#something pre-slash

[cowandcalf]

Notebook

for @space-ace-ravenclaw-demigod because you’re the absolut Queen of headcanons for the boys. This one is for you, babe.

“You’re too early!” Steve enters through the lanai rubbing his hair with a towel.

“Half past we agreed.” Danny parks his butt against the old chest of drawers next to the dining table, nipping at a steaming coffee.

Steve throws the towel over his shoulder and without even batting an eye he reaches for the coffee mug and gently removes it from Danny’s hand. “You made coffee? How long are you already here? You’re not an early bird. I am. Nervous?”

Danny elevates his eyebrows. “You have no manners. That’s my coffee - “ He touches his lips with the fingers Steve just brushed with his own ocean-wrinkled fingers a second ago.

“It’s my house, my mug, my coffee maker - “ Steve just watches Danny over the rim of the mug like observing a target through spyglasses about two miles away.

Still, Danny can’t tell if this is worth something to lose a night’s sleep over. “Sometimes you’re a child.”

Steve laughs and walks away with Danny’s coffee.

“And just for the record. I’m not nervous. It’s court. Nothing I haven’t seen before. It’s important today though. I want this asshole behind bars. We need to be on time.”

“I’m always on time. Gimme me five minutes. Three to shower, two to get dressed. Get the files, would you? On the desk by the window. I made some further notes just in case.”

Danny listens to Steve’s retreating steps, follows him in his mind to his bedroom, hears the opening of the closet doors, and then the low snick of the bathroom door closing. The running water makes him heave a sigh. He forces his mind off those images he has no right to think about. He turns to get the files and grabs them only to stare at a notebook Steve must have left by accident. It has a look that doesn’t fit Steve’s image of a neat freak and a we-do-it-the-Navy-way nerd. It’s well-used with dog ears and rings of coffee cups. It looks like it has been pushed one too many times in the back pocket of some pants without a care in the world how it would survive. It looks maltreated. It’s so unfamiliar to see this piece lying on the desk next to a stack of plain white paper, pens and other writing utensils neatly orderd, books, and other things a man needs to keep his affairs in order.

Danny knows it’s wrong but he has no control over his hand that touches the notebook. It’s the kind of cheap notebook one can buy in any shop. No title. He opens it. The first page is filled with doodles and just drawings, nothing makes sense. Some single words are written repeatedly like ‘sun’, or ‘wind’, or ‘brothers’. The next three pages are empty except the circles. All kinds of shaped circles. The most interesting page is full of hand-written text and the title says ‘what makes me happy’ with a skull sketch right next to it.

Danny knows he should close it. This is private, intimate to a level he has no right to pry about but the way the letters move together and form that sentence tugs at something inside his chest. Steve must go to therapy and this is one of his homework he has been ordered to do. He has never mentioned therapy sessions. Danny feels a sting of hurt because yeah, because he wishes Steve would trust him with this.

Steve’s handwriting is always full of self-esteem, accurate and solid. But this here . . . these screams of insecurity and feeling at a loss of words to express something he has been forced to do. Danny knows how Steve hates such mind-befuddling stuff. He loathes head shrinks and what comes with it. But he is willing to go with the load of homework. It must be serious then.

The water has stopped running.

Danny blinks and inhales deeply. He wants to look away but his eyes catch the words that are written mushed together on the page with too high pressure on the pen. ‘Beachbeachsunsandfoodlotsoffoodbeachsunsandfoodlotsofoodwhatthefuckdoiknowidontwantthis...’ and there in between was one word, crossed out a few times almost unreadable but Danny recognizes his name in the middle of this worm of linked up words. The understanding causes a sharp pain piercing through his chest and he jerks back when he hears Steve thundering down the stairs.

“Ready! Are you coming?” Steve shouts in his direction but Danny is already at the door, looking strictly ahead and pulling it open.

“Took you long enough,” Danny complains unnessecarily and keeps the car keys out of Steve’s reach. “I’m driving.” His heart still hiccups in his chest. Steve wears a fragrance like amber and spice and the ache in his chest ups.

“Don’t be a dick. You waited exactly five minutes.” Steve grumbles and makes a scene about his long legs that don’t fit in the too small foot space of the passenger seat.

“Don’t even try to be difficult. And don’t whine about getting car sick. Today, I’m driving. I’ll take you out to lunch after court. What say you?”

“Just you and me?” Steve sounds tense.

“Yeah, just us.” Danny hopes he says it casually enough and, of course, he catches the strain in Steve’s muscles. He doesn’t know what to do with this.

“You’re paying?” Steve twists in his seat.

“Was my plan, yeah. Why? Got a problem with being invited?” Danny just has decided that he has a new goal every day: to pull a smile from Steve. A real one. The rare one. He shifts gear. “You never have your wallet on you. Got used to it. So? Deal?”

“Yeah, deal but I’m buying. You’re driving. Partners share.” Steve doesn’t meet Danny’s eyes and kicks with his feet into the end of the foot space.

“Okay, fair enough and stop with the kicking already. You’re like a child.” Danny filters into the morning traffic. His heart doesn’t want to calm down. Steve just offered to pay for lunch. He gets lost in thoughts. That’s a fucking new one.

“You okay?” Steve asks after a while into the silence.

“Yeah, good. All good. Just getting ready for court. Mentally ready.” Danny tries to pull his inner eyes from the picture of Steve’s handwriting. The non-verbal message left an imprint on his heart.

Steve side-eyes him more than once. Danny’s stomach doesn’t unknot.

“What are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that, huh? I won’t jump from any fucking roof because you’re paying for lunch later. I don’t owe you a favor because of it.” Danny rants at Steve feeling already better.

“What? You think I’m that guy? Seriously, Danny? That’s mean, even for you.No, especially from you.” Steve moves his legs and crosses his arms over his chest but Danny sees the smile that tugs at his lips.

Danny shuts up but his fingers tingle with the urge to reach over and touch Steve. They’re going to have lunch today. He’d say it’s a start.

#h50 #mcdanno #ficlet #something pre-slash #boys in love #a gift for you babe #hope you're okay #lots of love #getting ready for the NaNo vibe

[heynhay]

woe! klance be upon ye

#feeling mild abt all of these except the first one. i like my poses on that one. hrm yes. #klance #voltron #vld #art #my art #first one tho can be read as pre slash shameless yearning or as established relationship silliness #idk haha... someone should like...write about it or something... lolz........ no im kidding...hahahahaha....... #blinks slowly

[minhxiao]

if a tree falls scaramouche/aether | rating: T | 2.1k words The night before Jnagarbha Day, when Scaramouche is to complete the final stage of the God Creation Plan, Aether finds him alone in the Apam Woods.

Even at night, the Ashavan Realm is a humid, verdant green. In another life, Scaramouche might have found it beautiful. 

His presence is like an aberrated ink blot on canvas. Even the local flora and fauna seem to bend away from his vicinity, the mythical Aranara making themselves scarce in his company.  

It’s hardly a surprise to Scaramouche. After all, these days, he's only the specter of a person. 

But not for long.

What does come as a surprise, however, is the sudden prickling of awareness that arises at the base of his neck, the sound of rustling grass and footsteps behind him. A draft of warm life fills the air and somewhere, a lotus blooms. 

He hadn’t expected him to show up, to find him here on the night before his ascension as a new god, but Scaramouche doesn’t mind surprises. What he doesn’t like is the feeling of being cornered. 

But he displays none of this current unease, barely even flinches or startles at the traveler’s presence. He only digs his heels into the dirt when he hears Aether come to a stop just behind him. His floating companion is mysteriously absent. 

A divine intervention, then. Scaramouche almost smiles. For a moment, it’s quiet and the wind cradles the veil of his hat like a gentle touch. 

Aether speaks first. 

“You don’t want to do this.” 

Scaramouche had strangely expected him to start with something pleasant, like “what a beautiful view” or “the sky looks lovely tonight,” but quickly realizes the absurdity of that thought. They had never been friends. Even the word “acquaintances” is far too generous. Perhaps it’s merely the strange, unsettled feeling in Scaramouche’s body tonight that is making him more prone to things like sentimentality. 

It is an immense relief knowing that tomorrow, he won’t have to deal with such things anymore.

“You seem to think you know a large deal about what I want,” Scaramouche says, still not turning to face him. “What, one look into my consciousness is enough to have me all figured out?” 

“You… You said you care for Haypasia,” Aether hesitates and oh, Scaramouche loves how he can make someone like the staunch, unwavering traveler stumble over his words. “Someone who cares for their mortal follower wouldn’t willingly throw away their humanity for something like this.” 

“Humanity…” Scaramouche muses. He really is growing sentimental on the night before his rebirth and the feeling itches in the way that he imagines a scar would feel. So Scaramouche only ghosts his fingers over the gnosis in his chest, listens to it tick like a clockwork heart. 

“You already know that I think that’s hardly something worth fighting for.” 

“And divinity is?” 

“... Divinity is my purpose. That’s all there is to it,” Scaramouche stands, slowly dusting the dirt off his trousers. “I have to say, you’re even more delusional that I had initially thought if you really hoped to achieve something with this conversation, but fortunately, you caught me in a good mood, so―”

“I don’t buy it. You’re throwing your life away just to become the Akademiya’s next puppet. You can’t tell me that that’s something you truly want.” 

Perhaps it’s the word “puppet” that sends an irrational flicker of rage and resentment through Scaramouche. His face immediately darkens as he finally turns to face him. 

And there he is, sickeningly golden like the touch of the sun’s last light.

He who has received the favor of the gods. He who had been privy to Scaramouche’s deepest memories, had witnessed his past that still bled like a raw, open wound.

He who has everything that Scaramouche does not. 

Aether.

Even a name is something that Scaramouche does not truly possess, and Aether's is something beautiful, light and free of burden like the wide expanse of the sky.

There is already a sword unsheathed in Aether’s right hand and Scaramouche realizes suddenly that Aether had come despite knowing that his words would be useless. He had approached him all alone, prepared to fight.

Anything Scaramouche had planned to say immediately sours in his mouth.

What a fool.

"You know nothing about what I want."

A sick feeling, vicious as a scythe, twists its way up Scaramouche’s hollow limbs and he decides that he’s no longer feeling generous enough for conversation. He’s moving before he even realizes it, flickering towards him in an arc of lightning. 

To his credit, Aether only wavers for a moment, his eyes briefly widening, before he meets Scaramouche’s blow with the edge of his blade. Electricity sings down the metal into the pommel in his hand, but Aether doesn’t drop his sword. 

He only winces before summoning a snarl of Dendro, bending the earth to his will as vines sprawl to curl beneath Scaramouche’s feet. The irony is not lost on him that Aether is using Rukkhadevata’s power against him, the essence of the energy overflowing with growth, vitality. The thorns nick against the skin of his calves, but he doesn’t register the pain.

Scaramouche singes all of the thorns to dust. 

In a flash, he has his fingers around Aether’s wrist, sending a bolt of lightning lancing up his arm, strong enough to shock the weapon from his hands. 

Aether jolts with a stuttered gasp as he drops his sword, the static making his hair rise as his veins bloom with electricity. His lips are parted in surprise. This close, Scaramouche can feel how harshly his breath leaves him. 

But Aether recovers quickly enough to yank Scaramouche’s robes and drag him bodily to the ground. His hat tumbles from his head with a soft clink. Teeth gritted, Aether arches his knee to drive it into Scaramouche’s stomach, but the Balladeer only twists out of the way and slams his elbow into Aether’s ribcage. 

Scaramouche normally doesn’t fight like this. He never understood the point of getting his hands dirty. But for the first time, he finds there is some physical delight in feeling how his fist connects with Aether’s jaw, how skin meets skin in a moment of perfect, intimate violence. 

Maybe it’s the stark knowledge that this is the closest Scaramouche will ever come to touching something truly holy. 

Aether spits out blood. It splatters crimson across Scaramouche’s knuckles. 

He grabs a fistful of Aether’s hair and tilts his face to look at him. 

The traveler glares at him, chin lifted. Every part of his expression is so devastatingly human that Scaramouche finds himself observing him for a moment. And he’s unbearably easy to read, every feeling that flashes across Aether’s face is as clear as the heart he wears on his sleeve.

“Look at you,” Scaramouche digs his knee against Aether’s hip. “So worked up over me. I should feel flattered.” 

Aether’s brows furrow. He twists to kick his legs, but it’s hardly a struggle to keep him pinned there on the ground. 

“I could say the same for you,” Aether’s voice is low, controlled, though his eyes cut with an unspeakable venom. Oh, he’s angry, and Scaramouche likes that― likes seeing the way he tempers his anger, hones it mid-swing like the arc of a blade just before release.

Anger had always been too tame of a word for Scaramouche― no, what he felt was always something much uglier. Hideous. So there was a strange satisfaction in being able to see that feeling perfectly mirrored in Aether’s own face. 

It’s comforting, in a way. Knowing that even he was capable of such an unsightly feeling. 

Aether’s chest glows green and gnarled tree branches twist along Scaramouche’s legs, rooting him in place. Scaramouche lets go of Aether’s hair just as a vine darts out to snake along his forearm, squeezing tight enough to bruise.

“I’m only indulging you right now since I have the time,” Scaramouche answers, eyes catching on the Dendro energy swirling through Aether’s form. He hates that it’s mesmerizing, that a part of him wants to reach out and dip his hands into that pure, sage green light. “Wanted to see how you’d play the hero.” 

What he doesn’t say is that he really just wanted to see Aether fight for him. 

To see just how desperately the traveler would try to sway him so that maybe, Scaramouche could vainly hope for one second that someone like him was really someone worth saving.

“I’m not trying to play anything.” Aether’s vines curl their way up his shoulder.

“Really? Then why are you here?” Scaramouche lets them constrict and wrap around the length of his torso. “Don’t tell me you thought you would actually be able to convince me.” 

Scaramouche doesn’t miss how Aether’s eyes flash with something raw and honest before it quickly settles back into a heated glare. He falls impossibly still in realization. 

He really did think he could convince me. 

The idea is so absurd that Scaramouche actually goes silent, stunned speechless. 

Aether must see this, because in his momentary distraction, the traveler pulls back his fist and swings it squarely into Scaramouche’s face.

It stings, but only because Scaramouche’s not expecting it. His head snaps to the side, mouth opening.

“I don’t know, maybe I did,” Aether pants, eyes glowing. “ Maybe I thought more of you.”

Something in Scaramouche’s chest stirs with heat and he mistakes it for the stolen gnosis between his ribs. His jaw aches.

Those words almost make you sound like a friend who truly cares.

And Scaramouche looks down at Aether then, his golden hair splayed around him like sweet flowers in the dirt, his fingers slightly shaking in his clenched fist. He sees how the sharp Dendro tendrils are poised around Scaramouche’s neck, paused and waiting― how he’s too merciful to strike him unaware, even now.

In a brief, terrifying moment, Scaramouche wonders if he should just let Aether kill him. But his resilient, infallible body is incapable of death, even at the hands of someone greater. 

How honorable, to be a hero. To carry a title as liberating as “the witness”, “the traveler.” In another life, Scaramouche might have loved to have been the same.

But Scaramouche has long forgotten about things like “honor.”

His voice comes out hoarse. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He sends a current of Electro straight down through the blooming vines until they snap like dry, brittle bark. 

Aether flinches when Scaramouche lifts him up by the scarf and arcs his hand back to strike. 

The palm of his hand crests with a surge of Electro energy, a blinding violet. His power, her power. 

Scaramouche knows, in a moment of heightened clarity, that he could kill him. Right here, in the middle of the forest, with no one else watching― he could kill him so easily that it would be laughable. No one would even know who did it. The entirety of the traveler’s unfathomable, mundane life all within the palm of Scaramouche’s hand. 

In that split second, he sees Aether’s eyes widen with the same realization. Aether’s lips part in a soft intake of breath. 

When a star dies, does it make a sound?

Scaramouche remembers then, that death is a soundless, lightless thing. How it does nothing but leave you and leave you. Even if he were to become a god, he has a feeling he would always remember this death, the way an axe always remembers the tree.

And maybe it’s a moment of weakness, maybe it’s the slight breeze in the woods that reminds him that the forest is watching him. Or maybe it’s Aether’s expression, full and alive with something intangible.    

But he can’t bear it. 

All of Scaramouche’s power leaves him in a split second, his body draining into a hollow vessel. His hand falls limply atop Aether’s chest, right over his stupid, beating heart. He feels it thrumming wildly beneath his fingertips, his pulse warm and rabbit-like.

It's nothing at all like the sound in Scaramouche's chest.

Aether’s breath returns to him in sharp bursts, his hand instinctively rising to curl loosely around Scaramouche’s wrist. His head falls back against the ground in muted relief, the tension slowly bleeding from his body. 

He sees Aether’s mouth open, his gaze swirling with intensity, but Scaramouche suddenly feels exhausted. And he doesn’t want to stick around any longer to hear what Aether has to say. 

So he tugs his wrist from Aether’s grasp and pushes off of him, reaching over to grab his hat. 

The moon peeks out between the clouds, painting Aether’s figure in an incandescent silvery light. Part of his braid has come loose. His lip drips blood in a line straight down his chin. 

(But even bloodied and bruised, he is a vision of everything Scaramouche is not.)

He can’t stand it. 

“Scaramouche, you―”

The Balladeer turns to leave, not intent on hearing the end of Aether’s sentence. His veil rustles as he tips his hat to shield his face. He raises a useless hand in farewell, hoping that the gesture feels mocking.

And if he spends the rest of his night thinking about Aether’s expression right before he could have killed him, no one has to know.

#canon divergent #character study #pre-slash #enemies to lovers #an excerpt from an old scaraether wip! used it for a submission but realized i might as well post since i'm not gonna post it on ao3 #inspired by some post talking abt scara wanting to kill aether but realizing he couldn't bear killing something so beautiful #ficlets #genshin fic #genshin impact #scaraether #aescara #minific

[lenievi]

I wish you would write a fic where McCoy is separated from Kirk and Spock, and Kirk ends up articulating to Spock just why that's more upsetting to him than being separated from the Enterprise

a response to this [ask meme]

this is completely different than the prompt lol but this is the result...

---

“Captain,” Spock said as he watched Kirk pace the cage. “Doctor McCoy is a healer. They will not hurt him.”

“You don’t know that,” Kirk snapped without looking at Spock. He let out a sigh and sat down on a stone bench on the other side of the room.

“It would be illogical. They need his help.”

“They need his help now. What about later?” Kirk ran his palm over his face. “They already shot two of my men to death. Why would he be any different?”

Spock had no answer to that. The doctor meant nothing to the Grevians. He was simply a tool, and there was no guarantee he would be returned to them. There was no guarantee that the short-tempered Grevians wouldn’t find the irascible doctor threatening and uncooperative.

“I’m sorry,” Kirk said, looking up at Spock with a tense smile. Not even after so many years among them, could Spock understand why humans smiled as a way of reassurance, especially when they didn’t feel like it. It didn’t ease the heavy sensation in Spock’s abdomen even a bit.

Kirk rubbed his hands against his thighs and continued, “It’s just…” He sighed and shook his head.

“I understand, Jim.”

Kirk did not look at him.

“I shouldn’t have brought him. He wasn’t needed here.”

“Captain.”

“After the Vians and the Platonias, I stopped including him in landing parties. When he noticed, we argued, and I yielded. I shouldn’t have.”

“Captain, Doctor McCoy…”

“I would order him to die, I would order him to sacrifice himself if the situation demanded it. You know that, he knows that. He would beg me to let him do it, and if there was no other choice I…” Jim swallowed. “But someone else taking him, taking his life. I can’t…” Kirk looked into his lap. “I… need him, Spock.”

There were no words Spock could say to make Kirk feel better. He didn’t know the outcome, he couldn’t be sure of what would happen to them or McCoy. 

They needed to plan their escape.

“McCoy knows the risks of being in the service,” Spock said. “It is our situation that requires our immediate attention.”

“Spock…” Kirk fisted his uniform pants, his mouth set into a hard line. He exhaled, straightened, and said coldly, “When someone comes next, I want you to use your Vulcan techniques to get us out.”

#my writing #mckirk #i mean it's like gen/pre-slash but still written with mckirk tinted glasses #Jim Kirk #spock #star trek tos #i can't follow prompts. it never works lol #but at least i wrote something and that counts #maybe now when it's finished i can move on and work on something else

[mneiai]

Cos your other fic got me intrigued maybe something Jon/Daemon Blackfyre?

Ides of March Themed Fills

"There, in there," the voice echoed in his head and Aemon did as instructed, ducking into the storeroom he wouldn't have even noticed on his own.

Moments later, the clank of armored figures running by sounded. They did not stop to check--they didn't notice the concealed door, either.

He leaned back against the wall, allowing himself time to catch his breath and access the situation.

Something had gone horribly wrong. This was a holy day of Old Valyria, a day for various rituals long forgotten, and his father the king had decided to practice one anew. Whether he through his own mistake or the power of Westerosi magic had interfered, Aemon didn't know.

What had been meant to simply to wipe clean their past, to purge the taint of the last king's rule, had instead pulled their ancestors to them.

The strongest willed of them could reach forth through the veil, yes, but only those with unfinished business had done so.

Unfinished business in House Targaryen was rarely a good thing.

The others had no natural defenses: Aemon was the only warg among them, the only one who could shield his mind from the power-given spirits.

That didn't mean he was alone, of course. As grandfather, and Maegor, and Aegon II stole the bodies and memories of his family, he found Daemon Blackfyre still at the edges of his mind, not making attempts to take him over.

He was as horrified as Aemon was. Daemon had started a war, a series of rebellions that caused untold suffering, but he had believed his cause righteous and when he'd been alive, so had many of the realm. He wouldn't have been a bad King, if he'd been sooner or later he might have even been the accepted, seen-rightful one.

At no point did he want suffering and destruction for their own sake.

Or, Aemon hoped the was true, because he had no one else to trust. Servants and highborn thought there had been an attempted coup, assumed that House Targaryen was pulling itself apart naturally, and he did not know who may be loyal to which supposed side or where they thought Aemon fell.

"To the North," he whispered in his mind, feeling Daemon's trepidation.

"To Dragonstone, this was Valyrian magic," he countered.

Aemon shook his head, already collecting himself to make another go for an escape route few bothered using and fewer still would be able to--past the kennels, where anyone else running by would set the dogs into a frenzy of noise.

He started moving, stretching out his senses. "Bloodraven is in the North."

Daemon's shock was amusing enough to lift Aemon's spirits, momentarily. And then he consented, clearly aware the his brother knew more about magic than most others they could find.

They were stuck together, perhaps forever, perhaps simply until the spell was finished. And they were both reasonable enough to know that meant they had to work together.

The fate of House Targaryen, the realm itself, rested on them.

#ironicallypresant #ask answers #asoiaf fic #this ended up more pre-slash but just assume they slowly fall in love or something over their quest to exorcise the others lol

[diggerofbodies]

« He felt weirdly elated, for the whole exchange, tense as it was, felt almost like a game. As if he were dancing with an old partner, or wrestling with a childhood friend that he hadn't seen in years. »

#you know it’s a good fanfic when you have to stop reading and stare in the distance #fanfic #there’s just something abt gen/pre slash dean/cas that it different

[lau-apologist]

wife. wife notice me. pwease. senpai.

#i know that i shouldn’t expect nothing in return #since i’m already granted the honor of breathing in her pres- #wait i’m not #i’m in fucking brazil #but anyway #i know that being a lau apologist slash defender #is already a great honor in and of itself #but in the same way that a religious person expects to be answered by their god #i #too #await with bated breath #the day my wife will cast her #holy huge brown eyes #👁️👁️ #upon this most humble blog #and i will disintegrate into glitter #unable to withstand the scorching heat of her pure ardent goddess love #or something #but it would be worth it #for i too am icarus #simping too close to the sun

[supercutszns]

rotten to the touch; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc: 3.2k

pairing: pre-tlt luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: you’re pretty sure you’re an awful person. you’re pretty sure luke castellan is too. and you’re pretty sure you want to make out with him.

warnings: reader is flawed & not the greatest, luke is ... a little dark🫣, small mention of blood, swearing, lots of making out but no explicit nsfw, a bit toxic, & no more more ‘i can fix him’ or ‘i can make him worse’ it’s ‘he can make ME worse’

notes: this is… sluttier than my usual stuff so it’s not as good but i’m trying, feedback is appreciated! also i wonder what cabin we think this reader would be in, let me know where you’d place her im curious :) maybe i’ll write more of her in the future she’s interesting!! and thank you for 100 followers i am so grateful<3 designated song for this fic is crush by ethel cain

You are a miserable, wicked, asshole of a person, and everybody knows it. Including you.

It’s unclear to you why you turned out this way—every reason to blame never satiates the fury searing your insides. All the campers hate you. The counsellors, too. Even Chiron looks down on the viciousness inside you. You are Camp Half-Blood’s black sheep; a mean, bitter person with no love for the people around you. And it’s not just for show. You know you’re rotten. You know the anger will never go away.

It’s evident in the things you think about other people—the way you pick them apart in your head, toss them aside, because they just don’t see it. This miserable, unforgiving world, with children sleeping on wooden floors because the people who created you think you disposable. Because they can just make more of you. More, more, more, until one of you comes out rotten, born of all the ugliness they have inside them. You are the worst parts of Godly blood. The wrathful parts.

Everyone hates you. Everyone hates a person with an unquenchable anger.

But everyone loves Luke Castellan.

He’s a saint at Camp Half-Blood if there ever was one. Handsome, generous, kind. Goes out of his way to help out the new kids and gives them homes in his cabin. He’s the best swordsman in camp by a mile. Shit, you’d even love Luke Castellan if you didn’t know any better.

But you do, and you don’t, and it’s complicated, okay?

Because there’s something you know about Luke Castellan that nobody else does: he’s miserable and wicked, too.

You see it in his eyes sometimes. The way they look at you at dinner, when you’re picking at your food away from anyone else at your table. Something familiar rises in them, and your stomach twists. His body tenses whenever someone mentions his father, but the smiles he flashes are so charismatic nobody notices. But you do. It’s exciting.

During sword practice, he quips back and forth with the kids and laughs whenever they take a jab at him. He’s light, easy, carefree. But you see how he holds back, the tension in his shoulder, the way the arc of his sword never fully finishes. So you wait until everybody leaves and he’s alone, with the training dummies and the setting sun. And you. Hiding.

He slashes through them and spears through their heads. You see it, the gnashing of his teeth, the sweat curling down his cheeks. There’s something there. A chasm he’s hopeless to fill.

Before you know it, you’re going out of your way to catch him training alone. It’s creepy, you know, and awful, you know, but the more you watch him the more you see a sort of violence scabbed under his skin.

Whenever you see him now, the feeling you get is entirely foreign to you. It’s almost . . . longing.

Wherever she is, you’re pretty sure Aphrodite’s having a cosmic fucking laugh. And you’re sure she’s laughing double tonight.

The Aphrodite cabin is hosting some secret party for the older counsellors. You’re definitely of age to be a counsellor, but you’ve never been made one because that would probably make half the campers drop out. Chiron and Mr. D don’t know what to do with you. You’re sure you’ll be kicked out of camp soon for good.

But you’re here anyways, for a reason you don’t want to admit, and you stay tucked in a corner as the world around you mingles. Luke is on the other side of the room, lovely as always, laughing with a few other counsellors. He brings a drink up to his lips, and you have a startling thought of what it would be like to kiss him. And you’re fucked. You’re so fucked. Because for the first time in your life you want something tangible, something real. You want to hear him and feel him and pry him apart, and a part of you wants him to actually see you, see all the awful things that might make you the same. You feel like a teenage girl with a crush, and it is infuriating.

An Aphrodite girl comes up to you with a foolish smile. “Hey, sorry, you want a drink?”

“Fuck off, you idiot,” you snarl.

You wait for her to leave. She doesn’t. “You know, you don’t have to be so mean all the time,” she says evenly. “If you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. So yes, I want to give you a drink.”

“Have you ever thought that I’m not being mean? Maybe I just am.”

You glare at her. She looks you up and down. “Sure,” she shrugs, walking away. There’s a vivid picture in your mind of her falling through a hole in the cabin floor. It doesn’t soothe you, but at least the fantasy is there.

The night drones on. You’re sick of the smells and the laughs and the heat. And you’re sick of yourself. You can’t believe, underneath all your sourness, you came here to stare at a boy you barely know, and you don’t even know why. He’s fascinating, and you resent him, and he’s also beautiful. But he’s looked back at you all of three times tonight and you’re sick of the way your skin crawls when he does.

Leaving the cabin brings the relief of the cool night air, and the singularity of your body. You are the only one who feels this rage. You are the only one who hates.

To stave off your discomfort you walk around to the back of the cabin, to the crest of the hill facing the water. The stars above twinkle at you in spite. There’s a bitterness in your throat you want to wash down with something worse (maybe you should have taken that drink), but you know it won’t matter. Nothing matters. Those stars and whatever they hide are apparently the only important things in the universe, so why should anyone care about anything?

They stars only get brighter. It’s probably their goal to piss you off. You grunt, “Oh, fuck you,” to them. It’s not enough, never nearly enough to expel the rotten part of you. “Fuck you. Fuck off!” You groan at the sky. Nothing happens. Until:

“I’m guessing you’re not having a fun night.”

You whirl around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but whatever light is left catches a long scar on a cheek. Your stomach knots.

“Yeah, me neither,” Luke Castellan says, hands in his pockets as he meanders towards you.

Even when he’s close enough, you don’t say anything. If you do, you’re afraid it’ll be something ugly. Like I kind of want to make out with you. Are you awful too? I need a lobotomy.

The thoughts almost make you laugh. Been a long time since you’ve been funny.

He nods at the sky. “Those things don’t talk. You do know that, right?” He’s still so captivating, so self-assured, even when there’s no one around but you.

“Gods, you’re the worst,” you scoff. You really mean it, so you can’t look him in the eye.

“Then why have you been staring at me all night?”

It catches you so off-guard that you whip back to face him. He has an eyebrow raised and the itch of a smile that makes you burn with shame. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He shrugs, leaning against the cabin wall. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been brooding in the corner watching me the second you came in.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Actually, you stare at me all the time. At meals and stuff. I really hope you don’t think you’re being subtle.”

You huff. “Okay, if we’re really being honest here, you started that! You do it too! All the time!”

His hands shot up like he was being arrested. “Hey, I never said I minded it. A guy’s . . . just gotta wonder. What’s up with you spying on me when I’m training alone, anyways?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You watch me when there’s nobody else around. I’m not blind. It’s weird. If you want tips you can just ask me. Or if you like what you’re looking at, at least be upfront about it.”

You speak before you can take in that last sentence, or the way his smile took pride in itself when he said it, or how embarrassed you should probably feel. “You didn’t answer my question about why you started staring at me first.”

The anger (shame) blinding you made you forget how close you are to him right now. Close enough to touch, but not enough to see. But almost there. Almost.

“People think you’re mean,” Luke says after a moment, his dark eyes probing you. The words curl out of his mouth slowly, like he’s choosing them all with care. “You’re rude. You never listen to anyone. You judge everything. They all think you’re awful.” Again, he looks you over. “I’m not so sure.”

“If I’m awful, then you’re awful,” you spit before he can say anything else.

He just shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m not sure.”

It’s irritating, his calmness. He has the same anger you do. How come he can just . . . shove it down? You try to unearth any fury in his eyes, but it’s too far back. Simmering. “Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re worse than me.”

He looks genuinely taken aback by this. His scar deepens when his brows wrinkle. “What?”

“You’re a pretender—that’s what you are.” It’s your turn now, to step closer, to make his skin crawl. “Look at you. Everyone loves you. You’re this perfect golden boy and you’re sweet and attentive and whatever the fuck but you know it’s one giant lie. At least I’m honest, but you just sit pretty and act like you don’t have that . . . thing that I have. Resentment. Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. We’re the same, but I’m the only one getting shit for it.”

Now, you are close enough to really see him. The patterns on the wood behind him frame the vision of his ever-shifting face. You realize that this, like most things are to Luke Castellan, is a challenge. You also can’t remember the last time you saw him lose one.

But when you play, you play to win.

“You don’t know that,” he dares.

“Oh, I do. You’re rotten, Castellan,” you sneer, index finger jabbed into his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate. “And you’re not owning up to it, so you’re also a coward.”

However scathing you look, it isn’t enough. If anything it only makes Luke’s manner more playful. Nothing feels playful anymore. Everything, inside and outside of your mind, feels like constant, exhausting war. Maybe that’s why you don’t slap his hand off you when it wraps around your wrist, keeping it pressed to the middle of his chest. His heartbeat thrums through you.

He tilts his face towards you, grinning, “Then why do you want to kiss me?”

All right. What the fuck. It feels like you’ve been electrocuted.

“What the—what are you talking about?” You blunder, but he knows, of course he knows, because there’s something between the two of you that has been formed and understood by eye contact alone. He can probably read your mind. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’d like to read his just as much.

He cocks his head. “I mean, you did call me pretty,” he teases, and it’s almost endearing. “You’re pretty like this too.” His other hand comes up to your face, and you’re surprised you don’t flinch when his thumb gently smooths the crease in your eyebrows. “Don’t call me a coward, heathen. Then we’ll both be embarrassed.”

The nickname makes you want to fight, but the touch makes you dizzy. “You don’t want to kiss me, Luke,” you say with all the control you have, which, right now, is increasingly sparse.

“You’ve gotta stop telling people what they want,” he muses. The hand on your wrist traces further down your forearm. The one on your face snakes around your hips. “One of your more disagreeable qualities.”

His words fan over you. That fire simmering in his eyes has finally come to the surface.

“One of?” You challenge.

“You let me make out with you and I’ll give you a whole list.”

You snort, hoping it hides the shortness in your breath. “What a charmer you are.”

His lips brush yours. “Well, that’s what makes me so rotten, isn’t it?”

There’s hardly time to unravel if that’s a question or a statement because you grab a fistful of his shirt and he kisses you. Your heart detonates. It is not rotten in the slightest.

His body is warm and firm. You smell the cabin wood and the drink on his breath. It all matters, and none of it does. You’re warm everywhere as he wraps both arms around your back, and the way he kisses is, unfortunately, exactly how you thought he would. Your hands are tentative in his hair. So is your mouth on his. But Luke is so deliberate in the way he kisses that you know he’s thought about this, too. It makes you all the warmer.

His hand takes your jaw and tilts it up. You know your neck is shaky with breath, and you’re pretty sure he’s admiring it. You don’t complain when he presses a kiss to your jaw, then another one, like he’s testing the waters. “You’re so nice like this,” he mutters almost to himself, thumb running across your neck. “If only people could see you.”

“Then they’d see how mean you are too, no?” You huff. “You don’t want that.”

Another kiss to your jaw. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Whatever feeling is harbouring in your body right now, it’s so fulfilling it almost makes you uncomfortable. You want to reject it. You’re not supposed to want things. Worse, you’re not supposed to get things. Luke starts marking a path down your neck and you are so determined to enjoy this that you’d kiss a fucking baby if someone asked you to. You might as well be a saint.

He bites the pulse point on your neck, sure to leave a mark, and a shudder rips through you. You’re pretty sure the bastard starts laughing. You hit his shoulder in retaliation.

“Easy, heathen,” he reprimands in your ear, and you know he’s still smiling.

“Don’t—don’t call me that.” You hate that you start to smile, too, and that your stomach burgeons with butterflies when he pulls back to look at you.

He touches the corner of your upturned mouth, kiss-bitten and red. His expression is boyish. “Hard to when it makes your face do that,” he goads. “I thought it was impossible for you to smile.”

“Be quiet.” You thread a hand through his camp necklace and bring him closer. You can almost taste his mouth on yours, but he sweeps past you at the last minute.

He gently tugs your earlobe with his teeth and whispers, “Yes ma’am.”

Fuck him. Seriously. You might have to.

It’s a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath his shirt and he does the same, and you’re both angry and greedy and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet. Now you’re just teenagers fooling around at the back of a party, and it’s the first good thing either of you have had in a long time. Luke leaves you gasping whenever his mouth hits certain places, maybe too many places, and he teases you accordingly. “So sensitive,” he taunts, pressing his knee between your legs so he can see you squirm. You rake your nails through his scalp and he tilts his head back to groan. It shuts him up for a while.

He bites your neck until you say his name. You trace lines on his stomach till he takes your hand in his own. You’ve been hungry for something your whole life, and you finally have something to sink your teeth into. For better or for worse.

After Hades knows how long, laughter floats out from the front of the cabin. Sounds of feet tripping over each other and muffled goodbyes. You pull away from Luke, chests heaving together. His hair is wild, his shirt crumpled, and he looks entirely satisfied with it. Smug little shit. “Party’s letting out,” you mutter.

“What a damn shame.” His hand rubs your jaw, and it’s too tender a gesture so you angle your head away to peek over the side of the cabin. You barely pay attention to the kids straggling back to their bunks.

“Is now the time you tell me all my horrible qualities?” You ask once you’re ready to look at him again.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Actually, I came up with more since I said that so I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than one night.” He fakes a wince, “Might have to spread it out for a few days.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh, you ass.”

“I’ll give you one for starters.” You feel like a tornado when he kisses the juncture between your jaw and your neck. “Your hands are too cold.” They’re tucked underneath his shirt right now, pressed against his back. You don’t move them. “And,” he adds, “you’re incredibly crass.”

“Thanks, dipshit.”

“Thank you for proving my point, heathen.”

The commotion at the front gets louder, and you know your time to go undiscovered runs short. “You meet me again tomorrow, and I start telling you the rest?” He raises his brows.

The prospect both repulses and excites you, although perhaps they’re hand-in-hand. You tentatively reach up to trace the scar on his face. A faint, jagged line that holds scripture within it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Even though I’m rotten?” You ask, and there’s an echo of mischief in your voice, too.

He’s got a strange expression when he looks at you. “That’s not true.”

He leans down, angles his head to kiss you. It’s slow, but bitter, and he bites down on your lip until you’re pretty sure there’s blood. “Luke,” you murmur, and he kisses you softer. You lean into him like a hapless, lovesick fool.

After you part, he loosens his grip on you. The bumbling campers have gotten louder. He stares at you, and you see the chasm in his eyes again, brimming with fire. Same as yours. You know you’ll see him tomorrow.

He says, “You’re not rotten. You’re right.”

And damn it, you really do believe him.

#perrie’s fics #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo x reader #pjo series #pjo tv show #luke castellan smut #pjo #heroes of olympus #charlie bushnell #i like sexy evil people making out okay. #maybe will make a part 2 to this series because i’m just so fascinated by their weird little dynamic but we’ll see #i kind of hate this but WE MOVE ANYWAYS!!

[wingodex]

i started writing this fic bcus there werent any canonverse getting together fics for this pairing, but now i'm too invested in the adventure part of the story and the worldbuilding that i've completely forgotten about the whole getting together part. maybe i will just write another gen/pre-slash fic, like always. how does this keep happening to me

#wings.txt #sorry unfortunately my favourite dynamic is unresolved pining #i've always been weirdly obsessed with pre-slash fic #there's just something about the inevitability of it but never actually seeing it play out #it makes me feel such a specific emotion #i think i have a problem where i'm actually a little bit allergic to romance #are these characters gay or just good friends? idk man i'm leaving it ambiguous #i know it's a terrible way to write fics. oh well

[transvampireboyfriend]

indirect touch my beloved <3

#im writing a lil breakfast date (not really) pre slash thing and seeing this and my nicknames fic and going through my wips #this is like a thing for me huh #indirect touch is something that can be so personal <3 #member the pushing daisies post? #mmhm mmhm it's all lining up #writing #. #microblogging

[froggibus]

Pankration - Wriothesley

Pairing: Wriothesley x gn! Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort

Word Count: 900

Summary: Wriothesley is not impressed after you get hurt fighting in the Pankration Ring

CW: injury, reader gets stabbed, fighting, pre established relationship, soft! Wriothesley, mostly just fluffy hurt/comfort, probably some spoilers for 4.1

hello it is 230am and I just did the 4.1 quests for like ~4hrs and now I have major brain rot for this man. something about him just makes my little frog brain go feral. i haven’t finished the quest yet so apologies if something isn’t correct or if I misspelled something also not taking reqs rn but if yall have some ideas for this man i think i could take them

————

The familiar sound of heavy boot steps echoes down the halls, reverberating into the infirmary. Sigewinne gives you a wide eyed look but the panic fails to register, drowned out by the pain.

You writhe on the bed, forcing yourself into a sitting position. Sigewinne stands at your side, fiddling with her fingers behind her back.

As soon as Wriothesley enters the room, you can see he’s disgruntled. Your boyfriend says nothing as he locks eyes with you, trodding towards the end of the bed.

“What happened?”

Sigewinne tries to pipe up first. “Y/n got injured fighting in the Pankration Ring.”

Wriothesley’s features soften for a moment as he looks at the Melusine. “Sigewinne, could you leave us for a moment?”

She bows her head and scurries out of the room, as if sensing the anger radiating off of him. You clench your jaw and try to keep your eyes on random objects in the room, avoiding his gaze.

“Y/n.”

You don’t look at him, staring at an empty crate in the corner of the room.

“Y/n,” his tone is harsh.

You take a deep breath and allow yourself to make eye contact. Dark blue eyes look at you, partially in concern and partially in frustration. You shrink beneath his gaze.

“What were you thinking?” He sighs in exasperation, “the ring is for fighters. It’s for people who need a little extra stimulation in their lives—it’s not for people like you.”

You nod along with his words, shoulders slumping. Your stomach still aches from where you were grazed earlier in the day, all of your muscles serving as a sore reminder to your bitter loss.

You had just wanted to try it, just one time. You were put against another amateur fighter and you thought the fight would be easy enough. You were on the verge of winning, too. Another minute or so and the fight would have been yours.

And then your opponent slashed at you with a piece of scrap metal they’d welded to a ring and your chances of winning dropped to 0.

“I would have won,” you mumble bitterly. “I would have won if he hadn’t cheated.”

Wri’s eyes widen. “Cheated how?”

From the way his eyes darken, you almost regret mentioning it. “No weapons, no serious injuries, no killing. Those are the rules.”

“Yes.” He agrees.

You lift up the hem of your shirt and reveal the gauze around your waist. “He—he brought some sort of shank into the ring, and just as I was about to win…”

You don’t need to finish speaking for him to get the picture. Wriothesley sucks in a breath, shutting his eyes to gain his composure. He looks almost scary right now, his blue eyes almost black.

His tone is gentler now. “Do you remember who it was?”

You shake your head, “no, but I’m sure the promoter does.”

He considers this for a moment before excusing himself out of the room. You let yourself slump down into the bed, the pain growing worse as the medication Sigewinne gave you wears off. A few tears threaten to spill and your poor attempts to hold them back do nothing.

Wriothesley returns a few minutes later, a somber look on his face. “He’ll be dealt with,” he assures you, and leaves it at that.

You nod, worried that if you try to speak, the tears will come pouring out. You bite your lip to keep them back.

Wri settles on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on your shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“I-I—” You don’t manage to say anything before the tears burst out.

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap, holding you against his chest. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, petting your head, “I’m so sorry.”

He keeps a secure grip on you, being extra careful not to apply too much pressure to where you were grazed. He rocks you in his arms in an attempt to soothe you, calming you down from your sudden outburst.

He keeps you in his lap even when Sigewinne comes back into the room. The nurse holds out a small white container for you to take.

“These will help with the pain, but you need to see me every day so I can change your bandages.”

You swallow and go to speak, but Wriothesley does it for you. “Thank you, Sigewinne. I’ll be taking y/n back with me now.”

The Melusine grants you a kind smile. “Feel better now.”

You swing your feet over the side of the bed and brace yourself to stand, but Wri has other plans for you. He scoops you up bridal style into his arms as if you weigh nothing.

“You—you don’t need to carry me.”

He scoffs, “and let you walk right now?”

You sigh. He has a point.

It’s not a long walk back to his office, but between the exhaustion of the day and the soothing feeling of his arms around you, you can’t help but drift off.

Wriothesley looks down at your sleeping form and smiles. He knew you wouldn’t be able to resist falling asleep if he carried you—he’s just glad that you didn’t notice it took twice as long to get back to his office as it normally does.

He lays you down in his bed and kisses your forehead. “Rest up, baby.”

#wriothesley #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x y/n #wriothesley genshin #Genshin impact #genshin impact wriothesley #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #fluff #genshin fluff

[muddyorbsblr]

gestures & rain checks

See my full list of works here!

pre-story author's note: Yes I am very aware that it's been a solid month since Valentine's Day. Yes I am still posting this 🫡

Summary: It feels like your friends are getting plucked away from you one by one as their respective (or in Nat's case prospective) partners make grand gestures to ask them to be their Valentine.

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Warning/s: language (nope still not sorry, Rogers); mentions of alcohol; tooth-rotting fluff; gun use [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: Morgan being a precious beb; himbo!Thor hours; lowkey sad Reader hours; chaotic group chat vibes in the end

You always had a distaste for this day. Valentine's Day. To you, it was the one day a year that you would do everything in your power not to step outside because it reeked of flowers and chocolate marked up to the heavens for merchants to take advantage of last minute gift shoppers hoping to make a gesture big enough that their crush would let them score at the end of the night. Or guys buying extravagant and ridiculously large arrangements to make amends for wronging their partner as if a 10-foot tall teddy bear was gonna magically press some Undo button of him going on Hinge or Tinder and talking up a dozen other girls on the side.

There was one year that you let slip around Nat and Wanda that this day "smelled like a cemetery" with all the bouquets that bombarded you the second you exited the perimeter of the Compound. Hell, the second you left the main section that housed you and the rest of the Avengers. And you stood by that opinion stubbornly, mostly because you'd only ever witnessed flowers being given when someone was desperately trying to glue back together the pieces of a severely damaged relationship.

And also because no one had ever given you flowers in your entire life. Or chocolates. Or a teddy bear. All your past relationships were with men who were still mentally and emotionally boys that believed emojis and gifs sufficed and were as good as the real thing. Nary a single soul had ever actually spent a lick of time or effort to give you something that told you they deserved your time and effort in turn.

And after so many years of being barely an afterthought, the day just felt like this entity that you resented to an irrational degree, where all you wanted was to lay in bed and wait it out until the clock struck 12 and it was February 15th. Then you could go on a hunt for all the overpriced chocolate that suddenly got their prices slashed by 50% or more.

That was the plan again for this year, had it not been for both Nat and Wanda barging in to your apartment and practically dressing you up like you were their own life-sized definitely seen some better days Barbie doll. "Come on, we can go and have a Galentine's Day 2. Maybe hit up a club and get some free drinks…" the assassin trailed off, zipping up your dress and playfully swatting your ass to nudge you forward. "March on, soldier."

The common area was nearly bare and eerily quiet when you all got there, which made perfect sense considering that most of your teammates who were happily committed to someone were off spending their day together, probably executing their own personal twists on those cliched gestures of adoration. Knowing Tony, that would probably consist of a two-storey tall stuffed bunny or a lavish new vacation house as a nice private little getaway spot for him and Pepper when they wanted to have a date night.

Only Morgan and Shaun were at the big dining table by the kitchen, the little girl working on bracelets with the martial artist nursing a cup of coffee while he handed her beads to add to her work. "Whaddup, Ten Rings…Baby Stark," you greeted them, ruffling his hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your goddaughter's head. "What're you two up to this fine completely ordinary day?"

"Oof, I take it you're gonna be spending the day watching a bunch of couples be all extra lovey dovey just like me?" You threw him a look, squinting your eyes at him that had him throwing his hands in the air in surrender. "No need to mentally squish my head, Y/N, we're on the same side, I swear," he chuckled, scooting over to the other seat so you could sit next to Morgan. "How about this, karaoke later tonight? Just us and anyone else that doesn't have a date with dinner and co--" You swatted his arm to get him to stop talking, not so subtly signaling in the little girl's direction. "I mean…adult balloons?"

"Wait how come you have special balloons?" Morgan asked, looking up from her activity book and earning barely stifled chortles from both Nat and Wanda. "Why can't I play with them? I like balloons."

You leaned back in your seat, making a motion with your hands as if you were wiping them clean of the whole conversation. "I'm not helping you out of this one, buddy."

He scratched the back of his head, obviously backed into the corner with his own words. "Eeeeeh…put a pin in that and ask me again when you can order a beer, Baby Stark."

The child pouted at both of you, slumping down in her place at the table and slipping back on her princess pink headphones before focusing all her attention on her activity book again, grumbling something about how grownups shouldn't have conversations around her if they didn't want her to ask questions. Valid enough point, but you still weren't going to be the one to give her her first lesson in Sex Ed class a good decade ahead of time.

"Anyways…" Shaun poked at your side, calling your attention back to him. "Karaoke, ladies? We can pick up Katy and Wong before we head over and sing some Disney duets and gorging ourselves on shots and nachos--"

"Hold up, Wong?" You all turned your attention to Stephen, who'd just walked in to the common area. "This I gotta see. You guys have room for one more?"

"Sure thing, as long as you use your sling ring to help us get into Tony's private stash," you quipped, taking a sip of your coffee. "There's no way I'm getting through this day stone-cold sober."

"Or we could go for the really hard stuff and break into Thor's stash of mead from Asgard before he depletes his supply." He showcased the ring in question with a wiggle of his fingers. "Just a portal away."

"I like the way you think, Strange."

"You can all cease your scheming to pilfer my liquor, my friends," Thor's voice boomed into the area, a bounce in his step as he made his way to the coffee pot. "I would happily supply you all with two barrels if that would be enough for your gathering?"

"That's perfect, Thunder. Thanks." You started to tuck into the breakfast plate served by the Compound kitchen staff, mumbling your next question to the blond god. "What've you got planned with Jane for today?"

"Ah." A wide grin stretched across his face at the mention of his girlfriend, the sight both warming your heart and pinching it at the same time. A bittersweet reminder that in the midst of romantic plans with sentimental or grand gestures, your plans involved getting shit-faced with your fellow single friends. Plus Wanda and probably Vision. "Well, I have employed the aid of Wilson to order an ornate bouquet of Jane's favorite flowers which should arrive this morning. Then for lunch I shall prepare her a meal."

"Lunch?" Wanda questioned, tilting her head to the side. "Forgive me if I overstep, my friend, but aren't the romantic plans usually made for dinner?"

"Well, yes…but Jane has graciously agreed to adjusting our schedule for this day so that I may spend the time after lunch aiding my brother in a gesture of his own." A lump formed in your throat at the words. "It seems he wishes to get into the spirit of the holiday, and I am simply ecstatic that he came to me asking for a helping hand."

"I asked nothing of you, you over-muscled oaf," you heard the raven-haired god call out from the main entrance, two large packages hovering a few inches above the ground blanketed with a glow of green from his magic. "You volunteered when you imposed yourself in my space and hovered over my phone."

"Pfft, semantics," Thor waved off, already making his way over to Loki so that he could do some more apparently unnecessary volunteer work. "Are the flowers in one of your parcels?"

"I like flowers!" Morgan chirped from her seat, bouncing in place with bright excited eyes. "Prince Loki, can I help? Please?"

He let out an exaggerated sigh, a trace of a fond, amused smile betraying his facade. "Very well, little Stark. Come along."

Your goddaughter squealed, skipping over to Thor and placing her tiny hand in his. "Uncle Barbie, tell me who his princess is?" He leaned down to whisper the answer in her ear, making her sprint in place with even more excitement. "I promise I won't say a word."

"Barbie? Like your doll, little Lady Stark?" You could practically see the wheels turning in Loki's head from learning about the nickname.

Morgan nodded her head vigorously. "Auntie Y/N came up with it. She calls him Macho Barbie." She proceeded to talk about how you came to give the blond Asgardian the nickname that bizarrely stuck to him more than "Point Break" ever did, said god looking like he already dreaded the coming days -- maybe even years -- now that his brother knew that little tidbit of information.

Once they'd all made their way up the stairs and you could no longer hear the little girl's chipper tone, realization sat heavy in your heart from her reaction to whatever Thor whispered to her just a few seconds ago. Whoever it was that Loki was going to make this grand gesture for, it was someone that Morgan knew enough to the point that she couldn't contain her excitement finding out who the woman was.

It was someone in SHIELD. Maybe even someone in the Compound.

"You good, Babes?" Nat's tone was cautious, approaching you like you were a wounded animal, teeth bared and ready to pounce if she so much as breathed wrong.

You answered with a terse nod of your head. "There is absolutely no fucking way I'm getting through today sober."

"Y/N, dude, I'm sor--"

Bang

"What the fuck?" All eyes grew wide at the sound, your body stiffening as another shot rang out, reverberating throughout the common area. "FRIDAY? Threat assessment," you called out, already readying yourself for combat once whoever was outside made their way to you in the compound.

"No threats have been detected," the AI answered simply. "There seems to be no living target for the gunman."

You could only manage to repeat your words. "What the fuck?" Shot after shot rang out, an interval of three to five seconds between them. Each deafening bang making you flinch, your head spinning with possible explanations on why FRIDAY didn't deem the supposed attacker as a threat. "Where's the target then?"

"Shots are being fired at the training area, by the track field, Agent Y/L/N." You all started to make your way to the area, everyone still on high alert despite FRIDAY's findings.

"Y/N?!" You shared a look with everyone else in the room at the sound of Loki's voice calling out for you, the god looking frantic as he appeared at the top of the main staircase, a sigh of relief escaping him once he saw you standing at the bottom. "You're alright," he exhaled, hurriedly making his way down. The quickening pace of the gunshots had him squaring his shoulders, stepping in front of you and marching toward the sound.

"We've handled way worse than gunfire, Laufeyson, you don't have to lead the defense," you told him with a touch more bite to your tone than you intended, irrational jealousy coursing through you knowing what he was preparing for before he started charging down the stairs. You sidestepped him and started walking toward the training area, brows furrowing together when you saw that from where you stood, the marks from the bullets digging into the ground where forming some sort of shape.

"It's a message…" Wanda mused, angling her head to and fro to see if she could get the whole picture from the ground. "I'm going up, I wanna see what's worth risking Pepper's wrath with all the lawn work she has to commission now." She held her hand out to you, wordlessly offering to take you up with her, an offer that you gladly took, clapping your hand over hers, both of you giggling as your feet lifted off the ground.

Once you two had risen high enough, it was clear what the message was. The shots had been positioned so that the markings would take on the shape of a heart, and the ongoing shots were creating initials. "N…" you read along, barely able to contain your excitement when you saw that the next letter was an R. "Natasha Romanoff!" you yelled out, the assassin's eyes lighting up with a mix of giddiness and curiosity as she tried to look at where the gunshots could've been coming from.

You did your best to turn your head, trying to see who was behind the gesture, kicking your feet in the air once you saw the gunman. "What? Who is it, Y/N?"

"It's Barnes," you squeaked, giving Rogers a reckless wave when you caught sight of him jogging toward all of you with a megaphone in hand.

"Natasha Romanoff," Bucky's voice boomed through the speaker system, making the usually cool and collected former Russian spy put a hand over her mouth to hide the way she was steadily turning pink from how flustered she was. "I know I have a long way to go to make up for how we first met, but I think you're swell and I'd like to try starting it off with maybe dinner tonight?" Both you and Wanda squealed and held each other tight mid-air watching her nod her answer, running over to her once your feet touched the ground again.

"You two won't be pissed if I take a rain check for tonight, will you?" she cautioned, still a wistful tone in her voice from processing what was happening.

"Absolutely not, you go enjoy your date. More drinks to go around and all that," you told her with the biggest smile. "But tomorrow night we're all staying at my place and you're giving us a full report."

"And remember to wear the red lacy underwear," Wanda teased with a comical wiggle of her eyebrows, earning her a poke to the ribs from both of you.

Nat pulled away from the two of you, walking back toward the indoor gym with Steve walking alongside her, starting to talk about how his best friend had been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out since he got sworn in to the team nearly a year ago. From the sound of the conversation, it seemed that Rogers was divulging some information that Barnes probably swore him to secrecy not so long ago.

"And then there were seven," Shaun spoke up, walking toward  you and the sorceress and clapping a hand on each of your shoulders. "Thor came through and left the barrels in the kitchen for us."

You were about to start talking about the food arrangements when the sight of Wanda's husband flying toward you all with a bouquet of camellias and hydrangeas in his hand. "Wanda, my love, I owe you my deepest apologies."

"Whatever for, Vis?" She broke away from you and Shaun to greet the synthezoid, placing her hands on his upper arms as he pulled her in for a chaste kiss.

"It did not occur to me that you might have wanted to make plans for today until Mr Stark had gone into detail of his own itinerary today for his wife," he explained, handing her the bouquet. "Unfortunately I cannot procure a reservation for us tonight, but I still wish to do something for you. Would you allow me the honor of making you a meal and perhaps watching a movie in the private theater?"

You and Shaun gripped each other's hands like you were high schoolers watching their best friend get asked out on their first big date, shaking and pushing each other over the sweetness of the gesture. "I don't need fancy restaurants or pretty flowers, Vis. Getting to spend time with you, especially after everything that's happened to us, is more than enough. I just need you."

The Sokovian turned back to face you and Shaun, a touch of guilt in her expression. "Rain check? I'll bring extra snacks tomorrow night to make up for it?"

"Don't worry about it, Babes," you reassured her, both you and the martial artist waving off her worries. "Enjoy your evening."

The couple have you a curt nod and a smile before happily flying away hand in hand back to their apartment.

"And then there were five," you and Shaun said in unison, walking back to the common area to load up those barrels that Thor left for tonight's 'festivities'. When you got to the kitchen area, Morgan was adorably sitting atop one of the barrels in question, feet happily swinging in the air with a big smile on her face.

"Off the goods, little Stark, we're not risking you getting drunk your dad's gonna kill us," Shaun said in a panic, already lifting the little girl up and off the barrel and making her squeal and giggle as she giddily exclaimed "I'm flying!".

"If you really think that she can get drunk from osmosis, we have a lot to talk about, sweet little summer child," you joked, walking up to one barrel and starting to push it toward the garage. "Think you can use that ancient mystical ring magic for makeshift wheels so we don't bust out our lungs lugging this all the way to your truck?"

"I can assist you, darling." Your skin bristled at the sound of Loki's voice, taking every ounce of strength you had to not stiffen or recoil at his use of the word. He was only saying it out of habit. Probably a remnant of his upbringing as a prince on Asgard.

He didn't mean it the way you wanted -- more than anything -- for him to mean it.

"No need, Laufeyson, I've got it from here," Strange butted in, conjuring an energy shield with his magic that he slid under the barrels, starting to wheel them toward the garage. "Carry on. Oh and friendly advice, man to god? Your future girlfriend, you know, the one you're making this big gesture for? She might not appreciate you calling other women 'darling', so I highly recommend kicking the habit while it's still early. Avoiding future battles and all."

The god sucked his teeth, the action causing his jaw to clench and sending your thoughts someplace they had no business being. You had no business thinking about another woman's man that way, no matter how hot he was.

"I will remember that. Thank you, Strange," he said softly, making his way back up the stairs.

"Thanks for the save," you muttered, opening the door to the garage for the sorcerer to guide the barrels through. "Don't think I could've gotten away with being on Bitch Mode with him a second time today. Not like I can help it, though. Some lucky Midgardian bitch is gonna be his by the end of the night."

"Pretty sure you're the only woman I know that considers being Laufeyson's girlfriend a good thing."

"Yeah, Y/N, like I know he's on our side and everything but most days he still has me on edge. Like passing him on a bad day's gonna get me a stab in the ribs, not a death glare like normal people," Shaun concurred, nudging your shoulder to hopefully stop your lamenting before you got in too deep. Again.

"I'm really down bad, huh," you sighed, letting out a little yip when a portal to the dark dimension appeared just a few feet in front of you. "The fuck--"

"Hey Strange," a reverberating ethereal voice called out from the portal, and then a tall woman with platinum hair with beauty that you could only describe as 'dark celestial' stepped out. Her eyes trained on the sorcerer next to you. "Heard that today's something of a holiday in this dimension. Figured it might be a good idea to stop by and maybe you could show me around your uh…" She turned to you and Shaun, both your jaws slack on the ground. "What's this place called again?"

"Avengers Compound?" Shaun said at the same time that you blurted out, "New York?"

"Compound York?" She raised an eyebrow at the two of you, amusement coloring her face as she gave you both a once over.

"Eherm…no," you answered her, chuckling nervously and shifting your weight between your feet. "This structure here is Avengers Compound, which is in Upstate New York. New York is a city, but also a region…and a state…?" you drifted off, already feeling a pinch in your head from trying to explain the best you could. You looked over to Shaun. "The more I try finding the words to explain, the more I realize how complicated it actually is. Save me."

Stephen stepped forward. "How about I just take you on a tour around New York, then?" His face stretched out into a wide grin, clearly unable to hide his giddiness over the knowledge that she crossed dimensions to be with him today.

"Is that…New York the city, the region, or the state?"

"The city. New York, New York. There's a whole song about it and everything I can play it for you in the car." He proceeded to drape his arm around the dark sorceress, leading her to his car further down the expansive garage.

"Your little human friend is right, things here are complicated. Downright confusing." She looked back at you and Shaun again as they walked away, hand in hand. "It was nice meeting you both! Stephen speaks highly of you all," she called out, her majestic voice echoing throughout the area.

"You're really pretty!" you blurted out in response, causing her voice to melt into a chuckle, telling her partner how she found you 'adorable'. You threw your head back and groaned toward the ceiling. "I'm a fucking dork."

"At least you're an adorable dork," Shaun shot back, nudging your shoulder and lightly touching the back of your head to get you facing forward again. His phone chimed with a text notification. "Katy. Her shift's over, she said she'll get us a room for eight. I'm texting her now to get a smaller one." He held up his hand, palm facing you. "And then there were four?"

You sighed, clapping your hand against his, your friend giving you a reassuring squeeze once you did. "And then there were four." You jerked your head toward the apartments. "I'll just go change into something that involves 'eating pants' and I'll meet you down here in ten."

The walk back up to your apartment wasn't that long, but it still felt like it with how quickly you slipped back into your lamenting over how your friends had such an eventful day today. Nat had her very public grand gesture. Wanda had her husband trying to cook human food in the name of spending time with her. Strange had his girlfriend literally rip a hole between dimensions to get here.

"And all I have waiting for me are two barrels of mead and karaoke microphones," you muttered, walking through your front door and begrudgingly unzipping your dress from the back. You were just about to half-stomp your way to your closet when something on your bed caught your eye.

Three shiny roses lined with gold, tied together with a gold ribbon at the foot of the bed. A large heart-shaped box of chocolates at the center. And a little teddy bear dressed as a bee with red antennas that had hearts at the end, at its fluffy little feet was an embroidered message. "Bee mine".

"What theeeee fu--"

"Y/N," an all too familiar voice called out from behind you. The air left your lungs at the sight of Loki in a form-fitting forest green button-down tucked into onyx black slacks, tucking his hair behind his ears before smoothing his hands over his shirt. "You're early--"

"What're you doing--Was this you?" you babbled, gesturing at the gifts on your bed. For a second, your heart beat erratically, the thought that maybe this was for you, before reality and logic sunk in. "Okay I think I know what's happening…"

"You do?"

"Yeah, you got the wrong apartment. Gimme a minute to change and I can help you move all this over to--"

The rest of your words died in a little squeak at the back of your throat, the god closing the distance between you two with a few long strides, framing your face in his hands and placing a tender fleeting kiss to your lips.

"Those tokens of my affection are exactly where they belong, little mortal," he murmured against you, tracing up the bridge of your nose with his lips until he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "As am I."

You let out a shaky breath, fighting against the urge to melt in the god's embrace as he snaked his hands around your waist. "The gesture your brother mentioned this morning…this?" He proceeded to press kisses down the side of your face, his warm exhale as he whispered 'yes' into your skin making you light-headed. "This is for me?" you gasped out, whatever was remaining of your logical brain smacking the rest of you with how stupid a question that was.

"Who else would it be for, darling?" He pressed a kiss to your jaw, tightening his arms around you and pressing your body against his. "There is no other in this or any other Realm that could have captured my heart so completely." He kissed the corner of your jaw, making his way down the side of your neck, holding you tighter to keep you up when your knees finally buckled from the sensation. "I did this for you, because I wish to ask something of you. That you become mine as much as I am yours."

"M-Mine?" you stammered. "Y-You're mine?" Since when? How come you didn't get this particular memo? Could've saved you a lot of turmoil and nights spent alone staring up at the ceiling trying and failing to hypnotize yourself out of being into him.

He kissed the tip of your nose, resting his forehead against yours. "I have always been yours, darling."

Your hands traveled up the length of his arms, like you were grounding yourself and trying to tell yourself that this was real. He was really here and he was telling you the words you wanted more than anything to hear for who even knew how long at this point.

He's here, you thought to yourself. And he's mine.

There was only one word that you could muster up in that moment. "Yes." I've always been yours, too.

Karaoke Dreamin' on Such a Winter's Day group chat

myfirstnameisagent: Don't kill me but…rain check?

busboy10: Are you kidding me, Y/N?? You said you'd be down in 5 minutes tops and we're gonna meet up with Katy.

nromanoff: Sweet, now you're gonna have a story to tell tomorrow night, too.

myfirstnameisagent: Actually about that…rain check on tomorrow night, too? I'm kinda not there right now…

busboy10: There?? What do you mean "There"?? How'd you get out the Compound without me seeing you? Or whoever the hot date you're ditching me for is?

imjustwong: Where is everybody? We ordered nachos.

myfirstnameisagent: Yeah…I'm not in the Compound…or in New York…any of the "New York"s. Might not be for the next week. Maybe more. The three of you better not drink all the mead in one go.

busboy10: ??????

thevision: Agent Y/L/N, my wife is showing many signs of distress over her inability to contact you. Your phone seems to be going straight to voicemail.

thewanda: Y/N WHERE ARE YOU I HEARD A BANG FROM YOUR APARTMENT ARE YOU OKAY??

myfirstnameisagent: Babes, I'm fine. That was just the Bifrost.

thewanda: EXCUSE ME??

nromanoff: BABES WHAT--

pointbreakbarbie: My friends, I heard the Bifrost be summoned near Lady Y/N's abode. Is there an emergency? Must I make my way to Asgard to assist?

myfirstnameisagent: Thor your brother said if he finds you here I have permission to stab you, don't even fucking think about it.

thewanda: I REPEAT. EXCUSE ME???

busboy10: Y/N are you in Asgard?? With Loki??

myfirstnameisagent: Yes. And yes. See you in two weeks.

thewanda: He better use that healing magic on your legs so you don't walk funny.

A/N: It took me a whole month to write this because real life was trying TKO me in the work department and also I got sucked in to the worlds of Hello Kitty Island Adventure, Disney Dreamlight Valley, and Delicious World and I've been too weak to even attempt time management 🤣

I'm working on stuff tho I swear it 🫡 Horny bitches cuts are in progress, stories are in progress…lots of progress 😅😅

Also for reference, this was the lil stuffed bear that Loki gave Reader:

and the roses looked like this:

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears

#loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki fluff #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson fluff #loki laufeyson fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #muddyorbs writes

[ooffmlsorry]

One Piece Men Dealing with a Dangerously Reckless S/O

context: by dangerously reckless I mean someone who never has a second thought about throwing themselves in harms way and doesn't care what it does to them

t/w: passive suicidality, self harm? (better safe than sorry) angst. Mentions of blood, injury, and death

LAW

It'd probably lead to a big argument where he threatens to kick you off his crew because losing you would legitimately be the death of him. He can't lose anymore people he loves to violence. When Bepo tells Law you didn't even hesitate to plunge into a thicket of razor wire to help your crew mates escape, it doesn't read as admirable to him. It reminds him too much of himself on Spider Miles. After he gets your side of the story, which pretty much confirms it, he doesn't talk to you at all while he cleans the mud and blood from your skin and stitches the slashes that cover you from head to toe. Normally, even if you've fallen asleep, he talks you through your treatment, but not after your stunts. He's that...scared? Angry? Distraught might be the right word. Every time you do something like this, he's speechless because his thoughts are racing with the reality of losing you. He feels sick to his stomach. On nights like these, he doesn't know whether to sleep far away from you or hold you so close to him you can't breathe.

LUFFY

At first, Luffy doesn't care. He has the utmost faith in his crew, and they put themselves in harms way all the time! Getting injured is just being a pirate sometimes! That's pre-timeskip. Post-timeskip Luffy still has a lot of faith in his crew and a lot of faith in his ability to protect his crew, but he's...different. He believes things are always going to work out no matter what and if they don't he'll make them, but sometimes he wakes up in the middle of night and stares at you, tracing all the scars you've gotten from one fight or another. And then the what-ifs begin to creep in and the nightmares start. After literally diving into a sea king to retrieve Nami's log pose and Chopper has patched you up yet again, you wake up to Luffy calling out for you in his sleep, sweat dampening his hair and his face twisted in fear. You soothe and shush him until his breathing evens out, but he holds you tighter still. It's not in his nature to "bench you" or doubt your strength just because he's in love with you. That would be controlling and doubting you, and he would never do that. But that doesn't mean Zoro and Sanji don't take notice, even if Luffy won't say anything they make it extremely hard for you to pull off any careless "heroics."

ZORO

Much like Luffy, Zoro doesn't think much of it for a while for the same reason. This is the guy that was completely ready to cut his own legs off, after all. But that doesn't mean it doesn't concern him, especially because you don't seem to have a rhyme or reason for all the shit you pull. And he would say something to you about it. Maybe not directly after you jumped straight into Marine gunfire to cover a little girl, he just wants you to be alive at that point. But after days of taking care of you as your wounds slowly heal, after he's certain you're not going anywhere this time, he'd make sure the two of you are somewhere alone and quiet to talk. As far as Zoro's concerned not going down without a fight is completely fine, dying for your dream isn't considered giving it up, but acting like it isn't a possibility is stupid. And he'd tell you as much. For most of this he wouldn't be able to look at you, just because if he does fear is going to take hold of him, but for that last bit he would. Zoro would search your eyes hoping you understand what he's saying. He'll tie you to the ship if he has to, he'd do anything if it saves you from being so stupid as to forfeit your dreams.

SABO

Dying for the cause is par for the course. It's a grim reality that Sabo begrudgingly accepts, although he does have a bit of youthful naivety that it won't ever happen to anyone. He won't ever believe the revolution isn't worth it, but you do make him question it for the first time. He loves you so much he has to compare you to the whole world for a moment, and that's one of the worst thoughts he's ever had. Because the whole world still wins. The guilt would eat him alive until he blows up (somewhat literally) at you for drinking the last of a rare poison to keep it out of the enemy's hands. Angry tears roll down Sabo's cheeks. When he yells at you, he's shaking with anger and fear. It's not up to him, but he doesn't object when you're completely benched while you recover and for a little longer after that. It takes a while for him to no longer angry and scared out of his mind, but once he is he's back to himself. If can visit you every day he will. He has hope for the world's future, and hope for yours too. He's not leaving either behind.

#don't ask me what this is actually #is this something? #who knows lol #law x reader #luffy x reader #sabo x reader #zoro x reader #one piece x reader headcanons #angsty one piece #one piece #one piece x you

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

People on this website really trying to downplay the specific role of destiel in the events of November 5th 2020 ‘it could have been any other ship that went canon at that time and had the same effect’ no.

Nothing else is destiel.

Nothing else is 12 years and hundreds of episodes of extremely obvious and deliberate queerbaiting that was Vehemently denied by the production team. Nothing else is the ship about characters whose larger overarching plot is literally fighting against their own pre-determined narrative to attain free will. Nothing else proved in the 11th hour Just before the show ended that the meta narrative and queer reading by fans who insisted there was something there and who were constantly called crazy by the production and by other fans and by the rest of the internet were RIGHT.

The CW did market research! About whether to make it canon! In a show they always pretended was aimed primarily at middle (conservative) America!!!

The queer subtext was so Fucking Strong by the end of the show, because the writers constantly wrote themselves into corners that could Only be explained away by destiel, that they HAD to admit defeat and canonize it.

And THEN even after they made it canon, they denied it some more and tried to downplay it! But it happened! The angel is fucking gay!!!!

Destiel is THE great American queerbait and had been a staple of the culture of this site for over a decade before November 5 2020. There is a REASON it is the most popular ship on AO3. ‘The same thing would have happened if johnlock became canon or spirk or whatever else’ no it simply would not have because crucially CRUCIALLY those ships Never Became Canon! The fact that Destiel of all the popular queerbait slash ships of the past few decades somehow at long last DID, and in a way that Still refused to just let the shippers have it and allow any implication of full reciprocation and that the final two episodes and the entire cast absolutely refused to acknowledge in any way, is why the canonization of destiel is one of the wildest things to happen to fandom culture as a whole in recent memory, and you cannot theoretically remove the destiel of it all and have it be the same kind of event.

The reason november 5 happened like it did, why people started making jokes at all, is because the fandom cultural juggernaut that is destiel becoming canon is the only thing that could have possibly managed to trend above the U.S. election. BECAUSE it’s destiel.

#i decided to make my own post instead of disagreeing with the op directly but #if you think the same thing would have happened with any ship other than destiel you ar playing yourself #i joined this fucking website in 2013 because of #destiel #like just because you didn’t watch the show doesn’t mean no one did bud #spn #Caitie speaks #nov 5 2020 #spn posting #nov 5th

[kdogreads]

Waiting in line to pick up my nephew from pre-school and thinking about picking up the kids from school with Carmy

We exist in the amazing @thebearer ‘s universe ok 😍🫶

—

He is usually at work so you pick up the girls by yourself. It’s no big deal, of course, but their first question is always, “Is daddy home yet?”

You try to let them down easily everyday with a gentle, “No, but he will be soon,” and a promise to stop at Starbucks on the way home.

Today was a special day, though. It’s the day before Halloween, the crisp fall air swirls around your mom SUV (You told Carmen absolutely not to a minivan) when you pull into the pick up line and roll the windows down. And Carm had somehow managed to take the afternoon off.

The girls were so excited to wear their costumes to school this morning. Teddy dressed up as a magical-fairy-princess-slash-mini-Michael-Myers and Willow is a chef, just like her Daddy.

It was only a few minutes of chatting with Carm about the restaurant and what you needed from the grocery this weekend before the school bell rang, signaling the girls would be running out any minute. Carmen ducked down in the driver’s seat as much as he could while you got out of the car like normal.

Both girls came running towards you with some kind of Halloween craft and a small bag of candy, already squealing and excitedly regaling their spooky party and what all of their friends wore.

“Okay, okay! Let’s get home so we can make dinner for Daddy,” You prompted hoping they would start climbing into the car.

Both girls popped open their doors and slung their backpacks in. You had to look away to hide your smirk as the big reveal was about to happen.

“Katie had on the biggest princess dress I’ve ever seen, Mama, and James was a Power Ranger and— Daddy?” Teddy squealed with joy and caught Willow’s attention who also started giggling uncontrollably.

“Hi my babies! How was sch—uugh,” Carmen started but was met with an elbow to the ribs as the girls started climbing over each other to get in the front seat and hug him first.

A chorus of giggles and kisses filled the air and your heart. You ducked your head a bit in embarrassment when someone’s knee bumped into the car’s horn, but the smiles in the cars nearest to you melted away your worries. It seems the parents and teachers nearby thought the sweet reunion was just as precious as you did.

“Mama! Did you know Daddy was in here?” Willow questions you with a hand on her hip. Boy were you in trouble when she got a little older and a little sassier.

“Alright, alright, girls. Get in your seats, yeah? We have a surprise for you at home,” Carmen finally put an end to the adorable cuddle puddle happening in front of you.

“A surprise?” Both girls squealed as they climbed back into their own spots. Carmen simply wiggled his eyebrows in the rearview mirror as giggles filled the car yet again.

You could feel the buzz in the air as they excitedly discussed what it could be. You piped up only once with a solid, “Nope,” when someone said something about a puppy.

You spent the evening carving pumpkins Carmen and you had picked out earlier that day and drinking warm apple cider that had been steeping on the stove all day.

It was a simple fall activity day, but it filled your heart to the very brim with love for your perfect little family.

—

A/N: I could die I love them 😭😭 thank you again to my idol for creating such an in-depth universe for us to live in our delulus 🫶❤️

#carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy fluff #carmen berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #thebearer #kdogreads #the bear #the bear fic #the bear imagine

[cuubism]

Rock Paper Scissors

Dreamling | Pre-Slash | 5.7k | AO3

Dream suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead." "Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me." "I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds." "Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

Hob gets challenged to a duel. Too bad his opponent has it out for Dream, and has no intention of playing fair.

--

the first fic I ever started writing for Dreamling a year and a half ago, then forgot about! 😂 then randomly decided to finish.

--

“ROBERT GADLING,” yelled an individual Hob had never met before in his life, “I hereby challenge you to a duel!”

Hob squinted at him. Said individual was standing across the darkened street, dressed strangely in a white tunic flecked with gold. Then again, Hob’s barometer for strange was a bit different than what was normal, so who was he to say, really.

“What?” he said.

Suddenly this person was much closer to him. Hob flinched back, but couldn’t move much, close as he was to the pub door. “We have business,” hissed his pale-suited challenger. It was a masculine figure, blond hair swished to one side, eyes like fire. 

Hob wasn’t impressed. He’d seen worse. Better, too.

“Listen, mate,” he said, “I don’t really have time for this. I’ve already got something on the books tonight. Come back tomorrow.”

He started to walk through the doorway, but the… creature?—he didn’t think it was human—grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “We have business,” it repeated.

Hob tried to shake off its hand, but its grip was like hot iron. It seared through his jacket and burned his skin. 

“What business?” he snapped. “I’m certain we’ve never met before, and my memory is actually pretty good, long as it is.”

The creature smiled, more like a baring of teeth. “You have courted those who have harmed me—and my ilk.”

“Not clearing it up at all.”

There was a sound like the swishing of a thousand ghosts, and then Dream was beside him.

Dream. How strange, still, to have a name, a history—well, sort of—to put to the face he’d circled back to over and over again for all these years. The name cut his friend into sharp relief—Hob’s shadow, finally united with the being who cast it. 

Where the pale stranger burned white-hot, Dream emanated cold. Hob had always found his friend’s cold aura strangely comforting. It didn’t feel dangerous and biting like the winter wind. Instead, it was the cold of lake water when one dove deep enough, a subtle and quiet draw to the otherworldly. 

Well. Usually it didn’t feel dangerous. Right now, it felt positively hypothermic.

Dream’s presence chilled the air until the stranger was forced to yank his hand away from Hob’s arm, shaking it out with a hiss. Hob’s breath fogged the air in front of his face, never mind that it was summer.

“Phaethon,” Dream hissed on one long, cold breath. “You are not wanted here.”

Phaethon pulled himself up haughtily. “I can go as I please. Night, or no night.”

“You may test that theory if you wish.”

Phaethon faltered, just a bit, before recovering himself. “I am here only to deliver a message. I challenge you, Robert Gadling, to a duel.” His blazing eyes flickered over to Hob, then back to Dream. “I did not believe you were one to violate the old rules of challenge, Lord of Dreams.” 

He bowed slightly. It felt mocking, which rankled Hob, who’d otherwise been keeping his cool. 

“Are you going to explain what this is about?” he said, for the third time. “I don’t appreciate being accused of things I haven’t done.”

Instead of answering, Phaethon said, “I’ve uncovered your history. There’s quite a lot of it, isn’t there? I wager it could make quite a bit of trouble for you, having all of that information turned over to certain parties. Human authorities. Occultists. Vampire hunters, they’ll love you–”

“I’m not a vampire,” Hob snapped.

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we can do that, or, you can choose to face me directly.”

“What do you seek to gain from the challenge?” demanded Dream. He seemed to know more about what was going on here than Hob, which wasn’t comforting. Hob didn’t particularly want to get drawn into some kind of immortal creature game with obscure rules he’d end up tripping over.

Phaethon’s grin emerged one tooth at a time. “I want… your dreams.”

Hob probably should have been more troubled by this. Instead, he just frowned in confusion. “Not sure that’s in your power, mate. You’re aware who you’re talking to?”

He didn’t need to gesture to Dream looming over his shoulder.

“If you agree to the terms,” said Phaethon, a hiss like lava dripping over stone, “then the magic will bind us.” 

Dream didn’t contradict him, but his anger cooled the air until Hob felt like he was standing atop a glacier.

“I think I’ll pass,” Hob told Phaethon. “Feel free to try to reveal me. I’m good at disappearing.” 

He turned to go—

“Lord Morpheus.” Phaethon turned the beam of his gaze on him, sunlight ricocheting off ice. “Will you stand in his stead?”

Hob grit his teeth and, against his better judgment, turned back around. “Don’t bring him into this. Look, if I win your challenge, what do I get in return?”

“You may request whatever you like,” said Dream. “Such are the terms of the agreement.”

“Fine. If I win, then I want this: you never speak to or of me again. That means no threatening me, no using me to threaten anyone else, no telling anyone about me—nothing. Got it?” God, Hob just wanted to go inside and have a beer.

Phaethon gave him a little bow. “Fair enough. I accept the terms of this challenge.” 

Dream seemed aggravated; a trickle of energy, like black lightning, scurried up the back of his neck and disappeared into his hair. But he didn’t intervene.

Hob and Phaethon shook on it. Then Phaethon retreated into the shadows again, calling, “Tomorrow at midnight, Robert Gadling. I will see you then.” Then his eyes blinked out and he was gone.

Hob shuddered. Good riddance. He rather preferred his eldritch creature to that one, thanks very much.

“What was that?” he said.

Dream’s presence was warming again by small degrees. The atmosphere was now more like an industrial freezer than Antarctica. “A minor demigod.”

“Oh, minor. Alright then.” 

“They are occupied by petty troubles,” said Dream.

Hob looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but elected not to comment. 

“Come on,” he said instead, leading the way back toward the pub. “We’re supposed to be having an easy night of it, dammit!” He wasn’t about to let some minor demigod ruin his night. He never knew how many of them he would get with his friend.

Dream’s gaze lingered on the spot where Phaethon had disappeared, but eventually, like the sweeping of a long coat tail, he followed.

---

"So, a duel," Hob remarked as they sat down across from each other in the pub booth. "I admit, I haven't dueled anyone in a few centuries, but I can't imagine it'll be—”

"It is not what you are thinking of," Dream interrupted. He had folded himself into the booth seat like a stick insect trying to cram itself in a jar. It was an absurd image, the long black coat, the spindly arms on the tabletop. "It is not a fight of the physical form. It is a battle of the mind and will."

"You're going to have to elaborate."

"In such a challenge—” Dream began, but was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress, there to take their order.

"So, what can I get for you chaps?" she said brightly.

The idea of Dream being a chap was so hilarious Hob had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, maybe he wasn't taking the whole duel thing seriously enough. Oh well.

Hob ordered a beer and a plate of chips. When Dream showed no sign of speaking, he ordered for him, too.

“You can order whatever you like,” Hob told him, when the waitress had gone. “It is my pub and all.”

Dream picked up the laminated menu gingerly. It wobbled in his hands. He looked down at it with a flat expression.

Hob realized belatedly that he probably didn’t know what to order. How much had pub food changed since— God, 1910 or so? And it wasn’t like his friend would have had much time to peruse menus since, what with all he’d been up to.

“Just try the chips,” Hob said, taking the menu away from him. “We’ll see how far that gets you.” 

"I have no need of human food," Dream said, folding his hands back on the table.

“Sure, and I technically don’t need my left leg, either, but I do rather like having it.”

“You say strange things,” Dream murmured. “As I was telling you. In such a challenge—” 

The waitress returned with their drinks. Dream glowered at her. Hob thanked her brightly.

"So, you were saying?" he said, sipping his beer. "In such a challenge…?"

"In such a challenge—”

The waitress arrived again with their chips. Dream slammed his hands on the table, shaking the chips in their basket and making the waitress jump. 

"Sorry," Hob apologized, "we've had a bit of a day." Wasn't it always.

"In such a challenge," Dream continued when she had gone, in a tone that suggested he would not be stopped this time, "one must suggest a mind-form, which one's opponent will attempt to surmount and defeat. Then you attempt to defeat their new form, and so on until one challenger is victorious. It is… a predictive game, of sorts. If one can predict what one's opponent’s moves might be, one can choose forms to foil them. This can easily become complicated."

"So, it's like chess," Hob summarized.

Dream stiffened, lips pressing into an offended line. "It is not so simple as chess."

"Checkers?"

"It will not help you to think of it so." Dream took a chip and bit into it in irritation. "You just— oh." He stared at the chip. "These are quite pleasant."

"Can never go wrong with a good chip," said Hob, then furrowed his brows. "Haven't you had them in dreams before or something?"

"Presumably. It has been at least a century." 

Ah, yeah. That. "Well, they're frying them in veg oil instead of lard nowadays anyway. Kind of a different experience." 

Dream stared at him as if Hob made no sense whatsoever.

"Anyway," Hob continued, "am I even going to be able to create these mind-forms? I'm not exactly an otherworldly being." 

"The power is in you, though it may be more challenging to harness. And easier to let slip from your grasp. It is imagination, after all. Humans are good at imagination, though perhaps not so good at holding onto it."

"Hmm." Hob munched on a chip. "Okay. I'll work on my imagination." After seven hundred years or so of life, it was possibly a tool that needed some sharpening. 

"I admit it offends me greatly that Phaethon would presume to ask a human to fight in this way," said Dream. He suddenly gripped the lapels of Hob's jacket with a startling fervor, arms stretched across the tabletop. His gaze bore into Hob's. "I beg, allow me to represent you instead."

"Now what kind of man would I be if I let others fight my battles?" Hob said, prying his fingers off before his endless grip tore through the fabric. "Hard as it may be to believe, I'm actually not a bad hand at chess. Don't worry about me."

"I do not find that hard to believe. However, as I have said, this is not chess. It is an intimate and punishing battle of minds."

"Alright, so it's like Go Fish."

"Do not joke," Dream growled. Actually, he never truly growled. It was more like his voice dropped into a lower register than usual. Which was saying something. Hob interpreted it as a growl, though. "Do not joke when your existence is at stake. Your immortality cannot protect you from this." 

"Are you saying I'd be unmade if I lost?" Hob asked. It was a concerning thought, to say the least. It had been a long time since he'd had to concern himself with his own mortality.

Dream’s tongue ran over his lower lip. "Potentially. The terms of the fight do not state so, but I do not know how such a duel will affect a human. The strain of it may simply tear you to shreds. It nearly drained me, the last time I fought."

"Wait, you had a fight like this? Recently?"

Dream tilted his head, gaze paling in confusion. "I told you that I went to Hell to retrieve my helm." 

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me you had to mind-battle– who'd you mind-battle anyway?"

"The demon chose Lucifer Morningstar as his representative." Dream’s lip curled in distaste. "Hence, the near loss."

Hob looked at him in concern. "Are you alright, though?"

"Of course I am all right." He spoke it as two words, like the phrase had never before graced his tongue. Hob wanted to let out a long-suffering sigh, but managed to restrain himself. "I am Dream of the Endless."

"Mmhmm. Yep. Okay."

"You do not have to worry about me," Dream said stiffly, parroting Hob's words from before.

Hob thought that was evidently untrue, but decided not to mention the century of imprisonment or the multiple near-death experiences— could he die? Maybe it was more like multiple near-misses with eternal agony— since then. To preserve the relative peace of the moment. 

"So how'd you beat the devil, then?" he asked.

"I had everything to lose. Lucifer had nothing to lose, and only a paltry amusement to gain."

Was that an answer? Hob wasn't sure. 

"Okay," he said. "Well, I do have all of my dreams to lose, apparently. Plenty of incentive to win."

Ice crystallized along the rim of Dream’s glass, spreading from where his fingers pressed. “You speak as if you think I would ever allow this to happen.”

Hob raised an eyebrow. “I thought the magic was binding?”

“Only by honor.”

“And so… what would happen if you violated that honor?”

The words trickled out of Dream reluctantly. “One’s word would not be trusted again.”

“Right. Exactly. I can’t let you do that, love. There’s a whole eternity of words needing to be trusted after this.” It was tempting, honestly, to let his more powerful friend step in and handle this—especially as Hob still hadn’t gleaned what the hell he’d even done to piss off Phaethon—but ultimately, it wouldn’t be right. He’d never used Dream as a clean-up tool for any of his problems in the past, and he wasn’t about to start just because he now knew he was the Lord of Dreams.

Dream’s expression darkened further. He truly was capable of embodying shadow when he was annoyed; Hob didn’t know how he hadn’t figured out the extent of his supernaturalness sooner, honestly. “You would not let.”

“Hey. Come on. I’ve solved plenty of my own problems, haven’t I? Have a little faith.” Hob kind of wanted to pat his hand, but wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “You don’t think I can win a duel against this Phaethon guy?” 

Dream seemed uncertain about it, and Hob couldn’t help but feel a little offended. Sure, he wasn’t a supernatural entity, but Hob had gotten himself out of a fair number of scrapes, and without the help of any Endless, thanks very much! 

“His rancor disturbs me,” Dream said at last. “I do not know what you have done to offend him.”

“Nor I. Never met the guy.”

Dream seemed lost in contemplation. Hob let him, and kept eating the chips.

Eventually, Dream said, “Even if this loss did come to pass… you would always have a place in the Dreaming.”

Hob’s breathing stuttered. “With you?” he said, sounding much smaller than he’d expected. It was… an ill-considered response, to say the least. 

Dream shifted in his seat. “I am the Dreaming,” he said. “It is part of me, and I it.”

“I see,” said Hob. But the thought kept turning within him.

---

No more was said on the matter until their beers were drunk and their chips polished off and they were strolling out the door of the pub. 

As they crossed the threshold, Hob was struck by a realization. He slapped Dream on the breast of his coat, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'm an idiot! Of course it's not like chess. It's metaphysical rock-paper-scissors!"

"Are you intoxicated?" Dream asked wearily.

"Nope. Just happy to have my old friend around again."

Dream’s form, unbreakable as the darkness between stars, stuttered. Behind him, his shadow wavered.

Then he swept away, leaving Hob to catch up. 

---

They met again on the field of battle, so to speak.

Phaethon was there before them, melodramatic in his white-and-gold cape. Not as melodramatic as Dream, though, whose eyeliner seemed darker than usual, somehow, and whose cloak swept all the way to the ground, pooling more like liquid than fabric. He was very displeased about these events, Hob could tell.

Hob shook Phaethon’s hand formally. Once again, the touch burned him, but he resisted the urge to shake his hand out in pain. Then they stood across from each other. Hob wished he had a sword, but that was not this game.

"As the challenged party, you commence the duel," Dream told him, standing not far from Hob’s side as Phaethon paced before them, grinning. "You may choose your form and begin."

Hob had thought long and hard about how he would start. He didn't want to go too big, else the fight escalate beyond his control. Obviously, he didn't want to pick something weak either.

What was out there that had tormented mankind, sowing destruction, breeding fear and illness and death, while barely reaching higher than an ankle? 

Hob had lived through it. The choice was obvious.

"I am a plague rat," he started, and saw Dream’s eyebrows twitch. Impressed. Ha! "Hiding in shadows. Letting sickness into our food, homes, blood."

He saw the rats in his mind. Scurrying through tunnels, climbing into grain stores, unaware of what they carried. A seething mass of tails and slick fur and beady eyes, churning, churning, churning. 

Phaethon curled in on himself, limbs creaking, boils popping on his skin and pus leaking from his eyes. Hob flinched at the reminder of those times. Horrible, horrible times.

Mentally, Hob prepared for the counterattack. Paper beats rock. What beats rat? Dog beats rat. Cat beats rat. Famine, extermination fumes, plague doctors, modern medicine—

"I," Phaethon ground out, through the contortions of his body, "am a flood."

Oof. Good one.

"A swelling, raging river, decimating any town in my path. Washing rats down to their deaths." 

A phantom wave smacked Hob in the face and hurled him to the ground. It crashed over him, gallons and gallons of water, surging up his nose, into his eyes, down his throat. He choked on it. He drowned in it. Debris in the floodwaters bruised him till he felt like a branch spinning out in the current, rather than a human.

Then. He managed to take in a breath.

He staggered to his feet.

Dream was standing a step closer, like he'd lurched forward, but he forced himself back into stillness.

"I," Hob said on a gasping breath, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, "am a drought." Phaethon had taken it to another level? Fine. Hob would go scorched earth. "Whisking away all your water. Turning everything into dust."

Phaethon choked, throat suddenly dry. His eyes went bloodshot. His skin flaked and peeled, his lips bled. He clutched at his stomach as it heaved for water.

He could go rain again, Hob thought. Or ice age. Asteroid. Biblical flood—does that count if he already did a regular flood?

"I am famine," said Phaethon, when he'd recovered himself, though he was still rasping. "I wither crops without water. I starve everything that walks."

Hob's stomach caved in on itself. He fell to his knees, retching nothing but bile. His mind flashed back to his decades on the streets, so long without food he'd thought his stomach would start eating itself—and then it had. 

His arms shook. His body felt thin and liable to crack. 

"I," he croaked, still on all fours, "am an oasis. Rising from the desert, real, not a mirage. Offering reprieve." 

Too late, he realized this might restore his opponent. 

But instead, Phaethon creased and cracked, like he was the famine, persecuted by salvation. He clasped his stomach as if it was overfull; water poured from his mouth.

Water filled Hob's mouth, too, but it restored him. He climbed back to his feet.

Dream was definitely closer now. He wasn't imagining it. Still, he didn't intervene.

Phaethon was visibly weakened, but still he said, "I am selfishness. Infighting over limited resources. Society destroying its oasis."

Hob's limbs were torn in opposite directions. He yelled, but the invisible hands on him didn't let up, yanking at him like he was the final piece of food before everlasting deprivation. He pulled at them, but it was no use.

One of his shoulders dislocated with a loud pop, and he bit down on his tongue so as not to scream. Blood exploded in his mouth.

"I am generosity!" he yelled, blood dripping over his lips. "I am brother sharing with brother. Stranger sharing with stranger."

Dream was looking at him now like he didn't know what to make of him. Phaethon, too, was staring at him, but with a look of disgust. 

"High-minded idealist, are you?" he sneered. "What the hell is generosity going to—”

His expression broke in half. His hands shook; he picked at his nail beds until they peeled and started bleeding. His lip wavered and his eyes beaded with tears.

Hob didn't know what was happening to him.

"Shame," Dream breathed from behind him. "So clever, Hob."

Hob hadn't actually known what generosity would do, but he appreciated the compliment nonetheless.

"I," croaked Phaethon, through tears, "am memory. History and anger curdled to a resentment which no generosity can overcome."

He felt Dream’s eyes on him, as he no doubt feared the anger, the resentment he so believed that Hob held over his absence would surge forth again. But it did not, for Hob had never been angry with Dream. Angry with himself, yes, and that he felt acutely, along with the fear and hurt of Dream walking away, the stewing guilt of it.

Memory held more than anger. Mostly, for Hob, it held grief. Grief for his friend who'd been imprisoned for so long, while Hob went about his life, imagining him lonely, isolated perhaps, but never knowing the truth. Grief for himself, too, for he knew that to always blame himself for Dream’s behavior had also been unfair. 

Tears slipped from his eyes. He looked over at Dream, who was still watching him warily.

Memory had far too many facets for Phaethon to use it as an effective weapon.

"I am forgiveness," Hob said, closing his eyes against a fresh welling of tears. He didn't know who he was forgiving. Himself, or Dream, who still seemed to need absolution from Hob, no matter how Hob told him he didn’t.

"I am hatred!" Phaethon snarled. His voice had gone animalistic in a last ditch effort to come out on top. But forgiveness clanged around him, pulling tears from his eyes, undermining his viciousness. "I am division even forgiveness cannot mend."

Just like that, he opened up the path for Hob to take his king. Checkmate. Game over. Rock paper scissors shoot.

"I am love," Hob said quietly, even as a sob caught in his throat as the memory of all the hate he'd witnessed in his life, the hate he'd participated in, and the fear, long-held, that even Dream might hate him, for his wrongs, or for overstepping, pulsed back to the forefront. He could never hate Dream, though. No matter what.

"Love can be easily destroyed," snapped Phaethon, but he was wavering. 

"But it always comes back," said Hob. Unwitting, he looked over his shoulder at Dream.

His friend was already looking directly at him. That tinge of red, so terrible and familiar now, was back along his eyes. He didn't speak, not to Hob. Hob followed his gaze as he looked over Hob's shoulder and spoke to Phaethon.

"Do you have a counter?"

"Love?" Phaethon laughed hysterically. "You brought love to a duel?"

"I believe Hob brings love everywhere he goes," said Dream, and Hob whipped back around to look at him, eyes wide. The tiniest smile was dancing on Dream’s lips.

Then a blade erupted from Hob's chest.

Blood sprayed. His heart stopped beating—actually stopped, he felt it. The sword had pierced right through it. He scrabbled for it with clumsy hands, but the blade shiiiinged back out before he could grab it. 

Blood spattered Dream’s face. Those pretty lips parted, eyes widened, the lordly bearing wiped from his expression leaving only a person, shocked and wounded. Hob would never forget that look of startled horror for as long as he lived. 

Which wasn't looking to be that long.

He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his chest. No use trying to stop it. It would mend itself, in time, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the instinctive rush of fear. He was dying. He was dying.

He fell on his side. Blood soaked his shirt. All told, it took maybe ten seconds after getting speared like a wild hog—

—for the world to completely blink out.

---

Hob's chest ached like a bitch when he woke. 

He was still on the ground, bloody mud around him, soaking his clothes. Oh. That was mud made from his blood. How horrifying. 

He opened his eyes in time to see Dream lifting Phaethon from the ground by his neck. His hand was a vice grip and Phaethon choked, scrabbling at his fingers for breath.

"TREACHERY," Dream snarled, louder than Hob had ever heard him. His voice boomed across the empty park. "I will unmake you."

"I'm not one of your creatures, you can do nothing to me," said Phaethon, but his assuredness flickered.

Dream’s being was a black hole eating light. "Watch it happen."

Hob coughed, dirt trapped in his throat, and shoved himself up on his forearms. Dream froze, and turned slowly to look at him, Phaethon still clasped in his hand like he weighed nothing. Dream’s attention was like being in the path of a comet.

"Hob," he said. "Are you alright?"

Hob knew, in that moment, that if he asked Dream to spare Phaethon from whatever fate he had in mind for him, he would comply. And what power that was. Hob didn't want to be the one doling out mercy or punishment, like a judge at the gates of Hell. But damn if it wasn't a thrill to have Dream look at him like that.

"Of course I'm all right," he said, with a bloody grin. "I'm Hob Gadling."

Dream smiled too, a ferocious smile, like that of a wolf.

Hob didn't tell him to spare Phaethon.

Apparently, they both had some savagery in them.

---

"So why did he kill me?" Hob asked later, when he'd showered all the blood off—God he loved modern showers—and they were both sitting at the kitchen table in his flat, drinking tea. Well, Hob was drinking tea. Dream was just kind of staring at it. "I mean, the cost of losing wasn't even that high. Not on his end, anyway."

"He was not interested in you at all," said Dream, still not looking at him. "I dragged the truth from him while you were… gone. This was all a ploy to get to me. To hurt me—indirectly, of course. Such a lower being could never hurt me directly."

"Wait." Hob tried to grapple with this. "You— are you saying I was like a kidnapped princess?" 

Dream frowned. "If you insist. The point is, he did not plan to let you walk away. By winning, or by killing you, whichever he could accomplish." 

"Damn. Maybe I should have let you fight for me."

"No. You represented yourself admirably. More than admirably. You won the challenge, fairly, and did not try to kill your opponent to do it." 

Praise from Dream always hit Hob somewhere deep. Possibly because Dream only said such things when he meant them. Possibly just because it was Dream saying them.

“Well, thanks for handling him in the end,” Hob said, instead of voicing that sentiment.

Dream nodded solemnly. “I would not allow such harm to befall you without interfering,” he said.

Hob took a sip of his tea to avoid showing how he felt about that quite so obviously on his face.

“Why did he want to hurt you, then?” he asked instead.

“He is the child of a sun deity,” said Dream.

“And… that… means…?”

“Sunlight chases away dreams. We are natural enemies.”

Hob frowned. “What about daydreams?” 

“Daydreams may take place during the daytime, but they exist in the darkness of the inner mind,” said Dream.

“Ahhhh.” Hob nodded sagely. Yeah, sure, that made sense. One hundred percent. Absolutely. “I don’t know, I feel like some dreams can survive in the daylight. Thrive, even.”

“Perhaps next time I have an altercation with a sun deity, I will call upon you,” Dream said, a bite of sarcasm in it. “To see if you can banish them with this mindset.”

“Don’t give me that cheek,” Hob admonished. Dream’s mouth popped open in offense, but Hob plowed on, “Just have an open mind about it, that’s all I’m saying. Who knows, maybe you guys are in a symbiotic relationship or something, instead of enemies. You help people see what could be possible, and they balance it with reality.”

Dream was silent for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps,” he said at last. “But I do not think approaching them in this manner will serve me well, at the moment.”

“Maybe not if they’re going around attacking you,” Hob conceded, and Dream cracked a small smile.

Sun deities, Hob thought. Really, life was full of such strange and interesting things.

“So when you went to Hell,” Hob started. Dream tilted his head, but didn’t seem thrown by the change in subject. “What did you wager in exchange for your helm? The game makes you wager something, right?”

“It was the demon who chose the other side of the wager,” said Dream. “He demanded I remain in Hell and serve him for eternity, if I lost.”

Hob was glad he’d put down his tea, as he’d probably have dropped it. “What? Was the helm really worth that risk?”

Dream leaned back in his chair, lips pressed tight in offense. Or maybe hurt. “I am nothing without my tools of office,” he said.

“That is not true,” said Hob, surprised by his own vehemence. Nothing? He thought he was nothing?

“I could not have restored the Dreaming without them,” Dream insisted.

“Okay, fine. They’re important for your job. But that doesn’t mean you’re nothing without them.” Hob went to lay his hand over Dream’s on the table, hesitated, then decided, fuck it. Dream started when their skin touched, but didn’t move away. Hob repeated his words, with even more emphasis this time. “You’re not nothing.”

Dream met his gaze, challenging. Hob didn’t back down.

“As you wish,” Dream finally said. Which wasn’t actually an agreement. “I can concede that the ruby breaking was ultimately beneficial to my power. But the helm is my symbol of office. To leave it in the possession of a demon is a continual humiliation to my realm and station.”

“Okay, I’m hearing you,” Hob said. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Dream should be able to get his helm back. But he didn’t want Dream to risk horrible punishment for the sake of his pride. Better to slink away alive to try again another day, or so Hob felt. That wasn’t Dream, though.

“Just be careful, okay?” he said. “Even if you lost your helm and everything, and everyone in Hell thought you were pathetic—which, by the way, not sure Hell’s opinion is worth much anyway? but that aside—I’d still rather have you here than the alternative.” He threw Dream a smile, hoping he didn’t take offense to the idea that he could possibly be pathetic. “It wasn’t ‘The King of Dreams and Nightmares, et cetera’ that I missed for all those years, you know?”

“You did not know who I was, then,” Dream pointed out, but he seemed contemplative.

“I liked who I did know,” Hob said. “My friend.”

“Your friend,” repeated Dream slowly. Finally, he did pick up his tea, and took a sip. “A powerful title indeed, if you would have me when it is the only one I carry.”

“If you say so,” Hob said, which brought a small smile to Dream’s lips. If Dream wanted to think of it as a title akin to his kingship and endlessness and whatnot, then Hob would bestow it on him with gladness, and with a warm sense of honor that nestled right in his heart.

“It is…” Dream added, at length, “a meaningful title. To me.”

Rare, those expressions of feeling from Dream. Hob couldn’t help but to bask in them like a cat in a sunbeam. He remembered how Dream had looked at him during the duel. Love always comes back. Worth it, all the strife, to see Dream look at him like that, he thought.

“You defended me,” Dream said. “To prevent me taking the duel in your place. To protect me when it was not warranted.”

Wasn’t warranted. Hob really wished Dream would just learn to let Hob care for him.

"Would have even if I'd known it was you he truly wanted," he said. “I missed my friend for long enough. Wasn’t going to let something happen again when I could get in the way of it.”

“Your friend,” Dream said again. As if savoring the words. His lips tipped up again in a small smile. One just for himself.

Hob squeezed his hand on the table. A grounding touch, a reminder. “And don’t forget it.”

Dream turned his hand over on the table, and squeezed back.

#rip hob lol #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #my writing #temporary character death #such a hilariously different tone than the last thing i posted