flyrobinflyy

[flyrobinflyy]

oh my god??? hello?? my kid is so smart i feel so proud

WILHELM WHEN I CATCH YOU. WHEN I CATCH YOU.

OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET

alex rider + oc insert

tw: violence, because it’s a maccreadysbaby fic

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

dont get between a boy and his housekeeper, that’s all I have to say

part three

❝ RANSOM ❞

WEDNESDAY — MAY 4, 2001 — 1:28AM

THE FIRST THING KAI FELT, WAS COLD. An overarching, deep cold that seemed to originate from deep inside of him, pooling like dread in various parts of his body.

He was sitting up, but not of his own accord. He could feel that his arms and legs were all strapped down, and his head was the only thing he could freely move, lulling to the side limply.

His limbs were still heavy and a little numb from whatever drug he’d been suffocated with. He let his sticky eyelids slide open, but he was greeted by darkness. Why couldn’t he see? What had happened to his eyes?

He lifted his head up, and the movement made him dizzy when nothing in his field of vision moved to accompany it. He tried to bring his arms up to his face; but he couldn’t thanks to the something that was binding his wrists — to the arms of a chair? He couldn’t move much more than his hands, up and down, and his head. Was he still at home?

No, he couldn’t be. Even if he couldn’t see, this didn’t feel like his home. The air was sticky and wet, with a humid moisture that was clinging to his skin and dampening his hair. There was a light hum in the background — the white noise of some machine that he definitely never heard in his penthouse.

But, if he was, indeed, somewhere else, how had they gotten him out of the building? He guessed that it would have been hard for the men to get him out of the highly populated and secure skyscraper… but they’d gotten in, so he had to assume they had a way to get out again. And where was Lionel? 

That sent a sudden surge of panic streaking through him. If they had left the penthouse, they most certainly wouldn’t have left Lionel behind. At least not alive. He hated to wish it, but he couldn’t help but hope the butler was strapped up next to him. Because then, he’d be alive.

“He’s awake,” 

Kai flinched at the man’s voice. It was one he hadn’t heard before; it sounded young, a smooth tenor with a faint Southern accent, like someone from Alabama or Louisiana.

Suddenly, Kai could see.

A bag had been ripped off of his head. 

It wasn’t bright, but there was light. He blinked against the dim illumination, his brown eyes flicking around the place he’d found himself in.

It looked like… a bedroom, or something. The walls had peeling yellow wallpaper with small, fading flowers, pale and worn by time. The ceiling was covered with tin tiles, and the floor was an old, nasty wood, rotted and splitting, maybe water damaged. There were no windows and no furniture in the room except the dining chair Kai’s wrists and ankles were zip-tied to, and only one door — a thick, metal looking one that didn’t fit the room at all. There was only a single naked light bulb dangling over his head. Lionel wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

There was a man standing in front of him. In all back, with a ski mask, but not the same one from the penthouse. Maybe it was the second one who had been there, who’d drugged him? He wasn’t looking at Kai, but setting something up right in front of the boy instead. Some kind of camcorder, it looked like, that he was attaching to a tripod.

Someone emerged from behind his chair.

It was the man from his penthouse. Kai could see blood from when he hit him with the gun running over his lips under the ski mask, staining the black material even darker.

“Is it rolling?”

It was the same rough voice from the penthouse, the same one who’d demanded Kai’s location out of Lionel. He hadn’t noticed before, but the teenager sort of recognized it — he couldn’t place from where.

“Yes,” The younger, smaller one responded, backing away from the camera and letting his hands drift away from the device.

Suddenly, the larger man turned on a dime, his fist coming in harsh contact with the side of Kai’s head with no warning at all. The teenager cried out when a too-harsh pain exploded there, and the force of the strike was so strong the chair nearly toppled over, wobbling from side to side a few times before it settled again.

Kai’s head was swimming. His ears were ringing, and dots danced in his vision, his left temple throbbing with a stabbing, searing pain. The man’s hand flashed in his line of sight — brass knuckles.

Kai had been kidnapped. Like, actually kidnapped. What was the procedure for this? What had Lionel always told him to do in times of crisis? 

Panicking wouldn’t help anything, he knew that much. These guys probably wanted him for ransom money, or information, or maybe vengeance. It was already obvious that they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him — crying or begging or all the things his childish instincts wanted him to do wouldn’t make any difference. What he needed to do was think.

He didn’t have the time to think, though, before the brass knuckles switched hands and were slammed into the opposite side of his head. He couldn’t help the reflex tears that sprung to his eyes from the pain, and the chair rocked again, the floor cracking and making the chair tilt to the side under the weight of it crashing back down. He could feel blood leaking down the right side of his head a mere few seconds after the impact. 

His breaths were coming out shaky, though he tried his best to keep them steady, even. The man settled in front of him with cold, gray eyes. Cold gray eyes that Kai recognized.

“Hey there, Malachi,”

When he heard his name was when Kai realized who it was. The eyes, the accent, the build.

It was Sergeant Wilhelm, the man who trained him on base at Fort Bragg. The only other person in the whole world who knew Kai existed. How had he gotten in the penthouse? How had he known where he lived? How did he get him out of the building unseen?

Suddenly, Kai felt a slew of emotions. Anger, because he knew this man, betrayal, because it was the trainer he trusted… and despair. Because he knew that he stood absolutely no chance against him, if he decided Kai should die.

Kai didn’t dare speak.

The man licked his bloody lips, and Kai only had a half second to flinch before his fist (luckily the one without the knuckles this time,) slammed straight into the center of his face, just like when Kai had hit him with the gun. The teenager couldn’t help but cry out again when pain rippled out from his nose and made his eyes spill over with reflex tears. Blood started pouring out both sides of his nose so quickly he had no hope of choking it back.

“Don’t be afraid,” The Sergeant said, as though he wasn’t trying to literally beat Kai to a pulp. “I just have a little message for your daddy. If he comes through, no further harm will be done.”

The sergeant stepped over to his right, so Kai’s face was right in the camera, bloody and already bruised. The second man, the younger one, stayed on the other side of the device, probably to stop its recording when the sergeant said.

“Well, Joe, you see now what I’ve got my hands on,” The sergeant said. Kai didn’t look into the camera, he just angled his brown eyes down at the floor, trying to look blank. “All I want is for you to keep paying my bills. It’s simple, really.”

Keep paying his bills? Kai wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. He assumed his father paid him for the secret training Kai received. And he did a good job training him — it wouldn’t make sense for his father to quit paying him unless he planned for Kai to stop training. Was he going to stop training?

Kai’s mind was slammed back into reality when something cold touched his right temple. He hadn’t seen the sergeant pull out the gun, but his whole body went rigid when the cool metal was pressed against his skin, pushing his head slightly to the side. “If you don’t, well… I think you get the gist.”

The barrel of the gun resting against his temple made Kai feel sick. The sergeant pulled back the hammer and clicked the safety off, pushing the gun into Kai’s skin so hard it kind of hurt. He tried to keep the fear off of his face, but he could feel himself shaking and he knew it would be visible on the camera. His eyes were still watering from the punch, too, so it looked like he was crying.

“You have six hours to respond. If you do, the boy will be returned peacefully to your home. If you don’t… the CIA is welcome to look for the body,” The sergeant said, his southern drawl suddenly sounding really, really dark. “We’ll see what you love more… your son, or your money.”

Suddenly, a gruff hand had him by the chin, and his head was lifted up so he stared directly into the camera. The barrel of the gun suddenly moved, cold against the bottom of his chin. “You got anything you wanna say to your daddy, Malachi?”

Kai did nothing but subtly shake his head. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyhow, but the gun made it even harder to think. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth anyways. His hands were shaking and he grabbed the arms of the chair in a bid to hide it, so tight his knuckles turned white.

After a long silence, the younger man moved forward and cut off the camcorder. A small wave of relief washed over the teenager when the gun was removed, and the safety was clicked back on. But even if the gun was gone, the threat of death was still hanging thick in the air like smoke.

“I hate to be this way, Malachi,” The sergeant sighed, shoving the gun into the rear waistband of his black pants. “But I’m afraid there’s no alternative.”

Kai didn’t say a word. The man reached out and patted his cheek, and he jerked his head away like his touch was toxic.

The sergeant huffed in response, turning to the younger of the two men. “See to it that he gets the video as soon as possible. I have to go deal with the housekeeper. He locked himself up behind the bookcase at the penthouse,” He said.

Lionel was still at home, alive? Locked up at the penthouse — had he pressed the panic button? Locked himself in Kai’s room?

That was smart. There was a phone in Kai’s room. He would be safe and live long enough to get help. Maybe Kai’s stepfather already knew what happened. Maybe they were already on their way.  At least, that’s what he had to tell himself.

The sergeant looked at Kai with a twisted smile. “Let’s hope your stepfather pays up. Otherwise, next time you see me… will be your last.”

The young man collected the camcorder, and both of them left through the metal bedroom door, closing it behind them. The sound of locks turning from the other side came and went.

As soon as they left the room, Kai folded over on himself and exhaled heavily, taking deep, shaky, long breaths, trying to calm himself down. 

Lionel. He was going to deal with Lionel. He didn’t think he’d be able to get into his room, but what if he could? He’d already broken into the highly secure building, and then broken out again. What if he could get inside?

Kai had to physically fight away the panic that was clawing at his throat, threatening to make the air around him too thin to breathe. He had no idea where he was. Even if he did, he didn’t have the faintest clue about direction — how to get home or how long it would take the sergeant to get there. He could have five hours, or five minutes, before Lionel was possibly dead.

A string of curse words bounced around in his skull as he tried to wiggle his arms and legs around. The zip-ties were too tight for him to slide out of, and too strong to simply break by pulling against them. He looked around the room again, but there was nothing. Not that he’d be able to grab anything anyways.

Think. Think. He’d been taught how to get out of zip-ties, but not when they were attached to chairs. He could try and break the chair itself, but with his arms and legs attached like they were, he didn’t have a large enough range of motion to even think about doing anything. Best and worst case, he’d just fall over.

What could he do? What could he do?

He sat up slightly, fighting back a burn that threatened to surface in his eyes, glancing at his wrists. He didn’t have anything on him that could cut stuff. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to reach it.

One thing he’d been taught was adaptability. How to use objects on or around him to his advantage. But what good was that when he couldn’t move?

With no other clear option, he started writhing in the chair, slamming his weight side to side, forward and back so the legs kept lifting up and slamming down again with loud bangs. The floor crunched beneath him and the chair fell through, tilting sideways. 

When he jerked again, it didn’t go anywhere. 

Great.

He had to find a way. If there was the slightest chance Lionel could die, he had to stop it. He had to. 

Suddenly, the lock turned, and the younger man stepped in with a pistol clutched tightly in front of him.

His grey eyes flicked around the room anxiously, lingering on Kai, then sliding down to the broken floor and chair’s left legs poking through. “Stop slamming around.”

His hand with the gun was shaking, almost like he hated holding the thing. He spoke softly. He wasn’t confident — no, he was scared. He was inexperienced, and Kai could smell the fear of what would happen after this all over him.

He might be able to use that.

“Let me out of here,” He ordered with much more confidence and determination than the young man had. “Let me go. If you do, I can tell my father. I can make sure you don’t get-“

The man closed the door and locked it again.

With a grunt of frustration, Kai jerked and thrashed in the chair like a madman, hoping he might break it or acquire new strength to rip the zip-ties, to no avail. It was completely stuck, sideways and fallen into  the floor.

There had to be a way. There was always a way, that’s something Lionel had taught him. There was always a way in, or out, or to live, or to die, or to escape, or to win. There was always, always a way. His job was just to find it.

There was a way to break the zip ties, he just had to find it.

He scoured the room for any sign of help, but there was none. Nothing he could grab. Nothing he could use. He couldn’t even knock the chair over anymore.

Was it really just up to his father now?

Sometimes the way out isn’t obvious. That’d been something Wilhelm had taught him while pretending to kidnap him and hold him hostage. Sometimes, you can’t even see the solution. You just have to try.

Sometimes, he couldn’t even see the solution. Maybe it wasn’t around him. Maybe it wasn’t on him.

Maybe it was in him.

With no other options left in his mind, he leaned over, and started chewing on the zip-ties.

He wasn’t sure how long it took. He couldn’t even seem to comprehend time. By the time he broke through both zip-ties on his wrists, he could taste blood in his mouth, and he was pretty sure he’d need braces to fix the damage he’d done to his front teeth — they didn’t feel right anymore.

A sense of victory seemed to take hold of him when his arms were free.  He was able to stand — wobbly, because he was still attached to the chair that was falling through the floor — and pick it up. It took him a second to pull it free from the holes he’d made, but when he did, it made a loud crunch of rotted wood.

If the guy outside had heard it, there was no time. He jerked up on the chair and started shaking it frantically, slowly weaseling the chair legs out of the zip-ties until, finally, it came loose and the ties were left around his ankles like bracelets.

He was free. Suddenly, his mind spun and he threatened to faint. He was free. 

He sat the chair off to the side and shook his hands out by his sides. He couldn’t go out the door. There was no way he could bust the metal thing down, and even if he could, the younger of the two men was probably just outside. He’d get shot before he even got a chance to leave.

He looked around the room. There were no windows, and he couldn’t go busting through a wall without making any noise — besides, that would take forever, if he could even do it. He looked up at the ceiling. He may have been able to pull down the tile, but it would be loud, then he’d have to bust through the ceiling and somehow get himself up inside of it without just falling right back through the drywall.

Kai exhaled heavily, raking his hands through his hair, trying to think, to breathe, to make a plan. 

He glanced down at the crumbling floor that had caved beneath his chair. 

Yes. He wasn’t sure where exactly he was, but he knew Miami was a coastal city — and he’d learned via television that houses in coastal cities were often built high off the ground, or at least on stilts in case of floods. If he could somehow get through the floor, and through whatever was under the floor, he could crawl out from under the house and be home free.

With an exhale, he grabbed the chair and walked it back over to the hole the legs had made in the rotted wood. He tipped the whole chair up and balanced just one leg of it against the hardwood right beside the hole, and on a mental count of three, put all his weight on it.

The rotted hardwood creaked, groaned, and then cracked, the leg of the chair falling through and thudding against something else that also cracked.

He lifted the piece of furniture out, and did it again. Crack! And again, and again, over and over all around the hole until it was big enough that maybe, he could fit through. There seemed to be beamwork and electrical wires running through the floor, but it was all old and rotted out. There was a thin layer of what looked like particle board beneath it, covered in the chipped and rotted floor he’d been breaking out, and it had a few holes peppered in it from the chair leg hitting it.

Slowly, Kai put down the chair and, dusting his hands off, dropped his foot into the hole. The particle board cracked under his weight, then broke, and he lowered himself down and down until his foot hit something solid. He had to put his other leg in, too, to fully reach the bottom. He wiggled his socked toes around — mushy dirt.

Suddenly, the sound of the lock turning came. 

“Hey!”

Kai ducked down just as the man jumped at him, arms wide and poised to grab him. The teenager had no choice but to throw himself down, crashing straight through the particle board and slamming stomach-down in the dirt under the house. Dust and debris rained down on him, and he felt the man’s hand groping at the back of his t-shirt. 

“Stop! Get back up here!”

Kai rolled further under the house to wrench the man’s hand out of his shirt, and there was a crash as the man fell headfirst in the hole that wasn’t quite big enough for him.

There was probably only two feet of room down there, so Kai had to lay on his stomach and army crawl if he wanted to move. He couldn’t see a thing, and the sound of crickets and katydids started assaulting his ears, along with the scrambles and cracking of the man trying to force himself back into the house. It was all pitch black. Kai blinked, straining his eyes against the darkness, and —

A subtle glow, right in front of him. It was just bright enough to turn the posts holding up the beach house into silhouettes, and the more his eyes grew used to it, the more he realized he was out. That light was coming from something outside. 

He shimmied on his stomach in an army crawl, one hand in front of the next, toward the light. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. He heard the man’s feet slamming somewhere above him, inside the house.

His hands hit soft grass.

With an exhale of satisfaction, he rolled out from under the house and forced himself onto his feet, swaying slightly from slight disorientation. It was pitch black and humid, with the Miami stars twinkling overhead..

He was out.

The light he’d been seeing was the exterior lighting of another beach bungalow not so far away, yellow with a bright white door. It had a light post outside near the road — a quiet road, small, surrounded with trees — that’s what he’d been seeing. There were no more buildings that he could see, and he could’ve swore he could hear the ocean in the distance.

The house he’d been in was a fading blue bungalow with a terracotta roof. It was old, and trashed on the outside, looking abandoned far before Kai had ever been there.

He heard the door of the house slam open. It sounded close, but he couldn’t tell what direction it came from, or what direction the man was going to go. He looked over at the other beach house — the lights were on and there were cars outside. That was the only place around where he could find help. But if he ran there, the man with the gun would see him.

Kai turned on his heel and ran the opposite direction, around what he thought was the back of the house. Away from the light. Away from the civilization.

When he turned the corner, the man, and the gun, was right in his face.

“Hey!”

Kai whirled around to run, but not fast enough. The man grabbed him by the left arm and jerked him back. In a split second decision, Kai cried out loudly, grinding to a halt and clutching his left shoulder, twisting his face up in agony.

The young man took pause, obviously stunned that he had caused the boy so much pain. And when he was caught off-guard was when Kai struck.

He brought his hands suddenly forward. His left snapped around the barrel of the pistol while his right slammed against the man’s wrist, and he used all of his strength to force them away from each other. The gun came right out of the man’s hand and Kai spun it around, aiming the barrel at him instead.

The young man looked horrified.

“Let me go,” Kai ordered, holding the gun tightly in his hands, aiming it at the kidnapper’s heart. “Let me go. Now.”

The man, his grey eyes blown wide, brought his hands up next to his head. “Malachi-“

“Let me go!” He ordered, flicking the gun’s safety off. “Go back inside and stay there. Now!”

The man started to back away slowly. Kai followed him all the way around the house and back into the front door with the gun, before shutting the door and leaving, the weapon still clasped tight in his hand.

Kai half wondered what was going through the nextdoor homeowner’s mind when a fourteen year old boy, bruised, bloody, dirty, with zip-ties around his ankles and a gun in his hand, banged on their door, begging to use their phone. He’d dialed one of the two phone numbers he had committed perfectly to memory.

He was calling his father.

The CIA would be there soon, and they’d probably be at the penthouse before Kai could count to twenty.

Lionel was safe.

—

tag list!

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy @mcskullmun

[flyrobinflyy]

thinking about jeremy knox canonically yo-yoing while picking jean up from the airport god he is such a loser

[flyrobinflyy]

it seems that my adoption issue is only growing worse, because i am tucking kai away in my pocket for safe keeping.

the :) after the tw really got me 😭😭

but i am soooooo excited for this oh my god i love it already

OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET

alex rider + oc insert

tw: violence :)

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

two in the same day??? Yessir!!!

part two

❝ INFILTRATION ❞

TUESDAY — MAY 3, 2001 — 8:56PM

FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD MALACHI GREY BLACKWELL LIVED A VERY STRANGE, VERY ISOLATED LIFE.

His days started off at precisely seven in the morning, every morning, with a health drink, an hour in the gym, and a hearty breakfast. Then came a phone call with his stepfather, who had the only home's landline ringing at exactly eight-fifteen every single day. Never earlier. Never later.

Afterwards, he would do school, for perhaps five hours. Drowning in foreign language and math textbooks far above his year, he receded to his room until he found his schooling fit for the day. He always had lunch in the midst of his schoolwork — at exactly twelve fifteen.

After, he had one hour of down time, before three hours split equally into self defense training, first aid training, and firearm safety courses that never came with an actual firearm, but plastic ones with orange tips from the store.

After those came dinner at exactly six, four more hours of free time, and then lights out. 

Malachi Grey Blackwell lived — and had lived, for all fourteen years he'd been alive — in his stepfather's penthouse apartment at the top of a highly secure Miami skyscraper. He was homeschooled, and he had been since he was old enough to read. His mother and biological father were dead, and his stepfather was hardly home; he had no pets or friends. They did, however, have a butler — an older man called Lionel, who cared for him and the penthouse.

And that was all the human interaction Malachi was allowed.

His school curriculums were sent to the penthouse, textbooks and all, at the beginning of fall and spring terms. His physical training routines were sent to him via email by a trainer he never had the pleasure of meeting. All of his other training and classes — self defense, first aid, etc. — were taught by Lionel himself.

Almost every single day of his fourteen years, he'd spent with the butler, in the penthouse.

Once a week, Saturdays at noon, Lionel carted Malachi through Miami in a Mercedes with extra thick doors, bullet proof glass, and fiercely tinted windows, to an anonymous location that housed a gun range. Malachi was blindfolded on the drive. There, the butler taught the teenager how to use any style of firearm he could get his hands on.

Once a month, every fifteenth, they traveled to Fort Bragg for more exclusive training; The disarming and disposing of bombs. Dealing with poisons and nerve gasses. Breaking out if he ever found himself in a hostage situation -- all taught by Lionel and a Sergeant who had been sworn to secrecy regarding the boy's very existence. Sergeant Wilhelm, Malachi thought he was called.

And all of that, all of the training and precautions, were put in place because Malachi's stepfather was Joe Byrne, the CEO of the CIA, whose title alone was enough to put targets on the heads of anyone who existed around him. 

Of course, not being blood related gave them an advantage already — no one would connect surnames, because they weren't the same. But that wasn't enough for Joe Byrne.

Malachi had been carefully concealed from the public eye for his entire life. Everything of his was anonymous -- the schooling institution didn't have as much as the name of the child they were providing the curriculum for, the private trainer didn't have even a hint at who they were really training. He was born via a midwife who kept no paperwork and was long dead. His birth certificate had only been seen by his deceased mother and Joe Byrne. His name was only uttered inside the penthouse he lived in. He'd never been to a doctor's office. He'd never been to school. He'd never even been to a sit-in restaurant.

Only his stepfather and Lionel knew Malachi's name. His features couldn't be tied back as a familial match to anyone, because everyone biologically related to him who'd given him his big brown eyes, almost back hair and tan, Italian complexion, was dead. It was as if... he hardly existed at all. 

But, it was safer, he supposed, if he didn't.

And they all took his safety very, very seriously.

Malachi drummed his fingers hard against the textbooks that were sprawled across his mattress, matching the beat to the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. theme song. It was dark outside, and through his bedroom window, which was one-way glass just like the rest of the penthouse's windows, keeping him completely invisible to the outside world, the stars twinkled above Miami like a million tiny fireflies.

Not that Malachi had ever seen a firefly before.

The nineties sitcom was playing on the large plasma television that sat just opposite Malachi's bed. It was perhaps the only thing bringing life to his bedroom -- a fifteen-by-fifteen room, accompanied by an on-suite closet and bathroom, built into the farthest corner of the penthouse with thick walls and a steel door. It was only accessible from the living room bookshelf. In order to open said steel door from the outside, one had to find the hardcover copy of Wielding the Economy as a Sword by David Brayke, amidst the perhaps thousands of more intriguing books, and type a twelve-digit passcode into a fingerprint-sensitive keypad on the inside of the back cover. Only then would the bookshelf split and swing open. There were three panic buttons in the penthouse — one in a kitchen drawer, a second in his father's nightstand, and a third, on the back of Malachi's headboard. Those buttons put his entire room in lockdown, and the shelf wouldn't open without detailed coding and lots of minuscule detail that only Joe Byrne knew how to perform — not even Lionel or Malachi himself would be able to get him out. It also called the police and notified his stepfather no matter where he was. 

Of course, Joe Byrne had spared no expense on spoiling his son in return for the immense safety measures and seclusion. In the bedroom alone, he had a Playstation, DVD and VHS tape players, at least three different gameboys, and probably more than one or two dozen board games he could always pester Lionel into playing. And that was among the other, more expensive hobbying supplies he owned, like the sixteen-thousand dollars worth of paint and easels and canvases that stayed under his bed, or the bookshelves lined with thousands upon thousands of titles that, all together, probably costed more than Malachi himself.

(Well. If he'd been worth anything in the first place.)

Despite everything his stepfather had lavished him with, his favorite thing to do in his downtime was watch television. The shows that he could watch on there -- shows like F.R.I.E.N.D.S., like Boy Meets World, like Saved by the Bell -- they were the closest he ever got, and would ever get, to interacting with the world he lived in. Learning about it, about how to navigate social interaction, about how fast and in what ways the world moved while he stayed stationary. He had to discover and live it all vicariously, through fictional characters played by award winning actors on a plasma screen.

Did he wish he could be part of that world? To have friends, and go to coffee shops, and school, and have fun? Yes. A hundred times yes. But would he ever have the chance?

No.

"Kai," Came a smooth voice from beyond his ajar door — a tenor tone that sounded almost melodic, with a faint yankee drawl. "Would you like to play cards?"

Kai pushed himself off of his bed and turned his television off, heading for the large metal door lined with bookshelves on the outside. He pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped through the left side of the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace, into the living room of the penthouse. 

It was lavish and modern, decorated with minimalist furniture and very little decor. (His stepfather found trinkets useless.) The entire thing seemed to be an endless color palette of gray and beige, maybe some brown here and there, accented only by the twinkling city lights and nine-at-night stars shining in the windows. It was spotless in the penthouse, per usual, because very little living ever happened inside.

He could see Lionel just through the opening that separated the dining room and kitchen from the living room. Shuffling a deck of cards in his nimble fingers at a large, modern table, Lionel Ferara was a middle aged man, maybe fifty or sixty, with greying hair on his head and a small, wispy moustache on his upper lip. He was wearing a tailcoat, like he always did, even if Kai was the only one who ever really saw him.

Lionel had more or less raised Kai from a baby. He'd always been there — he was the one who was there when he took his first steps, who cared for him when he was sick, who helped him learn to read and write. The penthouse may have belonged to Joe Byrne, but it was more Lionel's, as far as Kai was concerned. Himself, too. That is, if anyone were to actually have legal custody of him. But, since he didn't exist, he guessed no one did.

Kai made his way over and sat in the dining seat across from him. Lionel flipped and spun the cards between his fingers impossibly, even sending them arcing across the air once and landing again in his opposite hand.

Kai smiled at him. He loved when Lionel did card tricks -- it was simple, but it looked out of this world, and there was nothing quite like it that ever happened in the penthouse that wasn’t on television. "What game?"

Lionel shrugged with a playful look on his face, swiping the cards across the table to make a perfect semi circle, then swiping them up again. "Gin rummy?"

"Sure," 

Lionel had only chosen it because Kai was good at gin rummy. Every other card game seemed out to get him, even the children's ones like go fish. He could never seem to get dealt a winning — no, even a decent hand in any other card game. He suspected foul play sometimes; but what good would it do Lionel to cheat against someone who didn't exist? He couldn't even brag to anyone about it!

When Lionel finally stopped performing fancy tricks and dealt the hands, Kai realized he'd gotten a pretty terrible one.

He had a pair: one and one, and the rest were three, four, six, eight, ten, ace, jack, and king. He might've had a chance if Lionel got an equally terrible hand, but he didn't suspect that would be the case. 

"What did you do in school today?" Lionel questioned, his bright brown eyes trained solely on his cards. It was almost similar to scenes Kai saw in tv shows, where the parents would ask about their child's day when they got home from school. Only... Kai hadn't left the house, and Lionel had only been one wall away when said school was happening.

"I did lots of French, and Portuguese," Kai shrugged. "And then some Biology."

Lionel looked at him over the fan of cards in his hands, humming. "No math?"

Kai shrugged sheepishly, glancing back at his cards. "I didn't feel like doing it today."

"As long as you do the week's worth by Friday, I don't mind," Lionel said casually. The pair began to draw and discard cards, organizing them in their hands as they went. “When I was in school, I failed math.”

Kai looked up at him, eyes wide, a smile splitting across his face. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I hated it,” Lionel scoffed. “Once I fell out of my desk and started yelling that the numbers were trying to kill me. I got detention -- teachers can’t take a joke.”

Kai chuckled -- a rare sound in the penthouse. “I can’t imagine you being that dramatic.”

“Oh, I was way worse than that,” Lionel laughed.

A long while of silence passed.

"Do you know when I'm going to see dad again?" Kai asked, swapping a ten of hearts out of his hand for a five. 

Lionel's lips stayed in a thin line for a moment, before he licked his lips. "Unfortunately not, son," He said, a solemn edge to his voice. "But, chin up. Your stepfather may be a very busy man, but you know he'll make time to see you soon enough."

Kai nodded, as if that wasn't the answer Lionel gave him every time he asked. "I know..." 

For a half an hour, the penthouse was quiet, with only the occasional triumphant exclamation, or quiet chatter, or flapping of cards against the table. They played four games. Kai won three.

Then, at fifteen minutes to ten, the landline rang.

The shrill sound startled Kai so badly he nearly fell out of his seat. He twisted around in his wooden chair to glance at the phone that hung just outside the dining room and kitchen, as if trying to convince himself it really was the source of the screechy noise.

Grocery deliveries, school curriculum mixups, salesmen, handymen, the cable providers — they all called Lionel, on his personal cell phone. 

No one ever called the penthouse but his father.

Kai whirled back around, his brown eyes blown wide and catching on Lionel's gray ones immediately. One misstep in the day's schedule and already, he could hear his heart slamming in his chest, his breaths threatening to grow thick.

Kai Blackwell had been groomed into a creature of habit. And a nasty one at that; one that couldn't even handle the sound of the phone ringing at a time it usually didn't. What if someone knew about him? What if a criminal was on the other end of the line? What if his father had died? What if they were going to die?

Lionel put his cards down on the table and held a slightly wrinkled hand toward him. "Easy. Probably just a repairman or the landlord checking the line."

Lionel stood hurriedly, walking around the table and out the opening back into the living area. He stopped out there at the wall-phone and picked it up, making brief eye contact with Kai, who didn't dare take his eyes off of him.

"Hello?"

Kai couldn't hear the voice on the other end. He couldn't hear much at all over the sound of his foot tapping anxiously, of his heart beating three times the normal speed in his ears. He stared hard at Lionel, trying to read his face, but it gave nothing away.

"Sorry, I think you have the wrong number," He said calmly, casually, giving the boy no anxious or unsettled queues. "No, that's okay. Bye-bye."

He hung up the phone with a ding, and for a moment, he stared at the receiver. There was something swirling grimly in the back of his gray eyes that made Kai uneasy, jittery. 

"What is it?" The teenager asked quickly. "Who was it?"

Lionel turned toward him with a forced smile. "I... I think it's about your bedtime now. No worries. Hurry along, I'll clean up our game."

Kai didn't budge so quickly. He rose from the table, his sense of alarm tripling as Lionel walked back over to him. "Who was that?"

"Just a wrong number," Lionel replied, grabbing the box their cards had come out of. "Off to bed, now."

Kai moved, slowly, back to the open bookshelf in the living room, keeping his eyes trained on Lionel. He didn't give up his reassuring smile as he began to gather the cards.

Then, came the whirring.

Kai whirled around to face the hallway that doubled as a small entry, just off of the living room — the elevator doors were there that took them straight to the lobby of the building. It was a private elevator. It stopped at no other floors but the penthouse, it didn't even have doors on the other floors. It had a fingerprint sensitive keypad at the bottom and the top so no one unauthorized could even dream of using it... but there it was. Whirring. Humming. Moving.

Was his father home?

The growing sense of dread in Kai's stomach seemed to drown out even the hope of a surprise visit. He turned to look at Lionel, who was staring at the elevator, too. He'd suddenly abandoned the cards and was moving toward Kai, batting a hand in his direction. "Go. Quickly!"

Kai turned on his heel and hurried back into the living room, his heart pounding, shooting through the bookcase door and pulling it behind him until it clicked. The latch on his side would still work to open it right up, like a normal doorknob, but on the other side, the book keypad that only Lionel, Kai, and Joe Byrne could use was activated. If Lionel triggered the panic button in the kitchen, Kai would be stuck.

Kai pressed himself hard against his door, all but flattening his ear against the almost invisible crack in an attempt to hear what was going on. He could've swore he heard the ding of the elevator.

Who was there? And what did they want? Who could get in? It was his father — it had to be his father. It couldn't be anyone else, they couldn't use the elevator. Kai's nerves were threatening to vibrate his very bones apart, his hands already trembling where they were pressed against the door.

Suddenly, Lionel's voice came: "What are you-"

And then, a bone-chilling thud, and a click that made Kai's heart sink all the way down in his toes.

He knew that sound all too well. 

That was the sound... of a gun. 

His mind seemed to split from his body and float somewhere above him. He couldn't really feel anything as the weight of the sound settled inside of him — he'd heard the racking of a pistol slide many, many times in his life, he'd been a mere arms length away from the loud crack that sent a bullet hurtling down the range and into a target.

But never had it brought the cold, dark, inescapable feeling of death with it.

"Where's the boy?!" Came a new voice — loud and authoritative, deep, and gravely. Angry. "You have thirty seconds to speak before I blow a hole in your head!"

The teenager’s ears seemed to ring. He glanced over at the headboard of his bed, and he could see the small red button shining on the back of it, covered by a plastic cap so it never accidentally got bumped. Did he need to press it? To lock himself in indefinitely until his father got everything under control? To leave Lionel out there with the man who had a gun…?

Something about the simple thought made Kai’s stomach turn.

“There’s no boy here! It’s just me! I’m the housekeeper!” He heard Lionel reply, voice quivering.

“Go find him,” The gruff voice ordered. Malachi heard the repetitive, retreating booms of footsteps heading toward the second floor stairs. Was there more than one armed man in the penthouse?

“Please. I don’t know who you are, but I’m the only one here,” Lionel pleaded. “There is no boy.”

“We know Joe Byrne has a son,” The voice replied harshly, and the sound of safety clicking off made Kai freeze. “You’re going to give him to us, or you’re going to die. Tell me where he is, now!”

Kai turned the door handle and pushed against the living room shelves silently, just enough to see a sliver of the living room. He couldn’t see Lionel and the man with the gun, because the elevator was behind the shelf — and he couldn’t see the other man who’d supposedly walked by. He wanted to look farther, but if he opened the door more, they’d see the out of place shelf next to the fireplace.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let this man shoot Lionel — but he knew for a fact that the housekeeper wasn’t going to give up his location. He would protect Kai with his life, even if that meant it had to end, abruptly, and unexpectedly.

Kai wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

He looked out over the living room. On the other side, next to a bay of windows, was the door to his father’s private office. Kai was allowed inside — but he simply never had a need to enter. Behind the large wooden door he knew were bookshelves, a large mahogany desk, a designer rug, a large single panel window, and a baseball bat hanging on hooks on the wall, on display for the world.

It was old, and metal, with things written on it in marker that were fading. It was Joe Byrne’s little brother’s bat from college that he’d hit four home runs with in more than one game his senior year. 

“Please! There’s no one else-“ Lionel’s voice was cut off by the abrupt clack of metal against flesh and bone, and there was a second thud.

“Quiet!” The gruff voice ordered.

Kai’s heart seemed to be trying to rip itself out of his chest. The straight shot through the living room and into his father’s office tunneled and stretched in his vision, from a mere twenty-five foot run, to a mile. He could see the wooden door and it seemed to get farther, farther, farther…

There was a second crack, harder than the first. Kai heard Lionel whimper.

And in an instant, without much thought, he shoved the bookshelf open and darted out of his room toward his fathers office.

His heart slammed in his ears, and his socked feet pounded hard against the hardwood floor, arms pumping fiercely as he made the short run like he were having a foot race with a jet airplane. He heard the noise of shock from the gunman before there was a string of loud bangs, and a hail of bullets passed just over Kai’s head as he crashed into the office.

He had no time to close the door. With his vision darkening, tunneling, he fumbled against the leftmost wall, his grip coming to rest on the bat. He pried it out of the hooks and held it tight in his fingertips, inching himself behind the open door.

He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to get shot, and he was going to die.

Kai’s hands trembling, the man slammed into the room, banging the door back against the wall so the metal knob nailed the teenager directly in the torso. It hurt, but the gunman didn’t seem to notice that the door kicked back too early, so Kai didn’t dare let himself make a sound.

The man had his back to the door. It was the first time Kai actually looked at him — he was tall and burly, wearing solid black with a ski mask so he couldn’t really make out anything about him. He had a semi-automatic pistol clasped tightly in his hands. Kai knew how to use it, how to clean it. Never, ever, had one been shot at him.

Kai had been prepared for this. This was what his father had been training him for his entire life. But now that it was here, he couldn’t seem to remember any of it. He knew that he’d been taught a way to disarm a person with a handgun, but he couldn’t remember and he wasn’t close enough. He knew techniques to knock someone unconscious in one strike, but he couldn’t remember where to hit. Why couldn’t he remember anything? 

The man turned around.

Kai‘s reaction was instantaneous. In a fit of adrenaline and panic, he brought the bat up over his head and swung directly down like a lumberjack splitting a length of wood. Hhe was aiming for the man’s head, but the gunman jumped back just in time for him to miss.

Panic surged through him when he realized he had missed. But… it was quickly replaced by shock. He had missed the man’s head, yes, but the bat had slammed into his forearms instead. The man yelled out and jumped back, and the gun clattered to the floor with a loud clack just between their feet.

Kai dropped the bat and dove for it. So did the man, but Kai was much smaller than him and was able to drop to the floor much faster. He grabbed the pistol and, in one swift movement, swung his arm around with every bit of strength inside of him and slammed it into the man’s face with a crack.

The man was crouched from reaching for the gun, so he fell back onto the floor with a thud, blood pouring from his nose. Kai threw the gun far behind the door and picked up the bat again, bringing it down on the man’s head with a ding, one, two, three times until he had stopped moving.

Kai was trembling. He felt like he might vomit. He stood over the man for a solid ten seconds before, with shaky hands, he grabbed the pistol, flicked the safety on, and left the office with both weapons in hand.

“Lionel!” He called. The older man was still crumpled in the entryway hall, and Kai ran for him immediately, hitting the floor and sliding the final five feet on his knees across the hardwood. 

Lionel was conscious and sitting up, but his nose was bleeding at an alarming rate. His forehead was split and leaning crimson, and his left eye was bloodshot and already swelling.

Kai dropped both weapons with clatters and grabbed the man by the head, examining the wounds. He felt like he was forgetting something — but there was no time to remember. His adrenaline was making mind fuzzy. He almost felt like crying. “Lionel.”

Lionel grabbed his arms with a forced smile. “I’m okay, son.”

Kai couldn’t breathe, and he was shaking a lot. He inhaled, a sharp, gaspy sound.

Lionel’s brown eyes flicked to something behind him. “Kai!”

Suddenly, someone had him by the neck, and a cloth was forced over his nose and mouth. Panic flooded his veins, and he jolted, bringing his hands up to pry and claw at the arms around him, to no avail. They were too strong.

His limbs started to go numb, and heavy; it was hard to move. His vision was turning black at the edges. Lionel reached out for him, and a boot kicked him roughly in the head. 

That was the last thing he saw, before his world went dark.

The thing he’d forgotten… was the other man in the penthouse.

—

tag list! I’m just assuming currently so forgive me if you despise me and don’t want to be on it lol

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy

[flyrobinflyy]

ANOTHER MACCREADYSBABY FIC ALWAYS MEANS ANOTHER BANGER

OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET

alex rider + oc insert

tw: none :)

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

OOOHHHH SHOOT YOU GUYS HERE WE GO

⚠️ CONTEXT: THIS STORY IS BEING INSERTED BETWEEN THE EVENTS OF ALEX RIDER POINT BLANC AND ALEX RIDER SKELETON KEY. (THERE IS A CANONICAL THREE OR FOUR WEEKS BETWEEN THE TWO BOOKS) I FULLY INTEND (WHETHER THIS BECOMES A SERIES OR NOT) TO KEEP THE ORIGINAL ALEX RIDER STORIES INTACT, ALTHOUGH THEY MAY SHIFT SLIGHTLY ON THE TIMELINE TO FIT MALACHI AND HIS PLACE IN THE ALEX RIDER UNIVERSE.

HERES THE CASTLIST!

part one

❝ MINOR ISSUES ❞

TUESDAY — MAY 3, 2001 — 8:23PM

JOE BYRNE, THE CEO OF THE CIA, SAT DOWN ON THE LAVISH ROOFTOP BAR AND GRILL OF LA MAISON DE L'OR -- THE MOST EXTRAVAGANT AND EXCLUSIVE HOTEL IN NEW YORK CITY. The stars twinkled in the night's sky above, and a gentle breeze tugged at the rich silk cloth draped over the table ahead of him.

Sitting just across from him were a man and a woman -- Alan Blunt; Chief Executive of MI6's Special Operations division, and Tulip Jones, deputy head of MI6. Both were wearing stern, blank looks on their faces, each one dressed professionally; Blunt in a pressed black suit fitted to him exactly, and Mrs. Jones, in a plum pencil skirt and matching blazer with a pin on her lapel. 

The rest of the tables on the rooftop were completely empty. A waiter came by briefly, bringing the men glasses of amber liquid, and white wine for Mrs. Jones.

For a long while, it was silent.

Joe Byrne swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Thank you, for making the trip to meet with me. I hope your travels were well."

"Our travels were fine," Mrs. Jones replied shortly with her thick English accent, her deep eyes scouring Joe's face for something more telling. "What is it you wished to discuss?"

"Right on with it, then, I suppose," Joe Byrne sighed deeply. "It's come to my attention that MI6 is employing... a minor," He said slowly, taking a sip from his glass. He chuckled to break the tension that immediately filled the air.  "Not much can happen anywhere on the globe these days without someone in Washington catching wind.”

Mrs. Jones and Alan Blunt stared at him, each with a varying level of suspicion, skepticism. His attempt at humor fell flat, and he cleared his throat. “Alex Rider. Fourteen, if I'm not mistaken. He's been photographed coming and going from MI6 headquarters on Liverpool Street, as well as being involved in several high-stakes criminal takedowns, as of late. The most recent of which being two days ago — that school in the South of France. Point Blanc?"

Alan Blunt stayed silent, choosing, instead, to sip his drink. Mrs. Jones continued to try and read Joe Byrne's expression to no avail. 

"Our business is our own,” She said simply.

"I agree, fully," Joe Byrne replied, with a playful shrug, spinning his glass in his hand. "But it's no secret to American Intelligence that your... young agent has been starkly successful. Though I assume it would all be quite controversial if his age and status became public knowledge."

Alan Blunt suddenly sat up straighter, a grim look swirling in his eyes. "Are you attempting to blackmail us, Mr. Byrne?"

"No, no," Byrne shook his head, holding up a hand with a brief snicker. "Quite the contrary. I actually have a favor to ask you."

The head of the CIA reached under the table, into a briefcase that sat near his feet, retrieving a file folder from it. He placed it down on the tablecloth and spun it in their direction, the words: OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET and TOP SECRET glaring at them in red ink. "In this file, you will find a complete overview of America's Operation: Ultraviolet. It seems as though the CIA and MI6 have more in common than we thought."

With an unreadable expression, Alan Blunt flipped open the file, and he and Mrs. Jones scanned it in tandem. A few moments of silence passed.

Eventually, they closed the folder and leaned back in their chairs. "So the CIA is employing a minor as well."

"Not quite yet. He has been trained by professionals, including retired Delta Force, but we haven't utilized him yet in fear of... controversy," Joe Byrne exhaled. "But your success with young Alex has given us new courage in sending him out onto the field."

Another moment of quiet passed.

"American Wildlife Activist and millionaire Leon Waters is about to start up the raffle for the seventeenth year of his River Rocks summer camp in the Australian Outback," Joe explained. "Just a mere two days ago, a fleet of planes were spotted landing in the Australian wildlands very near to it. The cargo was never visible... but the aircraft's crew was photographed wearing biohazard suits."

“And you think Leon Waters has something to do with this?” Mrs. Jones prodded. “He’s an animal-obsessed American who only became successful due to nepotism. Those planes simply being near to his camp doesn’t mean a thing.” 

“Oh, but it does,” Byrne replied lowly. “The plane was a Haywire Enterprises private aircraft. Leon’s late father’s company, passed down to him upon his death.”

For a moment, no one said a thing. Mrs. Jones nodded slowly, as if accepting the evidence.

"So you're asking us to send Alex to Australia to investigate Leon Waters at your request? So you can pluck up the courage to send your agent onto the field?" She asked, miffed, and Byrne shook his head.

"No. The CIA isn’t going to hand off this investigation so easily, especially since Leon Waters is, in fact, American,” He smiled. “I'm asking you to send Alex to Australia to investigate Leon Waters… with my agent. To ensure mutual success."

Alan Blunt made a disgruntled sound, sitting up even more and loosening his tie a little. "You said it yourself, Byrne; Alex is quite successful on his own. We don’t need some American brat getting in his way.”

Joe Byrne smiled faintly, his dark eyes drifting to the tablecloth. "Correct me if I’m wrong; but if you’d come across this information before I had, I can only assume Alex would be on the first plane to Australia, wouldn’t he?” He asked. 

No one spoke.

"Forgive my forwardness, but I don't see how disagreeing benefits you in any way, besides, perhaps, letting you groom your ever-growing ego," Joe Byrne continued. "I'm offering up an agent to accompany your own. And seeing as several planes, possibly full of a hazardous biochemical agent, have been seen landing there, I don't think this is an incident MI6 is capable of simply ignoring. You're rather good at poking your nose into places it doesn't belong."

Silence. Sheer, stark silence, where both Brits stared at the CEO of the CIA with murder in their eyes.

Joe sighed. "Be honest. We both know that, after you leave here and fly home to Britain, you're going to send Alex there on my information anyways. With or without my agent," Joe Byrne shrugged. "Isn't it better for us to work together? You know, since we both share such..." He reached over and slid the OPERATION: ULTRAVIOLET file folder slowly back to himself. "...Valuable information about one another?"

After a moment of letting his words hang in the air, Joe Byrne stood up and brushed off his suit, returning the file to his briefcase and retracting a second one -- all the photos and information they had on the summer camp and planes. He placed it on the table ahead of the two brits. "If you change your mind, do give me a call. Otherwise... I hope our agents don't cross paths in the field."

And then he left.

—

tag list! I’m just assuming currently so forgive me if you despise me and don’t want to be on it lol

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy

[flyrobinflyy]

me consuming cliche tropes: FUCK YEAH! ROLL IT AGAIN!

me writing cliches: i am the worst writer ever for doing this.

[flyrobinflyy]

am I so lame if my mind starts formulating Alex Rider fanfictions despite my every effort not to

[flyrobinflyy]

NO I WILL BE SO SEATED AND READ EVERY SINGLE ONE

am I so lame if my mind starts formulating Alex Rider fanfictions despite my every effort not to

[flyrobinflyy]

im so traumatized from the secret keeper that whenever bentleys alone at night i just assume she’s gonna get his ass with something horrific 😭😭

him feeling sad when he’s alone now STOPPPOP ITTTTT.

purposely looking for astens ice-cream in the freezer i love them so bad. brothers.

me, arms crossed and tapping my foot impatiently: bellamy.

House of Wolves

batfamily + oc insert

tw: intoxication

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

oh the woes of being fifteen

part eight

❝ NOCTURNAL ❞

FRIDAY — APRIL 21 — 10:48PM

THE WORST PART OF SLEEPING ALL DAY, WAS NOT BEING ABLE TO SLEEP ALL NIGHT.

It was almost eleven. Dinner had ended almost three hours ago, and all the Wayne’s that didn’t live in the Manor anymore scattered back to their homes and apartments and schools. Bentley, Bellamy, Valor, Asten, Damian, Bruce, and Rockie had all watched a movie afterwards — some Netflix original that ended up being exponentially bad and, at the same time, so intriguing that they couldn’t stop watching it.

After that, everyone had split off to go to bed, and Bentley was just… there.

He laid silently in his dark room for maybe twenty minutes. Scrolled uselessly on his phone, texted Vera. She didn’t respond, but she had said earlier that they were going to bed really early because of their plans for tomorrow. So, Bentley just… laid there.

And eventually, he got bored, got up, and left his bedroom.

The Manor hall was dark and quiet, lined with carpet and family pictures that had grown in size to compensate for the new members. He could hear the distant, soft sounds of video games coming from one of the doors farther along, and he thought about going to find it, but he turned toward the stairs instead.

He walked carefully, skipping the creaky sixth and twelfth stairs as he made his way down to the entryway. The chandelier there still managed to shine even in the dark.

Quietly, he made his way through the entryway and into the kitchen. A few of the dim lights were still on, but no one was in there, and no one was around. 

Now that everyone had left, the Manor was quiet, and felt kind of… he wasn’t sure. Sad? Maybe it was just because no one was awake, and the whole thing was quiet, and he was up alone. 

That was something he was starting to notice about himself. Nowadays he… got kinda sad when he was alone.

With a soft sigh, he dug through the freezer until he found a little container of Ben and Jerry’s that had the name ASTEN scrawled on top in big letters, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, sat at the island and ate it.

He absentmindedly navigated to Vera’s band’s instagram, scrolling through the most recent posts. They had started rapid-fire posting their whole trip to document it, and every time he opened his phone there seemed to be a new story or post. He couldn’t keep up to save his life.

The most recent one was a picture of Vera in a little white dress standing in front of a huge tour bus, her arms outstretched and a million-dollar smile on her face. Bentley double tapped to like it and scrolled down into the comments — where there was a comment from Aleah Powers herself, congratulating them and saying how excited she was to have them on her tour.

That’s about when Bentley realized that post had over one-point-five million likes, and that their follower count had gone up to a million and the tour hadn’t even started.

Bentley smiled faintly at the screen. He could already tell she was going to get famous — her life’s dream was going to come true thanks to this once in a lifetime opportunity. She was going to be a celebrity, like a red-carpet, Grammy winning, millionaire celebrity. And then what would he be, standing next to her?

Bentley heard footsteps.

He spun around on the island stool and leaned to the side to glance into the entryway, and someone flashed by on the stairs, silent as a mouse.

Bentley laid down his phone and spoon and pushed himself off of the stool, stepping into the kitchen doorway.

Bellamy was unlocking the front door. Last time Bentley had seen him, he was wearing pajamas, but now he was in jeans and a white button-up shirt, looking suspiciously ready to leave.

With a lifted brow, Bentley leaned against the doorframe and cleared his throat. “A little late to be leaving, don’t you think?”

With a quiet, started sound, Bellamy whipped around to face him with wide brown eyes.

“Bentley! What… are you doing up?” He asked, as though Bentley was the one doing suspicious things.

“I slept all day,” He replied simply, scanning Bellamy’s outfit with a faint smirk. “What’re you doing?”

Bellamy, with surprise still lingering on his face, pulled his hand away from the front door and blinked, righting his expression. “Going… outside.”

Bentley nodded toward him. “Fully dressed?”

“You…” Bellamy trailed off. “Never know who you’ll see outside?”

“Our nearest neighbor is, like, a mile away,”

Bellamy let out an exasperated sigh and groaned: “Bentley.”

“Where are you going?” Bentley asked, pushing off of the doorframe and taking a few steps forward, crossing his arms lightly. “Does Bruce know you’re leaving?”

Bellamy sighed heavily, throwing his head back dramatically. “Bentley.”

“I’m just asking,” He shrugged. 

Bellamy tossed his arms out to the side. “I’m going to Maddox’s house.”

“Does Bruce know?”

“Why can’t you mind your own business?” Bellamy grumbled. “I’ll be back before anyone wakes up and it’ll be fine. Please, they’re already waiting to pick me up.”

Bentley didn’t say anything, but just sort of looked at him for a moment. Bellamy was giving him these big brown puppy eyes and, for a flash, Bentley saw the same eleven year old that used to cling to him at school.

Bentley breathed in, deep, and then out. “When will you be back?”

Bellamy shrugged. “Like, three or four. Whenever the designated driver brings me back.”

“I’ll be awake,” Bentley replied shortly. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Bellamy moved quickly for the door, turning the handle quietly.

“Hey, wait,” Bentley continued, and Bellamy turned around looking really close to stabbing something. “Share your location with me.”

Bellamy slapped himself in the forehead. “What? You’re not my mom!” 

“If I’m going to be the only one who knows you’re gone, I at least want to know where you are in case your friends run off the road with you in the car,” Bentley shot back. “Share it.”

With an unintelligible groan, Bellamy whipped his phone out and shared the location with him, and it was confirmed when Bentley’s phone pinged in the kitchen.

“Good. If you turn it off, I’ll wake up Bruce and tell him you left,” 

“Are you blackmailing me?” Bellamy asked, exasperated. Bentley shrugged, looking amused.

“Yep.”

With a deep, long sigh, Bellamy pulled the door open and stepped out onto the stoop, closing it behind him.

And Bentley just stood there.

A few seconds later, the door opened again, and Bellamy’s head popped back in, looking sheepish. “We’re… not actually going to Maddox’s house.”

“Wow,” Bentley feigned surprise. “I’m shocked.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a dick. We’re going to this… restaurant his dad owns, downtown Gotham.”

“Oh, nice,” Bentley nodded. “Would that happen to be a liquor restaurant?”

“Bentley!”

“I told you to go before I change my mind,” He sighed heavily, running a hand over his hair. “But… thanks for telling the truth, I guess. I’ll be waiting here at four.”

With no other words, Bellamy closed the door and disappeared into the night.

Bentley exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. Did he want Bellamy to have fun and be a normal teenager? Yes. That’s what Bentley had wanted the whole time he was at Redwood and now he’d finally gotten it — he traveled and went on trips and did stuff with his friends all the time, why shouldn’t Bellamy?

Did he necessarily want Bellamy riding with sketchy teenagers to a downtown Gotham bar? Absolutely not. But if he stopped him, he’d just end up being the bad guy, and if he told Bruce, he’d just end up being more of a bad guy. 

And one thing he could not seem to survive, ever, was someone he loved being mad at him. Seven years and he still couldn’t stand it.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead and turned, eyeballing the pair of chairs that were sitting neatly in the nook of the winding staircase.

With a sigh, he grabbed his phone and Asten’s ice cream and plunked himself down in one. And he waited.

—

It was four-fifteen when Bellamy got back.

Bentley had been nodding off in the chair when the front door opened and Bellamy was on the other side, looking disastrously different. His hair was a complete wreck, way messier than it had been when he’d left, his eyes were dazed and his face was flushed from alcohol, and — the detail Bentley decided to completely ignore — there were several different shades of pink and red on the collar of his shirt, and smeared across the sleeve where he’d been vigorously wiping it off of his own face.

Bentley stood up, an exasperated look on his face. “What the hell, Bellamy.”

Bellamy looked at him, and it seemed to take a few seconds for his wheels to turn. And then he smiled. “Oh, hey! I knew you’d still be here!”

“Shh. You’re yelling,” Bentley hushed him, blowing out a puff of air and moving toward the door, pulling it open so he could step inside without falling on his face. Maybe. 

“Aw, thanks B,” He slurred with a smile, dazed and completely out of it. He stepped through the door, banging the toe of his shoe against the threshold and stumbling over it. Bentley jumped to catch him, but he seemed to regain his balance at the last second, catching himself on the doorframe. And then he started laughing.

“Shh,” Bentley hushed him again, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him into the house, closing the door quietly. “Let’s go up to your room. C’mon. Do you feel sick?”

“I feel great!” He chimed. Bentley turned, pulling him toward the stairs at a pace slow enough that he could get his feet under him. On the very first step, he stepped too low, and Bentley was the only thing that kept him from face-planting on the stairs.

It took five whole minutes to get him up the stairs. He almost fell, like, six times, and there was no way for them to skip the squeaky ones. Hopefully no one was listening.

Once they got in the hallway, Bellamy tried to go in Rockie and Damian’s rooms before, finally, they went into his.

With a long sigh, Bentley closed the door.

Bellamy moved forward until he flopped on his bed. “What time is it?”

Bentley sighed, walking over to his dresser and opening the top drawer, pulling out a Batman t-shirt. “Almost four-thirty. Change into this.”

Bentley turned and tossed it at him. His reflexes were pretty much nonexistent, so it hit him right in the face. 

“I’ll be right back,”

“Okaaaaay,”

With a shake of his head, Bentley left the room and closed the door, heading back to his bedroom. He dug some advil out of his nightstand, and quickly returned to Bellamy. 

He was still sitting on the bed, playing with his phone. 

Bentley walked over to him and swiped the device out of his hand. “No drunk texting,” He ordered, placing the pills in his hand instead. “Take those.”

“What?” Bellamy whined, looking at the capsules like they’d personally offended him. “Why? Give me my phone!”

“I’m not letting you make even more of an idiot out of yourself,” Bentley replied. “And the medicine is because you’re going to feel like shit pretty soon.”

“Bentley,”

“Bellamy, just do it,” He ordered harshly, tossing a hand to the side. “I screwed up this time, but next time you pull this shit, I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

“You’re so mean to me!” Bellamy whined, pulling himself out of his bed, tossing the pills on his nightstand, and grabbing for his phone. Bentley held it backwards, away from him.

“Stop,”

“You stop!”

Bentley sighed exasperatedly. “Bellamy.”

“Bentley!”

Bentley spun around to keep the phone away from him. “If you don’t shut up, Bruce is going to hear you.”

“Maybe you should shut up!”

“I’m not being loud,”

In a split second, Bellamy’s face went from alcohol flushed to white, and he stopped mid phone battle with a look of disgust on his face. “Shit.”

“Go,” Bentley pointed at the bathroom, and Bellamy went, hardly making it through the door before he started dry heaving in the sink.

Bentley exhaled heavily, running a hand across his face.

Well. At least he’d slept all day.

—

tag list that KINDA works

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun

@xiaonothere

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy @bookwarm0-0

@custommadeazula

[flyrobinflyy]

still thinking about this.. neil josten get out of my mind

if you think about it it’s impressive neil can even hold an exy stick because he definitely has insane nerve damage in his hands from his moms death + baltimore

[flyrobinflyy]

WOOO thanks for tagging me!

“He didn’t feel like he did a very good job, seeing as this was the product of it.”

this is from what will hopefully be a jason todd horror fic !

i think three of my mutuals write.. one being above, another being tagged by above…

@sarbcat time to clock in ‼️

Writing Game: Post the last line you wrote and tag someone for every word of that line

Tagged by @inkedmoth. Thanks friend! :))

“I thought British people were supposed to be smart. Don’t you know how to stick to a plan?”

I am NOT telling you what fandom this is for lmaoooooooo I’m too embarrassed

I don’t know lots of people so I’ll tag my friends haha

@flyrobinflyy @skylathescholarly @sassenashsworld

[flyrobinflyy]

DICKBABS NATION RISE UP!

reading how old everyone is now and everything is sooo insane to think about.. i still can’t believe bentley is all grown up now ☹️☹️ not a scared eleven year old anymore ☹️☹️ my son ☹️☹️

THE LAST LINE? 🤨☝️ EXCUSE YOU?

House of Wolves

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

this chapter is short and sweet :)))

part seven

❝ CELEBRATION ❞

FRIDAY — APRIL 21 — 6:31PM

DAMIAN TOLD EVERYONE ABOUT STANFORD WHEN THEY GOT HOME, AND THEY ALL, JUSTIFIABLY, FLIPPED THEIR SHIT.

It was widely known that Stanford was one of the hardest colleges to get into in the US, with only a 3% acceptance rate. If any Wayne were to force themselves in, it would have been Damian.

Bruce freaked out, cried a little, and planned a huge family dinner for that night -- just like he had for Duke and Valor and Asten and Rockie and everybody when they got accepted into a school, or if they had some other big milestone. Dick and Cass and Steph and Tim and Duke and everyone would be showing -- to say Bentley was excited would be a vast understatement.

But, for now, at nine-thirty in the morning on a Friday, he chose to finally, finally, go to bed.

He face-planted on his mattress and didn't get up until someone belly flopped down next to him, and nearly sent him flying off the bed.

“It’s dinner time, Babybird!”

Bentley groaned a dramatic:“Dick,” dragging on the ‘i’ for far too long. Dick crashing onto the bed reminded him of his first Christmas in the Manor, when he was ten — right after he’d gotten out of the hospital from being poisoned. When Dick (secretly sick) had come to wake him up and crawled into bed with him.

“What? You’re not happy to see me?” The oldest Wayne boy chuckled. Bentley just kept his head buried in his covers. He was happy to see him, because he and Babs lived in Bludhaven now and didn’t come around as much as they used to, but he wasn’t really awake enough to express all that right then. “Bruce told me about you driving to New York to be with Vera at the airport. You’re a better boyfriend than me.”

Bentley grumbled: “You’re married.”

“Exactly,”

Bentley was still half asleep, so the joke wasn’t very funny.

A few quiet moments passed, and Dick moved, off of the mattress and to the side of the bed. A second later, he grabbed onto Bentley’s arms and began to literally drag him off of the mattress. Bentley felt the cold of his newly acquired wedding ring against his arm. “C’mon. Everyone’s here, and Babs is excited to see you! You’re redhead friends!”

Bentley replied with an unintelligible grumble, grabbing onto the covers and sheets in a bid to keep himself there.

“You’ve been asleep for nine hours! You can survive a dinner! It’s for Dami!”

Getting Bentley out of his bed was like prying an angry cat out of a crate at the vet. There was lots of kicking and fighting and loud noises, but eventually, the two of them thudded downstairs side by side, one a little more miffed than the other.

Everyone was already there when they made it to the dining room, getting situated and taking seats around Bruce’s massive table. On the left side was Cass, Tim, Valor, Asten, Steph, and Duke, and the right, Jason, Rockie, Damian, Bellamy, and two open spots for Bentley and Dick. Babs was at one head, and Bruce was at the other. The room was buzzing with excitement and anticipation, and Damian looked sheepish — probably because everyone in the room was there for him and kept throwing congratulations and compliments in his direction.

Bentley slid into the chair between Jason and Bellamy, and the latter threw a lazy arm around his shoulders when he did.

“Good morning,” Bellamy joked, and Bentley replied by jabbing an elbow into his side. With a small “Ah!” He removed his arm from around Bentley’s shoulder and accidentally bonked him on the side of the head in the process.

The dining room was alive with voices. They were all loud and Bentley wasn’t exactly sure what any of them were talking about, because he couldn’t hear them over one another.

It was the first time all of them had been together in a month or so, and Bentley was grateful, not really speaking to anybody but letting his eyes drift around the table. Bruce was at the head to Bentley’s left. He still looked the same — maybe his eyes were a little grayer, maybe his hair, too, but it was still just Bruce. He was smiling brighter than the entryway chandelier, a shiny nostalgia swirling in the back of his eyes. His gaze caught on Bentley’s, and he smiled, and Bentley smiled back.

Bruce was almost fifty now. He wasn’t slowing anything down at all, though — he was still patrolling, and working at WE, and making the world a better place and being the best dad ever, like he always did. Sometimes, Bentley wondered how close they were to him passing the cowl down to someone else. He wondered if that would ever happen. Who would be Batman next? Dick? Jason?

Next to him was Cass — she was about twenty-seven. Her hair was longer now, and she talked more nowadays. Bentley wasn’t exactly sure where she lived, or if she was seeing anybody, or if she had a job, but she was there, and she was just the same as she’d always been. She’d gone about teaching all the new arrivals ASL, and Bentley and Asten had taught all of their friends, so they could all communicate pretty well with it. (Except Koa. He forgot all of it about thirty seconds after he learned it.)

Tim was next to her. He was twenty-four. His hair was a bit longer and his eyes were starting to shine more grey instead of blue, like Bruce’s. Bentley thought it suited him. He’d gone into hardcore Wayne Enterprises CEO mode for the last couple years, and anyone who was asked would say he was killing it. He lived in a high-rise apartment in New York that was really expensive, and not a penny of the money that bought it had been Bruce’s, nor had it been from the Drake family fortune. He’d moved there just shy of two years ago because a lot of his business and meetings ended up being there. 

He was doing about the best Bentley had ever seen him do. He wasn’t patrolling much anymore, but he was in perhaps the best headspace he’d ever been, he was healthy, and he was happy, and he was successful, and he was amazing. He hadn’t had any panic attacks or relapses or anything since The Secret Keeper’s first appearance — and he hadn’t had to help Bentley through any since the few months after Redwood. They were all just… getting better. Growing up. 

A couple seats down from him was Steph. She was twenty-five, and was working as a journalist for GNN — Gotham News Network. She’d been the one on Bentley’s first Christmas to get him a stocking and make him a sweater, and she’d done the same for every new addition to the Manor. Now they had to house both the fireplace in the den and in the library to hold all of the stockings. She cared so much about them all, and none of them were her blood.

Really, the only two in the entire house who were blood was Damian and Bruce. Bentley was sure that, even if his father had been a good man, even if his mother and sister had survived… it still wouldn’t feel like as much of a family as it did when all of these people with different bloods were gathered around Bruce Wayne’s dining table.

Next to Steph was Duke. He was twenty-three, and ending his senior year at Gotham Academy. He’d just recently been offered an internship at GPD — Gotham Police Department. He was doing exactly what Bentley hoped to be doing in a few years. He had been living on campus for the whole of his college career, so he didn’t come home very often during the school year. 

Jason was sitting next to Bentley, shooting remarks across the table at Tim. He was twenty-six, and still legally dead, so… he just sort of patrolled and lived his vigilante life to the fullest. Having no legal ties or records anymore pretty much gave him the freedom to do anything he wanted, whenever he wanted, and if he couldn’t do it without legal documentation, Bruce had a way of helping. Bentley thought it must’ve been fun, being off the grid like that.

Jason hadn’t changed much. He was still the same Jason that read Bentley to sleep in the library during thunderstorms. In the few months after Redwood, it became almost his full time job. All five of the previous academy students had mountains of trauma that liked to pop out in nightmares and Bentley couldn’t even count how many nights one, two, three, or even all five of them stayed the night in the library so they didn’t have to be by themselves. Jason was there every single time. Even the nights that Bentley found the courage to sleep in his own bed, and it was someone else.

It was sort of bittersweet that not many of them needed that anymore. Bellamy occasionally had nightmares, or memories resurfacing that drove him downstairs, but it didn’t happen so often. Bentley wondered if part of Jason missed it.

Bentley glanced over when Dick plopped down at the end of the table, next to Babs, who was in her wheelchair at the head. Both of their left hands were visible and they each had a ring on them. 

Dick and Babs had gotten married two months ago, now. It had been a long time coming — a decade, maybe more. No one was really shocked at the development, and the wedding had been maybe the move extravagantly beautiful thing Bentley had ever attended.

Dick had been working off and on at the police station again, which Bentley enjoyed hearing about. He and Babs lived in Bludhaven together, now, and were starting their own life.

Everyone in the whole family was just about the happiest they’d ever been.

For dinner, they had some sort of Arabian dish that was Damian’s favorite. The chatter and voices never quieted, the life in the house never changed. After a while, Alfred sat and ate with them, and all fourteen of them celebrated with joyful hearts.

Bentley was just glad that, back then…

They hadn’t known that the next great unmaking of the entire Wayne family was coming.

—

tag list that KINDA works

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun

@xiaonothere

@skylathescholarly @flyrobinflyy @bookwarm0-0

@custommadeazula

[flyrobinflyy]

well now im brain rotting about this

i can’t remember if neil shoots right or left, though im pretty sure right?

he was shot in the left shoulder area, after the bullet clipped the edge of a vest he was wearing (which would have made the hit less traumatic medically than it could have been)

its mentioned right after something about his collarbone, so im curious if it’s meant to imply it hit there? because a broken clavicle is a common injury among lacrosse players (which. his likely would have been shattered if it was shot. with limited medical care. but let’s think best case scenario)

shooting with his right hand means the right shoulder is powering the swing, but the left is still super important in getting the racquet up there in the first place and carrying out what needs to be done. still a significant amount of strain. if it healed anything less than perfectly, yeah, it would definitely interfere with his game (at least pain wise)

if he shoots left, well….kevins got competition for who has the most insane comeback after an injury

if you think about it it’s impressive neil can even hold an exy stick because he definitely has insane nerve damage in his hands from his moms death + baltimore

[flyrobinflyy]

outting myself as this anon: they’re like earplugs, but they don’t block everything!

im pretty sure i have the engage plus and im on my second pair (the first lasted a year and a half of constant wear). they block 16db plus an additional 9db if you put the extra mute things in. you can still hear conversations well with them in. i wear them during dinner, lectures, concerts, etc.

super duper comfortable and they don’t hurt at all. they DO at first have some of that echo-y type of feel that earplugs have (where your own voice feels loud/etc) but i personally got used to it very quickly

they have like a billion different styles (and a little quiz on the website to find which one fits your needs) and they’re super lowkey. mine are clear and they sit flat against the inside of your ear, so you can wear them anywhere without anyone noticing!

anyway enough yapping: 100% worth trying them out!

here’s the link

loops turn things down 40% like your post! i love mine

😲

What is this miracle device

[flyrobinflyy]

10 DAYS UNTIL THE GOLDEN RAVEN!!!

[flyrobinflyy]

if you think about it it’s impressive neil can even hold an exy stick because he definitely has insane nerve damage in his hands from his moms death + baltimore

[flyrobinflyy]

MY BOYS 😭😭😭😭😭

Bentley & Bellamy Parallels 🥹

I told some of you I would do this, so here it is — all the baby bentley and baby bellamy parallels I could fish out of my fics… I hope you enjoy them lol they’re all sad. bentley is blue and bell is green :)

(1)

“You’re really here, too. We’re both here. In the Manor. You’re awake,”

Bentley sobbed.

He buried his face in his knees, hoping to at least stifle the pathetic sounding cries a little, but it wasn’t really any use. He was crying like he was dying and there was no way to hide it.

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 10, reality

"You're awake now."

Bellamy seemed to respond okay to it. Okay, as in, he didn't launch into a horrible anxiety meltdown. He hid his face in his hands and stayed utterly silent, though, Bentley was seasoned enough in emotional turmoil to tell when someone was crying without making it obvious.

project: killcode chapter 11, poison dart frogs and dinosaurs

(2)

“You’re not asleep anymore. It’s all over now.”

Tim wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs.

Bentley sobbed and peeled the blankets off of his trembling body, shooting straight off his bed, colliding with Tim with almost enough force to knock him flat over. He synched his arms around his neck so tightly he thought he might’ve been choking him, collapsing onto his knees and balling the fabric of his hoodie up in his hands.

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 16, favoritism

Without any other words, in one sudden, jerky movement, Bellamy threw himself off the bed and collided with Bentley hard enough to nearly knock the wind out of him. Bentley wasn’t sure what was going on until he comprehended that Bellamy’s arms were around him.

“Oh,” Was his first reaction — not very helpful, he guessed. He brought his arms up and around him quickly. “It’s okay. You’re awake.”

project: killcode chapter 13, descendants and a sadie hawkins

(3)

“I couldn’t…” He vaguely gestured back toward where the tie was laying on the counter. His face flushed pink when he realized this was a really dumb thing to be upset about. He took in a shaky breath and tried to blink the tears away, but they ended up falling the first time he closed his eyes. “I tried, but, I… my dad, he… I don’t…”

a hundred ways to become a wayne, chapter 4, useless, worthless, and everything in between

Bellamy held up one of his hands the slightest bit, and his tie was balled up in it. He made sure not to look Bentley in the eye when he muttered: "I can't do it."

project: killcode chapter 14, the right thing

(4)

“I’ll meet you back here to walk you to the library for your free period, okay?” Duke questioned. He let go of Bentley’s shoulder, probably to walk away, and a surge of panic shot through him tenfold. He made a small, embarrassing sound and reached out, clamping onto the sleeve of Duke’s blazer.

a hundred ways to become a wayne, chapter 5, bristol vs crime alley

As they worked their way out of the building with what seemed like every other teenager in the world, all packed into the halls like sardines, Bentley felt a tug on his blazer sleeve.

When he glanced down, Bellamy had the fabric balled up in one of his hands, staying close by his side to avoid getting lost in the crowd.

project: killcode chapter 15, exploding gatorade

(5)

Bentley jumped a mile and a half when someone touched his arm, and water roared in his head, blood.

"Whoa, Bentley, what's going on?"

project: killcode chapter 16, ghosts of the past

Bentley brought a hand up to rub at Bellamy’s back without thinking -- and he was sure his life flashed before his eyes at the speed the other boy jumped, so violently that it shook their entire desk and nearly knocked him out of his chair.

project: killcode chapter 17, one after another

(6)

He quickly abandoned the first aid kit and scooted slightly closer to the couch. “Hey… what is it, kiddo?”

“I-I don’t know,” He admitted, hiding his eyes in his forearm, in the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That’s okay..."

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 5, a little tlc

He wiped his hands on his pants. “You can tell me, Bell.”

“I’m…” Bellamy started, hiccuping lightly, still facing away from Bentley. “I… don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“That’s okay, too,” Bentley said, stepping forward again.

project: killcode chapter 17, one after another

(7)

“I’m just… tired,” He muttered honestly, resting his chin on his knees. A wave of anxiety washed over him when he remembered that his dad did not care when he was tired and did not take excuses. “But I… um… not that tired. Really. I-I’m sorry.”

The words tumbled out in a panicked ramble before he could think better of himself. Even after he’d identified that Nightwing didn’t want him to keep apologizing — what an idiotic thing to do. Now he’d disobeyed him, on top of everything else.

“Whoa, Bentley, it’s okay. It’s perfectly fine if you want to rest. You should. You’ve had a long night,”

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 5, a little tlc

He focused on Bentley just momentarily, his face going red before he stared dutifully down at the table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I… I was just… really tired, I won’t do it again-“

“Whoa, Bellamy, hey,” Bentley continued to rub his back lightly, leaning down to get closer to his level and internally cursing when he saw the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. “Bell, it’s okay. It’s okay. Napping is basically what free period is for. You haven’t been sleeping well — it's okay.”

project: killcode chapter 20, chloe (the hot one)

(8)

“It’s okay, kiddo. You can go to sleep,”

However, his found family wasn’t coming to an end that night. So he didn’t find it hard to obey Dick’s suggestion, letting his head find its way onto the oldest Wayne boy’s shoulder, settling into the couch as Dick’s fingers repetitively carded through his red hair.

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 15, ponyboy curtis

"I've probably spent more time in the last three years sleeping with someone else next to me than alone -- so I don't mind. It's actually nice."

“Oh… okay,”

A few moments of silence passed, and Bellamy settled in farther, adjusting his head against Bentleys shoulder with a quiet sigh.

project: killcode chapter 30, hypocrisy

(9)

Bentley didn’t stop running until he collided with him, nearly toppling the man over, tightening his arms around him so tight he thought he might die if he let go. “Father, she’s gonna… she’s gonna kill me.”

a hundred ways to become a wayne, chapter 8, safe with me

The moment Bellamy's gaze flicked between them, and he comprehended who it actually was, he dissolved into a bout of quiet, entire-body wracking sobs, lurching forward and grabbing around Bentley’s torso for dear life.

“She-she’s gonna k-ill me,” He choked, crying so hard he started coughing. “She’s gonna- she’s gonna…”

project: killcode chapter 34, three little birds

(10)

“Don’t… don’t… please, don’t. Please… please don’t put me in there. It’s dark. Please,”

“No one is putting you anywhere, Bentley. You’re in your bed, at the Manor,”

a hundred days to become a wayne, chapter 23, bad timing

Bellamy only seemed to cry harder at the embrace, digging his head down into Bentley’s shoulder. He was trembling almost uncontrollably, holding onto Bentley in an absolute death grip that was so tight it sort of hurt. “Please don’t let them take me back, Bentley, I don’t wanna go back, please, I don’t wanna go back-“

“Hey, hey, no one’s taking you anywhere,” Bentley replied, rubbing his back.

project: killcode chapter 47, traitor

—

🥹🥹🥹

that’s all, folks! now go cry!

[flyrobinflyy]

my OCs are sooo cool you guys don't know what you're missing. if you could see the show i'm watching in my head rn you'd go so crazy i'm telling u