#ah who cares its not like I need more than three to five hours anyhow!!

[symbioticsimplicity]

You know, I'm always wondering why I can't stop clenching my jaw. It hurts, and I'm constantly reminding myself to stop, but even in my sleep I can't seem to manage it. But then I do things like crush the cockroach climbing up my leg while I'm laying in bed and I'm like "Oh yeah that's right." Its more of a wonder that I haven't broken *more* of my teeth.

[house-of-no-regrets]

No Regrets [in the wee hours]

Took a bit longer than expected, but I’ve finished the next little story! Hopefully I’ll be able to keep a decent pace on these. No overarching plot, just little stories in the same universe with the same characters. Warning for ~*murder*~ in this one!

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I've been all-too-easy to wake up since I was a child; I'd often needed to go from dead asleep to functional, if groggy, as soon as I heard my father demanding action or attention. While I no longer need that reaction time, the old man long since locked up to rot, my brain is set in its ways and very convinced that I need to be able to bolt out of bed and fight God if a dust bunny moves too quickly in my vicinity.

Which is how I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, the sudden shift in the atmosphere bringing on consciousness with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

My room was silent, still, but I knew without opening my eyes that there was a spirit somewhere, and I didn't even give them a chance to speak before I pointed at the sign posted on my wall, barely shifting from my comfortable snuggle in my blanket and not even opening my eyes. Yes, this happens more often than I care to admit. No, I do not enjoy it. At all.

"Resurrection hours are noon to eight. I'm still alive and still need sleep to function."

There was silence, but the presence didn't leave, so I groaned and raised my head, finally opening my eyes to see the translucent, vaguely glowing, and unfortunately blurry spirit at the foot of my bed.

It did finally speak in a bewildered voice.

"Um, I'm being murdered."

Ah, fuck.

I grabbed my glasses from the bedside table and put them on. The spirit at the foot of my bed was tallish -- I've always been bad at estimating height, maybe half a foot shorter than Yvette? Five-nine... ish? -- and seemed to be in his twenties. There was a considerable dark stain on his chest and belly; likely blood, and the cause of his death. The newly-dead tend to show things like that, as they haven't had the time to get used to modifying their form.

I really hate it when brand new ones find me. I'm not sure how it started, but it seems like more and more often, now, the dead are drawn to No Regrets before they even realize they're dead, at least if they're the type to need my help. Wish I wasn't the one who had to break it to him. I'm not great with people.

"Sorry, bro, but I'm afraid they succeeded. Where was it? I'll get the police over there."

"Uhh... my house. I think. It's a little..."

I sighed. Right.

"You're probably a little out of it still... fresh dead usually are. C'mon, I'll take you around until things look familiar."

Climbing out of bed, I headed over to grab my hoodie from the back of the chair. I learned the hard way that sleeping is not a tits out sort of occasion when you're liable to get the dead dropping in at all hours of the night, so I sleep in pajama pants and a tank top. Little too chilly for tank tops outside, though. I shoved my phone in my hoodie and my feet into loafers, then started heading out of my room and down the hall.

"You remember your name?" I asked, trying to make conversation and learn what I could.

"Uh, Davis. Craig? Craig Davis."

"Well, Craig Davis, I'm sorry to hear about your passing. You're gonna need to possess me for this little adventure, by the way, but I'll walk you through it once we're outside."

"I- what?"

Considering how often I find myself lost in normal conversations, dealing with confused new spirits is especially difficult. Still shaking off my body's angry demands for More Sleep was not helping matters in the slightest, either.

"Possession. I'll explain it in just a minute." I rubbed an eye and yawned as I stopped in the foyer to pull a set of keys off one of the hooks on the wall.

Usually, I've got a driver. Not for vanity reasons, but after three or four near-misses caused by Sudden Spirits appearing in the car with me, I elected to hire someone to drive me into and around town as needed. But it was Fuck-This-Shit O'Clock in the morning, and Graves deserved their rest. The dead don't need to sleep, but they can if they so choose -- and it does, after all, conserve energy. The same goes for Yvette and Ashby; it was too early in the morning for most people to be out and searching for a necromancer to kill, so I wasn't gonna disturb them. I could handle a simple spirit chauffeur and 911 call on my own.

The keys were to the motor scooter; it was the better choice in this situation, allowing for more mobility and no passenger seat for any extra ghosts to drop into. That did, though, mean that Craig would need to ride shotgun in my body.

When I got out to the green scooter in the driveway, I paused and looked over at Craig.

"Hey, I know you're probably still a little out of it, so Possession 101." Script time. At least having this stuff memorized made it easier to do while dozy. "Our bodies need to take up the same space, so c'mere." I beckoned Craig over.

"So like… step into you?" He asked. Good, seemed like his head was clearing up some.

"Yeah, that's part 1."

He nodded and complied, crossing the space between us and settling in the same location, the two of us clipped into each other like bugged NPCs. It always felt so weird, those moments before a spirit actually possesses you. A sort of wobbly, in-and-out feeling like physics is trying to crush you and the spirit together, or, failing that, just kick your ass to the ground so you're not both in the same place at the same time.

"A'ight, now turn around and face the direction I’m facing, and overlay your hands onto mine as best you can." It was just a moment for him to obey, and I continued. "I'm not resisting, so you're gonna start feeling like you're being pulled in and pushed out at the same time. Space is trying to equalize. Let yourself be pulled in. It's gonna feel a bit like-"

The whirlpool effect kicked in before I could finish, the sudden snap and release of tension as Craig's spirit sank into my body. I wobbled a bit and grabbed the handlebar in front of me, then shivered at the sudden chill and dizziness. I'm pretty good at taking on passengers like this, but that didn't make it any more pleasant.

"You in there, buddy?" I asked out loud. Especially with new spirits, trying to think at each other was more trouble than it was worth. My lips moved to answer, though it wasn't my voice coming out.

"Uh- yeah. Yeah I'm here."

I grabbed the helmet hanging on the other handlebar and snapped it on, kicking the stand up and plopping heavily onto the seat.

"Great. Let's go."

"Wait, why am I not in control?" came Craig's confused voice. He felt almost frustrated, an undercurrent of emotion that wasn't mine despite being in my mind and body.

"Because this is my body, and I let you in willingly. Easier to keep control when you're letting someone in. Plus," I gave a little snort. "You just died, dude. I've been letting spirits possess me since middle school."

I felt his frustration turn to grumpiness, and then the pressure in my head, like a storm rolling in, that I knew from experience was him trying to take control. I froze and let out an irritated huff.

"You stop that. I'm not dealing with you doing some dumb shit with my body. Either chill out or get out."

"Oh- uh. Just wanted to see if I could…"

"Uh-huh. Anyhow, now that you're together enough to try joyriding, do you remember much about where you were before you were killed?"

I started up the scooter as emotions rolled through my mind, detached and distant, almost like the muffled dissociation I was used to mid-shutdown. Possessing spirits' emotions always felt weird like that, both mine and not mine, held at arm's length. Craig's was especially turbulent for a new death, but given that he had been murdered… I didn't fault him for being a little confused and angry. Even if it did put me a little on edge. 

"Uh- South Pine Street, Dogwood Acres housing development."

"Baller. That's not far from here. Once we get close to your body, you should be able to feel where it is, so I'll have a house number for the police. Don't want to have them scream in all blue lights and loud sirens and have your killer go to ground before they know which house, y'know?"

The muffled flare of anger that I felt was definitely not my own. I took a deep breath, hoped that the killer had panicked and tried to clean up instead of get rid of the body first, and puttered off towards Dogwood.

The housing development was quiet, lines upon lines of identical suburban boxes lit by flickering street lights that cast the sidewalks and yards in harsh white light. The occasional house had the glow of yellow within, but most of them were dormant. Weaving my way through the maze of streets, each one absolutely indistinguishable from the one before and the one to come, I felt terribly exposed -- and alone despite the spirit currently hitching along in my body.

I turned onto South Pine and brought my scooter to a puttering stop, stabilizing it with both feet on the ground. I couldn't help but bounce my legs to replace the vibration of driving; the sudden lack of sensation would ratchet my anxiety up even if I wasn't currently letting a frustrated dead man hang out in my head to catch his murderer.

...I should be more than a little anxious, really, but half-asleep Tabby once again wrote a check that more-awake Tabby is having to cash, and more-awake Tabby is very used to having to deal with the consequences of her idiot decisions. It occurred to me that normal peoples' consequences didn't usually involve murder, but when you live with the dead, you're bound to meet a few killers.

Two houses down, I could feel- not a tug so much as a presence, an echo of Craig's spirit reacting to his body. It was the only one on the street with its lights on and its garage, while not lit, was open. There was a car in the garage, another in the driveway, and a pickup at the curb in front.

"258?" I asked Craig, though I knew the answer already. His anger flared and I felt the oncoming storm again. I snapped at him. "That's two strikes, Craig. I'm sorry for your death, but if you end up driving my body into a crime scene or, god forbid, getting me killed next, I will kick your ass to whatever afterlife you're headed for and stay there to keep kicking it for eternity."

Big words for a short fat lady, but this is, in fact, my body on the line right now. I probably wouldn't be able to follow through on any ass-kicking, but dammit, I would try.

Craig was silent, and I could feel him steaming, petulant like a child denied a toy but with the power of a grown man behind it. With my stomach tying itself in knots and my hands starting to tremble, I dialed 911, hoping it would help quell the rising panic.

"258 South Pine Street. I think there's been a murder. I don't know the state of the crime scene or if the perp is still there, but you might be able to catch them if you hurry. The victim is Craig Davis, white adult male, either shot or stabbed in the chest, likely multiple times-"

"Wait, is this Tabby? The necro girl?"

Oh god I hope that isn't what the operators call me regularly-- I know I'm a bit of a 911 cryptid, since the usual intruder calls are to the non-emergency line, but if I get known as the necro girl I might have to move to a different state.

"Yeah, uh, necromancer, yeah-" I couldn't help but stumble over my words, now, with my train of thought derailed by the interruption. "-uh, murder?"

"Right! I'll send someone."

I murmured a thanks and hung up before she could ask me to stay on the line. I already had to stay around for the cops so Craig could give a statement, and making small talk with the 911 operator was not in the spoons tonight.

I don't like cops much, but in my line of work, they're kind of a necessity. I need to stay on the police force's good side because I need them to remove attempted murderers from my property on the regular. ...and also because graverobbing is still technically illegal, even if I do have the body owner's permission to dig them up.

At least most of the locals who know of me and my employees are chill about it. It took a bit of effort to get to that point, but now at least people don't run screaming from the less-presentable of my employees…

The blue lights of the police showed up fairly quickly, followed almost immediately by the red flashing of EMS. I puttered up slowly and parked my scooter just out of range as the officers set to work surrounding the house, then hung my helmet on a handlebar and walked up the rest of the way to watch the impending train wreck. I could feel Craig's anger boiling higher and tried my best to ignore it; Craig himself seemed to have fallen silent and sullen after I called him out.

"Tabby!"

I was standing just off to the side of the ambulance when someone stepped up behind me and called my name, making me jump and cringe.

"Oh- oh dear, I'm sorry, Tabs. I thought I heard you were the one who called this in!"

I straightened up immediately, face burning. I recognized that voice, bright and smooth and kind and--

"J-Jenna!" My voice was barely a squeak as I turned to face her, looking up at the round, dark face of one of the EMTs. She was a good six feet tall, maybe more, towering above me even in her uniform flats, with a brilliant smile and full lips and gorgeous natural hair pulled through the back of her uniform cap, the streetlight illuminating her from behind like a halogen angel.

Jenna had shown up to one of my early calls for assistance at No Regrets, and then she kept turning up, not every time I was in a situation where I'd be around EMTs, but often.

Concern showed on her face as she leaned to look me over.

"Are you okay? Did you see it happen, or-"

I shook my head, buying time to sort out words by tapping my temple with a finger.

"N-no, I uh- the victim woke me up, he's in here, uh, in case the cops need somethin' from him."

"Oh… are you getting enough sleep, dear? You sound exhausted. Do you want to sit in the back of the truck?"

It took me a second or two to recover from the way she called me dear, my face burning bright red. I couldn't make eye contact even for the second or two I can usually manage so that people don't immediately think I'm being dishonest.

"I- uh- um- w-well, it's, uh, it is like 4am--" I stammered, trying desperately to find words. "I-I guess 'm sleepin' okay, uh, how're… you doing??"

I have never been a great orator and the list of why that is gets a bit longer with every um and stutter.

Jenna's face bloomed into a gorgeous, open grin.

"I'm on 12-hour overnights right now, so I'm basically at least 60 percent Red Bull at any given time. Everyone okay up there at the House? Last I heard y'all were digging up half the lawn.”

I nodded, unable to keep from grinning. At least this was a subject I could talk to her about without making an absolute ass of myself--

"Yeah! The new girl, Chris, she's gotten Daryl and Roy to help her get the vegetable garden going! It's plenty big enough to take care of all of us, and I worked out a deal with the soup kitchen so that they get any of our excess, once things are running smoothly, and I can use their account to buy from that bulk food program that's usually only open to chari- oop-!" I bit my tongue and cringed. Right. I'm pretty sure that's technically fraud and I just admitted to it in front of-

There was a commotion from the house that snapped me back to attention, and the cops were leading a man out in handcuffs. He looked pale and shaken, spattered in blood, and not quite… present, like he had just checked out of reality for his own good. That… was a familiar look. I furrowed my brow. He certainly didn't look like a maniacal killer-

"He caught me with his wife," I said. Well. Craig said. I jumped. Jenna jumped. I flushed and covered my mouth reflexively.

"N-no that was him! The victim!" I squeaked. Jenna laughed, a hearty belly laugh, and covered her own mouth, though she was doing a terrible job of hiding her grin.

"I figured! If he caught you with his wife, it would be an upgrade!"

At this point, you could probably fry an egg on my face. Hell, my glasses were starting to fog up-- I stammered for a few moments, trying desperately to find something to say, and it was Craig who saved me, if you could call it that. I was too caught up in my embarrassment and awkwardness to realize how much anger and frustration he was radiating.

"Motherfucker told me he'd have my job! Son of a bitch thinks he can get away with doing this to me, he's gonna fucking pay--"

The oncoming storm crashed over me before I could get a grip on it, and all of a sudden I was lumbering forward, snarling words that weren't my own, and dragging a gardening pickaxe out of my truck -- Craig's truck -- on my way to the man and the cops--

I let out a shriek, in my own voice, feeling the sound cutting my throat raw. I wrested control of my body back with a lurch, falling on my ass in the yard with the force of it while the silvery-blue form of Craig was ejected from my body, screaming obscenities.

I threw my hand forward, fighting for whatever thoughts and words I could find to fix this. I saw Craig right himself and move back towards me, and the first incantation -- if you could call it that -- that my brain grasped left my lips in a single desperate breath, with a dizzying rush of power--

"INTHENAMEOFTHEMOONIBANISHYOU--!!"

The force of the hurried exorcism rushed outward like a sonic boom, strong enough for even the mundanes around me to feel, and Craig's spirit let out a yowl of rage for a brief second before twisting around itself and collapsing in with a sickening crunch, crushing smaller and smaller until it was gone.

I winced -- not my best exorcism. At all.

As the flare of adrenaline dropped almost immediately and I came back to myself properly, I realized -- blurrily, as my glasses had gotten thrown off somewhere -- at least two officers had their weapons half-drawn at me, though they were looking over at where Craig's spirit had disappeared.

I collapsed the rest of the way onto the grass, shaking, and covered my face with my hands, trying with everything within me not to start crying. I should have realized he'd try something like that, why hadn't I been paying attention- I could have been attacked, I could have been arrested, I could have had to watch myself beat a man to death and I- fuck--

The sob that came out was squeaky and pained, and I pressed my hands harder against my face, like that would stop anything else from going wrong. I should have brought someone-- I shouldn't have let him possess me-- I should have been paying more attention--

Warm tears ran from the corners of my eyes, down my cheeks, to pool in my ears, making my already-trembling body shiver harder with the unpleasant sensation. I'd let myself get complacent, hadn't lost control of a possession like that in years, and- I'd almost- fuck--

"Honey, honey, sit up for me. Tabby? C'mon, let's get you up--"

Numbly, I let Jenna help me into a sitting position, where she wrapped a blanket around me and pressed an open bottle of water into my hands.

"Take slow sips. Are you okay? Just shaken?"

I nodded, some part of me grateful that I couldn't quite see her face properly without my glasses, because I didn't want to see what she thought about me after that. She sighed, though, and sounded relieved when she murmured "Good."

My whole body felt like jelly, trembling so hard I could feel the water in the bottle sloshing around, and I kept flashing from too hot to too cold to too hot again, and I couldn't even sort out my thoughts--

Jenna sat down beside me and rubbed my back. If I wasn't having a complete breakdown, I might have enjoyed it.

I don't know how long it took for me to calm down and clear my head, but the car with the other man had left, and the other EMTs had loaded Craig's body into the ambulance while Jenna sat next to me and made sure I was doing okay.

After a while, though, I blinked and shifted my torso, then opened the blanket more and cursed at the bloom of red on my hoodie.

I heard Jenna curse as well as she stood up, but I grabbed her pants leg.

"N-no, 'm okay," I mumbled, and instead of trying to speak more, I reached to pull my hoodie and tank up my stomach to show bruised, but completely unbroken skin, covered in blood, rivulets following my stretch marks and making it look even worse despite my being otherwise completely uninjured. "See, 'm okay." This was not the first time I've had a possession lead to the dead's cause of death showing on my own body. It wasn't even the bloodiest.

Jenna sat back down, and I could see her leaning in a bit.

"Well damn. Magic ghost stuff, huh?"

I nodded.

"Magic ghost stuff."

I could see the flash of white against dark skin as she grinned.

"So that exorcism… Artemis or Usagi?"

It took me a moment to parse her.question, but all of a sudden I was completely back to myself, just in time to absolutely die of embarrassment.

"L-listen, I- y-you can exorcise i-in anyone's name, i-it's the power and conviction that counts--!!"

"Usagi, then." I could hear the laughter in her voice, laughter that bubbled out moments later. I wanted to crawl in a hole in embarrassment, but- it didn't feel like condescending laughter. I knew what that felt like. She seemed just genuinely amused. "I grew up with Sailor Moon, too."

I couldn't stop the squeak that eaked out, and I covered my face again.

"G-god I hope word about this doesn't get out, people already think I-I'm weird enough, and to- to fall back on anime for magic i-in a pinch is just--"

"Cute," Jenna finished.

I squeaked.

Jenna moved away for a moment, and then she settled my glasses on my nose. I couldn't make eye contact, but I did glance over at her and sheepishly murmur my thanks.

"The officers still want a statement from you, since you made the call and tried to go after the perp, but I don't think they're looking at any charges, given…" Jenna trailed off and looked over at where Craig had disappeared. "...yeah."

I nodded, slowly, and then found myself yawning, the adrenaline drop setting in especially hard.

"...d'you think it can wait 'til tomorrow… 've kinda had a rough night."

"I think they'll be okay with that."

[cimerran-714]

Hello! I hope you're doing well. The purpose of this short "composition" is to closely analyze some of the key H/Hr moments in the books (I haven't watched all the movies, so you won't find anything about the films here).

And I know it should be obvious, but I seriously don't mind the R/Hr or H/G ship. It's none of my business. So please refrain from taking anything out of context/misappropriate the things I say. I mean absolutely no offence to any Canon pairings.

Even if you don't ship them, I'm sure you can't deny that both Harry and Hermione have an incredibly close platonic relationship together. I've heard people narrate some of the "finest" H/Hr moments while explaining why they're fit to be soulmates. There's a high probability that you'd come across them when talking to a H/Hr shipper. However, there are a few scenes in the books (which, in retrospect, are really 'sweet') I haven't heard others talk about often.

In this essay, I'd like to share some of the best scenes in the Potter books, immediately followed by an underrated moment.

Let's dig in.

Best moment:

The hug in Philosopher's/Sorceror's Stone.

Ah, isn't it obvious? This is certainly one of the finest moments that kickstarts the strong dynamic between Harry and Hermione. I really like this scene. It's powerful on a number of levels.

Romione shippers tend to provide a parallel to exemplify the attraction between the remaining members of the Golden Trio (Hermione apologizing about Scabbers and sobbing onto Ron's shoulders). But in my eyes, there's certainly something different about her hugging Harry.

Firstly, we've got to consider the context. When Hermione embraced Ron, it happened on the second page of a different chapter. On the contrary, anything that occurs at the end of any chapter/book sticks in our minds for a long time.

I'm going off on a tangent here, just to make sure you get the point. This trope (though I'm not sure I can it that) happens a lot of times in the Harry Potter books.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

This scene hits home for a lot of reasons.

Look, most of us can't help feeling sorry for Harry here. His parents are dead, which (as McGonagall claimed) is a horrible thing to have happened. We've also seen at the beginning of the book that the Dursleys hate the Potters.

It's distressing to realize that a one-year-old is about to be raised by a family who doesn't like him at all.

And the fact that the entire wizarding world is celebrating Volde... sorry, You-Know-Who's downfall, while the boy sleeps on innocently (without any knowledge of what's just happened), is even more saddening. No, he simply couldn't know what'd happened to his life, that witches and wizards all over the country are toasting him.

It's bittersweet.

Moving on:

Deciding that he'd worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he'd made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down; eyes open, facing his three birthday cards.

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just like everyone else -- glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.

This is, yet again, another 'Aww' moment at the end of a chapter. How can you not feel sorry for Harry? Most thirteen-year-olds have already enjoyed a lot of birthdays in the past. But for him, it's something new.

He's glad that it's his birthday for the first time. If I didn't know better, JKR wants us to sympathize with Harry.

And here's a final example:

Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: the little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.

"Gerremoffme!" he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed.

I do feel for Ron, getting attacked by a flock of birds was certainly uncalled for. But don't you get the point? The "sob" momentarily diverts our attention towards Hermione.

"Poor Ron, that must have hurt... oh, dear, Hermione's crying."

I think you know what I'm talking about. It's the same thing that happened when Hermione embraced Harry and called him a "Great wizard."

Yes, the H/Hr hug doesn't occur at the last line or anything, but it's certainly just a page before the chapter ends.

"But Harry -- what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

"Well -- I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at his scar. "I might get lucky again."

Hermione's lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her arms around him.

"Hermione!"

"Harry -- you're a great wizard, you know."

"I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things -- friendship and bravery and -- oh Harry -- be careful!"

That's one reason why it's meaningful!

Also, note that Harry's just about to face the 'Big Bad' (at a moment when 'Danger lies ahead of them and safety lies behind'). No one's noticed them hugging, too.

And it wasn't in front of the Portrait Hall or anything, either.

It was deep beneath the ramifications of the castle. It was (probably) around midnight, too.

The situation (arguably, the fate of the wizarding world rests on Harry's shoulders now).

The dialogue ("You're a great wizard, you know" instead of "I'm so sorry about Scabbers")

The atmosphere (It was late at night).

The fact that they were just kids.

All of these make the hug so powerful.

Oh, and it was the first book in the series. 2- Underrated moment:

Harry (and yes, Ron too) saving Hermione from the troll.

What's interesting here is:

1- Harry was the one who immediately thought of Hermione after Dumbledore ordered the Prefects to take everyone to their dormitories (Not Ron).

2- Harry isn't smug about having just saved a stranger's life.

A stranger, moreover, who was considered "interfering".

On the other hand, Ron is a little git.

They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.

"I've just thought -- Hermione."

"What about her?"

"She doesn't know about the troll."

Ron bit his lip.

"Oh, all right," he snapped. "But Percy'd better not see us."

It's pretty obvious that, if given the choice, Ron would rather not go after the girl he'd teased in class.

Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid: He took a great running jump and managed to fasten his arms around the troll's neck from behind. The troll couldn't feel Harry hanging there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit of wood up its nose, and Harry's wand had still been in his hand when he'd jumped - it had gone straight up one of the troll's nostrils.

Harry's saving both of their lives here (while endangering his own).

Remember that he's only eleven.

"We should have gotten more than ten points," Ron grumbled.

"Five, you mean, once she's taken off Hermione's."

"Good of her to get us out of trouble like that," Ron admitted. "Mind you, we did save her."

"She might not have needed saving if we hadn't locked the thing in with her," Harry reminded him.

Ron thinks they were doing Hermione a favour. Harry, however, is a tad more level-headed. And sensible.

Also, it's somewhat of a stretch, but I believe it proves the point that Harry's true nature is like his mother's (James Potter had boasted around after he saved Snape's life).

Yes, I know it's such a cliche, but Harry is pure at heart.

3-Best moment:

The "mythical" Hippogriff ride:

Now, I've personally never thought much of it. It's a good chapter, yes, but bringing animals into a Shipping war is just... meh.

It's the trust that Harry had in Hermione (when she pulled out the Time turner) that interests me.

Anyhow, it's a pretty common argument posed by H/Hr fans.

Quoting from Wikipedia:

In some traditions, the hippogriff is said to be the symbol of love, as its parents, the mare and griffin, are natural enemies. In other traditions, the hippogriff represents Christ's dual nature as both human and divine.

It occurred in the wee hours of the morning, so I suppose it does have a slightly "mythological" (I can't think of a better word) feel to it.

Again, I'm not sure I can call it my favourite part of the book, especially as Hermione wasn't enjoying riding on Buckbeak.

Underrated moment:

Having fun talking about Filch and Madam Pince.

Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally again, they made their way along the deserted lamp-lit corridors back to the common room, arguing whether or not Filch and Madam Pince were secretly in love with each other.

For Romione shippers who believe that Harry and Hermione are "boring" together, it's a rude awakening.

No, the "arguing" doesn't mean they were actually in a disagreement. It's clear that both of them were having fun.

Enjoying their time, in fact.

It's one of the few 'Harmony' scenes in Half-blood Prince.

I do not believe that either of them was consciously aware of their feelings towards each other, either.

And if it's just a coincidence that they were enjoying talking about being in love, it's certainly a bizarre one.

4-Best moment:

Visiting Godric's Hollow together

"'The last enemy that shall be defeated is death'..." A horrible thought came to him, and with a kind of panic. "Isn't that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?"

"It doesn't mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry," said Hermione, her voice gentle. "It means... you know... living beyond death. Living after death."

But they were not living, thought Harry. They were gone. The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents' moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them.

Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have brought something o give them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents' grave.

As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave: He did not think he could stand another moment there. He put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore's mother and sister, back toward the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.

If it was intended to be a totally platonic visit, why a pose that's very romantic? Also, as someone else had mentioned in their blog, Harry rarely (if never) initiates physical contact with anyone.

There's also a kissing gate present in the Church.

It seems as if JKR has got a flair for writing co-incidences that further cement the H/Hr relationship.

Underrated moment:

Ernie Macmillion's change of heart:

This is simply beautiful, and even more so as Macmillion was aware that Harry can speak Parseltongue (an ability commonly associated with Dark Wizards).

What happens when students are mysteriously turning into stone, and you figure out that one of them was "egging on" a snake during a duelling club? A boy, moreover, who dislikes the Muggles he lives with? Someone who managed to defeat Lord Voldemort himself?

Hmm...

The logical conclusion would be that Harry's got a hand in it. Ernie believed that Harry Potter was the one Petrifying everyone, even a few weeks/months after the attacks stopped.

What takes the Hufflepuff to bring him to his senses?

The fact that Harry would never harm his Muggle-born friend.

I know it's a little thing, but it shows that the whole school (indeed, Ernie belonged to a different House) was aware of how close Harry and Hermione were together.

Note that he'd apologized immediately after a double-attack.

"Harry, harm Hermione Granger? Impossible!"

Macmillian was the one being paranoid, and told tales about Harry to Hannah Abbot.

And yet a single thing changed his mind completely.

To wind up, I'mma give you another part from the first book:

It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly around Harry's heart. Over the rustling of the trees, he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told him on the night they had met: "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die." "Do you mean," Harry croaked, "that was Vol-" "Harry! Harry, are you all right?" Hermione was running toward them down the path, Hagrid puffing along behind her.

What's noteworthy is that Hermione apparently doesn't care about staying close to Hagrid and protecting herself. She's so worried about what's happened to Harry that she's rushing along in front of Hagrid.

Throughout the books, you can see Harry being protective of Hermione.

The feeling's mutual ;)

[hotpotrandomfics]

Fifth Year AU: A Gift for Him. A Gift for her.

Summary: It’s around Christmas and Hogwarts most powerful couple doesn’t know what to get their partner a gift as it is their first Christmas as a couple. Ah, young love...

Word Count: 4,554

It was late November and the holidays were slowly approaching Hogwarts. Students all over talked about going home and seeing their families. Some were talking about what is it they'd hoped to get for Christmas. Only two students weren't going to spend the holidays with their families; Merula and Jason. The two Slytherins tended to stay at Hogwarts as they never seemed to stop in the search for the Cursed Vaults, but that was true in their first five years. The two had been dating for some time and wanted to spend the holidays together.

"Haywood! Khanna!" shouted Merula as she neared her fellow students. "I need to speak with you two."

The two looked at Merula with raised brows and then to each other. What is it that Merula wanted from the two?

"What is it you need to talk about Merula?" asked Rowan as he fixed his glasses.

"Follow me," she gestured for them to accompany her down the nearest corridor. Merula opened a door into an unoccupied room. "I need to have your word you will speak nothing of what I am about to ask. Not even to Jason."

"What's so bad you wouldn't want to tell Jason?" Penny looked at her friend with concern. "You aren't planning to break up with, are you?!"

"No!" Merula shouted as she looked surprised. "What gave you that idea?!"

"Sorry," Penny held her hands up defensively. "But I am just curious why you pulled us aside."

"If that isn't the case," Rowan stepped in. "What is it you need to know?"

"I w-want," Merula was fidgeting with her fingers in circles. "I want to get Jason a Christmas p-present, and I have no clue what to get him." Her face was flustered at asking them. "If we're dating then I should get him something, right?"

Despite the time they've been together, Jason gave Merula genuine happiness. Of course, she wanted to get him a fantastic gift to show that she cared. But what kind of gift could you give a rich kid who didn't appear to want things, instead he thought more of his friends rather than himself in terms of gifting.

"Merula," Penny placed her hands on her shoulders comfortingly. "I am more than willing to help you find the perfect gift."

"Count me in," Rowan said smiling at her. "We know how much he means to you. Why don't we start with what he'd like or things he enjoys in his free time. Minus the vaults."

The girls looked and Rowan, then back to each other, and nodded at his suggestion. The trio began discussing amongst themselves what to get Jason. Whatever was going to come out of this would be grand Merula thought. Elsewhere though similar plans were in the making by a certain prefect.

"Oye, Ismelda!"

"Aurelius?" Ismelda looked up from her book to see a panting Jason running to her. "Why do you look like death?"

"I was looking all over for you," Jason said as he hunched over trying to catch his breath. "I need your advice on something vital."

Ismelda looked at Jason with a suspicious look. 'What could he possibly want with me' was her thought process. She motioned him to sit down as the whole panting was annoying.

"What is it you need my advice on? Curses? Because I can help with a demonstration," she asked as she adjusted her scarf. "Or is Merula?"

"Yes," he looked a little stunned at her quick assumption. "I need help with finding a gift for her and I don't know what to do!"

"Why should I help you?" Ismelda looked at the flustered boy with curiosity. "Why not ask her yourself? I'm sure she'd be more than willing to say something about what she wants."

"No, I want this to be special. That means she can't know anything about it. Ismelda please, I want this Christmas to be amazing for her and..."

Jason started getting lost in thought for his past Christmases since Jacob's disappearance and his parent's divorce. He didn't know what it was to feel alone like Merula did during the holidays until his family itself fell apart. Jason snapped out of his temporary daze and looked at Ismelda.

"Please, if not for me then for her. You are her best friend. What will I have to do for you to help me?"

"Really? Well," Ismelda cleared her throat, "stop sounding so pathetic and whiny. I don't think groveling suits you, and I want Merula to have a good Christmas too. So I'll help you Aurelius De Leone but you better not make me regret helping you."

"Oh thank Merlin! Thank you Ismelda," Jason let out a breath of relief. "Where should we start?"

"Well, I can tell you some of her favorite authors. But what ideas have you thought of?"

The two people who cared for Merula kept tossing ideas on what to get her. From books to jewelry and other items that were good candidates. Some were bad ones that were out of line. The two had decided to head to Hogsmeade the next day and if possible Diagon Alley. Tomorrow would be an early day for them but a long one too.

"So where should we start Ismelda?" Jason asked as they made their way down High Street glancing between the shop's windows.

"Let's head over to there," Ismelda lead the way to a Gladrags Wizardwear. "Merula keeps complaining her boots are falling apart, and Reparo goes so far." She said as they entered the store. "She's about six. Six and a half."

They walked down to the shoe section and looked through the selections. The two debated on what seemed to be the best choice but nothing felt right to Jason. He and Ismelda couldn't agree mainly because Jason was too indecisive. He wanted to get her the perfect gift. Something to show how much he cared for her. Boots might not cut it for what he thinks.

Around the same time, Merula, Penny, and Rowan were searching through Hogsmeade to find a gift for Jason. Penny suggested they get him a unique wand holder that he could keep under his robes. Rowan thought getting a book series on curse-breaking was a good choice, but that was shot down quickly. The trio made their way to Dervish and Banges to see if they could find anything of the sort that might spark some ideas.

"Merula," Penny called, "look at this." She was holding a holster made of black leather and embroidered with silver markings. "This seems like a good candidate, but this is my opinion."

"Not bad Haywood, but I am a bit hesitant on getting something like that. Jason, he doesn't show much interest in infancy or flashy pieces." Merula looked at the piece intrigued but wanted to keep looking to see what might be the right gift.

"I just thought of something," Rowan said as he looked through the shelves. "Why not talk with him? I mean I can talk with him and see what I can figure out."

"That's not bad, but I don't want to tip him off though," Merula sighed as she looked around the shelves. "He does so much for me but what is it that I can get him?"

"Wait, there was this staff that Jason kept talking off from Asia. Bo staff if I remember," Rowan said. "He keeps talking of traveling to the east when we graduate. Or..."

"Or what?" Penny looked as Rowan lost in thought. "Something else you think he'll like?"

"About a week ago when Jason and I were flying during Madam Hooch's class, Jason lost his necklace. A keepsake from Jacob from when he was eight." Rowan looked at the two girls. "We searched for hours but couldn't find it, and that's the only thing that I can think of."

"We can't find something like that here," Merula thought for a moment. "Wait, what if we got to Diagon Alley? I can talk with Madam Rakepick about using some Floo Powder, but I'd need to find a fireplace connected to the Floo network."

"That's brilliant Merula!" Penny stated. "Why don't we go do that? We have plenty of time today."

With that, the three had made their way back to Hogwarts and started on the quest to find Madam Rakepick. Surprisingly, Madam Rakepick was in her office grading some papers as the three knocked on her door.

"Come in," she called out as the three students entered. "Miss Snyde? Miss Haywood and Mister Khanna? This is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

"Madam Rakepick, we need your help with a certain matter," Merula said nervously which was slightly out of character. "We need to acquire some Floo powder to travel to Diagon Alley."

"For what exactly? Do you have to lead to the vaults or is this more personal?" Madam Rakepick placed her quill in its jar. "Depending on your answer I might indulge you with my assistance."

The three looked amongst themselves before they decided it would be best to be clear with their intentions.

"We want to get Jason a gift," Merula said. "They do, but they wanted me to come along to help them with it."

"Miss Snyde, don't take me for a fool." She looked up at her students. "I am quite aware of your relationship with Mister Aurelius De Leone. Rumors can't be hidden in Hogwarts long." Madam Rakepick stood up and walked over to them. "But in the spirit of good faith I will help you, but you will not get caught when we sneak into Dumbledore's office."

"You mean..." the friends said in unison. "You'll help?"

"Of course," she said she smiled at them. "Christmas is coming soon anyhow so let's get to work." Madam Rakepick grabbed a small bag and told the three to follow her until they reached Dumbledore's office. "Dumbledore fireplace is connected to the Floo Network as you have known Merula. So I expect you to lead the way."

"Of course Madam," Merula said, "thank you again for giving us assistance."

"Well I don't mind helping my  "family" Miss Snyde," Madam Rakepick smiled down at her disciple. "Off you go now, I'll be here waiting for you three to return."

With that, the trio snuck into Dumbeldore's office and jumped into the fireplace one by one calling "Diagon Alley" as they appeared there. Now the friends had better options to select from, but they only had limited time before the curfew.

Back at Hogsmeade, Jason was making his way to the Three Broomsticks with Ismelda dragging behind him. The duo had searched throughout Hogsmeade, but Jason still didn't find what he was looking for as a gift. Was it always this hard to find a gift for someone special?

"This is getting exhausting Aurelius. I might start heading back," Ismelda said as she sat down. "You sure you didn't like anything we've seen today? At all?"

"It's not that. It just can't be ordinary, alright? I mean she hasn't had good holidays from what I can guess." Jason ran his hands through his hair. "Her gift. I want it to be special. Something that shows her I care."

"All this love stuff is making me want to vomit," Ismelda sighed. "Look, Aurelius, you have maybe another few hours before curfew and all the stores are going to close before then. So come up with something like you usually do."

A few minutes passed as Jason was lost in thought until a clanking sound hit his table startling him. He looked up seeing Madam Rosmerta placing his butterbeer down.

"Oh, I didn't mean to scare you, Jason," Madam Rosmerta chuckled.

"Madam Rosmerta, may ask you a question?"

"Sure, dear. What's on your mind?"

"Well I'm trying to find a gift for this girl I like, and I've searched through all the shops in town and haven't found anything," he said as he fiddled with his thumbs. "Do you by chance have any suggestions or any ideas what other girls may like?"

"Oh? Since when have you been fancying this girl Jason?"

"For a while now," he scratched the back. "She was a bit of an enemy for a time, but then I just grew to care for her. Despite our rugged history, she brings a certain joy to me, and I can't help feeling like I have these pixies in my stomach around her."

"Sounds like she is a great catch," Madam Rosmerta sat down with the two Slytherins. "You say you haven't found anything that you think she'll like? What does she like or do?"

"Reading. Potions. Quidditch. Challenging me with every chance she gets."

"Have you thought of going to Diagon Alley? I know the curfew for you two is coming quite close and I don't have many customers today. How about this, you help out for the next hour or two, and I'll let you use my fireplace to get to Diagon Alley? There is this one store that I'd suggest that never fails in helping a man find something to appease a woman. What do you say, Jason?"

"I accept," Jason said as he removed his cloak and rolled up his sleeves. "What do you want me to do the first ma'am?"

Ismelda decided to stick around to watch Jason work so that she could laugh at his expense. It was amazing to see what lengths Jason would go for when it came to Merula. "He is a strange one."

An hour or so into Jason helping around with taking orders and cleaning tables Jason followed Madam Rosmerta to her fireplace.

"Do you know how this works or do I need to explain?"

"I know how it works. Thank you so much Madam Rosmerta," Jason said as he took a handful of Floo powder. "Um, would you please cover for me if the school asks where I am at?"

"Well, it's not all that wrong of me to do. You "were" helping me today so," Madam Rosmerta winked at him. "Off you go. Remember it'll still be open but you gotta hurry."

"Right, thanks again. Diagon Alley!"  with that Jason slammed the powder down and disappeared into thin air. He had less than two hours before he had to make it back to the school and had a bit of ground to cover.

Back at Hogwarts, Merula was heading to the Great Hall with Penny and Rowan after their little adventure of finding Jason's gift. Penny went to her house table leaving her friends to make their way to theirs.

"Do you think he'll like it, Khanna?"

"He will. He's not much for objects unless they hold meaning to him. Trust Merula; he'll love it."

"By Merlin, he better," she sat down at her usual spot noticing Ismelda wasn't there. "Huh, that's odd."

"What is?" Rowan asked before took his seat.

"Ismelda isn't here," Merula scanned the table back and forth. "Neither is Jason."

"That's odd indeed," Rowan looked about the table. "He told me he was going to stay in. Maybe he is researching about the vaults?"

"Hey, guys!" Barnaby strolled on over sitting down. "What's up? What's with the long faces?"

"Barnaby, have you seen Jason or Ismelda?" Rowan asked.

"Can't say I have today," Barnaby rubbed his chin. "Hey Liz, did you see them?"

"See who Barnaby?" Liz said as she stood behind him.

"Jason and Ismelda."

"Oh, I think I saw them at Hogsmeade," Liz fixed her glasses. "They seemed like they didn't want to get caught or something. Not sure what they needed to hide from."

"Where were they?" Merula looked at Liz sternly. "What were they doing?"

"Shopping I think?" Liz held hands up defensively. "I'm honestly not quite sure what was going on Snyde."

Merula looked down at her plate and stood up making her way out of the Great Hall.

"Merula, wait!" Liz called out, but Merula was already gone.

Merula had made her way down the corridor that leads to the courtyard. All alone in the snow of the winter fuming as little thoughts roamed her head. Why was Jason with Ismelda? What were they doing? He wouldn't be cheating. Right. "No," she thought. Jason could never do those things, but the possibility is what scared Merula.

"Merula? What are you doing out in the cold?" said a voice causing Merula to look up from her spot by the fountain.

"Ismelda?"

"Last time I checked. Yes," Ismelda sat down next to her. "Sorry I haven't seen you all day. I was handling some business."

"Oh I know you were handling some business," Merula looked at her angrily. "Pray tell what "business" were you handling?"

Ismelda scratched her nose not sure how to respond. "Just some shopping."

"With Jason?"

"I um," Ismelda broke out in a deep sweat. "Yeah, how'd you-?"

"Liz said she saw you two together. What were you doing?!"

"We were," Ismelda looked down at her hands. "I promised him I wouldn't say anything."

"Promised what?!" Merula felt herself getting heated more with anger.

"Merula, calm down," Ismelda raised her hands. "Look, you can ask him when he gets back. Your idiot will explain everything if he doesn't get caught by Filch or Snape."

"Caught? He's not back?" Merula anger slightly came down. "Why?"

"All I will say is that your lucky what lengths this guy will go for you," Ismelda placed a hand on her friend's shoulder with a smile.

Now all of Merula anger seemed to subside but was replaced with another emotion. Worry.

"Finally, I gotta start making my way back now. Oh, Merula is gonna love it," Jason said as he ran down the streets of Diagon Alley. "Hmmm, where did I come from again?" He looked around confused. "How in Merlin did I get to Knockturn Alley?"

"How indeed," said a raspy voice from a dark corner. "What is a Hogwarts boy doing out here?" The man stepped out with a wand drawn. "Oh? A present, for me?"

"Not for you," Jason drew his wand. "Think I'm gonna give it away then think again."

The wannabe thief flew back at Jason's attack and crashed into a bunch of trash cans.

"Oye boy, that ain't very nice now," another man appeared from behind sending  Jason to the ground face first. "All we want to do is see what you  got in the bag."

"Merlin, that hurt," Jason looked over as he clutched the bag close to his chest. "I'm not letting creeps like you take a "look" so," Jason aimed his wand casting Baubillious and sending the second goon flying. He then stood up, following up with Aguamenti as the two thieves stood up themselves but slipped the wet ground. "Have a good evening gents," Jason started making his way out before someone cracked their hand in his face.

"Where are you going boy?" said a third thief. "I am not sure how I feel with you going on about treating my mates there like that." The man pulled his wand and aimed it at Jason's face. "Now, are you going to play nice or am I going to have to!"

Then a large shadow cast itself over the two of them — a fourth man that smelled of rock cakes, butterbeer, and animals.

"Hey there, I'd advise you to leave my friend here alone," said all too familiar voice.

"Hagrid," Jason smiled up at the giant. "What are you doing here?"

"Shopping. Same as you," said the Hagrid. "Now then mister, I give you three seconds to leave. One," Hagrid began counting.

"I won't forget this," the thief ran off with his fellow crooks into depths of the night.

"Jason, you know you're not supposed to be here. RIght?" Hagrid helped him from the ground. "They did a number on you. Say, what you have there?"

"A gift," Jason inspected the bag as no damage seem to show. "It's..." he sighed and looked up at Hagrid smiling. "It's for someone special."

"I'd say so; you looked like you got beaten by a giant niffler," Hagrid placed a hand on his shoulder. "Well, it better have been worth it. Let's get you back to the school."

The two men ended up back at the Three Broomsticks with a worried Madam Rosmerta seeing Hagrid helping Jason walk over to a seat. She proceeded to scull Jason for causing her worry, but she was happy he'd returned safely. But back at Hogwarts, another woman was in a nervous panic wondering where a certain prefect was.

"Where is he?" Merula was pacing back and forth in the common room. "He's usually back on time."

"Calm down Merula, Aurelius will be back," Ismelda looked at her friend with deep concern. She knew how much she and Jason became closer. "You'll see he'll pop in here with a grin or something."

"What were you two doing all day?!" Merula was shaking visibly now. "Why are you-" she stopped as she glanced to the entrance from the common room opened. Her eyes widen when she saw who was entering.

"H-hey Meri," Jason stepped in and waved his hand nervously. "How was your-" he was cut off by Merula throwing herself into his torso holding him tightly. "Meri? Are you okay?"

"Where were you?!" she looked up to notice the minor bandages on his cheek. "What happened?!"

"I was," Jason looked down at his girlfriend softly. "I was getting this." He showed her the bag in his hand. "This is what kept me all day and also why I am a little bruised up."

"Why are you bruised up?" Merula stared at him sternly.

"I may have accidentally had gone into Knockturn Alley while I was coming back after looking for your gift." Jason tensed up and started messing with a lock of his hair. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

"You got bruised up just to get me a gift?" Merula expression softened as she took his hand. "You don't have to go that far for me Jason. Alright?"

"But I want to," he smiled at her, "and I'd do it again. I'm a cursed boy, so my luck is little. However..."

"However what?"

"I got all the luck I need in front of me," Jason bet down slightly placing a kiss on her forehead. "Please don't be upset with Ismelda. I asked for help with finding your gift, but I was too stubborn because I wanted it to be-" He stopped speaking as Merula pulled him by his tie and kissed him. "perfect..."

"You have to stop being reckless otherwise I'm going to have to deal with a broken boyfriend," Merula smirked at him. "Am I clear Aurelius De Leone?"

"I will do my best," Jason stroked her cheek gingerly. "So you're not mad at me?"

"Oh I am livid with you but..." Merula gave him a peck to his cheek. "I am glad your okay."

"Meri," Jason smiled, "will my gift clear this if anything at all?"

Merula looked at him with a raised brow and pinched his cheek. "It won't but let see how it after we exchange." She said pulling him to the couch of the common room. "Sit."

Jason followed Merula instructions despite their size difference. He did find her intimidating slightly, but it was one of the things he respected about her, her will. Merula was gone for five minutes and returned with a box in hand, sitting next to him with her signature smirk.

"So then," she started to fidget slightly, "shall we exchange gifts?"

"Yes," Jason handed his gift to Merula while she did the same with her gift. "I hope you like it."

"I hope you like yours," she blushed softly, "but you must open it first."

"No, ladies first."

"Don't go being a gentleman with me. Open yours."

"Meri, I insist."

"You're so stubborn," Merula sighed but smiled at him.

"Yes, I believe I got that from being around a certain witch," he leaned in and kissed her cheek while offering a wink.

"It seems I am a bad influence."

"Define 'bad,' because I don't that."

The two sat in silence for a brief moment until Jason looked at Merula and suggested they open their gifts at the same time. Merula despite herself agreed to his reasonable terms on the count of three.

One.

Two.

Three.

The couple opened each other respective gifts with haste, eager to see what the other brought them.

"Jason," Merula held her hand up to her mouth, "it's beautiful." In her hand, she held a necklace in the shape of a heart with an amethyst gem in the middle of it. Silver bindings secured it with an infinity symbol holding it in place. "I..." she was at a loss for words and was overwhelmed by tears of joy. "Thank you," she cried as she lunged into his chest.

"You're welcome. I take it you like it then?" He smiled as he stroked her shaggy hair. "Hey now, let me look at mine now," he chuckled as she released him. "Now then, what has Meri got for" Jason stopped as he lifted his gift. A necklace with a dragon pendant. The strap was made of black leather, and the pendant of the dragon held a green orb that reflected Jason's eyes. "Meri, I don't know what to say," now it was his turn to break into tears.

"I heard you lost your pendant from your brother and couldn't find it. I know it's not the same, but I-" Merula stopped as Jason pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply. "I um..."

"Thank you, I love it," he tried to put it on until Merula took it from him and placed it on him. Jason, in turn, did the same with the necklace he had gotten her.

"Happy Christmas Jason," Merula hugged him. "I love you."

"Happy Christmas Merula," Jason held her close. "I love you too."

With that, the two stared at each other, focused, until they saw a mistletoe hang over them and snowflakes. The couple shifted their gazes to the stairs leading to the dorm rooms were occupied by Ismelda, Liz, Rowan, and Barnaby. The four Slytherins scurried up the stairs to leave the couple. The group of mood-setters was bound to face the couple's wrath later. Jason and Merula laughed at their friend's fleeing attempt.

"So, where were we?" Jason said with a small smirk.

"Where indeed," Merula said turning to face her boyfriend. "Do you have any recollections?" leaning into him.

"I may," he said as he leaned into her and placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

The two held each other close and watched as the fire crackled in flames. Merula was giving Jason an earful for all his bruises, but Jason responded with an assault of kisses that he did to get out of any of her lectures. She protests but when Jason acted in his loving ways it had a certain charm on her she couldn't explain. The holidays were never dull when they were together, and that was something. Though the castle was empty for the most part, it was filled with laughter and joy through its halls.

[hellhoundsprey]

professor castiel likes his freshman student sam uncomfortably amount

By the time I realized how dark I could have gone with this I was already headed to fluff-town, so have some wholesome idiots ❤.

warnings: age difference, teacher student relationship, drunk sex

includes: college!au, professor!castiel, student!sam, mutual pining, error 404: no stereotypical top/bottom dynamics found, blow jobs, deep throating, face fucking, hair pulling, cas is a domestic soft old man, stanford era

 ~

  “Wait, so—not ever?”

“Not ever.”

“That—wow.” Sam frowns adorably. Measures Cas with his eyes, and Cas hopes he’ll accredit the blush with the unholy small amount of vanilla coke in this cup of vodka.

“Is, is that—so weird? Am I weird?” he blabbers, the fool, and startles together with Sam as someone tackles the beer pong table behind them with the exact outcome you’d expect.

“It’s—I dunno, uncommon?” tries Sam, always so polite, even when obviously intoxicated. Could converse with pretty much everyone except his boring old professor; the pretty blonde making bedroom eyes at him since Cas can remember Sam sitting down with him, for example.

Cas shrugs, pointedly ‘cool’. “It’s just not my cup of tea.”

Sam considers, “Huh,” and takes another deep drink from his red cup. (Sam’s a freshman but Cas wouldn’t still get invited to his students’ house parties if he had any sort of problem with underage drinking.)

“It’s just,” Sam tries again, so puzzled that he cannot let the thought go, and Cas dream-sighs on the inside, chin in his hand and elbow on his knee, now. “Like—how can you not have watched a single one of them? Like, zero? Niente?”

“Pop culture just doesn’t sit well with me,” and Sam smiles—surrendering and pitying but it’s a smile, and Cas will take that without complaint.

“But it’s…Marvel, sir. That’s like—Disney.”

Cas takes another sip from his drink.

Sam’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“I—have watched Disney movies,” assures Castiel, hopeless idiot and academic, three doctorates. “The one with the—the dogs? I watched that one.”

Sam gives him the look that spells out how he doesn’t want to accuse Cas of lying but that Cas is making it pretty hard on him.

Sam lives on campus. Was supposed to be the designated driver tonight but his friends vanished early on, and he told Cas how difficult things are at the moment with his family and his scholarships and the new environment and so on and so on. Cas has heard it many times before. It’s a shame he can’t do much more than listen and give smart-assed advice from his privilege-built ivy tower.

Except for, y’know, “You can crash at my place. It’s safer than hitching an Iber at this hour.”

“Uber,” corrects Sam, and, “is, uh—I mean, are you sure? Is that okay?”

“Why, yes.” Cas frowns, confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Oh, vodka. The devil’s juice.

It takes another five minutes of persuasion until Sam finally gives in.

As said: the devil’s juice.

Cas doesn’t have much family left to turn up their noses at his ‘undignified housing situation’. It’s a house and the roof barely leaks, so it clearly does its job (and he’ll get the roof fixed this fall, promise). It has a bathtub and an adorable built-in kitchen from the sixties. Castiel fell in love with it the second he found the listing.

He informs, “Here we are,” uselessly because it’s obvious, they’re taking their shoes off and everything. “Just put it with the others,” he helps upon Sam’s hesitant posture with his sneakers in his too-big hands.

God, they’re big hands, aren’t they?

Anyhow. “Are you hungry? I could go for a snack.”

Castiel is already at the fridge, grabbing whatever is nearest, as Sam catches up. “That’s—I’m okay, you really don’t have to…”

“Oh, be my guest. They pay me well, I can get more groceries if I want. Another fridge, if I want.” He closes the fridge door with a swivel of his hips and unloads the content in his arms over the kitchen counter. “Take a seat, why don’t you. There’s wine, too, if you want.”

Sam assures, “I’m good,” and plants himself at Castiel’s kitchen table.

Cas turns towards him, knife in hand. “Crust on or crust off?”

“Off,” mumbles the kid, and Cas can’t help but smile along with him.

The sandwiches are successfully put together and diminished within minutes. Sam definitely eats like someone who hasn’t had a decent meal in a while, and Cas has to hold back very hard not to urge him into seconds (or thirds).

As he already plucks the too-many pillows from his couch, Cas inquires, “Is this okay with you?” and Sam, of course, nods rapidly.

“Of course, yeah. Thank you, sir.”

“It’s ‘Cas’,” offers Cas, who doesn’t need to be reminded of his age or status this frequently.

If he wasn’t Sam’s professor…God.

Things could be different.

If he had become a librarian, maybe. He can’t think of many other places or occasions to otherwise run into Sam. Always studying, cramming; such a hard-working student. Cas sees himself—burying himself in books and thoughts. Everyone has their ways of escaping real life.

Cas doesn’t leave him without a spare toothbrush before he makes his way upstairs. Takes care of his bedtime hygiene (or, the shortened, drunken version of that) and falls into bed. Worms out of his pants, somehow, but that’s as far as things will go, and that’s okay. Not that he has a say in that.

Castiel falls asleep as soon as he closes his eyes.

~

“Mr. Novak.”

“Hm.”

“… Mr. Novak?”

Cas smacks his lips, turns his head to face the wall.

“… Cas?” and again, louder, “Cas?”

“Yes? I? Oh, lord.” Cas groans, rubs at his face. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know,” murmurs Sam, and Cas realizes it’s still night. “I’m sorry for waking you…”

Cas blabbers, “Is everything okay?” and, yeah, definitely still fucking drunk. Jesus.

Sam begins with, “I,” but can’t seem to find the rest of the sentence.

Cas’ eyes adjust to the spinning room, to the shadow-y figure of Sam Winchester sitting hunched over on the floor, right next to Cas’ bed. He looks upset, to say the least.

“Did something happen?”

“Just, a—a nightmare.” Pale, Sam tries a thin-lipped smile.

“Oh. Well—”

“I tipped the—the lamp? By the couch? It broke.”

Castiel supplies, “Ah,” and tries to remember what fucking lamp Sam means. Did he put a lamp there? He might have put a lamp there.

“I couldn’t find a dustpan or nothin’. There’s shards all over the carpet and—”

“Oh my, did you hurt yourself?”

“Just a—no,” corrects Sam, and not-so-subtly as his own intoxicated brain might be telling him he’s doing it pulls the too-long sleeve of his hoodie further over his hand.

It’s not a thought, it just happens. “Let me see,” and a reach, a grab—Sam’s hand, rough skin, the warmth of it.

Castiel holds on harder just because he does not (cannot) admit his foolish embarrassment.

Studies the (truly minor) cuts with a frown and decides, overly fatalistic: “Bathroom. Iodine. Bandaids.”

“It’s really nothing, sir…”

“Sam, do I have to drag you? Because I will.”

Sam’s mouth closes, presses thin in defeat.

The kid trots after Cas, who has yet to let go of that hand, and doesn’t take note of said fact until they’re already in the bathroom and he raises that treasure up to his eyes for medical purposes.

Huge hands indeed.

Beautiful, beautiful hands.

Cas clears his throat. It doesn’t help.

Sam stands awkward. Pulled his jeans back on or never took them off? Barefoot. Cas is still in socks.

And boxers.

Cas clears his throat again.

“You do this a lot?”

Cas contributes, “Huh?” and his eyes flicker from where he’s applying iodine up to those magnificent, now-hooded eyes—tired and swimming and god he’s probably so soft. Clearly huggable.

“You’re good at that,” adds Sam, the angel, the puppy, with his tiny mouth trying for another smile.

“I—well, I.” Have a messed-up family? Too many clumsy siblings? Helper syndrome? “Yes.”

The tiniest of chuckles. Cas’ stomach does things that probably would feel great if he hadn’t poisoned himself with this much vigor.

Sam tells him, “You’re great,” and Cas feels heat rising to his face.

The intense stench of iodine doesn’t help. “I’m just…a guy. Who owns too many books and knows too many things.”

“Exactly: great.”

Cas scoffs, helpless, eyes on his task at hand because otherwise he’d stare into Sam’s face until they inevitably make out for the next consecutive twenty-four hours. “I’m, I, there are much greater people out there. I’m just a—”

“Professor.”

Cas looks up, which is a mistake. Right into those eyes, which are too kind, too close. Wait, when did they get so close?

Cas manages a coarse, “Correct,” before Sam’s mouth overcomes the last (miniscule) distance.

Castiel hadn’t thought about how long it has been since he’d last been close with someone like this; the last time someone kissed him, the last time he kissed someone.

That someone’s hand cupped his face, or his hand touched someone else’s face. Held on, maybe breathing, maybe not.

Castiel presses their foreheads together; tips of noses squished as well and Sam makes the smallest of noises. Relief, maybe. God, he’s tall.

Cas hears, “I’m sorry,” before he kisses the kid again. And again.

It takes a while for him to be present enough to toss the tweezers and iodine-soaked cotton ball into the sink, and only does that because he requires two hands to get a hold of the kid like he needs to.

He’s somehow got Sam with his back to the door, breathing at least as heavy as him and his hair is too-soft, it shouldn’t be this soft, this easy to bury his fingers in and hold onto.

Sam sucks his own lip behind his teeth once Cas gives them a break and Cas is painfully, suddenly aware of what is happening, and what is going to happen, if Sam doesn’t—

“Tell me to stop.”

Cas is panting, horrified.

He repeats, “Tell me to stop, Samuel,” and Sam uses that opportunity to dive back for Cas’ mouth.

Cas has got a not-his-own hand down his boxers before he can even vocalize his request for the bedroom.

Feels so fucking out of it, surreal with that over-strong hand just holding on, twisting, so capable. He can barely walk.

They get Sam’s jeans off easy enough; the hoodie is more of a challenge and Cas makes a deep-stomach happy noise for the musk, the worn-out band tee hiding underneath—faded and thin and Sam’s very visibly hard nipples that he has to work his thumbs over, if only for the sliver of arousal in Sam’s face.

The fucking hunger. “Can I suck you off?”

“Uhm, whu—?” is all Cas gets to say, because Sam’s already dropped to his knees, already yanked Cas’ boxers down mid-thigh. More accurate, “Jesus Christ,” and hands back into that mop of hair and Sam’s already swallowed him down to the fucking base.

Holy mother of—

“God,” stammers Cas, knees dangerously weak and oh lord that throat, the fucking precision and casual perfection and he doesn’t have a say in how his hands force Sam’s head despite the obvious willingness; allow him to pull him in and grind deep.

It’s a mistake again to open his eyes and look down because Sam’s right there to meet him, eyes tearing up now but he doesn’t even gag; moves despite Cas’ brutal hold on him and tears at his own hair to bob his mouth up and down the length of Cas’ cock—cheeks sucked in, no teeth, not a hint of ’em.

“Oh God, Sam, wait, wait—”

And Sam does. Pulls off, hand wrung tight around the now-wet base of Cas’ dick and sounding a different kind of drunk; breathless, dark. “You okay?”

Cas half-laughs, “Better than okay,” and Sam’s perfect mouth pulls into a tiny, mean smirk.

“Gonna blow?”

“Yes, give me a second.”

“I can fuck your face if you want.”

“I—a-absolutely,” and Cas didn’t know they were so close to the bed that one harsh push of Sam’s arm would send him on it back-first.

The springs inside his mattress creak with the unfamiliar stab of Sam Winchester’s knees.

Above Castiel, the kid rids himself of his wonderful-smelling t-shirt, tosses it god-knows-where, and Cas already feels breathless.

Kinda accepts that this is reality, somehow, when Sam holds him down with the weight of his eyes alone, the practiced tug on his underwear that gets his dick out; strokes it once, twice.

Cas can hear how wet he is.

“Sorry,” ponders Sam, kneeing his way further up to straddle Cas’ face right, “It’s kinda big.”

Cas would say something along the lines of ‘oh, that’s fine’ or ‘you’re fine’ or ‘please, God, get it in me’, if he wasn’t so busy getting his mouth on that fucking beautiful cock.

Cut and huge and Cas’ jaw won’t open as far as it probably should, but judging by the way Sam groans and makes himself comfortable halfway down Cas’ fucking gullet, he doesn’t seem to mind it much.

Cas’ throat gets pounded all strict nearly immediately, and he can’t do much more than scramble his hands to hold onto Sam’s ass and figure out how to acquire any oxygen. Any, at all.

“Fuck, your throat,” and that shouldn’t sound loving, dreamy; not that rough around the edges, hissed through gritted teeth and there’s balls slapping Cas’ chin and it’s—so—good.

Cas has to spank Sam’s ass pretty hard for him to notice and give him a breather (literally). Lets him cough up and swallow back down the worst, make a slut-sound before Sam laughs, angles back in.

“You like it?”

Cas groans something resembling a, “Uh-huh,” around too many miles of cock, eyes closed and Sam’s nails digging into his scalp, tipping and tilting him like he needs, wants.

“Fucking love it, don’t you?”

Cas would nod. Somehow, he’s sure Sam gets it either way.

Cas’ forgotten dick drools over his happy trail. Still so fucking hard and Sam’s spit has dried all the way now and Cas wouldn’t dream to get a hand on himself if he can keep them on Sam’s tight little ass instead.

“Wanna come on your face.”

Cas makes a heart-broken noise.

“Yeah? You want it?”

Cas gets a chance to rasp his, “Yes,” and misses the fucking violence of that cock immediately, waits patiently and gulping for air for Sam to finish himself off.

Just a few strokes and there it goes; they both groan.

Cas feels more discomfort over how much he doesn’t care that it gets into his lashes, his nose, than the fact itself.

“Fuck, your eyes. Sorry.”

“First drawer,” and Cas is barely done saying that by the time there’s already a tissue wiping over his face.

Sam kisses him. Lets Cas lick the taste of his own cock over his tongue and growl-laughs.

“Where do you want it?”

“Want what?” chuckles Cas, halfway into cuddle mode with Sam’s comfortable lightweight on top of him, the gentle attention to his hair.

Sam fixes him with his drunk-dark gaze. Edges his thumbnail along Cas’ cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“My mouth?” and, Jesus Christ, “My ass?”

“Jesus—Christ, I—”

Sam inquires, “Condoms?” before Cas can shut him up with his mouth on Sam’s.

Can rake his fingers through the now-mess of all that hair, dwell in the light of all of this kid’s post-orgasmic bliss.

Sam laughs, “What?”

“You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

Sam laughs more.

“You’d really let me…?”

“Hell yeah. But no pressure.”

“I really liked what you did before.”

“Mouth, then?” and Cas smiles, nods, and Sam licks another wet kiss into his mouth before he crawls down the sweaty, crumpled mess that is Castiel still in today’s white dress-shirt.

“You do that a lot?” asks Cas, softly petting through that hair while Sam takes good care of him—mouths along the length, now, and it’s even better/worse than the spectacular deep-throating from earlier. Just tender and teasing.

It’s not gonna take a whole lot to get Cas there anyway, at this point.

“What, suck cock? I dunno.” A broad lap of tongue, a casual puckered suck on the frenulum. “Not lately, no.”

“You are magnificent. At it and in general,” and that earns him another humbled noise.

The pillow talk dies off in favor of Sam wrapping his lips around the crown of Cas’ cock. Of him swallowing the entire length, again, working him with muscles Cas is very sure couldn’t have been placed without this exact use in mind.

Cas’ hands hold on, don’t want or need to direct anymore. His hips counter-work him inside that wet-tight clutch and Sam doesn’t pull off once Cas warns him.

Just takes him and Cas has no other choice than emptying down that darling throat, groans and hitches his hips and eventually has to push at that forehead to dislodge the kid.

Explains, “Sensitive,” groggy and slurred and Sam just crawls back up and smothers him in kisses. Blankets him and Cas gets to put his arms around him, finally—the muscled, skinny width of that back, sweat-slick and rising-falling with his slowly calming breath.

Cas sighs, beyond contented.

He wakes to an elbow in his face, the hiss of his own pain.

Curses, “Jesus,” and Sam blinks awake to that, scrambles like he’s terrified until he apparently remembers where he is, who Cas is.

Rushes, “Shit,” and, “Sorry, you okay?” and yeah it hurts but the idea of a black eye doesn’t exactly faze Cas.

He’s had worse. “’M fine,” he promises, but lets Sam get up on one elbow, examine him for damage.

The focused, guilty frown. The precision of his fingers, searching, feathering over Cas’s skin.

Cas feels himself breaking into a smile. Sam scoffs, “What?” and allows to be nudged down for a kiss.

Gonna be day outside, soon. Birds begin to chirp. The dog collar of Mrs. Smith’ Pomeranian jingling from down the street.

Sam lies back down so they can cuddle up right. Lets Cas pet through his hair, try (and fail) to tuck it behind one of those darling, secret ears.

Inquires, with Cas’ pinkie learning the shapes of the beauty marks on the right corner of his chin, “You do this a lot?”

“Elaborate,” hums Cas, harboring desires to not leave this bed until either his kidneys fail or he has to go to work again on Monday. And how he might convince Sam to bear him company.

“Fuck your students?” and Cas laughs.

“’Not lately, no’,” he teases, but ultimately assures how, “No, Samuel. I don’t.”

“It’s pretty illegal,” muses Sam. “We’d get into so much trouble.”

Cas raises an eyebrow, all conspiracy. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Sam laughs in a tone of comfort that helps Cas forming the thought of how things are probably gonna be alright.

[moon-yeongjun]

Money Money Money || Mu Jun

Summary: Jun mentions the spring break trip that Marlin had no idea about!! Or: how Nemo came to go on the Spring Break trip pt 1. 

@baenxietydad​

JUN: 

It was another couple of slow hours at the store, a small relief that only came once a day. Jun could more or less predict these hours; Swynlake had its schedules, its ebbs and flows. And over the years, Mu-yeol knew these hours well too, and sometimes stopped by to do his shopping when the crowds were sparse and he could linger, chatting for a few and sharing a bag of imported shrimp crackers with Jun.

Right now, Jun was also grading some of Tae’s extra credit that he was doing so he could go on that upcoming trip to the middle of some mediterrean country (where was it?  He forgot). That had been the deal. They could not have a repeat of last year after all, when Tae had failed his exams and was now repeating the year. 

“Aish, this is so depressing,” Jun complained as he looked up from his brother’s grammar quiz. “English isn’t even my first language, and look at this! That kid.” 

MARLIN:

“English isn’t even my third language and...aiya. I’m not his parent, I can’t judge Tae harshly.” Mu-yeol was already trying hard not to be too harsh on Tae for other things. Namely, for being what he saw as selfishly holding onto his son when he couldn’t be out yet, making Nemo feel like a dirty secret.

Just like Robbie.

His son deserved better than either of them but at least Tae wasn’t a disgusting vampire. And it wasn’t like it was Tae’s fault he couldn’t be out. Mu-yeol didn’t fault him for that, not one bit, and he had genuine compassion for the young man, but that didn’t excuse letting Nam-min’s only teenage flings be secretive and shameful.

No matter how much Nemo told himself that wasn’t the case, a part of him would feel it.

“You could talk to Eun-jung noona about seeing if Tae has dyslexia or something. He’s not a lazy kid, that’s why I bring it up. Maybe he just isn’t being shown the best ways to study and improve for him. Children aren’t a monolith and cannot possibly learn like they are.”

JUN: 

Dyslexia? Jun made a disbelieving face.

He knew such things existed of course, but it wasn’t like his family to talk about such things as learning disabilities. They had always been told to work hard and if they needed extra help, well, there were tutors for that kind of thing! Jun himself had used tutors when it came to his French class. And he offered that to Tae all the time, but did Tae ever take advantage of such an opportunity? No, no.

Because he was a lazy kid.

Or-- maybe it wasn’t laziness. More likely it was frustration. He knew that Tae thought he was stupid, so he treated himself like he was stupid, like it didn’t matter how much he tried. But that kind of defeatist attitude just made things worse. 

“I’m not sure it’s like that. I think he just has the wrong attitude about these things,” said Jun. “He isn’t motivated, doesn’t even want to go to uni. I have to bribe him to do this work, did you know that? He’s only doing these things so he can go on the spring break trip-- maybe. Though--” Jun sucked his teeth, eyes bulging as he looked back down again. It did not seem likely. 

MARLIN:

Mu-yeol was about to say ‘then look into it and be proven right’, but something Jun said gave him pause. Spring...break...trip? What trip? Were the Moons going to Korea for Tae and girls’ spring break? Oh, maybe Eun-jun noona wouldn’t mind sending some small things to his parents in the Korean post. They’d reach them much faster than if he mailed them all the way from Swynlake.

“Are you visiting family in Korea?”

JUN:

His brows furrowed at the mention of Korea out of nowhere, but he did not look up from where he was marking Tae’s quiz. He’d gotten a question right! Who knew if it was a good guess or not, though? 

“What?” Jun flipped over the paper, then looked up and snorted. “Eh, you know we don’t have money for something like that. Besides, Samchon lives in Toronto now, you know that.” 

He was referred to Abeoji’s younger brother, Nam-seok who had immigrated and married a Canadian-Korean music teacher. They had two sons, Jacob and Kevin, who were right in the middle between himself and Tae-- 24 and 23 respectfully. They only ever saw each other every five, six years. 

There was no other family in Korea-- not really. Eomma had no siblings. There were his Abeoji’s and Eomma’s cousins, but it had been years since they had talked to them. 

MARLIN:

“Ah, that’s right.” Mu-yeol said, nodding slowly. “Taekwondo trip, then.”

He said this knowingly, because that was obviously the answer.

Mu-yeol couldn’t think of any other possible trip Tae could be trying to go on. And Tae did taekwondo! That had to be it. A competition perhaps that was further a drive than the Coventry trip had been.

JUN: 

Once again, he looked at his hyung, bewildered. 

There could only be one trip. Why didn’t he know? Well, he supposed Mu-yeol was not going to send Nemo-- that made sense, it was expensive and normally the Moons wouldn’t spend money on such things, but Eomma was feeling guilty these days, and most of Tae’s friends would graduate after this year. Using the trip for educational incentive was a good trick anyhow. Tae couldn’t fail again. 

“No! Spring Break,” said Jun, and when Mu-yeol still looked at him blankly, he scoffed again. “You know? To Budva or something? It happens every year, all the upperclassmen can go.” 

MARLIN:

“...spring what? Do they really? Nam-minnie never mentioned such a trip last year. Or this year. I wonder why.” Mu-yeol looked down at the counter, chewing on his inner cheek. 

He knew why of course. Nemo didn’t think he could afford it and while that was probably true, it hurt that Nemo assumed he shouldn’t bother asking. Would his Appa not do all he could to make his son happy and give him opportunities? 

Was he not an Appa that prioritized Nemo over all else?

“Budva sounds Slavic.”

JUN: 

Jun’s lips pulled down in a surprised sort of frown. “Really? It’s all Tae has been talking about for weeks.” 

Well, not all, but it was quite the focus. He even wanted a new bathing suit for it. But he’d not gotten a new one in a few years, so it wasn’t so much of an expense. 

“Eh, I don’t know, it’s been too many years since I’ve taken any geography. It’s in Montenegro, a little peninsula. It looks nice.” He shrugged as he looked down at the quiz again. “Though it’s far, so-- maybe-- maybe that was why he didn’t say anything.” 

No. Jun knew too. When Tae asked, he had said it like this: I know it’s too expensive, but…

Eomma had scoffed, insisted on looking at the papers, refused to grimace at the number. 

MARLIN:

“I’m sure that’s it.” Though he knew Jun knew the real reason was money. “I would never let him travel so far without me. I wouldn’t even let him go to Coventry alone and I trust you with him.”

Yes, the distance. That was all. 

“I’ll...talk to Nam-min about it. Maybe he doesn’t care for beaches.”

JUN: 

The air was tense and heavy now, the subject of money, this terrible, huge brick wall between them. Or maybe that's the wrong metaphor. Maybe it was more like a heavy, dark cloud, and if they said anything about it, then the cloud would unleash. 

And so Jun did not want to look his hyung in the eye. 

He just nodded a little. “Eh, smart boy. Beaches are messy, crowded, terrible tourist traps, you know.” A beat. His pen moved over Tae’s quiz but he had already finished grading it. “Though they do let parents go as chaperones.” 

MARLIN:

“Ah, I see.”

What he saw was GBP signs asking him for money he didn’t have. Because of course he’d still have to pay his way. Fun was the privilege of the wealthy, see.

“I’m not sure I’m one for beaches either.”

Read: you know I’m too broke for that.

JUN: 

He got the message. 

He wished he could offer some sort of solution. That was what Jun did. But aiya, he couldn’t go on the trip. No one would care for the market in his stead; his Eomma could not do such a thing and take care of his three sisters, who would still be in school several weeks before their holiday. And he knew better to offer money. He did not have much money to offer anyway.

And so Jun just nodded. Best to...change the subject. Let Mu-yeol’s pride remain as unwounded as possible, even if, Jun could tell, his ignorance of the topic was a cut quite deep. 

“Eh, well that’s because you’re smart too!” Jun exclaimed, grinning. “Now anyway, how’s Pixie’s doing, eh? Any more terrible tourists these days?”

[realm-sweet-realm]

Broken Strings, chapter one: A Hole in the Wall and Where it Leads.

Broken Strings is a story meant to complete the Showdown Bandit narrative and give it a proper ending.

---

Showdown Valley is a place of contradictions. A place where puppets pretend to be living in peace while they tear each other apart. A place where they pretend to be free while, with every action, they are bound by strings and acting according to their pre-determined part. A place where they pretend to be happy while fearing insanity should they ever step out of line.

Showdown Valley was supposed to be a happy place, and yet it was a place of nightmares. That is, until one day a threat to their very existence forced the puppets to leave behind everything they'd ever known- or die trying to maintain the status quo.

---

Bandit woke up to a banging on his door. “Bandit, wake up! I have somethin’ serious to tell ya!” It was Miss Lorelei. If it were anyone else, he’d be tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but she didn’t tend to be the dramatic type. So, he sat up and yelled “What?!”

“I found a hole in the wall of the Happy Mines. This could be how the stringless keep gettin’ in. And I think Penny got out through it!”

Bandit pulled the bandanna down from around his eyes and ran out. Miss Undertaker was holding what looked to be a small, ripped-off square of Penny’s dress.

“I’m gonna rescue her, and I was wonderin’ if I could employ your shootin’ skills, Bandit. Sixty Bandit Bucks- whadda ya say?”

“Make it a hundred and you got a deal.”

“Alright. Let’s set off, shall we?”

And they did. Bandit was honestly just glad for something to break up his boring schedule of sleeping in, shooting stuff, drinking, visiting Davy West by the scrapyard, and spray-painting the walls. Thankfully, Bandit's character was rather lazy. If he were supposed to play the part of a more active character, he might have to get a bit creative, considering there was no real employment and not much work in their world. There simply wasn’t much to do in Showdown Valley, aside from fighting off the brainless stringless who were always wandering around. A bit of adventure sounded like fun, and it fit his character perfectly to be adventurous.

Along the way, Bandit shot out a few lurking stringless puppets. They seemed to be cropping up in larger numbers lately. Ah, well- they were fun to kill, even if they were annoying and a little unnerving.

As the duo approached the mines, Bandit's thrill picked up. The mines were dark- well, their entire world was awfully gloomy, but the mines were so dark that a Bandit couldn't even see Miss Undertaker walking ten feet in front of him, unless he used the lanterns that Murray the mine keeper had lent them to light their way. Miss Undertaker had suggested that they use them sparingly, and feel their way along as much as possible- "it would be a pity if their- if they went out," she said. Bandit knew she meant if their batteries ran out, but they were supposed to act as though the lanterns were actually lit with fire. Bandit realized that he was letting it touch his vest and re-adjusted it- it would be easier than pretending to be on fire the entire trip as he trudged around the stalagmites, felt ahead for stalactites, and lit his lantern for a few seconds every now and then to ensure that he was keeping up with Miss Undertaker and was headed in vaguely the same direction as her. As far as adventures went, this was quite enjoyable- he wondered if it would it be in character to come here more often.

A loud scream pierced the air, followed by the sound of Miss Undertaker's shovel falling to the ground and a low growl, apparently from another person in the mines. Bandit lit his lantern to see a puppet much like himself holding Miss undertaker to a wall, face clawed off and knife prepared for stabbing. Bandit dropped his lantern and ran over. As the faceless Bandit's knife came down, Miss Undertaker got out from under the madpuppet's grip, leading him to stab the wall, knife sinking into soft, sandy rock until it would be impossible to retrieve. He abandoned the knife and ran after her. Bandit threw Undertaker's shovel to her. She swung it into Faceless Bandit's head, knocking him back and allowing Bandit to get in close and shoot him in the face with his corkgun. Just to be sure, Bandit stepped onto the fallen enemy's chest. He wasn't stirring, but that meant very little- playing dead was extremely easy for a puppet. Miss Undertaker gave him a little stab with her shovel, and he didn't react.

"Well, that was a close one, but ah think he's dead," she said.

Bandit nodded. "Still think we ought to be usin' the lanterns sparrin'ly?"

"Nope. My mistake. Well, should we carry on?"

"Uh-huh."

After they'd been walking for another minute or so, a thought occurred to Bandit. "So, that creature there used to just like me, eh?"

"Yep."

"How'd he get that way?"

"Same reason any puppet could have for goin' insane. He didn't follow the three rules. And look where it got him."

Bandit had understood from the first moments of his life that following the rules was important, and he supposed that made as much sense as anything as a reason why. "Does that mean you'll go insane if you don't leap into my arms and give me a kiss?"

Miss Undertaker rolled her eyes. "Lookie here. If I acted like the meek little love interest I'm supposed to be, who would take care of all those stringless? And Penny? Who would look after her? Anyhow, Bandits never last longer than three weeks or so. Pretty hard to call that a romance."

"Okay, but why aren't you crazy, then?"

"Maybe it's because I never break a string. Maybe some puppets can bend the rules a little more than others without losin' it. Maybe Miss Lorelei is supposed to have this side to her. I don't know. Anyhow, we're here."

Miss Undertaker turned off her lantern and prompted Bandit to do the same. In the darkness, a small chink of light was visible, seemingly from far within a tunnel.

“That’s where you’re squeezin’ in, Miss Undertaker explained. “There’s a reason ah came to get ya, and that’s because I wasn’t sure I could fit. I need you to go in as a check. I’ll pull ya out by the strings if you get stuck.”

Bandit sighed. He should have guessed that Miss Undertaker wouldn’t have brought him along without a reason, considering that she could have handled the combat side of things herself. He dropped to his knees and felt for the tunnel’s entrance. While doing so, he knocked a rock loose.

“Right. And ah’ll dig ya out if it caves in. But it won’t.”

On that comforting note, Bandit crawled in. At first, the tunnel was big enough for him to crawl through on his hands and knees. A good thing, considering how damp and cold it was. As he continued, however, it grew so constricting that he had to flatten onto his stomach. He could feel cracks in the rocks he was dragging himself across, and could hear the sound of aracknits chittering within them. A few attached their strings to him, and jumped over to nibble at his wood.

That was plenty- Penny was not worth getting eaten for! Bandit tried to crawl backwards, but found that he couldn’t. Fear overwhelmed him- the chittering, the chill of his wood against the dank rocks, the claustrophobic tightness and the blinding dark. It was as though the tunnel might eat him alive.

But there was no way out but through. Over the next seven minutes, Bandit managed to squeeze his way out, tumbling into the outside and onto his back- eyes instinctively closed, of course.

“Everythin’ okay out there?” Miss Lorelei’s voice called, echoing through the tunnel.

“Darn Tootin’.”

“Alright. I’ll be right behind ya. Hang tight!”

With that, Bandit got up. When he opened his eyes, he was amazed by what he saw. The expanse before him had to be ten times the length of Showdown Valley. There were several crates easily five times his height, and beyond that, wooden walls. Then, he saw the trail of red string leading back to a spool of thread placed right by the hole he’d emerged from. The hole was in a red crate. He’d come from a crate! And through the holes, he could see his strings, limp and dragging on the floor. The sight of that made Bandit jump.

He could jump.  Without his strings, how was he still standing? It was so much to take in- like seeing your arms chopped off but still somehow lifting a cup to your mouth.

Ms. Lorelei couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes before emerging from the tunnel. She was just as awestruck by the environment as Bandit had been. After a moment of slince, she said, "So. This is what's beyond the Valley."

“Uh huh. An’ look- Ah think that Penny left us a little trail to follow,” Bandit responded, pointing to the red string.

“Oh. Well, let’s follow it, then.”

The walk was fairly long. About halfway through, they saw began to hear her voice.

Gaurd your strings and say your prayers,

Play your part, don’t sell your wares,

Trust the rules and keep lookin' down,

The hoard is coming to our town,

To cut our strings,

To end us all.

Tomorrow, I will watch the fall.

It wasn’t a particularly annoying song, and her tinkly voice was fairly nice, but after hearing a week of hearing her sing it at all hours, counting down the days like a prophetess of doom, Bandit was sick of it. If only she’d ripped out her mouth and not her eyes. He wondered why Miss Lorelei was so fond of her.

Things got worse when she came into view: she was at the top of a box.

"We ain't climbing up there. She got herself up there, she can get herself back down."

Miss Lorelei paid Bandit's words no attention. She turned the corner around the box and found a few cardboard boxes stacked up against the other side of the crate. Thankfully she was very tall for a Showdown puppet and was able to climb up. The box was open, but thankfully its edges were made of solid plastic and thick enough to walk on.

No words could describe what she found in the box below. There in a village that looked like a discount version of Showdown Valley. There was no stage and no audience. Most of the buildings were made very simply, as though from whatever scraps could be gathered or stolen. Miss Lorelei even caught sight of a board stolen from her own house a few days prior by a stringless puppet. What's more, the village was habitated. There were at least a dozen puppets down there that she could count, and the size of the village suggested that there were at least twice that- it was as large as Showdown Valley. Not a single one of their residents had strings. Worst of all, in the center was what appeared to be a cache of weapons and a training ground. On it, two stringless puppets were sparing. Another arrived to deliver a box full of clubs.

This made little sense. She'd thought that the stringless were mindless- but it seemed that they were preparing for a war. Was someone controlling them? She thought back on the behaviour she'd seen from them- maybe it made more sense in context than she'd given them credit for...

A piercing high note from Penny's song brought Miss Lorelei back to reality.

The hoard is coming to our town,

She'd been trying to warn them. Miss Lorelei went over to where Bandit was waiting and gestured for him to hold onto the red string-one sane puppet claiming this would be disbelieved more easily than two. She pulled him up and got him to look over the side, gesturing for him to be quiet as he did so.

They scurried over to Penny and Miss Lorelei picked her up. Penny squeaked in surprise but Miss Lorelei shushed her. Thankfully, she was able to make it down before anyone took notice. They walked until they were a safe distance away, and then Miss Lorelei spoke. "Sweetheart, I need you to tell me everything you know about what we just saw. And don't even think about leaving a damn thing out."

[pitviperofdoom]

Fundraiser Commission #6

Thank you for donating $20!

Prompt: “Inko x Rei Todoroki, smth cute, canon(ish) verse (OR smth in an existing fic-verse if it calls?)”

Sorry it took so long for me to finish another commission! I’m hoping to have the last three out in the next week or so.

Inko found the restaurant without much difficulty.

It wasn’t far from the bustling train station, and Izuku gave very good directions—in between repeated apologies that he couldn’t pick her up himself. Of course she understood; the life of a hero was a turbulent thing, impossible to predict. And her poor boy sounded so distraught over the phone, she couldn’t possibly be upset with him for it.

The invitation had come somewhat out of the blue: Izuku called her one evening and asked her if she wanted to join him and Shouto for dinner on Saturday, and of course she had enthusiastically agreed. Inko would have been happy to have her son and his boyfriend over for a home-cooked meal, but Izuku had been adamant.

And so it was that Inko approached the restaurant her son had chosen. She had dressed for the occasion; this particular restaurant wasn’t fancy enough to be intimidating, but it was no hole-in-the-wall izakaya, either. Enough to warrant a little decorum on her part.

She found Izuku waiting outside for her, nicely dressed if a little rumpled. The only real sign that he had just come off of a patrol was the darkening red-purple mark over his cheekbone. He was quick to come in for a hug. Inko squeezed him tight, partly to express her love and partly to make sure that he was eating enough. Satisfied, she released him.

“Shouto and his mom are inside,” her son told her. His eyes were darting about, never settling on her for more than a few seconds.

Now that was a surprise. Inko didn’t remember Izuku mentioning Shouto’s mother. “Oh dear, am I late?”

“No, don’t worry! Our table’s reserved, you’re fine.”

Sure enough, when Izuku led her to the correct table, Shouto was already waiting there with a familiar white-haired woman that Inko had only met a few times before. The former Todoroki Rei gave her a smile as she approached, and Inko found herself returning it. The last time she saw the woman smile, it had seemed a delicate thing, as if a strong breeze would whip it away. It was firmer now; it would take a bit more to shake her happiness, it seemed.

The four of them exchanged pleasantries until the server came to take their order. Izuku sat with Shouto, which did little for his fidgeting. He seemed extra chatty today, especially next to Shouto, who Inko could swear was being quieter than usual.

It was only when the waitress took their orders and left that Izuku, after watching her retreat out of hearing range, finally settled. Inko watched as his arm shifted, in such a way that she was sure to mean he was holding his boyfriend’s hand.

Izuku waited until Shouto was finished answering a question from his mother before speaking.

“S-so, um. We had a reason for inviting you out. Which I guess is sort of obvious? N-not that we’d need a reason to spend time with you, of course! But we decided we wanted to have all four of us together this time, and there’s a reason for that.”

Inko’s heart stuttered and nearly halted in her chest.

No. Could it be? She shot a glance at Shouto’s mother, and found the woman’s gray eyes nearly glowing with anticipation.

“I asked Izuku to marry me,” Shouto continued, and Izuku squeaked softly beside him.

Inko gasped. “Ohh. Oh, Izuku.”

“Isaidyes,” her son blurted out, and Inko barely had time to reach for her napkin before the tears came.

Their little get-together dissolved into sniffling and congratulations and a few motherly hugs that stretched the bounds of restaurant etiquette, but Inko couldn’t bring herself to care. Her son was marrying the man he loved. Her precious boy had never looked happier, smiling from ear to ear with a bruise from work blooming on his cheek.

When the server came with their meals, Shouto’s mother caught her eye and winked. Inko beamed when she recognized the knowing smile of a fellow mother ready to scheme.

They had a wedding to plan, after all.

---

In the end, there was plenty for them to do. Izuku took to organizing everything with his usual gusto, filling up notebooks with lists, reminders, and contact information that might have made Inko’s head spin if her son weren’t so talented at organizing everything.

A few things were set in stone. They already had an officiant chosen from among their friends, as well as a photographer and a DJ—no less than Earphone Jack herself. Other than that, the guest list was the quickest to finish: classmates, co-workers, friends and former teachers, as well as immediate family on both sides. It was to be a small, private ceremony, with only family, close friends, and trusted acquaintances invited.

Endeavor was, naturally, not on that list. As far as Inko knew, his name was not even mentioned.

(Good, she thought with no small amount of satisfaction. The last thing this wedding needed was a pair of unfriendly eyes in the audience. She had tried to ignore the media’s unwelcome comments on her son’s nuptials, but the former Flame Hero insisted on making himself and his displeasure oh so very noticeable.)

Hisashi was also never mentioned, not by Izuku nor by Inko. And why should he be? He had hardly been mentioned in passing in their household for twenty years now.

Of course, there were a few things that escaped the grooms-to-be: tiny details that made little difference, areas outside their expertise and comfort zones. Those very details were what brought the two women to Inko’s couch, to confer over catalogs while the boys visited possible venues.

“Hmm,” Inko frowned over a booklet of floral samples. “Todoroki-san, what do you think of these as table settings? Very small, but tasteful, I think.”

“Oh, those look lovely,” she agreed. “And, there’s no need for formality between us. Please, call me ‘Rei’.”

“Oh! Are you sure?” Inko knew she was blushing, because her surprise and embarrassment were overwhelming and blushing was inevitable (Izuku had to get it from somewhere, after all).

“It’s a personal preference of mine,” Rei said with a small smile. “I go by my maiden name in public, and with strangers. But I would like us to be friends, if that’s all right.”

“Oh, well, yes! Of course!” Inko tried not to stammer. “And you may call me Inko, as well.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

“Ah, believe me,” Inko chuckled. “If I called you Rei while you called me Midoriya, it would feel off-balance. Inko is fine.” She cleared her throat. “Do you know if your son has a favorite flower? Izuku likes marigolds. Anything yellow, actually. Though he’s shown a fondness for roses, in recent years.” She paused, hoping this was delicate. “Red and white, of course.”

This drew a laugh from her new friend. “I think Shouto would rather defer to his fiance’s preferences in flowers.” After a moment of thought she added, “Truth be told, I think he’d be happy with following Izuku’s lead on everything.”

“Yes, he seemed a bit overwhelmed with all the details,” Inko mused. “Poor dear. And Izuku! I’ve heard him change his mind on things five times each. Shouto wants what Izuku wants and Izuku doesn’t know what he wants because he also wants what Shouto wants.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, I suppose,” said Rei, smiling again. “I have to confess, I’ve been so excited! I wanted to badly to help Fuyumi with her wedding, but that was…” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat. “Anyhow, the boys should be out for another hour or so, so we may as well narrow down more of the choices they have ahead of them…”

Inko watched as the other woman flipped distractedly through the catalog pages. She knew only what Izuku had told her, which wasn’t much, but she did know that Shouto’s sister’s wedding was a hushed, hurried thing, in the midst of the Endeavor court case. Rei had still been in the hospital then, hadn’t she?

She pushed those thoughts aside. There was a reason Endeavor wasn’t welcome, several even. “I think the menu is next on their list,” Inko said, keeping her voice light and brisk. “Why don’t we look up caterers for them to choose from?” The thought brought another at its heel, and she popped her forehead. “Oh! And a baker! How could I forget—it’s no wedding without a proper cake.”

Rei looked a little relieved at the shift in topic. “Right, of course. Izuku didn’t happen to leave any notes on menus, did he?”

“You know, I believe he did—where did I put it down…?” Inko pushed aside a book of font samples and another catalog before she found the notebook that Izuku had left her. “Ah, here we are! Just a moment… yes, here’s the page!” Inko passed it over. “It looks like the cake is settled—Izuku wrote down ‘Sugarman Confections’ and circled it three times.”

“Oh yes, Sugarman!” A smile broke out over Rei’s face. “He’s on the guest list with the rest of their old classmates, isn’t he? I heard Shouto talking about that—Izuku wasn’t sure if it was right to hire him for his services when he was also a guest, but Shouto pointed out that they would be ordering from one of his bakeries and not necessarily hiring him, specifically. That seemed to alleviate the worries.”

“And Earphone Jack is handling music, I know Izuku was very insistent about that,” Inko said with a smile. “Or… rather, I think it was Earphone Jack who was insistent, and Izuku was mostly resigned to it.”

“They’re all very keen,” Rei remarked. “I think they’ll all be looking for ways to help when the day actually comes, guests or not.”

“Heroes, all of them,” Inko sighed, and her mood promptly flipped over on its head.

She couldn’t be sure what caused it. Maybe nothing; it was always so frustrating when these things came out of nowhere, especially in front of someone who didn’t know her well and might mistake it for something else. But at that precise moment, sitting on her battered old couch surrounded by evidence of frantic wedding planning, Inko was overtaken by another flood of tears.

“Oh! Oh, dear…” And now she was embarrassed again, weeping as she searched about for a box of tissues and found none within reach. It was far too late to try to turn back the tears or try to hide them. She was crying, and that was all there was to it. “I-I’m terribly so-orry, I don’t know… what came over me…” A soft bit of cloth was pressed into her hand—a handkerchief?—and Inko jammed it into her eyes, partly to stem the flow and mostly to avoid looking at whatever expression Rei was wearing at the moment.

“How embarrassing!” she exclaimed, once she could speak again without her voice wobbling too severely to be understood. “Forgive me, Rei-san, I haven’t any idea what’s wrong with me—” She tried to swallow another sob, and was only partially successful.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Rei said gently, as she took back the sopping-wet handkerchief and replaced it with a fresh one. “What’s a wedding without panicking and tears?”

Inko choked on a laugh. She couldn’t laugh now, or it would come out in undignified squeaks. As it was, it took her a few tries to compose herself fully. “It’s not panic, don’t worry,” she said, wiping her eyes for the umpteenth time. “I’m just… overwhelmed. It’s all so much—and it’s not as if it’s come out of nowhere, but… sometimes I just look around, and that’s all it takes.”

Rei watched her carefully, neither interrupting nor answering, even to ask for her handkerchief back.

“It’s just, for the longest time it was only the two of us, you know?” Inko went on, still mopping at her cheeks, though it was more for restless energy than necessity. “Izuku and I… it’s just been the two of us and the rest of the world, for years, and then… and now…” She coughed. “I’m sorry, I must not be making any sense.”

“Take your time,” Rei assured her.

Inko did so, allowing herself a few more deep breaths before speaking again. “He was so lonely before,” she whispered hoarsely. “I did my best, but it never felt like enough—with Hisashi gone, and all his peers… I knew that he was lonely, and there were so many times that I could see he wasn’t happy, but I just didn’t know what to do, and then… and then he turned fifteen, and everything changed. And now he’s—now we’re here, and he’s found someone, he’s found so many people and they love him and he’s getting married and he’s never going to be alone again.” It all left her in a rush, thankfully with only a few more tears slipping free.

Rei was silent for a while. Her hand rested on the couch cushion between them, not reaching but offering. “It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it,” she said quietly. “Seeing him so bright. Happy.” Inko looked over just in time to see the other woman’s throat bob. “After being afraid that… that he lost his chance at happiness forever, because of something you did. Or didn’t do.”

“Oh, Rei…” Inko’s heart gave a painful twist.

“You’re right,” Rei went on, smiling softly at nothing in particular. “He’s the one who did all the finding. He found my Shouto’s smile, for one. I still wish I knew how to thank him for that. But I suppose helping plan his wedding is a step in the right direction.”

Inko couldn’t think of the words to answer her—and who knew if she could speak without crying all over again even if she could—so she simply clasped the offered hand warmly.

By the time their sons returned, the two women were cooing over flower arrangements, with not a single tear, tissue, or handkerchief in sight.

---

There were no seating sections, nor was there a need for them. The aisle was a necessity, but ultimately meant nothing. The two grooms shared friends, and the point of this ceremony was to come away sharing family, so what was the point of dividing them at the start?

In the front row, Inko wept unashamedly. Beside her, Rei clasped her hand and let loose a few joyful tears of her own.

[thearcanaartificer]

Okay! These are not the next ones I had, but I crunched through this ask list faster. Here is the original post. I will be cutting off my post a bit because I will only be doing half here and half in another post.

Thank you to those that are reading this and enjoying it. If you ever want to chat, I love talking.

OC asks that reveal more than you think.

1. Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

She has a few. She made a lot of stuffed animals when she was regaining a lot of her motor skills as a way to practice stitching and pattern making, though most she donated to the local orphanage for the children there and a few have been given to her pets. She likes making stylized bunnies, dogs, cats, birds, and teddy bears. Asra had to hide most of her old ones she had from their childhood- even the ones she had made him when he was ten.

Her most prized one is actually one that she found that Asra didn’t hide very well. A black bunny with mismatched button eyes. She calls it Pumpkin (Yes, she had just bitten into some of Sesali’s pumpkin bread when she named the thing). It’s not well put together and the type of stitching that was used is the wrong choice- like a surgeon had sewn it together like they would a laceration- and messy, but the thing is worn and obviously well loved. She felt attached to it from the first moment she discovered it.

She use to chew on its ears a lot when she was first recovering from her amnesia as a from of comfort. She’s stopped since then, but she takes the best care of it since its the only part of her past that she seems to be able to hold on to without headaches.

2. Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

Yes to all three! Though she is a bit of a scatterbrain when she’s in the middle of a big thought or job, she’s actually very good at taking care of things. Plants are easy enough, just water them and make sure they are maintained and make sure they get the right amount of sunlight. Boom. Done.

Pets, she has a multitude and some of them are exotic, so she has a few rescues scattered around Vesuvia to keep them properly cared for and has actually hired other Vopels to keep them for her. But she has at least five at home that are hers to care for and she takes very good care of them. Her dog is almost always by her side, her cat is intelligent enough to find her when he wants her company, and her familiar is a bird, so he comes and goes but she always has bones ready for him if he doesn’t want to have to scavenge.

3. Ask them to describe their love interest.

Big dumb, leggy bird of a man.

Okay, she knows he’s not dumb. He’s honestly one of the smartest men she knows- but he does dumb things when left unsupervised! So when she’s trying to describe him in a way that doesn’t give away the fact that he’s Julian Devorak- the wanted ‘murderer’ of the Count- she calls him that.

But if she’s asked to describe her love the right way? He’s a handsome man with the prettiest wild russet red curls of hair, strong nose, and a charismatic energy that will just pull you in. He wears mostly dark colors with at least one flashy bright one for dramatic flair and stands above the rest of the crowd with his height. He may be wearing his eye patch- no he doesn’t need it, its for the aesthetics, thankyouverymuch. He’s brilliant and kind and despite his towering, threatening looking frame, would rather cling tightly to her hand and draw courage from her presence. But he’s brave with or without her. He’s tender and altruistic and plays the part of being confident, but can get nervous and anxious if left alone in his head too long.

4. Do they look good in red?

She thinks she looks good in anything that isn’t predominately white or pastel. So red? Throw in some black or dark greys and yeah, she could work it.

She’d prefer orange though…

5. Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about?

Yes, she’d give you one. No, you don’t want her too. Hers are a bit complicated and unending and always to the wrong audience. One minute she’s giving some normal speech about whatever the occasion is and next, she’s trying to teach a bunch of drunks the nonlinear properties of the magic realms and how to navigate their way through time lapses, its like the folds of fabric with how they intermingle and touch from one time to another, and the different realms can be tricky based on their patterns and-hey Juli put me down! I’m trying to give a speech about- why are we leaving?!

6. Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

Old Glory, surprisingly. She’ll take most advice from other Vopel women and even Asra, but she’ll toss out a lot of their sillier ones- like don’t date Ilya (Asra’s). But anything Glory tells her tends to be very good advice (she’s never given her bum advice) and she’s far better with reading people than Odelia and so she’ll just default listen to her on a lot of topics.

She has a long list of who she won’t take advice from, but, to no one’s surprise, she’ll instantly tune out Valdemar’s advice. They rub her wrong and even if the advice is solid, she’ll ignore it because why would she ever want or take their advice?

7. Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

Smol chaotic neutral.

Controlled, chaotic exuberance.

8. Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them?

The more complicated the puzzle, the more interested Odelia is. She has a deep love for whodunit novels because she loves a good mystery to piece together. Her mind loves puzzles of any sort. Magic and science both have the allure of being a puzzle, especially when she’s working on projects that require them to work in tandem (hence her unique brand of magical artificery). Asra use to bring her little puzzles to fidget with as she reclaimed the dexterity of her fingers and she’d just sit there playing with them- before she could even properly speak again- and figure out how solve them by herself.

9. Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)?

She talks to them. A lot. Her plants are her babies and she’ll baby talk them. Her dolls have ‘personalities’ based on weird things they’ve done (like refused to stay in a particular spot so its persnickety about where its to sit or has fragile stitching so it’s an old lady stuffed toy). And books- she’ll talk to them about their condition or if they fall and land funny. A ‘there you are you sneaky thing’ to books that had eluded her.

But Odelia is a talker and it does help her focus on the here and now (rather than get lost in her thoughts) by talking out loud- even to inanimate objects.

10. What age do they most want to be right now?

The age she is now? She’s not one to daydream about her age or whatnot. She’s in her very early thirties and the world is her oyster. She’s fit and capable and her age is just an unimportant number to her. (especially since she doesn’t remember the previous years before ‘waking up’ anyhow.)

11. They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save?

Haha, she’s already well off, so hurray more money? She’ll just invest the money responsibly as she did the money she had prior to that.

12. Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?

Oh she’s a sucker for a good romance. If she likes the two characters, she’s in their corner rooting for them. She likes the wittier ones that banter more than anything. But she does get annoyed by impractical drama. Excitement! Danger! Ah YES! ‘Oh no who do I pick? I’m stuck between two choices!’ Grow up and outright pick. Let the one you don’t choose have a chance to get over you and move on with their life and find happiness (or pick both of them if that is a possibility! Just pick!). Because nothing is worse to her than pulling on the heartstrings of someone you aren’t going to pick.

13. Name one thing their parents taught them.

She doesn’t remember her birthparents. They were never a part of her life. Her birthmother briefly, but, when her magic’s rare classification came to light, she was taken into the care of another to raise and train her in the ways of their magic style. But she has had parents in her life. The most current ‘parent figure’ she has (one she remembers) is Old Glory (a nickname she gave the older woman and uses regardless of if the woman is present or not. A bad habit.).

She taught her through her actions that kindness isn’t reflected out outer beauty. Though most think she looks scary, as gnarled and scarred as she is (has a very mean resting bitch face), her heart is kind and compassionate. She tends to children with the utmost of patience, though tolerates no blatant disrespect. She remembers the names of everyone she’s been introduced to and what was last told to her about their day or life. Volunteers her free time to visiting the less fortunate and charging them no fee for her services. Hard shell, ooey, gooey insides.

14. Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any?

Oh she has guilty pleasures. A lot of the sweets she buys at Sesali’s bakery are guilty pleasures of her because she buys them by the dozens. Also mystery novels. She will re-read mystery novels she’s already read because she still likes the narrative and the build up to the big reveal. And theater. It’s fun, no matter how obvious the plot is sometimes.

15. What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work?

Oddly enough, she finds sitting down to do her hair or having to apply make up or even more complicated outfits a waste of time. She’s very utilitarian in that regard. A ponytail will keep her hair out of her face so why spend hours learning how to do complicated braids simply because they look pretty?

Don’t be mistaken though. If Portia or Nadia or Julian want to do her hair or make up or dress her up- the time is no longer wasted. They enjoy doing those sorts of things and letting them enjoy themselves, despite how much she doesn’t understand why its enjoyable to them, means the time is well spent.

On her own though, nah. She’d rather do anything else- just throw on some clothes, toss her hair into a pony tail, and get going.

[71tenseventeen]

Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too)-8

Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5, Pt 6, Pt 7

Warnings for sexual content, male pregnancy, non-hockey Sid. Sid and Taylor’s ages have been altered to fit the story.

Perpetual credit to my betas, @queen-alia and @icosahedonist as well as the GC and @ljummen.

They meet at a quiet pizza place at Sid’s suggestion.

As soon as Sid sees Geno on the sidewalk he realizes it was a mistake. He already has people stopping him and Sid can see the stress lines around his eyes as he glances up and back to the people around him.

Sid has no idea what the protocol is but he suspects it’s better if he stays out of all of that so he tips his head toward the door of the restaurant and ducks in, grabbing them a table in the corner of the dark, quiet dining room.

It takes another ten minutes before Geno finally ducks into the restaurant looking very harried but at least he’s alone. He immediately spots and heads for Sid, carefully avoiding eye contact with the handful of other patrons. He gets stopped anyhow and politely signs autographs and poses for pictures with a family of four before he finally makes it to the table looking more than a little stressed.

“Sorry, Sid. I was hoping since it Tuesday afternoon would maybe not be such a big problem.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have known. Next time we’ll figure something else out, okay?”

Geno nods, looking very grateful.

“So…” they both start after an awkward moment and it breaks the tension. Sid gives a quiet laugh and Geno’s face softens.

Sid thinks maybe, finally, they can relax.

Of course that’s when a waiter arrives at their table and starts his welcome spiel before stopping completely and exclaiming, “Whoa! Geno! Hey man!”

“Hello,” Geno says cordially, but Sid can see the lines forming around his eyes again.

The waiter, “Braden,” he informs them as he shakes Geno’s hand and ignores Sid completely, is grinning ear to ear and turns long enough to call in the general direction of the kitchens. “Yo, Frank! You gotta get out here! We got Geno Malkin in the house!”

Sid sees Geno slump in defeat and sits quietly as he politely signs autographs and poses for pictures with what must be every staff member there… and a couple of construction workers who hadn’t bugged him when he came in. As far as get-togethers go, this is a disaster.

Geno finally asks Braden to please give them a minute with the menu and turns to Sid with a pinched expression, talking low and fast. “Sid, okay if we get food to go? I take us somewhere private to eat and talk. Don’t think this going to work.” He says it like he’s asking permission and Sid feels terrible.

“Yeah, of course.”

That’s all it takes for Geno to motion Braden back over.

It takes another twenty five minutes before they’re actually leaving the restaurant with bags of food and a pizza, Geno having left a generous tip.

He pulls his hat down over his eyes and seems to be trying to hunch in on himself even though there was no way someone that big is going to be able to hide. Sid follows quietly and they make it to Geno’s car with only a couple of people stopping him. As soon as Geno slides into the driver’s seat, he drops his head back and lets out a deep breath.

“Really sorry, Sid.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m sorry for suggesting this place.”

“Not be sorry. Let’s just go eat. Hungry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Geno turns to him with furrowed brows. “You ok? Need to eat and drink now?”

“No, I can wait. I feel okay.”

Geno’s face relaxes a little then and he nods. “Okay.”

He takes them to the arena. It’s the last place Sid expected to find himself but it makes sense. When they go in, no one does anything more than give him a wave. Certainly no one seems concerned that he’s toting a bunch of takeout bags and has a stranger trailing along beside him.

And that’s how Sid finds himself eating pasta and pizza in the Penguins’ team kitchen.

It’s Sid’s turn to be jumpy, glancing nervously at the door every few seconds until Geno explains, “No practice here today. Not expect anyone around or I take us to private conference room.”

Sid breathes out in relief. “Okay.”

“So—” they both start again and Geno laughs.

Maybe this won’t be as bad as Sid feared.

Geno is enthusiastic about any mention of the baby and wants to know all about Sid’s appointments with the ‘baby doctor.’  He listens to every tiny detail—from the baby’s heart rate to Sid’s blood pressure—with rapt attention and asks what seems like a hundred questions.

Sid doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have a conversation about the pregnancy that isn’t revolving around what a crisis it is.

He likes how easy it is to talk once they’re relaxed, that Geno actually takes interest in his life. He isn’t just asking questions to have something to talk about—he genuinely listens to Sid’s answers and asks more questions, seeming to want to know everything he can.

He asks about Sid’s studies at the university and Sid spends several minutes talking about the courses he plans to take and his plan to teach someday. In turn, Sid asks him about hockey and they spend a good half an hour talking about the upcoming season. Geno seems pleasantly surprised at Sid’s interest and knowledge.

From there the conversation turns back to the pregnancy and Geno asks if Sid has talked to his family in the last couple of days. “For a few minutes last night. I told them I told you about the baby.”

Geno fiddles with the edge of his cup. “They know is me?”

“No. I didn’t tell them that much.”

“What they say when you tell them I know?”

Sid shrugs. “Not much. My parents are still hoping I’ll change my mind, I guess. But my sister is happy.”

“Glad you have her, at least. Hope your parents come around.”

“What, um, what about your parents? Did you, um, tell them about…?” Sid glances down at his midsection.

“I not tell them yet, no.”

“Oh. Right.” Sid’s not sure what he expected and he works hard to push back the pang that’s threatening to bubble up inside him

“Going to tell them, Sid.”

“You don’t have to.”

Geno frowns. “Not keep something like this secret from them. Is just hard, try to figure out how to say. Worry how they respond.”

“You think they’ll, ah, be upset?”

Geno sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Maybe. Probably.” He takes a deep breath. “Mama, Papa very close to me but they not really know about my private life. Just not sure how they react when they find out, you know.”

“Find out about the baby or…?” Sid feels like it probably doesn’t need to be said.

Geno nods. “In Russia, be with guy very bad. Not safe.”

“Yeah,” Sid swallows hard. For the first time he’s thinking about consequences beyond the scope of Pittsburgh and the NHL and he’s suddenly grateful he’s from Canada.  

“Not something I need to tell them before but now…”

“Right. Now I’m pregnant and fucked that up for you.”

Geno looks up and grabs Sid’s wrist. “You not fuck anything up, Sid. Take two people make this happen. Was my choice, too and I’m not regret.”

“Well, I’ll understand if you decide not to tell anyone. I mean, I’d get it.”

“Not going to be that way. Just have to figure out best way. Maybe not be easy but I do because it’s important. Besides, better to tell now than someone here find out and they hear in press.”

Sid looks up, struck again by all the things weighing on Geno with this pregnancy.

“I guess we should probably be more careful around town, too. I mean, if it got out it would be bad.”

Geno sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. “Would be very bad. Here, maybe not as much but Russia… I probably can’t go back.”

“Oh god.  You can’t—” Sid shakes his head. Somewhere in his mind he knew it but hearing it like this brings it into stark contrast. “I can’t be the person responsible for that. I won’t tell anyone, Geno. I promise.”

“Not the kind of thing to keep secret forever. Eventually, baby born and grow. Seem impossible to keep thing like this secret.”

“We’ll do it, we’ll find a way.”

Geno shakes his head. “You really want that? Not so sure I do.”

Sid’s heart sinks. “What do you mean?”

“Even if we could keep total secret, what kind of life that be for our baby? What kind of life that be for us? Maybe not ideal and maybe some hard consequences but still a baby, still going to be child for us to raise. Our baby, Sid.”  To Sid’s surprise, Geno smiles and it fills him warmth.

“Only know for two days and already think about baby growing up. Want to teach him to skate and play hockey, want to take him to family skate and bring him to games.”

Sid realizes he’s smiling too. “Him?”

Geno’s grin brightens. “Have a feeling.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“Not matter. Do all same thing. All that matter is she our baby, our family.” Geno’s smile stretches across his face. “We gonna get to love our little baby and watch him grow up. Maybe hard, little bit scary now but gonna be worth it, you know?”

And Sid suddenly has to blink back tears because in all the time he’s known about the pregnancy, he’d never felt like he could talk about his future with his baby, that he could look forward to it. It had hurt that everyone saw this as a burden, nothing but a crisis to manage. But now Geno is saying things out loud that Sid has barely felt allowed to even think privately.

“Yeah.” Sid has to swallow. “I do,” he breathes and he means it.  

“Wouldn’t trade for anything now that I know, Sid. Don’t care what happen.”

“But what about the team? The NHL, Russia?”

Geno meets his gaze. “We figure it out. Not want you worry about it, okay? Just focus on take care of you and take care of baby. Most important.”

Sid sighs. “I’ll try. I, um, I have a doctor’s appointment in a couple of days.”

Geno’s face lights up and Sid’s glad he told him. “When? Maybe I find way to go?”

“Friday at three.”

Geno frowns. “Have meeting.”

“Oh. Well, I…”

“I’m sorry.”

Sid takes a deep breath and forces himself to look at Geno. “You don’t have to apologize. I know you have responsibilities. Honestly, the fact that you care at all means a lot. So, don’t worry, okay?”

Geno nods, looking a little miserable. “You call me, tell how it goes?”

“For sure.”

“Maybe we get together after?”

Sid smiles because this is just all so much more and so much better than he ever expected. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Geno drives Sid back to where he’d parked earlier. It’s still crowded and Sid knows they can’t linger with Geno idling in a no parking zone so he pulls the envelope out of his pocket and pushes it into Geno’s hands before he gets out of the car.

“What this?”

“It’s not all of it, not even close but it’s part of what I owe you.”

Geno frowns. “Sid…”

“Not negotiable. See you Friday.” He closes the door before Geno can reply

Part 9

[lazywriter7]

to toasts, and schooling

“So I’m stuck there asking the obvious, which is, ‘why do you think you should marry her?’” And Tony’s trying to hold on to the lighthearted tone, he was, but it’s hard to not let sincerity sneak in when you’ve got Peter Parker watching you deliver a toast in his honour, luminescent in his happiness. When you’ve got a crowd of people you love and respect hanging on your every word – and Steve Rogers at the back of said crowd, glass untouched in his hand; gaze undimmed by time, as steady and unwavering as it was twenty years ago. “And Peter answers back, the most assured I’ve ever seen him, ‘Because I want to’.” 

“I’m looking for the groom. Have you seen him?”

The server opened his mouth, and shut it again. Hitched his tray of Captain America themed canapes a little higher, like readying himself to fling it into Tony’s face at the slightest hint of danger. “Uh. This is an anniversary party?”

“Being the organiser slaving after this shindig for ages – I am aware.” Tony parsed out a smile, perilously polite. “The groom?”

The server blinked wide eyes. “I think I saw him near the fajitas?”

“Brilliant, of course you did.” Tony spun around on his heels, ignoring the flinch and subsequent wobble the server and his tray executed. The fajita table was on the far end of the hall, and it took fifteen whole minutes of ducking and weaving (okay fine, the crowds parted before him a la Moses-and-the-Red-Sea, but it still took fifteen darn minutes) to find the man of the hour and creep up behind him. Tony crossed his arms, realised it rendered him incapable of actually drawing said man’s attention, uncrossed them again and tapped the guy on his shoulder, if a bit imperiously.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

It was still a jolt to the brain, a brief shot of cognitive dissonance on watching him turn – that square jaw, more well-shaved than baby-smooth, a head of hair that had truly outgrown its teenaged-mop phase, the black lines of a suit that didn’t look loosely propped on a wire hanger, but rather like it…fit. Those eyes would always remain the same though – idealistic spark and impossible kindness twinned in dark irises.

Nevertheless, Peter Parker remained a sneaky bastard who wouldn’t answer a straight accusation. Instead, his thin brows went winging to his hairline, eyes flitting up and down Tony’s frame dubiously. “You look…shiny.”

(Agh, the voice shitted him the most. Tony missed that reedy, high-pitched wonder of a larynx, dammit.)

“Needless to say, if tomorrow’s headlines are going to be Unmarried silver fox presides over protégé’s ten-year anniversary , you bet your wedded ass I’m gonna lean into it.” Tony smoothed down the lapels of his own three-piece – dove gray, just a few shades lighter than his hair, with silver pinstripes. Shiny was one word for it. Awesome was another.

“You need to stop saying that.” Peter turned back to his little paper plate boasting a fajita tower of over six inches, easy. Hell, to have a metabolism like that. The last time Tony had indulged in Mexican, he’d been toilet-ridden with gastro for over a week. “Last time MJ misheard you and now she keeps threatening to weld my ass shut.”

Ah, those innocent days when Peter would rather spontaneously combust than use the a-word in front of ‘Mr Stark’. Tony pinched a scrap of cheese from Peter’s plate, the latter barely blinking an eye. “Well, who told you to enter holy matrimony at twenty-one, then?”

Peter stared at him flatly. “You did.”

“Damn right I did.” Tony affirmed with pride, scarfing down the cheese in a single gulp. Mm, cotija. “And still no grandkids for Uncle Tony.”

“Genealogically, that’s an impossibility.” Ooh, big word – though there was a tiny bean-scented burp between syllables three and four. Peter cleared his throat, faintly pink.

There was another tempting little cheesy strip hanging out the bottom fajita, Tony’s fingers were positively itching. To cheese or not to cheese? Gah, who cared, you only lived an average of four times, being a caped crusader. And so through a mouthful of snatched dairy and more than a little beef: “The main thing, and don’t you think I haven’t noticed you avoiding it with your ten-dollar words – you were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“There was a call to Assemble.” Peter replied, perfectly straight faced.

Tony’s eyes narrowed, even as he proceeded to lick up the grease lingering around his fingernails. “I didn’t hear of it.”

“Not sure if they still keep you in the know, but I tend to do the calling these days.” The swagger was nowhere near Stark levels, but unmistakeably present. It was brilliant.

“Was that an ‘old, useless relic’ dig?” Tony approximated a glare to the best of his ability. “And after all I did for you when you were a midget.”

“Nothing like being called ‘Underoos’ to legitimise your identity as a superhero.” Peter was demolishing the tower faster than it had piled up, till only draggly, soggy bits of vegetable remained.

“Fine. I suppose I’ll just have to ask Kamala about this mysterious call to arms–”

“Fine, I misplaced my cufflinks, jeez .” Well-tailored as they were, Peter’s sleeves still flapped with his gesturing, aforementioned cufflinks glinting under the light – blood-red hour glass shapes embossed on plain obsidian circles. “Just because she hangs on your every word with all the fangirling and ‘Mr Stark’s–”

“Golly gee, I wonder who that reminds me of–”

“ Tony .” Mock frustrated as the tone was, Peter was still grinning. Tony could feel his heart swell a million sizes.

Peter commenced tugging his sleeves back over his wrists, straightening them conscientiously, fingers lingering absently on the smoothed curve of the cufflinks. “Speaking of – did Nat say she was coming?”

“With an Itsy Bitsy Spider mug, no less.” Tony cast a last, disconsolate look at the fajita table and turned away. “Also still can’t believe she lets you call her that.”

“Just spider solidarity.” Peter positively beamed, and Tony could have recited the next words in his sleep because it had to be the fifty thousand and seven hundredth time he’d heard them, “She first taught me how to–”

“Fight, I know. What with all the positive word-of-mouth, the Black Widow’s lessons on ‘Strangling: Why use fingers when you’ve got a perfectly serviceable pair of thighs’ have been overbooked for the past decade.”

“Not that I don’t mentally note it down every time you say stuff like that–” Peter straightened up noticeably, smile broadening till it went from charming to no-one-panic-but-we’ve-got-a-DEFCON-5, “but I’m going to have to ask you to save it for the toast. Which you’re making right now.”

“Why do I have to–”

“Because I’d rather not explain to my wife that I was over an hour late to my ten-year anniversary party looking for my lucky Black Widow cufflinks.” Peter was emitting at the rate of approximately five words per second – impressive really. Moments like these, Tony kinda got why they called Peter his spiritual heir. Also – holy shit that was MJ stalking through the crowd towards them, resplendent in red and calmly murderous.

Peter grabbed at the first glass that floated by on a server’s tray and shoved it into Tony’s hands. His fingers curled around the glass stem on autopilot – ooh, Dr Pepper – even as he stumbled a few steps ahead, being not-so-gently-nudged at the back by a certain someone who needed to keep a lid on the super strength, darn it.

“Okay, so we’re apparently having a toast now.” He hadn’t even spoken that much louder than his usual volume, but it was like a ripple effect: the clusters of people around him immediately quietened down, and forty seconds in, Tony was counting, the entire hall was hushed and staring at him. It was scary, almost. Humbling.

“Right, so. I’d have kept you guys waiting, but a certain spider-themed superhero isn’t feeling very heroic right now – so here I am, delaying impending doom with a toast.” Tony lifted his glass a bit recklessly to a now-still MJ, halted in her warpath about twenty metres away. She was smiling though, so maybe homicide wasn’t on the horizon. “To be honest, I’m getting a Terminator-esqe ‘I’m gonna be slaying twenty minutes in the future anyhow’ vibe from his lovely spouse, so this may all have been in vain.”

“Timing ain’t too bad, the press are outside anyway so you’ve skipped the hassle of calling a conference to break news of the divorce.” Tony acceded, and scattered laughs broke out in a sea of shining, amused faces. God, this felt surreal. “See, no, you’re doing it wrong, that pause was meant for the awkward silence. Maaaybe a scandalised gasp. Instead you’re all just smiling at me like I’m some deranged uncle at a wedding, which fair, I am.”

“But you know me. You know me and you know this toast isn’t getting any better from here on out, yet you’re standing there anyway all happy ears instead of booing me off. And that’s…that’s pretty special.” From the corner of his eye, Tony could see Peter quietly creep up to where MJ stood, cufflinks catching the light again as he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Could see MJ’s arched eyebrow, the little quirk to her lips as her fingers slipped into the crook of her husband’s elbow. Tony smiled. “And I guess that’s what we’re all here to celebrate. Something special.”

And then, like it had been perfectly choreographed though Tony couldn’t have dreamt up this kind of symmetry – there was movement by the door. Tony’s eyes flitted over for a single instant, enough to catch the tall figure that had just ducked in; candelabra light gleaming off his favourite blue shirt and grey-blonde hair.

Tony’s free hand reached up to tug at his own lapels, fingers smoothing over the outline of a chain through the silk of his shirt. “Ten years ago, this young little upstart, newest addition to the Avengers, vanishes in the middle of a post-mission clean up. I attempt to track him down, for reasons that have everything to do with a touching, almost parental concern; and not influenced at all by how brain-devouringly boring clean up duty is.”

Chuckles everywhere, though Tony’s gaze went winging back to the rear of the crowd, where a familiar figure had appropriated himself a glass and was leaning against one of the pillars. Prime posing location, right next to one of the biggest candelabras – Tony highly approved. “As expected, I find him hanging out, upside down, from the newly refurbished A on top of Avengers Tower. Goes there every time he has a decision to make, probably thinks all the increased bloodflow to the head is going to make it work better – I don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise, poor lad.”

“It’s there, both of us sitting on the middle bar of the A like a park bench, that he tells me, ‘I think I wanna marry MJ’.” The good-natured laughter so far quietened down; everyone’s gaze redirected to the couple in question – but Peter and MJ were looking at him, soft-eyed and perfect.

“Of course, being the elder, mature adult that I am, my mind immediately flicks to the practicalities.” His tones veered towards something almost serious – for all of three seconds, because he was fooling nobody. “Namely, the location of MJ’s burial place and whether necrophilia is still illegal in the state of New York, though a part of my mind does think that Peter could do better than a moonwalking has-been. I don’t get too far beyond, ‘I didn’t think you even liked Thriller’ before I am summarily reminded of the other MJ, Peter’s cool, alternative-culture girlfriend.” And there she was now, rocking a red jumpsuit and a self-engineered wedding band, with a ‘damn straight’ smirk curling up her lips. Sure, Tony was a spectacular specimen of his time, but hell if this new generation wasn’t something else. “Y’know, in that she doesn’t give a rat’s ass what people think, and believes in a fair, just society and the betterment of human kind.”

“So I’m stuck there asking the obvious, which is, ‘why do you think you should marry her?’” And he’s trying to hold on to the lighthearted tone, he was, but it’s hard to not let sincerity sneak in when you’ve got Peter Parker watching you deliver a toast in his honour, luminescent in his happiness. When you’ve got a crowd of people you love and respect hanging on your every word – and Steve Rogers at the back of said crowd, glass untouched in his hand; gaze undimmed by time, as steady and unwavering as it was twenty years ago. “And Peter answers back, the most assured I’ve ever seen him, ‘Because I want to’.”  

The words were coming slowly, shaped by Tony’s inadequate voice with as much significance, as much unadulterated earnestness as they deserved. “He says, ‘We share things in common, but… it’s more that it already feels like we’re a team, me and her. We don’t always get each other, but we listen. We always listen. We have our fights, but we try to communicate through that and we don’t make excuses.” It all sounded so…inexcusably simple, narrated by a man who knew through time-tested experience how much it wasn’t. And there was at least one other person here today who knew it too. Tony cleared his throat, soft and uncharacteristically unobtrusive. “We’ve lived with the best and worst in each other. And I love her.’”

“And that’s when it strikes me, an honest-to-Thor epiphany right in the middle of this twenty-one year old rugrat prattling to me about love.” A wry, amused sound escaped his lips – memory hazy and rose-toned, but still so vivid. “ ‘Cause you see, I’d been expecting a laundry list of perfections – ‘oh MJ so smart’ and ‘oh MJ so pretty’ and ‘she makes me crack up like a loon’. But Peter didn’t say any of that.”

“Peter wasn’t telling me how great MJ was. He was telling me how great they were together.” Tony’s chest was squeezing on itself, the sheer pride that surged within a little difficult to contain. “And that’s a detail that we long-in-the-tooth, stodgy adults – with all of our realism and all of our practicality – forget so easily. To put it in sporting terms: it isn’t about the player of the match.” And it was the most involuntary thing in the world, to raise his eyes again and meet Steve’s steadfast eyes, that littlest curve of his lips from across the hall. “The love of your life, the most incredible person you’ve ever known. It’s about the team.”

“So I turned to him and said, ‘well, I don’t know about love. But all that other stuff you mentioned sounds pretty fantastic’.” Peter was leaning into MJ’s side now, with all the light of the world in his eyes, while she gave his elbow an affectionate squeeze – Tony blinked rapidly, eyes burning with a curiously sweet sting. “And he goggles at me and goes, ‘you’re the only person I’ve asked who thinks I’m not crazy.’ Of course, cut to ten years and now, we’re gathered here commemorating the occasion solid proof was finally obtained that I’m smarter than the rest of you sane, mature, non-epiphanised people.” And glassy-eyed or no, Tony still toasted the air with more than a slight touch of glee, voice hoarse and delighted all at one go. “I told you so.”

“So while we’re all standing around, let’s also raise a glass to Peter and MJ – who somehow, despite belonging to the same species as the rest of us who screw up on a daily basis – have managed to do everything, absolutely right by each other.” His jaw might have cracked a little, from the ache of grinning at the man who was dearer to him than any child he could’ve ever had – all the while the best guy he’d ever known, who loved him, watched on smilingly from the distance. Maybe it was just the Dr Pepper talking, but this felt like one of the moments all those other moments had been leading up to. “I think you might be what marriage is supposed to look like. And here’s to ten more years of schooling us in being awesome.”

(Extract from a longer fic here )

[iphoenixrising]

200 Followers Prompt Fill

Ah, over 200 actually, so THANK YOU ALL!  I’ve taken a bunch of Asks and answered them here. This is only part 1 tho, so there will be five more I believe? Anway, thanks for the loves :)

From Anon:

Prompt: What if Dick or Jason or both;) are taking care of Tim while he's got the concussion of the century, and staying awake with him and having fun. Tim, noticing Dick or Jason eyeing a really bad scar, and him not being in the right state of mind, tells them where the scar came from. Not from vigilantism or anything dangerous or villainous as Jason/Dick came to expect, but from small Tim taking care of himself (while his neglectful parents were away) and not being careful enough. Love you <3

You got it, babe.

**

And

—W—

Walter is just a pissy companion for the night.

Seriously.

Walter is a concussion that comes with a distinct lack of boundaries apparently. He’s already told Dick how much he just really enjoys his hands, and Jason is now aware of how fucking cute he thinks that little white tuft of hair is, and just…

He’s never going to live this one down.

Ever.

The Perch is at half-lighting, softly curled around the edges of his vision because of things like sleep dep and owfuck. Luckily, the two eldest Robins tried doing a rock-paper-scissors for who got to come find Timmy’s hurt ass—since, well Bats and shit, there was no chance at ever getting a winner. Dick is just that good and Jay cheats like a nasty bastard.

Cue the two of them jimming the windows open shortly after O put out the word of a possibly bad end to a little fight Red might have been in on down in the Narrows. Commence with the Where’s Red? protocol, Bat edition.

In a little less than twenty seconds using nothing more spectacular than his crappy iPhone to hack into some traffic cams, Dick verifies Red is still in Gotham and looks to be moving toward his own little nest in the city.

B at this juncture just waved them both off into the pre-dawn with the same old, same old: call me if he needs transport, call me if you need transport—just call me.

And yes, B is paranoid as fuck—that doesn’t mean his dad instincts don’t rise to the fore, especially when one of his Robins gets hurt…and doesn’t come back to the Manor for proper treatment (reads as mother-henning).

The call was promptly made within twenty seconds of N and Hood breaching the Perch, strafing through the apartment until the injured bird came out of the shower in only a towel, giving them both an ample chance to look him over for anything else. Gloved hands turned and prodded while B asked a ton of questions over speakerphone.

Anything Tim might have had to say is drowned out with a mix between finger wags, the know your limitations speech, and absurdly attentive vigilantes.

N wrangles him to sit long enough for Hood to dig out boxers and sweats, then kneel down to get the things up his legs, and even if his balance is just fine fuck you very much, N still holds him standing for Hood to get them the rest of the way up. A t-shirt is pulled over his head, muffling his useless protests; the only pause in the mother henning is when a short noise escapes when one of the wrangling hands brushes over his bruised (but no longer bleeding) temple.

Hood tilted his chin with absurdly gentle hands, leaning close to get a good look at the scrape while N fits together a small device from pieces hidden around his suit, effectively pulling out a mini X-ray scanner.

Agent A gets immediate results from the scan, looking at Red’s skull for any fractures.

And coffee is made, frozen pizzas thrown in the oven, calming over-protective Bats taking turns changing into civvies, the fight is discussed, and diagnosis per Alfred made.

Of course it’s a concussion, like he hasn’t had enough of them to know.

“What letter ya on, Timmy?” Jason just happens to ask, putting coffee right in front of him.

“I think W, so Walter it is.”

“Right on. Eat yer pizza.”

From there, since, you know, why bother trying to sleep anyway, the three of them end up on his overstuffed couch, watching something he never gets time to check out, and he just blurts out all kind of embarrassing shit.

The worst is when Jay traces a fine white line on the inside of his forearm, making Tim feel even hazier where he’s laying against Dick’s side, nudged between them. It’s telling how close he’s come to being back.

“Where’d this one come from, Timmy?” Is asked low and quiet, in case he might have dropped off (just to be woken up in an hour or so? Nope, all good here).

“Making dinner when Mrs. Mac couldn’t come for a few days,” he blurts out, “I was trying to make chicken the first time and slipped.”

And that is apparently not what Hood had been expecting to hear.

He makes a noise of protest when Dick straightens a little and reaches a bare hand over to grip his wrist and look closer.

“How old were you?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it, and that’s the problem. With Walter hanging with him, his eidetic memory is at the concussion’s mercy, and he blurts out, “almost eight.”

Both vigilantes stop, the creepy-like Bat-stillness. The only movement is Dick’s hand tightening on his wrist and the increasing downturn of Jay’s mouth.

“How long did she leave you alone, Tim?” Dick asks in a low, dangerous voice.

Tim blinks, knowing he’s walking a very, very fine line here.

“She was snowed in at her sister’s house,” he carefully adds, trying to deflect. “It was a bad blizzard that year.”

“You were seven years old alone in a fucking blizzard?” Is the Red Hood’s snarling reply. “Jesus-motherfucking-Christ, Timmy. How many times were you left alone?”

His mouth drops open (because Walter) automatically, but he manages to stop all processes and laugh a little instead. “Having a housekeeper let me have the opportunity to be Robin, you know.”

“Not the point, Tim,” Dick fills in for a not-happy Red Hood, who is still grinding his teeth. Like, obviously.

But there are hands, making him sit up from his comfortable slouch, and his clothes are pushed, pulled, lifted off while the two are looking for the oldest scars, but it’s not enough. And the two finally manhandle Tim up on his feet to strip him down to boxers and take in every mark on his body, causing a flush to stain his cheeks down to his chest while they find, touch, and ask about a majority of the oldest marks, horrified at his years in a silent house, being left to his own devices.

“Mrs. Mac usually made me meals once a week and left them in the freezer. It wasn’t hard to work a microwave.” He argues at one point, and had no idea why Jay looked completely crushed.

“I think it was fine,” he finally tells them, “that they were always gone. I mean, they couldn’t get sick of me if they never saw me, right?”

Dick completely engulfs him in a full-bodied hug, almost suffocating him enough that he has to literally tap out. Just please stop trying to kill me with your love.

“This one?” Jay points to a tiny nick on the back of his right hand by the knuckle.

“Trying to make a grapple so I could follow you and B better,” he yawns, finally allowed to get dressed again.

The grapple, well, it sort of worked, but really no one needed to see the scars from when it failed. The boxers and sweats are, fortunately, covering that one. (Just, it’s bad enough he’s got such a thing for these two anyway and it’s getting worse each time he comes back to Gotham, each time one of them finds him on patrol, calls out, eats roof tacos, just all of it. Their hands all over him is just not fucking helpful and Walter isn’t making the sitch better.)

“How old?”

“…” They wouldn’t want that answer.

“And none of us noticed?”

“Um, well—“ and he breathes and glances over, “I think Jay saw me. Once.” Then Tim’s face gets hot, cheeks flush a little, a sign that draws both older vigilantes like a moth to a flame.

“Timmy,” Dick draws out.

“I…” and he breathes out, “I may have accidentally been trying to get up to the old Mylar building and…”

And he just leaves it off because really.

Dick blinks down at him; he and Jay exchange a look.

Tim wakes up enough to shift, shove the waistband of his boxers down only a few inches or so by his spine, showing them an old mass of white scars. “I think B took a beating at the hands of Killer Croc because Nightwing and Robin were patrolling side-by-side. It was the first time I’d seen you two together.”

And Jay might be smiling rather than smirking because even with the Pit messing with his mind and memories, he knows he has that time, the one Tim’s talking about, buried so deep, a memory so important, not even death, his death, could smear it. And the Robin that never talks about it, about that time in his life, breathes out through his mouth softly.

“Was the first time B got all kinds of fucked, well ‘a-cause of me anyhow.” And Jay smiles faintly, accepts Dickie’s broad palm on the back of his neck. “Nice that someone took a break from his team ta come home.”

“I’m glad I did,” Dick shrugs, grinning back, and both vigilantes look over at their Baby Bird, slouched over. “How did you get the scars?”

There it is, his face heating up again, “I didn’t know you’d be up there, it surprised me so hard, I fell.”

Both older vigilantes flinch. Everyone in the cape and cowl crew knew the Mylar and its damn treacherous design, four stories of possible doom from crumbling brick to thin wrought iron.

“All the way down?” Jason’s eyes are blown wide, picturing a little kid with a camera falling four stories to the unforgiving pavement below.

“Ah, no,” and Tim scratches the back of his neck, cheeks pink, “Robin caught me, actually. Smelled like cigarettes and told me to get my stupid ass home before I got hurt.”

Dick’s brows shoot up into his hairline at the same time Jay’s jaw drops, “seriously, Baby Bird?”

“Yeah,” and it’s low in his chest because, well, he’d already told Jason when the Pit was riding him and he needed something to bring him back, “you were my Robin.” Literally, it’s true.

“I don’t remember it either, Timmy, I’m sorry,” Dick claims softly, a hand inching into Tim’s hair to rake blunt nails gently against his scalp. And he feels awful about it, the majority of his memories from that night about trying to make it work with the kid that took his place as Batman’s partner. It was the first time he’d been back to the Manor for any length of time since their fallout, and Nightwing had been the next feasible step. Something to keep going.

“S’okay,” Tim slurs, falling right into the motion, “big vigilante now, remember?”

Jason hums as Baby Bird’s eyes finally flutter closed and Dick settles him more comfortably against his chest. He finally passes out to the old scars, the foundation of his life, being outlined, and catalogued by the two vigilantes that will eventually be his undoing.

 Justice is Blind AU (for @satire-please) :D

“Ah, there you are, little bird.”

And that voice. He’d know it anywhere. Well, hard to forget the first person that taught you how to maim, isn’t it?

Tim smiles faintly, fingers moving over the grooves of the delicate tea cup in one hand, “long time.”

She hums a little, and with the modified shades covering his dead eyes, the radar array pings just the outline of her lithe form sliding into the chair across from him. The sweet Jasmine always a part of her wafts over in the breeze; she only surprised him being down wind. Well, touché.

“What are you doing in Beijing?” She signals for tea, acting like they’re just here in a random tea house, you know, just hanging out. Not like he was pretty damn sure they’d been an inch from killing each other the last time. But, if there’s one thing he’s learned in his time as part of the cape and cowl crew—bad guys who generally seem to want to kill you? They get all kinds of messed up when the heroes are down for the count.

But Tim Drake smiles, flashing white against the dark sunglasses. “I think you already know the answer to that, Lady Shiva.”

And the gentle laugh rolls down his spine, settles somewhere in the base.

“I suppose you need a reminder then,” and he hears the exchange, get the impression, the outline of the waiter bringing Lady Shiva a fresh pot, her own cup, bowing low in respect.

“Things…are more complicated.” And in his civvies, a young American, ratty jeans and hooded sweatshirts, miles away from the clean-cut CEO he played on video screens wherever he happened to be needed in the world.  It’s been painfully easy keeping shades on, making sure he’s in bright enough rooms to explain it away while keeping the confidence of Wayne Enterprises Board of Directors after the successful transfer of power. In less than five months, he’s already expanded Research and Development, put several new products into Production, made suggestions to exiting products to adapt to a changing world.

Profits were up, the Board was happy, and no one was more the wise about his “condition.”

Except Tam, that is.

Being taken by surprise by the Widower is the epic fail of his life, but to be blinded before he’d even found Bruce?

Not to mention that somehow during the punch drunk blood loss and perpetual night, he’d managed to patch Pru up enough that she could pilot the Jeep to one of the League of Assassins’ safe houses not far from the site of the attack. It was Tam’s bad luck to get snatched up by the League’s spies when word reached them she was hot on his heels, wrangling him for Wayne Enterprises. They thought she already found him and was the only reason Ra’s ordered her alive.

Luck of the draw there.

The downside of it all was that Tam had been there while he danced between the League and the Council of Spiders, trying to acclimate to his new condition, trying to bring everyone down, trying to keep himself from falling apart, not when he was ass-deep in bad guys of oh shit proportions.

And yeah, he’d pulled it all off like a boss. Well, other than getting kicked out of a window to a potentially fatal free fall. That? Slightly sucked.

But, all’s well that end well—he’d pulled Bruce out of space/time with the help of S.T.A.R. labs, sent him back to Gotham, and…

Came directly here.

Tam is covering his ass at WE for a few weeks while he gets his head together. The documentation is signed, sealed, and delivered.

Other than that, well, there’s really no reason to go back, is there?

Bruce will train, get himself back, and take up the cowl. Damian will keep breaking criminal faces. Nightwing will start appearing again.

Everything in its place.

Except—

To Do List:

1)      Figure out where to live

2)      Figure out what to do

3)      Figure out how to do it

4)      Figure out who to do it with

5)      Figure out who to do it against

Yup, that’s why he’s here.

“You must find your balance, little bird.” She sips delicately, “to learn yourself again.”

The laugh coming from his chest is one of those unfunny ha-ha ones because that sounds a lot like one of those crazy platitudes she sprouts just before the fight starts.

“Let me guess,” the radar array pings back, and he gets the impression she’s smiling, “you can help with that, right?”

“I think,” she fills in, steadily sipping her tea, “I have an old acquaintance who may be better suited.”

“He’s in prison,” Tim fills in because she can’t really be suggesting—

“The King Snake is here in Beijing, little bird. Perhaps a week with each of us, and you may find what answers you are desperately looking for.”

His useless eyes are wide behind the shades, his brain picking up on the impossible theme happening here. His career as Robin began with Lady Shiva and the King Snake, Sir Edmund Dorrance, the blind crime lord and exceptional fighter. Kind of fitting to either end his walk down vigilante lane if one of them decides this is the perfect opportunity to kill him, or to give them all the kudos if they manage to get him able to move again.

Either way, it seems like things have a way of coming full circle.

**

*The list is from the Red Robin comic series ;) Just FYI

Angst

travellover1245 said:

Hey! I am craving some angst right now. Any chance you can take up this prompt: Tim/?? with someone else having feelings for Tim that Tim has never or no longer feel for that person. Please and thank you!!!

Angst, babe? Let’s see what I’ve got ;)  Maybe something from the No Home for Dead Birds Verse, yeah? But Mentions of Adult Themes.

**

And it’s more than he remembered.

The sweet press of their bodies together, hands fitting in the most perfect niches of flesh, muscle, and bone; like this body is made for him, made to respond to his touch, made to give in.

His mouth is still soft and always slightly bitter with coffee or sleep deprivation, and it’s almost painful how much it’s like getting something back, something so crucial missing from beside him in bed, in a fight, in the shower, in all aspects.

Thumbs in the dip of hips, moving in circles, and he growls low, refusing to let up, to let go—

He needs this back in his life.

Hands grip his wrists and push.

An abrupt pain arcs in his chest, thumping hard against his sternum.

“Wait,” is hoarse, a plea, don’t go said right into Tim’s mouth.

He’ll swear it was all muscle memory, grabbing on, pressing Tim against the wall, quieting his messy rambles until they’re both panting, ready for more.

Well, that was all before the downward spiral, the one that cost them one former Robin in Gotham—back when he took up the mantle to keep Jason from staining it with blood, from defiling the meaning behind it all, Bruce’s mission. When he made the call for the right reasons…

Not that it mattered now.

“I can’t do this,” and Timmy doesn’t sound any better, pushing away even further, breaking him open wide. “I can’t—I can’t do this.” And the tone of voice, the words, the deep, husky quality fills in a lot of blank spaces for Dick Grayson; he knows the reactions, knows the subtle tells of Tim’s body when he wants. Under Dick’s hands and mouth, Tim had shown all his previous weaknesses in spades, allowing the eldest Robin a look into his very depths, to unravel all the secrets and mysteries. The only time Tim had ever offered insight into his soul.

Being pushed away, denied, is like a stab, sharp, cutting, biting, in the soft meat and ripe viscera rupturing underneath. It literally feels like he’s dying.

“I miss you,” and oh God is it true. He’s been functioning, moving for over a year feeling like one of his limbs has been cut off, turning automatically to talk to someone—who isn’t there anymore. When he’d taken the tunic away, when he’d done it without thinking, without reminding Tim just how much he was needed, wanted, would always, always, be utterly and completely necessary, when he’d done that, he’d been cutting himself off at the knees.   “I miss you and I’m still crazy about you, and—and I did what I thought was right, but I should have done it differently.”

Tim backs up until the kitchen counter in his Perch stops him, looking back at Dick without a cowl or a domino, just those blue-violet eyes narrowed slightly, full of old pain. (And it wasn’t as bad as the look Dick finally saw on old video footage from the Cave, when he was at the big computer with his back to his former boyfriend, missing the way Tim’s expression just crumpled in on itself, a mask of real, true pain before that terrible realization, the ‘I was never really part of it all anyway’ changed his face into the same separated neutrality Dick gets to this day).

And he cuts through Dick’s ramblings, forcing himself not to focus on the sentiments and false declarations (because really), he keeps his tone soft and firm, “unfortunately…I’m not available. Even if I was… I couldn’t. Not with you, not anymore.”

Oh.

Too late.

The pain is an immediate thing, low in hidden places he didn’t realize could hurt like this (too little, too late).

And Dick Grayson just lets his body slide back, brace against Tim’s fridge because his knees feel weak, and for a man that knows his body, knows his limitation, his strengths, his capabilities, he inanely thinks how odd it is. He dives off buildings, throws himself into fights, bends and twists to escape fatal traps, he’s an acrobat, a vigilante, and weakness like this is so uncommon.

With a shaky hand, he pulls at the domino, looking up bare-faced, and makes the question easy, “Kid or the clone, Timmy?”

It’s telling when red heats up Tim’s cheeks, darker against his pale skin, and his eyes move away to an uninteresting spot on the floor, and as absurd as it is right now, with his held hopes crumbling, the old recriminations biting at his heels, that the reaction can make him choke on a laugh, a genuine one. That he can drop his face into a gloved hand and snort because some things just never change.

And even getting this much is more than he could have hoped for.

**

Anon Sick!Tim or Sick!Tony prompt

Okay. But. If you had to choose. Tim Drake being the absolute badass he is but the second he gets sick around someone he trusts he turns into goo. Like be prepared to be a pillow and a servant until he's better where then he'll pretend it never happened. Or. Tony Stark being the badass he is and when he gets sick he gets more stressed (he thinks he's a burden) that he gets MORE sick until someone stops him and makes him sleep and eat and he never forgets so lots of secret gifts.

You know, I’ve done Sick!Tim, so maybe a little Sick!Tony just to round it off ;) And, ah, sorry but just fluffy? Maybe?

**

“Sir, this is the third warning. I have permission to set U lose should you not cease and desist at once.”

J.J.’s voice is just so matter of fact that it actually does permeate Tony’s running train of thought; he leans back from the hunched over crouch, several vertebrae popping in succession.

Unfortunately, leaning back makes him immediately light-headed enough that almost falls off the damn stool anyway. “Well, fuck,” is about accurate. The last fight had more of an impact than he realized.

“Scans indicate your core temperature is elevated.” And, yes, his AI sounds smug about it. All that Sir should rest after that many hits taken in one battle.

Well, going to feel it about now then. Fantastic. Schematics for the new navigation systems are due to R&D ASAP, and there’s a whole lot of damaged uniforms in need of fixing before the next Avengers fight, then he owes Fury the upgraded designs for the new helicarrier’s defense system.

Which means he has no time for this.

“All right,” he claps his hands, completely pretending not to feel the tingly soreness in his muscles, the headache starting right at the base of his skull, or the abrupt chill hitting him right in the upper body, “taking a break, J. We’ll start back on the Nav designs in four hours.”

“In that time, I suggest you contact Dr. Banner for a medical exam.”

“He’s not that kind of doctor,” Tony fills in as he stands, rides the headrush that makes the pounding progressively worse. Besides, Bruce always has to gossip to Nat, and Nat will tell everyone in the Tower just for her own amusement. She is exceptionally good at being an evil hell bitch when she wants. Hm, making a t-shirt with that phrase, just for her. In every color.

“I am certain he has and will make an exceptions for you.” Is J.J.’s smooth attempt.

“Touché, but we’ve already got a protocol,” he waves to DUM-E and U from their charging stations, and as he walks to the double doors (maybe slower than usual), the lights and systems power down behind him. The elevator is already waiting to take him upstairs to the Penthouse where he can start checking the reactor seal, make sure nothing was breached.

But, with the familiar arches and sick sucks feeling, he already knows the answer. A low whistle and Butterfingers is rolling out from the stocked shelves, following his creator to the elevator, and whatever previous events he’s learned from are telling when he sticks his arm straight for Tony to strategically lean on without seeming to do so. The bot probably thinks it’s a game, Tony is grateful one of them has some kind of discretion.

When they make it to the Penthouse, Tony gets as far as the island, sliding himself into one of the tall stools and braces himself for the next few steps. He breathes in, tightening his hands into fists to get the tingling sensation in his joints to calm down enough.

Butterfingers boops at him nonchalantly, small talk how about that weather, while he wheels to the cupboard at the back of the island where his tracks can fit just fine. And yes, the name is Butterfingers, but the bot is completely competent in grasping the handle of the bottom cupboard and opening the door. Likewise, he rolls back in to grip the handle of a large kit inside on the lowest shelf and sliding it on to his chassis to wheel around to Tony with more enthusiastic beeps.

“Mmhm,” his creator murmurs, eyes half-mast, “those really are the best kind of wrenches. Next time I’ll get you something better to play with, okay?”

Butterfingers boops back happily in agreement and lifts the large kit up in a claw, moving back and forth to wave it in Tony’s directions.

The mechanic takes it, choking on a laugh, and starts with the preliminaries. He spins slowly (to keep from falling) to scrub his hands at the kitchen sink in hot water before removing his shirt. He lays out the two sealed, sterile trays from the stacks, and gloves up before he opens any of them.

No blood around the reactor, but the bruising is absolutely beautiful, all dark blacks and purple. Apparently, that hit to the chest was a little more ow than he realized. Any compromise to the skin-on-metal seal could allow on-set infection, hitting his system like a freight train. The plan is to get the appropriate samples, ship them to Helen, and see what kind of antibiotics & etc. he would need to fight it off.

All the pizazz of being the Tin Man. Metal heart and all that.

He starts with a blood draw, leaning back to breathe, gathering himself to be steady when he already feels like doing nothing other than falling into bed for a few hours.

Priorities.

Well, that and a slightly compromised immune systems stemming from the metal magnet in his chest.

The band he manages to get around his bicep is faded blue, the ends already have teeth marks from other instances just like this one; he manages to get it tied without more fumbling than necessary and moves on to open the package with the syringe and vacuum sealed container.

He has to sit back and breathe, working the hand open and closed, getting himself steady before he can stabilize his left hand enough to actually hit a vein.

The bright red splashing into the container makes his eyes hurt slightly above aching sinuses.

Butterfingers accepts the padded envelope, one that would be sent to Helen’s lab for a discreet testing, wheels over to the far wall next to the door, and drops the envelope down a suction tube built in to his floor that could disperse anything necessary throughout the Tower (Pep hated it, just gave him more of an excuse to miss meetings).

The next samples are from the reactor/skin connection, the swab opened in gloved hands, run below the primary casing. It’s placed in a sterile vial with shakier hands, fumbled into a padded envelope and given again to Butterfingers.

Now the rough one.

Tony leans back for another get it together moment, waiting to crack the next swab just to make sure the sample is as pure as possible.

“Sir, this is highly unrecommended,” J.J. breaks in and there must be something terribly wrong with the intercom system in here because the voice cracks, fades in and out a bit.

Tony blinks owlishly up at the ceiling, adds checking the systems as another thing on the honey-do list. He ignores the warning and starts up with prepping his chest for the arc reactor seal to be disengaged and the unit to come partially out of his chest.

“Won’t be a problem,” he assures his AI, fighting down an abrupt roll of nausea. “Just a quick swab.”

Butterfingers boops worriedly at him this time, sliding his arm under Tony’s to brace. Agreeably, Tony wipes down the metal with an alcohol wipe; with a deeper breath than necessary, he palms the reactor and—

Opens his eyes to the Winter Soldier crouching a few feet away on top the island.

In full regalia, Jim’s eyes are granite gray and miss nothing.

Tony doesn’t jerk in surprise, but it’s a good damn thing.

“Troll,” the mechanic sneers.

There’s enough light that Tony can see the flash of teeth, a sharp smile, through the slits in the mask (reads as muzzle).

“Doll face,” Jim cocks a brow up at him, “thought we had a talk about this.”

“How was the mission, dear? Did you get to blow up anything exciting?” He diverts immediately and still feels like crap about it since he’s not in the best shape to meet his significant others home from a hard week at the office.

Jim moves out of his crouch, off the island, to look at the charming, charismatic pain in his ass. Between Tony and Stevie, Jim Barnes had enough to keep him mother hen instinct working overtime for the next seventy years. He works his sleeve up to press against Tony’s forehead, tisking at the smirking mechanic.

“Heya Sugar,” Jim calls to the ceiling.

“Yes, Bucky?” She chirps back, sounding suspiciously smug (and she had better not be on their side now—it’s enough Jim and Steve already have J.J.).

“Tell the others I found ‘im first, okay? Hundred points ta me.”

And because it’s just hilarious, he feels like ass and still laughs at the little things.

Good times.

The mask and gloves come off while he chorts, layers of the Winter Soldier sliding away on the island until Jim’s exasperated face makes his eyes dart away and pause in the last swab of the night, admittingly violating his own protocol for sick is ass. Besides, Helen would be able to make a diagnosis with the samples he’s already sent.

“Hit up Stevie too. Let ‘im know our fella ain’t feelin’ well.”

Oh God, not both of them.

“Completely unnecessary, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Belay that!” Tony leans up enough to brace his elbows on the island, talking that loud making his head do that thing again. He snaps the gloves off, still feeling shaky, “this part? Not conducive to hello, honey, how was your day. But, no, seriously, welcome back. Everyone good? Mission go well?”

Jim already puts a glass of water in front of him and two white pills. The flesh hand against his forehead is nice and warm while the metal one cool on the back of his neck.

“Mmhm. Standard usual, Tones. Y’ didn’t miss nothing good.”

As silently commanded, Tony takes the pills and drinks, keeps going until the glass is empty, and sleepy is starting to look like the perfect state of mind. The bandage underneath the reactor from this morning is still holding, so he can definitely take a few hours to get it together before uniforms in need of mending start coming in from the mission, just another thing on his never-ending plate of shit to get done.

“I hate it when I do, you know,” he returns with a somewhat pathetic yawn, and Jim steps a little closer, the hand on the back of his neck directs his listing upper body right against Jim’s stomach and chest where the Winter Soldier can be a total sap and wrap a throw stolen from one of the couches around his shoulders without letting go.

“Considering yer fevering and already starting with the shakes, I’m glad y’ didn’t come anyhow. J.J. woulda ratted you out faster than Sugar-Pie up there.”

“Need to reprogram him, both of them” Tony huffs right into Jim’s abdomen, eyes half-mast. The metal hand rubbing against the ache in his joints, making him huff out low, almost imperceptible moans (but, well, got pretty good ears over here, doll face).

Jim laughs low and soft, the flesh hand tunnels in to the mechanic’s curls, gently raking nails over his scalp, easing the painful points of the headache.

“Don’t much matter. He knows how ta take care o’ you, so’s only a matter o’ time until we got ‘em both on our side.”

Tony hums (because true, rude but true) closing his eyes, letting himself shiver against Jim and pull the blanket further around his shoulders.

“S’okay, Stevie’s gonna carry ya ta bed and I’m gonna make some warm soup, take the chill outta ya bones. Sound good, doll?”

But the shorter man is already half gone, making Jim’s mouth quirk just slightly.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer for the elevator to open up and the Cap, shield on his arm, to take the floor. Always the strategist, Steve’s eyes take in the scene, narrow, and he’s striding across the room, flipping the shield to his back and pulling his gloves off, shoving them in the tactical pocket of his uniform.

“Whadda we got?” He asks low, taking in the snoozing mechanic.

“Dunno. Looked like he was trying ta take a sample of the AR when I caught him at it,” Jim waves a hand to the open medical trays. “Pretty sure he was gonna pull it outta his chest, Stevie.”

The two super soldiers exchange an irritated glance, but Steve is already bending down, sliding his arms carefully under Tony’s back and knees. Jim’s hands gentle as the two of them ease Tony up into the Captain’s arms (and yes, Steve holds him up high enough to kiss the top of his head a few times, glad to see him after a week of being knee-deep in bad guys).

“Plan?” Jim starts down the hall first, opening the Master Bedroom door for Steve and moving to turn down the blankets.

“You hit the showers first. I’m going to start some soup and sandwiches.”

“Aw, Stevie. I was gonna make matzah ball. You geta wash first, and I’ll throw everything together.”

“Haven’t had the Barnes’ special recipe for a while,” Steve admits with a grin as he eases Tony’s lax form down into bed. “Sounds good.”

“When Tony wakes up, we’ll find out what all the trays are for. Gotta feelin’ this ain’t the usual round o’ the flu.” Jim shakes his head and eases the covers up over the sleeping mechanic.

Steve paces over to the wall-length closet and opens a section—one with very familiar jeans, khakis, and t-shirts. He pulls the black case on the floor, the one Tony made for the shield, out of it place first before getting out of uniform. Jim does likewise, opening his section and hanging up the Winter Soldier gear.

“Something with the reactor, huh?” Steve muses, toeing his boots off. “Anything you can tell us, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“I apologize Captain.”

Both men quirk a brow at the ceiling.

“What if he uses his fancy pass code?” Jim snickers, down to an undershirt and the tight pants. He palms the twin .45s and slides them both into the holsters Tony had built in to the back of the closet door.

The notable pause is well worth the question.

“Avengers Emergency Protocol will allow the Captain to request a medical update of the team members, Bucky,” she fills in after a second. A very non-subtle hint, hint.

The Captain gives a put-upon sigh, “fine. But don’t think I’m not aware you just wanna get something to laugh at—“

“True,” Jim cackles, “don’t mean it ain’t gonna work, babe.”

“All right, all right. You take too much enjoyment outta of busting my balls, Sergeant.”

Now that look—that look is the same one from Brooklyn a lifetime ago, when shameless and scandalous was the fella’s M.O. Steve just laughs to himself when he catches it, when his heart stutters for half a second before righting itself. The curse of any time traveler—metaphysical vertigo.

But Steve puts himself back in the moment. They’ve had a rough week, Tony is apparently working his usual hectic schedule while feeling awful (and yes they recognize the signs and can now do something about it—another glaring benefit in the transition to “significant others” as Tony specified), and the others are in various stages of hurt, tired, and grumpy, getting themselves together on their own floor. The usual post-battle communal meal wouldn’t be for a few hours if everyone is already on their way to sleeping off the mission.

So: first, take care of his fellas, then make some food for his people.

Sound plan. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.? All right, here it goes. ‘This is Captain Handsome ordering you to rock and roll on that 45.’” *

As usual, Jim plain out laughs (softer than normal since Tony is just passed out a few feet away) with it, and Steve gives him a patient look.

“Subject: Iron Man.” A hologram from one of the wall projectors pops up in front of them, a 3D image of a shadowed human body with circular arc reactor in his chest, a red splash of color around the bottom.

“Was it breached?” Jim asks, stepping closer, eyes wider. How long had Tony been getting sick?

“Not substantially,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. fills in. “A small tear in the connection between skin and metal, Bucky. It is, however highly susceptible to infections.”

The two exchange a look. The look.

“What’s Iron Man gotten into while we were gone, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

The AI goes silent a moment. “Boss has been answering the Avenger’s alarm since your mission, Captain.”

“By himself?” Jim interjects, eyes going to the lump on the bed. “We left Bruce and Wanda—“

The soldiers exchange an irritated glance and go back to eye-balling the bed.

“All right. When the team gets somewhat lucid, we’re having a meeting,” Steve growl out, pulling his undershirt over his head.  “Next protocol for consideration: no one goes out on an alarm alone.”

Jim peels his pants down his legs, tossing them in the special uniforms only bin. “He’ll be a pain in the ass about it, Stevie.”

And the Cap, hair a mess from pulling his shirt off, grins a little at one of his two best guys, “really, Buck? When ain’t he?”

They share a rueful expression and lean in, hands pulling, bodies fitting together in all the right niches.  A week of being around the others and toning down the PDA was just professional courtesy, but here, in their own bedroom (well, Tony’s but possession is 9/10th of the law, and they own the mechanic as much as he owns them), they can hold, touch, kiss, and take comfort in intimacy—the same way they did in their shared apartment in Brooklyn a lifetime ago, the same way they did in tents stationed outside France, Italy, Spain, and Normandy. The time may be different, the mad mechanic may be part of their bond now, but this, this, hasn’t changed.

Steve holds on to Bucky for another important second, breathing out against the brunette’s temple, stirring the hair there, and Jim sets his worry for Tony aside just long enough to shudder delicately at the press of skin, at Steve’s arms around him, holding on.

It’s comfortable and necessary, only one thing missing from the embrace—

A small noise from the bed, the mechanic shifting to his side, a hand flung out where other bodies should be.

The two soldiers laugh softly and pull back, looking at Tony with warm, soft eyes. But Jim, as much as he claims the opposite, is just as much of a sap as his two boys, and presses his mouth softly against Steve’s before pulling back to throw on sweats and a tank top. He’d get more details out of the AIs while cooking and fill Steve in on them. Once Tony was up to fill in the extra blanks, they were going to feed him, medicate him, cuddle the ever-lovin’ hell out of him, and make him sleep for another day.

“Going to hit the showers,” Steve leans down, noses at Jim’s jugular.

“Mmhm. I’ll have something fer ya ta eat when ya get out, babe.” Jim just tilts his head enough to allow the touch.

“Still worried too much about me, Barnes. Gonna make ya old before your time,” is a gentle tease, Steve sliding into the old accent when he feels particularly warm.

“Stop doing dumb shit then,” Jim snarks back, not even raising his head.

“Really?” And one broad hand goes up, fast and sharp, comes back down with feeling, aiming for Jim’s right ass cheek, the sound muffled through his sweats, and dammit if he doesn’t have to bite his lip to keep from yelping.

Smart, but Steve is already through the bathroom door, doing a little snickering of his own.

Rubbing the spot, Jim sneers at the closed door, but leans over and presses a few kisses to Tony’s forehead and jaw line without even making the mechanic twitch. Once he was awake, at least somewhat, and they got all the details on how do we take better care of you?, Jim will make sure he eats plenty, takes more medicine, and gets better.

After years of making Steve toe the line, Jim Barnes already has a plan.

**

A noise makes him come to blearily, an itch of panic takes hold. His body works even if his mind hasn’t caught up, legs and hands moving to try and stave off a blow to the—

Broad hand cups the back of his neck, pulls him into a familiar chest where a strong, clear heartbeat sounds like good things.

A hand in his hair, being gentle with nails scratching lightly.

Circles on his back made by a hand without any give.

“—oughta just give her a call, babe. It’s Cho, right?”

“Pretty sure. Don’t think she’ll tell me a whole lot—“

“Aw, Stevie. Like she can resist Captain America?”

Lips on his forehead, warm and just so nice.

“Spiking again?”

“Yeah. Need to try and get some food in him. I don’t like how light he feels.”

“I’ll get a bowl, get Sugar Pie to order us some raw ingredients, make ‘im a couplea good meals. Maybe if he eats, we can get some details on the arc breach.”

“You ask. He gets all weak when you give ‘em that look, Buck.”

“Who ya kidding? You get the same way.”

“…That’s…that’s so true—“

“A’course it is, punk. Just makes ya all the more susceptible ta my charms,” and a soft noise, lips touching, gentle hums.

Consciousness is here, and here to stay (for the moment), and he feels even more like ass when his brain finally catches up with the rest of his synapsis.

The pressure in his chest and sinuses, the ache in his joints, the cold feeling down to his bones, all big flashing signs of reactor breach.

Dammit. One of the unfortunate side effects of having a magnet in one’s chest—getting sick is usually worse than the normal garden variety.

“Hey, hey,” is Steve’s soft voice admonishing when Tony makes the attempt to get up, “don’t gotta move ‘til Buck gets back with some soup, Tony.” And those hands pulling him in just that much closer, do an excellent job of thwarting his well-meaning motion to get up and get back to the workshop.

He rambles, still muddled, about the list of things waiting for him, eyes already falling half-mast because Steve is just always so warm and comfortable, and there’s this perfect place on the shoulder/ collar bone so his ear doesn’t hurt, and he can smell Steve’s aftershave and fresh, clean skin.

“Nope, not happening, Shellhead. No workshop for you.”

The ensuing conversation might have some placating or some justification, but the Captain obviously ignores him, all for keeping a hand in his hair and the other around his back, keeping him completely weak and helpless and—

“Startin’ ta come around, doll face?”

“Work.” Is his slurred return reply because Jim would understand. Things needed to get done and if Tony’s down for any amount of time, who would—

“Ya ain’t going nowhere, Mr. Stark. Already had a word with Pep and One-Eye. Nothing gonna be needed ‘til ya fever’s down.”

Shit. Usually having at least one of them on his side means winning, but it’s really a moot point because he’s getting tired just from being awake and makes a questioning noise while his eyes slip closer and closer to good night.

And the feel of Jim’s warmth against his back again, the other soldier turning him with gentle hold, maneuvering Tony to be laying on Jim’s chest instead of Steve’s. Something warm close to his face, metal arm pressing around him—

“Open up, doll. Slaved over a hot stove ta feed my poor fella.”

And Jim smells absurdly good too, recently showered and shaved (and no fair his brain taunts him, missed the communal shower—saving water and all that), enough that he hums in appreciation and sighs in contentment.

Home. They’re both home—

“S’good ta be home,” is said softly against his mouth while Jim noses at his cheek.

“Missed you two, worried—”

Jim half-hums, half-laughs, and his eyes are that soft kind of gray, one that means he’s happy and safe and—

“Yer a good boyfriend, Tony. Gotta heart and all that. C’mon an open up fer me, yeah?”

When his mouth opens next, something good and warm is spooned in, and he swallows on instinct even if his throat is sore and scratchy. If he was just a little more on the up-and-up, this might be mortifying, being hand-fed like he was helpless. But Jim is relaxed while he focuses on the task, making soft humming noises in his chest, and Steve is right beside him against the headboard, running a hand through Tony’s hair and checking his forehead at intervals.

They talk softly and fondly, mission details he picks up between a spoonful of soup or a drink of water, his mind fuzzy with their presence and the medicine Jim made him take.

And since he’s lying in the tangle of their bodies, being fed, held, and oddly pampered, well, the usual urgency fades down to mild irritation, an itch of creation and completion. But the warm broth, fresh vegetables, noodles, and spices sliding into his stomach rules out the itch just as sure as Steve’s hands and low tone vibrating against Tony’s back and Bucky’s gentle laugh and equally gentle scolding.

**

*This phrase was really one Tony gave Steve in the comics. Lol, just because Tony couldn’t remember his own birthday.

Sad Anon: JLA Posthumous Award

Just throwing this out there: Tim Drake, AKA Red Robin (or whatever alias he was going at that time given his split from the Batfam), is posthumously and unanimously inducted into the Justice League. This could be after he dies during the multidimensional counterattack in the Fractured Destroyed universe/timeline, or some other verse where Tim dies in the line of duty away separate and away from the Batfam.

Tim is remembered as a Robin of legend among the Titans and the JL at large, but the Batfam struggles with their regrets for the rest of their lives. (I might be a little vindictive on Tim's behalf.)

Ah, I did something similar to this one time because SUFFER BATS! Lol, but I’ll give it another go for you, babe, okay?

**

Outside the Hall of Justice, the Batman steps out into the early morning quiet. Flanking him, the other founding members follow silently, solemnly. They stay with him, close, as he lowers each flag to half-mast.

**

The nameplate is added to the wall, below the original seven.

**

For the ceremony, the Titans accept the award, something to hang in their own remembrance hall. They all wear a yellow bandana (red, gold, and green was the OG Rob) tied around a bicep.

Kon-El and Kid Flash are turned slightly, trying to hide wet eyes and trembling forearms, trying to be the epitome of super and hide their mortal weaknesses.

Superman follows the group away and wastes no time in pulling his sidekick right into his chest to hold on, talking softly against the teenager’s ear—how sorry he is, how much Red will be missed, how he’ll be here for Superboy anytime, anytime.

It’s not the first time the hero has ever taken his “clone” (reads as son) into an embrace, given him desperately needed comfort, but it’s still not an easy thing, stiff and awkward, but Superman can’t help it. Some inner instinct drives him forward, wraps his arms around the younger man to just try. When Kon-El allows it, slumps to let the older hero take his weight, to let the pain and recriminations (where were we when he was bleeding out on the battlefield? Why didn’t I hear his heart slowing, stopping, until it was too late?) overcome him, Superman just picks him, carries him like a child while rubbing circles on his back and making soothing noises in the base of his chest where he can.

It’s a crucial moment that shows him how remiss he’s been—the moment he swears Kon-El, Conner, won’t be left alone without a safety net again.

The rest of the Titans disburse before the service is over—BB and Rave leave go back to their own little apartment in the Village to hold one another and remember the bird, their bird. Bunker will be taking some time off, to remember what it is he’s fighting for, or so he tells Cassie before he leaves, back to El Chilar and the man he left behind. If anything, Miguel has learned to cherish what he has while he has it.

Wonder Woman goes for Wonder Girl, making certain she puts a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder first, gives him a squeeze, just before she wraps an arm around the floundering teenager and flies.

A small inlet off the coast, a place where they once trained together, where Cassie Sandsmark was first given the lasso and bracelets, was taught how to use them, she tells all the stories, hands shoved in her thick hair, weeping while she recounts the best times, tries to burn them in her memory. It’s Diana that holds on to her, making supportive noises, laughing when necessary, her eyes wet and heavy with the terrible ones. And when the sun sets, when night picks up a peaceful pace in the rhythm of the sea, Cassie feels like she can breathe again without pain.

Without a word, Kid Flash runs. He runs like the world is ending. He runs like the Speed Force is going to suck the life out of him. He runs like he’s trying to escape the future. He runs until he’s screaming.

The Flash finds him in the Swiss Alps, bent over in the snow, tearing himself apart, ripping his uniform because he just wasn’t fast enough. And the older speedster knows what it’s like to bury someone you love that much—someone that would walk with you from one fight to the next, one catastrophe after another, someone that would step out in front of the fatal shot to save you. Someone that knew you, not the mask. And that’s why he doesn’t let Kid, his little bro, fight him on it. It’s why he breaks off from the JLA, lets the rest of them see to the obviously grieving Batman, follows no matter how far or how fast. It’s why he refuses to let Kid push him away, convince him all good, nothing to see here, it’s why he just sits his ass down in the snow and grips the smaller speedster tight, tucking the smaller boy into the shelter of his body to shake apart, to scream, to rip himself apart at the seams.

The bravest thing he’s done all day—is to keep holding on.

**

Flanked by superheroes on all sides, Ra’s al Ghul steps up to the podium, dressed in the colors of mourning.

The immortal speaks briefly on the character of the Red Robin, to agree his membership is long overdue. There is no mention of the Council of Spiders, the Widower that ended his life. The undertone, the he died alone in the desert while the rest of you moved on, is certainly there.

Slyly, he laments the loss of a great detective, one that would have fit among the ranks of the League of Assassins with such ease, and turns just enough to catch the Batman’s shadowed figure, offering his condolences for yet another dead bird.

From the audience of mourners, O makes a note to put cameras up around the sparse span of ground where Red would be buried in his civilian identity. Best not to give Ra’s the opportunity, he already has plenty of motive.

Beside her, Batgirl and the Black Bat look pale and worn against the darkness of their masks and suits, even with the whiteouts, O is aware Batgirl has been crying since she heard the news. Of course, didn’t they all have their regrets? Batgirl certainly for the deceptions and betrayal, the broken friendship and lost respect. And O knows the next few weeks, few months, few years are going to be full of the should’ve, could’ves in respect to keeping up with the former Robin, that maybe a phone call, an attempt to catch up, an attempt to get back into his life, no matter how miniscule, some level of effort on the part of the Bats could have made all the difference.

None of them would have felt like he wouldn’t want them to be here.

All his arrangements had been made, his final wishes come through lawyers not associated with Wayne Enterprises. The instructions were short, and obviously never meant to be seen by anyone in the cape and cowl crew. Just a simple coffin already purchased, an ordinary blue suit and white shirt, a generic headstone with his full name and the dates. O and Agent A are the ones who went to see the stone the day after when B was falling apart, down in the Cave, stripped of the Batsuit, and working the punching bag until Superman finally gave in, came to Gotham, and restrained the Bat in his massive arms, forced him to stop trying to work through the pain with more pain.

O and Agent A let the two heroes have their privacy so one of the few people on the planet Bruce would actually yield to at time could get through self-destructive rage.

Instead, they found themselves on the outskirts of Gotham, a husked-out neighborhood, staring down at the stark engraving, and O could keep it together, did so in fact, for N if nothing else. She prides herself on the ability to keep moving despite all the wrongness of the world, the burdens it wrought upon her, prides herself on the distribution of strength—until she and Agent A realize the only other markings on the stone is a small picture in the lower corner.

A robin.

When she cries, Agent A kneels down with old, creaky knees, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and holds on.

In this moment, with the JLA inducting Red Robin into their ranks, to honor his deeds and sacrifices, O is the one with both arms around Batgirl’s shoulders to keep the teenager grounded, to try and give her some much needed strength. Since Nightwing and the Red Hood refuse to let anyone comfort them, to let anyone near them, this is the best she can do.

**

One week

Robin stands in front of the glass case, staring at the familiar (and yet not) suit displayed. It’s the first one Drake wore during his time in the tunic—red, gold, and green instead of the strict red and black Robin recognized, one that signaled his predecessor’s downfall, when Drake’s Robin lost the vestiges of innocence, of light that previously embodied the Robin mantle, even after the years of fighting the worst, most twisted criminals on the planet. As he learned later, the red and black suit was meant to be the colors of remembrance when really it signaled something in his predecessor breaking open wide.

It is little wonder Father chose this suit to display.  To remember Drake as he was before.

And his eyes take in the details, the shuriken R, the laces over the chest, the nearly imperceptible broken stitches to create hidden pockets; he catches the glint off the ring added to the memorial—the same ring Father wore on occasion, the entire obvious one with JLA in a circle.

He had said the appropriate words during the ceremony: a good soldier. He knew the risks and died bravely. The epitome of a positive demise.

He said the right things Robin would have said about anyone in their ranks.

And yet, he has been in the Cave for hours, staring at this suit.

Father is finally sleeping, the alien apparently successful in pinning him down long enough to let his eyes close for longer than a few moments—to put his grief on hold. Grayson is in the wind, Todd chasing after him all over the country probably. Cain remains in residence, seemingly in no hurry to return to Hong Kong.

The three of them, him, Brown, and Cain, patrolled tonight, planned on where to meet up tomorrow.

Like him, like Father and Grayson and Todd, they show how deeply they mourning by fighting, trying to drown out the emotional pain with physical. The least he can do is be there should the situation become dangerous for them, to try and do his best to protect them, these two Drake cared about so deeply.

He’d played Pennyworth’s role in a safehouse close to the Wallstone apartments when dawn was but a few hours away, patching up the road rash on Brown’s arm up to the shoulder, making Cain wiggle her fingers while he bandaged her bloody knuckles.

When they parted ways, Cain followed Brown back to her own haven, and he returned to the Cave, his own meager injuries notwithstanding.

Rather, it is here, in front of the display where Pennyworth brought him tea and toast, informing him Father was out cold and Kent still in residence. Summer is here and no school to attend, so Pennyworth left him to his thoughts while he stares up at the colors of remembrance.

**

Nightwing has shaken off the Red Hood off his trail twice while he fights his way through Detroit’s seedy underground. He’s in the same suit he’s put on for days, clean, but ripped up and worn, an obvious I don’t give a fuck, I’ll still break you.

The fight tonight is a good one, constant to keep his mind from taking a stroll other places. A lot of guns and knives to keep him on the move, a lot of strong players with righteous left hooks or upper cuts, guys in fight clubs that earn the real cash. It makes the vigilante that much more vindicated when bone crunches under his fist, his boot, when blood arcs wildly, when he takes a few good ones himself.

It’s pain he needs.

And the ghosts follow him when he moves to the next hot spot, only a duffle of belongings for the trip. The next BI safe house is outfitted with the usual gadgets and first aid; he wraps his bad knee and ignores the laptop, the comm link, and anything else that would let O trace him. Instead, he drinks water while standing at the kitchen sink, staring out into the daytime like it’s a curse—he needs nightfall, he needs the dark and the shadows to twist and bend around him (Batman). He needs the fight and all the broken skin that goes right along with it.

It’s the only thing that can stop him from seeing Ra’s al Ghul walking into the Cave holding Tim’s body in his arms, close against his chest.

It’s the only thing that can stop him from screaming until his throat rips and his ribs creak, until his lungs tear, until he can forget the feeling of cradling Tim’s cold, stiff body, of the matted blood around the fatal wound. It’s the only thing that can cover up the recriminations and regrets, the where-were-yous and how-could-you-have-let-this-happen-agains. It lets him get out of the endless loop of reliving the last time they’d spoken in person, when he’d given Damian the Robin mantel without Tim’s knowledge, when he let Tim leave Gotham alone.

In the broken mirror of the shoddy bathroom, his upper body is a roadmap of bruises and contusions, half-assed sewn-up lacerations; he peels the falling apart gauze pads off, ignores the old blood, and gets in a weak shower of cold water, his eyes falling half-mast while the water washes over him.

And it’s just like that moment when he’d taken Tim’s body from Ra’s, fallen to his knees, and laid his cheek against Tim’s to cry, it’s pain and regret, cold and terribly hollow.

It’s a place he expects to be for a while.

**

One year

Ra’s al Ghul is not normally one for anniversaries. In his extensive lifetime, he’s had many moment, dates, he could celebrate, and all those instances would fill a year ten fold.

Rather, he is a man to celebrate accomplishments. The ones in need to careful planning, time, care, those are the ones he chooses to remember.

This will be one of those.

“Demon’s Head,” one of his soldiers bows low, “we are ready at your will.”

“Excellent,” said absently while he raises a hand to the large, wooden box sitting on a stone slab, the usual eerie green glow reflecting off the dark wood. “Prepare the platform.”

His people do as instructed, working to bring the descending platform level. When the Demon’s Head is pleased with the results, he gives a simple nod to continue.

The box is loaded on the platform by four more soldiers, centered perfectly.

“As I once said to your mentor,” he begins casually, “true greatness cannot be learned or acquired. It cannot be made. It must be bred.” The platform rises steadily, pulled by a soldier at either fulcrum points, and Ra’s eyes follow the progression intently. “Those in this world with the genetics are the ones bound to save it.”

Carefully, the platform moves, follows the track until it looms over the suspicious body of liquid. “I had planned to wait as long as necessary. Until you were older, mature, until you understood the real way the world must work and why the balances of power must be occasionally tipped.”

He sighs a little wistfully for those days, for better days.

“The unforeseeable circumstances almost foiled all of my carefully laid plans, plans to tip the balance. Plans that hinge—on you.”

The platform comes to the end of the track and sways just slightly, alarmingly. An ominous click begins a slow descent.

“But we can still have our day, can’t we? You will still save the world. At my side, we will be unstoppable. Where I have failed with others, I will not fail again with you.”

And the platform starts to sink into the turgid green waters, the box sinking with it.

“We shall have our day, won’t we, Timothy?”

**

Thank-you for following and reading! I’ll post Part II when I get them done, lol

[castlehead]

[identity vices]

[who the fuck were we?, we didn’t know, but when we had a shred of a notion, it was the biggest thing in the real world, i get my shreds and move on think of something about myself as im quietly stocking shelves and the whole time it’s just there, in my heart, and I’m just doing what I do cuz nobody cares I say, how was your weekend ah, slept in, didn’t do much the mundane is the single most common mask, precisely because it is what it says it is, it’s foolproof, locked I mean people do care, friends do, but you don’t pay people to be your friend, and that’s what ****** was: just a bunch of fucked up rich kids thinking they were making way, myself included, because we paid people to congratulate us for the most insignificant shit       hahahaha hahahaha that’s not psychology it’s pedology it’s infantile So basically, they were making up for us all having fucked up parents?        or fucked up childhoods?                      there’s something my mom says to me: "it’s never too late to have a happy childhood" I think that’s the best piece of advice I’ve ever gotten. As crazy as it is, I feel like I’ve stabilized in a way. Maybe it’s premature, but I feel like that level of depression is behind me, not because I won’t ever be that fucked up again, but because I can rationalize it and deal with it better now. And the past is just that — it’s something behind me.         I feel powerful, like I have a choice in my own life again. that’s amazing and that’s giving credence to your will to move at all it starts not with the choice but with the belief that there is one, after all. inertia means powerlessness, fated to be nothing, do nothing, achieve nothing just a marble rolling across frictionless space that’s for the universe to give a will to, if there even is a thing so wild the will to salute yourself      that’s what I’m glad you’ve found I mean, our own interpersonal relationships weren’t compliment based, I don’t think   in a way, they were but they were also driven off of needs that we still have to this day I think between you and I, there’s one night in particular that comes to mind

you were crying in ***********

and I consoled you         it was a very human experience for me but I’m not complimenting, just saying that the seeing of choice in one’s life through the depressive whatever-fog, is maybe a shred I’d keep close, because it’ll always be the first thing people who are depressed will need to do before they act: find the will.           .  [SIDETHOUGHT: [The ‘proper’ way to read a poem or novel should be interpreted by the majority who read it, not the minority consisting of scholars and schoolmarms. The good perception of words is what effect taken in by the greater good. That, after all, is why she^ lasts. The greater good has taken its opinion over to sit with her after you slept all night on the park bench, wouldn’t even get up to let the great hunk of their collective ass hunker down next to you—once you moved that silly raincoat, it already stopped pouring five seconds ago. On top of your drenched body, the common good reads The Wasteland as your skull slowly crushes beneath the incontinent hams of a bubbling, a farting girth of what even though just metaphor must weigh as much as the continent itself, or western hemisphere if you prefer a lil meat. On bones.]]] ? ?           .  Who: Kafkazzzo, Freckett K. Where: Frumple of a/my bedroom, (a) Earth, getting ready to head to—a party— When: 4:42AM. Though it’s probably already happy hour somewhere. As the saying goes. What Dimension: Third Possibly Askew And Flattened Like A Very Delicious Pancake Into What Dimension: 4th, time Background: Mobile lamp way too bright. Cigarette resting in glass ashtray. Empty glass of water, purposelessness, general purposelessness. I am evading that space of it tho. And silence only stopped by the glum entreaty of the air conditioning system. Noises, kds. playing baseball in the courtyard, downstairs. Drugs Ingested: Pot. Any Pharms?: Klonopin, maximum required dosage, Lithium, Cymbalta (duloxetine HCI)               And I punch him in the face. You by me a soda YOU BUY ME A SODA "You buy me soda?" Said RANDOM FRENCH GUY. “Sure.” Reached into pocket. Gave RANDOM FRENCH GUY four dollars. My Wallet has Hawaii on it. There are two pictures of HAWAII on each side of the wallet. They are the same picture. Somewhere there is a person who I am a reflection of, a year’s ago same picture, and everywhere I see and repel this sameness if that is I see it in others, however small the observation. Except, of course, if I observe such things in her. I do not wish however for others to have the same glitches. Human character is diverse enough to go a night at a party without reminiscence, eh? She is in the left ventricle of my heart, clearly seen by microscope, eating away at the cement walls there. That to the human eye, is mere idiosyncratic dominion. They say. And they say to me should I just gulf out one person from another if I have some chick who used to have big boobs chewing on my left ventricle, by now a block of pure cement fresh from the whisking mixer? How could I tell them that if so then both aren’t to be found again in the other, which is me, together; I lose her I lose myself. Then who would we be, remain as? Perhaps it does not matter to her. Or like to be even, who would I get to be if I can grant myself that? I guess what I am trying to say is that I “I need more dollar. Buy pizza.” “Only because you’re French. Consider it a war bond for the next time those Germans come to kick your sorry ass.” I gave him three dollars without thinking about it. Don’t think about it. Not often. Always willing to spot. Never have money to spot with. Because I spot so much. Drunk thinking. Here’s half a forty I’m chugging. The liquid goes down my esophagus. It is meant to be drunk to make you drunk. Everything should have meaning. That is how life should work, but it doesn’t work that way at all. It’s groping for good in life and scratching [searching] out for crumbs like tickets, no lotto, again, and the chaff of once purposed greatness led on its way up higher and higher from conscious desire, throwing away everything, only to come upon none other than unconscious desire: and then the desire is all that remains, ah so I guess that is what I would be. A lustfiend. Surviving in and of himself as a medical-grade loner. Him the result of his own destruction, the result itself, seen safely from a distance of billions of miles into his head, somewhat like a black hole. And I am like a dog forever biting its tail in an effort to gnaw the thing off. Except we are MAN, and so we hack off our tails with bare bodkins and pursue our efforts and dismays daily, diffusing it all as like a poison of the tragically mundane. Life goes well spooned together with a nice molasses of confused sensations to create the pastiche that is for our lives and for life, yes, but this becomes rather what we see in life: it might be equally as false or true, it might be: LIFE, yes, that grand, technical, way-out-there celebrity in gloves, and hardly enjoying himself at the awards ceremony, his smile attempting to reach to the ceiling, and to look maybe for a vent or some means of escape or even a deadly event as tragic as ever: well yeah who cares he is merely at a cheap height of the cosmos after all is said and done but no one knows where exactly it is done saying, so this image goes and rakes in the cosmopolitanism around him anyhow. Hungry, not for that, but having no other means to sate himself. Well, nothing like the stacks of cash this demiurge counterfeits on regular to land a celeb in jail. All the time? For years, yo. Nobody figured it out. And well don’t you know, I might say back, that God doesn’t do cash, that’s some stairway to heaven shit. God says this to me, in a toys-r-us of course, buying his fifth monopoly game board this week, opening it up, and stuffing the monopoly money in astounding pants. I suppose he is just as anyone who does this would be, now, officially desperate to pay rent:

GOD say: For, we whom are not yourselves live in coves, and do not disrupt the willing men and women of the surf to splash upon our chapped land and get up foot to foot and dust off themselves, off. It is they do not bother. The only off is on in the cave of the Removed. Stalactites filled in full rings by the petrifying jelly of screams and shrieks, of you—clear, consumptive squawks. You continue to at least darken this prison cell with your resignation, bars thick enough to shrink the teeth of my steel monster, you all beneath my skin, lingering on the meddling cusp of what I don’t know—what I don’t understand, perhaps we don’t, I know I don’t—I look at the world as though on a merry-go-round that blurs things. People smiling and looking with pleasant face. Every still phantasm, you, staring back and looking into a deep lecherous void in my eye I see. Meanwhile, it is OK: we the Removed have already supplanted that steel monster with a giant, happy frog to distract you [when you weren’t looking]. It gaily farts and bubbles in the mud and says with his blank eye [as though frogs could speak at all!] no, that we cannot go, o no, o no, NO, cannot go to heaven. Enough of farce. I’m listening to twee music. What does it matter. What does any of it matter any more. Twee crap blends in with the rest of this mess. I’ll try and get sleep, later. So many memories. Touching me. Wresting my heart from its bone prism. All the horrible memories, the forgetting me by friends I thought would stay, the forgotten sadness I too have let pass painlessly out of recollection. Sadness, sadness, deep sadness. Friends out somewhere getting wasted all alone, [as I was, am, tho it used to b among people] with just their good company to keep. Eaten by the night. Wake up, scratch leg, bug bite. Lighted I am and my recollections only by the perfidious youth sense nowadays and leaking out with regularity. Anyway let them say that was all they ever had. Ha! And yet already as I see them in my mind’s eye, through film: musty, shitty film that ratchets against the projector like a master the axe to hitch in his steed the leftover stump from last Spring, doubled with mosses for whatever reason considered consumptive to the land, or was it, they were poisonous?, my friends, they are all so very old. I am so very old.