#pre canon fic

[definitelynotshouting]

all the words that i forgot to say | (a hunger au oneshot)

Summary:

Grian's wings rustle and shift behind him as he speaks; a soft, raspy susurrus of flexing feathers. Ruffle, smooth back out. Ruffle again; calami rising, spearing scarlet vanes through the air only to judder back down in a cascade of fluttering ripples.

It’s a foreign motion on him, and one that escapes translation entirely; Mumbo is still drawing the map behind these new, unconscious ticks Grian displays when he isn’t paying attention, and the effect is not unlike staggering at the bow of a ship cresting a surge. Stomach churning, queasy, the threat of a capsize hanging over their heads— somewhere between Grian’s abrupt disappearance from Evo and his miraculous, tentative return, he’d fractured into wholly unfamiliar fault lines.

The universe no longer quite makes sense. Grian no longer quite makes sense— although, really, when did he ever. All Mumbo can do now is hold steady course, and hope the rudder hasn’t broken out from underneath him.

Or: Grian has a question, and Mumbo stumbles through the answer.

HI GANG I LIED ABOUT THE WORDCOUNT IT HIT 3.1K LMAOOO

Happy first fic of the new year!! I worked super hard on this for yall since the next chapter of hunger au proper isnt finished yet, so enjoy this in the meantime!! As always, likes are appreciated, reblogs are FANTASTIC, and commentary in the tags or on ao3 will have me swearing my undying fealty to you on the battlefield. Thanks in advance for reading and reblogging, and i hope you enjoy the fic!!

[kittywaffles97]

Farewell Letters

In my HP rewrite prologue, here, Remus and Sirius find themselves having to raise Harry after Lily and James's death. When they go to Gringotts to discuss Sirius's family legacy, the goblin tells them about the wills of James and Lily, and what they're leaving them aside from their son.

Here is the letter from James to Sirius:

"Dear Padfoot.

You’re reading this letter, so it means I’m dead. If it happened in my bed at one-hundred and fifty, or in a potion accident, ignore it, but if it happened during the War, then I bloody hope I’ve done it before you, or before anyone else could.

I’m sorry, Padfoot, for leaving you, even if I’m happy to be the first to go. When you were fifteen, you became the brother my parents could never have themselves, and I swore I’d be with you till the end. I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfil that promise.

Please, please Padfoot, don’t cry for me. I know you will, you’ll probably hate me too and I understand that, but please, please don’t cry too much. Take care of yourself instead because Merlin knows you’ve always been bad at it. And please watch over Harry for me. I wanted to name him after you, you know? Lily told me you’d be insufferable if I did. Now, I just hope you’ll love him as much as I do. You’re the closest thing to a father he has. You and Moony aren’t allowed to have kids of your own, but maybe—just maybe—he’ll be able to bring you some of the joy I got from being a parent. Don’t look for me in him because he won’t know who I am, but look for me in you, brother, because I don’t regret taking you in, and never will.

I’m sorry for leaving you, but know I love you, Sirius Orion Potter.

With all my love, your brother, James Fleamont Potter.

PS: you never thought I’d sign with my full name now, did you?"

[drabbles-mc]

Better In Person

Harry Hart x John Wick

Written for the Fic in a Box 2023 Exchange!

Warnings: 18+, pre-canon, crossover

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: the amount of thoughts i have about these two both pre and post canon??????????? too many to count.

Harry stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind him with a deep sigh. It’d been a relatively long trek away from home. The mission itself went smoothly enough, but two weeks on the run felt like it was much longer than that. Harry was looking forward to being able to collapse into his own bed once more.

He grabbed his suitcases from the trunk of the Kingsman taxi, and before he’d even reached the front steps of his house, the car was off to its next destination. Fishing his keys from his pocket, he unlocked the front door and nudged it open with his foot just enough to toss his bags inside. Before he walked in, he reached and pulled the mail from his mailbox. He always had someone on deck to check in on Mr. Pickle but he never remembered to ask them to check his mail for him as well when he was going away for more than a couple days. Luckily it wasn’t as though he was getting so many letters that it would be a problem. There was a fair amount gripped in his hand as he finally crossed the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him, but they didn’t get another thought from him once he heard Mr. Pickle whining from his kennel on the other end of the house.

The closer he got to the living room, the more clicking of claws on the wood he could hear. The sound of his excited barking and whining brought a smile to Harry’s face, easing the blow of the exhaustion that he was feeling.

Kneeling down, Harry flipped the flimsy lock that kept the door to the kennel and with a surprising amount of strength for such a tiny thing, Mr. Pickle burst through the door and right into Harry. If he’d been any larger he would’ve sent Harry toppling to the floor. As it stood, Harry simply scooped the dog up into his arms as he continued to wriggle around and try to kiss Harry’s face.

Harry walked to the back of the house, opening the door that led into the small back yard that he’d been afforded. He wondered if he had chosen a bigger dog if the agency would’ve found him a house with a bigger back yard. As he watched Mr. Pickle wander around, Harry reached up and started to loosen the tie around his neck, opting to undo the top button of his shirt while he was at it. Leaning against the doorframe, he let out another sigh, but this one was one of relief. Now it felt like he was home.

It didn’t take long for Harry’s dog to want to go back inside. He scurried up the steps and right between Harry’s legs to get inside the house. Harry was smiling and shaking his head as he shut and locked the back door behind them both. Going back to the front doorway, Harry knelt down to untie his shoes. Leaving them by the door was a much more viable option now that Mr. Pickle had grown out of the phase of gnawing on everything that was left below his eye-level.

As he was going to stand back up and toe his shoes off, Mr. Pickle must have gotten hit with a second wave of excitement, because he sprinted across the room and attempted to jump into Harry’s arms again. And, even though he was a small dog, he was just large enough to throw Harry off-kilter when he was in the middle of trying to get out of a crouching position. Reaching up, he tried to grab the edge of the table that was beside him to give him a little bit of balance back. However, all it served to do was nearly knock the table over as well, causing the mail to fall and scatter all over the floor.

Harry huffed as he somehow managed to keep both the table and himself from falling completely to the floor. His annoyance was short-lived, however, when he saw the happy and expectant look on his dog’s face as he stood right in front of him, tail still wagging. The frown on Harry’s face shifted into a grin as he shook his head and finally managed to get himself back upright.

Hands on his hips, he looked back and forth between Mr. Pickle and the mess of mail that was on the floor now. Taking a deep breath, he leaned down to start cleaning it all up. He figured that he’d take the time now to see what each letter was about since he hadn’t bothered to look before. Most of it he’d end up tossing, but there were a few important ones in the mix, like bills that needed to be paid. The one that stood out to him the most, though, was a postcard. There would only be one person who would send him a postcard, and it’d been months since he’d last gotten one.

He swiped it up off the floor, tossing the other letters back onto the table where they’d previously been. He looked at the picture on the front—an artsy photograph of the colosseum in Rome. He frowned in thought as he flipped it over to the back. There was no return address, which only solidified his belief about who had sent it.

“It’s better in person.”

There was nothing else written on the back. Harry couldn’t do anything else besides let out a laugh. One sentence. All those months waiting on a response from after the fall-out of everything and the way that he broke the silence was with four words and a postcard. It felt as fitting as it was infuriating.

Harry flipped the card back over so that he was looking at the photograph again. “Could’ve put a phone number, you know,” he mumbled, like there was anyone around to hear him besides Mr. Pickle.

He left his bags by the door then, doomed to be forgotten for the foreseeable future. He walked towards the kitchen, Mr. Pickle hot on his heels like he was waiting on a treat. Striding over to the refrigerator, Harry looked at the picture for a moment longer before tacking it to the fridge with one of the magnets that he had there.

Despite the fact that he had a laundry list of things that he could be doing, Harry found himself standing there staring at the fridge, arms crossed over his chest. He stood there long enough for Mr. Pickle to come and join him, plopping down right between his feet and staring in the same direction even though he hadn’t the slightest clue what Harry was looking at.

Harry’s thoughts were flying. He had a million questions that he was fairly certain he wasn’t ever going to get answers to. It’d been months since he’d heard anything from John. Their communication had been sporadic at best once the organization split in two—irreconcilable differences is how they phrased it, and in Harry’s opinion that was putting it lightly. It was inevitable, in his mind. Just as inevitable as he and John ending up on opposite sides of the split. They’d always been wired just differently enough and it had finally caught up to them.

They had promised to try. It was the best that they each could offer while still being honest. There was no use in trying to provide guarantees when they lived the type of lives they did—that was a mutual understanding between them at least. They promised to try, whatever that would end up looking like given the circumstances. It was an unspoken rule but they knew that they weren’t supposed to be in contact anymore after the split. For all they knew they could very well end up being on opposite sides of the same fight one day.

They should’ve stopped reaching out the second ink hit paper. But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t. But the thing was, no one ever found out. The world didn’t crumble and burn around them. So, they kept in touch. A postcard here, a letter there. Things with no return address, no sign-off.

All of the memories, along with all of the heartache, came washing over Harry as he stood there staring at the colosseum. He would’ve spun out about it for the rest of the night if Mr. Pickle hadn’t started whining at his feet asking for dinner.

One day went by. Then another. Every time Harry had to walk through his kitchen, or grab something from the refrigerator, he would pause and he would stare. He would try to figure out if this meant that he should be sending something back. He wondered if they were back on even ground again. John hadn’t ever really given him a goodbye before when he stopped mailing him back. Was this supposed to suffice for that? Part of him couldn’t help but to think that even if John had been standing there in the kitchen in front of him he wouldn’t have gotten a straight answer out of him. A man of few words sometimes to the most infuriating extent.

Harry was sprawled out on the couch with a book in his hand, a blanket and Mr. Pickle on his lap. Music was playing from the radio, a light crinkle of static overlaying the melodies. It was a quiet, peaceful evening. It was the quietest that the inside of Harry’s head had been since he got home a couple days before.

He was halfway through turning the page of his book when suddenly Mr. Pickle shot up, jumping off of the couch and taking off towards the front door while barking incessantly. Harry lowered his book, listening intently to try and figure out just what it was that his dog was barking at. The couple who lived a few doors over had parties that got a little rowdy every now and again. Neither Harry nor Mr. Pickle were fans of that but it usually wasn’t enough to illicit such a strong reaction out of him. Setting the book to the side, Harry got up off the couch and went to check and see if someone had turned up at the wrong house, or simply stumbled a little too close on their way to their taxi.

What Harry wasn’t expecting was to open the door and finding John standing there, his bag slung over one shoulder. His face was nearly neutral in stark contrast to the shock written all over Harry’s.

“J-John?” he stammered out.

“Did you get the postcard?” he asked, the lift of the ends of his lips so slight that no one but Harry would have even been able to clock it.

Harry’s surprise morphed enough to allow him to laugh as he nodded. He wanted to reach out and pull John into him, yank him inside and lock the door before the world could try to rip him away again. But for as much as he wanted that, he couldn’t help but to worry that if he tried to do it he would just evaporate into thin air. It almost seemed too good to be true.

“You know the answer to that,” Harry finally got himself to say, tentative happiness starting to bleed into every word. He caught the lift of John’s eyebrows, the only indicator that he was at all surprised, and Harry couldn’t help but to laugh as he elaborated. “No stamp on it. Assume you hand-delivered it.” He opened the door wider, stepping to the side. “Come on, then.”

Once John crossed the threshold into Harry’s house, Mr. Pickle was weaving through his legs. His barking had stopped, panting and a happily wagging tail in its place. John couldn’t help but to smile down at the dog, one that he had found himself missing more than he would ever admit to as the months had gone by. Despite being adamant that small dogs were never his thing, even he had to admit that Mr. Pickle had some sort of odd charm about him.

John let his bag drop to the floor, going back and forth between kneeling down to scoop the dog up in his arms and turning around to face Harry again. Finally he turned on the ball of his foot, nearly slamming directly into Harry’s chest in doing so. He let out a quiet oof as he stopped himself from toppling backwards. There was a quick remark on the tip of his tongue about how close Harry had gotten so fast, but he didn’t get to say it.

Harry’s hands gripped onto John’s jacket, leather clutched tightly between his fingers. Before John’s brain could even try to move and catch up with any of it, Harry’s lips were crashing into his. John couldn’t do anything but give into it, didn’t want to do anything other than give into it. Harry let go of his jacket only for his hands to slide up and rake back through John’s hair, pulling him closer once they rested on the back of his head.

When they finally came back up for air, Harry only put enough distance between the two of them so that he could get a good, clear look at John’s face. Reaching, he lightly carded his fingers through the locks that were almost long enough to start framing his face.

“You grew it out,” Harry remarked, his voice soft in contrast to the intensity with which he’d just kissed the man in front of him.

“Trying to,” John answered, unable to look anywhere but at Harry as Harry looked at him.

Harry stopped looking at John’s hair long enough to look into his eyes again. “Are you alright?”

John chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, I’m alright.” He paused, picking apart Harry’s expression. “I just wanted to see you. And I was finally able to.”

“And the postcard?”

He shrugged, a small smile starting to play at his lips. “Warning shot.”

It got Harry to laugh. “Right.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Did you even see the colosseum?”

John nodded. “I did.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Right there on your fridge.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “John.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Wasn’t really there to sight-see—you know how it goes.”

Harry hummed in acknowledgment, giving a slow nod. His face sobered slightly as the weight of John’s statement finally hit him. The weight of it was unintended, but it didn’t soften the blow of it. Still, Harry managed a small if not weary smile as he said, “I know how it goes, yes.” He gave it a beat but then when he saw the look on John’s face, he made a conscious effort to not let his sour thoughts get the best of him. “How would you know if it was better in person, then?”

John gave him a small smile, a shrug. “Always is.”

“Same reason you don’t send photographs of yourself, I assume?”

“Yeah,” John remarked, not wanting to sound amused and failing, “that’s why.”

The two of them stood there in the entryway of Harry’s house, quiet for a couple more seconds. It took a few more after that for Harry’s mind to finally catch up with the reality of the situation at hand. The two of them could only stand there for so long. Without another word Harry reached down and took John’s bag off the floor. He knew him well enough to know that if he tried to phrase it as an offer or a question, John would just come back with a short, albeit amusing, remark that wouldn’t act as a real answer for anything.

Since Harry took the bag, John made himself busy by finally leaning down and scooping the dog up and carrying him while he followed Harry through the house. Neither of them said anything, but as they walked, made their way up the stairs, John couldn’t help but to try and notice everything about the place where Harry was now spending all of his time. It was so different from his own, so different from the place that the two of them used to share before as well.

“You can always come back, you know,” Harry said when he got to the top of the stairs, turning the corner to head down the hall to his room. There was a hint of smugness in his tone as he added on, “And next time you can take notes. Or pictures.”

John followed behind him, shaking his head, glad that Harry couldn’t see the smile on his face. “No.”

“No? No next time?”

“No—it’s always better in person anyway.”

[milktrician]

(what the. who threw a wife plot device in the middle of a peak lord meeting)

i thought about this bit at the end of the airplane extras the other day. bro why are you looking at your coworkers like that rn

[paceprompting]

ornament of christmas past

written for ‘ornament’ | wc: 857 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: pre-canon era & post season 4, toddler steve, gift-giving, cute shenanigans

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Steve went to a public preschool for two whole weeks.

After a termite infestation and a backlog in the exterminator’s schedule, all the children were temporarily transferred to the only other preschool in Hawkins. Being right before the winter holiday, even Steve’s father didn’t bother throwing a fit.

Steve didn’t remember much about the place. Just under five-years-old, not that surprising. He didn’t remember much about the private preschool either, except the bland health crackers they fed at snack.

But he did remember the holiday party the staff had thrown the last day before break. Sugary cake with red and green icing, classic songs on repeat, and a gift exchange of ornaments they’d made a few days before.

Steve had already given his away to a blonde girl he’d played with a couple of times. He’d made a foam snowflake covered in glitter and threaded with a green ribbon.

No one had given him anything.

But that was okay. The kids from the public daycare had little idea who he was, and he wasn’t likely to ever see them again to remember them when he grew up.

The party ended, and all that was left was waiting for the parents and nannies to pick them up.

Another kid sidled up next to him, bumping his shoulder. He ignored it, assuming that everyone’s puffy jackets were to blame for the jostle.

Then the kid bumped him again.

He’d turned to look with a frown his face, and found this wide brown eyes staring right at him. The kid’s head was shaved, dark hair barely growing back in.

“What?” he asked.

“You don’t have a present.”

Matter-of-fact, no room for questions.

“I don’t,” Steve agreed. He didn’t really remember the kid much from those two weeks, if he had ever met the boy before that moment at all.

Whatever reason the boy had, Steve never learned. A man’s voice called toward the crowd—probably the boy’s name, since his attention was pulled over by it—and the boy shoved one of the plastic bauble ornaments into Steve’s hands.

He’d barely kept from dropping it before the boy had run off.

Steve turned the ornament over in his hands. The entire inside had been coated in red glitter with ‘Mery Crismas’ painted across the front in black paint. Or, that was the best Steve could make out, with half the paint streaked across the front.

When winter break was over, Steve went back to the private preschool his parents paid a few thousand in tuition for.

Steve never saw the boy again.

“Where did you get this?”

Steve glanced up from digging into a box of decorations at the sound of Eddie’s voice. Found him turning around a bauble ornament in his hands, catching flashes of red between his fingers.

He extended his hand toward Eddie. “Let me see.”

Eddie bounded across the haphazard living room, half-decorated and the floor scattered with boxes, and took a seat beside Steve on the couch. He bounced slightly on the sofa, curls swatting Steve on the shoulder.

He handed over the ornament.

Somehow, the closure at the top of the plastic bubble had stayed on nearly two decades, keeping the red glitter trapped inside. The painted words on the outside had fared nearly as well, chipping off just a bit on the edges of the letters.

“Had this since preschool. Some exchange thing. Some boy gave it to me.” Steve gave the ornament back.

Eddie quirked up the corner of his mouth. “Some boy have a name?”

“I was only there two weeks. Never saw him again.” Steve shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of a four-year-old from my past.”

“Oh, I know I don’t need to be jealous,” Eddie said brightly. He stood from the couch and headed to the bare pine tree by the window.

Steve sat back on the couch, his hands braced on his knees. “You do?”

“Yeah,“ Eddie answered plainly.

He selected a branch right in the center of the tree, facing toward Steve, and hooked the ornament carefully in place. He tapped it with his fingernail, and then aimed a mischievous grin at Steve.

“Considering it’s mine,” he said.

Steve raised a brow high. “You remember an ornament you made in preschool?”

“Well, Wayne remembers me talking his ear off about a boy from the fancy school named Steve around then. Said I should give him a gift for Christmas. Still likes to remind me of it.”

“So your game plan was to shove my present at me and then book it?” Steve chuckled when Eddie shrugged, a pink blush glowing across his cheeks. “And that was better than just talking to me?”

“Well,” Eddie drawled out, walking a back and forth path across the rug.

Steve’s gaze followed him as Eddie walked slowly back toward the couch, his dark eyes fixed on Steve underneath his bangs. He easily moved his hands out of the way for Eddie to climb onto his lap, knees on either side of Steve’s thighs.

Eddie cocked his head, curls falling over his shoulder as he said, “Had to mark my claim, didn’t I?”

[scribeoffate]

Agree. You can do it in pre-canon fic too. Please forgive this shameless self-rec but I am v fond of this fic.

anyway, people need to start making stiles, theo and scott close friends in non-supernatural aus  

[onthesandsofdreams]

From Duty To Love

Fandom: House of the Dragon/ASoIaF Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader Summary: Cregan knew that a marriage to Queen Rhaenyra's only daughter would be different. Two people who perhaps were on the opposite ends when it came to their respective houses: Fire and Ice. He could not fault you, much like him, you took your duties seriously. And he wondered if that would only be the only kind of marriage you both would have. Until he noticed. Rating: G Notes: Listen, I just wanted to write fluff, ok?Also, while reader is Rhaenyra's daughter (Velaryon), there are no descriptions. Tagging: @flashfictionfridayofficial

Read @ AO3

Cregan knew that a marriage to Queen Rhaenyra's only daughter would be different. Two people who perhaps were on the opposite ends when it came to their respective houses: Fire and Ice.

He could not fault you, much like him, you took your duties seriously. And he wondered if that would only be the only kind of marriage you both would have.

Until he noticed.

Until his wolf eyes and instincts were forcefully opened about the subtle signs you had been sending. How you'd lean towards him during dinner, how you always tried your best to keep waiting until he returned to your shared chambers. Your offer to take him flying, something he'd yet to accept. How you always had a kind smile for him, how you in your quiet and subtle manner, were actually looking out for him. Too much time in the training yard? A bath with scented oils waited for him. Too lost in books and ledgers? A tray of bite size food and drink on his desk. His clothes always laid for him, and yes, he'd noticed that some of his clothes now bore embroidery in wolf shapes. Your handiwork, he knew it.

It also did not escaped him your kindness and respect towards his people. Your people now too. But, in your short time as Lady of Winterfell, you had earned your placed with those who had served his family, some even before he was born. Even the most hardened Northman, you'd find a way to charm and made them feel at ease. It had helped that, while you had pride in who you were, you did not looked down upon others.

He furrowed his brows, so, why then were you still shy when it came to him?

The reason slammed into him fast, The Hightowers. Of course, you'd had seen how they treated and spoked of your mother, and as such, he understood now that you did not want people to speak in the same way about you.

Not that he'd let them.

If anyone would be foolish to try and slander his wife, they would soon be acquaintances with Ice. He would not tolerate any disrespect towards you. Not now, not ever.

He put his quill down and stood from his desk, and left his solar in search of you. Asking a passing maid, he'd been told you had just gone out to see Silverwing, so, for once he gathered his courage in facing the she dragon and followed you.

He found you leaning against Silverwing's snout. He did not need to announce himself, soon enough, the she dragon moved and made you look. He saw the surprise in your face as you found him there. He watched as you stood and walked towards him.

"Cregan, is there something wrong?" He had insisted that you called him that.

"No, I just wanted to check on you?"

He savored the way your face softened, "I am well, just Silverwing was getting a bit lonely." You bit your lip. "I was thinking of taking to the skies, would you like to come?"

He did not miss the way your eyes shone with hope. And he swallowed his nervousness and fears, "As long as you promise not to let me fall."

He was not prepared for you to turn radiant with joy and all but leap at his arms. The kiss you placed on the corner of his lips felt like fire of a kind he had never known. "Never, Cregan. I will never let you fall."

He let you take his hand, and followed you towards Silverwing.

Perhaps now, duty would not be the only thing that would tie your marriage. He hoped.

[siffrins-therapist]

opening scene in ch 7 of my vampire!sif wip

[necrotic-nephilim]

I think what I love the most about Reverse Robin AU TimJay is the absolute potential for hero worship with Jason toward Tim. In canon we often forget that Tim didn't really care for Jason as Robin, meanwhile as I never shut up about, Jason has been weirdly respecting and obsessed with Tim since finding out about Tim's existence. So if you flip their order, make Tim Red Hood and make Jason Red Robin, there's so much room for hero worship from Jason.

As Robin, Jason has always teetered that edge of being pro-murder or not. Whether you believe he killed Felipe or not, even in his Post-Crisis introduction as Robin, he almost kills Two Face. Those concepts of lethal justice have always been brewing inside him, just reigned in by Bruce. So if you have Robin!Jason witnessing Red Hood!Tim start killing people and quickly making noticeable change in the landscape of gangs in Gotham, Jason would take quick notice. I think Tim as Red Hood would still be lethal, but there'd be a different application than Jason's Red Hood. Heads in duffle bags isn't Tim's style, even if he kills. I think you'd see something much more akin to that time Tim almost killed Boomerang, where it's such an elaborately thought out set up, it realistically doesn't even look like Tim killed anyone. It'd take months for Bruce to connect this string of deaths as anything other than coincidental, let alone link them to Red Hood. And Jason is wickedly smart, even as Robin. Jason, putting those pieces together before Bruce does and witnessing the undeniable positive change for Gotham it's enacting? Robin!Jason would be incredibly drawn in by that, and then even more-so, a Red Robin!Jason who has to grapple with being replaced to make room for the next Robin would I think, in anger, turn to Red Hood. And Tim would push him away at first, his plans don't have room for a scorned teenager who's trying to get back at Bruce and Nightwing!Damian like this- but I think Jason would wear him down. Prove to Tim that Jason can think on his wavelength.

Slightly related, what interests me about Red Hood!Tim is how it'd implicate his closeness to Ra's. Jason is taken into the League by Talia in Lost Days and Ra's doesn't necessarily approve of Jason's presence, especially not of Talia dunking him in the Pit, but Ra's has always canonically been A Little Weird about Tim. I think in a world Tim dies as the second Robin, it would be Ra's who dunks Tim to preserve his mind that Ra's thinks shouldn't be wasted, and you have the potential for 'apprentice of Ra's' Tim wrapped up in it all, even without him experience the Red Robin arc. So when it's Jason as Red Robin, instead of him going to Ra's when he's scorned by the Batfamily, he goes to Tim. The person he once idolized, because I think Tim would've been Jason's Robin. Smart, competent, a strong legacy to live up to. And now he's back, and he's pro-killing, an edge that Jason has always teetered on and would feel even closer to when he's replaced by a young Dick. I think Tim wouldn't ever be able to get rid of Jason.

Then on Tim's side, I think his reaction to being replaced after his death would be a complicated one. Objectively, being the Robin who believes Batman needs a Robin, he'd respect the logic and know Bruce was always going to replace him eventually. But still, there's always going to be that instinctual emotional reaction of betrayal and replacement. I think he'd view Jason at first with anger and distance, but then, seeing Jason as this street kid with begrudging potential, I could see Red Hood!Tim testing Jason. Constantly throwing things at Jason, seeing how he reacts, if he lives up to being Robin. Tim has a need for analyzing people, understanding their strengths and weaknesses. And he seems the Robin mantle very uniquely, he'd need to have it proven to him that Jason can handle it.

So you would have this dynamic of Jason hero worshipping Tim, slowly believing in Tim's methodology. While Tim is at first dismissive of him, but then starts to test him, see what makes this kid tick. And I think the TimJay potential of Jason trying to prove himself to Tim could be Neat.

[yumenoberu]

Baby Steps

Kyoya Ootori x fem!reader (kind of Gen)

summary: Middle school 3rd year Kyoya Ootori lives through another mundane day. Bored from the dull lectures, he distracts himself, scanning the classroom and sees Y/n. Compelled by the elegant scene he is witnessing, he picks up his pen and starts sketching. Could it be that our young Shadow King is displaying an innocent act of fascination, with maybe even a twinge of affection for the girl?

word count: 1.8k words

warnings: none!!

published: 10/20/24

author’s note: I liked the idea of exploring the version of Kyoya that was more expressive because he was just developing back in middle school. Also always wanted to see the artistic side of him depicted more, cuz even if we don’t see it besides his solo episode, it exists! Anyways, this one is more of a gen fic rather than a romantic one but I’m sure you can see it can lead to something much more, it’s cute!! Hope this one brings a smile to your face like it did for me ☺️

The clock tower chimed, signaling the next set of classes after the lunch break. The students of Ouran Middle School’s 3rd year Class A break up their fleeting conversations and file back to their assigned seats, each readying themselves to endure another few grueling hours of class discussions and worksheet completion.

The day had been relatively mundane for Kyoya, aside from the occasional disruption of his peace by none other than his lovable moron of a best friend, Tamaki, there was nothing in his day that particularly stood out to him. The topics tackled during class, he understood right away, he had no homework or projects that had to be done, and so the only thing that was worth looking forward to was… Well, if he thought about it, he wouldn’t come up with anything.

Suffice to say, Kyoya was bored.

“Ms. Jounoichi, kindly read the 3rd paragraph out for us.” The teacher in front instructed.

“Yes, Sir.” Ayame swiftly replied as she stood from her seat and recited the passage from her textbook.

Out of sheer disinterest from the topic, Kyoya passively listened and let the other half of his mind ponder on any vanishing thought.

His eyes traveled from across the room aimlessly, mindlessly looking for something to distract him from his boredom. His gaze eventually landed on the window on the other side of the room and onto Y/n L/n’s desk.

Kyoya was never close to Y/n. Even though they’ve been classmates since he’d first attended Ouran Academy, both of them had always been reserved and quiet, and so neither of them had made efforts to get acquainted with the other.

It remained that way until their dynamic drastically shifted that very year when Tamaki waltzed into their lives.

The guy seemed to behold a certain power to connect with even the most difficult people. Kyoya could attest to this, as he himself was brought out by the bubbling blonde. Y/n was similarly reached out by Tamaki and soon enough, the trio formed an iconic friendship.

But even when that was the case, Kyoya and Y/n were still closed off from each other. Tamaki was clearly the only common ground between them.

Kyoya was comfortable with the arrangement. Though, he knew that Y/n was starting to make moves to genuinely befriend him; He wasn't ready to break down his walls to a friend of a friend just yet, nor was he willing to acknowledge that it was his own stubbornness that’s causing this strain.

His thoughts simmered down, focusing instead on observing her. He noticed she looked identically disinterested, judging by how she silently tapped her fingers against her blank notebook, as she drew out shallow breaths and watched the front with glossed eyes.

She was sitting perfectly still, so much so that one can even mistake the scene he was witnessing with a framed image.

As Kyoya continued, he paid attention to how perfectly the lighting from the window next to her illuminated her features.

The afternoon sun shone on her like a spotlight. From her side profile, the light that bounced off of her hair almost formed a halo over the crown of her head. Her eyes radiated, its color brightened by the day. Her nose, casted a tiny shadow over the side accentuating the contour of her cheeks. Her lips, charmingly pinkish and rounded. Stray hairs peeking from the sides of her head glinted like mirrors, perfectly framing her delicate face.

He wasn’t going to admit it to himself, but it was indeed a stunning sight.

Turning back to his own desk, Kyoya casually picks up his neglected pen and his unused notebook, bringing the stationary up closer to his chest, turning back to Y/n’s direction and begins sketching.

The nib of the pen gently glides across the smooth surface of the paper, creating thin lines that comprise the outline of his drawing. His eyes slowly switch between the notebook and the subject, carefully examining and then applying, repeating this process a number of times in an attempt to capture the scene with flawless accuracy.

He continues on for the remainder of the class. Jotting down all the little details with intention, his mind completely detached from the lecture. He was focused, dedicated to completing his render.

Eventually the end of the day approaches, their last class concludes, they bid their teacher farewell, and the class is dismissed.

Kyoya peeks at the portrait of Y/n he made for a final time before packing his belongings. He reaches for his school bag and grabs his notebook to shut it closed but then it’s unexpectedly pulled out of his hands.

Surprised, he looks to his right, looking up at the culprit and sees Tamaki.

“Tamaki. What are you-“ Kyoya starts, questioning him for his actions but is cut off.

“I didn’t know you could draw so we’ll…” Tamaki admires the drawing, voiced uncharacteristically hushed in his awe.

“Hey Y/n!” Before Kyoya could explain, Tamaki skips happily toward his other best friend on the other side of the room while flailing the notebook in the air.

At this point, Kyoya knew it was best to not interfere with the blonde’s antics, knowing he’ll just be putting himself in an even more troublesome spot if he showed any apprehensiveness toward the situation. Even so, he can’t help but feel flustered and irritated. He could do nothing now but stay silent, gauge her reaction, and come up with a logical explanation for his actions—as he himself couldn’t pin down what exactly compelled him to draw her.

“Y/n!!”

Y/n placed her pencil case back on her desk, turning to the voice that called out her name.

It was Tamaki of course. She grinned immediately as she saw him enthusiastically skipping his way over, waving a pocket-sized notebook over his head.

“Tamaki,” She fondly greeted him. She gives him a questioning look afterward, prompting him to say whatever he needed to.

“Look at this, is it just wonderful?” He handed the aforementioned notebook to her, helping her flip through the pages to find what exactly he wanted to show her.

“What is it, Tamaki?” She inquired while he frantically flipped through the pages.

“Hold on a second,” He scrunched his face in determination, “Ah! Here! Take a look.”

Y/n eyes fall onto her sketched portrait, lightly touching over the lines and examining the little details as her eyes widen, mouth opens, and cheeks flush in admiration.

Tamaki smiles at her reaction, throwing in a little complement at how cute he finds it.

“So, what do you think?” He beams and fixes his position, moving from her right side and stands behind her, propping his hands on her shoulder, leaning forward, and placing his chin on her head to get a good look at it too.

“It’s stunning, Tamaki… Did you make this?” She peers up, eyes sparkling in anticipation.

“Not me, Kyoya did!” Tamaki gives her a cheerful smile, letting her turn to Kyoya’s direction to call him over, only for them to see that the raven was already making his way over to them.

“Kyoya!” Tamaki jumps and brings his friend into a hearty embrace, earning an irritated glare and sigh of annoyance from him.

Tamaki backs away slightly and pouts and whines about his mon ami’s reaction.

Y/n looks up from the notebook and looks at Kyoya in a mix of confusion, surprise, and gratitude.

Trying his hardest to restrain the growing warmth traveling up his cheeks from the unexpected, positive reception of his work and initial embarrassment that came with it. Kyoya breaks the silence,

“I noticed you were sitting perfectly still for a while, and so I thought it would make a fine artwork.” Replying in a nonchalant manner, saying it as if he didn’t just indirectly compliment her.

“O-Oh..! Thank you, Ootori…” Y/n replies after a few awkward moments.

“It’s nothing to feel gratitude for, I was simply keeping myself occupied while the lecture went on.” He added cooly, pushing up his glasses trying to sound as convincing as he could.

He brings a hand up to take back his notebook wishing to make a quick escape but before he could reach it, but Y/n pulls it out of his reach. Startled by the sudden movement, he shoots her a questioning look.

“Wait!” She hesitates, “Is it alright if I take a picture of it? It’s masterful, I really like it.” She smiles sheepishly.

Even more baffled from her response, he says nothing for a few seconds, processing it all.

“Don’t bother, you can keep it…” He follows with a hushed voice.

She’s visibly taken aback by what he says but smiles at him nonetheless, joyfully thanking him as she proceeds to rip the page from the notebook, storing it between the pages of her own, and hands his notebook back.

“How generous of you, my friend!” Tamaki latches onto Kyoya again, throwing an arm around his shoulders and sways him from side to side.

“You don’t need to mention it,” He replies quietly, looking at the ground, lightly shoving Tamaki off of him and strolls out of the scene.

Y/n and Tamaki watch as he packs up and leaves, waving him goodbye as he exits the classroom, finally making his escape.

Unknown to the two, Kyoya was trying his best not to show the blush he knew was forming on his cheeks. He was nitpicking every word he exchanged with her just moments before, unbearably embarrassed and conflicted about his flusteredness, being equally confused about his own reaction.

He sighs to himself and shakes his head in exasperation, speed walking out of the building.

Back in the classroom, Tamaki and Y/n silently stared at the door he exited from.

“I never thought he would—“ Y/n started,

“Kyoya shows his care in his own way. He may not be the most expressive person in the world but he can be the most caring when he tries. Even if he doesn’t always outwardly show it.” Tamaki asserts, eyes still trained on the doorway where Kyoya left. Y/n surveys him, staying silent.

“This just proves that he does care about you, otherwise he wouldn’t spend his time working on that drawing of yours, would he? You have nothing to worry about my dear, just give him some time and he’ll open up to you eventually,” Tamaki smiles affectionately at her, patting her head and then her shoulders.

“Just have to be patient with him,” With that he leaves to retrieve his own things, waiting by the doorway to walk her out of class.

“You’re right…” Y/n huffs, as they stroll out the doorway.

“He’s quite difficult isn’t he, Tamaki.” She sighs, relaxing as she recalls Tamaki’s words.

‘It may not seem like much, but it’s a good start.’

She smiles and blushes ever so slightly at her thought, walking with a hop in her step as she and Tamaki leave the school building, content with the developments of the day.

masterlist

[peapodbond]

that was us

abby tears her rotator cuff and doesn't get her range of motion back after the surgery and rehab. she quits swimming.

one of her friends is going through med school and they go out together sometimes, and there's a rotating group of first responders who come out with the residents because they've gotten to know each other at the hospital.

she's not really in a partying mood, and sometimes she can drift to the back of the group and talk with the tall firefighter who looks as awkward as she feels. they spend an entire evening dissecting love actually and debating if die hard can be seen as the sequel where alan rickman's character finally gets what he deserves.

she tries training other swimmers. but some of them are the people she competed with, the rest are babies, and other than "you really shouldn't exceed the coach's orders on practice time" and "maybe don't go to a roller rink when you're not great on rollerskates", she doesn't have much to teach them. they've already got their forms down, and while she can hold their arms in the proper positions, she can't show it to them in the pool without aching for the rest of practice. the doctors warn her that if she keeps trying she might end up with more damage.

she gets a receptionist position. it's fine. it's boring. she learns how to balance a company's books and how to direct visitors to the correct office.

she and the firefighter (tommy) spend two months at the bar debating the 1995 bbc pride and prejudice.

she quits her job. abby says she wants to do something that means something. a friend of her friend looks at abby and suggests she tries dispatch. what the hell. it's three months of training. it's not like she's getting roped into eight years of med school.

the first time she's able to help someone at dispatch it feels like winning a race.

she asks tommy if he wants to grab a coffee.

it's really easy to talk to tommy. they recommend books to each other, go to the movies a lot. they date casually. abby's not sure she wants something serious right now. they spend weeks hitting up every small hole in the wall they can find.

abby offers to bring tommy lunch at the fire house. his face does something complicated and he admits that his captain isn't a great guy. tommy would rather keep abby away from him.

she tells him if it gets worse he should try and switch houses.

tommy finishes his probationary year and takes abby out to the fanciest restaurant she's ever been to. they both hate it and end up grabbing a burger on the way home.

they're not living together but they are spending almost every night together. abby gets a lead on a gorgeous apartment fifteen minutes away from dispatch. tommy and his friend sal help her move all her furniture in. tommy's lease was renewed before she found out about the apartment, but he's over so much it barely matters.

the family introduction goes well. he charms her mother and her brother thinks he's pretty great, choices in sports teams aside. three months after she moves into her new place, tommy makes her dinner and proposes.

(it's so much better than the fancy restaurant.)

she catches him looking at houses. it's just a thought he has, finding a place that needs to be fixed up. maybe he keeps it, maybe he sells it later, but there are so many places around town that just need a little love to be good again.

the housing market crashes in the recession and tommy finds a small two-storey place that's closer to the harbor station, which is when abby finds out that tommy wants to fly again, he's just waiting for a spot to open.

she thinks that's much safer than running into burning buildings, but she doesn't say that out loud.

he signs for the house the next day, and abby starts looking at paint chips. she's not much for do it yourself, but she knows how to paint a mean wall. it's an older house and she does research about what colours were common when they were built, knows that tommy wants to preserve the original house as much as possible.

she's priming the newly drywalled living room when there's a loud curse from down the hall and the sledgehammer tommy is using to tear down the kitchen crashes into the wall.

his captain tanked tommy's transfer to harbor.

tommy's miserable. she doesn't know what to say to make it better, because there is no way to make that better.

abby knows what's coming when he sits her down a few weeks later. (if he hadn't, she was going to.) she leaves the ring on the kitchen island. it's the only thing that survived the sledgehammer. part of her wants to ask for updates on the house. the rest of her knows a clean break is better.

"i really hope you get what you need."

and that's that.

part two

[klanced]

this is why i never read voltron fanfic 💀

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 29

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 26, part 27, part 28

Dustin’s not exactly sure what happened. He was patiently waiting for Steve to meet him in the lobby, but it’s been almost a half hour, and Dustin has no idea where he is. He already went back to check in Eddie’s room, but nothing. Then outside, nothing again. And Steve would never leave his stranded, so it can’t be that.

Which leaves Dustin completely alone, eating a Snickers bar that he got from the vending machine because they were out of Three Musketeers. The second one he got for Steve slowly melting in his pocket. Wondering if it was at the level where he had to go check under the bathroom stalls to see if any of the feet were wearing Steve’s shoes.

But he can at least be a little bit saner and go double check Eddie’s room again. Maybe Steve couldn’t find him and went back there to look. That would be the logical thing to do.

When Dustin opens the door, Steve has the chair pulled up close to Eddie’s bed hunched over and looking like he’s about to cry. Eddie’s looks like halfway there himself. Both of them jumping to hide that fact when Dustin entered.

“I didn’t know where you went,” Dustin says. Not sure whether to ignore or acknowledge what he just walked into. “I thought we were going to go home.”

Steve shakes his head gently, pressing his eyes shut like it will stop the tears from flowing. “Yeah, sorry. Could you just give me a second? I was just talking to Eddie about something.”

“It’s ok,” Eddie brushes off with his hand. “Take the kid home, we can talk about this later.”

“Are you sure? He can wait another minute-.”

“I’m sure. We’re good, ok. Go home.” Eddie looks at him like he really means what he’s saying. Not just pretending for both of their benefit. Not again.

Steve nods. Standing and pushing the chair back in place against the wall. “I’ll see you later then.”

Eddie waves Steve over and whispers something before letting him leave. Steve just snorts and smiles at whatever it is. Whispering something back before finally ushering Dustin out of the room. Some sort of weird energy radiating off of him in the car ride home. A mix between happy and sad that Dustin doesn’t understand.

“What was that about?” Dustin asks. Trying to do it without a confrontational tone.

Steve shrugs. “We just had something to talk about, that’s all.”

Dustin nods. “But you’re both ok, right? It looked like you were both about to cry.”

He’s trying to be gentle about the topic. Trying to calm the way he can ask about things. So it doesn’t sound like he’s pressuring his way into situations. That way people can feel like they can open up to him, and tell him what’s going on. Instead of just brushing it off and telling him it’s not his problem.

Because it was his problem. This was his friend. This was his family. He didn’t have siblings to fight through all of this with. He didn’t have parents who he could tell these things too. For the most part, it’s been Steve that he’s talked to about all this. It’s been Steve that he radioed in the middle of the night when he was so scared he couldn’t breathe. Or when he needed advice about school problems. Or anything.

Somewhere along the line, Steve became the sibling he fought through stuff with. That’s been a sure fact since he helped Dustin get ready for the Snowball. They were one of the mini units in the bigger organization.

It hurt when Steve hid things from him out of “protection”. Dustin didn’t need protecting, he needed transparency. He needed for Steve to know that Dustin’s here for him. Just as much as Steve’s there for Dustin. This was a two-way street.

“We were, kinda,” Steve says after a long break of silence.

“Are you ok?”

Steve puts the car in park, turning to Dustin with an almost relieved expression. “Yeah. I am.”

“Ok.” Dusting is choosing to trust that Steve would tell him if he wasn’t. “Just, if you start to feel not ok, you know you can talk to me about it. I’ll listen.”

“I know.”

There’s a knock at Dustin’s window. His mom waving hello with a gentle smile. Dustin knows why, he always knows why. It’s to invite Steve in to have dinner that he’ll refuse three times before giving in. He’s over there for dinner more nights that he would probably admit.

“Hi, Miss Henderson,” Steve says when he rolls down the window.

“Hello. I haven’t seen you in a while, Steve. Why don’t you come in for dinner?”

That’s a lie, she saw him two days ago when she returned a movie at Family Video.

Steve lets out a small huff, catching her on her lie. “I appreciate it, but I really should be heading home. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Oh, it’d be no bother at all. It’s the least I can do for all the time you drive Dustin around.”

Dustin rolls his eyes as Steve rolls out another excuse. His mother already coming up with a response that negates the excuse entirely. Steve takes a deep breath and turns the car off, accepting the dinner invitation.

He only refused twice this time. Steve is starting to be worn down.

They go inside and are almost immediately ushered to the table. Set with three places each with their favorite sodas. Because there wasn’t an option for Steve to not be here for dinner, and the three of them knew it. It was just in Steve’s nature to try and refuse.

Even though he knows that once Steve steps through the doors of the Henderson house, he never wants to leave it. It’s much smaller than his house, and a lot more cluttered. But that’s what makes it warm. Every time he walked into his house after an upside down event, with all of this clutter and décor surrounding him, he never felt more relief in his life. He was home.

Whenever he visits one of the other guys’ houses, that feeling is mirrored in its own way. That same feeling wasn’t there whenever he went to Steve’s house.

Dustin remembers the first time Steve ever let him come over. The house was pretty much what he was expecting. High ceilings and fancy flourishes. A room full of furniture no one was allowed to sit on and carpets that couldn’t be walked on with shoes. But there was something wrong with it. The house was only a home when Steve was in it.

Without Steve, it would feel like no one lived there. The walls only had a few pictures on them, and there were more shut doors than open ones. The kitchen sink only ever had a few dishes in it, and the couch only had one cushion with a permanent dent. The whole of it felt so empty.

The worst part was that Steve knew it to. It was a nice place to throw get togethers. It was nice to look at and imagine living there. But Dustin felt the pull from Steve to stay anywhere else for just a second longer. So he didn’t have to go to a place that didn’t feel like home to him.

It’s part of the reason that his mom invites him over to dinner so much. When Dustin told her about how empty his house was, they decided to build Steve a place in theirs. They didn’t have a lot of space, but it was easy for them to make it feel like there was more. For Steve to have his own coat hook when he came over, and a place to put his shoes. A chair at the table that was always his, and his own blanket when they had movie nights.

Dustin wanted Steve to know that this could be his home if he needed it to be. And he knows that it worked. He can see it in the way that Steve relaxes every time he walks through the door. How he is nothing but himself when he’s here.

But eventually he has to leave and go home. He hugs Claudia goodbye and tries to refuse the container of leftovers shoved into his hands. Even though Dustin knows he’s grateful for it. Steve says goodbye to Dustin with a brief hug and a ruffle to his curls. And then he leaves.

Dustin wishes he didn’t have to.

tag list (capping at 100, only 2 spots left): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Revolutionist

masterlist

pre-canon!silco x gn!reader [2.5k] [AO3]

cw: implied/referenced suicidal ideation, implied/referenced depression

summary: at a particularly melancholy night that drives you to the heights, you meet a stranger in the shadows who coaxes you from the edge.

tags: pre-canon, sexual(?) tension, depression, suicidal ideation, undercity, smoking

a/n girl iono what this is, but here's to my first one shot (clinks glass) idk why i'm nervous (btw requests & taglist are open if you're interested)

From this dizzying height, the Undercity unfurls below. A tapestry of ethereal greens and golds, luminescence piercing through the murky haze—stark silhouettes of buildings jut upwards, defiant sentinels of black and grey amidst the swirling miasma. Its signature sickly green fog blankets the metropolis; coils around structures and seeps into every crevice, a suffocating embrace.

Your feet graze over the edge, toes curling over where solid ground gives way to a yawning abyss. The boundary between life and oblivion is razor-thin here. One small shift, imbalance, and gravity would claim you.

The wind whispers seductive promises of flight, tugging at your clothes, daring you to test the limits—it’s a heady mix of terror and exhilaration.

The precipice beckons, a siren call you’ve never heeded this far before. Each step tracked each loss that then etched into your very bones. First, it was your father, consumed by the blight. Almost expected. It was a degradation the Undercity-born was familiar with. Then, your sister, life snuffed out by an enforcer’s merciless fist. The brutes. Now, your mother, long adrift in her own ocean of grief. You’d become little more than ghosts haunting the same halls, the world’s greed carving an insurmountable chasm between you.

Logic screams that your presence here is madness. The need for comfort, for solace only another soul can provide, wars against reality. You long to bridge the gap, find someone’s warmth, spit out the bitter poison fed by the relentless suffering.

If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after—the world will take again. This grim lottery where Death deals the cards. Will it be the fist of an enforcer or the invisible killers that saturate every breath?

Are you really contemplating this?

“Bit dangerous, don’t you think?” a voice, velvet and silk, cuts blade-like through your contemplation.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. A jolt of surprise sends you teetering forward. Heart pounding, you stumble back from the edge.

Whirling around, you fix the intruder with a glare. His dark silhouette materialised a few feet away like some spectral apparition, leaning against the roof with an infuriating nonchalance. A cigar dangled between his fingers, wisp of smoke curling around his face.

His eyes, half-moons of disinterest, survey you with the casual indifference of someone observing an insect. It makes a look that makes your spine straighten, your earlier melancholy rapidly morphing into irritation.

“Sort of the point,” you spit back, words tasting of bitterness and bravado. You slide a step away, creating further distance between you and him. The roof suddenly feels too small. Who is he? What does he want? And more importantly, how dare he interrupt your affair with oblivion?

He responds with a half-shrug, somehow making it an eloquent gesture of his impassivity. Drawing a deep breath from his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a tangible manifestation of your growing annoyance.

Your mind races and falters. Is he really just going to stand there? Not that you want to be stopped, but his nonchalance was… unsettling? A highly irregular response to finding someone conversing with non-existence. Though, the idea was not novel—a common fate for many under dwellers.

You turn back to face the sprawling cityscape, trying to ignore the insidious tendrils of smoke that start coiling around your senses. The question burns in your mind: What is he doing here? This moment was supposed to be yours alone. You hadn’t anticipated a witness for your last moments.

Unable to resist, you shoot him another glare, only to find him utterly disinterested in your turmoil. He’s busy scraping something off the underside of his boot, as if the grime of the city is more worthy of his attention than your life-or-death deliberation.

Frustration boils over, and your words escape you before you can stop them. “Are you just going to stand there?” the question cuts through the silence and he looks up, meeting you gaze with those half-drooped eyes.

His face remains a mask of calm, thoroughly unaffected by your hostility. It’s a further irritant how much your obvious displeasure slides off him.

“You want me to catch you, or something?” he drawls, tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and boredom that makes your blood even hotter.

His words hang between, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.

“What are you doing here?” you strike back, impatience sharpening your words.

He takes another languid drag from his cigar, smoke veiling his face. “What—can I not be?” his voice carries a hint of amusement as he pushes off from the wall. Each step towards you is a study in fluid grace, soft and languid. “Like you, I can appreciate Zaun’s skyline. Seems we just have a point of preference,”

He halts a few feet away, gaze drawn to the cityscape below. The proximity allows you to truly observe him for the first time, the details etching themselves into your memory with startling clarity.

His eyes, a stormy blue, almost grey when drenched behind mist. They’re set in a face that could have been chiselled from marble—all sharp angles and clean lines, giving him an almost shark-like profile. Long, dark hair is gathered into a careless bun at the nape of his neck, rebellious strands escaping to frame his face, softening the harsh edges ever so slightly.

A spark of gallows humour flickers to life within you, at last a defiant flame against the dark. “Ah,” you nod, wariness still evident in the tension of your shoulders while a sardonic smile curls your lips. “Planning a dive, too, are you?”

A huff escapes him—a sound that might charitably be called laughter, but falls short of genuine mirth.

Suddenly, the name snaps you back to reality. Zaun. The word carries with it its reputation and weight. So few people use the name that it stands more so for people that had “rebel” ideas rather than what it was created for. Your eyes narrow. “You’re one of those… revolutionists, huh?”

He turns to you, face still angled downward, but his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that momentarily catches your air. You fumble for composure, scraping together the dregs of your wit.

“Nation of Zaun, children, brothers, sisters,” you intone, bobbing your head in mock-solemn gesture as you attempt to recall the group’s motto. The words taste foreign on your tongue, like reciting a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.

His brow shifts slightly. “Is that mockery?” the question hangs, but not accusatory, rather tinged with a gentle curiosity that catches you off guard.

You shrug. “Sure is an idea,” you mutter, words running away before you can fully process them. You’ve never given it much thought before, too entrenched in the sorrow that’s dogged your family’s steps like perpetually wet shoes, leaving its trail of misery.

This time, he turns to face you fully, his complete attention zeroing in on you. It halts you momentarily, but you push through, averting your gaze as you continue.

“Idealistic. Hard-headed,” you pause, then look up to meet his eyes, your own gaze hardening. “Unrealistic,”

His head tilts slightly, reminiscent of a predator assessing its prey. “You don’t agree with us?”

You exhale sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. The revolutionary ideals tumble around you head like a well-worn shopping list. Independence, rid of topside’s clutches, own leadership, own government. “No, I do,” you admit, surprising yourself. Your brows furrow, grappling with the contradiction between your words and your earlier mockery. “Just ballsy, I suppose. It’s never been done, uncharted waters and all that,”

He nods, absorbing your perspective with a thoughtfulness that makes something in you quiver as if in surrender. You find yourself studying his eyes, that stormy blue-grey gaze that seems to hold secrets of their own. They flicker with an inner light as he searches for his response, and you're struck by the intensity of his conviction.

“Then how are we ever to find new land?” he says finally, his voice low and resolute. The simple statement carries an undercurrent of determination that sends a shiver down your back.

“We seem to be surviving fine,” you say, your words dripping with trying humour, a brittle shield.

His response isn't the sad attempt at laughter. Instead, his brow quirks upward, a subtle gesture that feels like a probe into your very secrets. “Then what drove you here?”

You're caught off-balance. How did he read you so easily, peeling back your layers in mere moments? Your gaze darts away, then back to his piercing eyes, discomfort radiating from every pore. “That’s hardly your concern,” you attempt a smile, but it's a weak thing.

“But I can bet it’s one of the following,” he drawls, taking a long, deliberate drag from his cigar. The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. “Lung blight from working in factories, lung blight from working in the mines, or a stray enforcer who got a little too… harsh,” the smoke drifts and drowns you both, swarming your heads in a little bubble.

You inhale, feeling the intoxicating tendrils crawl up into your head, a silent song of temporary escape. Your eyes fix on his cigar, mesmerised. Does it fuel his poetic responses and that maddeningly indifferent stare? You wonder, your hands rising of their own accord, reaching to pluck the cigar from his grasp.

You rest it between your lips, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke fills your lungs, a familiar burn that grounds you in this surreal moment. With practised ease, you exhale, your tongue crafting perfect smoke rings that float lazily between you. They dissipate against his face, a ghostly caress that lingers.

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smile as his eyes bore into yours. Is he entertained? Infuriated? His face remains an impassive mask, giving nothing away.

“Been trying to learn that,” he says, gaze flickering between the cigar in your hand and your eyes. There's a hint of something else in his voice.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. You hope your demeanour mirrors his earlier bored facade. “It’s all the tongue,”

His eyebrow arches slightly. “Is that so?” he murmurs. “And here I thought it was about control,”

You take another drag, letting the smoke curl around your lips before speaking. “Control is part of it,” you concede, voice low. “But flexibility is key,”

He reaches for the cigar, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. “Show me,” he challenges, eyes never leaving yours.

You lean in, forcing your gaze to fixate on the smoke and its origin. Nothing else. “It’s all about the right pressure,” you pause, your breath a ghost drifting from you, as if absorbed by him. “Too much, and it falls apart. Too little, nothing happens at all,”

He inhales deeply, eyes latched onto yours, then attempts a ring. It’s clumsy, dissolving almost instantly. “Pitiful,” he huffs, frustration and amusement colouring him.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Close,”

As if instinctively, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be kind,”

Is that a dare? Your brows twitch in brief process. You take the cigar back. “Relax your lips, circular,” your eyes fall to his mouth, mimicking yours subconsciously. “Bend your tongue down. Tip on the bottom of your mouth,”

“Mhm,” he hums.

You demonstrate, creating a perfect ring that quivers over his shoulder.

“I see,” he mutters, watching, mesmerised. Whether by the ring or your mouth, you don’t want to know.

Nodding, a slow smile spreads your lips. “Delicate,” you raise the cigar his way.

He takes it with his lips, hooking his fingers around and taking a long drag.

You find yourself captivated by his attempts at smoke rings. As he inhales, his eyes close, a moment of quiet concentration. They flutter open to witness his handiwork—thin, frail rings that dissipate quickly in the air. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic facade.

He tries again a few times, clearly taken by this newfound skill. His presence has shifted, no longer infuriating but almost... playful.

Emboldened, you gather your courage and circle back to his earlier question. "All of the above," you say, your words herding his attention back to you. Your voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of pain you couldn't quite strap back. “My dad worked in the mines, and my sister... she got in with the wrong crowd. Crossed some enforcers on the wrong day.”

His eyes soften, a wordless apology that's more than enough. You've never been one for overly expressed sympathies anyway.

“And mom's been showing…” your voice trails off as your mind drifts to your mother's face, the image of her becoming more gaunt with each passing month etched painfully in your memory. It's a familiar process, one you've seen play out in countless Undercity families. Someone's mother or father always showing signs of the blight. Now it's your turn to watch it unfold in your own home. “Declining,” you finish, the word heavy on your tongue.

The light atmosphere dissipates, replaced by a shared understanding of the Undercity's—no, Zaun's harsh realities. You stand there, smoke curling between you.

“It’s never easy, is it?” he says softly, words simple but sincere. He takes another drag of the cigar then offers it back to you. "But we endure," the tone seems to challenge your earlier actions—asking, are you still thinking about it?

You accept the cigar, fingers brushing his. With a long drag, you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. "Guess it's just what we Zaunites do, right?" you take a step away from the edge, nearing his side.

An amused smile finally tugs at his lips.

He was a stranger mere moments ago, and yet here you are, mixing tastes and sharing ideologies. Names seem almost irrelevant. Still, you offer yours, falling from your lips like a confession.

He repeats it, sounding entirely new as his voice wore each letter in that silk tone, escaping his mouth alongside whispers of smoke.

“Silco,” he gives back, the name igniting a spark of recognition that raises your brows as you return his cigar.

The name echoes in your mind, often whispered in the same breath as 'Vander'—the two faces of the revolution. The muscle and the voice of a movement that promised to reshape Zaun's future.

“Mm,” you murmur, your eyes tracing the contours of his face with newfound interest, drinking him in. Each line, each shadow takes on new significance as you piece together the man behind the name. “Not just a revolutionist. The revolutionist,”

A short laugh escapes him, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. He brings the cigar to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a burning in his gaze that pins you in place, making you acutely aware of every breath.

He takes a deep drag, the ember glowing bright in the dim light of Zaun's eternal twilight. As he exhales, your attention is drawn inexorably to his mouth.

A more practised smoke ring emerges, expanding and drifting between you. It's a marked improvement from his earlier attempts, a physical manifestation of how quickly he learns, adapts. You find yourself wondering what other skills he might possess.

[profoundbondfanfic]

In Due Time (Dean Winchester is Saved)

In Due Time (Dean Winchester is Saved) by Caelum_Writes Rating: Teen and Up Word count: 11k

A 26-year-old Dean is transported to 2021 and confronted with the unfathomable - a future where he is happy, safe, and loved. --- "Aren’t you gunna say it?” he asks tentatively, as if he’s crazy for picking up on the obvious. “Yeah, you’re me. Past me, anyway,” the other Dean replies. “I wanna know from when.” "What are you talking about?” “Time travel,” the older Dean states as if it’s so obvious and ordinary. “It happens.” “To who? Marty McFly?”

I probably read this fic for the first time around the time it came out and it has lived rent free in my head ever since. It's a time travel story and a Dean Winchester character study. But most of all it poses the age old question: what would my past self think of me now?

Dean is retired and living with Cas and Jack. They are the picture of domestic bliss. When 26 year old Stanford Era Dean shows up, Dean has to face his past and his future. The contrast of how hard past Dean is and how happy and in love he and Cas are now is really compelling.

There's an element of Dean forgiving himself and being easier with himself. There's also something unbearably soft about the way Cas loves both of them. He's gentle with past Dean and so in love with present Dean.

There are some heavy themes, but ultimately this fic is fluffy and soft with a hint of bittersweetness.

[some-stars]

for today's poolverine-adjacent thoughts, i offer you: Major Character Death! please scroll past if you reasonably want to avoid this.

so most of the time i just ignore that logan is aging slowly while wade seems literally immortal, because most days i don't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with the implications. but i do have a longstanding soft spot for fic about grief and picking up after and finding ways to go on after having and then losing the love of your life. so sometimes i like to think about--they get a good two or three hundred years together, and it's the happiest either of them have ever been and they grow into and change each other and are so, so in love. and then logan dies.

and for a long time--decades--wade is just...not really in the world. sometimes literally (he spends a good eight years holed up in a cave mostly asleep, letting the sensation of starving to death become soothing white noise) and sometimes in the sense that he'll eat and get out of bed and maybe even find some kind of work to do, but he isn't there.

but eventually--because he is human, and this is what happens to humans--he connects with someone again. not in the same way (never the same way, it's never going to be the same) but he finds himself taking care of someone who needs help, or running into the same person often enough that he starts to respond when they try to start a conversation with him, or just--someone. somewhere. that buried rusting part of his heart creaks to life, the way he was sure it never would again.

and god, how badly i want a story about the slow agonizing process of coming back to life, realizing that despite knowing how it'll end, despite everything, he does still want to reach out and build that connection. and he can. his heart can do that, still. and how beautiful and horrible it is that he can feel this way again even though logan is gone. i want him to get to a place where he can tell his loved ones stories about logan, all those centuries of funny and sad and sexy and stupid stories they made together. and i want him to have that again, with someone else. and then someone after that, and after that, and forever.