#writing this on my phone sorry for the formatting

[anti-heroesanonymous]

Beginning of Relationship HC

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x GN!reader Content: Fluff!!, probably ooc a/n: Ugh, I lost the message when my computer crashed, but a very sweet person asked for headcanons about what Dex would be like at the beginning of a relationship. I feel so bad, but here you go!! Hopefully they see it, lol. Anyway, this is my first time writing headcanons, kinda nervous. But it was a lot of fun, would do again. Also, formatting is insane. Enjoy :P Masterlist

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I like to imagine you and Dex would meet at some point during his daily routine.

You’d cross paths at the cafe he stops at on Fridays before work.

Like you’re in line before him and forget your wallet at the register. 

Since his whole thing is trying to be a good person, he’d return it to you while you’re waiting for your order.

I think you’d have to be the one to start a conversation.

He didn’t initially intend for the interaction to go anywhere. 

You’d end up exchanging numbers, under the guise of you owing him dinner (his choice!)

He kind of forgets about it until a week later when you text him and ask him his favorite restaurant and to name a time and place. 

Most of that dinner is spent talking about yourselves, likes and dislikes and work-related things (mostly from you, I feel like he’d be kind of cagey about the FBI). 

You two hit it off, and he’s actually the one to suggest you meet up again.

That leads to you getting food together at least once a week. 

He unintentionally incorporates it into his routine and looks forward to your talks.

Again, you’d have to be the one to ask about trying dating. I don’t think he’d want to risk ruining what routine you guys already have by changing the nature of it.

He’s almost relieved when you ask.

And BOOM, you’re dating now.

Btw, I don’t think there’s a scenario where he’d date his North Star. 

The idea of a North Star is an idealized version of a person that he wants to be.

The relationship would fall apart the second his North Star did something to break that illusion. 

With all the spiraling that would cause, the relationship would probably last a week at most, lol.

Not much changes after you two make it official. You guys just meet up more and text/call more.

And I mean nothing changes.

It doesn’t even occur to the two of you that displays of affection are allowed for the first few weeks, lol.

Like Dex would walk you home, and at most you’d hold hands, but even that’s rare.

I think it would click with you one day after closing your door, like ‘wait a second…’

And then you run back out to catch him before he’s too far away and give him a kiss.

It doesn’t open the floodgates, or anything, but it reminds you two that you can do that kind of thing now.

Dex likes to kiss your forehead. Idk I just feel it in my soul.

I think Dex would be the driest texter ever.

He means well, but holy shit, it’s kind of painful.

This man has never used an emoji in his life. 

Chronic single-word replier

You’ll be telling him a long winded story, and he’ll just reply with ‘sorry’

But don’t worry! The next time he sees you in person or calls you over the phone, he’ll comfort you or be angry/upset on your behalf because he read the whole thing.

He’d also let you rant and rave about it in person/over the phone if it makes you feel better.

He does like it when you use stickers as emojis, though. They’re more expressive, and the feeling they’re supposed to convey is easier to decipher.

Ouuu, museum dates. 

I think his favorite would be the Met. 

I headcanon him to be one of those people who will sit and sketch the exhibits. It’s soothing to him.

I also think he’d love day trips to Washington, D.C. for the Smithsonians. 

LOVES THE CAPTAIN AMERICA EXHIBIT!!! I don’t care, this is canon!

Captain America is as good as it gets in that world, so Dex has idolized him since he was a little boy.

My goofy ass, unrelated headcanon that Phillip Coulson once tried to buy a pack of limited edition Captain America trading cards off of him on a trading site in 2010, but Dex wouldn’t budge.

He kept one close to his chest while he was in the military, like it was a picture of his lover back home, so it’s special to him.

He lowkey mansplains the exhibit to you, but it’s genuinely so cute how excited he is, so you don’t mind.

He’d also be down to go to any exhibit you wanted to.

I think he’d just like hearing you talk about things you like in general, tbh. Like his own personal podcast.

In fact, when he gets overwhelmed or stressed, he’ll sometimes call you and get you talking about something you’re really into. It calms him down a little bit.

Definitely told Ray about you within the first month of you two dating. 

It’d be in passing, like ‘can’t stay too long, I’ve got dinner plans’ (with you)

Ray would tell Seema, and I think she’d get Ray to invite you and Dex over for dinner. 

Idk how the FBI works in terms of days off, but I think Dex would bring you lunch on his hypothetical days off.

Like you’re doing whatever it is you do, and your coworker comes up to tell you a guy is looking for you.

You’re like ‘???,’ but go out anyway and there he is, standing with a takeout bag from your favorite place.

He’d leave you a little note or doodle something to make you smile.

Even better if he made the food himself. 

I headcanon him to be a good cook because he has a stupid amount of knives for someone who doesn’t cook well.

On the topic of him cooking, he’d definitely invite you over to make dinner for you.

He’d have you sit in one of those chairs at his bar counter to keep him company, like your very own cooking channel show.

He’d ask you about your day and let you taste test the sauce. 

I think it would be a while before you guys spent the night together.

Not for any crazy reasons, but realistically, I think your waking and sleeping schedules would be super misaligned, especially if you work a traditional job. 

He’s kind of nervous the first time. Y’all probably fall asleep kind of far away from each other, but gravitate towards each other throughout the night. 

It’s like that for the first few times, but finally you guys just intentionally cuddle lol.

He holds you like you’re going to run away. 

I think he’s a weighted blanket fiend (coming from someone who stacks two)

Sleeping in the same bed as him feels like you’re taking 9 Gs sometimes because he’s got you wrapped up in a suffocating hug and a weighted blanket + duvet over you two. 

You’ve woken up sweaty many times before, which is probably an insane feeling because he sleeps shirtless.

So if you also sleep shirtless, you two are slippery, and if you sleep with a shirt, it sticks to his chest and to you.

His solution is to turn the AC on full blast, so his apartment feels like the arctic past 10pm.

He will let you go if you need to get up, but even in his sleep, the second the mattress dips again, he’s pulling you back against him. 

Not one to watch tv shows, but I think you two would have one designated show that you have to watch together. 

Does like watching movies with you, though.

He hates going to the movie theater, but is down to curl up with you on the couch to watch whatever has caught your eye.

I don’t think he had a tv in his apartment on the show, so it’s always at your place. 

He has a framed picture of you two on the wall next to his front door. 

It’s one from a day trip to Washington, DC. You’re in front of the Smithsonian Castle, bundled up in winter coats and beanies. A passerby offered to take it for you.

He also has one on his bedside table.

It’s a candid of you absolutely demolishing a croissant at a bakery on one of your first official dates. 

You didn’t even see him take it, but he refuses to get rid of it. 

It’s his favorite.

I don’t think he’d use pet names very often. He probably uses the occasional ‘babe,’  but he prefers your name. 

You did go through a phase where you’d refer to him with increasingly weird and specific pet names until he started ignoring you until you called him ‘Dex’ again.

Although if you sound upset that he isn’t playing along, he’ll feel bad and answer immediately.

Sometimes, you’ll call him Ben or Benjamin, but you default to Dex because that’s how he introduced himself. 

Sometimes stares at you when you’re talking or doing things.

Not crazy like or anything, just in awe.

Like, you could be doing your laundry, and he’s just entranced.

Speaking of laundry, when you first started dating, he was really peculiar about not leaving stuff at your place.

It wasn’t even intentional. He’s just really meticulous.

And I like to think that after the first time he lent you clothes when you stayed over at his place, he was like ‘wait, I can get behind this!’

So, Dex being Dex, he just straight up picks out some shirts from his closet, folds them, and then presents them to you the next time he comes over to your place.

You take them, and the next time you invite him for a movie night or spend the night, you wear one.

I could go on and on, but you get the gist.

━ ◎ ━

[astrobei]

prompt for @stonathanweek’s first stonathan sunday: “who protects you, though?”

“Dude,” Steve says. “This can’t be good for you.”

Jonathan peels his eyes open to register two separate things, at more or less the same time. One: Steve Harrington, standing over him with his arms crossed, hip popped, and one of his muddied white sneakers tapping disapprovingly on the ground in near-perfect time to the ticking of Jonathan’s wristwatch. Two: the fact that Jonathan has had to peel his eyes open at all, which can only mean one thing.

He fell asleep.

His stomach drops.

Not good, he thinks, because falling asleep means his reflexes are sluggish now, which means it takes him a few extra seconds to process what Steve is even saying. And this means that Steve has had enough time to notice that Jonathan has woken up, and manages to frown even more, getting in an additional “Dude,” before Jonathan manages to frown, blink, and rub his eyes. Not good, because sluggish reflexes defeat the point. Not good, because—

He reaches an arm out, skimming over the hay-covered ground, frantic, frantic, until his fingers close around his gun and he sighs in relief. Secondary sensations to take note of: the twinge in his neck as he rolls it out, the ache settling in between the knobs of his spine, inelastic tension coiling taut in his shoulders, and Steve’s laser-focused stare burning a hole right through Jonathan’s head.

“What?” he insists, trying to play it off, but it comes out hoarse, sleep-rough, and Steve was here before Jonathan opened his eyes at all, so it’s probably not even worth trying. Still, there’s a look in Steve’s eyes that Jonathan doesn’t love, soft in all the wrong ways, that immediately has his hackles raising. When Steve doesn’t say anything — just lets that weird look in his eyes get even more goopy around the edges — Jonathan sits up straighter against the barn door, frowns, and repeats himself. “What?”

He expects Steve to— well, he doesn’t really know what, actually. Steve’s been surprising him these last few months, which always makes him think about the thing Nancy had said when they’d gotten back to Hawkins — about how Steve changed, in the week he and Nancy had spent fighting monsters together in Jonathan’s absence. Enough for her to go on the defensive when Jonathan asked about him, anyway.

Jonathan doesn’t know about all that. He’s known men like Steve before Steve, and he’ll know men like Steve after him. But where he would have expected the Steve of two years ago to scoff, maybe, to roll his eyes and make some offhand comment about how like shit Jonathan looks right now, the Steve of today does none of those things.

Today-Steve holds his hands out, and gestures for the gun. “Give me that.”

“What?” Instinctively, Jonathan clutches it closer to his body. “No. Why?”

“Because,” Steve says, and then he’s kneeling to the floor, dirt and hay and God-knows-what caking up along his kneecaps, another streak of mud along the sides of those white tennis shoes. Jonathan braces himself for it — you look like shit, you’re gonna take someone out with that thing — but Steve just says, “It’s three in the morning. What the hell are you doing?”

“Keeping watch,” Jonathan says, blinking even more forcefully, as if this will clear away the rest of the disorientation lingering there, in the minute creases of his eyelids, the insides of his mouth, the cracks between his molars. It doesn’t do much to help; he finishes blinking and his eyes are on their way to closing again, stinging against the chill of the night breeze.

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, both louder than Jonathan expects him to, and — well, more blatantly than Jonathan expects him to. It startles him just enough to make him look over sideways, at where Steve’s silhouette is illuminated by the porch light they installed by the barn door. He’s not sure what he expects to find there, but it isn’t this: Steve’s eyes simultaneously wide with concern and brows furrowed in what seems like confusion. Jonathan opens his mouth to say something, maybe to defend himself, or say hey, man, what the fuck? when Steve seems to realize how it came off and winces before correcting course. “I mean,” he says, quieter now. “I know, you keep— I see you come out here every night, and you don’t come back in until everyone else is starting to wake up again.”

The hey, man, what the fuck? that had been forming on Jonathan’s mouth makes another attempt to make itself heard, but it’s late, he’s tired, there’s a comfortable breeze blowing through the clearing, and in the end, it comes out without any bite. “What?”

It’s Steve’s turn to blink now, long and slow, like he’s realizing that Jonathan’s not doing a very good job at processing what he’s saying. “Go to sleep,” Steve says slowly, over-enunciating now, like a little bit of sleep deprivation automatically means Jonathan’s fucking stupid now. “Seriously,” Steve says, intonation picking up again, falling back into a normal pitch and speed. “How long has it been since you got a good night’s rest?”

“Not that long,” Jonathan says, but it’s probably undercut somewhat by the yawn that sneaks out around it.

Steve makes a disapproving noise, low in his throat, like he didn’t even really mean to, and Jonathan feels himself exhale in response, exasperated and exhausted, two counts turning into three, into six, seven, eight.

He wants to tell Steve that it’s not his first rodeo. That he’s used to this, a routine that comes to him almost easier than breathing: sitting awake in the dark, heart racing and ears straight for the first indication of a noise of distress. Waiting for the sharp creaking of floorboards, a jolt in the bedsprings, a sudden pause in the snores that had previously been floating their way down the hall. The quiet tap of knuckles against his door, a pair of small hands shaking him awake. The thing about the weed, later, is that it helped him fall asleep, but it didn’t help him stay that way. Left him lurching awake at two, three in the morning, heart pounding and sweating through the sheets, waking up again a few hours later feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

He knows Will doesn’t sleep much these days. He knows Will sleeps even worse when they’ve had a close call, when the threat of something creeping up on them in the night is marginally more real than it normally feels. Steve pulls his knees up towards his chest, like he has no intention of leaving anytime soon, and Jonathan grips the pistol harder in his hand. “It’s fine,” he says. “I have to— someone has to—”

Watch them, he thinks. Protect them. Jonathan’s learned to sleep light, tread light, dream light. Guard up and bearing down.

“Okay?” Steve says, like Jonathan is simultaneously stating the obvious and also missing the obvious, something bright and glaring, right in his face. He puts a hand out again, and Jonathan hesitates; Steve glances down at the gun, raises his eyebrows again, waggles his fingers, and just for a second, Jonathan gets it — the thing Nancy had seen in him, that change. Something vulnerable and open in his expression, the early morning hour, the hair that’s falling into his face instead of standing coiffed up around it. Jonathan hesitates, and Steve says, “Jonathan, I— you think I don’t know you come out here every day?”

Jonathan opens his mouth. Lets it close. No, he hadn’t known that. “It’s not,” he tries again, and then just, “no one else is keeping watch in there.”

It might be the exhaustion, or maybe the idea of Will or Mike or Robin or Nancy sitting up in their sleeping bags, awake, waiting for something to crawl out from the shadows and reach its long claws until the door, but his voice cracks there, wobbling on the precipice of the last syllable in a way that’s nothing short of mortifying.

“I know,” Steve says, too soft and quiet for the easy target Jonathan is making of himself, and then there’s a hand wrapping around his pistol, pulling it gently out of Jonathan’s grasp. “But, like— shit, dude— what about you? Who protects you?”

An unwelcome, panicked laugh bursts out of him, too sudden and too loud for the early morning silence, but Jonathan can’t help it. He’s seen Steve in action, the way Will’s friends follow him around like ducklings in a row. Him and Robin, bodies angled towards each other, tittering away in the corner. Years ago, the idea of Steve protecting anyone would have made Jonathan throw his head back in laughter. Now, his limbs feel heavy, and there’s something open and warm in Steve’s eyes, wide and brown and dark in the dim lighting of the barn’s lanterns, and Jonathan’s fingers are brushing the palm of Steve’s hand as he passes the gun over. He thinks about that stupid baseball bat, the nails he and Nancy had hammered into it, the sound of the wood splintering around the rusty metal, and blurts out, “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, like he’s surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Jonathan to take this so lightheartedly. “Do you?” he replies.

Jonathan shrugs. “Enough,” he says.

Steve’s lips tilt upwards. “Enough,” he echoes in response. He turns the gun over, holds it up. Squints into the distance and pretends to shoot.

Jonathan’s eyelids are drooping again, but he glances along the firm line of Steve’s hands, thumb and index finger lined up along the trigger, and is reminded of it again: Steve’s changed. How his hands used to be so fidgety, rapping against their front door, twirling that stupid bat back and forth. How they’re steady now. Jonathan heard about Max, heard Lucas and Dustin tell Mike and Will about that day at the cemetery, Steve’s arms around her after she fell twenty feet out of the sky.

Steve lowers the gun, bumps Jonathan’s shoulders with his. “We can stay out here,” he says. Wary, like he thinks Jonathan’s going to put up a fight, even after laying his weapon down. “If that helps.”

It does help. “Okay,” Jonathan says.

“Okay,” Steve parrots.

Sleep still doesn’t come easy. Jonathan has a sneaking suspicion that it never will, for him. But for the first time in months, Jonathan tips his head back against the splintered walls of the barn, weather-worn and chipped red paint, and lets himself try to get there.

[otrtbs]

BARTYLUS BASEBALL THING

(inspired by this which haunts my thoughts 24/7)

Word Count: 5.2k

Part: 1/?

Summary: every summer begets the baseball tournament of the year. barty drags regulus to the opening game, kickstarting a series of unintended events.

Barty’s whole body hums, the way it always does when he’s around Regulus. Like the old TV his father has that crackles to life in static whirs, or the green boxes in the neighborhood that Barty would sit on until the sun went down. Constant electricity.

“I mean, they’ve been doing this for years now and I have been explicitly forbidden from going,” Regulus returns. Still, he doesn’t seem affected one way or the other. “Mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, mother wouldn’t like it?” Barty snorts, mockingly. “So what? It’ll give us something to do. And it’ll give us an opportunity to see each other since your parents plan on keeping you locked up in the house all summer,” he counters, and Regulus knocks a sharp shoulder into his arm. “It’s good to stick together. Mother doesn’t have to know.”

They’re walking side by side on the pavement. Slow, shuffling feet. Hands in their pockets. It’s the last day of class for the school year. Without school, there’s no way for Barty to see Regulus. Barty went all of last summer without seeing Regulus and it was boring and brutal.

Regulus takes a hand out of his pocket and pushes the hair out of his face. The sun is bright, and it causes him to squint. “Sirius still playing?”

Barty nods. “Yeah. He’s still on the James Potter all-star team. I heard Potter even talked Frank Longbottom out of retirement for one last summer.”

“He’s only two years older than us,” Regulus scoffs.

“Still, he didn’t play last summer.”

Regulus nods slowly.

They walk down the pavement silently, dragging footsteps, trying to delay the inevitable.

“It is good to stick together.” Regulus looks at Barty and traces the bruise on his cheek with his finger lightly. Barty is proud of the way he doesn’t flinch, even if the bruise is still tender and aching. He’s not so proud of the way he leans into the touch, even if it hurts.

This entire time, Barty was worried about leaving Regulus alone for a summer with no one but his parents for company. Now he thinks Regulus was equally worried for him, for the same reasons.

“But, I don’t like baseball,” Regulus muses, pulling his finger away.

“No, but you like me,” Barty grins wickedly. “Besides, we’ll just make fun of the whole thing, and I’ll steal my dad’s liquor and we’ll make it fun.”

Regulus pretends to think about it, but it doesn’t matter. Barty knows him. He knows Regulus is going to give in.

The summer baseball tournament is a local legend among the neighborhood kids, and the kids from surrounding neighborhoods too. The first baseball game began five years ago after they knocked down an old rickety building and reduced it to rubble. It didn’t take long for the land to reclaim the area and grow into tall stalks of grassy growth. That’s when, at age 12, Frank Longbottom got the bright idea to turn it into a makeshift baseball field.

The first year, Frank could barely get enough people together to make two teams, and it was so hot in the daylight that they never finished a full game before the kids scattered back into their air-conditioned homes. By year two, Frank had taken the entire school year to recruit people from surrounding neighborhoods and moved the games to the evening to beat the blazing heat.

This would be the fifth consecutive year that the tournament would run. Some kids still used the lot to play baseball in the winter or the spring, but this? This was official. After five years, the summer games became a thing of wonder for all of the young people in town. Anyone aged 12-17 could be on a team, you had to have nine to a team to enter, and each team wishing to compete in the tournament would have to have an official group name, a poster, and a roster. You had to submit and finalize your team two months before the school year ended.

That’s when the fun began. Students would make fliers and posters advertising their teams. Slips of copy paper folded up into tiny squares and passed down the aisles of desks to avoid the sharp eyes of teachers and administrators. The official list is always posted on the first Saturday of May. One expertly crayola, stickered, and markered sheet listing the teams, players, and field positions was nailed to the hollow oak tree stump in the woods by the creek. All the children knew where it was, and all of the adults would never stumble across it. Once the list was posted, the betting could begin.

Mundungus Fletcher and his group of friends ran the baseball betting ring. They would sit out by the old tree stump every Saturday with their journals taking meticulous notes of everyone placing bets and what they brought in. Nothing was off limits, Mundungus Fletcher accepted everything from stickers to lighters. Packs of bubble gum, nail polish, the two or three cigarettes you could manage to steal from your father, anything. Of course, not everything was of equal value. A lighter was worth two full-size candy bars (and it couldn’t be one of the bad ones like Almond Joy or 3 Musketeers they had to Reece's or Twix) and two small stickers. A nail polish was worth a rubber band ball and a blow pop. Mundungus Fletcher and his team took their jobs seriously, monitoring the conversion rates and doling out prizes. Every Saturday the children of the neighborhood would scramble, bringing in whatever they thought would be best for the pot. A few stray dollar bills, their coins, candy, lip gloss, sunglasses, bouncy balls, yo-yos, marbles, stamps, pokemon cards, queued-up mp3 players, necklaces, baseball caps, and even beloved childhood stuffed animals weren’t safe when it was time for baseball bets.

Mundungus kept all of the bets in one of his mother’s large kitchen mixing bowls, then two of his mother’s large mixing bowls, then in empty shoe boxes as things began to overfill. He said he hid all the betting goods in a secret, secure location, but Barty was pretty sure he was just keeping it all under his bed. Regardless, Mundungus would bring out the spoils every Saturday so that all of the kids in the neighborhood could see their potential spoils, provided they picked the right team. It was a great incentive to get people to partake.

As for the baseball teams, there were eight this year, the most they’d ever had. They would be competing to be number one. The winning team of the summer baseball tournament became town celebrities for the year. They always got first dibs at the carnival that came to town (they could skip the ride lines and take two turns in a row on the Ferris wheel), they got to use the tire swing into the creek whenever they wanted (they never had to wait to use it or take turns), and, because some of the older kids had jobs already, if you were on the winning baseball team you would often get free movie tickets and popcorn, or free ice cream if one of the other kids was working. There was an unspoken rule, a reverence, that the winning team had with the other kids in town, they were Gods among mortals, they would want for nothing, ask for anything, and receive it. The winning team also gets crowned with Coca-Cola canned bottle crowns that Barty thinks look stupid, but everyone else seems way too into them.

This all happens without the supervision of any adults. It was the most sacred vow that everyone tried not to break. No adults allowed. Adults always had the propensity to ruin things. They would think too hard about things, create problems that didn’t exist, and they would shut the baseball tournament down. This year, like last year, the games don’t start until one in the morning, while almost every adult is asleep soundly in their beds, getting ready for work the next morning. Of course, more than a few adults know about this tournament, and most don’t care. Regulus’ mother, like Barty’s father, is allergic to fun, so they’re both banned from going. Some kids have meltdowns over being banned from the games. Two years ago, a game couldn’t be played because two players were grounded and the team had to forfeit.

The stakes and the pressure were always high.

The stakes were high for Barty this year too, even if he wasn’t playing. He looks at Regulus as they come to the end of the street, shuffling feet. Regulus' house looms behind him, and Barty can see Walburga watching from the window on the second floor, peering purse-lipped through the curtains.

Barty’s hands stay in his pockets. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

Regulus nods. His face doesn’t waver but his eyes sparkle with secrecy. “Yeah, later.”

—

Throwing rocks at people’s windows is the worst.

Barty isn’t enthused.

First, he had to collect a bunch of rocks to stuff his pockets with on the way over, second, it was dark and there weren’t any street lights on Regulus’ street so everything looked exactly the same, and third, he was rapidly running out of rocks.

He skims them lightly at first. Tap. Tap. Tap.

They bounce off the glass of Regulus’ window in soft thuds.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Jesus Christ, how long did it take for Regulus to sneak out and come down?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Barty’s annoyed now. Maybe he wasn’t throwing them hard enough?

He throws the next few with more force.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

He keeps throwing them until he’s out of rocks.

Now what?

He stands on the side of Regulus’ house, trying to squint up into the dark window. He’s not sure if Regulus would turn a light on in the house and risk it, but it looks like nothing is going on in there. Regulus had promised him that he wasn’t a deep sleeper.

Outside the crickets chirp in song and the blades of grass tickle Barty’s ankles as the night breeze causes them to sway.

Fuck it.

Barty picks up a much larger rock that’s at his feet, and forgetting himself for a moment, he throws it with all the strength of the last throw and then some. The glass breaks and shatters with a delicious noise, but Barty can't admire it, because he’s already turning on his heel and running.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Past the first house and then the second and then–

Oh.

Oh.

His feet all but screech to a halt on the pavement as he looks up at Regulus’ house. Regulus’ real house. This time he’s sure of it.

It’s not his fault everything looks the same in the dark.

Barty shrugs, trying to calm his racing heart and catch his breath as he leans down to pick up some smaller rocks from the ground.

As quietly as he can, he stalks over to the side of the house Regulus’ bedroom window is on, and starts the process over.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He uses a much lighter touch.

Thankfully, Regulus comes out after nine stones, no lights ever turned on inside the Black family residence.

“I’m surprised you don’t play,” Barty says as they walk side-by-side to the baseball field.

“Why’s that?” Regulus looks at him like he’s sprouted another head.

Barty shrugs, looking up at the waxing moon. “Your whole family does. Sirius and Andromeda are on a team. And Narcissa’s a pitcher. Bellatrix is on Tom’s team. Also a pitcher. You mean to tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

“Narcissa plays?” Regulus furrows his brows. “I didn’t know that.”

There was a lot about summer baseball that Regulus didn’t know. Barty takes it upon himself to explain on the walk over.

“There are really only three teams to beat in this tournament. Tom’s team, they’re the Death Eaters, that’s their team name. Nobody likes them and everyone is afraid of them because they play dirty. Last year, Bellatrix beamed Remus in the nose so hard that she broke it. Tom ordered it. Then you’ve got the Serpents, they’re my favorites. That’s the one Narcissa plays on. They haven’t won a tournament ever, but this is their year. Trust me. And then there’s,” Barty rolls his eyes for dramatic effect. “The Lions or whatever the fuck.”

“Horrible team name,” Regulus’ mouth twists up into a smile.

“Truly,” Barty nods. “James Potter is the captain, right-hand man is your brother, and they of course have recruited the legendary Frank Longbottom to come back and steal the baseball title from Tom’s Death Eaters. It was a huge upset when Tom’s team won two years ago, so much so that Frank quit the following year, and Tom won again, and now,” Barty shrugs. “I guess he’s back.”

“So the Lions are like the founding team?” Regulus asks, and Barty nods. He’s surprised Regulus doesn’t know this from his brother.

“Yeah, the original team. Doesn’t mean they’re gonna win though, even with Frank. Tom might actually kill somebody before he lets that happen.”

“But the Lions, they’re the favorites?”

Barty fake gags. “Depends on who you ask. Not my favorites.”

“Mine neither,” Regulus says decisively.

Barty wonders if he’s thinking about all of the lion posters and memorabilia that Sirius used to keep in his bedroom. Regulus would always complain about the bright red and gold team colors and the obnoxious designs, but he doesn’t complain about anything anymore now that Sirius’ room is empty.

Barty looked out for him then. When Sirius packed up everything and ran away to James’ house. It was odd, Regulus seemed to be the only one who knew what it was then. Walburga and Orion seemed to be in denial. Sirius would come home, it was an extended sleepover– which they were never allowed to have, Sirius would realize how good he had it and he’d come back. Only Regulus seemed to understand that they’d never live under the same roof again.

Barty was there. He was there while Regulus ranted and raved and paced and shook his fists at the sky. He was there when Regulus crumpled up like a sheet of paper and collapsed in on himself, shoulders shaking in silent cries. He was there when Sirius spent every second trying to convince Regulus to come to James’ house with him, begged Regulus to talk to him, tried to pass him letters in the street that Regulus would let fall to the pavement. And he was there when Regulus picked himself up and pretended as if the entire affair was beneath him.

They were there for each other. Alway had been. Barty would never leave like Sirius did. He wouldn’t dream of it. He’d stick around as long as Regulus would let him, as pathetic as that sounded. He’d like to think that Regulus would stick around too. Regulus with his dark eyes and all-too-serious look of someone always deep in thought. Sharp, gray eyes that narrowed in displeasure at everything. It took a lot of effort to get Regulus to smile, even more effort to make him laugh. Barty had never done something so rewarding. The surge he felt in his chest whenever Regulus would grin or laugh at something Barty had said was addicting. It made him lightheaded and delirious.

“Look what I brought,” Barty grins, pulling out the flask from his back pocket. The silver can glints in the moonlight.

Regulus’ hand reaches to grab at the flask as they walk in time. Barty likes the way their feet sound on the pavement when they’re in step. He hates that he’s been having thoughts like these more and more frequently. He can’t fucking help himself.

Regulus takes a swig and does his best not to shudder as the warm liquor lights a fire down his throat. Barty finds it slightly endearing as he raises his eyebrows at Regulus, waiting for him to cough and sputter. It never comes.

Barty watches as Regulus licks his lips and hands the flask back to Barty, cheeks pink. Barty is overcome with the desire to kiss him, to taste the honeyed bourbon still on his lips and feel the lightning bolts race through his veins, but he contains himself. Another annoying and incessant thought.

In an attempt to recover, he swings hard at Regulus’ shoulder, harder than he should, as he tuts, “Don’t drink it all, save some for the game.”

Regulus turns to him once more, face indignant as he rubs his arm where Barty has just punched. “Fuck you, I barely even drank any.”

“It looked like a big swallow to me.”

Now it was Regulus’ turn to punch Barty, but there was no heat behind it. “Fucking hell, I told you to stop swinging on me like that. I’ll break your nose next time, I swear to God.”

Barty grins. “Is that a promise?”

“Freak,” Regulus shakes his head, but he’s back to being amused.

“You love it.”

They make it to the field early, but there are already people streaming in with bright battery-operated lights for the game, talking excitedly to themselves. A team is warming up the field, practicing their swings and stretching, Barty listens to the clatter of the bleachers that someone had brought to the lot two years ago. He’s not sure how they did it.

He watches Regulus watch the scene in wonder.

“They have concession stands?” He asks, looking at the girl and boy selling things on the pavement in front of the lot. They both sit at a little plastic table with plastic chairs, their sign advertises what they're selling, crackerjack, peanuts, sodas, trail mix, lemonade.

“Uh, I guess,” Barty shrugs. “That’s new. Seems a bit much.”

Still, he buys two bags of boiled peanuts and two cokes for them anyway.

Mundungus Fletcher and his friends are there, calling out to everyone to join in the bets. Tonight is the last night to enter.

Regulus stops by and drops off a few things, about ten dollars, 4 packs of gum, sunglasses with flames up the side that used to belong to Sirius, and 5 spinning tops.

“Regulus Black,” Mundungus fills out his name in the notebook in inky black pen, carefully recording the list of everything he’s brought. “Let me guess, you’re betting it all on the Lions?”

His voice is loud and booming, with the confidence of a sports announcer but the underlying hint of deception like a used car salesman.

“No,” Regulus scowls at him.

“Oh, I just assumed because of your brother that–”

“I want to bet it all on the Serpents. I hear their pitcher is really good.”

Barty smiles as Mundungus nods. “And you Crouch? Any last-minute bets?”

Barty shakes his head. “I’ve already got over $50 in the game. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Regulus signs on the dotted line confirming his entry and they make their way to the bleachers. Even though it’s dark out, it’s still uncomfortably warm outside. Some kids have brought battery-operated handheld fans with styrofoam propellers to keep them cool. Others have ice packs.

Barty figures that he can just sit behind someone with a fan and benefit from the airflow. The bleachers begin to fill up as the game draws closer. Kids bring signs elaborately decorated with all of their best art supplies. Glitter glue, puff paint, rhinestones, and neon markers. Some have even painted their faces.

Barty and Regulus spot Remus Lupin at the same time. He’s walking towards a group of kids scrambling to set up a radio and microphone at the announcer's table.

“One. Two. One. Two,” Remus says into the microphone and it resounds throughout the lot, as a hush falls in the bleachers.

“He’s not playing?” Regulus leans in to ask Barty, his shoulder brushing against him.

Barty shakes his head. “Not since the Bellatrix incident, no. He’s no good anymore. Flinches when the ball comes towards him, forgets to swing the bat.”

“Remus Lupin?” Regulus’ eyebrows shoot up like he doesn’t believe it. But he doesn’t have to believe it, he can see Remus take his place at the announcer's table.

Remus runs the scoreboard, calls the players up, and explains the plays for the kids who don’t really know what’s going on. Mary MacDonald helps him with the music and the score when she’s not playing, otherwise, Rita Skeeter helps out, much to the annoyance of everyone.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Regulus snorts. “What’s next, they bring out someone to sing the national anthem?”

“Don’t give them any ideas.”

The mood shifts in the stadium as they get ready to begin. Remus clears his throat in the microphone and it emits an ear-splitting feedback. Still, some kids were trickling in, sitting in the grass now that the bleachers were full.

On the other side of the field, sat the other teams that weren’t playing that night, just behind the makeshift dugouts.

“They like to sit and scope out the competition. They keep to themselves,” Barty explains when Regulus asks. “Can’t mingle with the common folk.”

Regulus scoffs, but Barty doesn’t miss the way his eyes search for Sirius across the field. When Regulus finds him, Sirius sits up straighter, already looking back. He goes to raise a hand to wave at him but Regulus turns his head away sharply, making a show of it.

Barty watches as Sirius moves to stand up like he’s going to run over to them and talk to Regulus, but a blonde girl, Marlene McKinnon, grabs his arm and pulls him down as the first players run out onto the field.

Remus introduces the two teams, the Death Eaters versus the Badgers. All around them, kids shake their yellow signs exuberantly, while some sport all black signs with skulls on them.

The Badgers are going to get destroyed. Anyone with half a brain would know it the minute they heard the match-up. While you had to be 12-17 to play, most of the kids on the Badgers’ team were closer to 12, whereas the Death Eaters were all 17. Barty was actually certain that a few of the kids were 18 or 19 and only getting by because they’d been held back a year or two in school.

He starts listening in to what Remus is saying as he passes Regulus his bag of boiled peanuts.

“With starting pitcher Bellatrix Black, and your team captain, Tom Riddle.”

The stands go wild, everyone stomping their feet on the metal bleachers causing a thunderous metal rumble and Regulus’ eyes widen at the commotion.

“Let’s play ball,” Remus called, rather monotone and complacent about the ordeal.

Regulus snorts. “This is beneath him.”

Barty nods in agreement.

Since there were eight teams in the tournament, there would be seven rounds total. Each round was a best-of-three battle to move on, for a maximum of 21 games, 21 nights, of baseball madness. They were guaranteed at least 14. Two full weeks of baseball. The event of the summer.

They watch as Bellatrix takes the pitcher's mound, licking up little clouds of dirt with her feet. He knocks his knee against Regulus’ at his cousin taking in both the crowd’s cheers and boos. Barty pours some of the bourbon into his Coke can and does the same for Regulus.

Bellatrix’s wild hair was long and curly, falling down her back. It was only kept out of her face by a black baseball cap, and she smiles sharply at the stands.

A soft tune plays as a short kid with spiky brown hair walks up to home plate, giving his bat a few test swings in preparation.

“I heard she puts some kind of resin or wax on her baseball cap to make the ball sticky,” Barty whispers like it’s some kind of secret.

“I believe it,” Regulus says, also leaning in. Barty tries to ignore the lightning bolts. The static frequency once again turned up a notch. “She used to cheat in every game we played growing up.”

They share a look as Bellatrix puts her fingers to the brim of her baseball hat and nods, baseball glove at the ready. The atmosphere has gone quiet like everyone is holding their breaths. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

The kid at home plate assumes position and Bellatrix winds up. The ball moves so fast that Barty doesn’t have time to register it, and neither does the kid at home plate, as the ball hits the catcher’s mitt with a hard thud.

“Strike one,” Remus’ voice echoes, and the spell is broken.

The crowd roars to life once more.

Barty and Regulus get lost in the atmosphere, the crack of the bat, the whizz of the ball, the cheers of people telling their friends to steal third. They crunch through their boiled peanuts and slowly work their way through their cokes, which get stronger as time passes, due to Barty constantly topping them up with flask bourbon.

At the top of the third, a Badger player manages a triple on Bellatrix, running in two of her teammates, so Bellatrix beams her at the top of the fourth, and lets her walk. It doesn’t matter though, the score is already 6-2. At the bottom of the sixth, Tom scores the first home run of the night, and more than a few of the silly girls from high school chirp and cheer loudly, making heart eyes in his direction.

“I mean,” Regulus leans in to whisper. “I kinda get it.”

Barty screws up his face in disgust. “Fuck no.”

He makes more than a few sarcastic remarks and snarky comments, all of which make Regulus laugh or smile. Barty is humming with delight, but he desperately tries to curtail it. Regulus is also getting into the game. It’s a gradual interest, but Barty finds that he’s watching Regulus more than the game. He watches as Regulus’ eyes furrow when someone gets an out, watches the slight smile grace his face as Bellatrix throws a particularly nasty screwball, watches Regulus’ vague curiosity at Tom’s simpering smirk. At some point, their knees touch, and they stay that way for the remainder of the night. Regulus, who shies away from any sort of contact, hasn't moved his knee away.

Barty fucking loves baseball.

The game ends at a brutal 11-2 at the top of the ninth inning. Though, to the Badger’s credit, they do not look defeated or deterred. They seem more than pleased with their two runs, all jostling and shaking the girl who made it possible with wide smiles and congratulations.

The bourbon has satiated Barty and left his head perfectly hazy. He offers a lazy smile to Regulus. “Walk you home?”

It’s late, and he’s feeling tired, he’s sure Regulus feels the same.

Regulus nods, finishing off the last of the coke, and subsequently the last of the bourbon.

“Can’t let you sleep through morning violin lessons, or French tutoring, or whatever the fuck your weird-ass family has you do.”

“Piano.” Regulus rolls his eyes as he corrects Barty. His cheeks are tinged slightly pink and his eyes are a little glassy.

Barty bites his lip to keep from smiling. What a lightweight.

They’re almost out of the field, about to slip down the quiet streets, when Regulus is pulled back by a hand on his shoulder.

Barty spins around to see Sirius with a group of his teammates.

“You came?” Is the first thing out of Sirius’ mouth.

“Not for you, for Barty,” Regulus shoots off just as quickly.

Sirius’ teammates stare at the ground nervously. He makes note of them. The blonde girl from before, Marlene, and he’d know James Potter anywhere. He’s never seen James without Sirius. And the redhead, Lily.

“Well, we play in four nights if you want to watch,” James offers a slight smile. “I’m James, by the way.”

Regulus regards him coldly. “I know who you are.”

“I just wanted to, uh, say hi.” Sirius’ voice is stilted, odd. Almost pained. Barty makes it his duty to glare daggers at him.

“Well, don’t do it again,” Regulus says smoothly, and Barty can tell he doesn’t mean it.

So can Sirius, as he smiles.

“You know we could always use an extra player on our team.”

“In your fucking dreams, Sirius.”

“Come on, we want to get uniforms made,” Sirius offers again, as if this fact would entice Regulus.

He doesn’t know Regulus like Barty knows him. Regulus would hate wearing matching baseball uniforms. He would detest it. He’d rather die.

Marlene rolls her eyes. “James just wants to prance about in those tight little pants.”

“Yeah,” James shoots back quickly. “And all the girls want to see me prance about in those tight little pants, and who am I to deny the people what they desperately want?”

Lily scoffs as Regulus turns to leave, dragging Barty with him.

“Wait,” Sirius calls. “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Maybe. It’s none of your business,” Regulus snaps as they walk out of earshot.

They’re striding down the pavement, no shuffling feet and no delay of time, as Regulus huffs.

“Wait,” Barty can’t help himself from asking. “We are going back tomorrow, right?”

Apart from the Sirius interlude, he had a good time with Regulus. And he figures if Sirius hadn’t ambushed them, then he and Regulus would be taking their sweet time walking home. Time that Barty craved more than anything.

“Yeah,” Regulus nods shortly. “I shouldn’t have talked to him. I should’ve just ignored him.”

“Well, he did make it kind of difficult to do that,” Barty reasons as Regulus fumes.

“Fuck, and then stupid fucking James Potter trying to be so–”

“Annoying,” Barty says at the time Regulus says charming.

He tries to ignore the funny thing his heart does in his chest as they both fall into stunned silence.

“Well,” Barty breathes out. “Not what I was going to say.”

“No, I just mean– you heard him,” Regulus says quickly, taking on a crude imitation of James’ voice. “I’m James. I wear tight pants and steal people’s brothers from them for fun.”

Barty snorts. “Yeah, what a dick.”

Regulus nods and repeats after him. “A dick.”

But it doesn’t sound like Regulus really means it. No one can be both charming and a dick. It doesn’t work like that.

Barty walks Regulus all the way to his house, doing his best to skirt the home with the broken window.

Regulus smiles at him softly. “It was fun.”

He admits it like a secret, like it reluctantly has to be true.

Barty nods in agreement, fighting off the urge to punch Regulus again. “Same time tomorrow, baseball boy?”

Regulus nods, his hand brushing against Barty’s slightly before he turns to head inside through the propped-open window on the bottom floor.

Barty stands on the street corner, just him and chirping crickets as he waits for Regulus to flick his bedroom lights on and off to show he’s made it. Once he does, Barty heads towards his house, trying to ignore the parts of his hand that Regulus has touched crackling to life.

[marlsswrites]

Queen and angels

Ice skating AU, part 2!!

August 2nd - words: 615

First part

James grabbed his car keys, rattling then slightly as he unlocked the car with a short beep and he climbed into the drivers seat. Connecting his phone to the Bluetooth, he stuck some Queen music on and hummed to himself as he started the car up.

Ring ring.

With a hefty sigh, he checked who had phoned him and rather rudely interrupted his music, he was at the good bit as well!

"James?" His mother spoke through the speaker as he answered.

"Oh- hey mum."

"Sorry for the change of plans chico, can you meet me at the ice rink instead?" She spoke, her Spanish accent still very prominent judging on the amount of years the family have spent in England.

He cleared his throat, smiling even though his mum couldn't see him. "Yeah, no te preocupes, hasta pronto mamá." He switched to Spanish quickly, knowing it satisfied his mother as she wished him goodbye and hung up the phone - it took her a second to find the button but she did it eventually.

-

Within entering the ice rink, he felt the coldness of the air bite and stab at his bare tan arms, was he supposed to wear a coat? It's summer!

The place was big, it took james a while to find where his mother stood, but with the help of the faint playing music in the background and her counting along and shouting words and runs that James dreads to even learn the meaning of. He's quite sure if he stepped foot on ice he'd end up snapping his neck.

"Hey m-" His voice died instantly in the back of his throat as he looked out at the pale blue ice, more particularly, who was gliding across it with such grace James was doubting if the person was even real.

He was a distance away from James,  it even from where he stood at the barrier James could make out gorgeous, falling, silky black curls falling behind his head as he moved like an angel. He could see the prominence of the strangers cheekbones, visible from any distance.

The persons eyes were closed as their legs moved in sync with the music and their arms twisted around their body in patterns of perfection.

Music in the background still played, but it seemed to dim out gradually as the only thing in James' mind was the person in front of him that he was sure was as beautiful as his moves on the ice up close.

The loud guitar beat in the song slowed as the person did too, their hair falling back in front of their still not visible face. They spun slightly, almost showing off the skin tight, black bodysuit that clung to his body like a second set of skin. Rounding his curved, slim waist and stopping at his neck and revealing pale, slightly freckled skin.

"James?" He forced his eyes away from the rink, though he didn't particularly want to, and was faced with his mums chuckling face. "Want to wait outside? You must be freezing." She tutted and patted his arm. "I'll talk to Regulus quickly, when I've finished my session with him, I'll meet you outside."

"Uh-" He coughed, trying to get himself out of his love struck glance as he looked back to the rink, but the person - Regulus presumably - was gone. "Yeah, see you in a second." He huffed out as he left.

Yet his mind was still filled with day dreams and unholy thoughts of the man on the ice, his hips, his skin, his hair, his cheekbones, his grace and perfection that was sure to haunt James' thoughts for a long, long time.

Next part

[scionshtola]

for the micro story ask? # 15: trembling hands

prompt: trembling hands | 477 words | very end of 6.0 spoilers

The doors to the makeshift infirmary slid open before Y’shtola, with the soft rush of air she had grown accustomed to aboard The Ragnarok. All was as she had left it—Corisande, lying unconscious on their cot, and Alphinaud at their bedside, hand aglow with the aether he channeled.

Y'shtola stepped into the room. "Has their condition changed much since your last visit?"

"My apologies," Alphinaud said quietly, as Y'shtola approached his side. "I do not mean to be overbearing. I only meant to—I only wanted—"

He cut himself off, falling silent, but the unspoken sentiment was clear enough to Y'shtola. She recognized the spell he cast, a complicated diagnostic meant to reveal injuries that the simpler, more efficient spells of combat healing did not. Corisande's condition upon their sudden appearance on the ship had been so extreme—unconscious, barely breathing, their blood collecting on Y'shtola's fingers as she probed them for injury—that the first priority had been to stabilize. She had cast Alphinaud's diagnostic the first moment Corisande's condition had allowed, and Alphinaud had returned every quarter of a bell or so to cast it again.

It provided a grim but hopeful view of the situation. Corisande would need to spend several more weeks in an infirmary while their injuries healed, but they would recover. Even so, she could imagine how difficult it was for him—her vision, at least, spared her the sight of bruised and broken skin, of sallow cheeks and blood in their hair.

If Corisande were awake, they could diffuse the heaviness settling over the room with ease, their gentle warmth allowing them to do that for which Y'shtola had never had the knack. They would take his hand, most likely, and hers, and apologize for all of the fuss they had spared over them.

"I am certain they would appreciate your concern," Y'shtola said, and reached for his hand. His fingers trembled in her grip, but she squeezed them in what she hoped was reassurance. "You took excellent care of them, Alphinaud."

He let the spell drop, and the glow slowly faded from Y'shtola's vision. He watched silently over Corisande for a long moment, and when she thought it might be time to step away, he squeezed her hand in return. "Thank you, Y'shtola. That means much to me, coming from you. I would like to stay awhile longer, if you do not mind."

"Of course," Y'shtola replied. She ushered him into the chair beside Corisande's bed, and when he sat down, said, "Mayhaps I can turn up some refreshment somewhere on this ship. Tea and biscuits would certainly make our trip more bearable."

She stepped back through the sliding doors. She glanced behind her before moving on, and saw Alphinaud reach for Corisande's limp hand, cradling it gently in his own, before the doors slid shut behind her.

[chasedeys]

I need your thoughts bc i’m trying to write a story & obviously we ‘know’ how joemarr’s relationship is but do you think joe and ja’marr (separately or together lol) are closer to tee or justin?? AND how do you think their relationship is with both guys. because for me sometimes it’s like joe is tee’s big brother but idk… help. please.

hello!!! (so very sorry this took. so very long. but it's here! and i rambled way too much but at the same time nothing of substance on this sort of 😭)

in a completely non pushy very excited way what fic are you writing hehe any mention of a joemarr fic in progress and i perk up like a lemur. no pressure though keep it all to yourself I'm just nosy lol

and i feel like you are completely free to decide who's closer to who based on your own fic's direction?? like me personally it depends 😭 cannot be definitive for the life of me. i myself have totally sometimes Cartoonify friendships just for the Sake of the Bit you know? but like not too much or it just gets disrespectful and annoying and i try to stay true to their character or whatever really i don't actually know these people lol

the Vibes that i sense and also some i've made up completely in my head are kind of like this:

over the years, i feel like joemarr have grown wayyyy closer to tee and have grown apart from justin. and that's to be given really considering they're now teammates with tee and justin is in a whole other team making whole other moves than them! and that's okay! they aren't made to be forever linked together, they're their own people, making their own marks in the league! but they're always going to have that 2018-19-20 lsu insanity with them and i am always going to mention that in my fics! and nobody's going to forget that college run i fear 2019 lsu is kind of legendary lmao these three are always going to be asked about each other and their pasts linked to each other no matter what and that's honestly really beautiful if you think abt it.

ja'marr and tee -> god these two. i think ja'marr is just. so obsessed with tee. just. incredibly fond of tee. unwilling to let him go. incapable of being chill about him (like he is about anybody who has somehow hit certain standards that only he knows). and i went on a spiel here where i suggest you read bc it's weirdly more well written than what i wrote here 😭. basically, i think he looks up so much to tee because tee is someone who he gets to let his guard down and be just a team player with. does that make sense. it really honestly boils back down to comparing it to justin and that sounds bad but i don't know how to explain it better?? that sounds kind of wrong tbh arhgrhgrh. it's like with tee he doesn't have to keep clawing for his spot or compete as much or whatever. like tee is clearly such an amazing wr, clearly a wr1 caliber player like ja'marr, yet he doesn't fight with ja'marr over his looks or plays or spot like justin does with him, which has to be like a breath of fresh air for ja'marr and he's said it himself all 'tee is the most unselfish player'. like that means something to him. ja'marr cares so much for tee's opinions, tee constantly singing ja'marr praises and ja'marr being so sooo silent whenever tee goes on a rant abt him like he doesn't know what to say he just hugs tee with one arm and says appreciate you so quietly (HE DOES THIS A LOT WHEN HE GETS COMPLIMENTED BTW. DO YOU NOTICE THIS. and there's so many fucking clips of them just wrapped around each other after a tuddy just!!! so cute.), and ja'marr known outrageous mother hen ja'marr chase making (speculationnnn) tee change agents and taking him to his massage therapist (in his fucking houseeee i went on a rant here god this is still so crazy to me) and nagging at tee in his mic'ed up moments so many times that feel good play good thing like. he tries to big brother tee so much when tee's the one big brothering him you know 😭 it's so funny god their dynamic is so fucking funny to me. (ja'marr tries so hard to be mature and captain-like whatever and he is good at it you know but 😭 with tee and joe and like all the bengals vets like mike h and sam and even with yoshi whos the same age as him yk it's so very clear he's the baby lmao.) he's trying so hard to take care of tee, keep him safe and well and healthy and with him, doesn't want him to leave. OH AND they went to this showroom thing where they shopped for stuff and ja'marr went with tee (!!!!!!!) and asked tee's opinion for a belt or something and tee was all dude just choose whatever you want it's soooo cute god they're so cute to me (there was also that fucking loverboy beanie im obsessed with that ja'marr didn't even glance at im so pissed. im so fucking pissed what do i have to do to get him to wear a cat beanie this shit is serious to me) like ja'marr wants to know what tee thinks!! he values his opinions!!!! even for fucking clothes!!!! god. and he knows he plays better with tee with him on that field okay, he says that with tee he doesn't get double teamed as much, and he while he's proven that he plays just as well without tee, that piece of comfort having another wr1 with him (his best friend!!!) has got to be something he wants to keep for eternity (ahahaha, verbatim ofc).

joe and tee -> joe dotes over tee lmao you can't deny that man is besotted (ja'marr is too actually 😭 they both are it's completely understandable but at the same time you just have to close your eyes and wince bc that's embarrassing. please chill the fuck out you do not need to laugh that loud over a single sentence from tee. but again: completely understandable because tee is tee. like that batman hard knocks ep. tee said one fucking sentence and joemarr just. rolled over showed their belly panting it's embarrassingggg) he's soooooooo starry eyed over him, so shamelessly coddling (?) that game hug nuzzle the first time, the broncos game where it looked like he bit his neck, this pre season's training camp (?) laughing sooo freely with tee, every sentence out of him these past few weeks on tee staying in cincy 'tee is a NEED', etc etc like i know you said he's acting like tee's big brother which i agree with completely 100% but it's also like he can be such a little brother with tee!! it's like he can let go and not be a responsible person with tee idk does that make sense. joe totally acting like tees older brother but the thing is tee is doing it right back he's just chiller about it like he doesn't have to think too hard on it unlike joe who thinks he has to be this guy 24/7. it's like joe is unused to having such a down-to-earth sane (still hilariously unhinged but sane you know) guy who makes good choices when he's been stuck with guys like ja'marr and justin who are kind of. well. so he can let up and have tee take care of him for a change! well this isn't like this 100% of the time obviously but you get where i'm going with this right (god I'm so sorry this is a mess) also tee's like. really fucking funny and sweet and joyous to be around is there really any surprise that joemarr are smitten with him lmao. i think joe tweeted something abt playing with tee for a long time when they got drafted together?? kill me. no really kill me.

who do you think brought up that tee should just change agents to ja'marr's lmaooo do you think tee brought up his agent being so fucking argumentative that ja'marr tells him to tell him to fuck off and just switch to his. and then they all go dead silent about this including ja'marr because it was one of those things that he said without thinking. like literal light bulbs going off above their heads at the same time before they start scheming shit calling lawyers and ja'marr's agents at like 2 a.m trying to figure shit out 'playing chess'. or did ja'marr and tee discover this first like 'oh??? we can?? do it probably??' and call joe frantically like can we do it and joe hangs up on them without saying anything and the got so fucking offended only for joe to turn up in their place (either one idk) one minute later probably breaking the speed of light and boom. ja'marr has his claws on tee and he's not letting go ever.

joe and justin -> while yes i said that joemarr grew apart from justin i feel like joe is like the type of person to just. be shameless in reconnecting with people he's grown apart from. while ja'marr is. very petty. lmao. i think joe is just very shameless when he reaches out to people. he, like ja'marr, is insanely loyal and values friendship to a concerning degree. he keeps contact with practically any person he grows attached to and texts them regularly and by that i mean that even if he gets ghosted or there's a ridiculously long period of dead silence between them he still texts first like 'hey bro long time no talk u in town do you wanna watch the new spongebob movie tomorrow' and bulldozes through the awkwardness like he doesn't even see it. which works with justin!! who i think kind of sucks at keeping in touch with people (like ja'marr, see below sooo sorry this is so shittily structured) and he hangs out with a lot of people during the offseason no? (its sooooo fascinating to me how he's sooo introverted and technically a hermit but he's also suchhhhh an outgoing little busybody you know and constantly reaches out to people first? like to gronk????? who does that.) including justin who has the same agent! having the same agent works wonders in keeping the connection no doubt too lmao. the paris fashion week thing etc. i think i've said it before but joe falls in love with every teammate he's ever gotten close to and that very much includes justin jefferson who helped him achieve his Insane Ambition of getting the natty so he's not letting him go even the slightest bit really. also qb-wr connection is practically something otherworldly really so really something to keep in mind when writing quarterbacks with former teammates they've thrown to lol. especially joe, who's kind of crazy 😭. i mean look at all his wristbands and sweatshirts and moving to lsu and hanging on to the playoffs by the skin of his teeth and all that jazz. he does Not let go easily. truly an interesting man to write.

ja'marr and justin -> those type of near aged siblings who fight over the weirdest shit and get stupidly competitive over everything and disgustingly annoyingly overly smug over a win that they get into stupid fights one minute only to slam open the other's bedroom door the next hour saying excitedly 'bitch i got free coupons for ice cream' and the other immediately goes 'DAMN RIGHT let me drive' completely forgetting that they were fighting and then the cycle repeats all over again. you can see just how disgustingly close they were together during lsu and that's not really something that just goes away even through time you know? but i do believe they've both grown individually as people and maybe they wouldn't get along as well now as they do then because again, they've been pitted against each other over and over and over and fucking over oh my god but the love they have for each other is clear as they really when you take in account all they've been through together. and i've said up above how their entire thing has been drenched with Competition and that's different with ja'marr's thing with tee and that's not to say that he doesn't enjoy the competition with justin he clearly loves it lmao he wouldn't be such a good player in the league if he hates it lol. more said down below because again, very shittily structured :)

justin and tee -> they should date idk (i think i had a fic idea for them somewhere in my writing tag ehehe)

on the lsu trio specifically lol didn't know how to insert it up above so:

i think justin and ja’marr are both the type to be shit at replying to texts 😔 like sure they'd text you and stuff but. they ignore so many texts whether intentionally or not. they've both said they don't talk with each other etc etc haHAhaaHHAa pain. if i may Speculate: they both probably tried texting on the regular but suck sooooooo bad at it it just peters off (is that the right fucking word oh my god why is the english language so fucking difficult that is literally a NAME) pathetically like ja'marr texted tuesday 8 p.m and justin replies on saturday 11.59 pm to which ja'marr replies to that at wednesday 1.25 a.m do you get me. and they can't standddd this type of shit 😭 kind of low attention span kind of deal and also losing interest on the text convo and having so much shit going on irl that they just don't really text anymore??

joe is like the opposite of this he replies to texts late max 2 days tops but he’s just shit at text talk. absolutely 0 flair to his words. desperately needs to learn tone indicators but people he texts have grown completely used to this and either accepts they will never understand him or, like ja’marr and justin and tee, somehow understands him 98% and bulldozes through his awkward texting and also shits on him liberally. but even if people reply to him late he'd just continue with the convo completely dead serious abt it uncaring how long you text and never the one to end convos and that's weirdly how he keeps such close contact with people he hasn't seen in years??

that's not to say that justin and ja'marr don't vibe with each other anymore lol it's kind of difficult to let go of what two years of practically living in each other's pockets being the Best at what they do. it's just they've also grown so much apart and bloom into way different people than who they knew each other to be. the random ass rarri truck comment is still so confusing to me though like. are you two okay. what was that. did your agents tell you to do something. could you two please interact irl again so i can obsessively analyze whatever the fuck you got going on actually. maybe make out on camera too idk.

also they have such the shittiest friendship humor that only people in their circle would get you know 😭 constantly shitting on each other (ja'marr does it in front of cameras while justin knows pr talk and actually exercises it well. hence the amount of people shitting on ja'marr for saying shit they themselves have said and joke about their friends. pisses me off.) and outrageously competitive people who are undeniably the best at what they do getting compared to each other constantly and their history of ja'marr technically having beaten justin during college and coming into the league with justin breaking several type of records while ja'marr breaks a whole different set of records etc etc just 😭 do you get me. i am so Sensitive about these two pls nobody touch me about them im sorry..........

joe and justin having the same agents and then tee and ja'marr having the same agents is kind of crazy tbh. tee and justin should date just for this quartet to go straight into Messy.

disclaimer this is all pure Speculation and just me making shit up tbh using my Noticer Glasses that gets cloudy from my own delusions so take this with a grain of salt!

ALSO during college i think it's like. justin was really close to joe bc they're the same year (?) right seniors or whatever closer in age and they're clearly best friends. but justin and ja'marr were like twin flames, same position, and they're kind of insane abt each other during college lmao that one clip post natty win of justin leaning back to ja'marr is like burned into my head. and ja'marr was sooo unsure abt joe at first and joe was kind of way too intense without saying a single thing to ja'marr but just staring at him while justin was like the bridge between these two!! that's like a whole other thing about joemarr and justin that's sooo fun to write about truly i love Speculating lsu days crushes and justin being a little shit about them. (lsu ask i swear i'll finish answering you one day auguauguhsuhg)

[gontagokuhara]

“Ah, Nanami-san, I really can’t make you do this…!”

This is at least the third time since Nagito arrived at Chiaki's front door that she’s heard a breathy, nervous squeak of complaint come from the same head she’s currently trying to work a hairbrush through.

Nagito’s hair is…pretty tangled. But Chiaki’s definitely dealt with a rats-nest or two after a late night of gaming; she’s got this. “I don’t really understand what you mean. And hey, I keep telling you…call me Chiaki.”

“Chiaki-san,” Nagito corrects forcefully, the voiced edge with which her name is said undermined a decent amount by how nervous said voice still is, “I think I’ve made a mistake in coming here. I’m so embarrassed I feel a little like throwing up!”

(or: transfeminine nagito comes out to chiaki, and despite some stumbling blocks, the two girls manage a magical girl makeover sequence anyway)

[read me here!]

for lemon / @anonlemon as my piece in the @shsl-islandmode-events gift exchange!

[morganaspendragonss]

shouting lord give me a sign

happy finale day! 🥲 as if i needed another reason to be depressed

title from end of the world by lucy spraggan

ao3 | 554 words | owen-centric, grief

It occurs to him, as he sits alone in his office, that there really is no one for him to call. He thinks about trying Sydney, but he hasn’t spoken to her or the girls much since Robert died. Birthday and holiday wishes, yes, but nothing beyond that. Nothing real.

He could call New York, tell them we might not be able to take the job after all, but of course they’ll know already. He can picture them now, scrambling to stop the Times story from running, and it makes him chuckle even in the face of all this.

But everyone else, everyone he cares about and loves – they’re all here, within these walls. He can see TK, hunched over and phone pressed to his ear, from where he’s sitting; Nancy and Mateo are quietly embracing in a corner; he knows Paul and Marjan and Judd are similarly sequestered.

And Owen is here, alone.

Because, when it comes down to it, the only person he can think to call – the only person he would ever think to call – in a time like this is Gwyn. She was his rock, even in the years following the divorce when they could barely share a room without fighting, and much as he’s tried to fill her void with girlfriend after girlfriend, he knows now that it was never possible to find someone to match her.

She was the love of his life, and his biggest mistake was letting her go.

His finger hovers over the contact he’s never been able to bring himself to delete, and he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been tempted to press it over the years. To text her or let the line ring until her voicemail comes through; to pretend that she’s in China or Japan or in some important meeting and she can’t answer. He’s never done it yet; he’s too afraid that the confirmation of no reply will shatter the illusion he’s built up for himself.

Unconsciously, his thumb drifts down and then the phone is ringing, and Owen knows he should hang up but it’s the end of the world goddammit.

So he brings the phone to his ear and waits with bated breath for her voice to tell him to leave a message.

“Hello?”

It’s a man’s voice, about as far removed from Gwyn’s as possible. Still, Owen gasps and holds the phone ever tighter.

“Hello?” the guy calls, irritated now, but Owen can’t answer him with anything other than his shaky breaths. He should have known; of course they would have given her number away by now, it’s been years, but it still hurts in a way he didn’t expect that this imagined connection to her is now gone.

The guy mutters something about fucking prank calls and cuts the line, and Owen lets the phone slip from his hand as he shoves away from his desk and turns his back to the windows. He can’t chance anyone glancing up and seeing him; he can’t be the one to break down when what they need is strength.

But, god, Owen misses her.

He breathes through the sobs and looks up to the ceiling, imagines the asteroid crashing through it and obliterating him.

And he imagines opening his eyes and seeing her again, and it’s enough.

[handgiven]

"Hey, so um... I saw your ad in the paper and I, uh... Ugh. Never mind. I'm sorry, i-it was probably just a joke, right? Just f-forget about this, alright?" -- @awkwardcourage

the voice gets through to him, through shaky, though dissipating as soon as it starts. a name, a face, he almost feels like he knows them before ever coming close. who wouldn't know the martyr, promenaded around by the corporation seeking to turn even miracles into profit? and beyond the martyr, hughie campbell, human and scared, holding onto this newspaper for his life even if just for a moment before this overwhelming doubt drowns out the fleeting hope and his voice falls quiet.

it all happens in the background of one of those religious gatherings, where hughie was set to perform. the moment alone he stole for himself is prolonged by a gentle rain turning to an overwhelming rhythm tapping along on the tent's roof. the people outside scatter, postponing the program until the weather feels kinder. the newspaper crumples up in the mud seeping in from the outside. the door to the tent whispers when a figure steps through it, mundane and drenched.

he seems not to notice hughie at first, or at the very least does a very good job pretending he doesn't. he shakes the water out of his curly hair, though it does little to truly help. still does the outline of it shine ever so slightly in the wandering sun that forgot to tuck itself away in the oncoming shower of rain. the thin jumper he has on did little more to protect him from the elements either, and seeing just how inescapable this state of being is, he laughs. softly, to himself. only then does he turn around and his eyes find the only other person present. even now, no kind of recognition in his face is allowed to burden the other. the gaze is light, friendly, though slightly apologetic.

"it's raining out," he states the obvious, "i hope i am not intruding, here. i was just looking for a place... do you... do you mind the company?" his voice turns hesitant, in the face of the other's expression; the despair felt moments ago when hughie had uttered his something-of-a-prayer still lingers there. he looks small, the angel realises. smaller than the pedestal he is put on would paint him out to be.

[alexnuit]

A Short Walk

I bounce my shovel against the ground. My garden is dead, and the soil is impenetrable. Dad tells me it’s time. We’re deep in the throes of winter. He’s getting old and we both know it. It hangs over us in every conversation, touching and going. He tires quickly, grabbing at his lower back after long days. I see his pain and try to pick up some of the slack. Chop more wood. Forage more of the dwindling berries and mushrooms he taught me to identify. There’s some pride in his face when I bring those back and I feel good until there’s barely enough for one meal and I’m faced with reality again. He tells me it’s time.

I miss the calm of summer. The lake was home to fish that kept us and the ducks fat and happy. When the deer came by, we would observe while they picked at the grass. Dad’s gun collected dust on the shelf and he stopped asking for back massages for a while. His skin tanned and glowed. His smiles came easier. His sentences were longer. Now the lake is frozen nearly a foot and the ducks have gone south. The cold sinks and pulls his pale face down with it, every smile made with huge effort. Words are grunted out, nods and head shakes replacing most of his speech. The only evidence left of his joy are the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes.

Living off squirrel meat and bone broth in the weeks past has taken a lot out of both of us and he’s given up on not being pushy with me. It’s for my own good, he says while my eyes turn glossy. I try to get him to look at me, but he’s not interested, responding by dropping a collection of winter gear at my feet. The snowshoes he made for my tenth birthday. My camel hair coat. My fur-lined gloves. I huff. I’ve done this charade before. It worked, before. I get dressed, sighing with every new layer that goes over my underclothes. I stand when I’m finished, pinching my brows together while I look up at him. He takes his rifle off the shelf, palms facing the ceiling while he gestures it out to me.

“Here.”

“I don’t want it.” I’m being difficult. He looks so tired of me.

“Well,” he grabs my wrist, hard, and I yelp, but he only squeezes my hand harder against the barrel, “it’s yours.”

He walks out with his eyes and head fixed in front of him. I follow, squinting at the stark white reflecting into my eyes. The wind slams the plank door behind us, the boom echoing like a gunshot against the logs that make up our walls. My head snaps back at the sound. He’s already ten steps ahead of me by the time I start to walk again. My legs are short, one of his strides counting for nearly three of mine. The snow is soft under my boots and snowshoes. With every step I fear I’ll sink beneath the powder and he’ll be too far away to save me.

---

Once we get past the clearing, it’s dense forest and a skinny path obscured by twigs and thick root structures. We haven’t spoken in ten minutes. I can feel the tip of my nose and ears going numb, protecting me from the shocks of wind that bleed through the woods. I look at my father, at his back. His broad shoulders through a thick coat. His graying hair sticking out of his cap. The way he struggles on one leg as he walks. It was an accident. Spring. He surprised me with a bowl of blueberries, each one a deep indigo, beautifully round and plump. My favorite. I found them sitting on our table, ready for me as soon as I woke up. I ran outside and his back was turned to me when I jumped up to hug him around the neck, holding on as hard as I could. He wasn’t prepared for my weight, and I think I had forgotten that I was too big for things like that now. We both fell into the grass. I don’t remember the strength of his yell. I do remember the crack.

There isn’t much time left in our trek to the lake. The frost is pinching my toes, penetrating through two layers of sock and thick winter boots. I have lost the feeling in my hands. A particularly large root trips me and my palms hit the ground, hard. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look back at me. Only slows down his steps while I struggle to get up and grab my rifle. I want to make him care. But I can’t pretend I’m about to cry anymore because the pain is too real. I don’t think my tears could do it justice. I focus on the gun, heavy and cold in my hands, like a block of ice seeping through my gloves. I sigh with every other step, breathing hard with my mouth open as the wind stings my eyes. 

I keep thinking about what I’m about to do. The guilt is too much.

“I don’t know why you need me here,” I say. My voice breaks on the first word, getting used to talking again. “You’re better at this stuff anyways.” My legs are burning with every drag against the snow. It’s a weird feeling. I’m sweating and I wish I could take off my jacket, but the cold pushes against my face and I hug it tighter.

He sighs. He loves sighing. “It’s not about better,” he huffs out between steps. I think he’ll say more but he doesn’t.

“Then what?” I hear the whine in my voice.

“It’s about survival.”

I consider his words. We are surviving. It’s never easy in winter, but we get through it. We just need to wait for spring.

I speak. “But we’re fine.”

He doesn’t respond. Only trudges forward.

When we come upon the lake I am spent. My stomach is stabbing me in the left side. I taste blood in my mouth. I look out at the flat space, snow piles decorating the perimeter. I would think it was gorgeous if it weren’t for what was about to happen. We position ourselves behind a large rock, stuck on the edge of the forest.

“Here.” My father hands me a small box of ammunition, his voice hushed. Why are his hands shaking so much?

“I thought it was loaded already,” I say back, whispering.

He looks at me, offended. “No.”

We sit like that for a while, knees pushed into the earth. Watching. Waiting. I’m reminded of more peaceful days. I’m reminded of the ducks. I look over at him, his weathered face. He seems peaceful. Like he’s thinking of them too.

It isn’t long before I feel a tap on my shoulder. He only points. An enormous buck, crossing over from the other side of the forest. He taps me again and makes a ‘five’ with his hand. He’s beautiful. But his movements seem staggered. Tired. The gun’s already loaded. Dad props it up against the rock, slowly. Gentle. Before coaxing me to come grab it from him. My tears are back. Turns out I can cry some more. He doesn’t budge, only pulls me over, firm. My shoulder hits the back of the gun, and the tears aren’t welling anymore, they overflow. I can barely see him. Dad grabs my hand; his thumb rubs across the back of it while he presses my fingers over the trigger.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

My eyes refocus, lining up. Getting my shot. I look and he has so much life left in him, with beauty like nothing else. I see power in his stance, a commanding presence sticking out from the stark white land. But behind that power is fatigue. A need for sleep. My first instinct is to let him suffer longer. My second tells me I’m selfish. I squeeze my hand. First, I hear the bang, echoing against the trees. Then, the birds flee screaming. Finally, the drop, and buckets of blood covering the snow.

[frizox]

Please keep in mind I’m not a serious fanfic writer and I’m not gonna post anything regularly but I did see that a couple of days ago there was the hallucination whumptober prompt for which!! I had written something like a year ago for @unwastelandunbaby!! So here you go if you feel in for a bit of yusuf torture, my guys

He feels sick. He feels unmoored.

"Open your mouth.”

He tries not to, he grits his teeth and shakes his head to avoid the touch because anything they give him, anything they force inside of him is made to hurt him - but a hand grips his jaw and forces it open.

He screams, he thinks.

He loses time.

The gap is filled in by something that doesn't seem right, something that cannot make sense - the suggestion of a beloved face distorted in a mocking grimace, a soft hand on his cheek that turns harsh when nails dig in, words mumbled that he cannot quite understand. The voice keeps going on and on even when he tries to open his eyes, mixed with other sounds (glass and metal clicking on a hard surface, heavy breathing, someone whining) and it won't shut up, it keeps mumbling and whispering until someone grabs him by the hair and screams at him to open his fucking mouth.

They ask him questions.

The questions don't make any sense and trying to find a meaning or an answer makes him feel at sea. Nauseous. Lost.

Who brought you here. How long have you been here. Why do you think they left you here.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know.

He doesn’t

-remember. And sometimes he thinks there's something wrong with the questions. Because he feels like he wasn't left there. He was taken away and brought there. But he can't find the words to say it, he doesn't know where to start to explain his doubts.

When he tries, they get angry.

He cries. Begs them, he thinks, to leave him alone. Just for five minutes. He only needs a little time to catch his breath, to try and understand where he is, what is going on.

A beloved voice laughs in his ear, louder than it should be. A grating noise that makes his head ring.

"Why, doesn't it feel good?"

Hands on his thighs. Hands on his arms. Hands on his head, keeping him still like an animal for the slaughter.

A blade on his stomach.

He screams.

"Who is this."

They browse through images faster and faster.

Sister. Brother. He's not sure.

Enemy. Sister. Friend.

His eyes are leaking way before they reach the one photo. Then he breaks down.

They start again.

And again.

Something in his blood is boiling, he feels feverish, his head is splitting in half.

Who is this. He doesn't know. He told them already.

Enemy, they say. Enemy.

It keeps on going until the pictures don't mix up in a blur, until he's not screaming the word, head slamming against the table.

EnemyEnemyEnemyEnemyEnemy

He loses time.

He stays curled up on the floor, forehead against the cool wall.

Kind fingers in his hair.

"I'm sorry, love."

The fingers grip harder, nails on his

scalp.

"Are you not having fun?"

He screams. He bashes his head against the wall, or someone else does, he doesn't know. Against the wall, against the floor. It won't shut up.

Enough, enough, enough, please enough.

They give him something. He knows they do because they tell him.

"We gave you something for the pain.”

He doesn't know which pain. He's not in pain. Everything is soft and warm around him and he's not anything. Empty.

He closes his eyes, sighs around the blessed silence.

They ask questions again.

Why did they bring you here. Why did they leave you here. Did they ask you if you wanted to be here. Who do you think decided.

He doesn't know. He doesn't remember. He doesn't care.

He closes his eyes, trying to lose time.

They won't let him. They slap him to force his eyes open.

Why did they leave you here. Did they ask you if you wanted to be here. Who do you think decided. Who do you think decided.

They keep going until they've had enough and they give him something for the pain again. In the opposite direction.

His skin itches, the room is too warm, the restraints are too tight and his skull is splitting as he screams that he doesn't know, he doesn't know while their questions grow louder and his voice is back again, muttering words that are just a tad too quiet for him to understand.

Nothing makes sense. It's just noise.

He calls his name. Out loud.

They turn it into noise.

[killiancormac]

security for jasper!!

You are a worm through time. The thunder song distorts you.

Even after five months of being locked in the Oldest House, Jasper still isn't quite used to the hiss.

He's still not used to the difference between Central Executive, which has become a bustling hub of activity, and the quieter, still to be reclaimed areas of the Oldest House, where the only sounds to be heard is the chorus of the Hiss incantation, spoken among the agents still floating against the ceiling like lost balloons.

Happiness comes. White pearls, but yellow and red in the eye.

He knew it'd only be a matter of time before they started moving people back towards their offices, and he knows that having the Bureau newspaper up and running again would help the reclamation efforts a lot, keep the survivors informed of what goes on between departments as the director and the rangers slowly take back more and more of the House.

Through a mirror, inverted is made right.

But a part of him, perhaps a selfish part, almost dreads going back to the news room.

It's not like he dreads working again -- quite the opposite, in fact, because he's been going nuts without something to do -- but it's more like he dreads going back to the news room itself. Dreads what he'll find in there. He hasn't stepped foot in that office since the initial Hiss breach.

Leave your insides by the door.

He wonders if Helen and Hawkins are still in there. He wonders if his typewriter is still on his desk, frozen in time, page halfway through his last article. If his mug is still in pieces on the ground.

At least he wouldn't be alone -- Simmons had made it out, too. Thank God. If he had to work in there by himself, he might have gone crazy.

Still, though. There's this feeling of fear he can't shake when he thinks about stepping foot in there.

Push the fingers through the surface into the wet.

"As long as you have your HRA, you're perfectly safe." A ranger had told him, "you'll have an escort to and from the news room whenever you need to leave."

You’ve always been the new you.

He wishes it made him feel better.

You want this to be true.

________

Jasper has quadruple checked his HRA by the time he leaves Central Executive. There's no problems with the device that he can see or feel, the straps are secure, and he can both hear and feel the frequency it exudes.

He's safe. He'll be fine.

There's been fewer and fewer hostile Hiss sightings in his part of Executive over the last few weeks. Maybe they've lost interest. Maybe they've realised there's more important areas of the House to focus on. He doesn't care, really, as long as they stay as far away from him as possible.

More and more areas are becoming HRA-proofed, anyway. Central executive, the cafeteria, the mail room -- all now boast impressive, man sized HRA's on the walls. The newsroom doesn't have one, not yet, but it's a small enough room that they might not bother. That's fine, he tells himself. Both he and Simmons have HRA's. They'll be fine.

The HRA feels snug against his chest, the straps holding the box against him, yet an irrational part of him worries it's not close enough. He can feel the frequency reverberating in his chest, in his teeth. He's grown used to it, by now. It soothes him, if nothing else. Grounds him.

The hallways are quiet as he and Simmons walk behind their ranger escort. He can hear the Hiss incantation. He ignores it. Focuses instead on the sound of footsteps.

There's something else he can hear, and he strains his ears to listen. He can't quite place what it is -- chimes? A ringing? It sounds close -- is it coming from the HRA? That's odd. He never noticed it before.

Maybe he's just never listened.

It's actually somewhat... soothing. Something about it is calming his nerves, bringing his heart rate down.

He takes a deep breath. The HRA moves comfortably with his body as he walks. He breathes out, slowly.

He's okay.

[ecosystem-administrator]

Surrogate

Timeline: mid 2.0, spoilers for post-Titan MSQ

With the leadership of the Scions sidelined, Mayhem has to step up for a bit.

It really wasn't fair. Mayhem had signed up to help the Scions, not represent them. The Empire's deadly attack had thrown so much into shambles, and if there was one thing they knew, it was that they couldn't let Alphinaud (bless him for being here but he was so very sixteen) be Minfilia's proxy in dealing with the world.

So they'd stepped up, as they settled into Mor Dhona and gotten the Ironworks crew placed in their new home. People were starting to treat them like an actual important figure, and it wasn't as appealing as they'd hoped. Saving people to see them smile had been one thing, having a reputation had been nice until it went sour, but they absolutely did not want to be treated like they were in charge.

"You'd better still be alive when we come to get you, Minfilia," they muttered tiredly. "I have to give you this stupid job back."

[rose-tinted-vision]

This is written for the @cdrama-action event, requested by @hualianisms

Fandom: Mysterious Lotus Casebook

Relationships: Fang Duobing/Li Lianhua, Li Lianhua & Di Feisheng, Fang Duobing & Di Feisheng

Summary:

“Curses are placebo, don’t you think? As long as you don’t believe in luck, you won’t have bad luck. People’s so-called curses won’t work on you either.”

“What sort of curse is it, anyway? We can try to break it, just in case.”

In which Li Lianhua gets hit with a curse- a love spell, really- to fall in love with the first person he sees

[starry-sophrosyne]

I. Am gone.. for TWO days. TWO. I'm trying to enjoy my fun little vacation and WHAT do i see when I randomly decide to check the pc rpf blogs from my main?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY OLDEST DAUGHTER'S GOT INTO A POLYAMORY RELATIONSHIP WITH PAINT AND KING??

WHAT DO YOU MEAN IM MISSING MY MERMAY POST BECAUSE IM STUCK IN THE MIDDLE ON NOWHERE AND I’LL HAVE NO SERVICE/WIFI AFTER TODAY.

AND ONCE AGAIN. I REPEAT. WHEN THE ACTUAL SHIT DID VIPAINTETTE BECOME A THING??!????1?!1? /nm /lh /pos /silly XD

I swear TO GOD. I will be gone until next Sunday. If log in and eldette's gotten herself a whole HAREM, I'm gonna LOOSE it 😭

also: ELDETTE CONTROL BOTH OF YOUR HUSBANDS ATP- King, you're a sneaky little shit with that tag of yours, know that I dissaprove, and Paint, you're honestly hilarious please keep being chaos incarnate if they’re both okay with it XD (no this isn’t support out of spite what are you talking abt..) /nsrs /silly XD

[themyscirah]

But look at us Luke, we're the ones left alone, holding some rich monster's pain. All of existence, built on his violence. All of space-time, humming to life with a single inviolate rule. Give the hero something to punch.