#Roman's fists are rated E for Everyone

[masquenoire]

roman would rather fight his own parents, mary's parents, a stranger's parents than like. go to therapy

Based off this reblogged post, I assume.

You see this ask right here? It’s the absolute goddamn truth. Giving somebody a good ass beating is way better therapy than anything Arkham can dish out, Roman firmly believes. Fuck getting strapped down into a hospital chair while some stuffy crank preaches at him. His own parents, Mary’s parents, a stranger’s parents - frankly all of Gotham can and should expect to catch these fists.

[spicycreativity]

The Core Four (Logan, Roman, Virgil and Patton) are somewhere spooky, old house, in the woods, etc etc, and it's a place where poltergeist/demon/ghost/devil/spirit/whatever you want Remus resides and haunts and is scary and evil in. (Or they summon him) And he's like "Ooh time to mess with them muahahahaha!" but he sees Patton and gets like this "Cute boy!" And gets interested in Patton instead.

Boop

Words: 2k

Pairing: Pre-slash Intruality

Other notes: College AU, mild Vitaminwater slander, somewhat based on my own college experience of being straight edge and bored all the time and also owning multiple fist-sized chunks of quartz crystal purchased from the tent outside the gas station down by the on-ramp on the far side of town 🥴 Our abandoned dorm building was not haunted, tho

Content warnings: Mentions of underage drinking (not depicted), mentions of overdosing (non-graphic), Remus is sexually forward toward Patton, swearing, innuendo, etc. Still, I'd only rate this T

While it was rooming assignments that brought Roman, Patton, Logan, and Virgil together during the first weeks at university, it was their mutual unwillingness to break any sort of rule that kept them together. While their peers were drinking smuggled alcohol and racking up write-ups from the RAs, the foursome would sit on Logan and Virgil's side of the dorm suite drinking Vitaminwater and attempting to entertain themselves with board games and Netflix. This, predictably, got old quickly and weekends soon became a desperate battle to stave off boredom and existential ennui.

The fraying thread of Roman's patience finally snapped the night Patton suggested Pogs. The lack of adventure had chafed at him longer than it had the others and he secretly longed for some sort of thrill, even if it meant breaking the rules.

"Ugh," Roman threw himself backwards onto the pillow he'd stolen from Logan's bed, nearly knocking over Patton's mostly-full bottle of grape Vitaminwater. "We're seriously so lame that we can't think of anything better to do than Pogs?" 

"Hey," said Virgil from atop his bed, and shook a few drops of açai-blueberry-pomegranate sugar water onto Roman's forehead.

"Sorry, Patton," Roman added, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant sensation. "No offense, but I'm just so bored! I was expecting more adventure when I finally left my dreary old hometown."

"I thought you told us you were from Los Angeles," Logan said, tossing a package of Wet Wipes down onto Roman's chest. "And Virgil, I understand why you would want to teach Roman a lesson, but please try not to stain my pillowcase."

"What do you wanna do, Roman?" Patton asked, adjusting himself where he was propped up against one of the legs of Logan's bed.

"I don't know! All I know is that I have the most boring Snap story out of everyone in my stupid 100-level History class. Remy went surfing the other day. And he's from Nebraska! How does he know how to surf?" 

"There it is," Virgil said.

Roman sat up again and opened up the Wet Wipes so he could clean off his face. "Lightning round! Suggestions. Go!" He pointed at Virgil.

"Um," said Virgil. "Uh-- Sca-- Uh, horror marathon. Horror movie marathon."

"Ugh, no." Roman pointed at Logan.

"Studying."

"Oh, come on. Patton?"

"We all go to bed early so we can wake up and get breakfast together before the dining hall runs out of waffle batter?"

"Guuuys." Roman pointed at Virgil again.

"Man, I dunno, Roman! Like I'm the expert in what looks good on a Snapchat story."

"You're the one who's bored," Logan added. "Why don't you suggest something?"

"That's not how it works!" Roman shot back. "I'm the-- the arbiter, the czar! You're the idea guys."

"Okay, fine!" Virgil leaned over the edge of the bed to better give Roman the evil eye. "How about we break into the shut-down dorms with a ouija board and try to contact the spirit of that kid who OD'ed in the bathroom?"

"That's the spirit," Roman said.

"Ha," Patton said weakly.

"Wait," said Virgil, already desperately trying to make eye contact with Logan. "I was kidding. You can't be serious."

"No, no, that's a great idea! Virgil, go get your ouija board and whatever other spooky shit you have tucked away.

"We're going now?" Patton squeaked.

Logan sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Roman, anything you post to your Snapchat story can potentially be turned in as evidence and used to incriminate you. I suggest you leave your phone behind."

"Wait!" Virgil ran his hands through his hair, agitated. "You can't possibly be on board with this."

"I'm not," said Logan. "I am offering Roman advice for the same reason high school nurses' offices offer condoms: not as an encouragement, but as a safety measure. Either we all agree to go now or we all agree to go tomorrow night after Roman spends the whole day pouting and whining--"

"Hey!"

"So I suggest we just get it over with," Logan concluded.

"Seriously?" Patton was already pale and shaking, holding a stray hoodie of Virgil's close to his chest.

"It's okay, Patton," Virgil said, offering him a reassuring smile. "I'll let you wear my horn of protection amulet."

It took just under an hour to get everyone changed into darker clothes and outfitted with protective symbols from Virgil's collection. In addition to silver amulets and charms, he had handed out fist-sized chunks of quartz crystal to all of them with careful instructions not to lose them, as he wanted everything back at the end of the night.

But soon (all too soon for Patton) they faced the looming silhouette of the abandoned Monroe Hall. It was in surprisingly good repair despite the lack of security cameras and floodlights to deter intruders. In fact, the only light came from the blue emergency callbox situated a few yards down the path.

"We, genius," Virgil said, turning to Roman. "How do we get in?"

"I don't know!" Roman tossed up his hands. "I'd Google how to pick a lock but somebody" --he glared at Logan-- "made us leave our phones in the microwave."

"I already told you, it's a functional Faraday cage and--"

"Yeah, yeah, how about we save the science lectures for 8:00 am on Tuesdays and Thursday," Roman said.

"That was oddly specific," Virgil muttered, trying and failing to exchange a glance with Patton, who was staring at the ground and turning over the quartz crystal in his hands. "Wait, I've got an idea." He took his own chunk of quartz out of his pocket and slammed it through the glass door, sending a shower of tempered glass clattering onto the tiled floor inside. Then he stepped through the hole and beckoned the others in after him. "Let's go."

Patton made a muffled sound of fear and grabbed onto Logan's arm.  "You don't really think there's a ghost, do you?"

"Of course not," Logan said, leading Patton inside and following Virgil to the stairs.

"Wait!" Roman jogged ahead to lead the charge. "Are we not gonna talk about Virgil just--"

"Found a broken door and stepped through it?" Virgil interrupted, bumping Roman with his hip. "No, we are not."

Roman led them up a flight of stairs and down a corridor similar to the one in their own dorm building. All the doors they tried were locked, so they set up the ouija board in the hallway outside the bathrooms.

"Okay, gang," Virgil said once they were all sequestered around the board. "Pointer fingers on the planchette."

"Not our whole hands?" Roman asked.

Virgil shot him a sideways glare. "I'm sorry, are you the expert on the occult?"

"Are you?" Roman asked.

"Relative expert," Virgil said, sticking out his tongue. "Now. Pointer fingers on the planchette."

"I really don't know if this is a good idea," Patton said, extending a shaking hand.

"You should be more afraid of campus security," Logan said. "Although from the state of the building, it appears that we are the first to successfully enter."

"Nothing's happening," Roman complained, his eyes on the planchette.

"We haven't asked a question yet, genius," Virgil sneered.

"It seems rude to barge into someone's house and just start asking questions," Patton said. He looked up, addressing the ghost. "Hi!"

The planchette jerked and began to shake. Anticipating Virgil's accusation, Roman held up his other hand. "It's not me!"

"Shut up!" Virgil snapped. "It's moving."

They read the letters out loud together as the planchette began to move around the board: "N-I-C-E." Pause. "C-O-C-K."

"Oh, come on." Virgil grabbed the planchette and threw it at Roman's face. "Not funny."

"I swear that wasn't me!" Roman said, smacking the planchette down. It clattered across the board and came to a stop by the number '2.'

"Roman," Patton chided, "it's really not nice to mess with us like that."

"You too?' Roman said. He turned to Logan. "Come on, Specs, you know it wasn't me."

"I know it wasn't a ghost. I know it wasn't me. I know Patton and Virgil aren't likely to make that sort of joke. Therefore, I can safely posit that it must have been you. Although I wouldn't make an accusation without more evidence."

"Oh, come on!" Roman put his hand on the planchette despite Virgil's noise of protest. "Hey, spirit. Can you do something else spooky so my friends stop accusing me of--"

What happened next was equal parts anticlimactic and chilling: Roman's eyes turned green and began to emit a gentle glow. He was silent for only a moment before turning to Patton with a chipper smile. "Hey, hot stuff! Nice cock."

"Whoa" said Virgil, scrambling backwards toward the wall. "What the fuck."

"He invited me in!" said Roman, or more accurately, the ghost possessing Roman's body.

"Oh my God," Patton said. "That's not Roman."

"Yeah, no shit!"

"I'll give him back in a minute," said the spirit. "I just had to shoot my shot with hottie over here. What's your name, sugar?"

"Uh," said Patton, glancing wildly at Virgil (who was fumbling in his pocket for his holy water or his salt, whatever he found first) and Logan (who was actively blue-screening). "Patton?"

"Nice to meet you, Patton." The ghost stuck Roman's hand out for a shake. "Name's Remus. Has anyone ever told you you're kinda DILF-y for a college student?"

"N-no?"

"Well, you are."

"Thanks, I guess." Patton sat back and pulled his legs up to his chest in an unmistakably defensive pose. "Um, is there something that you wanted, Remus?"

"I already told you!" Roman's face beamed in a way it never had before, his eyes twitching strangely in their sockets. "I just popped in to shoot my shot. So?"

"He's propositioning you," Logan hissed. 

"I…" said Patton, panic whiting out his mind. Unable to find words, he held up his left hand to show off the silver band on his ring finger.

"You're married?" Roman's body leaned forward to read the engraved writing. "True love waits."

"It's a purity ring," Virgil explained, finally extricating a small vial from the tangle of cords and chains in his pocket. "And this is holy water."

"Wait," said Remus, "are you guys exorcising me? Cause I swear I'm gonna give you your friend back. I'm dead, not evil. Also," he turned to Patton, "is that a no?"

"Yes!"

"Wait, so you do wanna bang?"

"No!"

"Alright, alright, damn." Remus leaned Roman's body back, putting up his hands in a defensive gesture. "You know, I was gonna go full poltergeist and try to see if I could make you all cry, but I changed my mind when I saw Hot Pat-tato. Soooo, you're welcome."

"Yeah," said Virgil, "I'm not sure we should be thanking you for taking over our friend's body. Give him back, by the way."

"Wait!" said Patton. "Remus, why aren't you at rest? Is there something we can do to help you move on?"

"Nah," said Remus. "To be honest, I just wanted to haunt the crap out of some dumb college kids."

"Need I point out," Logan said, "that you are also a dumb college kid?"

Virgil looked around at the empty halls, walls of closed doors, the dusty spiderwebs hanging like streamers in the corners. "Wait. There's nobody to haunt."

"Yeah," said Remus. Roman's shoulders shrugged. "It's been kinda lonely and boring. 

"Sucks to suck," Virgil said, brandishing the sealed vial of holy water. "Okay, time to go."

Remus sighed and crossed Roman's arms over his chest. "Fine. I didn't really want to haunt you guys anyway."

"I might…" Patton twisted up his mouth thoughtfully, rubbing his fingers along the quartz crystal in his pocket. "Maybe I'll come back and say hello sometime."

The grin that unfurled across Roman's face was so familiar that Patton nearly hugged him. But his eyes were still that slightly luminescent green, still twitching and rolling like he was trying to take in every detail of the world all at once. "Really?"

Patton nodded and held out his hand palm-up. Roman's hand was icy, but Patton forced himself not to flinch as he brought his head down and kissed Remus' knuckles. "Really."

For a moment, there was silence. Then came a gentle warmth, and confused brown eyes staring down at Patton, who only had time to gasp before Roman tilted his head in confusion. "Um, Patton? Why are you holding my hand?"

[olivia-ivy]

what were Remus and Virgil doing during the last episode?

AO3 | Ko-Fi

Virgil was sitting in the center of his room. Not his bed (or the couch, rather, as Thomas was standing in his living room), that was too bouncy, moved too easily, wasn’t stable enough. Not good for his plan of curling into a ball and not moving until the world ends, and maybe not even then.

He was exhausted from the wedding. All those people, all that social interaction ... okay, sure, there wasn’t a lot of social interaction (almost none from the bride and groom, in fact) considering Thomas just sat on his phone the whole time, but still! There were a lot of people there and Virgil didn’t like it. Of course there would have been less people at the callback ...

And that thought only made Virgil sink further into his anxiety-ball form, hugging his knees closer and tucking his head in further. He couldn’t remember if he started rocking in place before or after he started crying, but that’s where he was when he heard a soft pop and smelled Axe body spray — and lots of it.

“SO,” Remus said settling next to Virgil’s huddled form, his extravagant outfit rustling loudly, “it turns out all the video games they’re gonna reference are rated E for Everyone. Lame.” 

Virgil squeezed his eyes shut, more tears leaking out. He bit his lip to keep his whimpers in and willed himself to stop shaking, which didn’t do a whole lot. Remus was quiet, which is never a good sign (but neither is him not being quiet so who really knows).

“... Is it a Bad Day?” Remus asked, a touch softer than his regular volume, and Virgil’s heart seized. Back before Thomas was aware of any of them, the Others would help Virgil on his Bad Days. It usually had varying degrees of success, but it was better than nothing. He hadn’t told any of the Light Sides about it. He didn’t want it to get back to Thomas that he used to be on the other side of things — of course that ship officially sailed. And sunk. Worse than the Titanic. “Is it a no talky day?” Remus continued.

Virgil didn’t move for a long time. They had a whole system worked out before Virgil left, before Janus kicked him out, before the Others figured out something was wrong with Virgil Before. For days when he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want anyone around him. He still remembers all of those signals. He knows that if he just holds up a closed fist, Remus leave him alone.

He slowly releases one hand’s grip on his legs (ow his fingers are stiff. How long has he been in that position?) and raised one finger. Their old signal for yes. 

Remus hummed. “Well that works for me. I have an idea for a nightmare I’m working on, so I’m gonna use you as a soundboard. So it starts with Thomas falling into an abyss, usual stuff right? But then he lands in the middle of that horror movie he saw when he was twelve that scarred him for life, you remember that? Of course you do, you’re the one in charge of the Deep-Seated Issue part of the brain.”

And on and on Remus continued, talking about first his nightmare idea then whatever random thought drifted into his brain. Even though the content of his rambling was often violent, disturbing, or both, just having another voice in the room to listen to, to drown out the static in Virgil’s brain and the loud voices coming from upstairs (it sounded like Roman, Patton, and Thomas were fighting) was helping.

At one point, there was a soft pop and the room smelled faintly like a nail salon. Virgil turned his head, still huddled in his Virgil-ball, and saw various nail polishes spread out before Remus. He had acrylic nails on (did he have those when he came in?) and had a bottle of nail polish remover at his lips. “Y’know, the liquid is blue, but it tastes green.” Remus said matter-of-factly.

“Dirt tastes red.” Remus had said once when they were younger when things were easier.

Virgil frowned. “But you said Janus’s pancakes taste red. Do his pancakes taste like dirt?”

“No, that’s a different red,” Remus said like that made all the sense in the world.

“Okay, but what does red taste like?” Virgil asked, still thoroughly confused by the conversation taking place.

“Like pancakes and dirt!” Remus cackled.

Present-day Remus shrugged, took another swig, and screwed the cap back on the bottle of nail polish remover. He picked up a bottle of black nail polish and beat it against the palm of his hand. “Gimme your hand,” Remus said, but made no move to grab it. Virgil mentally checked himself on how he was feeling about touch. Twenty minutes ago, it would have been a hard no. Now, however, he limply offered his left hand to the other Side and reburied his head in the Virgil-ball. 

He felt the cold varnish spread over his fingernails. He was vaguely concerned over what Remus was going to put on his nails, but he knew Remus was too proud of his creations to make a mess (unintentionally, that is. Intentional messes were still a possibility). Plus his nails were always chewed down to the quick, so there wasn’t exactly a large canvas for him to work with.

Remus was just finishing his other hand (“Don’t immediately put it back in the Virgil-ball,” Remus lightly threatened when he finished the first hand and placed it on the carpet next to him. “No smudging my masterpiece.”) when they heard it. Deceit’s tune, coming from upstairs, sounding like it had some kind of retro game filter over it. Virgil tensed (but didn’t move his hands) and Remus snapped his fingers and turned on the TV. The music came through the speakers, louder and more clear. Remus was quiet for a moment (again, not a great sign) then muttered, “Did I drink too much nail polish remover, or is Youth Pastor Ryan a giant frog?”

Virgil peaked over his knees at the TV screen and ... no, Remus didn’t drink too much nail polish remover (well, no, he had, any amount of nail polish remover is too much to drink, but Patton was a giant frog). The others were all pixelated and looked to be standing in a broken version of Thomas’s living room. Patton and Roman were on one side, and Thomas and Janus were on the other, Janus standing protectively in front of Thomas. Virgil’s breath caught in his throat.

“Janus please, don’t do this,” Virgil pleaded. “I’m only trying to protect Thomas —”

“So am I,” Janus said, his voice frustratingly cold and collected. He was standing at the threshold between the two sides of the mindscape, holding the door open and “encouraging” Virgil to go through it.

“I can’t go over there, I’m not one of Them!”

“But you’re not exactly one of Us either, are you?” Janus said, his mismatched eyes narrowing in accusation.

Virgil laughed once, incredulous. “All this because my name is different from you guys?” He thought it was just an innocent observation Janus made. When his insomnia sentenced him to another sleepless night and he threw on his gray hoodie before heading downstairs for a two AM cup of coffee, when he got down to the kitchen and saw Janus sitting at the table looking pensive about something, when he started talking to Janus as just a thing to do, when the conversation shifted from friendly chatting to an interrogation, he had no idea it would end like this. With the man he once thought of as family kicking him out in the middle of the night.

“It’s more than that and you know it!” Janus yelled, his control slipping just slightly. He caught himself and lowered his voice (though he didn’t have to. Remus snored louder than anything and the other one’s room was the furthest from the threshold) and repeated, slowly, “It’s more than that, and you know it, Virgil.” Something like sadness flickered across his face, briefly. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” he murmured.

Rage boiled in Virgil’s gut, and he exploded. “It doesn’t have to be this way! You’re the one doing this! What happened to ‘family’, huh? What happened to ‘it’s us against the world, now’?” Virgil’s voice caught in his throat and his vision blurred. “Or were those all lies, Deceit?”

Janus’s eyes hardened. He opened the door wider. 

Virgil scoffed. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Whatever.” He stomped across the threshold, jostling Janus on the way even though there was plenty of room to avoid him. He blinked harshly. That side of the mindscape was always brighter, even in the middle of the night. That’s why Virgil’s eyes watered and leaked down his cheeks, no other reason, just that.

He glared over his shoulder one last time at Janus. Was that regret in his eyes? Remorse? Whatever it may or may not have been, no words were spoken between the two as Janus closed the door, and locked it once again.

“Look, look!” Remus said, bumping against Virgil, bringing his attention back to the present. On the TV, everyone was un-pixelated and back in Thomas’s in tact living room. Deceit took off one of his gloves, and held his bare hand up flat, like a witness swearing in to testify in court.

“My name is Janus,” he said. Virgil and Remus looked at each other wide eyed. It was Janus’s idea to keep their names hidden from the others in the first place (hence why Remus blurted his out right away. Someone tells him not to do something and that’s the first thing he does).

Their shock was interrupted by the sound of Roman snorting. Virgil winced, reminded of when he revealed his own name and Roman (badly) stifling laughter at his expense. “Janice?” the prince said incredulously, laughing behind his hand. “What are you, a middle school librarian?” Remus snorted at that joke but otherwise kept quiet. Roman laughed some more then reasserted, “It’s a stupid name.”

Janus huffed in exasperation. “Oh, Roman, thank God, you don’t have a mustache,” he simpered, “otherwise, between you and Remus, I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is!”

A bottle of nail polish remover flew threw the air and crashed into the TV, breaking the screen and stopping the scene unfolding in front of them. Any other time, Virgil would have freaked out at such a display of violence, but he was too busy staring at Remus, now standing and breathing heavily. 

Virgil knew why. Way back Before, the four of them had sat down and made a list of things never to call each other, not even in a fight. Virgil’s list was the longest. Remus’s was the shortest. It only had one thing on it, one thing that Remus never wanted to be called under any circumstances. “Re—” Virgil started, his voice croaking from how little it was used all day.

The others and Thomas didn’t know what that phrase meant to Remus, but Virgil knew. And Janus knew. Janus knew, and even though he wasn’t saying it to Remus, he still said it. 

“Whatever,” Remus muttered. He waved away his nail art supplies and put the TV back in its place, this time turned off. He whirled around and stormed out of Virgil’s room. “Whatever,” he said again before slamming the door behind him.

Virgil slowly leaned to the side and laid down on the floor (careful not to smudge his nails which, though creepy, came out very good). He laid there as Remus slammed his door. He laid there as Roman sank into his room and turned on loud music to drown out his sobs (it didn’t work). He laid there as Patton and Logan and Janus went back to their respective rooms, Thomas’s dilemma apparently solved without ever needing to call on Virgil.

Fuck. 

[candied-peach]

ao3: “did i say that out loud” rating: T warnings: suicidal thoughts, self hatred, sympathetic remus, sympathetic deceit, dukeceit genre: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending description: He knows they don’t care about him. So why does it hurt so much? (lyrics are from missio “twisted”)

I'm uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional, I'm visceral, reloadable I'm crazy, I'm crazy, I'm crazy, I'm crazy

Remus stares up at the cracked and water spotted ceiling of his bedroom. He feels lethargic, his body so heavy that it could crumble through the middle of his crumpled bed sheets. He knows that he should get up. He can't bring himself to care. He knows Deceit will worry. That's almost enough to pull his weary carcass free from the morass of dirty sheets and rumpled pillows, but not quite.

Have you ever imagined killing your brother?

But at this point, Remus is sure that his brother is the one plagued with that particular thought. Certainly Roman must want him out of the picture. He is the embarrassment. The creep. The Dark Side brother that Roman desperately wishes he didn't have. What was it that he told Thomas, when Remus was still eavesdropping? Oh, yes. Like looking in a fun house mirror, but instead of seeing something funny, you saw all the things you never wanted to be.

That's all Remus is to his brother, and he knows it.

Not that the others feel much better toward him, do they? He scares Patton. Virgil feels a sort of weary contempt. Remus can see it in his eyes. And to think, they used to team up. But no, Virgil is a Light Side now, Virgil is better, and Remus? Remus is that baby bird stuck in a jet turbine, smashed to smithereens before he has time to blink.

He irritates Logan. Or maybe not. Maybe he doesn't even register high enough on Logan's radar to garner contempt. That's almost worse.

The only one who gives a fuck about him is Deceit. Dee Dee is a Dark Side like him. Dee Dee understands.

Remus is desperately afraid that Dee Dee is not enough to keep him here anymore.

As if the thought has summoned him, he hears a tentative knock on the door.

"Remus?" Deceit's voice filters through the wood. "Are you awake?" He opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. What's the point? He stares at the ceiling some more. If he strains his eyes enough, the water spots almost form a picture. Maybe if he keeps looking, he'll find out what it is.

Instead, his vision is filled by a very concerned-looking Dee, leaning over him.

"Well, you've certainly looked worse," Dee comments.

"I'm fine, Dee Dee," Remus croaks. Deceit raises one eyebrow. His snake eye seems to glitter in the dim light.

"I know you're lying," Deceit says in a quiet voice. He snaps his fingers, summoning a sturdy wooden chair, and sits down, next to Remus's bedside.

"What are you doing?" Remus asks, although he has an inkling.

"Staying with you," Deceit says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. "Trying to keep you safe."

"Why would you do that?" Remus asks, trying to laugh. It comes out more like a sob. "I'm fine, I don't need to be- to be-"

"Yes," Deceit contradicts quietly. "You do."

"Sides can't die, remember?" Remus counters. "Even if I go splat on the ground or choke myself out or take all the pills in Thomas's medicine cabinet, I'll be peachy!"

"Physically, perhaps," Deceit acknowledges. His gloved hands twist in his lap, the only outward sign of his agitation. Remus remembers the scales that speckle his hands, like iridescent freckles. "What's wrong, Remus?"

"What isn't?" He asks, and to his horror, tears spill down his face, soaking the ends of his mustache. He scrubs angrily at his eyes with the palms of his hands, but the tears continue, traveling down well worn grooves in his cheeks.

"My brother hates me," he says, and it hurts to say it, like ripping open a fresh wound. "Everyone- you're the only one who doesn't, Dee Dee, and how long will that last? How long until you get tired of me, too, until you hate me, too, until-"

"Never," Deceit says fiercely. "Remus, I love you. You matter to me. I- I know that it hurts, not being accepted by the others, but maybe..." He hesitates. "Maybe that will change. Maybe it won't. But it doesn't matter when we have each other. And if I have anything to say about it, we will always have each other."

"Do you mean that?" Remus asks in a tiny voice.

"Yes," Deceit says, clasping both of Remus's hands in his own. His gloves are soft against Remus's skin. "I swear to you, Remus. Always. I don't give a damn about the others."

Remus collapses against Deceit's front, silent sobs shaking his frame as his hands fist into Dee's capelet. Deceit's arms wrap around him, all of his arms, and Remus sags into the embrace until his eyes are sore and his nose is stuffed up.

"Th- thank you," he stammers, as he draws away a little. Deceit smiles, the gesture tinged with sadness.

"Of course," he murmurs. "And Remus? I don't think your brother hates you as much as he professes. I think he's just...very confused. And I think he'll come around."

"Okay," Remus says simply. He looks around the crumpled mess of his bed and his nose wrinkles. "Can I take a shower? I feel like shit."

"Only if you promise not to try and bathe in sulfuric acid again," Deceit says, with a fond smile. Remus grins crookedly.

"Fine," he says, and follows Deceit, leaving the twisted nest of bed sheets behind.

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[bearly-writing]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, implied Roman Sionis/Jason Todd - Relationship, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Slade Wilson, Jason Todd & Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson Characters: Dick Grayson, Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, Jason Todd, Roman Sionis, Black Mask Additional Tags: Child Abuse, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Dick Grayson is Renegade, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Protective Slade Wilson, Protective Dick Grayson, Hurt Jason Todd, Parent-Child Relationship, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Except Jason isn't a baby, Good Parent Slade Wilson, Good Parent Dick Grayson, Minor Character Death, Blood and Injury Series: Part 3 of SladeRobin Weekend 2020 Summary:

"Most of Black Mask’s recruits are adults - or at least teenagers. They’ve never been asked to train someone so young before.

Because the boy Black Mask has brought with him this time can’t be much older than ten."

In a world where Robin doesn't exist, Deathstroke and Renegade are asked to train Black Mask's latest recruit.

A super late entry for the @sladerobinweek Weekend prompt Accidental Co-Parenting.

It isn’t the first time Deathstroke and Renegade have been asked to train one of Black Mask’s new lackeys. As good as Sionis is at what he does, he isn’t a fighter, and he certainly isn’t anywhere near the level of the two highly-trained mercenaries. The man can handle a gun decently and even Deathstroke can’t deny that he has a talent for inflicting pain, but actual fighting skills? Well, he wouldn’t last long against anyone that Deathstroke has trained - even those without any natural aptitude.

But one of Sionis’ better skills is knowing when to delegate and Deathstroke, no matter what, is a mercenary at heart. Black Mask pays good money for them to turn whichever new passion project he deems worthy into something worth keeping around. Not that Black Mask tends to actually keep them for long. It’s a dangerous job, being one of Black Mask’s soldiers and even being trained by the best can’t keep them safe from Sionis’ boredom.

So there’s usually a new one every other year or so. Both Deathstroke and Renegade are used to it by now, and the money is good, even if it usually means having to take a few weeks - or months, depending upon how much instruction is necessary - out of the rest of their work. Dick kind of looks forward to it. Sometimes it’s nice to spend time with new people. Even Slade can get boring after a while.

Still, most of Black Mask’s recruits are adults - or at least teenagers. They’ve never been asked to train someone so young before.

Because the boy Black Mask has brought with him this time can’t be much older than ten.

“Little small for a fighter, isn’t he?” Slade asks, mirroring Dick’s thoughts exactly. There’s none of the judgement Dick feels in his tone though. Deathstroke’s own moral line in the sand can be a little blurry at times but it doesn’t pay to be judgemental in this line of work.

Despite that, Dick can feel his own disapproval rising in the back of his throat. With Black Mask looming behind him, one hand clasped on a thin shoulder, the kid looks tiny. Even the expensive suit Roman has wrangled him into can’t disguise the fact that the boy is way too skinny. When he lifts his head to glare at Deathstroke - brave, Slade will like that - Dick can see a dark, wine-stain bruise purpling his eye, the yellow edge of another peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

“I can fight,” the kid snarls, all bravado, even though his hands are trembling where they’re fisted against his thighs.

“Yeah?” Slade steps close enough to reach out and catch the kid’s chin between long fingers. The kid flinches and Roman’s hand moves possessively to the back of his neck, but Deathstroke has never been afraid of Black Mask, Dick knows. If Slade wants to touch, Roman won’t stop him. “That how you get that bruise?”

The kid jerks his head again but Slade’s doesn’t let him go. There’s a flash of fear in the boy’s eyes that makes Dick’s stomach turn uncomfortably. Renegade is used to fear, but not like this. Not from a child.

“Little Jay fell down the stairs,” Roman says, before the kid - Jay - can answer. His tone is full and indulgent. When he looks up from Jay’s scowling face, his smirk is an invitation, an offer to share in his little inside joke. It sparks something sour across Dick’s tongue. He’s never liked Roman.

“Didn’t you, pumpkin?”

“Yeah,” Jay mumbles. Dick thinks he would drop his gaze if Slade wasn’t still holding onto him. Instead he settles for glaring at the mercenary with impressive heat. “I’m clumsy like that.”

Slade just hums. He tilts Jay’s head from side to side like someone examining a horse. Dick half expects him to lift Jay’s lip up and look at his teeth.

“We don’t train kids,” Dick says, eventually, because it doesn’t look as though Slade is about to put a stop to this. And there’s a lot of things Dick will do for Slade but not this. Training a kid to become a killer - a killer for Black Mask - isn’t something even Renegade is comfortable with.

If Black Mask’s expression changes, it’s hard to tell. But Dick thinks he stiffens a little. Thinks his fingers might tighten where they’re pressed over the back of the kid’s neck. The kid grunts, caught between Deathstroke and Black Mask, but doesn’t try to pull away. Dick can’t tell if it’s because he’s too afraid or if it’s because he isn’t afraid enough.

“You train who I pay you to train,” Roman says, pleasantly enough, but with an edge of warning.

That finally makes Slade drop the boy’s chin. The kid immediately drops his gaze, then seems to think better of it, lifting his eyes to watch Slade warily. It’s obvious that he considers Dick a lesser threat.

“You haven’t paid us yet, Mask,” Slade says in equal warning. “How old is he?”

“Old enough.”

“We’ll decide what’s old enough,” Dick snaps. “How old is he?”

It’s probably not a good idea to lose his temper with the man who pays a substantial amount of their paycheck, but Dick is tired of Black Mask thinking he owns them. Thinking he can snap his fingers and they’ll come to heel. He’s tired of working with Black Mask’s men - of having to deal with all of the useless, arrogant assholes that a man like Roman Sionis employs. Or worse, having to watch the ones he actually likes be utterly destroyed by the man in front of him, for greed or power or sometimes just for fun.

Dick doesn’t want to help him destroy this child.

“I’m twelve,” the kid says, before Roman can answer.

Dick almost does a double take. With the kid’s size, he had expected younger than that. But then, this wouldn’t be the first child stunted by a lifetime in Gotham.

There’s a considering silence then. Dick wants to refuse again but he knows he’s already spoken out of turn and Deathstroke might not be Roman Sionis, but he doesn’t appreciate being shown up by his subordinates any more than Black Mask does. Still, Dick wishes there was a way they could speak in private, so Dick can let him know exactly how much he hates this idea.

“It’ll be double the usual amount,” is what Slade finally says and Dick feels his heart sink in his chest. That means the man’s mind is made up - if Black Mask pays up, they’ll have to train the kid no matter Dick’s objections.

“Double?” Mask scoffs. His grip on the kid hasn’t loosened. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Take it or leave it. You know no one else will train him the way we will. But if the price is too steep feel free to take him elsewhere.”

“He’d better be the best Goddamn fighter in the business,” Mask growls.

Slade only smirks, even as Dick’s stomach twists itself into a painful little knot. That’s settled then - Dick never really had a chance if Slade had made up his mind, but Dick honestly hadn’t expected him to agree to it. It’s not as though Slade has ever shown any real interest in kids before - even his own. It’s not as though they need the money.

“Be a good boy then, sweetheart,” Roman says, finally relinquishing his grip on Jay’s neck.

He strokes a hand through the boy’s curls in a surprisingly tender gesture before his fingers tighten hard enough to have the kid whimpering, yanking his head back to expose the column of his throat. There are more bruises there. Dick can see black stripes that look like finger-marks, purple and green smudges that could be anything but that make his stomach roll.

“When we’re reunited, you’re gonna be something special, baby. So don’t fuck this up. You don’t want to disappoint daddy, do you?”

“No sir,” the kid grits out, voice small and strained.

Roman hums, then he leans down and presses a mocking kiss - or as much of a kiss as he can give without any real lips - to the kid’s forehead. Jay goes rigid but doesn’t try to pull away. Dick can see him shaking.

Finally, Black Mask lets go of him. For a moment, the kid just stands there, clearly unsure what’s expected of him. Then Sionis gives him a harsh shove that has the kid stumbling.

“Go on sweetheart,” he says. The kid doesn’t look back at him, but Dick can see the tension in his shoulders. “Be good.”

⁂

Slade gives the kid the same speech he gives everyone they take in to train. No special treatment here. The whole time, the kid is quiet and sullen, but he’s clearly listening attentively to Slade’s little speech. Dick follows behind them whilst Slade leads Jay on a brief tour of the compound. There’s not much to show: a communal kitchen, a shower block, and a bare guest bedroom. The only area of any importance is the dojo and training room. It’s where Jay will be spending most of his time with them.

“We start training at 8am,” Slade explains. He sounds bored, apathetic. But Dick knows he’s watching the kid carefully. “Breakfast is from six. Evenings are your own free time. Do with it what you will.”

“Anything?” The kid asks.

“Within reason,” Slade clarifies, obviously catching the look in his eyes. “And you can’t leave the compound.”

It’s not a rule they’ve ever had before. Dick is a little surprised by the concession to the kid’s age, even if it is as minimal as not letting him run off on his own, Slade hadn’t seemed like he cared.

The kid scowls, obviously unhappy with the ruling. Is he just annoyed at having Slade exert his control? Or had this been a chance for the kid to slip Sionis’ leash? Something cold tightens Dick’s stomach. He doesn’t like the idea of holding the kid here against his will. Likes the idea of keeping him prisoner for Roman Sionis even less.

“So I can’t do anything then?” The kid grumbles.

Slade’s eyes narrow. It’s a look that Dick’s had directed at him countless times but the kid seems to quail under it in a way Dick never has. Not that that’s a surprise exactly, very few people can stand up to even a mild look from Slade.

“You can train. Let’s start now. Take off your shirt and jacket, Renegade will show you the ropes.”

Dick shoots Slade his own narrow look. None of this is unusual - they almost always do the introductory spar with Dick as a way to test their current abilities. And Dick usually enjoys it. He likes to show off, likes to get a feel for the people he’s going to be training with for the next few weeks. Likes the excuse to beat on the arrogant assholes that Sionis usually employs. But he doesn’t like the idea of fighting a twelve year old - especially not one as small and scrawny-looking as the kid. Slade must know that.

Still, with Slade it’s best not to voice your displeasure too openly. The man can be surprisingly petty. So Dick doesn’t put up any more of a complaint.

The kid shucks his suit jacket immediately, following the command as if he hasn’t even thought about it. But he hesitates when he gets to the buttons of his shirt. Undoes the button at his throat, then does it back up again, biting his lip and throwing Slade a nervous look. His fingers are trembling.

“You can leave the shirt on if you prefer,” Slade says, eventually, when it’s obvious that the boy is just going to stand there. It’s another uncharacteristic move on Slade’s part - usually, if he gives an order, he expects you to follow it. Somehow, Dick hadn’t expected him to be soft. Slade doesn’t hurt kids, but he had agreed to this - Dick has so rarely seen him make concessions before.

The kid lets out an almost unnoticeable sigh of relief, some of the tension softening out of his shoulders, before he turns his focus on Dick.

“This is just to get a feel for how you move,” Dick tells him. He circles the kid as he says it, taking in his form, his size, the way he’s holding himself, trying to figure out how best to start. “We don’t expect you to know how to fight right now, but it’s good to get an idea of how you move. What your instincts are.”

Jay follows Dick with his eyes, twisting to keep him in vision, but otherwise doesn’t move. He’s so stiff that he’s trembling. Dick doesn’t have to be an expert in body language to read the anxiety in it.

He strikes.

All in all, Jay isn’t a bad fighter. There’s no strategy to it, no real thought, and definitely no expertise, but his instincts are good. It’s painfully obvious that the kid has no training, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his way around a fight. He can take a hit. Can deal them out too, when Dick leaves himself purposefully exposed. And he isn’t afraid to fight dirty.

It makes sense with what Dick knows about the kid - even more sense with what he can guess. Most likely, Jay had to look out for himself on the streets before Black Mask took him in; he fights like a street rat, all dirty tricks and mindless desperation. Dick’s seen it before.

It’s something they can work with.

By the time the fight ends, Jay is drenched with sweat. The expensive shirt he’s still wearing is so damp that it’s sticking to him, moulded against too-skinny ribs. The wet strands of his curls are practically dripping. His movements, already wild and unpredictable, turn frantic. It allows Dick to catch the kid’s arm when he makes a poorly-timed attack that leaves him open, gripping his wrist and using the leverage to force Jay to the floor.

For the first time in the fight, Jay flinches. A sharp, wounded sound bursts out of him even before his knees hit the floor. If it weren’t for his own training, that might have had Dick letting go. Instead, he tightens his grip, losing himself to instinct and muscle memory as he follows Jay to the ground, twisting his arm behind him in a loose pin and pressing a knee into the small of his back to keep him there. Jay goes stiff beneath him. The only movement is the heave of his ribs as the kid pants for air, otherwise surrendering himself to Dick’s hold.

Then, tight and panicked: “Get off me.”

Dick lets the hold drop immediately, sitting back on his heels and lifting his hands in surrender. He’s won the fight. There’s no need to lord it over the kid. Jay had done well, even, all things considering. And Dick remembers that sharp little noise of pain the kid had made when Dick had grabbed him. The way Jay had flinched at the grip of Dick’s fingers when he’d taken all the previous blows with barely a twitch. It makes Dick’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, as the kid pushes himself upright.

Jay scowls. “No,” he snaps. But Dick can see the way he’s cradling his wrist in one hand, his face tense with pain.

“Let me see.”

Dick reaches out but the kid draws away from him. There’s such naked fear on his face that it takes Dick’s breath away. It’s gone almost as soon as it comes but Dick pulls away anyway.

“Don’t lie.” Slade is suddenly looming over them. He snatches the kid’s wrist in one huge fist, pulling him half off the floor, ignoring Jay’s pained squeak. “Hiding injuries gets you killed out in the field.”

Jay struggles, but if he’d lost the fight to Renegade, there’s no chance he’ll overpower Deathstroke. Slade just drags the kid’s sleeve down his skinny arm, ignoring the weak protests. The skin revealed is pale and smattered with bruises. A dark ring of them circles the kid’s wrist, some of them an angry purple, others faded to sickly yellows and greens. Dick’s stomach clenches. There’s no way his hold caused an injury like that - this is something the kid has had for a while. Something inflicted on him again and again if the variation in colour is anything to go by. Some of those bruises are at least a week old. Some of them are clearly fresh.

Slade doesn’t let go of Jay’s wrist, but there’s a sudden tension to his face as he eyes the marks on the kid’s skin. It’s difficult to tell with Slade, but Dick can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling the same hollow disgust in his gut as Dick is. Someone has clearly hurt the kid and not in the controlled way Dick was just moments ago. Those marks aren’t from any training Dick has ever been a part of.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, really. Dick knows exactly what Black Mask is like. Knows exactly the sort of thing that man is willing to do. It’s hardly a shock that Roman is a child abuser, along with every other terrible thing the man has done. He’d asked them to turn Jay into a killer, after all. And they had agreed to it.

“Any other injuries?” Slade asks, and his voice is softer than before, although Dick thinks he can only tell because of the years they’ve known each other.

“No,” the kids lies. He tugs against Slade’s grip, his face twisting when there’s no give. “Are we done here?”

For a moment, Dick thinks Slade might call him on it. There’s little doubt in Dick’s mind that there are more bruises under the sweat-drenched cotton of Jay’s shirt. He remembers the kid’s hesitance to remove it - thinks now that it was probably more than just self-consciousness. Slade doesn’t like to be lied to. Likes being disobeyed even less.

But, for whatever reason, Slade doesn’t. He releases his grip on the kid with a grunt, letting him slide back to the floor. Jay stays there, a crumpled little heap, watching Slade from under furrowed brows.

“Go clean up,” Slade growls. “You’re done for tonight.”

Jay scrambles to his feet with the air of someone who’s been pushed out the path of a speeding truck and disappears before Slade can change his mind.

⁂

“Why did you agree to it?” Dick asks, later, once they’ve turned in for the night.

Slade hums as he pulls his shirt over his head. From his position on the bed, Dick gets to watch the muscles of his back slide and flex as he does so, scarred skin bared to the dim light of their room. Normally, the sight would have heat fluttering low in Dick’s belly. Tonight, he’s too angry to really appreciate it.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Slade throws back, as he slides into his side of the bed. The mattress dips heavily with his weight. Cool air brushes against Dick’s skin as Slade disturbs the blanket, settling it over his own legs. “The money’s good. You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“They’ve never been twelve before,” Dick snaps, icily. In the privacy of their own bedroom, Dick isn’t afraid to let his opinion known. Slade might not like to be shown up in public, but he’s never begrudged Dick an argument when they’re alone. Sometimes, Dick thinks his temper is one of the reasons they work so well together. Slade wouldn’t want to lose that.

“It’s no different from any of the others we’ve trained.”

“Yes it is, Slade, and you know it.” Dick crosses his arms over his bare chest, feeling like a child himself, angry and petulant under Slade’s heavy gaze. “He’s a little kid and now we’re training him to be a killer. It’s not right.”

Slade is silent for a moment, as if he’s actually considering that. Then, “You were a kid when you started.”

Dick’s shoulders tighten. “Yeah, and look how I turned out.”

Slade hums again. Then he shifts, leaning across the space between them to press warm lips against Dick’s jaw. Despite everything, Dick still melts at the touch, eyelashes fluttering, some of the tension sliding out of his muscles.

“You turned out perfect,” Slade murmurs. Those hot lips ghost across Dick’s skin, leaving little tingles of desire in their wake, until they’re moulded over his mouth. Dick sighs into the kiss. Lifts a hand to Slade’s throat and rests his fingers there, feeling his pulse beating against Dick’s palm. Then he uses his grip to gently push Slade away.

“Says you.” But he can’t help the little smile he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, it’s different. You gave me a home, a life. Black Mask is going to destroy that kid and we’re helping him do it.”

Slade is still close enough that Dick can feel the huff of his breath against his cheek. His single eye gleams in the dim light as it flickers over Dick’s face, taking in whatever it is the man sees when he looks at Dick. Then he sighs, a hot gust across Dick’s skin, and pulls back a little further, breaking Dick’s grip. Immediately, Dick misses the heat of him so close.

“What do you think would happen if we didn’t agree to train him?” Slade asks. “What do you think Black Mask would do to a kid who he doesn’t see as worth keeping around? Do you genuinely think we would help the kid by refusing?”

Dick grinds his teeth hard enough that his jaw aches, because Slade is right - he knows Slade is right - but it doesn’t make the situation any easier. Knowing that this is the best of a bad bunch doesn’t exactly ease Dick’s conscience.

Strong fingers stroke over Dick’s jaw, loosening some of the tension there. Then they slide around to cup the back of his neck, massaging at the muscle before gently tugging Dick forward, against Slade’s chest. Dick lets himself relax, tilting his head up to nuzzle against the older man’s throat.

“I hate this.”

“I know,” Slade murmurs.

Dick can feel the vibration of it through Slade’s broad chest and it stirs something in his gut. When Slade presses a kiss against Dick’s temple, Dick turns his face into it, slipping his tongue out almost immediately to run it over the seam of Slade’s mouth. The older man opens himself up to Dick with a groan. Warm hands slide up Dick’s side as he twists to straddle Slade’s lap, tunneling his own hands through Slade’s white hair. The solid weight of Slade between his thighs always does something to him. It’s why they almost always end up fucking after sparring.

“Dickie,” Slade breathes, dropping a wet kiss to the curve of Dick’s collarbone.

Dick shivers, tilting his head back to allow Slade’s mouth access to the span of his throat. Lets out a soft little moan as Slade nips at the skin beneath his jaw and-

The door opens.

It’s quiet, but neither Slade nor Dick got where they are without developing an obsessive awareness of their surroundings. The soft sound of the door gliding across the thick cream carpet might as well be a shout. Beneath Dick, Slade stiffens. Dick is already sliding off of his lap, twisting to face the intruder. He isn’t concerned, particularly, because he knows who’s going to be standing in the doorway before he even turns around. If they were dangerous, they wouldn’t have just waltzed through the door.

Still, he is a little annoyed at being interrupted. Jay hadn’t even knocked. If he’d walked in just a little bit later, he might have got an eyeful.

“What do you want?” Slade grunts, low and dangerous.

It’s difficult to see the kid’s face in just the dim light of the bedside lamp, but Dick sees him stiffen. Can see that he’s trembling even though half of him is still hidden behind the door. It’s obvious that the kid is frightened. Dick frowns. Did he have a nightmare? It wouldn’t be a surprise if he was unsettled, but Dick finds it hard to believe that the kid would come to Deathstroke and Renegade - practical strangers beyond the knowledge that they're going to train him to fight - with this sort of vulnerability. Is twelve too old to be crawling into someone else’s bed? Dick stopped being able to seek comfort like that when his parents died - long before that age - and he hadn’t been able to again until Slade had first taken him to bed, well after he’d reached adulthood.

Jay doesn’t answer but he does step into the room, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He hesitates for a moment, shuffling his feet, his hands twisting in the material of his shirt, until Slade growls and he startles, covering the rest of the distance to the bed in a few quick steps.

“Jay,” Dick tries, bemused. “What are you doing?”

Because the kid is pulling his pyjama top up over his head, discarding it carelessly on the floor as he clambers up onto the bed. Dick gets a brief look at the determined set of the kid’s jaw before he’s crawling into Dick’s lap. One hand settles on Dick’s blanket-covered thigh. The other clutches at his shoulder as Jay leans up to press his lips against Dick’s throat.

Dick pushes the kid away automatically, instinctively. One moment, Jay is a warm, uncomfortable weight in Dick’s lap, the next he’s lying on his back at the foot of the bed, blinking up at the ceiling. Shock tingles like electricity through Dick’s veins. For a long moment, all he can do is sit there in stunned silence.

Jay doesn’t move either. Not until Slade shifts, looming up over the bed, dragging the kid upright by the arm and shaking him lightly.

“What the hell was that?”

The expression on Jay’s face as Slade pulls him to his knees is pure fear. Slade looks huge in the darkness, kneeling on the bed in only his boxers, Jay tiny in his grip. Despite knowing that Slade wouldn’t hurt him, Dick can’t stop the clutch of fear in his own chest. The kid looks so small. So easily hurt.

“What?” Jay gasps, cringing away from Slade, although he doesn’t try to pull free from his grip. “I thought…”

Slade growls. “You thought what?”

“Slade,” Dick interrupts. He can’t sit here and look at the terror on the kid’s little face any longer. Whatever Jay had been trying to accomplish - and Dick’s mind keeps stalling over that because the idea makes Dick feel sick to his stomach - manhandling him like this is not the way to respond to it. “Let him go.”

There’s another perilous moment where Slade’s grip doesn’t loosen. Where the kid stares up at him with huge, wet eyes and Dick’s heart throbs on his throat. Then Slade drops the skinny arm in his fist and the kid sinks back against the bedsheets with a scowl.

“You said you wanted double,” Jay says and his voice is tight. There’s a hint of a whine to the words, as if Dick and Slade are being unfair. “You said...I thought…”

He crosses those skinny arms over his chest. The movement draws Dick’s eyes to all the pale skin on show - the hint of ribs visible even in the semi-darkness, the jut of his collarbones, the dark bloom of bruises. If it hadn’t already been clear that the kid was lying earlier, this is all the proof they need to know he is injured.

Because the bruises are everywhere. Littered up and down his arms - and Dick swallows thickly at the knowledge that Slade has probably contributed his own there - splashed across his ribs, dotted over his throat. There are more braceleting the kid’s wrist - a matching cuff to the ones they had found earlier. Still more staining the crest of his hips, sneaking under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

Dick feels suddenly, violently ill. Has to tighten his throat against the horror surging through his chest. The sheer volume of bruises is bad enough but it’s everything else they imply that has Dick’s stomach clenching painfully.

Jesus, Dick had known Roman was bad but this...this is something else.

“You thought we wanted you as payment,” he manages, squeezing the words through the tightness of his throat. They sound....odd, even to his own ears, strangely distorted.

Jay shrugs, a sharp, jerky movement, scowling so hard that moisture leaks out of the corner of his eyes - not proper tears, but on the edge of them.

Slade leans away from him and the kid flinches at the movement before going still, stiff and trembling like a rabbit under the jaws of a fox. Dick can’t even blame him - the fury on Slade’s face is frightening.

“I don’t rape children,” Slade growls. “Or anyone.”

Jay’s head jerks, his expression transforming with surprise. “It’s not -” And even in the darkness, Dick can see the kid’s face flush, red blooming across his cheeks and chest. “It’s not - “

“What isn’t it?” Dick asks, gently. Nausea claws at the base of his throat, but he manages to flatten most of it out of his voice. This is not a conversation he ever wanted to have. This is not a situation he wants to be in.

Jay’s face scrunches up again. “It’s not rape!” he shouts. Then he starts to cry.

Dick’s heart breaks. He wants to reach out so badly. Wants to pull this poor little kid into his arms and soothe away his distress, his pain. But he knows that his touch won’t be welcome. Not right now. Not considering the kid had, just moments ago, believed that Dick and Slade were going to hurt him.

Slade sits back fully on the bed, making himself smaller and less intimidating in a way that Dick remembers from his early years with the man, putting more space between them. “Why not?” he asks and it’s as gentle as Dick has ever heard him.

At first, the kid is crying too hard to answer. It hurts to listen to - huge, gasping sobs that sound as if they’re being wrenched from his chest, little whimpering cries that he muffles with his fist. Tears stream over his red cheeks, streaking all the way down his neck, over all those terrible bruises.

Then, in a small, hiccupy voice: “I owe you, for - for the -” a wet swallow “- the training. I owe you.”

“Oh Jay,” Dick whispers, at the same time as Slade growls, “You don’t owe us anything.”

The kid sniffles, scrubbing a boney, bruised wrist against his eyes. The tears don’t stop, still leaking steadily down his face.

“Is that what Roman told you?” Dick asks, swallowing against his revulsion. “That you owe him for taking you in? That it makes it OK for him to touch you?”

“He didn’t have to tell me.” Jay’s voice is still small and wet, but there’s an edge to it too. Dick cant tell who he’s angry at - Dick, Roman, himself, the world. “Nobody does shit for free and I ain’t got anything else to give him. I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to go with him. I’d be - I’d be doing worse on the street.”

Somehow that doesn’t make Dick feel much better. Somehow, knowing that a twelve-year-old had been forced to make the decision between Roman Sionis and starving to death on the street, only makes Dick feel sicker.

“Get that shit out of your head,” Slade says, gruffly. Dick can tell he’s as disturbed as he is, despite all the shit Deathstroke has seen as part of the job. “You don’t owe anyone anything, OK kid. Not us and especially not Roman. Your pedo boss owes me a lot of money and I owe him a bullet in the head.”

Jay flinches at that but he falls silent, barely even sniffling. He scrubs at his face again. Stares at the blanket with wet eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Dick tells him. Then, taking a risk, he brushes the back of his hand across the kid’s wet cheek. Jay doesn’t pull away - in fact, he leans into the contact, his eyelashes fluttering, letting out a quiet sigh.

“Go back to bed kid,” Slade says. “Forget this happened.”

Jay bites his lip, looks between the two of them quickly, like he’s looking for something, before sliding off the bed. He hesitates at the door. “It’s Jason,” he says, softly. “My name’s Jason.”

Dick’s heart hurts.

⁂

Jason stays with them for longer than anyone has before. It’s not that the kid is a slow learner or a bad fighter or anything like that. Jason is actually good at the training. He’s smart and eager to please, young enough to absorb correction but with a solid enough foundation that they aren’t starting entirely from scratch. Usually he would have been out of there in a few weeks - a month at most - but Jason has been with Deathstroke for over two months now and it’s getting harder to justify why.

The thing is, Dick doesn’t want to give him back. Not to Roman. Not to the life he knows is waiting for the poor kid. Dick couldn’t justify allowing that to happen to any child, but Jason - he’s grown on Dick in the time he’s been with them. Dick likes him. Yeah, he can be a brat, annoying and mouthy and rude. Yeah, he can throw tantrums, kick and scream and yell (although only with Dick, never with Slade, he notices). But the kid can also be painfully sweet. In his spare time, he likes to read. So ferociously that he’s gotten through a good portion of Slade’s library. He likes to cook too. Likes, most of all, to follow Dick around like a little puppy or an imprinted duckling. Slade too, sometimes, when he’s feeling brave enough.

It’s clear that the kid still doesn’t trust them. Not fully. He never initiates contact with them unless it’s required for training. He still flinches at sudden movements, cringes and cowers if he thinks they’re angry at him or he’s done something wrong. Dick can’t imagine him ever asking for a hug or wanting to hold their hands. But he’s still a kid. A sweet, sad, traumatised little kid. And Dick can’t stop the slow, creeping knowledge that he’s starting to think of Jason as his.

“Will you read to me?” Jason asks, one night, crawling up onto the sofa Dick had been lounging across. When Dick sits up a little, the kid slots himself against Dick’s side, offering up the book for him to take and Dick is frozen for a moment by the shock of the contact.

“Sure,” he says, taking the book with one arm, letting the other one rest across the back of the sofa, not confident enough to actually put it around Jason’s shoulders like he really wants.

Jason falls asleep like that, curled against Dick’s side, Dick’s voice slow and steady as he reads.

After that, Jason seems noticeably less frightened. As if it was some sort of test that Dick managed to pass. It’s not as though he’s suddenly touchy-feely with them, but there’s a tangible easing of tension, a shifting in the atmosphere between them. Dick thinks, sometimes, that he could get away with a hug, if he caught Jason in just the right mood for one.

Only, it’s Slade who actually gets to hug him, in the end.

They’re working through pins and how to escape them - something that they’ve already gone over with Jason plenty of times - when it happens. During training, Jason never begrudges them the physical contact they need. He never flinches from the blows they throw at him either, even though sometimes he can be startled just by a sharp movement of Dick’s hand when they’re outside of the dojo. It’s the control, Dick thinks, even as it makes his chest throb a little, that makes the difference. If Jason knows it’s coming, he can prepare for it.

But this time when Slade pins him down, Jason goes stiff and silent. Slade sustains the hold for a minute, waiting for Jason to make his move, to pull himself out of whatever panic he’s suddenly sunk into, but the kid doesn’t surface. Even from across the dojo, Dick can hear his rough, panting breaths. The edge of fear in them.

“You alright, kid?” Slade asks, pulling away from Jason with careful movements. Jason doesn’t acknowledge him. With Slade no longer on top of him, DIck can see the kid’s face, the slackness of his expression, the way he’s staring blankly up at the ceiling without really seeing it. Dick’s stomach drops.

“Kid?” Slade reaches forward, as if he wants to grab Jason - to shake him maybe. Jason twitches at the movement, blinking rapidly as he seems to come back to himself. Dick watches his eyes flicker. Then his whole face crumples out of that scary blankness into something agonised. He looks terribly, awfully young,

“I don’t want to go back,” Jason whispers. The words hitch, like he’s trying not to cry, breathed out on a shaky exhale.

Dick watches Slade’s face soften. Feels his own crumple to match Jason’s as devastation blooms, hot, behind his ribs. Then Slade is reaching out with one muscular arm, pulling Jason up against his chest. Surprisingly, Jason lets him, limp and pliant in Slade’s grip.

“I know, kid,” Slade growls. He lifts one hand to tuck Jason’s face against his neck, settling himself cross-legged on the floor and shifting Jason around until he’s held more firmly in his lap. Jason sniffles, one little hand reaching up to fist in the material of Slade’s shirt. It’s a surprisingly paternal gesture from Slade. Dick isn’t sure if he can remember the last time Slade was so soft with someone beyond the confines of their bedroom. Isn’t sure if he can even remember Slade hugging him back when he was a kid and the man had been everything to Dick. He must have done, at some point. Dick has always been clingy.

Either way, it touches something deep in Dick’s chest to see the man he loves embracing the kid so gently. Slade’s soft side is something rarely seen, but treasured. And seeing Jason accept comfort like this is a rarity too. One that Dick wants more of.

“Do you think we’re going to let you?” Slade asks, rubbing his bristly chin over the top of Jason’s head. “Knowing what that bastard’s done? Do you think we’ll let you go back to him?”

Jason shrugs jerkily, sharp little shoulders shifting in Slade’s grip. He’s started to fill out in the time he’s been here - building up muscle where before there was just skin and bones - but the kid is still too skinny.

“Where else would I go?” he asks, voice small and wet. “I- I’m Roman’s.”

Slade growls. “You don’t belong to anyone but yourself kid.”

“And you’ve got us,” Dick adds, moving across the room to crouch beside them, not content to be left out of the moment any longer. Jason twists to blink up at him with wet eyes, peering out from where he’s pressed against Slade’s neck. “You can stay here as long as you need to, Jason.”

Dick lifts his chin to meet Slade’s gaze as he says that, daring him to disagree. It’s not that Dick expects him to hand the kid off to Roman, but offering him a permanent place here is something they haven’t discussed. Dick is stepping wildly out of bounds with that declaration. But Slade doesn’t seem annoyed. The skin around his eye crinkles with something that might be affection as he steadily meets Dick’s gaze, as if Dick has done something particularly cute.

“I can’t,” Jason whispers, dropping his eyes down to where Slade’s thick arm is curled around him. “I can’t…”

“Yes you can,” Dick says, just as softly. “I won’t let Black Mask take you back, Jason.”

It will be the end of this lucrative little agreement between them, but they’ve never really needed the money. And Dick has never liked Roman. This is no loss to him. If the alternative is sending Jason back to the man who raped and abused him, well….

Dick isn’t going to let that happen.

⁂

“You can’t be serious?”

Slade shifts, looming menacingly over Roman, despite being several feet away from him. In his full armour, Slade always looks enormous. In his fancy little suit, Roman looks a little like a child playing dress-up beside him.

“Deadly.”

“What?” Roman sneers, clearly wrong-footed but trying to claw back control, “You train him up and now you want your own little assassin?” His eyes slide to Dick, cold and cruel. “The old model isn’t good enough for you, anymore?”

“My motivations are none of your concern, Roman,” Slade growls. “I’ll waive payment.”

It’s hard to read Roman’s expressions behind that eponymous mask, but Dick can see the tension in his body. The way his muscles bunch, as if he’s considering actually attacking Slade - as if the mobster could go against Deathstroke and Renegade on their own turf and actually have a chance of winning. Roman has his body guard, of course, and probably a good number of guns on his person, but he’s never going to beat Slade. Especially not with Dick as backup. Not that Slade would need it.

“That kid is mine,” Roman snarls. “I dragged the little slut off the street and gave him everything. If you want your own little whore because the old one got too big for you, fine. But you’re not getting this one.”

Slade moves almost before Roman has finished speaking, drawing his katana in one fluid movement to press it threateningly against Roman’s unprotected throat. The mobster’s arms jerk, as if he means to grab for his gun, or maybe push Slade away from him, but Deathstroke is a solid mass on top of him, immovable.

“Don’t try my patience Mask. I should take your head off for what you did to that kid. Whatever our dealings in the past, I don’t take kindly to rapists.” The blade of his sword presses a little harder into Roman’s throat. Hard enough to draw a little trickle of blood when Roman swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously under the threat. “Even less kindly to pedophiles.”

Roman sneers again - or maybe that’s just the only expression he can pull, with a face like that. “That’s rich coming from you. Everyone knows you’ve been fucking that one since you took him in.”

Slade snarls like an angry dog. The muscles of his arm tense and Dick sees exactly what’s about to happen a moment before it does.

Roman’s head hits the ground with a dull thud before anyone can react - not Dick or the useless body guard. Blood sprays up into the air in a thick wet swathe. It soaks Slade, his hair, his beard, drenching the front of the armour. The bodyguard takes one look at him and turns tail. Slade doesn’t bother chasing him. Neither does Dick.

“Did you have to?” Dick asks. But he can’t find it in himself to be too disapproving. Just thinking about the bruises Jason had quells almost all of his ire. It’ll be a pain to clean this up - both the physical mess and the political one that’s going to follow this move. Still, Dick can’t find it in himself to care.

Slade shrugs, an effortless movement of his muscled shoulders. “Now he’ll never touch another kid again. Don’t tell me you’re not happy about that.”

Dick shrugs too. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips that he can’t stop. The knowledge that Roman will never touch another kid - never touch Jason - again makes him so happy he’s almost dizzy with it.

“You’d best clean up before we tell Jason what happened.”

“Why?” And Dick kind of wants to kiss the smirk right off Slade’s face. “He’s going to have to get used to a bit of blood. He’s part of the family now.”

Family. Dick can’t stop grinning. He likes the sound of that.

[asoftervirge]

Of “Love” & Murder - (13/13)

CHAPTER TITLE: To Quote the Six Merry Murdresses of the Cook County Jail, “He Had it Coming.”

RATING: M PAIRINGS: P. Sanders/V. Sanders (main/one-sided); R. Sanders/V. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/L. Sanders (former); V. Sanders/D. Sanders (former); Remy/E. Picani (side); T. Sanders/OMC (mentioned)

CHAPTER WARNINGS/KINKS: Morally Grey Patton, Swearing, mentions of Murder/Violence, mentions of Alcohol, Food/Eating, Cyanide Poisoning, Tragic Backstory, sympathetic Virgil(?), Major Character Death, Revenge, Remus Sanders, Corpses, brief mention of Vomit CHAPTER SUMMARY: Patton creates Virgil’s demise...?

<< Chapter 12

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Here we are guys! The final chapter of Of “Love” & Murder! I just want to give a quick thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, messaged, and commented me about this fic. It was an absolute joy to write and I’m really glad that everyone enjoyed it. For one last time, please be careful of the content warnings at the top of the fic and take care of yourself should you proceed onwards. Happy Halloween, everyone! Have fun reading! xx Virge

INSPIRATION: This post by @phantomofthesanderssides

READ ON AO3 INSTEAD

Twenty-four hours later, it was Halloween night.

Tonight, was the night Patton was going to seal Virgil's fate.

The drive to 613 Rue Morgue was familiar. Of course it was familiar, and yet...it was so unfamiliar at the same time.

He knows where he's going— he's been going there for months— but his emotions have changed greatly.

At first, he was bubbling in excitement. His infatuation with Virgil had clouded most of his judgement. The chocolates he had with him were hand-crafted and tied with love.

Slowly, those drives grew weary-filled and cautious; curiosity fueling him to keep going back.

Now, he feels somber, guilty that he's chosen to end things like this. But he also feels persevering, moral justice guiding him with a firm hand.

His resolve didn't waver as he drives up the cobblestone path and is greeted with the sight of the beautiful manor. Nor does it when he gets out of his car, tugs his coat and scarf closer to his body, grabs the chocolates, and walks up the stairs and to the door.

Patton knocks on it firmly, repeatedly. Not like soft, rhythmic pattern from before.

He waits. Nothing.

He tries again. Still nothing.

He tries a third time. Again, nothing.

Frowning, Patton attempts to open the door and is surprised to realize that it was opened the entire time.

Walking in, he makes his ways to the tea room, and sees Virgil waiting for him. However, he was shocked to see the change in demeanor coming from the widower.

He was sitting at the table, dressed in something completely different from the signature outfit he always seemed to wear. No longer was it a purple turtleneck, but a black button up; the cuffs were undone and the confectioner could see a sliver of his pale chest as the top buttons were undone. And no longer were there leather pants and boots, but tight, black skinny jeans and dress shoes.

Even his makeup was done too: eyes dusted in black eyeshadow, cheeks sharpened with contour, and lips painted in a purplish-black.

Despite was he was going to do to him, Patton couldn't help but see him as strikingly handsome.

Bracing himself, he makes his way over to the table, sitting opposite of the soon-to-be-dead widower. When he sits, he notices Virgil wasn't facing him, but his body was turned so it was facing the wall. An arm was rested on his lap, while the other was on the table.

His eyes appeared to be darker than normal, almost hollow.

Eerie silence surrounded them, the only sounds heard was the ticking of a clock.

It all made Patton nervous.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Virgil cuts him off.

"How long have you known?" was the question he was asked. Patton was surprised by the tone; it wasn't sharp and accusing. It almost seemed...dull and resigned? What was going on?

"W-What?" he responds softly, reeling back a little.

Virgil doesn't sigh, he doesn't glower, he just repeats the question again. "How long have you known?”

Was...Was Virgil being accepting of his possible fate? Does he know what Patton is going to do? None of this makes any sense.

But right now, he can't think about that. All he can do is answer Virgil's question.

"Since the beginning of the month.”

A hum. He rubs his fist together. "I suppose you wanted ask questions?”

Why?, was what he wanted to ask first, but he knew better than to jump the gun. "Your name...isn't really 'Virgil Nyx,' is it?”

A soft snort. That was the first question he asks? "It is," he tells him honestly. "It's not my birth name though. My birth name is Japanese, but I changed it before I went into high school. Virgil after the poet in Dante's Inferno and Nyx after the Greek Goddess of the Night.”

"And that name because…?"

"Wanted something dark and edgy." he shrugged simply.

"You originally worked at a bookstore?”

Virgil stilled, but he didn't tense up. He relaxed. "Yeah. Worked at Antique's Bookstore in the lower part of town," he snorted louder. "Fucking hated that place.”

Patton disagreed. It sounded like a cute little store, but he digresses. He inhales slowly, "Is that where you got the idea of killing people?”

That, was what made Virgil tense. He clenched and unclenched his fist. "My first kill was some fancy white guy I met on the streets when I was 18," he tells him, not exactly answering his question. A slightly angry look came to his face. “Kinda cute, but holy fuck was he a bastard. Kept going on and on about wanting a submissive partner and someone who he could parade around like a trophy.”

Patton scrunched his nose. “And you married him?”

“Yep.” Virgil nodded. “Even if he was an asshole, I realized that I could be taken care of with the money he left behind for me. So, I did what I had to do: be a submissive, decorative arm piece.”

“How did you kill him?”

"Bludgeoned him." he say. "Crowbar. I got what I wanted out of him— money, proper stability— so I didn't need him anymore. So, I grabbed one from his car and started beating him with it. Honestly? It didn't hit me until after I stopped and I saw all that red on the floor. At first I felt so sick to my stomach I wanted to pass out...but I didn't. Something that I've never felt before sparked inside me: the desire to kill. And thus, Virgil Nyx, wealthy serial killer, was born.”

"Is he where you got this manor from?”

"No. This manor came from another husband. One that I killed by pushing him down the stairs while he was having a mopey, drunken fit.”

Patton willed himself to not feel the chill that went through his spine. Maybe Virgil was more heartless than he realized. He sets the box of chocolates on the table; if you weren't none the wiser, you couldn't tell the contents inside were laced.

Virgil eyes them for a moment. A faint twitch of the lips. "Am I suppose to be expecting a trick or a treat?”

A trick masked as a treat. "It's a treat, I promise." he actually tells him.

The widower kept eyeing them for another moment before opening the box. It was the exact same box of 32 that he had the first time he kissed Patton: cherry cordials, chocolate squares, clusters with almonds, squares filled with cinnamon-infused ganache, other truffles infused with ganache, rounds made with coffee, and chocolate hearts.

He took a chocolate square and popped it into his mouth. He hums at the taste; they're still wonderful even after months of eating Patton's sugary treats. "Do you wish to interrogate me still?”

Patton nods. "How did you hide the evidence for Roman's murder?”

"I took the ribbon I used to choke him and threw it away. The ribbon binding his hands later became the one that was wrapped around his neck." He now popped a cherry cordial in his mouth.

“Logan's?"

"Dumped the tea, put the book back in the box and burned it. I also hid whatever arsenic I had in the medicine cabinet so they wouldn't find it during investigation." A square with cinnamon-infused ganache.

"You killed Dorian with a gun. How did you hide the prints?”

"I wore gloves when I killed him." A coffee round.

"And me?" he dared to ask. "How would you have hid evidence for my death?”

Virgil paused. A chuckle, "Probably get rid of the box like you're about to do." A chocolate heart.

Patton paled a little. Did he realized that he poisoned him?

Virgil slowly turned towards the confectioner. "What did you lace these with?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice.

Silence. “Cyanide."

Virgil chuckled again. "It kills pretty quickly, depending on the dosage." His chuckles slowly cease and he has a sad smile on his face. "I suppose I had it coming to me.”

Patton looked down at his lap. He squeezed his fists together, bunching up some of his sweater.

How was Virgil so accepting about his death? Did he always know it would be coming eventually?

"...Do you regret it?" he asks with a soft whisper. "Killing them?”

His sad smile only grew. "I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe I do, but only for the fact that I couldn't know what it was like to have an actual life with them.”

"What do you mean? Like if you weren't a murderer?”

"Yeah," Virgil nods. "Maybe the last three of my marriages would've been happy…"

From his chest, he pulls out a hidden necklace. All of his wedding rings.

"Roman was beautiful, gorgeous even." He holds a golden ring that had a ruby gem in center, two smaller amethyst gems decorate the sides. "I was very fond of her singing. It was all over the house, no matter what time of day it was. We also bonded over our love of Disney and I even took him to Disney World for our anniversary before her death. She was more than a diva on the stage, he was a very passionate and romantic person, albeit a little stubborn. I think if I hadn’t killed her, he would’ve been a great husband/wife for me…we would’ve been happy together.”

Then he holds a sleek, silver ring. Very simple like the novelist. “Logan was kinda like a rock for me. Whenever I had bad anxiety, he would instantly calm me down with his grounding words. Sometimes no words were necessary between us, only eye contact and specific gestures. He was a presence that I secretly miss. One of the most intelligent people I knew. Heh, our debates were quite the spectacle let me tell you. He wasn’t the marrying type, I’ll be honest with you…but I think L and I would’ve been great partners, or even friends.”

Finally, he pulls out a bronze-like ring that resembles a snake. “Dorian was very sharp and cunning. He had a tongue that was more scathing than mine, and that is saying a lot. We may have gotten married after six months of being friends-with-benefits, but he had his own unique way of caring. He was quite the reptile lover, adored having snakes around, which was different for me liking spiders.” Patton freaked a little, Virgil payed it no mind. “Even though everyone said it, he truly was my equal in a way…and I think I would’ve been happy with him too.”

Patton listened as Virgil listened the positive qualities of each of his late husbands. “What— What about me…?”

Virgil looked at him. “Hmm?”

“What about me,” he repeats, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and worry. “…Would we have been happy?”

Virgil blinked, then a small smile. He reaches over the table and grabs Patton hand. The confectioner doesn’t have the heart to pull away. “I think we could’ve. I could imagine you baking a whole bunch of sweets for me to try, be it breakfast or dessert. You would be telling me puns to the point where’d I want to put myself in the ground. I can even see you begging me to go to a pet store and buying you a cat or something.”

The sad thing about hearing that? Is that Patton could’ve seen all of that too, and then some. (Even the cat thing despite him being incredibly allergic.)

Patton looked down at their held hands. “…Why?” He finally asks. “Why did you kill them? You said you could’ve been happy with them, but in the end…you ended their lives.”

“Money,” he says. “And I know that sounds so dumb, but it’s true. I wanted more money. That’s why, when I got married, I immediately said for them to put me as the sole inheritor of their fortunes. I was selfish. Selfish and wanting to stay on top. I didn’t want to be lower-class anymore, I became who I am for a reason and I didn’t want that to change.”

At that moment, Virgil started coughing. He coughed loudly, violently. doubling over almost like he was in pain.

Patton’s first reaction was to see if he was okay, but then he remembered.

He did this.

He was the one who wanted to kill Virgil and now he was doing it.

He didn’t have the right to check on him.

So, he just stayed in his seat, watching as the widower started gasping like he was running out of breath; stumble forward a little like he was going to collapse; and hold his head like it was about to split open.

“Are you scared?” the confectioner asked in a strangely calm voice. “Of dying?”

Once the coughing ceased, Virgil weakly looked up at him. Patton could literally see death shining in them.

With the last of his breath, the widower rasps out, “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

Then, he collapses forward, body convulsing for about three minutes or less, before he finally stops.

The grandfather clock goes off.

And Virgil Nyx, is no more.

Name: Virgil Nyx December ??, 19?? - October 31, 19?? Cause of Death: Cyanide Poisoning

Patton couldn’t help but stare at Virgil’s lifeless body as it was slumped on the table.

Now he gets what Logan meant about having your husband watch as you seize in front of them without doing anything.

It’s a horrifying thing to watch. And yet…he didn’t feel all that disturbed, which horrifies him the most.

He was in a trance-like state, so much so he didn’t even flinch at the front door slamming open.

“Yodel-Ay-Hee-Hoo!!” Remus. “Patton?! Are you here?! The door was open so I just walked inside without being invited, because I just love doing that!…Patton?!…Seriously, where are you?!”

Remus wanders around the house a bit until he finally finds him in the tea room.

“Ah! There you are! I was wondering about—” he stops when he sees Virgil’s body. “Oh, wow…cool! Can I play with it?!”

Somehow that snapped Patton out of it. “No!” he glared firmly at Remus.

Remus pouted, stomping his foot like a child. “You’re serious such a poopy-head! Let me have fun with the dead body!”

“No, Remus.” Patton sighed. He takes the box of chocolates and leaves for a moment.

When he comes back, lo and behold, Remus was poking at Virgil’s corpse.

“Remus, please.”

“Seriously, Patton?!” Remus huffs out an angry-sounding sigh. “I love shit like this!” He moves closer to Virgil’s pale face, examining it. “How can a corpse have better eyeshadow than me?!” He actually looked sad. “I need to step up my game…”

Patton ignores his mumbling as he replaces the chocolate box with a replica; it was the exact same color and everything, but it didn’t have the logo of Patton’s store.

It was a nice detail for him to not get caught.

A weird feeling started forming in Patton’s stomach. Maybe Virgil rubbed off on him in more ways than one.

“Remus?” The man looks up from looking into the dead widower’s lifeless eyes. “The manor is yours.”

Remus’ mouth opened. Bugs could’ve flied out of it. “Wait. Really?” he asks. “Why?”

“I don’t want anything to do it anymore.” He tells him. “Besides, I figured you may want to have an eerie-filled house like this.” He gives Remus a tiny smile. “Not only that, I’d figured you’d like to see your brother’s room.”

A breath hitch. Emerald green eyes shined with tears. “My brother’s room?” he whispered. The confectioner nodded. “Wh-Where is it?”

“It’s upstairs, down the hall from Virgil’s room. It’s a cherry door with a golden lion doorknob.”

“Heh…he would have something like that.” He gives him a wet smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Patton smiled back. “By the way, are you crying?”

Remus looked appalled. “What? No, I’m not.” He grossly wiped snot onto his arm. “I-I just smelled my oniony breath! That’s all!”

“Sure, Remus. Whatever you say.” Patton smiles. He begins to gather up his things. “So, what’re you gonna do with this place?”

“Hmmm?” Remus spun around. His eyes sharpening like he was actually thinking. “Maybe get rid of all the purple. Purple’s a gross color now. Ooh! I’ll make it a pukey green color! And add more tentacles, this place needs more tentacles.”

“That sounds nice.” It actually didn’t, but he didn’t want to be mean to him. “Good luck with everything, Remus. And…thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome, Patton!” Before the confectioner leaves, he asks one more question. “Can I please make a sandcastle out of his ashes?”

“Hmm…nope.”

Remus sighed defeatedly. “I figured I’d try again.”

Patton couldn’t help but laugh. Even if he was gross and slightly disturbing, Roman’s brother was alright.

And that, he walked out of the manor— never to look back— got into his car, and drove home, knowing that Roman, Logan, and Dorian were now resting in peace.

[dr-gloom]

Muted

I couldn’t find the post on my blog because there’s just a lot goin on, but this is based off a post that was like: 

Person A, C, and D, all chanting in a group voice chat with B: UNMUTE! UNMUTE! UNMUTE! 

Person E: guys, shut the hell up, this is very stressful for them.

[Person A, C, D, and E all go dead silent when B finally unmutes their microphone]

Person E: ...B, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk, I get why.

Person B, softly and quietly: I-It’s okay, I’m just nervous-

Person A, distantly but very clearly: HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK I’M IN LOVE!

To be clear I did not write that post, I just can’t find the op

Anyways, they’re having a video chat on skype because I found it easier to work with an added video aspect. And Virgil is a transmale who’s only been on T for a short while. 

Part 2

Fandom: Sanders’ Sides

Pairing: none/platonic TLAMP?

Warnings/Tags: trans character, trans!Virgil, anxiety, Human AU

Read it on AO3

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Virgil wasn’t the most verbal person out there by far; no, that was probably Roman. Virgil hated his voice, hated talking (hated the dysphoria that would settle in his lungs and press down on his shoulders). He didn’t see why he had to - if he had something important to say, he could just write it down or type it out. If the person/people he was talking to cared, they’d wait for him to finish writing or typing. And this worked out fine for him, especially since his only friends were all hundreds of miles apart and he only talked to them on Skype. He’d met Thomas and Patton through Tumblr, and through them had met Roman and Logan respectively. The five of them had become extremely close in a short amount of time, and Virgil wouldn’t hesitate to say he thought of them as family. 

The first time they had all had a Skype call, Patton and Roman had spent at least ten minutes freaking out over people’s hair/faces/voices etc. and chattering excitedly about how they were so happy to finally put voices and faces to the names on their screens. Virgil was too, really, but he’d kept his mic off. The others knew he had anxiety so they didn’t push him or question it too much, and Virgil was glad they didn’t. Only now, he almost wishes they had, so he hadn’t had the chance to get too comfortable and scared to speak. 

Like he was now. 

What had started as a regular bi-weekly video chat between the five friends had quickly taken a turn for the worst (at least to Virgil) as Roman requested Virgil finally turn his mic on. “Come on, Hot Topic, it’s been months! I’m dying to know what you sound like.” Virgil frowned slightly and shook his head, typing in the chat component. 

Emo Nightmare: not a chance

Patton frowned, looking dejected, and Virgil instantly felt guilty. “But why not kiddo? We won’t judge you, we’re your friends!” Thomas nods emphatically. “Exactly. We just want you to be able to join in our conversations without having to type everything out. Surely it gets annoying sometimes.” Virgil pursed his lips.

Emo Nightmare: i guess, but...

“Then unmute!” Roman shouted excitedly, making Virgil jump. Oh no. “Unmute! Unmute! Unmute!” Virgil watched Roman as he pounded his fists on his desk to match his chanting, glancing at the other squares on his screen that his friends’ faces resided in, his stomach tying in knots. Patton’s grin grew as he pushed his rainbow hair out of his face, and Thomas laughed. “UNMUTE! UNMUTE! UNMUTE!” Thomas and Patton had joined Roman’s chanting, all banging their fists on whatever surface their computer sat on and it made Virgil’s heart rate speed up. Maybe he should do it? They deserved to know what he sounds like after all... Right? But he was nervous; he hadn’t been taking T long enough to really change his voice - it was only just starting to crack and deepen. Barely. He glanced down at his hands, picking at the cuff of his hoodie sleeve before responding.

Emo Nightmare: i dont know guys...

Thomas grinned as he read the message and egged him on. “Come on Virgil, we want to know what you sound like!” Patton and Roman agreed, a chorus of “come on Virgil”s and “it’ll be fine”s. But what if it wasn’t fine? What if they laughed at him? what if they took back their support and started calling him a girl? Or worse, what if they started using the wrong pronouns by accident? Because that was the truth of it; he was afraid his voice would invalidate everything he’d spent months building with his friends. That hearing his smooth, unmistakably feminine voice would make them forget who they were talking to, and when they weren’t looking they’d associate the wrong pronouns to the voice. It’d happened so many times before - he passes rather well, especially when he wears slightly baggy clothes, but as soon as he opened his mouth people would correct themselves and apologize for thinking he was a male. Virgil didn’t think he could take it, because somehow being accidentally misgendered was so much worse. 

Logan spoke up, having been sitting back in silence while the others chattered and badgered Virgil. “Everyone needs to shut the hell up, this is stressful enough for Virgil as it is.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave the other three males a pointed look. Virgil tried to hide the smile on his face (holy crap, Logan swore) by ducking his head down, his purple fringe covering much of his face at this angle. “Aw, we’re sorry kiddo! We didn’t mean to make your anxiety worse!” Patton practically launched himself at Virgil before remembering that there’s two computers and 500 miles between them. Virgil shrugged, typing his response as Roman spoke up, clearly looking regretful even as the smile remained on his face. “Whatever our Dark and Stormy Knight is most comfortable with is fine by me! ... But I’d still love to hear that mysterious voice of yours. I’m sure it’s positively wonderful!” Roman gestured enthusiastically. 

Emo Nightmare: thanks guys...

He could trust them. They were his friends. Thomas opened his mouth to say something when Virgil quickly turned his mic on, the soft background noise of Fallout Boy coming from his speakers. Whatever Thomas was going to say died on his lips as he realized what’s happening, and the other three seemed to be waiting with baited breath, expressions a mix of enthusiasm and excited tension. Logan’s mouth quirked to the side. “...Virgil, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk, I understand why.” Virgil swallowed and shook his head, speaking a bit hesitantly, his voice quiet. It’ll be okay. “I-it’s okay, I’m just nervous-”

Suddenly, Roman shot up from his seat, sending the rolling chair across his room as he dashed out the door suddenly. Virgil paled, feeling his heart shrivel in his chest. Oh god, Roman hated him now. He’s freaked out, disgusted. Maybe he was only trying to be polite earlier? Maybe he thought Virgil would sound more masculine by now? He wasn’t going to want to be Virgil’s friend anymore. He was going to start calling him a girl. Virgil started panicking, and Patton must have seen this, because he smiled weakly, speaking up and trying to draw Virgil’s attention. “Don’t worry Virgil, I’m sure he-”

Roman’s voice cut through, slightly muffled, but it’s clear he’s yelling from somewhere inside his house. “BY ODIN’S BEARD I’M IN LOVE!” 

There’s a beat of silence before Patton and Thomas start laughing. Logan smirks, and Virgil sinks down into his seat, his face absolutely red. “Oh my god....”

Logan looks right into the camera, making Virgil feel like he’s looking right at him. “I believe it is clear that you won’t be muting yourself anymore, Virgil.”

A/N: So yeah, super short, but it was fun.

Projecting? Who’s projecting their insecurities onto Virgil? Totally not me. 

Anyways I wrote this at school with a bunch of noise and forgot the word for enthusiasm so that was fun. 

[actualsunflower]

HEWWO do you have a courier 6? if so tell me a bit about them!

Yes, two of them, the first was just Jay in the Mojave but there's also another!! His name is Fyre Evarhart and he's actually Jay Evarhart's father. (for fun i usually just call him fireheart yeah after cat) His weird back story is that he was an archeologist, and was with Lorenzo Cabot when he found the artifact. They had found a couple different artifacts, all of them kinda like crowns/helms, but Fyre was smart enough not to put any of them on his fricken head. He did swipe one of them though, and got out of there before Lorenzo could notice. Over the next several years he studied the artifact, and his exposure to it essentially mutated him kinda like how Jack and his family use Lorenzo's blood to live and stay young for a long time. He lived for the next couple hundred years, but over the time he was never able to figure out where the artifacts came from. He eventually gave up around the year 2026. He lived alone for a long time, trying to figure out exactly what the artifact did to him, which was the whole boring extra long life, super fast rate of healing, all that. After figuring all that out he started to hate himself, he didn't want to outlive everyone, he didn't want to be anything but a normal guy anymore. He had lived for so long already, he just wanted to die, but he couldn't bring himself to do it himself. So instead, he decided to rejoin society and try to live a normal life (while also hiding the fact that he's 100s of years old.) He moved to Boston, Massachusetts, where he worked as a car salesmen. His life up until meeting Lea, his memorable one night stand, was really just your average Joe's tbh (boring I know) Lea was supposed to just be a hookup, nothing permanent, nothing substantial, but she got pregnant (in the year 2034) She wanted to start a family with him, but when he found out he left the city and moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. She was heart broken, and when Jay was born, gave him up for adoption. Fyre never found out what happened with her or his son until after the war. The day of the war, Fyre was in Goodsprings visiting his favorite saloon when the bombs fell. The radiation turned him into a ghoul, which only fueled his desire to end his life. He once again went into isolation living in the desert, up until the Mojave started moving mail across the country. He decided to become a courier, and well, y'all know what happens when you become a courier. Ya get shot. Ya get stalked by other mailmen. Ya get fisted by protectrons. Ya get caught in the middle of a power fight between cowboys and roman cosplayers. Okay now for the important stuffHis main companions are Ed-E and Arcade. Boone after Arcade stays in the bunker with the Enclave. Sometimes Raul when he feels like reminiscing. He sided with Yes Man He wears the NCR ranger outfit (ofc) and his main weapon is (once he gets it) Ranger Sequoia. Before that its just a fricken machete. Yes, he is a Confirmed Bachelor™ I'm sorry this is very very long I will be back with how this all connects to Jays story (yeah the only one you hear about that you're about to hear more of. be excited. he's the only one I care about tbh)

[nerdlife0612]

Dragon Bound Part 6

Author Note: Reminder – ‘Dragon Bound’ is merely a code name for this work at the current time. Reminder numero dos - for the time being, this is going to be an original work set within a WWE-Paranormal/AU type of setting.

That means original male characters and original female characters as the leads with occasional appearances of already established ‘characters’ (a la Triple H, Stephanie Mc., Roman Reigns, etc).

Part 6 is a little shorter than I wanted but I’m tired and we got some pair bonding here as well as an introduction to a complication that is well on the way. So I’ll live with it.

Let me know what you think!!

Tag List: @evilangel84 @empress-with-the-crown @misadventuresofathot @thedevilnisworld @bigpixiefoot @littledeadrottinghood @ballins-princess @princess3733 @sugasfatgf

(Uhh I hope I didn’t forget anyone… Lemme know!)

And away we go! --------------------------

Dragon Bound: Part 6 Word Count: 1,181 or so for the actual story Rating for P. 6: PG13

David lay on his bed in his plaid boxers, arms crossed under his head and staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t keep his mind from straying to Elizabeth at every little thought. On the human side of things, he knew they barely knew each other and had to build a foundation between them before things get too far. But The Dragon side…

The Dragon side roared her name over and over, knowing that she belonged tucked into his side, safe and warm. Rolling his head slightly to the left and casting his eyes to the ribs on the left side of his body where his Dragon mark resided, he heaved a great breath. This was going to be anything but easy. But her well-being came first and foremost ahead of everything else. And hell be damned if he was going to lose sight of that. ‘Sweet dreams, baby.’ Closing his eyes, he did his best to try and sleep.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had been asleep for a little while already. But it was an uneasy sleep. Tossing and turning, something in her head screamed that something was watching her. In fact, it felt like more than one set of eyes that were dark beyond measure were lurking over her defenseless body. ‘Wake up…’ She was trying to wake up from the nightmare that was plaguing her, but she couldn’t find that way out.

Little did she know that a pair of shadows was indeed lurking over her and exchanging a competitive look – white eyes meeting black ones. “Back. Off. This little one is mine.” A gravelly voice emanated from the black-eyed shadow. The white-eyed beast grinned ear-to-ear, eerily white teeth shining in the dark.

“We shall sssee…. May the besssst one win, demon.” And just as Elizabeth leapt up, awake, the two disappeared into nothingness. Rubbing her eyes, she reached over and switched on her bedside lamp. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear my nightmare actually happened.’ Flopping back on her pillow, she groaned in annoyance knowing that sleep would evade her for the rest of the night. As she struggled to decide what to do now, her email dinged. Yanking the comforter off her smaller frame, she stumbled over to the laptop to find it was an email from David:

You awake? -- David

Shaking her head, she couldn’t believe his sense of timing. Clicking of her keyboard filled the silence in the room:

Yep. Sure am. Woke up from the damnedest dream. Well, it felt more like a nightmare. And I could have sworn when I woke up there were two people in my room but they vanished when I turned on the light. So now, I can’t sleep.

What about you? -- Liz

David snarled when he read her email. He had heard rumors of such creatures being among the roster and if it was the two he had been told about – to say his level of concern for their situation just leapt up into the sky:

I hate to break it to you but… I had heard rumors about creatures with the shadow walking ability being among the roster, Elizabeth. And it seems like that might have indeed be true. And worse yet – you’ve somehow managed to draw their attention already. You have no idea how bad I am fighting The Dragon right now.

I’m going to request to have my room moved closer to yours in the morning. -- David

Her laptop dinged, and she went through the roof at his response. Typing furiously, she shot off a response:

Hell to the no. That’s not necessary. Isn’t a little bit of distance needed in our situation? Didn’t you basically hint at that yourself? -- Liz

Slamming his fist on the bed next to him, he growled. This woman was trying every nerve in his being: Yes. That was before two of the darkest beings on the roster invaded the room of the missing piece of my fucking soul. Hell be fucking damned if I stand by and leave you vulnerable. -- David

He received a quick response from her:

There’s no arguing with you on this is there? - Liz

He grinned, knowing he’d won this fight:

Exactly. Now. Please, for me, try and go back to sleep. -- David

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck, brushing the mark on the back of her neck. David shivered, a feeling of a small hand on the back of his neck. He quickly typed out a new email:

Stop that. - David

Elizabeth frowned in confusion:

What? - Liz

He huffed, half in annoyance and half in temptation to cave to The Dragon’s insistence request to go to her room. Shaking hands met the keyboard one more time:

Keep your hands off the back of your neck right now. Yes, before you ask – I can sense that shit. And in the mood I am in, The Dragon is gaining more control and damn if the temptation to come to your room isn’t overwhelming. Especially given the fact that I can’t get out of my mind how it felt to have you up against me or how you tasted… Fuck I gotta stop. Just go to sleep, please. I’m begging you.

I’m trying to be a good boy here. - David

Elizabeth bit her lip, rubbing her legs together a little bit. She couldn’t forget the events from earlier either. But, she knew he was right. ‘Damn it…’ She decided to bid him good night one more time:

Very well. I appreciate the sentiment. I do. I have meetings tomorrow but I’m free for lunch if you want to meet up to go over our ideas. Text me tomorrow around 11 A.M, okay? Good night David. - Liz

In their respective rooms, the pair laid back down – careful to avoid their bond marks. But neither would be able to sleep for the rest of the night.

The next day passed in a blur. Partially because of exhaustion but partially because of how busy everyone was prepping for Sunday. Elizabeth couldn’t contain the grin when right on the 11 A.M. buzzer her phone sounded off.

~~ Meet me in the lobby? –D

She swiped her response:

~~ Be right down. : ) – E

While she was focusing too much on her phone, she walked head on into a sturdy body – falling backwards as a result.

“Might wanna watch where you’re going sweetheart. Here.” A male voice that she recognized very well offered her a hand. She laughed, internally trying to squash her fangirl tendencies a bit, and accepted the hand up.

“I’m sorry Mr. Hardy. I was focused on making lunch plans. My bad.” He shot her a full tooth – bright white – smile. She blanched as he walked away. His smile reminded her of one of the ones from her nightmare last night.

Swallowing hard, she beat a hasty path to the elevator wanting nothing more than to get to David’s side again.

She hated to admit it but David might have been right.

------------------------------------ Author’s Note: Okay so yeah that went differently than I expected for sure. But I blame some of y’all for sharing certain things on Tumblr a.k.a Fumblr. LOL

[kinkywwefantasies]

After the Show... There's The After Party

Pairing: Reader X Brian Kendrick Rating: Teen Length: Drabble A/n: Just trying to get back into things. I'm gonna try to do a drabble a day. Not always smutty, but hopefully entertaining. Thanks. "There's an after party," Brian suggested after the pay-per-view finished filming. You and him weren't ready to go to back to the hotel yet, so you wanted something to do. "It shouldn't be... horrible." "Fine," you sighed, knowing there would at least be a bar there. *** It seemed like everyone the two of you knew was there. And they were drinking like it was the end of the fucking world. Baron and Roman were having a balancing contest on table tops, ending in Baron AND Roman going through one of them. Sasha was collecting money for some bet you were sure wasn't real. Nattie was laying in Big E's lap as they sang Motown song to each other. Sami was dancing HARD in the middle of the dance floor with a six foot radius around him as Neville and Kevin nearly pissed themselves laughing as they watched. You and Kendrick just looked around in wonder as both rosters absolutely destroyed the place. It was something to behold. You couldn't imagine a better party. Why had you been dreading it since Kendrick suggested it? Then you saw him. Hero. Chris Hero, or Kassius Ohno, was your ex boyfriend, and he was back in WWE. It had ended quietly between you two, but he had broken your heart pretty bad. You ended up bonding with Brian over ex lovers and broken hearts. So, you at least had Chris to thank for your best friend. "Yeah, thought he might be here," Kendrick said, touching your shoulder to turn you to him. "Vodka?" "Yeah, man. Thanks." *** "You here with Kendrick?" Even though the voice was familiar, it startled you. Chris was still incredibly handsome, and you had to remind yourself he just asked you a question. "Yeah," you nodded, looking over to where Brian was chatting with Swann. "Good for you. He's a good guy. And you two are cute together." "Oh we're not- uh-" you started to correct him, and stopped. You /were/ here with Kendrick. And it was good for you. And Brian was a good guy. And you were cute as fuck together. "Thanks." "You bet," he smiled at you, and it didn't have the effect it used to. You looked at Brian smiling and your heart skipped a beat. When did that start? Just now? "Well, I gotta go. Stay happy, y/n. It looks good on you." Hero walked away and you called to Brian. "Kendrick! Let's go!" He smiled and nodded at you, accepting you were ready and so it was time to leave. *** The ride to the hotel had been silent. You were thinking. Hard. Did you say something to Brian? What would you say? I think I have a crush on you? I have a crush on you? Was it better just to kiss him and see what happened? Outside your room, you realized it was decision time. He was going to say goodnight and leave if you didn't do anything. You turned to him and realized he was staring at you. "Brian?" His hands came up to your face and he pulled you in for a kiss. You gasped and wrapped your arms around his neck. His facial hair tickled your lips, cheeks, and chin, making you giggle a bit. "Don't laugh," he sighed, but you felt the smile on his lips. "Why not?" You asked, smiling back. "Cause I'm serious," he said, pushing your hair behind your ear. "I like you." Your grin made him blush. You felt like you were dreaming. No way was Brian Kendrick blushing. Over /you/. "I like you too, Bri." "That's not all," he said, trailing his hand down your neck to your collarbone. "I want you. I've wanted you." Heat raced over your skin as you heard his words and met his eyes. His eyes looked like they did when he was in the ring staring down an opponent. But he didn't want a three count, or a title. He wanted you. Under him, asking for him, moaning his name. "Jesus, Kendrick. All you had to do was ask." You said, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him inside your room. "You know me, y/n. I don't ask for anything." He winked. You laughed and kissed him again. Only because you couldn't disagree.