#also. i underestimated how long this fic would be. tentatively putting it as a five chaptered fic for now.

[luxaofhesperides]

those who serve.

CHAPTER TWO: a conviction.

read chapter one on tumblr or read the entire fic on ao3.

this is 7k words. be warned. . . .

It takes three days of angling at what he wants before Alfred looks him dead in the eye and says, “You may ask me for anything, Danny. Please do not hesitate if you need to ask for help.”

So Danny bites the bullet and says, “Can I work for you? It just sounds like you have to do a lot on your own, and having someone else around might make things easier for you.”

Alfred blinks. “You… wish to work for me?”

“Yeah. Like, I need a job anyways but I doubt most places will hire a homeless high school dropout. But you know me, and you can give me errands to do so you have time for other things.”

“You would like to work,” Alfred says again, slowly, “For me.”

Danny gives him a long look. His heart starts to sink, heavy as stone. He’s starting to get the feeling that he’s messed up, that he wasn’t actually supposed to ask Alfred for help, that this is a mistake. It’s a stupid idea to begin with, and now that he’s actually asking, he can see that this was never going to work out.

He may have just ruined the only friendship he has in this dimension because of his stupid mouth. 

“Sorry,” he says, drawing into himself, ready to leave and hide away until the shame lessens enough that he can stand to be a part of society. Or, not a part, but on the periphery of society. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It was stupid. I’ll just go now.”

“Danny,” Alfred says. He doesn’t reach out to Danny, just stands still with his impeccable posture, hands clasped in front of him. Danny could leave, could disappear and never be seen again. Alfred wouldn’t be able to catch up to him. He doesn’t need to stay, but something in Alfred’s voice leaves no possibly for refusal. 

He stops and lifts his head just enough to meet Alfred’s eyes.

“It is not stupid,” Alfred says sternly. “I was simply surprised. There will be details to be worked out, but I would be glad to have your help.”

“Really?”

Alfred smiles. “Really. Now, would you like to tell me what you would like to do while we walk?”

That’s something he really likes about Alfred: he always gives Danny a choice. It’s not a trick, either, there’s no wrong answer. He never demands anything, never orders him around, just offers Danny choices and gives him the time to actually chose what he wants. 

If Danny says no, he doesn’t want to talk about it at the moment, Alfred would accept it and change the topic, talk about something else. 

He can say no, and it’s a relief. 

He doesn’t, of course, because he does need this job, but it’s nice to know that the option is there.

“What’s there to say?” he begins, “I just wanna help you out. You’re always out way too early, doing all these errands on your own. And you’ve never mentioned anyone helping you while you work in that manor.”

“Well, I would like to know what you want to do, Danny. What sort of tasks would you like to oversee?”

Danny bluescreens for a moment. He’s never actually thought about his career, not after the accident that destroyed his future. There’s no way any of his space knowledge will be helpful in housekeeping, and most places don’t have sentient food that needs to be fought and defeated. Hell, he doesn’t even have a resume!

Not that this is like. A legitimate job interview or anything. It’s just asking for a favor.

Does this count as nepotism?

Danny is way too young to know any of this. He’s never felt more unprepared for something before. How are career talks supposed to go? Is he supposed to negotiate for his salary? What even is the minimum wage in Gotham?

“I don’t know,” he admits, tucking his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Whatever you want me to do, I guess.”

“Have you ever had a job before?” 

Danny shakes his head, trying to push down the shame that wells up in him. Alfred doesn’t seem upset by this answer, just thoughtful. It’s not like it’s a surprise, anyways.

“I see,” he says, “Would you like to shadow me for the day and get an idea of what I do?”

And then he can figure out how he wants to help Alfred, Danny realizes. It’s the solution to this problem, one that Alfred’s offering up as another simple yes-no choice. This would work, help him get a better idea of what he can do, what’s expected of him, but Danny doesn’t particularly want to follow Alfred around all day. 

Not because of the company; Alfred’s great, Danny would be happy to spend all week with him. The problem is that Alfred is only out very rarely, and spends all the rest of his time working on keeping that manor functional. 

Danny does not want to end up in the house of another rich person when he doesn’t know them. He doesn’t want anything to do with rich families that probably are either very weird or are hiding dark secrets. 

That being said, he does really need a job and he trusts Alfred well enough. If he says his employers are good, then Danny will trust in that and only be a little miffed if they try to kill him. 

“Sure,” he says, despite all his misgivings. “Sounds good.”

“Come along, then,” Alfred claps his hands together, looking rather happy about this outcome, “We have much to do.”

They walk to Alfred’s favorite tea shop, where the owner always has a new blend ready for him. Danny stays behind Alfred the entire time, carefully staying out of any small talk as he tries to force down the anxious twisting of his heart. This is all happening so suddenly, with barely any time for him to process, and it’s taking effort to not run away. 

It would be fine if this was all the job was; bodyguarding Alfred on his early morning errands, all personal business so he can catch up with friends or get something for himself before shifts all his attention to keeping his employers alive. 

He can handle bodyguardings. It’s practically the only thing he’s good at: keeping people safe no matter the cost to himself. 

But the thought of walking into a big, fancy manor to keep an absurdly rich family alive is making his skin crawl. Sam’s parents never liked him, preferring to stick to social circles far above him, and Vlad was Vlad.

These ones he knows nothing about, can do nothing to prepare for meeting them. All he has is Alfred’s vague comments about them when he talks about his job, but he’s always very careful to keep the details close to his chest. Danny doesn’t even know the names of the people Alfred works for. 

There’s no way they’re going to be okay with having him around.

Danny’s going to take one step into the manor and get kicked out. And Alfred will have to side with them to keep his own job and Danny’s back to where he started, out on the streets with no way of supporting himself. 

Maybe he should have thought this through more. Maybe he should ask if Alfred can set him up with some other job, ask one of his friends for an opening. 

“Are you quite alright, Danny?”

Alfred’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Danny realizes that he’s been silently following Alfred down the street, lost in his head, and he’s completely missed whatever Alfred just said. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, what did you say?”

“I simply wanted to know if you’ve eaten breakfast yet.”

“Oh, I haven’t. I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

Alfred makes a disapproving sound, then quickly turns on his heel and begins to walk across the street. Danny stares after him blankly, then hurries to follow after him, eyeing the few people walking out of buildings just in case they try to start something. 

For a man his age, Alfred sure moves fast. It’s a change from how he usually walks at a steady, sedate pace, leisurely strolling through the streets of Gotham as if it’s a walk through the park. It’s a struggle to adjust his pace to make sure he keeps up with Alfred without speeding past him.

“Where are we going?” he asks as Alfred continues his journey down the block. 

“We are going back to the manor,” Alfred announces, “I will not have anyone go hungry on my watch.”

Danny bites back his immediate reply of I am not going to the manor with you and instead says, “I’m not hungry, though.”

“Nonsense. I have cared for many teenage boys in my lifetime. You lot are always hungry.”

That’s. Fair. 

Yeah, most teenage boys are always hungry. Danny certainly was before… Before.

When he was fully alive and safe. Even when he was turned into a halfa and had to keep secrets, he was always hungry, stealing snacks from Sam and Tucker or going to Nasty Burger with them to settle his stomach. All his appetite disappeared the moment he had to flee his home dimension and it hasn’t come back since.

He doesn’t think it ever will. It’s not like he really needs to eat as much now; being half dead helps him last longer without food or water, and he’s sure his stomach is about the size of a walnut now, with how little he’s been eating.

Danny’s not about to dump all that onto Alfred, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and follows Alfred to a small parking lot behind a deli. There are a few cars left there overnight, and one that, while not as obviously expensive as the last one Alfred drove, is in much better condition than the other ones. Alfred pulls the keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car, opening the passenger side door first. 

“Come along now,” he says, “You’ll be having breakfast before you accompany me through my day.”

This is what he’s agreed to, so he doesn’t protest despite how getting into such a small, enclosed space makes his skin crawl. He hasn’t been in anything as small as a car in… months. In fact, the last time he was in a small space, it was the thermos after his parents caught him. Jazz had to steal it in order to release him, but his parents caught on a little too fast and chased after him before he could even get out of the house.

He doesn’t like small spaces anymore, is the point.

Barely breathing, Danny slides into the passenger seat. The door shuts behind him with a heavy click and suddenly there’s no air in the car. It’s only the fact that Danny can hold his breath for around half an hour that keeps him from hyperventilating. As long as he doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t need to worry about the way his lungs are twisting, how his throat is tight, how his hands shake where they’re pressed against his thighs. 

Alfred opens the door again, getting behind the wheel. He starts the engine and gently reminds Danny to put on his seatbelt, then reverses out of the parking space once he sees that Danny is buckled up. 

The drive is a blur. At some point, he thinks he hears Alfred trying to talk to him, but Danny is too focused on not losing his cool to actually process anything happening outside his head. One moment, they’re pulling out of the parking lot and into the street. The next, a large iron gate is opening in front of them, allowing the car to continue down the gravel road leading to a large, Gothic styled manor. 

Sam would love this place, Danny thinks when he sees it, then takes a shaky breath to fight back to burn of tears in his eyes. 

He immediately stops breathing again, hanging onto his composure by the thinnest possible thread. 

The car comes to a stop off to the side of the entrance steps. There’s also a wheelchair ramp there; accessibility isn’t something he was expecting to see from a rich person’s home, but it’s at least one sign that these people won’t be as bad as the ones he’s met before. 

Alfred likes them for a reason, he reminds himself, he just needs to see what it is before he commits to working around them in any capacity.

“Here we are, Danny,” Alfred says, cutting the engine and opening the door. Danny scrambles to follow, pulling off his seatbelt and all but falling out of the car in his rush to escape the suffocating space. “Are you quite alright?”

Danny blinks up at Alfred, trying and failing to calm down from the everything messing him up at the moment. “Yeah,” he croaks, then hurries to clear his throat. “I’m good. Just… overwhelmed.”

“If you would rather do this another day—”

“No! No, I’m fine, really. I can do this today. Better now than never, you know?”

Alfred doesn’t look like he believes him, but it’s fine. Danny can handle it! He’s handled everything that’s been thrown his way so far, no matter how terrible. He can handle staying inside a giant manor to learn how to be a butler.

Piece of cake compared to fighting Pariah Dark, really.

“So this is where you work?” he asks, trying to change the subject. “Big place.”

“Indeed. It has been in the Wayne family for many generations. My father worked here and I followed in his footsteps. I have cared for this home and its inhabitants for many decades now.”

Well. Never let it be said that Alfred isn’t dedicated to his job. 

“Wow. You must really love this job, to stay so long.”

“It can be hard,” Alfred says, a sad smile on his face, “But it is always worth it.”

That… sounds like there’s a story there. A painful one. Danny won’t pry, he knows better than to go poking his nose in sensitive matters like those; usually, death is usually involved and he is well aware of how difficult talking about death can be. 

Alfred unlocks the front entrance, pulling one of the large double doors open. “After you, Danny,” he says, holding it open. 

Danny ducks his head, mumbling his thanks, and steps inside. 

The manor is quiet. It’s dark, also, with only the soft light of a floor lamp illuminating the foyer. Everyone else must still be asleep, which isn’t a surprise seeing as it’s barely past dawn. Danny’s just gotten too used to being awake during the night, and had forgotten that most people don’t get up as early as Alfred does. 

Despite the darkness of the manor, he can pick out the fancy rugs and the large chandelier above his head. A grand staircase is at the end of the foyer, with hallways going along the side of the stairs. Seeing the manor from the outside is one thing. Standing inside it and feeling the true scope of how large it is, is something else entirely. 

“You take care of this entire place by yourself?” he can’t help but ask, glancing back to see Alfred shutting the door behind him. “Also, do I need to take off my shoes?”

“No need, though I appreciate you asking. And yes, I often tend to the manor by myself. When I am able, I will call in outside cleaning services to prepare the manor for large events.”

Despite having permission, Danny still feels uncomfortable walking all over fancy rugs with his grimy shoes. He’s been wandering all over Gotham, especially through quieter, dirtier areas. He doesn’t want to think about how difficult getting all the dirt out of the rugs is going to be. Making more work for Alfred when he’s supposed to be helping leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Maybe if he just floats a little, just enough to keep his shoes off the floor without being obvious…

“This way, Danny,” Alfred says, taking the lead and walking down a large hallway on the right. He flicks a switch as he goes, the lights turning on a split second later and revealing the landscape paintings that decorate the walls. 

Man, Danny thinks, These people are Rich-rich. Maybe even richer than Vlad.

He hopes they’re not secretly a cult or something. Rich people always have some weird, fucked up secret they’re hiding. As long as it’s doesn’t involve murder or human experimentation, Danny can pretend he Does Not See and focus on helping Alfred.

The hallway leads to a large dining room with one of those extremely long tables, fit to seat twenty people. Smaller chandeliers hang from the ceiling, the dangling crystals glinting in the light. 

Alfred, thankfully, doesn’t stop there. Danny would walk out of the manor and find a barn to live in if Alfred tried to have him eat in there. It’s just not happening, not now, not ever.

Beyond the dining room is the kitchen. Though still larger than any kitchen Danny’s ever seen, it feels much more homely compared to the rest of the manor (that he’s seen so far). There’s a variety of papers pinned on the fridge door and a small shelf of cookbooks on the open space of the wall besides one of the windows. There are bar stools on one side of the kitchen island and a small table in the corner with six chairs, something more appropriate for smaller groups than the giant dining table. 

There are potted plants in two corners, bringing some color into the room, as well as a vase of bright flowers on the island. 

There is also, most notably, someone sitting on one of the bar stools, slumped over the island with his head resting in his arms. A cup sits off to his left, steam still wafting up from it. 

Besides him, Alfred makes a disapproving tutting noise that has the guy lifting his head and turning around to face them. 

“Hey, Alfred,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion. Even from this distance, Danny can see the bags under his ears. “Morning.”

“Master Tim, did you get any sleep at all?” It’s phrased like a question, but Danny can hear the reprimand clearly.

Tim can too, judging by his wince. “Some,” he says, not looking either of them in the eye. “It just wasn’t a night for sleeping.”

That means nothing to Danny, but it makes Alfred soften in sympathy. 

“I shall speak to Master Bruce about having your schedule for today cleared.”

“I can still work—”

“Absolutely not.” 

Tim looks like he’s gearing up to protest, then glances at Danny and slumps back down. “Fine,” he grumbles, pressing his forehead into the countertop, “But just this once.”

“This is one of my duties,” Alfred tells Danny as he walks towards the sink. “Taking care of the many stubborn members of this family. Getting them to take care of themselves is among the most pressing duties I have.”

“We’re not that bad,” Tim mutters.

“You came to this house for the sole purpose of helping Master Bruce,” Alfred counters.

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, that’s fair.” And then turns his attention back to Danny. “We’re all disasters, but I swear we know how to handle ourselves. Alfred just has strict standards.”

“I… don’t know if I’ll be able to help with that?” Danny says, looking between the two. “I’m usually the one being cared for, not the other way.”

“What, you get into a lot of trouble?”

“More like I’m very accident-prone.” 

“You’ll fit in great, then,” Tim smiles, then sits up and rolls his shoulders back. He grabs his mug, takes a big swig, and sighs. “Guess I should get back to what I was doing.”

Alfred pulls out a cutting board and a knife, sets them on the counter, then opens the fridge to pull out various fruits, a pack of bacon, and some eggs. “Danny, do wash your hands and then take a seat. Master Tim, I’m sure Danny would appreciate your company a little longer.”

Tim slumps back down and offers Alfred a lazy salute. He hooks his ankle around the bar stool besides him and pulls it out for Danny. 

This is going well so far. Nothing bad has happened, he hasn’t been attacked, and he’s met the first member of the family Alfred loves so much. Tim is chill; he’s clearly exhausted, has problems with sleeping and self-care, but he’s nice and seeing him act so casual, like any other teenager, has Danny relaxing. 

He forces himself to move, walking in the air just a centimeter above the floor, and rolls up his sleeves to wash his hands. He finishes quickly, shaking water off his hands into the sink, and hopes neither of them saw the Lichtenberg figures on his right arm. 

Alfred’s washing the fruit and laying them out on the cutting board when he glances over. Danny wants to help, but he also doesn’t want to get in the way, so he sits next to Tim, curling into himself some.

Tim watches him with a sharp gaze. He didn’t seem this awake a moment ago. The icy blue of his eyes feels dangerous, somehow, and Danny’s not sure what’s changed in between him washing his hands and sitting down, but he tries to stay still and not give away how nervous he is. 

I’m just being paranoid, he tells himself. He doesn’t exist in this dimension. No one is out to hunt him down. They don’t know he’s a halfa, and it’s going to stay that way. 

There’s no way Tim could know anything about Danny, but the look in his eyes makes Danny want to run. 

“You look like adoption bait,” Tim says suddenly. He takes another sip of whatever’s in his mug. Coffee, based off the smell.

“Um. What?”

Tim gestures vaguely at Danny. “Blue eyes. Black hair. Sad. Y’know, Wayne adoption bait.”

“Does Wayne only adopt kids with those features?” Danny squints at Tim. “Did he get you? Do you need me to break you out of here?”

Tim laughs and the sharpness of his gaze eases. “No! I’m kind of a special case since I went to him instead of the other way around. But a lot of the others fit that description, and Bruce has adopted a lot of sad kids over the years, so it’s a bit of a running joke in Gotham.”

“And he’s nice? He’s good to you? To everyone?”

If this is another Vlad situation, Danny’s going to get every kid out of the manor and somewhere safe. Where that somewhere is, he doesn't know yet, but he’ll figure it out once he gets there. Alfred might not want to leave, but he won’t mind Danny protecting him while he’s around this ‘Bruce’ guy.

Probably.

Whatever, Danny can just go invisible and keep Alfred safe that way. 

“Bruce is good,” Tim reassures. “He’s emotionally constipated and makes a lot of mistakes, but he means well and he cares about all of us. He’s a loser, but we all love him anyways.”

“Thank you for that, Tim,” comes a deep voice from behind them.

Danny tries not to jump out of his seat, manages to catch himself on the edge of the island before he flies up to the ceiling, and whips around to stare at the newcomer. 

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred says from where he’s plating all the cleaning cut fruit. 

“Hey, B,” Tim says, “Didn’t think I’d see you up so early.”

The man is large. Not as large as his dad—few people come close—but still bigger than Danny. He’s shoulders are wide and Danny can tell he’s packing a lot of muscle beneath his black turtleneck sweater. There are streaks of silver in his black hair, a few wrinkles around his blue eyes, and something about him sets Danny on edge.

He looks normal enough, but carries an undercurrent of danger. 

This is someone who can do a lot of damage if Danny’s not careful.

“Good morning,” he returns to Tim and Alfred, but his eyes are fixed on Danny. “And hello. I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Bruce.”

Bruce walks closer and holds out a hand with a smile. It looks fake, but well practiced enough that most people wouldn’t notice. Danny, who is very well versed in reading people to make sure they’re not going to try and kill him, notices. 

He hesitates for a moment, then slowly takes Bruce’s hand into the world’s slowest, most awkward handshake. 

“Danny,” he says. “Sorry for intruding.”

Behind him, Alfred loudly sets a frying pan down on the stove. “You were invited, Danny. You are not intruding.”

Danny tries to pull his hand back, but Bruce tightens his grip without warning. He turns Danny’s hand over, looking over it with a critical eye.

“Your hand is very cold,” he says, “Would you like a blanket?”

A spark of panic flares through him and Danny makes his hand intangible for a brief second to free himself from Bruce’s grasp. “No thanks,” he answers with a tight smile, “I just have bad circulation.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully, then steps away. He claps a hand on Tim’s shoulder, then moves to one of the cupboards to start making his own cup of coffee. 

“Do you need any help, Alfred?” Bruce asks.

“I will not allow you to scare Danny away by setting the kitchen on fire again,” Alfred responds immediately.

“I could just set out plates,” Bruce amends.

“Please sit down, Master Bruce.”

Tim bites down a laugh, but his shoulders still shake with it. He turns his face away when Bruce looks at him, eyebrow raised judgmentally. He’s not smiling, but there’s a fond tilt to his lips, a softness in the heavy lines of his shoulders. 

Danny watches it all, content to disappear in the background as he slowly relaxes again, basking in the warmth of a family that so clearly loves each other. They’re all at ease around each other, safe and at home, even with a stranger in their midst. It reminds him a bit of being a kid, clinging to Jazz’s back as they waited for their dad to pull out a batch of his fudge, their mom making hot chocolate for them.

It’s a bittersweet memory now, but still something he cherishes. 

“We all try to help Alfred when we can,” Tim whispers to Danny, leaning over so they won’t be overheard, “But we’re pretty bad at it. Bruce, especially, can’t be trusted in a kitchen.”

“That sounds like a story I’d like to hear later,” he whispers back, and the grin Tim gives him is full of promise.

The kitchen quiets down after that, Tim and Bruce still tired and holding back yawns as Alfred continues cooking. Danny observes them all carefully, trying to learn more about them without actually having to talk to them. He watches Alfred cook as well, trying to learn through observation; he’s never cooked before, not when everything in the kitchen was ecto-contaminated and needed to be fought instead of eaten.

He’d like to learn. If Alfred’s willing to teach him, he’d like to learn how to cook normal food for normal people.

The morning creeps on, the world waking up outside. He can hear birdsong from outside, and though it’s too cloudy to see the sun, he’s sure it’s above the horizon now.

Alfred sets plates of cut fruit down in front of Bruce, then Tim, and then Danny. It’s followed by a separate plate of bacon and eggs. He asks the room at large how they would like their toast prepared, to which Bruce requests lightly toasted with honey, Tim asked for blueberry jam, and Danny doesn’t say a word.

“Danny?” Alfred prompts, and Danny looks up from his plate. 

“Oh, um, no thank you,” he answers awkwardly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat this much.”

Alfred accepts the answer easily enough, moving to start making the other requests, but Tim is staring at him with his piercing gaze again. Danny tries to ignore him, popping a blackberry into his mouth. 

It’s not Tim who says anything. It’s Bruce, who starts by clearing his throat and gently beginning with “Do you have a stable living situation right now, Danny?”

“Jesus, B,” Tim says, “That is not how you should be starting this conversation.”

“It’s important to know.”

“Yes?” Danny lies very unconvincingly, then slumps when three people give him disbelieving looks. “I’m doing my best, okay. And I’m taking care of myself just fine.” He nibbles on a piece of bacon to stop himself from saying anything else, hoping they’ll back off if he doesn’t make eye contact.

For a moment, it looks like Tim is going to speak again. Then a new voice pipes up from behind them and again, Danny has to cling to the counter to stop from flinching too hard. 

“Who is this,” a young voice demands. When Danny turns around, there’s a kid standing in the doorway, arms crossed, as he glares at Danny. 

“Um,” Danny says, “Hi? I’m Danny.”

The kid moves his glare from Danny to Bruce. “This was not mentioned,” he says rather accusingly. 

“This one isn’t mine,” Bruce says, “This one is on Alfred.”

Everything about this conversation is flying over his head, so Danny decides to ignore it and go back to slowly working his way through his first breakfast in around a month. It’s delicious, but he can only finish the fruit and some of the eggs and bacon before his stomach starts twisting. 

Tim pulls the plate away when Danny can’t eat anymore. “Don’t push yourself,” he says, “I can finish it, if you want.”

He gives up his plate with a grateful smile, and turns to get up and see if he can get a glass of water. The kid is right by his elbow when he turns and Danny has to take a deep breath and slowly let it out before he accidentally kicks the kid and sends him flying. 

“Why are you here,” he says, tense and ready to move. He looks ready for a fight, which is odd and concerning to see on someone who can’t be any older than twelve. 

“I was invited,” he answers, “I’m maybe going to work for Alfred? If today goes well, I guess.”

The kid’s eyebrows go up. “You are not being adopted.”

“No,” Danny says slowly, “I’m just looking for a job.”

Abruptly, the kid relaxes, then sticks out a hand. “I am Damian Wayne. I will be keeping an eye on you.”

“Don’t be rude, gremlin,” Tim says just as Danny shakes his hand. 

“I am being reasonably wary,” Damian counters, “You are far too lax with a stranger in our home.”

“I’m trusting Alfred to not bring in anyone dangerous,” Tim corrects.

“Boys,” Bruce calls out, warningly. They both look away from each other, scowling. “And Danny,” he continues, “If you don’t have anywhere to stay, you’re welcome here even if you don’t work.”

This time, it’s Tim who cuts him off with a quick call of “Bruce,” just as Damian says, “Father, enough.”

“If I can offer help, I will. I don’t need to adopt everyone who comes through here.”

Alfred sends him a withering look that has Bruce looking away, sipping his coffee, pretending he didn’t say anything. Tim scoffs loudly and Damian shakes his head disapprovingly. 

“I’m telling everyone you said that,” Tim declares, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He types something out, looking more and more awake now that he has more people to talk to. Or more people he can embarrass Bruce with. 

There’s definitely something that Danny’s missing here, but he doesn’t intend to spend enough time around them for it to matter. All he’s here to do is shadow Alfred and hopefully get a job. Maybe having friends in this dimension would be nice, but that’s something to consider after he’s figured out his living situation.

“Oh!” Tim says suddenly, holding out his phone to Danny. “Give me your number. You can text me any questions you have about us.”

“Can’t Alfred answer any questions I have?”

“Sure, but he’ll give you the polite, respectful answer. I can give you all the hot gossip.”

Danny can’t help but smile at that. He thinks he’s found a good friend in Tim, but only time will tell. “As much as I’d like that, I don’t actually have a phone. So.”

“I can get you one right now,” Tim says.

“No, no! It’s fine. I’ll buy one once I have like. A paycheck or something. Wait,” Danny pauses, “I don’t have a bank account either. Okay, so this is gonna take some time, but eventually I’ll have a phone!”

Tim turns to Bruce. “Okay, I can’t even judge you for this one. If you don’t let him work with Alfred, I’ll find a position for him at WE.”

WE? That’s a new term. There’s still so much he needs to learn about this dimension and Danny can’t get started because he can’t access the internet and all the libraries are closed when he wanders. 

Besides him, Damian clicks his tongue, then takes a plate of eggs, fruit, and jam covered bread from Alfred and takes a seat next to Bruce. 

Danny decides to take the lull in conversation as a chance to ask Alfred for some water, only to see that somehow, without him noticing, a full glass has appeared where his empty plate once was. He looks up to see Alfred round the island, passing off the request toast to Bruce and Tim, then collecting all the empty plates he can find.

He mentally notes the moment as further proof that Alfred has magic. 

The three members of the Wayne family busy themselves with their food. Danny cradles the cool glass in his hand, drinking slowly so he doesn’t upset his stomach even more, and tries not to tense up as the back of his neck prickles. They’re not obvious about it, but they’ll all paying close attention to him and it’s making him anxious. 

Normal people aren’t so focused or intense. They certainly aren’t as dangerous as the three in the kitchen. Danny isn’t even sure how he can tell, he just can. It might be some sort of instinct, recognizing them as potential threats due to all the ghosts he’s fought since the Accident. 

He really hopes he never finds how why they’re all so dangerous.

There’s quiet clink of a plate, and when he looks up, Alfred is taking the last few empty plates to the sink.

“I could wash those for you,” he offers, “Since it’s, y’know, what I’m here for. To help you.”

Alfred smiles warmly and shakes his head once. “There is no need just yet, Danny. Thank you for the offer, however. I would be glad to have such a kind person help me, should you choose to work with me by the end of today.”

It doesn’t feel right to let Alfred cook for him and clean up after everyone. But he also doesn’t want to go against Alfred in his workplace. Or his home? The manor may also be his home, which is worrying for the future of Danny’s professional boundaries. 

Damian leaves, saying he needs to get ready for school, and Tim mumbles something about work before Alfred talks over him and tells Bruce that Tim is taking a sick day. He doesn’t seem to mind being ordered around by a butler, though most of the orders are phrased as very pointed observations. Danny’s beginning to think it’s a British thing.

And then Alfred finishes washing the dishes and leaves everything in the drying rack, and says, “Why don’t we discuss the possible terms of Danny’s employment in your study, Master Bruce.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Bruce says as he stands, pushing his seat in. He gestures of Danny to follow him and begins walking out of the kitchen.

Danny hesitates, but goes easily enough, some of his worry easing when Tim and Alfred both walk with him, guiding him through the manor.

He’d look around and take in everything if he could; Danny’s too busy thinking of worst case scenarios to enjoy seeing all the paintings and photographs and various decorations scattered throughout the manor. Sam’s place was always clean, save for her room, and only existed to show off wealth. Vlad’s was a castle in Wisconsin, which already says more than enough.

Wayne Manor, on the other hand, is big and homey. There’s a history within these walls. It’s almost tangible, full of love and laughter and grief and hope. The wealth is obvious, but so is the love of family. 

Even in Bruce’s study, there are signs. Photographs on the wall, all carefully framed, of various people holding poses. Danny keeps his eyes on them as Bruce rounds the large desk and gets settled, taking in the smiles of a young boy next to an elephant, a trio of girls at a ballet, a group shot of the family on a beach vacation.

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Tim asks, following his gaze to the photographs.

Danny nods. “Everyone looks really happy.”

“That’s probably why there’s so few of these photos,” Tim says, then quickly covers up his somber tone with a cough. “Go ahead and sit down.”

So he sits, feeling like he’s at the principal’s office, in trouble yet again for some ghostly nonsense. Except instead of his principal, it’s a rich man who might be his boss by tomorrow.

“Now,” Bruce begins, folding his hands together on top of the desk, “I understand that you want to work as Alfred’s apprentice, of sorts. Assist him with his own tasks. Is this correct?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“And if I’m understanding you properly so far, you are in need of a job because you’re homeless. Yes?”

“Also yes.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “If you wish to live within the city itself, we would be happy to help you find a good place to live. However, you could also live here, as Alfred does. It make needing transportation unnecessary, and you would remain close to Alfred should he need any help.”

He almost instinctively rejects the offer, too used to expecting the worse from wealthy men. An immediate offer to live with them? So suspicious it’s not even funny. 

But he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. And it would keep him close to Alfred. 

“Staying here sounds like the better option. I have a few conditions, though,” he says, watching Bruce’s face carefully for any sign of anger or annoyance.

There’s none. He’s as patient and unflappable as ever. 

“And they are…?” he prompts when Danny doesn’t continue. 

“I won’t be your son,” he says. “No adoption. I’ve had enough of rich men trying to force me into their families just to prove a point, or for some other stupid reason. I’m not having it here.”

“Fair enough,” Bruce says. 

“And if I find out you’re like, secretly evil, I’m allowed to run away with my body intact. You don’t get to keep any part of me.”

“Also fair,” Bruce says, nodding slowly as he begins to look more and more concerned. 

“No cloning or other experiments with humans. If I see any sign of that, I’m out.”

Bruce goes very, very still in a way that means nothing good. Danny squints at him, then glances to Tim so he can gauge if this is bad or not. Only Tim is also very still, staring down at the floor and slightly pale. Paler than before, in any case. 

“Please don’t have some sort of secret lair in your basement. I do not want to know if you’re leading a cult or not. I want no part of it. Either don’t have a secret lair in your basement, or keep me out of it.”

Alfred clears his throat delicately. There’s the faintest trace of laughter in his voice when he says, “All very good conditions, don’t you think, Master Bruce?”

“Right. Yes. I… accept those conditions. Which are very reasonable.”

Danny squints at him, wondering which of those conditions, exactly, is throwing him off guard. He’s well aware that all of them are rather outlandish, but considering his life, he’s not taking any chances. So far the Waynes seem like a pleasant family, but he thought Vlad was cool up until he got tortured and then subsequently never truly got away from him. 

This second attempt at life is too important to risk. 

If Bruce is evil with a secret basement liar, Danny is well within his rights to lose his shit about it.

“Okay,” Danny says after a minute. “That’s it. Those are all my conditions.”

“Right! Well, why don’t we talk about your salary.”

��Um.”

Danny shoots Alfred a wide-eyed look of panic. At that exact moment, Damian appears in the doorway of the study and says, “Pennyworth, I am in need of a ride to school.”

“What’s got you so excited for school?” Tim asks, twisting around so Damian can see his incredulous expression.

“Colin has promised to show me pictures of his cousin’s pet bird.”

Tim nods as if this is all very normal. Alfred quietly promises Danny that he’ll be back soon, then leaves with Damian so the kid can continue his education. Which leaves Danny floundering of an answer, at a complete loss as he tries to come up with reasonable numbers for a salary.

“Can I just shadow Alfred for a day before we talk about this?” he asks, searching for a way out of this situation.

Bruce frowns. “It would be best to get the details settled now. You’ll have plenty of time to learn from Alfred later.”

“Let me handle this,” Tim says, putting a hand on Danny’s shoulder. Then he looks at Bruce and suddenly isn’t the tired, fun teenage boy Danny’s been hanging out with during breakfast. Now he’s serious, holding himself tall, as if he has equal standing with Bruce. 

Please come back fast Alfred, Danny mentally pleads as Tim and Bruce start speaking about wages and hours and health insurance and kidnapping policies. 

What the hell kind of butler job even needs a kidnapping policy? 

Maybe he didn’t think this through. But now that he’s here, Danny’s determined to see it through. He’s gotta get this job; if not for his sake, then for Alfred’s.

No one should have to handle the Waynes, daily, on their own. That, at least, is something Danny can help with. 

If there’s anything Danny’s good at, it’s dealing with crazy. 

Now that’s something he can confidently put on his resume. 

("Are you sure about him?" Damian asks as Alfred drives him to school.

"Quite certain," Alfred replies, smoothly switching lanes.

"And he's just here to work? Not for Batman, or Robin, or to infiltrate the family?"

"Indeed. In fact," Alfred says, glancing up into the rear view mirror where he can see Damian scowling down at his backpack, "he was rather insistent that no one adopts him. It was one of his conditions for staying in the Manor."

This isn't much, just word of mouth for a stranger they know virtually nothing about, but it's enough to appease Damian for the time being.

"Fine," he says, just as they pull up to the school drop-off lane. "I will permit him to stay so long as he doesn't harm the family or try to take my place."

"Very good. I imagine you will get on well with him once you get to know him. He's a difficult boy to dislike."

"We'll see," Damian mutters, then adjusts his grip on his backpack in preparation to leave. "I shall continue my surveillance of Danny when I return from school."

"Have a good day, Master Damian," Alfred calls out after him as he exits the car. He lingers just long enough to see Damian walk through the gates of the school, the merges back into traffic and begins the drive home. And if he drives a little faster than normal, there's no one around to point it out. Not that anyone could blame him for looking forward to day of teaching Danny the various ins and outs of his duties as a butler.

Bruce has had many children to raise and mentor in the lovely heroes and people they are today. It's about time Alfred got a student of his own.)

[palbabor-writes]

Shigaraki noncon fic when 👀

oh. well, how about now?

Culmination

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!OC

Warnings: this is an example of a DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, seriously, this thing has full on tw.non-consensual sex, verbal and physical abuse, fingering, cunnilingus, stalking, breaking and entering, and a terrible no good very bad shigaraki, like for real - this is a DARK FIC - so shoo if that isn’t your thing, tw.noncon, tw.physcial abuse, tw.head trauma, tw.degradation, tw.stalking, tw.blood 

just, you know, all of the warnings - take all of them 

Word Count: 5041

That skirt looks good on you.

The shortness makes his eyes narrow, sharp vermillion glinting in the moonlight, but he can’t deny that he likes the way it hugs your hips and temptingly hikes as you bend to collect your mail from the brass box by your entryway. The silhouette that’s illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamp is nothing short of breathtaking and he hungrily licks at his battered lips, tongue tracing over the scar that splits his skin.

Notes: This is a commissioned fic for @kugutsuu! While it is pretty close to a reader insert, I did take the liberty of using her OC in this & because of that the descriptions are little more honed in and less neutral, plus, uh, she has a name. Shout out to @libiraki for the beta edit & all of her comments *smooches*

Culmination cul·mi·na·tion /ˌkəlməˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun the highest or climactic point of something

“This is not wise,” Kurogiri warns, voice steady, low, “it is also not something that he would want for you.”

“Mmmph, what the fuck do you know? You always like to act like you know him better, like you’ve got some kind of upper hand on his thoughts, his plans. You’re not fooling anyone, I know he tells you fuck all too, Kurogiri, you just like to pretend you’re superior to me. Well, too fucking bad. I’m sensei’s successor. I’m the one who he trusts and no one, not even you, Kurogiri, knows him better than I do. Got that?”

“I apologize. I do not mean to offend you Shigaraki Tomura, I only seek to warn–” Kurogiri pauses, mist like form shivering as he debates his next move. Tomura is still young after all and has much to learn. His inexperience and sheltered upbringing are likely directly to blame for this situation. It’s not his fault that this has happened. They should have been prepared for it. He, himself should have known better, should have planned some stratagem, something to counter this burst of... hormones... from his charge. “If you are caught, if she reports you to the authorities, or if she knows a hero, then all will be for naught. We’ve got much to do, and our master would not be pleased with this distraction, successor or not. You know this Shigaraki Tomura, I know you do.”

“She won’t,” Tomura drawls, a wicked grin curling his lips upward, baring a sharp row of gleaming teeth. It hurts his skin when he smiles like this, but he can’t help it. He’s too excited, too piqued. Fuck, he’s even half hard, picturing just how your face will fall, how the swell of your lips will quiver, shake, when you see him at last. You’ll know what’s going to happen, you’ll have to, and if you don’t, well, he’ll make you put it all together.

Kurogiri is muttering something about propriety and consequences, but Tomura isn’t listening. He’s too busy scooting closer to the edge of the bar, hips pressing against the wood until the ache that rests within his bulging pants has lessened.

“I can see that you are not listening.”

“Oh? What the fuck gave that away?”

He’s thought about how he’ll go about it.

Should he sneak behind you on the train? Or carefully shadow you home; weaving his way in and out of the alleyways, padding over wet pavement, breath hot under his dark hood, hands flexing in his pockets, cock throbbing behind the pinch of his zipper, until you’re at the sanctity of your door?

No.

That one sounds like something out of a thriller. Besides, you’re a woman; you’re skittish. He’s seen how you look behind you when you hop up onto the street, the way your neck strains, twisting, leaning forward, peering into the gloom. No doubt your ears will be pricked, wholly attuned to the smallest sound. Besides, if he opts to grab you outside of your apartment, what if you scream?

He’d do his best to clap a sweaty palm over your curled lips, avoiding the threat of your teeth, smearing that alluring shade of lip gloss, that you always insist on applying as you leave the office, all over your face as he muffles the gasp and shrill cry you’ll let out. But it’s risky. Something might eke out, might bleed over to the ground units, or he might just lower all five fingers. It wouldn’t be on purpose and he’d hate to see you splattered all over the ground, your too hot blood leaking through his fingertips, flecking skin and pretty white bone painting the crime scene he’d leave behind a vibrant red. Your red.

There’s also the added worry of your height.

You’re taller than him. Not by too much, he reasons, sucking his teeth as his cock twitches within the confines of his dark jeans again, picturing your statuesque form. Just enough. High enough that he’d need to strain his arms a little more. However, he doubts that he’d underestimate the difference. He’s stood next to you on the platform of the train, too often to count now, and he’s got the image of you engrained upon his psyche. Even now, if he shutters his twitching eyelids, he can see your outline, knows just where you’d fall, where he’d be able to press, to grab.

It’s almost nightfall, and it’s a Friday. That means you’ll be out a little later tonight. The risk of the doorway, while tempting, will need to be ruled out. Too likely someone else will stumble into the complex, will see him pushing you up the stairs, see his hands sinking into those soft waves of brown hair, his fingers sliding over your neck, plucking at your skin, forcing you to comply.

Besides, your window will be easier.

That skirt looks good on you.

The shortness makes his eyes narrow, sharp vermillion glinting in the moonlight, but he can’t deny that he likes the way it hugs your hips and temptingly hikes as you bend to collect your mail from the brass box by your entryway. The silhouette that’s illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamp is nothing short of breathtaking, and he hungrily licks at his battered lips, tongue tracing over the scar that splits his skin.

Should he let you get undressed? Let you take a shower? Brush out those silken locks and slip into something that’s easier for him to slide off of you? How long does that take? Ugh.

He’d like to ram you into the wall, jerk that plaid tartan up and dance his fingers under the sweep of your ass, exulting in each sound you gift him. You’ve got a nice voice after all. He’s heard it, once or twice, as you chat with your coworkers, or friends, on your phone. He’d like to see how sharp he can make it, or maybe it will drop even lower, rasping out shallow breaths as he drags each moan from you, or squealing as he sinks one long finger into that soft, petal pink, that he imagines your cunt looks like.

His dick feels like it’s going to burst. One hand drops to the tent it’s created and strokes a soothing rhythm along its length. He’s not worried about not lasting. He’s fucked himself to completion too many times today for that. He’d slink into his darkened room, he’d picture you, your porcelain skin, the cut of your jawline and the tremble of your lips as he worked himself into you. It always clears too fast, as he makes it through the levels of your arousal too quickly and all too soon he’s splashing thick ropes of his release over the dark material of his shirt and the bunched fabric of his boxers.

It had eased the itch, had gotten him through the day, gotten him to this cold balcony, but it’s not enough. Not anymore.

Ah. You took a shower.

Your hair is damp, and it clings to your shoulders, pooling moisture around the dip of your collarbone, staining the front of that shirt you’re wearing. It’s white and he can see the tips of your nipples as the wetness seeps downward, aided by the tug of gravity and the shaking strands of your hair.

Fuck. He’s not gonna make it much longer.

He wants you to hop in bed, to curl into the sheets, tuck yourself in, let your heartbeat slow. Relax, relax, relax echoes through his mind as he watches you pull your downy comforter back, hands patting at the ache, teeth biting, leaving indentations, half moons of strain and impatience. Not long now, he reasons, not long now.

Your light snaps off and he lunges forward, bracing himself against the slippery brick, fingers carefully scrabbling over the ledge of your window sill. The panes groan when he applies that jerk of pressure to them. Part of him wants to just decay the fucking thing, but he’s not sure he can control it, not when he’s like this. Drool froths at the sides of his lips and he flecks the droplets against his hands and the smooth glass, steadily jimmying the warped wood upwards, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder and the pounding spasms that are racing down his clawed fingers.

There! Finally!

The hinges splinter, and he topples inside, hitting the rough flooring of your apartment with a thud. His feet are already under him, bracing his fall, and he allows himself to hunch forward, frigid breath streaming into a fine mist as he looks up, searching for you.

The noise of his entrance had startled you. Your wide eyes and clutch of the soft duvet between your fingers give that much away. Good. That’ll make this first step easier.

He’s on the bed in a heartbeat and, for a brief instant, all you can see is red. His eyes are bright, glossy, feverish, glazed over with some kind of manic fervor, and that shimmering vermillion makes your gut twist. You need to move; now.

It takes a second for your body to catch up with your brain. You weren’t groggy, or sleep fogged. Shit, you’d barely fluffed your pillow before you heard the window smattering to bits, but this whole situation is a heady mixture of confusion and pulse thumping terror for you. What the fuck–no... who the fuck is this? Your first thoughts drift to plausible reasons. Is this a robbery? Some kind of misguided hit? Maybe it’s a villain who’s fleeing from a hero. Maybe... maybe it’s... a mistake? Please, let it be a mistake. You can feel your fingers shaking as you scrabble away from the lean jumble of dark limbs that’s doing its utmost to corner you. Each time you kick your feet out he’s already there and you can hear his unsteady breaths as he looms closer.

“W-what are you... who the-wha-... what do you w-w-want?” you stammer, tongue clumsy behind your chattering teeth. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins and it’s making you shake and slur your words. Your eyes snap downward and you scan your bedside table, looking for something, anything, that will get this creep the fuck away from you.

“Shhhh–” the strange man whispers, ducking his head from his dark hood and shaking out his chin length white hair. You don’t want to look at him, so you push yourself against the headboard, bare feet bracing against his bent knees. “You look so much prettier up close.”

“What t-the fuck?” you spit out, throat clenching with fresh horror. He’s seen you before? Is he crazy? Is he some kind of stalker? “If you don’t get away from me... right... right now... I’ll... I’ll call the cops. Don’t!” you shriek out, voice cracking as one of his hands wraps around your upper arm. His touch is cold, clammy and you flinch, body jerking so sporadically that you fall onto your bedroom floor.

Your bottom skitters across the wood, but you don’t waste any time on the pain, instead you surge to a distorted crawl, nails grabbing, feet wobbling as you make for your bedroom door. He’s on you in an instant and his weedy body is trapping you under him, mouth close to your ear, his warnings a gnarled stream of hot air. His fingers wrap around your throat and you gag as he yanks you backwards, knocking what little wind remained in your lungs out.

“Do something like that again and I’ll kill you,” he hisses, long nails pinching into the tender flesh of your neck. “I don’t know why you want to be on the floor for this, but I’ll play along. Now, be a good girl and keep still.”

His free hand laces its way up the thin material of your sleep shirt and he hastily gropes at your breast, pinching and pulling on your nipple until it distends prettily into his chilled touch. You bite back a cry when he twists the bud, thumb swiping over the hurt until it blends into a potent mingling of startled pleasure. “Mmm, perky–” he gasps out, licking his sloppy tongue over your pulse. The hand that’s holding the pressure against your throat loosens and you jolt forward, squirming against his grip.

“You- you disgusting pig!” you grit through clenched teeth, shaking your head and straining your thighs upward until they’re burning from the effort. “Let go of me! Right now!”

“You sound even better than I imagined…” he muses, nose poking against the side of your face, unperturbed by your distraught movements. “Smell good too. Did you wear that scent just for me? Mmm, I bet you did. It smells even better on your skin. I had Kurogiri get me some, so I could put it on those panties of yours. You left them in your bag, at the gym. Bet you didn’t even notice they were gone, did you? I was too quick for you. Ahh, but they smell just like you! Aahaha... ahh, I did such a good job with that find. Bet it’ll be even better when it’s fresh...”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” It comes out sharply, likely way too abrasive and challenging, at least for this situation, and the second the question leaves your lips, another burst of adrenaline lances through you. It’s honestly not helpful. All of those fucking things you hear about it, how it’s supposed to give you this superhuman strength, or the will to push your way out of danger. Yeah, no. It just makes you jittery and makes his steady gropes against the small mounds of your breasts spark an extra dose of tender sensitivity, something that pools into your gut and radiates outward. Shit.

“Ooh, you like that, don’t you?”

It’s not an exaggeration. You’d let out the breathiest whine when he trailed his steadily warming fingertips away from your peaked nipple, horrifyingly bleating out against its loss. He chuckles as he moves onto the twin, prodding and plucking disjointedly at the pebbled tip, shifting backwards, off of you, spreading his legs and resting his knees on either side of your shaking thighs, easing up on your throat and letting you gulp down a few hungry pulls of air. You can hear his mirth increasing as you brace your hands against the floor, steadying you within his loosening grasp.

“See? It’s so much easier when you don’t struggle. Although... I think I would like to hear you scream, at least once... maybe later… hmm?”

You shift your head and glance back at him. He’s watching you through hooded eyelids, that blazing red muffled by the fall of his dark lashes. The smile that’s lingering on his cracked lips is keen and he wets his skin with a swift lick, pink tongue pausing against a sharp canine. Your stomach drops when he tilts his chin upward, silently motioning for you to turn around.

He scoots back, giving your long legs room to maneuver underneath you, but he keeps one hand braced against your heaving chest, lazily popping from one tender breast to the other. “Get up,” he rasps out, eyes hungrily roving over your crumpled shirt and tear-streaked face. You bat your fist against your cheek, mind whirring, trying to see some way out of this.

“You don’t have to do this,” you bargain as you stand, teeth snagging on your lower lip and pulling, fingers curling into your palms, jabbing until you can feel the skin breaking. “I won’t tell anyone... I won’t... I won’t report you...I... I–”

“You finished?” the man sighs, visibly rolling his eyes at your garbled pleas. “I’ve waited for this long enough, you know... way too long. And I don’t wait for anything. Now get on the bed and shut your mouth, before I shut it for you.”

Your knee hits the side of your bed and your eyes drift to that broken window, eyeing the shards of glass that lay gleaming, like diamonds in the moonlight. He’s quick; but is he that quick? He’s not off the floor yet and he’s turned his head, satisfied that he’s broken you...that he’s got the upper hand...if you...no...don’t think...just go!

Legs are tense as they race forward and your hands are already outstretched, grabbing, snatching, lacing into the glass and gathering the pricking fragments into your palm. It hurts, but you ignore the pain, wheeling toward the window, to the crisp freedom that the night air promises. To...to…

The world shifts again and a bright burst of white streaks across your vision. It shimmers, hanging for an instant, dazzling you with all the colors that exist in the spectrum; soft blues, vibrant purples, hazy oranges, cheerful yellows, and then they all flicker out, swallowed up by the voracious pull of black.

You can’t move your hands, or your legs, and everything is awash in deep, mottled splashes of consciousness. The plush softness of the bed makes you feel dizzy and you try to shift, but something isn’t right. There are pins and needles in your hand. Why are you holding them? That’s a stupid thing to do... what if you bleed? What if... oh... oh God…

That man is still here. Who is he? Did he even say?

“Who... who are you?” you ask, voice dreamy, eyes falling over the pale dip of his unclothed ribs, wandering up the curve of his face, pausing on each imperfect splintering of his skin.

“I’m Tomura,” he answers simply, that eerie grin spreading over his lips. The false safety of your confusion flutters and there’s a pounding at the back of your head. You twist your neck, tongue too heavy in your mouth, lapping over the traces of old copper that rest between your gums. There’s something on your stomach. Red. It’s red. It looks pretty in the moonlight and you sigh, curious why your legs are spread like that; it’s lewd. To be sitting in front of Tomura with your legs wide open, naked cunt clenching and pulsing against the cold.

“I’m Lydia,” you say blankly, eyes blearily looking for that vibrant rust that’s watching you so closely.

“I know,” Tomura laughs, gleefully barking into the stillness of the night. “Fuck. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember?” you echo, brows furrowing, arms trying to pull down again. Something’s holding them. Strange.

“Hmm, I told you not to struggle. Not my fault you didn’t listen.” His fingers snap in front of your face, refocusing your wandering attention, and you groan at the noise, wincing away from him.

“Stop,” you whine, shaking your head, knees touching as your back arches. Why can’t you move? And...and why...why are you naked? Questions keep drifting across your mind and as Tomura slides closer, a chill shakes its way up to your skull. “Don’t!” you gasp out, suddenly horrified he’s prying your legs apart.

“Shut up,” he grunts, one hand applying a pressure to your neck as the other dips between your hips, easily parting the folds of your slit and poking haphazardly over you. Your whole spine curves upward, sinking that questing digit lower, his finger pad brushing across your entrance. “Ah! Look at you, what a greedy little bitch. Acting like you don’t want me...fuck...you’re soaking…”

His voice drops to a hush as he leans back, eyes following the steady in and out motions his index fingers are creating within you. His nails are sharp but you kinda like how it scrapes and pulls, enjoying the drag down your sticky walls as he works more of your arousal into his hand. With a hiss he shifts his hold, rotating the digit and cupping his palm under the swell of your ass, holding you up as he pushes deeper.

“Shit, Lydia,” he growls, leaning over your prone form and sinking his nose against your neck. “You’re so warm and wet for me. Look at you!” He’s fully gloating now, and he pulls out of your cunt with a slick pop, lazily passing the gossamer strands between his splayed fingers. “Such a little slut… I wanna see what it tastes like!”

Something warns you to move and you wriggle backwards as he plants himself directly above your slippery pussy, scooting along the sheets until he has to grab you. His fingers are rough, sure to leave bruises and that tingling sense of danger returns as his damp breath fans over you. The slither of his rough tongue makes a strangled gasp escape your clamped lips and your hands flail again, working more of that tingling pain down your arms.

He’s clumsy, but fuck, he’s eager and that makes all the difference. As soon as he finds the quivering button of your clit, you’re too far gone to think anymore. Even that nagging worry fades away as he suckles and presses those uneven lips to the bud. The stick of his dry skin creates this breathless sensation and you buck upwards, feet working past the roped stockings he’s... wait... what? Stockings? Why... why are those there? What’s going on? Wait. When did you take off your clothes? When did... oh... oh no...

Your hips crash back to the mattress, and it dislodges his grip on your thighs. Some lingering instinct makes you bring them together, trapping his pale head and fixing him with a flushed stare. For a breath, he’s still, but you can practically feel his rage and impatience, bubbling away, just beneath the surface.

“Bitch,” he snaps, head lifting, wavy hair scratching against your sensitive skin. “Why can’t you fucking listen? Or just sit fucking still? Such a goddamn cunt. You know what? You know what you’ve done? Huh? Do you? Lydia? I’m fucking done. Thought I’d at least let you get something out of this, try to keep you happy, to see if it was fucking worth it. Kurogiri’s always going on about how I need to grow up, to calm down, well, fuck that and fuck you!”

That’s right. He broke in.

That’s why he’s here. That’s why...he hit you...no...he knocked you out...fuck, he’s going to kill you...he’s going to…

His hands are like a steel vice and he clamps his fingers against you so tight you’re worried he’ll come back to you with his palms covered in your blood. Wait. The glass. Are you bleeding? Your eyes fall back to that streaked stain on your stomach and your blood goes cold. With a shudder, you look up at your clasped hands, finally taking in the strap of his dark belt and the bloom of copper that’s dried between your curled fingers. It must...it has to be from the glass.

Tomura punches the headboard, and the reverberation makes you startle, a high-pitched squeak falling from your lips. “Look at me Lydia,” he demands, cold digits curling under your chin and forcing your head upward. “Look at me while I ruin this pussy of yours.”

As soon as the words leave him, he’s impaling you on his cock and you’re staggered by the sheer girth of him. Your legs slip and convulse, heels grinding into the sheets until you hear the fabric rip. The stretch is too much...it’s too much... it hurts…

You think you say something along those lines, but Tomura ignores you, too engrossed in the sheer heat and pull of your cunt. He throbs when he finally bottoms out and you feel a fresh burst of tears stream down your cheeks, hot in the night's chill air.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust, already pulling back as soon as your breath slips back into your lungs. The cants and ruts are shallow at first and he sucks on his thumb before he applies it to the cherry red of your clit, fiddling with you inexpertly. “Easy, you dumb slut, you’ll take my dick off if you do that again. Fucking relax…”

Relax? Who the fuck is this brat? All he’s doing is jolting into you and complaining with each stroke. What a whiny, good for fucking nothing baby. No. Incel’s a better word for what he is.

“What- what’s the matter?” you snarl, eyes narrowing up at his pink tinted cheeks. “Just fucking cum, you pathetic little bitch. Bet you can’t last, bet you can’t...ah…”

That ass! He swiveled his hips and somehow managed to hit that spongy patch of nerves that sits toward the back of your cunt. A dark leer splits his face when he notices your reaction and he carefully lines himself up again, hips jutting forward until he sees your eyes roll back. “Not so mouthy anymore, huh?” he gloats, index finger joining his thumb, pinching at your clit.

He keeps up a teeth chattering pace, but each time you gasp he purses his lips and scowls down at you. Finally, when he’d actually sent a scattering of stars across your vision, he pulls away, leaning back on his haunches, eyes following the steady in and out progression of his dick. “You’re too wet,” he grumbles, sucking his teeth and fixing you with a disgruntled glare.

“Wh-what the hell does that mean?” you bite out, vainly trying to swallow down another series of moans. This fucker, he’s actually building you up to an orgasam.

“Need you to be tighter,” he grouches, hands pulling away from your dripping pussy and working on the ties that hold your ankles. As soon as he’s got the sheer fabric off, he looms back over you, reaching for your clasped wrists. The belt has cut off your blood flow and your arms inelegantly flop to your sides when he frees them. You almost want to try to make a run for it again, but he’s still keeping that steady push and pull of his cock going. That dedication and perseverance to his own enjoyment, it’s kinda impressive, if you wanted to look at it that way that is.

“Get on your stomach,” he imperiously commands, voice falling to a low hush, closer to a rasp. You balk, but he doesn’t give you the time to move, yanking himself out of your cunt, flipping you over and shoving you down. “Lift your ass. No. Higher. Yes. Keep still, or I’ll miss, and if I miss more than once, well, let’s just say you won’t like me much then.”

“Don’t like you now,” you mumble, words muffled by the bundled sheets that are under your lips.

You must have arched your hips enough because he slides in cleanly. The swell of his length makes you gasp out a long moan and you can hear his giggles, sharp and jangling behind your head. “Such a fucking slut! Ahhh, this already feels better.”

The trusts he’s giving you are shallower in this position, but you can feel every vein that races along his length as they pulse and throb against your over sensitized walls. He’s ramming into that sweet spot at an alarming rate and you can feel your cheeks heating up. You want to grind back but the hump of your ass prevents you from moving much, instead, Tomura makes up for your lack of movement with each cant, grinding his bony hips into you with a low crunch.

There’s something slick that’s falling over your shoulder blades and you crane your head around, peering through the umber haze of your hair. Ugh, gross, he’s drooling. The line of saliva is perfectly connected to your back and you watch it gleam in the low light. When Tomura notices your gaze he licks his tongue across the strand, shattering the connection as he brings a hand to the back of your head, pressing you down into the mattress.

“It’s not enough,” he groans, leaning back and examining your prone backside. “Cross your legs.” It’s not a request, but you’re genuinely confused by his demand and you shake your head under the blanket of his four fingers. “Tch, dumb bitch. Here.” He shifts upward and you almost fall to pieces at the stimulation. The tip of his cock is tapping and pressing at the ring of your cervix, and you can feel every fiber of your being quaking as he sinks past that last barrier. “There we go,” Tomura gloats, threading your legs over each other and leaning into you.

He’s heavy and the spidery trail of his leftover saliva makes him stick to you uncomfortably, but you don’t care. As terrible as this is, you want him to keep going, you’re too close for him not to. This whole thing is a fucking travesty, but you’ll be damned if you don’t end up getting something out of it. The grunts and whines he’s giving you must mean that he likes it too and you do your best to hold on as he picks his way back to those steady pounds and thrusts.

“Tighter! Keep your legs together! I’m almost there. Come on! Fuck you, tighter!”

You do as he says and clench your thighs as tightly as you can, squeezing until you’re shaking. Finally, finally, he rams back into that spot, the tip of him forcing its way to that intimate part of you and hurtling you into a release that leaves you absolutely breathless under him. It must have been enough for him too, you think, feeling the telltale pulses of his cock and that rush of cum as it splatters into your waiting cunt.

Tomura collapses over you and you groan at the added sting of his full weight. Lazily, his lips fall to your ear and his stuttered breaths pass over you as he pulls back, tugging his softening length from your battered pussy. Once he’s out, he shoves your partially lifted head back down, laughing at the sight of you, clearly delighting in his success.

“Keep still Lydia,” he begins, nails scratching over your tingling scalp. “I’m not done yet.”

[forasecondtherewedwon]

I wish you would write a fic where Peter babysits Morgan and she puts on the Spidey mask💗

Thanks for the great prompt, Anon! Didn’t know when I’d have time to write this… then wrote it immediately.

Masking for a FriendCharacters: Peter Parker, Morgan StarkRating: G (except for a single swear)Word count: 1007

“I don’t know…” Peter trails off, scanning his bedroom (again) as Morgan sits―impatient and cross-legged―on the floor, watching him. “I don’t really have a lot of tech-type stuff you can play with. You’re sure you don’t like Lego?”

“Lego’s for babies,” Tony’s daughter informs him with that snappy Stark certainty. She’s five.

“What about checkers? I think my Aunt May has a board around someplace.”

“Do you have any flamethrowers?”

His gaze zips back to the tiny, serious brunette on the carpet. She’s leaning forward now, playing with the loose toe of her striped sock.

“W-what?” Peter swallows. “We maybe have… Hungry Hungry Hippos?”

“Do you have nono-tech?”

“Nanotech,” he gently corrects, panicking on the inside because he’s supposed to watch Morgan for three hours and she’s been here seventeen minutes. “Not really, buddy. That’s kinda your dad’s thing. Maybe the next time I’m there, you can give me a tour of―”

“Do you have a skipping rope?” Morgan demands, folding forward and wriggling until she’s flat out on her stomach. She traces shapes in the rug (probably the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence or something, knowing whose child she is) while Peter stares at her with the silent desperation of the babysitter who really wants to impress the parents. Even if the dad is already his mentor and idol and, ok, kind of his parental figure too.

It’s her first request that doesn’t make him terrified for her safety―one he can actually grant―only, Peter doesn’t have a skipping rope.

“Uhhh…” he stalls, moving swiftly around the room.

Is there anything he could use as a skipping rope? He checks under his bed, opens desk and dresser drawers. More than once, he’s made one with his web-shooters, but he’s not convinced that would be totally safe―too sticky? Strangulation hazard? Maybe Morgan has an undiscovered sensitivity to one of the compounds in his web-fluid’s makeup? And he’d hate for her to get a hold of one of the web-shooters and accidentally fire it into her eye or something. Oh, god. Peter’s freaking out now. Is this how it would feel to be a dad? Why is it so hard to entertain her and make sure she doesn’t die?!

“That.”

Peter quits feeling around in the bottom of his backpack (for what?) and spins to see Morgan up on her eager little elbows, pointing at his open closet. At the suit hanging right in the middle of the rail (Peter, you idiot, he tells himself). Not the fancy-occasions suit―the red one.

“That?” he asks tentatively, like he’s the one with only a few years’ worth of vocabulary.

“I want that,” Morgan confirms and now she’s pushing up onto her knees.

Peter grabs her squishy little waist to both help her not stumble (she’s tugged her socks half-off in the state of extreme boredom that being around her dad’s prodigy apparently inspires) and to stop her from bolting forward.

“That?” Peter checks again. This prompts a patented Morgan Stark “someone’s-trying-to-bullshit-me” frown. “That’s nothing special.”

“Yes, it is,” she insists.

He laughs, caught off guard by her conviction. That happens a lot.

“Why do you think that?” Peter tickles her sides and she giggles, crumpling to escape. He swings her upwards, all the way up and onto his shoulders.

“’Cause Daddy said you’re special.” He doesn’t know what to say, but Morgan’s good at preventing conversational lapses. “You’re Spider-Man and you’re special and you have a special suit, even if you can’t shoot from your hands LIKE THIS!”

Her volume increase is as abrupt as the way she thrusts her arms straight out, small face serious, and Peter cranes his neck to witness her mimicking Iron Man.

“Wow,” he compliments earnestly. “That’s really good, Morgan. You wanna practice flying around?”

She only nods once, intent on blasting imaginary enemies, so Peter races around the room, bounding to careful landings on his chair and bed―crouching in between to give her an opportunity to shift the position of her arms (presumably eliminating various targets in multiple directions).

They end up next to the closet and Morgan tilts forward to touch her upside-down forehead to Peter’s.

“You also have good hair,” she says, buttering him up to submit to her whims.

Peter laughs and caves, hoisting her down.

“Just the mask, ok? You can’t try the suit on until you’re taller.”

He runs a hand across the top of her head, measuring it against his stomach. Mostly, this gesture just catches the ends of her hair because Morgan’s dashed for the closet. She picks up the mask where it lays beneath his hanging Spidey suit.

“Is Friday in here?” she asks excitedly as Peter kneels behind her, trying to wrangle her long enough to smooth her hair back and gather it in his hand behind her neck to keep it out of the way.

“Actually, my suit lady’s named Karen.”

“Ok,” Morgan says.

It’s obviously dismissive, because she yanks the mask down over her head. Peter snorts a laugh.

He isn’t sure how much conversation she’s going to get out of Karen, since the suit lady was tailored to Peter specifically. But it’s never a good idea to underestimate Tony Stark. Not his aptitude for tech, not his reach, not his talent for anticipating the strangest of circumstances. Because somehow Karen grants Morgan access to everything she wants to see (nothing dangerous though, so Peter knows there are definitely still wards in place), anything she wants to know.

It takes her less time to tear herself away from The Science than it does for her dad to do the same, and once she remembers Peter’s still there, they transform the apartment into obstacle courses and secret lairs made out of couch cushions and―get this―“play Spider-Man” (according to Morgan). Which is basically the proudest Peter’s ever felt, being looked up to by this kid.

She even deigns to dip her hands into his massive bucket of Lego bricks, then gives the kind of sarcastic, pitying, cut-you-off-at-the-knees sigh that can only come from a Stark.

“I wish you would write a fic where…” (send me a summary)

[spring-emerald]

oooooh you made me discover a new song!!!! gosh one sentence it's hard....hhhhhhhhh "i'm not wasting your time, i'm not playing no games, i see you". THANK YOU IN ADVANCE

Hello, @finnthebunneh! Wow, I’m glad to have helped you discover a new song. :D Also, I made your request a part of my actors au series (while the cameras roll) because it fits the direction i’m going for, for that particular story, so I hope you don’t mind. Though, i suggest reading through the previous fics in this series (to provide more context) here and here. Also, the Valentine’s Day scenario referenced here is this fic. You’re welcome, and thank you for sending an ask!

The thing about Akihito is that he never learnshis lessons. Or wait, no. He shouldn’t sell himself short like that, because hedoes. He really does, at least on most things. Like the sciences, much to thesurprise of people. But that’s not the point because for some lessons, whichcan be argued as the more important ones, well… it has a tendency not to stickfor long.

Case in point: he’s falling, yet again, for aperson who is in love with someone else.

Oh, he knows its karma. There’s no ‘probably’ inthat sentence. What with all those hearts he’d broken, when he knows for a factthat they’re only cover ups- shallow replacements for the person he reallywants but can’t have.

He’d long since accepted that Natsushima -while hewill undoubtedly still accept him as his friend- will never really return thekind of love he wants to have from him. But there’s a part of him that aches atseeing his best friend pursue someone else, put an effort that he never didshow anything and anyone before. Its why, unknown to Natsu, Akihito sought outTomoyuki.

Misery loves company and all that shit, after all,right?

Honestly, it was only supposed to be just that.And maybe see for himself that he’s doing much better than someone else sinceAkihito is aware that he and Tomoyuki are in the same boat.

But he had underestimated how much of himself hewould see in the other man.

Indeed, Akihito is the one doing better thansomeone else when it comes to pretending to be alright, because this Tomoyuki personis just barely holding on. But seeing him like that didn’t make Akihito feelbetter. At least he’s had years of practice with Natsu. But this guy? This guyhad been given a lot of hope since he was a kid probably, and when all that hadbeen swept away by someone else, he’s just left heartbroken and fumbling andlost.

After the confrontation where he let slip pastsome deep dark secrets, he knows there’s no way he can just ignore this guy orthe sense of kindred spirit he’d felt.

They formed a tentative friendship after that.

Tomoyuki’s awkward around him, conscious of the wayhe acts and the things he says, especially at the beginning. Wary about Akihito’sintentions, like he couldn’t believe that Akihito really wants to be hisfriend. But Akihito takes it with a stride and understanding. He’s used topacing himself with other people anyway.

Slowly but surely, Tomoyuki warmed up to him, tothe idea of them being friends, until one day, Akihito knows that they just are.

Tomoyuki, as a friend, is different. He’s a lotmore than he lets on. People think he’s this goody two shoes, but Akihito nowknows that he’s not just that. He’s snarky, and dorky, passionate aboutliterature the way Akihito is passionate about the periodic table of elements.

What started as banding together because of similarcircumstances became an unlikely friendship.

For Akihito, it’s also an unlikely attraction. Iteven started off with harmless thinking. Because knowing what he knows nowabout Tomoyuki, he wondered how Mariko have not noticed this, how come she didn’tfall for this? Tomoyuki is a great guy and he’s not hard to love.

The thing is, Akihito doesn’t stop thinking that. Buthe doesn’t dare ask himself about what it could mean.

Then Valentine’s Day happened.

Natsushima won’t shut up about his surprise andplans with Mariko, and Akihito usually doesn’t mind. He can say that nowsincerely, (because his heart doesn’t throb anymore, he doesn’t ache, like howhe used to and he’s suspecting that the presence of a certain snowflakehas something to do with this), but it’s also starting to drive him insane. Hehopes that Tomoyuki isn’t experiencing the similar fate from Mariko, and thatthe woman had the decency to gush about it with her girlfriends instead.Although, she doesn’t really know what Natsu is planning, does she?

Dammit.

The moment Natsu left, finally, he grabs hisleather jacket, rides his motorbike to their university and waits for Tomoyukiwith a plan to take him away.

Although honestly, the outing had been more forhis own benefit than anything else, and if he happened to help a comrade alongthe way while he’s at it, then no one will doubt that he’s really got a kindheart.

And one that falls fast too, apparently. Becausehe knows that that moment, was the moment that the seed of affection he wasn’taware he’s actually nurturing had already taken root, and the awareness hadbeen very much like a sprout breaking out of the soil to have its first tasteof the sun.

Akihito thinks then that he’s in trouble.

—–

Saeko-sensei, theirdirector for this taping day pulls the two actors aside. “So, Kuroo-kun andSawamura-kun, we’re going to be filming the admission scene.”

The Daichi nods,while Kuroo settled for humming, as a stylist is still busy taming his hairinto submission.

“I’m pretty sure you alreadyknow the emotions this scene demands from your characters, and deliver.” Shepats both of them on their shoulder and heads back to the director’s chair,while the stylist finally deems Kuroo’s hair ready to film and they too taketheir positions in front of the camera.

Kuroo waggles hiseyebrows at Daichi, earning him a grin before he schools his expression andturns his back on him.

The AC says theirspiel, claps the clapboard and the cameras start rolling.

Daichi stomps with ahuff but Kuroo quickly catches his wrist, halting his advance.

“Tomoyuki, wait!” Kuroo effectively injects some desperation in hisvoice. Akihito can’t let him leave likethis.

“I don’t appreciatebeing made fun of, Akihito,” Daichithrows his arms down, losing the hand holding him in the process. “So stopwasting my time with this nonsense, or whatever this game is that you’replaying.” How can Akihito do this? Had hebeen planning this all along? He thought they were friends.

Around them, some ofthe stylists that are watching the scene unfold on the small screen gasp softlyat how Sawamura-san’s eyes were perfectly conveying the hurt and betrayal in hiseyes, completely captured by the cameras.

Kuroo grabs one ofDaichi’s arms.  “I’m not wasting yourtime, Yuki,” he says the name with alilt of affection. “I’m not playing no games.” He steps into Daichi’s space andcups his cheek. “I see you. And I’m telling you that I like you. More than as afriend.” Akihitio won’t make the samemistake. He won’t stay silent this time. He’ll take his chance, and he’ll provethat he deserves it. Because they also both deserve a shot at happiness.

Daichi’s taken in bythe sincere hopefulness and studies Kuroo’s face, his eyes, for signs of a lie,for a hint that this just one big, tasteless joke, but he finds none. He frownsin confusion and shrinks in hesitation. He swallows. Tomoyuki isn’t ready for this. God, he wants to believe Akihito rightnow, but… isn’t he in love with Natsushima? And Tomoyuki… He loves Mariko. Hedoes. Right?

Daichi’s breathing quickly,then shakes his head and pulls away from Kuroo’s hold. He can’t do this right now.

“I- I can’t… I’m- I’msorry.” Still shaking his head, Daichi blinks back the tears that arethreatening to fall and leaves Kuroo alone.

Kuroo stays there, runsa hand over his hair in frustration, grits his teeth and kicks the pavement. This is what you get for everything Akihito.He breathes heavily. No. He won’t letit end like this.

“And CUT!”

Kuroo loses thetension on his shoulders and goes up to Daichi and gives him a high-five,before they go over to the small screen to review what they’ve just shot.

“Great take, you two!”Saeko-san says with a wide grin. “Damn, it was so natural. Good job, you guys.”

“Thank you, Saeko-san.Though, Kuroo-kun did really well. He was so effective.” He bumps theirshoulders and throws him a dimpled smile.

“You flatter me,Sawamura-kun. Though I must say, your eyes really brought their A-game today,”he replies with a chuckle.

“Whatever,” Daichirolls his eyes.

Kuroo means itthough, and just watches on as Daichi converses with Saeko-san about the scene.They seemed natural, she said. Well, maybe they were, because Kuroo thinks hewasn’t completely acting back there.

Akihito isn’t the only one in trouble. Kuroo seemsto be too.

[uldren-sov]

price

hey I’ve been writing a lot of action lately (taking a pause in my other action fic too, also starring these two) so have some feels instead with my SW

I’ve been having so much fun making an entirely new story for her, guys. It’s been a blast

Karo Caya belongs to @damarlegacy​  who was lovely in letting me write as him for this like overview of their relationship <3

It started with a whisper in the dead of night, at the edge of sleep. A soft “hey” he almost missed. A few moments passed and maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, he shifted slightly, not to disturb the arms around him before nails curled and scraped lightly against his stomach. Not a trick? He made a checklist of other signs. The breath at the base of his neck was fuller, her fingers stayed curled, and then there was that soft word.

With a couple months under their belt since they’ve started ... this ... he had gotten used to a few things. He was used to how assured she was, forceful, very here-and-now and very here-I-am. Elora was not soft, not a soft word, feeling, or anything - pretty, hard edges around a wry, dry humor. So coming from her? This was weird.

“Hey,” he tested the waters, staring at the dark features of the far, windowed, wall. Not that anything was interesting there, it was raining - but it always rained in Dromund Kaas.

“I was ...” so it wasn’t in his head - “well, hoping you were asleep.” Her gripped tightened on him as nerves crept up the back of his neck. This wasn’t just weird, it was different. Different wasn’t good when it came to Sith. Still, he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. At least, for a bit. So, he didn’t reach toward the edge of the bed, closer to his blaster on floor, just yet. He hoped she didn’t give him a reason to. “I wanted to say something.”

“Sounds serious,” he played along, for now.

“I’d hope not,” there was a hot huff of air across his neck and shoulder. Nerves, too? “We are-” a pause and damn he knew that kind of pause well, what the fuck where ‘they’ anyways? “-friends, correct?” Well, no need for his blaster then. Probably.

“Something like that, I’d say,” he answered, the scratches and pressure from her nails was more insistent, anxious, he pulled her hand off him and put it on the bed instead. She got the hint.

“Friends enough for me to ask something of you? A favor?” she cleared her throat, and in the moonlight he saw that hand ball into a fist. She never asked anything, well, she never asked for a favor before. Are all the nerves because of her pride then, to ask something from him?

“Shoot.” It earned him a wry huff of a laugh. Huh.

“It is probably best if I just say it plainly and just get it all out in the open,” a pause, a gulp, a tense of her arm “The nature of my work ... the nature of my position ... being as I am ... ” she stopped, she took a deep breath, she started again, and his nerves flared for a whole other reason. “You’ve been the only one to be this close to me in a - in a very long time. The only one who can be in a position to catch me ... with my guard down.” What? Where was this coming from? He tried to turn around to face her but she held him still.

“Just, let me finish, please,” she continued in a smaller voice than what he’s used to. “I need to think about these circumstances. Constantly. So, to continue, given this as true and given our friendship ...

I hope that it can at least afford me a chance.” She cleared her throat, shifting, and letting him go.

“A chance?”

“That if ... when someone makes you an offer to try and kill me, as your friend, I hope you’ll allow me the chance to just make you a better offer first? And maybe change your mind.”

“Elora...”

“Your professionalism is peerless and I would not expect you to decline work based off of any personal feelings. I simply do not want to insult you by asking to tarnish your reputation. So just - let business be business that way nothing’s taken personally,” she pulled back from him. “That’s all.”

As he looked over her shoulder she had already turned her back to him. This was just about the opposite of what he had thought. Sure, it sucked that she had to lay this out like she did, but as far as he was concerned that was hand in hand with being a Sith. The fact that she wasn’t cutting this off now and instead already planning on how this could stay working; that this officially was a thing was kind of exciting. Contract work never gave a steady income but a stable boss with credits and influence to spare? He could get used to that.

He pulled her back against him even as she tipped her face against his arm as he stretched it underneath her head to hide from him. He didn’t miss the tentative way her hand reached, paused, and then settled over his. She was all stiff, square, shoulders and tension. Was she that worried about this?

“That, I can do,” he murmured. “... how long is a long time, by the way?”

“Emperor, preserve me,” she said exasperatedly but deflated with a breathy laugh, “shut up and get to sleep.” He chuckled low, burying his face experimentally in her soft hair. Which he immediately regretted the next morning when he wound up with a mouthful of it; brushing and spitting out strands well into lunch.

She was right, though, it wasn’t “if” it was “when” it happened. Not like anyone knew about the particulars of their ... arrangement. But, seemed like the fact alone that he had a direct line to the Darth made him a target just like anyone else she worked with. It’s just what happened in the Empire and yet another reason he fucking hated it but, hey - what can you do?

It didn’t happen often. Her enemies probably didn’t think he had the opportunity since they were careful to keep quiet and on the down-low about their business, and those that did probably didn’t think he was capable of doing it. They were always quick to underestimate him like that but it wasn’t a scenario he liked to think of anyways. There were some that dared, though. Apparently some people were that dumb, even here in the Empire.

The first happened almost a year in. It was some hotshot who was up and coming and gunning for her spot. He’d been around enough to know something else was going on, the guy was probably some underling of someone else, but that wasn’t his mess. All he had to deal with was his part in all of it. Sanctum, past a bunch of irritated Imperials, through corridors, up a lift, past more angry though more familiar Imperials, her secretary, and he was sitting right back down in front of her desk in the middle of the day. He was unannounced, unplanned for, and he was sure to make sure he was noticed coming here. To her credit, if she was confused she hid it well. Not surprising.

“Make me a better offer,” he sat back, tossing the datapad he was given onto her desk before stretching his legs out casually, crossing them at the ankles. It took the whole of two seconds for her to know what the contract was and know just what he was doing, probably in that order too.

She did so, gladly, and maybe even a bit relieved - but maybe he was projecting. Welcome to the team, he guessed. Sure, maybe it didn’t look good that his loyalty was “bought” but he had mouths to feed, a ship to maintain, and then some. He was loyal enough to come back to her in the first place and also lead her back to the poor sap who hired him in the first place. That counted for something, at least.

Over the years there would always be contracts for him to take her out maybe once or twice a year on average. The longer he worked with her, the bigger the payout seemed to be if he could just pull the trigger. But every single time she had a counter-offer and every single time he felt like he needed it less and less. The people who would contract him would disappear as soon as he told her about them, he didn’t even have to lift a finger. Easiest money of his life but anymore it just felt ... kind of wrong, getting rich off of her life like that.

Five years into this ... them being them ... and he knew he wasn’t ever going to kill her. He lived comfortably and then some, he didn’t need the money especially off of his friend’s head. It was rare that anything was constant in his life, but the precious few constants he kept safe, secure. He wasn’t sure when El became one of those things. He started to realize it, though, with this last contract on her.

He had actually been on his way to her place - overnight dock fees paid for, for a ship he won’t sleep in tonight and hasn’t slept in for years now, so long as he was on Dromund Kaas - before he got the message. Contacted and contracted by a dangerous, powerful, third-party who could actually do some damage. Damage he wasn’t about to let happen.

He drove with new purpose toward the heart of the city, actually landed his bike on her penthouse’s balcony, swiped a key and entered through that back door. It was less to hide he was there, more to get to her faster - the lifts take incredibly long and this had to be done now for a reason he really didn’t want to think about but was nagging all the same.

He only needed to turn the corner into the hallway before she was there, more alarmed than surprised, more concerned than curious.

“Karo, what’s wrong?” she asked, putting her hands on his arms and looking him over. Middle of the night, soaked through because of the rain; belatedly he realized he must have been quite the sight. But dressed down, flushed because she was caught off guard, and damn so was she.

Job first.

“El, I need you to, right now, just put a credit or something in my account. Something to leave a trail,” he said. He took her bare arm and led her along to where her own home office was. He could have probably sit on this a little but he wanted this contract and he wanted the people who hired him gone.

“What is this even about?”

“Just trust me, I want to get ahead of this and you can send your goons in after I’m done,” he let go as she walked to her desk. She cast a look back at him once but after some quick flicks and tapping of her fingers on various screens and holodisplays she stepped back.

“There is now record of a transaction between us,” she said, concern etched in her face - lit up by the blue electronics.

“Congrats, you just hired me as your bodyguard. ‘Scuse me,” he turned at once, marching out, his head far more of a storm than the one that always boiled in the sky. She got to him before he got to the door but one look back to her quieted her as well. She understood what the situation was - he’d only ask for money for these contracts - but the rest seemed to throw her. It sort of threw him too, despite much sense it made to him right now. She let him go and he braced himself against the rain as he drove back off into the night.

It didn’t take long. He left the scene with a warning, sending a message to anyone else who wanted to try to use him to get to her again. It sunk in, a little, on the drive back that they had changed, this had changed. That it stopped being all about the money a while ago. This was just the first time he acted on it.

He landed on her balcony again. This time he left his boots by the back door but still trailed rainwater in as he found her in her living room, waiting for him to come back. She was looking somewhere between touched and worried. Did he do that? She closed the gap to him and he wondered quickly if anyone else sticks their neck out for her before she was around him, on him, against him; holding him tightly, holding him up.

When did it make this much sense to just want to see her safe? Better yet, when did he feel it was within him to do so? This thing anymore, between them, was dangerous. But damned if he would still rather deal with it than be without it right now.

He tied off her braid and laid back in bed after, must have been, a couple of hours. She ran her hand along his handiwork before teasing the end with her fingertips.

“‘Night,” he said.

“That’s it?” came her reply. For a full second he thought she was being flirty but in the filtered moonlight he saw her: all hard stares and tight lips. He didn’t want to fight, not when he was already fighting something right now. He reached up and dragged her down back ontop of him. The fact she went along meant she wasn’t as mad as she seemed. Maybe she was fighting something too, didn’t want to wage a war on two fronts anymore than he did.

“We’re just not going to talk about this?” she asked with a sigh.

“Talk about what?”

“What happened tonight! This whole fiasco. I assume it was an attempt on my life-”

“Yes.”

“- with an offer -”

“Uh-huh”

“And you chose to break our typical circumstance and just, ‘take care’ of it? Just, suddenly you are my de-facto bodyguard-”

“For tonight.”

“-for tonight and you protected me?” he felt her go stiff at those words. Nerves? A mistake? Wrong word? “I mean-”

“Yes,” he said without giving her the chance to retreat and attack from a different angle. He knew her moves by now. He had to get it out and confess, he wasn’t going to sit on it and let that sentiment fester. He was worried about other things due to this, yeah, but syntax wasn’t one of them. “So what else is there to talk about?”

The silence settled around them as she settled against him, drawing herself in more comfortably and drawing his arms over her, one of his hands in hers, settling on his chest.

“Nothing. Thank you,” she finally whispered. She looked up after a while and in a voice he remembered from years ago said “do you need to leave so soon this time?” His throat and chest tightened and if he wasn’t careful, hell, she’d hear that fight raging right beneath her, right underneath her hand.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding because he had to convince himself too. “Yeah, I do.” For both their sake.

[higuchimon]

[fanfic] Rebirth of Kaiser:  chapter 26

Ryou wasn’t used to planning anything. He couldn’t yet clearly recall all of the duels that he knew he’d had in the past, but there was an awareness that while he’d set up as much as he could, organizing strategies for a duel remained quite different from sketching out battle plans.

Tesni took care of that, along with a few of her advisers, as well as Honest and Shine Angel. Juudai and Johan kept back, muttering between themselves, with Yubel making the occasional sarcastic comment that he could only catch the tone of. He wasn’t sure why they’d stuck around if they weren’t going to contribute, but perhaps they had reasons that he knew nothing of.

Yuusuke gave the occasional bit of advice, mostly relating to what he would be able to do for assistance, as did Ryou himself. The whole time, however, a faint prickle of unease began to trace its way all through him. There would be something going on at this battle, something that he didn’t like in the slightest.

I already don’t like any of it. But he’d made his commitment, and he refused to step back on it.

Yuusuke shifted and Ryou glanced up at him, in time to see soft lavender eyes looking back at him. “It’s almost settled.”

“I know.” Ryou looked at Tesni, then back to Yuusuke. “Tomorrow.” They would head to the chosen battleground tonight; it was far too close to the Cyber establishment for the Knights to not have planned for an attack of some sort.

As much as he realized that said attack would have been treacherous, likely performed under the concealing night and without any warning to the Cyber army, he also recognized that it would have been effective. They would have been wiped out, likely without any real means to defend themselves. More so if the plan to take the stronghold itself worked.

Tesni straightened up and put away the battle plans. “If everyone’s ready, let’s go.” She said nothing more, but stalked outward, her spine straight and strong as steel. Shine Angel followed, Honest waiting for Yuusuke, who walked out with Ryou.

Ryou glanced behind himself to see that Juudai, Johan, and Yubel weren’t there anymore. Exactly where they’d gone and how they’d done it, he didn’t know. But this wasn’t close to the first time he’d seen Juudai be there one moment and not be there the next.

Who is this Johan Andersen? He didn’t have Juudai’s ties to darkness, but the angels called him their liege and what little they’d said sparked thoughts Ryou wasn’t ready to examine closely at the moment.

He set those thoughts away. When he didn’t have a battle over his head, then he would deal with them.

For a few heartbeats he rested his fingertips on the deck in his pocket. He wanted to make time to talk to his deck, to get to know them in ways that weren’t just battle. Such a chance as this came along so rarely for him.

Not anymore. Cyber End Dragon’s voice murmured in the depths of his mind. Now that you’re one of us, we can speak when we choose. But you’re right. Now isn’t the time. Once this battle’s passed, we will have much more time together.

Ryou nodded. He would be relevant in this battle, if only by ensuring that the Cybers could be stronger and not be affected by whatever enchantments and traps that the Knights had in store. Whatever came after that, he could only imagine.

Arriving at the battle area took a respectable portion of the night. The Cyber warriors stepped it up a little faster, and arrived there in the dark of night. Their tents pitched, everyone settled in for a few hours of sleep, those who could sleep, at least.

“We’d like you to extend your effect as far as you can,” Tesni told Ryou. “I don't trust the Knights not to attempt some sort of ambush, especially now that we’ve come so close to them.” She pressed her lips together, not pleased. “With Ruin involved, I absolutely expect it.”

He nodded slightly; he hadn’t used his effect before, at least not deliberately – it worked almost automatically in that altercation against Lightning Punisher – so this would require a bit of effort.

“Excuse me, captain,” Yuusuke interjected. “But I wondered – do you and this Ruin know each other?”

“Yes.” Tesni bit the word off as if it somehow offended her. “I know her – and I know the two she usually uses for fodder for herself: Fairy Witch and Valkyrie. We grew up together. We were very close, once upon a time.” Each word fell with shuttered fury. “Then they discovered the End of the world spell card and became Ruin for the first time ever.” Her fingers gripped around the hilt of her sword and her breathing turned harsh and furious before she spoke again. “After that, she killed someone – someone very important to me.”

Tesni turned to them, her eyes sharp and wary and fierce. “Never, ever underestimate the bond between spirits that can Fuse with one another – or Ritual tributes. Our way is different, but as strong in our own way. Ruin is created by a Ritual, but she doesn’t understand that – or doesn’t care if she does. And I will end her for what she’s done.”

Without another word, Tesni stalked towards her own tent, vanishing in a matter of moments. Ryou and Yuusuke exchanged a brief glance. Neither of them had expected an answer on that level.

“She’ll fight tomorrow,” Yuusuke murmured, taking the first few steps to the tent that had been set up for them.

“I think she won’t care if she survives or not,” Ryou agreed. He glanced around. “I’ll be in later. I want to see if I can get a defense set up.”

Yuusuke nodded; he’d already done what he could, arranging for some of his deck spirits to watch the area and alert him if anything happened. Ryou intended to fulfill his promise to Tesni and use his effect, however that he could.

Tesni gritted her teeth as she closed the tent flap behind her. She’d kept herself as much under control as she could all of this time, but now it slipped, ever so little.

If Ruin weren’t here, that wouldn’t be a problem. She’d kept her secret close to her heart all this time, acknowledging only Ruin’s desire for vengeance – anyone who’d known Ruin as long as she had knew how petty Ruin could be.

She hadn’t lied. The bond created by being the materials for a Fusion creature or for that of a Ritual tied beings together as close as anything else in the world could. Ruin sought revenge for the death of her cousin – cousin wasn’t the right word but it remained the best one, as they’d used the same spell card to come into existence.

But she killed him. Stabbed him in the back and left him to die and laughed about it.

Tesni settled down onto her cot and closed her eyes. She would have to get rest before the battle. She’d done all that she could and she would bring her best into play on the battlefield.

A sound came from the tent’s opening and she breathed outward before getting up. Tonight wasn’t at all the night for insubordination or anything else to disturb her sleep. She yanked the flap open to see one of her warriors out there.

“Captain,” the Hail Cyber spoke, saluting. “We’ve received a message from the enemy.”

Of course they had. Tesni nodded. “What do they want?”

Her soldier extended a faceted gemstone toward her. “It’s enchanted so that only your touch will reveal the message.”

One of Ruin’s tricks. It at least made for safe messages, though there were plenty of other uses for it as well.

“Set it there,” Tesni instructed, nodding towards the small table in the tent. “Remain outside. If I don’t come out in five minutes, find Cyber Hell Paladin and the shadow mage and inform them that they’re in charge of the army.”

Hail Cyber saluted before obeying orders. Once she was alone in the tent again, Tesni observed the diamond without touching it. It could hold an ordinary message or an enchantment of some kind. By touching it, she accepted whatever spell had been embedded in there. All the preventive measures in the twelve worlds couldn’t change that.

Best get this over with.

She raised one hand, then rested it on the gemstone. For a few moments nothing at all happened, then a soft pink cloud billowed outward from the gem, surrounding her. Ruin appeared, that familiar smile that she’d seen so often before across her lips.

“Well met again, Tesni. Tomorrow is your last day among the living – unless, of course, you choose to surrender to me. I would quite enjoy having you in my service.”

Tesni snorted. “Never.” Might as well get that out of the way and find out what Ruin really wanted.

Ruin looked more than a little amused. “I thought that was what you would say. Now, to business. Tomorrow we have combat. It’s up to you what type it is: a battle where our warriors fall and die – even with the efforts of your Cyber Hell Paladin – or a duel, where only one will fall. To the victor goes all the spoils. What say you?”

Tesni tensed, considering the options in a heartbeat. She’d brought her army, such as it was there, and she knew most of them thirsted for battle. But they were so few, even with their allies, compared to the Knights and all of their allies.

She squared her shoulders. There really wasn’t any other decision that she could make.

“We’ll duel, then. At dawn?” The sooner it was dealt with, the better.

Ruin let out that far too familiar silken laugh of hers. “The duel will be at dawn. I quite look forward to seeing you there, my old friend.”

“We’re not friends.” Tesni bit the words off. “We will never be friends again, murderer.”

“Don’t flatter me before such a momentous day,” Ruin teased, or at least pretended to tease. “Are you certain you don’t want to choose a champion?”

“I am the champion of the Cyber army.” Tesni flared, fists clenching. She wished more than anything that this image of Ruin could be touched. She’d seen this magic before; if she’d even tried, her hand would go right through.

Ruin’s lips curved upward. Tesni wasn’t going to call that a smile, no matter how much it looked like one. “So you are. At dawn, then.”

All the pink cloud faded and it took all of Tesni’s strength to keep herself from falling over. She breathed hard, dropping to one knee briefly before she pulled herself back up and made sure she at least looked as if she were in control. Then she stepped to the tent flap and leaned outside.

“Spread the word. Tomorrow at dawn, I’ll duel Ruin to determine the outcome of this battle.”

Tesni didn’t wait for an answer. She could hear the quick footsteps fading into the distance as she moved back to her cot and settled in, taking her deck out of a pocket she so seldom opened. She would never go anywhere without it; she wasn’t the sort of duelist that Cyber Hell Paladin was, but she knew her way around this deck like no one else did.

One card caught her eye and she pressed her lips together. I should take this out. But she knew that she never would. This was all she had left, the only way aside from leading the Hail Cyber army that she could fulfill her purpose in existence.

If Ruin thinks she can take my essence from me, then she has a great deal to learn.

Tesni settled the deck back into place and curled up underneath her blanket. Come dawn, she would settle this war once and for all, and to make matters better, she would destroy Ruin. Perhaps then, and only then, could the spirit of Cyber Raider sleep in peace.

To Be Continued

Notes: So, I’ve gone on and finished the story here. There’s so much that remains to write about, though. I want Tesni to meet Asuka – for so me very special reasons that will be seen once we get to the duel.