie and comforting, in equal measure. a sense of nostalgia drifts throughout the kitchen, mingling with the scent of tea leaves and sunshine and freshly baked cookies. 

this is the opportunity you’ve given him — a slice of normalcy. as close to normalcy as one can come to in a situation such as this. a soft bout of laughter, shared between estranged childhood friends, one of which is a mass murderer. it’s really not normal at all.

normalcy is no more than a fever dream. that much has always been the case, but —

there’s a comfort in it, in this. the familiarity of it all. the way you settle into old roles, share knowing looks and cycle through old memories he knows you’re both haunted by.

it’s soothing.

he’s changed, and you’ve changed, but there’s still a sense of belonging between the two of you. in this moment, this sole flicker of nostalgia. in this kitchen.

and for a moment, geto almost forgets why he’s there. almost forgets the unforgettable, the inevitability of a choice he made long ago. it stings, and he wonders how you can bear it; this thin line between longing and awareness.

”so? what’ll it be?”

your voice rings out across the open space, face angled towards the table to meet his stare. 

geto hums, absentmindedly, and takes a step closer.

the narrow distance between you two lies heavy, as he shuffles up right next to you, haphazardly sweeping his eyes over the wide assortment in front of him. he can almost, almost hear your breath hitch when the fabric of his clothing grazes your shoulder.

he wonders if the tea is just an excuse, to be able to come so close. to bask in your warmth.

you don’t move away.

”oolong,” he firmly decides. he doesn’t really need to think about it.

then he swiftly turns on his heel, and takes a seat by the kitchen table. confident and graceful — as if this isn’t your kitchen, but his. unconcerned over table manners, his elbows resting on the wooden board, as his jaw meets the heel of his palm. he bites into one of the chocolate chip cookies, the sweetness crumbling on his tongue.

this time, you finally do stiffen — though geto doesn’t see it. he does, however, feel your lingering stare, and when he tilts his head in your direction he catches a glint of sorrow passing through the depths of your irises.

geto blinks. he tilts his head questioningly, a cue for you to follow.

and finally, finally, you stammer. barely, but it’s there. that nervous shiver of your voice.

”ah — sorry,” you mumble, gaze falling down to the floorboards. you seem almost flustered. ”it’s just…” 

there’s something raw in your voice, something that wavers. 

”back then, you’d always choose earl grey.”

a long moment of silence passes.

there are a million unspoken words in that sentence, geto knows. words you’ll never say, words you’ve always yearned to say. though he has no intention of digging them out. 

the sentiment is more than enough.

a bitter taste settles on his tongue, but he smiles, careful to keep his voice light.

”well,” he hums. ”some things change, i suppose.”

to that, you huff out a breath of amusement, turning around to face the counter once more. but not before eyeing his robes again, expression rich with humour.

”yeah,” you hum, lighthearted. something close to a chuckle. ”i suppose they do.”

geto grins softly, in tandem, from his spot by the table. like you’re still teenagers, sharing a look over an inside joke no one else is privy to.

after that, he simply watches you work, chewing at the treat while he waits for the tea to be done. the light of the electric kettle flickers off, and your hands curl around the handle, bringing it to rest next to the teapot on the tablecloth. he watches, expression mildly bored, as you grab the ceramic cups and the silken sachet bag of dried tea leaves.

a strong scent of oolong tea wafts through the air, when you flick your fingers to pour some of the leaves into the teapot. there’s a certain elegance in the way you pour the boiling water, slowly, in a smooth circular pattern. geto follows the movement, the rise and fall of the leaves as water fills the strainer.

you’re unhurried, methodical. there is care in the motion of your hands, the intense gaze you bear as you perform it. every slight twitch of your knuckles, the soft exhale you emit when the teapot has been filled. 

geto can do nothing but watch, in silent admiration. 

you put the porcelain lid back on, blocking the steam rising up in a flurry of warmth. while the tea simmers, soaking up the flavour of the leaves, you busy yourself with readying two teaspoons. 

”how do you take it, these days?” you ask him, as you languidly pour hot tea into the cups. ”any sweetener? milk?”

”one cube of sugar. no milk.”

at that, your eyes flit up, recognition blooming in them as you hear the familiar sentence. but geto keeps his gaze glued to the hyacinths on the windowsill, never meeting yours.

truthfully, he says it mostly to appease you. he figures he can give you this one thing, at least — this one hope that maybe everything hasn’t changed, after all. that he hasn’t changed, in his entirety, that there’s still some remnant left of who he used to be. even if all that’s left of him is just one single cube of sugar.

it’s kind of funny. but geto doesn’t laugh. 

you place a cup in front of him. the one adorned by red camellias. geto racks his brain, flitting through past conversations with florists and paragraphs memorized from non-fiction books on botany. what was it, again?

eternal love. long-lasting devotion.

the petals and the calyx of a camellia always fall together.

geto bites back a laugh. some part of him wonders if you’re making fun of him, if this is how you’re planning to release your pent-up anger — in such a petty, roundabout manner. but deep down he knows it was no more than an absentminded choice, on your part.

(you always hurt him most when it’s not your intention to do so.)

as you take a seat on the opposite side of the table, he gingerly touches the rim of the cup. soft steam rises from the liquid, its colour marigold-esque, and geto breathes it in deeply before bringing the ceramic to his lips.

you watch, in anticipation. intensely enough that he can feel it even when his eyes flutter shut, your gaze prickling his skin as he sips from the cup.

the warmth of the tea is comforting, a distinctly floral taste spreading along his tongue. there’s a slight nuttiness to the taste, a rich sweetness. as it runs down his throat, geto hears himself hum softly. a satisfied smile slips into the curve of his lips. inside the depths of his chest, a light nostalgia swirls, pleasant and tingly. 

he remembers moonlit nights, whispered secrets you could only ever tell each other, the glimmer of aluminium and rush of caffeine as you gulped down the too-sweet coffee that the vending machines had to offer.

he remembers sunny mornings, muffled laughter shared in the solitude of the kitchen, basking in the floral scent of chamomile and lavender and everything in between as the world woke up around you.

with a clink, geto sets his cup down on the table, pinkie raised lightly. smile a tad bittersweet.

”this is good tea.”

a moment passes. you break out into a genuine smile, nearly beaming, delighted by his approval. 

”isn’t it?” you chirp, fingers curling around your own cup, the little painted flowers adorning it. blue bells. geto recalls that old wives’ tale — how wearing a wreath of blue bells compels one to tell the truth. ”nanami got this one for me, actually.”

he smiles, perking up ever so slightly. a little more animated. ”oh?” he takes another sip. ”he always was a snob, wasn’t he.” 

that makes your own smile grow, lips twitching upwards, and an amused exhale flows from your lips. a gentle breath. you always were very fond of your grumpy underclassman. ”yeah.”

there’s something familiar about this, geto can’t help but think. eerily so. an acute sense of déjà vu, the same one that’s been plaguing him all morning.

the way you’re treating him isn’t how one would treat an enemy, nor a stranger — it’s how one would treat an old friend. that, and nothing more.

(geto wishes he could say it didn’t soothe his heart so terribly.)

he allows himself to sink deeper into the rotten sweetness of it all. indulges in this one fleeting moment, before everything crashes and burns. 

the world outside your kitchen is a cold one, he knows, blanketed by snow and frost that has yet to be stained red. the pure white is a warning, not a consolation — a reminder that there are still things to be lost.

the world of curses is an empty promise, the promise of suffering being rewarded. the idea that the sun will melt the frost around your legs if you wade through enough snow. 

(but geto knows better.)

outside your kitchen, only one path exists for him. it isn’t a kind one, nor is it particularly comforting. but, unlike those empty promises, that path has a truth to it. an end point, that isn’t just wait and see what happens, maybe the sun will rise if you’re lucky.

he isn’t a fool. the world is as cruel as it is beautiful, which is a false simile because cruelty is only ever beautiful when you aren’t a part of it. another one of those empty promises. geto has no idea how they kept him going for so long.

but here, in this moment — the world feels rather kind. kind in the sense of being just enough, the kind of brief solace that used to give him enough hope to get through the day.

for now, this aching gap of yet-to-be-ruined is enough. it’s all that he cares about, all that exists.

— but all good things must eventually come to an end. 

geto knows it better than anyone, so he isn’t particularly surprised when he looks up to see your face set into hard lines.

you meet his eyes with a certain flickering determination, a conviction — and geto knows you’re about to cross the comfortable line he was hoping you could both maintain for just a little longer.

”suguru.”

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. a smile is enough. so his lips curl up, silently.

”can i ask you something?”

every move geto makes is calculated, a performance, as your words sink into his subconscious. dragging the silence out, as if trying to waltz around the inevitable end of this sickeningly sweet game of morning chess. 

the slow circling of his spoon, creating a vortex for the oolong tea to follow, as it catches the light falling from the window. the way he leans back, to make himself comfortable, letting his jaw rest on the heel of his palm as he dissects your expression from across the table.

there is something almost taunting in his eyes. 

but he smiles. courteous, bright. ”go ahead.”

for just a second, he sees you falter. just a smidge, but the way your nails dig into the skin of your palm is telling, just like the way your eyes choose to linger on the tablecloth a second longer than they need to.

then you meet his eyes once more, and begin to speak. geto hangs on to your words, as if they even matter.

”i’m not expecting you to be honest with me,” you state, bluntly. he’s glad to know you’re on the same page for once. ”but i’d appreciate it if you could. just this one time. i won’t ask for anything else.”

another long and tactful sip of his tea. he wasn’t lying, before — it really is very nice. the flavour is strong and thick on his tongue, sweet and bitter all in one. expensive. the pads of his fingers tap along the ceramic of his cup, right over the red flowers that seem to taunt him so.

here it comes. your lips part, but no sound comes out, and geto knows you’re thinking of how best to phrase your inquiry. it doesn’t take you long to decide, a firmness blossoming in the scope of your iris. a sense of finality.

”are you happy?”

despite everything, his breath hitches in his throat. the movement of his fingers halts.

your question comes out clear, candid, sincere. the look in your eyes makes him feel a little like he’s being devoured. vaguely aware of how his smile wavers, for just a split second, geto can only hope you don’t notice it — but he doubts you do, because you only continue to speak, unperturbed.

”i’m sure you’ve changed a lot, these past ten years. and i’m sure you’ve had more than enough time to convince yourself that you’re happy, even if you aren’t.” you bite your lip. ”i should’ve asked you this a long time ago. but now — i’m asking.”

geto’s eyes never leave your face.

”are you happy? are you genuinely satisfied with your life? are you happy with your choice?” 

there’s something desperate in your eyes, now. something geto can’t look away from, despite himself. all he can do is touch the ceramic beneath his fingers, hot enough to burn, and listen to you speak. 

”if… if you are, then —” 

you take a deep breath, a sharp inhale that geto would mimic if he wasn’t dead set on maintaining his composure.

”— then i won’t get in the way. i’ll let you live your life the way you want to. just as long as that’s true.” 

geto looks at you, smile nowhere to be seen. time itself seems to halt, in the space of your kitchen. the current center of the world.

he doesn’t dare to even breathe.

”… but,” your voice trembles. you stare intently at your own cup, surely beginning to grow lukewarm at this point. what a waste of good tea. ”if you aren’t happy, then —”

a pause. no one says a thing.

”then what?” geto spits. his voice comes out sounding just a tad sharp, cold like the frost outside your apartment. more so than he meant it to.

your pupils waver, before you lift your head to look at him. the resolution in your eyes makes his breath hitch. an unflinching kindness, one he can’t remember you ever not having.

”— then i’ll do whatever it takes to change that. no matter what.” a beat. “even if it makes you hate me.”

such immense honesty.

geto wonders why he came here, in the first place.

to declare war. was that his genuine desire, though? or was it just another excuse?

with satoru, he can pretend. with shoko, he can pretend. with himself, he can certainly pretend.

but with you?

his fingers leave the ceramic, eyes burning with a decision mirroring yours.

geto’s burned many bridges, in his life. but this particular bridge is one he’ll miss. the cinders that follow won’t keep him warm, that much he knows.

but in the face of such honesty — such genuine kindness — he couldn’t bear not to give you a serious answer.

(it’s the least he could do for you.)

”i am.”

a moment passes. the center of the world shifts. 

”i’m happy with my choice.”

it was the only one worth making.

as they fall from his lips, the words taste heavy, absolute. in the light of a morning still yet to be broken by the passage of time, your eyes shift. for a moment geto wonders if you’ll close them. if you’ll give yourself that one relief.

you don’t.

instead, you bite your lip, eyes stubbornly never leaving his own. now you look a little angry, a little frustrated. he’s glad to see that flicker of fury directed at him, at last.

”but are you happy?” you persist, frustrated in a way that buzzes with kindness and concern. a way that makes him feel rather lost.

geto hears himself speak before he has a chance to think about his answer. the voice that comes out of his throat sounds oddly soft.

”that doesn’t matter.”

”it should.”

your reply is equally instantaneous. and geto feels a tremor run through his heart.

”are you happy, suguru?” you try again, pleading. that hope of yours is back, the hope that he’ll be honest just this once. sincere, even just for a syllable or two.

the clock on the wall ticks, hands moving methodically and cruelly, second by second. another moment of time burned to cinders. geto knows what must be done.

this mindless self-indulgence was nice, for a while. but geto has more bridges to burn. more wars to brew.

one final touch. that’s what he’ll give you, in return for your generosity. one final touch of tender honesty, even if it burns his tongue.

”i will be,” he exhales, breathless. ”once all this is over.”

then he gets up from his chair, the squeaking of wood against the floorboards signaling a parting. your eyes never leave his face, as he dusts off his robes absentmindedly, glancing at the half-finished cup on the table.

then geto smiles at you. there’s a fondness to it, one he’d only ever show you. his eyes crinkle, just barely, and the dark brown of his iris shifts into a mellow amber as sunlight cascades down the contours of his face. a genuine smile.

”thank you for the tea.”

there it is. your eyes soften, again, helplessly. 

you aren’t satisfied. geto doubts you ever will be.

but you’ve always been the only one to tear yourself open, the only one to step into the abyss. geto has always admired it, just as much as he’s always found it foolish. not once has he ever followed suit.

things like honesty and tenderness don’t suit him. he doesn’t think they suit any sorcerer, except maybe for you.

at last, that grieving resignation finds its way to your eyes again. it doesn’t hurt him as much this time, perhaps because he was waiting for it.

”… you’re welcome,” you breathe. a sad little breath.

geto allows himself to look at you for just a moment more.

then he turns on his heel.

”well, this was nice,” he hums. ”but i really must be going now.”

pleasant and jovial. a voice unsuited for a situation like this. geto wonders if it hurts you as much as it hurts him.

rubbing salt into wounds is all he seems to do these days, anyhow. so he smiles. ”i’ll see you on the battlefield, i hope —”

”suguru.”

…

deep down, geto knows that there’s no going back from this. that the moment he moves his feet, the moment he leaves your apartment — the moment he steps over the threshold in front of him — he can never return.

your kitchen was never his to walk into, in the first place. he was never meant to set foot into your home. that was your choice. geto can’t help but think that it’s every bit as cruel as the one he made ten years ago.

your voice is the same as always. sad and fond. familiar, in how it twists and tugs at his heart in a way nothing else can anymore.

geto waits. he’ll let you have the final word. the final piece moved into place. checkmate.

he’ll let you be the one to devour that aching gap.

curse me, he whispers to the confines of his mind. resent me. i’ve caused you so much pain.

curse me yourself, so i can hate you properly.

”if you ever want another cup, i’ll be here.”

silence falls upon the kitchen.

geto stands still, feet rooted in the spot by the threshold separating the kitchen from the living room. the ticking of the clock is the only sound he hears.

there isn’t a trace of resentment in your voice.

(he wishes you would play along, even just once.)

a low hum buzzes in his throat. the seconds stretch on; more hands moved, more time burned into nothing. the silence is deafening, thick and heavy. an intense moment of contemplation, as geto tries not to shiver under the warmth of your constant gaze, burning into his back.

the center of the world shifts, once more. the gaze of fate falls upon the two of you, bathed in the rays of the rising sun, in a kitchen where normalcy is a little more than just a fever dream.

it doesn’t mean anything, anything at all.

geto knows it. he knows it better than anyone. but maybe he can allow this mindless self-indulgence to carry on, for just a little longer. if only to give him the excuse he needs to see you again, to stand in your kitchen like this, like the view of the rising sun is something he’s allowed to behold.

how greedy. how callous. hasn’t he always been, though?

just for a little bit longer.

”… you know,”

geto takes a step forward, robes fluttering with the movement, heavy and pious. he crosses the threshold, words just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear.

(in the space between the words, laced together with the silence, lies the ghost of a smile.)

”it’s been a while since i had earl grey.”

[cantdealwiththisnow]

Part 1 - Appreciation post for all the TFP universe Autobot mugshot cameos (known and unknown) in RID2015 3x25 (even if the context is that they've been OUSTED against their will)

[hayaku14]

WAKE UP KAITOU KID NATION WE'RE GETTING ANGST ‼️‼️‼️

(x)

[shower-phantom-ideas]

Another DPXDC post for the first time

Yall remember winged danny? Yea me too the good ol days lads

But imagine Danny in Gothem cause hes either on the run from his family or the GIW you decide boys on the run and probably alone.

He gets picked up by the Waynes at some point and eventually he goes to have the “im not normal talk” but they all know. He is a meta or something. They have been waiting for him to be ready to tell them, if ever. They would accept him no matter what.

Except the time comes and he just “I have wings” and like everyone is shocked™️ Danny gets the idea hes about to be rejected and starts to fold in on himself and someone better snap out of it before the kid cries. Alfred is the one to speak first probably.

Just everyone so shocked but I mean it’s more a shock that they missed this instead of that Danny has wings. After that they fully accept him and apologise. Someone says the “we thought you were about to tell us about your powers!” Danny just has his own little moment before shouting “YOU GUYS KNOW I HAVE GHOST POWERS!?!?!!!?”

Anyway they move on and Danny hardly brings the wings up again but he does get seen around with them every once in a while. But eventually they find out hes not taking care of them as he should. It’s probably Duke who sees Danny with his messy wings and offers to help him.

Let Danny get help with self care ok. The Bats would all go nuts learning how to take care of Danny if he ever asks.

Now imagine the reverse of this and they all know he has wings but not that hes the High Ghost King Phantom.

[2aceofspades]

Just wanted to quickly pop on here and say that I will be working away at those ask-prompt submissions, perhaps slowly but surely. I really really appreciate the submissions though, but I'll definitely need some time to tackle all of them. There may have been a few more than I was initially expecting hehe 😅 all good tho!/gen 🤗✨ I've been in a bit of a funk in terms of drawing turtle stuffs, so I definitely don't mind the challenge 🙌🌟

I'm planning to do something similar to the ✨first one✨ that I did, so I'm pacing myself a little. This is all for fun and I'm doing my best to not stress or worry too much about time. I usually am a little reluctant to do drawing prompts through asks for certain reasons, but I'm making an exception this time around. That being said, prepare yourselves for some sporadic angst and comfort art...~soon-ish~

(:

[adrift-in-thyme]

I’m not thinking of specifically any good prompts for fairy time, but you know I love me some angst XD hurt/comfort, perhaps? Maybe with Warriors?

-Sky Floor

TIME AND WARRIORS MY BELOVEDS

And hurt/comfort too?? You couldn't have sent in a better prompt Peggy

CW for captivity, blood, and injury

---------------------------------

Someone is speaking.

The voice floats to him like stray strands of fairy dust. Distant and hazy and soft…familiar.

The clouds of gray and black begin to part. The new light of a summer day pierces through closed eyelids. Reluctantly, Time shifts. 

Pain streaks up his small form in response, carving through the dim awareness he has only just begun to grasp. A low groan escapes past cracked lips. 

A fingertip brushes his cheek, so gentle it is hardly there. 

“It’s alright, Sprite. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Here…

Time shudders as the memories pour in. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

The translucent walls of a bottle surrounding him on all sides. Iron cuffs on his wrists and ankles, burning through his flesh. The agony of his torn wing. The pain of the wounds that pepper his abused body.

And a voice…a voice that pushes through an eternity of pain, that rises above the others that have filled his ears with their cruelty and derision. It is thick with anger, heavy with care.

“I’m here, Sprite. They won’t touch you again.” 

He drags open his eyes to a world of royal blue. Silken folds surround him on all sides, dipping and diving in graceful arcs. They snake around and over him, protective, secure. 

He knows their embrace well. After all, it is not the first time he has taken refuge within them. 

He fists his hands in the fabric, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. It is gentle upon his abused body, gentle on his wings.

His wings…

He frowns as his awareness grows like a slowly incoming tide. He can feel them again, sense them upon his back. Whole. Healed. 

A torn wing is not easy to mend. Of that he is certain. 

“How?”

He doesn’t realize he has spoken the question until he hears his own voice, little more than a croak, tight with remnant pain and fear.

“Don’t worry about that now.”

Time looks up into the eyes he knows so well. Anguish and adoration, beauty and pain, the flames of defeat and the spark of victory – he has seen them all reflected there. But right now he isn’t certain what emotion permeates those deep blues. He only knows what they make him feel.

Safe. Loved.

His next breath stutters on the way out. A lump situates itself in his throat before he can quite comprehend why it is there. 

“Big brother.” The title slips out on impulse and Warriors’ face spasms in response. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve called me that,” he says, quickly schooling his features into a soft smile. 

He scoops Time into his palm with such care, the hero hardly feels himself being lifted. The breeze caresses his newly freed wings, coolness mingling with the wonderful warmth of the sun. He revels in the feel of it. 

“I’m glad you’re awake, Sprite. How’re you feeling?”

Time blinks, searching vainly for words. There is so much he needs to say, so much he needs to ask. But exhaustion and pain still cling heavily to him. He is uncertain how long he was held captive though it felt an eternity. And now all he wants to do is sleep.

“Thank you,” he whispers, instead, and prays that his brother will understand everything he means by it.  

Judging by the way Warriors’ expression grows impossibly softer, he does.

“Of course,” he murmurs, eyes shining with vulnerability, a smile on his lips. “I’ll always come for you, Sprite. Always. You’re my little brother.”

He holds Time to his cheek for a moment, and Time hears his breath hitch as he leans into the embrace. He yearns to comfort him, to protect him from the memories and emotions that seek to harm him. But then Warriors is releasing him once more into the silken bed of his scarf. And his mind grows wonderfully fuzzy.

“Rest,” Warriors says. “I’ll watch over you.”

Time doesn’t doubt that he will. 

[ghostieblr]

Untitled | Part 2 ->

It feels like an entity of his own, the way his blood rushes inside his body, the way his bones and flesh too small to hold what he's feeling. It feels like he's one of those poor people the alien's egg is going to incubate in, tear through him to become the deeply terrifying, shapeless, haunting monster.

This feeling is overwhelming, something he can't really name. But it's not unwelcomed. It is, in some fucked up way, like a call to him — he feels that rush of power, of trust, too. The call to his magic. The way his breaths come out calmer.

He can't really name it, not really, but he knows this feeling is the most important thing he possesses.

So it's not really a shock when the demon looks at him and only him, one arm out like he's going to snatch it without permission, a sharp grin on its borrowed face. "You," the demon beckons, and Derek snarls, protective. Derek moves in front of him, like it's going to stop the demon. Like there's anything they can do except take this deal. The demon laughs, reedy and evil, and he's sure the person doesn't sound like this; this demon has taken over completely, and Stiles doubts they can save the man who is being possessed at the moment.

"What do you want?" Derek's fang slur his question, but he's understandable, and Stiles puts his hand on Derek's shoulder, pulls him by his soft henley. They were on a walk around the preserve, a routine perimeter check, but here they stand now, in the middle of this clearing where kids had definitely messed around in and found the fuck out.

The camping bags are still warm, but the trail to the kids has gone cold. Unless they take this deal.

"I told you, wolf," the demon sing-songs, and Stiles wonders where he got this body from. The man is clearly in his 30's, light brown hair, hazelnut skin, brown eyes. He cannot be one of the people who summoned the demon, here. "I want what's most precious to your pet."

Derek's been growling all this time, but now he roars, all restraint broken under the clearly verbalized threat.

Only Stiles' hand on Derek's shoulder stops him from leaping at the demon.

"Derek," he says, concerned. They have no idea how to deal with demons that aren't evil fox spirits. "Maybe this is the only way."

And he wants out. He knows what are his most precious things — his feelings. Especially for him. He wants to get rid of it, because there's rarely anything as painful as feeling like your world tilts on its axis when you know theirs stays the same. They're friends, and pack, and that is all they can be.

It would be okay to lose these feelings.

"Listen to him, listen to him!"

"Stiles, don't you dare move!"

Stiles moves around Derek and is again in front of the demon. "Will you leave, then? Never to come back?"

"I'd do you one better — I shall forbid any other of my kind to come back here."

Derek doesn't grab him back, but he does verbally accuse Stiles of being stupid. Stiles is grateful for their relationship to have come to a point where Derek knows better than to stop him when he's set his mind, and he's really fucking gonna miss his bubbling mess of a heart later.

"Deal," he says, and there the lips come, cold and cruel; a quick, dirty kiss that leaves Stiles gasping for breath.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, it's to Derek hovering over him worriedly. It makes Stiles feel packed, so he pushes Derek backwards, and stomps his way back towards the Loft.

Derek follows suit.

[hekateinhell]

Armand/Daniel "Oh, hey now, don't start crying on me"

New York City, 1979

"Oh, hey now, don't start crying on me," Daniel swallowed, the gin and tonic Armand had so lovingly prepared minutes earlier churning restlessly in his stomach as the hand that wasn't still holding the empty glass came to pet Armand's curls on his lap.

Not the first time Daniel had seen Armand cry, but that didn't make it any fucking easier. His father's voice rang through his head, overlapping with the intro to Saturday Night Live: "Now don't cry like a little bitch, son. Makes you look weak. A goddamn punching bag. And that's no son of mine, so you better man the fuck up or I'll give you something to cry about!"

Daniel blinked hard, willing himself to focus. Willed the alcohol to clear his system immediately, as if that would make this any easier. As if that would give him the answers to all the questions he's ever asked.

One of the two ice cubes in the glass had fully melted, and the other wasn't far behind.

"Hey, hey, it's okay."

It's not okay.

Shit people say when they want it to be okay and it's not gonna be. Never gonna be. But they can't stand being powerless and so they lie to themselves and everyone around them to maintain the grand illusion.

He never knows what to do when Armand's crying. It's so... fucking human.

So fucking human it hurts.

A different shade of vulnerability on Armand than his laughter endows him. When Armand laughed—a genuine, full-body laugh—Daniel could see him as the witty, sweet-natured youth with a sharp tongue he must have been once upon a time. Strange to think that anyone who's ever seen that has been dead for half a thousand years, huh, Danny boy? He could almost imagine what Armand would've looked like with the sunlight kissing his skin, igniting the reddish highlights in his dark auburn hair, a constellation of freckles over the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones. Stranger still to think of seeing his mouth open and no fangs in sight. And would you have loved him just the same? Daniel shuddered at the thought.

Yes, laughter was one thing, but crying? Tears?

The way Armand cried—silent and unblinking, unbreathing—made Daniel think of a child in some distinctly horrifying way. Made his heart wrench in two, his skin crawl, and the edges of his vision blur.

Because it's not the way some children cry when they scrap their knees on the pavement or wake up from a nightmare. Loud and visceral and sure to make Mom come running down the hall.

No, Armand cried like a child who had learned long ago there was no point in crying out loud. And staring into the quarter inch of water now in his glass, Daniel knew why.

He knew that cry; he'd cried that cry.

Hiding his closet, biting into his ratty teddy bear so that his father wouldn't hear and beat him for having the audacity to feel emotion the old man didn't know what to do with. And what had been the lesson? No wonder he didn't know how to comfort this creature he so loved. Dear God, you might as well be as emotionally stunned as that cankerous, old- 

Armand squirmed over Daniel's thighs then, snuggling into him as his eyes finally closed and his body gave. His smaller hand reaching for the one Daniel still had on his head.

A lingering kiss to his fingertips, a soft nudge against Daniel's brain: Thank you, lover. You are such a comfort to me.

It's okay.

Everything's okay.

[mumms-the-word]

Intimacy prompts #11

Sorry that I took so long with this! I struggled for a while trying to think what I wanted to write for it, only to realize I had something that was already kind of perfect for this in my WIP drafts.

(It did get a little angsty tho sorry lol)

Prompt #11 - sharing secrets

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

One Sleep Away

Gale x Dani In the camp outside of Baldur's Gate, Dani and Gale share a few secrets while watching the city rest peacefully below.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

They were one sleep away from Baldur’s Gate. One sleep away from walking through Rivington, through Wyrm’s Rock, through the Outer City neighborhoods that curved around Dusthawk Hill, and into the Lower City. Or at least, according to the resident Baldurians, Dani, Wyll, Astarion, and Karlach, that was the path they needed to take tomorrow. They could have explained anything to Gale about Baldur’s Gate and he would have believed them. He knew very little, aside from the fact that Sorcerous Sundries existed somewhere in the city.

He glanced up at the ruined watch tower that stood sentinel over their camp. They’d pitched their tents in its shadow and among its crumbling walls, but whether it was the inhospitable surroundings or the fact that they were so close to the city at last, no one seemed keen to sleep just yet. And Dani, who normally preferred sitting by the campfire chatting or wandering a little ways off to play her fiddle, had yet to climb down from her vantage point near the top of the watch tower. 

Gale waited for some time to see if she’d come down. He missed her being nearby. The last several nights, ever since their first visit to Moonrise, she’d joined him in his tent, wrapping her arms around his middle, tangling their legs together and resting her cheek (carefully, lest she poke him with her horns) against his chest. Every night was the same, with her wrapping him up in her embrace so strongly it was as though she feared he would disappear in the night. She never expressly said why she had made this their nightly habit before they fell asleep, but he suspected he knew part of the answer. 

He’d very nearly given in to Mystra’s command to set off the orb in his chest when they’d discovered the elder brain beneath Moonrise. He would have killed not only himself and the brain, but Dani and dozens of others, too. It likely affected Dani more than she let on. But of course she never said as much. She wasn’t much for talking out her fears or her grievances, except to jokingly complain about little things like the weather.

But something else distracted her tonight. It had to be something serious, to keep her away from the company of others for so long. He glanced once more up at the old watch tower and at last resolved to seek her out. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind his company, if it was only him coming to see her. 

He passed through the camp and up the stairs and ladder that he’d seen Dani take a few hours before. He was careful to be as quiet as possible, despite the creaking wood of the ladder. If she had dozed off, he didn’t want to wake her. They all needed all the sleep they could muster.

But when he reached the top of the ladder, he found Dani sitting on the battlements, her back against the stone wall of the signal tower, one knee propped up and the other leg dangling down, her foot idly swinging. Her face was turned toward the city, away from him, but even so, he couldn’t help but stop and admire her.

Even seated, her body seemed lithe and graceful. Moonlight had turned her light blue skin as soft as hydrangea petals and the icy blue highlights of her long hair nearly silver. Even the breeze itself seemed to grow gentle as it touched her, brushing the hair that framed her face softly against her cheek, like a caress. She hummed quietly under her breath, a tender song all to herself, her foot swinging in time with the tune. After a moment, her lips parted and she sang the words themselves under her breath.

“It’s one more day boys,  That’ll do, boys, Soon we’ll draw alongside, To the gate, boys,  Baldur’s Gate, boys, See the journey’s nearly done.”

Even when she wasn’t casting magic through song, her voice enchanted him. She was a vision unto herself. Though he knew no painter would be interested in immortalizing the unraveling threads and dirt stains on her linen blouse, or the stone dust that clung to her trousers, or the scrapes and bruises on her arms from travel and battle, he preferred to commit it all to memory. This beautiful moment of Dani seated like a classical model, with the sprawling, torch-flickering expanse of Baldur’s Gate as her backdrop. The sight felt like a gift, just for him.

He cleared his throat quietly, so as not to startle her. “Beautiful view. I can see why it’s kept you up here so long.”

She turned her head quickly, tensing, only to relax instantly when she saw that it was him and not a random attacker. Tendays of battle had done that to all of them. He’d never been so suspicious of crackling twigs or approaching footsteps before this wild adventure.

“I guess I lost track of the time,” she said. She turned back to the view of the city. “It’s just so hard to look away. Just look at it, Gale. Baldur’s Gate. Isn’t it beautiful?”

He joined her at the battlement, clasping his hands behind his back and looking beyond her at the city beyond. It stretched before them, curving around rough-hewn Dusthawk Hill but otherwise hugging close to the Chionthar. Two stone bridges, built up with wooden tenements and shops, spanned the Chionthar and connected Rivington to the Outer City. To their left, the heart of the city lay, illuminated by torch light and glimmering peacefully in the night. If he didn’t know better, he could scarcely believe that the city was on the cusp of war.

“I’ve never seen it from this angle before,” she said softly to herself. “I was too busy moving around inside of it. To think, I’ve lived here my entire life, and I missed the views like this.”

“It is quite the view, to be sure,” he agreed, his gaze straying away from the glimmering lights to rest on her instead. All of the city’s distant candlelights and torchlights seemed captured in her golden glowing gaze as it lay fixed on the city beyond.

“Gods, I’ve missed it,” she whispered. “I know I haven’t been gone that long, especially compared to Karlach or Wyll, but…” She trailed off and finished with a vague gesture of her hand. 

Gale said nothing. The city was unfamiliar to him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand her sentiment. If he thought too long on Waterdeep, he found himself getting misty-eyed. What he wouldn’t give to sit on his balcony overlooking the sea again, or nestle into his favorite armchair with Tara on his lap, or take tea again with his mother in her cheerful little sitting room. 

Hells, his mother was probably beside herself, at this point. It had been more than two months since he’d been taken by the nautiloid, and he’d yet to send a single letter. He pushed that thought away before it threatened to bring a real tear to his eyes and cleared his throat again. 

“What part of Baldur’s Gate do you hail from?” he asked.

Dani snorted softly. “Everywhere. Anywhere that could take me.”

Gale’s eyebrows drew together. “You were…you didn’t have a specific home?”

“I did…for a while.” She pointed toward the small mountain that stood in the midst of the city, just slightly left of its center. “I was born in Stonyeyes, on the other side of Dusthawk Hill from here. It’s a half decent neighborhood of families that work as servants, craftsmen, or shopkeeps in the Lower City, if they’re not tending their own shops in Stonyeyes. You can’t see it from here, but we’ll pass through it to get into the city proper.”

She lowered her arm and rested her head against the signal tower again. “I lived there with my mum until I was…gods, fifteen? Then I struck it out on my own. Joined up with a troupe and tavern-hopped with them from gig to gig. We’d play in exchange for room and board, most nights. I’ve been just about all over the Outer City and the Lower City.”

“You left home at fifteen?” He tried to imagine a fifteen-year-old Dani. That must have been ten years ago, give or take a year. He envisioned her a little shorter, a little rounder in the face, her hair its natural, undyed shade of deep, rich mahogany, but in two much shorter braids and no buns behind her horns. The girl in his mind’s eye seemed far too young to strike out alone, but what did he know? He was conjuring complex magic and summoning powerful creatures into his dormitory bedroom when he was fifteen.

“Yeah. I had to. My mum was sick and we had to afford the healers somehow. So I sang and played in taverns for a bit and scraped together a few coppers each night to send home to my mum. When Brann and his Rovers passed through, I joined up in an instant. He’d always been good to me.” She smiled softly, as if reliving a memory. “He taught me my first clunky chords on the lute when I was just a kid, and showed me how to scrape a bow across fiddle strings without making an awful screech. I’m just glad he saw potential in me.”

Right, Brann Rufford, the human bard who had a complicated but strong connection with Dani. Gale recalled many stories Dani would tell of Brann, his daughter Liara, and the other two bards, Paraxxel and Kellen, as the five of them traveled around together. It struck him only then that he knew more about that part of her life than her childhood. She talked about her mother, but rarely, and he realized he couldn’t recall a single thing about her father.

He almost didn’t ask his next question, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Was your father not able to help?”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Not willing, more like. He probably wasn’t even in the city. I never met my dad, but I know he was a right arsehole, from what my mum told me. The sort that give bards a bad name.”

“Ah…not the poetic, charming kind of bard then?”

“No. More like…the fucking and leaving kind. The only thing he ever gave me was a knack for lying and cheating at cards.” She frowned, her brow furrowed, and then leaned over the edge of the battlements and spat, as though talking about him left a bad taste in her mouth. “Good riddance.”

“My apologies,” Gale murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s all right. You didn’t know. And now you do.” She shrugged, as if it were as simple as that.

They lapsed into silence, gazing out over the city together. Gale thought back to his own father, then, unable to keep from drawing comparisons. It had been so long since he gave his father any serious thought. He’d tried for so long to forget him, after all. But glancing at Dani, who looked a little sad now as she leaned back against the signal tower, he felt the odd urge to share. To at least let her know that she wasn’t alone in feeling…complicated…about her own father.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, folding his arms loosely and leaning his hip against the battlements. He waited for her to look at him, curious, before he smiled faintly and continued. “In some ways, I think you’re lucky. Your father was an arsehole but at least you didn’t have to see it. My father was an arsehole and we had to live with him for a decade before he left us.”

She didn’t say anything, but he saw her expression shift from curiosity to quiet sympathy. No judgment. As if she understood.

Perhaps in some ways she did.

“I could lie and say there was some big dramatic fight that occurred the day he left,” he said, looking out over the city again. “Or go farther and say he was taken from us too soon by some disease or battle or what-have-you. But the reality is that he simply left one day while I was living at Blackstaff Academy. No note, no warning. My mother wrote to tell me and Tara delivered the letter.”

“What did you do?” Dani whispered.

He shrugged, lowering his gaze to the ground below. “I threw the letter in the fire. I told Tara I didn’t care about him anyway, and I went back to my studies.”

It was strange, to be talking about his father. He hadn’t brought him up to anyone in years. Better to have forgotten he existed at all, he thought. But he felt comfortable mentioning him now. Though that did not necessarily mean he was unaffected by it. Old feelings of resentment and bitterness coated his tongue, but eh didn’t try to swallow them back this time. He felt…safe sharing this with Dani. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt safe sharing these sorts of secrets with anyone.

“Was he cruel to you?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “Not physically. But he’d always been distant. I got the impression that he never wanted me, and once he had me, there was nothing I could do to earn his favor. Nothing was good enough, and he viewed every little mishap of mine as mounting evidence of my many faults. In truth…I’m not certain why he stayed as long as he did.” 

Gale looked up at the stars then. Strange, how easy it had been in comparison to win the favor and impress the likes of Elminster Aumar, and from there the Mother of Magic herself, but not his own flesh-and-blood father. Accidentally cast a fireball into a rosebush and Elminster himself calls him a prodigy. Do the same in front of his father, however, and the only reaction he’d received was an angry tirade about how he could do nothing right.

Looking back, he saw now that his mother had overcorrected in her attempts to counteract his father’s coldness. She had been nothing but supportive of Gale in opposition to his father, fueling Gale’s desire to learn magic, doting on his every victory, and excusing his faults where they made themselves known. His father had instilled in him a desire for perfection, first to impress him, and later to impress Mystra, while his mother had unknowingly fanned the flames of his hubris and arrogance by telling him that his father was wrong and that he was destined for greatness. He’d told himself some time ago that his actions were for himself alone, or himself and Mystra, but it was looking back now with a clear head and someone like Dani at his side that he was starting to see how far-reaching the consequences of having such an upbringing really stretched.

“The day he left, I said much the same thing you did,” he said after a moment of quiet. “Good riddance. Good riddance and go to hell.” He paused, and then added with a wry smile, “Having been to hell personally, I can say that I still think he’d fit right in down there.”

Dani sat up, her legs on either side of the battlement, and laid a hand on Gale’s shoulder. “You don’t have to carry him with you wherever you go,” she said, her face serious and sympathetic. “I don’t know if that helps but…you can focus on remembering the ones who love you more, instead. Like your mother, and Tara. And me.” She added those last two words so softly he might have missed them had he not been watching her lips.

He put a hand over hers where it still rested on his shoulder. “I know. And I love you, too, Dani.” He leaned over and gave her a gentle, lingering kiss before the both of them settled back the way they were, Dani leaning against the little stone tower and Gale resting against the battlements, their eyes on the city beyond.

It was good to speak of it, he thought to himself, even if the memories did still sting with bitterness. But it helped even more knowing that Dani understood, in some ways. Their experiences were not entirely the same, but she wasn’t telling him to forgive his father or trying to justify his actions. She’d met him with nothing but understanding and a reminder that other people loved him, still loved him, and would always love him.

Just as people loved her and would always love her. Himself included.

“Is your mother still in Stonyeyes?” he asked suddenly, a plan forming in his mind as he looked at the city.

She looked up, surprised by his sudden question. “Yes. I assume so, she was there when I last saw her a few months ago.”

“If we must pass through the Outer City, we could stop by.”

She gave him an odd look, part confusion and part amusement. “You want to meet my mum?”

“Of course. That is…if you’re not against me meeting her. I think we’ve both weathered worse than awkward introductions to one’s mother, after all. But if you’d rather avoid all that…” He shrugged. “Then I suppose we can simply drop you off for an afternoon and continue on to try and reach Basilisk Gate without you. We’re all more than capable of finding our way through to the Lower City. Probably.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Don’t be so quick to say that. Baldur’s Gate’s streets can confuse even the most street-savvy of us.” She shifted so that she was sitting with her back to the city, her legs dangling over the stone floor. She leaned forward on her hands, toward him, tilting her head. “Do you want to meet my mum or not? Supposing we find the time, I mean.”

“Only if you are comfortable with me meeting her,” Gale said, adjusting so that he was facing her fully and not awkwardly leaning off to one side. “Though,” he added, as if in an afterthought, “I’ll need adequate time to prepare. You’ll need to give me her name, for one, and how best to address her and whether I ought to shake her hand or come bearing gifts. That sort of thing.”

Dani shook her head in amusement. “Gale.”

“Is she allergic to anything? Would she be offended if I offered to make her dinner, or perhaps a dessert?”

“Gale.”

“Are there any customs I ought to be aware of? Anything I ought to avoid? Leave my shoes on the doorstep, that sort of thing?”

“Gale,” she said, this time with more emphasis, reaching out to grab his shirt with one hand and give him a little shake. “Calm down. She’s a normal tiefling, love, not a complex magical ritual you have to prepare for.”

“I just like to be prepared for anything and make a good impression.”

Dani rolled her eyes fondly and took his shirt in both of her hands, gently bringing him to stand between her knees. With her seated on the battlements, she was a few inches higher than him. It was a little thrilling, to look up and see her illuminated golden gaze, one of her braids slipping over her shoulder as she leaned down to smile at him. Unbidden, he smoothed his hands up her thighs, fitting himself snuggly between her legs, as though obeying her silent command.

“You ramble when you’re excited, darling,” she murmured.

“I—”

But his protest was cut short by her lips meeting his. He caved to her affections, letting the words he was going to say slip from his mind as he returned her kiss. Kiss after kiss, he let himself get lost in the taste of her tongue, his fingers curling into the muscle of her thighs. 

“Conjure us a little tent, won’t you, love?” she mumbled against his lips. When he pulled back to look askance at her, she merely gave him a smirk and traced his lower lip with the point of her thumbnail. “I’m in no mood to climb down to the rest of camp just yet.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

[hannahmanderr]

for the ship scene ask thing have you done Savant Par yet?

(TechHunter AU: a spin on a No One Knows AU in which Tucker takes up a role much like Valerie's and begins to hunt ghosts - only he doesn't know that one of those ghosts happens to be his best friend)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Danny thought that staring down the end of an ecto-blaster held by his parents was one of the worst feelings in the world.

Turns out, staring down the end of an ecto-blaster held by his best friend was the worst feeling in the world.

He could barely control his panicked breathing as he pressed his back further and further into the brick wall, frozen in fear. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice yelled at him to just phase through the wall you idiot! But it was drowned out by the other, louder voices telling him that this was capital-B Bad and just how screwed he was.

"W-what do you want?" he asked. Hopefully the waver in his voice was more imagined than anything, but he doubted it was true.

The blaster didn't move an inch. "You've gotten away with this far too long, Phantom," the figure on the other end of the gun said. His voice was distorted by the voice modulator in his helmet.

Danny knew it was Tucker. Had known it was Tucker. He'd recognized the voice back before the modulator had been installed.

Now though, it sounded nothing like his lifelong friend. It only made the situation that much more terrifying, especially when compounded with the fact that he couldn't see Tucker's face through the tinted visor he wore.

He swallowed. "Gotten away with what?"

Apparently that had been the exact wrong thing to say. He grunted as the blaster was jabbed straight into his chest.

"Don't play dumb with me! You know exactly what you've been doing!" Tucker yelled. "It ends tonight. I'm here to make sure of that."

Danny's heart and core both began to race. Flashes of all the opportunities he'd had to tell Tucker and Sam of his secret began to flood his mind's eye, but he shoved them to the back of his mind as far as he could. "L-listen! Can't you - can't we talk about this for a minute?"

"Why should I? You don't deserve it. Not after what you've been doing to Danny."

Well now that caught his attention.

"I haven't been doing anything to Danny," he said quietly. Did it count as the truth if he was Danny? And he wasn't doing anything to himself?

The blaster was pushed even farther into his chest. "You might as well just drop the act, I already know your dirty little secret!"

Danny's stomach dropped. "You - you do?"

"Of course I do! You don't think I've seen how tired he is all the time? The bags under his eyes? And how he keeps getting all those random bruises and stuff? It's so obvious, I can't believe I didn't figure it out before."

"Please, Tucker, I can expl-"

"What did you just call me?"

Danny froze again. "I - Tucker, you have to let me explain, I swear I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"No, no." Tucker shook his head. "You've known? This whole time? Who I am?"

The danger in the question was palpable. Tread carefully, Fenton. "I mean... yes? I, uh... saw you take your helmet off once?" Yeah, that seemed mostly plausible. Especially if there was any shot his own secret was safe.

Tucker stayed quiet for a long moment. Danny wished he could see past the visor. It was unbearable, not being able to see his face.

"Danny found out," he finally whispered. "He found out and he told you, didn't he?"

"Um..."

"No, wait. Wait. You forced him to tell you, didn't you?"

"What?" Danny yelped as Tucker's other hand slammed into the wall, right next to his face.

"Because that's all he is to you, isn't he?" Tucker growled. "He's just some puny little human that you can mess with because you're the big, bad ghost boy."

Well, if there was a plus side to this, it was that his secret was safe after all. "It's not like that at all! He's - I'm not messing with him!"

"Well let me tell you something," Tucker continued, as if Danny hadn't spoken. "That boy you think is your personal plaything? That you think you can do whatever you want with? He's worth way more than you could even dream of."

Danny found himself at a loss for words. His heart and core continued to thud frantically and disjointedly. "What do you mean?" was all he could bring himself to say.

"I love him is what I mean!"

Time stood still around them. The full force of Tucker's words hit Danny like the brick wall behind him. The kind of love Tucker had to be talking about...

... it wasn't just brotherly friend love, wasn't it?

His heart broke into a million pieces.

Tucker's breaths were uneven and shallow. "I love him," he repeated, quieter this time. "And... and if you think you can keep hurting him like this..."

The blaster whined, and an uncomfortable heat built up against Danny's chest.

"... then let's just say the only way you'll get to him is over my dead body."

For some reason, the words finally kickstarted his brain into gear. Barely giving himself the time to consider whether it was a smart choice or not, Danny turned himself intangible and fell through the wall behind him. He scrambled to his feet and emerged on the other side of the wall before taking off into the sky at top speed.

Only the wind and the fading echoes of Tucker's furious shouts rang in his ears.

He didn't stop flying until he was on the other side of the city. He didn't even bother to check where he was before collapsing onto the roof of one of the buildings, curling into himself and letting his tears flow freely down his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

~~Send me a ship and I'll send you the first scene that comes to mind with them!

[sentientsky]

a tiny little ficlet based on this lovely comment from @queer4cryptids on this post! (i accidentally made it angsty, i’m so sorry!! but there’s comfort and gay yearning in there, i swear!) when the night falls low and settles against the side of the Earth; when the the dark begins to carry a certain weight, he shifts his stance. he lets himself breathe air he doesn't really need into lungs that exist simply by virtue of his inclination to breath. it's the same pattern Crowley's watched unfold a hundred million times times over—the stretching of a thread until it frays, three women, a set of blades; a wicked inevitability carried in the lines of time-weathered hands.

and still it never changes, never lessens the welling of grief that builds and breaks in his chest, that stagnates and stratifies like layers of sand upon gravel upon so many eons since he first fell from the sky and lost the right to mourn a woman hungry only for bread and a little kindness.

he leans back against a headstone, swallowing down a familiar hollowness. the sparrows have all taken root in the knots of tree trunks. the moon blinks back at him, clouds swaying like an eyelid closing to sleep.

he turns his face away from the light, sucks in breath for which he still has no need. the rough-hewn granite is going to scuff his coat; he knows this with the certainty of having lived in a world full of serrated edges for so many years. and yet he doesn't care. Crowley can't find it in him to give a damn because finally, finally he's there. he's there and he's real and tangible and it's been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since he's last felt the warmth of angelic skin so close to his own. not that he's been keeping count, of course. and Aziraphale's got that faraway look again. the one pressed into the lines of his face in the aftermath of a flood that tilted against the sky; the same one Crowley saw in the stark daylight of a death warrant unfurled and stamped with the name of the holy Mother herself. it's the same, hollow, teeth-gritted look Crowley himself wore as he stood on a hillside reeking of freshly-cut wood, bearing witness to yet another child of the Almighty thrown to the wolves. Aziraphale turns, then, and blue eyes meet black lenses meet amber-gold. "Crowley—" Aziraphale manages, choking it out in a half-whisper, like it hurts—like it scrapes his throat with bits of barbed wire. and, just like that, something in him is breaking and the oak trees are all whispering dangerous things and still, still he can't find a version of this story in which he doesn't lean closer, doesn't press himself forward into air that smells of earl grey tea and old books and something celestial and hallowed and holy underneath it all. and as though he's drowning—as though the moon doesn't watch them with a flickering gaze and the trees can't hear the brush of skin meeting skin—Aziraphale presses his fingertips to the side of Crowley's wrist. he moves no further. the air holds still, time seeming to freeze around them. it's intentional, he realizes; it's fire and it's heat and it's utterly fucking terrifying. even now, so far above ground, Crowley can nearly feel the weight of hellish eyes on his back. a shudder runs the length of his body. and yet. in the atomic space of that hungry, desperate, throat-baring yet, he turns his hand, trembling, to the side. he finds the angel's touch like a bird bearing North—like a compass forever calibrated to a single, fixed point.

"I know—" he rasps. “Angel, I know.” he twines his fingers with Aziraphale's, and it's positively electric. every cell in his tragically, wonderfully human body has turned pure gold, conducted and galvanized and sparking. a sharp, stilted inhale; a quiet anticipation carved out in the space between their pressed hands (and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss...). the graveyard is still. the grief is there, still. the grief might always be there. but the sharp edges dull, the welling in his chest grows steady and slow and gentle. and the world becomes a little less difficult to bear with the two of them holding it up.

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

THE BEST OF PRIORITY: SUR'KESH

Featuring: Cmdr. Sophie Shepard, Lt. James Vega, EDI, and Urdnot Wrex With: Lt. Steve Cortez, Dr. Mordin Solus, Major Kirrahe, and Urdnot Bakara And a Special Guest Appearance by: Adm. Steven Hackett Alliance R&D has officially begun construction on the Prothean device. The team has dubbed it: "Project Crucible". We're throwing everybody who knows how to throw a hammer at it. This is gonna be the most ambitious undertaking in human history. I'm not saying it won't be a challenge- but we can do this, Shepard. You can do this. Never doubt that. Mass Effect 3: Legendary Edition (2021)

+BONUS (the smirk™️)

[brekitten]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Danny Phantom, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Danny Fenton, Original Characters, Peter Parker Additional Tags: Crossover Angst Week 2024, Human Experimentation, Needles, Guys in White | GIW Organization (Danny Phantom), Ambiguous/Open Ending Series: Part 1 of Bre's Crossover Angst Week 2024 Summary:

Peter has done some really dumb stuff over the course of his life, especially when he became Spider-Man.

Breaking into a government facility out in the middle of the woods when he's supposed to be camping with his aunt really takes the cake, though.

Surely this won't backfire on him too horribly, right?

Or,

Peter does a dumb and very quickly comes to regret it.

  GIW experimentation

So, I'm a tad bit late to the party, but tbf I did just find out about this today, and I'm pretty happy that I was able to get this out in just a few hours XD

Anyway, here's Day 1! I'm planning on writing something for every day of the event, including the days I missed, such as this one. Yall can look forward to more angst to come >:3

[flamestar126]

One last glance at a former rival

bonus + original photo below cut

[3416]

are you normal or do you wake up every day and think about this