#[ exposition exposition shush

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Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

First Movement (Adagio sostenuto)

5.5K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: About to make your society debut and enter London's marriage mart, you don't expect an old friend whom you haven't seen in over 10 years to make a surprise appearance at the first ball of the season.

Warnings: None! Fluff! B, C, D, E, F Bridgerton make appearances. It's me so there's a cute nickname (won't spoil). The masterlist includes a few words about how this reader insert is written - essentially, no reader description other than having hair and wearing dresses in the style of this era, reader has a backstory; much of this part is exposition (so maybe a little slow but we'll get there!😊)

A/N: My plan is to post the entire series before Season 3 of Bridgerton airs, because the story is intended to take place in the background of the same season and if things don't make sense after the show comes out then oh well 🤭 I'm also only 2/3 of the way through Julia Quinn's books, so please forgive me if some of my characterizations of the Bridgertons are not wholly correct 🙏🏻

Wonderful Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Series Masterlist

The Duchess of Hastings stands behind you, admiring the reflection in the mirror of the two of you together, “I dare say, if you had debuted with me during my season, there is a good chance that I may not have been the Diamond.”

“Oh, shush, your Grace,” you make a funny face at her in the mirror, to which she laughs and pokes you in the ribs, “Don’t you start with this ‘Your Grace’ business with me.”

That Daphne Bridgerton is your dearest and oldest friend in England is something you consider to be one of the great fortunes of your life, of which, as the daughter of a Count, you have many.  Violet Bridgerton and your mother, the Countess, had been dear friends and as such, much of your early childhood in England had been spent at Bridgerton House, running around with not only the same aged Daphne, but her elder and younger siblings as well.  The Bridgertons are one of the most beloved families of the ton, their good natured and spirited personalities recommending themselves to everyone, and accordingly, your memories of when your two families would gather remain some of the most joyous of your childhood.

Sadly, your dear mother passed away from illness when you were only seven years of age and your beloved father, who loved her more than life itself, could not bear to stay in England much without her.  The Count was one of several nobles charged with governance of Her Majesty’s Royal Naval Fleet; a gentle man, his purview was primarily diplomatic (as opposed to militaristic) and he thus travelled widely, often and always for long periods of time.

Though he did not wish to remain where so many of his memories dwelled, the Count could not bear to leave his only child behind, and consequently, you had joined your father on his travels.  He proudly raised a cheerful, spirited daughter who loved the seas and adventure as much as she did reading and music.  Your father found that exposing you to and requiring you to immerse yourself in so many foreign cultures at a young age led you to be the most sympathetic and kind hearted child, one who others found easy to converse with and befriend on account of your good humoured nature and open minded heart.  Unencumbered by the rigid etiquette requirements (and dress code!) of British high society, you happily embraced many freedoms that other young ladies of your age and breeding did not have the opportunity to enjoy.  Your father taught you much about the ships and business of the naval fleet, subjects to which you took a great interest; to this day, you know your way around most ships better than some sailors.  The Count was especially proud of your affinity for diplomacy, understanding the importance of fairness and tough negotiation both in foreign matters and managing fleets.  You loved all of it – spending countless hours pouring over maps and letters of diplomatic matters with your father and absorbing all you could; as you got older, you took great pride in the way your father would sometimes seek your opinion and advice on business matters and delighting when he would praise you on your ideas.

While he was unorthodox, your father could not be accused of being neglectful; he would not forgo your formal and societal education, knowing that one day, you would have to return to live in England.  Hiring only the most adventurous and brave governesses to accompany your travels, the Count ensured that your literary, numerical, musical and artistic accomplishments and pursuits could rival those of your peers back home.  You learned to dance the dances of grand balls, though you had only the few foreign dignitary hosted events to practice.  Your only other occasion to practice came when you would return for your infrequent visits to England, reuniting with your beloved Bridgertons to spend nearly all your time catching up and laughing with Daphne and her siblings, and take in what you could of British society before once again being swept away on another ship.  Though brief, these reunions with your friends, coupled with your frequent letters were enough to ensure your friendships remained strong and cherished over the years.

Two years ago, Daphne had made her societal debut, meeting and marrying her love, the Duke, during the marriage season and you could not have been more delighted for your friend.  That season should have also been your debut season, except that you and your father were in the Far East and would not have been able to complete the Count’s business and return in time.  Since you had postponed one year, what was two?  If you had your way, you would have made it three, not eager to give up the life of travel and leisure that you’ve grown accustomed to.  However, when the Queen wrote to ask why the daughter of one of her esteemed Counts has not yet been presented, both you and your father had to regretfully concede that your life as a carefree sea farer was over.

And thus, you find yourself in your present circumstance: in a luxurious silk gown the colour of swan feathers, wearing what might actually be swan feathers in your hair, about to be presented to the Queen before embarking on your first social season.  To be honest, you’re not terribly nervous, save for whatever nerves one always has whenever attempting something new, and you have good reasons not to be.

The first being that you are in the very capable hands of your great friend, the Duchess.  The now Dowager Viscountess had promised your mother that when the time for your debut came, it would be the Bridgerton family’s honour to sponsor you.  If anything, you felt that the honour was all yours – not only were you to have the support and backing of one of the most respected and revered families during your season, you would also be blessed with their company.  As fortune would have it, due to the timing of your debut, Violet had prepared herself to take on the duty of presenting not one but two girls: yourself and her third eldest daughter, Francesca. 

Fearing it was far too much work and pressure, you had assured Violet, whom you loved as a second mother, that she need not fret too much over you; you’re a woman of twenty-three with more world experience than most men twice your age, and encouraged her to focus her attentions on her own daughter.  Violet had been aghast at the implication that she didn’t think of you as one of her daughters, and you were about to be on the receiving end of a scolding that only a mother could dispense when Daphne came to your rescue.  As the Duchess of Hastings, she herself had the right to present young ladies at court, and she declared herself delighted to be your patroness this season.  This was decidedly a win-win; not only could Violet concentrate on Francesca’s prospects, you could now look forward to spending the season with your dear friend by your side.

The second reason you’re not overly anxious is that despite being older than most of the girls debuting at the same time, you know you have plenty to recommend you to potential suitors.  No, you are not terribly conceited nor do you hold your own attributes in such high esteem, but rather, very practically, you know most suitors will not let a small thing such as age deter them from the handsome fortune your father has bestowed upon you. 

The Count was forever exasperated with the shortcomings of the laws of inheritance and how they prevented his one child from inheriting his estate, but he made up for it the best he could with the legal avenues available to him.  First, he set aside a healthy dowry for you, so that you would be sure to attract a similarly healthy crop of high society gentlemen from which to choose a husband.  Second, via his will, you would be provided for for the remainder of your life with a generous per annum allowance that rivaled the income of many estates; you were to want for nothing even if you never married. 

And finally, known only to a select few, your father had a vast investment in an international fleet separate from the naval fleet of the queen; a beloved exploration and trade business venture that was the Count’s passion project - you and him spending many enjoyable hours pouring over the plans and movements of this fleet.  The dividends from your father’s shares went directly into a trust of which you (and any future children of yours) are the sole beneficiary, though the capital had to be held by a man.  It was the Count’s thinking that in addition to the income, it was only fair that you benefitted from a venture that you had invested much of your own heart and time into.  Naturally, being a part of your father’s estate, this investment could be passed down to the next Count (a distant relative), but your father had other plans.  If the intended recipient was willing, you father wanted to sell his shares to his future son-in-law, allowing for the dividends to continue flowing to you and so that you may remain close to the business via your husband’s involvement. 

In other words, there are plenty of reasons that potential suitors who might otherwise be dismissive of your age and lack of societal presence, may find you attractive (the least of which were probably your charm and wit); you can afford to be choosy and you fully intend to be.  And while you’re not quite so hopeful to wish for a great love like that of your parents, or even Daphne and her beloved Simon, you dearly wish for a husband that will understand and respect you; one who will celebrate you for your mind, experience, opinions and all the reasons why you’re different due to having grown up the way you did.

Daphne seems to have high hopes that there will be many potential suitors who will live up to your expectations.  You’re less confident than she, but still more optimistic than not.

Flopping yourself down on the chaise next to Eloise, the two of you heave heavy sighs in unison.  After the nerve-racking presentation to the queen earlier this week, the following days have been a non-stop flurry of ribbons, fittings, etiquette lessons and teas with the express purpose of study in the who’s who of the ton.  In just a few hours, all of Violet and Daphne’s hard work and preparations will be put on display when your contingent attends the first event of the season: the Danbury Ball.

Eloise passes a box of candy to you and you select a treat gratefully.  Though Daphne is your closest friend, you’ve sometimes found yourself having a fair amount in common with Eloise and know her to be a trustworthy confidant; this is one of those times.  While you don’t think you have it in you to hate anything as much as Eloise despises the marriage mart, the both of you at least have the good fortune of being able to be picky with your suitors and moreover, wish to exercise that particular privilege.  For Eloise, marriage is a cage.  For you, it’s the not marriage itself, but a union with an imprudent match that you wish to avoid.  If you can no longer be free to sail the seas and wander through the valleys and streets of the foreign lands that call your name, you must insist that the home you’re being called home to roost is at the very least, pleasant.

“I beg of you,” murmurs Eloise, “Please let all the fashionable young men fill up your dance card so that there shall be none left for me.”

You steal another piece of candy, “I’m afraid there’s more than enough young men to go around, El.  Plus, you really ought to beseech Franny for your request, my dance card may struggle for applicants on account of me being such an old maid,” you giggle.

“None of that negativity now,” chimes in Daphne from the open door, “tonight is full of possibilities.”

During the season, you’re staying at Bridgerton House so to be close to all the finery of dresses, jewels, shoes, ladies’ maids and moral support that you may need.  Your father is staying nearby in another house on Grosvenor Square, and comes by most days to see his daughter and dear family friends for breakfast at the very least.  You have loved your life with your father, but at times like these, when you are laughing at and listening to the loving snipes and bickering of the Bridgerton siblings, you often wonder what it would have been like to have a more traditional upbringing.  Pushing that thought out of your mind, you stand and pull Eloise up with you so that the two of you can follow the Duchess to the next room where you’re expected to choose from the glittering selection of dresses laid out for tonight.

As you lean towards selecting a pretty lavender gown, Daphne fills you in on the processional arrangements for your entrances tonight, “Mama, Franny, Anthony and Kate will take the first carriage, then you, Eloise and I will follow in the second.  We will enter the ball in that order as well.”

“What about Colin and Ben?”

“They’re meeting with some friend from Colin’s travels whom he met in… I want to say Greece?  They will make their own way and meet us at the ball.”  You nod agreeably; as long as everyone is together at some point or another, your first season event will feel a lot less daunting.

---

As you walk into the Danbury estate, you cannot but feel a bit overwhelmed by all the elegance and glamour on display.  Though no stranger to luxury and finer things, it’s not very often that you find yourself amidst so much opulence.  Eyes shining as you take in the finery, your voice is full of excitement and genuine awe as you compliment Lady Danbury and thank her for hosting tonight’s soiree.  Hand clasped tight in Daphne and Eloise’s as you make your way down the main hall to the ballroom, you see Colin further down on the right side of the hallway, waving alongside Benedict.  Waiting by the wall with the Bridgerton brothers is a third gentleman, tall and broad shouldered with soft, curly brown hair who currently has his back to you; Colin has on a mischievous grin and he’s speaking to the stranger quietly, eyes flitting back to you and his sisters periodically as you approach.  This can’t be good, you think with suspicion.  When you’re a few steps away from meeting with the brothers, Colin gives the stranger a slight nod and he turns around; before you even have a chance to look upon the newcomer’s face, you hear a familiar sweet baritone voice say, “Hello, Dulce.”

At first, you’re in shock; the Spanish word for candy is not a nickname people commonly call you and it’s one you haven’t heard in over ten years.  Then joy of recognition and realization overtake you and you completely forget where you are, crying out, “Pero!!!”  Your arms behave of their own accord and fly open to wrap around his neck as you launch yourself into the handsome man’s arms.

He hugs you back firmly and whispers low in your ear, “Happy to see you, too” before releasing you, the both of you immediately stepping apart and drop your hands to your sides, remembering where you are and that the eyes of the ton are always watching.  But you can’t help but beam; nor can you look away from Pero’s face. 

Pero Tovar had been your most constant and beloved friend for many of your happiest childhood years spent abroad.  Pero’s father, a Barón of Spain, was in charge of naval governance for his country in a similar capacity as your father was for England and accordingly, their paths crossed regularly in foreign countries.  Both men of gentlemanly dispositions, the Count and the Barón had forged a deep and lasting friendship as they conducted their business.  Another thing that they had bonded over was the fact that they were both widows who uncharacteristically chose to bring and raise their children with them on their travels. 

So, although Pero is eight years your elder and already in his early teens when you first met, being the only two children of sea loving foreign diplomats in the strange lands you found yourselves in readily recommended you to each other and you had become happy and frequent playmates.  Pero devoted hours and hours to your amusement, allowing himself to play more juvenile games of pretend that he may not otherwise with compatriots of his own age, and with his encouragement you grew to be brave and curious, always wishing to keep up with the older boy.  He helped you with your studies, and you played music for him, learning and mastering the pieces he enjoyed the most.  The two of you shared a love of literature and it became your special version of a traditional hunt in each new country you landed in to find foreign language versions of the other’s favourite books so that you could read the translations alongside your worn English copies.  Some of the most cherished copies of your favourite books, ones you carry with you from country to country still, were gifts from Pero. 

As you got older, your shared adventures expanded to include exploring the streets of new cities, trying local cuisines and frolicking on the beaches of the coasts of Italy, Portugal and even India.  The last time you had seen him, he was a strapping young man of twenty and you had been twelve.  His father was returning to Spain for an undetermined amount of time to deal with affairs of his estate, and Pero would be entering university, having postponed his acceptance for two years already.  Although you had each promised to write, the letters were far and few between and eventually you lost track of Pero – you can hardly blame either of you; you were travelling with your father and not always easy to find, and you didn’t really expect a young man concentrating on his studies to have the time to write to a young girl despite having been her very best friend for so many years.

But now he’s standing right in front of you and you can hardly believe your eyes.  He’s impossibly tall and wide, a far cry from the lanky boy with whom you scrambled over rocks on the beaches of Portugal, but he’s still tanned, leading you to surmise that he must still sail or at least get a healthy amount of sun regularly.  And while his face is older, devastatingly handsome with a cutting jawline partially hidden by untamed facial scruff, he’s completely recognizable to you.  An easy clue is the scar that runs from above his left eyebrow down past his eye, though faded from when you saw it last, but it’s the indulgent smile he’s giving you right now that gives him away to you.

“What are you doing at this ball? Did you know I would be here?” you can’t help but continue to stare at Pero wide-eyed, grinning like a fool.

“Oh!  We made the connection earlier this week at dinner,” chimes in Colin, “We were going to bring him over to the house but thought this would be more fun.”

You make to swat at Colin’s arm. “How did you meet this scoundrel?” you jest, with absolutely no malice in your voice, pointing your thumb at the still laughing Bridgerton brother.  As your group starts to move towards the ballroom, Pero falls into an easy step by your side, “We met when Colin was taking in the crisp sea air of Mykonos, and then again last year in the vineyards of Tuscany.  He made for excellent company after a long day of helping the locals prune grape vines.  Naturally, when I arrived in London for business this month, I had to look him up.”

Daphne is now tugging you towards the ballroom by your hand, and in turn, you’ve grabbed onto and are practically dragging Eloise down the hall with you.  You shout back to Pero, “I want to hear everything!” and can’t help the smile that spreads across your excited face when he nods after you.

“Oh!” you breathe, invigorated from the surprise of seeing Pero, as you come to a stop right before the entrance way.  Daphne smiles over at you, “It was so hard keeping it a secret from you!”

You’re astonished, “You knew about Pero as well?”

“Yes, I thought it might give you an additional boost of confidence to have another friend’s support during your first event.” 

You smile at your sweet friend and squeeze her hand affectionately, “Thank you!  It does and I’m delighted to see Pero again.  But in truth, my confidence could never be lacking when I have a friend like you next to me.” 

Daphne gives you her biggest smile and squeezes your hand right back.  A moment later, the three of you step into the ballroom and meet the gazes of the other attendees as you’re announced.

---

The ball is a whirlwind.  It seems you hardly have a moment to even catch your breath, never mind catch up with Pero.  From the moment you walked in to the grand hall, you were pulled in this direction and then that, introduced to new person after new person, some of whose names were familiar from your visits home over the years, and others only from the copious amounts of study you’ve done on the ton over the past week.  You’ve certainly forgotten all their names by now. 

Then it’s dance after dance after dance with the young gentleman that Daphne parades in front of you.  The dancing itself is quite pleasant and a lovely way to shake out some of your jitters, but you find the small talk hardly enough to get to know your partners, and when the dance is over and you’re once again being whisked away to another introduction or meeting that the Duchess has lined up for you.  The few opportunities you’ve had to take a breather and indulge in a glass of lemonade, you’ve been happy to retreat back to Pero and your small familiar group; but just when you’ve started to entreat your old friend to open up about his adventures since you saw him last, another potential suitor will be introduced and the entire cycle starts over again.

It’s only when you’re halfway through the evening that the frenzy has died down enough that you can observe and be amused by Pero’s behaviour at the ball.  While you’re constantly twirling around the dancefloor, you notice that he never leaves his position against the wall and doesn’t dance at all; he mainly scowls and looks displeased, hardly speaking to anyone other than the Bridgertons or you when you have a free moment.  You feel his eyes follow you as you glide across the dance floor with the young men that have asked you to dance, and even when you’re making your way through the room on Daphne’s arm, meeting and making small talk with the other families of the ton.  When you do happen to look up and search for him, you often find him glowering and looking dissatisfied, though if you catch his eye, his expression will soften slightly. 

Once while you were dancing with Lord Whitfield, you had caught Pero’s eye mid-turn and made a silly quizzical face at him, as if to ask What’s going on with you? and you think you see him laugh briefly before the steps of the dance require you to turn away from him.  You wonder why frowns so fearsomely and if there’s a reason for him to be so stoic and curt with the rest of the ton.  It’s so odd to you as you’ve never had so much as a cross word from him in all the time you’ve known him, not even when you had snuck out of the compound in Singapore when you were nine so you could watch the fireworks display.  Pero had come looking for you, his face serious and eyes panicked when he finally found you in the busy square, but he never once got mad.  Instead, he swore not to tell your father, and promised that if you had wanted to see the fireworks up close, he would accompany you.  And then he did just that the next night and the night after that.  But here, when not engaging the company of his friends, Pero’s countenance is positively sour.  Any hopes harboured by the mamas of the ton for snagging a Spanish nobility son-in-law this season are quickly dashed.  Barón Tovar is decidedly not here to find a wife.

With the evening more than half over, you realize that unless you make the point to do so, an opportunity to speak more than a few minutes with Pero will surely not present itself.  And while you are having fun meeting potential suitors, your mind consistently wanders to Pero throughout the evening.  Aside from simply wishing to catch up with him and be in his comforting presence, you do have something important you feel compelled to speak to him on.

After a particularly spirited quadrille, you curtsey your gratitude for the dance to Mr. Sedgewick, and before any of the young men you spy hovering nearby can approach you, you hurry as elegantly as you can toward where Pero is standing awkwardly pressed to the wall. 

Pero, having seen the look of determination on your face when seeking him out, asks with concern when you come up to him, “Is everything okay, Dulce?”

There he is, you smile when you see the kind, gentle expression of the boy that you knew for so many years, “Everything is fine, Pero.  Although I must admit to needing a respite from all the endless socializing.  Do you think we could get some lemonade?”

“Of course.  I would be happy to accompany you in fetching a glass.”

With Pero by your side, any person who previously had designs on engaging you during this brief break between dances now thinks better of it; you chuckle to yourself as his fearsome expression comically paves a clear path for you to the refreshments table.  Once having secured your drink, you ask Pero if you can speak to him privately.

Careful not to lead you from view of other people lest it incite a scandal, Pero finds a quiet place in the entrance hallway and turns to find you looking up at him rather seriously.

When you’re certain you have his attention, you launch into your confession, “Pero, please allow me to tell you how sorry I was to hear of your father’s passing.  I remember him as such a kind, generous man, and such a wonderful friend to my father and by extension, me.  I will always think of him with tremendous fondness.”

“Thank you, Dulce.  I know he thought very highly of both you and your father and forever treasured your friendships.”

But you’re not done and start to shake your head, eyes filling with tears, “And I’m so very sorry that I did not write to you at the time.  I didn't know where you were, but I should have been more diligent in my efforts to find you.  I deeply regret not being there for you if you needed someone.  I hope you were not alone during that difficult time.”

You hang your head in shame.  Pero feels a deep affection for you blossoming in his chest; before him is the same sweet and compassionate girl he knew when he was a boy.  Tender-hearted and endlessly considerate of the feelings of others, you always had more empathy than you knew what to do with; he himself had been on the receiving end of your care and concern more times than he could count.  Pero gently tips you chin up with his gloved finger, “It was a tough time and I miss him a great deal.  But he was an incredible man and I strive to follow the example he set for me everyday.  So, in many ways, he is still with me.  No need for any apologies.”  He gives you what he hopes is a soft and reassuring smile.

In return, you grin, “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?  The boy I knew would have made me pay dearly for even the slightest offense - my portion of dessert for a week, at the very least.”

Unable to hold back his own grin, Pero is finding it easy to slip back into this familiar type of playful banter with you, “Well, I was trying to be a gentleman, but since you think me nothing more than a brute, I shall have no trouble devising an appropriate punishment.  For your transgression against me, I demand… a dance.”

You laugh whole-heartedly and it feels wonderful to laugh loudly at something genuinely funny rather than the quiet polite laughter you’ve been making most of the evening. “A dance?  Well, that is hardly a concession for me!  One dance with you means one less spot on my dance card for some lord I don’t know but who Daphne thinks I might find charming,” you joke.

“Are you finding your potential suitors so far to be villains or are they all just very boring?” smirks Pero.

Giving him a little punch in the arm to show him you’re not really complaining, “I am not so terribly unfeeling.  They are for the most part fine enough gentlemen.  The particular circumstance we find ourselves in just makes them so very eager.  It can feel terribly awkward.”

“None of them are good enough for you anyway.”

“Oh, and you are?” you jest, eyes full of mirth.

“Dulce, I’m the worst of the bunch,” counters Pero, leaning in close.

“I don’t doubt it,” you haven’t smiled this wide all evening.

“Be that as it may, the price you must pay to regain my favour remains the same.  Shall we?” Pero holds out his arm, waiting for you to accept his dance invitation; you hold on to him gratefully and head back into the main ballroom, realizing this is the first dance of the ball that you’ve truly looked forward to.

When Pero takes his place across from you, the tittering from the crowd that the Barón has finally taken to the dance floor can be heard over the opening notes of the music.  You can’t help but giggle, and Pero beams back at you – your light laughter more melodic than any music he’s ever heard.

Hand firmly curling around your waist, Pero sways you to the beat and the two of you carry out the steps of the dance comfortably together.  You hadn’t realized how much stress you’ve been under or how much tension you’ve been holding in until now, when you find yourself actually relaxing in Pero’s strong hold.  For the first time this evening, you’re dancing without nerves or the pressure of having to make polite conversation or a good first impression; you can simply be.  You sigh in contentment.

“What is it, Dulce?  Are my dance skills not to the standard set by your other partners this evening?”

“Hardly,” you chuckle, “I know for a fact that you dance remarkably well.  And if I were to have any complaints, the blame would rest squarely on my shoulders since we learned these dances together.”

“That’s true, we can only be as good as the partners we practice with.”

“Exactly. At least that’s what Madam used to say, right before she would rap you on your shoulders with her rhythm baton,” you muse, nostalgic.

“That weapon had a name?  I have not thought of Madam for many years now, but upon my word if I did not straighten up and stiffen my arms just now.”

You share another chortle as only two close friends with a long history of fond memories and inside jokes between them can.  When you sigh again, Pero cocks his scarred eyebrow at you.

“Do not think me dissatisfied, my Lord.  It is simply just so comfortable dancing with you, as if it has not been over ten years since we last did so.”

“I feel the same way, Dulce.”

You smile sincerely at Pero; although you could explain yourself further, you somehow know that he understands your meaning without you having to do so.  Feeling content, both heart and mood light in the safety of Pero’s closed frame, you find yourself wishing that you could spend the rest of the ball dancing with only him.

I've never done a tag list before so please let me know if it doesn't work, or you don't/do want to be on it, or it sets your phone on fire 😅 @drewharrisonwriter @inept-the-magnificent @tuquoquebrute @titabel

[takes1]

p.3 himbo!kirishima x petite!reader (gymbros series: rest day)

featuring aged up!kiri with growth spurt and long hair. i've actually had this in the drafts for a couple years, it's just that i didn't write an exposition and got straight to the point lmao. next part is on the way

warnings. nsfw, nearly f! oral, grinding, biting, mentions of mathematics

details. nsfw / gymbros with benefits/ aged up!kiri / fem!reader / mentions of f! masturbation / almost facesitting / mutual size kink / shy reader / support course student!reader / scars thirst / sharp teeth thirst / bakugou doesn't knock / 4.5k words

🤍 scenario series. part one / part two / kiri headcanons

more links. my ao3

The next few workouts grew increasingly more distracting and less efficient. Kirishima made it a point to talk more, get closer to you when not always necessary, and encourage you in ways he wouldn't use with other people who came to join.

You had moved to working out with varying amounts of Hero Course students that he introduced as his friends, too, all eager to meet you, in the Hero-specific gym.

This night wasn't the first time you visited his dorm room. The first was about five days prior when he invited you up to take a shower in his room.

Nothing 'happened,' but the whole experience was enough to fuel your fantasies for a few nights and make it evident that he wanted you, very badly and under any tangible excuse, in his bedroom.

It was Thursday night, and you had next to nothing else to do, so when he called, you picked up after a few rings and a deep breath.

(Y/n)!

He sounded so happy to say your name.

"Eijiro!" You smiled, not quite as excitable, but you did your best.

You busy tonight?

He laughed just off of the microphone, and you heard some other voices. He told one of them to shush, and another to go away. Your brow furrowed. It was one thing if he wanted you to come over, but another if you were hanging out with his friends.

Hello?

"Depends," You trailed, fingers fidgeting with your pajamas.

Iiiii was just wonderin' if you'd come hang for a while. No workout or anything.

His voice was a little sing-songy. It was extremely cute. While you were trying to rub the smile off of your face, he continued.

Just us.

"Yea-h," You answered, breathless.

It took a while to get ready to your liking after he let you off the phone. Thankfully, you showered earlier, so in the time it took to get dressed and out the door, he called again to ask if he needed to come get you.

You told him that wouldn't be necessary, as flattering as it was, and it took another minute to get him to hang up.

The Support Course housing wasn't too far away from his, you knew the way, and it was certainly not a dangerous walk, but when you turned the only corner of the walk, a familiar heavy-footed redhead was there to take you the remainder of the way.

"I should've walked with you the whole way!" He insisted when you told him his chivalry was appreciated, but not needed.

Surely he had safety as a primary concern. His Hero-centered brain was certain something might happen on the ten-minute walk over.

It was an animated walk to the dorms with this chatterbox next to you, but nothing compared to the chaos inside. Most students were gathered in the common area, loud and boisterous, all confirming your anxieties.

Kirishima picked up on this and kept a hand on your shoulder as you both passed, mostly unnoticed, through the busiest area near the entryway.

When the door closed, and the moment of relief was gone, you were a bit unsure of yourself. His company in public, or the gym, was one thing, but completely alone, behind a door?

You texted a friend where you were just in case.

But upon further inspection, he had prepared a silly movie and some snacks for you. His beanbag was what you were most excited about, but you kept it cool and only sat down at the soonest opportunity it could look natural. He took a seat on a small mat next to it and leaned on the bag. He was too big to share it with you but still wanted to be close.

The movie was menial compared to how much you both talked through it.

You got on the topic of perception and types, attractiveness, and the like. He had a difficult time understanding how you found him pretty and manly.

"What?" He laughed; he'd never been called that before. He liked it, but prompted you to explain.

He twisted his body to meet yours, already close on the floor right next to you.

"Well, you know-- you know," You tried to express, hand darting back to your side after leaving its resting place on his massive shoulder.

It was so much harder to compliment him when he wouldn't just take it. You sunk lower into the beanbag.

Part of him knew, you could hear it in the clip at the end of his sentences, a subtle request for you to keep making a fool of yourself.

"I don't think I do," He nabbed one of your wrists, his smile spreading when he found a similar one on your face and placed it back on his shoulder.

His eyes were eating you up, the inside of his own cheek offered as tribute in order to satiate his nerves.

"Well," You pushed a curious thumb into his ample flesh and tried to control a quick sigh, "You're... attractive."

"Attractive?" Kirishima repeated, amused and intrigued by your slow admission.

Quicker, a little panicked, you tried to rationalize it out loud, "Yeah, my friends think you are-- you're conventionally attractive, like it's not a secret or anything, everyone thinks you're hot."

An unsure hand slid, pressing here and there, over his squishy, thick bicep. You could barely fit your fingers all the way around it. There were an array of stretch marks, dark to light, all over his arms, chest, and on his tummy.

Maybe mentioning your friends was a wrong move, because now it sounded like you had gushed about him and showed pictures of him-- something you totally did do, but he didn't need to know that.

In your quick explanation, you couldn't keep quiet because you didn't want to hear his reply yet, so you just kept going, "A tall guy with huge muscles, and-- a big smile, with good hugs, who's really sweet, and considerate, and is open-minded and asks questions. I mean, who wouldn't like you?"

You had to suck in a breath, and in doing so, realized everything you said just as he did.

"Well, you make a pretty solid case," He laughed. He was blushing-- blushing, and had to look away from you.

This wasn't your first rodeo with a big guy, but it was certainly the most exciting. There was something about his soft, silly demeanor that held a chokehold on your heart.

He stood up and offered a hand to take you with him. But he pulled a tad too hard and you stumbled against him. He smiled, bashful still.

"What-uh, what else do you like?"

Your head was spinning. Maybe he wasn't so confident? Was that it? You were usually the one to break eye contact, but your clumsy, stupid words seemed to unlock the key to a shy side.

"U-hm," Eyes and fingers flitted up to his chest, then his broad shoulders, "I like... how strong you are."

Big hands squeezed around your waist, setting off a flurry of butterflies, and kept you plastered across his front, instead of your attempted distance.

"'Shouldn't tell me that," He muttered, fingers locked around each other on the curve of your spine.

You wanted to feel everything while you could-- you directed your touch to the back of his neck, and reached up as far as you could go with a face of focused concentration. Your voice was quiet, far away.

"Why not? It's true."

The grip pulling on you shifted and in seconds, he muscled you up by the ass to sit on his hips-- your thighs squeezed him but didn't need to when his grip was forcing you so hard against his cock.

He made a toothy grin at your shifting around, frantic grabbing, and looking down at the distant floor, "Gotta stay humble, man."

"Shut up," You couldn't look at his blacked-out pupils, so you opted for his mouth instead.

There were little scars all over his bottom lip, and when you started to glance around his handsome face, you realized there were many more.

You adjusted your hands around the back of his neck and, in the process of studying him, found a bigger one.

"Your eye," You took a thumb to his brow, concerned despite his small chuckle.

He closed his eyes to let you check out the shape, and you noticed he had a crooked nose. It looked like he'd broken it a few times, actually.

"That's from forever ago-- just my own shitty Quirk--,"

"Your Quirk isn't shitty." You stated, surprised a Hero Course student would bash on their own Quirk so casually.

His Quirk was, honestly, pretty cool. You wished you could do half of the things he could, and you were sure countless other students in his class felt the same way.

You rolled your hips up to lock your legs, "I like your Quirk."

He was so hot and firm, it was distracting-- you immediately needed to know if it would fit. A breathy laugh pushed past his lips and he looked down, away from you, with an identical thought.

Your lips were barely an inch apart when he looked back up, conflicted and bothered in many ways.

"I really like when you do that," He muttered, focused entirely on your glossy bottom lip.

You did a lot of things but boiled it down to either the grinding or the compliment.

"I...really like you, too--"

For some reason, his trailing off sounded like he was about to say 'but,' which didn't make any sense. You started to frown. You thought all the feelings were pretty uncomplicated, here.

"--But I wanted to take you to dinner, first."

A smile that was so big it hurt stretched across your face. That was the cutest, hottest thing you ever heard.

Your palm flattened against the side of his head and he followed your gentle lead, like a puppy on a leash, just happy to be there. Happy to please.

You considered it, only because he looked genuinely apologetic.

But he adjusted you a little on his hips, and his fingers were edging onto your bare skin, and you lost your train of thought.

"We can worry about dinner tomorrow,"  A mumbled solution was quickly swallowed by his hungry mouth-- you quickly learned that he was a messy kisser, but didn't have the energy to care.

Strawberry lipgloss smeared to oblivion, he left you breathless and pained when he pulled away to sit down and enjoy your flawless neck.

His lengthy time there, hands clawing the plush of your ass, forced you to sit still and pretty on top of his confined cock.

You pushed your forehead onto his oversized shoulder, panting already at the restraint and realization that you'd have to go out in public with huge splotches of purple and green all over your neck.

He sunk his teeth into you and closed his jaw, leaving deep, puffy lines in your skin-- you squirmed away with a shaky sound, but were only met with a forearm barring you in by the lower back.

"If you don't like it rough, you can always tell me to stop," He reminded you, playful and a little condescending.

If he was going to be filthy, you wanted to return the energy.

"Mm-mm," While he was more maneuverable, you took the opportunity to press another deep, needy kiss on his big, scarred lips, "Put those teeth to good use."

Kirishima almost shied away from your sugar-sweet tone, your sudden confidence in the face of words that he had to craft very carefully. His saving grace was your subtle confirmation.

"I knew you had a thing for my teeth," He stole a few more giggly kisses and was sure to carefully take your bottom lip.

It was technically a lie-- he didn't come up with that theory on his own. Sero had to bring it up with him after he noticed your fixation.

"I've got a thing for you," You admitted.

Your hands explored his broad back, trying to fight your squirming as he switched sides and started high on the other side of your neck. His excited chuckles buzzing against your heated skin were not making it easy.

His long hair kept getting in your face. Instead of blowing the locks away, you tracked your fingers up through the back and tugged it away, but it elicited an almost automatic motion in his hips, up into you.

You laughed at his failed grab up at your fist and, with the same mocking tone he used with you, chirped, "If you don't like it rough..."

"God, you're funny too--," Kirishima sighed and pulled your shirt over your head before you could object.

"Oh."

He must not have realized your common choice to go braless beforehand, because your blank torso left a funny, flushed look on his face.

It was hard to tell, though, and your immediate understanding of his surprise demanded an apology and crossed arms with an uncomfortable chuckle, "Sorry-- I think you've got me beat in cup size."

"No-nono, they're great, fantastic, amazing," He pulled on your arms and explained so quick you had to read his lips to understand him, "I didn't mean to- I'm just-- happy I don't have to struggle with a clip."

You had to wonder how many girls he'd been with, what his expectations were, because he clearly had some experience.

As he hoisted you up, light as a feather to him, to put you on your back, you wondered if he was good. If he'd be patient with the best and worst parts.

The mattress groaned beneath his weight as he wasted no time to shift over your pretty, raised chest. When he put a fraction of his body on you, you almost gave the same reaction.

His lips and tongue on your sensitive bud almost convinced you to not ask, but your body was screaming for him to get off.

"How much do you weigh?"

You raked your fingernails through his scalp with a labored inhale and felt him smile.

"290[131 kg], around there." He kissed the bitemark he left on your breastbone and switched sides.

Half of the time, you couldn't fathom how massive he was in comparison to you, so you didn't try. But now, with practically nothing else to do than compare, it was mindblowing.

If he wasn't careful, he might risk seriously injuring you. Rough, for his size and strength, might actually be dangerous. You cringed at how unsexy it sounded to suffer a torn muscle or a broken bone because you didn't know each other's limits.

"Still not where I want to be," His canine almost clipped you as he spoke, forcing you to flinch, "Trying to get to 300."

Your thighs squeezed around his torso, shamefully turned on by the risk. He made a grumbly, understanding groan on your breast with a dose of intense eye contact.

"You like big guys, huh?"

You huffed and pushed on his enormous shoulders, "Obviously."

Another kiss to the center of your chest gave way to lower and lower toothy, ruttish kisses. He loved the way you fueled his ego by acknowledging his size.

"Can I--," You sighed, not wanting to be picky, but concerned for your pussy with his combined leverage and clumsy habits in this position, "Can I sit on your face--?"

"Yes."

That was a lot easier than you anticipated. He quickly wrapped his arms around you, determined to not let you move without his manual aid, and fell onto his back.

He was very pretty under you.

Hair splayed out, at least before he started to tie it up, his impressive body all exposed for you to admire and touch, his eyes glued to only you.

You didn't want to part from the print in his sweatpants, perfectly content grinding on it instead, but he hooked his hands beneath your thighs and pulled you up.

As disappointed as you were to part, you knew you needed this so it'd fit easier.

It took a moment to find the tiny zipper of your skirt, but when you did, Kirishima moved your hands away and did it himself, grinning at your cute frown.

"You gotta get used to me doing things for you, baby," He dropped them off of the side of the bed.

"Baby?"  You repeated to yourself, more focused on the name and insinuation that he wanted to do this regularly than his head between your thighs.

He brought you out of your spinning head with a long, slow kiss to your thigh, longer and slower than he originally intended, because now he wanted to mark all of you up.

Another bite reminded you--

"Be careful with your teeth- please."

The chewing on your other leg paused, and he chuckled against it, "Of course."

A slow, gentle kiss through your thin, soaked undies, "I'm real careful when I wanna be."

Your posture struggled to stay up already. You took a fistful of his hair and screwed up his ponytail as his arms held you down, fingers hooked into the fabric.

The sharp, invasive noise of a door opening and a familiar, scratchy voice shot your body with a stiffness you had never felt before.

"Hey Dumbass, let's get this over with already, I wanna--,"

Two pairs of red eyes widened at the same exact time as you caught your breath to scream bloody murder.

Kirishima pushed you into the mattress with a Hero-like quickness, shushing your shrill curses and smothering your body with his comforter and own body.

It was far too late. Bakugou was standing stock-still at the open door, hand struggling to find it again in order to close it, while he stared open-mouthed and beet red at his buddy.

Despite you yelling at him to get out, fuck off, get lost, and the like, he only listened to Kirishima when he was told to, 'Wait outside the door for a sec, man.'

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," He leaned over you, breathing hard and on the verge of tears, "It's okay, you're okay--,"

"It's not!! It's not! You didn't lock the door?!"

"The dorms here don't have locks," He explained, way too calm for your liking.

You repeated, 'Don't have locks,' until you could find another thing to focus on.

"He saw me," You got worked up again, sniffling, "He--,"

"Awww, nonono," Kirishima lifted you up into a strong hug and kissed the side of your head, "I promise he doesn't care, baby. He's not that kinda guy."

It was too much, you were just with him in the gym and now he saw you, completely nude, sitting on his best friend's face. You wanted to leave immediately.

"I'm gonna talk to him, okay?"

He tried to let you go, but you stayed latched on, making him laugh. He grabbed a stray shirt from his bedframe and smelled it, then offered it as a replacement.

You first wiped the tears off of your face with it, hasty and angry, then mumbled as he stood back up, "Beat him up or something."

"I'll try," He joked and gave your leg a little rub before leaving to meet Bakugou in the hall.

His absence was sobering.

The very first thing you did was shimmy yourself into his gigantic t-shirt, with an obnoxiously long inhale through the dark grey cotton. His scent was like a shot of morphine.

Then, you sat very still, his collar over your nose, comforter still confining you like a caterpillar, to listen to the sounds of hushed voices right outside the door.

Why the hell didn't you knock--?

Don't get pissy at me! You're not supposed to have chicks in your room!

Bro, you KNEW how I felt and you KNEW she was over.

And YOU knew that Stats assignment was due at six. YOU asked ME to come over at 5.

It wasn't quite Kirishima throwing punches, but he did sound upset for you. You linked your fingers together and stared at the door.

I thought I made it pretty clear what I'd be doing for the next few hours, man.

No, No, No, and you still haven't. Looks like you beat the shit out of her! What the hell is on her neck?!

Dude, come on, you've never seen a hickey? Oh, waaait--

Don't.

There was a moment of tense quiet, and you were still holding out hope for Kirishima to kick his loud friend's ass, but it never came.

Let's just hurry this up.

The doorknob twisted then returned without opening. You pulled the shirt back down where it was supposed to go. More heated words, then Kirishima reappeared with an initial look that could kill. It was replaced with a polite, mom-pleasing smile at you.

"Hi," He waved, then glanced behind the door, "I hate to ask, but--"

"Move." Bakugou reappeared and didn't even spare a glance in your direction.

Despite Kirishima's warnings, went straight to the desk and sat a bag down, his permanent grumpy face no indicator of what he was thinking or what he felt.

Instead of joining him, Kirishima sat on the mattress next to you, found your skirt in the process, and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Like I said, he doesn't care," He rolled his eyes back to Bakugou, then sighed at how adorable you looked in his bed and the blunt pain in his pants.

His hand rested on the side of your face, the pad of his thumb dusting over your puffy bottom lip. He leaned in to kiss you.

"Oh my god, let's go," Bakugou clicked on the online assignment.

"Would you chill the fuck out?" Kirishima spat, his face dropped to one of bitter annoyance.

Red flag or not, you couldn't tell through your rose-colored glasses. You liked how upset he got over not spending alone time with you right now.

Even Bakugou, who knew him a lot better, a lot longer, than you, looked surprised to hear that tone leave his mouth.

Ever trifling, he shook it off and reminded him as he walked over, "Coulda done this shit two weeks ago."

As they shared more passive-aggressive words, you realized all you could do was sit there and stare at a wall. Your phone was on the desk next to Bakugou's hip, so there was no quality distraction for you.

You started counting the stripes on your skirt, then pleats, then stitches.

That got boring, so you started trying to look at what was on the shirt he gave you. Some old red guy.

He had the same old Hero on a few posters in his room. Crimson Riot-- you realized he must've modeled his whole Hero theme from him. The name and vibe were pretty similar.

He had a lot of pillows. Your understanding was that guys usually had two, or just one. But he had seven on his bed. Maybe he had sleeping problems? Or maybe he just liked pillows. Hopefully not like that.

You wondered why he kept someone like Bakugou around as a best friend. You were still pissed off at him, so it was hard not to stare, but you could get away with steeping in your frustration a while longer.

Not only was their Class better-known throughout the school for being really stupid and really great, but Bakugou was the acme of stupid and great, so every rumor and preconception you had was confirmed, so far, with his behavior. Just as much of an asshole as everyone says.

But it must've meant something that Kirishima liked him. Either Kirishima was meaner than he was letting on, or Bakugou was nicer. You hoped it was the latter.

They were stuck on a problem, and while Kirishima didn't seem to care so much, Bakugou was losing it over his own answer being wrong.

Apparently, their assignments had slightly different questions. Modeled the same, but with different values. And Bakugou couldn't figure this one out.

You got tired of hearing him repeat himself, how he had to be right, how the person who made this version of the assignment put something in wrong.

Although you had different teachers for Statistics, the material couldn't have been entirely dissimilar. You stood and realized you didn't even need the skirt-- his shirt was like a sundress.

"I didn't think Hero Course students took normal subjects," You tiptoed over to the desk, on the opposite side as Bakugou, and kept your eyes fixated on the problem on the screen.

Maybe if Kirishima wasn't distracting you, you weren't distracting him.

You mumbled under your breath, "Events which occur randomly... rate r counted over... period of length s so... event count X is Poisson...Find P of X is 2, X is... okay, ummmm," You tucked your lip between your teeth and stole the paper from Bakugou's side to record all of the given elements of the question.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms as you started explaining in much clearer detail what they all stood for, why it seemed like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, and answered his sometimes mind-bogglingly stupid questions with enviable patience.

It was starting to become obvious that Kirishima was not perfect. He even struggled with basic math.

One could argue that based on the number of times you caught him looking at the hem of his shirt on your thigh, it was safe to assume that maybe he had something else on his mind, too.

"Sooo, that would mean...?"

Kirishima leaned forward, two strong forearms on either side of you, to type his answer into the box.

Your tummy was doing flips as he rolled his chair closer, face pressed into your waist.

A little green checkmark appeared. He pulled you in by the opposite hip and kissed your side while Bakugou snatched up the work you helped Kirishima do.

"You're such a good teacher," Was mumbled low and smiley into the softness of your waist-- you cringed away, but once again, he held you still.

Bakugou didn't acknowledge it. But he didn't shoo you away or make any comments when Kirishima tugged you into his lap.

First, you shoved his shirt down so there wasn't a repeat of last time, and then, you tried to keep your pitiful protests to yourself once he started bouncing his leg up and down.

He pressed you to the edge of the desk so he could still write and type while Bakugou basically just told him what to do.

After that question, there weren't any more mistakes that needed fixing.

Which was fortunate considering that you would be incapable of forming a cohesive sentence. The constant force of his thigh was absolute heaven against your neglected pussy.

You kept face until Bakugou began to gather his things to leave. When he turned to place a textbook in his bag, Kirishima snaked an arm around your waist and started to add to the marks he left on your neck earlier.

Your thighs squeezed and you clawed at his knee and his wrist. He bit your ear in return and shoved his face into your hair.

The blond slung his bag over his shoulder.

Kirishima briefly came back to the real world with a quick dap-up and, "Take care, dude. See ya tomorrow."

"Yeah," Bakugou glanced at you, then back at his buddy, "Be safe."

taglist:

@dough-yo-bu @yellowflowerbub @fairywriter-oracle @kirismoon

@kwiwin @cringingmemeries @leo6472 @nijha2tact

[cowboydisaster]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️ i would love a scene with Arthur and fem s/o cuddling up together and just chatting away about life and her telling him how handsome and attractive he is! also a bit of smooching if that’s okay with you! ❤️

Sweet Dreams

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k

summary: cuddles, kisses, and sweet dreams

a/n: Thank you for this lovely prompt! I really wanted to write some fluff, and I love this prompt. It's simple, sweet, heartwarming love, and I love that. The fluff in this is teeth rotting, no warnings necessary, and no smut, just cuddles and kisses. Also if you've noticed, I started putting my taglist at the bottom cause it takes up too much space up here.

You can't sleep. Your eyes run over the open page of your book, the same paragraph you've read nearly three times without the words ever sinking in. Glancing at Arthur's golden pocket watch that sits on his table, you see that it's nearly three in the morning, and you sigh. The book you're reading has an incredibly slow exposition, and you're left wondering if anything is ever going to happen as you slam the pages shut, tossing the book next to the watch. You leave the candle lit, and just as anxiety starts to plague your mind from the late hour, you hear footsteps approaching your tent. Then the canvas parts, and he walks through. As soon as his tired eyes fall on you, he smiles.

"You're back." You smile as Arthur comes forward. He looks tired, but not hurt or scuffed up. His black shirt carries some rust colored dirt, and the bags under his eyes are darker from not sleeping, but importantly, he looks safe and happy to be back. Being further south has brought out some of the freckles across his nose, and you smile, seeing that more have popped up today. All the worry and the boredom float away once your eyes are on him, safe and home. He feels the same. Once he's in his tent, the sight of you in his bed waiting for him eases all his worries. In a few long, sleepy strides, Arthur comes over to the bed, cupping your cheek as he places a sweet kiss to the top of your head. 

"You didn't have to wait up for me sweetheart, it's late." Arthur whispers, stepping back to unclasp his gun belt. He turns away from you to place the worn belt and guns on a crate across from the bed, and you watch as he takes his satchel off and begins to undo the buttons on his shirt. 

"Couldn't sleep without you." You reply, yawning and earning a smile from Arthur. He turns back towards you, pulling the shirt over his arms. As he kicks his boots off, he catches your eyes, and sees the warm glint to them. 

"Why you lookin at me like that?" Arthur chuckles, wondering if it's the sleep deprivation that has you looking at him with such dreamy eyes. You smirk at the little confusion on his face, the holes on his union suit, the way his hair sticks up in places from his hat. 

"Because I love you, and because you're quite a catch, Mr. Morgan." You admit, heart thrumming with more love than you ever thought possible as he pulls his jeans off, rolling his eyes. Now fully dressed down in his union suit, Arthur stands over the bed, chuckling. 

"I reckon you've finally lost it." He jokes, always terrible with taking compliments. 

"Shush, now come to bed. I'm cold." You ask of him, holding the blankets open so he can come into the warm cocoon you've created. Quickly he blows out the candle, letting the smoke float up to the ceiling in swirling wisps. Then he climbs into bed beside you. Immediately you curl into his chest, nuzzling yourself against his warm figure tightly. He situates the thick blankets over the two of you, getting you all tucked in. Your nose tucks into his neck, and you hum at the way your bodies fit together so perfectly.

"Hmmm. This is better." You sigh as Arthur wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer into his toasty warm chest. His breathing, combined with the darkness soothes you, and though it would be easy to slip into sleep, you fight to stay awake and savor the moment. Arthur's fingers rub up and down your back, and yours grip onto his union suit, pulling him closer to you still. 

"How was your day? You were gone a long time, I missed you." You remark, thinking back to Arthur leaving early in the morning.

“It was busy. Helped those two lovesick fools pass notes back n’ forth most of the day. Star-crossed lovers I guess, ones’ a Gray and the other a Braithwaite.” Arthur explains, running his hand up and down your back. You chuckle lightly against his skin. 

“Lovesick fools? Are they as bad as us?” You ask, pressing a soft kiss to his chest in front of you. 

“Not nearly.” Arthur smiles, leaning down to catch your lips. You lean up to him, meeting in a sleepy kiss. His lips are warm and familiar, a nice greeting after a long day. It’s over far too soon as you pull away for breath, nuzzling back into his chest to cuddle. 

“A Gray and a Braithwaite? What a scandal.” You joke, knowing that it must be the talk of the town. Arthur snakes his hand between you two, gripping your hand with the one not tucked under your head. 

“A scandal indeed. I felt like a goddamn paper boy, goin’ back and forth, but they paid me good.” Arthur adds, voice growing quieter. You can hear the chirping of frogs outside, and the gentle lapping of the river as he continues. 

“What about you? What did you get up to?” He asks as you let go of his hand, sticking yours through the opening of his union suit, warming them against his radiating chest. 

“The usual. Laundry, cooked dinner for Pearson, yelled at Micah which was fun.” You whisper, yawning, and Arthur presses a kiss to your hair. 

“He buggin’ you again?” Arthur asks, pulling you closer to him as you toss a leg over his own, getting comfortable. 

“A little.” You admit. Arthur nods, a wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows. 

“He does it again, let me know.”

You nod, sighing and pulling your hands from Arthur’s suit. You wrap them around his neck instead, and pull him down closer to you. It’s almost like you can’t get comfortable, with the way you keep readjusting against him. 

“What’s with you?” Arthur chuckles as you press against him as tightly as possible. 

“I missed you.” You whisper, and a beautiful smile lines his lips as his hand cups your cheek. 

You lean up to kiss him, lips locking together slow and sweet. There’s so much passion behind your actions, so much love. You give him access to your mouth, and his tongue gently prods inside. He pulls back for a breath, and then he’s coming back to you, tilting his head as he catches your lips again. You smile against his mouth, lips slotting together until you pull away. 

“That you did.” Arthur chuckles, pressing one last, soft kiss to your lips, “I missed you too.”

You run your hands through his beard, looking up at him. Just enough moonlight trickles in to highlight his ocean-colored eyes. You look at the depth of them, then the little scar on his chin, and the bend of his nose. 

“You’re beautiful.” You exhale, looking over his perfect features, wondering how you got so lucky. Arthur scoffs as if humored, leaning his head back for a second. 

“What–” He starts, but you stop him. 

“Stop it. You are. Look at you. You’re strong and tall and you have the most strikingly beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Your nose, and your scars, your beard and your lips– I love everything about you…” You admit, truthfully. Your heart swells with love, so much that it could burst as you look up at him. His arms grow tight around you, and he pulls you back flush against his chest, resting his chin atop your head.

“I don’t deserve you, y’know that? You’re far too good for me.” Arthur chuckles, covering up the deep emotions that he feels with laughter. You shush him, not having any of it.

“Stop bein’ mean to yourself. Put that mouth to better use, and kiss me again.” You ask of him, and with a chuckle he does. His lips meet yours in strewed, slow kisses, but you can barely keep your eyes open as your lips begin to fall slack against his own. 

“Sweetheart?” He asks with a small smile, pulling away from your lips. 

“Hmm?” 

“Get some sleep, alright?” He asks, hand on the back of your head as he pulls you against his chest. 

“Okay Arthur,” You mumble, eyes already closed, “Sweet dreams.” You tell him, and he smiles bright at the way sleep seems to have clouded your mind. 

“Sweet dreams, darlin.” He replies, holding you close.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow

[me-myself-and-eyes]

brennan bringing up that this was a secret he'd been sitting on for 5 years has the same energy as griffin mcelroy telling everyone to shush so he could give the exposition he'd been sitting on since season one of balance

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

To Make a Heaven of Hell (1/?)

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Virgil knew he was dead, somehow.

And somehow death was loud and bright and overwhelming, the people within it were beautiful and diverse and strange and the places big and magical and wonderous.

But it was hard to accept that you are good, after a short life of being told that you are bad.

Sometimes, all it takes is a little help, some hot demons and a whole universe full of new friends and family to get you to accept your paradise.

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| Ao3 | Next Chapter -> |

Fic Warnings: Implied/referenced character death, trauma, homophobia/transphobia mentions, abuse mentions, other canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) heavy topics, canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) violence.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Intrulogical, all canon Hell's Belles relationships.

Notes: Why hello there, I see you've clicked on my silly little crossover hm? I do hope you enjoy!

To any SaSI readers who have no clue what Hell's Belles is, you're welcome to read, I've tried to provide enough exposition that this can be read without prior knowledge but also not too much that the people who DO know the series get frustrated, haha.

Also yeah I know this wasn't what won the polls, but it's my poll I can do whatever I want shush.

This fic may go into heavy topics typical to Hell's Belles, which is the main reason for all the tags, but it shouldn't go too dark for the vast majority of the fic!

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Chapter 1 : What Comes After

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Everything was black, for a long while. Too long, in his opinion. And… empty.

They remembered everything, the pain, the hurt, the struggling and the heartache that had come with their… too-short, lifetime. He remembered the yelling - they had been arguing about something that felt meaningless now - he remembered the screeching of brakes, the smell of burning rubber on the tarmac, the crunching of metal as their car had crashed into another. Oh, he hoped whoever had been in the other car was okay.

And he was… dead. Somehow, in Virgil’s mind, he knew that he was dead,. Even as he hung in this dark void of nothingness, everything and nothing at once, where his feelings felt like they were locked behind a wall of glass, he knew. Eventually - after floating for a time that felt far too long and far too short at the same time - he noticed a door in the dark void. After a moment’s hesitation, they opened it and stepped through.

The sudden presence of bright lights and loud sounds and a massive open space filled with people and… different people was immediately overwhelming. Virgil whirled around and there was no door behind him, nothing showing that he’d come from… somewhere else… at all. The cathedral-like space - though nothing like any cathedral he had ever seen - was amazingly huge, bigger than any building he’d ever been in by far. There were people everywhere, appearing out of nowhere just like they did, sitting, standing, talking with other people and walking around. 

“Hey, sweetie, you new?” Someone asked, Virgil turned to see a taller woman whose features they definitely weren’t going to remember, he gestured to himself and she nodded, confirming that she was talking to him.

“Oh, um, yeah? I… think so?” Virgil said after too long of trying to force the words up through his throat, luckily she seemed to be patient enough.

“I can tell, the first time can be really overwhelming,” She said, nodding along, “Whenever you’re ready you can head to that desk over there - they’ll tell you where you need to go.”

“Right,” Virgil nodded, “Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” She smiled, waving as she walked off in the opposite direction, towards a strange-looking hallway. 

Looking back around, Virgil faced the desk she had pointed to and found he could see a whole range of people sitting behind it - age, ethnicity, time period, even people who he wasn’t sure were even human. Most of the desks had lines of people waiting and others seemed quieter. He began to walk over before pausing and looking back. They’d just… died. Because their boyfriend had crashed his car. Virgil wondered if he would be following.

When no one they recognised appeared out of thin air after what felt like a few minutes, Virgil let himself breathe a sigh of… what might be relief. He wasn’t here, and that quick realisation… really took a weight off of Virgil’s shoulders. 

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Virgil walked over to the desk, trying to seem as confident as he possibly could as he approached one of the desks without a line. Granted, he was still completely terrified, but maybe if he pretended to be confident, he would feel it eventually.

A file appeared on the person’s desk as he gestured for Virgil to take a seat in the comfortable chair that stood before the desk. They did so as the other silently flicked through the file with a blank expression on his face, dark green eyes behind thick glasses barely telling a single emotion. His hair was pulled back into a neat bun - though the textured hair seemed to be trying quite hard to escape its confinement. Virgil started to feel a little awkward as he hummed, placing down the file again and looking back up at him. He could see his name glittering on the front page. 

“Hello,” He said, “I’m Logan, you’re Virgil Byrne, correct?”

“I- yeah- wait-” Virgil said, raising a hand, out of everything that was happening, there was one thing that really stuck out to him, “That - That file is about me, right?”

“Indeed,” Logan nodded.

“It… it shows my chosen name?”

“The files show the name connected to your soul,” Logan explained, “For most people, that is the name they are given at birth - and usually this remains consistent through lifetimes - however, sometimes souls are placed in the wrong bodies, and therefore end up with the wrong names - along with other things. Virgil is the name your soul identifies with, therefore, that is the name on your file. You should also - as a soul - have a body that more accurately aligns with your gender identity.”

“That’s - wow,” Virgil mumbled, looking down at his hands, he immediately filed that information away to have a crisis about later, “That’s-”

“Overwhelming? It can be,” Logan nodded, “You will have time to process everything later. Are you aware of how you died?”

“I- yeah, yes,” Virgil nodded, “Is this… the afterlife?”

“Part of it, yes, this is the Front Death-k,” Logan grimaced as he spoke the pun and Virgil couldn’t help but smile, “Where new souls come to find out where they are supposed to go next, now, did you follow a religion in life that you were prefer to be judged by?”

“Can’t you see that in the file?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can, but I prefer to hear the answers from the soul directly,” Logan explained, “Sometimes the religion a person followed in life isn’t the one they want to be judged by.”

“Right, I uh- my family were catholic,” Virgil started, taking a deep breath, “But um, I never really… clicked with it, and I never got the chance to learn enough about other religions to… know.”

“That’s alright,” Logan nodded, “With that, your options would either be to be judged by the Christian belief system, since it’s the one you’re most familiar with, or you can go through universal judgement, or I suppose you could also take a lottery-style pick of any belief system, but the vast majority would rather not.”

“What’s uh- what was the second one?” Virgil tilted their head.

“Universal Judgement: the process most people not connected to a religion go with,” Logan said, “By which you will be judged by the universe itself, hence the name, after which you will either be allocated a paradise or you will have to choose a punishment realm, depending on the outcome.”

“Well that’s not terrifying at all,” Virgil said, trying to offer a joke to hide the fact that the ideas of such a harsh judgement set his hands shaking and his teeth on edge. Well, at least he knew he hadn’t lost his terrible anxiety, even in death. 

“No, it’s not,” Logan said, seemingly taking his sarcasm entirely seriously, “The universe is very fair in its judgement and takes many things into account, you do not need to worry, if you choose to take that option, that is.”

“...Okay,” Virgil nodded, “I um- I think I’d rather do that than the Christian judgement system…”

“Wonderful,” Logan nodded, “I’ll walk you to the universal judgement gate when you’re ready, meanwhile, do you have any more questions you’d like to ask?”

“You mentioned… punishment realms?” Virgil said tentatively, “If I end up there…?”

“If you were to come out of the bad side of Universal Judgement, you will be offered a choice of punishment realm for you to spend your sentence. Some people stay forever, others are able to reincarnate after a time. But remember that the punishment realms are more a system of justice, but unlike the mortal justice system you’re used to, it's not obscenely biased and cannot be incorrect.”

“...right,” Virgil nodded slowly, “And the paradise?”

“If you achieve it, your own space that fits your soul’s true desires, usually a house or community that represents your perfect ‘heaven’ of a sort. Of course, different belief systems will have different versions of this - for example, the Norse may have paradises in Valhalla, while Christians may have theirs in Heaven, though people not attached to religion will still get a paradise in a more general ‘paradise’ realm.”

“Right, that’s…” Virgil took another deep breath. The idea of paradise sounded… nice, but… well he didn’t know if he’d even get there, of course, a large part of him doubted it - after all, no one in his life had had faith in him, his parents so convinced he’d go to hell that they kicked him out of their house, but… if he did achieve it… how would that feel?

“I’ll give you a moment to think,” Logan told him, “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“Won’t I hold up the line?” Virgil asked.

“No,” Logan shook his head, “Most people gravitate to some of the other workers here.”

“...Okay.”

—-

Virgil wasn’t sure how much time passed - their concept of time had been screwed over when they were alive, and there didn’t seem to be any kind of clock or other time-telling devices around this space, but he thought maybe it had been about five minutes before he finally told Logan that he was ready and let him lead them off to that same hallway the woman had gone down before. 

Eventually - after some time Virgil spent trying to block all of the confusing sensory input from all around him, trying not to spiral into a panic as they approached what could only be the universal judgement gateway, a stone archway that seemed to glitter with a strange rainbow iridescence. 

“You step in there,” Logan informed, “And the universe will take you where you need to go, good luck, I’m sure you’ll end up exactly where you need to be.”

“Thank you, um, for your help,” Virgil said, trying to offer Logan a smile through his bubbling panic. 

“I’m simply doing my job,” Logan nodded, “But you are welcome.”

Virgil nodded, before turning to look into the grey mist that formed the inside of the archway, taking a deep breath, and with a final glance back at Logan who offered an encouraging nod, he stepped through the archway.

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General tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @reptilianrapscallion420 @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

Hell's Belles AU tags: @awitchbravestheverge @twoalpacas @goldnskyart @anxious-mess19 @doteddestroyer

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| Next Chapter -> |

[jacksonscouts]

Hey Scouts!

I'm leaving positive reviews on every self rec'd fic this week. Here's the first review for @sixhours's fic, "looking for the light".

I hope some Scouts will join me in leaving a nice comment, long or short!

Joel is so overwhelmed in this fic. I felt so bad for him. You captured his wild blend of emotions so well–it feels like a storm of disorientation, intense stress, and desperation.

You interspersed the exposition in such a way that it feels like Joel’s natural inner monologue. Another part I really enjoyed were the sentences describing his actions, “Pace and rock and sway and shush.” It’s like he’s completely out of it and going through the motions.

My favorite part is when he’s at his wit’s end, and almost considers the unthinkable, but then he gets back up to take care of Sarah. Lastly, I love how you resolved the conflict. It was so adorable and realistic. This fic is filled to the brim with so much heart, I can’t believe it’s only 750 words.

Phrases I loved: 

body arched taut as a bowstring.

She is gravity and he is stuck in her orbit.

When he finally sucks in a decent breath, it’s a barking, wheezing thing, and he wastes it on a sob. (oh my god this line is so good!)

she’d taken his heart when she wrapped her tiny hand around his thumb.

And, of course, the last line of dialogue, but I won't add that here.

This was just wonderful!

[ladyduellist]

WIP WEDNESDAY Thursday

Thank you for the tags: @verbenaa & @elinorbard ! I love your WIP's so far and am looking forward to reading them!

Here's a little teaser from Chapter 17 of my long fic Epistles of Saints & Sinners. Not the final product as I will be adding more in between for exposition, but it's a start!

Fic is found here on Tumblr. And here on Ao3.

“I do so ever love food with a bit of zest!” Astarion murmured into the sheath of Tav’s ear, pulling out a jackknife to twirl mindlessly in his hand. “Which one do you think would taste better?” “Shush. I’m trying to listen in case Lae’zel needs our help,” Tav responded, trying to stifle a laugh as she wiggled her nose like a chipmunk. “Besides, I literally just fed you last night.”  As Tav intently listened to the gith and human continue to prattle on, Astarion tilted his head down to offer a jape, only to be temporarily obstructed by a diversion on her face. Two freckles, almond in color, were bound to her skin near the outer edge of her left eye: sacred gifts permanently bestowed from the sunlight.  Perplexed, he narrowed his eyes at the offending dots. Were those there before? Surely, he wouldn’t have missed them during the times he stole her breath while his lips resented each kiss he gave her.  “It’s not my fault I’m feeling a bit peckish,” he pouted, showing her one of his fangs. “And it’s definitely not my fault your blood happens to be the most exquisite dessert I’ve ever had and I can’t indulge in it as much as I’d like.” “Now you’re just flirting,” the bard pointed out. “And shamelessly I might add.”

Tagging: @inkymoonbunny & @xxnashiraxx! I think everyone else has been tagged, but I apologize if not. Please participate anyways!

[final-girl96]

My Boyfriend's Back Chapter Forty-Two

The Next Day

Sidney and I decided we would go to the L.A.P.D. Just as we walked into the precinct we saw Dewey, who was in the middle of trying to get a hold of one of us. We did our greetings and then went back to meet Detective Mark Kincaid. He was definitely Sidney's type; dark hair, tall, very handsome, nothing like Billy. He asked us questions and we talked. We also found out that our mother was once an actress that went under a different name. The killer has been leaving her pictures at the crime scenes.

"Can we go where this picture was taken?" I asked. Detective Kincaid nodded his head. "Yeah, sure. It was taken at the studio." We then left with another detective and a few police officers in tow and went to Sunrise Studios. When we got there, we saw the metal stairs that were in the background behind our mom. "Why didn't she ever say anything? I mean, she went by a whole different name back then. Do you think dad knows about this?" I asked, Sid. "I don't know. He did say she had a lot of secrets," she said.

We were walking past one of the trailers when the door opened. I jumped back with a small yelp before looking up to see who it was. "Jesus, Randy! What the hell are you doing here?" I asked. "Who else is going to tell you the rules of a trilogy?" He shrugged. I rolled my eyes and pushed past him into the trailer. Sidney, Gale, and Dewey were close behind. We all sat down and listened to Randy go on about the rules of a trilogy.

"Okay, so here's the critical thing. If we find ourselves to be dealing with an unexpected backstory and a preponderance of exposition, then the sequel rules do not apply. Because we are not dealing with a sequel, you are dealing with the concluding chapter of a trilogy," he explained. "A trilogy?" Dewey asked, and Randy nodded.

"That's right. It's a rarity in the horror field, but it does exist, and it's a force to be reckoned with, because true trilogies are all about going back to the beginning and discovering something that wasn't true from the get go. 'Godfather', 'Jedi', all revealed something that we thought was true, that wasn't true. So if it is a trilogy we are dealing with, here are some super trilogy rules." Great more rules to try and remember while fight yet another fucking killer.

"One, we got a killer who's gonna be superhuman. Stabbing him won't work. Shooting him won't work. Basically, in the third one, we gotta cryogenically freeze his head, decapitate him, or blow him up." I raised my eyebrow at that, "really? Can't we just shoot him in the head and be done with it?" He shushed me and continued on.

"Number two; anyone, including the main character, can die. This means you, Sid, and you," he said, looking at me. "I'm sorry, it's the final chapter. It can be fuckin 'Reservoir Dogs' by the time this thing is through. Number three; the past will come back to bite you in the ass!" He gave me another look and I cleared my throat. "Whatever you think you know about the past, forget it. The past is not at rest, any sins you think were committed in the past are about to break out and destroy you."

He never took his eyes off me while saying that. I knew he was talking about Stu. This time around all that I've been hiding would come out into the public and then I'm fucking six ways to Sunday. "I'm just glad I got to be here and tell you all this. I made a tape back at Windsor as a just in case. Honestly, I'm surprised I survived since I lost my virginity to Karen Kolchak in the back of the video store in the porno section," Randy said.

"Creepy Karen?" Dewey asked, and I snorted, trying to keep from laughing. "Shut up! She's a nice girl!" Randy argued. "He went on a date not too long ago with her," I blurted out. Everyone looked at him, and he huffed out a heavy sigh. "She's a nice person!" After Randy was done with all his rule telling, and we calmed down from teasing him about Karen, we left the trailer. Sidney had to go to the bathroom, so I went with her while Gale went off to do her own detective work, and Dewey and Randy waited outside the sound stage for me and Sideny.

I stood at the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. Randy's words about the past coming back rang in my mind. I was so caught up in my own head that I didn't notice Sidney coming up beside me. "You okay?" I shook my head and looked at her. "Mmhm. Yeah, I'm fine." She turned the faucet on and washed her hands. We were getting ready to leave the bathroom when a noise from one of the stalls had us stopping in our tracks.

Sidney pulled out her pepper spray, and we slowly walked over to the stall. I took a deep breath and looked at Sidney, who nodded her head. She had her pepper spray ready, and I pushed the door open. A girl with short brown hair looked up at us after dropping her bag. I looked down to see a ghostface mask. Sidney bent down to help her pick up her things. "I wanted a souvenir. I didn't think anyone would mind," she said and quickly put all her stuff in her bag.

When she stood up and got a good look at us, her eyes got a little wide. "You're Sidney prescott! I'm you! Well, I mean, I play you in the movie, or I was supposed to." Sidney smiled at her, "it's nice to meet you…" The girl held her hand out, "Angelina. Well, I better get going. It was so nice to meet you both." Then she was gone.

"Well, that was weird," I said. Sidney bent down and picked something up. "Wait! You forgot your brush!" She headed for the door and rushed out into the sound stage. "Sidney, wait up!" I went after her, and we walked through a door, and as soon as I realized exactly where we were, I stood dead in my tracks. "Sidney, wait!" It was too late though she was already out the door.

I slowly walked through the hall and spun in circles. I was standing in the entryway of Stu's house. There were so many memories that came flooding back. It was unreal how accurate it looked. I looked into the living room. The first memory that came to mind was Randy going on about the rules to survive a horror movie.

"You don't know the rules?!" He stood up. "Great. Thanks, babe." He shrugged and looked at Randy. "Have an aneurysm, why don't you?" Randy stood in front of the tv and started his whole rule bullshit. "There are certain rules that one must abide by in order to successfully survive a horror movie. For instance, number one: you can never have sex." Everyone booed and threw popcorn at him. Stu kissed my neck. "It looks like we're dead, baby." I laughed and lightly hit him. "BIG NO NO!" Randy said, swatting at the popcorn.

"Sex equals death, okay? Number two: You can never drink or do drugs." There were cheers, and everyone raised their bottles. "The sin factor! It's a sin. It's an extension of number one. And number three: never, ever, ever under any circumstances say, "I'll be right back." Because you won't be back." Stu pulled out from under me and stood up, kissing my forehead, and then stood by the kitchen door. 'I'm gettin'' another beer, you want one?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure," Randy told him. Stu held his arms out, "I'll be right back," he said and backed into the kitchen. "See, you push the laws, and you end up dead. Okay, I'll see you in the kitchen with a knife."

That was all before shit really hit the fan and I learned that my boyfriend was a fucking psychopath who helped kill my mother. If only we could go back to the times before all this. Before the murders. Before our lives were made into a movie. We would never get away from this no matter how hard we tried.

[aprettyspy]

@fluffbruary Day 2 for the prompt 'trace'. Benoit Blanc comes home to his husband Phillip after his weekend at the Thrombeys

Voracious Mind

Phillip stared at the envelope of cash occupying the exact center point of his kitchen island. Two days ago he had dug out a tape measure from the depths of the hallway cupboard, finding it buried between a pair of en point shoes and a broken tennis racket. The wad of cash was exactly 2 ¾ " high and had been delivered three days previously. It remained sat in its unmarked, plain brown envelope. Benoit had opened it, read the accompanying note and thrown it all down where it still rested. 

Not given to superstition as a general rule, something about this mysterious wad of cash made Phillip nervous. It was too much of a coincidence that it's delivery had occurred just 45 minutes after their ancient and dilapidated water heating system had finally given up with an impressive explosion that had brought with it a portion of their kitchen ceiling. As much as they both loved this apartment, it was bloody expensive to maintain. 

Given that his husband had dashed out the door only a few hours later, and had sent exactly one text message since (It seems this case revolves around the name Hugh, my darling, but what a terrible name!), Phillip's hackles were well and truly risen. 

His best attempts to distract himself with work, walks and a very long call to his daughter back in England had not worked. He was on guard, expecting something. He just couldn't pinpoint what. 

He decided to assuage his building anxiety through the tried and tested medium of vigorous cleaning. He was head down, scrubbing the bath (when he did get home, Benoit would want to use it) and, yet again, resolved to replace these dark tiles when he heard the door slam.

"Darlin? Phil, darlin, you home?"

Phillip whipped off his cleaning pinny and tried to smooth his hair as he dashed down the hall in relief to have Benoit home safely.

"There you are my beautiful boy! My God but I've had some weekend!"

Phillip helped Benoit ease off his heavy wool coat and headed for the kettle. 

Already down to his braces (twenty years in America and Phillip would never call them 'suspenders') and shirt sleeves, Benoit paced, pulling the braces down off his shoulders 

"They were just the most terrible people, that Thrombey family, just awful. They were so rude to Marta - oh, did I tell you about Marta? Just the loveliest creature, you would adore her, we must invite her up, oh thank you-" Benoit took the tea Phillip handed him, "and just awful to one another." He shuddered at the memory.

Phillip took up his customary spot on the middle of the sofa. It was always like this after a case. Benoit's head processed and stored everything he had learned and he liked to do his expounding while on the move. His monologue continued uninterrupted, except by sips of tea. When that was finished, Benoit began to undo his shirt buttons. Phillip watched, knowing it was nearly his moment to step in. He had learned long ago that this exposition could wind his husband up even more, leading to a night of sleepless tossing and turning in the bed, followed by pacing and eventually a cigar on the terrace. 

"Benoit." Phillip called softy. It went unheeded and the pacing continued, shirt now thrown to the sofa.

"- not one word of their Mother, not a single photograph in all that clutter-"

"Blanc!" Louder and more commanding. Benoit stopped and looked at his husband, eyebrows raised.

"Sit." Phillip ordered, indicating the floor between his legs where he sat on the sofa.

Benoit sat, relaxed back against the sofa and breathed deeply. "I'm sorry, darlin', they did infuriate me so." 

"I know, but shush now." Phillip began to knead at his husband's tense shoulders. His strong musculature resisted the massage at first but Phillip persisted. He pushed Benoit to sit forward slightly and began working systematically down the muscles on either side of his husband's spine. As he worked, he listened to the evening out of breath, sensed the quieting of that extraordinary, voracious mind. Phillip used his index finger to trace back up Benoit's spine from lower back to the base of his skull and returned to work on the shoulders. Benoit's huge sigh let out all the stresses of the case. Phillip's own, private Benoit was back home with him again. 

Phillip rested his forehead on his husband's now pliable broad shoulder.

"We need to go and buy a new water heater, love."

[dbutsu]

wip hpdm drarry - untitled story of draco in a skirt

no i did not proofread and i will try to finish it but for now enjoy 1.5k words of exposition and one (1) line of anything explicit. this is my first time writing a fic so go ez on me...

anyway, pairing: harry x draco summary: draco wears a skirt, theres literally nothing else rating: E FOR EXPLICIT (eventually)

Hermione deems the  library much too loud to study in, so they’re in the eighth-year common room, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace in various states of comfort, a mess of textbooks and parchment laid out on the worn rug between them.

In Harry’s opinion, it’s an upgrade from the stifling aura of the library with its towering stacks of tomes and the not-so-subtle giggle of students from all years peering at him from above their books. Today was much louder than usual though, the ever-present rumor mill working its way through the student body. Madam Pince was working the wrinkles around her mouth overtime with all the shushing. And Hermione had gotten so annoyed, she’d dragged both him and Ron to the common room by their ears as if it was somehow their fault.

At least in the common room, there was the comforting warmth of the fireplace and the blissful absence of admiring stares.

Harry ought to thank whatever saucy story is making its way around Hogwarts for pulling him out of the library, though he doesn’t find himself all too interested in knowing what it is. There can’t possibly be any gossip juicy enough to top the fact that an entire war was battled and won right inside these castle walls.

Ron and Harry are flat on their stomachs, quietly cheering for their chess pieces as they command the knights and queens into playing a game of footie with a crumpled up piece of parchment. Harry lets out a hushed ‘yeaaah!’ for his queen scoring another goal, when Pansy Parkinson’s screeching laughter precedes the sound of the portrait opening. It’s like hearing a chainsaw behind a door before it tears into the room and murders you brutally.

“-their faces!” Pansy is cackling, “We should have done this ages ago!”

Malfoy’s voice follows close behind, smirking. And even though they’re walking behind the sofas and out of sight from Harry, he just knows the sound of his smirk. “It finally shut Smith’s big mouth, I’ll admit. Can you imagine if Pot-”

“Oh,” Pansy seems to stop, belatedly noticing Hermione leaned up against an armchair on the floor, following the trail of abandoned homework to Ron and Harry laying on the ground in front of the sofa nearest Pansy. She gives Harry in particular a nasty sneer. He frowns. “Come on, darling,” she says before Malfoy can see them as well, pushing him into the staircase leading up to their individual rooms.

Ron digs a pinky into his ear, wincing. “I swear, that girl has the laugh of a banshee. George sells fireworks quieter than her. And did you see how she looked at you? She must really hate that you lived twice.” Harry laughs and tosses his chess pieces at Ron, much to the stone figurines’ dismay.

He expects Hermione to say something about that, as she usually does when they light-heartedly tease about one of the scariest moments of Harry’s life. Harry thinks it’s a good thing that they can move past it in humour, but Hermione sometimes gets a little somber at it. It doesn’t seem like she’s paying attention though, and when Harry and Ron look over, she looks like she’s been petrified - another scary moment in their lives - staring at the staircase.

“…’Mione?” Ron frowns, sitting up in concern.

She’s quiet for a little more, lips parted, shaking her head. Her mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words and calculating in her head if maybe she saw wrong. “Malfoy…” she starts, looking a bit more red. “Malfoy’s…”

Both of them are frowning in her direction. What happened with Malfoy? He sounded fine - happy even, entertained by whatever he was talking about with Pansy. Did he come in covered in hippogriff blood? Missing an arm? Did he come in as a time-traveled version of himself, older and rugged with long hair sweeping delicately across his back and looking lean maybe with a bit of grown-in muscle and a charming look in his eyes–

“Malfoy’s wearing a skirt.”

Silence.

Harry gapes. “Wh-”

“What!?” Ron shouts.

—

Despite knowing that Malfoy is now sauntering around the school in - what he hears is - a standard-issue pleated Hogwarts skirt, Harry is never able to see it for himself.

Malfoy and the castle seem to be working together to create the perfect opportunities to hide his lower half from Harry’s sight.

At breakfast, Malfoy is seated at the Slytherin table before Harry arrives, and leaves unnoticed.

In Potions, Malfoy works with Theodore Nott at the station closest to the door until Slughorn requests his help arranging the storeroom. Harry thinks maybe he can catch a glimpse of the skirt as Malfoy steps away from his staion, and then Seamus’ fucking cauldron releases a thick cloud of glimmering silver smoke, the room exploding in complaints that they can’t see. By the time Slughorn has jauntily waved the smoke into his wand, Malfoy is gone.

Even in the hallways, there is always always something in the way between Harry’s eyes and Malfoy’s legs. A stray bludger - why the hell is there a bludger in the hallway, a gaggle of girls asking Harry inane questions, a fight between two Ravenclaw seventh-years - yelling something like I saw him first and he wouldn’t go for you!

It shouldn’t even concern Harry, he thinks. Stupid Malfoy has a skirt on, so what? Most of the girls have skirts. If he wanted to see a fucking skirt, he can look at Hermione.

For some reason, that thought makes him cringe. He doesn’t want to think about why Hermione in a skirt is resolutely not the same as a bloke in a skirt. And maybe a bloke in a skirt is definitely not the same as bloody Malfoy in a skirt. Harry might be going crazy.

Defeated, Harry declines the invitation to join Ron and Hermione in the library for another study session after dinner in favour of slumping into the common room’s squashy sofa. Hermione only lets him be when he gestures at the pile of textbooks on the coffee table.

He’s laid down on the sofa, nose dutifully buried in his textbooks, when he hears someone settle into the armchair by his feet. Distractedly, he peers out the side of his book to see who it is, then returns to reading.

Wait.

Harry looks again.

Malfoy has his legs crossed, one knee over the other, in the armchair with his jaw propped up on a loosely curled fist. He’s flipping through a worn edition of Tinctures, Elixirs, and the Human Psyche. Unlike Harry, he’s changed into a comfortable looking baggy top, very unfitting of what Harry expected him to wear for comfort. Harry expected silk button-ups, maybe a fluffy housecoat more befitting of the stifly aristocrat he is. Instead, he’s loose and cozy, hair slightly wavy and damp from a recent shower.

For some ungodly reason, Malfoy is also still wearing the skirt he’s presumably been wearing all day.

Harry stares.

It is, indeed, a skirt. The same dark grey, pleated material as the one most girls wear, with the addition of a band of Slytherin green adorning the hem. It falls delicately around the shape of - oh god - Malfoy’s thighs, plump where it presses against the edge of the cushioned seat. As Harry stares, Malfoy shifts and props his feet up on the coffee table, stretching his - oh Lord - long pale legs across its surface.

Harry takes about ten years to turn his head back to his book, but he’s not reading.

Alright. So Malfoy is definitely wearing a skirt. It is definitely 100% a skirt there, for sure. Good for him. Fashion is great. Lovely way to express yourself, that.

He looks at the skirt again.

Malfoy is looking at him.

Ah, magic theory, yes, this textbook has so much information! The interaction of elements and the magical core and all of it, so cool!

Harry yawns - forced - and stretches a dramatic arm over his head as he sits up. He darts a look to the ticking floor clock in the far corner of the common room, raising his eyebrows as if to say oh wow! That’s the time! and plucks his books off the table. He aims a thin-mouthed nod to Malfoy and gets the fuck out of there, walking calmly to the staircase and then hurrying up the steps two at a time.

He runs into his room and slams it closed behind him, presses his back to the door, tosses his books across the floor.

Hm.

He shoves his hand into his pants and fucks his fist until he spills cum down the leg of his trousers.

Ah.

[graceful-not]

NO VILLAIN JAY??? LAAAME. But whatever since they're doing it like this they should make him Euphrasias mentor-equivalent (Like with Arin-Lloyd, Sora-Nya, Kai-wyldfire). Bc y'know. storms. They could also make Cole that to give him something to do since Jay probably has exposition to give and Cole would be much better at it (and much more of the mentor Euphrasia actually needs,) but I like the symbolism so shush

[akajustmerry]

loving your thg rants, merry! If Haymitch was your favourite character in The Hunger Games, can I ask what you thought of Woody Harelson in the films?

thank u 😌 I enjoyed woody harrelson's performance a lot! my criticisms of film haymitch are more to do with the writing and that, like Katniss and Gale, he was whitewashed. it infuriated me they just left out SO much of Haymitch's key scenes so he could serve as the film's memeable comedic relief. i don't blame woody for any of that, I actually reckon he and the other victor actors tried really hard to convey what was left out from the books in their performances. but there's only so much they could do. leaving out so much of those scenes with haymitch also really fucked over the portrayal of the victors overall imo. so much of their time on screen had to just be exposition of what the fuck the victors are instead of actual characterisation because the films didn't bother to establish victor lore through Haymitch which is, you know, a huge part of his actual function in the story. nevertheless, I will always respect woody harrelson and elizabeth banks for doing...All That™ in the films. they were so correct. my best friend and I literally APPLAUDED and were MASS SHUSHED at our local midnight session of mockingjay p2 when they kissed 🥺

[sam-glade]

Happy Tuesday!!

What is your absolute favorite scene to write?

Hi! Thanks for the question💜

I want to say dialogue-heavy scenes, with characters sitting around a table, and with banter and discussion how the plot will progress, but that's not quite it.

It's when I have 3-4 characters, who have come together from different situations. For example: One has a headache and is unusually snappy. One has learnt some impactful news earlier that day and is struggling to focus, but doesn't want to share the news either. Another one for whatever reason has a thing on their mind and slightly derails the conversation when they're reminded of it. Another one is a nerd and oh look they accidentally gave a paragraph of exposition about the world, before the others shushed them.

Yes, it's 'just' dialogue. But I love testing just how much stuff I can pack alongside it. And I love the feeling of writing characters that act differently because of the most recent developments, but it's still consistent with their characterisation. When you know exactly where the deviation from the norm comes from.

[prvtocol]

❝What’s the best lie you’ve ever told?❞ // caesar for bri

𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐏𝐓 𝟏 (accepting)

“Of course, make me admit to something devious.” Nose scrunches, animating a knowing retort at the gang’s all too clever accountant — though her amusement with the whole conversation means it doesn’t last long. Coffee (and tea) and a conversation that turned into a short round of truth or dare with Caesar, Diego, and Emiliano (the latter two part of her Los Piratas security crew) is a benign way to pass the time. Benign in the sense of the upstanding caliber of each of them to not take it too far with her there. If Vaas was here to partake in the questioning and daring, it’d be a different story.

“Yeah Bri, a top-tier corpo like you, gotta have some preem dirty lies in your closet.” Extra coaxing comes from Diego who’s in the middle of grabbing two more cookies from the cooling racks on the counter behind her. For it, he gets thrown a defensive look and a curt, “My closet is rather clean, thank you.” But the retort is just more dawdling on her part. Good grief, she has to think hard about the last time she lied and didn’t feel the sting of self-disappointment and instead could declare victory for some reason or another. Oh but wait, Diego gave her a thought — work. Is fabricating the truth also considered lying she wonders? If so, she did it often enough. “Alright, I think I have one."

"This gonna be good, right?" With a mouth full of cookie, Diego again interjects, nudging her arm with his elbow after sitting back down at her side.

"Just let her speak, hermano." Emiliano, the youngest of the crew and who’s busy peeling a tangerine, shushes him. Meanwhile, Caesar throws him a more patient stare from across the table. It was his question after all.

"Well, I don’t know if it was my best lie, but I can say with certainty it helped me out later on." Oh dear, here comes the long-winded exposition needed to make sense. “When I first arrived in Night City, the department under my oversight was a mess. The prior director completely lost the plot. He started throwing uncalled for audits on his enemies, even got someone unduly fired because of it. It was as if he was asking for retaliation, which of course, he eventually got.” Death being the result of his meddling. “It quickly came to my realization as I was writing my report that his assistants more than aided his actions. And of course they did, they feared what would happen if they said no to their boss. Now, I should have reported them to HR, which would have resulted in demotion or worse, but I decided against it and let them know I understood their need for loyalty considering. So, I fabricated their role in the reports.” Hands lift from cradling her tea mug to aid her in saying, "Horrible, I know but helping those under me was how I played my cards because those same assistants would alert me later when another coworker was making plans for my position. Loyal to a madman and loyal to someone willing to help them.” 

Judging by the discerning frown found on Diego's bearded face, this isn’t the sordid story he was looking for. At least, Caesar looks less displeased. It’s certainly not as interesting as any of their truths just told involving close calls and dangerous adversaries. “Too dull?” Out loud she queries, her brow knitting an unspoken apology. “Well, better than the dog ate my homework, right? Though," she sighs, "I never didn't do my homework to pretend I had a dog to eat it. But it is a lie by corp standards so I pass this round and now it's your turn to choose, Caesar.” And he gets a grin with it. Internally, she's sighing in relief. These little games can be surprisingly stressful.

[misireads]

The Breakdown by B.A. Paris

[ audiobook, listened in english ]

on a stormy night, a young teacher is driving home from a party with friends and decides to take a shortcut through a winding forest path, where she sees a lone car parked on the side of the road. she gives the driver a chance to ask for her help but when they don't, she decides to keep driving and goes home. the next day, a story about a woman having been murdered in her car on the forest road is all over the news. weighted by the guilt of not having helped the woman in the car, the main character gradually spirals out of control with increased paranoia as she believes the murderer saw her that night and is now after her as well. at the same time, lapses in her memory make her worry she's on path to having early onset dementia like her late mother, and all of this combined is also making her previously happy marriage fall apart.

➕ yes i'm back giving ms paris another chance, because she was recommended to me. so did i like this better than behind closed doors? absolutely i did, here we have a genuine mystery thriller with all the cosy tropes and a plot with actual tension! i knew this was a superior book from scene one, it immediately set such a strong scene, i was just YEEHAAAW time to buckle in, finally. it's not the most masterful or unique story or anything and has a bit of a lacklustre deus ex machina resolution, but it's the good old thing. with an ending i didn't see coming, too! obviously behind closed doors immediately put me in the mindset of finding the husband suspicious but [spoiler] humouring that the best friend might be the bad guy was just a wild theory of mine, and i certainly didn't suspect two people. i thought it would just be choosing between the husband and the john guy, where either could be the culprit

➕ a spoiler-free plus point, more vaguely: there weren't a whole lot of suspects in here, but i think the story did a good job juggling with those it had and making you wonder which one it is, steering you this and that way as it went. i don't mind simpler mysteries like this because i'm not very smart so it makes me feel like i can actually participate in the guessing game GNDJGNDJ

➕ the main character is almost reminiscent of victorian era stuff, what a Woe Is Me dramatic bitch with larger than life emotions and melancholy. horrible but great

➖ these bitches be speaking all their stupid ass thoughts out loud in these books tho. sometimes you just wanna reach out a hand and put it in front of their mouths like shush…time to shut up. why are you saying these things in this situation. don't you have even a crumb of self-awareness. AND the fact that she immediately jumps into thinking the murderer is also after her (based on… umm… nothing???) because clearly she's such an important person, some real self-important buffoon behaviour. plus never once thinking the culprit could be a woman, not a man. heteronormative self-important buffoon behaviour?

➖ this isn't a massive complaint since i overall enjoyed the story but the pacing was a bit off. the beginning is a bangin' but then when we get to the silent calls and cass's dementia scares, well about half of those could have been halved or cut out tbh. and the SMS part in the end, it was not only some hyper turbo mode exposition stuff which seems to be a common problem in paris's writing judging by these two books, but also dear god, fucking insufferable to listen to in audiobook form LMAO

➖ speaking of phones. how are the characters in her books so dumb about phones? like, we are talking about mobile phones here, right? i had so many questions about the silent call sequences. why didn't she ever call the number back? track down where the calls came from? why didn't she just leave the line open to a forever stalemate/wasting the caller's time until they have to give up? how did she know the caller was a man? why didn't she just leave the phone be and only let the answering machine work when any important person needed to get to her? why do both the house phone and matthew's phone work but magically hers never does so she can't use it????? this all was some real tedious buffalo shit ass garbage plot-convenient turdmageddon stuff right here

➖ probably there was something else but i forgot because the phone stuff got me so worked up. oh now i remember! maybe the dumbest scene i've ever come across in any book (in recent memory anyway). the main character looking at a room, ""sensing"" that something is amiss (but not actually seeing a single thing, not going in to investigate, nuthin'), and proceeding to verbally freak out about it to the point of calling the police that someone has broken in, like, yes okay sure go ahead and have some fucking sixth sense, but did it not cross her mind for even a second that she could, oh i don't know, have like… evidence? to back her words up? and how it looks and sounds like that she doesn't??? i'm just, i can't. that scene was so fucking stupid, it made me second guess whether i like this book after all. like sure she's messed up from paranoia and drugs and whatever but that scene was very much set up as her being like, 100% confidently saying this shit and underlining how sharp she is feeling about it. well if you're so fucking sharp then put yourself in another person's position for five fucking seconds and think how what you're saying sounds like to them i beg you, jesus christ on wheels.

⭐ score: 3½ -- still, i liked it. maybe because i read it after behind closed doors, which i didn't like. so i was just so happy to have a genuine, atmospheric murder mystery to listen to that also managed to surprise me a little.

[bloggerspam]

Aw, thank you! You and everyone's comments definitely give me life. I'm not done with this AU just yet, and I hope you won't mind a ton more exposition in this next part. We're in the last stretch, I think!

===

Danny is 20 years old when he realizes that he hasn’t had a break in four years.

Well, more accurately, he’s forcibly reminded by Sam and Tucker. 

He’s had it rough, now that he thinks about it, and the exhaustion suddenly hits him like a bag of bricks. With a 2-ton truck swiftly following it. And maybe even a block of concrete for added measure. 

He heaves a sigh and plops into the chair they’ve clearly prepared for him in the middle of their shared apartment. 

Sam, Tucker, and Danny lived in California now, sharing an apartment whilst they finished up their degrees at UC. 

After figuring out the finer points of Ghost Monarchy and ultimately fixing the “Ghost of the Day” issue they had in high school, Team Phantom shut down the portal and talked some sense into the Drs Fenton due to the immense efforts of Jazz and surprisingly, Vlad. 

He’s been trying to be better, after some kind of incident with his parents that he refuses to tell Danny about. He has a feeling that Clockwork had a hand in it, though, so Danny tries not to think about it. Vlad has been exchanging cosmic letters with Dan and Dani, or Titus and Haley now he supposes, to middling effect. Neither of them are coming back from their respective service and leave, and it’s firmly Not His Problem so he’ll accept his wayward godfather with a huge grain of salt. At least he’s not trying to kill his dad and flirt with his mom anymore. Small mercies. 

But now Danny sits in the middle of his shared apartment with Sam and Tucker looking sternly at him with arms crossed, and Danny thinks maybe he should have paid a little bit more attention. 

Sam heaves a sigh, “Forget it, if he won’t listen to us, clearly we have to bring out the big guns. Tucker, if you would please?”

Tucker nods, and heads deeper into the apartment. Jazz steps out of Sam’s apartment with a soft smile. Ancients. He’s missed her. 

“Jazz!” The siblings hug tightly, and Danny feels something in him break. It’s been more than a couple months since he last saw her--all four siblings keep in touch through various methods, though CW is kind enough to relay notes to the other two every month or so--but Jazz and Danny used to talk weekly. Has it really been that bad?

“Hello little brother. It’s been a while, huh?” Jazz’s smile is soft and the guilt threatens to consume him. He opens his mouth to apologize but she shushes him and gently pushes him back into his seat. Tucker clears his throat. 

“So you’ve been working yourself ragged, dude. And since you were clearly zoning out I’m gonna say it again. This is an intervention!” Tuck makes some jazz hands, and Sam rolls her eyes.

“You’re going on enforced leave, and before you can say anything about anything, we’ve worked it out. It’s another CW-Approved Vacation!” Sam is as excited as she can get, and Danny doesn’t blame her. She loved hearing stories about his time as a crime-fighting dog, and has always thought it was good for him. Tucker was jealous, but after learning that he would eventually get to do his own Pharoh-related adventures from Clockwork, he’s gotten better about it. 

“CW-Approved? You mean...” Danny looks over to Jazz, who nodded with a wide smile.

(After she had come back from her ‘Rite of Passage’, she’s been a little more solemn. Even though she didn’t tell them everything, Danny knows. He remembers Jason talking to him about his childhood dog, and he...well. He could fill in the blanks.

Danny didn’t leave Jazz’s side for days from the guilt. The guilt of sending her there, the guilt of thinking that when it would mean Jason would have been alone, just...guilt. 

But the stories she told were so happy. It was only for a couple of years, but Danny knows Jason eventually gets his happy end, not-so-happy as it might be. He knows Jason survived, and that’s all that mattered. 

“It was my only comfort, your stories. That he made it. It was the only way I was able to do my job.” Jazz had said one night. She was crying because the memories were fading. As a liminal, the memories would be more akin to nostalgia, as opposed to the picture perfect recall Danny boasted as a halfa.

When she first came back, Danny watched as she spent sleepless nights recording everything into a journal while she still remembered. Having the journal still didn’t make it any less heartbreaking when she couldn’t remember Jason’s favorite ice cream flavor without asking Danny or consulting the journal.)

“But...but Ace died. I can’t just go back--they wouldn’t just take a random--” the thoughts are whirring in his mind, and he can’t seem to articulate himself.

“Danny, calm down! Nobody said you were gonna go back as Ace. You have shapeshifting powers, dude. Just change into a different breed! Personally, I was thinking a basenji--”

“Tucker, nobody asked about your Anubis-bias--” As Sam and Tuck fell back into bickering about what type of breed Danny could shape shift into (with Tucker pulling up a variety of pictures on his PDA) he looked over to Jazz.

“Jazz? What...” She smiled at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I talked it over with Clockwork and Frostbite, Danny. There’s a dog...well. I’m a little bit more liminal now, and there’s a perfect chance for me to...to see Jason again. Give him a little support whilst he’s moonlighting as Red Hood.” Danny sucked in a breath. 

Red Hood was a point of contention for Jazz. She didn’t exactly disapprove, but it hurt her to realize what happened to her boy after she left. After Ace left. Jazz is too nice to say it, but after she came back and told him what happened he’s always felt like a failure. He already felt guilty he wasn’t able to help Batman find Robin II before...well. But to find out he failed to protect Jazz’s boy? 

He would never deny her the chance to see her boy again, especially since she had so little time...but Danny was a different story. 

“Dick has Dani--he has Haley now. I won’t have a place there. I don’t...I don’t think I could be by Jason’s side either. Not after...” Ace had tried. But Jason refused to stay at the Manor more than necessary and Tim was too busy picking up the pieces for the Bat Hound to butt in. After Dick left, Ace was all Damien had and even that was short lived.

“What about Tim?” Sam asked. She and Tucker had apparently finished bickering. 

“Yeah, you always said that boy was way too independent and self-sacrificing for his own good.”

“That sounds familiar.” Sam interrupted, but Tucker continued as if she hadn’t said anything.

“And didn’t Dan say there was a new kid? Duke, right?”

“Danny,” Jazz started, gently, as if talking to a spooked animal. “Danny, I know you feel like you could have done more, or that maybe your role is done. But, little brother, you did your best.” Danny wanted to protest, but Jazz kept talking over him. 

“And doesn’t Dan always complain about how he can’t possibly live up to the Ace name? Besides, you don’t have to be Ace.”

“But I don’t know if I can be anyone else--you guys know how bad I am at lying!” 

“It’s been six years dude. It’ll have only been one or two to the Waynes! You’re different now.” Tucker interjects, coming around Danny to lean his weight on his shoulders.  

“And who cares if they recognize you? From what Dan and Dani’s told us, and from what you’ve told us, that family is definitely used to things weirder than their family dog coming back from the dead.” Sam rolls her eyes, before heading to the kitchen clearly done with this conversation.

He feels Jazz pat his hand again, and when he meets her eyes he already knows he’s lost. 

“You haven’t mentioned Bruce.” Danny’s heart pangs. Dick was his boy, but Bruce...He hangs his head. Tucker, sensing Danny’s resignation, whoops in the background and shoves his PDA into his face.

“So I was thinking, what about a Mastiff?”

Danny decided he needed a vacation. He had recently gotten shapeshifting powers in his ghost form, because ectoplasm could be molded and stretched. The only thing that needed to stay the same was his core. He decided to become a puppy, and live out a few years with a good family. Unfortunately, he got involved in a dog fighting ring, and to keep his cover, had to go along with it. But that didn’t stop him from sending messages to the local bats. He’s rescued along with all of the other pups, and Batman had taken a liking to him. He’s named Ace and brought home with Batman. Bruce quickly found out that Ace (Danny) was scarily good at reading people, and after Ace had broken out of a locked cage and saved Batman more than once, that he now had a sidekick that was his dog. Danny was having his best time being a crime fighting dog.