#Kent is so hot and I’m tired of acting like he isn’t

[sergeanthatredbignaturals]

Why is sad, old, ex-military, (borderline/ex-)alcoholic, PTSD having, severely troubled men becoming a type

😞

Sergeant Hatred Kent

The Venture Bro’s Stardew Valley

This CANNOT become a recurring thing

[primasveraas-writing]

"Kent v Fucking Automobile" -Ted Lasso

This is an accompanying piece to 2 others in this series, but I consider it an AU of the first one. The subject matter is the same, but things go down differently. This one can be read on its own.

Part 1 // Part 2

WORDS: 3482

XXX

Roy Kent’s life is fucking incredible.

For one, he has a gorgeous, wonderful wife, with whom he has a fucking wonderful son, and if that weren’t enough, they’re expecting another baby in just a few short months. But, not only does Roy have a perfect fucking family that he loves, he also has one of the greatest fucking jobs in the world: coaching AFC Richmond (a career second only to being a footballer himself).

He’s headed to work early; Sam needs him for something before practice, and apparently, Roy loves this team enough to miss part of his morning with his wife and son.

It’s one of those days where he’s on autopilot, barely needing to pay attention to what he’s doing. He’s slowing for a traffic light when it turns green, and then there is a mass moving towards him, and he jerks the steering wheel, dread heavy in his chest.

All Roy knows is that he’s bracing himself, then there’s pain, then a hot flash striking his arms and face, then the world stills and he’s opening his eyes. There’s an airbag in his face and horrible pressure against his right side. He blinks, slowly, and tries to take a steadying breath. That doesn’t hurt, at least, and he looks around.

His door is bashed in, bent awkwardly into his body. He can hardly see around the airbag, but he can feel the metal against his leg- his fucking leg, as if it weren’t fucked up enough- and the other car is rammed into his own. Roy swears, loudly, and realizes that there are people starting to swarm around the wreck. He groans and curses again- he doesn't particularly fancy making the headlines with this one.

He gives one of the pedestrians a thumbs up, then fumbles around for his phone. There's no moving until the other car is gone, and even then, Roy's not sure he'd be able to climb out of his seat without collapsing. The phone rings once, twice; long enough that Roy can feel his hands shaking.

"Keeley," he says when she picks up.

"Roy," his wife answers, and she sounds startled.

"I'm okay," Roy says, staring down a bystander, who's unabashedly taking pictures of the scene. "Whatever you see, I'm okay."

"Okay," Keeley says, and there's an edge to her voice now. "What's-"

"I was in a car accident. I'm fine."

Keeley gasps; Roy wavers, suddenly regretting his bluntness. "Some wanker hit me from the side. Airbags went off but aside from being very pissed, I'm alright."

He hears Keeley breathe in and out deeply, and more anxiety bubbles in Roy's stomach. He feels hot, uncomfortably warm, and when he raises his free hand to his head, it comes away wet with blood.

"Are you sure you're alright, Roy? Did you call 999?"

"No," he mutters. "Though I'm sure someone else did." A beat, then:

"I think I fucked up my leg."

"Does it hurt?"

Roy looks down, tries to move his leg, and bites down hard on his tongue to keep from yelling. "A little."

"Okay." He can hear Keeley moving in the background, undoubtedly getting her keys. "Where are you?"

Roy peers through his cracked windshield and finds his vision is blurry. "I don't know," he whispers, and closes his eyes. "I was on my way to the pitch, but-"

"Right. I'm coming to find you."

"Wait," Roy warns. He can hear sirens approaching. "Worry about Oliver first. I'll meet you at the hospital, okay?"

"Okay." Keeley manages to sound businesslike. He knows she's trying not to reveal her worry, and that she knows he's downplaying the circumstances. "I'll see you there, then."

Roy waits for her to end the call. There's a few seconds of silence.

"You're okay, yeah?"

"Yes, Keeley," Roy promises. "I'll see you soon."

"Okay," she whispers back. "Love you."

"Love you, sweetheart."

-

Keeley stands in her kitchen and releases the kind of profanity only Roy is usually capable of. Her purse and keys are already gathered in her hands, but there's just one thing she has to worry about first.

"Oliver, love, we're going-" She bites her tongue. She can waste precious minutes asking the neighbor to come and watch him; if that fails, she'll have to find someone to come over and that could take any amount of time.

"We're going to the hospital!" She declares, and her and Roy's little terror sprints into the room and cheers.

Keeley scoops him into her arms, feeling incredibly unbalanced, and makes her exit, grabbing the first pair of baby shoes she can find. She's sure she's missing something, but at least her toddler won't have bare feet.

She calls Ted and Rebecca on the way there; Ted to watch her son and Rebecca to watch her. It'll make them both late to work, she's sure, but there are few people she'd trust more to support her family.

As expected, both of her friends drop everything to help her. Ted sobers up the moment after Keeley says hello; the worry in her words must be painfully evident. In turn, Rebecca vows to be at the hospital in a time that guarantees some horribly reckless driving, which is terrible, given the circumstances, but Keeley knows Rebecca and her best friend bribing her driver isn’t Keeley’s greatest concern right now.

Unsurprisingly, Rebecca is waiting at the hospital for them, Ted at her side. He’s white in the face, which confirms Keeley’s suspicions about their ride over, but he scoops Oliver into his arms, asking how his day has been and if he’d like Special Texas Pancakes for lunch. Keeley offers Ted a wordless smile in thanks before Rebecca takes her inside.

“All I know is they’ve admitted him,” Rebecca says, glancing at the receptionist. “They wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“Right, well, you can’t bribe hospital staff all too easy,” Keeley muses. She gives her name to the attendant, who, despite Rebecca’s glowering, tells them to wait, and they take a seat.

It’s only a few minutes before a nurse is pointed towards them. He smiles at them, which Keeley takes as a good sign, though she still clings to Rebecca’s hand during the whole of the conversation.

Roy is fine; he was brought in conscious, but with a severe leg injury and a probable concussion. The doctors aren’t terribly worried, but they have to act fast.

“We understand that Mr. Kent has a previous knee injury.” Keeley nods. “This complicates things. Preliminary tests suggest that there’s further damage to his knee. We still need to do an x-ray and an MRI, but it’s likely that he’ll need surgery.”

Keeley swallows, hard; the youngest Kent-Jones gives her bladder a kick, and she shifts uncomfortably.

“We’ll let you back as soon as we find a room for Mr. Kent.”

“I’d like to see him before any surgery,” Keeley asserts, but her voice is strained.

The nurse nods. “Of course, Ms. Jones.”

-

Soon translates to an hour, but Rebecca occupies Keeley, complaining about idiot businessmen and updates on her mum and anything else asinine that Rebecca can think of. Keeley’s leg shakes up and down, but her thoughts aren’t totally captivated by worry, and that’s good enough.

A different nurse takes her back to see Roy when it’s time, and they wind down a long series of identical hallways. The air is stale with sickness and nerves, and Keeley’s boots click on the linoleum of the otherwise silent hall. Then, they round a corner and the nurse pushes open a door, leading Keeley past curtained-off beds and finally, to Roy.

His eyes are closed. Bright red skin indicates the burn of a deployed airbag, and there are cuts on his face and arm. The hospital gown does him no favors, revealing his mangled leg and the mess of bandages covering his knee.

Tears well in Keeley’s eyes. It’s the most vulnerable she’s seen Roy, topping his last game with Richmond, his retirement conference, and his reaction to the birth of his first child. He’s pale, clearly in pain, but when his eyes open, they seize her up quickly.

She breathes out his name, moves to the head of the bed to run her fingers through his hair, and presses a kiss to the unmarred part of his forehead. His hand captures hers, gripping tightly.

“I fucked my knee,” he whispers, and Keeley nods.

“We’re gonna unfuck your knee,” she tells him, unsure of how much she means it. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Roy nods, alert, but obviously tired. His voice was shaking on their call; it’s steady now, but Roy is stuck in a grimace, and he’s barely moving as he talks to her.

“What did they tell you?”

“Not a lot. What did they tell you?”

Roy eyes her suspiciously. “Fuck all. They did a hundred fucking tests and kept their damn mouths shut.”

“Okay. Let’s wait for the doctor, then.”

“Keeley-”

They know each other so well. She’s hard-pressed to get out of this one.

She can see the argument brewing in his mind- his lips are parted, his trademark scowl graces his lovely features, and she knows that he has every right to be frustrated.

“Well, you’re not gonna lose your leg,” she informs him, and Roy snorts. Keeley bites her lip. “I think.”

“It’s fucking useless anyway.” Roy rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking playing football with it.”

“Legs have other uses, you know,” Keeley points out, and Roy snorts again.

“Fuck that."

A smile is tugging at her lips, and Roy is about to mirror the expression despite everything fucking hurting when metal scapes against metal, and the curtains part to reveal a doctor, who smiles at them both. Roy scowls.

“You’re going to cut my fucking knee up.” He accuses, and the doctor nods.

“You tore several major ligaments and we need to prevent permanent nerve damage and limit the risk of blood clots.”

Roy’s scowl deepens, impossibly. “Fine.”

“Excellent. We’ll get prepped for emergency surgery.” She looks at Keeley and Roy, at how tightly they’re holding each other. “I’ll give you two a minute before we take you back.”

Keeley murmurs her thanks, and turns back to Roy.

“Right,” she says, brushing a stray curl off of his forehead. “You be good, and enjoy the hell out of those painkillers. I’ll see you soon.”

“Right,” Roy agrees, kissing the back of her hand. “Don’t eat shitty hospital food if you get hungry. Make Rebecca order you something fancy while you wait.” Roy’s brow creases. “Ted has Oliver, doesn’t he?”

“He does, yeah.”

“Fuck. Well, Ted can keep him when he has his massive fucking temper tantrum ‘cause of all the biscuits he’s eaten. And you fucking relax and don’t worry too much about me and my fucking knee, okay?”

“Okay.” Keeley bends to kiss him, and he smiles at her, not with his usual brilliance but something close, and that’s enough. She knows he’s in pain; she can read it in every line on his bruised face, but he’s being unflappable for her, and she can try and do the same. “I love you so much, Roy Kent.”

“I fucking love you, Keeley Jones,” he tells her. “And tell Ollie I love him too.”

“I will. He’s gonna cuddle the fuck out of you when we get home, you know that.”

“Damn right.”

-

Keeley stays with Roy until nurses come to take him into surgery. She watches them wheel her husband down the hall and through a forbidden set of double doors, and exhales.

She finds Rebecca quickly enough, who ensures they celebrate Roy’s prognosis and consciousness and retainment of his humor. Over and over, she repeats Roy’s words in her head: he’s going to be fine, and she shouldn’t worry too much.

Rebecca regales her with tales of the worst men she’s worked with; when that fails, they compare notes on baby names. They laugh and grin without light ever reaching their eyes and neither utter a word about it, but Rebecca confiscates Keeley’s phone when her Twitter mentions blow up. There are pictures of the accident, and of a bloodied Roy Kent being loaded in an ambulance, and Ted texts her to let her know that he’s brought Oliver inside where any nosy press won’t catch a glimpse of him. Her heart aches for her son, who would be distressed if he knew any better, and who likely won’t get to see much of his parents today. Ignorance is bliss, though, and Keeley thinks of Roy’s last smile to her, and not of his strained words when he called her, or the pictures of his totaled car online, or how fragile he looked in the hospital bed.

There’s a nagging at the back of her brain, though, of what would’ve happened if Roy couldn’t reach his phone, or if he left home a second sooner or a second later, or if she had gone with him, or if he had to drop Oliver off somewhere along the way, or if the other driver had been going a tiny bit faster or hit Roy at a slightly different angle. He’s lucky, after all, that it’s just his leg, that it’s not even broken, that their baby wasn’t in the backseat, that Roy will ultimately be fine after this, he’ll be fine, because he’s still so fucking young and his son is still a baby, really, and he hasn’t even met his second child yet.

Keeley takes a shaky breath, and Rebecca captures Keeley’s hand in both of her own. She rubs her thumb across the back of Keely’s hand, and the younger woman rests her head against Rebecca’s shoulder, and the two women stay like that for a long time.

-

It’s three hours before they get any word about Roy. Keeley thinks, really, that it should have been like, half an hour at most, but the nurse who talks to them says all good things, and that they’re almost done. Some of the damage is permanent, especially to Roy’s nerves, but the rest of him is fine. Walking normally will be the greatest challenge, and to Keeley, that’s a nominal problem given the rest of his prognosis.

Rebecca stews when they have to wait another couple of hours: first, the surgery has to wrap up, then Roy is brought to a recovery room to be monitored, then finally, finally, he’s moved to a private room where they can sit with him. The whole time, Rebecca lingers an inch away from total fury, but Keeley lets Rebecca be as angry as she likes, so that way, Keeley doesn’t have to be and all her energy can be focused on Roy.

It’s quieter when she sees Roy this time, more peaceful. Even Roy Kent doesn’t scowl in sleep, and despite the IV in his arm and the injuries peppering his skin, Roy appears at rest, genuinely so. Keeley waits, alone for the first time that day, for him to wake, and when he does, Roy only mumbles hi and offers a groggy smile before he’s out again. Keeley texts Rebecca and Ted an update, and that’s how her afternoon passes, her husband in and out of sleep, and not much else in the world mattering.

-

The next day is a flurry of doctors and physical therapists, and their three-year-old son navigating a hospital for the first time. Roy’s concussion means wearing sunglasses indoors, but Ted drops Oliver off with a matching pair for him and Keeley, and their first family picture after the accident is of them in the hospital, all wearing shades inside like a bunch of proper arseholes, Roy’s face impassive but Keeley and Oliver positively beaming at the camera. Roy learns how to navigate on crutches, as is the condition of his release, so he struggles his way up and down a short hallway, swearing all the while, his grouchy disposition only faltering when Oliver makes his opinion known about the matter (“Daddy has four legs!).

They’re sent home, donned in sunglasses and laden with crutches and high-grade painkillers, late that day, and Roy has to wonder if Rebecca’s paid off the press when he’s loaded from wheelchair to car without any twats snapping pictures of him at his worst. Later, he’ll confirm that she did, in fact, pay the tabloids to piss off, accompanying a press release along the same lines. He and Keeley are lucky to have such a friend, he knows, especially one that doesn’t believe in bullshit.

He’s absent at the next Richmond match and most of their practices the following week, in favor of sleeping frequently. Something wonderful about needing three fucking naps a day is that Oliver will nap with him, which gives Keely a much-needed break, and also there’s nothing fucking better than his baby asleep in his arms, because he loves his son so fucking much but sometimes it’s fucking nice when Oliver isn’t running around like a maniac, and Roy can just hold him.

Putting any weight on his leg is fucking hard. Showering is fucking impossible, bending down to pick up Oliver’s ridiculous toys is difficult, stairs are a fucking burden on humanity, and Roy is in so much fucking pain all the time. It gets better at a snail’s pace, and he manages to make it through a full day of work on an obscene amount of Tylenol and Ted literally cheering him on in the most annoying way possible. The only thing that pacifies him is Keeley coming in to kiss him at various intervals throughout the day, and he buries his head against her side and she runs her fingers through his hair, and their kid-on-the-way sometimes kicks against Keeley’s stomach, which never fails to be spectacular.

Roy masters crutches, even though the dumb fucking things make his armpits hurt, and a month after surgery, when Roy has endured physical therapy and public sympathy and a thousand fucking stairs, he begs his doctors to let him off them. And so, they introduce the next alternative that Roy will use for the rest of his fucking life.

A cane. Roy Kent, still fucking young, is fitted for a cane, which Ted immediately wants to decorate with lights and streamers and shit, and that Oliver tries to use as a fucking lightsaber and wack people with. It’s fucking terrible, but it’s also the first thing that makes Roy laugh after coming home from the doctor’s with his fancy new stick.

They told him and Keeley this, that first day in the hospital after the wreck. That he would never walk the same, that some of the nerves were too far gone. There’s nothing he can do, aside from physical therapy to build up some strength. It’s damning, and a hard pill to swallow, but Roy’s knee has been fucked since his last football match against Manchester, and he knows that. Keeley reminds him that his life is still pretty incredible, after all, and Roy has to agree.

His daughter is born shortly after, and Roy weeps when he figures out how to hold a cane in one hand and his precious baby in the other. Frequently, he looks like the corniest fucking dad ever, because it’s honestly easiest to carry Lily in a papoose, but Roy fucking Kent’s reputation holds up: he’s still the scariest motherfucker to ever grace the face of football. When he takes her to practice, though, he finds that this effect is somewhat diminished; he yells at one of the boys to tighten up, then his daughter gurgles, and Roy is caught gazing down at her with a dopey fucking smile on his face.

The first cane breaks when Richmond loses by a slim margin thanks to a few small mistakes. Roy is minutes into a post-match debrief when he punctuates what went wrong with the cane against the whiteboard, and the wood slams against metal and splinters into a hundred fucking pieces all across the locker room, footballers ducking for cover, Roy’s chest heaving as he surveys the scene. Then Ted sits Roy down, commends his incredible strength, and tells the team to goldfish their way through this, and that they’ll work through it during the next practice.

Oliver breaks the second cane. And the third. And then Roy concedes style to durability and gets a fucking metal cane that his kids aren’t allowed to touch.

His life is different, largely because he’s a father of two now, and stairs are fucking terrible and he hates them. But, aside from that, he’s still Roy Kent, Keeley Jones’ husband, parent to the two best fucking kids in the universe, football coach extraordinaire. That’s pretty fucking good, in his book, and in the end, there’s nothing fucking wrong with using a cane so long as Oliver doesn’t kill anyone with it.

[hintofcolor]

If I’m in pain you are gonna feel it (I never got to tell him I loved him and it’s your fault)

Tim yells at Clark because he’s sad and misses his best friend

It was quiet. Cassie and Tim stayed back, while everyone else went up to the house, sitting under the tree that gave shade to fresh turned dirt and concrete slab. The trunk of the tree wide enough that they could sit side by side and still lean back against it. 

“Conner Kent,” Cassie read aloud the name on the tombstone, “the fact that that’s the name they went with makes me want to break the ugly thing.” 

“Go for it,” Tim responded as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing the tears back in. He’s cried enough in front of people. “Maybe he’ll be offended enough that he comes back to tell you how rude it is to vandalize his grave.” 

Cassie chuckled, “If anyone would come back from the dead because of a hurt ego, it’d be Kon.” A small, soft smile settled on both of their faces.

They sat in comfortable silence just being in each other’s presence. They were the only two left. It hurt, but at least they had each other. It was nice, comforting, to just see the other. To watch each other’s chest rise and fall, to see their eyes flutter, tired and sad, glazed over with tears, but full of life. The sun turned a warm red and the sky lit up in vibrant colors. It was beautiful. It reminded Tim that Kon would never be able to keep the promise of showing Tim the sunsets in Hawaii

“You wouldn’t believe it man!” Kon beamed, “the sunsets and sunrises are unreal. It’s like they are fake. Like some one, I don’t know, painted them. I don’t know how to describe it.” Kon sat next to Tim on the water tower in smallville. Kon had flown up there, the whole ‘not being able to be himself’ thing weighing heavy. So they sat on the tower and Kon talked and Tim listened. When the sun started to set Tim smiled and made a remark about how beautiful it was and how he doesn’t see sunsets a lot because Gotham and pollution and such. Which in turn, made Kon start gushing about Hawaii. Tim turned to give Kon his full attention, while Kon sat with his arms resting on the barricade, his legs hanging over the edge, and his eyes glued to the sky. “You gotta see it I swear.”

“I believe you.”

“No I’m serious. I want you to see it for yourself. One day I’m going to take you to see a sunset in Hawaii. That’s a promise.”

 “I’ve got to head home.” Cassie’s voice breaking through the memories. “It’s been a long day, and it’s almost dark, I don’t want my mom to worry. Will you be okay? You can stay over at my place if you think your family will be to much.”

“Thanks Cass, but I’m okay.” Tim responded. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes settled in place. Like it belonged there. “I don’t think I’m through saying goodbye yet.”

Cassie simply smiled sympathetically. The look of his smile made her nauseous. She hurts too, so bad, but Tim has lost so many people already, she would give anything if she could just take his pain away. Seeing some one she loves in so much pain, knowing she can’t do anything about it, leaves her uneasy. As if she’s in pain for them. She wants to stay a little longer. Sit next to him, holding his hand, or resting her head on his shoulder, something to remind her that he’s still there, to remind him that she’s not going anywhere. She almost caved, sitting back down, staying with him till he was ready to go home. She even thought about going with him then too. Curling up in his too big bed, like how they all used to after a particularly difficult mission, leaving them feeling powerless and hopeless. All settled in one of their bedrooms, which ever was closest, just for the comfort of having other people around. They never talked, they just all silently got ready for bed and claimed a spot wherever was comfortable. However, she needed to get home to her mom, because as much as she loves Tim and wants to stick by his side, she really, really needs a hug from her mom right about now. To have her kiss Cassie’s head and tell her it’s okay, and that the pain just means that she cares.  

She flies off, refusing to go up to the old house. To many memories of the four of them are stored in that rickety barn and yellow home. She doesn’t want them tainted by grief. 

Tim watches her go. He leans his head back against the tree again. He was about to close his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching. He stood, perfectly ready to give whoever it was some privacy with Kon. Until Clark comes into view. An anger Tim didn’t even know he was harboring for the Kryptonian came bubbling to surface. Fast and Hot.  He pushed against the tree to stand up right and tall. 

“Are you proud yet?” He asked, venom dripping from every word. Clark turned to look at the boy briefly. Tim could see the guilt hanging heavy in his eyes. “He saved the world. Died a hero. That enough to convince you that he isn’t Lex? That he could be more than his DNA?” 

“Tim-” 

“No. I talk, you listen.” Tim spit. Clark recoiled, but stayed quiet. “You did nothing but push him away for absolutely no valid reason. What makes you think you have a right to stand here and grieve? When you were the one who made his life hell. For years, years Clark, I had to sit and listen as he doubted himself, doubted who he was, whether or not he was good, whether he was his own person. I watched him drive himself insane over his stupid DNA. Because of you, Clark! Because you couldn’t for three seconds consider that maybe, just maybe Kon is his own person. He had a mind, a beating heart, a soul, Clark, and you reduced him to a science experiment. You don’t get to stand here and act like this isn’t exactly what you wanted. Not when that stupid shield drug him down more than you could ever imagine” 

“I tried-” 

“YOU TRIED!? God Clark you can’t be this dense. The Kon you knew wasn’t even Kon! GOD! He changed everything about himself so that maybe, just maybe you would accept him! He died being a person he didn’t even recognize in the mirror. The clothes, that stupid t shirt and jeans, the hair cut, the glasses, his obviously dialed down personality. I can’t count how many times I listened to the same thing over and over, about how much he hated everything he had become, how didn’t feel like himself, how it was driving him insane. And every time I would tell him that there was nothing wrong with who he used to be and every time, every single time, he would respond with ‘Clark would disagree.’ All you did was change him into another version of you. Your opinion meant so much to him and you hardly even spared him a second thought. You wanna know how I know you didn’t try, because if you spent even five minutes talking to Kon like he was more than a clone bred to fight, you would know how much he hated Smallville. LOOK WHERE WE ARE STANDING! He couldn’t wait to get out of this place, and because you didn’t want to go through the, what, hassle? Of coming up with a story as to why he would be buried in someplace he liked. Buried in Hawaii? He is the in the one place that him feel even less of a person forever. God, Clark do you know how pathetic that is? How so royally fucked up that is? Do you know how angry he would be if he knew he had to spend eternity here? And yet you have the audacity to stand here and actually mourn him?.”

“I-” 

“I’m not done talking. You don’t get to mourn some one you wished wasn’t alive in the first place. We both know the only reason it hurts you so much is because this perfectly crafted ‘knight on a white horse’ person you created just took a hit. God, I wish in everything that some one would knock you off of that damn high horse. I am so sorry your hero complex took a hit. I am so sorry that you have to be the villain for once. That you couldn’t save Kon, whether it was from prime or himself. I am so sorry that you worked so hard to make Kon into Clark 2.0 only to have him die. I am so, so sorry that you regret not getting to know him. But that’s on you and only you. And that guilt you’re feeling, the guilt of not being fast enough. Of not getting there in time. Of letting some one die. Of some one dying thinking that you hate them. I get it. Trust me, I get it. A hundred scenarios running through your mind about how it could have been different, how you could have saved him. How you could have done better. How you should have kept them closer. When you are laying there at night, your stomach curled in on itself, your blood ice cold. The hot tears pouring down your face as some cruel reminder that you can’t escape from this. The type of guilt that has you hunched over the toilet, choking on your vomit because you can’t stop sobbing long enough and you’re body won’t let you do both. You don’t panic, you think if I go I deserve it right? You put on the cape and become sloppy and reckless because if you make it out, if you are able to go home and take them off, the pain will set back in. That guilt that is all encompassing, that drags with you all day and all night. Cause no matter what, you can’t wake up. That guilt? I can tell you with a doubt is the worse feeling you will ever feel. And I truly mean it when I say that I hope you choke on it. I hope you scream for help and no one listens. I want you to know what it feels like to be in so much pain while surrounded by people who make a living helping people. I hope people you consider family ignore your suffering. I hope that pain seeps into your skin. I hope the sound of Kon hitting the ground rings in your ears. I hope the sound of his heart stopping replays on repeat.” Tim’s voice breaks, tears are flooding down his face he can’t see anything, but he doesn’t care. He is so angry that nothing else matters. His voice drops to barely a whisper “I wish Kon were here. I wish he could tell you this himself. I wish he could tell you himself how much it hurt to know that you would never love him.”

Tim walked off, up the dirt road that lead to Kent’s long driveway. He paused at the old worn mailbox, before deciding to just keep going. He trekked down the long dirt road, with no clue where he was going. He knew Bruce would come looking eventually. He found himself lying on the cold metal walkway of the old water tower. He just stared up at the stars, like he was waiting for Kon to appear out of  the sky. He closed his eyes, tears still streaming down steadily and whispered the same thing over and over again. Maybe if he said it enough Kon would hear it. 

I love you. I love you. I love you.

[edettethegreat]

How to stage King Lear so that Edmund’s 100% more sympathetic and Gloucester’s 100% more of a jerk

( the prequel )

( the sequel )

(This is 100% about Edmund. If you wanna read stuff about other characters then this isn’t the post for you)

(Seriously this isn’t about anyone other than Edmund)

(This is your final warning- enjoy!)

(Or don’t I don’t care I’m really tired and I have midterms to study for)

General Staging 

-every time Edmund and Gloucester are on stage together, they gravitate away from each other. Kinda like what happens when you try to push two magnets together. If one takes a step towards the other, the other moves away.

-Gloucester rarely ever looks at Edmund. He often walks in front of him when both are walking together. In scenes where a three way conversation is taking place between himself, Edmund, and someone else, he looks at the other person the whole time.

-Edmund faces away from people when he’s lying to them. Often by standing in front of them (but like, across the stage from them so the audience can see them both) (like this—->)

(I deleted the picture accidentally this is not ok now I have to draw it again)

Casting/ Costumes

-(I’m only gonna be talking about the characters that I actually care about how they’re cast)

-Edmund: someone of average height, yet shorter than Gloucester, Edgar, and Cornwall. Around the same height as Albany and Goneril. Taller than Regan. Is attractive (obviously. That’s one of the first things we’re told about him), but leaning more towards cute than hot (as per my analysis in a previous post). Wears shades of grey- all of his costumes make it clear that he’s upper class, but they’re not overly flashy. 

-Gloucester: If I get even one Santa Claus vibe, I’m gonna punch a wall. He should have zero resemblance to Santa. I just saw a production of Lear where he may as well have been a mall Santa. I wanted to scream. Anyway. Onto what he should look like. I honestly don’t care, as long as i can’t mistake him for Santa. It’s the vibe that counts. ANYWAY. His costume is obnoxiously ostentatious, but it gets gradually more normal as the overall stress level increases. 

-Edgar: taller than Edmund, and physically more muscular, but in like “Disney channel movie football player side character who’s no one’s primary love interest and is kinda dumb” sort of way. (Future Edette Editing: What I meant was “he’s a himbo”) He’s not ultra hot, but he’s not exactly ugly either. He’s pretty average looking. He wears shades of brown, because I feel like that suits him.

-Cornwall: tall but doesn’t give off Tall Person Vibes. Preferably with dark brown or black hair, but other colors can work as well. I cannot imagine him wearing anything other than suits that are mostly black with some shades of red somewhere- I don’t care how you incorporate the shades of red into his costume, as long as they’re there. 

-Albany: has a dark shade of blond hair, or a medium shade of brown hair. Any other hair color just doesn’t work. (Future Edette Editing: any color hair other than black is fine for Albany). Dresses sensibly and wears really boring costumes.

-Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia have at least a little bit of a family resemblance. Please. Their costumes are similar as well- all wear standard types of clothes you’d expect the princesses of England to wear. 

ACT 1 SCENE 1

- Gloucester and Kent enter the stage with Edmund trailing behind them. They’re entering the palace from outside. Idk how England’s weather works, but I decided that the whole play takes place in the fall. I’m not wrong. It does. It doesn’t feel like the sort of play to take place in any other season. You can all fight me on this in the comments, I have no evidence to back up this claim. Anyway, they’re all wear jackets. Because it’s fall.

-As Kent and Gloucester say their first lines, they take their jackets off. It’s hot inside the palace. Edmund leaves his jacket on. It’s not a heavy jacket. He’ll be fine.

-As Gloucester finishes up his first line “...can make choice of either’s moiety” he hands his jacket to Edmund. He does this in a very natural way- it’s clear this is something he does instinctively, without thinking about it. Edmund takes it. He takes it instinctively as well, without thinking about it. 

-Kent, watching this says the line “Is not this your son, my lord?”. As in “hey dude. Isn’t he your kid? Why are you treating him like a servant or a coatrack?”

-at “His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge”, Gloucester puts a hand on Edmund’s shoulder in a “yes this is my son” sort of way. He does that a bit too roughly- not in any attempt to hurt Edmund, but definitely showing that he’s doing it for show and not in genuine fatherly affection.

-While Gloucester talks about Edmund, a waiter goes around with champagne glasses. Maybe they have actual liquid (ie water) in them, maybe not. I don’t care. Anyway, both Gloucester and Edmund take one. 

-As Gloucester continues talking, he slowly sips whatever alcoholic beverage is in the champagne glass. (Probably champagne, but hey, I’m no expert on alcohol). NO, this isn’t to imply that he’s only speaking Like That (TM) because he’s drunk. He is not drunk. 

-meanwhile Edmund downs the whole glass, in the standard theatre way of “I don’t wanna be here and I don’t wanna deal with this”

-Gloucester hands his empty glass to Edmund. He seems to suddenly remember that Edmund is, in fact, there. He says him line “Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?”

-At “my services to your lordship” he would bow or something (I don’t know English nobility etiquette, sorry), but he’s currently holding two glasses and a jacket, so he partially bows to the best of his ability. 

ACT 1 SCENE 2 

- A main set piece for this play would be a door or two on wheels that can be moved around. People really like entering and exiting buildings.

-ANYWAY. Edmund comes in through said door, currently located at the back of the stage. Gloucester house have a portrait of Gloucester family in huge on the wall. Gloucester’s in the middle, with Edgar on one said and Edmund on the other. At this point this should go without saying, but the gap between Gloucester and Edmund is much larger than the gap between Gloucester and Edgar. There’s also a desk and chair somewhere on stage.

-As he starts his first soliloquy, he takes off his jacket that he was wearing in scene 1 and drapes it over the back of the chair

-at “legitimate Edgar, I must have your land”, he turns towards the portrait and looks at Edgar. Then there’s a pause in the soliloquy as he goes over to the desk and writes The Letter (TM). Then he continues the soliloquy with “Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund..”

-Gloucester enters. He doesn’t notice Edmund. 

-As Gloucester asks Edmund for the letter, he and Edmund slowly circle around the stage, the way you’d see animals circling when they’re preparing to fight each other. They’re not going to fight. Not directly at least.

-Gloucester doesn’t make direct eye contact with Edmund for most of this scene

-Until he does, at the line “Give me the letter, sir.”. The line itself is said very forcefully. Both Gloucester and Edmund have stopped circling each other. They stand at opposite ends of the stage. There is a pause, and then Edmund takes the letter back out of his pocket and gives it as he continues saying his lines.

-Gloucester spends the remainder of the scene looking at the letter instead of at Edmund.

-“Edmund, seek him out..” is said very offhandedly, like he’s giving an order to a servant, rather than talking to his own son

-Gloucester leaves, Edmund sinks into the chair at the desk. He puts his head down on the desk and leaves it there for a solid second. He starts his soliloquy with his head still down. (Future Edette Editing: I still want something here to show that Edmund doesn’t get any enjoyment from this- he’s doing it out of anger, or as revenge, or to gain what should have been his, had things been slightly different, or possibly as a means of survival. Basically, he’s not doing this to have a fun time at deceiving anyone) He’s not enjoying what he’s doing- he’s not rejoicing at what is seemingly his success- he sees that it doesn’t make a difference. Gloucester would rather have no sons than only have him. 

-Edgar enters. Edgar enters in a great mood. His optimism is turned up to a solid 100%. 

-“How now, brother Edmund!” He speed-walks over to Edmund, who’s standing near the middle of the stage at this point. He does something brotherly- I don’t know what that would even mean, given that I am a girl with no brothers. He puts his arm around his shoulder or ruffles his hair or something. That’s the vibe I’m going for. The “haha yeah we’re siblings and we totally get along” vibe. Edmund is, however, not vibing.

(-if the second option is what we’re going with, Edmund takes a moment to fix his hair. A very short moment, but a moment none the less)

-Edgar notices that Edmund does not seem to be vibing, and that’s when he continues with his line “what serious contemplation are you in?”

- at “..go armed”, Edmund hands Edgar his own sword. This is the sword Edgar will later use to kill him. 

ACT 2 SCENE 1

- On Edmund’s conversation with Curan: This is the first conversation Edmund’s having with someone without there being any uncomfortable tension between them. They talk in a casual way, and it’s clear that outside of the play they would be friends, regardless of status. Why would they be friends? Because I decided they should be. 

-Edgar is doubly armed- with Edmund’s sword and with his own. He was planning on returning Edmund’s sword. When they “fight” Edgar uses Edmund’s sword and Edmund uses Edgar’s. They have different types of swords- Edmund’s- which is now Edgar’s- is slightly shorter and lighter. Edgar’s- which is now Edmund’s- is a two handed sword. These details are slightly irrelevant, but I feel like their weapon of choice (even though they’re using each other’s weapons (ie not their weapons of choice)) should match their personalities. 

- Edgar just. Has NO idea what’s up with Edmund’s “hey we gotta sword fight now” thing. It should be clear to the audience that he’s ONLY going along with it because he trusts Edmund entirely.

-during the fight, Edmund slashes the family portrait with his sword, cutting a line between Edgar and Gloucester. Is this cliche? Yes. Must it happen anyway, because ✨symbolism✨? Yes.

-Edgar leaves through The Door I keep talking about

- Edmund stabs his non-dominant arm. This is relevant and important.

- “But where is he?” Gloucester hasn’t even noticed at this point that Edmund was injured in the “fight”. “Look, sir, I bleed!” Is Edmund’s attempt to get Gloucester’s attention. It’s his way of saying “I got injured for YOUR sake. THAT’S how good of a son I am!!”

- “where is the villain, Edmund?” The word “villain”, not the word “Edmund” is emphasized. While his seemingly innocent a son is standing there with his arm stabbed and bleeding, he’s more concerned with the son who supposedly plotted against him, but is currently running away now and is of no threat to him. 

- (this is the point where I get really into @suits-of-woe’s Cornwall theory, because while I had never thought of it before, as soon as I read it I agreed with it completely. Please go read the theory if you haven’t already.)

- While Gloucester rarely looks at Edmund, Cornwall’s eyes go straight to Edmund as soon as he enters the room. Edmund doesn’t notice- he’s too busy trying to support his stabbed arm in a functional way without bleeding everywhere

-while Gloucester and Regan are talking, Cornwall calls a servant aside and whispers to him. The servant leaves. He asked the servant to get Edmund bandages because his arm has LITERALLY been STABBED and no one’s doing anything about it. 

- Edmund’s focused on his arm until Cornwall’s line of “Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father a very child-like office”. Finally, someone appreciates him! At “It was my duty, sir”, it’s clear that there’s some sort of understanding between them. They somewhat get that they’re on the same side. There is a short pause.

 - “...and received this hurt you see” Gloucester, being Gloucester, grabs Edmund’s injured arm to “show it off” to Regan and Cornwall. Edmund, master of hiding his emotions and such, winces for a millisecond but then goes back to “ah yes everything is ok and I am totally not condensed rage in human form”.

(Future Edette Editing: I am *so glad* I’m editing this because I really don’t like some of the stuff I shoved in here to try to cater this to a larger audience)

-after “..how in my strength you please”, that servant Cornwall called returns. As he says “For you, Edmund, whose virtue and obedience..” until the end of that paragraph Cornwall takes the bandage and bandages Edmund’s arm- I mean no one else is gonna do it. That, combined with the content of what Cornwall says in the paragraph, lead Edmund to be like “wait. Is this?? A father figure???” “a father figure? For ME???” 

(-Hence the Cornwall theory I mentioned earlier) 

- “I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else” this is the first line he’ll say in a way that it’s clear to everyone (mainly the audience) that he’s 100% sincere. He’s not trying to be deceptive. He’s not trying to trick anyone. He says it softly and truly means it.

-Edmund’s arm remains bandaged for the remainder of the play. (It’s not heavily bandaged or anything)

ACT  2 SCENE 2 

- At “How now! What’s the matter?..” Edmund comes out holding Edgar’s- which is now his, I guess- sword. He’s holding it well enough, considering it’s a two handed sword and he just stabbed himself in the arm, but it’s pretty clear that he won’t be able to win a fight with it. Don’t worry, he’ll get a new sword before his final duel.

-at “no more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers” “his” is referring to Gloucester, not Edmund. This isn’t because Cornwall is ignoring Edmund, it’s because that’s just the order they’re standing in. Edmund entered this scene first out of the four of them, so while Kent and Oswald are on one side of the stage, Edmund stands towards the middle, and Cornwall, Gloucester, and Regan stand at the other side. 

ACT 3 SCENE 3

-Gloucester is angry in this scene. Why is he angry? Because I say so. He says all his lines in an angry and bitter way. Which may be counterproductive- having Gloucester be angry about how Lear is treated may make him more likable, which isn’t my goal. But I don’t care.

-Edmund says his paragraph at the end in a bitter and angry way too. Because ✨ parallels ✨

ACT 3 SCENE 5

-Cornwall is Gloucester’s opposite when it comes to how they react to/ treat Edmund. While Gloucester rarely looks at him and has an anti-magnetic effect, Cornwall stands near Edmund on the stage and looks at him both when he’s speaking to him and when Edmund’s replying. And not in a “good eye contact is important” sort of way, because Edmund faces away from people when he lies to them. Just for staging reasons, not because he can’t lie when facing people. 

-Cornwall knows Edmund’s lying- he shows this by constantly moving so that he’s nearly always standing beside him instead of behind him (not actually directly behind him; scroll up for General Staging, where I explained this.)

-At “go with me to the duchess” Cornwall puts a hand on Edmund’s shoulder, directly paralleling  Gloucester in Act 1 Scene 1. Because I really like ✨parallels✨. Except Cornwall, the same guy who said “thou shalt find a dearer father in my love”, does this in a much more- fatherly, I guess?- way than Gloucester did.

-At “if the matter of this paper be certain...” Edmund does what he does when he lies; ie tries to turn away and takes maybe half a step back. He pretty much trusts Cornwall enough to not walk halfway across the stage when he lies, but not enough for him to either lie directly to his face (or just tell the truth, I guess- but that’s because the whole point of this is to stick to the original script and use only stage directions to make Edmund more sympathetic).

-At “True or false, it has made thee earl of Gloucester...” Cornwall puts his other hand on Edmund’s other shoulder (wow I’m bad at describing things) 

Here are some stock photos to help ya visualize this-

THIS is putting one hand on a shoulder. Note that the two people aren’t necessarily facing each other.

AND THIS is putting both hands on shoulders-

(So imagine that, but minus how aggressive that looks, and minus one of the people’s arms. Also a whole lot less tense/intense.) (Anyway. Moving on.)

-at “thou shalt find a dearer father in my love” (...cue me googling “how on earth do fathers show affection?” Because I really want to get the point across that edmund’s like “a father figure??? For me???” And Cornwall’s like “👍. A father figure. For you.”) HECK I GOT IT. Hear me out. Cornwall pats Edmund on the head (in like, a fatherly way), and with the other hand hold The Letter (TM) (even though this is a different “the letter”) and looks it over. This is the first time he looked away from Edmund since this conversation started. In a way that portrays “yes you are my son now I have claimed you as my own” but also “you are not necessarily my top priority- I can give you the fatherly love and affection you desire, but it’s not exactly unconditional. You did well today, good job! You keep up the good work and I’ll keep up my end of this; ie providing you with the fatherly love you never received in your childhood” ( @suits-of-woe I am trying here. I am struggling. I’m so sorry for ruining the Cornwall Theory like this- I’m trying my best to convey it via my amazing stage directions, but I can see pretty clearly that I’m epically failing at this).

ACT 3 SCENE 7

-Cornwall walks onto the stage first, followed by Goneril and Regan close behind them, and Edmund last. 

-at “Farewell, sweet lord, and sister”, Cornwall nods at Goneril in response (this has nothing to do with Edmund, I always just thought it was weird that he doesn’t respond) 

- at “Edmund,.. farewell” Goneril had already left the stage, Regan is standing next to Cornwall at the opposite end of the stage. Edmund’s about to exit when Cornwall says “Edmund”. He turns around- expecting Cornwall to say something more to him or something. There’s a pause. Cornwall doesn’t have anything else to say. He just says “Farewell”. Edmund nods and leaves the stage.

ACT 4 SCENE 2

-oh heck I gotta stage an Edmund and Goneril scene now

-I don’t wanna?

(Future Edette Editing: and so I won’t!! I don’t normally describe things as cringe, but that’s what this was. I only put this in because I felt obligated to talk about every scene. Oh well- I guess 4.2 isn’t getting stage directions from me)

ACT 5 SCENE 1

-Edmund enters first, dressed in some sort of military commander uniform. Because. Like. There’s a war going on. His sleeves are rolled up/cuffed up to elbow length, and his arm is still bandaged from when he stabbed it.

-there is a tent with a desk in it on stage. Hold on let me illustrate this:

(Future Edette Editing: yeah there was an illustration here, but I’m changing some stuff so I deleted it)

It’s all on wheels so it can be moved around the stage- whichever piece is the most important to the scene will be more up front.

-Edmund stands at the desk which has some military plans of some sort on it.

-Edmund is armed with a brand new sword (Cornwall’s sword? Maybe? Who knows?) (UPDATE: yeah hi future Edette here- I decided that it is, in fact, Cornwall’s sword)

-With Regan, Edmund also doesn’t get that she’s flirting with him right away.

-and then. Then he’s like “OH WAIT” “WAIT SHE’S FLIRTING” “WAIT SO I GOT 2 GIRLFRIENDS??” “OH WOW THIS IS FANTASTIC” “THIS IS LITERALLY THE BEST WEEK OF MY LIFE” (lol Edmund it’s also the last week of your life)

-he 100% realized at “No, by mine honor, madam”.

-Albany stands at the opposite end of the desk. He never moves any closer or further from Edmund than the opposite end of the desk. Goneril would have moved closer but Albany is blocking her.

-as Edmund leaves he puts on his military commander hat of some sort and adjusts it while looking in a mirror or some other reflective surface. Just to show he’s still the same Edmund from act one- he still cares about his appearance to an extent.

-at “the enemy’s in view, draw up your powers.” Edmund half-jogs in back onto the stage- showing that he wasn’t just commanding the soldiers ( if he was he’d have been walking at a moderate pace), but he was actually with them, to some extent, fighting along side them on the battlefield. 

- (Future Edette Editing here: yeah so I deleted the notes on the soliloquy here. I didn’t like them. Oh well.)

ACT 5 SCENE 3

-wow it’s hard to make this Edmund guy redeemable/sympathetic when he kills off Cordelia. Like. He really didn’t need to do that

-why, Edmund. Why must you do this. 

-you’re making my job here (ie to make you sympathetic) very difficult.

-ANYWAY. I’ll do what I can for this scene

-The captain here? Yeah, he’s Curan from earlier. Edmund made him a captain. There you have it, Edmund’s one semi-redeeming factor for this scene

-I really don’t know how to have this part play out in a way that makes the audience sympathize with Edmund. This is the best I can do.

(Future Edette Editing: yeah so honestly killing off Cordelia and Lear was a logical and strategic move to make, tbh. ((Not morally fantastic. But logical.)) Because yeah Albany would have left them alive and then what? They’d get the throne? Let’s be real here- the country’s already collapsing- the last thing you need is Lear or Cordelia on the throne. Even *Albany* would do a better job than either of them. And he wouldn’t do anything at all. So. Yeah.)

-I’m so burnt out right now I know this isn’t the quality content you came here for but I don’t know how to get this back on track either. ANYWAY I am dedicated to finishing this. Let’s go! There isn’t much left to the play! I’m almost done!

-at “Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of war..” Albany speaks in a very harsh tone- talking to Edmund as if he were a child who interrupted class for like the eighth time that day. Albany’s just salty that his wife likes Edmund more than him.

(Future Edette Editing: Sorry if this doesn’t flow well here anymore- I deleted a bunch of stuff)

-as the argument continues, Regan and Goneril get more frantic because they see they’re not winning.

-Albany gets louder and angrier because he’s frustrated that his wife likes Edmund more than she likes him. Also because at this point, he pretty much hates Edmund.

-Edmund, however, is the quietest out of all the yelling people around him. He doesn’t like arguments- or rather, he doesn’t like when he’s the one the argument is directed towards. He tries to stay calm and talk in a level voice. As everyone around him argues he tries to step in between them and silently play the role of peacekeeper. 

-at “Nor in thine, my lord” Edmund is still calm./ not yelling at him. He says it like he’s stating a fact, not contributing to the argument.

-at “half blooded fellow, yes!” My book’s translation to modern english say “Bastard, it is!”. And like. No one’s called him a bastard for like 4 whole acts now. All I have to say to this is Big Oof. (Is that a dead meme? Yeah. Probably.) Edmund is surprised at first- then glares at him- in a way saying “oh? You want to go there? We can go there. I’ll gladly fight you with my own two hands.”

-at “I will mainly my truth and honor” he draws his sword, which I have now decided definitely is Cornwall’s sword. Why does he have it? Idk, Regan probably gave it to him.

-As Edgar and Albany talk before the fight, Edmund swings his sword at nothing in particular- the way you’d see people warming up for a fight. This sword is not a two handed sword, so he’ll be fine even with his stabbed arm. As I mentioned earlier, he stabbed his non-dominant arm, so his sword arm is fine.

-at “In wisdom I should ask thy name..” he does something to indicate that he might know it’s Edgar. What does he do? I don’t know. Something with a whole lot of ✨symbolism✨. I’ll figure it out before posting this. Or maybe I won’t. (Future Edette Editing: Yeah so I figured out what to do here slightly after, and I have a whole post about it- but to sum it up, he looks at the *mysterious masked man*’s sword (which as you may recall was his). And he’s like “oh. Oh. Ok then.”)

-they fight. Edgar (as I previously mentioned) is using the sword Edmund gave him at the beginning. Edmund is using Cornwall’s sword. 

-As they fight it’s clear that they’re pretty evenly matched. (I mean. Then again, Edmund was just helping in battle like two seconds ago while Edgar was just chilling with his half dead/dead father. So. Edmund’s trying to win a duel after just doing a bunch of exhausting physical activity while Edgar is not.)  (Edmund would win if they were fighting when they were both at their strongest)

-(I’ve mentioned this in a previous post, but I’m gonna restate it so that you don’t mess up on how you imagine the fight going down. There’s only one valid interpretation of it, and it’s my own interpretation. That has literally never been used in any production. Yup. That’s the only valid way to imagine the duel.) ANYWAY. As they fight, Edmund seems to be about to win, when Edgar hits his already stabbed arm. Edmund loses focus in that one moment, because. Like. That’s painful. (I was gonna say he drops his sword, but does he? Does that work? I don’t know. If he does or doesn’t, it’s valid either way). Then Edgar stabs him. With is kinda even more painful, and somewhat fatal. 

-After he’s stabbed, some random soldier brings him to the tent toward the back of the stage, where he stays until he’s brought off stage

Here’s an illustration to help you picture this:

-Edmund is more focused on his wound than the conversation. His tone and body language for the rest of the play conveys “You won! I lost! I’m sorry! Can I get medical attention now??”

-Headcanon that Edmund would have lived if he would have gotten some medical attention sooner 

-at “yet Edmund was beloved” he does a little sarcastic laugh (not like a laugh laugh, more like a cynical nose exhale?)- he sees the irony of how all three of them trying to take their rightful power, and all dying at the same time as a result of it.

-while Edmund tells them they still have time to save Cordelia, he sinks down/lies down. He already accepted the fact that he’s going to die. 

-while he’s delivering this news, Edgar and Albany look at him in shock and then at each other. From there to the rest of the scene, no one looks at Edmund again. Not because they don’t like him, just because they find him irrelevant now (which Albany outright states a few lines from here).

-When Albany tells the soldiers to take Edmund off the satge/away from there, he doesn’t look at Edmund, he just vaguely motions to him.

-At “Edmund is dead, my lord” “That’s but a trifle here”, Albany barely turns to look at the messenger. He doesn’t care that Edmund is dead. No one does. The wheel has come full circle. No one cared about Edmund at the start, and he’s just as irrelevant now. Edmund wanted to be something to people. He would have wanted them to react to his death. If they had celebrated it, he would have been happier than if they ignored it. He doesn’t even get that much.

-The Curtains Close. The Play Is Over-

[idlecreature]

*sidles up to you* hey man, want a Magnus Archives rarepair? I’ve got one right here you can have for free. It’s Mordechai Lukas/Hezekiah Wakely. Here’s my sales pitch: 

Mordechai Lukas is only forty years old, but he’s in very poor health. Granted, he’s been on death’s door for several decades, having never fully recovered from the excision of a thyroid tumour - a surgery that scarred his throat significantly, making it hurt to speak. But this isn’t his usual moaning about feeling cold and depressed all the time. This is the doctor listening to the slow gurgle of his heart and telling him “you shouldn’t be alive. your days are numbered”.   

(cut for length)

And Mordechai’s honestly fine with dying. A little.... too enthusiastic, even. On his trip to Italy he forwent normal accommodation to break into and sleep in mausoleums, and he might have returned from the continent a little... haunted. He’s designed and redesigned the family mausoleum a dozen times, and he’s had his own funeral planned for years much to the chagrin of his friends. “What flowers should adorn my funerary wreath?” he writes to Jonah Magnus. “Can we please change the subject?” Jonah replies. “And I swear to the one above if you send me a memento mori I am throwing it in the fireplace.”

Mordechai’s fulfilled his life’s requirements -- he’s married into the wealthy mercantile class, fathered children, and spends most of his time either in a graveyard or wandering like a ghost through Moorland house. His wife, Charlotte, really only wanted a man’s name on her letterheads and spends most of her time on a ship somewhere between London and India. She’s only interested in her possessions, her wealth, in ensuring the books are balancing. Her family made their money in opium prospecting and she’s pressuring Mordechai to open the lands surrounding Moorland for coal mining after a few test bores unearthed rich black seams. Mordechai’s essentially like, “over my dead body,” and Charlotte’s like, “so any day now! :))))” and Mordechai’s sole reason for stubbornly clinging to life is to protect his family’s ancestral lands. 

Mordechai has to occasionally rub shoulders with Charlotte’s friends in the East India Shipping Company. Among them are the Beale brothers, Daniel and Thomas. They have a younger brother, rich but temperamentally unsuited for their family’s line of work. His name is Nathaniel Beale, and, oh boy, he is a treat. He’s awfully similar to Barnabas Bennett, shy and closeted and yearning. Nathaniel tells Mordechai all about his good friend Hezekiah, who he’s so, so worried about, who makes poor Nathaniel ache with hunger and longing and shame all the same. Finally, some delicious fucking food thinks Mordechai Lukas. 

But if this man really is like Barnabas, Mordechai wants to enjoy his demise. So he obtains Hezekiah’s address with a mind to murdering Hezekiah and relishing Nathaniel’s grief and loneliness. It might be Mordechai’s last communion with his god. 

And that’s how Mordechai ends up in a quiet countryside graveyard, staring at the man in a dead sleep at the bottom of an open grave. 

And hot damn Hezekiah Wakely is a sleeping beauty. Muscular, square, with hands big enough to circle both of Mordechai’s wrists if he were to pin Mordechai down. (And Mordechai would very much like someone to pin him down.) He almost feels sympathy for poor, repressed Nathaniel but nonetheless summons the fog of The Lonely and it swallows Hezekiah whole. 

But the crawling fog parts around the sleeping man. There is a certain solidness about him, the weight of someone touched by another power. Mordechai sighs in annoyance but keeps watching Hezekiah. Slipping away once the man blinks awake, stretches his long, tanned limbs. 

Mordechai keeps close company with the Beales after that. Nathaniel passes away in January of 1839. Mordechai finds his grave in yet another lonely graveyard and is absolutely delighted that many of Nathaniel’s sparse acquaintances have forgotten him already. 

Hezekiah is curled up on the freshly turned earth. “I should hang for it,” Hezekiah says. 

“How about a new job?” Mordechai says.

“I’m a murderer,” Hezekiah says. 

“Hold my beer,” Mordechai says.

Mordechai convinces Hezekiah to work as Moorland house’s groundskeeper. By the time the pair of them make it back to Kent, Hezekiah knows about The Buried, The Lonely, the whole wretched Lot. 

“You have a lovely mausoleum, sir,” Hezekiah says. 

“Shame no-one’s christened it yet,” Mordechai replies. (He plans to be the first.)

Time passes.

And Thomas Beale passes away in 1841. 

The Magnus Institute opens its London branch in 1841. 

Daniel Beale passes away in 1842. 

By 1843, the world has forgotten Nathaniel even existed. Except, of course, for Mordechai, who keeps Nathaniel and Hezekiah’s correspondence.  

Mordechai’s now spending 90% of his time watching Hezekiah. When one of Mordechai’s many faceless relatives dies, he sits on the steps of the family chapel as Hezekiah digs. He lets Hezekiah sleep in the grave before the burial. He likes how peaceful the man looks, even when the grave dirt falls in his eyes. He even thinks about burying Hezekiah himself, how that would be another kind of embrace. 

Hezekiah more often than not sleeps outside, on the moor, and when the weather drives him inside he sleeps fitfully in his room in the cellar. 

(Hezekiah sings when it rains, bitten-off, wordless, self-soothing melodies that sound like oncoming earthquakes through the thick walls of Moorland House.) 

(Mordechai listens to him sing and tries to harmonize, and, although the knot of scar tissue in his throat makes his voice sound like grinding metal, isn’t that something?) 

The next time Mordechai catches Hezekiah dourly shuffling to the basement for a restless night he snags the larger man’s wrist. 

“You might sleep better in my bed,” Mordechai says. 

“???” Hezekiah says. 

“Come to bed with me,” Mordechai repeats. 

“!!!!!” Hezekiah says. 

And, well, Hezekiah likes the pressure of Mordechai lying on top of him. Hezekiah is warm, and soft, like peat, and if Hezekiah’s hands snake up to circle Mordechai while he sleeps, then what about it? In Mordechai’s world, they can’t be together in any way that matters. It’s just another thing that isolates him from polite society. 

"The groundskeeper? The man who smells like a bog?” Charlotte says, but she’s relieved it’s not a mistress who might want to live more ambitiously, that they might have to keep a London townhouse for because Charlotte’s the one who’d be saddled with the fiscal responsibility. She’s already writing monthly cheques to buy the discretion of a certain J. Magnus.

And Charlotte has an idea. “Dear husband :)” she says. “If you don’t let me open a colliery I might expose your little affair and you’ll get thrown in jail and I don’t think you’d last very long, dear, with your poor heart :) and when you die I’ll do it anyway :) so how about it?”  

Charlotte never makes empty threats. But at the same time, Mordechai is connected to the lands around Moorland house in a very real way.  

He doesn’t really have a choice. 

Charlotte opens a mine on Lukas land. 

They have their first grandchild, a boy, and Mordechai names him Nathaniel. Hezekiah just smiles at the baby, warmly. (His smiles are so warm.) (Mordechai is spending more and more time at his bedroom window, watching his groundskeeper. Surrounded by bottles of medicine that never make him feel any better.) 

“Are you going to die?” Hezekiah says. 

“It’s likely,” Mordechai says. For no reason he can name, the prospect of his funeral no longer delights him. 

Hezekiah is silent. “I hope the Lord forgives me,” he says, eventually, and a tremor runs through the entire house, and Mordechai hears, far-off in the distance, the desperate peal of a ringing bell. 

An accident in the colliery, they call it. A mineshaft cave-in, trapping 26 men and boys 150 feet under the earth, running out of breathable air, scraping at the cold, unforgiving rock until their fingers and lungs bleed. Crushed and choking and feared enough to paint the walls with it. There’s a thin plume of black smoke. (Mordechai can hear them crying and begging.) 

The mine closes. There’s a lengthy investigation. It will cost a considerable amount of money to sink another pit. Echoing, cloying silence wraps around the abandoned worksite. Mordechai can leave his bedroom for the first time in months. 

He sits on the chapel steps and watches the muscles of Hezekiah’s back work under his sweat-slick blouse. “Do you think...” Mordechai starts. 

There’s something in Mordechai’s voice that makes Hezekiah straighten up. 

“Do you think, when I die, you might cut a hole in the side of my coffin?” Mordechai says. “So, when you die, if there’s a hole in your coffin, our coffins could. Lie together. And. We might be able to hold hands under the earth.” 

It’s the most he’s said at once in decades, and his throat is raw for it. 

“I could do that,” Hezekiah says. “When are you going to die?” 

Mordechai sighs. “You’ve bought me a little time. Soon.” 

“I’ll make you a Coffin,” Hezekiah says, his voice oddly constricted, as if he’s speaking through silt. He drops his shovel and walks off, towards Moorland house. 

Later, from his windowsill, Mordechai watches Hezekiah cut down a whitebeam, feels the heft of it in his large hands. He’s too far away to gauge his expression accurately, but he seems to appraise the wood and finds it passable. He hauls it inside. 

The mere act of watching has left Mordechai feeling bone-tired, and he sleeps. 

And sleeps. 

(In between the sleeping, Mordechai finds himself cradled in long arms, sunburned by the late summer sun. The press of a spoon to his lips as he’s fed a soup that tastes like dirt and tannins.)

And sleeps. 

(When he chokes a little on fluid-filled lungs, he feels warm hands rubbing his back and the choking eases.) 

Moorland house is awfully quiet. 

A hand scraping softly on his collarbone shifts Mordechai blearily into consciousness. “It’s done,” Hezekiah says. “Would you like to see it?” 

Mordechai nods. His limbs are oddly discombobulated, his heart feels heavy and dragging, and he looks up at Hezekiah. The man scoops him up like he weighs nothing and carries him, bridal-style, down the cold, empty hallway.  

The gate to the mausoleum opens on well-oiled hinges. It’s no longer empty; a single coffin now sits in the marbled room. It’s simple - rough, even - the whitebeam a pale, unvarnished yellow. But there’s undeniably a presence to it, an undercurrent that draws you towards it. Hezekiah approaches close enough that Mordechai can run his hand down its flank. 

“I’m not an artist,” Hezekiah says. “It’s even a bit simple-looking, in this grand place.” 

“It’s perfect,” Mordechai says. “Would it be too morbid for me to give it a christening? Try it on for size?” 

“Pot and kettle,” Hezekiah says. 

“True,” Mordechai says. 

“Mordechai...” Hezekiah shuffles on his feet. “I would like to embrace you. Under the earth. It has to be deep enough that nothing can live there, where it is quiet and cold and the dirt clings like damp to your skin and dark enough that our touch can hide in secret, that’s the place we can be together. I think if I stayed here when you were buried the pressure of the world would be so much more than the pressure of the dirt and I don’t think I could bear it. I would like to hold you, under there, and you would have space from the choke and I would not be alone. I think I would like to do that forever, or, at least, until our bodies are less human than they are water and earth.” 

“I would like that too,” Mordechai says. “It’s like a marriage.” 

“It’s more than a marriage,” Hezekiah replies. 

“Yes,” Mordechai says, and lets his head sink down against Hezekiah’s chest, measures Hezekiah’s strong heartbeat against his own, thready and uneven. It’s so much more than he deserves. 

Hezekiah opens the coffin. It makes a comically sharp scraping noise like it’s the door to a vampire’s crypt in an opera, like thousands of paper bats will fly out of it and fill the room. 

It is silent, and cold, instead. 

Mordechai never gets his funeral. 

Most of Mordechai’s papers get passed along to the Magnus Institute. 

And two hundred years later, Jonathan Sims reads some letters. 

[amandaklwrites]

Movie Review: The Mask of Zorro (1998)

Genre: Action/Adventure

Rating: 10/10

Movie Review:

ZORRO! Let me tell you, I love Zorro. He’s probably my favorite of all the action heroes and vigilantes, like superheroes, Lone Ranger, Indiana Jones, etc. I have always been interested in him (I remember my mom watching The Legend of Zorro on the tv one time, when I was a kid, and I was enthralled though I had no idea what was happening).

So, I have gotten back into the Zorro stories. And it started with a rewatch of THE MASK OF ZORRO with my mom.

As someone who has gotten into the stories of Zorro itself, I can tell you that this movie isn’t a remake, not at all. It’s actually cleverly done, on the writers/creators’ part. It’s a continuation, a new series taking after all the original movies. These movies slip right into the storyline, as if it would be what happened after Diego won it all. Since the beginning of the story of Zorro (stories written by a white man, which sucks, like seriously), everyone played Diego de la Vega. Now, in these movies, Don Diego is handing off the torch to a new man who will take on the mask and rapier, Alejandro Murrieta, the fictional brother of the very real Joaquin Murrieta (which fun fact: is one of the men they think the writer based Zorro off of). So, as someone who has learned more of the original lore of these stories, I can sprinkle in some fun catches in these movies that fans of the original will find.

I will take a moment to share my thoughts on someone “new” coming in to become Zorro: I THINK THAT’S FANTASTIC. I like to think that a hero like Zorro can be anyone, someone just taking on the persona. Plus, it makes it more interesting. Then maybe, we can stop getting constant re-dos of Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, and all the rest? Let someone else be Batman. It gets tiring when it’s the same person, especially when the personality has already been created (sorry, but not sorry, that’s how I feel about these situations in movies). Zorro, like Batman, is a title, not the person’s actual name. So let someone else have a try. This isn’t Jack Sparrow, where no one else can be him.

Now, onto the movie itself.

This movie has some good historical background. Spain did control California—well, stole it from the Native people, actually—and they were in talks of becoming part of the United States. The viewer is immediately thrown into the turmoil of this 1800s California that isn’t discussed a lot (unless you are from California, like me, or someone who likes history and goes to a mission regularly, also like me) in films/tv. This was stuff I even didn’t know when I first watched the movies, but now I get it. I can find my place in the film’s world.

I liked that we got to see Diego de la Vega as Zorro at the beginning of the film. He was older, a married man with a daughter, but he still wished to help the people. It gave us an idea of what Diego is like as The Fox (El Zorro means The Fox in Spanish—I learned this recently, because I’m lame), before we move onto someone new to take over the title. Which I think was fun for this story—let Diego have his last laugh before someone else comes. We can see the distinguished characteristics of these two different Zorros, their personalities making the vigilante fresh and different, much like their own people behind the masks. Now, I love Anthony Hopkins, and I think he did a great job in the movie, but I do agree with others that someone else should have played Don Diego. I know he was supposed to be Spanish, whom can look very white, but I would have liked to see someone from Spain play Diego. And he didn’t even bother to try a Spanish accent. That bothered me. But he is a talented actor, so I did enjoy him in the role.

His loss, his need for revenge, after his wife is killed and Elena is stolen, brings a whole new look at Diego. From the original films, he wasn’t one to fall into passion and react in such a notion. Yes, he believed in protecting the people, but he knew acting brashly wasn’t what helped. So, his rage and need for revenge makes sense, and after years in prison and hiding, waiting to get it, I think dulled him down. I liked that we saw Diego with a calm revenge, knowing he had to take his time, and not blow up in someone’s face. It matched his personality, honestly.

And then enters Alejandro. There was a real bandito named Joaquin Murrieta that would travel through California, so I liked that they made Alejandro his brother (though, according to the history of the movie, he was made up for this story, and didn’t actually exactly), so it could be someone who had no connection to the stories. Yes, it was a Spanish actor who played a Spanish-Mexican character, but I think Antonio Banderas was the best for this role. Flat out, I LOVE him in this role. He made Alejandro brash and wild and so charming. Which is always the characters I seem to love the most. The ones who can made you feel pissed and charmed at the same time, while making you laugh. (Fun fact: Alejandro is the name of Diego’s father in the stories as well.)

What I enjoyed most about Alejandro and Diego together was the opposites they played for one another: they had found each other in the worst times of their lives, they were both dwelling in grief and rage, wanting revenge. But they couldn’t be so different. Diego was calm and smart, letting his revenge slow burn through time, while Alejandro wanted to drink himself to death and didn’t give a damn about anything. I thought it was interesting that Diego knew he had to let go of his time as Zorro, and found a part of himself in this young man—though, personally, I think Diego saw a spark in Alejandro that he respected and thought that spark would bring Zorro back to life—and he wanted to help him. To me, the two of them saved one another. Diego brought calmness to Alejandro, gave him purpose instead of blinding rage, and made him feel like a hero when he needed it most. And Alejandro became like a son to Diego, someone who could be saved when Diego couldn’t save his daughter. They understood each other, and they worked together for different things, but they were at one another’s side. They respected, and even cared about, each other. They became a team.

Catherine Zeta-Jones as Elena was… magic. I loved her so much. She was strong and independent, and though her “father” wanted to create a cage around her, she fought against those bars and fought for herself. She had a voice and she knew it, and she would use it. Though, you could tell from the beginning, she was a naïve young woman who had grown up in Spain, with a rich father, and she didn’t have anything to worry about. But she gets thrown into this world of turmoil because of her fathers and her dead mother, while falling in love with Alejandro/Zorro (honestly, who wouldn’t have the hots for a funny man covered in black clothes, who was mysterious and sexy—I’d be tempted too). By the end of the movie, she’s a strong woman questioning everything in the world and learning that she has much more to learn and grow. I liked that though she had learned that her father wasn’t her real father, but this strange man she had barely known, she protected each man from each other. I couldn’t imagine finding out your whole life had been a lie (the man you knew as your father had killed your mother—accident or not—and this other man is your real father), but her fierce strength and caring heart kept her from choosing sides, because she still loved the man she had considered her father her whole life, but finding some newfound love for the man she had briefly spoken to that was her real father. She was a fighter all on her own, with a bright flame that set her on fire, making her interesting from the beginning because she spoke out, but then creating her into a marvelous woman who learned to fight for what she believed in herself, despite what everyone told her.

(Fun facts here: #1) Elena was the name of a character from a TV series and a couple of movies, so I would feel like, in the continuation of the story of Don Diego, he had named his daughter after a friend of his from the past. #2) From this same series and movies from Disney, Diego had a manservant named Bernardo. Which is interesting, because that’s the name Diego gives himself in this movie when he pretends to be Alejandro’s manservant. It makes me think, along with the tv series, he remembered his old friend and took that name for a reason.)

The love story between Alejandro and Elena is wonderful. I liked that Elena had feelings for two different people, who ended up being the same person—wouldn’t that be wonderful! More so, she had lustful feelings for Zorro, the masked avenger whom is just too damn attractive, and intriguing feelings for this Don she had started to know. One of my favorite scenes is when Zorro and Elena are having the sword fight in the barn—it’s so hot and fun at the same time. You can tell they are having a blast with each other, the sword fight more like their dance at the party honestly, but are so filled with heat that they keep kissing each other because the lust is too strong. That entire scene, to me, shows their entire relationship (even after she knows who he is and they get married) and why they get along so well. They like the fire in one another. But they are opposites as well—Alejandro had come from nothing, and Elena had come from everything. But they find the common ground in their love by believing in helping the people, having that fire in their personalities, and just enjoying pissing one another off.

I must talk about one of the best people in the cast—ZORRO’S HORSE! I can’t remember if Alejandro’s horse is named Tornado (Diego’s was), but he was just great. Funny as hell, with a personality of his own. I liked that they had a love/hate relationship. Like that moment of the horse moving out of the way so Alejandro hits the ground was hilarious. Of course his horse is there when he truly needs him, but the horse will keep messing with him in the meantime. It just adds the best part of humor in it.

Stuart Wilson as Don Rafael Montero and Matt Letscher as Captain Love were great villains. Though Don Rafael was somewhat boring in the sense that he was a villain from jealousy of Diego with Esperanza, the way he took their daughter to raise as his own made him a real mastermind. Captain Love was great in the sense that it made me laugh how upset he would get when his ego was hurt—he was like a kid with a tantrum. So that was entertaining. But the terrible things they were doing—forcing the native Mexicans work for them, and then trying to blow them up so there were no witnesses made them truly evil. I liked the metaphor that they were killed by their own greed—killed by gold they were trying to get.

Diego dies, but he leaves behind a legacy—Elena as his daughter, Alejandro as the new Zorro. By the end of the movie, these characters had grown so much. Elena learned the truth of her life and what horror truly looked like, and that she had the drive and care to help the people. Diego had at last gotten his daughter and loved her from afar and learned to let go. And Alejandro had found himself amongst fighting behind a mask, that though he had wanted revenge, he truly wanted to fight for the people. Alejandro as Zorro grew to be cocky and funny, while enjoying the hell out of messing with the bad guys at the same time (the best vigilantes, honestly).

Everything about this movie was great. The themes, the commentary on the conditions people were treated during this Spanish rule. The music was fantastic, the sets were wonderful (they filmed in Mexico City!), the action was packed full in this movie to make it entertaining. Humor was strung throughout the story to keep everyone laughing along with the other strengths of this movie. I loved the effects, with the explosions and fight scenes, everything was on such a grand scale that it took my breath away.

This is a movie about a man finding himself, an older man fighting for his daughter, and a young woman finding her own voice and strengths in a world ruled by men. Though the main character could be said to be Alejandro, I think it was equally all three of their stories. They all came together to help the people, while learning about themselves as well. Which makes for great storytelling, in my opinion.

I loved this movie.

Plus, I just really love Zorro.

[drawingsanddrabbles]

Scandals Stick Together

ao3

Prompt: No Capes AU - First Kiss

Woo! I did it! All seven days, hell yeah!

~~~

Tim thinks that if the room was any more glittery he'd probably be having a seizure. He can't help but wonder if the many chandeliers in the room are real diamond. Bruce only uses crystal in his. 

Bruce's hand closes on Tim's shoulder and Tim's eyes flutter closed for a moment. He wishes Bruce's hand was his dad's. But his dad is in a coma, he reminds himself. It's not his fault that he can't be here to work Tim through his first professional gala. 

"Hey there, Timmy." Bruce says with a smile just as glittery as the rest of the room. "It's good to see you at one of these!"

"Bruce, good to see you too."

"Have you thought any further about my offer?" 

"To buy Drake Industries?" Or the other offer? Tim wonders. The one where he offered Tim to move in with him and Alfred. To work at Wayne Enterprises. To become Tim's legal guardian while his father is still in a coma.

Social workers are terrified to touch Tim's case, and as long as Tim keeps paying them to push it to the bottom of the pile they never will. But it's getting expensive. He can't push it off forever, and having Bruce Wayne as his legal guardian wouldn't be so bad. His other strays seemed to have done well--well, Dick anyway. 

Tim is losing hold on Drake Industries. Every since the plane crash stock has been going down. It's going to crash soon. News of the buyout could, frankly, make it go either way at this point. If Tim agrees he'll have nothing to lose.

But it's the last thing he has of his parents. Dad.... Dad's probably never going to wake up. 

"I told you, I have no interest in selling. I am going to bring Drake Industries out of the ground, you know I can." It's not totally a lie. Bruce does know how competent Tim is. He knows that Tim, if he dropped out of high school, got emancipated, and managed to convince his company that a fifteen year old CEO is a good idea, could do it. If he really tried. 

But Tim's tired. He's so tired. 

Bruce knows that Lois Lane is watching the two of them too closely for Tim's comfort. One word from her and his stock price plummets, and Tim can lose everything. 

Bruce's eyes slide to Clark Kent who sits next to her. He's only focused on Luthor--as always--so even if he did catch something they're saying he wouldn't care, or he'd be nice enough about it that he might actually tick DI up a few points in the stock market. 

Bruce lets out a big belly laugh (one that Tim can tell is fake) and slaps Tim on the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt. 

"Well, you know, if you ever need anything, Kid. Come straight to me." He says with an easy smile and he ruffles Tim's (meticulously gelled) hair. But Tim takes that for exactly what he knows Bruce means. They'll talk about this later. Bruce walks backwards away from him with a wave. "Let's do lunch!"

"Yeah," Tim mumbles, a little pink from the way people are now staring at him, "let's." 

Bruce goes off to flirt with Lois and (probably, from the way Mr. Kansas City has turned bright red) Clark, which leaves Tim some reprieve from endless questions about his future for the company. Tim's hair is now sticking up in a non-artful way so he narrowly dodges old white rich folks and their perfectly made up children as he weaves his way to the bathroom.

He's not the only one fixing his hair it seems, as two other men are as well. One is a boy a little older than him and (presumably) his father. Both of whom are trying to hide that they are watching Tim out of the corners of their eyes. 

As Tim turns his back on them to leave (although he can clearly see them in the reflection on the shiny eco-friendly heat dryer) the father leans over to his son and whispers: "That's Tim Drake. He's acting chair of his company and he's going to lose it to that Wayne idiot in a few weeks. Read it in Forbes."

Tim ignores the way his cheeks turn red and rushes out of there as fast as he can. 

Tim hates the way people look at him now. Ives feels sorry for him, but that's because Ives actually cares about him. The fake way these people do, makes him want to snatch a champagne flute from one of the servers and down it. But really the last thing he needs is to get drunk or tipsy, to say the wrong word in a room filled with piranhas who have diamond teeth and lose everything before he ever gets a chance to earn it back. 

Mrs. Powers corners him (old Gotham money, he tells himself) and starts with condolences (as they always do) before moving onto the obligatory "How's your father doing?" ("Well! Doctors just want him to stay a little more for observation but he'll be up and about in no time!" He says,) then to "do you need anything, darling?" ("Fuck you too Mrs. Powers," he doesn't say). 

Tim doesn't know when exactly he gets surrounded by old rich women, but suddenly they're engulfing him. None of them squeeze his cheeks like they used to, or pat his head, or try to straighten his tie (he hopes that one's because it's still straight but he knows that's probably not the case). Instead they keep distance from him. He's no longer a child of a rival but the rival himself (the floundering rival, perhaps). They're not treating him as an equal so much as something diseased to excise. 

He misses the days when he could just blend in next to his father's side or, at least, hang out with the other rich kids. Wow them with his knowledge (and the thrill) of living in Gotham. 

Tim passes the drink counter (under which he's positive Winston Price the Third and Jennifer Wallaby are making out, because last gala, when he was one of them, Winston had told him he planned to do just that next time he saw her) and orders a soder despite what he really wants. The waiter laughs at him but cuts it out with a glare from Tim and gets him what he ordered. 

He wishes that Luthor would just get on with the dinner part of the night. He was too nervous to eat all day and now he's starving. Also, prearranged seating means people will stop coming up to him to show him they care. 

"Tim Drake, I am shocked to see you here," speak of the devil... "shouldn't you be caring for your father?" 

Luthor knows. Luthor has always known, just as Tim has. His father isn't waking up, no matter what Tim manages to fool the rest of the world into thinking. 

Lex Luthor smirks and Tim turns around. He plasters what he hopes is a Bruce Wayne brand smile on his face. "Mr. Luthor!" He covers his eyes and squints, as if the sun is blinding him. "Good to see you!"

Luthor frowns slightly. "Are... you feeling alright, Mr. Drake?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just," Tim lowers his voice and leans closer to Luthor as if he is telling a secret, "with all these lights, your head is just blinding me." Luthor's lips turn into a pale line. "Really, I think you might want to see a doctor about your perspiration, it's so.... shiny. I'm sure my father's doctor would love to offer some... discreet suggestions."

The snicker behind Luthor almost makes Tim drop his hand. Luthor whips around. Ah yes, and there is the boy that made Tim's takeover of DI old news. 

Conner Luthor. Appeared, as if from nowhere, just after everything from Haiti was settled. The de facto heir to Lex Luthor. Being trained to succeed him, but who's training wasn't even close to succeeding. 

Partier, playboy, and very hot. Luthor's polar opposite. Also, the same age as Tim. 

"Conner, maybe you should carry this conversation with Tim, after all you two have more in common than I do with him." A dig at his youth, lovely.

But before Tim can bite anything back, Conner says in a flippant way: "Well, beauty before age. Isn't that the saying?"

So the rumors are true, they don't seem to be able to stand each other. 

Careful, Tim, he warns himself, cute boys with sparkling smiles might be more than they appear. 

"Lex! How wonderful to see you!" A familiar voice hums behind Luthor, snapping the tension building. The singsong voice can only be Bruce. 

Tim wonders if Bruce has been watching him. Tim doesn't need his help. He doesn't want his help. He just wants to go home. 

Luthor grimaces at Bruce. "Wayne."

"Say, is this your son?" Bruce asks, turning his attention on Conner. He sticks out a hand. "Good to meet you, chum!" Bruce flashes a grin at Lex, "And they call me a playboy. Wow, she must have been a looker, huh, Lex?"

Luthor looks as though he might combust. Conner doesn't take the bait or the hand (he's been famously tight-lipped about his other parent and life before he took on the Luthor name). Conner glares at Bruce. Tim notices that Luthor hasn't convinced him to get rid of the earring for tonight (one more scandal to add to the Conner Luthor package) and wishes he hadn't. He doesn't have time to notice these things. He has to network. To try and dig himself back into a good light for the sake of his company. 

But Bruce, in his blundering and self-focused way, has managed to give Tim a way to slip out of this interaction. All eyes are on Bruce. 

Tim used to have a theory that Bruce was smarter than he appeared. His father had told him that was stupid. Sometimes, Tim thought he was right, but ever since he'd gotten to know Bruce he'd understood his mistake. So he gratefully takes the exit Bruce offers. 

He can't hide, but he wants to. He really wants to.

Thankfully, though it seems that it's time for the dinner part of the gala to begin and everyone and their drinks are ushered into the next room. 

Tim is seated at table nineteen with eight other people who only represent five different companies. Tim sits next to the daughter of a mogul on his left and the son of a different one on his right and it's clear to everyone that the artful Mr. Timothy Drake (Drake Industries) on his place card is just a courtesy. Everyone knows where he really belongs. 

Luthor stands and begins his speech which Tim tries really hard to listen to but gets bored. He knows the gist of it, new tech, bringing Metropolis into the future, thank you for coming, etc etc etc. 

Tim's eyes travel to Conner's seat at table number one, and finds that he's not there. Of course not, probably ditching. 

Tim wishes he could ditch. He knows that the teens on either side of him will find one of their go-to excuses after a respectable amount of dinner and go up to one of the balconies or the roof to drink and smoke and play spin the bottle and other things their parents wouldn't approve of, before making their way back down by dessert and leaving completely respectably, none of the parents the wiser. Tim knows this because Tim used to do just that. 

Despite that Tim hasn't eaten all day his salad just doesn't look that appetizing anymore. 

"So, Timothy, I'm so sorry to hear about your parents. Who are you staying with?" The old lady across from him asks. The speech has ended and everyone has begun their first course. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks. None of his family members wanted him. 

"Myself. I have an attorney for general legal issues but I can live on my own until my father can come home."

"What a smart young lad you are!" The father of the girl on his right says. 

"And so well organized too! I can't imagine my Peter running my company at his age." The father of the boy on his left says. The kid himself looks like he would give anything not to be there right then, Tim agrees. 

"Well, I just worry. It's so difficult to be a deciding factor in a company's decisions and for one so young-why, it must bore you to death!"

Don't tell them anything they can use, Tim reminds himself, lie. 

"Really, it's a piece of cake."

"Well then!" The other adults (read: vultures) around the table seem delighted. 

"Well he may not be bored," one of the younger people at the table says, he's the head of some start-up or another, "but I'm sure we don't want to bore the other kids with this table talk. How is your dog, Miranda? I heard she was sick?" And from there the conversation, thankfully, is led away from the topic of Tim and Drake Industries. The girl next to Tim begins going on about how her teacup poodle has cancer or something and Tim fazes out again. 

Just after the soup course is served Miranda explains to her father that she's having some "lady problems" and might be a while. At the end of it Peter tells his father that he thinks he sees Conner Luthor over by that way, would it be alright if he says hi? (Tim glances over, and Conner isn't there). He's excused as well with a chortling: "Already networking! What an entrepreneurial spirit, that one!" 

By the meat course Tim is losing his mind. The Start-Up Guy tries valiantly to steer the conversation away from Tim's parents but eventually even he is overwhelmed by rich old people and Tim has to repeat the same lies he's been saying for days now. 

It's only once Miranda's father says that Tim might have been a good match for her, if only he were a little older that Tim decides to excuse himself with a 'phone call' from work. Something these people will understand. 

Tim makes it all the way out of the ballroom, and then he decides to push his luck and go looking for some people his own age. 

Since breaking down in a bathroom isn't an option (old rich people use bathrooms too), Tim decides that he might be able to find himself a secluded area where the kids are. 

It's not hard to find them. They're in a much smaller ballroom on the second floor of the Luthor Concert Hall. There's a balcony, Tim knows, he's been here before. 

Rock music blares and can be felt outside the room. Tim used to think that them playing music that loudly was a challenge to their parents: catch us. But now Tim understands it for what it is, just loud music. 

Tim opens the door and a son of an African CEO hands him a joint. Tim wants to, but like so many things lately, he can't. He can't risk it. 

The kid just shrugs, and lights it himself. 

The room smells like smoke: all sorts. Tim spies some beers some of them smuggled in, and some wines from the receiving hall downstairs. His eyes snag on the champagne, but it's the cognac that he really wants. 

"Traitor." Someone says to his left. He turns. It's Joseph. His dad is COO for Maxie Zeus. It's good natured, Tim knows, because Joseph is smiling. "I thought we weren't going to turn into our parents." 

"Didn't have much of a choice."

"Bullshit." Lucy says from Joseph's side. "Let them go belly up and cash out."

"My Dad's going to pick the company back up in a bit." This is the last thing Tim wants, he came up here to stop talking about DI. People are starting to watch him. He can see Conner eating Miranda's face in the corner of the room. 

"How'd you even swing it anyway?" Ha Joon asks. 

"Yeah, aren't social services up your ass?"

"Guys, leave him alone." He hears Tam Fox say. She's always had his back. 

"What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham." Preston snipes. 

"Be nice!" Lucy says. 

"What about school?" Peter asks. 

There's enough of a lull in the interrogation that Tim answers with a shrug and scuffs his shoe against the tile floor. "I'm dropping out." This causes more of an uproar than anything else. 

"No way!"

"God, my Mom would kill me if I dropped out."

"Kill you? My Dad would disown me!"

"Only disown? Wow, your parents are uncreative. There's more than one way to skin a kid that's for fucking sure."

It doesn't occur to any of them that Tim wouldn't have to drop out if his father really was doing okay. 

"Seriously?" Tam asks. Clearly Lucius hadn't told her. Because Tim had told Bruce and there was no way that Bruce hadn't told Lucius. 

"Yeah, seriously." Tim says. 

"What's the big deal? I dropped out." Conner Luthor says with a shrug and all eyes turn towards him. 

"Did you really?" Lucy asks. 

"I mean, I basically did. I never go anyway."

"Ah, young grasshopper. We all don't go to school. But it takes some special cajones to drop out." Vido says. 

"What's the difference?" Conner asks. 

"See, don't go to school and your Dad just pays the administration office to keep it quiet. Drop out and he pays the reporters to keep it out of the newspapers." Preston tells him. 

Conner cocks a wicked eyebrow. "And if he pays both?" 

Everyone listening shakes with laughter. "Then you must have done something really bad," Lucy says, eyes traveling up and down Conner as if only now sizing him up. Conner languishes in the attention from her and Miranda who is staring at him like he's a god. Conner winks at Lucy and Tim feels a little sick. The smoke swirls around Tim's head, making it swim.

“What about that girl of yours? What was her name… Ariana?” Peter asks. “Did you ever get that first kiss?” 

“My parents were held hostage and my mom died.” Tim says more harshly than he means to. He needs some fresh air. 

Tim heads to the balcony but before he gets there Tam grabs his arm. "Hey, how are you really doing? Really?"

Tim grimaces. "What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham, right?"

Tam looks disappointed but she doesn't push and Tim opens the balcony doors. 

The night is cool which is good against his burning cheeks. He wants to rip off the monkey suit. The tie itches and the gel is making his hair feel greasy and his feet hurt and he's still a little hungry. All these little things are coming up and bashing him in the face now. 

"You really from Gotham?" Conner Luthor asks from behind him, making Tim jump. 

"Yeah." He says. 

"Rad." He says which makes Tim laugh even though it shouldn't. Conner grins at him. "So, a kid CEO, huh? Didn't know that was possible."

"It's not. Not really. But I'm trying." (And failing, he doesn't say. Again, it doesn't seem to occur to Conner that it wouldn't matter whether he fails or not, if his father is coming back.) 

"No one's given you shit about being bisexual?" Conner asks. 

"What? I'm not-"

"Oh. Sorry, I just assumed since they said about that Ariana chick and the way you look at me so-"

"I don't-Not you-!"

Conner snorts. "Please, I'm scandalous, not blind."

Tim shuts his mouth abruptly. "What do you want?" Tim asks in a low voice. Conner must be spying on him, there's no way Lex would give up this information. 

"Nothing!" Conner frowns. "Why should I want anything?"

So that was how he wanted to play it. Tim frowns. "I should probably head back down-" He says but when he turns around to go back into the room he finds the balcony door is locked. 

Tim tries not to cry. This can't be happening. It can't- He has to be able to get back down to the party, he-! 

"Locked out?" Conner asks. 

Tim leans his forehead on the door. He wants to die. 

Conner leans over him and bangs on the door but the music is loud enough that no one hears him. 

Conner scowls. "Well I guess now you're stuck out here with me."

"I'm screwed." Tim says in disbelief. They'll be locked out here forever, and even if they aren't it doesn't matter. Coming up here in the first place was a stupid thing to do. Ten more minutes is enough to ruin whatever reputation he has left downstairs. 

Maybe he should just accept Bruce's offer. Whatever he'll get for Drake Industries will be more than whatever it's worth. 

Tim feels tears leak from his eyes. He rubs at them angrily. He's going to lose everything. Every part of his parents, of his Dad.... Mom... 

"Hey, it's not so bad! I promise! I'm less annoying than I seem at first impression!" Conner says hastily. Tim wipes at his face but he's sobbing now. 

"I-It's not you. It's not-It's not- I'm not-" but he can't say anything without the words coming out as a garbled mess. 

Conner, confused and worried, tries to comfort him by putting a hand on his back. Tim pushes him away. "Hey, it's okay." Conner says. He pulls Tim into a hug anyway. 

"I'm going to lose everything." Tim tells him, words spilling out of his mouth. He'll accept Bruce's offer tonight. The paperwork will be done before they get home to Gotham and it won't matter what Conner tells Luthor because it'll already be done. "My company... everything my parents worked so hard for... it's going to be gone. I'm going to lose the last of them."

"But... I thought your father was getting better..." Conner says. Then he realizes what Tim's been hiding. "He's not getting better, is he?" 

Tim shakes his head. His shoulders tremble. Conner holds him tight and he cries into Conner's shirt--soaking it. 

Tim tells him everything. From Bruce's offer for the company to his offer of fatherhood. Conner listens silently, rubbing Tim's back and nodding. When Tim finally calms down, Conner presses his lips to the top of Tim's head. The kiss so fleeting Tim wonders if he imagined it. "You're going to be okay. You at least have Bruce Wayne, don't you? And don't lose hope, stranger things have happened. Your father could wake up."

"And if he does, I'll have sold his company away, don't think that he'll be happy about that." 

"He'll be happy enough that he's alive and so are you."

You don't know my father, Tim wants to tell him. But he doesn't. 

Conner wipes his thumb across Tim's tear-streaked face. "I don't even know why I told you all of that."

"I've got a listener's face." He says.

Tim snorts. "Yes, exactly. That's what everyone says about you. Lex's infamously obedient child."

Conner winks. "Only for cute boys. Lex can screw himself." 

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Really?" The mysterious boy, who came from nowhere, heir to a fortune and company whose CEO he looked nothing like. Tim likes mysteries. Always did. 

And then there was the cute boy comment. Tim tries not to think about that one too hard. 

"Isn't that what the tabloids say?" Conner asks. He spreads his hands out in a half-shrug. 

"Guess I never really believed they really knew anything about you. Not that they really know anything about you."

"I'm a man of mystery." Conner shrugs uncomfortably.

"Clearly." Tim raises an eyebrow. "Come on, tell me something about yourself. Anything. I told you my entire life story."

"Uh uh. That's my business to keep." Conner says shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. Tim sighs, but supposes that is his right.

Of course, without DI on his plate he can go back to his amatur conspiracy theorist detective work. Maybe he'll figure it out on his own. 

Tim sizes Conner up. Yeah, he can figure it out.  Conner's a teenager, and he exists which means he had to come from somewhere. He wasn't just born fifteen. Made in some lab. 

"Yeah," Tim agrees though, "that's fair."

Conner nods. There's a knock on the door and both boys jump as Tam pokes her head out. 

"Tim? Dad's says you better get back downstairs, Mr. Lord is saying some pretty nasty things about your father and Bruce is doing what he can but-"

"Thanks, Tam. I'll head down now." Tim tells her. 

She looks from him to Conner suspiciously. "Gothamites stick together," is her veiled response, her glare at Conner showing what she really wants to say. 

She leans back into the room and Tim just barely catches the door before it locks the two of them out again. 

"Wow. Tell us how you really feel." Conner grumbles at her back. 

Tim turns back to Conner. "Thanks. For... not being weirded out by me sobbing into your silk shirt." (Which is now ruined by the way, he doesn't say.)

"Hey, scandals stick together, right?" Conner offers with a quick grin. 

Tim smiles back and turns to leave when Conner grabs him by the hand. "Hey, wait-!"

Tim turns just as Conner bends down to kiss his lips gently. Tim is too stunned to react as Conner pushes past him into the room. His first kiss and it’s with a Luthor. "Text me next time you want to vent. Listening face." He says, pointing to said face to emphasize his point. "Wayne's got my number. I think." Then he disappears into the party. 

Tim watches him go, shocked. He's standing there so long, mouth open, that Luke walks past him at some point and he says: "I thought Tam told you what Dad said? You going back downstairs?" 

Which restarts Tim and he rushes downstairs, cheeks pink. 

~~~

"Well?" Lex asks as he and Conner sit in the limo back to the penthouse. "Learn anything useful from that Drake boy?"

Conner stares out the black tinted windows, watching as the streetlights zoom past and trying not to think about how Tim's lips had felt pressed against his. "Not a thing. Didn't even show up to the kid party like you said he would." 

Lex narrows his eyes at his son. "I see." 

Conner just shrugs. "Better luck next time."

[themalhambird]

One of Henry Bolingbroke’s first acts as Lord Protector is to disband the Cheshire Archers. 

This does not bother the Cheshire Archers, particularly. So they’ve been told that looking after Dickon’s not their job anymore- so what- looking after Dickon was never a job in the first place. It’s a vocation, like being a priest, except with less frock wearing and more punching people in the face. Money might be an issue, except that the hot-tempered earl of Kent is just as protective of his baby brother as they are, and that nice Earl of Salisbury, too, seems quite literally invested in keeping some semblance of a loyal militia around the place, and given the mob that greeted the King’s return to the city (sodding London, it’s not a patch on Chester) it’s not a bad idea. Matt and Dai found the bastard who dragged the King down from his horse, after, and gave him a few broken bones for his efforts- or a few dozen broken bones- bones were broken, is the point, but it’s not enough. Their King makes several appearances in public, pale and drawn- he flinches when Bolingbroke- the Lord Protector, as he calls himself now- King Richard flinches when Bolingbroke plants kisses of a mockery peace on his mouth, and the crowds cheer Bolingbroke, and jeer at their rightful King, and Matt and Dai can’t break every bone in the city, though they’d like to, and anyway it’s not like that really protects their King from anything. That snake Arundel has come slithering back to Canterbury, and he’s an Archbishop, you can’t shoot arrows at a priest, especially not at an Archbishop but the point is- 

The point is, Dickon needs them , now more than ever- and none of them can get close enough to him to do their damn jobs. Oh, they’ve been taken in to Kent’s retinue, and Salisbury’s retinue, but Kent and Salisbury can’t get to the King either. Bolingbroke guards Dickon almost as jealously as they used to- more so, in fact. They used to let the King see his friends- Bolingbroke won’t. The King makes appearances at dinner, a distant figure at the top end of the hall, and he makes appearances at Mass, but he doesn’t shine like he used to, and the lads are all starting to worry.  There are rumours flying about the place- there were always rumours, but then they were rumours like “the King’s taken to kissing his cousin, the dark haired, pretty one with the nice arms, he’s happier then I’ve seen him since Her Majesty, God rest her soul, left us”- now they’re rumours like “The Archbishop’s sentenced him to  bread, water, and a hair shirt- and he hasn’t slept in a almost a month, and he fell off his horse yesterday- it’s Dickon, he doesn’t fall off horses-

Kent demands to see his brother, won’t take no for an answer, barges past the Lancaster twats on guard. Edgar slips in behind him, casually kicking the Lancaster twat on the right hand side in the ankle as he passes. He holds the door shut once they’re inside, stopping Kent being dragged back out again, but lets Dickon have the moment with his brother. Kent crawls up on to the bed and hugs Dickon roughly, cradling him and kissing the top of Dickon’s head. “I’ll kill him,” Kent hisses, “I’ll fucking kill him, just say the word-”

“For what?” Dickon mumbles, pressing his head against Kent’s chest. “I’m tired, Jack, I’m tired of fighting-”

“Don’t call me Jack, pipsqueak” Kent retorts half-heartedly, as though going through the motions of some old, long forgotten argument. He ruffles Dickon’s hair and holds him, closing his eyes. He stays until the King’s breathing evens out, becomes deeper- then extracts himself, kisses his brother on his the cheek, pulls a blanket over him, and leaves him to sleep. He strides down the corridor, keeps striding around the place until he’s found Bolingbroke, and promptly throws his glove in the Lord Protector’s face.

“Pick it up,” he snarls. “Pick it up, you whoreson-”

Bolingbroke does not pick it up. Ed amuses every single tavern in Eastcheap with imitations of the Lord Protector’s constipated expression while explaining that it would be beneath him, the King’s cousin, to meet the king’s own brother in a duel. 

Christmas comes and goes, Epiphany rolls around and rolls away again. Dickon stops appearing at dinner, stops going to Mass. Rumour says he won’t get out of bed, not even to take communion from the Archbishop- they say he’s turned his face to the wall and is determined to die of melancholy- at least according to Wat and Tom, who’ve taken advantage of their unmemorable faces to install themselves in the Lord Protector’s guard: the best place to spy on him from, given that Bolingbroke’s never glanced at them twice. Dickon would have glanced- Dickon flirted, on occasion, albeit when he was very drunk. Very, Very, Very drunk, and angling for a swat from Queen Anne, God Bless Her. Dickon won’t get out of bed, and Bolingbroke’s fuming, and the Archbishop’s threatening to have the idleness whipped out of him, because they don’t know how to manage Dickon when he gets like this. Queen Anne did, and Neddy York would know, if anyone bothered to ask him, but he’s shut up in King’s Langley so that he can’t get himself in to trouble. 

And they know, the Cheshire Archers, because looking after Dickon is their vocation not their job, the problem is getting close enough to do it. It’s Alan who hits on the solution, he’s always been a bit of a madcap, has Al, and scaling the walls isn’t nearly as dangerous as trying to flirt with Joan Fitzallen just because someone bet you a fistful of groats and ha’ pennies  that you wouldn’t dare. So it’s Al who clambers in through window, and finds the king retching on the floor, strings of bitter, yellow bile pooling in to a dip in the flagstones. “Enough, sirrah, enough my lord,” Al chastises, hurrying over to him and taking him by the shoulders, pulling him in to his side and gently wiping the king’s mouth with his calloused hand. “What a state you’ve gotten yourself in to, hey, hush now,” he soothes, stroking Dickon’s hair, and if he accidentally wipes bile off in to it, Dickon doesn’t seem to mind, which just goes to show that they’re balls deep in shit. 

“Alan,” Dickon mumbles, “It is Alan, is it not?”

“Aye, my lord, ‘tis my name.” his wrinkles his nose. “God in heaven man, you need to wash. Is there water here? Soap? Let’s clean you up a bit, look you, you’ll feel better for it.” A bit of care, a bit of gentle no-nonsensing, a bit of soap and water. It doesn’t fix things, but it makes them a bit easier to fix. 

“They’re going to kill me,” Dickon mumbles, as he raises his arms to let Alan draw the shirt over  his head. “They’re going to hold me down and impale me on a spit like my great-grandsire-”

“They’ll do no such thing, my Lord, not with us all still about- you might not see us, Majesty, but we’re there- we promised you, didn’t we mate- you can sleep easy while we’re keeping watch.” Being rinsed down with cold water probably isn’t anywhere near as relaxing as one of Dickon’s famous baths would be, but it does its job; the King smells slightly better, and Alan finds him a fresh shirt to put on. There are scabs and scars on his body that weren’ t there before, but angered as he is, Alan doesn’t remark on them. Their King is vain, always has been- if Alan looked like him, he’d be vain too; their King is also proud, and as like to be angered by pity as pleased by it, and Alan’s never had the knack of telling when’s when. So he says nothing and helps Dickon on with his shirt, and sits him down on the chair by the fire, and fetches a blanket, and wraps it around him so he won’t get cold. “You’re alive,” he says, sinking to one knee and taking the King by the arms, giving him a slight shake. “You’re still King, even if it is just the title. Its’ a damn sight better place than we feared we might be at, when Bolingbroke came back uninvited.” Richard stares at him, pale and drawn and trembling.  

“You should leave,” he says, “You’ll only get in to trouble, if you stay, I’ll only get you killed. I get everyone killed, you know.”

“Not me,” Alan says confidently. “I’m immortal I am. I flirted with Joan Fitzallen and live to tell the tale.”

Richard stares at him, eyes going round with incomprehension. “In Christ’s name, why would you want to flirt with her?” he asks; Alan grins, and recounts the tale.  He doesn’t get the usual laughs, but he raises a few smiles, and that’s enough, for now. After he finishes, he offers to tuck the King back up in to bed. Dickon shakes his head.

“I think I’ll just...sit for a bit,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Alan.”

“Welcome, my lord.” Alan says, presses a kiss to the King’s forehead, and leaves the way he came. 

They hear, afterwards, that when Arundel next went to say mass and take the King’s confession his Majesty refused to see him, barricaded the room and would not give entry to any man save the Bishop of Carlisle.

Bolingbroke sent for Carlisle. 

[smokedstorybara]

I’m compiling a list of all my wips w/ summaries here to remind myself what all I should be working on and keep myself accountable - and if y’all wanna yell at me about them please do

(Also be warned there will be some spoilers in here cause I suck at non spoiler-y summaries)

Fanfics:

Dear Evan Hansen:

(Apprentice) Park Ranger Handsome part 16 (doesn’t even have a name yet I’m so sorry)

Evan and Connor’s first date!! They go to the orchard of course, and have more relationship conversation... and a picnic.

Fae Court AU

Prince Connor of the Winter Court falls in love with a human boy and acts on it, despite his parents having Rules against relationships with humans. The consequences are big but Connor and Evan weather them well.

Flash:

Soulmate AU (I’m thinking ‘Dream A Little Dream Of Me’ for series title)

A series of one-shots following the Arrowverse characters - with a bit of a focus on Team Flash and the Legends - as they find love and happiness , with some bumps along the way, in a world where you share dreams with your soulmate. Timeline is spread out from Stein and Clarissa’s first meeting to some point around mid canon.

endgame ships include Barry/Len, Hartley/Cisco, Wally/Jax, Sara/Ava, Nate/Ollie/Felicity/Lisa(it’ll make sense I promise), Iris/Caitlin/Shawna, and more

Role-reversal AU

In a world where Barry was kept strictly away from the file on his mother’s murder after he becomes a CSI he grows resentful and distrusting of law-enforcement and a little quicker to recognize that he can’t entirely fix the issues with the police from the inside. So when he wakes from a nine month coma with super speed his first thought is how much he can shove the police’s faces in the fact that the system isn’t perfect and needs to change... he becomes the world’s fastest thief - unbeatable. At least until he goes after a certain diamond at the same time as one Leonard Snart, who walks away from the encounter looking to the world like a hero and gets a sweet taste of positive press that he’s not all that eager to give up.

Harry Potter crossover

Snart and Rory go “backpacking across Europe” on a ridiculous challenge to steal one thing in each country. Their last stop is in England and they’ve set their sights on a suburb in Surrey... which leads them to noticing the treatment of the young nephew of their potential target. Being survivors of abuse themselves they decide to remove him from that environment... along with all of Vernon Dursley’s valuables. Raising a kid is hard, raising a magical kid while maintaining positions as master thieves? ...piece of cake...

Check Please:

Moving On

When Jack and Bitty go through a messy breakup their friends are torn and Bitty is uncertain about what to do, especially when he has to go back to Georgia - where he’s firmly in the closet - for summer break. He can’t talk to his family or his friends about all his conflicting feelings about what happened, so he somehow finds himself corresponding with the one person who he knows would understand - Jack’s other ex, Kent Parson. He also finds himself growing closer to the previous year’s freshmen on his college hockey team and the team’s new manager - especially when summer ends and they’re all handling the situation better than the rest of his friends - ie: behaving like nothing happened except that they’re immediately down to fight Jack at a moment’s notice.

The Umbrella Academy:

Ghost Dave (that’s what it’s called in my google docs but it’s definitely not gonna be the title of the final product)

Dave Katz has been haunting the surviving members of his unit for a couple decades when the story about the 43 women comes on the news; a story Dave had heard plenty about before he died from his lover, Klaus Hargreeves. In whose tellings of it he was one of the children born that day. He also had claimed a few times to be from the future so Dave was fairly willing to take this as proof he was telling the truth. Immediately Dave seeks out Reginald Hargreeves and the 7 of the children he adopted. Over the next 29 years Dave follows the young Klaus around, giving him advice and unconditional friendship and protection from the other ghosts the poor kid could see.

Circle Of Magic crossover

When Tris finds herself dropping out of some kind of portal in a strange land it doesn’t take her long to figure out that some mage had decided to get rid of her - and possibly her siblings - by banishing her to another world, one with advanced technology but not much by way of magic - if one didn’t count the six super-powered siblings she appeared in the middle of. At the same time, but also not, Tris’s adopted sister Sandry wound up smack dab in the center of a group calling themself The Commission who’re very interested in adding her to their ranks, she joins up but maintains suspicion. Daja, the third sister, follows a pair of assassins. And their one brother, Briar, falls into the Vietnam War alongside one freshly tortured Klaus Hargreeves. They all find their way back together eventually - with much fewer casualties than if they hadn’t been there

Harry Potter crossover 1

When an eighteen-year-old Klaus Hargreeves gets bored of being lookout on a mission in London and wanders into the bar across the street he isn’t expecting to find a best friend, but that’s exactly what happens. Lily Evans is a couple months into a break-up and still tired of her ex and his idiocy, especially after his most recent letter - a pile of stupid big enough to send her straight to her local bar. The two hit it off instantly via complaining about anything and everything and egging each other into doing the most ridiculous but fun things. Their night of fun turns sour when Klaus finds out his brother Ben died during the mission and at least one of his siblings blame him. Lily takes the broken boy back to her flat and let’s him stay with her until his visa to stay in England runs out. Thirteen years later the apocalypse is interrupted by a tired ex-professor bringing life changing news - Lily was pregnant when Klaus left England(they’d slept together a handful of times but were never more than friends with benefits), also Lily and her husband(the idiot ex who apologized and changed his behavior, Klaus was at their wedding) are dead and Klaus and Lily’s son was placed with his aunt Petunia(who Klaus has met and knows the boy never should’ve been put with) because only five people besides Lily and James knew who Harry’s father really was and the only one capable of doing anything about it had to find the wandering junkie first. Klaus handles all this about as well as a powerful veteran with a traumatic childhood can - fighting tooth and nail for custody and then raising the boy the best he can with help from his siblings and robot mom and shoving his son’s happiness and safety in the faces of everyone who did the boy wrong

Harry Potter crossover 2

Not long after the war ends Harry finds that he can’t stand staying in magical Britain any longer, so he takes his godson and moves to America. Six years later one of the kids who live across the street sneaks out his window, wearing only pjs despite the heavy snow. Harry finds himself staying up waiting for the boy to return to their street and making some hot cocoa - which he offers to the boy as soon as he sees him. It quickly becomes a Thing(tm); Klaus will sneak out his window in the middle of the night, go for a walk, and eventually wind up having hot cocoa in Harry’s kitchen. They form a strange friendship, one where Klaus has someone he knows he can go to when everything becomes too much - even if that means crawling through Harry’s window, collapsing on his floor in tears, and falling asleep on his couch, waking up just in time to get home before his absence is noticed. Three more years have passed when Harry and Teddy are idly watching tv and Harry sees a very familiar face as Reginald Hargreeves introduces ‘the inaugural class of the Umbrella Academy.’ When Klaus comes over that night Harry asks how much choice Hargreeves gave him and his siblings in their ‘heroics’. After some thought Klaus remembers how his brother Ben hadn’t wanted anything to do with what happened at the bank but was made to participate anyway. He answers honestly: they weren’t really given any. Thus begins Harry’s campaign to get custody for the kids from Hargreeves.

Original Works:

Four Elements Universe(a collection of stories set along one timeline - very far apart and with no overarching plot, just a shared world):

Sisa:

A secluded young king sneaks out of his castle and gets a job under a false identity in hope for friendship, then gives everything up to help his new friends and the rest of his people when he realizes the extent of his adviser’s corruption. Around the same time, a teenage master thief is hired to steal a specific box from the castle - and then to help another thief break her friend out of the castle dungeon - and uncovers several major secrets that might just change the fate of the kingdom.

Kings:

Bandit King Vakhtang’s life is irrevocably changed when he agrees to lend his men to a rebellion for a hefty amount of gold. Over time he finds himself growing fond of the boy prophesied to be the next king and learning just as much from his new employer about letting himself care and open up as he’s teaching the boy how to protect himself. (His best friend and lover is very proud of this growth and kinda wants to adopt the kid)

The Completely Unrelated Adventures Of Four People Who Had Nothing To Do With Each Other Beforehand:

Four teenagers in rural Texas follow a cipher they found in an old tome and discover that all four of them have magical abilities, and that their town may not be as average as they’d believed. As they delve deeper in this new world they uncover two different secret organizations and find themselves caught in the middle of a dangerous conflict over a powerful artifact - that may or may not be the kid sister of one of them.

Mythicals:

Six kids around the world each find objects - artifacts - that grant them magical transformations and abilities. Seven years later all six of them end up at the same prestigious performing arts school in New York. When they discover that they all have these artifacts and powers - and that New York and possibly the world is in danger - they team up to protect everyone else, and quickly become close friends. Though one of them has a secret that could drastically change how the others view them... and possibly risk the fate of the human race.

Eternity And Forever(this one does have an overarching plot):

Eternity Of Forever:

Back in the early years of humanity a young man goes up a mountain for his Trials of Adulthood - a series of three trials set to test a person on the traits of whichever three gods they’ve been assigned to serve - unfortunately for this boy he’s been chosen for the gods of empathy, loyalty, and love... three traits that do not come easily to him. In his desperation to pass his trials he cheats the system and gets caught. As punishment he’s cursed to live forever just on the cusp of adulthood but never reaching it, the only way to break his curse is to prove - with no possibility of dishonesty - that he’s capable of the three traits. Over the next few millennia he gets caught up in a war for the fate of all life on earth, and also somewhat adopts a maybe-alien and falls in love with a time traveler.

Throughout Eternity:

At some unknown point in the future all that’s left of the human race is a refugee colony on an island floating above the desolate remains of our planet. It’s into this that Quinton is born. But when it’s discovered that he can travel through time with just a thought he’s trained for a very important mission: to go back in time and stop the apocalypse. Shortly into his mission he meets an immortal teenager who claims to have met Quinton’s future self and who offers to help, telling him that first thing he should do is gather a team to help him - he even provides names and years. This little team becomes like a second family to Quinton, especially the pretend-aloof immortal.

Forever And After:

After the death of the closest thing he ever had to a father, Slythus finds himself applying to the superhero school the immortal had founded - despite knowing that even if he were accepted into the student body he’d never be accepted by the student body. Somehow he manages to get in... and even more impossible; manages to make friends. But even as he learns how to be good, his past is lurking on the edges of his new life and quickly becoming impossible to ignore - figuratively and literally.

Shadow Warriors:

After the dragon Svartr gets cursed protecting a village from invaders they offer their children to be trained by him - to take care of him as his condition worsens. Those selected and taught by him become known as the Shadow Warriors. Alexir was born several generations after the tradition began of sending every twelve-year-old up Svartr’s mountain for the selection and she never expected to be chosen, being much more focused on intellectual growth than physical, so when it happens it comes as a bit of a shock. She struggles to keep up with her peers in most of the lessons but refuses to give in, pushing herself to reach their level while also learning the complexities of friendship from them all.

Consequences(originally titled ‘Consequences of War’ until I realized it’s more about just consequences for actions in general - like: don’t piss off the powerful magical Being hiding out in the abandoned building):

After deliberately pissing off what they believed to be a ghost - or a false rumor more likely - a college aged idiot ends up being banished into a strange world... with a distinct change in biology(mostly in the area of hormones and primary sex characteristics). As they travel this new world in search of a way home - and back into their original form - they learn new things about themself and make interesting new friends. They find themself questioning whether they actually want their ‘old body’ back and then, when they begin to fall in love, whether they really want to return to their old world.

[alphacrone]

CHAPTER ONE HERE (AO3)

MY WRITING TAG

“What part of no do you not understand?”

After a very restless night, morning found Jack and Eric arguing in the back office of Easy as Pie. Out front, Tony and Conner—the bakery’s two full-time employees—rang up customers, apparently unable to hear their bosses hissing at each other in angry undertones.

“You’re my sire, Jack, not my father,” Eric said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t just tell me what to do.”

“Thought you respected your elders down south,” Jack snapped. He didn’t pull the age card often—mostly Eric brought it up first, teasing him for being an old man—but when he did, it was absolutely infuriating.

“I respect the ones who deserve it,” Eric retorted. “I’m not a child, Jack.”

“You’re certainly acting like one,” Jack said.

“And you’re acting like a spoiled prince .”

There was a long, tense moment, and then Jack deflated. “Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “Okay. Please do not follow the hunters tonight.”

“Why?” Eric demanded. “We need intel.”

“Then I will get it,” Jack said. “ You will stay out of harm’s way. Remember your promise?”

“Right, right, you die, I flee,” Eric said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I made no promise about not trying to figure out who’s murdering our neighbors.”

“Mr. Bitty?”

Jack and Eric looked up in tandem to find Tony poking his head into the office. He looked back and forth between them, just now seeming to realize he’d interrupted a fight.

“What is it, Tony?” Eric asked, smiling pleasantly at the boy. This didn’t seem to instill any confidence in the cashier, and he cast one last nervous look at Jack before speaking again.

“Um, there’s a guy here for you,” he said tentatively, as if this stranger were the root of the argument he’d happened upon. “Says he wants PSL cookies, but only if he knows you made ‘em.”

Eric was torn between giggling in delight and cowering under Jack’s glare. “Thank you, hun. Let him know I’ll be out in a hot second.”

Tony nodded and disappeared quickly. The moment the door closed behind him, Jack rounded on Eric.

“Absolutely not-”

“Jack, it’s not-”

“-a hunter , for fuck’s sake-”

“-would you rather I be rude to the man who wants us dead-”

They both paused, staring angrily at each other. Eric sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to tempt fate, Jack, nor am I trying to date a hunter. I’m not the idiot you seem to think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Jack said softly. “I just...worry.”

“Obviously,” Eric chirped, allowing himself a small smile. “Jack, I promise not to get us killed by selling cookies to a stranger.”

“I know,” Jack said, huffing with laughter. “Just… be careful.”

“You, too,” Eric said. “You know I worry about you as often as you worry about me.”

Jack smiled sadly and leaned forward to kiss the top of Eric’s head. “I know. Now go out there and sell some cookies.”

“Stop telling me what to do ,” Eric chirped as he left. Jack’s laughter followed him to the front room, where Justin stood awkwardly at the counter.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as Eric approached. “I hope I’m not pulling you away from something, I just wanted to- um…”

Eric’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, ha, no, just arguing with Jack about, uh, next week’s special. Since it’s getting close to Halloween, I wanted to go all-out with some really silly recipes—‘poisoned’ candy apples, white chocolate strawberry ‘ghosts,’ ‘bloody’ cheesecake—but Jack says they’re too expensive for such speciality items.”

Justin looked properly offended on Eric’s behalf, and Eric wished he’d been there when Eric and Jack had actually had that argument a week ago. “Those sound so cool, though!”

“ Thank you ,” Eric said, hands on his hips. “I think the kids of the neighborhood would really like it!”

“Does the bakery get a lot of trick-or-treaters?” Justin asked, and Eric ignored the curious stares he was getting from Tony and Conner. Though they’d never been explicitly told that Jack and Eric were an item, Eric assumed most people in town were under that impression.

“Oh, yes,” Eric said, pointing down at the tray of PSL cookies displayed prominently in the glass case. Justin nodded eagerly. “A lot of parents take the real young ones around to the shops before dark, so they can still have fun but not be out past their bedtimes with the big kids.” He paused, biting his lip, and added, “There are so many fat babies in pumpkin suits that come in every year—I live for it, honestly.”

Justin laughed brightly, and Eric felt an ache in his chest at how handsome his smile was, how open and happy.

“How many d’you want?” He asked, grateful Justin was the only customer in line.

Justin scoffed. “I was being serious when I said I needed, like, a dozen.”

Eric rolled his eyes fondly and grabbed the cup of broken cookie pieces he used for samples. “Might wanna try ‘em first, huh?”

Justin gave a dramatically put-upon sigh and popped the cookie chunk into his mouth. Immediately, his eyes widened, and he gave Eric a wide, cookie-stuffed grin.

“I changed my mind,” he said, slamming a hand down on the counter. “I need two dozen of these immediately .”

Eric laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “And how on Earth would you manage to eat twenty four of these before they go stale?”

“Eric,” he said, his smile too charming to be real. “You underestimate me.”

And Lord help him, Eric laughed at that like the flirt he was. Now everyone’s gonna think you’re a cheater, he thought glumly. A flirt and a cheat, that Eric Bittle .

“Well, if you insist,” he said, pulling out one of his orange (for Halloween!) bakery boxes and counting out two dozen cookies. “So, I know I’m not supposed to ask about top-secret FBI junk…”

Justin sighed heavily. “Investigation isn’t going great. Hols- Adam’s upset. He, uh, thought we would’ve caught the perps by now.”

Eric laughed nervously, neatly closing the box and tying it off with a black ribbon. “He’s that confident in y’all’s abilities?”

“Well, we are the best,” Justin joked. “But it’s...probably more personal than is wise.”

The fact that Justin was telling him all this led Eric to hope that he and Jack were not suspects, especially not after all the holy water he’d had to drink the night before. “What was it you were calling him just now? Holst?”

“Holster,” Justin said with an easy grin. “It’s a dumb nickname from our hockey days.”

“It’s cute,” Eric said, handing over the box. When Justin reached for his wallet, Eric waved him off. “On the house. I’m serious.”

“Dude,” Justin said, brow furrowed. “You can’t just give me all these cookies for free. Won’t Jack-?”

“Oh, but it’s not for free,” Eric said, chiding himself for the way he leaned closer, elbows propped on the counter. “In exchange, I wanna know your embarrassing nickname.”

Justin laughed, throwing his head back. “Okay, okay. But only because your friends call you Bitty.” He paused, looking around, and leaned in to whisper, “Ransom.”

Eric grinned. “Ransom and Holster. That’s adorable.”

Justin shrugged, straightening with a charming grin. “We try.”

“Well, go on and be a hero,” Eric said, shooing Justin away a little reluctantly. “Don’t let me keep you from solving crimes, Ransom .”

Ransom winked at him and left, box tucked under his arm. Eric sighed and headed back into the kitchen, tugging at the collar of his shirt. It certainly had gotten hotter in here, hadn’t it?

“Ransom and Holster,” he murmured again as he returned to the rows of cookie dough that needed cutting—all destined to be shaped like pumpkins and bats and ghosts. He laughed and grabbed his box of cutters. It was going to be a long morning, with the image of Ransom’s smile in his mind.  “Cute.”

“RANSOM AND HOLSTER?!”

It was only noon and Eric was already tired of Jack yelling at him. “Yes, it’s their hockey nicknames or something. What’s wrong?”

Jack looked like he was dangerously close to punching a wall. (Or through one, if Eric were being realistic.) “Ransom and Holster are two of the most dangerous hunters in the country,” he growled. “They nearly got Parse.”

Eric’s eyes widened. He’d never met Kent Parson, but he’d heard of the night Jack had almost died to save Parson’s life from the clutches of hunters. That had been the night he’d given up human blood forever—with the exception of the encounter in Atlanta…

“It’s them ?” Eric hissed, hand flying to his mouth. “You didn’t recognize them?”

“It was dark,” Jack defended, running a hand through his hair. “And everything happened so fast.”

“You don’t think they recognize you, do you?”

Jack shrugged. “Holster might. He’s been watching me.”

Eric let out a distressed huff, slumping against the wall. He’d been so sure, with the way Ransom had been acting...but now the smiles and flirtation seemed to make sense. Why else would someone like him flirt with someone like Eric? “Do we leave, then?”

Jack shook his head. “They’ll chase us if we leave now. But I’m going to call George, just in case. Make preparations for you.”

“Me?” Eric hated when Jack got this way, more martyr than vampire. “Jack, you’re coming with me.”

“You know I’m not,” Jack said simply. “If they come for us, they come for me . You’re the one who will make it out of this alive.” The you’re the one who deserves to live was unspoken, but still hurt Eric’s heart the way it always did when Jack spoke like that.

“I’m not having this argument again,” Eric said wearily. “Are you following them tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’ve asked the others to come hang out with you while I’m gone.”

“You mean babysit me,” Eric said sharply. “Make sure I don’t come after you.”

Jack shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

“I hope it’s really boring,” Eric said petulantly. “I hope they bore you to death.”

Jack laughed and ruffled Eric’s hair. “Thanks. Now get back to work.”

“You’re the worst business partner ever,” Eric said as Jack left the kitchen. “I’m plotting a coup with Tony and Conner! It’ll be my bakery soon enough!”

But Jack was gone and Eric was left with his worry, so he did what he had to; he baked.

The get-together that night was low-key and almost boring. Shitty—whose bracelet was set to THEY/THEM—napped on Eric’s couch while Lardo did work for a new client on her laptop. Chowder was sprawled across an armchair, texting Caitlin with a goofy grin.

“Anyone need anything?” Eric asked, pacing the room nervously. “Snacks? Drinks?”

“Chill, Bits,” Lardo said without looking up. “He’s fine. Sit down.”

“It’s been hours,” Eric said, wringing his hands together. “What if-?”

Before he could finish his thought, there was a knock at the door. Eric and Lardo exchanged a look, and very cautiously Eric moved to look through the peephole. Maybe Jack lost his keys. Maybe it was one of the neighbors, asking for a cup of sugar. Maybe-

Eric threw the door open to find Ransom slumped on the floor, covered in blood and clutching his stomach. How he’d gotten to the apartment, up the stairs-

“Help,” Ransom whispered, looking up at Eric with pained, unfocused eyes.

“Hang on, hun,” Eric breathed. “We’ll call an ambulance-”

“ No ,” Ransom choked out, reaching for Eric. “No hospitals. No police.”

Hunters, it appeared, were as stupid as vampires. “You need a doctor.”

“Please,” Ransom said. “No doctors.”

“Ransom,” Eric said, cupping his face with his hands. “Justin. Where’s Adam? What happened?”

“I think…” Ransom grabbed at Eric’s arm. “I think they got him.”

Eric turned to look at the others, all of whom now stood behind him, and the dark look in Lardo’s eyes confirmed what he’d feared. If they’d gotten Holster, chances were they’d gotten Jack, too.

Ransom slumped in his arms and the smell of him—of his blood—was overwhelming. Eric had never longed to feed so intensely, but he shook himself out of it. “Take him inside,” he whispered, nodding to Chowder. “Patch him up as best you can. I know-” He continued as Chowder tried to protest. “You haven’t refreshed on your training, I know. But you were a paramedic for years, Chris. I believe in you.”

“If Chow can’t do it, we’re taking him to the hospital,” Lardo said.

“I know.” Shitty and Chowder were carefully carrying Ransom into the apartment. “I have to go find them.”

“I know,” she said, and pulled him into a tight, quick hug. “Go get those knuckleheads back.”

Eric nodded, casting one last glance at Ransom before turning on his heels and sprinting downstairs, out into the night.

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Life So Changed: Chapter Forty-Four

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3883 Alternate: AO3, fanfiction.net Author's Note: N/A

Chapter Forty-Four:

In the morning, Bruce takes time to take a long shower, thinking about Clark and his relationship with the alpha. He thinks about Clark’s parents and what they have been saying. He thinks about Lois and he thinks about how Clark decided to go with his parents and Lois instead of staying here with him. Bruce’s chest clenches tight and he takes a deep, tired breath, letting it out slowly. He feels confused and hurt, not knowing what to do.

Bruce runs a soapy hand down his stomach, feeling how much his stomach has grown. He looks down at it and swallows thickly. He’s starting to get a lot bigger, his bump very prominent. He lathers up the baby bump soothingly and lovingly, his chest tightening again. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go through this, with Clark’s parents and… Clark. He’s trying to be strong but it’s becoming more and more difficult. He has to make a decision. He has to decide what is best for his daughter.

Bruce rinses off and steps out of the shower, drying himself off quickly. He gets dressed swiftly and then makes his way down to the kitchen. This morning he is going to have to eat if he wants to keep everyone off his back about it, despite not being hungry. When he enters the kitchen, running a hand through his wet hair to slick it back, he stops, taking in who is already there.

Jason and Dick are sitting at the table, silently eating a bowl of cereal with Damian munching on some toast. Tim is nowhere to be seen and neither is everyone else, except for Clark. The Kryptonian has his head down as he chews slowly on a piece of toast. He doesn’t have a plate in front of him so Bruce wonders if Damian had shared his own with the Kryptonian. Clark is absently staring at the counter top, dazed and not paying attention to his surroundings. When Bruce sees him, his anger flares, hot and bitter, causing his teeth to clench and eyes to narrow. He feels it bubbling in his chest, ready to explode.

Bruce clears his throat and Clark flinches, his eyes darting to Bruce before snapping away, the alpha bowing his head even more in submission. Clark’s hand slowly lowers and drops the toast onto the counter before resting on his lap. He doesn’t look up again and somehow, Clark acting like a pathetic omega infuriates Bruce. The boys are watching him and Bruce is careful to take slow, even breaths.

He takes a step closer to Clark and speaks in a harsh, flat tone that betrays the whirling emotions inside him, “I need to talk to you.” Bruce turns and leaves the room, not bothering to see if Clark is following or not.

Bruce walks until he reaches his office. It’s far enough from the kitchen that the boys won’t be able to hear their conversation. Clark enters slowly, head still bowed. Bruce growls a little and Clark flinches. The Kryptonian’s attitude is only making Bruce more upset. Why can’t he be more like an alpha sometimes, he thinks to himself.

It’s only when the door is shut behind Clark does Bruce start speaking, taking a very deep and long breath to steady himself. It works enough for Bruce to be able to talk gently. “Clark, I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Clark slowly comes out of his submissive stance, peeking up at him. He says nothing so Bruce continues. “ I don’t think this is working, Clark. Despite our efforts towards being mates and making a future for ourselves, and our daughter, there are just too many issues. I don’t think it will happen for us. I don’t think we can do it.”

Clark is fully out of the submissive stance now, his body straightening up and going on alert. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m done.” Clark stares at him. “I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t want to be your mate anymore.”

Clark watches him, lips slightly parted, and Bruce can tell he’s trying to understand what Bruce is saying, as if the alpha’s brain can’t keep up with Bruce’s words. When they do hit, Bruce can see the affect they have on Clark immediately. The alpha’s eyes widen and his mouth parts even more, gaping at Bruce. Then the Kryptonian tries to form words but fails, his breathing speeding up.

Clark swallows, finally being able to talk. “Is this a breakup?”

“Technically we weren’t together in the first place so-”

“Why?” Clark asks, interrupting Bruce. “I-I know I probably made you mad for going to supper with my parents but… but I didn’t think… why?”

Bruce shrugs, trying to control his anger. “Why do you think, Clark?”

Clark’s hand goes over his mouth, the alpha taking a step back. His breathing has sped up more and Bruce watches him closely, in case of a panic attack. Clark’s hand lowers. “Just because I went to supper with my parents? Bruce-”

“Your parents are part of the problem, Clark,” Bruce snaps, not being able to sound calm anymore. “And you just letting them make me feel like shit and not standing up to them.”

“I told you I would talk to them,” Clark’s hackles rise but Bruce suspects it’s more out of desperation than it is anger.

It doesn’t lower Bruce’s ire. “And did you?”

“Yes!” Clark yells and he points behind himself. “That’s what I was doing, Bruce, when I went with them.”

“Well trying isn’t good enough anymore,” Bruce says angrily. “And what about going out with Lois?”

“Lois? Are you angry about that too?” Clark asks in confusion. “It’s not my fault that my parents invited her without asking.”

Bruce crosses his arms, cocking his hip to the right. “Well you were the reason why she stayed.”

“Because I didn’t see the problem with her staying.”

“You want to know what the problem was?” Bruce takes an angry step towards him. “The problem is that she’s your ex-mate.”

Clark’s arms flare out in a wide shrug. “But I thought you two were on good terms now, Bruce.”

“That doesn’t mean I want her to join us in family dinners, Kal.” Clark’s mouth shuts tight at his Kryptonian name being used. “She was in my house, near my future mate, near my baby and I didn’t want her here. I told you that and you let her stay anyway. That’s the problem. You should have been on my side, Kal.”

“Oh my Rao, you’re being territorial.” Clark straightens more, finally beginning to look more like an alpha. Bruce doesn’t let it intimidate him. “Your pregnancy is making you more territorial and possessive than normal. Now you expect me to stop spending time with my parents and my friends too? That’s ridiculous, Bruce.”

Bruce’s irritation rises even more at being called territorial and possessive. “That is not the point and you know it. The point is, is that your parents were putting me down and you did nothing to stop it.”

Clark rolls his eyes, sounding even more desperate than before when he starts talking. “I told you already, I talked to them at dinner.”

“And I told you already that that isn’t good enough anymore. Talking to them, Kal, isn’t working and I’m sick of you not being able to grow a fucking backbone and tell them to shut the hell up or get the fuck out,” Bruce growls. “I’m not putting up with it anymore. They’re leaving, and you and I are done. You understand? The way this has been going obviously means we can’t work towards being mates.”

Clark is silent again and just by how the alpha’s jaw is set, Bruce can tell he is biting his tongue. Clark stares at him for a long while, eyes shiny and hurt morphing his face. The Kryptonian swallows and finally speaks slowly. “Bruce, can we please…” A deep breath. “Can we please just work through this? I messed up, okay? I shouldn’t have gone with them. I should have-”

“No,” Bruce interrupts and Clark flinches, eyes falling to the floor. “No I don’t want to work through it. Like I said, Clark, I’m done. It’s over.”

Clark scrutinizes the rug, lips thinning until the alpha changes to biting his quivering bottom lip. When his mouth opens, a stuttering breath is sucked in. Clark nods slowly, closing his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he whispers then louder, “I-I understand.” Bruce says nothing, watching as Clark’s shoulders droop and he curls slightly into himself, closing off. He looks a lot like Clark Kent, clutzy investigative reporter. Except this time, Bruce knows it’s not an act. When Clark looks up, his eyes are glistening with tears. “Can I-Can I ask you something?”

Bruce nods. “Of course.”

“I get I messed up. I get you don’t want to do this anymore. I understand but…” Clark breathes deep and Bruce braces himself for another argument as to why this isn’t going to work anymore. “But please don’t take the baby from me?” Bruce’s thoughts cut short, taken back by Clark’s words. “Please don’t take Lara from me, Bruce.”

Bruce watches Clark standing there, shaking and probably on the verge of a panic attack, surprised. He hadn’t expected such a thing to cross Clark’s mind though it makes sense, Bruce supposes. He shakes his head and tears roll down Clark’s cheeks. “I would never do that to you,” Bruce reassures. “I never said we couldn’t be friends, Clark. Just not mates. You’ll still be able to see her when you come and visit and she’ll be with you whenever it’s your days to have her.”

Clark is staring at him again with his mouth slightly open and eyes wide in bewilderment. “Visitations?” Clark seems to shrink even more and Bruce didn’t think that was possible for a six feet four inches tall man to do. “I forgot about that,” the alpha whispers, blinking more tears free, and bowing his head slightly as his eyes travel to the floor once more.

Bruce shrugs. “Of course. I mean, since I’m the omega I would probably have her most of the time but you could probably get her for weekends and even Fridays.” Clark’s bottom lip starts quivering again and the Kryptonian has stopped mimicking breathing. “But you can come visit every day, Clark,” Bruce says quickly in reassurance.

It doesn’t seem to help and Bruce has the sinking feeling that he has messed up royally. “I…” Clark starts, not looking up. “I have to go. There’s um… there’s a robbery downtown that I have to stop.” In a gush of air, Clark is gone and Bruce is left staring at an empty spot, feeling guilt weighing on his chest. Although he had woken up determined, his mind made up, it wasn’t easy for him. Despite his harsh words, he really does love Clark. His heart beats fitfully in his chest and his eyes close for a moment against the pain. It rolls around inside him, throwing itself against the walls he had built. He thought he had been prepared for this moment but it still cuts him deeply.

Bruce places a hand over his stomach and sighs. The baby is the only thing stopping him from falling to the ground and losing it. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t want to be the strong one, he doesn’t want to make all the decisions. It’s all too much. It hurts so damn much. He can feel the lump in his throat grow larger as the realization hits. “Shit.”

He takes a few minutes to breathe deeply. Once he feels a little more composed, he swipes at his eyes. Standing tall, he heads to the door. With a heavy heart, Bruce goes back to the kitchen. Damian is gone and so is Dick, but Jason is still there, sharpening knives. Bruce sits heavily in the  chair opposite the alpha and watches him work. After about ten minutes, Jason finally acknowledges him. “What’s up?”

Instead of actually saying what is bothering him, Bruce asks, “Why do you clean your weapons on the table that we eat on? It’s disgusting.”

Jason eyes the knives, one of them having dried blood on it. He shrugs. “It’s a convenient spot.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Bruce says tiredly.

Jason’s eyes don’t leave the weapons and he shrugs again. “Okay.” He gathers them up and places them onto the floor to be picked up when he leaves. “What went wrong between you and Clark?”

“Why do you think something went wrong?”

Jason takes a sip of his coffee. “Because you left with him but you didn’t come back with him.”

Bruce rubs at his face vigorously, wishing to go back to bed. “Jason-”

Before Bruce can continue, there is a rush of wind that interrupts him. Bruce almost expects Clark to have come back but when he looks at who is there, he can’t help the twinge of disappointment when he sees Wally. “Bruce.” Wally smiles sheepishly at him. “Can I,” his eyes dart to Jason, “talk to you in private?”

With a long, tired sigh that makes Wally’s eyebrows furrow, Bruce stands. “Follow me.” Bruce heads back to his office, Wally following behind more slowly and hesitant.

When the door is shut, Wally asks, “Am I interrupting something?”

Bruce shakes his head. “You’re fine. What is it?”

Wally becomes suddenly shy, wringing his hands together nervously. The kid looks tired with dark bags under his eyes and Bruce wonders how much sleep the speedster has been getting. He suspects not much. “Um, well, you see, I’m sure Dick has already told you that I’m getting the abortion-”

“He has.”

“-And, well, I made an appointment a few days ago here in Gotham.” Bruce furrows his eyebrows in confusion, wondering why Wally wouldn’t make the appointment in Keystone where he lives. “The appointment is today but, you see, I was, um, wondering if, you know, if you would go with me because I really don’t, I just, I really don’t want Dick to go with me.” The omega shrugs, vibrating where he stands. “I can’t really explain why I don’t want Dick to go with me, it’s just a feeling, but I don’t want to go alone either. You’ve been to the place before and sort of know what to expect. I realize that you’re pregnant now and it might be awkward, but I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want by my side through this. I figured you’d be the best person I could ask to come with me.”

Bruce never thought he would ever hear someone say he was the best person to bring for emotional support. “What time is the procedure?”

“In about twenty minutes.” Wally is looking at him desperately. “Please? I really don’t want to go alone.”

Bruce thins his lips and despite being exhausted already, he finds himself nodding and saying, “Okay. We better get going now.” He doesn’t want to leave Wally to do this by himself. Not when Bruce knows how it feels to be on that table.

Wally follows him out and Bruce is careful to not run into Dick. He has a feeling it would be disastrous if he did. Bruce takes a detour to his room to grab a pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat to disguise himself. He doesn’t want any of the media to catch pregnant Bruce Wayne at the clinic with a young Wally, speculating on what they are doing there. Though the clinic they do the abortions in can also be used for other pregnancy related check ups, Bruce just doesn’t want to take the risk.

Bruce drives them to the hospital and Wally follows him into the building. Wally checks in and then they sit and wait, Wally’s leg bouncing. Bruce has to remind the speedster more than once to slow it down. When Wally’s name is called, the omega jumps, practically using his speed to get out of the chair. Bruce stands and places a comforting hand on the speedster’s shoulder, asking him if he wants Bruce to join him. Wally nods.

They follow the nurse into the room and Bruce watches as she takes all of Wally’s vitals. After, the doctor comes in and asks all the questions Bruce was asked, takes the ultrasound in which Wally doesn’t even glance at, and then he finally gets to the one question in which he asks Wally if he wants Bruce to stay for the procedure. Bruce tells the omega that it’s okay if he doesn’t.

Wally stares at his lap and Bruce can smell the anxiety coming off him. Finally the omega shakes his head. “I think… I think I need to go through this part alone.” He locks eyes with Bruce. “Thank you for coming this far with me.”

Bruce gives Wally a reassuring smile. “I’ll be out in the waiting room.” Bruce exits and takes a seat next to the window. He takes out his cellphone and tries to focus on e-mails that he has been neglecting for weeks but he is soon too distracted by his thoughts, staring out the window, unfocused.

He remembers feeling anxious and scared while the doctor prepared to go ahead with the procedure. He remembers wondering if what he was doing was the right thing or if he was making a terrible mistake. Bruce runs his hand over his belly bump, resting it there. He remembers being overwhelmed and doubting himself, thinking over and over again what everyone had said to him. He remembers the sheer love he felt for his baby as the doctor was just about to start and then the dread he felt when he realized it was actually going to happen. Bruce remembers stopping it. He remembers panicking. He remembers how alone he felt.

Bruce loses track of time but he knows it’s a while. Just from his experience, he knows the doctors wait forty-five minutes for the pain medication to kick in. Then it takes a few more minutes for the actual abortion to take place. Bruce hopes Wally doesn’t feel too much pain, with his body burning through the pain medication so fast.

By the time Wally comes out, Bruce knows it’s been well over an hour. Wally walks sluggishly over to him, his shoulders slouching and head down. The omega somehow looks even more tired. Bruce doesn’t bother talking to him until they get to the car and start on their way back to the Manor. Then and only then does he attempt it.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently. Wally doesn’t answer him, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and hunched forward. The omega is staring off into space. Bruce stays quiet after that.

When they get back to the Manor, Bruce helps the speedster into the house, Wally walking slowly and dazed. When they enter into the main foyer, Wally finally looks around. “I have to tell Dick.”

“You don’t worry about that right now,” Bruce tells him, keeping a steady hand on the omega’s shoulder. “You need to rest first.”

“I don’t want to. I need to talk to Dick. He’s going to be mad that I didn’t I have him come with-” Wally cuts himself off and finally the inevitable dam breaking occurs. Tears flood the omegas eyes and stream down Wally’s cheeks. His shoulders start to shake and the speedster sobs loudly, stumbling in his place from exhaustion.

Bruce wraps comforting arms around him, beginning to purr soothingly as he runs a hand up the omega’s back. He allows Wally to bury his face in his shoulder and to cry, whispering to the speedster that it will be okay, that everything is okay. Wally continues to cry, attracting Alfred who had either heard the weeping and had come, or had smelt the scent of mourning that is pouring off Wally currently, filling the foyer with it.

“Alfred, please make up a room for Wally.” Alfred nods and turns to leave. “And Alfred, keep Dick away.” Bruce doesn’t want Dick coming to investigate the scent right now. His beta instincts surely would kick in to comfort a grieving omega. All hell would break loose if he found out right now that Wally had already had the abortion and honestly, Bruce doesn’t think he could even handle that right now let alone Wally.

Wally continues to bawl into his shoulder, arms coming up to wrap around Bruce’s waist as he starts to hiccup and sniffle.They stand there for minutes, Wally crying and Bruce holding tightly as he purrs, hoping that it will calm and sooth the omega some. Bruce rubs Wally’s back, the sobbing beginning to settle into small whimpers and then finally silence. Bruce still purrs, still holds him, and Wally doesn’t protest.

After a while, Bruce starts to extricate himself from Wally’s arms but keeps a hold of the omega’s shoulders to steady him. When it seems as though Wally can stand on his own, Bruce reaches up and cups Wally’s cheeks, wiping the tears away. “Come on.” He ushers the omega along and Wally follows dutifully, one hand grasping a hold of Bruce’s sleeve. Bruce leads him to the room Alfred set up, knowing subconsciously which one Alfred would have prepared. Once in the room, Bruce helps Wally out of his clothes and into a pair of guest pajamas that were kept in the dresser. Various sizes were kept there for unexpected overnight visitors. Once that is complete, Bruce has Wally lie down on the bed, under the covers.

“Get some rest. I’ll have Alfred bring you some food a little later. You need to keep your strength up.” Wally only nods absently, lying on his side and still staring off into the distance. Bruce reaches down and brushes some of his red hair out of his eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Wally, I promise.”

Bruce gets up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed and leaves the room, stopping only once in the doorway to look back at the omega. He shuts the door gently and then goes to find Alfred again. He’s in the kitchen, doing the dishes. “Can you bring Wally some food in about an hour?”

“Of course, Sir,” Alfred says, wiping a sponge over a glass. “May I ask what had the young man so upset?”

Bruce sighs and sits down at the island, drained of all energy. “He got the abortion today.”

“I see.” Alfred looks grim. “I will make sure to bring him something sweet that he will probably like. Maybe it will cheer him up after his ordeal.”

With a long, heartfelt sigh, Bruce stands again. “Maybe.” He gives the beta a weak smile. “I’m going to go lie down myself.”

“Sir?” Alfred calls after him. “Have you eaten at all today?”

Bruce thinks about how he had skipped breakfast and that it is now a little past lunch time. “Of course I did, Alfred.” He walks away then, dragging himself back up to his room and falling onto the bed with deep groan, falling asleep immediately.

A/N: Thanks for reading!!

[bittysboyfriends]

Take As Needed

[written to fill a prompt on the omgcp kink meme to the prompt “Jack/Parse, sex in the Q and angst. JUST FUCK ME UP OKAY. I CAN TAKE THE PAIN“. 

trigger warnings for implied self harm, implied alcohol use, use/abuse of prescription medication. set in the summer of 2009 so both parties are 18.]

They have 13 more days, and Jack’s trying not to lend significance to that number. He remembers counting down the final dwindling days of summer before returning to school around this time the past four years; these last two weeks before the draft feel a lot like that, but multiplied infinitely in their significance. Add a million eyes, subtract the familiarity. He’s being divided up, piece by piece, into the thousand things that pull his attention in different directions and away from where Kent is in his lap, rocking their hips together and fisting his hands in Jack’s hair hard enough to hurt. It doesn’t hurt enough. “I can like, stop if I’m boring you,” Kent says, sitting back from where his face was pressed to Jack’s neck, his voice hard-edged and tired. That’s happening a lot more lately. When Jack’s gaze slides to him from where he’d been staring at the opposite wall Kent looks betrayed. He takes this so personally, despite the explanations that Jack gives him time and time again. It’s not your fault and There’s nothing you can do and the dozens of variations on a theme that Kent begs for and Jack supplies. The meds aren’t working like they used to, and even though the bottle says ‘AS NEEDED,’ Jack doesn’t know how to find the words to tell his doctor or his parents or his shrink or even Kent that the need is always. The need is constant. It keeps him up at night, even with the alcohol in his blood. He’s been taking more, but that edge keeps moving and he keeps adjusting to try to keep up, only for it to slip out of his fingers again. His hands are loose on Kent’s waist, and he tries to ground himself on the sweatshirt under his fingers, to feel the fabric and the seam. It’s blue. Kent’s eyes are grey. The bed is firm under him. He’s here, even if his breath is shuddery.

“Sorry,” he says, his hand smoothing up the side of Kent’s neck to curl around the nape of it, tug him down until their mouths meet. Kent’s reluctant, and when they part Kent searches Jack’s face, sees how wide Jack’s pupils are blown, and knows it’s not because of him. “No, don’t. I just need- just a second.” Kent’s eyes drop and he climbs off and Jack knows exactly the expression he’ll see, the way Kent’s body will be turned away when he turns around from where he’s pulling the bottle out of his bag. The rattle as he shakes two of them out is loud in the room compared to the muted sounds of the TV in his parents’ room down the hall. Kent’s withdrawn into himself by the time Jack climbs back onto the bed, arms crossed low across his stomach as he reclines back on the pillows, the garish light from his phone highlighting his mouth, his eyes. Jack’s sweats are too big on him, pooling around his legs where they’re crossed one over the other. It’s one of Kent’s favorite things for Jack to pull those sweats down just far enough for them to drop to the floor while Jack’s kneeling in front of him and puts his mouth on him. Jack knows this, and feels the weight of that expectation, the expectation to perform the way Kent wants, as much here as on the ice. “Do you want to go home?” Kent’s eyes flick to Jack, perched awkwardly on his side of the bed. It’s been his since the first time Kent came over for the night, happily tossing himself down on the half of the mattress closer to the window, arms spread wide as he told Jack he’d better get used to it. He has. He hates the nights he sleeps alone, pillows arranged up against his back. “No. Do you want me to?” Kent asks, voice curt, and Jack feels flayed open by it as he shakes his head. He doesn’t know where to sit, how to position himself in the hostile realm of the bed now that Kent’s claimed it, and he lets himself believe that he’s uncomfortable because of the awkwardness between them. That there’s a single place on earth he could be where he’d feel right.

“What do you want?” Kent’s reaction is immediate: his jaw working like he’s chewing and swallowing words Jack can tell he wants to spit at him, a sharp exhale through his nose. “I don’t wanna do this tonight, Zimms,” is what he settles on, and Jack can taste bile in the back of his throat. Again. Again, again, again. He doesn’t know if Kent realizes he’s as tired of this refrain as he is. He drops his eyes to the comforter, something barbed settling in his chest and twisting his mouth. “I’m fuckin’ tired of this shit. I shouldn’t have to miss you when you’re right there, man, it’s bullshit.” He gestures at Jack like the distance between them on the bed is miles and a matter of feet all at once. “Like fuck, can’t you just fuck me and pretend to be okay?” Jack nods, the motion jerky but firm. Pretending to be fine isn’t a new concept so much as it’s a well-practiced skill by this point, and he’s intimately acquainted with the concept of fake it ‘til you make it. He knows half of what Kent’s saying is born of his genuine frustration, but the rest of it’s a challenge, just like the shot at the parties and the shots at practice, the same push and goad and comparison that’s woven them together like a string since the first day of practice. Climbing over to Kent is awkward, and the way Jack kisses him is stilted and hesitant, contrite in a way that Kent hates. He doesn’t want this Jack. He wants the happy Jack riding the high of another win, even if it’s always short lived. Or the blushing and fumbling Jack fucked up on rum, who lets Kent sit in his lap with only the minimal compulsory objection. Not the one who acts like his existence warrants apology. Kent wants to kiss that Jack away, leech him out through Jack’s lips like sucking venom from a wound. He can take it. His bruised knuckles and the puckering scars on his thighs can handle it. He can handle it. If Jack would only let him. There’s no gentleness in it. Kent bites Jack’s lip hard, just shy of opening it up, and pulls him down into the cradle of his hips, refusing to leave room between them for the distraction. It’s easier for Kent to think of it as distraction. It’s a softer word, easier to fit into the gaps between who he wants Jack to be and how he is really is. He kisses Jack like he wants to consume him, kisses until his lungs are on fire and he’s arching up into Jack, rutting his cock up into Jack’s in a graceless attempt to get him hard, too. Kent rakes his hands down Jack’s back under his shirt hard enough to leave marks and knows they’ll cause chatter in the locker room about Zimmermann puck bunnies, leaving Jack either flushed or annoyed. There’s no way to know which way he’ll fall these days. Kent knows he’s gotten Jack far enough out of his own head when Jack’s mouth disappears, half his body leaning away too as Jack rummages through the nightstand for a bottle. He sits up on his knees between Kent’s legs when he returns, tugging Kent’s borrowed sweats down by the fabric and over the bulge of his cock, freeing it to bounce up towards his belly, shiny at the tip, leaving a glistening smear of precoma near his navel. Jack seals his mouth over the spot, chin bumping Kent’s dick as he hikes Kent’s shirt further up his chest. His other hand pushes Kent’s knee back and Kent bends for him willingly, exposed and hungry. “Fuck-“ He grates the word out, hot breath and the trembling clench of muscles as Jack presses two fingers into him. There are days when they go slow with this, where Jack works him up to four fingers and sucks him off greedily until his lips are swollen and red, luxuriating in the time before his parents get home, or they can’t justify being gone any longer. But those days are dwindling, and neither of them are up for pretending they want to waste the time tonight, risk the kind of sounds Kent usually makes when Bob and Alicia are down the hall. “Fuck, Jack, yes.” Jack’s fingers pump slick and steady in a rhythm that lets Kent work his body down onto his hand, leveraged with his shoulders and his hands gripping the bed, comforter a twisted mess. Jack’s lips slip around the head of Kent’s cock as he grinds down into the mattress, an ache low in his belly as he rocks gently, the friction through his pajama pants unsatisfying, but enough. “More, c’mon babe, gimme more.” The whine that comes from Kent’s chest is high and breathy when Jack slowly presses a third finger into him, his mouth pulling away with a wet sound. His lips are shiny as he stares up Kent’s body at him, gaze focused and intent in a way that’s not dissimilar to how he looks on the ice - analytical, reading Kent like a play unfolding in front of him, trying to get the timing just right. Kent closes his eyes and focuses on the fullness rather than the fact that he can’t remember the last time Jack looked at him like he actually wants him. Jack fucks his fingers into him relentlessly, with a singular focus until Kent says so. “Okay,” he pants, hand jerking in tiny, wet strokes at the tip of his cock before he paws at the front of Jack’s pants, grabbing at him through the cotton before his nails scrabble at the waistband to tug it down. “I’m ready, Zimms, come on. Want you-“ He wishes he could see Jack’s face when he pushes into him, wishes he could see if his expression changes at all. All he can tell is that Jack’s breath is hot on his neck, his back solid and strong under his hands and arms where Kent’s wrapped around him. It’s easier to talk when Jack’s not looking at him. “Fuck,” he whimpers, the fullness so good but so much, breath coming out in stilted hitches. “You feel so good. Shit, yes. Fuck. Fuck.” Jack’s hips start rocking and Kent crosses his ankles, holding onto him like they could become inseparable if he only tried hard enough. The world can either fuck off or square up if they want to take Jack Zimmermann away from him. “Ohh, fuck yes. You’re fucking perfect. You’re the best. You’re the fucking best, Zimms, we’re the best in the world.” The snap of Jack’s hips into him gets sharper, Jack shuffling up the bed a little to leverage himself. “It’s always gonna be you. You and me.” Jack wishes he’d stop talking. He tries to fuck Kent into incoherence, but all it accomplishes is a desperate edge to Kent’s voice and the headboard knocking into the wall in time. He’s not sure if Kent is clueless or just doesn’t care anymore, can’t see what’s right in front of them. Or he can, and he’s just choosing not to. Maybe he’s able to escape it. Jack’s name becomes a litany in Kent’s mouth as Jack loses his breath, the press of his face into Kent’s skin too wet and claustrophobic. Kent doesn’t stop talking until Jack flips him over and covers his mouth with his hand, telling himself it’s because Kent’s being too loud. The frame continues to beat a tattoo into the wall until Jack shakes apart and stills, hands gripping the sheets on either side of Kent’s body’s so hard his fingers tingle as blood returns to them when he lets go. Kent’s cheek stays pressed to the too-hot, damp sheet as Jack pulls away, and he can pretend his breathing is ragged because of the sex, that the wetness on the sheet under his face is just from his skin and not his stinging eyes. The pretending stops when Kent hears the bathroom door close. He cleans himself up, puts a pair of Jack’s boxers on under the same borrowed sweats as before, a silent act of defiance against the calendar on the wall with the 26th circled in red. Maybe Jack’ll let him keep the sweats. A part of him that he refuses to look at threatens that it’s the only part of Jack he’ll get to keep. Kent stays, piles up the comforter around him and buries himself in it up to his eyes, his edges softened when Jack comes back into his room looking more tired and dead in the eyes than Kent’s ever seen him. He lets Jack press his back up against his chest, wraps his arms around him and pets his hair, kisses the back of his neck. He doesn’t talk, and neither does Jack. Jack falls asleep thinking about the number 13.

[katedoesfics]

Under Shadow: Chapter 45

Just as John said, the tunnel opened up, bringing them back into the canyon where they were greeted by six dark vehicles, parked around the tunnel’s entrance. Men stood outside of their vehicles, weapons raised.

“Get out of your vehicles,” a voice barked.

Najia met Shane’s gaze as fear flashed across his face.

“We’re dead,” Najia muttered.

“Get out, now! Hands on your heads!”

Najia’s heart raced, throwing itself against her chest, begging her to turn and run.

“Don’t get out,” Shane said, his voice barely audible. His hand pushed her shoulder down as he got out of the car, hands in the air. He put them on his head as he stepped in front of the vehicle. Najia watched as the others stepped out, one by one, their hands on their heads.

“Cooperate, and we may spare your lives,” the voice said.

“Spare our lives?” Gil hissed. “You’re working with the enemy. And they want us all dead.”

“We’re not working with the Shadow People.”

Gil spat at the ground. “Bull fucking shit.”

“We have our own stake in this war. We’re looking for a woman.” He held up an image of Najia. Her face was bruised. Her eyes were swollen shut.

Najia’s heart thudded violently against her chest.

“Never seen ‘er,” Marlon said. “What do you want with that poor girl that’s worth beating her like that?”

The man lowered the picture. “She has information we need. Information that is of no concern to you.”

“Can’t help ya, Pal,” Gil said.

Najia watched as another man motioned to the Trans Am with his assault rifle.

“Hiding someone?”

The rifles cocked around them.

“Out of the car,” he growled. “Now.”

“There’s no one else here,” Shane hissed.

The rifle turned to him.

“You’ll be the first to drop,” the man barked to him.

Najia stumbled out of the car, her body shaking as she raised her arms in the air.

“Don’t.” Her voice was too soft. “Don’t,” she squeaked. She stepped into the headlights, in front of Shane.

“Najia.”

“I’m the one you want,” she said softly. “Please don’t hurt them.”

“Najia,” Shane barked at her.

“Take her,” the man grunted. “Shoot anyone the moment they step a toe out of line.”

Two men pushed forward, grabbing Najia violently and pushing her into one of the dark cars.

“What do you want with her?” Shane shouted.

The man raised his gun and fired at the vehicles, popping their tires. Air hissed out of them as the cars slunk to the ground, useless. He turned to them and smiled. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said. “We’ll be on our way now.”

The men piled into their cars and sped away, leaving them alone in the canyon.

Shane’s body shook, his breathing shallow as he watched the headlights disappear. A rifle cocked. He closed his eyes as he felt the barrel at his head.

“You better start fucking talking,” John hissed.

“What makes you think I fucking know anything?” Shane spat at him.

“You know something. What do they want with my granddaughter?” His voice shook. “What are they going to do with her?”

Shane met his gaze. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

He pushed the barrel of the gun into Shane. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the reason this happened,” Shane hissed. “Do you even know what happened to her in the city?”

The barrel backed off just slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“Before the invasion,” Shane said. “Najia was kidnapped. People who wanted to know about Stardew Valley.” He hesitated. “They beat her for information she didn’t have, all because you told her to come here. She had no idea they were working for the Shadow People. She escaped, and they’ve been looking for her ever since.”

“I don’t understand,” John muttered, lowering his rifle. “How would they know that I told her about Stardew Valley?”

Shane shrugged. “Spies?” He shook his head. “She escaped the city, and the invasion happened right after that.” He sucked in a breath. “And now they have her.”

“They said they weren’t with the Shadow People,” Alex said.

“They’re lying,” Gil hissed. “They can’t be trusted.”

“Maybe not,” Kent said, shaking his head. “This war is bigger than we realize. This isn’t human versus Shadow People.”

“What do you mean?” Marlon asked.

Kent hesitated. “They could be from the Gotoro Empire. When I was oversees, we had intel of a possible invasion. We were fighting with the Gotoro, joining our armies. But they had other ideas. They wanted in on the invasion, to act as double agents. They thought they could destroy the Shadow People from the inside. They wanted to team up with the Dwarves, who had driven the Shadow People out of their homes in the first place and started this mess.”

“Let me get this straight,” Alex said. “Us, the Ferngill Republic, are in a war with the Shadow People, and at war with the Gotoro Empire and their Dwarven allies?”

“Something like that,” Kent said.

“So, what’s the deal with them and the Dwarves? Are they good guys or bad guys?”

Kent shook his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he said. “They want to bring down the Shadow People just as much as we do. And while they’re not our enemies, we will quickly become the enemy if we get in their way and try to stop them from eliminating the Shadow People.”

“I don’t understand,” Alex said. “We both want the same things, don’t we?”

“The Dwarves are the reason the Shadow People attacked in the first place,” Kent said. “They’re not exactly innocent good guys. They should have kept to their damn selves.”

“So,” Alex started. “There’s good guys, bad guys, and basically asshole guys?”

“The good, the bad, and the ugly,” Marlon muttered.

Shane turned anxiously toward where the Gotoro army disappeared with Najia. “What’s the plan?” he said, his voice hard. “They’re getting away with her.”

“They won’t kill her,” Kent said.

“They’ll beat her until she dies,” Shane hissed.

“What do they want with her and Stardew Valley?” John asked.

Kent shook his head. “I don’t know. Likely just information. Anything that they can use to destroy the Shadow People.”

“They can’t just ask nicely?” Alex muttered.

“They don’t do anything nicely,” Kent said. “This war has become so twisted, no one can trust anyone else. They know what they need and they’ll do what they have to do to get it and end the war.”

“There goes my plan of knocking on their door and asking for her back,” Alex said.

“I have an idea of where they could have taken her,” Kent said.

“Great,” Shane muttered. “Let’s just drive on over there.” He gestured to the flat tires.

“And pick up our lost trailer while we’re at it,” Alex said.

“We’ll have to hoof it,” Marlon said.

“Where are we going?” John asked Kent.

“They have a base on the southern coast,” Kent said. “If we drive fast, straight through, we can get there in two days.”

“We can get back to the store” John said. “Get ourselves some cars there.”

Shane turned and started walking the edge of the river, back to where they entered the canyon. The five other men followed suit.

Within a couple of hours, they had hiked their way out of the canyon and made their way back onto the interstate. They followed the road back into town where they scoured for three more vehicles.

“Found an open one,” Marlon called from across the lot.

Shane slid in and hot wired the car. The engine sputtered to life. He searched the lot until he found a truck with the windows smashed open. He peered around inside before reaching in and opening the door. He hot wired it easily and closed the door behind him, sinking into the seat and sighing. He fiddled with the items left in the center console. A wallet with a license, a couple of bills, and a condom. Shane examined the picture on the license and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I bet you got laid a lot, dude,” he muttered to himself. He tossed the wallet onto the floor and fished through the glove compartment. He pulled out a cigar and a book of CDs. He flipped through them, disinterested, before searching the compartment for a lighter. He lit the cigar and sighed.

“You gonna share that?” Marlon asked as he passed the truck. He leaned against the door.

Shane shrugged and passed him the cigar.

Marlon peered at it for a moment. “Not what I thought you were smoking,” he said casually. “But, it’ll do.”

Two vehicles pulled up in front of them. John leaned out the car in front. “Let’s go,” he grunted to them.

Marlon slid into the car with Gil and the three vehicles pulled out of the parking lot, heading south towards the Gotoro base.