#stroodlenoodles

this is such a sweet message, I'm so happy you're enjoying my promeo!!! they make me incredibly normal

I cropped this one for my latest post, but more tall shape romeo upon ye

Also RIP P, poor guy definitely ate some snow while slipping all over the place (while Romeo is utterly bewildered the entire time)

thank you!! this idea really just came from the co-op section with lea and how fun I thought it would be to have it with romeo too, without changing too much about overture itself

Yato-“Dad-Jokes”-gamiRIP Yukine ^////^

| send me characters and a prompt |

“dad jokes”

It has been a very long day…of absolutely no jobs.

“I’m bored,” Yukine groans, resting his chin on one hand while the other idly twirls a pencil. Across the room, lazing on the futon, Yato covers an enormous yawn.

“Nice to meet you, bored,” he says. “I’m Yato!”

Yukine blinks twice, then turns to look at the god.

“Excuse me?” he asks in disbelief.

Yato’s phone rings, sparing him from any explanation. He flips it open, propping it gently against his ear.

“A-yup? Oh—hey, Hiyori!”

Curious, Yukine sets his pencil down and pays attention to the one-sided conversation. Yato scratches his nose, still with his ear to the phone. Then he looks at Yukine—and a Cheshire grin slides across his face.

“Yeah, Hiyori…you could call me later…”

Another pause—this one loaded with mischief.

“—Or you could just call me Yato.”

Yukine’s forehead meets the open book in front of him with an audible thwack. Across the room, Yato yelps.

“—She hung up on me!”

: : :

In the evening, when Hiyori meets up with them, Yato wastes no time in chastising her for her rude cutoff of their conversation.

“I thought I could always count on you to hear me out!” he whines, casting a glance over his shoulder at Yukine to make sure someone is backing him up. Yukine reluctantly shuffles forward, shrugging in apology at the very unamused Hiyori.

“I’m honestly…hurt,” Yato concludes righteously. He folds his arms and waits for her response.

Hiyori, who hasn’t yet spoken, is totally deadpan. Then:

“Hi there, honestly hurt. I’m Hiyori.”

Yato gapes at her, his power of speech seeming to have short-circuited. A half-gurgled response is all that he can offer.

But the choking sound that comes from behind Yato makes both him and Hiyori turn to look. Trying to suppress his snorts of laughter, Yukine holds one hand over his mouth while his face turns the color of an overripe plum.

“Both…of you…you’re—“

He gasps weakly, clutching his sides and wheezing. When he finally collects himself, he has to wipe his leaking eyes. Yato and Hiyori are still staring at him, starting to look rather worried. Yukine straightens up again and clears his throat.

well in that case happy birthday! (I say this now since I can’t function at 6am ;))

--

Bruce Wayne is not a man to give up without a fight.

Not as Batman, not in his personal life, and, to be frank, he’d do an awful lot to avoid the polite, cutting remarks of an angry Alfred Pennyworth.

In spite of his best efforts, he’d found himself bedridden by an almighty cold. And it’s been two days. Red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, lethargy, pulsing headache, scratchy throat. A constantly dripping nose. The whole shebang.

He consoles himself with the fact that this cold, this cold, could bring the goddamned Superman to his knees. And then he sneezes again, his ribcage and his sinuses on fire, and is beyond consolation.

It is dark and he is… not sulking. He is something manlier than sulking. Brooding, maybe. Alfred says sulking, but he doesn’t know anything about keeping a city safe by himself. Alfred thinks the whole crusade is stupid. But it’s not his business, and Bruce can do what he wants.

He rolls over, in his stifling, sweat-soaked sheets, and his everything aches. He wonders if he can survive the trip down to the kitchen’s medicine cabinet, for another dose of those terrible cold suppressors. If the night air doesn’t kill him, it’ll probably be Alfred’s shotgun. 

He grumbles, a little, and rolls onto his other side–

–and comes face-to-face with a tiny, tear-streaked boy.

“Dick?” he rasps, and the eight (“and a half,”) year old boy nods, scrubbing at one of his cheeks with his pyjama sleeve. “Nightmare?”

“Yuh-huh,” he mumbles, tearful, and holds his arms out entreatingly to Bruce.

“Okay, chum,” Bruce sighs, and manages to get himself upright. He carefully stands, waits for the world to right itself, and takes a few steps toward the bathroom. He remembers, just barely, to stop. Hold out his hand.

And one of the things Alfred hadn’t warned him about, when he decided Dick would be his ward, was that children are always sticky. At this point it’s not so much a surprise, when Dick slides his tiny, sticky hand into Bruce’s much larger one, but it was a very rude shock in the beginning. 

Bruce had barely managed to stop himself from demanding, of the tiny boy, what on earth he was doing, to be so consistently, inconceivably sticky. But he’d refrained.

Half-trotting behind him, almost at his side, Dick clings and follows him to the master en suite. He flips the light on, too-bright for the middle of the night, and winces at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like a corpse. 

Ignoring that, he runs the faucet, waiting for it to warm up. Then he wets a face-towel, half-wrings it out, and, leaning on the doorframe, squats down to Dick’s level. Balanced precariously on the balls of his feet.

“You know you’re safe,” he murmurs, gently mopping up tear-tracks and snot. 

“I know,” Dick agrees, waveringly, reflexively leaning away from the cloth. 

“And you’ll always have a home here.”

“Mhm,” he says, nodding, while a few fresh tears fall. But he already seems better, his pink face already returning to its usual colour. “You look scary,” he tells Bruce, with the sincerity only someone under ten can offer.

“I do,” he concedes. “I’ll shave tomorrow.” And then, starting to smile to himself, he pokes Dick once in the stomach; “You aren’t scared though, right?”

“Nope,” Dick says, actually starting to giggle a little. 

Bruce wipes over his face once more to be sure, then tosses the face-towel into the sink. He stands back up, legs already shaky, and rests one hand on Dick’s messy hair. Dick grips the hem of his pyjama shirt, and lets Bruce lead them back to the bedroom proper.

He leaves the bathroom light on, though, because be can recall very clearly the feeling of being small and afraid and in the dark. And he knows what a difference a single rectangle of light can mean.

Ruffling the hair under his fingers, Bruce says, “You ready to go back to your room?”

In the faint light from the bathroom, he sees blue eyes look up at him, full of reproach. And fear. “Can’t I– can I stay, for a bit? Please?”

Bruce sighs, throat raw, and rubs his thumb over Dick’s temple. “You know I normally don’t mind, Dickie, but Alfred will kill me if you get sick too.”

Earnest, the boy says, “But I ate so many vegetables at dinner so I don’t get sick, B. Honest. If you shake me, vegetables’re gonna fall out!”

“As promising as that sounds–“ Bruce starts, laughing a little, “I don’t think–“

“Just a few minutes,” Dick pleads, tugging at his shirt. “I’ll go back to my room really quick, I swear.”

And Bruce, already feeling very unsteady on his feet, exhausted and ill, can just sigh. Half-sitting, half-falling back onto the bed. He tugs at his covers, trying to drag them into some rough semblance of order. “A few minutes, Dick. That’s all. You can’t fall asleep in here.”

“I won’t,” he agrees, clambering up onto the bed. Then, wriggling under the covers, he lies down carefully on Bruce’s chest.

His chest was already so heavy, but somehow, the warm weight of his ward… helps. It’s a better kind of heavy. Even though breathing is still a challenge.

But after a moment, discontent, the boy grunts, dragging Bruce’s arms up to wrap around him manually. Then, apparently happy, he gives a deep sigh and settles further against him, pressing his ear to Bruce’s heartbeat. His eyes are closed.

“You can’t fall asleep in here,” Bruce warns, again, but he’s half-asleep himself.

“I won’,” Dick promises, in a slur. Squeezes him gently.

And Bruce just sighs. Praying the vegetables do the trick.