#and I had such a visceral reaction to hearing that line that I froze in some sort of dissociative ptsd response. not sure what to call it

[oldmanffucker]

I love writing the most devastatingly autobiographical bits into my fics that are genuinely so (subjectively) upsetting idk if I should publish it. Izzy finding out the most devastating fact about Ed’s mom’s suicide three years after she died bc it was a throwaway joke in a pauly shore comedy they were watching together (izzy feels like he’s not allowed to be winded by this new information because she wasn’t his mom and being upset about it felt like stealing something, some moment, from Ed, but really Rosemary had been as good as a mother to Izzy. She turned the office in her home into a second bedroom for him when his parents kicked him out his sophomore year of college, when they found out he was trans. She referred to him as her son in law, tho it made Ed and him groan) Stede has to tell Izzy, later, that he’s allowed to be upset about finding out this information, this objectively tiny detail that felt so huge that Izzy could feel his understanding of the world shifting, could feel the air around him expand and hold him like the very world around him was holding its breath with him. Coping by putting fictional boys in situations.

[astralaffairs]

Request: "Hey babe it's been a shitty day, so plz make it better by responding to this. Alright so hear me out: we've all seen the memes, so we know how ppl would react to finding out about fotp thom and mc, but remind me, do we know how Alex reacted???? Lmao there would be such chaos"

___________

"You and Jefferson are dating?" Though Alex's yell was muffled through the phone, his tone was unmistakable, and Y/N cringed at the shrill undertone beneath his fury. "When did this start? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd react exactly how you are now," she said, "and, frankly, it's none of your business who I date."

"You know how long I've hated him for, Y/N," Alex snapped, and she rolled her eyes.

"I don't pick my boyfriends with your career in mind."

"But he's wrong for you," he huffed. "He's gonna prove that to you soon enough, too. He'll start treating you like shit the minute he gets whatever he needs from you."

"And what, exactly, is he trying to get from me?"

"Are you fucking serious? You've been his biggest critic in the media this entire time. He's just trying to shut you up."

"Our relationship hasn't exactly been much of a career-booster for him, either, in case you hadn't noticed," she pointed out, but he only scoffed.

"Oh, he'll be fine. He can just ride on his fucking trust fund for as long as he wants, but what about your career? You need the money."

"I still have a job, y'know. I'm just not covering domestic politics anymore."

"I knew it was suspicious when you changed departments," he muttered, and Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm coming over. We need to talk about this."

"What?" she asked, eyes widening in surprise. "No, you can't; I have Thomas here with me."

"Too bad. I'm already outside."

"How the hell did you get here so fast?"

"I left home the minute I saw you on his Instagram."

Y/N grinned, holding her phone against her chest as she looked up at Thomas. "Aw, babe, he follows your Instagram."

He snickered. "Tell him I'm flattered."

"It's disgusting hearing you call him that." Alex's reaction was loud and visceral enough that she could hear it even before she lifted the phone back to her ear.

"Then I guess you're really gonna hate hearing our wedding vows, huh?"

"'Wedding vows'?" Thomas repeated as he raised a teasing eyebrow, folding his arms. She only shushed him, though a small smile played at her lips.

"Your what?" Alex's reaction was to a similar end, but it had a very different tone. "No. No way. This is where I draw the line. I swear to god, Y/N, if you marry him, there's no way I'm coming to your wedding."

"That's really too bad. I'm sure he'll be disappointed to hear it," Y/N said, and the sadness in her voice was mocking.

"As though he's gonna be invited when we get married," Thomas grumbled. It was her turn, then, to raise an eyebrow.

"'When'?"

He shrugged, but his grin was broad. "After you lemme know your ring size, at least."

"Isn't it a bit presumptuous of you to think I'm going to say 'yes'?"

"Don't tell me you'd really be willin' to start from square one with somebody else after everything we've been through, sweetheart," he replied matter-of-factly. "The only real question is when I propose."

"Don't get ahead of yourself just yet, Jefferson."

"I'm still here!" Alex's shout pulled her back to the phone call she was still on; she rolled her eyes.

"How could I forget?"

"Let me into your flat," he said, and Y/N looked to Thomas with wide eyes when they could hear his loud footsteps in the hallway outside.

"How'd you get up here?"

"Mira let me in."

"God, she needs to stop doing that," she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Open the door."

She jumped when the sound of him banging on it echoed through her front room. "Alex—" When she regained her bearings, returned to her call, she realized she was talking to a dial tone.

"Unlock this, Y/N." His impatient voice came through the apartment door, that time, muffled, but her head shot up at the sound.

"You need to leave," she insisted. Though Thomas wore a deep-seated frown, neither she nor he moved to get the door. "I don't wanna hear your lecture on how Thomas is gonna ruin my life."

"But he is!"

Thomas rolled his eyes as he stood, and Y/N's eyebrows shot up when she watched him start toward the door. "Wait, at least let me get it," she called after him, but he didn't stop. She stood with a huff to follow him.

He unlocked it. "What d'you want?"

Y/N winced visibly when he opened the door for Alex before she could reach it, and Thomas leaned on one arm against the door frame, towering over him with an impatient eyebrow raised. Alex scowled, undeterred.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Jefferson?" he hissed. "You're really gonna toy with Y/N like this? And for what? If you're trying to get at me, at least do it directly."

The laugh Thomas let out was mirthless, condescending. "You really can't wrap your head around the idea that something isn't about you, huh? Guess I shouldn't be surprised, since you've always been this self-centered."

"If it isn't about me, then what the hell is your game?" he asked, taking a step closer, but despite Alex's harsh glare, Thomas raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"D'you really think there's no way my intentions are genuine? You think Y/N's that unloveable?" he asked. "That's vicious, even for you."

"I didn't say that she—!"

"Must you two do this right now?" Y/N asked, exasperation heavy in her voice. When Thomas turned to look at her, Alex pushed past him.

"Y/N, I'm just trying to save you from him; don't you see that? He—" Alex froze, his gaze fixed over Y/N's shoulder. "Wait. Why are there so many boxes here? And why is your apartment so empty?"

"I'm moving out," she answered bluntly. He raised a wary eyebrow.

"...and going where?"

"Thomas's place."

"You're moving in together?" he exclaimed, eyes wide. "What the hell are you thinking? Has it even been two weeks since you got together?"

"I mean, officially, it's been a month," she said reasonably, "but, really, we've been fucking for almost a year."

"A year?" Alex repeated. "What the hell, Y/N? What were you thinking?"

"Well, whatever I was thinking, it looks like I'm still thinking it." She shrugged. "Or, y'know, maybe I just couldn't make rent, so I started sleeping with a rich guy. I'm trying to be thrifty."

She could hear Thomas snickering at that, but Alex looked beyond appalled. "You couldn't have gone back to sleeping with Lafayette?" —Thomas scowled— "C'mon, I know how much you like him. You didn't have to sacrifice your morals in order to sleep with him, either, unlike you do with Jefferson."

Thomas's glare was burning, and Y/N huffed. "I was never sleeping with Lafayette."

Alex furrowed his brow. "You weren't?"

"No, I—"

"She was sleepin' with me." Y/N’s skin jumped at the feeling of Thomas's arm around her waist, pulling her close as walked up beside her. Alex's eyes widened. "So fuck off, Hamilton. You can't do anything about this. 'S too late."

She couldn't tell whether it was horror or fury that shone in his wide eyes. "Y/N, you've gotta end this. He's awful and manipulative and narcissistic. Don't listen to what he's saying; it isn't too late to get rid of him."

"Is it too late to get rid of you?" she grumbled, and Alex narrowed his eyes.

"I just want the best for you."

"I don't need you telling me what's best for me," she said impatiently. "Either sit down and make peace with him, or leave. You can't just talk me out of this."

"If you wait any longer, it will be too late."

"Too late for what?" she asked. "What the hell do you think is gonna happen? He's gonna kill me in my sleep?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," he said, scowling, and she rolled her eyes.

"Thomas?" she said, turning to him.

"Hm?"

"Are you planning on killing me in my sleep?"

His mild expression didn't change when he answered, "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Mmh, thanks for confirming." She turned back to Alex. "Looks like you were right. Thanks for the warning; you can go now."

"Don't just dismiss this!"

"What were you expecting? I was just going to dump him on the spot when you showed up here?" she asked, and Alex huffed, folding his arms.

"If you had any common sense, that's exactly what you'd do," he said seriously. "He manipulates people, Y/N; that's what he does! And that's what he's doing to you. Don't get attached."

"Alex—"

"Listen, Hamilton." Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose as Thomas released her waist, stepped in front of her. He stood dangerously close to Alex, who didn't move so much as a millimeter away. His expression was cold but deadpanned. "I know we've got a lotta issues. That isn't some secret. But it's not your place to try and ruin my relationship, alright? You don't see me bustin' into your house, tryin' to convince your wife to leave you."

"Are you really comparing your little fling with Y/N to my marriage?"

"Little fling?" Y/N repeated incredulously, but both men ignored her. Thomas shrugged, still staring Alex down.

"I don't see why not. You heard us talkin' about gettin' engaged when you were on the phone, didn't you?"

"No way you're actually getting married," Alex scoffed. He turned to Y/N. "You're not really gonna marry him, are you?"

"I..." When she trailed off, Thomas raised an expectant eyebrow. "I'm not having this conversation right now. I'm not about to get engaged under duress."

"See?" When Alex turned to Thomas, she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not siding with you. I love Thomas, but you can't come here and bully us into getting engaged."

At that, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Hang on, you love him now?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She groaned, rubbing her temples. "You were more willing to believe that we were were getting married than that we've already said 'I love you'? I told you we've been... sort-of together for almost a year."

"Please. This won't last." He turned back on Thomas. "Y/N's never been in a relationship for more than four months. Now that you're official," —the final word was sneered— "the clock is ticking." Alex's eyes shone with vindication when Thomas raised an eyebrow; the concern in his eyes was genuine, and his gaze flickered back to Y/N. "Yeah, that's right. Don't get comfortable. It's only a matter of time before she leaves you, too."

"Will you shut up, Alex?" She looked more frustrated than anything, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "The history you two have doesn't extend to me. I know you hate Thomas. And I also don't care. It doesn't give you the right to talk to him like that, and it absolutely doesn't give you the right to talk about me like that."

"You're just pissed because I'm right."

"No, I'm not! I just fucking hate that—" Y/N cut herself off with a shuddering breath when she heard her own voice beginning to raise. Thomas squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and she felt her tense muscles ease as she looked up at him gratefully. She turned back to Alex. "Y'know what? I want you out of my apartment. I don't have to take this from you. Especially not in my own home."

"You needed to hear it," he warned. "Someone needed to say it before this ends in disaster."

"I don't care what you think, right now. I want you to leave." Her firm tone left no room for negotiation, and although Alex glared up at Thomas, he didn't argue.

"Fine. But when he breaks your heart, you're going to regret not listening to me."

"I think I'll survive," she replied dryly. While she was watching him expectantly, he was still eyeing Thomas, and when he spoke, he disregarded her words.

"I still don't know what the hell you think you're playing at, Jefferson, but I'm not letting you get away with it," he snarled. "I can see right through you, and it's only a matter of time until Y/N does, too."

Thomas licked his lips, his jaw tight and shoulders tense. Although his expression bordered on nonchalance, his tone was threatening. "Believe whatever the hell you want, but if you really think for a second that I'm about to let you drag Y/N into your plot to ruin my life, you've got another thing coming," he said, voice low. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, I seem to remember hearin' her ask you to leave."

Alex's narrowed eyes darted between Thomas and Y/N, but after several moments, he just scoffed, meeting Y/N's gaze. "When he starts treating you like shit, don't act like no one warned you it was coming."

She hummed noncommittally. "You'll be the first person I call, just so you can say, 'I told you so.'"

Though he rolled his eyes, he left without another word, slamming the door shut behind him, and Y/N let out a sigh of relief, raking a hand through her hair. "Well, he could've taken that worse."

"I dunno, sweetheart; that was pretty bad," Thomas said, and despite the skepticism in his tone, she shook her head.

"No, Alex has thrown much bigger tantrums about much smaller things," she said, "I'm pretty sure he just got most of his energy out on the car ride here."

"I’ll take your word for it, but..." Thomas trailed off, seeming to have thought better of what he was about to say, and she turned to him with her brow furrowed.

"What, was this seriously the angriest you've ever seen him?"

"Not by far." She eyed him warily when he pursed his lips. "But... what was he sayin' about none of your relationships lastin' more than four months? Was that all true?"

Her eyebrows jumped at the worry that flickered in his eyes. When she stepped forward, laid a hand on his chest, he didn't pull away, and she took that as permission enough to wrap her arms around the back of his neck, to pull him close. "You know he was just trying to get a rise out of you, right? He just wants you to feel insecure in our relationship."

"But was it true?" he asked. "You really never been with the same person for more than a couple months?"

"That has nothing to do with us."

"Answer me." He was looking down at her with severity in his gaze, and she frowned.

"Yeah. It's true." Her eyes dropped away from his as she played with the curls at the back of his neck. "Does that really change the way you look at me?"

"It changes the way I see us, if 'm honest," he murmured, and Y/N brought a hand up to his cheek, brushing her thumb over his skin.

"It shouldn't. None of my relationships lasted because I didn't love any of the people I dated. But I love you, Thomas," she said seriously. "Do you know that you're the first person I've said ever that to? Family and friends aside, of course."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pushed herself onto her toes to kiss him lightly. "And I mean it. I've always been terrified of commitment, but... being with you doesn't scare me."

"God, I should hope not," he said, a trace of a laugh buried in his voice. "If you were scared, 'm pretty sure I'd be doin' something wrong."

"Well, in all honesty, I was an anxious wreck the first time I told you I loved you," she admitted. "I was almost hoping you'd outright reject me so that I'd have to move on."

His grin was broad. "So, what I'm hearin' is that I oughta stop makin' jokes about marriage?"

"Only if you don’t want me running for the hills," she said, but her tone was playful. "In all seriousness, if you were anybody else, I'd have started packing my bags the minute you asked me for my ring size. There’s a reason I’m still here."

"Good." He leaned down to bump his nose against hers. "'Cause I do wanna marry you. Doesn't matter to me when it happens, but I'm gonna get a ring on your finger if it's the last thing I do."

She grinned. "Go right ahead." When he kissed her, she pulled him tighter against herself and he wrapped his arms snug around her waist. "Guess I'm gonna have to call the jeweler, now," she murmured against his lips. "Gotta see when's the next time they can get me in so I can get sized for a ring."

"Who said I was the one proposing?" Thomas asked incredulously, and Y/N pulled away just enough to look him in the eye.

"Me. You're the one with all the money."

"Now, this doesn't seem quite fair."

She laughed. "Listen, when a million-dollar trust fund falls into my lap, I'll be more than happy to buy the engagement rings. But until then, the burden's on you and your inheritance, Jefferson."

"'N that's a burden I'm more than willing to take on, sweetheart," he said. "The minute I get your ring size, the trust fund'll take care of the rest."

"The minute you get it?"

"If that's what you want."

"Not so fast, Jefferson." She rested a hand on his chest. "Try living with me for a few months, and then we can revisit."

"I'm holdin' you to that."

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 7

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Content warnings: death mention

Morgan was surprised to return to consciousness. He hadn't expected that to happen again. He was lying in a rough bed, covered by thin sheets. His eyes wouldn't quite focus, but sunlight was shining through a window and giving everything a golden cast. It smelled familiar, like healing herbs - maybe Akara's cabin? Someone must have arrived just in time to save them from Andariel's clutches. His efforts certainly hadn't bought enough time for an enthralment to wear off. He made to sit up, but the pain that lanced through his arm cut that plan short. He cried out before he could stop himself, biting down on his lip to muffle the sound. Even that hurt more than it should have.

The priestess appeared beside the bed. "Finally back with the living, are you? Good. We've been worried. Drink this." She pressed a cup to his lips. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been, but he gulped back the water quickly. The cool liquid soothed his raw throat a little. It still hurt to swallow, probably to speak as well.

He risked a soft "Thank you," barely more than a whisper. It felt like his throat was lined with sand, and he grimaced.

"Just rest, hero." Hero? The confusion must have been plain on his face. The expression of concern had been out of character, but this was much stranger. Akara gave him a sympathetic, slightly worried look. "Don't you-"

Blaise burst into the small room at top volume. "You're finally awake! The great hero rises at last! I've been telling everyone how you defeated Andariel and saved us all. They'll be so glad to see you've pulled through!" She was making an unusual amount of eye contact. This was a cue, then. Despite the confusion of the situation, Morgan found himself relaxing a little. It was good to see her alive and well, although she continued to baffle him. Why would she lie about what had happened?

"It would be a treat to hear the tale from your point of view for a change," Akara murmured. Blaise's smile froze. She was, Morgan realized, banking on him playing along with the version of events she'd laid out. He'd already told her he didn't lie, so why would she involve him this way?

"I, ah..." He cleared his throat and regretted it instantly, wincing. "I'm afraid I... don't remember that," he said carefully. It wasn't a lie - he couldn't remember what had never happened.

Akara clicked her tongue. "I've seen this happen before. Poisons can wreak havoc on the memory. It's a shame." Blaise looked relieved. "Anyway, now that you've made it through the worst of it, I can get out and replenish my stock." She was already slipping a cloak over her shoulders. "Blaise, you'll keep an eye on him, hm?" It was not a question, and she did not wait for a response before leaving.

Blaise watched the door until the sound of footsteps faded away, then she turned on Morgan with a ferociously angry expression. "You're a complete fucking idiot and I don't care if you don't remember any of it. I'll sum it up for you: you decided to just jump up on Andariel like she wasn't going to destroy you in one second. Then - of course - she did. We're both fucking lucky that I managed to shake her stupid demon mind control and put a whole quiver of arrows through her ugly skull. Now tell me what in fuck's sake you were thinking when that seemed like a good idea to you."

Her sudden switch from cheerful to enraged was confusing and overwhelming. "You were enthralled, I had to try something," he blurted. He didn't know what she wanted to hear, but evidently it wasn't that.

"You should have tried going back for some fucking help! That's what any person with a brain in their idiot head would have done!"

That hadn't even occurred to Morgan. Given the prevailing attitude toward his brotherhood, asking for help from others was not usually an option. He would have rejected the idea anyway - it would have spelled her doom, which would have been an unacceptable outcome, especially when the likelihood of receiving help from the others was so low. They'd both managed to survive somehow, so why was she so upset? Maybe if he just explained. "As a follower of Rathma, my sworn-"

"Your sworn duty is to maintain the Balance. I know. I've heard your little speech. What does that have to do with anything?"

"The forces of darkness are gathering. I must do what I can to hinder evil and preserve good." Blaise just kept staring. Was that not enough explanation? Time to take it down to basic facts, then. "You're a good person, Blaise."

He was not expecting the series of emotions that crossed her face, most of which he couldn't identify. She settled on anger, which was recognizable but still confusing. He was also not expecting the slap that stung suddenly across his cheek. He winced. She was fast.

"What about now, huh? Do you still think I'm good?" Blaise's voice was low and dangerous. Morgan's eyes narrowed, searching her face for anything that would make sense of this. He found nothing. Why was she reacting so strongly to such a simple observation? Maybe - oh. Cain had mentioned Andariel's influence extending to emotional anguish as well, not just physical. That... well, that might explain this volatility but it wouldn't help him navigate it. He wasn't going to lie to her. It wouldn't matter anyway, since it felt like neither answer was going to be correct.

"Yes."

Another slap, harder than the last one. Morgan bit back a yelp. She had managed to hit the exact same spot, and he could already feel it beginning to swell.

"How about now?" Her voice trembled with anger. This was going nowhere.

"The answer -" here he flinched, closing his eyes in anticipation of the next strike. "- will continue to be yes, no matter how many times you hit me." Nothing. Maybe he'd gotten through. He opened his eyes hesitantly, only to be met with another slap. He made a soft grunt of pain, despite himself.

"You're a fool," Blaise spat. So she didn't believe his assessment. This could definitely be solved with more explanation. He just had to choose his words carefully. His cheek throbbed.

"I have spent enough time around you," he began slowly, looking at a spot on the wall. It felt safer than making eye contact. "To observe that you are loyal, brave, kind, and fair." He didn't dare risk looking over at her, so instead he continued. "I am an outsider with... few social graces. I keep company with the dead. You were ordered to escort me on an unpleasant and dangerous quest, which nearly got you killed." He paused to swallow, grimacing. His throat burned painfully, but he wasn't finished. "All things considered, it is reasonable for you to hate me. That does not change your nature."

Something else was beginning to occur to him. Blaise wasn't saying anything, so he forged ahead despite the discomfort. "And yet, despite all the trouble I've caused you, you still went to the effort of bringing me back here. To your healer. It would have been easier to leave me. Where I fell."

She snorted at that. So at least she had been listening. "And what do you suppose I would have told everyone then, huh?"

Morgan turned his head to look at her again, searching for some sign - was this a trick question? What was the answer supposed to be? He decided to go with the factual. "That I died. You don't mark the passing of outsiders here."

That earned him another scoff. At least it wasn't a blow. "Yeah, that would go over great. 'Hey, everyone! We defeated Andariel! Where's Morgan, you ask? Oh, he died in battle and I just left his corpse down there in the monastery.'"

A deep-seated emotion coiled around his ribs, squeezed like a snake. That wasn't what happened at all. Wasn't what would have happened. All the pieces of it were wrong. He could feel himself scowling, a visceral reaction to the feeling in his chest.

"See? That wouldn't be right," Blaise said.

"No. Not in battle," he spat. Ridiculous. It hadn't been a battle. He'd barely put up a fight at all. "He died a coward," he corrected, half snarling. "Screaming. Writhing. Helpless. Like a worm on a hook." He wished the poison had taken his memory as Akara had suggested. Instead, he remembered each terrible second with crystal clarity.

Tears had sprung to his eyes. Apparently he was also feeling the emotional effects of Andariel's influence. Recognizing that didn't help. He drew a shaky breath and raised his hands to wipe away the tears. A searing pain shot through his injured arm as he moved it and he choked back a cry, pressing the limb back against his side where it hadn't hurt so badly. He scrubbed at his eyes with his good hand, but when his fingers brushed the spot on his cheek where Blaise's hand had connected, he made another soft sound of pain. Gods above, why did everything have to hurt so much? The anger and frustration and embarrassment all boiled over suddenly, without warning. An animal sound bubbled up from inside him, a growl that opened up into almost a howl before being overtaken by violent coughing. That hurt too, of course.

Strong hands gripped Morgan's shoulders, sat him upright and rubbed his back as the coughing fit subsided. Shame burned hot across his face. He was supposed to be able to control his emotions, but evidently he hadn't completed his training as well as he'd thought. To lose his composure so completely, then get treated like this - like a child! By someone who barely even tolerated his presence, probably compelled by pity. He closed his eyes and lay back, wishing he could just disappear.

Blaise spoke softly now. "You're not a coward, you know. You were actually really good down there." A hollow feeling settled over Morgan. Now he was definitely being pitied. This was worse than the anger, harder to accept. People were often angry at him, and he was at peace with that. But this... this made him feel so small, and he hated it.

"Don't," he rasped.

"What?"

"You don't have to... soothe my pride." His lip curled. "I know what I am." Weak. Pathetic. A burden. "I will leave as soon as I am well enough. It should be easy to avoid me until then." That ought to please her, the promise of seeing him gone. He was certainly looking forward to being alone so he could work on regaining his emotional control.

"Listen, Morgan." Blaise's voice was quiet, serious. She sighed. "I don't hate you."

That... no, that didn't make any sense. Most people disliked members of his Order on principle, and she had more reason than most to hate him. Morgan opened his eyes to peer suspiciously at the woman seated beside him. He couldn't read her expression. Was this a joke? Sarcasm? Did she really mean it? A long moment passed in silence. He broke it with the barest whisper, "Why?"

"You saved my life, idiot. You almost died trying, I thought - Anyway, I didn't hate you before that either. I wouldn't say I like you, exactly... I mean, you're... not normal. But it's obvious you're trying to do what's right, and I respect that." She made a face like she'd tasted something sour. "I haven't been... I mean, I know I've treated you - fuck, and just now..." She trailed off, ran a hand through her hair, and tried again. "Look, I'm sorry I hit you. I shouldn't have done that. I just don't... why would you say... why would you think I'm a good person? I've never even been nice to you."

"You don't have to be nice to me to be a good person," he explained tiredly. Nice was surface-level, easy for people to fake. Besides that, impartiality was a central tenet of Rathma's teachings. It was essential to the Balance. Personal feelings and experiences could not be permitted to colour a priest's judgment. Removing oneself from the equation had to be second nature. Being treated nicely, or not, had nothing to do with it.

Blaise was making that sour face again, and Morgan didn't have the energy for any further explanation. He didn't feel like he had the energy for anything. Everything hurt and he was feeling a lot of emotions, most of which he was not at all comfortable with. He closed his eyes again. "I need to rest." He paused. "Thank you. For saving my life." No response came. That was fine. Silence was easy. So was slipping back into unconsciousness.

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 17

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~7,500

Warnings: Blood drinking, smut, drug mention, heavy drinking

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13  

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Lilah made a mental note to ask Brasa where the fuck he purchased his mattresses from—no, she’d have to ask Javier. She would bet an absolutely huge amount of money that Javier had been the one to pick out the bed and all its accouterments. It screamed luxurious comfort, molding around her and lulling her into some of the best sleep of her life.

Stretching her legs, toes pointed, she drew in a Brasa scented breath, his body warm and comforting against her back. He was wrapped around her, arm thrown over her waist, leg pushed between hers. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, ruffling the hair that had fallen out of her high bun.

The room was completely dark—he’d turned off the nightlight before sliding into bed with her. Lilah couldn’t see anything, not even her hand laying a few inches from her face. It made the waking slow and lazy, made her want to snuggle down deep into Brasa’s arms and tip effortlessly back into sleep.

It was the bond that kept her conscious. It rumbled at the back of her mind, wide open. Lilah turned her attention to it, physically rotating her chin up a bit towards the ceiling. He was content. She could feel that. He was also...restless. His presence simmered along the bond, like a big cat pacing in its cage. It was the Benny situation, she had no doubt. Lilah knew it was going to come to a head soon. She also knew that there would be unavoidable bloodshed.

She prodded at him, made an attempt to reach out and soothe. At her back, his breath was still slow, even—unconscious, he reached for her. The bond flared up, heat burning through her mind and wrapping solidly around her body. Lilah’s breath caught and she bit her lip, that hot feeling settling low in her core.

Resisting the urge to roll her hips back against him, Lilah tried to squeeze her legs together to put some pressure on her folds. She met the barrier of his thigh, the muscle flexing in reaction to her movement. Lilah froze, listening to see if he was waking...No, his breath remained steady, though his arm tightened around her waist. She felt his fingers spasm against her belly before relaxing.

Once assured that he was resting peacefully, Lilah reached out again for the bond, mentally touching along its length until got to the very center of it. Like Brasa, it burned pleasantly, a heavy thing that was both ephemeral and solid.

Letting it settle around her, Lilah dipped down inside, letting the pleasure rush over her. It was...fizzy. Like a million bubbles all over her body, more than a tickle and less than a kiss. She felt her mouth spread wide in a smile even as her heart picked up, pumping blood into her muscles. The fogginess of a slow waking was gone, leaving her alert and focused.

So deeply immersed in the bond, Lilah didn’t quite catch when he began to stir, didn’t even notice he was awake until he groaned into the meat of her shoulder. Her eyes flew open with a little gasp. When she tried to turn over, he stopped her, his chest arching up to anchor her in place.

Lilah stilled, waiting.

His mouth pressed to her shoulder even as his arm wiggled underneath her body to pull her even closer. Lilah sighed into the motion, reaching back to trail her fingers up the line of his jaw and into his hair. He buried his face into her neck, the scratch of his stubble adding sensation. She could feel his growing erection pressed intimately against her ass.

Across the bond, his arousal echoed, vibrating with more and more intensity until it resonated so deeply that, even if she could see, Lilah would be blinded by it. Her throat worked around a moan, her hand pulling at his hair. He loosed a snarl, and she could hear his teeth clack together, as if he’d snapped his jaw shut.

Lilah loosened her grip, “I’m sorry.”

His hand was immediately covering hers, “No, no, its okay. I like it.”

She wasn’t too proud to admit that it took several seconds for her to process that statement, “Okay. I can keep that in mind, if you want.”

His body relaxed, all the tension melting out of his limbs. Lilah rubbed the forearm braced across her waist, the fingers in his hair playing with an errant curl. He traced down her body with a firm hand, squeezing her hip, thumb circling. The question that asked what he was thinking about was braced on her tongue, cut off when he laid his forehead against the back of her neck.

He rolled her ever so slightly, so that half her weight was leaning against his chest. Hands skimmed her skin, situating her however he liked. He cupped a breast lazily, rested his palm on her inner thigh. She let herself be held, let his fingers move sporadically over her, stoking the fire that was already simmering.

His voice was choked with gravel when he asked, “Can I feed from you?”

Lilah was nodding before he’d even finished the question,  baring her neck to him. A pleased hum rolled heavily against her as he nosed the skin, tongue tasting at the flesh behind her ear. He paused for a brief moment, taking his time in choosing the location of his bite.

Lilah squirmed, the anticipation winding down her spine. She bit her lip to keep the encouraging whine at bay only to yelp when his teeth dug in. Abashed, she huffed a nervous laugh, unable to catch her breath as he deepened the bite. Eyes shut, body shaking, Lilah felt the venom drip into her veins.

As before, everything came alive from the inside. Lilah’s nervous system fired on all cylinders, her arms and legs kicking out without conscious thought. Growling softly, Brasa rolled, pinning her to the mattress. Though he was immovable above her, his hands were gentle as they held her down.

Easing off the bite, he rasped, “Okay?”

Lilah nodded eagerly, back arching upwards to mold herself to him. She reached back, nails scraping his thigh as she tried to pull him down, to get more of him. Braced on his palm, Brasa grabbed her hand, yanking it up so that she was stretched out. He curled her fingers around the edge of the mattress, holding them firmly. Adjusting his stance, he did the same with the other hand.

She could feel the blood dropping down over the side of her neck. Warm. Sticky. He traced the path with his tongue, sucking fixedly on the wound. Lilah hissed, pain flaring past the ever rising tide of the venom. It made her groan into the pillows, made her roll her hips into the mattress, the fabric abrading her clit. The walls of her pussy clenched, empty.

As he drank, Brasa let more of his weight fall on her, his body laying against her from shoulder blades to knees. Straddling her hips, he gripped beneath her chin, turning her head so that he could get at the line of blood that had rolled over her throat to drip from her chin.

Lilah writhed, unable to keep still. The venom mixed with her body’s natural adrenaline, pushing her to move. Needing to come, she did whatever she could to get enough friction. Brasa moved with her, anticipating every roll and shift. Mouth sucking deliciously at her, he held her on the edge of it, physically pulling her hips up off the bed when her moans grew too needy.

Soon enough, she was pleading with him, words and nonsense syllables falling out of her mouth as her need climbed higher. In an act of pure frustration, she left go of the mattress and shoved her hand down  between her legs, pushing three fingers inside. The glide was smooth, her slick coating them. She groaned, flexing her hand to put more pressure on her clit.

Brasa released his bite, lifting some of his weight from her back to grab at her arm. He pulled firmly, overpowering any resistance. Arm at an awkward angle, Lilah’s gasp melted into a whine as he pulled the digits into his mouth.

She cried out his name, desperately reaching into the bond in an attempt to show him how much she needed him. Wide open, and pulsing with their shared pleasure, it fairly burst as she pushed as much of her want into it. Eyes rolling back, Lilah’s jaw went slack, the feelings overwhelming every sense.

Above her, Brasa tensed with a harsh, inhuman sound. Her fingers slipped from his lips as he fell upon her, fangs digging into the wound he’d made. Lilah screamed into the pillow, unable to separate the pain and pleasure that were twining together into nothing but visceral sensation.

He ground his cock against her, and she could feel him leaking onto the small of her back. The angle in which he was arched over her made working him inside her nearly impossible. Lilah tried to get her knees beneath her, tried to push up into him. Fuck, he was too heavy, too focused on the bite.

The sheets beneath her were saturated with blood, sex, and sweat, her body pouring them out as easy as breathing. Brasa wrapped an arm across her chest, mouth pulling from her skin with a sharp grunt. He curled one hand around her hip and finally, finally, let his hips shift downwards so that his cock rubbed against her folds.

Lilah’s head tipped back, and she opened her legs as far as she could between the powerful thighs that were keeping her in place. Brasa pressed his cheek into her shoulder blade, moaning as he dipped into the wet slick of her cunt. The fit was tight, the position keeping her from opening wide enough to accept him readily.

The first thrust was achingly slow, until he nestled against her thighs and ass. Lilah felt her whole body relax into it with something like relief. He pulled out with that same, aching slowness. The second thrust, when it came, was very unlike the first. He snapped his hips hard, grunting with the effort. His cock hit a place inside her that forced all the air out of her, a high pitched squeal punching unchecked from her throat.

Brasa stopped, and she could feel him thinking. The thumb on her hip rubbed at her skin in what might have been a soothing gesture if the rest of his hand wasn’t flexing hard enough that she was definitely going to have a bruise later. He hesitated long enough that she worried he might not move again.

“Please, please,” she whined, reaching back to dig her nails into the swell of his ass.

He rumbled deeply, and his hips snapped forward. Hard. Again, and again, he fucked into her, steadily losing any sense of control he might have once had. Lilah rejoiced in it, words of husky praise filling the minuscule space between them.

The orgasm was unlike any she’d ever experienced. High on the venom he’d pumped into her, aroused beyond anything in memory, Lilah felt everything below the waist lock down.  Her pussy pulsed hard, dragging him along with her until he let out what sounded like a sob against her shoulder. It went on for far too long, wrecking any hope Lilah had of thinking clearly for at least the next hour.

Shaking, Brasa eased out of her with a hiss. His palm floating up the length of her spine to settle at the back of her neck. He massaged gently for a moment, then he was gone.

Completely.

Lilah, to be fair, was barely aware of anything but her still fluttering folds, her mouth open as she tried to catch her breath. The bed grew rapidly cold, the damp sheets sticking to her skin. In the moment, Lilah couldn’t bring herself to care. That was a problem for Lilah five minutes from now.

The light of the bedside lamp clicked on. She could see the dim glow even with her eyes closed. Warm hands turned her gently to her back. Lilah rolled willingly, her limbs following limply. When she cracked her eyes open to look at him, she was startled at the amount of blood smeared over his mouth and neck.

Too tired to be self conscious about what she might look like, Lilah watched him with a half lidded gaze as he piled pillows up on the headboard. Bracing himself with a knee on the mattress, he reached underneath her and hauled her up to lay against them in a casual show of strength. She had just enough energy to smile as he laid her arms across her stomach.

Then, he leaned over her and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the nightstand, opening it and tossing the cap on the bed. Hand at the back of her head, he helped her sip at it until she’d drank about half. By then, Lilah had regained the use of her arms and legs.

She touched his cheek, thumb rubbing at the dried blood, “I’m okay.”

He stared at her, unblinking. Then, nodded, “Do you still hurt?”

She took stock of her body. Her neck throbbed a bit, there was a strain in her legs and lower back, but she was otherwise feeling alright.

“I could use a shower,” Lilah prompted, when she noticed the tug of dried blood on her chest.

Brasa gave a curt nod and helped her to the edge of the bed, carrying her to the bathroom. He sat her on the toilet while he started the water. Lilah rolled her eyes affectionately, grabbing at the towel bar and pulling herself to standing. Her legs were a little shaky, but she held her weight.

The water was blessedly hot as Brasa washed her, taking time to examine his bite to ensure that it was closed. Lilah didn’t miss the little smug smirk on his mouth as he looked it over. She pointedly did not comment.

When they were both clean, he bundled her in a thick robe and led her to sit on a cedar chest at the bottom of the bed.

“Finish this,” he directed as he handed her the Gatorade.

Lilah drank slowly, watching as he changed the sheets, noting that he had a waterproof mattress protector that was now stained pink. He pulled them all off, tossing them near the door before heading to the closet and getting out a new set.

She was half asleep by the time he finished, the empty bottle set carelessly beside her. Her vision swam as he knelt before her, his hand tilting her face down.

“You are near fainting,” he whispered, “Let me help you.”

Through the haze of her exhaustion, Lilah didn’t see him bite into his wrist. She only felt him cradle the back of her head, the warmth of his blood spilling over her lips.

“More than a mouthful,” Brasa directed against her temple.

She took it.

Lilah barely noticed him helping her to stand, tugging off the robe, and depositing her back into the bed. Naked, her skin laying comfortably against his, Lilah drifted.

The second waking was definitely not as good as the first. Her head ached, her body ached, and she was alone. Lilah rolled from the bed and stumbled through most of her morning routine, pulling on an over-sized shirt. Then, she blearily made her way to the door and opened it.

She thought halfheartedly about going to the kitchen and making some food, but her curious mind turned her head left and she looked down a previously unexplored part of the house. The hallway was not lit, but she spied a light switch not far away. With her forefinger, she flicked it on.

It was a hallway. Tastefully painted, but bare in the way the rest of the house was bare. At the far end were two doors, situated on opposite sides. She moved towards them and tested the knob to the door on the right. It was locked. The door on the left, however, swung open easily.

The room was dark beyond. Lilah peered in, feeling around on the wall for a switch. She found it, and when the lights came on, Lilah almost wished she hadn’t. The room was large, the walls all carved directly into the rock. In the center was a rounded pool that she recognized.

Lilah had kind of thought that the pool of blood was part of her dream, that it had been created by an overactive imagination. This was not the case. She hadn’t dreamt it. She hadn’t made it up.

Swallowing back bile, Lilah walked to the edge. It was as she remembered. Thick, opaque, and utterly still, the pool of blood sat silently in a too warm room. Dropping to a knee, she was irrationally tempted to reach down and dip her hand in it.

Mouth curling, she stood, spying the showers at the far side of the room. Mind tracing back to the dream-slash-memory of being pinned to the wall, Lilah stood and turned. Brasa was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded loosely across his chest. He’d donned a pair of sweatpants, the rest of his body bare. His hair was mussed, and she could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

“It is a healing pool,” he answered her unspoken question, “We use them when we’re gravely injured. It speeds up the process of getting back to normal.”

Lilah looked down at the pool and back to him, “How do you keep it from coagulating?”

Brasa loosed a soft laugh, “We filter it, feed in a cocktail of chemicals.”

“Very scientific,” she replied, moving towards him.

He shrugged, reaching for her and pulling her into his body, “I’m sure it is.” Then, “I have something I’d like to discuss with you.” When Lilah hummed in question, he continued, “I’d like for you to meet some of my people. Let me introduce you.”

Lilah stared at him, trying to discern his meaning, “Like, how?”

“There is a tradition. A communal meal, of sorts.”

She tried to process it, tried to understand what he was saying without actually saying it. There were a lot of ritualistic practices that culebras engaged in for various reasons throughout the year. It was common practice to sacrifice a human, drain all their blood, and feed from the same troth. Lilah desperately hoped this wasn’t one of those rituals.

“What kind of meal?”

Brasa tugged her into the hallway, closing the door behind them, “Javier has taken the time to procure several dozen donors. I plan to host a small gathering and offer their donation to the group.”

She followed him towards the living room, noting that a rolling wardrobe had arrived, “And you want to introduce me to them during the gathering?”

“Yes,” he pronounced confidently, though she could see the strain in his placid expression.

Lilah eyed the wardrobe, making a few deductions, “Introduce me as what?”

His gaze was level, straight-forward, “As my bondmate—you’ve already claimed the title back in the caves. I wish to make it...official.”

She couldn’t help the small smile that moved reflexively over her lips, “And you’ve had Javier pick out a few outfits for the occasion.”

Brasa followed her gesture toward the wardrobe, “I thought it would be best, given the short notice.”

“You thought right.” Lilah looked at it skeptically, “How long do I have to get ready?”

He rolled a shoulder, “The ceremony isn’t until this evening. You have time.”

***

Lilah had been in more than her fair share of high pressure situations. She had faced police, guns, car chases, and on one occasion a very irate moose. But, in this moment, Lilah would very much like to be facing down the moose. At least with the moose, Lilah was pretty sure she’d survive the encounter with some dignity.

She gave herself another once over. Lilah had to admit that Javier had done a fantastic job of picking a selection of dresses for the occasion. It had taken actually trying on every one of the ten garments to whittle them down to the gold sequinned number. Cut at the mid-thigh, it was, perhaps, at bit sexier than strictly called for. But, she thought the high neck and long sleeves balanced it nicely.

Giving her hair a final fluff, Lilah stepped into a pair of understated heels and left the bathroom. The little room tucked behind the bar glowed warmly in the lamplight. She took it in. The door to Brasa’s private office was ajar, the area beyond dark. The bed was made and hadn’t been slept in since he’d brought her home—to his actual home. Buried deep in the rock, a little oasis in the desert.

They’d had to load the wardrobe into the SUV and haul ass across the desert due to—she was going to call it ‘distraction’. Lilah still felt her face and neck heat up when she thought about how easily he’d kissed her senseless, how she hadn’t even managed to get free of her shirt before he was sliding home and fucking her into no less than two orgasms. Then, he’d carried her to bed and started all over again.

Not for the first time, she wondered at how much her life had changed—a total shift in direction that should have left her confused and disoriented. Brasa had become her touchstone, had used whatever gravity inherent in the bond to anchor her down. Every step of the way, he’d been there, ready to act if she needed. She had only to reach out to him, to ask. Lilah wished she had figured that out sooner.

Taking a fortifying breath, she turned off the lights and headed to Brasa’s public office where she knew he and Javier were waiting. Her heels clicked loudly on the stone. The rhythm was sharp, projecting strength and power that she didn’t quite feel. Projection would have to be enough, for now.

As she expected, Brasa and Javier were waiting for her. What she didn’t expect was to find them laughing. Brasa was doubled over, Javier leaning heavily on his cane. Lilah was so used to seeing Brasa interacting with Javier during times of stress and crisis. It was easy to forget that they had very likely been friends for a long time—that their working relationship was also a tightly woven friendship.

Standing at the threshold of the hidden door, she let herself observe from a distance. Lilah loved to see his smile. She was getting to see it more and more frequently, a fact for which she was grateful.

He noticed her too soon, caught between one breath and the next. Straightening, Brasa took a step toward her and held out his hand. She approached with measured steps, giving him time to take a long look. This was an important day for Brasa. She wanted to make him proud.

“You look beautiful,” this came from Javier, who was casting her a respectfully appraising glance.

Lilah smiled and thanked him, her eyes returning to Brasa. He hadn’t said anything, and the feeling of the leather between their skin was unsettling after...well, after. She straightened her shoulders despite the unease.

Because she couldn’t take the silence, she quipped, “Javier did a good job with the dresses. I should have him pick out my entire wardrobe.”

His mouth turned up in a smile, light glinting in his eye, “As long as you keep the shorts.”

“Deal.”

Javier’s cane clicked against the stone floor, “As much as I would enjoy discussing hemlines and accessories, we have guests.”

Brasa’s smile softened, “Of course.” Then, to her, “Are you ready?”

“To participate in ritual meal sharing with people I’ve never met and be introduced as the partner of their de facto leader? Sure. Never been more ready.”

Shaking his head at the deadpan in her voice, Brasa covered her hand and brought it to his chest, “You will do fine. Javier will be with you when I cannot.”

Rolling her eyes, Lilah stepped up to him, their heights leveled by her heels, “I’m sure it’ll go great.”

He gauged her sincerity for a moment, then nodded and led her by the hand out the side door and down the hall. Lilah recognized the path as the way to the church. She heard voices in the distance, growing louder with every step forward. Lilah focused on the sound of her heels and tried to calm the heavy beat of her heart.

The sound was sucked out of the room as Brasa entered half a step ahead of her. She felt his grip tighten on her hand, though his stride did not falter. A dozen pairs of eyes turned towards them. Lilah braced for the impact of whatever would come next.

Brasa moved with purpose to the front of the room, turning to face the crowd. Lilah kept hold of his hand, but let herself fall back into a submissive stance, partially hiding her body behind him. The curious glances were understandable, not a one looking at her with any kind of malice. She was, however, the only (sort of) human in the room.

It took her a few sentences to realize that he was speaking in Spanish. Lilah had a fair grasp of the language, though was nowhere near fluent. She got the gist, filling in the rest with context clues. He was thanking them for being there, thanking them for their support, thanking them for believing in him. And then he said her name.

A gentle tug ushered her forward. Lilah stood as tall as she could, put as much confidence as she could in her expression, forced her mouth into a soft, serene smile. It took considerable effort to not raise her hand and wave awkwardly at them as their attention focused on her. Nothing about this was normal for her, and she found herself hesitating between every movement or decision.

When he’d finished with the introduction, Brasa glanced at her to check her comfort. She gave him a deferential nod, letting the bond open just enough to project her well being. His expression (and body) warmed, pleased that she was becoming more comfortable with using the connection to communicate with him.

A staff she had seen periodically at the bar brought forward a large copper bowl that sloshed thickly. Lilah swallowed back the instinctual revulsion, knowing that people were watching and judging her every movement. This had to be as natural as breathing for her, as common as sleep.

The bowl was set carefully on the altar, a copper ladle hanging from the lip. Brasa let go of her hand, and Lilah stepped back and to the side. From her periphery, she caught Javier moving to within a few feet of her. He rested both hands on his cane as he observed. She took her cue from him, folding her hands in front of her and watching.

Brasa took the ladle and dipped it into the bowl. He brought it to his lips and took the first sip, then presented the ladle to the group. They clapped, a few let out a cheerful whoop. Lilah felt her shoulders relax in relief. Everything appeared to be going well. Another staff brought out a tray of copper cups that, had they been glass, could have been made for wine.

“He will fill the glasses,” Javier commented lowly, “A representation of how he will provide for them in the future.”

Lilah nodded, saying nothing. Although the ritual was fascinating, there was no way she was going to understand all the nuance that every action conveyed. For now, she was happy stand out of the way and to watch.

Movement at her elbow garnered her attention. She turned to see Javier offering her a similar cup, though this one was filled with fizzy liquid.

“Champagne,” he explained, “for the occasion.”

She took it, giving him a salute, “Thank you.”

“No need,” he waved her away, “It is my honor to serve you.”

Let me serve you.

She’d heard Brasa say something similar several times over. Similar rhythm, similar intent. Lilah cast Javier a long look, then discarded the thought. There would be time to ask about that later.

Brasa filled cup after cup for the group, saying something to each. Lilah looked at their faces, judged their body language. It was clear that they deferred to him, that he was at the peak of the hierarchy. It was also clear that there was no resentment for his position. Everyone in the room looked to be well fed, and grateful for his intervention. Lilah wondered how much he had done that she wasn’t even aware of.

One or two chanced to approach her. They took her hand, eyes cast downward. Lilah, unsure of how to act, took her cues from Brasa. She thanked them for being there and for supporting her bondmate. She smiled as genuinely as she could.

Only one person did Lilah approach on her own—the woman with dark features she recognized from the cave.  She accepted her hand, learning that her name was Naya, and that she had taken a position in marketing.

“I didn’t even realize we had a marketing department,” Lilah commented lightly.

Naya inhaled sharply, her eyes widening, “Its not big—just ten of us—we stay to ourselves.”

Too late, Lilah realized that she given the impression that she was somehow offended. Moved to quickly right the miscommunication, she laid her hand on Naya’s arm, “I’m sure you do. I’d like to see your work sometime.  Maybe we can set up a—a meeting or something.”

“Yes, of course, Lady Lilah.”

Pausing, Lilah nearly choked on her own spit. No one had referred to her by a title, not even the ever judicious Javier. She managed to stop herself from negating it, the words literally bitten back. Yet another change she was going to have to make adjustments for.  

When her champagne ran out, Javier filled her glass from a bottle sitting off to the side. Lilah sipped as slowly as she knew how, trying to pace herself. When every person in the room had a full cup, Brasa made his way over to her, taking her hand and leading her around to give less formal introductions.

There were so many names that she had a hard time keeping track. Brasa knew them all, knew their habits and their loved ones, knew to ask how their latest project or hobby was going. It boggled her that he could keep it all straight in his head when she’d already forgotten nearly everything she’d been told in the last hour or so.

The champagne wasn’t helping. Lilah could feel a good buzz coming on, which would turn into sheer drunkenness if she wasn’t careful. Javier would appear out of nowhere the second her glass got low, bottle in hand. She didn’t know how badly it would be taken if she waved him off, so she just kept letting him though she held it carefully in front of her longer and longer between sips.

Warm from the alcohol and the feeling of her bondmate pressed against her side, Lilah felt fatigue setting in. It took maybe thirty seconds before Brasa felt it, too. He looked over at her, then motioned for Javier, instructing him to walk her to their room. She was subsequently whisked away, a gentle hand on her arm.

Lilah walked with Javier back through to the private room Brasa kept at the bar. She laughed when Javier presented the bottle of champagne, only about a quarter of the way full.

“I plan on finishing that, you know?”

He smiled, “Of course. Might I suggest that you also hydrate.”

“Will do,” Lilah said, giving him half a salute.

When he’d bowed out of the room Lilah scooped up the bottle and sauntered to the private office. Setting the champagne down on a side table, she perused the stacks, one finger tracing over the spines. She took her time picking out a book, and then slouched down into the couch cushions to read.

Lilah had finished the bottle and refilled her cup twice over with water by the time Brasa finally arrived. Lilah could hear him shuffling about, the heaviness in his step as he moved through the room. She set her book aside and sat up, pulling her legs up and underneath her body.

He stood in the doorway, tugging off his gloves, “I thought you might be asleep by now.”

She shrugged, “Felt like getting some reading in, while I had the chance.”

Brasa followed the flick of her hand towards the book sitting on the table next to the empty bottle, “I first read that on a beach in Bali. Have you gotten to the part where Ginger jumps off the cliff?”

Lilah put her hands on her cheeks, gasping, “No, I hadn’t. Spoiler alert!”

He looked so completely off guard and apologetic that her little joke lasted no more than a few seconds before she was laughing.

“Its okay,” she soothed, “I’m past that part already.”

Releasing a steadying breath that ended in a chuckle, Brasa helped her to standing, “The ending is very good. I will look forward to hearing your thoughts on it.”

Arms wrapping around his waist, she murmured, “I’ll be sure to share.”

He held her comfortably for a while, hand splayed on her shoulder blade, fingers swirling. Lilah let herself fall into the rhythm of it, lulled peacefully into silence. The alcohol was settling in nicely, and she knew she would be asleep on her feet, if she let it go on.

With courage brought on by the champagne, Lilah recalled an idea that she’d once had. After about half a second of debate, she looked up at him and said, “I know you just ate, but now might be a good time to explore our idea from the plane.”

Brasa cast her a confused look. Lilah knew that he’d figured it out when his body temperature kicked up hard and the pupils of his eyes blurred into the irises. She smiled.

“Are you sure?” He asked, pulling away so that he could look her in the eye.

“I am.”

It took maybe three seconds for him to consider it, and then he was nodding eagerly. When he began to pull her towards the bedroom, Lilah stopped him.

“Go sit on the bed,” she instructed. “Get comfortable.”

Without hesitation, he turned and did as she asked. Lilah took the extra time to down the last of the water in her cup and tug off her heels. Toes squishing into the plush carpet, Lilah steadied herself. She had a rough plan for what she wanted, but hoped she wouldn’t botch the execution.

When she stepped into the bedroom, he was sitting on the bed. His shoes were sitting on the floor, socks tucked neatly inside. He’d slipped the first few buttons free of his shirt, the cuffs were rolled up to his elbows. Hands resting on his thighs, Brasa watched her intensely, his eyes following every tiny movement.

Lilah walked up to him, cupping his cheeks and kissing him lightly, “Okay?”

He nodded, though the rest of his body remained still. Heat pushed at her, thrumming over her skin and giving her the confidence she needed to take the single step backwards. When his brows drew together, she smirked and gave a little shimmy, inducing a huff of laughter.

Reaching back, Lilah pulled down the zipper of her dress and shrugged it off her shoulders, letting the material fall to the floor. Beneath it was another one of Javier’s purchases. A deep wine lace bra and panty set that fit her perfectly. Lilah had never purchased anything so nice for herself, but she’d buy ten sets if they always got the reaction she was getting now.

He was...entranced. That was the only word for it. Eyes focused and body taut, Brasa took her in hungrily. Across the bond, Lilah could feel how he wanted to move, to take her to the floor and hold her down. It was an instinct that he was resisting mightily, and for that, Lilah credited him.

Game plan.

Moving with conscious effort, Lilah rounded the edge of the bed and climbed on. The mattress gave beneath her, a soft welcome. She crawled up to sit in the center, lifting a hand to him in invitation. He took it, shifting up next to her, his palm running up her arm, over her shoulder, and to the back of her neck. Lilah let him pull her into a kiss.

He pulled away too soon, eyes checking for direction. Lilah pulled him fully onto the bed, traced her hands down his chest and pulling his shirt from his pants. He molded to her hands, going wherever she led him. All the while, the temperature in the room continued to rise.

Drawing him close, Lilah bared her neck to him. Brasa’s lips trailed over the bite he’d made earlier, thumb pressing underneath her chin to tilt her head further to the side. She closed her eyes, and waited.

The bite, when it came, was soft and careful. The bruising from the morning might have healed, but the flesh was warm and sensitive. She hissed, lips pulling back from her teeth, grateful for the numbing of the champagne and the precision of his teeth.

Groaning, Brasa took a long pull, throat working around the swallow. The skin around his mouth tingled, the venom pumping into her veins. Another long pull, and the arm supporting her weight gave out. He followed her down with a harsh groan, hands spanning her waist. Lilah held him to her, arching into his body. The lace rubbed sensuously against her nipples, the feeling intensifying as he cupped both breasts in his hands.

Sighing into the feeling, Lilah pulled at his shirt, reaching down to blindly thumb open the rest of the buttons. He pulled away, covering the wound with his hand to stem off the initial bleeding. Although he’d taken far less than he normally would, Lilah shivered under the onslaught of the venom. It pulsed with every heartbeat, lighting every nerve on fire along the way.

Resting his head on his arm, Brasa studied her face. His mouth was lined in red, fangs peeking out from between his lips. He blinked slowly, eyes glassy.

Lilah touched his cheek, “Okay?”

He laughed softly, taking her hand and kissing her palm, “I’m more than okay. I feel…”

When he didn’t continue, she prodded him lightly with a little kick of her leg. He rolled to his back, hands pushed into his eyes. Lilah had enough time to be worried before he spoke again.

“Warm,” he said. “And fuzzy.”

She smiled, “That’s called a buzz.”

He hummed, running his hands over his hair before turning to regard her lazily, “So that’s what its like.”

“That’s exactly what its like,” she managed around the escalating burn of venom.

At such a low dose, it would wear off in a moment. In the meantime, it sent a little frisson up her spine, “I guess that answers our question.”

Another happy hum, and then he rolled over and atop over, kissing her deeply. She could taste to copper of her own blood on his tongue, could feel his fangs rubbing at her lips. Lilah pulled him closer, wrapping a leg around his waist and undulating against his growing erection.

Growling, Brasa yanked at her underwear, “Off. Now. Naked.”

Inordinately pleased that she’d reduced him to single words, Lilah giggled as he pulled her legs free, wiggling a hand beneath her to unclasp her bra. Both went over the side of the bed without ceremony. He kissed a wet path down the center of her body, hauling both legs over his shoulders. Lilah was completely unprepared for how avidly he licked at her, tongue rubbing heavily through her folds.

“Brasa!” She cried, grabbing at his shoulders.

He gave her no quarter, sinking his fingers into her and ripping an orgasm from her so fast that it, quite frankly, shocked the hell out of her. Lilah barely had a moment to breathe before he was moving up her body, dropping kisses along the way.

Weight falling on her, Brasa kissed over her cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin, hands arranging her so that her thighs were as wide as possible. Her muscles burned, legs shaking with the strain. Lilah scraped her nails down his back, consciously relaxing the grip of her fingers so as to not dig in too deep.

Groaning against her jaw, Brasa licked up the side of her neck, nipping behind her ear. He shifted his weight, and Lilah could tell that he wanted to go down on her again—could feel it through the bond as if he’d said that words aloud.

Maybe later, she thought at him. My turn.

His hands tightened on her hips, but he let her roll him to his back, let her straddle him, let her kiss him until he was moaning into her mouth. Pulling back, Lilah looked him over. Breathing hard, mouth glistening, he was the picture of an aroused, needy male. She smiled.

Leaning down, she kissed him softly, one hand caressing down his chest, ruffling the hair that pointed downward to where he was straining against his fly. With nimble fingers, Lilah opened the placket, pushing the material down. The other hand grasped his wrist and settled his palm against his own cock.

His fingers circled his length moving slowly. Lilah watched him for a few strokes, her forehead against his temple.

“Faster,” she breathed.

He obeyed, air punching out of his lungs, hips circling. The tip leaked over his palm, easing the glide of his fingers. Lilah bit her lip, working hard to keep still even as her cunt pulsed with need. She wanted desperately to sink down on him.

The moment felt too delicate to break. This beautiful man moaning so sweetly beneath her, gasping and fucking up into his hand with growing need. Lilah deliberately set her want aside, cupping his jaw and kissing his cheek softly.

“Please,” he rasped, “Please—fuck—need you.”

He tugged at her hips with his free hand, trying to line himself up so that he could pull her down onto him. She almost broke, almost pushed his hand aside and gave him what he wanted. Almost. Instead, Lilah grabbed at the hand on her hip and pushed it into the mattress.  

Licking and biting down his body, Lilah settled between his thighs, tugging his pants the rest of the way off his body. She ran her hands up his legs, massaging gently. The hand on his cock had slowed to a stop, his eyes watching in a glassy haze. Mouth pursed in question, Brasa’s body tightened while he tried to anticipated her next move.

Hands holding his hips, Lilah looked up at him, “Okay?”

He nodded eagerly, releasing the softest, sweetest moan she’d ever heard when she ran her tongue over his length. She licked lightly over the head, drawing it into her mouth to suck. Bobbing down, her lips met his fingers, tongue circling around the digits.

Gently, Lilah pushed them away, using her own hands to stroke what she couldn’t reach with her mouth. He gripped the sheets, hips moving with her, groaning loudly. When she glanced at him, his head was thrown back, the muscles of his chest and arms bulging as he tried to hold on.

Cradling his sack, Lilah relaxed her jaw and pulled him in as deep as she could go. He scrambled for her shoulders, holding his breath. Lilah had about two seconds of warning before the first pulse came. She swallowed down what she could, letting the rest drip down his length and over her hands.

When his body shied away from the stimulation, Lilah lifted off him and sat back, admiring her work. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving with every breath. His shirt was wrinkled, skin taut and damp.

Smiling, Lilah pushed from the bed and went to the bathroom, wetting a towel with hot water. She cleaned him gently, apologizing with every hissed breath. Setting the towel aside, she eased his shirt off his shoulders and dropped it off the side of the bed.

Brasa, having regained his ability to think, pushed back the covers and pulled her into his arms, turning off the light. With the room plunged into darkness, Lilah snuggled against him, soaking up the residual warmth.

She whispered his name, waiting for his answering grunt. Then, she said, “Do you think its different with weed?”

[heartless-error]

Broken, not perfect, but together. - Chapter 3

Fandom: DC comics, Batman

Pairings: Jonathan Kent x Damian Wayne (JonDami) & Jason Todd x Timothy Drake (JayTim)

Rating: General, family feels, hurt/comfort, mental health issues, running away

Other(s) links: AO3

Broken.

The Batfamily was broken.

It was six years ago, and they had barely stood together since then, trying to stand up despite guilt and regret.

Damian was sure there was nothing to save, not after losing something that he didn’t know he cared about. But when a new opportunity to get back what they had lost appeared, he cannot help to doubt as his past decisions haunt him again.

If you love somebody, set them free. But you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Chapter 3

 Now

 A jolt woke him up.

 A jolt followed by a hard squeeze on his hip and an intelligible whisper beside him.

 It’s not as if Damian had expected to sleep well tonight, he even didn’t expect to sleep at all. When they arrived at the apartment, he was ready to spend all night staring at the ceiling quiet and trying not to think too much. However, he underestimated how tired he was and how much his wounded body needed to rest, so he was fallen asleep before realizing it.

But even if he didn’t want much rest, waking up agitated and listening sobs behind him wasn’t a good way to start the day.

 “Jonathan.” He said fully awake and shaking from his grasp. “Nightmare.”

 The super was still holding him tightly, carelessly and causing Damian grumbled for the treatment to his injuries, while the other was breathing restless and mumbling apologies in dreams.

 “Nightmare.” He repeated aloud. “It’s a nightmare. Wake up.”

 It’s neither the first nor the last time any of them have an unpleasant dream and awakes the other. Indeed, it would be very sad to admit it willingly but is also part of their lives and work so far, nightmares come hand in hand with superheroes’ duty and they had worse episodes than this in the past, like everyone else, right? That’s why Damian didn’t want to sleep, he knew something like this would happen again.

 He didn’t get rid of his embrace but could barely turned around to shake his shoulder and wake him up as the other seemed to hesitate in his dreams, not cheerful at all.

 “Jon!”

 Panting hard and trembling, Jon finally opened his eyes, yet some sleepy and groggy, shrugging himself and looking around nervously as he woke up completely.

 “Dami?” He asked in a whisper and still clinging around him tightly, as if he couldn’t believe he was talking to him.

 “You were dreaming.” He explained hastily still squirming in his grip.

 Jonathan fell silent a few seconds, tears about to fall, frowning, sweating and taking his breath back. He calmed down a bit and was apparently back in the real world, assimilating it was a nightmare, but  didn’t make him feel better seemingly.

With a miserable expression on his face, he realized how strong he was clinging to Damian and how he was trying to free himself, letting him go immediately and away from him as if he were on fire.

 “I’m sorry.” Jon said quickly as he sat on the mattress, rubbing his eyes tightly. “I’m sorry, you okay? It was not my intention, sorry.”

 Damian shook his head, looking at him from his position without moving. It wasn’t nothing important, Jon just squeezed him a little like a plushie and was a bit annoying, maybe his bruises were worst, but were minor wounds first so he didn’t care at all.

But he knew Jon cares, and looking at him away, shuddering and breathing deeply to relax, gave him enough proofs to know whatever he had dreamed about had shook him to the point to sobbing in his sleep, and add to that an apparent guilt for unintentionally hurting him didn’t help at all.

 Sometimes nightmares shake Jon like that, leaves him emotional, overloaded and saturated with everything, and Damian hadn’t come to establish a way to help him cope with it yet. Because there were other variables to consider, such as the mood, date, time or the type of nightmare, and none of them appeared to be favorable now.

 But if Damian knows something, is that he hates to see Jon cry. He hated it since he was 13 and still do strongly. Jon crying gives him a rare, visceral and unpleasant sensation on his chest that seems to pull it from inside, willing to rip him. He couldn’t stand it.

When they were kids, he thought it was because he despised how someone powerful and strong as Superboy, with such potential, could show much weakness and so openly. Then, he realized it was precisely the opposite, that what he really hated was how he felt when Jon seemed to trust him so easily to be vulnerable around him. That left him scared, hesitant and unsure just by having a friend, a real friend, who didn’t think he was going to stab him at any moment -something that neither him was sure in those times-. But sometimes he was also jealous, because Jon felt safe and confident enough to express himself and being weak in front of anyone, and Damian… never had that before, until then, he only had the strong statement that he would be killed and replaced if he showed any weakness or proof of not being a worthy heir.

 “Habibi.” He called his attention, waiting his hesitant look to lie sideways on the bed and extend his right arm on the pillow, in a clear invitation.

 Jon seriously seemed to doubt it, quiet and evaluating the situation, as if he would hurt him only by lying there together. Damian snorted at him angrily, scolding him with his eyes until Jon realized how stupid he was and gave up, lying back and resting his head on his arm as he embraced him completely and buried his face in his neck.

 Even if he still didn’t know exactly how to help Jon when he had nightmares, he knew that physical contact helps when it happens. And even though Kent was the most tactile and affectionally open in their relationship, at least Damian now was more used to receive affection and answer to it. Actually, it’s one of the few things that Grayson did right for once.

 He felt how the tension in his mate’s body disappeared as they spent more time in that position, quiet and enjoying other’s touch, trying not to break the momentarily peace. After a while Jon no longer looked like he was going to cry imminently and relaxed as he caressed his free hand down his back, slowly drawing patterns. But, of course, Damian knew the exact moment he would speak to say something stupid when he felt him getting some air.

 “Don’t apologize again.” He cut him off quickly. “You didn’t hurt me, so drop it.”

 He would not let him think about it too much, because he knew how easy it was to do that after waking up sobbing.

 “You know it’s not only for that.” Said Jon seriously and outrage in his tone.

 Damian froze, his hand still on his back and his arm starting to get numb cause of the weight on it. He tried to pull away to look at Jon, but he sank more into his neck, hiding from scrutiny, as if he feared his reaction.

He should have known, the apologies now made sense.

 He sighed, not really knowing what to say or what to do.

 “Then, do you think I should also apologize?” He asked, doubtful.

 That’s what made Jon move and look at him with alarm in his eyes, surprised and with a questioning expression. It’s not as if Damian hadn’t improved in giving encouragement or comfort to people in general, but this was a special case, and both knew they needed a different approach to be reasonable.

 “No.” Jon said angrily, like what he was saying was crazy.

 “And why you did? What’s the difference?”

 Jon stayed quiet, his lips in a fine line and blinking, in conflict. His reasoning had fallen completely, and he was obviously trying to save it, but it was useless.

It’s so simple, if Jon didn’t think that Damian had to apologize, then Jon didn’t have to. Easy.

 “B-Because I-” He started to stammer, willing to discuss.

 “No.” He cut him off.

 “But I-”

 “No.” He cut him off again, tilting his weight over him gradually.

 “But it’s my fault that-”

 “No.” He repeated freeing his arms and laying above him completely, crushing him with his weight.

 “I gave them-”

 “Stop.” He ordered covering his mouth with one hand.

 “Mnph!”

 “I said stop.”

 “…”

 “You know, I don’t care if you lick and drool on my hand, you’ve licked me other things.”

 The answer to that was a strong bite. He complained, putting his hand away in disgust, then looked at him raising an eyebrow as Jon just glared back with a defiant stance despite the embarrassed blush on his face. Then, Damian looked at his drooled hand and decided to clean it in the best place: Jon’s face.

 “Argh! Gross!” Jon shriek squirming beneath him as he rubbed his hand where he could reach. It was known that Jon could lift him and ran away without effort, but no longer worth it, Damian was too fast and saliva has returned to its birthplace.

 “You started it.” He declared at the end and looking at him seriously, as if it were a serious matter instead of… Drool. “And that’s you get for thinking too much.”

 The last statement made Jon sigh and give him that resigned expression that seemed to say, “I did it, right?”, to which he nodded.

As he thought at the beginning, it was easy to sink into the negative thoughts once you have awakened from a nightmare induced by guilt. He would also done that if Jon hadn’t appeared back in the cave, right in time to distract him.

 And it’s not as if they could say directly to each other that was not their fault and that’s it. It was, they know, and this isn’t work that way. They couldn’t get up one morning and be free of any impact or repercussion of what they had caused indirectly around them with their decisions, because they were very aware of them every day.

 But they also knew not all was their fault. There was more than one player in the game, and they were not the main ones.

It’s easy to think otherwise in the worst moments while you hear the accusations of your head, but once you stop to think about it and there’s someone to lift you up hitting with a pillow or drooling in your hand, you keep going and realize it doesn’t have to be like that, you shouldn’t have to apologize for everything.

 Sitting up, Jon lifted his arms around his neck to make him lean and kiss him firmly, what he didn’t hesitate to correspond. He knew it was his way to say thanks for calm him; So, when they separated, he just smiled with a shrug. Damian knew Jon would have done the same for him, he would say that, but the affection in Jon’s look was replaced by fun, and he couldn’t react in time to escape.

 “No! Argh!” He cried as Jon hold him and began to lick his face as revenge. “You’re disgusting! Stop!”

 Jon just laughed out loud as he kept doing it while Damian tried his best to get away. He swears that his boyfriend sometimes is like a dog, it’s like having Titus with him again. And he’s not laughing too, no, not at all.

 And in that room, lighted by the early morning sun, while laughs and tenders’ complaints were heard, both knew that no matter what they or anyone else thought. No one could really apologize and take the full blame for what happened six years ago, not matter what role they played, it’s not going to change anything and nobody needs it, not that.

 After all, Tim and Jason ran away willingly.

 ~ 0.0 ~

 That fact remained and was repeated in Damian’s mind as he lit the coffee pot and leaned on the kitchen counter, waiting.

 It was half past nine, he still had his hair wet because of the shower minutes ago, his body protested less than yesterday, Jon was taking a shower too, he needed a coffee, to make breakfast and instead he was looking at the calendar absently as he remember.

 He just does that, remember. Not wanting to think too much, because he had a lot of that lately.

 It had been six years since the day Damian came back to the manor and went down to the cave to find Red Robin and Red Hood’s uniforms bent at the Batcomputer counter with a paper note and didn’t know how to feel.

 Today he still doesn’t know how to feel, being honest.

 “Goodbye.” The note said.

 Just that. Nothing more. Nothing on the back, or written in invisible ink, no codes, no signs anywhere. Nothing. Only a paper with “Goodbye” written on it and over their suits.

 And as he sat in the chair in front of the keyboard and watched the scene in silence, Dick and Bruce’s could be heard arguing in the background, angrily and their screams resounded in the cave strongly; Cass wasn't even there, but she would stare at everything in silence if she was, Stephanie was probably crying on a corner somewhere, and Alfred nowhere to be found.

The argument between the other two confirmed that nobody had more news than that, all safes houses were empty, no image/video/audio useful for Oracle and even Kon or Clark couldn’t hear them, indeed, any available meta couldn’t.

 They said goodbye and ran away. Just like that.

 And sitting there, staring at the fucking paper they left and reading it non-stop, Damian realized it was true, they were gone. His mind seemed to fit in suddenly that it was true and definitive, they were gone for real, and that hit him with so much force that he felt a part of him broke and fall, causing him started to panic just like his family around him trying to find them.

 But they didn’t.

 There was nothing, nothing, not a minimal detail to hold onto. They had made sure to cover their tracks very well, even the smallest detail, there was not a single clue and, what did they expect to find anyway? Todd was hiding for everyone during years before making his debut as Red Hood and Drake was one of the most valuable assets within technology and intelligence, both had money, contacts, skills, and the most important: reasons to leave.

 Drake and Todd’s relationship with the family was very unstable at those times, even dangerous. So, when father found the costumes and the note, he activated all alarms because there was no way it was a joke.

 Useless, obviously, they would be already far away by then. And six years later they have still not been found and making Damian look absently at a calendar with pictures of bunnies in it while thinking he didn’t want to buy it but he had to because “we had the puppies one last year Dami, now it’s my turn to choose.”

 That and, it would be better if they were dead?

 A part of him feels horrible, filthy, despicable only by thinking that. But another, one that sounds like his 10 years old self, says, “it would be?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Because death was one thing that all the family already knew, with which they were already familiar and whose pain had experienced and overcome with time. Something they had witnessed and suffer so often that much to destroy them at the moment, at least they know how to get up and keep moving.

 But a disappearance? Voluntarily?

 That was something else.

 At least death mean that they wouldn’t be there never again -supposedly-, that they were gone forever and that’s it, there was nothing else. They didn’t have to look for clues or ask metas if they can find them. And if they had died, they would fight until their last breath, clinging to life without wanting to leave, he knows.

But leaving a note and running away together is the opposite, it’s worst. At least if it had been a disappearance against his will they would be equally worried, but would have found them eventually, they would have done so. And surely, they would have known they wanted to be home.

 But it wasn’t and that’s the problem.

 What kind of person he was that sometimes he might wish that his brothers were killed or kidnapped instead of being abandoning him?

 Not a very good one, for sure.

 But he can’t help it because the situation changes so much. Being dead they couldn’t do nothing or going anywhere, but running away and without backup they could meet so many unpleasant and dangerous possibilities; And the fact that they had planned to do everything on their own meant so much things too, and some of them were so, so painful.

As they sought clues and the years passed in blank, they couldn’t help but wonder more and insistently what they’re doing, where they are, or most important, if they are alive.

 And if they are, are they happy?

 That’s the only thing that makes a little bearable the idea they’re gone. Because if they are, whether they are happy wherever they live, whatever they do, then Damian could make peace with them, with himself and with the fact that they defected and abandoned everything and everyone for that purpose.

If they are, he may believe it worth it, even if in the process they have made it seem as if their lives here, their family, their friends and their identities didn’t matter enough to run away without hesitation.

 As if he didn’t matter enough.

 The coffee finished behind him and he sighed, giving one last look at the calendar when he turned around to reach a cup and serve.

 “You want some?” He asked at the other person in the room.

 “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Kon said from the kitchen door, looking at him.

 He knew he was there for quite a while, watching him. Moreover, he knew he was already awake when he had entered the kitchen, but he chose to ignore him completely.

 Damian leaned back on the counter again, this time with a hot cup of coffee in his hands and looked at his guest. Kon hadn’t change much over the years, he was now an adult, but right now was disheveled, sleepy and his clothes rumpled by sleep on his couch, so he didn’t impose respect.

 To be fair, he never imposed him any respect, but now their relationship was more cordial and pacific than before, he’s dating his little brother after all.

 “Did you have fun in Zodome?” Conner said with irony and repressing a grin.

 And, even so, he still was an annoying jerk.

 “Yeah, how about you in the farm?” He asked back.

 Conner’s expression soured a little, but enough to consider it a victory.

 “Cool.” He lied. “I’m glad to see you can finally reach the cups.”

 “I’m glad to see you sleep well. How many times did you fall to the ground tonight?” Damian asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

 This time Conner just laughed, shook his head and then gave him that look of fondness/nostalgia that he wasn’t want to locate, because that’s the one he used to give him since he tried to be intimidating during the shovel talk (which didn’t work at all)  when he did things official with Jonathan and they started to get better.

However, that look soon turned into a serious one, matching with a tic in his leg and a cautious posture. It seemed that Kon wanted to say something, something important, and didn’t know how or where to start, so he was there trying to establish a plan of action that will surely lead them to an uncomfortable conversation or an argument. And supers really don’t know how to act when they want something, right? Damian just hoped to drink his coffee quietly while Kon learns how to be subtle for once in his life.

 “Your brother is taking a shower right now.” He told him after another sip of coffee. “I’m making breakfast, do you want anything?”

 “I want a lot of things.” He answered thoughtfully. “But right now, I want to know why my little brother seems to suffer and blame himself more than me every year. And he’s not the only one.”

 Subtlety.

 Something that Conner Kent doesn’t have at all.

 Damian took a few seconds to recover himself from the verbal punch that the other had thrown at him so sincerely and frankly, analyzing what he said and then carefully placing a mask of complete indifference on him. He just pretended to be interested in keep drinking his coffee as if he didn’t hear anything.

His first instinct might have been to attack, saying he didn’t know what he was talking about or better to ask Jon when he got out of the shower, but it wasn’t the wisest choice and he knew it. Not when Kon-El was serious and focused, a lot, judging by the sententious look he had.

 “What are you two hiding, Damian?” The he asked, and despite the heavy silence that had settled between them, he approached slowly to him until he was right in front, looking into his eyes and firm as ever. “Because I know you are hiding something, and it’s related to all of this.”

 His blood was frozen, the coffee was stiff in his hands and he was using all his effort and strength to keep up the apathetic façade and his heart to a normal rhythm.

 “I wanted to ask Jon back in Kansas, but I had no chance.” Kon explained, looking at him harshly. “Six years is a long time, and you have to understand I can’t wait anymore.”

 The stern gaze wavered for a moment as saying the last, making Damian glimpsed the pain and grief shining in the eyes that now kept him on the place and made him try to appear calm.

It wasn’t easy for Damian to be aware that he was not the only person that Tim and Jason chose to leave behind, and this situation didn’t help.

 “I wasn’t the detective of my team.” Kon said then, his miserable expression making his way ever faster. “But I know when Jon lie. And I know this is how you react when you want to hide something, because Tim told me.”

 His world was punched again, causing the façade to crack a little. This is not okay, no, no, this is not okay at all. He didn’t expect a confrontation, not now, not here, not this way.

He pressed the cup between his hands without looking away, valuing his options, not letting his emotions cloud his judgment.

 “Damian.” Kon called him reproachfully, yet gently, like a parent scolding a child even though they were almost the same height, like another big brother. “What did you do? What are you afraid of?”

 These questions almost made him drop the coffee. Because the answers were so many, so many and shaking his mind, appearing, turning and repeating loudly within him. Reminding him his conflicts and starting to think too much, again.

And Kon, Tim’s best friend, Jon’s brother, looked at him so dejected yet so hopeful of being able to know something that the ability to tell the truth no matter what he know or suspect, or anything in respect, died there.

 He was going to attack, attack and retreat. Being sure not to see him again, or not to go near him until he was sure what are his suspicions exactly and how far did he go.

But a sound between them interrupted and dispelled the growing tension in a moment, making them to look at the source of the sound with surprise. Conner’s pocket, his phone.

 Damian could relax a minimum when Kon finally turned his attention away from him and gave him some space to answer the call, some unexpected judging by the uneasy expression of him.

He was drinking his coffee again and clearing his mind to appear normal and leave the situation when Kon answered, stood still, blinked and then handed him the phone.

 “Is for you.” He said.

 Damian frowned and looked at the phone, undecided. He had left his in the bag he had brought from the manor and was off because he knew would get a lot of calls from Grayson playing to be a good brother -what a liar-.

But he thought that if they had come to investigate who might be with him, then call Kon-El and make him pass the phone to him, it’s because it had to be important. So, he left the coffee aside and answered.

 “Come back to the manor. Now.” Barbara’s voice said. No Oracle, Barbara. “We’ve found something.”

[tk-duveraun]

can i request bruises for ferdiebert? maybe something about hubert realizing that duke aegir's abusive?

Pre-timeskip, Crimson Flower, Chapter 11. Visceral if not particularly graphic images of child abuse.

---

Only two days remained until the ceremony at the Holy Tomb. Hubert shared Her Majesty’s hope that nothing permanent afflicted their professor. Rhea certainly had a despicable thirst for something in her eyes every time she looked at him. As the sun began to rise, he entered Ferdinand’s room without ceremony, shutting the door behind him. “Are you prepared for… the… ceremony?”

He cursed his weak heart for showing a reaction to the sight that greeted him.

Ferdinand froze at the words and bowed his head, his bare back on display to Hubert. After a pause that sat for countless tense breaths too long, he said, “Ah, yes. As you can see, I was just getting dressed.”

Old tales told of whipping boys, servants that took lashes for noble children whose constitution could not be wasted on punishments. If any Adrestian nobles continued the practice, the Aegirs were not among them. Hubert fancied himself experienced enough in torturer’s arts to identify which implement created which scar, but there wasn’t enough unmarred flesh on Ferdinand’s back to draw definitive conclusions. Raised lines circled and striped his arms, stopping a modest two inches before his wrists, should his shirt ride up. Deep, purple bruises, only just beginning to heal, mottled what skin of his right arm could still be discolored.

The silence filled Hubert’s lungs like a poison.

“I cannot imagine this is a surprise to you,” Ferdinand said. He curled his shoulders forward in a shameful hunch, as if it could hide anything.

He crossed the chasm between them. Two fingers glowing with all of the White Magic he knew settled over the bruise, soothing the skin into an ugly yellow-brown of nearly-healed. Bodies nearly flush with closeness, Hubert closed his hand over the outside of his. “Let it be the greatest failing of her reign that it is.”

He jerked away and snatched his shirt up from where it laid prepared on his bed. “Ridiculous. I refuse to believe you could miss such an obvious-”

“Perhaps you should have pursued the opera, after all,” Hubert interrupted.

Ferdinand turned as he worked the buttons. His chest was worse for the depth of the scars and the discoloration that could come only from poison. And the clear halo of protection around his neck, should his collar ever become too loose. “Edelgard has, as ever, resolved the problem at its source before I was able to act, so it does not bear speaking on now.”

Hubert fought the instinct to seize him by the wrist and shove the bruises in his face. He settled for a sharp gesture. “This does not appear resolved.”

He did not meet his eyes. “I was the one to request to speak to him, knowing the consequences of such.”

“Why?” The question was like acid. It burned his mouth and mind both. “You know what he is.”

Ferdinand pulled his jacket down from where it was hung above his bed. “He is my father.”

“He is a traitor.”

“And I am a fool. Is that what you want to hear? I thought we had well-established-”

“Why?” The acid tore through his heart. “You are his heir. You bear the Crest-”

“Because I am a failure! Inconsequential! Again, we both know this. Did you come to shower me with recriminations or was there a purpose to visit?”

As Ferdinand tied his cravat, Hubert put his hands on his shoulders, slowly, with telegraphed movements and plenty of time for him to move.

He met his eyes, then, gold blazing brighter than the sunrise. “I am no more a skittish foal than I was yesterday.”

“If you are to advise Her Majesty, you will do it at my side and with the knowledge that this was never meant to be. You did not… deserve to be tortured, or whatever foolish justification lives in your mind.”

He threw his head back and laughed, the same practiced, cultured, pleasing-to-the-ear laugh he undoubtedly learned through inches of scars. It sounded so natural the bottom dissolved out of Hubert’s stomach. The man before him was a stranger. Instead of a golden set of ceremonial armor primed to be pierced with the weakest of blades, Ferdinand was all sharp steel, burning with all the golden fire of the sun.

“Of course, Hubert. It is as you say.” He slipped out of his grasp and opened his door. “Let us go dine with the others. The morning waits for no one.”

“This isn’t over.”

“It never is.”

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hiya! I’m absolutely in love with this page - I have your notifications turned on and everything😊 I’ve never really sent anything like this before so I’m not sure if there’s something else I’m supposed to say or do but could you possibly write something for when Sirius runs away? Where he shows up beaten and bloody on James’ front door in the middle of the night? And preferably have them getting together in it! Could you possibly make it long as well! Thanks!😬

((A/N: Warning for abusive relationship between Sirius and his boyfriend (who’s not James). Nothing on screen, but they do talk about and look at his injuries-- and it’s at the beginning, so be careful)) 

It wasn't out of the ordinary for Sirius to show up on James's doorstep, bruised and bleeding, and James viscerally hated that this was commonplace for them. "Again?" James asked, holding the door open wider so Sirius could step inside. "What does that shithead claim you did this time?"

"Don't be ridiculous, apparently I'm so bad that he doesn't need an official reason anymore." Sirius pulled off his shoes and dropped them in place over his name on the little mat James had made back when he'd thought they were going to be living together. He kept his jacket on, which meant that there was some sort of damage to his torso.

James sighed, closing and locking the door as many ways as he could. "Remind me why you stay with him?"

"He likes me."

"No, I like you. He likes that you let him treat you like shit."

"I don't let him do anything," Sirius argued, a well-worn exchange by this point.

"Then why the fuck do you stay?"

Instead of quipping back that he couldn't possibly leave all his leather jackets behind, he shrunk into the couch.

James paused when reaching for the first aid kit, glancing back at him. He looked so... downtrodden. Normally, despite the fact that he'd just been abused when he showed up like this, he was in something of an upbeat mood. But now he actually was upset. James grabbed the kit and hurried over without trying to make it look like he was hurrying. He didn't succeed, but it was Sirius, so he didn't say anything other than a slight tick up of one of his eyebrows.

Sirius normally had a role in helping James take care of him, but he was still and defeated tonight. James tied back Sirius's hair and tilted his face this way and that to survey what the damage was. "It doesn't look too bad," he muttered. His eyes flickered down at Sirius's shirt. It wasn't covered with blood or anything, but that didn't mean much. Sirius's lip was split, and the blood from it had flowed to make a bit of a mess across his face. There was a bruise blooming across one cheek, and James couldn't tell just by looking, but he would bet that Sirius's scalp was tender. All in all though, that was so mild for what Sirius usually had to deal with that he wouldn't have shown up.

"Take off your shirt."

Sirius hugged his jacket a bit tighter around himself.

"Si."

He didn't budge, but he didn't fight when James curled his hands around Sirius's and gently pried them away. He was able to push the jacket off his shoulders, and that made the hunch of his shoulders all the more obvious. James took special care when taking off Sirius's shirt, afraid of what he would see. He winced at the bruises, but it didn't look like his ribs were broken-- which had happened before.

"Well it doesn't look too bad," he said again.

"It's on m' back," Sirius mumbled.

James peered over his shoulder to see, then sucked in a breath. There were honest to god welts on Sirius's back, long strips with a circular shape at the end that was a hundred times worse than the lines. A belt. James swallowed down the automatic reaction of 'I'm going to kill him' because he didn't think Sirius would appreciate that. He swallowed again as rage coursed through him, and made sure his hands were steady as he took care of him.  

"Why do you stay with him?" James asked again, more serious this time. It had been a rhetorical question in the past, but now he actually wanted to hear what Sirius's reason for it was. He'd done a bit of research and learned that the number one reason that abuse victims didn't leave was because they didn't have a support system. Clearly that wasn't the case here, because even ignoring James, Remus and Peter would definitely help him out. The top reason after that had to do with financials and/or children, but neither of those were a problem for obvious reasons. Mostly that Sirius never wanted kids and had a bank account completely separate from the flaming rubbish pile he called a boyfriend.

Sirius was quiet for a minute before he answered. "You think he doesn't care about me, but he does."

"You don't beat people you care about Sirius." James didn't understand how Sirius could possibly think that after everything that happened with his parents. "Maybe he thinks he cares about you, and let's pretend for a moment that I believe that, but that's still terrible for you, and you have to think about yourself first."

"He-" Sirius stopped, then swallowed, clearly not going to finish what he was about to say.

"What?" James prodded gently, rubbing lightly at Sirius's shoulders which were, thankfully, unmarred.

"He said he'd kill himself," Sirius said quietly. "If I left him. And I know you think he's scum, but he doesn't deserve to die."

James took a minute to process that. It was terrible of him, but his immediate reaction was that if he was hurting Sirius, he did deserve to die. That was just a flash of passion though, a here-and-gone in an instant thought that left him feeling queasy. He was careful when he did reply, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "It's not your fault if he does do that. It's not up to you to keep him alive, and people threatening suicide is a classic manipulation tactic. He guilted you into staying with him, if he cared about you, don't you think that would bother him?"

"I don't think he's bluffing," Sirius said, his voice so small James barely recognised it.

James blinked, hands moving up to Sirius's neck to relieve the tension there. "Okay," he said slowly. "Let's assume, for the moment, that that's true. It still wouldn't be your fault."

"'If you can stop something bad from happening and you don't, you are the evil in the world'," Sirius quoted, and James had never been more upset with himself for sharing that with Sirius when he found it.

"That's not what it meant."

"I disagree." He leaned into James's touch, letting out a little groan of pleasure as James's fingers worked out a knot. "Maybe you're right and he's just manipulating me, but-"

"There's not but, Sirius. Even if he one hundred percent means it, the fact that he told you when you tried to leave means that he's manipulating you."

Sirius quieted again. "I don't think you're being fair."

"I'm trying to take care of you."

"Yeah but you're in love with me." James's hands froze, but Sirius continued to talk. "You're not exactly impartial about this, and you never liked him, even before he started acting shitty. And what's worse is that he knows you never liked him, so he thinks I'm choosing you over him. I mean, I am, but only because he's trying to make me choose in the first place."

"You know?" was all James managed to say. He'd had no idea that Sirius knew about his feelings, and this was definitely not the love confession he'd always dreamed he'd get in return.

"You're not exactly subtle."

James blushed, hands dropping to his lap so that he wasn't touching Sirius anymore. "Sorry." He moved from behind Sirius to the other seat on the sofa.

"No that's- that's not what I meant," Sirius said, turning to look at James with a sad expression on his face. He crawled closer and settled on his knees, arms around James.

James had meant to sit there quietly and take the rejection with grace, but he found himself asking, "Why didn't you say anything? If you knew, why'd you let me make a complete arse of myself?"

"James," Sirius whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. "That's not what it was."

"I don't understand."

"James, you... you always think so much of me. I didn't want us to get together and you realise that I'm not worth all that."

"You're an idiot. You're worth everything you imagine I think, and so much more. I know you better than anyone, how the hell could I ever be disappointed?"

"Yeah?"

"Of course." James tilted his head to the side to look at him, and Sirius pulled back a little to meet his gaze. "You've never been anything but extraordinary, Si. It's hard to believe you don't know that."

"Well we did establish five seconds ago that I'm an idiot," he said with a half smile.

"You're not actually an idiot, you-" that was all James got out before Sirius was kissing him. He kissed him back, hand going to wind through his hair. They shifted so James was leaning back against the arm of the sofa and Sirius was sitting on his lap, straddling him. His other hand moved to Sirius's hip, his touch gentle but grounding. "What are we doing?" he asked, voice a quiet puff of air between their lips.

"Snogging. Falling in love. Take your pick."

"Those aren't exactly the same."

"Maybe, but they're both true."

James's breath hitched. "Sirius..."

Sirius leaned back in, sealing their mouths together.

"I should head back," Sirius said, some time later.

"We can wait to get your stuff tomorrow, it's late. Hell, I can do it all by myself, you don't need to worry about it."

Sirius frowned. "James, I'm not moving."

"What?"

"I'm not leaving him."

"But you can't be-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sirius got off his lap and reached for his shirt, gingerly putting it back on. He was even more careful when donning his jacket, and he didn't so much as glance at James the entire time. "We still on for tea with Peter and Remus tomorrow night?"

"...Yeah."

Sirius nodded as he walked to the door, picking his shoes off his little place-mat and shoving them on. "See you round, Jamie."

James watched him leave, then sighed, dropping his head back when the door closed. "What a bloody idiot," he mumbled. He'd actually thought, without any prompting from Sirius, that a few kisses meant he was going to leave his boyfriend and start living with James.  He'd gotten a love confession-- sort of-- and ran with it. No fucking wonder his personal life was a mess right now.

*

Sirius showed up for the group dinner with a bruise at his grinning mouth and a ready lie about how he should know better than to get sloshed at clubs. James gulped down some water and said nothing.

"How's Tim?" Peter asked.

"He's good, sends his love."

"Does he," Peter said flatly.

Sirius paused with his drink halfway to his mouth. "Something you wanna say Pete?"

Peter opened his mouth, but Remus elbowed him and he shut it again. "Guess not. Don't want to ruin the evening, after all."

"That's what I thought."

James knew his quietness was suspicious, but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, he'd embarrassed himself horribly the night before, not to mention that Sirius was still living with someone that beat him. He wasn't completely silent, but the banter that was expected was simply absent.

Sirius got up to go to the loo, and Remus and Peter rounded on James.

"What happened?"

"Mind your own business Moony."

"We're mates, your business is my business. Well, business adjacent at least, which still means you should tell us what the bloody hell is going on."

"It's personal."

"If it wasn't," Peter said, "then we'd already know about it, so spill your guts Potter."

"Guys," James said, voice turning serious as opposed to the dismissive tone he'd been using before. "It's personal."

"Personal as in you or personal as in Sirius?"

James didn't answer, and Remus went, "Ah. That kind of personal."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Remus said, staring at James, "that something happened between him and Sirius, and it didn't turn out the way he wanted. The way any of us wanted, to be honest."

"What makes you think it didn't turn out?" James asked even though it was pretty obvious.

"Well for one," Peter said drily, "he would have shown up with you, and with a real smile instead of that plastic one. Also he would have told me that Tim was burning in hell where he belongs. But he didn't. Because they're still together, and he somehow thinks he's not worthy of you or whatever bullshit he's up to these days."

"Does everyone know I fancy him?"

They both nodded. "You should've seen your mum's face when we told her you weren't dating yet," Peter added. "Mighty heartbroken, she was."

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not."

James rolled his eyes, not believing him. "Look, I'd prefer if we talk about something else now."

"Believe it or not James, we didn't bring it up to make fun of you," Remus said. "What happened? I kinda thought that if you ever said it to Sirius's face, he'd cave."

"How romantic," James mumbled, chugging the rest of his beer.

"You know what I mean."

James said nothing, because responding hadn't been going all that well for him. "I don't want Sirius to come back to this conversation. So something, anything else."

"You don't want to give me that kind of power," Peter said.

"Right, cause you're so dangerous," Remus teased, an easy smile crossing his face, and James breathed a sigh of relief.

At least until they heard raised voices and looked over to see none other than Tim arguing with the hostess. Sirius exited the toilet, immediately saw him, and walked over to try and calm him down. "Stay here," James told his friends as he got to his feet, making his way across the restaurant towards the hostess's podium.

Tim was an all around cunt. So it wasn't really surprising that he looked on the verge of getting physical in front of god and everyone, just because she was telling him that he wasn't allowed to go wandering through the restaurant aimlessly-- because he had, of course, neglected to mention the one thing that would have let him get through: he was looking for his boyfriend. By now she knew what was going on, but Tim had his temper lit and wasn't just walking out or apologising like a reasonable person would.

Sirius was tugging on his sleeve, trying to talk some sense into him. Needless to say, it wasn't working.

"Is there a problem?" James asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. It didn't help anything. Cause Tim's an arse.

He sneered at James.

Now James wasn't entirely sure the exact phrasing of what he said about Sirius because Tim mumbled, but it made him see red. "Don't talk about him like that."

"He's a bitch that can't keep it in his trousers--"

And that's how James got kicked out of a restaurant and ended up in jail with bruised knuckles. It was a little embarrassing since he hadn't been thrown in jail since he turned twenty three, but he was completely unrepentant. They had enough sense to put him and Tim in different cells, and he was a little confused as to why Tim was arrested at all. He'd been a little out of it at the time, basically just trying to not lose his temper anymore than he already had and get in trouble for accidentally assaulting an officer.

Tim's face was becoming unrecognizable, and James took a demented sort of glee in that, even as he tried not to look at him too often. Mostly James sat there, arms crossed over his chest and head resting against the wall behind him. Everyone else in the room was just as content to ignore them.

They all looked towards the door when it opened, and an officer entered, followed by Sirius. Tim shot James a victorious look, and James rolled his eyes. If Sirius was here, James was getting out. He was probably here for Tim as well which was a shame, but James could understand that, since they were living together. 'Understand' as in he knew that it would make sense, not that he liked it or agreed with it.

The door to James's cell opened, and the officer pointed at him. "You, come on."

James got to his feet, accepting his wallet and keys when Sirius handed them over. The officer started to leave without going to let Tim out, something the steaming pustule obviously noticed. "Wait!"

They paused, as a group, and turned to look at him out of habit.

"Sirius, are you really not going to get me out? I'm your boyfriend."

Sirius snorted. "No, you're an ex that can go to hell. By the time you're out, all my things will be gone."

Tim started to say something, but it wasn't going to be anything good, so James grabbed Sirius's hand and hurried them out of there. James didn't say anything until they were out of the station other than, "Thanks for bailing me out."

"Yeah no problem."

James turned to Sirius in the mostly empty parking lot. "Since when did you break up with him?"

"You just saw it," Sirius said, giving James a half-smile.

"Are you serious?"

His face widened into a grin. "Always."

"Well- shit we have to go get your stuff, they're not going to leave him in there more than one night."

"That's all you have to say about it?"

"I-" James glanced at Sirius out of the corner of his eye. "Well I didn't want to assume."

Sirius laughed, shaking his head. The purple of the bruise on his face looked colorful under the streetlight, and James's heart swelled with the knowledge that this was the absolute last time he'd have to see Sirius like that.

"Are you going to find your own place or are you staying with me?" James had meant to present it like he thought both ideas were great options, but he knew that that was not how it came across.

It didn't matter though, because Sirius slung an arm over his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his cheek as he steered them towards his car. "With you, of course. If you'll have me."

"Of course I will, don't be ridiculous."

There was a pause as they got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "Just so I know, are we talking normal flatmates or... boyfriends?"

"I guess that's up to you. We both know what I want."

"My choice?" Sirius asked.

"Yeah."

"Then boyfriends."

"I would kiss you, but you're driving."

"I appreciate your restraint," Sirius said, amused.

James got out his phone and texted Remus and Peter, letting them know what was up-- and kinda demanding their help. "You should since we're not going to be able to do anything until we have all your things."

"Nonsense," Sirius said, then didn't elaborate on what that meant for the rest of the drive. James found out what he meant though, when they pulled into the flat's lot and he parked, then leaned over and kissed him in a way that made James's stomach flop pleasantly.

[howsmyhairlook]

Texts From Last Night Writing Prompt:

•Brand hosted events. When a baby influencer gets the invite to their first ever event, with all the swag and monogrammed gifts, that was when you knew your clout was climbing in the right direction. All those over-staged flat lays and maintaining the grid aesthetic had finally proven worth the effort.

My first brand hosted event was in NYC. I’d been invited to a few, but I still had some dignity, and took my desire to be a well respected influencer seriously, and so I had declined the ones that simply didn’t make sense for what I was trying to accomplish with my account. I was no sell out, Mr. Mhmm was not an easy buy bitch willing to promote shit I didn’t actually like. Flat tummy tea? Pfft. Hair gummies? Please. My locks were natural and salon maintained like they should be. I didn’t mess with the work of my stylist. He’d cut my ears off if I did.

I knew holding out on accepting events that didn’t necessarily match my vibe would delay the instant gratification everyone craved, but I actually wanted to stay true to what I had been building. It was a slow process and one that wasn’t without blood, sweat (ew) and a few tears. So when an up and coming clothing brand, owned by someone who was out and proudly queer invited me to a fashion show during Pride, I RSVP’d faster than I could deny the squeal of delight upon reading their email.

Attending an event like this was not just a fun weekend away, it was also work. Having my flight, hotel and of course all the food and drinks when I attended their events paid for wasn’t exactly “free”, I was expected to in return post no less than twenty stories highlighting the goings on through the weekend. At the time, I thought it was an easy price to pay. My insta was going to be a three day weekend promo. I had it all planned out, I’d be the best attendee they had ever extended an invite to.

The night was going perfectly. The food was delicious, drinks were flowing, and the first of three fashion shows scheduled for the weekend had me doing multiple double takes in the best possible way. I made sure to snap a photo of each piece I loved and gushed appropriately about it on my feed. My followers were loving it, and the brand had shared my stories on their stories. It felt like the perfect execution of how an influencer and a brand could collaborate together.

The second night was an early evening show that delved into menswear and BOY was I feeling it. This particular fashion show had the models mingling among the crowd allowing everyone to get a more up close look at the clothing. Let’s be honest, though, the man candy was where my eyes were landing. And, because I’m me, I dressed to impress.

Once or twice I was confused for being part of the show. It was quite the ego boost. Not to mention a compliment to the designer that my vintage Gucci suit jacket fit into the vibe well enough to have me being confused for a model. The only difference was that instead of wearing any kind of slacks like the models had on, I was wearing tailored shorts to show off my argyle socks which were being held up by leather garters. I never skipped an opportunity to show off such an underrated accessory.

I also didn’t skip an opportunity to enjoy the free drinks each time one of the waitstaff would pass by with a tray. Selfies were being taken, numbers were given out. People were telling others to slide into their DMs. I’d given my number to more than a handful of people I’d had conversations with. It was exactly as you’d imagine a gathering of tipsy people might progress.

When the evening seemed to be winding down and the room had thinned out, I decided it was time to head back to my suite for the night, grateful the fashion show had been held in the same hotel the brand had booked my room. As I waited for the elevator to arrive, my phone, which had been buzzing most of the night buzzed again, only this time, it vibrated in my pocket to indicate I’d received a text from an unknown number.

Swiping it open with my thumb I smiled upon reading the words.•

(870) It was great chatting with you tonight. Too bad you decided to leave…

•I’d spoken with so many people this evening, and given my number out to the majority of them, I had no idea who was on the other side. My response was a polite thank you before asking who it was. The speech bubble popped up, then disappeared for a couple of seconds before another text came through.•

(870) Also, wanted to tell you, I really liked those socks you were wearing.

•An odd compliment but I was happy to take it because I loved my socks. Then, another text came before I could reply to the still nameless person.•

(870) There’s something sensual about taking off a pair of socks.

•Um.

What?

The elevator had arrived but I ignored it, instead turning around and looking throughout the lobby to see if anyone had followed me. I wasn’t lucky enough to find my mystery texter giving me the obvious sock lover vibes so I replied again to ask who it was. Instead of an answer, another text came through.•

(870) A bunch of us have headed to the club down the road, you should join. I’ll tell you who I am if you show.

•I hesitated, but not for very long. The mystery was too much, I HAD to know. My reply was quick, telling them I was on my way. I kept my eyes on my phone as I made my way through the hotel lobby, but my unnamed texter left me on read. Tempting me even further to get there as quickly as I could. I didn’t even know the gender of the person I was going to meet, not that it mattered to me.

Maybe I was being foolish going out on my own to meet some person at a club in a city I didn’t really know that well, but my fearlessness was fuelled by alcohol and I’d most likely realize the error in judgement in the morning. For now, I was hailing a cab to take me a mere couple of blocks just so I could meet this person sooner, walking would only delay the reveal of what I was anticipating to be an Ah Ha moment. Any amount of patience I normally possessed had vacated my faculties quicker than my followers had liked my posts from the show earlier in the evening.

My arrival at the club was anti-climatic.

Nobody was waiting outside for me. Rude. Then again, I wasn’t some Pretty in Pink girl who was coming of age, I was a grown ass man following the request of a semi-weird text just to learn who the sender was. For the record, though, I could totally rock the colour pink, if I wanted. I wasn’t biased when it came to colours I’d wear.

By some kind of luck. No, actually, it was by the grace of New York clubbing standards, it was still early despite the actual time, and there was no line to get in. I found myself taking in the atmosphere and sounds while eyeballing every group of people I passed on my way to the bar, staring a little too hard at their faces, hoping one might strike as familiar. They didn’t.

I placed my request for a drink with the bartender, my buzz was fading and with it, my gusto to see this through. His smile was easy and friendly as he spoke.• “One Last Word for the dapper dresser.”

•He winked and I slid him some cash with one hand while the other lifted the glass so I could down the entire drink in a couple of gulps. The gin flowed effortlessly down my throat, and I tapped my fingers on the bartop, trying to decide if I wanted a second. As I was deciding, a deep raspy voice sounded from behind me.• “I’ll take a Pussyfoot, please and another here for Mr. Mhmm.”

•I froze. His voice. Oh my Gucci. My body had a visceral reaction to it as I felt the rumble along with the sound of it. I wanted to hear more, I didn’t even care that he had ordered the strangest sounding drink I’d ever heard. He moved to stand next to me, and I turned to get a look at who I assumed was my mystery texter.

He had been at the event earlier in the night, and we had spoken, though I didn’t recall giving him my number. My eyes scanned over his body and I could feel them growing wider the further they travelled. Long gone was his suit and tie. He’d made a costume change, and was now in full leather gear. Where his hair had been artfully tousled, it was now slicked back. More than all of that, which was QUITE the sight to behold on its own, from the lines at the corners of his eyes and between his brows, I realized he was at least twenty-five years older than me. He chuckled deeply at my reaction and didn’t that sound just hit me right in the groin. I shifted from foot to foot, trying to shake off the reaction my body was having. It didn’t work.

I was TRULY speechless and this leather daddy was letting me suffer. He said nothing until our drinks had been made and delivered. I wanted to ask what was in his, but I was pretty sure I’d caught a glimpse of an egg yolk being dropped into his glass so I took my own and swallowed half before I could get my tongue to form proper words.•

I don’t remember giving you my number. Also, thank you for the drink. How did you get it?

•He grinned at my jumbled thoughts but seemed to make perfect sense of what I was trying to say. He took his time sipping at his drink before speaking, and I got the distinct impression he enjoyed making others squirm. The silence was killer but I resisted the urge to fill the space, willing to wait to hear his voice again. He didn’t disappoint.• “You’re welcome. A friend of mine passed your number on to me after I wouldn’t shut up about your garters.”

•The reminder of my beloved accessory had me looking down at them, and I laughed as I realized they were leather, no wonder he liked them so much.• Oh yes. Nobody likes slouchy socks, right?

•I snapped my mouth closed when his grin turned slow and lecherous. I’d said his magic words, apparently, and most likely reminded him of his text about how sensual sock removal could be. I held my breath waiting again for him to deem enough time had passed before he was ready to speak some more.• “I prefer them to be pulled as high as they can go so I can take my time removing them.”

•Yep. Definitely my mystery texter. But now what?!• What do you want with me? What’s your name? Do you have some kind of sock fetish? I’m not judging if you do, honest. I just can’t seem to shut my mouth up, this kind of thing has never happened to me.

•Instead of answering my twenty questions, he nudged my drink closer to me, picking up his own and then stepped away from the bar. When I grabbed the glass, he nodded his head for me to follow. OF COURSE, I was hot on his heels. I wanted all the answers. For how much he had no problem doing all the speaking during the text exchange, he was unsettlingly silent.

And yet, I followed him all the way to a curtained off area that was entirely private. There was a small table that sat low to the floor in front of a leather sofa. He sat down first, the leather of his pants creaking against the sofa. Then, he placed his drink on the table before tapping the spot beside him. I moved to sit, leaving some space between us. He grinned, not seeming to mind that I hadn’t landed my ass right where his hand had indicated I should be. Once I was seated did he decide to speak, answering only the questions he wanted to.•

“My name is Charles. You can call me Charlie. Or Daddy if you prefer.” •He winked at me before allowing his eyes to sweep over my body the way I had done to him at the bar. His eyes stayed on my socks as he continued.• “I really do love your socks. Can I see them closer?”

•My head tilted in confusion, first because I was not the type of person to call anyone daddy regardless of my wide open sexuality. Second because I was not really sure how much closer he wanted my socks to get when we were already only a couple of feet apart. He took my silence as hesitation and reached down to grab one of my feet, putting it in his lap and holding it there until he was certain I wasn’t going to pull my foot away.

Charlie began to run his hand up my shin, his fingers were light and gentle, tracing over the different coloured shapes. When he got to the top of the sock, his index finger dipped below the elastic, pulling it away from my skin and allowing it to lightly snap against my leg. Such an innocent act felt obscene and dirty.

I didn’t know whether or not I was turned on or off. I did know I wanted to see where he was going with this. Next his fingers moved to the garter at the top of my calf, he traced over it the same way he did my sock. Taking his time, studying the details. I took his low grunt as approval. I knew the leather was soft and supple, not to mention high quality and by the sound he had made, he knew it, too.

His other hand had moved to the lace on my shoe, pulling the bow loose and grabbing ahold of the heel to slip my shoe off completely. I thought maybe I might be getting lucky with a foot rub...

I was wrong.

SO very, very wrong.

I found myself full of shock when he leaned forward and put his mouth on my foot. Not a kiss, or anything sweet and simple, but completely wrapped his lips around my toes and filled his mouth with my foot. I felt his tongue through my sock trying to push between my toes, the fabric growing wet with his efforts. He moaned around my foot and I felt the vibrations all the way across my sole.

That was the moment I decided any chances of being turned on were long gone. Not even alcohol could help me be okay with this. I was not into this the way Charlie very clearly was. I pulled my foot back and sputtered as I shook my head.• Nope. No way. No. I’m sorry but no matter how hot you are, and how much my dick loves the sound of your voice, can I get on board with toe sucking.

•I stood, and stepped backward, abandoning my unfinished drink. He seemed to be expecting my reaction and I watched in horror as he grabbed my shoe and began to smell the inside of it. That definitively answered the fetish question he had ignored.

If anyone noticed I was all but running to the exit, they didn’t say anything, thankfully. I probably could have walked at a normal speed but I was not looking to find myself a new hook up or have any more drinks, and I certainly was not going to wait around for Charlie to finish enjoying himself with my shoe. Absolutely not.

As I settled into the cab, and gave the name of my hotel to the driver, I decided the separation of such an amazing pair of shoes was worth the loss just to bring the entire foot blowjob experience to an end. This was what I deserved for attempting to mix a working weekend with someone else’s pleasure. With a relieved sigh, I resigned myself that next time I received a mystery text, I was going to ignore it the way I had ignored all the signs Charlie had been giving me to indicate he had a foot fetish.•

[irlaimsaaralath]

When Things Happen

So.  You know.  This is going to be personal, so if you’re not into that, best to skip this one.

But I’m having some feelings, and I don’t know what to do with them.  And, I feel like this shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is, but it’s REALLY bothering me.  On one hand, I feel like I’m over reacting, and on the other hand, I cannot make the muscles of my neck unclench and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I am the only woman where I work, and that isn’t really an issue.  I’m just saying that for perspective.  I’m not a shrinking violet, I’m not easily offended or upset, and I can bullshit and talk dirty trash with or better than the best of them. 

But, things there have been pretty tense lately.  Short-handed, everyone is stressed.  Some are handling it better than others.  But, there’s this one guy.  He’s a manager, 55, like 6′4, a huge ass monster of a man, right?  Okay.  So, I’ve worked with him for 8-9 years.  I like him, we’ve always gotten along, I’d go so far as to say we’re “work friends.”  I trust him.  He’s come and picked me up from the hospital before when I couldn’t drive.  So, it’s that sort of thing.

Well, he’s been having some anger issues lately.  And, other folks have mentioned having run-ins with him, which, to be honest, I sort of thought people might be little oversensitive about him.  Like I said, he’s a big guy, and he’s got a big voice to match.  On his best days, he has one of those voices that booms and echoes, and sometimes he can be a little hard, but he bumps you, you bump him, and things even out, you know?

Anyway.  Things got a little tense yesterday.  Several different problems came together all at once, and he got super pissed. 

This might be a good time to mention that my dad and I have a pretty shit history.  He’s bipolar and was untreated when I was a kid.  There was a lot of emotional and mental abuse that went on there.  And, he used to raaaaage so bad when he was on a high.  He would just scream at me, the kind of thing where you know you’re about to get hit.  He never did, but that’s just the sort of reaction it gives you.  So, using the word in a totally not ironic or sarcastic kind of way, people being really loud, yelling, really ugly tones of voice, they sort of trigger me.  I don’t think I’ve ever described the feeling as triggering before, but I guess that’s what it is.  It doesn’t have to be at me or near me, but just hearing people yelling or hollering in a nasty way just shoots straight through me in a cold wash of panic.  It makes me physically uncomfortable.  It’s a very visceral reaction.

So, yesterday, this guy, he gets really pissed.  A couple of the other guys at work are trying to calm him down.  It’s not really working.  He takes off out of the building.  Well, a few minutes later, there was an issue I needed to talk to him about.  So, I ring his cell.  When I finally get him on the phone and explain the issue, he just loses his fucking shit.  He started yelling at me in the nastiest tone of voice that I have heard in a reeeeeeally long time.  I mean, it was fuck this and fuck that and mother fucking people not doing their mother fucking jobs.  And, I don’t *think* he was complaining about me, but he was yelling at me.  I totally froze.  Normally when the guys at work talk shit to me, I talk shit back, and then we’re fine.  It’s not a big deal to me.  I don’t have a problem with cussing or people getting angry or even with them being a little loud.  But this thing wasn’t any of those things.  It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. 

And before I knew it, I was crying and I couldn’t stop crying.  A couple of the guys made me sit down because I’m bawling and still walking around trying to do shit I need to do.  And, it gets to the ugly crying stage, so then I have to go sit in the bathroom and just unload it.  Because I don’t cry.  I’m not a crier.  Maybe it was a combination of the fact that October was a hectic, stressful month for me in both of my jobs.  And, this just tipped me over the edge.  Or maybe it was that this was someone I trusted, and he just raged at me.  I mean, RAGED.  And, while I don’t ever think he’d actually do me physical harm, what happened yesterday absolutely scared the shit out of me.  Not really because of the actual situation, just the frame of mind the situation threw me into.  And now that I’m there, I can’t get out of it.

I can’t get the muscles in my shoulders and neck to stop clenching.  And my stomach keeps rolling over.  And I had to go in today and tell my boss, “Hey, look.  You know me.  You know I don’t have a lot of lines for people to cross.  It’s virtually impossible to offend me.  But this thing happened, and not only did it cross my line, it did the tango across my line, took a spin on the far side of it, then cha-cha’d its way off into the sunset.  This thing needs to never happen again.”  And, he was great about it.  My boss is like the big brother I never had.  So, I’m not worried that it’s not going to get taken care of.  That’s not it.

I just...I’m stuck, and I don’t know how to get unstuck.  Like, it just keeps turning over and over in my head, and my heart keeps beating too fast, and my stomach feels upside down.  And, I can’t figure out how to get it to stop.  I don’t know if I’ve ever had this particular problem before.  I’m not angry.  I wasn’t angry yesterday.  I’ve just got this constant, low-key feeling of panic right in the middle of me, and it hasn’t gone away since this shit happened yesterday, and boy.  I’m ready for it to go the fuck away.  It’s damaging the calm I never really had a firm grip on anyway.

Maybe getting it out will help.  We’ll see.  If you made it this far, thanks for reading and listening.  I’m going to go hide in bed with my cat now. 

<3

[alleiradayne]

Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 80

Catch up on the previous part - part 79 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

Cullen, Amallia, Alistair, and Amodisia talk about the case. And later, Alistair has a visitor in his office.

“Wait.” Alistair flung his hand in the air. “You’re telling me we’ve got fuck-all. Again.”

“Give the man a prize.”

Amallia glared at him, but, despite her warning, Cullen’s sour mood prevailed. Their weekend in Denerim had turned into a week’s stay, extended indefinitely. Not that Amallia wanted to leave, but Cullen had refused to return to Redcliffe before Amodisia’s doctors released her from the hospital. Until then, they stayed at the Prancing Pony, stuck in Denerim.

For a moment, Alistair’s sharpened glare focused on him, the confused knot of his brow etching lines deep into his forehead. “Explain.”

At the foot of the bed, Cullen paced, choosing his words with great care as three sets of eyes followed him. Amallia sat beside Amodisia, fingers laced in one another’s hands, and on the opposite edge of the bed sat Alistair, shoulders slumped over his wife’s other hand, worrying her fingers with his thumbs.

“The hotel had nothing,” Cullen began with a shake of his head. “The closed-circuit television showed Amodisia and Ashara going into the bathroom and then, forty-five minutes later, Delrin entering and exiting within seconds.”

Amodisia gasped before shouting, “But someone else obviously came in!”

“No need to convince us, sweetheart, we believe you.” Alistair placed a kiss to the back of her hand, then added several more to each of her fingers, and a flash of comfort brightened her smile before Cullen continued.

“Now, I can’t prove anything. And Denerim PD doesn’t want to subpoena the video tape. But, I suspect someone faked the feed, giving the assailant plenty of time to sneak in.”

“Maker, why go to so much trouble?” Amallia breathed. “And to kill Sia? Why?”

Cullen shrugged. “She’s a highly visible and influential politician. But it does seem like a short-sighted goal; why not just take out Alistair?”

“That makes even less sense, my job dreadful,” Alistair grunted, earning their glares, and he cowered with a sheepish frown. “I mean, it’s a really difficult job and nobody understands that until they’ve done it. The hours are abysmal. Right, Sia?”

“Yes. Dreadful.” She rolled her eyes before returning her attention to Cullen. “Anything else?”

Several paces traversed back and forth at the foot of the bed, silence settling in with their tension. “Not here.”

Alistair grunted as he said, “Then what’s left? Is this case even worth pursuing?”

“Given recent events, the district attorney still thinks we’re on to something,” Cullen clarified. “We’ve got two weeks before we interview the detectives from the shooting investigation. So, I am prepping her for that.”

He paused, wracking his brain for any other updates, recalling the worst news yet. What purpose did it serve to tell them? And yet, avoiding it served no purpose, either, but to artificially maintaining their hopes. “Unfortunately, your food tests from the movie premier came back negative for poisons.”

Crestfallen but a second, Amodisia squeaked as squirmed in her confining bed. “What about the other woman’s food?”

“Discarded. Report says anaphylactic shock, an allergic reaction, but no other testing was performed.” His own derisive roll of his eyes mirrored hers, and Amodisia slumped back to her pillows, head lolling to one shoulder.

The same tense silence settled over each of them, Cullen dwelling on another piece of news of which he had yet to inform them. The last piece. The straw.

“Do you have anything, Cullen?”

He cringed, wincing in the wake of Alistair’s please, his desperate need for an answer. Nerves steeled, Cullen sucked in a breath and spoke. “I do not. Your test results came back negative. I’m so sorry, Sia.”

“What?” Amodisia’s puzzled look darted between the two of them. “Test results?”

Alistair turned to her with an apologetic frown. “Ashara told me that the detective who accompanied the two of you to the hospital collected skin from your finger nails.”

“You scratched the absolute piss out of whoever attacked you,” Cullen said. “It’s amazing none of their blood was found at the crime scene.”

Amodisia’s furrowed brow softened, eyes unfocused and staring at the far corner. “I remember… he was huge. It was a man, I’m positive of that.” Her attention returned, eyes snapping to his. “But I already told the detective that. It was pitch black in the loo so I never saw his face or hair. It could have been Alistair for all I know.”

Alistair’s snort of dismissal startled him. “You’d be dead if I’d done it.”

“Try me,” Amodisia shot back. “You do remember the time I carried your ass over my shoulder a shootout, right?”

Alistair opened his mouth to lob another challenge, but Cullen interjected before they derailed the conversation any further. “Despite your ability to kill one another, I’d appreciate it if you’d wait a few more weeks,” he began. “If this somehow goes to trial, I’ll need both of you alive.”

Amodisia scrunched her nose beneath Alistair’s kiss on her cheek. “I think we can manage that,” she started as she shoved her husband. “Now, please tell me you have some good news to share with us.”

“No,” Cullen sighed. “I told you, I’ve got nothing. We’re right back to where we were in December.”

Alistair flopped onto the bed beside his wife with an exasperated huff. “What do we do now?”

With a grimace, Cullen leaned over the foot of the bed, hands planted on the frame and shoulders squared.

“We get back to work.”

Through the cavernous marble hallways of Denerim City Hall Alistair strode, flanked by servicemen and women in their plain, dark suits and plain, blank faces. The press conference that morning had spiraled into an unmitigated disaster, too many questions left unanswered. The papers ran their speculative stories, ranging from the plausible to the outrageous; a mass murderer free in Redcliffe, someone had tried scaring Alistair out of office, someone wanted Amodisia dead for whatever reason, and even far-off fringes of society believed the government behind it, a coupe against the power couple that had burned down Fereldan’s oligarchy and rebuilt a democracy from the ashes.

They had many enemies, true. But enemies bold enough–and dumb enough–to try killing someone three times?

The door to his office towered over him before long, the walk from the press conference to this far wing of the building passing in the blink of an eye. His detail took their posts at the ends of the hallway and to either side of the door as he entered, pulling the door closed behind him.

He stood there, mind blank and body numb, eyes staring at the large desk in the center of the room. Maker, how had it come to this? How had it come to them chasing their tails, racing not even to keep up, but to continue to fall behind?

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts, and his cheeks warmed at the interruption. Did any of them ever listen to orders? Were they unsure of what qualified as an emergency? Maybe they required a definition, or an explicit example. As he wheeled on the door, Alistair grabbed the handle and wrenched it back to come face to face with Loghain.

Maferath’s balls.

Dark circles sunk heavy beneath his eyes and his jet-black hair stuck out at the back, unkempt. In one hand, he grasped a folder and in the other he clutched a large cup of store-bought coffee, taking a sip as he entered.

Alistair stepped back lest the man trample him. “Sir,” he addressed, deferential as usual. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Sit, Alistair,” Loghain suggested as he motioned towards his desk. “Just checking in.”

Alistair shut the door with a quick push, then returned to his desk across from Loghain, already stead in a plush leather chair. “Checking in on what?” he asked.

A chill froze him to the bone at the sight of Loghain’s questioning stare. Something about Loghain’s disheveled appearance tripped a visceral response in Alistair, positive the man had not slept in twenty-four hours, a greater warning he let anyone see him in such a state. The fine hairs on the back of his arms and his neck stood on end and a rush of dread filled his stomach as he watched every fidget and twitch of Loghain’s existence.

“Why, Amodisia, of course?”

Though the recent attack on is wife’s life had shaken him, her prognosis of a full recovery had dulled that shock. And so, for reasons unknown even to himself, the memory of that fateful day last spring recalled with terrifying clarity. The explosion of a high-caliber rifle echoed in his mind, reverberating off the surrounding buildings. The screams that followed. Amallia’s bright red blood splattered across his shirt. Cullen shouting for help, Ashara leaping into action. The ambulance. Amodisia’s numb silence in the car all the way to the hospital.

And yet, reliving that memory paled in comparison to Loghain’s concern for Amodisia’s wellbeing.

“She’s fine.” Alistair picked up a pen. “Thank you for asking,” he stated with a small smile. “Now, is there something I can do for you?”

Loghain shook his head as he frowned. “She’s going to make a full recovery?”

If Alistair allowed his imagination to run wild, he suspected the man sitting before him an imposter, not Loghain, but a doppelganger or a man in a mask attempting the worst impersonation of Loghain he’d ever seen. “They’re keeping her in the hospital to continue monitoring, but she will make a full recovery, yes.”

A faint hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Loghain’s mouth, leaving his eyes untouched. “Excellent. Glad to hear it. I was worried,” he rambled. “Head wounds are… terrifying.”

“They are…” Alistair began, his gut twisting as a fresh wave of gooseflesh broke out across his arms. A chill filled the pit of his stomach, numbing his feet with a shiver, and clumsy fingers twirled his pen, dropping it to the desk. His reaching hand flicked it away as he tried to grab it, sending it skittering across the desk.

The pen bounced off Loghain's hand wrapped around his coffee cup and he recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Alistair froze, waiting for the other man to relax before retrieving the pen. When Loghain didn’t move, Alistair stood and reached with a slow hand, careful not to startle the other man any further.

As he leaned forward and looked at the pen, something else caught his eye. Beneath the cuff of his suit shirt hid a bandage, wrapped around Loghain’s left wrist.

He hesitated, staring for a fraction of a second too long. Loghain shrugged in his suit jacket, adjusting the sleeve to cover his wrist, but said nothing. His cold, dark glare screamed louder than anything he might have said as he rose from his chair and drained the last of his coffee.

“Is there—”

“No,” Loghain interjected as he turned for the door. “No, that will be all. I hope your year improves, Mr. Theirin,” he added over his shoulder. The door swung open as he approached, a member of Alistair's detail leaning in to give Loghain the space to pass.

He regarded the waifish Cole as if to size him up, turning back once more to consider Alistair, twice the boy’s size. With a shrug, Loghain turned back for the door, dropping his empty coffee cup in the bin on his way.

Cole lingered by the door, a careful eye watching for the opportunity to speak. When he did, he muttered a question Alistair struggled to hear.

“Should I call for a doctor, Mr. Theirin? You look ill…”

He waved him off with a lazy hand and a shake of his head, but as the door closed, that sinking desperation returned in a wave of nausea. Alistair slumped over his desk, gasping for breath and gripping its edge, praying at the tangible mass to stop the inexorable spinning of the room.

[pitviperofdoom]

BNHA: Summer Stars, 11/?

Summary: It’s been judged safe to send the students of UA home to their families for the first three weeks of summer, much to the relief of everyone whose name isn’t Todoroki Shouto. Luckily, Midoriya has a solution for him, and Midoriya Inko has a lot of love to give.

AO3

“I can’t get through to her!”

“Try again.” Fwoom.

“…It’s not working! I can’t even get her voicemail, and she never has her phone off!”

“Just keep trying, whenever you have a moment—behind you, Izuku.”

Thwack. “You piece of—!”

“Thanks, Shouto! Urgh, I can’t get All-Might, either!”

“Don’t panic just yet. We just need to—oh, hell.”

“There’s too many of them here, we need to get through! What if they’re in trouble—?”

“The address she gave us is nowhere near this mess, and All-Might’s with her. Even if he can’t fight, he’ll know what to do.”

“The signal’s jammed on her end, Shouto. If they’re safe, then why would that be?”

“Let’s just hurry—”

Crash.

Foom.

“Shouto, if we don’t move fast, they’ll surround us.”

“I know, and I’m trying to clear a path—hey, what are you doing?”

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up!”

“Izuku get back here—!”

“I’ll be fine! I’ll just slow them up so you can shake them! I’ll meet you there—make sure All-Might and my mom are okay!”

“Damn it, Izuku!”

---

Yagi Toshinori was a frail shadow of what he once was. There was hardly an ounce of spare muscle between skin and bones, his hands were plagued with irregular tremors, and he could hardly manage a light jog for long without tasting blood. If he were feeling particularly adventurous and stupid, he might manage an echo of his former self. But only for a moment. Not even enough time to throw a proper punch and make the inevitable bloody regurgitation worth it.

But his sacrifice of strength had left his senses untouched. And though his hands shook and his legs fought to keep him steady, his ears worked just fine. He could hear Midoriya Inko breathing behind him, quiet but short, fearful breaths. Other than that, silence had fallen in the cafe. Had he been paying attention, he might have noticed earlier that there were no sounds coming from behind the counter, or the kitchen beyond that.

By now, Deimos had stepped to the middle of the room, and Toshinori met his eyes evenly. “The people who worked here,” he said. “What have you done with them?”

Deimos rolled his eyes. “Oh, gag me, they’re fine. All they had to do was keep quiet and not warn you about the scary man sitting in the corner, and they walked out of here alive before anything got ugly.”

“Don’t be a fool, Deimos,” Toshinori said flatly. “Whatever your game is, you have to know it’s going to take more than scaring a few baristas to let you get away with it. Be smart about this.”

“That’s the great thing, though.” Deimos grinned wide, showing teeth and gums. “I am. This all got set up for me. See, it’s been pretty hard to get by ever since I got out, but it’s all good now. Found a little club where I can fit right in, and this?” He gestured vaguely at the empty cafe. “No one’s gonna notice this. No one’s gonna come by a nice, quiet little cafe when there’s a full-blown riot not seven blocks away.”

Toshinori’s blood ran cold. Seven blocks—close enough to keep civilians away, and far enough that any possible backup would be occupied and ignoring the places where it was quiet. And with the signals jammed, he couldn’t call for help. “So what is this? An assassination?”

Deimos wrinkled his nose with amusement. “Nah. You were right the first time.”

Toshinori blinked.

“It’s a game, buddy. You know when you can’t join the club unless you steal a stop sign, or shoot hot sauce, or run bare-assed down main street? That’s this.” Deimos snickered. “Oh how the mighty have fallen, am I right? The big bad All-Might’s a hazing ritual.”

“Kitchen,” Toshinori said quietly.

“What was that?”

He ignored him, and turned his head just enough that Mrs. Midoriya was within the corner of his vision. “Go to the kitchen. Hide. If you can, find the back way out.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath. “But you—”

Toshinori turned his head further and tried to convince her with a look. It must have worked, because her voice trailed off and her eyes flickered toward the shelter of the counter. Then they flashed back to him and widened.

“Look out!”

He had already begun throwing himself to the side the moment her face had changed. He caught Deimos by the wrist in the midst of his attack and threw his entire body into diverting the villain’s path. He might not have been strong, but he was seven feet tall and there was still weight to his bones yet. In the corner of his vision he saw Mrs. Midoriya dive out of the way and make a break for the counter.

There was some relief at that. Whatever happened, this wasn’t a fight he could win—but he didn’t need to win. All he needed to do was buy time, and stay alive. Long enough for Mrs. Midoriya to get clear, and then long enough for her to find help.

Stay alive. He’d made a promise.

Toshinori focused on Deimos once more, but Deimos was gone.

In his place stood a man in a crisp black suit, tall and strong in spite of the heavy black mask that covered his head. The metal gleamed dully, and Toshinori found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blank iron face. The harsh rasp of mechanized breathing pervaded the still air, and All For One seemed to draw in light and hope like the center of a black hole.

Fear is a funny thing. Toshinori knew and had no reason whatsoever to not know that the man before him was not All For One. All For One was locked away, in a cage where he belonged, and the man before him was Deimos. He knew it was Deimos and he knew it was an illusion, because he knew he was frightened of All For One and that was how Deimos’s power worked, wasn’t it?

But fear cares little for logic and reason. It didn’t matter to Toshinori’s fear that he knew that All For One was in jail. It didn’t matter to his fear that he knew Deimos was the one standing in front of him—still a dangerous man, but not the nameless terror that haunted his sleep. It didn’t matter to his fear that he had his student’s mother to protect. The sight of his old foe, dark and menacing like he’d stepped out of a nightmare, was so closely tied with dread and terror that his mind didn’t know how else to react. In that moment, the fear came upon him, and it would not be tricked away by a smile.

It hit him fast and unforgiving, a brutal, visceral reaction that he felt as sharply as a knife to the heart. It overloaded his senses, and he froze in place for a single horrible moment. Perhaps he might have recovered in the next instant, if only Deimos had given him one.

The apparition of All For One kicked out, but the image skipped like a glitched video and Toshinori took the impact a split second early.

Deimos fought dirty; he aimed right for Toshinori’s left side.

His vision went gray, and the world tilted on its axis. Pain drove bile and worse things up his throat, and his body forgot how to use what was left of his lungs. When the blank darkness cleared to mere tunnel vision, Toshinori found himself on his knees, choking on the taste of salt and copper. He could barely see or hear his enemy through the haze of sick agony, but he could feel Deimos standing over him.

Another kick to the side dragged a choked noise of pain from his wasted lungs, and Deimos’s voice rolled out mockingly above him. “Wonder if they’ll let me keep a finger. That’s what people do, right? Keep stuff? I’ve never tried it before.”

--- Inko was going to do what All-Might asked. She really was. In a burst of desperate speed, she took shelter behind the counter, but the moment she came to the decision that running away was probably the best course of action, she heard the noise that All-Might made when Deimos kicked him.

Don’t slow down, get help, said common sense, but Inko was already peeking back around the counter. She had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. All-Might was on the ground, curled up in pain with that horrible figure standing over him. She remembered it from that news broadcast, nearly a year ago—the man who had very nearly killed All-Might once.

So that’s who All-Might fears.

The smart thing would be to run, and get help. But Inko knew her own limits, and she could see the patch of dark red spreading on All-Might’s side. If she left him now, then he was going to die, regardless of what he had promised.

She gritted her teeth until her head hurt. Oh, no you don’t, she thought, as her wide eyes took in the scene before her. My son isn’t finished with you yet.

But what could she do?

“People try to hide what they’re scared of all the time,” Deimos was saying, aiming another rough kick at All-Might’s ribs. This time, the former hero caught the blow before it could reach anything vital. “But eventually it comes out. Just takes the right push.” All-Might shoved himself up to his hands and knees, but Deimos planted one foot on his shoulders and kept him from rising further.

When the villain leaned over to put all his weight on All-Might’s back, Inko saw it. There on the wall across from her, just a few feet away from the door, was a breakable glass case. A fire extinguisher sat inside it.

Her heart quickened, and she leaned further out of hiding and narrowed her eyes at it. Was it small enough? Could she reach?

She had to try. Inko crept to the side, until the fire extinguisher and the villain were lined up, as well as she could tell—you could never tell with illusions. Bracing herself, she tried to call the object toward her, but nothing happen. From this distance she couldn’t even tell if it was wobbling in its case. It must not be small enough, or close enough, and Inko was no hero. She’d never needed to strengthen her quirk before. Teeth clenched, she pulled and pulled, to no avail, with no way of knowing if she was making any difference.

“I thought you might be interesting.” Deimos’s voice cut through her concentration. “It’s not every day I get to make myself look like the devil himself. But you know?” He leaned down, seeming to grind his foot into All-Might’s shoulder lades. “This is the second time I’ve had to see this goddamn kid’s corpse in somebody’s head. You know, the one I stabbed. Little to the right and I might’ve made that one come true.”

The corners of Inko’s vision turned red, and she focused on the fire extinguisher and yanked.

A stabbing headache blinded her, but she could hear the crash of broken glass, followed closely by a meaty thud. At the last minute she remembered to duck, and the fire extinguisher slammed into wall behind her hard enough to dent the drywall. When the stars in her vision cleared, she found the illusion gone and Deimos glaring at her from across the room with a flattened, bloodied nose.

“You bitch.”

Through the fear, a hint of satisfaction poked through. He must have turned to see what the noise was, and taken the improvised missile straight to the face.

In the distraction, All-Might had dragged himself to his feet and was putting distance between himself and Deimos, while yelling toward her. “Run!”

“Oh no you don’t,” Deimos snarled, and lunged toward him.

Before Inko could think to do anything else, more glass broke—this time, the cafe’s glass front was punched inward by what looked to be a narrow, translucent wave. Deimos stopped short as it spread like a wall between him and All-Might, and he nearly slammed into it with his own momentum. Shocked, he sprang back and stared around wildly for the source, and Inko watched—equal parts relieved and worried—as Todoroki Shouto stepped through the hole in the glass with icy mist still rising from the right side of his body.

He wasn’t dressed for heroics, as far as Inko could tell. In fact, he was wearing the same T-shirt and button-down he’d been wearing when she last saw him and Izuku that morning. He must have left in a hurry.

The boy glanced back to where a bleeding All-Might leaned against the side of a booth, then caught Inko’s eye from across the room.

“Hi, Mrs. Midoriya,” he said calmly. “Izuku got worried when you didn’t answer your phone.” Flames burst to life at his left hand, spreading from his fingertips to his forearm—and it was a good thing his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, or he would have destroyed them.

Without another word, he flew at Deimos with fire in one hand and ice in the other.

Inko shook herself out of her daze, gave caution a loose leash, and rushed out of hiding to where All-Might was struggling to stay upright. Dodging around the erupting fight, she reached his side, caught him by the arm, and hurriedly helped him back to the relative safety of the counter.

“You didn’t run,” he muttered to her.

“I gave it some thought,” she said as she half-dragged him behind the counter. “But you had about as much of a chance of surviving that as I did, so I decided I wasn’t going to leave you. Also?” She hit him with a quick glare. “He threatened my son.”

“…Right.” For a moment he looked almost afraid of her. “He told me about your quirk. Did you know you could call something that large to you, from that distance, that quickly?”

“Well, I didn’t know that I couldn’t.” She placed herself at the edge of the counter, where she could see her son’s friend struggle. Deimos was quick; his quirk might have been illusions, but he was fast on his own, dodging fire and ice as Todoroki came at him. “Is there anything we can do to help him?”

“Not much.” She could tell it pained him to say that. He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, and looked her in the eye. “But I can’t just… He’s my student too.” In that moment, she knew that nothing she said to him would convince him to run and save himself.

There was a grunt of pain, and Todoroki came skidding back across the floor, still on his feet but clutching at his stomach. He came to a halt not ten feet away, and barely gave himself a moment’s pause before sending out a blast of fire to keep Deimos at bay. By accident, she caught his eye, and he turned his head to see her watching him from the counter with All-Might still at her side.

The man who lunged out through the flames could not have been anyone but Deimos, but once more, he no longer looked like Deimos. Todoroki’s eyes were still on her, but she could tell by the way his face froze that he knew exactly who was standing before him now.

---

Shouto didn’t need to look. He knew what Deimos would make him see—he’d known from the moment he heard what the villain’s quirk was. He’d known even before then, when the bastard gave him a taste of his power just the day before.

But this was not an empty alley, with no one but Izuku to see. He was looking Mrs. Midoriya in the eye, and he could see from the way her eyes flickered and widened in horror that Deimos had already made his move.

He took a deep breath that shuddered on the way in. Not here. Not in front of them. Deimos was the type who liked to play with his food. And with Mrs. Midoriya watching—with All-Might watching—Shouto couldn’t afford to give him that satisfaction.

“That’s not going to work.” His voice was steady in a way the rest of him didn’t feel. He averted his eyes from Mrs. Midoriya’s face, but he didn’t look at what Deimos was trying to make him see. If he looked, he might give himself away. “You can’t do what the real one can. And I already know you’re not him.”

“That’s funny,” and Shouto’s throat clenched tight at that voice, because it was his voice; Shouto knew that voice better than he ever wanted to, and the copy was perfect. “If you know that, then why are you afraid?”

“I am not afraid—” Shouto’s head snapped forward, and there he was—not even in costume, but just in regular clothes he wore around the house, with flames flickering around his face, his hands, his shoulders—and Shouto fought to keep his breathing steady, because they can see it too, All-Might can see it too. “I’m not afraid of you. Or him. Sorry, but you’ve got it wrong.”

He saw his father lunge, he saw one hand clenched and burning brightly as it pitched toward him, and it didn’t matter that he knew that it was not Endeavor. All that his fear cared about was what he could see.

In battle, he had learned to block and counter. In his father’s presence, he had learned to flinch first.

It wasn’t as hard as he was used to, and there was no real fire behind it, but it still sent him stumbling back into the nearest table. Pain brought his wits back, and he shook his head to clear it before bringing fire and ice back to bear.

Stupid. All he has are cheap tricks, and here you are letting him win.

“I knew you were interesting,” his father’s voice sailed out, and his first wave of ice passed through nothing. “From the second I looked in your head. Well. Once I got past the obligatory corpses.”

He can make you see and hear whatever he wants, idiot, let him come to you first!

Shouto paused, bracing himself, waiting for a blow or a breath of disturbed air or the tremor of footsteps in the floor.

“I mean, a kid whose worst fear is his own hero dad? That’s the kind of fear I live for. That’s the kind of fear that has a story behind it.”

“Shut up,” Shouto gritted out. He could feel ice spreading from his arm to his shoulder, dampening his shirt when his flames melted it.

“Why?” Endeavor’s voice mocked him. “Is there something you don’t want those other two to see?”

Shut him up! Take him down before it’s too late!

The floor creaked under his feet, and Shouto threw ice in the direction it had come from. He felt it impact something, but it wasn’t enough, because Endeavor still loomed over him, grinning through the fire around his face. Shouto saw him shift his weight to throw a kick, and felt it connect when he blocked it with his right arm. A layer of ice absorbed some of the shock, but he still felt the familiar rattle of impact in his teeth.

“I can see it,” his father’s voice said. “You know, most people freeze up if you try and kill them wearing a face they know. A face they love. They scream, cry, beg, ask why. But you?” Shouto didn’t see the next punch coming until it had already crashed into his mouth. “This is nothing new to you, is it?”

Shouto spat blood and let the fire burn higher. “Shut up.”

Jeering laughter hit him like a physical blow. “If I beat your ass til you puked, would that just be business as usual?”

“I said shut up!” Ice burst forth in a massive wave, cannoning through the image of his father in as wide an arc as Shouto could manage, but still Deimos evaded it and Endeavor’s voice rang out mockingly.

“You don’t have to answer that. I can see it just fine.” Another blow came at the back of his head. Shouto ducked but it still hit him, hard enough to rattle him but not enough to knock him down. He pivoted, sending flames in the direction it had come.

Get it together, stupid, he’s making a fool of you!

Deimos laughed at him, and the sound wasn’t out of place in Endeavor’s voice. “Well, you know what they say. Don’t worry about it—it’s all in your head!”

The flames dissipated again, and Shouto found himself facing the illusion with his breath hissing in and out between clenched teeth. His eyes burned.

“It really is, you know.” Endeavor’s voice lowered, smug and shaking with held-back laughter. “It’s all in your head. And I can see it.” A kick came at Shouto’s right hip, and he twisted to lessen the impact. It sent him a few steps back into a table, rather than tumbling to the ground. “And I must say, you’re taking a beating from Dad pretty well, aren’t you? What’s the matter, is that not the worst he could do to you?”

Shouto answered with a blast of fire and a furious yell. “Shut your mouth and fight me!”

“You’re not scared of him hurting you, are you, kiddo?” The word sounded sickeningly wrong in his father’s voice, and Shouto gritted his teeth until his head ached. “Then who? Who else is he gonna hurt?”

Don’t think it. Don’t think it. Don’t—

More laughter, and Shouto hurled himself toward the center of the room to keep from getting backed into a corner. His left arm sent fire arcing through the place where he thought Deimos might be, and his throat seized when an errant flame licked too close at the counter.

Stupid! They’re still there, you might—

“I don’t see why you don’t get along,” Deimos taunted him. “Look at you, throwing fire around like it’s a tantrum. You’re practically his second coming—”

For a split second he saw red, and it might have been fire or it might have been rage. The image of his father evaporated when Shouto sent a jagged ice spike rushing toward it, only to reappear just a few feet in front of him. Shouto felt the kick coming at him and sprang back, narrowly dodging it.

“Touched a nerve, didn’t I? So that’s your fear? Scared of being like your dad?” And then he was inches away, teeth bared in a vicious smile. “Well get in line, kid, ‘cause everyone’s got that one.” And then he vanished again, out of reach as Shouto fought to keep his breathing steady.

Don’t listen to him, it’s such an obvious trap and you’re walking right in—

“Not that I blame you, from what’s in your head. Tell me, what was it like, knowing you were the reason your mom couldn’t fight back?”

Ice spread across the floor in a flash, bristling with upward-pointing spikes. A cracking sound and then a curse rang out, and Shouto whipped around to see one spike snapped off and trickling with blood. Fire roared from his fingertips, and he could only hope that some of it made contact.

His father’s voice kept talking. “Was it nice, knowing that you’d be the one getting knocked around if she opened her mouth?” A hard hand landed on the back of his neck, his feet were knocked out from under him. Heat from his left side melted the spikes he had made before Deimos could slam him down onto them. “And now you’re scared the tables have turned, aren’t you? You think Mr. Number One might take it out on her if you act up?”

Shouto focused his power toward the back of his neck, freezing on one side and burning on the other until Deimos let go. He shoved himself back up again, and took the next kick to his side with a muted grunt of pain.

Endeavor’s form was blurry when he looked up. His eyes stung. Stop. Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t be this pathetic when there are lives on the line.

“How about that scar?” Deimos-as-Endeavor grabbed his chin almost hard enough to bruise, only letting go when a spurt of flame drove him back. “Dad lose his temper at you?”

“Shut up.” His voice broke. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry now.

And then Endeavor’s eyes widened, and surprise showed on his father’s face before it morphed back into a grin. He laughed until Shouto’s ears hurt, and the image flickered and the voice changed, and suddenly it wasn’t Endeavor standing before him anymore.

“Seriously?” Mother laughed and her eyes glittered, over-bright with the same madness he had seen years before, walking into the kitchen to the sound of boiling water. “Her? Your sweet little mother? She did that? I knew it! Haha, I knew it!” Her voice shrieked with laughter, and Shouto realized vaguely that he hadn’t moved to attack or defend in what felt like an eternity now. “I hoped there was a story behind it, and god have you delivered. This is the best day of my life.” She smiled sweetly, and her white hair swayed as she tilted her head. “I bet it was the worst day of yours, though, wasn’t it?”

Shouto stared at her—it’s not her, you waste of space, it’s Deimos—

“How long, do you think?” she asked. “How long did it take him to turn me into that? How long do you have?”

“Todoroki, behind you!”

And it wasn’t Deimos who made him hear that. It couldn’t have been, because the voice belonged to All-Might. And whatever else happened, whatever anyone might say, All-Might would never have a place in Shouto’s fears.

He turned, but too late. There was no room for ice, and fire would not come in time, and he could only glimpse his father’s smirk before Deimos grabbed the back of his neck and slammed him face-first to the floor.

Fight back, freeze him, burn him, don’t just lie there like a useless pile of dead weight.

“No wonder you’re so scared.” Endeavor’s voice shook with held-back laughter. “That’s your future, and you can’t stop it.”

Shouto planted his hands on the ground and pushed desperately, trying to force himself up, but Deimos kept him pinned. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Look at you, setting fires at the slightest little push. I wonder who you’ll burn first. Maybe those two behind the counter—would anybody blame you if they got caught in the crossfire?”

He could taste blood again, and he spat on instinct, eyes shut in case his traitor tears spilled over. He twisted his head to the right, just to give himself space to breathe and spit out words. “That won’t happen.”

“Except you don’t even know that for sure, do you?” Deimos leaned harder on the back of his neck. “You’ve been asking yourself, all your life.”

“Shut up.”

“If he could turn your pretty, lovely mother into a monster,” Deimos snarled inches from his ear. “Then how long do you think you have before he does the same to you?”

“Stop it.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you follow your lessons like a good little son, isn’t it?” Deimos hissed. “Won’t that be a surprise for all the people who think you’re worth something. Who’s gonna get hurt first, huh? Your mom? Your little friend I stabbed?”

“That won’t happen,” Shouto rasped.

“You think it won’t?” The voice changed again, and Shouto heard a gasp from behind the counter. A hand slammed down on the floor inches away from his face, and Shouto opened his eyes to a blur. He blinked, clearing the liquid from his vision, and all he could see was a darkened, rough hand, warped and scarred from a fight that he would remember for the rest of his life.

“It already has!” Izuku’s voice rang out above him, hard and accusing. “You talk like it’s impossible, but you’ve already started!” Shouto shut his eyes, and nails dug into the back of his neck. “Look at this! Look at what you’ve already done, and tell me it’ll never happen! You did this!”

And something deep in Shouto’s mind clicked.

Because this was Izuku’s voice, words digging into him like barbed wire, harsh and scathing at the same time as it mocked him. It was so out of place, so terribly, utterly wrong, that his fear was knocked out of its spiral.

His left hand is holding me. He’s on the right. He’s on my right.

There was a choked cry—not Izuku’s voice, or his mother’s, or Endeavor’s—as his right side erupted with cold so sharp that it burned his skin. Ice burst upward from his back, the weight on top of him vanished, and his body moved without any command from his brain. He blinked, and he was looking at Deimos through his own tangled hair and a thick layer of blue-white ice. Deimos stared back at him, quite literally frozen. The only part of him that wasn’t encased in ice was the top half of his face, from nose to forehead. He could breathe—just about—but not much else.

“He would never say that,” Shouto rasped, though Deimos was beyond hearing him. “He would never say that to me.” His right hand was still outstretched, still shaking in midair.

There, was that so hard? You could have ended that in seconds if you hadn’t wasted time getting caught by his stupid mind games.

Slowly, he lowered his hand to his side and stepped back to take stock of everything. The cafe was a mess—tables and chairs overturned, scorch marks everywhere, the floor still wet with melted ice. His left sleeve was scorched, and he could still taste blood, which probably meant—

“Todoroki?”

He started.

Mrs. Midoriya had risen from behind the counter and stepped forward. Behind her, All-Might still sat injured on the floor and stared at him with a mixture of shock, horror, and confusion.

He stepped away from them, and by some miracle he found a table within reach where he could lean, because his legs were too shaky to trust. “A-are—” His voice scraped out of his throat. “Are you two all right?”

Mrs. Midoriya took another step toward him, eyes wide and worried. “We’re fine, but...”

They’d seen.

They’d seen everything.

All-Might saw, All-Might knows—

His ears roared. All at once the room seemed simultaneously too large and too small. He breathed in, but it wasn’t enough. His lungs took in the air, but beyond that they refused to do their job. The edges of his vision darkened.

Stop. Stop this. Not here. Not now. Later, when no one can see. You can’t afford to do this now. Not in front of them.

Broken glass clinked on the floor, and Shouto whipped around to see someone darting in through the broken hole he’d made in the storefront.

“Is everyone—” Izuku stopped short, slipping a little on the wet floor as he stared at the scene before him. “Oh. Wow. Okay, I got here a little late then.” His eyes flickered from Deimos’s frozen form to Shouto, and then to his mother. He rushed forward, sending water droplets up with each step. “Mom! All-Might!” He skidded to a halt in front of them, catching himself on the counter. “Is everyone okay?”

Mrs. Midoriya hugged him. “Yes, we’re okay, but…” Her voice trailed off; her eyes were still fixed on Shouto.

Izuku followed her gaze. Instinctively Shouto tried to push himself to stand up straight and pull it together. But he couldn’t do both and suppress a panic attack at the same time, so he stayed where he was and tried to keep breathing until his body remembered what it was supposed to do with oxygen.

“Shouto?” When had Izuku gotten to him that fast? He’d just blinked and there he was. Izuku’s hand hovered toward Shouto’s shoulder, but didn’t touch him yet. “Shouto, what happened?” Izuku glanced back toward the frozen statue of Deimos, and a hard edge entered his voice. “What did he do to you?”

“He, uh.” His own voice sounded so far away. “His quirk. It made him look like Endeavor.” Izuku’s head whipped back to face him so fast it must have given him whiplash. “I-it’s nothing,” Shouto stammered out, hating the way his chest spasmed and made his voice tremble and crack. “He just… he said a lot of things, and it…”

“Oh,” and that was pity in Izuku’s voice. That wasn’t right—he didn’t want pity, he just wanted everyone to stop looking at him so he could leave this place and pretend this hadn’t happened. He wanted school to start again so he wouldn’t have to worry about Endeavor coming back and finding him hiding at a friend’s house instead of facing him at home. He wanted—

He wanted—

“Shouto,” Izuku’s hand settled lightly on his shoulder, and he tensed like a coiled spring. “Shouto, it’s okay—”

Pathetic.

His own hand moved before he could think, knocking Izuku’s arm away in a burst of sudden temper. “No it’s not!”

Izuku jumped, eyes widening with shock. “Shouto—”

He couldn’t hear over the pulse in his ears and the screaming thoughts in his head, all overflowing. “What do I have to do?” he snapped. “What do I have to do to make this stop?”

Truth be told, he wasn’t looking for an answer, which was a good thing because Izuku was too busy staring speechlessly at him to offer one.

“Every time,” he went on, forcing words through a throat that seemed determined to squeeze shut and strangle him. “Every time I think it’s better, every time I think I’m finally past it, it comes back.” The threat of tears stung behind his eyes, and he fought them back savagely. “What am I doing wrong?” he demanded. “What do I have to do to stop feeling like this?”

Izuku didn’t reach for him again, but his hands wrung at his sides like he wanted to. “Shouto, it’s okay—”

“It’s not okay!” Shouto snapped again. “Don’t you get it? It has never been okay!”

Izuku’s raised voice cut him off before he could shout any further. “But it’s okay to think about it!”

He flinched.

“You keep asking what you did wrong,” Izuku went on, and his voice rang fiercely against the storm swirling in Shouto’s head. “Like you think what he did was your fault, and it’s not!” Green eyes glared fiercely into his. “You want to know what you’re doing wrong, Shouto? Nothing! You are doing nothing wrong, and anyone who tells you otherwise is mistaken or lying to you!”

Wide-eyed, Shouto could only stare at him dumbly.

“You didn’t do anything to deserve what he did, and it’s not your fault,” Izuku told him sternly. “Do you understand me? It. Is not. Your. Fault.”

He blinked, and then he blinked again, fighting against the feeling of tears creeping out. A mass of pain had formed in his throat, and he could only manage a broken whisper through it. “I just want it to stop.”

Izuku’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said. This time when his hand found Shouto’s shoulder, he didn’t push him away. “And I’m sorry, Shouto. I’m sorry it’s hard, and I’m sorry it won’t go away—”

He didn’t make Izuku let go, but he lifted his hands to his face, feeling the roughness of the years-old burn scar as his fingers slid up to tangle in is hair. “It hurts.” The words slipped out of his traitor mouth before he could stop them, but really, what more harm could they do at this point?

The hand—Izuku’s right hand, the scarred one, the one he’d helped injure—squeezed lightly, grounding him in reality. “I know,” he said softly. “And that’s okay, too.”

He could feel the tears coming again, and he scowled, disgusted with his tears and frustrated with himself for not keeping them in. “I hate it,” he rasped out. “I hate feeling like this. I don’t want to feel like this—” His nails dug into the scar, and the slight sting distracted himself from his own shame.

“You have to.” Izuku’s hand left his shoulder and closed around his wrist, gently tugging it away from his face. Shouto tried to take his hand back, but Izuku held firm. “No, look at me—you have to.” Shouto looked, and that wasn’t pity in Izuku’s eyes. It was sadness, and understanding, and sympathy, but it wasn’t pity. “If all you do is look away and ignore it, it’s just going to keep coming back and hurting you.” He squeezed Shouto’s wrist gently. “You have to let it hurt, Shouto. You have to be honest about how bad it feels, or it’s never going to get any better.” Izuku’s mouth tightened, and he blinked something back. “At least, that’s how it is with me. Okay?”

He let go of Shouto’s wrist, and Shouto lowered his hands to his sides again. His eyes stung. His throat ached. His chest hurt. Everything hurt, and he was tired of it hurting. He was tired of swallowing it down and burying it deep and pretending it was something he could ignore.

He was tired.

Izuku’s arms settled gently around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “You have to be honest,” he repeated. “And you have to ask for help.”

There was no stopping it now, and Shouto had long been tired of trying.

---

It was only when Toshinori forced himself to his feet that he heard it.

It was a quiet, ragged, broken sound—and a sound like that had no place coming out of any of his students, but here it was, drifting to his ears in Todoroki’s voice. The boy’s back was to him, but he could see and hear perfectly well when a shudder ran through his student’s body and a strangled sob forced itself free. His heart broke silently at the sound, and before him Todoroki broke down crying into Izuku’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Izuku murmured, and the steadiness in his voice belied the tears that ran down his own face.

After what he had just witnessed, Toshinori could find nothing to say. He looked to Midoriya Inko, and found her gripping the edge of the counter with the most indecipherable look on her face.

At a loss, he stepped forward toward his students, but Izuku caught his eye over Todoroki’s shoulder and shook his head. Later, he mouthed silently.

He could think of few times over the past year that he had seen his successor look so coldly, unspeakably angry.

[chasingthecosmos]

By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: T Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 24/30 Read on AO3 here.

“Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that’s what was happening …” A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? The 50th Anniversary will be included in this story.

"So, where've we landed now, then?" Rose asked brightly as she skipped up the console room steps towards the TARDIS doors.

"Should look a bit familiar," was the Doctor's only cryptic reply as he traced her footsteps at his own leisurely pace.

Rose smiled wide as she threw open the ship's doors, eagerly awaiting their next adventure, but her grin quickly faded as she gazed out in confusion at the nondescript, grassy plains that surrounded them. "You sure about that ...?" she asked curiously as she took a second skeptical look at their surroundings. It seemed that the Doctor had parked them at the very edge of a long country road without a single house or car in view for miles.

The Doctor grumbled as he came up beside her and furrowed his brow at the scene before him. "That's not right," he declared moodily. "We're supposed to be at Trafalgar Square ..."

"Doesn't really look like how I remember it," Rose muttered sarcastically as she scanned the great expanse of sky that stretched out above them.

"But I'm sure that I got the coordinates right ..." the Doctor murmured in bewildered confusion.

The TARDIS was making an odd, stuttering noise that hinted at bemused fondness as the Doctor leaned his forearm against the ship's doorway over Rose's head and glared out at the countryside with a sour expression.

"And why were you trying to take us to Trafalgar Square, anyway?" Rose asked as she crossed her arms against her chest and smiled up at him in amusement.

"I didn't try anything," the Doctor replied, casting her an irritated look that did nothing to dim the mischievous spark in his eyes, "I did ..."

But the rest of his prideful statement and a good portion of his ego were cut off as the TARDIS gave a great lurch, sending them both stumbling awkwardly against the edge of the doorway. Rose blinked and suddenly the ground was moving very quickly away from them as the ship ascended up into the air. They both cried out in surprise and the Doctor used both of his arms to pin Rose protectively against the doorframe as the ship rocked violently back and forth.

"Doctor, what's going on?" Rose shouted against the deafening sound of rushing wind that suddenly surrounded them.

"No idea!" he yelled back, not even attempting to hide his wide, excited smile as he glanced up and examined the helicopter that seemed to have picked up the TARDIS with some sort of crane-like mechanism.

The Doctor quickly ushered Rose back into the safety of the ship and then reached out to begin dialing the police box phone, bracing himself in the doorway with his free hand to keep from being jostled out. Rose couldn't hear the conversation that he was having over all of the noise, but the call was quickly cut short as the helicopter took a hard right and suddenly the Doctor went barreling out of the ship's open doors.

"Doctor!" Rose cried out in panic as she immediately rushed forward and grabbed his knees before he could slip away completely. You're enjoying this way too much, she chided him over their newly-formed bond, but the Doctor refused to be scolded as he swung back and forth through the open air with all of the joy of a child on their favorite rollercoaster ride.

When his wiggling became too much for her grip and Rose felt his legs slip through her fingers, she had one brief flash of absolute panic before she realized that the Doctor was now hanging on to the bottom of his ship by his hands. Rose spent the rest of their turbulent flight over London filling his mind with all of the curse words that she knew that he wouldn't be able to hear her shouting at him over the noise of the helicopter.

When they finally touched down onto solid land once more, the Doctor leapt forward excitedly, his adrenaline echoing through Rose's thoughts and making it difficult for her to maintain her irritated scowl as she watched him bound into action. "Trafalgar Square!" he shouted grandly as he swept his arms around and met her gaze eagerly. "Told you I'd get us there!'

"That was even worse piloting than normal," Rose groaned as she stumbled ungracefully out of the TARDIS, which was still swinging unevenly a few feet above the ground. She noticed belatedly that they now seemed to be surrounded by a small squad of soldiers dressed all in black and outfitted with helmets and guns. Standing in the center of them all were a middle-aged blonde woman in a long black coat and a young scientist wrapped up in a layered, multi-colored scarf.

"Doctor," the blonde woman greeted them, proving herself to be the one in charge as she quickly stepped forward and took control of the situation, "as Chief Scientific Officer, may I extend the official apologies of UNIT ..."

"Kate Lethbridge Stewart, a word to the wise," the Doctor cut her off heatedly, "as I'm sure your father would have told you - I don't like being picked up!"

"'Lethbridge Stewart'?" Rose repeated, glancing from the Doctor, to the woman, and back again in confusion. She recognized the name from stories that her husband had told her over the years. "'UNIT'?" she added, recognizing that name, as well.

"I'm acting on instructions direct from the throne," the woman - Kate, it seemed - replied evenly as though neither of them had spoken. "Sealed orders from her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the First."

"Oh, Doctor," Rose sighed with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "You do get around, don't you? First Queen Victoria, now this. So what is it this time? Were you knighted or exiled? Or was it both, again?"

The Doctor's only response was a heaved sigh and a meek, apologetic tug to her thoughts over their mental bond, which instantly raised her suspicions and did nothing at all to reassure her.

Kate - ever the professional, it seemed - ignored their silent exchange and ushered the two of them forward with promises of credentials as she led them up the steps towards the National Gallery.

"Been working with UNIT again, then, have you?" Rose muttered quietly under her breath as she warily scanned the line of soldiers that seemed to follow them wherever they went. She had heard stories about when the Doctor had worked for UNIT, but she had a hard time picturing him being on the same payroll as this lot. However, Rose didn't know whether it was the organization that had changed over the years, or if it was the Doctor, himself, who had changed.

"We've run into each other a few times recently," the Doctor replied with a casual shrug. "They investigate alien stuff, after all. We're bound to cross paths every now and then."

"Only you would consider hanging from a helicopter 'crossing paths' with someone," Rose muttered sarcastically.

"They were just giving us a lift," the Doctor murmured, completely unrepentant and unruffled by their death-defying trip over London.

Rose opened her mouth to continue ribbing him, but her words were cut short as a pair of armed UNIT soldiers pulled back the large sheet that had been covering a single piece of art in the center of the room before them. The Doctor and Rose both instantly froze in place as they gazed up at the revealed oil painting in varying states of wonder.

Rose's own amazed awe was brought up short by the stab of fear that swept through the Doctor's thoughts and nearly took her breath away. Her gaze immediately snapped to his profile, all thoughts of the strange painting before them quickly disappearing as the Doctor's odd reaction instantly demanded her full attention.

"Elizabeth's credentials," Kate announced, seemingly unaware of the Doctor's sharp, visceral reaction.

"Doctor?" Rose asked in concern, her gaze never once leaving his face as she counted his quick, panicked breaths.

"No more ..." he muttered quietly.

"That's the title," Kate agreed matter-of-factly.

"I know the title," the Doctor hissed angrily.

"Also known as 'Gallifrey Falls'," the blonde woman continued simply, seeming unaffected by the Doctor's mercurial moods.

"This painting doesn't belong here, not in this time or place," the Doctor muttered quietly as though to himself. "It's the fall of Arcadia, Gallifrey's second city."

"Doctor, what is it?" Rose asked gently. "How is it doing that?" She finally dared a look back at the painting and eyed the depicted flames and smoke of the city that seemed to pop off of the canvas in stunning, impossible 3D.

She attempted to take a step closer to get a better look, but the Doctor's hand immediately reached for hers, quietly urging her back to his side. Rose could sense through his thoughts that he didn't want her anywhere near this painting and all that it portrayed. The urge to run was welling up within him, and it was taking all of his strength and willpower to remain standing there, blinking at the destruction that he had hoped he would never have to see again.

Rose called his name silently over their bond, attempting to ground him and offer him her own strength and confidence in order to ease his troubled mind.

"He was there ..." the Doctor breathed quietly, not taking his eyes off of the burning spires before them.

"Who was?" Rose asked gently.

"Me," he replied darkly. "The other me - the one I don't talk about. I've had many faces, many lives. I don't admit to all of them. There's one life I've tried very hard to forget. He was the Doctor who fought in the Time War, and that was the day he did it." The Doctor nodded his head pointedly towards the painting as he squeezed Rose's fingers just a little bit tighter and didn't try to hide from her the wave of guilt and shame that swept through his mind.

"The day I did it," he continued quietly. "The day he killed them all. The last day of the Time War - the war to end all wars, between my people and the daleks. And in that battle there was a man with more blood on his hands than any other - a man who would commit a crime that would silence the universe. And that man was me."

All of the UNIT agents throughout the room had gone completely, preternaturally silent as the Doctor finished his morose declaration. Rose had to fight the urge to pull on the Doctor's hand and force him back into the safety and comfort of the TARDIS where she knew that she would be able to protect him from these dark, unwelcome memories.

"Why have you brought him here?" Rose demanded quietly, her tone like ice as she narrowed her eyes on Kate and hugged the Doctor's arm protectively to herself as though she could somehow shield him from the pain with her body alone.

"The painting only serves as Elizabeth's credentials - proof that the letter is from her," Kate replied, her voice softening slightly for the first time since Rose had met her. "It's not why you're here."

The Doctor heaved another small sigh as he finally broke his gaze away from the painting before them and looked down at Rose with an expression of apprehension. She gave him one small nod of encouragement, then released her tight grip on his hand so that he could open the sealed envelope that Kate had placed in his hands upon their arrival.

The letter provided no real information, however, and Rose narrowed her eyes suspiciously on the words "gentle husband". After just having said goodbye to River, and then completing her own alien marriage ritual, Rose wasn't exactly eager to meet another one of the Doctor's wives.

"What happened?" the Doctor asked, ignoring Rose's sharp, annoyed thoughts and casting a curious look in Kate's direction as he and Rose finished reading the old letter.

"Easier to show you," the blonde woman replied, motioning for them both to follow her as she lead them towards the secret Under Gallery - a restricted area that just so happened to be sectioned off by another great oil painting, this one depicting Queen Elizabeth the First herself in all her regal glory sitting alongside a tall, skinny bloke wearing the face of Rose's dead husband.

"Oh, Doctor ..." Rose groaned in resignation as she looked up at the happy couple with a pained expression, "please tell me you didn't ..."

It ended up being one of the UNIT soldiers guarding the secret passageway alongside the old, secret painting that quietly muttered under his breath what they were all already thinking - "So much for the 'virgin queen' ..."