Prompt #2: I don’t think I can do this anymore.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Draco’s head shot up, eyes narrowing on Harry’s sullen face.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m just so tired.”
Draco released a silent breath of air as his fingernails dug into his palms.
“I think we should end this. We both know this isn’t going anywhere.”
Draco’s heart sunk even as he tried to deny it. Harry was right. But…
“It’s been so long.” If they stopped now, it would have all been for nothing.
“I know. That’s why we should stop. We’ll only end up missing out on better things.”
Draco looked away, trying to decipher his emotions. He didn’t feel particularly sad like he would have expected. Just disappointed. So, he gave a stilted nod as Harry took him by the hand and pulled him out of line.
“We’ll come back Draco,” Harry assured him. “It’s not like Bertha the Bellowing Bicorn is going anywhere until the end of the fair.”
“Yeah, it’s just that we spent so much time in that line.” Draco kicked a pebble. “I just hope we’ll make it back in time.”
“We will. Besides, now we can make it in time for the Fantastic Flying Ferret show.” And with that, he pranced off into the fair leaving behind a fuming Draco.
“POTTER! YOU GET BACK HERE, YOU INSOLENT LITTLE-”
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Any PDA headcanons at the ‘rents?
“Okay … so, here’s what I’m thinking. I know a guy. If we play our cards right, we could all have brand new identities by this time tomorrow.”
Shaking her head, Amy scoots herself off of the bathroom counter, and reaches for her shirt. “Okay - One, your guy is clearly Adrian, and we are not hiring him for anything; and Two, it’s really not that big of a deal, babe.”
Jake’s eyebrows lift so high they may as well be on the ceiling, mouth dropping open in shock. “Not that big of a deal? Your mother walked in on us having sex on the bathroom counter, Ames. On the scale of things that are a big deal, this is the biggest of the bigs.”
Amy tugs her briefs back on, throwing her husband his boxers when he pauses his frantic pacing. “Well, that’ll teach her to knock next time, won’t it?”
“How are you so calm about this?”
“My parents had eight children, Jake. They’re clearly aware of the importance of sneaky sex.”
Jake’s eyes narrow, watching as Amy gathers the rest of their clothing from various fixtures in the Santiago family bathroom. “You know, post-orgasm Amy really does live in a life-is-good haze, doesn’t she?”
Amy nods, grinning proudly as she makes her way over to Jake, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Only when it’s a really good one, like before.” Her hands slide a little lower, tracing absent patterns along her husband’s back, and continues. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off, hmm?”
Jake sighs, circling his arms around Amy’s middle, clearly too distracted to pick up on her suggestive tone, and she pouts to herself. “Your mom saw my butt, Ames. My very naked, having sex with her daughter, butt.”
“To be fair, it is a very cute butt. I happen to love that butt.”
Chuckling, Jake presses a kiss to the top of Amy’s head, resting his chin softly there as he groans. “I love yours too. Ugh. My mind just keeps replaying it, like some kind of recurring nightmare.”
Amy smiles against Jake’s chest, maintaining the soothing patterns as she presses her lower body against her husband’s, feeling his only slightly lingering erection. “If it’s any consolation, I think my legs covered a portion of it.” She feels his head shake side to side, followed by a strangled groan: “I can’t even tell if that’s worse.”
She sways her hips slowly, nursing Jake’s arousal before it disappears completely. “They know we have sex, Jake. Our son is literally in the car with them right now. Lets just take advantage of this incredibly rare alone time while we’ve got it, okay?”
Jake pulls away a fraction, giving Amy a tiny smile before pressing a kiss to her lips. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a small bookstore in the middle of nowhere?”
Amy raises her brows, the very suggestion of her ultimate getaway tending to the flame that Camila’s interruption had only diminished, and not destroyed. She reaches up to meet Jake’s lips with another kiss, lingering against his skin as she whispers - “Mmm. Very tempting, babe.”
“Wait, is this actually working?"
Amy nods, closing the gap with another kiss. “The secret hideaway, yes. The changing our names and forging new identities, not so much.” She grins, giving her very best version of a suggestive wink. “C’mon, I’ve got somewhere to show you - but you have to keep it a secret.”
Jake gasps, wrapping one hand around hers as the other slaps dramatically against his chest. “Amy Santiago, are you telling me you’ve had a spot for secret sex all this time?”
Tugging him along as they exit the scene of Jake’s Ultimate Humiliation, Amy laughs. “I grew up with seven brothers, Peralta. If I wanted to go anywhere past first base, I needed to get creative.”
“You know, this probably would have been handy information to have an hour ago, babe. Before we got all naked and sweaty in the easily-accessible bathroom, for example.”
“I can’t help it if my husband was looking especially hot this morning! And besides,” Amy pauses, leading Jake out into the backyard as she checks for stickybeaks, “Now, it just means we get to go for round two. And I know how much you love double helpings of the good stuff.”
“Double dessert, sexy stylez? You really are my dream girl.”
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Every me, every you
for @drarrymicrofic's prompt: Parallel
“So, you’re telling me that in these universes… we are together?”
“Yes, Potter! You! Me! Together! I saw every version of us! And—”
“Do you think there’s a world where our paths didn’t meet?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You know… is there a world where we don’t know each other? Or a world where we didn’t end up together?”
“Just wondering if a world where we didn’t choose each other exists.”
“Well… it’s possible. But there couldn’t be a world where you exist and I don't…”
“Because you’ll follow me wherever I go?”
“Sod off, Potter.”
“I’m glad you’re back, Unspeakable Malfoy.”
“I am too, Auror Potter.”
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Best In Show
Crowley was sunbathing nude again.
The angel had had words with him about this before. Theoretically, the part of the garden behind the rockery was screened from the road and the adjacent property, but it was the principle of the thing. One just didn't parade about starkers, at least if one were not in one of those naturist retreats where everyone carried a towel about with them and behaved with relentless wholesomeness. (Aziraphale was pretty sure that blessing had been assigned to him vindictively, and Gabriel’s smirk at receiving his report almost cinched it.). One dressed appropriately for outdoor spaces. One did not display one’s –
Well. This time the demon had at least preserved a modicum of decency. He was shirtless, trouserless and glistening with sun cream, prone on the plaid blanket Aziraphale had bought for picnics, and one had to admit he looked quite a feast – even, you might say, an artfully adorned table, because his entirely fetching behind was concealed under an armload’s worth of hibiscus flowers, caladium leaves and daylilies. Possibly it was some beauty treatment he’d read about. After a year or so of life in the cottage Aziraphale had discovered his husband spent far more time primping than he cared to own up to.
“Dear, kindly put on some clothing. What if Mrs. Detwiler were to look through the hedge?”
“Then anything she sees’s on her, innit?”
The rudeness of the creature. Crowley didn’t even look up from what was probably a trashy beach novel. When Aziraphale encouraged him to read, this was not what the angel had had in mind. Crowley liked the kind where everyone was depraved and corrupt and made scenes in fancy restaurants or airports.
“It’s just very bad manners, Crowley. She might need to come back here looking for her cat, or something."
“The cat knows exactly who gives it loads’ve tuna, and that is not me.”
Aziraphale refrained from a response. He had been known to spoil the cat himself from time to time. It was a lanky black tom with golden eyes that reminded him forcibly of a certain someone.
“Anyway I’m s’posed to have bad manners. Demon.”
“Please. I don’t want you getting an Asbo or whatever those things are called.”
“Kindly behave. Just some shorts.”
“I’ll have tan lines.”
“No one will see them but myself. I trust.”
“All right, shorts. If you can guess what I am.” He shimmied snakily, jiggling the floral tribute on his behind.
“I’m sure I don’t know. A parade float?”
“No one’s ridin’ on me. At the moment.”
“An entry in the Chelsea Flower Show?”
“Like that entry idea, but nope.”
“You’re simply being difficult, dear. I give up. This is absurd. What are you meant to be?”
---- Read on AO3 ----
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Lan Xichen’s ascension came as quite a surprise--to him. Everyone else had been expecting it for at least a decade. In the last few years he’d taken to wandering, returning to Gusu to share chilly mountain winters with his sect and then disappearing again come spring. When he didn’t return one winter Cloud Recesses sent out discreet investigators. They soon found a story--reliably backed--of a cultivator dealing elegantly and compassionately with a troublesome ghost, and then disappearing from this world in a clap of thunder.
The local village, grateful, had already built a shrine. Cloud Recesses donated to its improvement and saw a few more built. Various small blessings followed. Everyone was satisfied.
Lan Xichen was still surprised. The Heavenly Emperor cautioned him against returning too soon to visit the mortal realm and he saw the wisdom in this: but it left him with very little interest in the elaborate functions of the capital. Not that he neglected any duties. He attended parties when necessary. He instructed Middle Court officials in the guqin and the xiao and organized one or two small concerts that went off modestly well. He joined a Divine Book Club but found excuses to skip most of their meetings. (Several scholars had themselves ascended, of course, and discussing texts among proud god-authors becomes...wearying.) He participated in the Heavenly Garden Committee.
When word came, some eighty years after his ascension, that a pair of fierce corpses had burst free from their coffin and nearly destroyed a neighborhood with their relentless battle, Lan Xichen picked up his instruments and practically sprinted back down to earth to “deal with the situation.”
Heavenly witnesses agreed that he looked happier than they had ever seen him.
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Happy Birthday! I feel like we should be the ones gifting you fics instead of the other way around. But (a twist on the) birthday prompt: Buck gets adopted by Bobby and Athena bc apparently adult adoptions are a thing. On the day they get the papers back from the gov't, they decide to throw Buck a surprise 2nd "birthday" party. Cue ugly happy tears
thanku!!!! :) also this prompt made me ugly cry isdzhobgirohd
Buck wakes up in a hospital, groggy and exhausted and in pain.
There had been a fire at a middle school and Buck had stayed behind when they'd called for all firefighters to evacuate. "There's still a kid down here!" he'd shouted. "I can hear her!" and so he'd ignored orders and gone deeper into the lions den.
And he'd managed to rescue the kid and had even managed to keep her safe and exit the building just in time to watch it collapse behind him. Buck had been so hyped up on the adrenaline of it all that he hadn't realized anything was wrong until Bobby had come up to him and asked if he was alright. It was the grounding hand on his shoulder that brought Buck back to reality and in an instant his knees had buckled and everything had gone black.
Buck blinks. That doesn't sound like anyone from his crew or even Maddie. "M-mom?" he turns to the voice and there she is, his father at her side. "You're here." he says, awed.
His mom nods, though she won't come closer to the bed than she is, standing at a distance. "I--" she inhales sharply. "Evan I can't. I can't do this. I'm sorry. You need to stop doing this to me." and just as quickly as she came she's gone.
Buck gulps, "Dad? What--what happened, I--"
His dad sighs, "You can't keep doing this. You couldn't save Daniel, and that's--" he looks away regrettably. "That's no one's fault. But it doesn't mean you get to put us through this torment. We're both trying, we really are. But you know hospitals are a sore spot for your mother."
"Sorry." Buck mutters pitifully, his eyes welling up with tears as his dad wishes him a speedy recovery before following his mom's lead.
Not two seconds later Bobby and Athena enter the room.
"You're awake!" the Captain sighs in relief, "How're you feeling kid?" he rests a hand on his shoulder and Buck throws himself at Bobby, digging his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder. "Buck?" Bobby gently wraps his arms around him, concern pouring out of him.
Buck is trembling, sniffling like he's holding back tears.
Athena knows his parents were just in here. She'd been surprised to see the Buckleys had actually shown up for once, though she hadn't said anything. She'd seen Buck's mother bolt out of the room a few moments ago and then his father next, less frantic, but with a grave look on his face.
She wonders what went on in the few minutes they'd come for a visit to make Buck break down like this. "Buck, honey, what's the matter?" she asks softly, her hand running soothingly down the small of his back.
But Buck shakes his head, unable to speak, and Bobby holds him that much tighter, "It's ok Buck, we're here."
A few months later Buck is at the Grant-Nash household for dinner and Athena is telling Buck about some idiot she caught streaking across the damn highway today when Bobby suddenly dims the lights and when Buck looks up in surprise there's a small round cake with exactly one bright candle atop it coming his way.
Bobby places it right in front of Buck on the dinner table and smiles warmly. "So...it's official." he announces proudly. "You're ours."
Buck blinks up at him, confused. "Uh--I--what?" he looks down at the cake again and in fire red frosting it reads: Happy Birthday Son!
Beside him, Athena pulls out some paperwork she's been eagerly waiting to show him all day. "The adoption finally went through and we got the certificate in the mail today. We thought we'd celebrate our kid's first official birthday with us."
Buck remembers that after his short stay at the hospital he'd been trying his best to pretend none of it had happened, the thing with his parents, that is. But he couldn't get the words out of his head.
"You couldn't save Daniel."
He knows his father hadn't meant anything by it--or at least, he hoped--but it had stung him to his core to think that all these years his own parents held some kind of resentment towards him for not being able to do the one thing he'd been brought into this world to do: save his brother.
Eventually the Captain had sat him down in his office and asked, concerned, what was wrong. "You've been distracted on the field, Buck. I just need to know you're ok."
And Buck doesn't know why but he had blurted everything out, like word vomit: his mother's wounded expression as she'd begged him to stop doing this to her, like he was intentionally choosing to hurt her. His father's thoughtless words. His own guilt over the whole thing.
"I'm a bad son." he'd finally said, head in his hands.
And Bobby had rounded his desk and pulled Buck into a hug so fierce it had taken his breath away and he's said, "You're such a good person, Buck, and anyone would be lucky to have you as their kid, I promise."
Bobby must have gone home and talked to Athena about it, because the very next day they'd presented him with the adoption papers.
And if he thought he'd cried like a big baby then? Shit.
Buck wipes at his tears with his sleeves, "Th-thank you." he sniffles, trying his best not to outright sob with all the emotion building up in his chest.
Bobby wraps an arm around Buck's shoulder and squeezes lovingly, his own eyes bright with tears. "Happy birthday son."
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UGH! It's so hard to choooose because I want ALL the Willex kisses but how about 47? :D
So, this is set in the same universe as this ficlet, not that it really matters. This one only vaguely references that one so they can both be read alone. 47. A kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged.
I hope you like this, my little chicken, I adore you 😘😘😘.
Alex was driving to the airport when a wave of doubt overwhelmed him, and he couldn't breathe for a long stretch. Even though Willie had texted him that morning before he got on the plane, ostensibly excited to see him, Alex couldn't help but wonder if he was just telling Alex what he wanted to hear. That once they were face to face he was going to reveal that he'd met someone else while he was visiting his parents in his hometown and was going to let Alex down gently.
Even though he was scared, Alex knew that Willie was a good person and he'd be sweet about it as usual, and Alex would be left devastated but unable to hate him.
He poked at his phone in its cradle until he got to Reggie's contact information and tapped the call button.
"Alex? What's up? Are you at the airport yet?"
Alex sucked in a shuddering breath feeling the prick of tears in his eyes.
“Alex, breathe,” Reggie said calmly, taking a deep breath so Alex could hear it. It took a minute, but Alex slowly followed Reggie’s lead and their breathing started to sync up.
When he could finally take a breath without feeling like he would burst into tears, he worked on gathering his thoughts. Reggie waited patiently for Alex, humming quietly so Alex knew he wasn’t alone. Alex’s eyes welled with tears, overwhelmed by the love and gratitude he felt for his friend.
“What if he breaks up with me?”
Reggie took a deep breath. “‘Lex. Willie loves you. There’s no way he’s breaking up with you. Do you really think he’d let you go all the way to the airport just to break up?”
“What if he met someone else? What if I’m just not good enough to hold out for?”
“I don’t know Willie like you do, but I believe he’s a good guy and that he would be fair to you. But, if for some reason he has been lying and he’s a secret dick, Luke, Bobby and I will beat him up for you.”
Alex laughed, sniffling a little. “Thanks, Reg.”
“Anytime, you know that.” Reggie’s voice was so warm and sincere that Alex relaxed.
“Ok, I’m near the airport now. Willie said he’d be waiting for me at arrivals. I’ll call you later.”
“It’ll be ok, Alex, no matter what.”
The fear tried to creep back in as he hung up the phone, but he pushed it away, remembering the way Willie had planned their first kiss, the way he always brought Alex a coffee when they had class together, the way he looked at Alex sometimes when he thought Alex didn’t notice.
There was no way Willie would suddenly break up with him like this. He was just anxious from the month apart; he always felt like if he wasn’t there to remind people why they liked him, they would drop him all too easily. But Willie wasn’t like that. He’d proven that there was almost nothing Alex could do to push him away, not even when he was out of his mind stressed about end of semester exams, running on pure caffeine and sleep deprivation, snappy and often downright mean.
Willie had to be the most patient person Alex had ever met. He would just let Alex’s comments roll right off his back, then he’d make Alex a cup of tea and force him to sit on the couch to drink it, which led to him scratching his fingers through Alex’s hair until he succumbed to sleep. Most of the sleep he got during those times was when Willie coaxed him into it.
Alex’s phone dinged to indicate a text message and he quickly opened it. Waiting at the pickup line. Can’t wait to see you x.
He couldn’t contain the huge smile that took over his face, all of his fears dissipating like clouds on a sunny day.
He pulled into the pickup line, searching the crowd of people waiting on the pavement for Willie’s long hair, inching forward as the car in front of him drove away. The rest of the cars in front of him looked like they were staying put for at least a little longer, so he threw his car into park and jumped out. He skirted the hood to step up onto the curb to get a better view over the mass of people, scanning for Willie’s face.
He looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice, and there was Willie, his hair scraped up into a messy bun, face alight with happiness as he pushed through the press of bodies. As soon as he was close enough he dropped his luggage, taking the last few steps at a run and throwing himself into Alex’s arms, knocking the breath out of him. Alex caught him, staggering slightly at the impact, and wrapped his arms around Willie securely, burying his face in Willie’s hair.
“God, I missed you,” Willie said fervently, wrapping his legs around Alex’s hips. Alex hauled him up a little higher as Willie used his new position to pull back enough to press their mouths together. The kiss was messy and desperate, their teeth clacking together, noses getting in the way, but it was perfect.
“I missed you, too,” Alex muttered into his mouth, and Willie kissed him harder, sliding his tongue against Alex’s.
“I don’t think I can handle going a month without you ever again,” Willie said, wriggling in Alex’s grip until he let him drop to the ground. He grabbed his luggage and Alex helped him put it into the back of his car, then they hopped inside and Alex pulled out of the pickup line.
Alex had been thinking the same thing, more than just his fears about Willie leaving him, but because he had so desperately missed how Willie felt in his arms, the way his presence calmed something deep inside him.
“Then next time you need to plan a shorter visit time or take me with you,” Alex said as he pulled onto the highway.
He could feel Willie looking at him, and glanced at him quickly before focusing on the road.
“Yeah? You wanna come meet my parents next time?” Willie asked, voice light.
Alex swallowed, trying to ease his suddenly dry throat. “Uh, I -” Alex stammered.
Willie reached over to rest his hand on Alex’s thigh.“Relax. I know your anxious little brain is going into overdrive right now, but it doesn’t need to. It’s not something you need to think about right now. But... I do hope you’ll meet them some day.”
Alex counted his breaths for a minute. “Um, me too,” he replied shyly.
“Good,” Willie said, then turned up the radio and started singing along.
Alex snuck glances at him whenever he could until they reached his apartment. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was - which fueled his fears, sure - to have someone like Willie love him, someone who knew exactly how to manage his anxiety, to make him laugh, someone who lit up his entire world just by existing in it.
He followed Willie up to his apartment, and they ordered pizza for dinner, watched a movie curled around each other on the couch, and Alex couldn’t quite believe he’d let himself even think that Willie would hurt him like that.
He’d tell Willie about it later, bare his soul for Willie to judge, knowing that Willie would understand, would know exactly the right thing to say to make it all okay. Or maybe they would have their first fight, Willie finally angry for once, questioning why Alex would think him so callous. But either way Willie would kiss him after, until he couldn’t even think about anything other than Willie’s perfect mouth, and Alex would know he was here to stay, they were in it all together.
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Day 4: WLW / Supporting Characters @spnprideweek (AO3 Link)
“What are you doing out here?”
She didn’t look up. She was sitting there on the side of the old bridge, her feet dangling off, hanging over the river that was going by below dangerously fast.
She knew it was Dean talking, she knew it from his familiar voice of course, though she had already known before he had spoken. She had heard his heavy step coming up to her from behind, the gravel crunching under his boots.
“Nothing,” she muttered quietly, her eyes absentmindedly following the movement of the river. “Just thinking”
“Thinking,” Dean’s deep voice repeated. She felt a breeze on her left side, and yet, he was sitting down right next to her with a grunt.
“That sounded like something hurt,” she commented, still without taking her eyes off the water.
“That might be,” he said, “Because my knees did hurt”
“Mh,” she made, now with a slight smirk on her face, but still not looking at him. “Old man”
She felt his fist jokingly boxing her shoulder alongside one of his deep laughs, and that made her let out a little chuckle as well.
She now could see his legs dangling off the bridge right next to her own, his legs in dark blue jeans, with his old, brown boots on his feet. Just Dean, she thought, like he always was.
“Thinking ‘bout what?” Dean’s voice now came through, the water rushing in the background.
“Stuff,” she gave a quiet reply.
“Stuff,” he repeated. Nothing more. Nothing from her, either.
“You know,” he then added, and she could feel the railing’s crossbar moving as he rested his arms on it, “I might not be an expert on … stuff …, but if you need someone to talk … I can keep a secret”
She hesitated. For just a moment she hesitated, her eyes still following the river, then she turned to him, looking at him for the first time in this conversation.
“If you …” she started, then stopped. Thought. Dean’s eyes were on her, waiting patiently. “If you were … you know, feeling things,” she then started again. “You know, like, things you’ve never felt before. And it’s … You’ve thought about the possibility of feeling that before, but it’s so different from what you imagined, and it’s also different from what people told you, and …” She paused. “If you’re feeling something,” she then concluded, “but you don’t know what you’re feeling … what do you do?”
“Mh,” he made. His head was now resting on his arms, his eyes still on her. He had been carefully listening to every word, with a soft expression on his face. “Are we talking feelings for another person?”
All of a sudden, she turned her face, avoided his eyes again. Just hoped that he couldn’t see the red she felt crawling over her cheeks.
“Maybe,” she gave a mumbled response.
“I think …” she heard his voice speak calmly, no sign of amusement or mocking, “I think that you don’t necessarily have to know what exactly it is you’re feeling. I think that sometimes, maybe it’s enough to know if someone makes you feel good. That’s enough for the start. I think that if someone makes you feel good, you could start with spending more time with that person, and then you just know. Having them around, I think after a while you know if you want them as a friend, or more”
“Mh,” she hummed. “That’s not as bad of advice as I expected”
A chuckle from him. “Hey, I can be quite insightful, from time to time”
“Right,” she smirked. Then, after a moment: “What if it’s not the kind of person that society tells you to like?”
For just a second, there was nothing from Dean. Then, his silence was broken with a little sigh. It sounded sad, even though she couldn’t confirm by his expression. She wouldn’t look at him, still not.
“Don’t give a shit about society,” he said. “It’s your life, so make yourself happy”
She let that sink in for a moment. Turned back to look at him again.
“Did you?” she asked.
He only looked back into her eyes in silence, for a second, two. Another sigh, and he turned his eyes away.
“I wish I would’ve,” he muttered. Without another look at her, he moved back, stood up.
“Dean-“ She started, but he interrupted.
Now standing on the bridge, looking down on her, he said “Just text her”
Her brain stopped working for a moment there, and that must have been visible, because Dean showed a little smirk, despite his still sad eyes.
“I mean, I may be old, but I’m not blind. I could see this smile-thing you and Kaia had going. So, you know, just text her. It’s gonna be fine”
She couldn’t answer, not in words. All she brought out was a sincere smile.
He gave a smile back, for just a second. Then he turned to walk away, the gravel crunching under his boots again.
After a couple of steps, the scrunching stopped.
“Claire?” She heard his voice.
“Don’t wait too long,” he said. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did. You’re gonna regret it”
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at the end of the day
@spnprideweek day 4: wlw/supporting characters
Donna was tired. The machete in her hand almost slipped out of her grasp, her hands wanting to relax, and keeping her eyes open was a more demanding task than fighting a bunch of vampires. It was a good tired though. An accomplished tired. A tired at the end of a satisfying day. And Donna wasn’t too tired to smile when she saw Jody’s jeep park next to hers.
“Hey there!” Jody greeted when she opened the car’s door, and Donna managed to lift a hand into a weak wave. She shouldn’t have done this hunt on her own, she knew that, it had been a big nest, but Jody hadn’t been able to come earlier, and Donna couldn’t let the vampires hurt any more people. Sometimes that was just how it went. It was good though, that Jody had agreed to pick her up, because driving on her own was probably a very bad idea right now.
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I keep forgetting to post it - here’s some more of the Remake-following ‘Cloud is the Remnants carrier’ fic.
General beginning warning that this is from Hojo’s POV and therefore any character assessment given by him is likely completely wrong.
Tags: omegaverse, mpreg, Hojo’s fucked up science
So maybe the terrorists were stronger than Hojo originally anticipated.
They were in his lab in the middle of Shinra Tower. No matter how competent they are there is no hope for them to escape. No, they will be overpowered and a use found for their bodies if they are not summarily executed.
“Looks like your models got it wrong!” the alpha of the three says. Hojo can appreciate that he’s certainly a fine specimen of the designation – big and strong and full of the bravado to back it up. But lacking the intellect to truly realize his predicament, a common weakness among his designation.
“Yes – un unknown variable, perhaps.” Hojo will acknowledge that while the alpha has foolishly missed the entirety of his position, in the immediate he is correct. Hojo miscalculated their combined strength – he won’t make that mistake twice. “Well, no matter. Reinforcements will soon arrive.”
“But will they get here in time to save you from me?” the SOLDIER-clad member of the trio says. He’s got the eyes for it but his scent is clearly omegan. There’s never been an omega in SOLDIER, certainly not one that has such strong mako-blue in their eyes. Hojo would know if there had been – they would have made an interesting specimen with other uses than just battle fodder.
There’s something about him through that tugs at Hojo’s memory.
“My, are you a SOLDIER?” Hojo asks, more to see if the omega will reveal more information than genuine curiosity, while he follows the string in his mind to where he knows the omega from.
There’s a moment of doubt in the omega’s face and with that expression Hojo remembers. The meek little infantryman who then managed to put a wrench in Hojo’s plans. Who managed to destroy some of Hojo’s best work.
“Yeah,” the omega says, face set. It’s interesting to see how strong the glow in his eyes is. Those genetics apparently not having merely taken root in his womb but spread to the rest of his body as well. It’s amazing to see how he has been adapted as a result of it – given the facsimile of a SOLIDER’s body to be a more suited vessel.
“No, not quite. Oh now I recall.” The test tubes had been empty when Hojo had returned for the birth. Fair was hunted down and killed but they hadn’t found the omega. Hojo had assumed Fair had either abandoned him or stashed him somewhere intended to go back. Hojo had assumed the omega was now dead and the experiment another frustrating failure of recreating Sephiroth.
“My memory was mistaken. My boy, you weren’t a SOLDIER.” No, he was never going to be a SOLDIER. His body had rejected the treatments, had rejected the cells.
Apparently the answer all along had been in his designation. Had been in his womb. His body wouldn’t take it to save itself but to save the children it was carrying it would.
“Where are they?” There had been nothing in the readings over the months to indicate a miscarriage. And omegas so struggle to kill what is borne from their wombs no matter how monstrous it may be.
He doubts they perished when the plate got dropped – there would surely be more grief in the omega’s eyes.
The Turks had mentioned a trade for a child when they brought in the Ancient. Perhaps there is more to that story that they were keeping hidden for now – plotting away to their own ends as they do.
The day was certainly turning out to be an interesting one. One with many potential rebirths back on the table.
Hojo will tell the reinforcements not to harm the omega ‘SOLDIER’ among the terrorists. Even if he cannot get the location of the previous three out of him there is value to be had. An answer to the question of how much his body had taken on to carry that precious life. A chance for even more to be born into the world.
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Crimson Peak....Years Later
Just had to get this out of my head. I watched Crimson Peak recently and now Edith just lives in my head. Sorry, she solves mysteries now.
She wakes up with her fingers outstretched on the pillow next to her, searching for someone who isn’t there. She strokes the cool surface of the pillow thoughtfully. It has been years since the last time she found herself reaching out for him in her sleep. For a moment, she feels a cool breeze brush against her face with a wordless whisper disappearing instantly.
“He’s not here. He has gone.” She tells herself softly.
She is no stranger to ghosts. However, this one is but a trick of her memory. A lingering flash of sentiment, a stirring of her troubled past.
She sits up slowly, still partially entangled in her nightdress from the night’s restless sleep. She can feel her hair hanging down her neck, stuck with perspiration.
Carefully, she stands up from her large comfortable bed and makes her way over to the heavy drapery blocking the days light. She moves slowly wincing in pain and rubbing her bad leg. It aches with a throbbing ferociousness she has not felt in years. She sharply pulls the curtain to one side to look out onto the busy thoroughfare below.
It is later in the day than she is accustomed to. She must have slept longer than she thought. The sky hangs full of dark heavy clouds that loom above the figures on the street. The day feels ominous. The pain in her leg now seems like a warning.
At the far end of the street she sees a lone figure moving with brisk purpose. As it strides closer, she recognizes it and feels herself sigh in resignment. This would be no peaceful day.
Lost in thought, she moves back to her beside to ring the bell for her maid.
She must make herself ready to meet her old friend. She could not know what purpose might send him to her door in the middle of the day but she did not think it a social call.
47 feeling lonely and lost and having a sad fap in his safehouse in Chongqing.
It's only when he's safe in his hotel room under an assumed name that he feels the pang of loss. His phone lies silent on its charger, when normally he'd have it clamped to his ear, and Diana would be back in charge. She'd be telling him the specifics of the mission the way she always did, asking for the location of hidden bodies, of abandoned clothes, of security footage that needs to be discreetly wiped. He's always done his best to take care of it at the time, but that's why they're such a good team. They both understand that the job isnt complete until it's all squared away.
Instead, the ica is done for, Diana is missing, kidnapped and who knows what else, Edwards so close to his goals, now, the whole thing dangerous as a rogue knife in the dark.
47 thinks about just climbing into bed and going to sleep, but while he's tired, his whole body and every item of clothing stinks of the burning ica office, plastic fumes and hot blood and the distinctive smell of thousands of bullets discharged in a small area.
He forces himself to have a shower and to eat something, and he expects to just pass out, but instead his skin feels too small, tight and ill fitting from the deceptively cheap soap. good quality supplies and delicious food were always the kind of little touch Diana could be relied on, and he feels a pang of guilt that she spent her powers making sure he was comfortable and happy after a mission, rather than leaving him mercy to to whims of a late night hotel kitchen.
She was wasted on him, too good, too dangerous to he let loose, and the ica did everything it could to hold onto her. The files he'd deleted painted a picture of an agency that didn't know what to do about the pair of priceless paintings they had in a house full of toddlers armed with marker pens. There's something nice really about realising that they were appreciated for their contributions, even if they baffled the higher ups, who wanted desperately to be able to trust them.
He isn't sentimental about the ica. He has always been aware of it's many flaws and never expected the gold watch for himself, but he does feel unmoored without Diana.
The AC in the room is almost loud enough to count as white noise, but the thoughts sneak through anyway; all the unsaid things, how they never talked much before Dartmoor, how he was still dealing with grey's skepticism in one ear, how much he knew that his brother was always going to cut Diana at the first sign of betrayal, take 47 and Olivia and disappear.
Diana never would have stood for it. She'd have fought for him. She wouldn't have just let grey get away with it. She'd have made 47 tell her to her face.
He imagines in his mind that conflict. Imagines Diana finding him and accosting him, making him uncomfortable, making him face her. How maybe she'd make her case, say all the things comfortable silences and unperfumed soap implies; that she cares for him, that she alone is the one for him, completes him. How she carved a piece of him out for her own, and slid a piece of herself in place as collateral.
He is startled how the mental image of Diana, finally saying all that is unsaid, affects him. He's half hard in the harsh cool air, and when he takes himself in curious hand he gasps as he swells to full, diamond hardness. Closing his eyes he focuses on the image of Diana saying she loves him, that she notices him, understands him. Imagines it is her elegant, manicured hand that is touching him in the cool air, touches his lips with his other hand and imagines her lips, imagines what it would feel like to not be lonely, to know her touch, to be taken care of thoroughly by someone who loved him back.
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timeskip!satori tendou x gn!reader
You sat on your bed, soft music playing in the background as you positioned Tendou between your legs, a pad of gauze on one and a roll of tape on the other.
“You don’t have to do this,” He muttered, sticking his hands out in front of him as you cut off a strip of gauze.
“I’m your partner, of course I have to take care of you.” You wrapped the burn on his pinky with a loose bit of gauze, gritting your teeth as you focused on not hitting the blister that was beginning to form.
“Oh fuck.” Tendou winced, his free hand tightening around your wrist as you applied the last bit of medical tape.
“There, all better.” You gathered up the supplies and disappeared into the bathroom, humming along to the music while you returned everything to its cabinet.
All Tendou could do was watch you, the look on his face halfway between adoration and amazement. You’d been together for years now, but he still didn’t understand what made you stick around—hell, you’d even moved to a different continent for him. Yet when he watched you, so natural and mundane, full of love for him that seeped through your every movement, he began to get the smallest of ideas about what exactly had brought you into his world all those years ago.
When you caught him staring you giggled, blushing and trying to hide your face with your hands. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about how much I love you,” he waved his hand dismissively, leaning back in bed with a sly grin on his face, “no big deal.”
You climbed into bed next to him, slipping your fingers between his before he could lower his hand. “Aren’t you thinking of that all the time, though?”
“Maybe not all the time,” You squeezed his hand tight enough to slightly pop his knuckles, his eyes going wide. “Okay, okay, all the time then! All the time!”
You released your grip, flipping your clasped hands over so you could press a kiss into his knuckles. You took a moment to appreciate his hands; his slender fingers and slightly red joints, scattered with burn and knife scars from work.
When you’d first met him his hands had felt different in yours. Lighter, almost. As if he was scared to touch you with anything more than the weight of a feather. Now his hands settled into yours, weighty and comforting, always a precursor to something more.
“You know, Satori, I really am so lucky to have you,” You mused, leaning back in bed with him as you stared out at the night sky stretching out beyond your window.
“I’m the lucky one, (Name). I still can’t believe you, y’know, put up with me for so long.”
You rolled over, pulling him to you so you could kiss his lips. “I’ll always put up with you, Satori. I love you too much not to.”
“I love you too.” Tendou let go of your hand to run his fingers through your hair, holding the back of your head as he kissed you as softly and sweetly as he had the first time.
You’d never get tired of that kiss.
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Thinking about Mickey's outfit on their anniversary. Well, mostly thinking about him thinking about it, because, did he? We know that Mickey likes to dress up for important occasions with Ian andang given that he'd planned an entire goddamned party I say it's fair to say the anniversary counts a ”important” in his book. Stands to reason he'd like to put on something nice, right? Only, he can't put on anything obviously nice, like a proper shirt, because Ian will notice and the! jig! will! be! up!!!
Ah, I can see him standing there in front of his wardrobe (well, in front of his trash bags and heaps of clothes on the floor... ), biting his lip as he furiously ponders the perfect choice, selecting then rejecting item after item.
Maybe Ian walks in and spots his husband wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a fearsome scowl. Furrowing his brow, he asks, ”Why are you having a staring contest with your jeans?”
Mickey starts slightly. ”Uh. Just figuring out what to wear.”
”Oh?” And Ian takes a small step closer, something soft and suggestive and hopeful in his voice. ”What's the occasion?”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. ”Nothing, man. Couldn't remember if I washed this shit or not, but who cares, right?” Mickey throws Ian his very best fake smile and hastily grabs the outfit he'd first considered and flees before his husband can ask him anymore questions or Mickey can catch a glimpse of his subtly falling face.
(And later that night, when the jig is indeed up and Ian's got his arm around Mickey and Mickey's leaning into Ian, Ian turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to the top of Mickey's head and murmurs ”you look very nice” and Mickey smiles and smiles because yeah he fucking does, excellent clothes choices were made, and he loves his oblivious hunk of a husband so very much.)
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Notes: Little snippet inspired by conversations with a friend :> warning for standard taraprowl everything
“You’ve won, Prowl,” Tarantulas purred as he dropped from the ceiling, eight legs fanned out behind him. Prowl backed up, trying to keep the distance between them fixed, as he always had, but Tarantulas was taller than him and easily made up for it. “Everything you’ve ever wanted: the respect, the tools, the control. It’s all for you. It’s yours.”
Prowl would not allow himself to be cowed, even as Tarantulas loomed over him. From this near distance, he could see the way Tarantulas’ fangs rippled and his optic band gleamed. Even in his root mode, there was something unnatural about the way he moved now, sharp and angular but with an uncertainty to each twitch’s vector. Trying to track it made Prowl’s fuel tank clench, but he tried to keep the nausea out of his expression.
“Why?” he asked, main gaze locked on Tarantulas’ optics while peripheral algorithms tracked each of those thick, reaching legs. “What is it all for? What do you want, Tarantulas?” All he’d wanted back then was access, to use Prowl as the prod with which he could stir up the chaos of the war into even more of a chaotic slurry. Now they were at peace, a peace that had somehow held through all of Prowl’s miscalculations and rushed strategies, and he did not intend to risk it for his old partner’s amusement.
Tarantulas sighed, and Prowl had less than half a second’s warning from his algorithms before one of those legs broke formation to stroke adoringly down his cheek. He flinched away on instinct, but Tarantulas’ arms had wound around his waist, holding him in place.
“My gifts aren’t enough to satisfy you?” he asked, the cruel rasp of his voice chilling Prowl through to his backstrut. “You always were so difficult to please. But that’s what made us so perfect: you demanded, I provided, and in turn you demanded more.” He kneeled before Prowl, who was given the impression of a predator bowing before its downed catch. “I knew these offerings might not be enough to whet your appetite, so I took the initiative this time, just to remind you what we are capable of together.”
“Tarantulas. What did you do.” He intended it to sound like a warning, but even though his voice stayed steady and his optic fixed, he knew it was pointless. He had no leverage here, not with Tarantulas’ limbs pinning him in place, encircling him—
Again, he had only a moment’s warning. The leg came in fast and hard, punching him in the back of the neck. Prowl hunched forward, choking, wondering whether Tarantuals intended to paralyze him, and almost failed to register as his t-cog spun of its own accord, tugging the rest of his body into a jagged mode swap.
Prowl had been forced to transform in much worse circumstances: suffering worse repair, under active fire, and with more restraints. He had felt the sting of misplaced welds tearing open as he body configured itself into the shape it wanted, regardless of the impossible mechanics required to get to that point. He knew what a transformation going wrong felt like.
This wasn’t that. The panels on his back flared out before folding back in, and his legs twisted back and up, bending at joints he didn’t remember having, all of it unfamiliar but none of it wrong. He could feel panels sliding neatly together that had never met before, the space that should have been restricted by the mass of an engine folding down into almost nothing. His chest plating came up, as it was supposed to, but it stayed at a 90 degree angle to the rest of his body, locking in on a ratcheted joint he had no memory of seeing in his own tech specs.
When his vision suddenly returned, he wondered if this had been Tarantulas’ ploy: trap him in a half-transformed limbo without enough access to either mode to attempt a reasonable escape. He did have an emergency program written for such a scenario, but as he went to activate it, he became aware that he still had limited access to all of his limbs. They were stunted and twisted at angles that shouldn’t have been possible for his joints normally, but maneuverable enough that he could perhaps risk remaining prone to try to draw more information out of Tarantulas.
“How does it feel?” Tarantulas asked. Prowl tried to turn a glare up to him, but his head swam when he looked up too fast; though his optics were functional, they appeared to be out of alignment. “Is it good? I spent so long working on one that would suit your needs.”
“This is the best you could come up with to contain me?” Prowl asked, trying to push himself up to standing. He could get his legs under him, but it took all his strength to maintain a dignified posture. “What happened to all your creativity? Or was that as much a charade as the rest of this fantasy you’ve concocted about us?” In fact, it hurt to stand that way for more than a few seconds. Giving in to the demands of his frame, he hunched forward, arms slightly dangled beneath him.
“After all we achieved, you think so little of me?” Prowl froze as he felt Tarantulas’ touch again on his body, on what his sensors registered as a limb. “I would never try to trap your brilliance.” All his arms and legs were accounted for, though, and through the confusion of his visual feed he could clearly see Tarantulas was reaching behind him.
“I know what you suffered in the war. I know how your dear, precious Autobots tried to stifle you, even snuff you out.” The touch turned into a squeeze, and then Prowl found himself being lifted upside-down into the air. Pain blossomed at the point the unfamiliar limb connected to his backstrut, and his vocoder squeaked in surprise.
“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to contain you, Prowl,” Tarantulas said, his face coming into view as Prowl was twisted around by the pedipalp holding his tail. His optics were entirely focused on Prowl, like he was a specimen himself.
Like a lab rat.
“No, I’ve done something much more naughty: I’ve freed you.”
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hi!! I just reread all the carbon in the steel instalments after seeing your reblog and I remembered how much I loved it! thank you for creating / writing this ‘verse! ✨✨✨
Helllooo friends ~
fyi all carbon in the steal installments can be found under the #carbon in the steel tag. origin post found [here].
TLDR: jfm & yzy died early, wcz & cssr didn't die, wcz became jc's regent, qhj & madam lan ran away and were hunted down, the lan brothers are considered "evil".
Someday a man on an island across the sea will write: these violent delights have violent ends, and a violent end for Wei Wuxian it was indeed.
Cloud Recesses burned...but that hardly mattered now.
Slumped on his knees, Lan Qiren, the Chief Cultivator of the Realm, looked up through bruised and swollen eyes at the young man under whose shadow he was shielded, who stood between him and death incarnate.
All around him, cultivators screamed. Those who could still fight would not be for long, sustained by nothing but fear and desperation. Those who had lost the fight but were still unfortunate enough to be alive were savagely consumed by the torrents of demonic energy infesting the air. Lan Qiren watched was they writhed and screamed, coreless and helpless as the black smoke burned them from the inside out. Not even the dead found relief, for in death they were summoned by the Yin Iron's Will, reanimated to rise and serve in their new master's war.
A second ago, with his neck crushed within his nephew's grasp, his life force squeezed from him increment by increment, Lan Qiren truly believed that today would be his end and the end of all of Gusu Lan. Possibly, even the end of everything.
Yet, he has his mother's eyes, was Lan Qiren's only thought when the monster who was no more than a boy grabbed him by the neck and hoisted him into the air.
A part of him always knew this day would come, yet still he had hoped that there would some way to rehabilitate his second nephew, bring him back into the fold. It was always a bit of a fool's hope, and after they had driven Lan Xichen to his death, even Lan Qiren had to admit, persisting would have been delusional.
Thus, another approach. Their troops had congregated at Mt. Gusu, five major sects and their alliance of dozens of minor sects, but it was all for naught. Their strategy, their preparation, their defenses — in the end, nothing could stand in the way of Lan Wangji's rage.
Well... one thing.
Wei Wuxian's hands slipped from where he'd grabbed Lan Wangji by the shoulders and shoved him back at the eleventh hour. His whole body cantered forward and would have collapsed entirely were it not for the wide palm pressed into his sternum.
Lan Wangji stared at him in apocalyptic horror. "Wei — Wei Ying!"
The penultimate core melting hand, honed to perfection, was capable of burning life and core out of any cultivator with one single strike. Lan Qiren had no doubt that there was nothing left of the once vivacious light that churned inside this rambunctious youth.
At the onset of the siege, Wei Wuxian had been mysteriously absent from Yunmeng Jiang's battalion. Dishonourable. The others whispered. Selfish. Cowardly. Jiang Wanyin braved these snide remarks with a frozen face. It was an open secret that his right hand man, his Wei-shishu's only son, had developed a kind of perverse attachment to the murderous heretic Lan Wangji.
For him to suddenly show up out of the blue and to make such a devastating and unexplainable sacrifice....
Lan Qiren wheezed as he tried to struggle forward to reach out to the young man.
"Er-gege ... it's alright." There were tears in his eyes, but a smile on his face.
"Wei Ying, no. No..."
Lan Wangji screamed as Wei Wuxian crumbled in his arms.
(⌐■_■) believe me when i say this isn't a tragic ending.
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A Clever Trap(Lucigast)
"Fuck...Fuck," Lucien swore as he laid on his back, his teammates sprawled around him. He pushed himself from the ground to see Cree pulling herself up as well. Tyffial, Zoran, and Otis laid in unmoving heaps amongst the broken ground. That wasn't ideal, but he'd manage without them.
Lucien turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. The Mighty Nein stepped into view and Lucien's frustration swelled. Of course they'd continue to be a problem. He was Naive to think they wouldn't catch up. However, being ahead of him in the entrance only he was supposed to know about. That was surprising and irritating.
"That's a real dickish thing to do" Lucien growled, glancing at his still unmoving members. "I'm impressed."
His eyes scanned over the group only to stop at a familiar purple skinned figure.
"Ah, I see you brought the drow," His tone was sharp and laced with jealousy. Who was this man to them? To Caleb?
Caleb stepped in closer, his hands clenched at the mention of the drow.
Beau stepped up and threw something in his direction, causing the tiefling to flinch.
The small device burst, throwing millions of star like particles into the air. It illuminated the space around them, all except his anti-magic field.
"Clever," He sneered more to himself.
He turned to face the cone towards the Nein, his eyes boring into the drow as he stepped back. Lucien wanted nothing more than to kill him, but he had priorities and the Nein were clearly prepared.
"Well, this really fucks up my plans a bit, but well played. I cannot lie. Well played. Cree, take care of this," Lucien spoke to the tabaxi, his eyes not leaving the only non-member of the Nein. He hated how jealous he was.
Fjord ran forward and just at the edge of the anti-magic cone, blinked out of existence before appearing next to a still fallen Zoran.
With a quick swipe and a gurgle from Zoran's throat, Lucien knew that he wasn't long for this world.
Fjord then thrust his sword into the throat of Zoran and gave a sharp twist. "There's no getting out of this fight my friend," his tone was sharp, and he didn't look away from Lucien as he plunged his sword into his comrade.
"Now that was uncalled for. I guess there's only one thing left to do," Lucien turned his cone then, allowing Cree to make her way next to Lucien and with a quick whoosh of her cloak, they were gone.
Lucien found his footing again deeper into the ruins of Aeor.
He heard the shouts of the Nein behind him and he reached out to Caleb and Beau, "I'm not going to lie, that was inspired, well thought out. More than I expected. You're brave. But you've also shown to be more of a thorn in my side than I ever gave you credit for. That's not going to fly. But I'm excited for you to see my handiwork soon enough," he then turned his attention to the tunnel they were on the other side of. He closed his eyes, and the tunnel began to cave in.
He reached out once again to the monk and the wizard, "I'm just putting a bit of space between us; you understand. I've got important work to do. But please, come along. Hate for no one to see the product of our hard work."
After a moment of silence, he reached out again this time only to the wizard, "And Caleb, please bring your boyfriend along, I'd hate for him to miss the show. I wasn't looking forward to hunting him down. You've made my job much easier. See you soon."
Caleb tensed along with Beau as Lucien's voice pierced through their minds. They're eyes met, neither one responding to the sadistic asshole.
Lucien's voice sounded in Caleb's head again, and he could tell that it was only in his by the way Beau turned to Yasha in quiet conversation.
"Bring your boyfriend along, I'd hate for him to miss the show."
Caleb's eyes darted to Essek who was looking at the newly collapsed tunnel with Fjord.
"I wasn't looking forward to hunting him down. You've made my job much easier. See you soon."
Caleb swallowed hard, his eyes not leaving the drow. He wondered if he and Essek would ever not be a danger to each other.
Perhaps, in time.
Hours later Lucien watched as Cree curled up to rest for the night. He waited until she was asleep before reaching out to Beau and Caleb again, "Your friends are peeking. You are wily bastards. Continuing to stick my sides like a thorn in my drawers. Clever, but, well, not enough. I have to respect it. I'm not here to kill you. Yet," He laughed, "I'm here to open a door, to take my reign. Long may it be. You're welcome to watch. If you can keep up. There's so much."
He let silence linger for a moment to see if they would respond. They didn't.
He reached out to Caleb once more, "Your drow friend, does he know the affection you carry for me?"
This earned a response, "I carry no affection for you." Caleb's voice rang in his mind.
"That can't be true. I remind you of him, the speck you can't let go. I'm the closest thing you'll ever have to him. But I'm better, stronger...alive."
Lucien smiled to himself, despite the silence. He made his point, and he got the reaction he was wanting.
Caleb laid next to his friends in the dome, tense. He hated when parts of Molly leaked through.
"I'm your god, long may I reign," Molly's charming smile pierced Caleb's memories.
"Don't let him get to you," Beau spoke into his mind, pulling him out of his thoughts.
"He taunts me," Caleb responded, "Threatens Essek."
"He speaks to just you?" It was strange how surprise could be expressed through thought.
"Only a few times."
"It's because he knows he can get to you. Don't let him," Beau urged again.
Caleb closed his eyes, trying to do as Beau said. It was easier said than done, however, especially when the nightmares came.
A continuation of the one shots I've been writing. I know this is super late, but I've been so busy I haven't had time to write this. I plan to do a couple more. Enjoy!
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yeah I wrote this pretty much immediately because it's so fucking cute
no tws only smooching
To Jaskier, Geralt is the brightest and most beautiful light in all the world. He's more drawn to the soft-hearted Witcher than anything else. Whenever Geralt is away, the Fae sits in the middle of his nest in the dark and yearns. He waits patiently for his darling to return home to him, carrying the warmth of daylight in the golden hues of his gorgeous eyes.
Jaskier leaps to his feet when he hears the front door open, his wings fluttering behind him as if urging him to speed up. He bursts into the front hall with a wide grin plastered across his face, his antennae twitching excitedly. "Dear heart!"
"Jaskier!" Geralt wraps his arms around the cryptid and spins him in a quick circle.
"How are you, darling?" Jaskier asks, checking Geralt over for any new injuries. The Witcher gently bats his hands away before putting his hands back around Jaskier's hips.
"I'm fine. I could still use a kiss, though."
Jaskier flushes prettily and bites his lip, gazing up through his lashes at the white-haired Witcher holding him close. "I suppose I could manage."
He closes the scant space between them and presses their lips together, letting the tender moment stretch out for a few more heartbeats. He cards his fingers through Geralt's silvery tresses and pulls them more tightly together. The Witcher licks against his mouth and Jaskier yields to him, melting against that broad chest and knowing he'll always be safe in this embrace.
When they pull apart for air, Jaskier laughs breathlessly. "Oh darling," he coos after a moment to gather his composure, "Come back to the nest so I can welcome you home properly."
Geralt grins and allows himself to be tugged down the hall to the guest - no, Jaskier's room.
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Holster turns the page and keeps playing without pausing and okay, so, Rans has seen a lot from these hands — passing pucks without blinking, grilling on the lawn, high fives and casual shoves and slow, needy, earnest touches — but not this, not before. He’ll have to say something about that. Holster’s been holding out on him.
“What,” Holster says mid-lyric, eyebrows raised.
He’s bopping his head in time with the beat. Rans lets himself get carried away in the rhythm before replying. “What.”
Rans thinks he already knows what. If he didn’t already know he was in love, this would do it: Holster at the piano singing soft and hoarse, hands spanning scales and fingers delicate and gentle on the keys. He thinks maybe Holster can tell. He thinks maybe it’s okay if he can.
“You know,” Holster says. He looks over like he’s discovered a secret that’ll make everything make sense. “Don’t you? You know what.”
“Probably,” Rans agrees. It’s nice, agreeing; it makes Holster smile a little, duck his head, look back. “You can say it though.”
The music stops slightly before it resumes with an inhale and a cleared throat. Rans waits, tapping two fingers on the lid with the beat.
Holster says, careful like it’s breakable, “You’re in love with me.”
“Am I now?” Rans turns the page for him. Holster watches him steadily.
A nod, a key change, a sigh; it’s nice like this. Holster shakes out his hands and Rans listens while the piano says I love you too I love you too I love you too.
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you're nothing like him
Day 3: like father, like son
for @dadstielweek (also on a03)
set after 15x14
Jack tries to look nonchalant as he slips a pack of fruit roll ups into the shopping basket. Cas had sent him over to the next aisle to get some packs of jerky-- “because they’ll give you energy on long hunts, at least that’s what I’ve observed”--and Jack knows that if he sneaks in a few extra snacks under the black pepper-flavored jerky then Cas will pay for it. The trick is knowing the right amount; if there are more than three different candies, Cas might tell him to put some back. Last week Jack had complained of his tooth hurting, only for a second before his grace instinctively healed it, but it was too late. Cas had already heard it and the only one who would let Jack eat whatever he wanted had now turned into a wary inspector of anything that had sugar in it.
Peering over the top of the shelves Jack makes a quick survey to see Cas’ location and if there’s enough time to nab a Snickers bar. Cas is standing near the counter, head bent over a rack of what looks like greeting cards. The Gas n Sip employee is standing there, talking and gesturing enthusiastically, which is never a good sign. The last time Cas had a half hour conversation next to the drink refrigerator with a new Gas n Sip worker, giving her a run down of all the different pitfalls to avoid and shortcuts to efficiency she could make, while Jack tried in vain to nudge him towards the checkout.
Making his way over to hopefully shorten whatever monologue is already going on, Jack approaches them, only to see Cas squinting intensely at a card in his hand. “It’s for Father’s Day,” he announces, showing it to Jack like it’s a case file. “Apparently fathers have their own day of celebration. There aren’t even any requirements for them to be celebrated on this day. And,” he leans forward, “it’s not the only kind of day like this. There’s a mother’s day, too.”
“Sam and Dean never mentioned those,” Jack frowns. Birthdays and Christmas are the only ones he’s heard of before, and even those were hardly celebrated until Mrs. Butter’s feast last week. “Do you think there’s a son’s day too?”
“There’s a children’s day,” says the Gas n Sip employee, staring at both of them with that mixed expression of confusion and amusement that Jack has gotten very used to seeing by now.
“Cas,” Jack tugs on his sleeve. “Do you think Sam and Dean know about these days? Maybe we should get some of these advertisements to tell them about it.”
“They’re not ads,” the employee--his name tag says Marcus--pipes up.
Cas still has his eyebrows all slanted, the way he looks when he’s trying to understand details of a case. “Are there days for other identities? Is there a sibling day? A detective day? A Gas n Sip manager day?”
Marcus laughs. “No, but there should be.” He and Cas exchange a nod of solidarity before Cas goes back to flipping through the stack of Father’s Day cards in his hand.
“This,” Cas says, pointing a finger at one with bright yellow and blue bubbly lettering, “refers to biology, but the picture doesn’t match.”
Jack peers over to look at it. The words read “like father, like son” inside a round cartoon speech bubble spoken by two beer bottles.
“It doesn’t mean that, really.” Marcus shrugs. “It’s more about, like, character stuff you pick up from your dad. Or like personality quirks. I think it’s kinda funny.” He nods at the card. “Do you want to get this one?”
Cas turns to Jack, as if asking for his input. Jack quickly hides the hand holding a pack of Twizzlers he’s grabbed off the nearest shelf. “Huh? Oh, no, not that one. It’s not true at all.”
The slightest tint of a shadow crosses Cas’ face and he pushes all the cards back into their slot. “Let’s be on our way, Jack,” he says, motioning for the basket. “We still have a few hours to go on the road.”
“I mean, you’re nothing like my grandpa.” Jack hands the basket to Cas and then leans in to whispe, “And I’m really glad about that.”
A soft expression of relief washes over Cas’ face and he looks down into the basket, shifting the packages but saying nothing about the extra items.
Marcus puts all their things in a bag. Jack takes it and discreetly counts the number of candies, noticing that somehow Cas has managed to take out half of it while he wasn’t looking. Maybe he and all the Gas n Sip employees have a special arrangement. He doesn’t quite understand Cas’ connection to the store, but at least the fruit roll ups survived the purge.
When Marcus gives Cas his change he wishes him a “Happy Father’s Day”. Cas stills, his hand on the counter. There’s something unrecognizable in his eyes when he smiles and thanks Marcus.
Back in the truck Jack opens the bag of fruit roll ups first. He opens one but somehow doesn’t feel like eating it. The Father’s Day card hovers in his mind. “Do you think,” he begins, studiously picking at the edge of the wrapper, “that I’m anything like you?”
“I would hope not,” Cas says dryly.
Jack looks up and Cas must see the crestfallen look on his face because he adds quickly, “Jack, I’m not--look,” he twists around in his seat, “Jack, you are good and brave. You put others first and you care about their smallest needs. You are sharing and open and--and honest. And you love with your whole heart. You learned this from your mother.”
“No,” Jack hums, now biting eagerly into the sticky candy. “I got that from you, Cas.”
Cas makes that face again, the same expression he made when Marcus said happy fathers day to him, and Jack finally recognizes it. It’s partially surprise, but what’s clearest to Jack is the doubt and disbelief in his eyes. Jack remembers hearing those same notes in Cas’ voice, even before he was born, and it’s something he doesn’t know how to change.
He doesn’t know to make Cas believe that he’s the best father he could have asked for.
So instead he passes over the bag of fruit roll ups and Cas takes one with a little grin and they sit there in the truck, munching quietly. A bird flutters down and starts pecking at the leaves stuck in the windshield wipers. Cas points out that it’s a common grackle--“although there’s nothing ordinary about them”--and he goes on about the different iridescent shades in their feathers and the corners of his eyes get all wrinkled in excitement. Jack listens and watches him and thinks I love him. So much.
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