MHA AU Idea (Grease)

Ok but WHY is this so cute??

It gives '1980's musical' vibes (specifically reminds me of Grease). And as such, I believe it's time for another AU idea.

(Note: It's not 100% to the canon movie because I tried to fit EVERYONE into it and I love the movie so y'all can suck my dick.)

Story: It'd follow the same plot as the movie, with Deku being 'Sandy' and Bakugo being 'Danny'. The two fall in love during the summer before their senior year, with both believing it'd simply be a one-time fling. Then, suddenly, Deku shows up at the school and reveals his mom (Inko) and step-dad (who will be an OC btw) decided to stay permanently instead of moving back to Japan. So now Bakugo has to hide his inner soft-hearted nature, while Deku has to become more 'tough' to prove he can stand alongside the one he loves.

Cast: (currently a wip)

(x)

jean-paul and tim fighting in the batcave is what fandom thinks happened between jason and tim

it's so funny to me that fanfiction version of titans tower incident (teen titans 2003 #29) is basically what canonically happened during knightquest the crusade (tec #668 and robin #1)

tim is actually 14 years old so it was a fight between an actual kid and adult instead of two teenagers

tim is beaten up in his safe place by an ally who he used to have positive feelings about (i mean it was tim who broke in and sneaked around the batcave so i don't blame jpv for self-defense!)

tim is annoyed that he worked so hard to become robin only to be shut down by jean-paul and now having to prove himself to him (didn't go well)

(detective comics #668/showcase '93 #11)

tim sasses jean-paul

(detective comics #668/bloodbath special #1)

jean-paul strangles tim lol

(detective comics #668/robin 1993 #1)

jean-paul intends to kill tim? probably? not really? i mean he kind of threatens to later in knightsend but he is in a silly goofy mood

(detective comics #677)

jean-paul immediately regrets attacking tim and is very sorry and sad wet cat (tim is not buying it (angsty))

(robin 1993 #1)

jean-paul is not in full control of himself because of The System

The System is "lazarus pit rage" except it's a religious programming and instead of seeing green jean-paul hallucinates a templar knight telling him to be batman or something

the strangling incident has lasting consequences not only on their relationship but the plot too (tim can't shut up about it)

(batman #506/#507/#508)

(catwoman 1993 #31)

tim and dick become closer after that (also dick hates jp's guts lol)

(showcase '93 #11/#12/detective comics #681)

(batman: gotham knights #14 the issue is called sibling rivalry btw. you know)

also in his azbats era jean-paul thinks he is so much better and effective than bruceman (while he is actually having a mental breakdown) and bruce feels very responsible for how he fucked up jp's psyche and deems him one of his biggest mistakes (jp and batman angst real)

(azrael 1995 #1/#2/#36 look at him he's so sad)

after knightsend jean-paul feels very guilty and becomes a better person while struggling with mental health and The System (and fights evil cult that manipulated him with his new friends)

also i personally believe none of this would have happened if tim didn't give jean-paul a bad haircut

(batman #491)

are you perfect yet? - Alexander Anthony Mar

Oh, look! It’s another first kiss ficlet 🙈 approx 450 words / shameless fluff

The cassette clicks softly as it turns over, blank tape gently hissing before the next song comes in with a blast of drums and guitar; Eddie looks at Steve sitting beside him on the floor at the foot of Eddie’s bed. Steve has his eyes closed, head dipping side to side not quite in time with the music, not like he lacks rhythm—the fingers drumming on his knee are keeping perfect time—but like he’s lost in the song.

It takes a moment for Eddie to realize Steve’s softly humming, but when he does he smiles. He shifts his weight onto one side, propping an elbow on his bed, and just looks at Steve. The dusk light sloping through the window catches on the long sweep of his eyelashes, renders the shape of him in bright gold.

Steve’s eye cracks open and he looks at Eddie. “What?”

“Nothing.” Eddie looks at Steve a moment longer, then he slides his elbow off the mattress, turns so he’s facing the same way as Steve again. He lets his head rest back against his bed, closes his eyes. “This is such a fucking good song.”

“Yeah.”

“I really wanna kiss you, right now, man.” Eddie keeps his eyes closed a moment longer, heart beating time with the music, before he opens them and chances a look at Steve.

Steve’s brows are raised, but they slowly settle the longer he looks at Eddie. His eyes dip and he presses his lips together, tongue between them.

Eddie doesn’t move, not even when Steve does, leaning his weight on one hand on the floor between them, bringing him closer to Eddie. It’s not until Steve tilts his chin up, pressing his mouth softly to Eddie’s, that Eddie moves. He pushes forward, deepening the kiss, part of him not daring to believe this is real, but most of him slowly sinking into it.

Steve angles Eddie’s face with a hand cupped to his jaw, and Eddie threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, pulling gently, and Steve moans into the kiss. Or maybe it’s Eddie. Maybe it’s both of them.

When they part, Steve blinks, running a hand over the back of his neck, turning away with a small smile. His teeth peek out, stark white against the pink of his lips, and he huffs softly.

Eddie drinks some of his beer, the cold metal of the can a shock against his lips after the warmth of Steve’s mouth. He smiles, catches Steve’s eye, then smiles wider when Steve smiles back.

An easy silence settles over them and they sit there side by side, legs tangled together as they listen to the music and share their secret smiles.

She's on a hospital bed, amnesiac after an accident and she's having a crush on this man who is apparently her husband.

@dragonuva's part on an art trade with them from last year! 🥰 It's based on the first chapter of Chiptune by Newlense.

Guys. This fanfic is my favorite FAVORITE connverse fic and I love it so much I don't care if the last update was in 2020 nor if it's never going to be continued. It's so tender and the angst whalloped my guts in the right places. 😭💕

Thinking about Kenta slowly settling into the X-Hunter family over the course of weeks and months, partly cause it's a foster home Tony's adopted kids, and partly because he's Kim's boyfriend.

Kenta visits Kim after a group practise just a few weeks after the events of canon and stands stiff next to the doors of the garage, not daring to step inside.

No one notices him (cause we all know how lax X-Hunter's security is lmfao) till the practise is finished and Kim is coming into the garage with the rest of the team to look at their performance reviews, and he notices Kenta standing all awkward and small and tiny.

He waves at Kenta, and it catches Alan's attention and of course he has to invite Kenta in (the man has a knack for picking up 'kids' at a moment's notice).

North tries to protest a little because hello this man literally tried to kill a few of us and sabotage our team in the worst possible way??? But Alan (and Kim's) glare shuts him up, and Kenta is invited inside graciously by Alan.

Kim perks up in his presence, but the rest of the people are still a little tense, especially Babe, Sonic, and Way (he's alive cause I said so. And he and Kenta has history, and not the good or the spice kind so!). They are not the most pleased, remembering the past, taking Kenta's actions as fatally dangerous but nothing personal, remembering how the circumstances made by Tony, and how Kenta went through weeks of therapy, and will be going to years more of it, all narrated by Kim during practise-breaks and team-meetings after he officially joined the team.

Jeff greets him with a smile, and Charlie nods in acknowledgement, having heard of Kenta from Jeff for years, though without any face to put the name onto before. But they resume talking numbers and times with Alan and the technical team, and soon no one is paying any attention to Kenta as he shuffles himself into one of the couches in the corner, stooping down and trying to make himself look as small as he feels.

He hears words, but does not register anything, thinking about the warm smile of Alan, the man who's entire team he tried to destroy, the same team he has poured his life and savings into, according to Kim. He thinks about Way, who has faced Tony for years too, just like Kenta himself, but has betrayed Tony in the end and sided with people who care for him, who loves him, who surrounds him now and would surround him forever. And he thinks about the eyes of Babe, who, like him, has gone through it all with Tony, who pulled himself out, even if it's right at the end. Babe never bent himself back to Tony's will, never put a gun on anyone's head and killed them just because Tony asked him to, never did all the terrible things Kenta has done, even when everything went against him, even when Kenta tried to destroy his career and imprison him in Tony's mansion again. Even when he was at his lowest, he was still strong enough to stand in front of Tony and spit in his name. He thinks of Jeff, who smiled at him, who had run away too, and about Charlie, who almost died thanks to Kenta playing villain for Tony and yet stood up and challenged Tony anyway.

They have suffered so much over the years, as much as Kenta has gone through in Tony's hand, yet they have run away, made their lives in the world outside without fear, have stood in front of Tony and looked at his face and not flinched.

And now they have looked at Kenta, and have let him in, let him stay, even though Kenta does not deserve it in the least bit. Even though he has pulled dirty tricks, tried to kill them again and again. Yet they nod at him, and smile at him, and let Alan and Kim invite him in, even when he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve forgiveness, doesn't deserve love, doesn't deserve Kim's love and Jeff's smile and Alan's kindness, even when he's a traitor, even when he's dirtier and lower than anything else, even when-

"Hey, you ok?"

A hand rests on his back, warm against the fabric of his shirt. The familiar scent of coffee, lemon, mixed with engine exhaust and gasoline tickle his nose. It's a strange combination, potent and slightly stinging, but it feels like warmth, cuddles, and home, even when Kenta does not know what a home is.

Kim sits down next to him and pulls Kenta's face on his shoulder.

"You ok? Are the smells here too much? Wanna leave?"

Kim's voice is an anchor against the rough waves of guilt, shame, anger, regret. He's warm and real by Kenta's side, and his hand is soft and forgiving as it moves through Kenta's hair—now longer and falling on his shoulders after Kim telling him how hot it looks for days. He, at least, doesn't seem to hate Kenta in the garage, since he invited Kenta and all.

"Don't you have more to talk about cars?"

"Not really. Alan let me go today. Saw you shaking alone in a corner and all... thought I should ease you in your first visit here."

"Will that be ok? I'm being a bother here, aren't I? I'll leave-"

But Kim doesn't let him go. A wraps an arm tight around Kenta and holds him to his side. The hands on Kenta's hair become gentler, and Kim's calming pheromones slowly spread between them.

"Nah, it's all good. We weren't talking anything that imp. Plus, Alan's worried about you, y'know?"

Kenta can't fathom why Alan would ever be worried about him. Being concerned for Kim is understandable, Kim's a racer and a good one at that, he's an important new addition to the team. Forgiving Kenta and letting him come in the garage for the sake of keeping Kim satisfied was also understandable, even downright kind, but...

"Why?" Kenta has to ask. "I... did them a lot of wrong."

"You can ask Alan later, if you want." Kim shrugs. "He's like that, I guess. He picked me up too, in case you didn't notice." There's a smile in his voice. He seems comfortable, far more than Kenta had thought was possible in a team that used to be his competitors till a few weeks ago. He seems... at home.

Kenta's glad he has found his home.

"..."

He doesn't say something for a while. Talking to Alan personally, asking him something like that? Kenta can't even imagine it. Tony would never allow someone to walk away without a punishment after trying to harm him in the littlest bit. And Kenta has done so, so much more to Alan and his team.

"Is this making you uncomfortable?" Kim asks after a minute of silence. "I swear Alan likes you, and the guys have all forgiven you too. Mostly, anyway. North's always a bit impulsive, but he's coming around too, so don't feel bad."

Kenta feels bad. He feels so bad. Worse now that he knows he's received so much forgiveness, and all of it undeserved too. Why would someone even do that, forgive people who brought them harm?

Kim notices his silence. And perhaps he takes it for discomfort, for he asks if Kenta is tired, if he wants to go home.

Home. Is that what he and Kim are making together?

He does want to leave, get away from the inquiring, sometimes concerned eyes. Get away from the forgiveness that burns shame and guilt into his skin. He wants to go home, bury himself in the piles of blankets on his and Kim's bed, breathe in lungfuls of his scent and drown in his kisses. But...

"Didn't you say you had to go for a team dinner after practise?"

"Right! About that... Alan's actually asked me to tell you to join us, if you'd like to. But if you want to go home now, then we can leave, let me just tell them goodbye."

And Kenta really, really does to go home. But he also wants to stay. He doesn't want Kim to miss a dinner with his still-new team, not when he wants to stay with the X-Hunters for many seasons still. And... he wants to stay, too. Check if Alan's really ok with him going, if the rest of the team will still be civil in closer proximity.

He wants to see how far kindness and forgiveness can go.

It will be uncomfortable. Enduring prying gazes for a few more hours, and maybe even awkward small talks as they try to shift around and bend the established pack dynamics to let Kenta, coward, traitor Kenta, come into their circle even if it's only for one dinner.

And then again, Kenta may just fuck it all up with ill timed words, or perhaps someone from the team, maybe North, or Way or Babe or Charlie or Sonic, or perhaps even Alan, kind as he is, realizes they've had enough of tolerating a weak, pathetic excuse of a person in their table.

But he wants to be brave, even if it's years late.

Kim deserves a pack. Kim loves him, and Kenta loves him just as much. He's not going to take it all away form Kim just because he's afraid, just because of 'what ifs'.

"No, I'll go for dinner with you. Tell Alan that, please, if they'll still have me."

Kim presses a kiss on his forehead, takes a long inhale of Kenta's scent, and gets up.

"Be right back, then!"

Kenta watches him walk towards the small circle of people gathered around the screens with blinking numbers of red.

He doesn't know what will happen, but he wants to try. He wants to brave. He wants a home. For Kim. And for himself.

tsukasa loves showing off i think he would also like to show off how strong he is in the form of carrying rui 

I know the respective fandoms of DC and Miraculous Ladybug have a certain disdain for MLxDC fics but I think there's a potential for fics where Luka leaves Paris and just keeps traveling to different US cities because he keeps figuring out secret identities and he's just this 15 year old kid growing increasingly frustrated and exasperated at how badly everyone hides their identities and he just has to pretend to be oblivious even tho it's Their Fault for being Bad At Secrets and shouldn't adults be better at this??????

Prompt: Will tunes out during sex.

They’re in bed, it’s very hot, and the fan hums a steady rhythm, the only sound in the room, calming, soothing. Beyond the gently flowing curtains, sunlight bathes the space in hues of yellow and orange, evoking the ethereal essence of a languid four o'clock golden hour. The sheets are white, soft, silky and perfect on a king-sized canopy bed.

The bed holds them captive each morning, especially on scorching summer days like this, when they linger, reluctant to part from its embrace. They’ll get up to eat sometimes, but usually they’ll pack up the mini fridge to avoid having to leave the bedroom. Today, a plate sits on the night stand, scattered with half-eaten grapes, strawberries, and watermelon cubes, and two glasses of tea, now diluted with melted ice.

CW: 18+

They’ve taken a cold shower a few hours ago to relieve the heat, and their bodies are now all soft, dried, and smell like bergamot, orange, pomegranate and patchouli. Will's hair carries the fragrance of cypress, lemongrass, and geranium.

They’re both delicious and fresh, naked on the Marrakesh sheets, crafted from percale Angel Luxe Egyptian cotton, it’s white and feels otherworldly sensual against their cool skin. Will is laying on his back, draped across the bed, like a lazy cat. Vacant eyes, wet hair almost completely dried by the heated air, head turned to the window, slowly blinking at the golden gleams outside. Hannibal lays beside him, body glued on his, one hand holding Will’s leg by the thigh, as he props himself on his elbows, face buried in Will’s throat, inhaling, kissing, tonguing, nuzzling that sweet spot, as his lower body moves back and forth, in and out of Will’s, rhythmically, sensually, languidly, and it feels like he’s covered in Ambrosia silk, sliding in and out with almost no friction at all, oozing and pouring from inside Will. It’s hypnotic, the sound, the sense of the movement, the heat coming off of their mingled bodies. His hands are already starting to form sweat from where he’s holding Will’s thigh, by the nook of his knee. Hannibal is trying to control himself and keep the pace slow, but he can feel it boiling up inside him. He notices Will is silent, which is rare, almost never occurring, in fact. Will is a screamer, he’s usually so loud, Hannibal wonders if the neighbors can hear them and that must be why they give them dirty looks. He doesn’t mind, of course. When he thinks about dying, he wishes heaven is a musical nothingness and his are Will’s little moans. But he is quiet now, and Hannibal lifts his face from Will’s neck to check on him.

His eyes are vacant, open but blinking slowly as if he’s on the verge of falling asleep. He’s reacting to the movements ever so slightly, with little sighs. He’s staring at the window but isn’t looking at it. The sun casts a golden shadow on half of his face, making his blue eyes appear extravagantly light, almost like the sky. And they’re void of the usual intensity they hold. Hannibal frowns at the sight, but gives him a little kiss on the cheek, to see if that will bring him back. Will just closes his eyes to the touch but continues to wander. Hannibal, with a lot of effort, stops moving and just looks at him. Where is he? Where could be better than here and now? He feels a soft ache in his chest. He though they were sharing something beautiful, but perhaps he was alone.

Will continues in oblivion, batting his lashes leisurely, lips slightly parted, his chest gently rising and falling. Hannibal considers saying his name but opts for a soft “hmmm” in his ear, like a cat purring for attention, followed by a light kiss there. Will doesn’t respond to it, so Hannibal lowers his leg back on the mattress.

“Hey, you” Hannibal whispers, nuzzling his ears and hair. 

Will lets out a small “hmm?”, absentmindedly.

“Where have you gone?” Hannibal smiles and tenderly brushes his hand on Will’s cheeks. Skin golden by the Sun, smooth by the au beurre de Karité he massages onto his face each morning. What a greek god, a mirage. So perfect, so sensual and beautifully crafted. “Is this not good for you?”

Will finally but slowly reawakens, raising his brows and blinking distractedly. “What?” 

Hannibal smiles softly at him and brings his hands to his hair, stroking up and down. “Was it not good?” he asks with genuine concern. “It was so good for me that I failed to check on you. I apologize.” He gives featherly kisses on Will’s eyes.

“What…” Will mumbles inattentively and finally find Hannibal’s eyes.

“Amore mio…” Hannibal gives him a fondly impatient smile. “Where are you?”

“Sorry,” Will swallows and sighs loudly. “It was good.” He parts his lips, tongue sliding out, leaning for a lazy and wet kiss. “Keep going.” He taps Hannibal on the thigh and lifts his leg back up, readjusting himself, shifting his head to the side again and closing his eyes.

Hannibal just looks at him for a moment. Will’s not even hard anymore.

“Tell me where you were.”

Will flutters his eyes open again, “Nowhere, I was here. Just…” he sighs, smiling at Hannibal now, “it’s really hot…and I’m a little lethargic, that’s all.”

Hannibal studies him for a moment, isn’t entirely convinced, but opts for a gentle kiss on the forehead instead of more probing. He looks like an angel and very hard to resist like this, all pliant and mellow. So Hannibal just shifts, getting on top of him, taking both hands in his and pressing them above the pillow, with gentle but firm pressure. Will blinks slowly and gives him a lazy smile. He’s still absent, but his body is reawakening, almost instinctively, to Hannibal’s. His legs languidly glide on Hannibal’s, inviting. Hannibal leans in and kisses him open mouthed, tongues slippery and sopping, in a way that always ignites Will and makes him painfully turned on, whimpering in Hannibal’s mouth through glossy kisses.

Just like that Hannibal can feel Will hardening against his core, and he smiles through the kiss. He slides in with no effort, both still sleek from before, and Will reacts with a little quiver, parting his lips. As soon as his eyes fall shut, Hannibal leans closer, nuzzling his face. “Uh-uh, stay with me,” he commands, willing him to keep his eyes open.

He does, and they make love like this until the sun begins to set, and the air begins to cool.

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

My fic for the @hermbi-discord hermbang event has gone live! A whole more than 12 hours ago but shhhh

So you remember a while ago when I was talking about my hermitcraft hero/villain au? This is the first fic in that universe! I'll be doing connected oneshots instead of one big story to keep it a bit more manageable for me <3

@kittykitkaaat also did some amazing art for this fic, and domik helped beta!

tfw you’re a couple chapters into an fma found family fic and it’s becoming increasingly clear that the author sees Al as an accessory for Ed and not as an actual character

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 15

LET GO

"You have to let me go." - the hardest decision and one hell of a commitment.

inspired by the song "I Loved Her First" by Heartland

I was enough for her, not long ago. I was her number one, she told me so. 

Tara was 20-going-on-21. She was growing up. She was moving on. She was independent and dependable. She was smart and courageous. She was everything Sam would ever hope for her to be.

Except not staying her little girl forever… 

Sam remembered everything. Everything they ever had before it all changed, before their fallout, before she left. Ten years, five years, one year, all of the time wasted and estranged meant nothing. It didn’t hold a candle to the amount of memories she could talk hours about. She couldn’t tell you she’d been there for her baby sister’s whole life, but she could tell you anything you’d want to know about her. She remembered every fight, every smile, every laugh, every cry, every pain, every hug, every kiss, every “Sammy”— 

Sammy… That’s a name she hadn’t heard in a long time. It was Tara’s name for her… Her special name. She had said that more times than she had said “Mama” or “Daddy”, more than she had said “Mom” or “Dad.” She had said that more than she had ever said any other name in the whole world. Now, she was just Sam, and that was fine. But she couldn’t forget what it meant to be Sammy. What it meant to be the one Tara would cry for in the middle of the night when she was being sleep trained and was tired of going back and forth from their parents’ bedroom. What it meant to be the one she hugged every day when she came home from school. What it meant to hold her hand at the doctor’s office or push her on the swing. What it meant to be adored and believed in, no matter how impossible the challenge. What it meant to be Tara’s Number 1…

“You’re my number one, Sammy! I love you!”

It’s not that Tara loved her any less or that she ignored her. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about her or was leaving so they’d never see each other again. They saw each other every day. They talked every day. They still said, “I love you” and “Goodnight” and “How are you?” to each other. 

But it wasn’t the same. 

There was hurt and scars deep in that girl’s eyes. Her smile hadn’t changed, but it hid a million tragedies. She was no longer innocent in the way that pain and suffering and fear were the worst in the forms of splinters, not getting the stuffed animal she wanted, or what might be hiding under her bed. Tara knew what it was like to have broken bones and scars permanently tattooed onto her skin. She knew what it was like to beg for mercy as she bled out and drag herself helplessly across a cold floor in hopes that a serial killer with a blood lust would have mercy on her life. She knew what it was like to shake so violently that it took mountains of drugs to sedate her and scream herself hoarse trying to fight for everything she had to lose. She knew what it was like to be so far gone that trauma was the only thing that pulled her back.

And then Chad came along… 

And she still means the world to me, just so you know, so be careful when you hold my girl. 

He and Tara were a match made that Sam never saw coming. When she had first returned to Woodsboro, she thought of him having grown up to be the stereotypical jock that you see in the movies. However, once he lost Liv and Tara lost Amber, something between them sparked. It was subtle, but Sam had babysat Chad long enough to figure him out as if he were her brother. She noticed the way he was careful around her younger sister, watching how he moved to make sure he never made her uncomfortable and how he was always there to watch out for her when Sam wasn’t around. Trauma had matured them both, as sad as that was to say, but in the same token, they bonded over that. 

Sam respected how protective Chad was over Tara. How he was the one nearly caught in a fight when Frankie intended to drag Tara up the stairs and rape her. How he held the door for her and pulled her out of harm’s way whenever she tried to rush into danger. How he held her when she was hurting and kissed her goodnight. She knew she could trust him with her only sister, the person she cared the most about in this cruel world. And she would never love anyone more.

Tara was her girl, no matter who she devoted her heart to. 

And if it was Chad, so be it.

Time changes everything, life must go on. I’m not gonna stand in your way.

Yes, Tara had grown up. She didn’t cry anymore when she fell down. She wasn’t clingy when they were in a new place. She didn’t ask for help with her homework or crawl into Sam’s bed in the middle of the night just because she “missed her”.

She was still young, but she couldn’t be tied to Sam’s side anymore. She had to let her go.

And she did. That night she had given Tara the knife, while she hung off the balcony, their bloodied hands clutching each other’s wrists like they were all they had to lose.

“You have to let me go.”

Since then, they had become closer as sisters but even more distant in boundaries. Tara was free, because she proved to herself and Sam that she could take care of herself. So, she went to college, stayed up late, walked to and from therapy sessions by herself, hung out with friends, hit up a movie theater every now and then, and just indulged in her collar-free lifestyle. She always told Sam where she was going and how long she’d be out, but she was alone in doing it. All her older sister could do was say, “Okay. Be careful. I love you.”

And in reply, she’d hear, “I will. Love you too.”

She had made a promise to Tara that she’d always be there for her, but she understood that she couldn’t keep her sheltered from the rest of the world. Tara had a tough background; she deserved the freedom, trust, and independence she had to go where she wanted, experience what life had to offer, and love who she couldn’t live without.

Sam couldn’t stand in her way any longer. 

I loved her first. I held her first. And a place in my heart will always be hers.

But no matter where Tara went, how long she stayed away, and who she spent her days and nights with, Sam would always be the first one to love her. Sure, she may have gone to school with Chad Meeks-Martin. She may have shared her lunch with him. She may have raced him on the playground and gave him hours of her time after school when Sam would babysit both twins and Wes Hicks. She may have fallen in love with him. She may have kissed him and sat in his lap late at night. She may have pushed his buttons, and he may have pushed hers. She may have done a lot of things.

But Sam had always been the first one to do any of them. She was the reason Tara knew what all those things felt like and how they made her feel.

She loved her first, and no matter how old Tara was or where life took her, Sam would always hold everything she had of her baby sister in a special place in her heart.

From the first breath she breathed, when she first smiled at me. I knew the love of a sister runs deep.

The day she was born. Her first word. Her first asthma attack. All of her doctor’s visits. Her sleep training. The day she lost her first tooth. Her first day of pre-k. Her first day of kindergarten. Evey milestone Tara had in her childhood, Sam was there for. 

As far as she was concerned, being the older sister meant being anything and everything for her baby sister, even if it was impossible. If Tara was scared, she wasn’t. If Tara needed a doctor on sight, Sam vowed she would get her to one by carrying her on her back. If Tara asked for one more bedtime story, one more hug, one more goodnight kiss, Sam would give it to her. Anything Tara wanted was hers, no matter how hard it was to get.

She never could stand it when her younger sister would cry, no matter the age. When Tara was a baby, she’d keep asking her mom why she was crying, convinced something was wrong when she was told that babies just cry sometimes. When she would accidently push Tara down while playing, she would beg her parents that it was an accident, that she didn’t mean to hurt her or make her cry. When Tara was being sleep-trained, Sam would cover her ears to block out her constant wailing when she would be put back into her room. She’d listen to her sobs and pleas, asking for one more hug or pull an excuse just to get her way. But when Tara would give up on their parents and started to call out “Sammy! I need you, Sammy!”, she gave in every time. Because when she saw her tears dry before she drifted off to sleep, happy that she was no longer alone, Sam couldn’t think of anything else in the world that was more precious than her existence.

And I prayed that she’d find you someday. But it’s still hard to give her away…

If only Tara could have always been that happy. If only she could have always stayed that innocent. But life was never fair to the ones that didn’t deserve its wrath.

However, it had given her so much to live for. Her degree. Chad. Her future. The rest of her life.

And as hard as it was to let her go, Sam knew she had to. For Tara’s sake. Because like it had been from the start, she’d forever do whatever it took to make sure she was happy. 

Even if it was impossible.

I loved her first.

She knew from day 1 that she could never love anyone more than the baby girl with the most beautiful smile in the world. She would never want anything but the best for the baby girl with the most beautiful name in the world.

Tara Carpenter.

How could that beautiful woman with you be the same freckled-face kid that I knew?

And Sam had never been more right about anything in her life. Tara was gorgeous, and everyone thought so too. She’d come home from her college classes and go on and on about how many boys tried to get her number or make a move on her. Then, she’d proudly talk about how she’d turn them down and flash them her lock screen—which was of her and Chad celebrating New Year’s—as she walked by.

She carried herself with confidence, she said what she pleased, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and she had no problem throwing a punch to someone who deserved it. Samantha couldn’t believe how much she’d grown from being that little girl that would hide behind her, because she was too shy. That little girl who would look up at her with the biggest eyes and brightest grin, saying “Sammy, guess what I did today?” The little girl that once thought she was the queen of the household, just because her big sister doted on her so much.

She was the same person who had done all that, but no one would’ve thought it. 

The one that I read all those fairy tales to… and tucked into bed all those nights.

Oh, God, and how Sam would do everything a thousand times over, if it only meant Tara could stay little forever.

There were many times that their parents were working or having heated discussions in their room, so it would be up to Sam to read Tara her bedtime story or tuck her in. It became a routine, and she enjoyed it so much that she took it up to be her responsibility each night. They were both learning, so why not do it together?

She would always let Tara pick the book and choose how many times she wanted to hear it. Tara always sat in her lap or leaned against her with all her weight from the side. Sam never minded it when she’d shout out the words on the next page before she even turned it or the way she would insist she wasn’t tired—that she wanted to hear it again—even though she was yawning and rubbing her eyes.

And when Sam got her in bed and tucked her in, Tara would rehearse the same phrase she’d learned from one of her books, except she had her own little twist on it.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my Sammy, you’ll be.”

What Sam would give to hear that one more time.

And I knew the first time I saw you with her, it was only a matter of time.

But she would never ask to hear it. Tara was who she was, and she did her best not to look back. Not because of her childhood, of all those beautiful times she and Sam shared together, but because of the grief, pain, and trauma that had come in between then and now. It was a brick wall, a storm window, a tangle of strings that shaped her into who she was today. 

Sam knew that, just like she knew moving on and giving her heart to someone new was all a part of Tara living and enjoying her life. 

She had to accept it. 

Tara wasn’t gone. She hadn’t left. She had simply grown up. They still had a ton of time to spend with each other and just be sisters. They loved each other like no other half-siblings could ever love each other. 

They were Samantha and Tara Carpenter. The Carpenter Sisters.

And for a while, they had forever in their hands. That’s why it was so hard for one to understand…

That the one thing that was the best thing she could ever do for her baby sister was the exact thing she was the most scared of.

She had to let her go.

Someday, you might know what I’m going through… 

“Can I see her?” Sam asked her mother, barely unable to keep her excitement in finally becoming a true big sister to herself. 

She had only been 5 years old at the time, not knowing just how close she and her new baby sister would come to be. Not knowing how crazy and reckless their lives would become. Not knowing how putting their lives on the line for each other 20 years later would come to be of the same little girls that once thought monsters in the closet, thunderstorms, and the first day of school were the most terrifying things in the world.

“Mm-hmm,” Christina nodded as her husband picked up her oldest daughter and placed her on the edge of the hospital bed.

Sam saw her mother cradling the smallest human being she had ever seen in her arms as she leaned over to get a better view. And then next thing she knew, she was staring at the face of her new baby sister. 

And her whole world stopped.

When a miracle smiles up at you…

“Samantha, meet your baby sister. Tara Carpenter.”

I loved her first.

i did not expect to write this so quickly, i literally couldn't stop typing (except for the times when i started crying and had to retreat where my mom wouldn't notice lol)

this was one of the hardest things i've ever written. if you didn't cry, your heart must be made of stone, because i'm lowkey a wreck after finishing this (unless the carpenter sisters' relationship doesn't hold any power on you, then you're not heartless, just vibin).

All my best ♡ - parker

put simply,

We are the ghosts under the floorboards We are the voices in his head We are the whistles of the treetops And the creaks around his bed

We are the shadows in the closet And the eyes along the hall We are the broken friends and family who all scream and shout and call

We are the memories of long ago the terrors of the night We are the footsteps no one left at all We are the reason that he fights

We can measure hugs and words of care We line up shining lives We haunt our blorbo evermore We choose if he survives