Aug 8
Thought there wouldn't be anything new today? Well, I just found another perfect song for them, and I had to make an anniversary edit with it. 🍓
seen from Azerbaijan
seen from United Kingdom
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from Ecuador
seen from T1
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
Thought there wouldn't be anything new today? Well, I just found another perfect song for them, and I had to make an anniversary edit with it. 🍓
The Umbrella Academy
Five x Lila Masterlist 🍓☂️🚇☕️
The Survival Universe (Series)
Post-Finale, Canon Divergence
Survival
Five and Lila survived seven years lost between timelines. Now they're back, caught between the lives they left behind and the future neither of them expected.
Bonus One-Shots: She's Crazy but She's Mine and Strawberry Day.
Give Me Your Memories
Diego wants his wife back and is willing to do anything. Or what might happen if Lila and Five forgot their years on the subway? (Chapters 1-18 of Survival serve as a prequel to this story.)
Parallel Lines 🖋️
When a client who looks exactly like her husband walks into Lila and Five's detective agency, she knows she's never worked a case like this before. Takes place years after the events of Survival.
Chaotic Stories (Series)
Post-Season 3, Canon Divergence, Aged-up Five
Pre-Wedding Chaos, Runaway Chaos, Till Chaos Do Us Part
This series in a nutshell? Lila leaves Diego on their wedding day, she and Five run into their alternate selves, and after a few wild escapades on an unexpected joint vacation, they end up getting drunk-married in Las Vegas. Yep, it’s pure chaos!
The Beginning of the Chaos 🖋️
A prequel set in an alternate timeline, where Five and Lila met as children and it’s a completely different story from the canon.
FIVELA NEKO ATSUME
Fight Rehearsal vs. Finalized Scene (S03E03)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An update of my Five x Lila fic, He Sleeps with the Fishes: The Hoffa Job
A Preview:
Tony sat panting, squeezing one eye shut as blood ran from his hairline into his left eye. He reached up to wipe it away when suddenly he was unexpectedly swallowed by a flash of blue light.
Tony was dragged from reality, the full-band music of The Land of 1,000 Dances’ bridge ceasing like the click of a dial.
This was the second time in his life he was teleported. No matter how many times, the sensation would be indescribable.
If he had a lifetime, a college degree, and the skill of Shakespeare, Tony still wouldn’t be able to describe it to his partner.
The best he could come up with was that it was like being drawn through the eye of a needle.
His world, for a brief moment, between one heartbeat and the next, became pure sensation; light, dark, noise, silence, shrinking and expanding, all at once.
He felt like he was everywhere and nowhere when the old man used his powers, and Tony wondered if the old timer always felt this when he used them.
If that was the case, Tony wasn’t sure if he’d want superpowers at all.
It was like being born and dying, over and over.
Of course, this feeling might be off.
After all, The Butcher was on a lot of drugs right now.
The old man had told him that taking the drugs would give him the boost he needed to be able to access his powers enough to get them outside. His plan involved getting doped up and teleporting them around enough to hopefully keep the enemy from killing them outright.
But he had also said that the drugs would make his powers unpredictable.
Apparently, this plan was gonna be a real Hail Mary, because taking the drugs would make it hard for the Butcher to calculate their coordinates. He had explained that his brain was like a flight tower, and he was the controller, managing the airspace and directing the planes.
He and Butch—The Butcher, Number Five, ‘Ha-say’-something, whatever his name was—were the planes in this scenario.
Butch had said he used math equations to determine where he would end up and where the stuff he teleported would end up.
That stuff being Tony.
He fucks up, and they wind up anywhere. He fucks up, and parts of them could get misplaced.
He tried to look unconcerned, watching the old man shoot himself up with a lethal amount of heroin, speed, acid, and who knows what else, he still went ahead with them because he needed to believe that there was hope; hope that they were telling the truth; hope that these powers were real; hope that this plan would work; hope that they were somehow all going to make it out alive.
Hope that he was going to make it back to his Tony somehow.
Tony still couldn’t believe he agreed to this. Knowing all of that, he still agreed for his baby.
For his baby, he’d do anything, even if a part of him hadn’t believed them.
When The Butcher and his partner were adamant that they were telling the truth, he had to admit that he had been skeptical, to say the least, but he knew that they had disappeared back at the diner somehow; he just hadn’t been sure how. But superpowers?
How could anything like that be real?
And yet, here he was.
A Preview for the next update of my Five/Lila fic, He Sleeps with the Fishes: The Hoffa Job
Outside, a balding man in aviator sunglasses sat in a tan Lincoln, smoking. He swatted aggressively at a fly as it buzzed past his nose, his annoyance growing by the second as he became increasingly restless and uncomfortable.
There he was, stuck in a car with a busted A/C, middle of the Michigan summer, almost out of smokes, missed his lunch, and was now bored as hell, all while the air around him was about as cloying and thick as molasses. He swore; he could feel his eyeballs sweating in this heat and humidity!
He scratched at his neck and then tugged irritably at the collar of his Condor golf shirt, feeling suffocated. He futilely tried to pull the fabric away from where it clung to his skin with a greedy, grasping hold; he scowled down at the sight of his chest and armpits, where the fabric, he had no doubt, would turn a jaundiced yellow.
He sighed.
His wife was going to have a fit trying to get the stains out. It could be worse, he thought. At least there won’t be any blood—not at the rate this is going.
Their targets were pinned, out of ammo, judging by the lack of return fire for the last few minutes, and probably already dead, judging by the silence. And even if they were alive, by some miracle, he and the others were armed to the teeth and had the whole perimeter covered; there was simply no way out!
No, all that he’d be doing today was hoping he didn’t pull the short straw and end up having to sweat his ass off digging some shallow graves.
He sighed again.
Yeah. Definitely no action today, he thought sourly.
He scanned the area again, his eyes never staying in any one place long, attempting to take in everything at once. He flicked his spent cigarette out the window and let out a large plume of smoke. Seeing no movement beside their men advancing, he leaned forward to adjust the radio dial, taking the risk of turning the volume up just a hair. He was glad this whole circus would likely be over soon, but he was bored.
Static whirred and buzzed softly as he skipped past stations, hoping to find something to keep him entertained.
“—Welcome back, folks! We’ve got an incredible line-up this—"
He sneered at the overly enthusiastic voice and skipped ahead.
BUZZZT!
“—ow de Lawd, he cumfets meh; He protects meh; He aids meh in mah hour a neeeed—" Droned a nasally Southern accent, drawing out the vowels to an obnoxious degree.
He minutely shook his head and moved on.
SKRITCH!
“One, two, three!” Wilson Pickett’s voice strained with emotion, followed by a triumphant blast of a horn section.
He nodded to himself, satisfied. Sitting forward, he forced himself to pay close attention again, his gaze critical. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed anything suspicious during his brief respite. Bored as he was, he needed to stay sharp and professional. The boss wouldn’t want anything less.
Narrowing his eyes as he tilted his head to one side, he wrinkled his nose in concentration.
He watched as men carefully advanced upon the crumbling gas station from all sides, their guns aimed, and their steps light. The buzzing of cicadas, a loud, ponderous noise that pressed in on his eardrums, blended with the swelling of his music.
“One, two, three!” Another blast of horns and cicadas, followed by the bass.
Suddenly, in the rearview mirror, he caught the flash of brilliant blue light erupting in the backseat.
He blinked. Just there, in the rearview mirror, seated directly behind him was an old man in a suit—the old man in a suit—and although he looked like a washed-up, scrawny bum to his eyes, this was no ordinary man.
This was an extraordinary man.