#more of an in-between chapter

[clumsiestgiantess]

Chapter 19 of The Other-world Universe; Alexis ignores her new responsibilities and.. goes home?

all chapters listed here

[Inspiration Strikes]

After double-checking with the outposts to ensure the town would be safe enough without me, I caught Erica just before she went into one of the secret little entrances.  Literally.  I scooped her up as she was walking.  “Oof!” she exclaimed as her chest collided with my palm.  “What-?”  Her disgruntled voice cut off as I curled my fingers around and beneath her, hoisting her gently up in front of my face.  “Erica, I think I’m going to head to my world for a bit.  I want to see if I can make something that’ll help this town, and maybe myself.  Do you mind if I leave you here?  I mean, it’s not like I can go with you into the mountain anyways.”  

Erica’s expression looked a little bit crestfallen for a moment, before turning her attention back to the present.  “Sure, go ahead.  You dragged me all the way up here to ask that?”  “Well, it’s honestly easier for me to see and hear you this way.  Sorry if I picked you up a bit too quickly.  I’ll just stick to talking to you on the ground — I don’t want to hurt you.”  Erica shook her head, reaching out to put an arm around one of my fingers.  “Oh!  No, I just didn’t realize-  You can pick me up whenever you want,” she told me, a shy smile grazing her lips as she turned embarrassedly away.

I squeezed her a bit in my hand, teasing her.  A slight blush crept over her cheeks as I rubbed the side of her arm with the pad of my thumb.  “I didn’t think you’d mind.”  Erica giggled, then shook herself off as if coming to her senses.  “H-Hey!  I’m the one who’s supposed to do the flustering!  Put me down!”  I exhaled a soft breath and let her off on the ground below.  She sauntered away towards the town, but paused at the entrance and turned to me.  “When will you be back?”  It was as if she completely forgot what I’d just told her about needing to be closer to hear her.  Her old house had been up on the cliff — close to my head.  For so long she didn’t have to worry about my ability to understand her, until now.

Thankfully, I caught the last few words of what she said and figured out the rest.  “I think I’ll be back by the end of the day.  If not, definitely sometime tomorrow.  Go enjoy your new house and have fun!  You’ll see me soon.”  Erica nodded, then disappeared into the rocks.

Soon afterwards, I vanished into my own world.  Maybe I can make something here that could act as a shield for the town.  Unfortunately, my father returned to the basement only minutes after I arrived.  I completely forgot what we’d been doing prior.  Next thing I knew, he had me working on disassembling the ping pong table he'd wanted my help with forever ago.  It was messing with my head, the way time was now off-balanced between the other-world and mine.  Technically, in my world, Dad had only asked me to help out about a half-hour ago, but I'd lived out several weeks since then — a month at least.

I worked in silence, thinking through different machines or objects I could create to solve the real problem at hand.  Not only did the town need protection, I needed it too.  Sure, intangibility kept me out of harm's way, but I couldn't pull a punch without my fist falling right through whatever I'd hit.  I needed a weapon.  A defensive weapon.  Something I could use to keep the scientists at bay and fortify the town.

With the work my father gave me finally out of the way, I could get down to business.  I sat in the living room and studied multiple types of weapons on my phone.  An internet deep-dive revealed several pieces of weaponry I had no idea even existed, but nothing felt quite right.  So, for the first time in what felt like forever, I socialized with my family.  My grandfather was more than happy to entertain me with a story from his past, and my grandmother baked us chocolate and peanut butter cookies.

Later, I watched Liam play with the puppy he'd gotten for his most recent birthday.  He was launching a tennis ball from a comically large gun; I even gave it a go, pulling back the reload slider and letting it fly.  I feared we’d give the little thing a heart attack the way his dog flew across the yard after that ball.  

That's when I got an ingenious idea.  I wanted a gun like this one, only instead of shooting tennis balls, it could shoot a barrier of some sort.  Giving a lame excuse, I raced into my room and sketched out the details of my weapon's design, working ceaselessly until I had it looking just the way I imagined.  I felt like a maniac, scribbling away design after design, note after note — listing out everything I could need from my new creation.

Alright, I thought as I stared at the drawing in front of me, it'll shoot a barrier for sure, but what if I need to go on the attack?  Thinking back to the reload track on the top of the gun's barrel, I added a slim light fixture with four even sections to the side of the gun, right beneath it.  So if I pull it back all the way to here, I marked out the very last section, it'll fire a barrier made of some unbreakable glassy-looking light.  Yeah, that way you can still see out of it and still breathe through it because it's technically made of light, but it’ll otherwise be impenetrable.  It was akin to creating things as a little kid, making up stupid completely unreal powers to deal with any possible problems.  However, if I could make boxes that generated both infinite money and food, who's to say I couldn’t make an impossible forcefield if I felt like it?  Checkmate, scientists.

I focused on the other three unmarked sections I added beneath the reload track.  The closest one will shoot bullets made of the same material as the forcefield, and for good measure, I'll make them explode whenever they hit something.  I don’t want to kill anyone with them, though.  They’ll have to be small explosives, just enough to tear through clothing or maybe a layer of skin.  The middle two.. I could make a half-barrier version of the original barrier.  A smaller one I could dispense as a shield whenever I need it.

Since I'm already going to make the bullets explosive, I might as well make the solid-light material itself explosive too.  Someone tries to get through the barrier?  They get an explosion.  Wait, my shield can't explode, I'm holding it!  So… it'll explode if I throw it at someone, or the ground, kinda like a smoke bomb.  That way, I can fight under cover without being intangible!  I’ll make sure to add that the smoke will be invisible to only myself.  That way I can still see everything while everyone else is blinded.

It seemed as if everything was coming together nicely, and I thoroughly enjoyed messing around with the properties of my new solid-light material; utilizing it to give me every possible advantage when I fought.  By dinner, I'd finalized my plans.  The shortest reload notch shot explosive bullets, the longest shot a barrier, and the two in between would either switch the gun to multi-shot mode or generate a shield I could 'break in case of emergency' as a smoke bomb.  I might just break one for a cool entrance, who knows?  

Only after Dad called the family together for dinner did I realize how long I'd been away from the other-world.  I doubted the scientists would come back on the day right after they'd been beaten, though.  At least, that's what I told myself as I sat at the table to eat.

Dinner that night was so mundanely normal compared to the many nights I'd spent in the other-world, that it was almost foreign to me.  Most of my days had been filled with such grand adventures, even the little everyday things suddenly seemed out of place.  Could I even call those days part of my week?  In this world it was still the exact same Tuesday it was when I left days ago.  Technically, when I woke up in my own bed earlier today, I had no idea that the scientists were even in the other-world.  Hell, I had no idea I'd even be in the other-world!  After one of the most mind-bending meals I'd ever eaten, I took my finalized weapon plans to the basement.

Unlike the years prior, I no longer had a curfew I needed to be in bed by.  I could stay up as late as I wanted to deal with the other-world.  The only thing I needed to worry about was someone coming downstairs to find me building with toys at eleven o'clock at night.

As I sat down with a bin of blocks, a sudden realization popped into my mind.  If the table and the things on it really have no correlation to the other-world, then why do I get this ability in the first place?  There had to be a reason.  I’d come up with theoretical reasons why from the very beginning.  They’d changed a bit over the years, but there was always some hypothetical reason that made some logical sense.

Invisibility always made sense because I physically wasn’t supposed to exist in the other-world.  Controlling and intangibility had originally made sense because I was puppeteering fake people, but now it took on a similar explanation to invisibility.  The two powers were my technically non-existent body finding a host, leaving my real one as nothing but a non-physical controller.  However, being able to create whatever I wanted and having it transform into something real in the other-world no longer made sense now that I’d found that the other-world was a real and separate place.

If it is truly separate from the building blocks, I should be able to use whatever I want to make something, right?  I wandered over to a cabinet and gazed into the top bin of office supplies.  Grabbing a packet of sticky notes, I brought them back to the table and pulled off three of them. Quickly, I stuck them together to form a flimsy triangle with an empty center.  I stepped into the strange-feeling spot where I’d fallen, giving it a few properties.  This little triangle is.. a camping tent.  The second after I assumed things had been established, I zapped into the other-world.  Sure enough, when I held out the little thing, it was made of canvas and fabric rather than yellow paper.  Huh, I guess I’m not limited to blocks after all.  

Returning again to my own world, I sat back down on the floor and got to work.  Even though I could use other things, the building bricks were probably the easiest and most versatile thing I could use as material, especially since the material itself didn’t actually matter.  I don’t know why I can do this, but I don’t think I really need to know.  As long as it works, I might as well keep using it.

I’d doubted paper or cardboard could make a better gun than the bricks could, but I was beginning to lose hope after the first hour.  Time and time again I tried to build something that at least somewhat resembled what I had on the paper in front of me, but try as I might, I just couldn't get all the pieces to hold on such a large build.  I needed the launch gun to be scaled to my own height, meaning I’d have to build a fairly large contraption out of the spare pieces still left over from my youth.  I was tempted to steal the gun I’d been inspired by in the first place — Liam’s tennis ball launcher — but realized that the gun I had designed featured a few other add-ons that his plastic one didn’t cover, and scrapped the idea.  

For what must've been hours of building and re-building, I worked late into the night.  However, nothing I tried worked, and I eventually lay down in a pile of discarded bricks, dead tired.  From the floor, I lazily reached across the carpet to my phone.  The clock read two forty-five AM.  It was later than I'd expected; I really should've been back in the other-world by then.  Yet my bed at home was so much more enticing than the literal empty field I slept in before.

In the end, I decided that since it was already late I might as well sleep the night in my own world for a change.  I said I’d be back today or definitely tomorrow.  So I’ll go back tomorrow.  I swear my back cracked in five places at once as I lay down on the blissfully soft mattress in my old room.  Was my bed always this comfortable?  It had barely been three minutes before I slid into a deep dreamless sleep.  I was that tired.  Morning seemed to arrive way too early for my liking.  When I checked the clock on my bedside table, I realized it was actually almost the afternoon.  Now I really should get back to the other-world.  Gun construction will have to wait until later.  

Once I finished breakfast, though it was more of a brunch, I snuck away to the basement.  Bricks were still scattered all over the floor from earlier, so I quickly stashed them away.  I didn't need any clues getting to my family about what I was doing down there.  Not only would they not understand, they would think I'd lost my mind.  I couldn’t even prove the other-world was real; only I could get there.  Though, I guess I could vanish right in front of them, but that would just screw over all of my plans.  No one needed to know, especially if the government, my government, found out about it somehow.  I didn’t need two worlds of people to fight with; one was plenty.  I’d already angered one government by disrupting their awful plans; I certainly didn’t need another.

Before I could delve further into the possible backlash that might occur after possibly getting two grown men from some unknown world killed, my brother came to the basement.  I practically flung myself away from the table, landing heavily on the couch.  “Oh!  Hey, Liam.  What’s going on?” I asked, hiding my panic as best as I could.  He shrugged, “Dad wants you upstairs.”  “Ok, in a second,” I replied, pretending to busy myself with something.  I was hoping to wait until he left to sneak into the other-world and leave my father’s request for another time.  However, true to his semi-annoying brotherly ways, Liam just stood there waiting for me.  I waved him off but he just shook his head.  He probably knew I was stalling to get out of whatever Dad wanted.  Both of us were guilty of that at one time or another.

The rest of my family was already there by the time Liam and I arrived.  When we stepped out of the basement, my father announced that we were taking our grandparents out to one of the large farms about an hour away.  There was a whole autumn festival going on, and Dad thought it would be a fun way for us to spend time together.  I was hoping to have more time for another trip to check on the other-world, as well as another chance to work on my weapon, but I was still stumped on how to build it without the whole thing falling apart under its own weight.  In the end, I didn't really mind.  I could use some fresh air.  My brother was adamant to stay home at first too, but once Dad told him that pets were allowed at the fairgrounds, he quickly changed his mind.  His new puppy was all the motivation he needed.

The festival was a nice change of pace from the other-world.  In my world, I didn’t have to worry about invading forces or terrified civilians; I could just be a normal person for once.  I still carried over a few habits from the other-world, though.  I kept checking the ground beneath me before I stepped down, and I was hesitant to run anywhere, fearing that I would cause small tremors if I did.

Once we found a place to park at the festival, we went apple picking, which tired my grandparents out fairly quickly.  Dad sat them down at a picnic table, and my brother and I silently groaned at the thought of sitting down when there was so much we hadn't done.  My father must've seen the identical bored look on our faces, because he handed me a twenty dollar bill and told us to go have fun.  Instantly, my brother made a beeline for the pumpkin smash.  I held his dog while he gathered up a bucket of mini pumpkins.  He loaded them into slingshots that had been constructed in a nearby field filled with wooden targets, letting them fly with zealous excitement.

After he had his fun, we moved on to the corn maze — one of my favorite autumn activities.  At the entrance, we each set a stopwatch on our phones.  We quickly counted down to the start, hit the button, and dashed off in different directions through the maze, Scruffy yanking my brother out of sight.  I found myself lost multiple times, even passing him once at an intersection.  Suddenly, I was wishing for my other-world height back, if only so I could see over the corn stalks.  

Against all odds, I managed to make my way out first.  I called my brother to tell him I'd won our race, and he burst through the side of the maze a few minutes later.  Now he was the one dragging Scruffy.  Having given up, he'd made his way directly through the walls of corn.  When at last we returned to the table, my dad ordered us food.  To top off the day, my whole family piled into the back of a tractor for a hay bale ride.  By the end, the sky had gotten dark and I was exhausted.  I hadn't exactly slept much the night before — working on my weapon and all.

Back home I lay on my infinitely soft bed, wishing I could have days like that in the other-world.  A day where I could take Erica, and maybe even Ivan, out to somewhere fun.  However, 'fun' was a lot harder to come by in a world ravaged by giants.  

I woke up feeling disconcerted the next day.  After breakfast I deduced that something in my dream might have caused it.  I didn’t remember much, and I don't think it made much sense, but I know for certain that it had something to do with my failed weapon.  Anxiety prompted me back to the basement as I realized that I should’ve returned last night.  Rounding the corner of the staircase, I stopped dead.  The play table was gone.  

Calm down, I reassured myself.  The table and the other-world have nothing to do with eachother, you know that.  That’s the big reason you left the first time. All I need is the spot on the floor where I fell.  Even with that knowledge in mind, it was still unnerving to see the place so barren.  My dad must’ve trashed the play table like he’d said he would.  Cautiously, I stepped over to where I’d fallen — where I’d always felt that strange energy — and warped into the standard original field, just to check that nothing was amiss.  It wasn’t, so I returned immensely relieved.

Again, I tried to make something structurally sound, but nothing stuck.  Well, nothing big enough for me to use stuck.  A small, hand-sized gun would easily stay in one piece, but when I tried to scale it up, everything broke.  Remembering that I could use more than just blocks, I ransacked the unfinished part of the basement for some empty cardboard boxes.  If the bricks kept crumbling apart, I would use something sturdier.  With a roll of masking tape, a pair of scissors, and a few boxes, I set everything up yet again in hopes that the change in materials would pay off.  Yet, after hours of work, I still had nothing but my sketches to show for it.  The gun held up well for a while, but as I sat in the warping area for a few minutes to give it its powerful attributes, the tape would always lose its stick and the whole thing would flatten out.  This happened again and again, no matter how many pieces of tape I plastered on.

Angrily, I threw my newly crumpled piece across the floor, breaking it further.  In vain, I grabbed a random chunk and thought: This stupid piece of cardboard is a gun.  Immediately, I disappeared to the other-world to see my results.  Despite my immense hatred for that piece of cardboard, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the result of my half-attempt at creation.  It was a gun alright, an extremely flattened one.  The pistol had taken the shape of the bent box, and looked more like a metal boomerang than an actual gun.  

Sighing, I chucked it into the field that I always warped into and returned home.  “I need a break,” I grumbled tiredly, “Something distracting, preferably.”  That's how I spent most of my day playing video games on the TV with my brother.  It was so distracting that I forgot I should have been back in the other-world that day.  However, after a rematch on the big screen once dinner was over, my day was gone, as well as my chance to properly return.  No, it was not an excuse for me to stay in my way less problematic, way more relaxing world.  Or maybe it is, but can I really blame myself for wanting to live in my own reality?

After three days of off-and-on weapons building and RnR, I returned to the other-world with very little fanfare.  Of course, the guards outside were a bit startled by my sudden arrival, but they quickly realized I wasn't a threat; I'd simply returned from my own world.  Much to my relief, nothing seemed amiss despite having been gone for longer than I intended.  I had doubted the chances of another attack in such a short time, but I couldn't help feeling slightly concerned about being gone for so long.

It's not like I'm leaving them without protection, I reminded myself, settling into my new mountain lookout.  There are still plenty of guards… not that they were very effective protecting the town the first time.  Perched on my stone seat, I could see miles around me in every direction.  As far as I could tell, everything looked normal by other-world standards, so I let my mind wander from lookout duty.

The plans I spent so long drawing up would be completely useless if I couldn’t create a weapon big enough to use.  I'd have to start back at square one with no way to protect the city.  Mulling about the mountains, I boredly watched the clouds slide slowly across the sky.  Suddenly, bits of rock tumbled down the slope beside me, announcing the arrival of someone new.  

Ivan struggled across a thin stretch of the cliffside, almost sliding off of it twice before I offered him my hand instead.  He glanced cautiously down at the steep slope beneath him and slid onto my palm.  “Thanks,” he gasped, out of breath.  Slowly, I brought him to a flatter part of the mountain on my other side.

“What brings you all the way up here?” I asked.  Ivan held up a hand to pause for a moment while he drank from a bottle he’d brought with him in his backpack.  “I wanted to see if you’d figured out a way to protect the town," he answered.  "I know I told you that it’s your job because you broke the ceiling, but it’s mine too.  If you still need ideas, I can help brainstorm.”  

I thought back to how he’d been standing guard a few days earlier.  When I'd first met Ivan, he'd driven out alone to find someone he didn’t really trust, unsure of whether or not they’d even help him, all for a chance to protect everyone else.  Not only did he risk getting attacked by a random ‘giant’ such as myself, he risked getting spotted by the portal ‘giants’ too.

“You really care about them, don’t you?” I asked, gesturing at the town.  He glanced up at me and nodded, looking back out over the view.  “My family lives down there.  Everyone I know who hasn’t been captured lives down there.  It's all any of us have left."  Ivan turned to gesture at the Cavern Town and the gaping hole in its side.  It had seemed like a good idea to create it at the time, but now it fills me with a sort of dread.

Erica keeps telling me that I'm changing for the better, but am I?  Ever since I came back I've hurt, no, killed people from two worlds.  I’d carelessly destroyed this secret place beneath the rocks without thinking of the people I might hurt doing it, or the consequences it might have on me.  That's the kind of thinking that got me into controlling Erica all those years ago.  Sure she says I've changed, but all I can see is me returning to my old habits again.  I don’t want to end up like we did.  Especially not now — not right after I’ve figured out this whole ‘girlfriend from an alternate world’ thing.

I sighed heavily. Ivan must have noticed the way I'd been guiltily staring at the opening into the city; he sighed too.  "To be honest with you, I wasn't that much of a defender before all this.  In fact, I was called out for being a coward."  Startled from my thoughts, I turned to Ivan.  Carefully, I lowered my head to rest on the rocks beside him, trying to better read his expressions.  "But you seem so fearless," I observed, " I doubt many of you from the town would have dared to approach me after what those scientists and I did, nevermind having the nerves to ask me for help.  I couldn't imagine you being a coward if I tried."

Ivan's face scrunched in a melancholy way as he glanced over at me.  "Well, I'd rather risk being caught by you than by the scientists.  I knew you'd befriended one of us, so it was definitely worth a shot.  I had nothing left to lose, anyway."  His expression suddenly darkened and I shuffled a bit further from him, confused.  "My dad was the real defender of my family."  

An uneasy silence rested between us for a moment.  Ivan tugged his legs up to his chest and continued.  "When your people first invaded, they dragged everything into complete chaos.  They tore people right off the ground, threw them into containers, and stepped off into some unknown place through those rifts in the sky.  There was so much screaming and yelling; no one knew what was going on; no one knew what to do.  My dad knew, though.  He kept us herded ahead of himself — every step he kept himself between us and everything else.  Dad was the last to get in the car.  We survived.  Mom, me, my little sister Kelly.  But they took him.  Why did it have to be him?"

The momentary silence before grew larger, an invisible force weighing down our words.  Ivan choked on his question and turned away from me.  His voice thinned to a hoarse whisper.  “It should've been me."  I reached out to comfort him, but stopped once I saw the size of my hand beside him, unsure if he would consider the massive appendage very comforting.

"Hey, don't say that.  It shouldn't have been anyone-"  "No!" he yelled harshly, cutting me off.  "You don't understand, I-  I froze up!  I was scared!  Dad came back for me.  I'm the reason he's gone.  Don't you see?"  Ivan turned back to me, looking up to meet my surprised gaze.  "I have to be strong.  I have to protect them because it's my fault he's gone!"  He seemed surprised by his own outburst — eyes drifting downcast to the rocks beneath him.  Blankly, he stared through them, entirely lost in thought.

Finally, he spoke.  "I.. don't think I've ever said that aloud before. That- It doesn’t sound right saying it aloud."  After another leaden silence, Ivan blinked, eyes going wide like he'd forgotten I was there.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dump all this on you."  I shook my head before he could apologize further.  "It's alright," I told him, "Sometimes you need someone to vent to every once and a while, right?"  Ivan nodded, trying on a forced smile before dropping it again.  

"You aren't like those giants."  I wasn't sure if he was telling me this, or just reassuring himself of it, but I took his statement as a form of compliment and nodded slightly.  With a large, airy breath, Ivan steadied himself and stood up.  "I was hoping to help you come up with something, but I think I should just head back."  I nodded in agreement, "Did you want me to bring you back down?  So you don't have to climb all the way there?"  He nodded, silently grateful for an easier way back to the town. Once he slid off my palm, Ivan began to walk back, but stopped abruptly and turned to me.  "You're trying to make something yourself, right?  Like the box you made to take your meals out of?"  "Yeah, I have an idea in mind, but it's too complicated for me to build."  His eyebrows slid together in thought for a moment.  "That shouldn't be a problem, though," he commented, "Just make a container for it instead.  I assume you didn't build the box with all the food already inside it, right?  Make something simple to store whatever it is you're trying to make.  Then you don't need to build the thing inside it, just somewhere for it to stay in."  I thought about it for a brief moment, then gasped as everything clicked in my mind.  "Ivan, you're a genius!  I have to go!"  With that, I vanished to the basement.  I had work to do.

[otaku553]

Fire (part 3)

<- (PREV) (NEXT) ->

(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[ruporas]

kiss the pain away

[demaparbat-hp]

The Painted Lady turned around slowly, deliberately, and stared right through each ghost present in the room. Then, she raised her hands in a graceful arc, pointed loosely at the ceiling, and chanted, “Well, off you go.” She made a shoo, go away gesture, the spirits disappeared, and—wait. The spirits disappeared.

Izumi comes back in For the Spirits Chapter VI: Dream of You. Zuko has a mild panic attack and her upbeat attitude does not help him (or does it?).

Just what is she up to? And what is the meaning behind the blue eyes from Zuko's dream?

[buwheal]

Hey, Spamton, do you mind if we run shell commands on your computer? We won’t break it or anything, it just lets us do more stuff.

[puppyeared]

Communication

[shadowduel]

We talked about making it I'm sorry that you never made it And it pains me just to hear you have to say it You knew the game and played it It kills to know that you have been defeated I see the wires pulling while you're breathing . . .

[pippynsworld]

[becca-e-barnes]

Sub Bucky and a breeding kink 💀 dead unlived it's one of my favourite things 😌

This is pretty high up there on my list of dream fantasies 🥵 these are two of my biggest weaknesses, don't even look at me rn

One of life's greatest joys is cuddling with the other person's head resting on your chest so you can play with their hair and rub their shoulders. I love that shit, having someone else's body weight on you is so comforting.

I imagine that's something Bucky would really enjoy too. It's so soft and sweet and tender and getting to feel cared for would really appeal to him.

But that's up until his hands work their way under your top, up over your bare skin so he's able to cup your breasts and bury his face between them while he's getting his hair played with. Life's pleasures don't get much simpler than that.

After a few moments he shifts slightly, tugging the neckline of your shirt out of the way to give himself space to kiss and nip your skin. All of a sudden he's desperate and it's beautiful to watch.

"Please." He whispers between frantic kisses, flicking his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple before engulfing it with his warm, eager mouth.

"Please, what?" You tease, tugging on his hair just a little for emphasis.

He groans, frustrated by his own lack of coherence, pulling his mouth from your nipple. "Please let me put a baby in you."

That's not what you were expecting but fuck, he makes it sound pretty appealing.

"Bucky-" You begin but he cuts you off, giving your other nipple the same attention as he gave the first. God, that's distracting.

"You'd make. Such. A pretty. Mommy." He whispers, kissing his way down your body until he reaches the bottom seam of your top. From there, he pulls it off, letting it fall to the floor before removing the rest of your clothes.

"You'd look so pretty with a little baby bump." His huge hand rests on your bare tummy, imaging how your body would change.

"I want it, Buck." You mean it too. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea when he's taking his clothes off.

"I know you want it." He groans, rubbing the tip of his dick against your soaked core. "Y-you're so wet."

He presses his hips forward, sliding inside you and you can't explain it but you swear it feels different this time.

"Don't even think about pulling out." You cup his face in your hands, keeping his eyes on you and you almost worry he's going to fuck himself senseless into you. "I want you to make me a mommy. You're going to give me every single drop of cum and when it starts to drip out of me, you're going to fuck it back in."

His head falls onto your shoulder, sobbing a pathetic moan against your already hot skin. The pace of his thrusts matches his need, his hips slamming into yours and when he finally gives in, he cums inside you with your legs clamped around his waist, making sure he couldn't pull out even if he wanted to.

[beaulesbian]

I was once again thinking about this goofy Luffy moment after his Lucci punch™ and i had to see it frame by frame.

first the force of it throws them both away, and while Lucci is seen on screen tumbling for a long moment, Luffy is just away in a blink of an eye.

and then his funny scene - his legs are like jelly that he tries to get under control,

he stumbles, falls, rolls into a mix of all his limbs and eyes,

and then only the cloud behind him cushions his fall

- which would be interesting if he can subconsciously control that while he tries to regain the control over his movements - that the environment around him still adapts to his awakened Devil Fruit abilities and morphs to help him. Where others would probably fall through that cloud, for Luffy that cloud backs him up like a trampoline.

It's just fascinating!

[lady-tortilla-chip]

Dazai will literally never live this shit down. Bro dropped TWO confessions of how much their relationship matters on a fully aware and conscious Chuuya.

[state-of-divinity]

Yeah guys it's a tragedy. Yuta being chosen as Gojo's successor and then LITERALLY becoming him, taking his place, sacrificing his own identity to inhabit the mantel of the strongest. Gojo finally understanding why Geto made the choices he made, even if it went against his moral code, for the greater good. Both Gojo and Geto having their bodies used for their power, being used as tools, as weapons, even in death, and that this is why Gojo felt no one would ever understand him as Geto did. Both of them wanting better for the sorcerers who succeeded them, and their successors realizing this cycle won't be broken with them.

Yeah guys it's a tragedy. You're supposed to be angry and hurt and disgusted. These characters were never going to make the choices we wanted them to make. They were never going to get the endings they deserved. That's what makes it a tragedy.

[quoththemaiden]

@mrghostrat This is now the third time since December that I'm writing about your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems (1, 2). Please come collect them, because they're causing a disturbance.

Or, if you aren't able to wrangle them, then please enjoy this scene inspired by Chapter 10 of Big Name Feelings.

For everyone who hasn't already seen the top portion of this on Discord, know that this is set sometime after the con but before the big bang.

—

"I think your hair might be getting long enough to braid now."

Crowley's eyes snapped over to him. "Braid?"

Aziraphale blinked at the sharp question. "I didn't mean anything by it." He'd still never figured out quite where Crowley's gender identity lay, or if it changed day-by-day. He suspected Crowley's public presentation of his gender was either "whatever's simplest for everyone involved" (around people he didn't know but generally liked, like at the con) or "whatever causes the most problems for everyone involved" (like with a particularly annoying security guard that had left Aziraphale remembering that being middle-aged, white, and extremely stuffy in appearance was its own form of armor). Aziraphale's own perception of Crowley's gender was just "Crowley." What Crowley felt about it was something Aziraphale had never quite managed to parse out. "You can do whatever you like—"

"Do you know how?"

"How...?"

"To braid hair." Crowley's tone was oddly urgent. "Like for your nieces or cousins or—"

"—for crafting, yes. Tassels for bookmarks and such. You want me to—" Crowley practically flinging himself down onto the sofa next to him was answer enough. "Oh."

Crowley's hair really was barely long enough to braid, Aziraphale decided as he gently freed it from its elastic band. He ran his fingers through it slowly and carefully, easing out the light tangles from a day's confinement. Crowley slumped forward in boneless contentment, and Aziraphale had to switch to prickling the top of his scalp with his fingernails to get him to sit up straight enough for Aziraphale to work.

Aziraphale determined his gameplan, then, and gently eased up a few locks of hair at the crown of Crowley's head, smoothing down the top with the flat of his palm. He started working the strands into a French braid, taking it tiny piece by tiny piece to ensure every section was balanced in size. If Crowley were doing it himself, he suspected he'd get it done in just five messy joins, but every strand he brought in gave Aziraphale another excuse to run his fingertips along Crowley's scalp and he luxuriated in each opportunity. "Has anyone ever told you your hair is unreasonably thick?" he murmured, his voice huskier with fond affection than he'd intended. Crowley spared him from a tease by being too utterly sedated to manage more than a vague hum in response. Aziraphale smiled at that and kept his progress blissfully slow and methodical until he had no choice but to tie the braid off at the nape of Crowley's neck — half a French braid, half a ponytail made bushy from having had waves worked into it. He placed a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's head, padded by the thickest part of Crowley's braid and somehow all the more intimate for it. "All done, love."

Crowley leaned back against Aziraphale's chest, tilting back his head to look up at him with eyes made impossibly soft with contentment. "I'm never putting my own hair up again. Just hope you know that."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, just as fond. "I'll manage somehow, I suppose."

—

Crowley's boneless appreciation of the hair braiding had turned into boneless napping, and while Aziraphale enjoyed having Crowley fall asleep against him at certain times of day, he had never been one for naps himself and there was a limit to how long he could stay motionless sans entertainment before even he got antsy. He eased his way out from under Crowley, grateful the other man was a heavy sleeper even during the day, and was left deciding what quiet amusement he could pursue until whenever Crowley woke up and started making noises about dinner. He could always read some fanfics, of course, but his eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards his favorite muse.

His muse who had, he recalled, tempted him into joining a rigged bang and had talked him into getting a digital tablet. Aziraphale still planned to do his official art for it traditionally, because he was sure Crowley's writing would deserve no less... and, if he was allowed to be vain in the privacy of his own mind, because he still remembered the feeling he'd had when Crowley responded to his scans with barely coherent keysmashing. He wasn't in deferential awe of Crowley anymore, although he still loved his writing just as much, but part of him still hoped that Crowley might respond with just as much enthusiasm at getting to see the finished piece in person, textured paper and unprocessed colors and all. Well, assuming he could be gutsy enough to actually give it to him in person instead of just leaving it on the drafting table for him to find, which was really the more statistically likely result. But anyway.

But anyway.

His muse was sleeping in front of him, and a stylus on an iPad would make hardly any noise at all. And if he got good enough at using it, maybe he could draw some extra digital art to celebrate the fic as well.

In any case, sketching Crowley while he slept was one of life's little joys. He didn't think Crowley knew how often he did it, and that was probably for the best. If he did it all in his notebook, it would have been too easy for Crowley to flip through and find the sketches (and removing sheets would have felt damnably like a guilty conscience). With his iPad, however, he was safe to sketch as much as he liked and there was no real way for Crowley to stumble across it. Aziraphale willfully shoved aside the thought that that didn't really sound any less guilty and started setting stylus to screen. It wasn't long until he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and where Crowley was lying face-down on the sofa, his new braid highlighted in a beam of afternoon sunlight.

Something Aziraphale did appreciate about digital art was that white could be layered on top of other colors and be shockingly vibrant, which wasn't an effect he could get easily with his beloved watercolors. Something else watercolors didn't give him was the ability to pick out very fine details, and as his sketch started coming together, he found that was exactly what he wanted to do now. While Crowley's hair was a vibrant red in his selfies or on stage, when he'd had the opportunity to run his fingers through every strand, he'd found that Crowley's hair was showing his age just as much as his own was.

The first day Aziraphale had found a grey hair had come as a shock. He'd naively assumed that with his hair being as pale as it was, even if it started greying, he might well never know. Instead, he found that the grey hairs' texture was frustratingly different from the strands that were still blond, and until they reached a critical mass fifteen long years later, they had an unfortunate tendency to stick out unattractively if his cut was anything less than perfect. He had become quite a regular at his barber's.

With Crowley's hair being as long as it was, his grey hairs had worked smoothly into his braid. From even the small distance from couch to armchair, they melded into the red strands perfectly... but Aziraphale had just spent long minutes twining them into neat twists and didn't need to see them now to know they were there. Aziraphale zoomed in close (another marked benefit of the digital display) and set his pen to a thin, sharp line, layering sleek silver strands into the red braid he'd drawn. Following the way they weaved around each other and dipped in and out of view felt delightfully meditative.

Eventually, Crowley made a soft snuffling snort-groan as he roused from his nap, slowly turning to unbury his face from the pillows. "Wha' time'zit?" he mumbled, patting around blindly for his cellphone.

"Coming up on 5:30 now," Aziraphale replied softly, trying not to startle him into full wakefulness too quickly. He rose and fetched Crowley's phone, placing it gently into his fumbling hand. "There you go."

"Mmrrr. Don't need it now." Crowley tucked the phone under his side in what Aziraphale would have guessed would be a very uncomfortable fashion but which Crowley did without even thinking. At least it wouldn't be going anywhere from there, Aziraphale supposed. "What're you doin'?" Crowley made grabby hands at the iPad Aziraphale had brought over with him.

Aziraphale handed over the iPad without even one thought, much less a second. "Oh, I was just waiting for you to wake up, really."

"...Angel." Crowley had zoomed out on the picture (with a completely unsurprising lack of propriety) and was now staring, frozen and much more awake, at the drawing of himself. "You aren't going to post this on Tumblr, are you?"

Aziraphale laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that, despite the ripple of shock Crowley's tense tone had caused him. "Come, now. When have I ever posted a drawing of you, my dear?"

"When have you ever made a drawing of me?" Crowley retorted. He waved vaguely at the screen, accidentally sparing Aziraphale from having to answer. "I don't mind being old, but I don't want the world knowing my boyfriend thinks I'm old." His frazzled waving turned a little more flaily.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale gently took the tablet back from him and set it down on the floor so he could take Crowley's hand in both of his. "I assure you, I'm not the kind of artist who spends my time drawing things I don't think are beautiful. And that includes every detail I put in."

Aziraphale would have hoped that was obvious, really. The strands of hair he had drawn weren't brittle grey; they were molten silver. They caught the light like a precious metal woven like a ribbon into cinnabar-red hair. Crowley could have been a queen, fallen asleep after a long day in her finery. He could have been a fae whose very essence was beauty, sleeping with no fear that it would be stolen away because it couldn't.

He could have been an ordinary man, who was so deeply, truly loved that even his grey hairs seemed to shine like the soft gleam of a newly-forged star when they caught the last strong beams of afternoon sunlight shining in through the windows.

Aziraphale hoped Crowley could see it, too.

Crowley made a grumpy noise. "I still don't want it on Tumblr. — Not that I can tell you what to do with your art, but—"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a warm smile. "I don't want it on Tumblr, either. I drew this just for me."

"...really? Even though...?"

"Just for me," Aziraphale whispered in confirmation, his eyes seeking out Crowley's and saving him from having to finish that sentence. "I've only ever drawn you for me." I love you to the point of creation, his heart sang. It wasn't quite how that quote went, he knew. It was the only way it had ever gone, for him.

"Hn..." Crowley shifted to look at the iPad where it lay down on the floor. "I suppose... Well. Despite the subject matter, you drew it well, at least."

"Well, thank you for that," Aziraphale jibed back lightly, completely devoid of malice.

"Ngh, you can't blame me for feeling self-conscious about my greys when you haven't got any."

Aziraphale let out a huff of a laugh. "Oh, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley looked defensive, then abruptly switched to looking shrewd. "Wait. Do you dye them??" He leaned forward eagerly, like this was taboo knowledge.

"Oh, where was that compliment two decades ago? No, not at all. Do you know how long I spent getting over feeling self-conscious about them, and now for you to not even realize I have them?"

"No way. You've been holding out on me!" Crowley's eyes had a light in them that Aziraphale had seen sometimes — the look of someone who has been wanting something very much and thinks he's just figured out how to get it. Aziraphale drew back instinctively in trepidation. He had no idea what Crowley could possibly be wanting, though a fluttering feeling in his chest suggested that it was, in some way, him.

Ridiculous. As if they hadn't had sex already.

"I'm going to go get dinner started."

Crowley let out a whine that cut off abruptly enough that Aziraphale suspected he actually hadn't intended to make it.

Aziraphale paused. "What?"

"Ehhh... just envious, s'all."

Aziraphale took a moment to muse about whether Crowley knew the difference between "envious" and "jealous" and decided, firmly, that he had faith that he did. "Of what?" he asked with an incredulous laugh, since he still had no idea what "envious" could possibly apply to here.

"Negghhh, you've gotten to play with my hair enough to know I have greys, and I haven't gotten to touch yours once."

Aziraphale blushed darkly at that, remembering some choice occasions in which Crowley had gripped his hair tightly enough to hurt. He cleared his throat and opted not to mention them. "That feels much more like your fault than mine."

"Just... tryin'a respect your boundaries, angel."

"Why would that be a boundary?" Aziraphale asked, baffled.

"I asked for it and you haven't."

Aziraphale didn't quite remember it that way, but it was a fair enough interpretation from Crowley's point of view, he supposed. "Well, no. It sounds perfectly nice, but I'd hate to bore you with it. I know you're much more fidgety than I am."

"Not bored," Crowley insisted, his eyes urgent. "Never bored when it's you, angel. Siddown."

Aziraphale laughed breathily. "Too late. I'm already up to cook dinner."

"Angel."

"You'll just have to wait," Aziraphale teased in a singsong lilt, casting a smile back at Crowley over his shoulder.

Crowley flung himself back on the couch with an impatient whine, leaving Aziraphale feeling very smug about his attempt at whatever the romantic equivalent of foreplay was. Crowley sounded very much like he was being left with blue balls. "Bastard."

"Only as much as you deserve, my dear," Aziraphale sang back as he went into the kitchen, acutely aware of Crowley's eyes following every step.

—

It wasn't really in question, at all, that Aziraphale would end the evening snuggled on the couch with Crowley's hands in his hair. There was also no question that he'd enjoy it thoroughly, and he also knew it wasn't the kind of thing that was likely to lead to anything more. So, instead, he just relaxed into it and let his thoughts drift.

"...do you really think I'd mind if my red fox turned into a silver fox?" he mused. The thought was languid, easy, relaxed. Crowley spluttered in incoherent surprise anyway, and Aziraphale laughed softly. "Yes, I know. There's a reason I'm not the writer of the pair."

"Y'are, though. Don't think I've forgotten that you are."

Aziraphale blushed a little at that. "Oh."

Crowley's hands resumed their meditative motion through Aziraphale's hair. "But... yeah. I'd rock it, wouldn't I?"

"You would," Aziraphale murmured with a smile. "And I'm quite looking forward to seeing it someday, my dear."

[thegreatyin]

current fallen london fandom experience feels like im standing at the corner of a party holding a sippy cup going. i thought firmament has been pretty fun and intriguing so far

[haine-kleine]

My roman empire is the difference in how Horikoshi draws Dabi and 'Dabi'

Smirking so wide his cheeks staples are popping out exposing the muscles underneath the grafts, staring straight into 'camera', carefully controlling the way he looks and is perceived. It's not a natural way of being, it's performative. Exposing and highlighting his grotesque scars. Chin raised high, looking down at the characters he interacts with and at the audience. His gestures wide and self-assured, throwing his arms out. He forcibly attracts attention, even the negative kind, especially the negative kind. A smug and self-confident asshole.

And then he is off his Dabi hours and suddenly no longer filling the room with his presence. Gone is the oppressive evil charisma that had even the pro heroes scared of him. Now the hidden, nameless, hinted-at since his first appearance real identity is left exposed. His head turned down, avoiding eye contact, slouching. His wrists hanging limply. Arms crossed - hugging himself, a tell-tale gesture of discomfort. Curling into himself, making himself smaller. He looks younger, rolling his eyes and pouting.

Touya has run out of his social battery and doesn't want to be engaged with. He is vulnerable, the way Dabi can't afford himself to be. It's just so fascinating how his way of masking is putting on an artificially created Dabi persona.