Abel, sweetie, who cares what they think? As long as you are happy and that Alastor is taking good care of you!
Because you better be taking care of this sweet angel, Alastor.
Alastor: *looks over at Abel with half-lidded eyes* Of course I’m taking care of him.
Abel: Yeah! Alastor has been a good boyfriend so far!
Alastor: *leans against Abel’s shoulder* I take that as quite the compliment from such a man like yourself.
Abel: *smiles warmly and pulls Alastor in closer, being mindful of his ears and antlers as he rests his head on Alastor’s shoulder* Is this really a good idea? Us dating?
Alastor: Mon Cher why are you asking?
Abel: It’s just a unusual pairing…
Alastor: But that’s what makes this so much fun! It’s a thrill I’ve never felt before! I haven’t been this excited in nearly a hundred years! Don’t you feel the same?
Abel: Well… I mean something similar. I’m excited and all but I don’t want to embarrass you or anything. I know being an Overlord is a huge deal and stuff.
Alastor: *moves to climb into Abel’s lap, straddling him* You’re not embarrassing my sweet. If anyone has anything negative there want to say, I’ll remind them why you don’t mess with the Radio Demon.
Abel: *laughs softly, wrapping his arms string Alastor to keep him close and steady* You’re so sweet Al.
Alastor: Not as sweet as you *kisses Abel’s forehead gently*
Cleaning my desktop so let me share these screenshots I did for some reason. Rare-pair Nami/Paulie.
I said it before, I say it again: If Paulie had become the strawhat shipwright, this would have been my one main ship. I would have joined the crew SO FAST.
But also imagine how funny his interactions with Sanji would have been? One blonde shaming the women the other wanting to see more skin?
Nami controlling them both with with her little finger.
Robin wondering about a world with a different shipwright.
Maybe the joke would have grown old at one point... but also... what could have been. lmao.
But what we have is good too. I'm happy with the crew.
I haven’t cared about ships for 2-3 years, until now. I’ve haven’t been giggling and kicking my feet over two fictional characters kissing for years, until now. I’ve haven’t wanted to make and consume content for a ship, until now. And the ship that’s finally reawakened my spark is a fucking rare-pair with 7 other shippers including this sardine I found on the floor.
She hates that it makes her feel warmer than it should. Her vision-spiked nerves are still jittering, and the way he looked at her in the middle of the fight - like she was someone worth protecting - that is going to stick, no matter how much she pretends otherwise.
“You need anything?” he asks after a beat. “Water? Ice?”
She starts to say no, reflexive and proud, but her stomach rolls and the ache behind her eyes spikes. “Ice,” she mutters.
He nods once and moves toward the small kitchen behind the counter.
Cordelia watches him go, jaw tightening. This was not how she expected tonight to go. Lindsey McDonald, in her lobby, fighting by her side, asking if she needs ice.
“Oh, Mother, you’ll never guess! You’ll never guess in century of guessing!” Rilla cried out, sounding so much as she had as a little girl, for a moment, Anne could convince herself the War had never happened and that somewhere in Rainbow Valley, Walter sat writing a crown of sonnets in his leather-bound journal, his face dappled by the light, back braced against the bole of a birch tree, his grey eyes unfocused as he searched for his next word.
There was still a white stone in the graveyard. Shirley was in Toronto, having refused (albeit politely) to return to Glen St. Mary, much to Susan’s dismay, and Jem walked with a pronounced limp, his uneven gait announcing him as much as Mary’s voice.
There was a mystery there, Jem and Mary Vance, but Anne couldn’t see any way through it and Gilbert, lying beside her in bed, both of them tired but sleepless, told her not to try. Jem had seemed less removed, less falsely cheerful lately, and had begun talking about the medical course again, perhaps a specialty in obstetrics, a hospital practice. As far away from men dying in battle as he can get, Gilbert had observed and Anne had recalled Joyce’s little face, white as a mayflower blossom, and held her tongue.
Rilla, remarkably, given her exuberant entrance, had done the same in the absence of Anne’s response. Miss Oliver had left Ingleside some weeks ago, so there was no one to suggest Rilla either elaborate or calm herself, as her likeness to a whistling copper tea-kettle was increasingly pronounced.
“If I’ll never guess, dear, you must tell me,” Anne said. It was a relief that Rilla could still be the young girl she ought to be, for all that she wore Ken Ford’s diamond ring on her finger and was capable of a brisk, warm matronliness when it came to raising Jims, now reserved for the writing of letters to his new British stepmother and clucking over the missives she received.
“Faith Meredith has eloped!”
Anne did admit to herself she would never have guessed that, because for all her imagination, she wouldn’t have guessed something impossible.
“But, Rilla, Jem is with your father today, doing the Lowbridge rounds. Susan and I packed a lunch with plenty of pie for Dad and some of that flapjack Jem took to after being in England,” Anne said. He’d been in hospital in England, recovering from the injuries he’d sustained at the Front, in the prison camp, during his escape, none of which was spoken of. Only flapjack and stewed tea and how no cook in England was a patch on Susan and that you may tie to, uttered with some semblance of his old roguish humor.
“I didn’t say she married Jem, Mother!” Rilla exclaimed. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright. She had a look of Gilbert at his most delighted about him, an expression Anne remembered from their childhood. Anne opened her mouth to speak but Rilla interrupted.
If Anne hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have, suddenly and gracelessly. As it was, the shirt she’d been mending fell from her lap.
“That’s—why, Rilla, are you sure?”
“I heard it directly from Mary Vance,” Rilla said, lifting a hand to stop Anne from speaking. “And Miss Cornelia Bryant. You know Miss Cornelia has no taste for gossip. Miss Cornelia’d heard it from Mrs. Meredith—”
“Poor Rosemary,” Anne said, before she could stop herself.
“Why poor Rosemary? I suppose they thought Faith and Jem would make a go of it, at least, perhaps Reverend Meredith and Mrs. Meredith did, but the War’s done funny things to people and Faith and Jem, they just didn’t fit any longer,” Rilla said. Sometimes, Anne felt Rilla reminded her of someone she couldn’t name and realized her youngest daughter spoke with the wisdom Anne’s own mother might have had. Plenty of folks in the Glen would find such a thought eerie, but Anne was comforted, for all that she ought to be the one offering a thoughtful explanation rather than receiving it.
“I suppose I meant the surprise, an elopement—”
“They must not have wanted to wait. Or were afraid someone would try to talk them out of it. Bertie’s mother maybe,” Rilla said.
Rosemary or her father, Anne thought. Jem, if he’d been given the chance, perhaps. Perhaps not, if Rilla was correct.
“Bertie Shakespeare Drew,” Anne said. “I remember when he was born. He’s just Jem’s age.”
“He’s not much like you remember him, Mother. He’s all tall and stalwart now and they say he’s going in for engineering, that he learned quite a bit in France, found he had a talent for that sort of thing. And his ears don’t stick out quite so much anymore,” Rilla said.
“There’re more things on heav’n and earth,” Anne said, mangling the quote a bit, fairly certain Rilla would not correct her. “D’you suppose Faith calls him Bertie? Or his full name—it’s quite a mouthful.”
Queenly Faith Meredith, the undisputed beauty of Glen St. Mary, who had a sense of humor but also a sense of herself as beyond any teasing, now to be Mrs. Bertie Shakespeare Drew. Anne smiled to herself and thought how Mary Vance would find a way to make Jem grin over it all. She’s lucky to get him, Mary would say, reversing the order the Glen would have assumed, and Mary, canny and unexpectedly kind, would have the right of it, perhaps.
Susan would be quite outraged and the pastry of her next pie might suffer for it, but Gilbert had always taken an unchristian glee in Susan’s outrage and wouldn’t mind the pastry being a bit heavier. It was still the best piecrust on Prince Edward Island, now that Mrs. Rachel Lynde was no longer living to give Susan a run for her money.
“Miss Cornelia said Faith was heard to call him Will, when she spoke to her parents. It’s after Shakespeare of course, and because he was so determined they marry,” Rilla said.
“And because Faith wanted to,” Anne said. She wasn’t sure if she meant the elopement or the name, but it was all of a piece.
“Miss Cornelia said they’d gone to New York for their honeymoon and she hoped Faith didn’t come back with a bunch of silly Yankee airs but Mary and I didn’t think that was likely,” Rilla said, sitting down beside Anne, picking up the shirt and starting to sew.
“She didn’t come back from England any different, after all,” Rilla said.
“Except that she didn’t marry your brother,” Anne replied.
“D’you know, Mother, even without the War, I don’t think they’d ever have gone through with it, Faith and Jem,” Rilla said. “It was, how shall I put it, like a childhood fairy tale, the honorable knight and the maiden fair, all sorts of adventures they had in Rainbow Valley. They were always going to grow up. We all were.”
Not Walter, Anne’s heart said. Not Joyce.
“I’m glad of Ken’s name, anyway. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t elope for anything. I want our families around us, as many as we can get, even if we have to wait. We’re rather good at that,” Rilla said. She’d finished the one shirt and picked up another. She peered at it, frowned. “I can’t think what Dad does to his clothes—”
“I’ve made up a thousand stories to try to explain that and I still don’t think I’ve figured it out,” Anne said. “Some things, my darling girl, are beyond explanation.”
This one's for @freyafrida because I didn't manage to squeeze Faith/Bertie Shakespeare into my Jem/Mary fic...
Anyone who knew Hal knew he was hopeless in the love department. Just take for example him pining over Barry for years, constantly trying to get close to the older man and trying to gather the courage to ask him out, only for Barry to reveal to the man he was straight and married.
Hal was heartbroken, and it didn’t help that everyone else in the league seemed to be in happy relationships. Even Batman and Superman had finally got together, and by the looks of how it was going, Hal knew he should be expecting a wedding invitation from Bruce sometime soon.
Hal felt like shit, finding himself more often than not, in his messy apartment living room, drinking a beer and watching some sports game he could care less about.
One night, as Hal got a beer out of the fridge and made his way back to the living room, he heard a knock on the door. He opened it slowly, not in the mood to deal with whoever was on the other side. Before he could tell the people to fuck off though, a figure larger than him pushes through him and into the living room, followed by another figure that was also taller than Hal.
He turned around to look at the men that walked in uninvited, to see Clark and Bruce wandering around his apartment.
“What the hell,” he yelled, watching as Bruce picked up an old shirt from the couch with index finger and thumb, his face full of disgust at how dirty the place was.
Hal snatched the article of clothing out of Bruce’s hand and glared at the man, which was returned with the full forced bat glare.
“Well Hal,” Clark started after a moment, causing Bruce and Hal to stop glaring at each other. “We noticed that you haven’t… exactly been yourself as of late, and we wanted to help you.” Clark gave Hal his usual happy smile, which was met with Hal’s risen eyebrow.
“Spooky wants to help me,” Hal asked, his voice filled with disbelief.
“Of course not, Jordan. I’m only helping you because Clark wants me to,” Bruce said. Hal looked over to where he was, only to see that Bruce had moved and was now going through Hal’s closet.
“The hell are you doing, Bruce,” he asked.
“Seeing if you have any nice suits. You’ll need it if you want to get in my gala.”
“Why would I be going to your gala?” But Hal already knew the answer to his question. Clark and Bruce were going to try and set him up on a date.
—
Hal regretted agreeing to their plan as soon after he had entered the manor doors. Everyone around him was old, rich, and snobby as fuck.
After spending two hours there, which halfway through Clark and Bruce left to do… somethings, Hal ended up leaving the place and made his way to the closest fast food place before he could get home. And lucky him, since it was the only place open, Hal ended up going to the closest Bat Burger.
As he got in line to order, the door opened again and revealed a beautiful woman, who seemed to be around his age. She was on the phone and seemed to be distressed.
“…No, no, no. You can’t pair green jeans with an orange shirt. Where the hell did you even get green jeans from Adrien,” she said, shaking her head. As Hal continued to listen in on her conversation- yes he knew that was wrong and a bit stalkerish, but just wanted to know who thought an orange shirt would go with green jeans- he almost missed his name being called to pick up his food, along with another name.
“Hal! Marinette!” Hal watches as the woman got up from where she was sitting at one of the tables, and moved to the counter where there were two bags and two drinks. He got up from where he was and walked behind her to get his food.
As she picked up her food, Hal guesses she must’ve been paying attention to her surroundings because the next thing he knew, her drink was spilled all over his suit.
‘Marinette’ ended the call she was on, and quickly started apologizing, taking some napkins off the counter next to them and trying to soak up as much of the drink she could off of the suit, but it was all in vain considering how soaked his undershirt was.
Hal took a step back and took the jacket off, but leaving the white shirt he was wearing off. He hung the jacket on a nearby chair and looked down to inspect the shirt. Hal couldn’t help but sigh, Bruce sure as hell wasn’t going to be happy with him.
“I am so sorry, monsieur,” she continued, still standing where she was. “I should’ve watched where I was going, and now I ruined your suit which considering it’s Armani, it must’ve cost a fortune,” She rambled, so Hal put his hands on her shoulders to try to calm her down.
“Calm down ms. It was just an accident. Besides, I’m borrowing it from a friend who can definitely afford dry cleaning,” he tries to reassure her, but it only seemed to panic her more.
“Mon Dieu,” and that all he hears before she goes rapid-fire in a language he didn’t understand.
Hal took his hands off her shoulders and put one over her mouth in an attempt to shut her up.
“Ma’am. Please calm down. This is no problem, and my friend whom I’m borrowing this suit, definitely deserved this,” Hal said, and slightly chuckling as her brows furrow in on the confusion. Taking his hand off her lips slowly, he explains, “My friend and his boyfriend were trying to set me up on a date with some snobby old people. So after they left, preassembly to fuck each other's brains out, I ditched the party and came here.”
“Snobby, old people,” she asked, tilting her head to the side, her bottom lip sticking out a bit, and Hal had the overwhelming urge to want to kiss the confusion off her lips. Which wasn’t really a surprise, as Hal did have a history of falling fast and falling hard.
“Um yeah,” he rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. “My friend was having some big yearly winter gala and thought it would be a good idea to invite me. After he realized I had no nice clothes, bar this one dress shirt,” he moves his hand's in a motion towards the shirt he was wearing, which was still soaked in whatever drink she had ordered. ‘Marinette’ speakers out another apology. “He told me I could wear one of his. When I got there, I didn’t really notice that everyone was a least fifteen years older than me. I actually didn’t notice until Bruce and Clark left.” He continues to talk, before pausing to find that she wasn’t listening anymore, instead of muttering to herself.
“Winter gala… Old… Rich… Clark… Bruce… BRUCE WAYNE,” She suddenly yelled out, before blushing at how loud she was.
Hal could see the dirty glare the cashier was giving them and moved to get his food from the counter and moving himself and ‘Marinette’ to a table near the back of the store, where no one could eavesdrop on their conversation without either of them noticing.
As they sat down, Hal noticed she was muttering to herself again, a small smile playing on her lips. She went on like that for a minute before saying out loud, probably more to herself than to him,” So that’s why he didn’t want me at the manor tonight.”
She turned towards him, her face no longer apologetic and a smug smile on her face. “What did you say your name was,” she asked.
“I didn’t say, but the name’s Hal. Hal Jordan. Yours is Marinette, right? That’s what the cashier called you.”
Marinette nodded as she stuck her hand out. “Marinette Wayne, a pleasure to meet you, Hal.” He shook her hand, his mind not picking up on her last name until a few moments later.
“Wayne,” he said in disbelief, before remembering something Bruce had told him a few years ago when they first started The justice league. Something about sisters and supervillains in Paris.
“You were the one in Paris, right?” Marinette nodded, but there was a look of surprise on her face.
“He’s talked about me,” she asked, and it looked like from where he was sitting she might be holding back tears.
“Umm… Once or twice, a few years back. I only remember something about a sister and some supervillain in Paris. I wasn’t really paying attention because I thought he was joking, but I know now that Bat- Bruce doesn’t joke.” She laughed a bit but didn’t empathize why she found it surprising that Bruce would talk about her. Instead, she took some fries out of her bag, ate a few before offering him some.
They moved away from the topic, and they talked for a bit longer and enjoyed each other company. After they finished their food, Hal walked her outside and asked if she had a ride.
“No, but I don’t live too far away, I could just walk,” Marinette said sheepishly, but Hal insisted on driving, stating that it was too dark out for her to walk alone to the manor.
She eventually agreed, and they made their way to the manor. Before she got out of his car, Marinette slipped a piece of paper in his hand and kissed his cheek, bidding him adieu, which he guessed meant bye.
As she walked through the manor doors, he looked down at the paper.
Coffee?
(xxx)-xxx-xxxx
MW
Needless to say, Hal called her as soon as he got home.
