#this is far too much fun to write

[geeks-universe]

The Fallen pt. 2

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Cooper Howard x F!Angel!Reader

A/N: Some light spice, no full on smut yet. This is in fact a Lucifer (TV) crossover. The beginning italics is a flashback.

Cooper Howard had perfected his aim in the many, many years of life spent in the hellish landscape that now inhabited Earth, so when he missed, it was purposeful.

“It ain’t good form, sneakin’ up on a restin’ man.”

His words were crisp, articulated, and honestly the intruder was just lucky he happened to be in a decent mood. It would’ve been easier to kill them.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here.”

The replying voice was a stark contrast to the harshness of the life he lived. It didn’t belong, sounded far too gentle, and it aroused enough curiosity for him to tip his hat back.

Not a damn thing in the whole of the Wasteland could’ve prepared him for the sight he was met with.

Pretty, that was his first thought.

Too pretty.

Ungodly so, actually. Your eyes seemed to shine so bright in contrast to the dingy lantern that barely provided enough light to see his own hands. The slope of your nose, the cut of your cheeks, the shape of your lips- too pretty.

Not to mention the tight jumpsuit you wore, the zipper tugged down low enough on your chest to show off a healthy amount of cleavage. His fingers twitched as his eyes traced a path down your body- slow, appreciative. It’d been a damn long time since something as simple as a look could get him this worked up.

You had one visible weapon, a knife tucked into the belt of your jumpsuit, pressed into your very alluring thigh. He wondered briefly what it would feel like under his hand, wrapped tight around his waist.

“I suggest you get on your way ‘fore the next one ends up in your skull.”

It was a threat, one he emphasized with the click of his gun’s hammer.

You seemed unbothered, almost bored.

Fuck, didn’t that just annoy the piss out of him? You stumbled into his space- that he commandeered with his hard earned bullets, thank you very much- looking like fucking Aphrodite, with an expression that could, at best, be considered unconcerned.

Last he checked he was still pretty goddamn terrifying.

“Understood,” you held your hands up, and damn it all if he could ignore the pain in your gaze.

He hesitated.

It was a fraction of a fraction of a second, where he almost slipped back into Cooper Howard: the man who cared, imperceptible to most, but the small upturn of your lips told him you saw it.

He glared, holding his gun higher. You didn’t say another word, just held your hands up and walked away, but not before you met his gaze one more time.

He wished he knew what you were thinking when you muttered a soft, “thanks,” before you disappeared from the rickety building. The image haunted him for weeks, of you with your sad eyes, your face untouched by the ugliness of the world, breathing out your gratitude.

He swore he’d shoot you on sight if he ever saw you again, if only because that one encounter lingered in his mind for far too long after.

“Think they’re fuckin’?”

You startled, whipping your head up to face Cooper so quickly he was sure that it hurt. The heat that flushed your cheeks was unexpected.

“Sorry, just didn’t think you’d be so blunt.” You cleared your throat, running a hand through your hair. “Maybe, they certainly seemed interested enough in one another to… engage.”

Coop barked a laugh, low and deep.

“Engage, huh?” You narrowed your eyes at him, resting your arms on your knees. “That’s a real innocent term for a bonafide tease like yourself.”

“Tease?” You echoed, almost offended.

The red from your cheeks burned a path down your neck, to the top of your breasts, where it disappeared beneath the fabric of your jumpsuit- a path Cooper was all too eager to trace with his eyes.

He hummed an affirmative, spreading his legs out in front of him. His back was leaned against the pole of an old billboard, giving him a nice resting spot from the traveling you’d been doing.

A few days ago, your little trio ran into the same knight Cooper had gotten into a shootout with back in Filly. He’d wanted to shoot the man and be done with it, but Lucy had argued that he could help.

After much deliberation, and more than a few pleads of your own, Cooper agreed to let him live. For now.

“A tumble in the ol’ hay gettin’ you nice and shy, huh?”

You groaned, forcing your eyes down to the sand beneath your legs. He waited eagerly for your explanation.

“My dad was, uh, strict,” you supplied lamely, embarrassment burning a pyre in your stomach.

You would surely never hear the end of this.

“Darlin’, are you suggesting you’re a-“

“No,” you were quick to respond, beating back against the shame that you felt.

You’d never understand how Lucifer could be so free in his decisions, not bothering to feel any guilt over the many decidedly “un-angel-like” behaviors he had. His time on Earth with you was short, beckoned back to his prison before you could even spend a decade together, but he’d not been idle in that time.

“I’ve… engaged before.”

Cooper’s lips drew into a slow smirk, the brim of his hat hiding the way his eyes were drinking in your expression. He’d memorized the way you look time and time again- when you were happy, or sad, angry, annoyed.

Embarrassed, however, was a new one.

“And now?”

The indignation that flared in your gaze rivaled the red of your cheeks, a thrill running down Coop’s spine as you pulled yourself to your feet and stalked towards him.

“And now,” you whispered, voice barely audible above the crunch of sand beneath your boot.

As you approached, he raised his head, drawn to your stare. The breath he released was strained with anticipation.

“I think you know what I want, Coop.”

It was graceful, the way you dropped yourself to your knees and straddled him. His cock twitched at the look you fixed him with, filled with far more desire than he could ever hope to understand. A fire was burning in the air between you, begging him to close the distance and feel you.

His fingers ghosted up the side of your thighs, hovering just above your ass. He’d hoped for this moment- dreamed of it, even- but never did he expect the universe would be kind enough to deliver you to him, ready and willing.

“And what is that, darlin’?” His tone dropped low, barely a murmur from his lips in fear of ruining the moment. “Don’t be afraid to use your words.”

Your mouth was so close to his, warm breath fanning over his face. He was torn between wanting to pull you into him, and letting you take your sweet time with him. The vaultie and the knight would probably be gone for a bit longer, in search of medicine to help with his shot arm.

“Mmm,” that sweet, lilting voice was so close he could feel it, inching closer to his body.

It was overwhelming, the sensation of your thighs over his, your front grinding so gently down the hardening curve of his cock. It was heaven and hell at the same time, too much and not nearly enough. A groan might’ve tore itself from his throat, it was hard to tell over the sound of his blood rushing south, heart pumping double time to match the throbbing of his cock.

Every bit of his restraint was focused on letting you initiate, his hands flexing in the air, waiting for positive indication that he could have his wicked way with you. He could practically taste the sweet nectar between your legs, drooling at the prospect. If you tasted half as good as you looked, he’d never wish for apple pie again.

You, his tormenting angel, with wide eyes and full lips that he couldn’t seem to stay away from. You, who he once believed was a figment of his own imagination, if only because he couldn’t fathom such a delicacy still existing in this world.

“The hat.”

Your words were released on a breathy sigh, hands tracing up the textured skin of his neck, before you quickly grabbed hold of his beloved hat, delicately placing it on your own head.

The triumph in your expression didn’t last, as Cooper had no intention of this being just another game. Faster than you thought possible, and with far more force than you were used to, Coop had hooked his arms around the back of your thighs, caging you against him so you couldn’t back away as you had planned.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playin’.”

You pressed further into him, tipping his hat back with a smirk. His hips pushed up, aching for contact that you purposefully held from him.

“If I’m taking a ride, might as well play the part.”

His retort was hot on his tongue, only to be immediately swallowed by your mouth. Your lips crashed into his, rough in their ministrations. Years of dreaming about the taste of you didn’t do it any justice.

Your tongue explored his mouth with a ravenous hunger, hips moving in time with each stroke of your lips.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He was sure that all there was left to taste on the Earth was bitter and bland. You, however, were sweeter than he could’ve ever imagined. You tasted of vanilla, somehow, and the first crisp wind after a hot summer, and like the Earth before the war, the good things that had been destroyed and gone forever.

Holy hell, you tasted like life.

Like a deep laugh that came straight from the soul- he moaned when you tightened your grip on the fabric of his shirt, chasing every inch he’d give you- and the man Cooper Howard used to be.

His hands were eager in their exploration, mapping out a path from your thighs, to your ass, up the curve of your spine.

Fucking hell.

Every inch of you was divine, perfect in a way Cooper couldn’t even begin to understand. He wanted more. He needed more. Needed it more than he needed those damn drugs, more than he needed anything, really.

He went straight from the junction of your neck the second you broke from the kiss, mouth watering at the very thought of pressing his teeth to your sweet, soft skin.

“Cooper,” it was a whimper, a plea, and a moan all in one, and damn did his ears ring at the sound.

It went straight to his cock, making him press his hips up into yours, desperately trying to bury his length in you despite the many layers of clothing.

Your head fell back, exposing your neck even more to him, and causing his hat to tumble somewhere by his legs. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered outside of the feel of you.

His hands slid higher, on a path to your shoulders, only to stop at the sudden intake of air from you. It sounded pained, and he was dazed when you pulled away from him with a speed he’d not seen before.

One second you were hot, willing, and moaning his name, and the next you were standing over him, your eyes haunted.

“Darlin’, what-“

He saw it then, the sticky, warm red on his hands, unmistakably blood. A baser instinct wanted to lick his gloves clean of it, taste an even deeper part of you, but the human in him won out, if only for a moment.

“You didn’t think to let anyone know you’re hurtin’.”

The anger in his tone is only trumped by the worry in his eyes. Somehow, you’d wriggled your way into his nearly fucking nonexistent heart, and it seemed that you had the self-preservation of a damn baby sea turtle.

“It’s an old wound.”

The way you held your arms to your chest, almost like you were hugging yourself, told Cooper enough. It was a wound that cut deep, not because it hurt, but because of how it got there in the first place.

“Lemme see,” he said sternly, picking up his hat off the ground with a scowl.

“Today, sweetheart,” he muttered when you made no move to do so.

There was a vulnerability in your gaze, a cut so deep he knew you’d never fully heal from it. He wished he didn’t want to know, wished he didn’t care to learn what made those bright eyes dim.

You unzipped the front of your jumpsuit slowly, tantalizingly, almost like the teasing was a part of your armor- and maybe it was. Maybe it was how you convinced yourself you didn’t care as much, or how you rebelled against the father you obviously still struggled with.

You turned your back to him, baring the marred flesh without another look in his direction. Obviously, Cooper had seen many, many scars in his time. Hell, he was scarred from head to toe, flesh marked with the passage of time and the heat of radiation.

This was a little different.

You tensed as he reached a hand out. Two large gashes ran down the length of your shoulder blades, the flesh pink and raw. Scratches, deep and angry, cut between them, some bleeding and others healed. Curiously, the tips of his gloved fingers pressed to the two big scars.

In a flash you were turned around, your hands wrapped around his wrist.

“Don’t.”

A command. A plea. A whisper.

“Who did it?”

His words were hard, a rage so deep and endless rose in his chest, feeling more feral than he had his whole life. That wasn’t the scar of someone who survived an attempt on their life.

That was the scar of someone who intended to cause pain.

“Was it your daddy?”

From the very small amount of information you’d given him, he tried to piece together exactly what happened between the two of you. He didn’t know the specifics, but he did know that he’d hurt you in some unforgivable way.

Your silence was an answer in itself.

Leather creaked as he balled his hands into fists, grinding his teeth together. Cooper Howard was a monster, self-made and self-proclaimed, but he didn’t let anyone harm what was his.

And make no mistake, you were his. That kiss did just about everything to solidify it in his mind.

“If he weren’t dead already I’d hunt him down and string him up.”

It was a promise, and he wished he could bring that bastard back from the grave to punish him for putting those marks on your back and that look in your eye.

“Coop,” you approached him cautiously, returning your jumpsuit to its proper position. “He’s not dead.”

That certainly was a surprise.

And an opportunity.

“It’s more complicated than that,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. The clench on your jaw was noticeable.

“Let’s find the fucker, then.”

A long, tired sigh parted your lips. There were clearly parts of the story he was missing, and it seemed those parts painted a picture he didn’t understand.

“Let’s focus on Lucy and her dad.”

He let the silence simmer, wondering just how much he should tell you of his past. A bit of irritation flared at the idea of revealing anything. It was better to let the past die, like you said.

He grunted his agreement, not bothering to explain it to you. Maybe you’d try to stop him, or maybe you’d help him. It didn’t matter either way. You were already far closer to him than he wanted, he couldn’t risk any more of a bond forming.

“They’ll be back.”

His words were noncommittal. It was likely the vault dweller and her puppy-dog of a knight were probably alive, but he couldn’t really care less, especially when the girl's own naivety got them into this mess.

“Her heart was in the right place.”

You could see it on his face, read the expression etched in his battered skin like nobody else could.

“The right place for dyin’, maybe.” He clicked his tongue. “But I ain’t got that sorta wish right now.”

“They didn’t have to shoot,” you muttered, not nearly as worked up as you’d been earlier.

Anger isn’t an expression you wear often, so he was a little surprised when you’d been so upset with the fiends. Lucy had the bright idea of making it around them without violence, a plan that was doomed from the start.

Cooper voiced his opinion, and so did Maximus, but your encouraging little smile to Lucy made him follow with a scowl. The second they’d drawn their weapons, Coop had already shoved you behind him and dropped one of them. The knight wasn’t nearly as quick with the draw, and got a tooth bullet lodged in his arm for the effort.

He and Lucy had departed about a day ago, claiming they’d be back soon with a fully patched up knight. If it were just him, he would’ve tied them both up and dragged their asses to the head.

Better yet, just killed them both.

But you wouldn’t let him.

You’d always erred on the side of good, a little too soft for the world around you. He’d seen you mean, seen you stand your ground, but you helped far more than you’d hurt. The vault dweller seemed to only be intensifying it, making you believe in a pipe dream that was sure to get you a one way ticket to eternity.

“I’m going to check-“

“(Y/N)!”

Lucy’s voice cracked through the Wasteland like shattering glass. Whereas his annoyance at the sudden arrival of his unwanted companions reflected on his face, you managed a small smile.

“I was beginning to think you’d left us.”

It was a joke. Whatever bond had formed between you and Lucy had clearly earned you some amount of loyalty, and even if she would’ve ditched Cooper any chance she got, she definitely wouldn’t have left you. And if she refused to, it was no surprise Maximus also did.

“I take it you’re feeling better?” Your gaze fell where the bullet had struck, and there was a curious look in your eyes. You’d mentioned before that you used to be good with fixing people up, so he had a feeling you were reminiscing on another tidbit of life he wasn’t privy to.

“Ain’t no reason to gawk here like a bunch of sittin’ ducks,” Coop stalked passed the three of you, not interested in the camaraderie.

“Right,” Lucy cleared her throat, “Glad to see nothing’s changed.”

“Just ‘cause you took lover boy here for a little ride on company property ain’t mean the rest of the world changed.”

Your sudden intake of breath definitely didn’t go unnoticed. It seemed that despite the previous interruption, you were enjoying rubbing yourself up on Coop as much as he was.

“Sex,” Lucy clarified to Maximus at the man’s confused expression.

“Watch out,” Cooper warned the other man with a sarcastic smile on his lips. “Them Vauties are just breeding factories, might end up with a little unexpected squire.”

“Cooper,” you chided, catching up to walk beside him.

Sometimes, being bitter about children in general helped him cope with the loss of his own.

“It is our privilege to one day repopulate the Earth,” Lucy confirmed, shrugging. “Women just have the responsibility of choosing the right partner.”

“I’m not sure-“ Maximus tried to speak, only to be interrupted by Cooper.

“Unsurprising.”

“(Y/N)?”

It was a low blow, Lucy asking for your opinion, knowing that even if he didn’t say it in so many words, it was obvious the ghoul valued it far more than any others. You raised a brow, shrugging.

“I haven’t really thought of it.”

“Of having kids?” Lucy pushed.

This was quickly entering uncomfortable territory, and Lucy didn’t really know where the boundary was.

“Of any sort of future, honestly.”

She took your answer in stride, though. Allowing the topic to drop off into silence. It didn’t stay that way for very long, idle chatter amongst you, Maximus, and Lucy. Cooper would very rarely comment, but he preferred to stay focused on his surroundings.

Day bled to night, which bled to day again. Time was beginning to slip past as you neared the location of the head, frustration growing in Cooper. Any opportunity he had to speak with you in private was interrupted, the traveling party growing too large for his liking.

Perhaps, after this whole ordeal, it’ll be just you and him.

Perhaps he liked the sound of that a little too much.

[babychosen]

amangela au wip coming along beautifully

[animasolascreenshots]

[hellspawnmotel]

terranigma, a cool game

[aloonaram]

Here’s an edited wip of my Birdflash oneshot.

Fair warning, this will probably change in the final product as I try to figure out at what point in the timeline I want this fic to take place.

“You look like shit, Dickie.”

“Gee, thanks, Walls. You’re such a loving boyfriend,” Dick retorted. He tried for a smile, but Wally watched sadly as it twitched and fell before it could become what it once was–what Dick’s smile used to be.

Dick opened his door wider in invitation and Wally rushed in and examined the place. Gotham wasn’t ever known for its beauty, but even with that in mind, Dick’s apartment looked pretty rough. Empty containers of takeout and miscellaneous trash littered the floor and countertops. His couch was sprinkled with brown spots that he almost assumed were polka dots before he realized they were most definitely patches of dried blood. Clothes were strewn across every surface, their musk permeating his senses. Dick brushed past his side and made his way to the kitchen, opening his rickety fridge to expose the meager amount of food he had. Wally would bet his life savings that each of the five items had gone bad too, based on the state of the place.

Dick turned to toss Wally a water, “So…what, uh, brings you here?” Dick’s awkward tone hangs heavy between the two. Now that Wally could get a good look, his lover was in rough shape. Even worse than his apartment; which was a feat, his mind whispered. His hair laid limp and greasy along his neck and his bags seemed to have bags of their own. A couple of dark bruises peeked through the collar of his shirt, some leading down to his left arm if the strange way he seemed to carry it was anything to go by. Dick clutched his own water bottle, doing his best to look anywhere but at him.

“You haven’t been responding to my messages,” Wally started, “I texted the other Robin, uh Tim, I think? But he never got back to me either, so I got worried, you know? Figured I’d take matters into my own hands. I don’t have super speed for nothing.” He waved his hands around, doing his best to lighten the mood. “It’s been a long time since we’ve gotten to talk, let alone seen each other in person, but, you know, if this isn’t the best time, I can totally leave. I know this is kinda spur of the moment.” Wally wished he could slap himself the moment his lips stopped moving. Some of the younger heroes had started calling him a professional yapper and he wished it didn’t fit so damn well.

Wally watched as Dick took a breath and rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. He winced. Yeah, this probably wasn’t the best time to show up out of the blue.

“No, I…You don’t need to leave, “ Dick sighed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been responding, Walls. Everything’s just been… a lot, to put it simply. I’ve been so busy trying to balance my day job, Bludhaven, and…and being Batman. I just haven’t had much time to myself lately, if you can’t tell by the state of my apartment.” Dick laughed pitifully and winced when it shook his aching arm.

He couldn’t help moving forward into the kitchen and enveloping Dick in a hug, something he definitely should’ve done the moment he’d arrived. His partner sighed shakily and moved to wrap his arms around Wally’s middle. He felt Dick’s face pressed against his chest and hooked his chin to the top of his greasy head. Dick had always been one for physical comfort, a miracle considering who he’d grown up with and the environment he’d been forced into at the ripe age of nine. Wally would be lying if he didn’t say Dick’s need for physical affection didn’t bring him relief and make him feel needed. Sometimes, he felt powerless amidst his lover's strife–Batman’s rule against metas in Gotham limiting his ability to help. Providing Dick a simple hug; feeling the tense muscles in his shoulders loosen and his breath hit Wally’s neck as he sighed in relief, was Wally’s respite from his perpetual guilt.

Wally knew about Batman’s…death. He’d been there when Dick hosted Bruce’s funeral, letting Dick squeeze the life from his hand as he listened to the speech from Alfred. With Bruce gone, the natural order of Dick’s family had seemed to fall apart. Dick had taken the mantle of Batman, a title Wally knew he had never wanted–never felt right for him. He’d be lying if he said he fully understood the magnitude of such a change–that he knew how large the chasms carved by trauma had grown to separate Dick and his siblings. And yet despite that, he knew one thing for a fact. Dick, his lover and the man he’s known for well over a decade now was not the type of person to let others shoulder pain on their own. He took and took and took until he knew only he carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders, letting his muscles feel relief only when his family no longer felt pain. And he’d continue to carry that weight with a smile as long as he knew his family would smile back, unaware of the sky creeping in on Dick’s tense shoulders.

Wally squeezed his arms tighter around Dick’s back, supporting him as his breaths became ragged in their silent embrace. As Wally did so, a sick thought entered his mind, fueled by the anger and pain he felt for his partner; a small part of him–microscopic even–was glad Bruce wasn’t here. Not because he reveled in the effects his passing had on Dick, nor because he wanted Dick to be forced into the role of Batman, but because despite his struggles, Bruce had never been good for Dick. Yes, he played the parental figure Dick needed when he was younger and yes, he provided the necessities for Dick to survive, but he never provided what Wally knew Dick needed most.

“Do you wanna move to the couch, babe?” Wally whispered, cheek pressed against Dick’s head. He feels Dick nod silently and Wally zipped them to the couch in less than half a second. Wally sat and patted the spot next to him, watching as Dick laid his head on his lap, pressing his cheek to Wally’s stomach while letting his legs hang off the side of the couch.

Never one comfortable with silence, Wally broke it first. “If you don’t wanna talk, I won’t push. We can chill, watch the Office, eat popcorn–whatever you want. I just worry…you know? Not being able to be here to help and hearing on the news, Batman and Robin this and Joker and Two-Face that…I just wish I could do more for you.”

Wally looks down to meet Dick’s pained stare and internally winces as Dick opens and closes his mouth, struggling to respond.

“Me and the bats have it handled over here, okay?” Dick starts quietly, aimlessly running his hand over Wally’s knuckles. “You don’t need to worry about me, honey. I know you have more than enough to deal with back at Central and I don’t want to stress you out with problems I have handled.”

Wally lets his free hand run through Dick’s hair, quickly relishing in the way Dick warms to his touch. “I can’t lie and say I wouldn’t be stressed, you know me too well for that, but I’m here to support you, Dick. To be your listener when you’re stressed.” He paused for only a moment before speaking again, “I know you, Dick. I’ve known you for almost every era of your life as you have, mine. I knew you when you were my scrawny, baby leader-”

“Hey-” Dick tried to interject, but Wally kept going.

“I knew you when you wore that god awful blue and yellow disco Nightwing suit-”

“It really wasn’t that bad-”

“And I know what it looks like when you don’t have things handled. You don’t need to soften the blow for me Dickie and you don’t need to play the perfect soldier.” Wally paused. Let it be known even the Flash is out of breath from time to time. “You were always there for me during rough times, so please let me be there for you.”

[shootingstarpilot]

you know what you should do to celebrate hawai'i, mermay, and the return of dracula daily?

whump helix. \:D/

(no i don't know what that has to do with any of the aforementioned celebrations but you should do it anyway)

...

You know what, you're absolutely right.

And it just so happens that I was researching adrenaline poisoning for COMPLETELY UNRELATED REASONS yesterday, and, well- Helix does seem like the type, doesn't he?

Helix hasn't slept in five days.

For the first three, admittedly, it was because of the clean-up.

Dukov had been rough. The intel from the Senate had been so bad he'd overheard Crys theorizing that maybe they'd intercepted a Seppie briefing instead, right before a sniper had nearly taken his arm off at the shoulder. Three days of mainlining stims until the situation had gone from cataclysmic to merely chaotic. Three days until both Needle and Stitch could get a few hours' sleep, after Helix's own customized blend of reassurance and orders had sent them to bed with minimal resistance.

He was feeling far too twitchy to sleep, anyway.

The next day had been the flimsiwork. His least favorite bit, and it had been easy to reach for another stim from his own stash. Just to power through.

(Besides. The others would get pissy if he finished off the unit's stockpile.)

He sets the last datapad aside and rubs absently at his forehead.

The headache is multiplying, and frustration grows with it.

A twitchy agitation pushes him to his feet and out of his office to find Needle splinting a sprained wrist, poking gentle fun at the blushing shiny whose name he cannot for the life of him remember. The sudden burst of irritation at the sound of Needle's snorting laugh takes him by surprise, and for a moment all he can do is blink owlishly at the pair until Needle glances up.

"Helix!" he exclaims, unfairly delighted, and Helix scowls at him reflexively. "Emerged from your lair at last? Hope you had a good nap-"

"Get some sleep when you're done with that," Helix snaps. "I'll take first shift."

"Stitch is already sleeping, I sent him off an hour ago-"

"Then join him. Get some rest. You should know better than to not take advantage of the opportunity."

Hypocrite, a little voice whispers. Helix squashes it mercilessly, stalking out of the medbay without waiting to hear Needle's response.

Gym. Yeah. That sounds good. He's spent too long sitting in front of a datapad today; he needs to work this twitchiness out.

Then caf, if he's gonna be on shift. Needle and Stitch need the rest.

(He's pretty sure he'd stashed another stim in his gym bag, too.)

And the night... passes.

His datapad never beeps.

Helix hammers at a punching bag until nausea begins to rise, at which point he realizes that he can't quite remember the last time he ate something, and- because he's a responsible medic- heads for the mess.

More time had passed than he'd realized, apparently. The mess is still empty, but there are lights on in the kitchen, and he can hear Terror's muffled shouting as he snags a ration bar off the all-hours table and makes his way out. They'll probably be seeing someone else in the medbay soon enough, if Terror's that loud this early, and he gulps down the ration bar before jabbing another stim into his neck.

Damn it.

The nausea hasn't abated by the time he reaches the medbay doors. He scowls at the wall for a moment, remembers to inhale, and kicks the door open to make himself feel better.

"You look like shit."

When did Needle get here?

Helix can't quite find the answer, but Needle's sure as hell here now- right in front of him, brow furrowed, and blocking his way to the caf machine.

"Move."

"No," Needle says blithely, and before Helix can react to that stunning indignity, warm fingers are curling around his wrist. He stills instinctively, and Needle graces him with a quirked smile before returning his attention to his pulse.

"Tachycardic," he sighs, dropping Helix's hand. "Consider me unsurprised, Dukov was bad. How much have you slept?"

Helix elects for the time-honored tradition of saying nothing.

"...Have you slept?"

Time-honored traditions have to start somewhere.

"All right," Needle says, and Helix isn't sure what happens next- only that suddenly Needle's arm is wrapped around his waist, and they're moving further down the medbay, and then he's sitting on a mattress he doesn't remember seeing-

"You know the drill," Needle informs him, and oh, yes, right, Needle's here too, isn't he? "Start coughing. I'll give you thirty seconds before I start a line-"

Then something clatters at the entrance to the medbay.

"Hello?" asks a wavering voice, and Needle swears under his breath.

"You," he says, poking Helix's nose, "stay right here. I'm just gonna triage, I will be right back. Keep coughing."

Helix glares at his retreating back until Needle vanishes around the corner.

Then it's just him.

There was- something he was supposed to be doing, right?

Yes. Tachycardic, Needle had said- cold packs can help, he knows. The vagus nerve. Right.

But Needle's gone.

He levers himself up and heads for the supply closet, ignoring the way the nausea sloshes in the pit of his stomach.

He steps inside. Flicks the light on.

And promptly vomits all the way down the front of his scrubs.

Something twigs at last.

"Well," he says eloquently, "fuck me."

That is the last thing he remembers for some time.

"You," a voice announces, "are such a bastard."

"Mmph."

"No, no, you don't get to do that. You're awake, I need answers, and to be frank I'm not feeling particularly merciful, you absolute- no. Okay. Name."

"..."

"Helix."

"That."

"I- fine. Nauseous?"

Helix takes a moment to assess.

"No."

"Jittery?"

He curls his fingers into a fist, testing.

"No. Jus' tired."

He can hear a steady beeping at his left, and waves in its vague direction. "Turn that off."

"The fuck I will," Needle snaps. "Consequences of your actions, boss, you're gonna have to deal with it. Where's your stockpile? I checked our stash, you didn't take enough from there to trigger this."

Helix pries his eyes open. Needle is standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, scowling at him.

"Not telling."

A muscle in Needle's jaw jumps.

"Stitch?"

The expression on Stitch's face when he peers around the corner is one of naked relief.

"Yes, Needle?"

"You're on Helix duty. Make sure he doesn't get out of bed, otherwise I'll have to kill him. I'm gonna tear his office apart."

"Tear my-"

"If you'd cooperate," Needle says, with gritted-teeth cheer, "then I wouldn't have to. But since you don't seem to appreciate the fact that you overdosed on your own stims, it looks like I'll have to do it myself."

He's gone before Helix can muster a response.

Stitch, meanwhile, has apparently taken Needle's threat to heart. He climbs onto the bed and splays starfish-style across Helix, wriggling up until they're nose-to-nose, and Helix's burgeoning indignation evaporates in the face of Stitch's too-wet eyes.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Stitch lets out a little sigh and tucks his face into the crook of Helix's neck.

Helix gives up considering standing.

"What happened?"

"Epinephrine overdose," comes the muffled reply. Inside his office, something bangs against the wall. "Needle found you in the closet. You were covered in vomit."

His scrubs are clean.

Stitch lifts his face and rests his forehead against Helix's. "Ventricular tachycardia," he says quietly, and Helix breathes out. "You went into v-fib. He had to shock you to get you back."

His face screws up before smoothing out with an all-too-familiar caution, and Helix, aching, rests a hand between his shoulder blades. "I was getting breakfast. Needle did it all by himself. You came back same time I did."

Another crashing sound. Something splinters.

"You should apologize," Stitch says sternly, and Helix chokes out a laugh.

"'m sorry, Stitch," he says, and tries his best to squeeze the hand Stitch is holding. "I didn't mean to."

"High epinephrine levels can compromise rational decision-making," Stitch informs him. "I know."

"If I promise not to get up, will you move?"

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, but-"

"Mm. Then no."

"Stitch-"

"Deep pressure therapy lowers heart rate."

"Is that what this is?"

"Yes."

"Not a hug?"

"That comes second."

"Okay, Stitch," Helix sighs. Deep pressure therapy or a hug, whatever it is- it's working.

He's asleep in less than a minute.

When he dips briefly back into the waking world, he can feel the dip in the mattress.

"Stims are taped to the bottom of my desk drawer," he says quietly.

"I know," Needle mutters.

Silence.

"How's my desk?"

"I'll get you a new one."

Another, longer silence.

Fabric shifts as Needle leans back, folding his arms across his chest. "I'll be keeping count."

"Okay."

Helix twists his head to the side, peering upwards.

Needle is staring at the wall.

"You don't have to get me a new desk," he offers.

"You're shit at apologies, you know."

Helix falls silent.

Then Needle sighs, too loud in the dull lights of the night shift, and Helix sees a wry smile twist across his face.

"Go back to sleep," he says, "and I won't ask for one."

Helix obligingly closes his eyes, and for once, doesn't say anything scathing when Needle's hand settles on his forehead.

Wait. One thing-

"Hey," he mutters sleepily. "At least now you know what it's like."

"What?"

But Helix is already asleep.

[sciderman]

Pre-2000s comics are superior for being able to make their characters not be as clear-cut and stereotypical (classic Peter Parker and his personality, motivations and views on stuff, pre-2000s Wolverine for being more than just the wild berserker but a man with strong morals and hobbies/interest you wouldn't expect for a gruff berserker) AND for writing out their accents (reading 90s Wades accent can be a wild experience sometimes and i miss that) whitch helped with making them sound unique and recognizable

GOD i miss wade's accent SO much. i loved the way he talked.

it's something i try to write in when we're in flashbacks or when i'm writing the cablepool fics - wade talks a whole lot more like he did in the older comics.

BRING back wade's stupid accent i say. i miss when he talked like a looney tunes character.

[jacqcrisis]

The post game idea I had for Ronan and Astarion is after a few years of adventuring and looking for a solution to vampirism, they get a proposition from a mutual high-level adventurer they've had dealings with before. She's a dragonborn warlock needing someone to moonlight as her husband on a trip back to Tymanther to make nice with her clan to get a hold of some relic or artifact or WHATEVER. DOESNT MATTER.

What matters is that she asks Astarion to be her 'husband' for the trip since her clan won't let her back into their home without one, hes overdramatic enough naturally to pass for a dragonborn, and since he doesnt know shit about the culture, he can be molded easier into passing for someone of a higher ranking clan than a lowborn weirdo like Ronan who would give the game away within ten minutes of opening his mouth. Astarion will be changed under True Polymorph for the time into a living dragonborn and, once she has her macguffin and they return to Fae'run, she'll use the same spell to change him into the living version of himself permanently. Simple as.

It takes some thinking for both Ronan and Astarion to come to a decision. The trip will be long, months to even a year, and all that time, they wont be making much of an income on top of being half a world away from home. Ronan isnt too keen on returning to his country of origin and Astarion certainly isnt too happy about having to spend so damn long as a lizard. There's a lot of debating, arguing, but this warlock is the only person that they can trust they've found capable and willing to cast the spell and the closest they've gotten to a solution to vampirism that seemingly has no downsides, so they agree.

Before the trip even starts, Astarion is changed in order to get him used to both living and a new body as they make the long trek to Tymanther. He takes to it as well as one would expect: doing just fine while also finding as many reasons to complain about it as he can. It's an adjustment getting used to just the sensation of his heart beating again, the general ebb and flow of biological processes, being warm all on his own, and the dysmorphia when he looks in the mirror to see a dragonborn instead of what he expects, but it's so much more comfortable and right in comparison to undeath.

Now, since Astarion needs to be her husband, one of the stipulations from the warlock is that he and Ronan are not together in any respect for the trip. Ronan is Astarion's bodyguard for this journey and anything closer than that could jeopardize the whole plot given they'll be surrounded by judging scrutinizing vultures looking for any cracks in the warlock's tale and an excuse to kick her to the curb and exile her from the macguffin she needs. Normally this wouldn't be an issue for Astarion, but there's a curious new problem that crops up when his heart is beating once more.

Love and attraction are very numb emotions when one's body is mostly dead. While he knows he loves Ronan mentally, it is not a physical feeling for him. Until he's breathing again and all of a sudden he's got butterflies in his gut when Ronan's around, he's warm when the cleric looks at him, sweating, flushed, shivering when there's a brush of a hand on him, and just thinking about speaking to him makes him smile like a moron despite himself.

Astarion can't stop looking at him. Can't stop wanting Ronan near him. Burning for him in a way he didn't before and its like he's falling in love both again and for the first time. And oh boy, does he hate that considering he can't do anything about it lest he lose his chance to get back to being himself.

That's the setup. Astarion's first taste of being not a vampire comes with being forced into a body that isn't his as he plays mental chess with a bunch of dragonborn to earn his living body back and while he's fighting with Love and Yearning in a physical sense for the first time. Theres a lot of politics, and weird magic mutants, and making googly eyes at each other over dinner, and eventually, Ronan and Astarion break and have a night together, fucking everything up. But then they get the macguffin anyways through their own means and escape and Astarion gets to be a real elf boy again.

Oh and Gale is there too. Because you gotta take your wizard on a walk every now and then to a fucked up displaced lizard continent or he'll start clawing at the walls and doing magical environmental terrorism.

[topnotchquark]

hi! I'd love to read more about your boarding school AU! only if you have something in mind of course.

safe travel! <3

Love you anon, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hadn't written anything for a while, but here's a fic I just wrote in my notes app for you. It's Bezz/cele mostly. Kiss kiss hope you enjoy even though it's whatever! 💗💗

---

Pecco shows up a little late at dinnertime and delivers the news as he pulls a chair next to Franky.

"Apparently it's picture day tomorrow for the team, around 11." Pecco announces as he pours himself a glass of water.

"Why are they rushing it?" Bezz asks from where he's sitting next to Cele.

"They want to get it done before the principal travels for his guest lectures and we leave for the regionals" Luca responds on Pecco's behalf who nods in his direction.

"What are we expected to wear?" Franky inquires.

"The whole shebang. Suit and tie and winter trousers." Pecco's response immediately makes Franky and Bezz groan in protest.

"I don't even have a pressed shirt." Luca remarks.

"You can borrow one of mine." Pecco tells him.

---

After dinner Bezz accompanies Cele to the infirmary to get his bandages changed. Cele had cut his palm open in a lab mishap. The nurses had stitched it up fine, but recovery was chugging along. Bezz has been helping him since then, always coming to see him after classes, and sitting next to him during meals to ensure he ate.

On the walk back to the residences, Cele quickly makes a mental checklist of whether he has his full uniform ready for tomorrow.

"Why are you so quiet?" Bezz asks him as they cut through the lawns in the dark.

"Thinking about where my clothes are."

"I'll help you find them."

"No that's fine Marco. I'm just worried about washing my hair."

"Because of your hand?" Bezz asks.

"Yes. Bathing is already difficult"

"I could.... I could help." Bezz speaks after a moment, an edge to his voice.

"Okay, thank you." Cele nods in response to Bezz's offer.

---

Bezz and Cele are the only two people in the the dorm bathrooms at this hour. The halogen lights makes a buzzing noise as they stand there confused.

"Right, umm, how do we do this." Bezz asks to no one in particular.

"The sinks seem fine. I'll bend over." Cele responds, not quite sure of himself.

"Alright yeah. Wait." Bezz says as he wraps a small plastic bag around Cele's bandaged hand to keep it dry.

Cele lets Bezz securely tie the bag around his wrist and bends himself so his neck and face hand into the sink.

Bezz accidentally turns the tap on full speed, soaking the collar and back of Cele's t shirt.

"Fuck shit" he remarks as he quickly shuts off the water.

"Cele I think it would be better if you took your t shirt off." Bezz tells him.

Cele stands up straight and struggles to get his wet tshirt off with one hand. Bezz immediately closes the gap between them and grabs the bottom of his tshirt and gently tugs it upwards. He looks at the broad expanse of his pale body, the veins under his skin looking blue under the harsh lights. Bezz gulps as he frees Cele's head from the collar of the fabric, taking extra care to gently loop it out of his injured hand. Cele's familiar body looked alien to him at this odd hour in these odd circumstances.

Cele bends over once again and sticks his neck into the sink. Bezz manoeuvres the tap better this time. Cele feels warm water on the nape of his neck. It flows down his scalp in little rivulets that makes him feel like he's getting goosebumps. Bezz gently eases his fingers into his hair. The dull ends of his fingers on the skin behind his ears. Cele can't describe the feeling. It feels pleasantly relaxing, but also like being on a rollercoaster when it's dropping down. Bezz squeezes some shampoo into his hair and quickly massages it into a lather. Bezz's fingers snag on his tangled curls as he cleans him. The pinching, sharp sensation on his scalp feels like it's running down Cele's shoulder and making his stomach feel like it's in freefall. Bezz rinses him and takes the care to clean the foam around his ears. Afterwards, he uses a towel to gently dry him off and drops him off to his dorms.

---

Cele runs to the lawns to make it in time for the picture. Pecco and Luca are there, waiting for another group to get done before they assemble. Luca looks at Cele and tells him to fix his collar, Pecco smiles and reaches over to fix it for him. When they finally line up, Bezz comes over to stand next to Cele, and ruffles his curls before the picture is taken.

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

[justskulkingaround]

I think I like how the hands turned out cuz of how expressive they look I think

I can always use more practice with poses and motion :))

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

[every-sanji]

[cottoncandywoof]

ok so, i just want to comment a little on 2003 splinter. @purplepixel and i are on season 1 still, and im REALLY liking it thus far, but theres something i want to complain about.

why on Gods green beautiful earth is splinter annoyed at his kids for "breaking stuff" at aprils and being like "this is what i live like every day". like i get it. hes an actual rat. he doesnt know any better and thats a point i made in later episodes, but... bruh.

why am i mad? well, because the kids quite literally feel bad and offer to fix it. THEY dont know better either. they think this is the best way of doing it and are overconfident in their skills, but feel bad and offer to glue the plates together. yes, it doesnt do much, but... i dont know, im not saying it should be changed or anything, but something about a parent being annoyed at something THEIR KIDS WOULDNT KNOW NOT TO DO really just rubs me the wrong way. TEACH THEM BETTER THEN SPLINTER!!! like, mikey i get, but the rest? come tf on

yeah thats all lmfao

[yujeong]

15 (trembling hands) and 43 (undone) for vegaspete? 🥺👉👈

Ohhh, thank you so much for sending me these, they're lovely. I hope you don't mind me combining them into one micro story ❤️ ---------------- Pete was close, he was so close, he tried so hard, he kneeled, he begged, he almost saved him, Vegas turned around, Vegas smiled, but no, he didn't, it was in vain, all his effort were in vain, all his efforts came undone, all of it was for nothing, Vegas was dead, all for nothing, Vegas is dead, Phi Pete is grabbing his blood-soaked body and Phi Vegas is dead and Pete is touching his cold skin and Vegas is Phi dead and Pete is covered Phi in his blood and Vegas is dead- "P'Pete!" He takes a shallow breath and it all comes back. He's not at the main family compound, he's home. Vegas is sleeping on their bed, a few centimeters next to him. His medicine is strong - nothing can wake him up after it takes effect. The room is dark. Macau is here. Pete just killed a man by crashing his neck with his bare hands that can't stop trembling. Macau is here. Pete loosens his grip, letting the lifeless body of the intruder drop on the carpet, a low thud echoing in his ears. Macau is here. Pete raises his head to look at him, his expression neutral and eerily calm. "Phi, it's fine. Hia is fine." Pete can only make himself nod. He's sure he looks wild in Macau's eyes. He can't help himself. "Are you going to call P'Porsche or should I talk to Chay?" He's talking in whispers. Pete can barely hear him, but he understands. He gulps, then nods again, hoping Macau understands as well. "Okay, I'll be right back. Stay here." Pete does, staring at Vegas the entire time.

[buttercup-art]

hey