#and for the skills already there: half-light - YOU HAVE TO KILL HIM FIRST!! BEFORE HE KILLS YOU!!!

[dailyeca]

INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — A rosebud, more stem than petal. A teacup, with a steeping sachet of lavender. It will take time. But they will wait for each other.

portrait on its lonesome (disco elysium style is so. difficult hkjh i blend colors too much and am too cautious about palettes to be able to pull it off, does not help im a warm colored art kinda guy)

Dialogue: AUTHORITY — Don't let this perp get the last word! Who does he think he is, talking to you like that? RHETORIC [Medium: Failure] — Who *do* you think he is? PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Trivial: Success] — Someone with a permanent frown. LOGIC [Easy: Success] — Someone who's a criminal. CONCEPTUALIZATION [Formidable: Success] — Someone who's an artist. HALF-LIGHT [Medium: Success] — Someone with two brass knuckles and the know-how to use them. ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Hard: Failure] — Someone who doesn't seem a lotta fun to be around! VOLITION [Heroic: Success] — …Someone who fell through the cracks. SHIVERS [Godly: Success] — Some 20-odd years ago, a kindergarten runaway is herded into the metal belly of packed public transport and emerges reborn in a new city, baptized and spitting up the holy water in the wake of an identity you could barely say was remade as much as it was, simply, made. SHIVERS — He drowns again at age 7, at age 14, and every year thereafter, water filthier and colder every time, treading without a shore in sight. Even as his limbs grow leaden, come hell or high water, he maintains that stepping foot on land after so long will doom him. INLAND EMPIRE [Legendary: Success] — He doesn't even know who he is anymore; he just feigns indifference. He is a ladybeetle inversed - in the same way there are dots of yin and yang. Stiff belief that there will always be bad in the good. Living proof that there is good in the bad. He will never shed the former, nor acknowledge the latter. EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — Not now, at least. Not with you, and not without time.

[igotanidea]

All figured out : Jason Todd x reader

Summary: When duties and stuff get in the way of being close so bad he forgets your b-day... Or does he?

***

As of late they barely had time for each other. It was constantly his patrols, his wounds and bleeding, her work and headaches and everything in-between.

You know what they say after all, right? About the mundane everyday stuff killing more relationships than actual fights and heartbreaks. The case when you get so accustomed to being with each other that there’s nothing more to discover and the connection becomes simply boring.

And he didn’t want it.

She neither.

But what was to do when there was always something or someone.

What was to do when they both found themselves drifting apart, too focused on the duties and obligations and that constant train of thoughts, plans and internal anxiety they tried to suppress so hard there was barely any strength for anything else.

“Y/N.” 

“Hm?” She raised her head from the couch she dozed off while reading some notes for the upcoming work presentation. “Yeah? What’s wrong? How can I help?” Even in her half-hazy state with a post-it note stuck to her cheek, her first instinct was to sprung into action. And the fact that she missed his concerned face and affection beaming from his eyes did not go unnoticed.

“It’s your birthday today, baby…” Jason sighed, moving closer, crouching next to the couch to be somewhere close to her eye level and squeezing her hands.

“My birthday?” Her tone indicated that she barely recognized what day it was, let alone that the date was anything special “Really? I guess I forgot about that…”

“Y/N…”

“Hm?”

“I’m so sorry-“

“For what?” she tore the note from her cheek, finally meeting his eyes “Hey. Jason, baby. For what?”

“I forgot them too.”

“Well clearly not, if you’re the one reminding me.”

“I don’t have a gift for you.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“It’s not enough.”

“It is enough for me.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly, “Because us talking for more than five minutes might be the first time in weeks.”

“I’m sorry-“

“Yeah, me too.” She sighed “this is not just on you Jace. You’re only half of this relationship.”

“Only?” he teased, familiar sparks showing in his eyes

“Oh, here’s that mischief I know you for.” She chuckled leaning her forehead on his in a vulnerable gesture “What happened to us Jay?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

“You don’t say.”

“And that’s why I’m taking you out tonight.”

“Wait, what? What about the patrol? The missions? The-“ the stream of words coming out of her mouth was cut abruptly as he placed a finger on her lips. “Hey-hmph!”

“Don’t think just because I’ve barely heard your voice lately I’m just going to let you bubble, princess.”

“But-“

“Now, put on you prettiest dress and do not worry your sweet little head about anything else”

“But-“

“If you keep talking I’ll have to silence you in some other way and then we won’t leave this apartment at all. And I’ve already made plans-.”

“In the past thirty seconds?!”

“Yes. Now do you want to ruin my plans for tonight?” he pouted in a child-like manner causing her to let out an involuntary laugh before heading to the bathroom to get ready for whatever scheme he came up with.

***

“A club? Seriously?”

The look of confusion on her face as they pulled at the dancing spot was quite hurtful to him.

“I didn’t even know you could dance.”

“Ouch! Y/n!”

“What?!” she scoffed, “It’s your fault. You never showed that skill.”

“Well here’s a show for your entertainment. Go ahead and enjoy me, making a fool out of myself just to celebrate your bday.”

Jason grabbed her hand, sent a knowing look to the bouncer that just let them pass without any questions and dragged her inside.

“Wait… wait, what is going on here? You know the bouncer at the club? Jason? Jason?! The actual hell- ah!”

The lights went out, she felt his hand slipping from hers and for a second that felt like eternity she was completely alone in the dark.

“Y/N?!” his voice reached her ears though she had no idea where it was coming from and the slight panic started to creep inside. A feeling multiplied when she heard ruffling and some whispers of people who were closing in on her

“Jason?! Where are you!?” Y/N started spinning in the dark, searching for anything solid that would help her cover from whatever danger might be lurking in the dark. “ah!” Her wish became granted sooner than expected when she collided with something hard and out of sheer instinct started punching and hitting the surface.

“Hey! Hey, relax! Relax! It’s me! It’s me, princess.” Familiar touch of hands intensified on hers stopping her from fighting the person that was in fact her only salvation and protection. “It’s me, you’re safe” he pulled her closer, offering comfort and calm.

“What-what happened?” she stuttered “Why did the lights-“

“SURPRISE!”

Before she made her sentence the candles and lights garland got lit and she was greeted with friends and family members standing behind the lavishly set table with a birthday cake smiling and cheering.

“You asshole!” Y/N turned to Jason, resuming to punch and hit him, only that now she could see him and her movements were far more accurate and effective “I could have had a heart attack!”

“Stop it!” Jason laughed, pretending to be scared, grabbing her waist and spinning her in her air, before putting her down and kissing her passionately, not caring about the onlookers of their guests. “Happy birthday.” He muttered against her lips.

“You’re a jerk, you know it?” she responded in a whisper before grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him again, not giving a shit who was looking likewise.

***

“You want to sneak out of here?”

After two hours of celebration, dancing, laughing and stuffing mouths with delicious food, Jason walked to her from behind offering a getaway from everyone. His warm breath followed by a gentle kiss on that soft spot between her neck and shoulder was supposed to convince her, but she was still mad about the trap he set for her.

“Mh. Dunno. You went to such a great length to bring me here and now you want me to leave?” She teased, though her tone was not matched by the action when she tilted head to give him more access to her skin and allowed his hands to wrap around her waist.

“Mhm. Yes. Exactly. Leave with me.” Jason muttered against her skin.

“You're scared you won’t find the way back home?” she smirked and the grip on her body tightened.

“Not If my home stays here….”

“Oh no!” Y/N’s joyful laughter filled the air “Cliché! And cheesy and –“

“You done?” he frowned, not liking the way she was mocking him while he was pouring his heart out.

“Nope. Don’t think so. I can go like this for hours.”

“Y/N—” he growled in a warning she was pushing him to the limits.

“But I suppose if I can do it here, I can also do it when we’re alone-“

“Oh so now you want to be alone with me only to mock me?”

“Mhm.” She grinned. “So what do you say, big boy? Shall we take a French leave?”

“And walk out silently?” Jason grinned and she did not like it at all. “Over my dead body. Again.”

Without warning he lifted her up in the air, and with the most commotion he could cause, carried her away, followed by the cried out wishes of happy birthday and all the best.

He was such a drama queen.

***

“That was fun.” She pointed out when they got back to their little flat

“Only a beginning princess. I haven’t really given you your present yet.” Jason made sure to lock the door, stepping closer to his girlfriend and immediately pulling her closer, caressing her back and kissing her neck.

“You think you know what I want, huh?” She giggled when his lips started to tickle her skin.

“Got you figured all over baby… Know all your soft spots.”

He descended to her collarbone, bending her backwards a little to make it easier. The position forced her to place hands on his shoulders for purchase.

“Are you saying I became so boring and predictable to you?” she teased not stopping him walking her backwards to the bed

“Boring?” he gave her a look over, before sliding her dress upwards, tracing over the exposed thigh “not at all.” Her dress hit the floor, removed overhead. “Predictable? Maybe…”

“Asshole…” soft sight left her lips before getting silenced by another passionate kiss.

“You know I know what you want…”

“Prove it.” Y/N did not waste a second sliding his shirt off too. Once done, she plopped on the bed, facing the ceiling and waiting for his move “Prove you really do know what I want.”

Jason smirked and laid on the bed next to her.

He knew.

He knew better than she wanted to give him credit for.

And that was exactly the reason why at the moment his fingers were running up and down her exposed belly, but never crossing the barrier of her white, innocent panties or bra.

The reason why he did not tear his and her underwear and surrender to passion.

An argument for not going straight into sex.

So many people were confusing intimacy with sex. Simplifying it. While the real connection went far beyond body-to-body contact and carnal pleasure.

Real intimacy did not mean being bare as in shedding the clothes, but exposing oneself emotionally.

And he knew.

They’ve been growing apart for so long and the best gift he could give her was his presence next to her.

Y/N smiled rolling on her side to look into his eyes, their bodies close but never really touching as if the exchanged looks and interlaced fingers were far more valuable.

“How do you like your present?” he smiled softly, playing with her fingers, voice filled with warmth and purest form of affection.

“You really did know.”

“Told you I got you figured. And it’s not really a bad thing now, is it?”

“No. No it’s not. And hey I just figured something –“

“Hm? And what may that sudden discovery be? You missed me perhaps? Or – “ he made a dramatic pause – “don’t tell me you got feelings for me! Ugh! Y/N! Disgusting!” 

She laughed.

“Feelings? No way! And how could you dare believe I might have missed your horrible attitude and character!? Are you trying to offend me?!”

“Always.”

“Perhaps I should also thank you for keeping me in check and making sure I don’t become conceited?”

“Happy birthday” he shrugged, pulling her to his chest ruffling her hair on purpose. “And don’t think I love you or something.” The last remark was followed by the kiss on her forehead.

“Me neither, Jason. Me neither-”

It seemed like they got each other figured out after all.

And maybe it was their way of healing and coming together once again.

[spctrsgf]

rocks and faulty plans

summary: you and poe make an unexpected stop to a rocky planet. with a broken ship.

-> based off this prompt

words: 1.3k

a/n: heeeeeeeey guys 😅😅 i will be more active soon I PRAY but here is a silly drabble i wrote i miss my silly space pilot :((

You’re not really sure why you even listened to him in the first place. You knew that beside all of his cockiness, he had some sort of planning skills and a desire to not kill the both of you, but it wasn't all that apparent in your current situation.

The rocky terrain of the planet you'd landed on– an unplanned detour– was harder to navigate than you'd thought when you were back on the ship. Despite this fact, your companion was already several steps ahead, trekking along the curve of a particularly large rock.

You groan loudly, hoping he hears your disdain as you tug on the collar of your jumpsuit and double your speed to catch up to him. The burst of energy from your fiery anger is, much to your dismay, hardly enough to last for longer than twenty seconds. A burn in your leg ignites the gravel beneath your feet, sending you stumbling.

“You okay down there?” Calls that ever so taunting tone. You glare up at his figure, backlit by the red sun. Still several steps ahead. “Oh fuck off, would you?” You snap, glancing down at the beads of blood forming along the scrape of your leg. 

He laughs. “It's okay, baby, it happens to all of us. Even me.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. 

He shrugs back. How does he manage to admit fault cockily?

“Using pet names to hide your concern, I see.”

He tuts, but says nothing to dispute your claim, heading towards you. 

“I can get up myself, Poe.” You snarl at him.

“I think the rocks would beg to differ.”

“Would it kill you to not tease me?”

He grins. “In an instant.”

You roll your eyes, but grab the hand he had extended out to you and let him help you up. He pulls you forward, seemingly only letting go of your hand when he realized he had been holding it for so long. The two of you trek together to the top of the rock, not sharing anything but the oxygen during sharp breaths. 

It was a weirdly serene moment with him. Poe wasn't necessarily a man of little or many words, but it wasn't often that you saw him comfortable in the silence. Especially in your current… predicament. You’d half expected him to spend the whole adventure talking your ear off about the ten billion plans you knew he had thought of, but he remained quiet.

You suppose you could chalk it up to the view. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The small town below was bustling about, nestled among the rocks that spiked out of the ground. The light from the sun cast a loving red sheen on the whole scene, cupping the inhabitants and painting them friendly. It was difficult to even consider looking away from. 

Yeah, that was probably Poe’s silencer.

You smile, letting him bask in the scenery before you shove his shoulder, beginning to head towards the town. “C’mon, pretty boy, stop gawking and get a move on! We don't have all day.” He scoffed. “I was not gawking, it's just-” he runs a hand down his face, “it's been a while since I've seen a view like that.”

“Space just isn't quite like this, is it?” 

“Not quite. A lot more black.” He says, finally catching up to you.

You snort. “That's true. It's calming in its own way, isn't it?”

“Yeah. If it weren't for our current situation, I’d spend a couple days here. Nice vacation.”

“You deserve that.” The words leave your mouth before you can take a second to think about them. Shit.

But Poe doesn't tease, he just smiles wide. “Thank you.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “But, back to business-”

“Here we go."

“Hey!” You glare, and he quickly quiets. “What are we gonna do? Just ask one of these people if they can walk however long with whatever tools they need to fix our ship?”

“Well, that was plan D in my extensive list of ideas.”

“Oh, and what about the other ones?” You indulge, curious.

“Well, plan A was to not crash on the planet in the first place, but you can see how well that went.” He grumbles.

“We tried our best.”

“I know,” he sighs, running a hand down his face, again. “Rest of my plans weren't quite as good.”

“Doubt that. Let's try plan E.” You quip, seeing how close the two of you were to the town.

He shrugs easily. “Let's.” 

You watch him gather his confidence and paint it across his face, and with that, the two of you make your way into the town. You trail a few steps behind him, letting “plan E” fall into place. He makes his way into a bar, leaning against the counter and motioning for you to do the same.

As you copy him, he leans over, whispering, “just go with it, okay?” You nod, locking your jaw to stop yourself from yelping when his hand wraps around your waist. “Hey, bartender!” He yells, catching their attention. “What can I get for you today, sir?” 

“My fiancé and I are here trying to get to the next planet in your system, but our ship crashed. Would you happen to have something that could help us?”

The bartender tilts his head to the side. “You do realize this is a bar, right?”

“I’m willing to bet you see most of this town here. So if anyone knows of someone who can help us, it's you.”

“Sure, a lot of people come in here, but I just serve drinks. Can I get you two anything?”

“Sir, please-”

“Listen here, outsider,” the bartender leans over the counter, and you can smell the alcohol he'd surely downed earlier. “I’ve been gracious enough to not kick you two out of my bar as soon as you didn’t place an order, because you and your fiancé seem like respectable people. But this is a busy bar, so if you're not going to buy a drink, get the fuck out of my bar before I have someone make you.”

“All we need is one address!”

“Last chance, sir.” The man gnarls at you two.

“Okay,” you jump in, taking Poe’s hand off your waist and pulling him away from the bartender. “Thank you for your help!”

You drag the two of you out of the bar before either man could exchange any more malicious words. Poe struggles, clearly trying to make his plan work. It was obvious he had more things to say– or do– to the bartender, but eventually he gives in to your pulling, trailing behind you. 

“So much for plan E.” You grumble as soon as you aren't in earshot of the bar. “I could have made that work! He would've listened to me.” Poe grumbles right back. 

“You and I both know that isn't true.” 

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“What is it with him anyways?” You question, making sure your voice was low and there wasn't anyone around before continuing. “He was so much meaner than anyone else we've seen.”

“Bad day, maybe? They could not get many visitors here.”

“Or too many.” You add in.

He smiles. “Or too many. Maybe he's struggling to make ends meet.”

“That's also true,” you sigh in defeat. “But it doesn't solve our problem.”

He shakes his head. "Let's just move on to plan F. F stands for fabulous."

"The way all your other plans have worked out so far, I would assume F also stands for failure." 

“Hey!” He yelps, glaring. 

You giggle. “Joking. Plan F it is! What do you need me to do?”

His smile made what some would call a shit eating grin.

You groan. “Oh no.”

Well, the two of you definitely made it off the planet in record time. With nothing more than you came with, other than a bounty on your heads.

No biggie.

someone yell at me to write my reqs bye

[marifilue]

Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit Language, slight PTSD Mentioned.

WC: 5,5k

<- Part 2

Two weeks had passed, and nothing much had changed between you and Logan. You’d shared a handful of interactions, each one short and tense, just enough to remind you how much he got on your nerves. He was stubborn, quick-tempered, too much like you in all the wrong ways and it was infuriating.

Logan was settling into his new role, slipping into the position of history professor with a certain ease that only came from experience, a literal, first-hand experience. His lectures were magnetic, filled with anecdotes that felt too vivid, too personal. The students were enamored, hanging onto every word, captivated by the way he made history feel alive.

Still, you could feel the invisible wall he’d built around himself, his guard firmly in place. It made sense, you'd do the same in a new environment. Though it irked you at times. You still doesn't know much about him, not that he'd be interested to talk when the whole team held out a dinner occasionally and share some fun fact about his life for the past century. Everytime the table chats comes up with questions get asked, he'd quickly dismissed them. You remember one time Ororo was joking and teased Logan about his love life which he just shortly respond "Nothin much, it's boring." As far as you acknowledge, he's just old as fuck.

On a quiet Saturday morning, autumn breeze outside with the mansion still cloaked in early light, you found some refuge in the garage, preparing your gear and checking over your rifle before zipping it into your dark green bag as you planned a solo hunt. The stillness was just beginning to sink in when the faint sound of footsteps snapped you out of it. Glancing up, you saw Logan leaning casually against the doorframe, watching you with that same half-amused smirk.

“You goin’ somewhere?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence like a rock tossed into still water. You barely looked up, focusing on adjusting your scope. “Going hunting,” you replied tersely. Logan raised an eyebrow, his interest obviously piqued. “Hunting?” he repeated, amusement thick in his tone. “Out here?” Your patience was already wearing thin. “Yeah, out in the woods. It’s a quiet spot, about an hour away.”

He crossed his arms, clearly not dissuaded. “That so? Sounds like a perfect way to kill some time. I’ll come.” You stiffened, giving him a hard look. “Look, it’s a solo trip. Don’t need any company.”

A spark of defiance flickered in his eyes, and that irritating smirk just deepened. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. Just saying I’m bored. Got nothing better to do, so I’ll come along. Unless you’re afraid I’ll out-hunt you.” You clenched your jaw, the challenge hanging between you like a dare. He had no idea what he was getting into, but if dragging him along was the only way to shut him up, fine. You rolled your eyes. “Fine, whatever. But you’re bringing your own bike.”

A slight chuckle escaped him as he pushed himself off the doorframe, clearly pleased with his victory. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

With engines roaring, you hit the open road. The wind was cool against your face as the trees blurred by, and with every mile, you felt the tension of the mansion fading. Logan’s bike kept steady behind yours, the low rumble matching your own, and by the time you reached the forest clearing, you’d almost forgotten you had a company behind.

••••••

The spot was perfect: a quiet, open stretch beneath towering pines, with a lake gleaming in the early morning light just a few yards away. You slid off your bike and shrugged your rifle strap over your shoulder, taking in the familiar scent of pine and fresh earth. Logan dismounted, his eyes scanning the area with a skeptical look, as though it weren’t quite wild enough for him.

Reaching into your pack, you pulled out a second rifle and handed it to him. “Here. Pre-charged pneumatic rifle. Same as mine.”

Logan took the rifle in his hands, looking it over like it was a toy. He raised an eyebrow, chuckling as he examined it. “An air rifle? What, are we going after rabbits?” He scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You sure you don’t want to give me a slingshot while you’re at it?”

You felt the heat rise in your chest, your grip tightening around your own rifle. “It’s called PCP, Logan,” you shot back, voice edged with irritation. “These aren’t toys, and they’re not some cheap replacement for a ‘real’ weapon. Just because it’s not your style doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

Logan chuckled, clearly unimpressed. “Right. Just don’t expect me to take down anything serious with this thing.” You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “You’d be surprised what I can take down with this thing. But hey, if you’d rather just watch, go ahead.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, something sparking in his eyes as if he was finally beginning to understand that this wasn’t a joke to you. Without another word, you turned and started toward the trees, steps purposeful, daring him to follow if he thought he could keep up.

The morning wore on, and Logan followed you through the dense trees, rifle in your hand but with no real intention of using it. Logan moved with the instinctive grace of a predator, completely at ease, his senses sharp, picking up on every rustle and movement around him. It wasn’t long before he spotted a squirrel perched high in the branches, his eyes narrowing as he took aim. A split second later, his rifle went off, and the small animal dropped to the forest floor. Logan glanced back at you, a smug satisfaction evident in his expression.

“See? Not bad for a ‘toy,’” he muttered, half-teasing. You managed a tight smile, adjusting the rifle in your hands, though it felt heavier than usual. As he scoped out his next target, you followed, keeping your expression neutral. Another squirrel appeared on a nearby branch, and Logan gestured for you to take the shot. You lifted your rifle, sighting down the barrel, but at the last moment, you let the bullet go wide, the squirrel darting up the tree and vanishing.

Logan gave a low chuckle, and his eyes gleamed with that knowing look. “Missed, huh?” he said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Didn’t seem like your usual aim.”

You kept your gaze on the ground, shrugging slightly. “Guess I’m a little rusty.” But Logan’s scrutiny didn’t ease up, and he’d clearly seen through you.

Logan’s eyes were sharp as he watched you line up another shot, this time at a squirrel nestled on a higher branch. You steadied your aim, but when you squeezed the trigger, it was with just enough force to send the shot wide, the squirrel scurrying off into the trees. Logan’s low chuckle made you glance over, and you saw that familiar, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t miss that one by accident, did you?” he remarked, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I told you I'm just a bit rusty." You said again.

“You didn't squeeze the trigger, you flick em with your finger way too harsh. Tryna scare it off, maybe?” Logan teased which caught you off guard, you raised an eyebrow, studying his expression. “You sound just like my old man.” You told him, recollecting lost memories since you haven't heard those words in ages. Stop pulling the trigger, you need to squeeze it. Your father used to scream those combination of words every. Single. Time. A rifle is in your hand. Stop pulling it, just squeeze. "You two used to hunt together?" Logan voice a bit softer, suddenly brings you back from the pit and let the lost memories to float away once again.

You ignored his rhetorical question as your curiosity mingling with surprise. “Most people wouldn’t notice something so small about a trigger pull.” Logan shrugged, glancing down at his own rifle. “Been around long enough to pick up a thing or two,” he said. “One of my many lives, I was in the military, then special forces. Spent a lot of time with weapons—and people who didn’t always want to shoot straight.”

You nodded, absorbing the new bit of information, of course he'd been in the military at some point, though part of you wondered just how many “lives” he’d actually lived. Logan turned back to the forest, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible softness in his gaze now, as if he understood more than he was letting on.

“So, why come out hunting if you don’t actually want to kill anythin'?” he asked, watching you intently. The question hung in the cool morning air, and you felt a knot tighten in your chest. With a deep breath, you straightened, memories uncoiling in your mind.

“My father used to take me hunting when I was a kid,” you started slowly, eyes tracing the bark of a nearby tree. “Every weekend, he’d drag me out there, make me practice my aim. I hated it, the thought of killing something that didn’t even know I was there.” You paused, voice tightening, but pushed through. “Eventually, he stopped caring if I didn’t shot anything. I’d just aim for the fruit stems, watching them drop." You scoffs recalling another details "I'd bring home a bag full of persimmons, my mum loved them.” You smile sheepishly, remembering the sweet memories you used to have with your family. Even if it's for a really short time.

Logan’s expression softened just a bit, as if he were picking up on the edges of something deeper. When you fell quiet, his gaze never left you, and he waited in that steady, quiet way of his.

“It was… before he sold me to the military,” you added in a clipped tone, almost an afterthought. The words surprised even you, slipping out with a bitterness that had dulled over the years but still lingered. After your words hung in the air, Logan's face shifted, his usual hard expression momentarily cracking. He blinked, caught off guard, brows pulling together as he absorbed what you'd said. His mouth opened as if to speak, but for a beat, he just looked at you, his eyes carrying an unexpected softness.

Finally, his voice came low and careful, the rough edge softened. “I’m… sorry,” he murmured, like he almost couldn’t believe he was saying it.

You gave a short, almost dismissive shrug, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I’m not,” you replied, the words wry but surprisingly honest. Logan’s gaze lingered, his respect for you deepening as he caught the steel beneath your half-joking tone. Without another word, he nodded, the forest around you both settling into a silence that felt almost like understanding.

“You’re a strange one,” he finally said, his voice gruff but softer than usual. He glanced down at the rifle in his hand. “But I get it.”

You didn’t say anything, but you felt a small, unexpected weight lift from your shoulders. Logan turned, heading further into the trees, but he didn’t ask you to take another shot. Instead, he led the way, rifle lowered, the two of you moving together walked in silence for a while, curiosity gnawed at you until you finally asked, “So… how long did you serve?”

Logan glanced at you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He gave a short laugh, looking off as if doing the math in his head. “Since the Civil War,” he replied simply.

You stopped in your tracks, caught off guard, blinking as you took in his words. “The Civil War?” You’d guessed he might have been in World War I, but this was something else entirely.

Logan chuckled at your reaction, his lips quirking as he kept walking, and you scrambled to catch up. “What about after that?” you pressed, genuinely curious. “I mean… until when?”

He raised an eyebrow, thoughtful, and then shrugged. “After Vietnam around the 80s,” he answered. “Finally called it quits after a while.” Your mind raced as you did the math. “So that’s….. like more than a hundred and twenty years in the military?” You shook your head, a little awe mixed with something close to disbelief.

Logan just grunted, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but then he looked back at you. “What about ya? How long?”

“Twenty,” you replied with a half-smile. “Not even a quarter of your time.” The two of you shared a look, something unspoken but deeply felt passing between you, an understanding of battles fought, the weight of service, and the scars it left behind. Logan’s gaze softened a bit more, his voice quiet but steady. “Guess we both know a thing or two about how it changes you.”

You nodded, feeling a connection that went beyond words. As you walked further into the woods together, a quiet understanding settled between you, each of you carrying the weight of those years but somehow feeling just a little lighter with someone who understood.

As you and Logan trekked further into the woods, a flash of orange against the dense green foliage caught your eye. You stopped in your tracks, looking up at a tall persimmon tree, the branches laden with ripe fruit, a few of them dangling low within sight but just out of reach. It was like a piece of your past had somehow woven itself into this moment, in the middle of the quiet forest with Logan by your side.

Without explaining, you turned to Logan. “Hold still for a second,” you murmured, unslinging your rifle. He raised an eyebrow but complied, watching curiously as you stepped up behind him. Hoisting the rifle up, you positioned it on his shoulder, trying to steady the barrel.

Logan tensed as he felt the weight of your rifle settle. “So, twenty years in the military, and this is what they teach you on rifle safety procedure, huh?” he muttered, his usual sarcasm laced with a flicker of amusement.

You smirked, squinting down the scope as you zeroed in on a particularly plump persimmon. “Cry me a river, Logan. It’s not like if I accidentally blow off an ear, it wouldn’t grow back.”

Logan huffed, shaking his head slightly but careful not to disrupt your aim. “Real professional,” he grumbled. “I didn’t live over a century just to become someone’s human bipod.”

You stifled a laugh, your gaze still fixed on the fruit, the tiniest stem all that kept it hanging. “Do me a favor and shut up. Hold your damn breath my rifle's trembling." You said firmly with slight irritation in your voice.

Logan’s muttered complaints quieted, though his annoyance was clear as he held his breath, his whole frame going rigid beneath the weight of your rifle. “Unbelievable,” he managed to whisper, voice muffled as he exhaled in controlled bursts.

With a steady hand and laser focus, you squeezed the trigger just as your father had taught you. The shot rang out, clean and precise, and with a satisfying snap, the persimmon detached and fell gracefully into the forest floor. Stepping back with a triumphant grin, you patted Logan on the shoulder as if he’d actually contributed.

Logan exhaled, glancing between you and the fallen persimmon. “You really went through all that trouble for one fruit?” You shrugged, retrieving the persimmon and wiping it clean on your sleeve. “Not just any fruit,” you replied, studying it with a small, nostalgic smile before taking a bite. “It’s a piece of home.”

Logan watched you for a beat, his usual snark softened, something like understanding flickering in his gaze. But of course, he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction without one last jab.

“Next time, maybe just ask for a ladder,” he muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” you replied, biting back a grin as you stashed the persimmon for later.

Logan’s gaze settled on another branch of ripe persimmons hanging just out of reach, and you saw the challenge spark in his eyes. Without a word, he raised his rifle and took aim at the slim stem of a fruit, clearly bent on proving himself.

“Careful,” you warned, munching on your own persimmon. “It’s not that easy without something to steady your aim.” But he only smirked, cocky as ever. “Shut up"

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, I’d give you three chances with that,” you shot back, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Logan rolled his eyes, muttering "I don't need three bullets." something under his breath as he braced the rifle, using only his left arm for support. He took his first shot, and the bullet whizzed by the stem, barely brushing it. A slight frown replaced his smirk as he reloaded, now more focused.

“Still sure you don’t need three?” you taunted, crossing your arms as you watched. He grunted in response, taking aim again. The second shot missed by a hair, and he huffed in frustration, your expression already broadcasting an I told you so.

“Huh. Not exactly fair,” he muttered, a faint grumble in his tone. “You had my shoulder as a bipod, and it’s not like I can use yours.” His eyes flicked to your height as if to emphasize the point, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, you smirked back. “Have you ever thought about just asking for help?” Before you could second-guess the impulse, you stepped in front of him, lifting your right arm and offering it up. “Here, use this.”

Logan’s smirk faltered as he looked down at you, clearly caught off guard but game enough to try. He gave a short nod, settling his rifle on your palm with arm raised above your head, though he quickly realized it wasn’t quite steady. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist to gently adjust the height. The touch was firm, grounding, but the warmth of his hand sent a jolt through you, making your heart skip a beat. You hadn't fully thought this through, and now, standing this close to him, you became acutely aware of every detail. The roughness of his hand against your skin, and the subtle brush of his fingers as he guided your arm into position.

He adjusted your arm a little higher, bringing it closer to his shoulder, his focus entirely on the rifle. But for you, every second of contact felt charged. The way his hand lingered, steadying you, almost made you forget why you’d offered in the first place.

“Hold it there,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. You nodded, words catching in your throat, as he finally let go, his hand slipping from your wrist, leaving your skin tingling where his fingers had been.

For a moment, you were hyper-aware of the closeness between you, his face inches from yours. Your heart picked up its pace as you took in every detail—the rugged lines, the odd yet charming mutton chops, and the hint of green that softened his hazel eyes. How could a man this old look so… timeless?

With steady focus, Logan finally pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and clean, hitting the branch dead-on. You turned your head just in time to see the cluster of persimmons break loose, tumbling to the ground with satisfying thuds.

Before you could react, Logan lowered the rifle from your raised arm, his smirk unmistakably triumphant. He looked at you, eyes twinkling with that signature cocky satisfaction, and held your gaze a moment longer than expected. The intensity in his eyes made you catch your breath, an almost silent exchange passing between you, his smirk softening just slightly as if savoring the moment.

But before he could notice the warmth spreading across your face, you quickly turned away, breaking the spell. Without missing a beat, you strode toward the fallen persimmons, dropping to your knees and reaching for them, your heart still pounding.

“See?” you said, grinning as you picked up the fruit, keeping your focus on them. “I don’t make the rules. Everybody needs a bipod.” Logan gave a low chuckle behind you, clearly amused, but you kept gathering the persimmons, not quite ready to face him again. The weight of that brief look stayed with you, lingering just like the warmth of his hand on your wrist.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you began walking deeper into the woods, Logan by your side. The familiar path led you to a small, serene lake you’d often visited. You knew these woods by heart, every hidden trail and shaded grove. The early morning sun cast a warm glow over the still water, and without a word, you both sat down on the soft grass by the lake’s edge.

The peaceful quiet settled around you as you leaned back, savoring one of the persimmons Logan had shot down. You glanced at him thoughtfully. “So, why did they call you Wolverine?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Someone invented that name for me,” he replied shortly, brushing it off. "Why do they call you Hollow?” he asked, his voice low, almost as if he were reluctant to break the peace of the early hour.

You looked down at the half-eaten persimmon in your hands, a slight smile tugging at your lips. “I invented that name myself. Better than what they used to call me. Fire and Flesh,” you replied, your tone casual, though the weight of those words still lingered. His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. “Who called you that?”

“Jarheads,” you replied, using the old slang for Marines, which Logan seemed to understand. His face softened, a flash of recognition in his expression. “Semper fi,” he murmured, the famous Latin phrase among Marines meaning always faithful, familiar in his voice.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes a bit, though with a soft smile. “Oorah,” you replied weakly, echoing the battle cry you’d once shouted alongside fellow Marines. It had been years since anyone had greeted you with Semper fi and it stirred something within you, a sense of camaraderie, a reminder of a time long past.

But as you sat there, looking out over the lake, you felt an unexpected calm wash over you. The overwhelming weight you’d carried for so long felt lighter in this quiet moment. Sitting by the lake, eating persimmons with your new friend from work, far removed from the chaos of life, gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t known you needed.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you rose and dusted off your hands. The quiet of the lake had been soothing, but the early morning sun was beginning to creep higher, casting golden beams through the trees. “We should probably head back,” you said, glancing up at the sky. “It’s almost nine.” Logan gave a nod, and together, you began the walk back through the woods.

After a few minutes of silence, you broke it with a question that had been lingering. “Does it hurt…when your claws come out?” Logan’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to the trail. “Every time.”

There was something in his tone—a resigned acceptance that pulled at you. Logan then returned the question, his gaze shifting to you thoughtfully. “How did they…manage to push your mutations?”

You took a breath, the memories flooding back with an uncomfortable vividness. As you walked, you found yourself speaking, the words coming out slowly, almost reluctantly. “I was human. For 27 years, I think. Feels like a lifetime ago.” You paused, watching the path ahead. “They injected me with something. Then left me in an incubator for days, where the oxygen pressure would drop so low I’d pass out. Over and over again.”

Logan’s face hardened, but he didn’t say anything. Somehow, an apology felt empty, too small for what you’d endured. Instead, he shared his own story, his voice low. “My, uh…claws. They were bones naturally.” The admission caught you off guard, and you looked at him, silently urging him to continue.

“They coated them in metal,” he explained, his tone blunt. “Adamantium. Through injections.” You winced at the thought. “That’s…sick.” There was a beat of silence, so you added lightly, hoping to soften the mood, “Do you like them better now, though? You know, because they’re metal and unbreakable? I can’t even picture you with bone claws. Kinda gross, actually.” Logan shot you a sidelong glance, half-amused. “You’re a terrible person, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a smirk. “But, come on, do you?” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Yeah, it’s better with adamantium.” You couldn’t help but grin, triumphant. “Knew it.”

The two of you kept walking, your conversation mingling with the crunch of leaves underfoot, the forest around you somehow feeling a little less heavy. The bond between you, shaped by shared scars and dark humor, felt surprisingly natural, like the start of a new kind of camaraderie.

As you both finally made it back to where your bikes were parked, the morning's warmth faded into a colder silence. You knelt, carefully unzipping your bag and placing your rifle down, adjusting everything with meticulous care, you're always taught PCP rifle is so fragile, the stock is carved with polished woods and not some metal. Just as you were reaching back, Logan called out casually, “Hey, here you go,” and tossed the rifle he had borrowed straight in your direction.

In that split second, you hadn’t been looking, and before you could react, the rifle fell to the ground with a harsh thud.

A bolt of panic and fury surged through you as you stared at it, horrified. You reached down, fingers trembling as you inspected the rifle. This wasn’t just any rifle. It was a gift from your late mentor Mr Santiago who had taught you everything about shooting since you're fourteen years old, who had trusted you with his prized possession. The wood of the stock had cracked upon impact, a delicate fracture spider-webbing across the finish.

“You dumbfuck,” you said, your voice icy and trembling with anger. “Couldn’t you just handed me the rifle like a normal person!?” Logan looked taken aback, his brow furrowing. “Whoa, relax,” he muttered, straddling his bike. “The rifle’s fine.”

You knelt by the rifle, running a finger over the crack. It was irreparable, and your hands tightened with suppressed rage. “You cracked the fucking stock,” you spat, not even looking at him. He shrugged, still unconcerned. “Alright, sorry, that’s on me. Look, I can get it fixed or just replace it.”

“Replace it?” You turned on him, anger boiling over. “Unlike you, Logan, I actually take care of things. People trusted me and this rifle was a gift. My mentor gave this to me before he died. I’ve kept it safe for years, not a single scratch. Here you go holding it for one fucking hour and you manage to crack it. You're unbelievable, I can't believe I trusted you with it.” Your voice trembled with the weight of disappointment and resentment.

Logan went quiet, his face darkening, but he didn’t say anything. For a moment, he looked like he was going to respond, but the words died in his throat as he looked away, feeling the sting of what he’d done. Without another word, you packed your bag, zipped it tightly, and got on your bike.

Without looking back, you started up the engine and took off, the roar of the bike carrying your frustration as you sped down the trail, the tires kicking up dust behind you. You left Logan behind in the dust, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror, a mix of guilt and regret plain on his face. He sat in silence, the gravity of his small but thoughtless mistake settling over him.

••••••

As you arrived back at the X-Mansion, the grand building loomed before you, a familiar yet comforting sight amidst the turmoil of your thoughts. You parked your bike and headed toward the mansion's entrance, not even glancing behind to check if Logan had caught up. He was still somewhere on the trail, and that suited you just fine.

Entering the mansion, you were greeted by Ororo’s calm voice as she crossed the hall. “Good morning. Professor Xavier needs to see the team after breakfast,” she informed you, her usual serene expression in place, though her keen eyes picked up on your tension. You nodded, offering a faint smile, and continued upstairs without another word.

Once in your room, you carefully laid the damaged rifle on your bed, the fracture in the stock glaring up at you. Sitting down beside it, you ran your fingers along the crack, feeling a pang of frustration and sadness twist in your chest. Mr. Santiago’s face came to mind, and the disappointment in yourself for letting this happen stung. Fixing it wouldn’t be easy—it might not even be possible—and the thought weighed on you.

But you needed to gather yourself; there was a team meeting, and breakfast first. With a sigh, you stood, tearing your gaze away from the broken rifle, and exited your room, leaving the door cracked open. You resolved to focus on one thing at a time: breakfast, the meeting, and then dealing with this mess.

As you made your way downstairs, the usual chatter in the dining area barely registered as you sat down, grabbing a cup of coffee and some toast, lost in your thoughts.

•••••••

Gathered around in Professor Xavier’s office, the team waited, exchanging curious glances. Scott, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, tapped his foot impatiently. “Where’s Logan?” he muttered.

Ororo stood near the window, arms folded. “He’ll be here,” she said, though a hint of curiosity flickered in her gaze. Jean, seated beside the professor’s desk, looked thoughtful, sensing the tension in the room.

Just as Scott opened his mouth to comment again, Logan entered, his gaze immediately locking with yours. You quickly averted your eyes, refocusing on Professor Xavier, who was already watching you both with a knowing look. Logan took his place, leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable but quietly remorseful.

Charles cleared his throat, signaling the start of the meeting. A hologram flickered to life above the table, displaying an image of a stern-looking man with a white lab coat and cold, calculating eyes. “This is Dr. Emrys Killebrew,” Charles began. “A former geneticist known for his experimentation on mutants and humans alike, pushing the limits of ethical science. Over the decades, his work has created…unintended consequences. He has targeted individuals he believed showed potential to develop powers, experimenting on them without regard for their lives.”

Your heart sank, a feeling of dread creeping over you. Professor’s gaze softened as he addressed you specifically, “Hollow, I believe you’re already aware of some of his projects, though you may not know the extent.”

You nodded, but then froze as Charles continued, “He’s the one responsible for the injections that changed you. Dr. Killebrew obtained Wolverine's genetic material in the late '70s…and used it in his experiments on you... when you were still human.”

Stunned, you tore your gaze from Charles and glanced at Logan, whose expression had gone dark with a mixture of guilt and confusion. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, as though he was processing the news for the first time himself. For a heartbeat, the two of you were frozen in a silent exchange before you turned your head back to Charles as the memories of those experiments came back vividly, the painful injections, the endless tests, the way they broke you down. The odds that Logan’s DNA had been a part of it all felt surreal.

A solemn silence settled in the room, broken by Ororo’s gentle voice. “Professor…is he still conducting these experiments?”

“Yes,” Charles replied gravely, flicking to another image of a heavily guarded facility. “We’ve located another of his labs. Intelligence suggests he’s holding a group of young mutants there—twelve in total. They’re being kept under heavy surveillance and sedation, and they are in immediate danger. I need you all to work together tonight to bring them home.”

Scott stepped forward, his tone resolute. “We’ll get them out, Professor. Whatever it takes.” His gaze traveled over the team, determination in his eyes. Jean nodded, her expression fierce. “If Killebrew’s behind this, we can’t let him keep experimenting on innocent kids. He’s not getting away this time.”

Hank, adjusting his glasses, looked thoughtful. “It will be essential to understand the facility’s layout and any possible security measures. If this location mirrors any of his previous labs, it’s likely rigged with traps for mutants specifically.”

Logan spoke up, his voice tense. “I’ll handle any of those traps. This guy’s work is…personal.” He looked toward you again, softer, a silent apology in his eyes. “More than most of you might realize.” Ororo placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Then we move quickly. Every second counts if those children are suffering.”

Charles nodded approvingly, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Thank you. Prepare to leave after sunset. Coordinate together to ensure the safest extraction possible. We bring them back to safety tonight.”

Part 4 ->

An: It gets even longer through every new chapters, the ideas is buzzing in my mind. Thank you guys for interacting, I'll see you next chapter<3

[prinzrupprecht]

The Curse of Muramasa

I wanted to try something new where two demons relate to one another. Also, thanks for the 100 followers! Sadly, this isn’t a 100 follower special.

Pairing: Okita Souji x fem!samurai reader with a demonic sword who’s apart of the Aizu clan and Kondo’s faction.

Synopsis: You thought he was a cocky brat at first with how much he liked to show off his strength and flaunt his skills against others. Even Serizawa called him a loser for being a try hard. He was called a demon child for having the strongest battle instinct in all the Shinsengumi. Yet, the only demonic thing you could relate to was the cursed blade that had chosen you to be its wielder. In a way, you felt like a demon as well with the power you had from it.

Warnings? A bit of angst/sad, bitter sweet, fluff

WC: 2710

You had no idea why Katamori-san asked you to watch over Kondo’s faction after half a year under the shogunate when they just established themselves as the Shinsengumi in Kyoto. You had the choice to either be a part of Serizawa’s or Kondo’s. Serizawa and Niimi gave you the creeps so you reluctantly decided to join Kondo’s faction in the end.

You weren’t much of a spy but you were more quiet than Harada, the man with the hooded cloak and scythe. He wasn’t near as scary but you wondered where he got the Grim Reaper title from. Hijikata was the mad dog who loses 9/10 times to other members. Yamanami is supposed to be the smartest member. The one that stuck to your mind the most was Okita Souji.

The demon child reminded others without needing to say the words that he was the strongest among everyone. You didn’t even bother to get to know any of them and did your job by patrolling the streets.

You loathed most of Serizawa’s group and refused to acknowledge their presence whenever they walked over to Kondo’s residence area. Saeki— someone who was suspicious of you and had almost gotten into a fight with you but was immediately stopped by Kondo and Okita. Of course… you tried not to get angry but you couldn’t unleash that power in front of everyone.

They called you a cursed witch, but it had the least effect on you. Many of the Shinsengumi accepted who you were despite being a contractor to one of Muramasa’s blades. Nobody judged you, especially the other demon in the group who kept asking to test your combat skills.

That’s when you gained the ‘laziest samurai title’ which irked you more than the cursed witch. Well, Hijikata started it and everyone else followed suit with it. “So I guess Hijikata is right?” Souji sat next to you as you were writing down stuff in your journal.

“Right? What does that mean?” You were annoyed that you had to stop what you were doing.

“You won’t spar against anyone despite Katamori-san said you were one of the best amongst Aizu, so I thought it would be fun to see for myself.” Souji gave off his innocent smile. You sighed and thought it would be better to tell the truth as to why you don’t fight any of them.

“Sometimes… it’s hard to explain. You and everyone already knows that I am in contract with one of the blades of Muramasa. I can’t use it in sparing sessions—"

“Huh? Why?”

“I just can’t. For one, It’s a sure kill if you get cut by it in certain areas unless you sacrifice that limb but the torso? You’d be dead. The second reason, it consumes the mind and takes more than gives. The more I use it, I may lose myself in its curse. I hate using it, but unless I’m dead then there’s no way it just disappears. It’ll find its way to a new wielder. Some of its power is already etched in me so I’m afraid of hurting anyone…” you didn’t know why you just told all of that to the boy who was similar to you.

“Ah, I get it. For the longest time, I was like that before Kondo-san helped me control my urge to… kill.” He was brushing part of his cheek with his index finger while he grinned.

“You don’t judge me?” It was a weird feeling. Most people tend to keep their distance from you. The blade was light and excellent for iaijutsu. The wind vacuum slashes it creates can destroy buildings if you weren’t careful. He didn’t care about the curse that holds over your head?

“Hmm, no. I can’t fully control it either, so I can relate in a way.” He stared ahead and silence engulfed between you two.

Maybe, he wasn’t so bad.

In fact, you were wrong…

The next few days you tried to duel against him after your guy’s talk and you lost each time. He was even holding back his control on his demon to not smash his bokken too hard against yours. Even with the pushback, you were still holding against your own.

You fell backwards and landed on your back while Souji smiled and held his hand out for you to take. “You still hold back, why?” he asked with much curiosity. It’s not like you had a reason to, the longer you were one with the curse of Muramasa, it’s spiritual demonic energy was within you. Something about it was terrifying. Scary? No, it was frightening.

“You won’t understand,” you swatted his hand away as you rubbed your forehead.

He suddenly remembers Kondo telling him similar about being a true samurai and how he would understand later.

He acknowledges that you were strong, and even more stronger when you used Muramasa’s cursed blade. Souji didn’t want you to lose motivation because you can’t beat him. You have won against Hajime, Nagakura and Hijikata numerous times but you still have no chance of beating him.

You wanted him to leave you alone. It’s been several days and he had asked if you’d patrol with him a few times which you declined each time. He was supposed to be the least annoying one, but now he’s somehow irritating you. You normally went with Yamanami and Harada. Souji normally patrolled the streets of Kyoto with Kondo.

The look of the commoners gave whenever the shinsengumi were patrolling, were fear and them spreading rumours. First, you heard some things about ‘how a girl shouldn’t be with them.’

It shouldn’t bother you but Okita grabbed your arm before you were about to say something to them. “Just ignore them. You’ll make us look worse if you start commotion with them,” he whispered next to you. Your mind wasn’t at ease still but you shrugged your shoulders back trying to ignore the whispers amongst the commoners.

It was barely July of 1863 and the sun burned hot down on your skin. You looked over to Souji who was stopping a fight in the middle of the street between a few commoners. Great…

He returned with a smile on his face and you stared at him with confusion. “You tried macarons before?” he opened a box and pushed the entire thing in your arms. Huh? Of course, you tried them.

“Where did you get these? Weren’t you busy dealing with some of the commoners?” You looked down at the organized French pastries in your arms.

“Did you space out? I went to the shop right after,” he gave you another one of those innocent smiles before continuing.

“The blue ones are my favourite,” he took one and ate it. Why was he so nice to you…

The rest of the day was spent talking about your original life with Aizu and how Katamori was like an older brother to you. He had spared your life when he found you with one of Muramasa’s swords and instead of killing you off, you became a contracted owner of the deadly weapon.

“I wish I fought him, he does seem strong.” Souji tilted his head forward as his bangs fell over his eyes once again.

“Really? I beat him in combat a few times, and you beat me in combat. I think you’re the strongest swordsman I’ve ever met, Okita-san.” You hated saying it but there was denying it.

“Souji, you can call me by my given name.” You could feel your cheeks heat up. You had known them for half a year and he’s allowing you to call him by his name.

“Oh… you can call me by name first name as well or whatever you like. I don’t care, honestly.” You were unsure what you were even saying. You two were already on a first-name basis.

Every patrol you were sent on, your schedule changed with Souji wanting to tag with your group. Most Shinsengumi members were in groups patrolling during certain hours and days. Everyone got 1-2 days off to themselves.

After one night patrolling, you had to fight some Choushou loyalists from the anti-shogunate movement, you had to unleash the power of Muramasa from your blade to defend yourself and fight against them. No matter how many times you used its power, you kept resisting it from taking your mind. Souji always checked up on you and made sure you’re alright.

“This empty lodge only had a few of them, go find the others. I’ll be fine here,” your head was in pain and didn’t want him to watch you pass out. You were sitting on the floor of some old inn holding your head between your hands. You overdid it again… you weren’t getting better. Why did he have to be so nice to you? Even at times like this.

“Here, let me take you back.” He tried to reach grab your arm but you pushed him away. He was stunned for a moment and he didn’t want to leave you alone if you were struggling to move.

“I’m fine, I just— I just need…” your head was spinning and you could hear Souji call your name several times in panic before your mind went into a blank state.

When you woke up, your body felt achy and sore. You could tell you were back in your own room and quiet space. Then you remembered you passed out in front of sword demon boy. You groaned from embarrassment, it’s not the first time you had borrowed the power of Muramasa’s cursed blade in exchange for losing your sanity. How could you show that side to him? How long were you knocked out for?

You heard the door to your room open slowly. You didn’t want to lift your head to see who it was. Your eyes were met with the ceiling. “You’re awake,” his familiar voice was filled with relief.

“How long… was I out for?” Your eyes linger over to where he was standing.

“A day and a half,” silence once again filled the room and you had no idea what to feel anymore. That was longer than the last two times you passed out.

“I brought you some water.” He sat next to you and was actually showing a bit of concern from what happened. You carefully looked at him and you had wondered why he was still here. He was dressed casually and wasn’t wearing his blue and white haori meaning he was off duty.

“Just say what you want to say, Souji-san.” You didn’t want to have this conversation but you sat up bringing both of your knees to your chest. Your shoulders were touching but that wasn’t it. What was this weird feeling?

“It’s just… why was your blade overheated? I couldn’t touch it after you passed out.” Your mind went blank. It was demonic after all. Only its wielders can touch it in that state.

“Where is it?” you had asked. Souji told you that he had to rush you back here and some of the others from the Shinsengumi had picked it up when it was cooled off. Rush you back?

“You didn’t have to stop what you were doing for me, did we get them all?” You turned your attention to look at him. His eyes were glued to the wooden floorboards.

“It’s fine, I didn’t want to leave you in such a state. Most have been detained but some escaped.” He wasn’t talkative much unless he was around you for some reason. That was good to hear but still embarrassing he was looking out for you.

“Thanks, I appreciate that but you don’t have to put yourself in danger for my own.” You gripped the mug full of water. You were shaking and Souji calmly told you to take care of yourself better.

After he had left to sleep that night, you had wondered what he meant by that. Take care of yourself better. You should take his advice on that.

The next few days you had rid of your mind of what had happened and was told to take a few days off. Souji had checked up on you every day and stayed by your side when he was free. You liked his company and the way he made you feel comfortable and yourself around him.

As you walked around the residence, you saw Hijikata, Nagakura and Todo sparing against each other but you didn’t see Souji anywhere. Kondo was speaking with Niimi and you loathed that man. He accused you of being a cursed witch which started the rumours in the first place. You were going to say something but Souji greeted you name from behind making you jump a bit.

“Sorry if I startled you, I was feeding the cats.” He was holding a calico cat in his arms.

He looked like he rolled out of bed considering he was still in his green kimono. He was different when he was more relaxed.

You had helped clean the residence instead for the remaining day and looked over Hijikata’s training along with Nagakura who were both very strong. You were starting to warm yourself up to them the more you spent with everyone in Kondo’s group. They were like family to one another.

You quickly found yourself wrapping up Nagakura who was too hurt to move. Yamanami was strong and did this?

“Aren’t you Souji’s girlfriend or sum…” Nagakura scratched the back of his head as you were bandaging his wounds.

“Hm, no. Why?” This piqued your interest. Nagakura shook his head refusing to elaborate.

“He said you were someone close to him, so I thought he meant girlfriend. Never mind then, you should probably leave,” he pushed you away and you stood up exiting the room. That was weird with how he dismissed you quickly.

You were special to Souji? You had assumed everyone here was someone special to him. He considered you someone close to him and that brought you warmth in your heart.

You walked back to your room and saw the demonic blade leaning against the wall in his black sheath. You didn’t even want to or consider it as yours. The blade more owned your soul than you owned it. You wanted to find a way to sever the contract… maybe you could find a better reason to live. Was there a reason to live? You remember you had spoken to Souji about such topics. His reason was to follow behind Kondo’s footsteps and fight for his beliefs.

“You’re awake still?” you forgot to close your door. Or maybe he was checking up on you like usual.

“Ya… I can’t sleep,” you frowned before turning to face him.

“Want me to stay here with you? I don’t think Kondo would mind at all.” You wanted to decline that offer. Why should he suffer with you?

“If you want… it’s probably boring staying here with me—"

“Not at all, I really like your company.” He interrupted you, but you suddenly remember what Nagakura had said. You were someone special to him?

“Remember when you asked me what I live for… I think I know. I want to live for myself and everyone,” you puffed your cheeks out in embarrassment simply due to how short your answer was.

“I want you to live as well, is that selfish?” Souji laid out a tatami mat next to yours.

“No. I shouldn’t try to keep killing myself with what I’ve been doing. I want peace between everyone, that’s my selfish desire.” What were you even doing? What were you even saying? Would he even care if you died? How affected would he be?

“I’d like that as well, only if you’re around. It would feel lonely without you,” he yawned indicating he was tired. You never slept in the same room as with a man.

“With me… around? Lonely without me?” you wanted to know what he meant by those phrases, but he was already asleep.

Was he becoming too attached to you already? Or was it you becoming attached to him more as the days dragged on.

Your desire shifted to wanting to live for them— him mostly.

- end

Note: would only do part 2 if requested. I’m gonna do a request tomorrow and do part 3 of when they hurt your feelings.

[blancheludis]

Whumptober Day 6: Not Realizing They're Injured, "It's not my blood", unhealthy coping mechanisms

Fandom: Batman Character: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson Tags: Hidden Injury, Hurt Tim, Hurt Bruce, Bruce Tries To Be A Good Parent

Summary:

There is no easier way to tell that a recon mission has gone wrong than the air being suddenly filled with shouting and gunshots. Batman goes down and Tim gets him home. It is only later that he realizes he has been shot himself. But Bruce is unconscious and Alfred has his hands full. He cannot be a burden to them, he'll just deal with it himself.

There is no easier way to tell that a recon mission has gone wrong than the air being suddenly filled with shouting and gunshots. A stray bullet whips barely a foot past Tim's face where he is hiding in the rafters of the manufacturing hall where the weapons deal was supposed to go off. Well, he is pretty sure the deal is off.

Just a second later, a dark blur drops amidst the thugs on the ground. Tim sighs to himself as he joins the fight. So much for a signal, but Bruce is currently not talking to him, nothing beyond the most necessary orders.

I need you to assist me on patrol, not to chatter my ear off, he had growled before putting Tim through an endless training session as if he thought he needed to drive home the point with more than words. And Tim can admit, it was a stupid idea to try and talk Batman - or Bruce - out of his bad mood, but the anniversary of Jason's death is coming closer and Batman seemed to be slipping again. 

A sulking Batman definitely makes Robin's job harder, considering he dropped without warning into a firefight and Robin is wearing the clothing equivalent of a warning flag. His skills are definitely not advanced enough to storm right into the fray. Well, time to make some chaos from the sidelines.

---

Not for the first time in his brief stint as Robin, Tim is absolutely grateful for the advanced piece of technology that is the Batmobile. Without the car actively coming towards them and then being able to drive them home without much of an input from Tim, he never would have gotten the massive, unconscious form of Batman back to the cave. Well, not while also trying to keep as much of his blood on the inside as he possibly can.

Alfred is waiting for them, already getting out any medical supplies they could need. When they arrive, he rushes towards them, coming to Batman's side within a heartbeat.

"Dr. Thompson is already on her way," Tim reports as he helps to get Batman on the stretcher before going right back to putting pressure on the wounds. "Two bullet wounds that I saw happening. One in the lower abdomen, one in the upper right thigh."

Alfred nods but does not quite manage to look unmoved. He looks at Batman's unmoving form and, instead of immediately pushing the stretcher towards the back of the cave, he takes precious time to look at Tim, too.

"And you?"

Tim waves dismissively but catches sight of his sleeve - and then the rest of his clothes. Much of it is stained red with glistening, half-dried blood. Somehow, he did not expect there to be so much of it. Yes, he just spent half an hour trying to keep Batman from bleeding out, but the black body armour hides the crimson much better than his own colourful clothes. And his hands - now that he has noticed, he can barely rip his eyes away from all the reddish-brown sticking to his bare skin.

"It's not my blood," Tim says, desperate to find some equilibrium again. When Alfred frowns at him, clearly displeased, irritation shoots through Tim like lighting leaving his nerve endings raw and buzzing. "I didn't go on a killing spree, Alfred. It's Batman's."

"That's not -" Alfred starts but is interrupted by the arrival of Leslie Thompson and they both snap back to attention.

The next hours go by in a blur, following Dr. Thompson's orders, cutting away body armour, ripping open supplies, lending hands when she needs them. Tim is at once horrified and absolutely fascinated by her work. Not once does she hesitate as she cuts Bruce open, searching for the bullet and internal damage, and then sews him back up again.

When they are done with the abdomen, Tim notices he is shaking. Even before patrol started, he was exhausted. The adrenaline crash does not help, surely. As Dr. Thompson switches to Bruce's leg, Tim excuses himself for a moment to get something to drink. Something full of caffeine and sugar. It would help nobody if he passed out now. There is still work to be done.

---

Later, Dr. Thompson washes her hands, their working space suspiciously clean, as if their work has not been bloody.

"This is all I can do for now," she says. Then, with resignation in her voice, she adds, "I guess I cannot convince you to let me take him to an actual hospital."

Alfred shakes his head, although he looks just as unhappy about the state of things as she does. "Just tell me what I need to do and when to call you."

Tim lets their conversation wash over him as he peels the surgical coat off him and looks in dismay at the state of his Robin costume. Alfred's concern earlier was clearly warranted. The blood has not magically disappeared over the past hours, and it really is a lot.

With a last glance at Bruce's still form, Tim ducks away to get a much-needed shower. His entire body hurts and all he wants is to sleep for three days straight, but he knows that is not going to happen. Alfred cannot keep watch over Bruce all by himself, and Tim just knows he will not take any breaks if Tim does not force him to and take his place for a while. He also has reports to write and information about this latest disaster has to get to Gordon. No, sleep is not in Tim's near future.

The clothing sticks to his skin and he contemplates just hopping under the shower as he is, but he just does not want to deal with the mess, so he just grits his teeth and pulls it off. Sharp pain shoots through his arm and shoulder as he slips out of the left sleeve and when he reaches out to rub it away, his fingers come away bloody. With fresh blood, not this brown mess that has had hours to dry on him. Sticky and crimson and warm.

He turns to the mirror. There, in the outer part of his upper left arm is a small wound oozing a sluggish river of blood. As he turns, he finds a mirrored, if somewhat angrier wound on the back.

Oh.

When, exactly, did he get shot? True, things were pure chaos for a while and Tim suffered some hits, especially in the panic of getting to Batman after seeing him be hit twice. Still, he would like to think that he should have noticed getting shot. The evidence to the contrary stares him right in the face, but it still leaves him reeling. Perhaps Alfred is right that he should get more rest, stop every once in a while to check in with himself. But who has time for that?

Moving his arm turns out to be a bad idea as the pain quickly explodes, making his vision turn several shades darker. Tim tries to blink it away, but he is sure that, when he fully comes back to himself, a few minutes have passed, because he is suddenly kneeling on the cold tiles, half slumped against the wall. Thankfully with the uninjured arm.

Briefly, he thinks about going back out to call for Dr. Thompson. He is already back to his feet when he stops. He has an entry and exit wound in a somewhat straight line. That means the bullet is not inside him anymore but went straight through. It is hardly bleeding anymore; the skin is likely only upset by his peeling off his clothes. He can move the arm, ignoring the pain. Sensibility is as it should be right down to his fingers. Dr. Thompson must be tired and Alfred has his hands full with Bruce.

No, Tim decides. He is not going to act like a child and make a burden of himself. First, he will take that shower and clean himself up as good as he can. Then, he will find some bandages, and later, he will search for how to make an unobtrusive sling for his arm. Dr. Thompson would likely not do much more herself. And it is not like Tim will have to go back on patrol, tomorrow. Bruce will be out of commission for a while, so Tim can rest his arm while manning the computers in the cave. And, surely, Bruce's leg and abdomen will keep him longer away from training as Tim's arm will.

Yes, perfect plan.

Step one of the plan is excruciating. Now that he knows the arm is wounded, the pain does not go away. It is a dull throbbing with an underlying, constant burning, accompanied by sharp lances whenever he moves. Funny, what adrenaline can do, that he has only noticed the wound now. Too bad he cannot jump right back into a firefight to keep the adrenaline level high. It does not matter. Along with the bandages, Tim finds some painkillers and swallows two pills dry. They have the good stuff somewhere in the cave, but his night is not yet over and he needs to be alert. Bruce will go through every word of his report, and he will not be happy if there are any mistakes.

---

When Tim comes back out of the bathroom, Dr. Thompson is gone and Alfred is sitting by Bruce's bedside. The cave is not the most comfortable place, but Tim guesses they will only move Bruce upstairs once he is more stable. Once the possibility of them needing the more heavy-duty medical equipment is not as high anymore.

"Master Tim," Alfred greets, looking a decade older than when they left on patrol earlier this night. Someone should really give this man a medal for all he puts up with. Or at least a cushy retirement plan. "Are you all right?"

Tim takes excruciating care to walk as normal as possible, no trace of pain of tiredness in his steps. "I'm fine," he says, easily. The lying part of any plan always comes easiest to him. "You should go get some sleep."

If anything, Alfred looks even unhappier. "I'm quite all right where I am. You, however -"

Cutting him off with a shake of his head, Tim insists, "I mean it, Alfred. I still have a report to write, so I'll be down here anyway. There's no need for both of us to be tired tomorrow."

As if either of them could sleep restfully. But there is a slight chance that Bruce will be awake and aware the next day, so Tim would prefer to skip the day shift.

"Surely the report can wait," Alfred protests softly, lacking real conviction.

Tim tries to shrug but aborts the motion immediately as a spike of hot white pain courses through him.

"You know the rules," he says and hopes Alfred will think that is the reason for his grimace instead of him being stupid and hiding a bullet wound beneath his Superman shirt.

And he is not lying. Bruce insists on reports being written right away so that the memory is still fresh. Heaven forbid some small detail gets lost because of basic necessities like sleep.

"Well, since Master Bruce is -" Alfred hesitates, briefly closing his eyes, then continues as if nothing happened, "- asleep, I think it's in my authority to send you to bed. Your room should be ready."

Funny. Any other night, Tim would smile at that, truly. As if Bruce's rules are not in place anymore just because he caught a few bullets. As if there would not be words, later, if Bruce found out Tim overstepped his welcome and slept in the Manor without good reason. Being tired is not a good reason. He has a home a mile down the road. If Alfred needs another human being to keep an eye on Bruce, then Tim should be down here, doing his work, and not lazing about upstairs.

Alfred knows that, though. Should know that. And Tim is not in the mood to rehash it.

"Alfred," Tim says as he pulls a second chair closer to Bruce's bed. Then, instead of sitting down, he starts the computer in the corner of the room. Of course, every room has its own work station. The work is never done. "With only the two of us, we'll be stretched thin as it is."

As Alfred's frown deepens, Tim silently curses himself for his bluntness. 

"I can call in Master Dick."

Dick will just love this. Of course, he will come. He is as much of a dutiful idiot as the rest of them. But there will be questions and hidden accusations. Oh, he would never say it out loud, but Tim can already see him wondering what good the new Robin is if Batman gets hurt like this. Not that Tim's mission is to keep Batman from hurting himself - which would be a nice bonus if, well, it worked. No, Tim is here to keep Batman from becoming what he set out to fight, and that, at least, is going well. To Tim's knowledge, none of the thugs they encountered over the past two months had to be brought to the ICU. None of them died, later, either.

"It's still just the two of us tonight," Tim says, as if he has no feelings whatsoever about possibly having to deal with Dick. "My night's already ruined. I won't be able to sleep. Adrenaline, you know." As if Tim would not give anything to lie down in a bed right now and not get up for a week straight. But his bed is quite a distance away, and he is really not sure his arm will like lying down. "So, go to bed. I'll sleep in the morning."

"Master Tim, you are -"

"Fine," Tim interrupts, briefly considering that he should stop being so rude. But he really, really wants to be alone right now. Remaining upright and pretending he is not in pain is quickly draining him of his remaining energy. "I'm fine." 

Also, nothing Alfred could say to end his sentence would make anything better. Tim is what? A child? True, but only a convenient excuse when they want to forbid him something that is not going out into Gotham at night in a costume, fighting crime. Under Alfred's care? Wrong. If anything, he is here as an independent contractor. If Bruce had his way, Tim would have no contact whatsoever with Alfred. Tired? Boy, aren't they all?

"Bruce is heavily sedated and Dr. Thompson said it was unlikely he would wake tonight. So, all I'll be doing is write my report and watch over a sleeping man. Tomorrow will be much more demanding." Deciding a little manipulation has never done any harm, Tim adds, "I'm not sure I'll be up for tomorrow. I'm awake now, but -"

As expected, Alfred's face softens. Under different circumstances, Tim would have felt bad about it, but he needs to get his work done, go home, build himself a sling and then rest far away from people who can sniff out weakness.

"All right." Alfred sighs and, finally, looks back at Bruce. "But you will wake me immediately if you need me."

"Of course." As if Tim would ever risk Bruce's well-being. That would throw away months of sleepless nights, countless bruises and constant re-evaluation of his own worth.

"I mean it." Alfred stands up and fixes Tim with a stern look. "Not just if something with Master Bruce changes."

Tim would rather choke and die an undignified death in his sleep than putting more of a strain on Alfred, who will have his hands more than full with an injured Bruce. "I promise," he lies, easily.

"Until the morning, then."

Alfred still lingers in the door, clearly reluctant to leave, but Tim tries not to take it personally. After having taken care of Bruce for decades, it makes sense that he will not relinquish his duties easily to a tired, reckless teenager neither of them knows very well beyond his obvious superior life choices of deciding to traipse after a vigilante at night before he even finished school.

Tim waves him goodbye and almost yells out because, of course, he used his left hand. Well, at least he knows how he is going to keep himself awake if he has to. Pain is a very good motivator.

---

Tim is right. The pain does keep him awake, although it is a near thing, especially since he does not dare empty their entire stash of energy drinks lest he calls Alfred's wrath down on him. He also does not take care of his sling yet, either. Too many cameras around. And Tim decidedly does not trust Bruce with his search history.

---

In the morning, Alfred appears down in the cave much earlier than he probably should, but Tim is grateful enough that he will not mention it. He updates Alfred on Bruce's condition - unchanged, stable - and reassures him, once again, that he is fine - lie.

Then, refusing a cup of coffee for perhaps the first time in his life, he says, "If you won't need me, I'll go home to catch some sleep. I'll be back tonight."

The frown has taken permanent residence on Alfred's face by now, so Tim is unfazed. "There's really no need to leave, Master Tim. Your room is ready for you."

An involuntary shudder runs through Tim He has stayed here a few times when something went wrong during patrol and Alfred insisted they would need to observe him. Every time, though, Bruce got that pinched look of his that meant he is displeased but will not speak out against Alfred. Tim will not stay without Bruce's permission, and there is absolutely no reason for Alfred to overrule him.

Smiling, he shakes his head. "Thanks, Alfred. I'll be back at eight. Call me, if you need me earlier."

Alfred's look of disapproval is not any easier to stomach, but the consequences here are more of an emotional nature. And Tim has plenty of practice with disappointing people.

---

Bruce wakes up two days later and stays that way instead of the dozen or so half-conscious, panic-fuelled wake-ups he has until that point. It is bad timing, really, because Alfred is upstairs preparing lunch, so Tim is alone down here. He jumps up from the desk and checks the heart monitor, even though no alarms are going off.

Unfocused eyes blink at Tim, at the IV lines and cables, at the room, before Bruce slowly comes back to himself, shrugging off injury and exhaustion like it is nothing.

Unsurprisingly, the first word out of his mouth is, "Report."

Of course. Near-death experiences and emergency surgery are not enough to take Batman out of Bruce Wayne.

First off, Tim hands Bruce a cup with water. That croak sounds painful. Then, however, he sits up straight.

"The report is written and filed," he says, most important things first. "I took the liberty of informing Commissioner Gordon about what happened. Four of Black Mask's people are in custody and three of the other group, which is as of yet unidentified. Most of the weapon crates were secured."

Here, he pauses, because Bruce expectedly digs in. "Most?" he demands, somehow even more unreadable now with bruises in his face and one step away from unconsciousness. Is he displeased or angry? Does he even have the capacity for complex emotions right now?

Tim, too, can stay professional. "The unknown group started shooting and got some crates away in the mayhem." That is not his fault. Not even Batman can make it so.

Bruce coughs and only takes another sip after Tim nudges the cup closer to him. "Any leads?"

If not for the etiquette training his parents insisted on, Tim would gape at Bruce. Instead, he quickly clears his throat.

"None, as of yet." 

He was too busy carrying Bruce home so he could get emergency surgery for his two gunshot wounds. And then Tim needed to sleep for twelve hours straight because of his own gunshot wound, the resulting blood loss and sheer exhaustion. He could have easily slept longer, but someone had to make sure that Alfred would get some rest, too. So, no, he does not have any leads.

He does not say any of that. Because, of course, Bruce would demand results. Officially, only one of them got shot, and while Bruce was out of commission, Tim had all the time in the world to work on the case. And Tim is not here to complain. He made a deal with Bruce that he could tag along as Robin as long as he was helpful. Slacking off, wounded or not, is not part of that deal.

Pushing any misgivings he might have away, Tim continues his report, keeping his tone neutral. "You were shot twice. In the lower abdomen and in the upper right thigh. Dr. Thompsom got the bullets out and said no inner organs were damaged. She is scheduled to come by this afternoon but has also left a treatment plan and list of recommendations."

Bruce hums and shifts in the bed, likely to test how his body feels. When he looks back at Tim, his gaze is heavy, loaded with something Tim cannot quite grasp. "You got me out?"

"Yes." He very deliberately keeps his chin up when he admits, "Loss of blood was not optimal. Dr. Thompson gave you four bags of blood."

He did the calculations. There are several ways he could have been faster, some of them riskier. Then again, he did get shot anyway, so maybe riskier would have been better. Later, he guesses, he will go through them with Bruce and they will iron out the flaws.

"And you?" Bruce asks, still with that iron focus.

Tim stares, not sure he understands. He obviously got out, too. Slowly, he says, "Alfred will kill me if I let you look over the report right now, but it's all there." He has done his work.

"No," Bruce says, immediately making Tim sit up straighter. "Are you all right?"

Tim stills. That is not part of the deal either. 

"I'm fine," he says nonetheless. By now, it has become some kind of mantra. "But I should really call Alfred. He's been worried."

---

"Tim, do I need to take a look at your shoulder?" Dr. Thompson asks after she checks up on Bruce. "You've been favouring it."

The world comes to a sudden, screeching stop. Yet, Tim forces himself to frown and look at his shoulder, rolling it for good measure, careful not to hiss at the pain.

"This? No, thanks, Dr. Thompson. I think I just slept wrong." At her raised eyebrow, he adds, sheepishly. "I fell asleep at my desk."

He is a good liar, and Bruce's heavy gaze on his back as he flees means nothing.

---

It is Dick, who ruins everything. Dick, who avoids the Manor like the plague and, if he comes, only does so to yell at Bruce. Dick, who prefers to pretend Tim does not exist and, if they have to interact, is absolutely awkward, caught between wanting to be kind to a kid and being angry at already having a replacement little brother he never wanted in the first place.

With everybody else, Dick is a hugger. With Tim, he usually just waves awkwardly and leaves it at that. This time, Tim is on his way to leave when Dick comes into Bruce's room. He does wave but, at the last moment, pats Tim on the shoulder. The wrong shoulder. The shoulder in too close proximity to the bullet wound. Tim shouts, half in surprise, half in pain. Maybe more in pain. Dick freezes right where he stands, hand still half-raised in the air. Everybody stares.

Tim looks back, goes to duck his head and then thinks better of it. "Guess that pulled muscle is still not quite right," Tim tries weakly, perfectly aware that he is all but curling around his wounded arm.

Everybody is still staring, so he straightens - and definitely does not grimace in pain again.

Full of fake cheer, he nods at Dick. "Hello to you, too, Dick. I'll leave you to it."

He makes it all of half a step before he is stopped.

"Tim." That is Batman's voice and clearly an order.

Tim contemplates running. Bruce is not going to come after him. Dick could, but he still looks stunned. He could have a chance. But the very reason he hid his injury in the first place, is because he wants to be able to come back here. Defying a direct order is the simplest way to ruin that.

"It's not that bad," he tries to explain, painfully aware that he is not quite pulling up a calm tone. "Just a scratch. Dick just took me by surprise."

None of them believe him. He does not understand why. Since he has been allowed through the Manor's doors, he has made a point of being absolutely fine and as unobtrusive as possible. Nobody can accuse him of being a problem, a liar. He stays out of their way enough for that. If he says there is nothing to worry about, that should be it. Yet, Alfred is already coming towards him with a determined expression.

"Let's have a look, Master Tim."

Tim takes a step back. "No need, Alfred. I have -"

"Tim."

Great, so he is not going to get out of this one. He sighs, makes a show of it to make sure they realize they are blowing this out of proportion. "How about I'll talk to Dr. Thompson when she comes by later?"

"How about we look at you now?" Dick chimes in, because having a disapproving Batman and a disappointed Alfred ganging up on Tim is not enough. "What happened?"

Irritation rises in Tim's chest like the impossible to kill monster it is. "I basically carried Batman out of a firefight and to the Batmobile." Even while he is talking, Tim is not sure why he is only making things worse for himself. The gig is up. Dr. Thompson will not keep silent about him having a bullet wound. And that is if they even let him be alone with her.

And then what? He gets benched. Maybe he gets fired. Nobody needs a lying Robin. Nobody needs a useless Robin either, but getting caught lying probably weighs more at the moment.

This is not going to work.

"All right," he says and raises his hands, not hiding the wince as that pulls at his wound. "I got shot."

Silence.

"I must have misheard you, Master Tim." Alfred's voice is deadly calm and even Bruce glances nervously at him. This is not an Alfred that will be denied anything. This is not an Alfred that can be placated. "You were what?"

"Shot," Tim repeats through clenched teeth instead of insisting he is fine. "The bullet went straight through. There are no problems with either mobility or sensitivity. No signs of infection."

Only when Bruce blinks at him does Tim notice he has fallen into his usual cadence for reporting to Batman. Well, he feels like he is standing in front of a tribunal, so not much difference.

"Out," Alfred orders. "Now."

Nobody dares to argue.

---

It goes like this: Dr. Thompson is called in again, ahead of schedule. She clicks her tongue at Tim and conducts a thorough examination. Her bandage and her sling look much more professional than Tim's. She tells Alfred Tim is not to take off that sling until she gives them permission.

Alfred decrees Tim will stay in the Manor until further notice, but relents and promises that Dick will accompany Tim home so he can pack some things. Which leads to Dick asking some very pointed questions about Tim's parents and when, exactly, they are expected to return from their business trip.

Bruce calls Tim to his bedside and starts their conversation with, "Hiding injuries is unacceptable." Which makes Tim want to laugh. But then Bruce adds, "I can't take you out into the field if I can't trust you."

And that just pushes Tim into a panic attack - which he only finds out later is a panic attack when he comes back to himself in a dark wing of the Manor he has never been in before with Dick sitting next to him, alternating between telling him some fantastical stories from his circus times and instructing him how to breathe. Thanks a lot, but Tim has been breathing fine on his own for quite a number of years now. It still helps.

Bruce, later, tells him that he has no intention of taking Robin away from him. That helps, too.

He guesses, there will be more talking, later. For now, he wears his sling in plain sight and, when Alfred locks him out of the cave, hacks Batman's system and still gets some work done until Bruce, who is just sour that he, too is not allowed to work, tells him to stop.

It works out better than Tim could have hoped.

---

Bruce ambushes him days later after lunch, when Tim is full and sleepy and does not expect anything bad. As it is, he watches warily as Bruce comes into the living room and sits down across from him, his expression sombre. It does not help that he should definitely not walk around much. But where Tim has been a model patient ever since he was found out, Bruce is a bit harder to bully. He probably only gets away with it, because Alfred's attention has to be split between the two of them.

"Why did you not tell anyone you were injured?" Bruce asks by way of greeting.

In response, Tim flinches. He did not expect small talk about the weather, but it is something else to dive right into the deep end without warning.

"I had it handled," he says mulishly. People keep telling him how dangerous it was, but he is well aware that it is in his best interest to stay in top physical condition. He would not jeopardize that. What good would he be to anyone then? "Alfred had enough on his hands with you. I was fine."

All other inhabitants of the Manor seem to have developed a sudden allergy against the word fine. Whenever Tim uses it - which is often because he is fine - he has to deal with winces and pursed lips and studying stares. 

"What if something had happened while you were at home and nobody would have noticed?" Bruce keeps going, all reasonable and calm, asking instead of telling, which is a new thing altogether.

"Nothing was going to happen." Tim has had some variation of this conversation a dozen times already with Alfred and Dick, so it is not hard not to snap at Bruce, even though he still does not understand what the big deal is. His parents have expected him to take care of himself and his needs since forever. This time, he was nowhere near his limits. "And we had a schedule. I'm punctual. Alfred would have known immediately."

Bruce's jaw tense briefly. "At which point you could have already been unconscious for hours."

Now, Tim does have to put effort into not rolling his eyes. "I rewrapped the wound daily. I took antibiotics. Why would I fall unconscious?" As if he would not recognize signs of infection.

"Tim," Bruce says and sighs, not disapproving as much as tired. That, somehow is worse.  "We don't want anything to happen to you."

They want him in working order because he bullied his way into their lives and that means he should not be more trouble than he is worth. Tim has always understood that and thought they acted on the same terms. It is hard to reconcile this version of Bruce with the one from a few weeks ago who pushed him so hard during training that he sometimes thought he could not make the way back to Drake Manor. He is not sure what happened. Or if he necessarily likes it. He never set out to be a replacement for Jason. Batman was slipping and Tim felt in a position to stop it. Batman was still needed. Tim, however, not so much. At least not in any important, far-reaching matter. His parents surely would have something to say if he got himself killed and they invested lots of time and money into him without getting anything in return.

Tim shakes his head slightly to clear his thoughts. "And I'm fine," he repeats, pinching his thigh to see whether he might just be caught in some recurring nightmare.

They are silent for a while, in which Bruce looks at him but also through him. It is a disconcerting experience.

"Have you ever hidden an injury before?" Bruce then asks, his voice low and halting. His face looks drawn, years older than he is. 

That is kind of a broad question. What kind of severity are they talking here? And only since Tim became Robin or ever?

"I've never been shot before," he says cautiously. It is the truth. He has been shot at plenty, but this is the first time he was not fast enough to get out of the way.

Bruce closes his eyes. Which, in Batman speak, is the equivalent of jumping up and down, screaming.

"I realize I've been harsh with you, and I want to apologize for that," he then says. The words take a long moment to register in Tim's brain, punching the air out of his lungs in the process. "I've wanted to keep you a safe distance away because - well, because maybe then it wouldn't hurt if something happened. But -" Bruce shrugs, not dismissive but uncomfortable, apologetic. "You're a good kid, Tim. A good Robin and a good kid."

Tim's throat is dry. He does not know what is happening. Well, it is probably good that Bruce thinks he is doing a good job, but all of this sounds somewhat final, like something is going to end, and there really is only one thing that could possibly be.

"I don't want to stop being Robin," he blurts out, rising half out of his seat. Heat burns at the back of his eyes, but he is not going to cry. He is not a child.

"I won't stop you," Bruce says, which is not the same thing as You can stay Robin or even I want you. "We just need to redefine our partnership."

Oh. Tim sinks back into his seat, out of breath as if he just ran all the way to Drake Manor and back. That does not sound too bad. At least, Tim does not think he is being thrown out. He can be better. He can -

"Tim." Bruce's voice cuts through Tim's racing thoughts. "We want you here and that has nothing to do with what you can do for us or how good you're at being Robin."

Sure, Tim thinks, that sounds totally legit.

But then Bruce gets up and comes towards him, limping only a little bit as he sinks down on the couch next to Tim. Slowly, and mindful of the sling, he pulls Tim into his arms.

"I have not given you many reasons to believe me," he says, all warm and rumbling and welcoming. "But I'll try to do better. Just give me a chance."

[anneapocalypse]

Ostagar was planned.

The thing is, it had to be.

Note: I am saying all this as someone who likes Loghain a lot as a character. I find him really interesting and a lot of his motivations compelling, even if I do not agree with or defend all of his actions. He’s one of my favorite Dragon Age antagonists, and I see him as someone who truly does see himself as the hero. So this is all coming from a place, not of wanting to condemn Loghain, but of wanting to understand him.

Loghain, understandably, never really comes out and says this, even when he’s acknowledging what he did; his statements about “a fool’s death and a hard choice” leave open the possibility that the retreat was a decision made in the moment. But when we look at the circumstances beyond Ostagar, there’s just no way that could be true.

Here’s why I think so, and why I don't think it actually changes that much about Loghain's motives.

Alistair and the Tower of Ishal

I'll start with the circumstantial, and therefore weakeast, pieces of evidence.

First: Loghain objects to the plan of sending two Grey Wardens to the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon.

It is genuinely sort of a strange decision. One would assume you’d want the darkspawn fighters on the ground fighting darkspawn, not standing in a tower holding a torch. It has been theorized that Cailan makes this choice deliberately because he knows Alistair is his half-brother, and means to protect him as the heir to the throne should he fall in battle. (It would maybe have been good if he had discussed this with Alistair first—but that is neither here nor there.) I think it’s a plausible theory but I’m not here to argue for or against it today.

Loghain does not object to this plan on the grounds that it’s a poor use of the Grey Wardens’ skills, however; on the contrary, he argues, “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much, Cailan. Is that truly wise?”

His distrust of the Wardens generally is well-documented, so by itself, this statement could be entirely sincere. But in hindsight, it’s hard not to see this as possibly Loghain wanting all the Wardens together on the battlefield—where they can fall together.

Furthermore, it is explicitly stated that it was Loghain’s soldiers in charge of securing the tower. Loghain did not know at the time that it would be Grey Wardens lighting the beacon, but his dialogue with Cailan makes it clear that their general plans for the battle were already in place, and the beacon was a vital part of that plan. The beacon going unlit, or being delayed, would give him an excuse for withdrawing his troops from the battle. I don’t think it’s an accident that the lower levels of the tower are not properly secured, or that no one notices until the battle is already underway.

The evidence surrounding the Tower of Ishal is circumstantial. But there are other events taking place during and after Ostagar that suggest Loghain had a plan before the battle.

Jowan and Redcliffe

The Warden and Alistair wake up in Flemeth’s hut following the failed battle; we don’t know how long the Warden was out, but it doesn’t seem to have been that long. From here, they can proceed to Lothering and then pretty much immediately to Redcliffe, where they find the village has been under seige by undead, for days already. So the timeline looks something like this:

During the Prologue:

Jowan escapes from the Circle at Lake Calenhad.

Sometime between the Prologue and the Warden’s arrival at Redcliffe:

Templars hunt down and apprehend Jowan.

Loghain’s men intercept the templars and offer to fix things for Jowan if he does the Teyrn’s bidding: infiltrate Redcliffe Castle and poison the arl.

Jowan is hired by Isolde to tutor Connor.

Jowan poisons Arl Eamon, who falls ill.

Connor, desperate to save his father, accepts a deal from a desire demon and becomes possessed.

Most of the servants in the castle are killed, becoming walking corpses which themselves attack others.

The undead then begin attacking the village nightly.

Bann Teagan arrives to find the village in chaos, and tries to help the people defend themselves until he can get inside the castle.

The Warden arrives in Redcliffe.

That’s a lot to happen in the brief window between Ostagar and how soon the Warden can leave Lothering. Teagan is also seen in Denerim in the cutscene immediately following following Ostagar, so it’s unclear when, precisely, he arrives at Redcliffe, but it’s likely after that. This is also a video game, so we probably shouldn’t take travel times too seriously. Nevertheless, it’s already a lot to happen in a very short period of time, even more so if we cut the time between Prologue and Ostagar out of the picture.

Furthermore, I think Loghain has to know about Connor, to deliberately choose an apostate mage as his infiltrator. This does not suggest a last-minute panic move, but a man who has spent time gathering intelligence on the man most likely to oppose him.

Uldred and the Circle

Uldred and Loghain have a deal.

We don't see it first hand, but we learn that in a meeting back at the Circle Tower after Ostagar, Uldred tells the other mages that if the Circle supports Loghain, he will ensure that they are given greater freedom. Wynne, however, shoots this down, calling Loghain a traitor. Tensions escalate until fighting breaks out, Uldred becomes possessed, and the rest is history.

Ostagar is in chaos after the battle. Uldred would be with the mages in the main force, and Loghain's contingent is retreating. It is very unlikely that Uldred and Loghain have any opportunity to speak after the battle. It makes far more sense that they speak before.

This may even be why Uldred personally makes the suggestion that a mage should light the beacon rather than the Grey Wardens, before his idea is shot down by a Revered Mother.

Howe and Highever

The attack on Castle Cousland is probably the strongest piece of evidence that Loghain's plans were in motion before Ostagar.

The timing of Howe’s coup in Highever cannot be a coincidence. Howe is an opportunist. He has resented Bryce Cousland for years, a resentment that the teyrn has no doubt tried to mitigate by offering Howe favor and friendship. But underneath all their supposed camaraderie, Howe still holds a lesser title, and feels he deserves what Bryce has.

But he has never acted on that resentment before now.

Howe would never have attacked the Couslands if he didn’t think he could get away with it. And why would he think that under King Cailan? The King’s response to a Cousland warden’s news is shock at Howe’s actions and a promise to bring him to justice after the battle—a promise that Cailan does not live to keep.

Howe knows that Cailan will be out of the way soon. He has to. And his support of Loghain is likely being rewarded with a promise to let him keep Highever.

It is also made explicitly clear in the Cousland prologue that Bryce is a very loyal supporter of King Cailan, and he is one of the most powerful men in Ferelden, the only one of a rank equal to Loghain—which gives Loghain a whole lot of incentive to have him out of the way, just like Eamon, if he’s planning a regime change.

Loghain’s Motives

So, if we accept that Loghain’s betrayal of Cailan was premeditated, what does that change about his motives?

Maybe less than you’d think. The truth is, everything about Cailan that might cause Loghain to make an on-the-spot decision at Ostagar, he already knows well before the battle. He knows that Cailan is a romantic, obsessed with heroic stories but with little experience actually leading an army. He knows that his daughter the queen handles most of the actual ruling of Ferelden. Though he does not seem to know about Cailan’s personal correspondences with Empress Celene (judging by his reactions if you take him along for Ostagar), he probably knows about Cailan’s affairs (because Anora knows), and he definitely knows that Cailan is getting a bit too friendly with Orlais for his comfort. The Wardens coming to Ferelden from Orlais has already raised his hackles well before the battle at Ostagar. The fact that Cailan has called upon Orlais for military aid is probably a bridge too far.

All this is to say that if Loghain is truly as unimpressed with Cailan’s rule and as concerned for Ferelden’s freedom as he seems to be… none of these concerns begin at Ostagar. This is not about one battle poorly handled. This has been building for quite some time, probably since Cailan's coronation if we're being honest. And as a seasoned military officer, I don’t believe that Loghain would wait until the last minute to make that decision. He would be looking at the potential outcomes (or what he fears would be the outcomes), not just of Ostagar, but of Cailan’s decisions and policies generally.

And when it all reached a tipping point, he would begin making a plan.

Whether he's wrong or right, whether Ferelden is in the kind of danger he believes, that I’m not here to argue today. I do think it’s possible to see it multiple ways. I think that given what we now know of Empress Celene from The Masked Empire, it’s safe to say she had no intention of trying to reconquer Ferelden through military force. I also think it’s safe to say that Loghain does not have the knowledge that we now have, and has no reason to trust her intentions. There is plenty that Loghain does later that I will not defend. But I do find his motives with regard to Ferelden’s independence, and his long personal stake in it, at the very least sympathetic, and certainly compelling with regard to his character arc overall.

We tend to be more lenient toward crimes of passion, actions taken in the heat of the moment, largely because the underlying assumption is that the person might not have acted rationally, perhaps would not have acted so had they not been so provoked, and might regret their actions immediately after. I do not think this describes Loghain; I also don’t think that changes a whole lot in his case, because he was always going to act when he felt that Ferelden was threatened, whether it was in the moment or through weeks or months of careful planning. He has invested too much, lost too much, for the sake of this nation. If he believes it is under threat, he is going to act.

And I think that all the evidence, as well as all that we know of Loghain himself, points to him acting with a plan.

[lunargeist]

@ghostly-tart

For you twin

Grian had owned the farm for almost a year and a half and winter was just around the corner. He had even put the effort into an actual warm coat as the cold air started to linger after the sun had been up for some time. He had just finished up with the junimos to allow Pam to take up her actual day job as the bus driver. Morality of that women behind the wheel aside, he was actually excited to get his hands on some more exotic plants for the farm when the warmer seasons come back around. He had found an old book in the library and the idea of making sugar from beets rather than buying from Pierre was a skill he planned on cultivating.

He pulled the scarf around his mouth and nose as he exited the chicken coop after giving his chickens their daily pats and making sure that they had yet to make their way through the feed he had put out for them last them the previous night.

Well, HE hadn't put the feed out but he had asked his new farm hand to do it. Perhaps, hiring someone just before the slowest farming season might not be the smartest way of doing things, but Grian wasn't excatly known for his smartest decisions. He did give up his stable job for trying to be a farmer either little to no experience. Granted, it was a soul killing job for Joja INC but stable nonetheless.

Despite his questionable career choices; he doesn't think that hiring Scar is going to be one of those. He had already seemingly taken to caring for the chickens and had spoken to Grian about the idea of installing a well on the south west side of the property so it could be easier to water plants come spring. As much as he wasn't sure he appreciated some guy who he let's live in a cabin on the corner of the farm give his two cents on how the farm should be laid out in the future, Grian certainly appreciated the enthusiasm.

He made sure to lock the door to the coop behind him before Grian started towards the main entrance to his farm. It was almost ten am and Pam should be just making her way down the path from the main part of town. He rubbed his hands together, absentmindedly thinking about if he could perhaps talk to Emily about the prospect of gloves.

Maybe see if Scar would be interested in them too. Something told Grian he wouldn't care though.

"Grian!"

Grian jumped and turned as Scar called from Grian's front porch. As if to prove his previous thought on offering Scar gloves, despite the nearing freezing temperatures, Grian's farm hand was only wearing a light hoddie and his usual work jeans. He came down the stairs and approached the shorter owner of the farm. "Where you off to this early? Pierre isn't open on Wednesdays."

"The bus is up and running again," Grian said and stuck his hands into his warm coat pockets. "Today is the first day it is back in service and I was planning on going and getting some stuff from the store and merchant I heard they have near the stop."

Scar's expression brightened. "I haven't been to Calico Desert in quite sometimes. Would you mind the company? If not, I'd rather like to come along with."

While he hadn't been expecting to even see Scar today, Grian couldn't say he excatly minded the idea of having the company.

"Actually," Grian said after a moment of pause. "I would appreciate it."

Scar gave him a warm smile before falling into step beside Grian as they headed towards the bus stop. "Of course! Like I said, I am happy to go back."

Pam came up behind them. The two men paid for their tickets and the departed. "You said you hadn't gone in a while. Why haven't you gone back if you seem to like it there?"

The duo took seats in the middle of the bus on either side of the aisle. Scar shifted so he was facing Grian as he made a face. "It's sorta dumb."

The owner of the farm raise an eyebrow as he settled back into the bus seat. Grian pulled the scarf off and folded it to shove into his pocket. "How dumb?"

Scar cringed and Grian couldn't help but laugh. "Oh no. That seems ominous. What did you do?"

"So, you know the casino?"

Grian's eyebrows shot up. "Did you get caught cheating?"

His farm hand scoffed. "Of course not. They couldn't prove anything but they sure as heck seemed sure I was cheating."

"Were you?"

"You seen me play cards at the saloon on Fridays. What do you think?"

"I think you owe Shane three hundred dollars from last week. That was hardly fair. Man was already a few beers down." Grian snorted.

"That round of black jack was fair game!" Scar gasped in mock offense, leaning back and placing a hand on his chest. "It wasn't my fault he put it all in."

"Scar didn't even need to cheat at that game," Pam's grave voice called back to the men. "That was just Shane being a nitwit."

Scar gestured towards their driver. "Just as the lady said; I am three hundred dollars richer because of someone's bad choices."

Scar making money off of other people's poor choices... Where does that sound familiar...? Grian just laughed the thought off with his hired farm hand.

"Are you going to leave your coat on the bus? I can't imagine that will be comfortable."

Grian looked down at his red coat. "Is it already going to be hot?it's barely after ten?"

"G, it's a desert."

Grian spluttered slightly. "I know that but it's also almost November. It's cold!"

"It's a desert, G!"

"So is Antarctica!" The farmer defended slightly, but his hands come out of his coat to start undoing the buttons.

"Have you ever been to Calico before?"

"No!"

Scar rolled his eyes. "Grian."

"Shut up, Scar. I write your pay checks."

"Oh no," Scar said drily as Grian folded his coat up on the empty seat beside him. "Whatever will happen when I don't pay rent for living in the hovel and I can just raid your fridge at night while you're asleep."

"Don't make me change my locks," Grian threatened as they pulled into the Calico bus stop. "And that cabin is nice."

"You wouldn't dare change the locks. Also, I don't have a full kitchen."

"I don't either!"

Pam turned around. "Can you two continue this outside of the bus? I planned on taking a nap."

Grian rolled his eyes but got up with Scar following him into the dry wind. He instinctively raised his hand to protect his face agaisnt the sand.

"Have you really not been to Calico?"

"No," Grian clipped as he squinted around the barren bus stop.

Scar snorted beside him before putting a hand on Grian's shoulder and started him towards the street to their back to walk in front of the idle bus. A few small buildings sat off in the distance, the largest being a two story bright pink building with a sign labeled OASIS over the sign.

Griam quickly shook off Scar's hand and started towards the building. He felt Scar keep up behind him. The farmer had no intention on saying it, but he was already grateful for Scar telling him to take his coat off. Even with the heaviest garment removed, he was still reaching quickly uncomfortable temperatures as they took the almost twenty minute walk to the desert store and casino.

By the time Grian pushed the swing door open, he could tell he was just as red in the face as his jumper and could feel the sweat on the back of his neck. It took a lot of effort not to let out a sigh of relief at the crisp AC. He seemed to have failed at completely hiding his relief because Scar right behind him laughed.

A young woman behind the front counter looked up from her magazine. Sandy shifted in her seat as rhe two men entered her store. "Welcome on in guys. Hello to you, Scar."

"Hi, Sandy!" Scar called back to the pink haired woman. "How are you doing!?"

"I'm doing great, thanks for asking!" Her attention turned to Grian as he trudged to the front counter. "Hi, I'm Sandy, welcome to Oasis. Can I help you find something?"

"Beet seeds?" Grian asked, sounding a lot more tired than he felt.

Sandy smiled like she knew why he sounded out of breath. "From the valley? Their summers are even more mild than our winters. If your looking for seeds, they are in isle two, most of the way down. There is also a water cooler back there too."

He nodded and started down where she gestured to. Grian heard as Sandy and Scar seemed to pick up a friendly conversation before he decided not to pay it any mind. He felt a slightly uncomfortable feeling settle in his stomach at Scar's familiar tone he was using with Sandy, but it was easy enough to blaim the veugly nauseous feeling because of the heat. He moved passed the seeds to go to the cooler that he had been directed to.

At the end of the shelves, there is a short hall where a door with a bodyguard dressed in a dark blue suit and sunglasses. Grian stared at him for a moment and, when the gentleman didn't respond to his present, turned back to the water cooler to get something to drink. Once he had himself a paper cup filled, he quickly moved out of sight.

He didn't really like the idea of not knowing if the bodyguard was actually looking at him or not.

Grian browsed the small seed selection as he drank his water, picking out a handful of the seeds he wanted. He got not just the beets he so wanted, but a handful of starfruit to try his hand at in his small house while waiting for summer. Grian took his seeds back up the front counter.

Scar was browsing a small clothes selection in the first of the three aisle. He poked his head over towards Grian as he approached the counter. "Grian, I think you might want to get this."

He pulled down a white shirt that said 'My Went to Calico and Only Bought Me a TeeShirt' with a small little cactus emoji under the text. "It's short sleeve~"

"Thanks but no," Grian snorted before he turned back to Sandy to pay for his seed selection, tossing his paper cup in a small trashcan by his knees.

Scar laughed before disappearing back the shelf. As Grian was wrapping up, his hired hand came and joined him back up at the counter, holding a small potted cactus. Grian glanced at the small terracotta pot. "I'm not buying that for you."

"I wasn't going to ask you to." Scar sulked slightly in a way that very much implied that he was actually was going to ask.

"Sure." Grian chuckled as he took his bag and stepped away to wait by the front door.

Scar bought his cactus as well as some other things before joining Grian at the door. "Are we gonna go to Skull Caverns?"

"Skull Caverns?" Grian asked, sounding a little appaled at the name.

Scar hummed as they left the safe air conditioned store. "Yeah. It's this creepy cave that isn't that far from here but there is this door in the back that has a massive skull carved into it."

"Carved into it?" Grian raised his hand again to protect his eyes. "Is it a metal door?"

"I dunno. It looks old as hell. Might be metal might not. I've never gone back and touched the thing."

"No, we can come back for creepy cave later. Let's go back home."

"Really? We just got here?" Scar sounded disappointed but he continued to follow beside Grian. "Are we gonna come back when you have an appropriate shirt?"

"I'm gonna come back without you, I think."

"Awww, G."

The two headed back to the bus and climbed back onto the bus. Pam sat up in her seat, lowering the grimy book. "Welcome back, boys. Back so soon?"

"It's too hot here." Grian complained. "I can't imagine ever wanting to live in the desert."

"He is being dramatic," Scar called as Grian went to dump himself into his seat. "I heard him talking to Sandy about buying a vacation house here once his farm takes off."

"If I am buying a vacation house anywhere, it's going to be Ginger Island." Grian yelled dramatically.

Both Pam and Scar laughed as the farm hand made his way to take his seat back up. He put his bag beside him as he settled. The bus had started up and began moving before Scar had gasped slightly and sat up before turning towards his bag. "Oh, before I forget, I got you something from Sandy's."

Grian was not suprised when Scar pulled out a white shirt with a cactus on it out of the bottom of his bag and passed it across the aisle to Grian. Despite not being suprised, he still couldn't help the laugh that came bubbling up from his chest. "Thanks. I'm sure I'll treasure this forever."

Scar returned the laughter with a quirked half smile. "I'm just glad you have something that won't give you heat stroke next time we go visit Sandy."

"Yeah sure." Grian folded the shirt losely and put it in his bag with seeds and picked up his scarf he had left on the seat with his jacket. "We."

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 3

Ao3 | 1.5k words | Sweetheart's POV

Sweet heart continues to spiral as Collins and Cam try to help. They just keep chasing their help away.

-

Fooliverse Sweetheart faces off with that first shade. They already know Milo, but things are a lot more complicated than they might have been, not least because of their own stubbornness and pride. Hopefully that pride won't get them killed. Hopefully.

TW: medical examination and discussions, vaguely depicted panic attack, reader intentionally triggering a character, conflict.

Your desk was waiting for you when you made it back to the office. Jet’s office was darkened, and only a handful of other investigators remained at their desks in the wide, open bullpen. It was late evening, bordering on much too late to be here. You sat down anyway and started working. 

By the time morning came round, you had far more information than you did at the start of the day before. For one, you had a rudimentary understanding of Swahili, and had managed to properly convey what you needed from your expert using a few online dictionaries and whatever Google Translate had to offer. He was a pleasant guy, if your translations were correct, and had affirmed that he would send a statement your way within the next few days with everything he knew about shades broken down into simple enough terms for the Department to work with. 

Your back ached and your stomach was still in knots, but you felt much better than you had the day before. Whatever affects the shade’s life-sucking-bullshit left its victims with wore off with time and rest. You added it to your notes, and sent a quick email to Collins to report your improved health. The sun had started to rise when you received a message back. 

Report to medical for field clearance. Don’t make me sick Jet on you. 

You sighed, scrubbing at your tired eyes. You knew it was pointless to resist. Collins would get you down there eventually, one way or another. It looked better for you if you went voluntarily. 

There was a whole floor to the medical department. Half of it was dedicated only to Dr. Collins’ medical research and the seminars he taught for D.A.M.N.. The other half made up the Department’s extensive infirmary, staffed by Dr. Collins’ loyal group of doctors and nurses. They were a vicious bunch, too smart for anybody’s good, and skilled beyond all reason in both mundane and magical healing. Collins expected nothing but exceptional skill from his staff, and he wouldn’t settle for anything less. 

By the time you arrived, night shift was trading for day. A few of Collins’ cronies eyed you suspiciously as you stepped off the elevator and they stepped on. You imagined that you probably looked just this side of insane, wearing yesterday’s clothes, your hair wild, your face slack with exhaustion. 

Collins was waiting for you in his low lit examination room. There was a small, plastic covered examination table, countertops and cabinets stocked with medical supplies, a bright red trash can marked for hazardous waste. Collins seemed to have some sort of restriction against fluorescent lights in the areas in which only he worked, since his office was lit in a similar, warm fashion. You imagined that it probably hurt his eyes. Milo’s lighting choices, or lack thereof, made sudden sense to you. 

Your gut twisted at the thought of him. Anger felt suspiciously like guilt these days.

“You look like shit.” Collins drawled as you entered. “Still.” 

“Bit better than yesterday.” You replied, sighing. “That flu is gone.”

“Flu.” Collins replied. His eyes were more gray than silver. “Right. Up on the table please.” 

You sat where you were told, and let Collins check your heart rate, your breathing, your temperature, throat, nose, and ears. For a healer, he seemed to rely on non-magical medicine, at least more than you’d seen from others. He sighed as he ticked off his little list. His eyes caught on the healed bite marks that scattered your neck and shoulders. He didn’t say anything. 

“You’re functioning.” He said. “Barely. Did you sleep last night?”

“Did you?”

“Vampire?” He replied, dryly. “Try again.” 

“Vampires do need to sleep.” You said. “Not as much as humans but…” 

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“I’m on a case.” You crossed your arms over your chest and went to stand. “Sometimes that takes precedence to things like sleep.” 

“And sometimes, when an investigator doesn’t get adequate rest they do stupid shit that gets them killed.” Collins snapped. He was done playing games with you. “I’ll bench you if I have to, Investigator. Go home and get some rest.” 

“I can handle this.” You seethed, your teeth clenched. You tried to maneuver around Collins, but he had you cornered. “Why can’t anybody just let me handle this?” 

Collins was quiet for a long breath. You’d revealed too much. He puffed out a curse and placed his hands on his hips. He looked so tired. 

“Listen to me.” He ordered. You twitched. You hated it when people gave you orders. “The Department doesn’t give anybody a fair shake. Much less people like you and I, who folks tend to underestimate.” You shook your head emphatically, wrapped your arms around your middle. You tried to squeeze that shake out of yourself by force. “The only way that anybody survives in this place is by asking for help when they need it.” 

“I don’t.” You hissed. Collins was pushing, just like Milo had. You felt yourself rearing back for an attack, reaching through your knowledge of Collins to find what would hurt, what would win . 

“ And you’ve got somebody feeding on you.” He ignored your outburst, too focused on his own outrage. His lip curled with disgust as he motioned at the pale, raised scars of Milo’s bite. “That can’t be helping. Not when you ignore injuries and push through shit like a damn bulldozer!” Maybe ?

“What, are you jealous?” You laughed. “Wanted to sink your own fangs in?” 

Bullseye. 

Collins reared back. He shot across the room faster than your eyes could track. He took on a horrible, haunted expression, his face pale and slack as he pressed himself against the wall, as far away from you as he could get. Collins wasn’t a small man, but he sure made himself so. It was almost as if he was afraid of you. Or almost as if he didn’t want you to be afraid of him. 

Whatever it was, he wasn’t blocking the door anymore. You moved fast, burst from the exam room and made for the elevator. Collins couldn’t chase you above ground. A voice called after you, shaking and full of grief. 

“You’re benched, Investigator!” Collins’ accent got stronger when he was spooked. “You won’t see the field until I say so!” 

The elevator doors slid closed on Collins’ pale, haunted face, peering out at you from his dim exam room. You breathed deeply, tried to still your shaking heart. 

Anger felt suspiciously like guilt. 

Cam’s call came half an hour later, as you were pulling into your apartment’s crowded parking garage. You cursed, fumbling with your phone as you backed into your tiny spot and answered more sharply than you had intended to. 

“What did you say to Dr. Collins?” Cam said, by way of greeting. 

“Jesus Christ.” You huffed. You pressed your forehead to your steering wheel and considered ramming your car into the building. Instead, you snagged your work bag and keys and started making the endless trek up four flights of stairs to your apartment. You were so tired. 

“I highly doubt it was that.” Cam sounded irate, something you’d never heard in his voice before. “He’s… disturbed. You triggered something deep for him. He won’t tell me what it is and won’t let me help.”

“I said what I needed to.” You felt that anger-guilt rising up in your throat like bile. Cam could hear the uncertainty in your voice. 

“If you keep going like this,” Cam’s voice got low, “you’re going to chase away everybody who wants to help you.”

“I don’t need help, Cam.” You didn’t even believe yourself anymore, not with the shake in your voice. Cam would see through you in an instant. 

“Apologize to him.” Cam snapped. “As soon as possible. And then tell me what I need to do to help you. You won’t scare me away.” 

“I can try.” 

“You could.” He sounded so far away. “I’ve faced worse things than you.” 

You hung up. There were a few things you could use against Cam, but you didn’t think any of them would gain you a thing. He was made of different stuff. Literally. 

Your hands shook as you opened your door, metal scraping on metal and setting your already shredded nerves alight. Your dropped bag, keys, and shoes just inside the door haphazardly, just conscious enough to make sure your deadbolt was in place before dragging yourself back into your bedroom. Your bed welcomed you stiffly as you disturbed the unkempt sheets. You groaned into the scratch of them, and longed distantly for Milo’s billion fucking thread count. 

You were calling him before you could think better of it. You listened to the monotone ringing, the drone drilling into your skull. His voice told you to leave a message. You nearly fell apart at the sound of it. You were silent for a very long time. 

“I’m such an asshole.” You sighed. You didn’t know if the message had timed out or not. You didn’t know if it mattered.

[jasminumdew]

Say you remember me (Part 1)

John Price x reader

Words: 1,1k

Summary: The first time you see John, it triggers a terrifying vision and a gut-wrenching feeling you can’t brush off. But the pull of your heart towards him is too tempting to ignore. Especially when he looks at you so tenderly like he’d known you before.

Warnings: large age gap (John: 39, reader: 20), angst?, next life, reincarnation, death, probably bad English (I’m so sorry)

Notes: hi :3 I want to improve my writing skills so every constructive feedback is welcomed. Tysm for enjoying my writing. I’ll try to be more productive, hopefully at least one fic per week instead of one every two weeks.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Wednesday afternoon, as usual, not many customers visit your café as other days of the week. You sigh, cleaning the counters to kill some time. Betty, your staff turns on the small television and switches channels out of boredom. “Any suggestions?” 

You look up to see a documentary of wars playing on TV, then quickly glance down, “Anything but that, Bee. You know I’m terrified of guns and blood, yeah?”

She gives you a side hug and quickly apologizes “Oh sh- I didn’t notice. I’m soooo sorry”

You smile to ease her, then the doorbell tinkles right after she switches to some K-pop music channel. “I got this”, you told her, smiling brightly at the new customer.

Before you knew it, white vision flashed in front of your eyes and the ringing in your ears appeared. For a moment, you think you’re going to faint. But your vision quickly comes back, only that you’re not in the coffee shop anymore. The dim yellow light over the pastry counter turns into a white field of snow, the doorbell which rings cheerfully is now silent, your ears only picked up on the sound of the howling wind, those forget-me-not flower pots you’ve just watered this morning shifts its form into dried branches of trees, almost hidden by the thick snow around you. Your body is all numbed, and you already know what you’ll see when you glance down. It’s always the same, no matter how many times you experience this. 

“Darling?” 

You snapped back into reality by his voice, and there you are, still behind the counter. The pink half-apron was twisted in your hands as if it were a grip to real life, grounding you to not drift away any further into this hallucination.

Gosh, you couldn’t be more relieved you got out of there just in time, yet to see that horrifying view. You had dreamed about that place so many times since you were just a child, and every time it happened, you woke up in the middle of the night, sweating and crying uncontrollably. You never knew why you had this constant nightmare, your mom said it’s best to ignore it and go about your days, so you did just that. However, it has never gone this far, it’s like you were pulled into another reality, your face still freezes from the cold and the smell of fresh blood lingers in your nostrils.

Stop. It was just some illusion, okay? Just ignore it like always and focus. Your eyes shift to the man behind the counter, who’s waiting for you to take his order for god knows how long now. 

“Hi. Oh gosh, I’m so so sorry, sir. I was distracted. Ca-” 

Before you can finish your words, your eyes meet, and your heart squeezes in pain like it’s being wrung like an old rag. Tears keep pouring out, then your voice is stuck by a lump forming in your throat, if you stay here any longer, it’ll surely turn into a full-on sobbing in the middle of the café. 

A warm hand reaches out, wiping your wet cheek, if your mind was any clearer, you would have avoided his touch. But your heart flutters and beats eagerly in your rib cage, yearning for him - a stranger you just met. Maybe it’s tears making your eyes see things that are not there, but if you had a mirror, you would swear that his eyes must be just as red as yours right now. 

Your senses suddenly come back and you immediately retreat from him. Mumbling a quick “sorry”, you run off to the staff room to collect yourself after telling Betty to take your place. You can hear him calling out your name right before the door closes. After you’ve finally calmed down, the realization hits, your name tag was left behind in your apartment today. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 

You closed the café early that day, mentally drained from all the tears and mood swings. On your way home, you can’t help but get carried away by the weird interaction this afternoon. Maybe you need to have a check-up with either a neurologist, a therapist, or whoever can fix your fucked up brain. Too busy with the noisy thoughts in your head, you bump your head into a broad and firm chest, letting out a surprised squeak.

“Should’ve paid attention to your surroundings, dove” 

The man speaks up before you get the chance to apologize, his voice warm and low, one glance and you can recognize that thick beard and kind blue eyes immediately. 

“Oh…I’m sorry, sir. For leaving so abruptly at the café, too. I was…ill” You come up with a lie quickly.

“It’s John, love. Are you feeling well now? I thought that I terrified you.” His brows knit together like he’s genuinely worried about you, or your perception of him, you don’t even know.

It’s such a relief when those visions don’t come back during your conversation now, but the tingles in your heart are getting stronger and more constant as if wanting to tell you something.

You chuckle: “I feel better now, thank you. And no, you didn’t do anything wrong, no need to worry”

John returns a warm smile: “Good to hear that, love”. Gosh, this man and his pet names, if you’re being honest, it feels right somehow, the way it brings comfort to your heart when he says it. 

Either he can read your mind, or you’re a freaking talented manifestor, because you couldn’t believe it when he asks “Would you like to go on a date with me? I erm…was on my way back to the café to give you this” 

You’re quick to stop your eyes from getting teary again while receiving a bouquet of poppies from him, “This is too nice, sir. Thank you, it’s my favorite flower”. You choose not to say his name, being a polite woman as you are, it seems disrespectful to say it when you have just met, besides, he doesn't seem to pay attention to it.

“I know” he mumbles under his breath, not to reach your ears. Yes, you admit, he has some strange behaviors, like looking at you too intensely, knowing your name without you even mentioned, and knowing your favorite flower, but you still agree to meet him on Saturday night after your shift. 

When you wave him goodbye and part ways, you don’t notice the way his smile slowly fading, he sighs, looking as you walk away, “You really don’t remember”

[fictional-character-fight-poll]

Luo Binghe vs. Miguel O'Hara

Propaganda under the cut:

Lou Binghe:

First of all, Luo Binghe is the protagonist - not of SVSSS, but of the in-world book the MC ends up in (transmigration/isekai situation). He has actual, literal plot armor preventing him from dying, even if something convoluted or unlikely has to happen to save him (MC takes advantage of it once to defeat the enemy - by baiting them into attacking immobilized Luo Binghe. A ceiling beam randomly falls on them 😂). But even discounting the plot armor, he's stupid difficult to kill due to his unique bloodline - being descended from a god who fell to depravity and turned into a demon - which gives him extremely powerful self-healing abilities, to the point that he can just pop broken bones back in place and be fine (has actually happened on page) or regrow lost limbs (mentioned, but not shown). And that's not even the only benefit of his blood - for you see, if he manages to get it into someone else's body, he can use it as a torture device or a GPS tracker. Speaking of sneak attack abilities, he also can walk into people's dreams to see their memories, give them nightmares, and make them destroy their own minds. And this is before we come to actual damage dealing! Luo Binghe comes from a cultivation setting, meaning people cultivate internal energy to learn fantasy kung fu, with various magic-like abilities. Luo Binghe is a prodigy who excels at both hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship, as well as 'lightness skill' which allows him to move faster than eye can see, scale buildings in a single leap, and so on. This is additionally enhanced by the use of spiritual AND demonic energy - as a half-human, half-demon, he has access to both types - which you can think of as raw magic that can be shaped in variety of ways. For example, at one point Luo Binghe uses spiritual energy to create a fireball to fling at an enemy. It can also be used to do direct damage, such as spiritual blast - which MC describes as having an effect of 'throwing a grenade' for his own power level, meaning Luo Binghe's is even more devastating. To return to swordsmanship, at different points of the story, Luo Binghe wields two different swords. One is Zheng Yang, a spiritual sword that he can not only swing by hand, but control with gestures to send into battle independently, as well as fly on if needed. The other is Xin Mo, a cursed mythical sword he found in a hellpit called the Endless Abyss - which tries to corrupt the owner's mind but is extremely powerful, and has a unique ability to create spatial rifts, meaning its owner can essentially teleport wherever. (Including between universes, as per extras.) Oh, and if all this wasn't enough, he also has a demon army, with which he already conquered most of the Demon Realm. But the scariest thing? /If/ you manage to get him alone, without any demon subordinates backing him, and /if/ you manage to injure him enough to incapacitate him... congrats, you just pissed off his husband! Who is less powerful, but extremely resourceful and frankly insane(/respect). Luo Binghe would just beat you into submission! His husband on the other hand will trick you into inhaling parasitic plant's spores that'll take root in your trachea and grow through your brain, slowly and painfully killing you. (Yes, this happened to one of the antagonists.) Frankly speaking, getting beat by Luo Binghe is recommended. You can probably even get a spot in the demon army if you pick a right moment to concede (that's how he got most of his subordinates).

Miguel O'Hara:

First of all, he's the strongest Spidey (both physically and in terms of enhanced senses). Second, he's a giant. And third, I love him and need him to win

Reasons as to why one or the other would win are encouraged in the notes. Send in additional propaganda and I'll add it to the post!

[military-bluebells]

oh captain, my captain

Fandom: Generation Kill

Pairings: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, Q-tip/Christeson

Word Count: 8920

Summary: an eventful day in the life of Nate Fick, captain of the California Golden Bears Men's Swim Team

Author’s notes: Hi @screwby it is I, your Summer Exchange Gifter! I hope you enjoy this College Swim Team AU, I had a lot of fun with it!

AO3

4:45 AM

Nate would love to say that he woke up to the soft bleeping of his alarm, well-rested and ready for the day, but that would be a lie. In reality, he couldn’t be sure if he’d even slept last night, the boundary between awake and asleep blurred beyond recognition.

Staring up at the ceiling, he considered what would happen if he just... stayed in bed. It would be so easy to text Mike and say he’d picked something up from the weekend and give away his responsibility to someone far more experienced and skilled. Mike would know what to do with the chaos that was surely waiting to unfold this morning.

Nate took a deep breath and steeled himself: he’d chosen to take up the captaincy as a part of his transfer and he refused to be the kind of team captain that shirked his duties at the first sign of trouble.

He heaved himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing at his eyes as he took a moment to gather the will to start the day. In an effort to motivate himself, he planned his next steps.

First, he’d go to the bathroom and shower, then he’d get dressed into his cycling gear, have breakfast, brush his teeth, check that his bag was packed properly, take out his dinner for this evening to defrost and then lock up and cycle to campus.  

When the chill in the room finally started to make him shiver, he stood and made his way to the bathroom. He squinted under the bright lights, turning the shower up to the highest heat he'd be able to stand before making the fatal mistake of looking at his reflection in the cabinet mirror.

His bed hair was impressive given that he’d barely moved all night and his eyes were suitably bloodshot; with dark bruises under them, it would be obvious to even the most unobservant of the team that he hadn’t slept.

He sighed out a long breath before stepping out of his sleeping clothes and into the scolding shower. He was tempted to put his head under the warm spray and let the water soothe the aching muscles in his back, but he knew if he did, he couldn't guarantee he would ever leave. So, he washed and dried himself briskly before venturing back into his bedroom.

He wouldn’t have dreamed about cycling in a t-shirt and cycling shorts in February at Dartmouth, but California winters were much milder.

Breakfast consisted of oatmeal with milk, half a banana and one spoonful of peanut butter, along with as much water as he could stomach so soon after waking up.

He’d left his next pile of required reading on the table last night, so he carried on from where he’d left off, making notes between spoonfuls: the winter quarter’s finals were scheduled just before the final and most important event in the season, the NCAA Championships, and ever since that fact had become known, everyone on the team had been voicing their displeasure in increasing amounts as time dragged on.

Nate understood the frustration far too well, trying to balance senior-year grades and maintain good, consistent performances at meet after meet.

He’d tried his best to set up support networks, but he’d been acutely aware that he was stepping into an already established team hierarchy, and try as he might, he would inevitably step on toes.  

He swallowed the last spoonful of his oatmeal and put the bowl in the empty sink to soak; he was suddenly glad he’d managed to catch up on all the washing up yesterday since it was unlikely he’d have the energy anytime soon.

He checked his backpack and grabbed his lunch from the fridge before manoeuvring his bike out from its spot behind the sofa and stepping out into the bracing chill of the morning. 

5:45 AM

Usually, he would be third to arrive with Rudy already going through his changing room warm-up, Pappy sat on the bench opposite, nursing a coffee. Given the current circumstances, however, it wasn’t surprising that he was alone.

He got to work unlocking everything and propping the door to the pool open since it had a tenancy to stick at random times, before heading into the changing rooms. At least their practice kits had been washed on time this week, a small blessing.

He was rinsing off when Mike arrived; he glanced across, ready to take whatever Mike had to say, but there must have been something on his face because Mike just clapped him on the shoulder before rinsing off himself.

The silence extended until they were moving the whiteboard from the storeroom to the poolside.

“Well?” Nate said when it became clear that Mike wouldn’t start the inevitable conversation.

Mike raised an eyebrow, “Well what?” His eyes roamed over Nate’s face before he chuckled lowly, “Nate, no one is gonna get on your back for not predicting that a clumsy Stanford kid would drop a keg on Pappy’s foot and break it.”

“I gave them permission to go to the party,” Nate argued.

“Yes, you did,” Mike said evenly, “and with hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have, but it’s been a good year for us, and the kids needed to let off a bit of steam before we refocused for the Pac-12 and NCAAs. I would have made the same decision.”

Nate hummed, conceding to the point with a rush of relief. There came a time when considering past decisions moved from being about reflection but self-flagellation, he told himself sternly. 

While Mike copied the Monday morning practice timetable from the binder onto the whiteboard, Nate flipped through the afternoon practice binder.

“Our main priority is the relay,” Nate said, thinking out loud, “with Pappy out, we’ve lost our backstroke and our starter. It’ll be too much for Brunmeier to do the 4x50 medley relay as well as the 4x100.”

“Budweiser’s also our only competitor in the 100 and 200 now, and most people wouldn’t want to be filling Pappy’s shoes in the best of times,” Mike added.

“Do you think I should remove him from the 4x50?” Nate asked before thinking better of it, “No, that just adds more problems to our plate. I’ll talk to Lovell, Brad and Rudy.”

“Lovell I understand, but Brad and Rudy?”

Nate jerked his head up to find Coach Patterson peering over his shoulder at his notepad. Nate slid a glance to Mike, raising an eyebrow, but Mike just gave him an amused smile.

He wet his lips and then replied, “To take pressure off Brunmeier at the start, we need Trombley and Chaffin to put in solid times in the middle; Rudy looks after the breaststrokers and Brad’s been mentoring Trombley throughout the season so I thought it would be best if they took the lead there.”

Patterson tilted his head to the side before nodding his approval, “Good delegation Nate, and I agree. Now we just need a solution for the missing backstroker in the 4x100 medley relay.”

Nate tapped the end of his pen against his lip, “I could slot in for backstroke and we pull one of the freestylers with relay experience, Kocher or Poke, in to replace me.”

“That’s a possibility.” Patterson replied, “Your backstroke isn’t your strongest but not your weakest either, and Eric and Poke have been competing in the 4x100 freestyle so their skills should be up to date.”

“Except both Poke and Kocher have injuries that are in danger of flaring, and we’d lose Nate’s anchoring speed, not to mention our changeover, which has consistently been the fastest out of all of them.”

“I’m not sure what other options we have,” Nate said directly to Brad, who’d appeared at Mike’s elbow. He was still dripping from his rinse, water droplets trailing down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat before slipping down the middle divert of his chest, still shaved smooth like Nate’s own.

“What about one of the younger freestylers or one of your medley boys, Q-tip or Christenson?” Patterson asked.

Nate shook his head, “Stafford doesn’t have any relay experience, even at JV, and while I know Christeson would step up if asked to and would perform well, I’d rather we didn’t potentially undermine what has been an amazing freshman season for him.”

“The younger freestylers aren’t an option,” Brad pitched in, “we know they’ve been struggling with relay changeovers; they’ve had two disqualifications already and only Lilley and Gabe are trained on a 400. Poke’s mentioned that they’re still struggling with the jump to being senior in their division, they wouldn’t handle the added pressure.”

He paused to take a long drink from his bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing, but it was clear to Nate that he hadn’t finished.

“And I hate to say anything remotely complimentary about Encino Man, but he has faster splits than them at 400,” Brad added, putting the final nail in the coffin.

“You’ve been quiet Mike, any thoughts?” Patterson asked.

Nate glanced over at Mike, and he tracked Brad doing the same in his peripheral.

Mike’s mouth was twisted with faint resignation but also amusement, “I’ve been training the full program since Christmas, been signed off for meets.”

“And ready to come to stage a grand return in our hour of need?” Brad teased, though Nate could see the joy in his face and his voice.

“If you’ll have me.” Mike joked, raising an eyebrow towards him.

Nate didn’t think twice, the heavy weight that had been sitting on his chest lifting, “Of course.”

“That’s settled then,” Patterson said with a smile, “and just in time.”

6:15 AM

“Alright, gentleman,” Patterson called once Nate and Mike had finally corralled the boys out of the changing room, “you’ll all be glad to know we’re on taper until the Pac-12.”

It was a late start to the training briefing, but Rudy had arrived at six on the dot with Pappy in a university-sourced wheelchair, no doubt secured by Doc; not one of them would begrudge the boys time to tease and reassure themselves of Pappy’s health. He’d brought along the x-rays which had been gleefully passed around with many a following wince and grimace.  

“Into your stroke teams for this morning; distances, pace and rest times are on the board, team leaders you’re responsible for monitoring.”

“Let’s get to it!” Nate called with a crisp clap.

The boys began to break away: the biggest group was of course the freestylers which had been subdivided into three groups with Kocher and Poke taking two underclassmen and Lovell taking three as a graduate. Rudy split off with Chaffin and Jacks to the breaststroke lane, and Nate watched on as Trombley followed Brad like a duckling up the whiteboard.

“I’m gonna head out with Budweiser,” Mike said, having positioned himself at his side.

“Good idea,” Nate replied, “I’m thinking I’ll keep Stafford, Christeson and I separate, that way we can train our sequence and go over our weakness from Stanford.”

“Good idea.” Mike echoed with a quirked lip.

Nate resisted the urge to roll his eyes because he could see Q-tip and Christeson making their way over, Q-tip gesturing wilding with one hand while the other arm stayed stagnant, draped over Christeson’s shoulder.

Nate knew that everyone on the team had breathed a sigh of relief when the two of them immediately became joined at the hip: it was easy to become rivals when you swam for the same team, in the same discipline and at the same level, but the two of them had been quick to build a solid if sometimes puzzling friendship. It had made his duties as their mentor far easier than he’d anticipated.

“Have you reflected on your performances from Stanford?” Nate asked once they were close enough.

“Yes sir, Captain sir!” Q-tip said with a wide grin.

“And?”

“And we think our dives were good, but I’m still struggling with turn from backstroke to breaststroke and Q-tip’s struggling with his butterfly pace,” Christeson said.

“Well, we’ll start with some warm-up lengths, look at the turning and the butterfly pace in the first hour, then I want us to practice in sequence.”

“What are you gonna work on?” Christeson asked as they walked over to their lane at the pool's far end.

The walk took them past Brad’s lane where he was standing on the starting block, obviously monitoring Trombley’s technique as he swam down the pool away from them. Just as he approached the opposite wall, Brad got into the ready position on the blocks, without a single readjustment; it was always a pleasure to witness one of the many reasons he was known as the Iceman.

Nate continued to watch as Brad’s calves and thigh muscles tensed in anticipation; the tanned skin of his legs were still smooth-looking and incredibly defined, the curve of his spine just enough for his fingers to hook around the base of the block, his jammers pulling slightly up the back of his thighs.

His timing was impeccable: as soon as Trombley’s hand touched the wall, Brad pushed off the block like the release of a spring, sailing smoothly into the pool at just the right angle. A textbook dive.

It was only then that Nate remembered Christeson had asked him a question but in the absence of a response, Christeson’s attention had been quickly reclaimed by Q-tip, who seemed to be explaining the history of a ‘beef’ between two rap artists Nate had never heard of.

God, that made him feel old.

7:45 AM

Considering he’d been dreading the morning; he was pleased with how it had gone.

By the end of the hour and a half, they’d cracked the problem with Christeson’s turn and drilled Q-tip’s butterfly kicks to perfection. The pair were obviously happy with their progress, grinning at each other when Nate dismissed them. They gravitated together on their way to the changing rooms, getting closer and closer until Q-tip was hanging off Christeson’s shoulder, cackling about something or other.

Personally, Nate’s splints were probably as good as they were going to get at the end of the college season, but he was happy with the consistency of his times; from his debrief with Mike, it was clear they were going to take a hit without Pappy, but Mike’s times weren’t far off the pace. With a clean start, turns, and changeovers, they might still be able to secure the win.

As he made his way to the changing rooms, he encountered a small gathering on the divide between the main pool and the diving pool, their heads tipped up towards the ceiling. Coming to stand at Brad’s side, he joined them, looking up to the 10m board where a diver was balancing on their toes on the very edge, their back to them. Nate couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was Walt by the blond hair.

He brought his arms up above his head and seemed to take a fortifying breath before he jumped up and away from the board, his head passing uncomfortably close to the board as he somersaulted. In what felt like less than a second, he was straightening and entering the water almost completely vertical.  

Nate wondered sometimes, when he watched the divers, if this was how they felt while watching one of their races; knowing little about what was happening but being in awe anyway.

The group whistled and clapped as Walt swam to the edge of the pool, pushing himself up onto dry land; all the attention seemed to dawn on him, and he ducked his head, though there was a proud smile on his lips.

With no more action on the horizon, people dispersed, leaving only himself, Brad and Walt.

“I won’t pretend to know exactly what makes a perfect dive, but it looked good to me,” Nate said.

Walt smiled at him warmly, “Thanks, Captain.”

Brad seemed distracted, his head on swivel as he searched the area around them, “Where’s Ray?”

Walt’s face became pensive, “He said to Coach Barrett that he was gonna stick with dry training today, something about feeling stiff.”

“Right.” Brad had a unique ability to make a single word feel like a sentence.

Walt shrugged, his lips pressed together but he couldn’t stay, Coach Barrett calling him over to review his dive.

“Anything I should know about?” Nate asked nonchalantly as he and Brad walked to the changing rooms.

“Not yet sir, I believe I can square it away, but I’ll keep you appraised of the situation.”

Nate couldn’t help his amused smile: it hadn’t come as much of a surprise to find out that Brad had attended a military boarding school before coming to Cal, it was clear in the way he spoke, the way he led, in his discipline and tenacity. He was more than a little curious about the circumstances around his attendance, however, given the various comments about teenage delinquency that often passed between Brad’s closest friends. 

“I know you will Brad, I’m assured of this,” Nate replied evenly though Brad obviously caught the teasing undertone if his grin was anything to go by.

When they crossed the threshold into the changing rooms, they were hit with a wall of sound; several different conversations all happening at once, the noise of running showers and bags being moved around. It had taken some getting used to the noise after the carefully segregated cliques that made up the team at Dartmouth, but Nate couldn’t ask for a better team atmosphere.  

Brad broke away to join the huddle of senior swimmers around Pappy, so Nate grabbed his towel and went to shower.

When he entered, Q-tip seemed to be giving an impromptu rap performance to the group of younger swimmers, with Christeson in the stall next to him doing the adlibs.

Nate shook his head, grinning to himself as he rinsed off briskly: he had to cycle to the other side of the campus for his 9 am and he’d rather have time to talk to Evan about their presentation beforehand since the journalism major’s Mondays were always packed.

When he exited the showers, the main changing room had quietened down considerably. He dried and dressed, before approaching where Pappy had been set up while he waited for Rudy.

“Good to see you Pappy,” Nate said when he got close enough, “I know the boys felt more settled after seeing you.”

“Would’a been up anyhow, better to be at the pool than stuck at home,” Pappy replied with a resigned half-smile. He looked tired around the eyes but clean shaved apart from growing stubble along his upper lip. Nate assumed he was growing his moustache back now that there was no need to be completely shaved for streamlining. “I’d be on bed rest all the damn time if Rudy had his way.”

“Well, if you want an excuse to come here, Mike’s filling in for the relay and I’m sure he’d appreciate your expertise.”

Pappy raised an eyebrow, “That right?”

Nate nodded as he straightened out the straps on his cycling helmet, “He’s been cleared by Doc to compete and after you, he’s the best man for the job.”

"Ain't that the truth." 

11:45 AM

His lecture and following lab went smoothly, and in a welcome twist, Evan’s study group had been cancelled due to a flat-wide food poisoning incident taking out four of the six members. This meant he had company in the study room he’d booked but they’d agreed that they’d spend at least the first hour focusing on their own work.

He finished up his notes for the last of his required reading and then set about drafting his essay outline. He was glad he and his academic advisor had scheduled his three required 3000-level courses with one in each semester because doing even two at the same time might have driven him to the brink. He’d made that mistake in the final semester of his junior year at Dartmouth, and it was probably at least 30% of the reason he’d transferred.

The rest of his courses this semester were amongst the easiest he’d ever had: his academic advisor here was extremely helpful, taking onboard his concerns with juggling his captaincy, meets, and the requirements for the Classics Major at Cal.

It’d been a nice surprise to find that he shared a course with Reporter, one of the college media reporters who also happened to be the swim team’s photographer: he’d become so isolated at Dartmouth, consumed by the swim team until he had no one but them. It was good to have a friend who couldn’t care less about swimming beyond getting good shots and good stories for the newspaper.

“Hey, Nate, I’ve got the photos from Stanford if you want to have a look. I think this one for the cover picture.” Evan spun his laptop around to show Nate the photo in question.

It was a picture of the whole team taken after the meet finished; they were all huddled under the official meet banner in their team wear, joyous in victory, medals hanging from necks and beaming smiles. He’d been ushered into the middle and given the task of holding the trophy. It struck the right balance between pride and professionalism.

“Good choice. I’m assuming there’s a less presentable version?” Nate said with a half-smile.

Evan chuckled, “Yeah,” He flicked across the screen and a different version appeared on the screen.

Immediately, Nate knew it would never be posted anywhere official since he could count at least three middle fingers, but it was a much better representation of the team’s close bonds.

At the foot of the picture, Trombley’s face was twisted in disgust as Q-tip and Christeson seemed to be trying to kiss his cheeks; the second row had obviously prepared in advance because they’d all had shades on, arranged in what he thought were imitations of the Men in Black poster; on his row, Mike was smiling down at the younger swimmers while Pappy’s head was tipped up to look at Rudy who was leaning over him and above his own head were a pair of bunny ears, Brad’s smirking face hovering above his left shoulder, his eyes on him.

“It’s pretty good quality so I was going to add it to the album for the end of the year.”

“Good idea.”

Evan smiled, but when Nate went to go back to his work, he said, “Just a couple of others to review,” 

There was a picture of Rudy, roaring in the water after his win in the 100m breaststroke; a picture of Q-tip and Christeson, heads folded on top of one another as they napped; a shot of the freestylers on the blocks, both Poke and Lilley in the frame; a shot of him talking to Lovell, Mike and Pappy, gesturing with his left hand, his face focused. He couldn’t remember what he’d been talking about.

When his eyes dropped to the last picture, he almost had to clear his throat.

It was a picture of Brad standing behind the starting blocks, getting ready for his race. It had a beautiful composition, the other competitors blurred in the background, crouched down or sitting, headphones over their ears while Brad was in perfect resolution, standing tall with one hip cocked, no headphones. He hadn’t taken his team jacket off but it was unzipped to show the whole of his torso, the dip between his pecs and his lightly toned abs.

He hadn’t put on his cap yet; it was always the last thing he did. Nate had once heard him explain to Trombley that he preferred to take in the noise of the crowd before a race because then his concentration wouldn’t be broken as easily as if he’d been trying to block it out.

What made the picture piercing, however, was Brad’s stare: he was looking directly into the camera and his eyes seemed to challenge the person behind it, staring them down with focused icy blues.

A predator’s gaze.

"Good selection." Nate offered because taking a large gulp from his water bottle. 

1:55 PM

After he’d finished a large chunk of his work, Evan had asked him to proofread his article for the college social media accounts about the victory over Stanford. There was nothing in the article about Pappy, but Evan did ask after him, first off the record because while he wasn’t a swimmer, he was a part of their team just like Walt and Ray, and then on the record. He agreed to hold off on any statement, and that he’d sent his draft article to him, Mike and Pappy to review before he posted it.

“Maybe we could release it tactically,” He’d mused with a mischievous glint in his eye, “catch the other teams out. Mike returning to meets is sure to put some fear into people, even if he’s only doing the medley.”

Nate had laughed but he noted the suggestion down to discuss with Patterson. At Dartmouth, that kind of thing would have been a given, victory by any means necessary but Nate didn’t want to replicate the things he’d been unknowingly complicit in.

Lunch consisted of a deli sandwich from the place opposite the science building that sponsored some of the swimmers. He added some yoghurt and a protein bar to complete the meal, making sure to fill up what would be his fifth bottle of water so far, and picked up an extra since next on the schedule was weight training with Coach Sixta.

He arrived on time and changed into his college workout gear, heading into the gym with the cooler full of water and several packets of gel.

When he first arrived at Cal, he’d heard rumours about Coach Sixta, the way he talked, his suicide drills, and his pride in making students vomit and pass out. He would love to say there was nothing in the rumours, but that wouldn’t be the truth: in reality, there were bits and pieces that carried over.

It had taken Nate three months to be able to understand the Coach’s unique accent, cadence and intonation, his suicide drills and training programs were the stuff of nightmares, and he did take pride in pushing them all to their limits.

There had been a time around the November midterms when he’d worried about something kicking off between the boys and Sixta: he’d overheard quite a few disgruntled conversations and picked up that Sixta’s singling out of Pappy was not going down well within the team.

He wavered on what to do, unsure of the right path but knowing he had to do something to keep the team together. In the end, he’d spoken to Patterson who’d heard out his concerns and reassured him before directing him to speak to Sixta directly.

He hadn’t had time to do so before the chaos of the Minnesota Invitationals. Multiple disqualifications, sickness and the lingering shadow of Ray’s accident at the Trojan Diving Invitational had created a tense and volatile atmosphere that lingered even as they returned to In Season training.

After a very rough training session with Sixta that had pushed even Brad and Rudy to their limits, Nate had stayed behind to ask what the fuck the Coach was thinking, though he worldly slightly more politely. Slightly.

“Sometimes, what’s those boys needs is a common enemy,” He’d said with a knowing smile, “with a meet like that, they could’s be tearing each other to pieces. So, I work ‘em, hard enough that they brains stuff off and all they can think about is ‘fuck I wanna goddamn kill this motherfucker’. Stops ‘em from taking it out on each other.” He’d winked then, “I can take some youngins hatin’ me, I got’s skin made of leather, don’t you worry.”

It had opened his eyes and the next day he could see it, could see through the bullshit all the way to the care and precision that was weaved into every infuriating comment, every punishing exercise.

Did he agree with the tactic? No, because that level of deception felt like a disaster waiting to happen, but he couldn’t deny the effects, and he couldn’t prove that it wasn’t worth it. Dartmouth’s team had been ripping itself apart for decades, so long that it was baked into the very fabric of the team. At least here, they were united in their hatred. However, he had taken steps to prevent a complete mutiny, talking with the newly appointed team leaders – a role he’d created because he knew from experience that without networks, people easily fell through the cracks – about what Sixta’s angle was and advising Sixta to back off Pappy if he didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the pool before New Year.

Divisions now bridged, he almost looked forward to the gym session, wondering what crazy drill Sixta had invented just to make them wish for death.

“Hey, Captain,” Brad said as the boys started filling in, “can I speak with you?”

“Of course, Brad. What’s up?”

Brad’s lip twitched before smoothing out, “I think we should start drilling the relay sequence today, we need as much time as we can get to refine it.”

Nate nodded, “Good suggestion, I agree. I assume you’ve talked with Rudy and Mike?” He got a firm nod, “Right, after weights?”

“After weights,” Brad grinned, “If we survive of course.”

Nate laughed in spite of himself.

4:40 PM

They did survive. Just about.

While the rest of the team headed out for late afternoon classes and downtime, he, Mike, Brad, Rudy and Pappy made their way back to the pool.

Pappy was set up on a chair at the poolside with a timer and a clipboard. He took Rudy’s fussing with the air of someone who experienced it often, letting Rudy position his cast on a stool Mike had found in the storeroom and wrap a jacket around his shoulders.

“Good idea getting Pappy to come,” Mike said to Nate as he came to stand with him behind the starting block, “it’s rough going from being a competitor to sitting on the sidelines.”

Nate sent him a sympathetic look.

In the times he’d been at his lowest, when Schwetje and Griego had dropped all pretence and started actively making his life a living hell, he dreamed about having a teammate like Mike. He’d always been on Nate’s radar as a fellow medley swimmer, his most direct competition, a year older and with an all-roundedness that was the envy of everyone he competed against, including Nate.

In the NCAA last year, he’d been gracious in his solo victory, smiling genially as his team cheered with such an obvious love that Nate had felt almost sick: his own team had been silent, half of them uninterested and the other half glaring daggers at him.

So, when Nate had transferred, full of true excitement to swim for the first time in too long, he’d been devastated to learn that Mike had missed out on the Olympic trails due to a rotator cuff tendinopathy. However, a part of him had been perversely happy because without the Olympic ticket, Mike had stayed for a graduate course at Cal and since he hadn’t competed in his freshman year, he could still be part of the team, even though he’d technically been on medical leave.   

Brad came to join them, and instead of his usual Cal jammers, he was wearing a black pair that had bright red and orange flames on them.

“They were a Hanukkah present from Ray,” Brad explained dryly when he and Mike raised their eyebrows, “he would feel incredibly insulted if I didn’t show due appreciation of his cultural awareness.”

Nate huffed a laugh and Brad smirked at him.

When Rudy finally joined them, happy that Pappy was as conformable as he could be, Mike hopped into the pool, and they lined up in order, Rudy then Brad then himself.

They did several sequences at half pace to warm up, focusing their attention on changeover timings and the technique of their dives. Interspersed between sets, Pappy gave them his observations as well as some tips for Mike’s start and general technique, but it was obvious from the outset that they weren’t going to have many problems. Mike slipped back into the pool like he’d been born for it, and while his changeovers with Rudy weren't to the level of Pappy and Rudy’s brand of borderline supernatural synchronicity, they’d be hard-pressed to find anyone better.

“My pace is slower than before,” Mike warned when they took a breather, rehydrating.

“We knew that going into this, everyone who does backstroke is slower than Pappy,” Brad replied succinctly.

Rudy put his arm around Mike's shoulder, “We can only do our best brother, it’s up to the universe to decide if that’s enough.”

“Well, I think we press some more out of the universe first,” Pappy replied, though his dry tone was peppered with fondness.

“Pappy, my man, you are always so wise.”

Nate shared a look with Brad and then they hid their smiles by taking sips of water.

That had been another adjustment from Dartmouth because while he knew there were a variety of colourful opinions on specific subjects throughout the boys, it seemed like they had an unspoken pact not to leave them out of the team, demonstrating a level of compartmentalisation beyond their years. It was nice to not have to worry about any consequences with the team if he was outed or chose to come out to them. Comfortable in a way he hadn’t been for all the years before.

“Well, if everyone’s ready, I say we try some full runs, see what times we’re putting in.”

“Oorah Captain,” Brad replied with a smirk.

7:20 PM

They put in several good times before deciding to call it quits, aware that they were on taper and shouldn’t be pushing too much.

Nate cycled home to have dinner and he’d planned to have some downtime, maybe call Mo to see how she was doing however, he got a text from Evan, asking him if he was free to work on their presentation as he’d would need to cancel their planned meet up due to work. So, instead of sitting down to catch up on one of the reality TV shows Steph had guilt-tripped him into watching with her, he grabbed his bag that he hadn’t even unpacked yet and cycled back to the campus library.

“Thanks, Nate,” Evan said when Nate eventually found him on the third floor of the library.

“No problem, have you read the material?”

For the midterm in their International Relations course, they were tasked with a joint presentation on an area chosen from the course material. Evan was easy to work with and their thoughts and opinions often aligned so they made quick work of drafting what exactly they wanted to cover.

“I know a good book about that,” Nate said when they started to discuss the specifics, “I used it in my junior year for another course, I’ll see if I can find it.”

He’d gotten to know the library at Cal quite well even in the few months he’d been there, so he made his way up to the top floor where the right section should be. There weren’t many people up this high because the majority of desks were on the first and third floors, so it was pretty quiet.

Except for the sound of whispering, followed by a solid thud and some other noises that Nate would charitably describe as suggestive. It seemed the top floor of the library was considered a good rendezvous point.

The noises quietened so Nate decided they must have heard his footsteps; he’d find the book he was looking at and leave them to it. Or, that had been the plan until he accidentally came across the stack where the people were, two people in fact, two very recognisable people.

“Really?” Nate couldn't help but say incredulously.

The pair jumped apart, but that did little to help disguise what they'd been doing. Q-tip’s signature bandana was on the floor, his hair was all over the place, and his baggy cargos were about an inch away from falling down, while Christeson’s plaid shirt was half unbuttoned exposing most of his chest, his jeans were definitely undone, and he was pressing himself against the stack like he was hoping he’d melt into it.  

“Oh hey Cap,” Q-tip said with a wide grin.

Nate raised an eyebrow.

“Q-tip,” Christeson said through gritted teeth, glancing between him and Nate skittishly. 

Q-tip blinked, “Chill Johnny, it’s cool. Right, Cap?”

He just sighed, rubbing between his eyes, “Please do not take this as a judgement on your… relationship?” he flicked his eyes between the pair who both flushed but looked at each other with that new relationship happiness, the giddiness that came from confessing and finding mutual feelings. 

“The team including me will be very happy for you, but as your captain, I am asking you not to risk getting suspended from meets, the last thing we need right now is two more swimmers out before the fucking NCAA. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir.” Q-tip’s grin was wide and Christeson only had eyes for him, a soft fond smile.

Nate nodded once and turned sharply on his heels. Maybe he’d be able to find a copy of that book online.

8:15 PM

They managed to get a large chunk of the presentation done before they hit a roadblock that would take some more in-depth research to crack which at just after eight o’clock wasn’t a road to start down.

It was a nice enough night and the restlessness that had kept him up last night seemed to be building under his skin again, so he decided to go for a walk, leaving his bike locked outside the library. The campus was quiet at this time after the end of evening lectures but before students started to head to house parties and clubs.

He found himself walking towards the pool and to his surprise, he could see that the lights were still on through the frosted windows. He was sure he’d turned them off when they’d left their impromptu training session, but apparently not.

He made his way into the building and through the changing rooms, slipping his shoes and socks off before wandering out the propped-open door.

Not every light was on, only the ones over the diving pool, which was odd considering they’d had every light on earlier; however, Nate quickly spotted a familiar figure sitting on the edge of the diving pool, their legs dangling in the water.

Brad still had his flaming jammers on and from the back he had a clear view of the large piece on Brad’s back; he didn’t quite know what it was of – he didn’t think anyone did except maybe Ray – but the colours were vivid against Brad’s tanned skin, the base of the tattoo placed perfectly along the small of his back, spanning the whole way across, with the head of the highest face drawn the eye to the edge of Brad’s scapula.

Nate shook his head and went to sit next to him; his cycling shorts were short enough that he could dip his legs in. Brad didn’t seem to want to breach the silence, so Nate sat quietly, mulling over what he wanted to ask.

Brad wasn’t here to practice: he wasn’t damp like he’d been in the pool, he wouldn’t compromise his taper for fun, and he wouldn’t practice alone, knowing the risks. So, that begged the question, why was Brad here?

It was then that he saw Brad look up and so he followed.  

On the edge of the 10m platform, a diver leaned down and began to bring themselves up into an armstand on the very edge. It was a little jerky, but the diver remained committed, extending until their legs were straight up, their toes pointed. Nate knew he was in a starting position for a specific type of dive, though he didn’t know which one exactly. 

He was sure they couldn't wait that long to dive, “Don’t they have a time limit?”

“They do, but that’s not what Ray’s doing,” Brad explained softly.

Nate glanced across, “What is he doing?”

“Combatting the fear.”

Nate glanced back up. He’d visited the top of a 10m platform before, and he remembered looking over the edge and feeling the usual vertigo; the height hadn’t seemed real, more like some CGI from a movie. Ray remained perfectly still in his armstand. 

“I thought divers trained out of it.”

“You can never kill natural survival instincts; you can only learn to control them. Walt still hates heights, but he can control it when he needs to.”

“And Ray?”

“I’d doubted that Ray had ever been born with survival instincts.” Brad sighed softly then, “but the accident seemed to knock something loose in that near-empty dome of his.”

Nate hummed. The Trojan Diving Invitational had been scheduled between their usual meets and the Minnesota Invitationals so almost the entire team had decided to turn out in support of the divers. The accident had happened so quickly that it blindsided everyone, and it was only when reviewing it on video that Nate was able to piece what happened together.

Ray had been on the 10m platform for the qualification round. He’d been in an armstand, getting ready to dive when one of his hands had gone out from under him. His face had hit the platform but because he’d been facing out towards the pool, he’d ended up falling off the edge. Nate still remembered the gasps of the crowd and the way Brad had flinched next to him, but Ray was a gold medallist for a reason. He’d somehow been able to complete a dive in his freefall and enter the water well.

Brad had been on the move almost from the second Ray hit the pool and Nate had followed as team captain. He’d never forget the way Brad’s face went deathly pale as Ray was helped out of the pool and came walking over to Doc: one side of his face had been a mess of blood, dipping down his neck and onto the floor. 

Doc said it had looked worse than it was, he’d broken his nose and cut both his cheek and eyebrow, but he didn’t have any signs of concussion and while he’d been treated for shock, he’d been eager to get back to the qualifying, though he hadn’t been allowed to as a precaution. Nate remembered Ray joking about the wound to his pride being a bigger issue and how if he got scars, he’d looked cooler for the chicks.

“I didn’t realise it had affected him like that,” Nate said honestly. Maybe he should have kept a close eye, why did he think something like that wouldn’t have long-reaching effects?

Brad gave him a humourless smile, “It’s not your fault Nate. Ray will only let things slip when he’s ready.”

“And he’s ready now?”

“Yes. It’s being squared away Captain, no need to involve anyone else.”

Nate nodded, “I’ll take your word for it.” They both glanced up to the platform where Ray seemed to be taking a break, standing on the very edge of the platform sipping his water, his body relaxed.

A thought occurred to him, “You seemed to be speaking from experience earlier, about controlling survival instincts.”

Brad nodded a head, “I was afraid of the ocean as a child, the empty expanse of it." 

Nate did a double take, “But, you scuba dive and surf.”

Brad smirked, raising one eyebrow, “I enjoy it now, I think, the feeling of overcoming fear itself.”

Nate snorted but found he couldn’t disagree, “I think if you’d told my parents I'd be a D1 swimmer when I was a kid, they would've gone into shock.” Brad gave him an intrigued look, “I was afraid of drowning as a kid. I wouldn’t even get into the bath without floaties.”

Brad laughed, belly deep, a grin splitting his face in half. Nate felt himself grin back and pressed on, “Really! I had to go to the swimming pool every day for months just to get me into the shallows.”

“And now look at you,” Brad said when he settled. A flash of something went across his eyes but Nate couldn't find it in himself to be surprised.

“And now look at me.” He repeated, softer.

“Hey, lovebirds!”

They both jolted, looking up. Ray had his hands on his hips, and he was far enough away that Nate couldn’t see his expression, though he knew deep down it was a shit-eating grin.

“What do you want Ray?” Brad shouted back.

“For you to watch this motherfucker!”

With that, Ray resumed his armstand on the very edge. He seemed to take a deep breath, going completely still before he let himself drop off the edge, kicking out, twisting several times, one arm across his body and one behind his head, before opening out and entering the water with a medium splash.

As soon as he breached the surface, he let out a whoop so loud it echoed around the room. Brad laughed joyously and Nate couldn't help but stare at the pride in his eyes. 

9:00 PM

Nate stayed with Brad on the poolside as Ray completed several dives. When he was satisfied, he swam over to them and pulled himself out.

“Made up for the practice I missed.” He’d explained before shooting Brad a smirk and heading back to the changing rooms.

“I better change as well,” Brad said, though he didn’t immediately move.

“I’ll wait for you, I have to lock up.”

“I borrowed Mike’s keys- ” Brad went to explain but Nate cut him off, "Still my responsibility to double check.”

“Suit yourself.”

Nate followed Brad into the changing room, switching off all the main lights before shutting the access door to the pool. He waited outside the changing rooms, checking his phone, and catching up on whatever had been had been going on in the team group chat.

Oddly, he found a photo in the most recent texts. It was from Ray, obviously taken from the 10m platform, zoomed in on where he and Brad had been sitting. He hadn’t thought the space between them had been that small or that when he’d gestured, he breached Brad’s personal space that much but the cold hard evidence was right in front of him.

Even more confusingly, it was captioned, suck it losers!!!! (party face emoji)(money mouth emoji)

Immediately below was a message from Walt, Wrong group chat Ray

Nate decided it was better not to ask.

When they finally got out of the building, Ray darted off with a wave and an exaggerated wink, his phone already held up to his mouth as he almost shouted into to Walt that he’d finished practice and he'd better not have eaten his fucking pizza.

“Where did you chain your bicycle?” Brad asked when it was just the two of them.

“By the library,” then at the unspoken question, “I was working on a project with Evan,” then at Brad’s raised eyebrow, Nate huffed a laugh, “Reporter.”

“Ah, I see. Well, my bike’s parked not far there, I’ll walk with you.”

Nate had noticed that Brad was in his leathers instead of his usual board shorts and flip-flops, ever the Californian. They were mostly black but with sections of reflective white material and electric blue, close fitting and making Brad look even broader and taller. Given that he’d seen the man shirtless almost every day for the better part of seven months, he didn’t know why the leathers specifically were making his mouth drier.

Their conversation ebbed and webbed, moving naturally from topic to topic, eating the time away so subtly that before Nate knew it, they were at his bike.

“You were good, with Ray,” Nate said.

In the few times where Ray had clearly been hesitating or getting too much into his head, Brad had been ready with either a goading comment or a piece of constructive criticism, both options wheeled expertly. It wasn’t something people would assume about Brad: that he was good at comforting. His reputation preceded him, and almost everyone knew about the Iceman, the swimmer who held almost every record for butterfly both in his home state and at the interstate level.

They’d only ever been competitors in the medley relay, on different legs, but that had just meant that instead of watching McGraw’s choppy technique, his eyes had naturally drifted to the lane next door, to Brad’s perfect form, his perfect turns, his perfect changeovers.

They’d never spoken, until the disaster at the NCAA’s last year. His team had fallen apart as they were always going to, their medley relay a mess so catastrophic that by the time it had reached Nate’s leg, there’d been little he could do to salvage it, that is if he’d even tried.

He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but he’d been so exhausted, so fed up, pushed past the brink of caring, of giving a fuck about his future in the sport.

They’d barely stepped into the changing rooms before Griego started to lay into him, Schwetje adding to it as he umm’d and ahh’d and not taken any fucking responsibility like a decent team captain would. Nate had been seething at that point and about to do something very stupid when Brad stepped in, his own team looming behind him.

Brad had said something polite sounding until the backhand finally registered. And oh, it had been glorious to watch the realisation place across Schwetje’s, McGraw’s and Griego’s faces. Griego had tried to square up but with Rudy on one side, his usual happy smile nowhere to be seen, and Mike on the other, he’d quickly squirrelled away, Schwetje still baffled, and McGraw shooting glances over at Nate, spineless as ever. 

“Thank you,” he’d said when the Cal team had started to move away, “I think I was about to do something stupid.”

“Quite frankly, I’m impressed you haven’t already,” Brad had replied, “if I’d had those incompetent, shrivel-dicked, wet towels as teammates, I think I would have drowned them months ago.”

Nate had huffed a humourless laugh and dragged a hand down his face.

“It’s not your fault, Nate. You’ve got the skill and speed to be a top competitor. Mike’s always singing your praises; you're just unlucky that you're up against him,” Brad had looked him straight in the eyes and it had been the first time he’d had time to note their clear ice blue colour, “Your team’s holding you back, and I think you’re letting them, for what reason, well I can’t imagine.”

“You know you're part of the reason I transferred,” Nate found himself saying.

Brad cocked his head, “That so?”

Nate hummed as he unlocked the chain around his bike, “What you said to me after the medley relay last year, it just solidified what I’d already been thinking. Reassured me that I wasn’t just losing my mind.” He paused, “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. This year has been the best of my life so far.”

There was that look in Brad’s eyes again, the intensity like the sun; it had happened so many times throughout the year, this tension that almost seemed to vibrate through the air when they looked at each other like they could truly see each other.

“I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do anything before the NCAAs,” Brad murmured, coming to stand close enough that Nate had to look up to meet his eyes, “but after that, I don’t want to be outdone.”

Nate laughed and then he was being kissed by Brad Colbert, wholly and unreservedly.

Their lips were chapped despite their best attempts at hydration, Brad’s hair was dry under his hand from chlorine just like Nate’s, but Brad’s hand on his face was warm against the cold night air and his heart thumped against his rib cage.

He couldn’t imagine anything better.

9:45 PM

They’d parted ways reluctantly but scheduled some time the next day to discuss where to go from here; as Nate got into bed, he just felt almost giddy, a small smile on his face as he lay down.

He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Meanwhile

just guys being dudes

(a low-quality picture from an iPhone, green shrubbery at the edges, the lighting from the streetlamp glaring, but in the dead centre, a couple kissing, standing so close together, they made one shadow. The height difference, hair colours, bike leathers and cycling shorts unmistakeable)

pay up suckersssss!!!! (tongue-out emoji)

Poke: you cheating motherfucker!

Kocher: Finally, thought this shit would never end

Rudy: happy for them brother!

Walt: I’ll deduct it from what you owe me

you’re such a sweetheart Walter! (kissy face emoji)

Walt: (rolling eyes emoji)

california’s no.1 tall freak

Don’t think I didn’t see you, Ray

Send me a copy of the photo and I’ll consider sparing you from a watery grave.

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 44

The dim, flickering lights of the hospital garage cast long shadows as I stood by the bike, nervously tapping my foot. The silence was oppressive, every echoing sound sending a jolt of fear through me, as if someone might step out of the darkness and pull the trigger. Steve should have already retrieved the flash drive Fury had given him and returned by now.

My hand instinctively flew to my handgun when I heard footsteps approaching. The tension broke slightly when I saw Natasha, her gum-chewing form nonchalant, with Steve following close behind. "Hey," she said, blowing a bubble and scrutinizing the bike. "I think we'll take my car," she added, her tone casual yet decisive. Steve, his face etched with tension, motioned for me to follow.

I slid into the front seat next to Natasha, the leather creaking under my weight, while Steve settled into the back. The car's engine rumbled to life, a comforting yet foreboding sound in the enclosed space.

"Where are we going?" I asked, glancing back at Steve. "Got the drive?"

He nodded, his expression grim. "We know who killed Fury and has been haunting you for the past few weeks. They call him the Winter Soldier. He's responsible for over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years. Nobody knows his true identity. He's practically a ghost," Steve explained, his voice heavy with the gravity of the situation.

A shiver ran through me. I knew he was dangerous, but this was something else entirely. I couldn't shake the memory of his eyes, the way they seemed to hold fear. "But what does he want from me? He says he knows me... but that he’s not supposed to know me," I said, feeling more confused than ever.

"We're here," Natasha announced, blowing another bubble with her gum. Steve started to get out, but she stopped him. "You stay here. The girls are going shopping," she said, motioning for him to hand over the flash drive.

He looked between us, hesitating, before reluctantly dropping the drive into her hand. Natasha swiftly grabbed a hat from the trunk and handed it to me, then deftly pulled the hood of her sweater over her head. With purposeful strides, we entered the mall, greeted by a cacophony of bustling shoppers darting to and fro with their bags.

"The first rule of going on the run is don't run, walk," Natasha whispered urgently, her eyes darting through the crowd, searching for any sign of Rumlow and his men. It suddenly struck me—I was now a fugitive, relentlessly pursued by Pierce and his corrupt Taskforce. And to compound the danger, a highly skilled assassin believed he knew me intimately, having meticulously monitored me for weeks; my apartment, unwittingly bugged by Fury the entire time. The weight of it all was suffocating. Gone were the days when the Nazis were our sole adversaries.

Natasha snapped me out of my reverie, tugging at my hand as she led me into a store selling computers. A cluster of people surrounded screens adorned with half-eaten apple logos, for some inexplicable reason. With practiced efficiency, Natasha swiftly plugged in the drive into one of the computers, her fingers deftly clicking away. I nervously scanned the store, half-expecting Rumlow to appear around the corner any moment.

"As soon as we boot up, S.H.I.E.L.D will pinpoint our location," she explained, her gaze fixed on the screen. I felt sweat bead on places I didn't know could sweat. "How much time do we have?" I asked, wiping my brow.

"About eight minutes," she replied. According to her, Fury had been right about the ship and someone was trying to conceal something.

"This drive is protected by some sort of A.I. It keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands," she continued. "Can you do something about it?" I asked, my fingers nervously tapping on the counter. Natasha looked frustrated. "The person who developed this is just a bit smarter than me... slightly."

She was in the midst of trying to trace the origin of the file when an employee approached us unexpectedly. Natasha swiftly covered the screen with her body and casually reached for my arm. "Oh, no, my fiancé here was just helping me plan our honeymoon," she said with an exaggerated grin. I felt my face flush with embarrassment, my eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets.

The employee glanced at both of us with a smirk. "Where are you beauties thinking about going?" he asked, peering at the map on the computer screen Natasha had open.

I turned to glance at the map and blurted out, "New Jersey," which seemed to surprise him. "Oh," he replied, taken aback. He didn't seem convinced and stared at me for a moment. "So, you like fishing?" he asked hesitantly. I was taken aback, unsure why he was bringing up fishing.

"Excuse me?" I replied, frowning in confusion. He pointed at my hat, which I had donned as a disguise. "Bass Pro Shop, I have the same hat," he explained.

"Oh, my hat! Yeah, I love fishing," I stammered, hoping he wouldn't delve further into the topic.

"What's your favorite spot?" he asked eagerly, clearly enthusiastic about fishing. "Uh, the ocean?" I stuttered, glancing over my shoulder to check on Natasha's progress.

Disappointed that we wouldn't be bonding over fishing, he smiled awkwardly and said, "If you guys need anything, I'm Aaron," before walking away.

I let out a heavy sigh, allowing my shoulders to slump. "How much time do we have left?" I asked, turning to Natasha.

"Okay, got it. Unless you want to stick around and chat about fish?" she quipped.

I pulled out the drive. "I'd much rather go on a honeymoon to Jersey with you."

She broke into a smile and replied, "Just tell me when."

We dashed out of the store, our eyes darting around as we scanned our surroundings. They were everywhere, earpieces crackling with communication as they searched for us. We hastened our steps as one of them approached directly towards us. "Just play along," Natasha whispered urgently, slipping her arm around mine and pulling our heads close. Suppressing nervous laughter, we giggled as we casually strolled past the unsuspecting agent.

Descending on the packed escalator, surrounded by a sea of bustling shoppers, it was difficult to spot all of Rumlow's men. Natasha's eyes widened as she spotted one on the opposite side. Suddenly, she turned to me with a startling question. "Ever kissed a girl before?"

Blushing deeply, I shook my head in surprise. Before I could comprehend her intent, she seized my face and pressed her lips against mine. I stood frozen, heart pounding, until she abruptly released me and turned away, continuing our escape without missing a beat.

She smiled at my bright red face. "I hope that wasn't too uncomfortable," she said. I shook my head. "No, it's just... women didn't do that in the '40s, at least not in public."

She chuckled as we stepped onto the elevator leading to the garage. "Yeah, they were just roommates back then."

Next Chapter

[joels6string]

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 8 - Slow-Cooked Dreams

Summary: A day out and a night in are ready to force someone's hand into finally giving in.

Rating: E

Word Count: 5k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

As the air grew colder, you’d grown warmer, and somehow he’d remained a target of your blossoming affinity for company and laughter.

Chapter 7 || Series Masterlist

“What the hell are you lookin’ for again?” 

“A crockpot.”

“The hell do you need with a crockpot, Chef Boyardee?”

“It ain’t for me. And I cook better’n you do, kept food on your plate, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They were on neighborhood two, house six, the two Miller brothers loudly rummaging through cabinet after cabinet in search of Joel’s prize. A light dusting of snow covered the countertops as he stood from his crouched position, the flurries fluttering in from the shattered remains of a window as Tommy swung open a large pantry, the top hinge snapping from the force of it. The eruption of gruff laughter could be heard from the sidewalk outside, had anyone been around, and when Tommy pulled out the gaudiest set of mixing bowls that definitely would have been worth money if the world hadn’t gone to shit. They didn’t even need to speak to know what came next. 

Fruit-adorned porcelain sat in a row on the front porch railing, Joel’s rifle locked and loaded as he aimed through the remnants of a storm door’s window, the first and biggest bowl shrieking as the echo of gunfire still reverberated through the mountains. Tommy went next, and the two alternated before the remnants of the antiques crunched beneath their boots, rows of clear drinking glasses flanking a coordinated pitcher as they pushed the guilt of wasting ammo to the wayside in favor of continuing the lighthearted laughter that had settled. 

Tommy took out a glass in the middle of the left line, Joel took out the end of the right, and as Tommy lined up again, a familiar sight came into view. 

“What the fuck are you two doing?!” you called out from the street, out of breath and sweating despite the frigid temperature.

“Just havin’ a little fun!” Joel called out mischievously, “Aren’t you supposed to be at the river?”

“Did the river. It’s clear. And then we hear gunshots on the way back and I raced over, all to find you in a battle with…Pyrex!”

“You gonna come up here and join us?”

He watched as you battled with maintaining your scolding position or giving in to the game at hand. He knew which one you’d choose. It had been two weeks since Tommy and Maria allowed you back on patrols a few times a week, not with the frequency of before but it was enough to scratch the stir-crazy itch that had put you into an even more agitated state than you already were. Joel had begged and reasoned, he’d even taken you out into the fields just up the hill from the gates with an assault rifle in hand, firing shots into bales of hay until you could make it from 3 shots to 10 before screaming at him to stop. Then days later it was 20, and then with a deep breath you managed to look at him with those bright green eyes untainted by fear and nod; it wasn’t perfect, it still scared you half to death, but you’d gotten enough of a grasp on it that Indy got her preferred partner back three times a week, your other days spent still sharpening the kids’ skills with a bow safely in the walls of Jackson.

“C’mon now,” he beckoned with a sly grin as he held the rifle out towards you, “Don’t be a bummer.”

“My mother would kill me if she knew I was shattering these historical relics,” you jested as you approached, “The pitcher is mine.”

“Go on then, Legolas. Last I knew I still had you beat in rifle work.”

“You watched Lord of the Rings?”

“No. I read it.”

“Guess that’s what we’re watching next.”

“Get that in one shot from behind that couch and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

The obstacles they’d set up in their game were still in place, a couch ten yards away set centered to the now empty door frame. Not like they needed to lock the place up. You positioned yourself behind it as if it were a blockade, a brother on either side, one intently watching the state of the glass outside, the other’s gaze firmly fixated on you and the way the snow nestled in the strands of your hair. He watched as you lined up the shot, confidence in your movements as the heel of the rifle nestled into your shoulder. Perfect form. He should have known. 

One shot echoed, the shattering of glass following, your beaming, smug smile shining up at him. He couldn’t help but let the corner of his own lips tug up towards his eye and he nodded proudly. He was hoping you’d make it. 

“Your place or mine?” you asked, dragging your lower lip through your teeth in that way that drove him insane. 

“Well you just did your…what was it again? Winter cleanin’?” he teased, recalling finding you on your hands and knees scrubbing the grout in your tiled bathroom floor last weekend when he came to grab you for the now-ceremonial bi-weekly market trip.

“You knock it, but I’ll be hibernating through the mountains’ winter with sparkling baseboards and shiny faucets. And come spring, I’ll have less to do.”

“If you say so.”

“You’re the one saying you want to come to my place because it’s clean.”

You had him there. It always smelled like lavender and the green of the plants you’d begun to accrue from people around town invited him into the space you’d made your own. As the air grew colder, you’d grown warmer, and somehow he’d remained a target of your blossoming affinity for company and laughter. He’d always known it was there, Ellie had always brought out the side of you that was buried beneath years of torment and hardship, but now you were releasing it for others to experience now and it was a wonder in and of itself. The way your nose scrunched up and your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed never ceased to pull a smile from him, it was like you were the god damn sun and he was just a moon in orbit, forever searching for more of your light. But you were still just as fierce, just as deadly, if not more so now with a steady place to anchor both physically and seemingly within yourself. He was infatuated. It was dangerous. 

“Alright you two,” Tommy chimed in with a knowing tone, Joel had just been staring at you and the way your eyes sparkled with pride and victory, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, “We should get back.”

“Did you boys search the place?” you asked as you stood, “I’m still looking for a fucking slow cooker.”

Joel couldn’t help but smirk at himself, tipping his chin down to hide his satisfied expression. 

“We looked down here, upstairs is all yours.”

With Joel's rifle still in hand, you took off up the stairs, Joel avoiding Tommy’s eyes that he knew were waiting to be acknowledged. He wasn’t in the mood to hear one of Tommy’s speeches, he didn’t know what Joel had been forced to become privy to so many years ago. Tommy and his idealistic views that had somehow maintained even through the end of the world didn’t know the pain on the other side, and Joel prayed he never would. 

His attention followed your boot steps on the creaking floor above. He knew no one was in the house, but that didn’t ease his heightened senses as his ears tracked you through the rooms. What he didn’t catch was the way his feet also carried him slowly beneath you. Nothing more than a moon in orbit. 

“Hey Joel!” you called, “Joel!”

“Yeah?!” he responded loudly up the stairwell, your head peeking over the landing down at him.

“Come help me real quick.”

You were standing beneath a boarded-up attic, hands on your hips, the scar that decorated the seam of your jaw and throat on full display as you stared up at the ceiling. 

“I ain’t that tall,” he mused, standing beside you and leaning his shoulder against the wall.

“Just boost me up,” you replied nonchalantly like you’d done this a thousand times before, “that wood is fucking ancient. I can snap it.”

“If you say so.” This you had done before. “Up you go.” Your legs surrounded his head as you sat atop his broad shoulders, his knees straightening and pushing you up to grip against the rotted slats. 

After a few good tugs, you did exactly what you said you would, the barrier snapping beneath your leather gloves as you gave a small victorious laugh. At this height, you were able to simply pull yourself up into the attic, tossing him down a ladder so he could join you, his eyes automatically sweeping for threats as soon as the space came into view. You were already rummaging through boxes, not a care in the world, and his heavy sigh as he hoisted himself up had you whirling back to stare at him. 

“Gettin’ old, Tex?” you teased, his nostrils flaring in a way that had your face twisting in annoyed confusion, “What?”

“You need to be more god damn careful,” he scolded, growling into your ear as his chest brushed over your shoulder, “Anyone…or anything, could have been up here.”

“In a boarded-up attic? That’s one impressive food supply by the age of that wood and the rust on the nails. Lighten up, Joel. I can assess my surroundings just fi—“

Creaking turned to splintering as you turned back towards the pile of boxes you’d been searching through, his still-sharp reflexes wrapping his arm around your middle and pulling you back just far enough to keep your feet on solid ground as a gaping hole where you’d just been standing sent light beaming into the dark space. 

As the shock wore off, he could feel the way your breath was heaving in his grip, your fingers woven through his against your stomach as you gripped him and he cursed the cold weather for making leather gloves a necessity. It was instinctual the way he leaned his head against yours, his arm pulling you tighter as he pushed the what-if from his mind and grounded in the reality of you not impaled on the wood piercing up towards the sky, memories of his own injury that had almost left Ellie alone and abandoned in Colorado flooding back. He could feel the rebar piercing through his stomach, the agony of being pulled off, and the panic that had set in when hunters swarmed the old science building, leaving Ellie to defend him bleeding and sputtering on the floor. 

“Please be careful.” It was a whispered plea, not a demand but a desperate request. 

He felt you nod, your spine curling slightly to fit the contour of his chest, and the way you leaned back into him had his eyes drifting closed as the subtle scent of lavender paired with the warmth of your body and softness of your hair against his cheek infiltrated his senses.

“What the hell was that?!” Tommy yelled as he ran up the stairs to the second floor, his voice pulling both of you from the safety of the moment and back into reality, “Joel?”

“It’s alright!” Joel called back, turning his head to not yell into your ear but immediately returning as soon as the words left his lips, “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you gasped, and he swore he felt you nestle your head against him further for a split second, your hair catching on his beard before you pulled away without a glance back, “Help me look around?”

The meekness in your voice was unsettling, but he agreed, lingering within arm’s reach as you found boxes of cold-weather clothing, pots and pans, Christmas decorations, and children’s toys. Tommy had gotten involved, both yours and his eyes lighting up at the hoard of useful supplies, Tommy taking box after box through the hole in the ceiling (from his perspective) as you and Joel worked as an assembly line in the attic on wood he’d deemed safe to stand on. 

As luck would have it, two large sleds were tucked into a back corner, their width when tied together with a thick wool blanket between them working like a sling just barely wide enough to fit the haul of supplies thanks to Joel’s ingenuity. Tommy and his horse hauled it along between you in the front and Joel bringing up the rear, the silence giving you time to reflect as the barren trees gnarled up towards the sky and the steady hoof steps of Bill your not-so pony echoed through the mountain's well-worn paths. 

It had been awhile since you’d been close enough to Joel to feel that lingering comfort of the scent of warm leather and sawdust that clung to him despite the canvas jacket he wore. The effect was still the same. Your head was swimming with the heat of summer, the phantom of his palms gripping the backs of your thighs, the sway of your horse mimicking that of Joel’s steady stride. You dwelled in these memories more than you’d ever admit, and far more than you preferred. 

Everything was so pleasant now. And you’d come to depend on him in ways you’d been warned many years ago to not dare consider. But none of it felt wrong. In fact, it had felt more right than any other decision you’d made. But still, that voice nagged in the back of your head that this was a bad idea, a risk, a disaster in the making, yet still a piece of you clung to the hope that this was different. He was gentle and kind—to you at least—attentive and generous, capable and strong, he was a man that shouldn’t exist after all he’d been through yet there he was, slinging a coat still warm from the heat of his body around your shoulders after you’d been too stubborn to wear one to your weekly Bison trip or fixing the leaky sink in your kitchen without so much as a grumble of irritation. But although you had changed entirely since arriving at the safe haven settlement of Jackson, the world hadn’t. And that was something you were constantly reminded of. 

Both of you helped Tommy unload the supplies at the inn, with you promising to return tomorrow to help Maria sort through them as he and Joel went out on yet another patrol. Things had gotten worse lately, both with infected and hunters, there was no shortage of bodies laden with bullets in the surrounding woods. 

“What’s this over here?” you asked as you tried to sort the boxes into categories to make the job easier tomorrow, your hand sliding over Joel’s back as you snuck through the small space between him and the wall, his muscles twitching beneath your touch as it grazed over him, “Can you put it over there?” you asked sweetly, peering up at him with a smile as he nodded, a soft “thanks” following as your fingers repeated their previous motion on your way back to the front of the room. 

It made his stomach hurtle to the floor. You’d been doing it for weeks now, fleeting touches as you passed by, playful hands on his shoulders, and knees resting against his beneath a table. Not reading into it had been almost impossible, the fact you also did the same with Indy and Ellie was the only place to ground himself he had. It was just you and how you’d rediscovered parts of yourself that had long been buried. 

“Joel!” Ellie’s exuberant voice called out as she rounded the corner, both your and Joel’s attention turning as your boots hit the street, “Joel…Cat found me…a Nintendo.”

“A what?” Joel chuckled at the way she was sucking in air.

“A Nintendo. You know…video games.”

“Oh, right. Well I’m sure you’ll have a blast with that.”

“Do you wanna play?”

“I think…playin’ with your friends is gonna be way more fun. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with those things.”

“Neither do I.”

Your elbow jutting into his ribs had his eyes snapping over to you, your eyebrows raising in a silent urging as you ticked your chin towards Ellie at his other side. 

“She wants to play with you,” you hissed through your teeth, hoping he could hear it and Ellie couldn’t, realization falling over his face, softening the fine lines etched into his sun-darkened skin.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have needed to be told that. It was all there in the hopeful gaze staring back at him, another pair of big green eyes that could work wonders against his stubborn ways. As the tug-of-war between his own self-loathing and the swell of pride Ellie’s desire to spend time with him raged, his cheeks flushing pink as the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk, your own reassuring one caught in his peripherals. 

“Arrow comin’ too?” he asked mischievously, knowing Ellie would never pass up a chance to have you around and damn if he wasn’t going to take advantage of that.

“Duh,” she retorted, and you smiled fondly at the ground as your chin tipped to your chest, warmth flooding your chilled cheeks.

“Alright kiddo,” he finally obliged, “go set it up.”

Without a word, Ellie was sprinting back the way she came, Joel once again focusing his attention on you. There was a softness present, a vulnerability swimming through hazel that was typically hard as stone. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said with a bashful tone, and you shook your head, “I’ll grab dinner from the Bison if you wanna head over around 6.”

After a shower, the hoodie you’d managed to snag from the swap shop welcomed you in, a loose pair of sweatpants to match being donned after you twisted your hair into a messy bun; those two had seen you at far worse, one step from sleepwear wouldn’t change their opinions of you. The sun had already begun to set as you meandered your way to the white house on Rancher street, one your instincts could bring you to in your sleep, your knuckles rapping three times on the door before you let yourself in with a bellowing “hey” at the owner’s previous insistence. 

“Kitchen!” Ellie yelled, “Joel forgot to get you no tomato!”

“Why do you gotta tell her?!” you could hear him scolding as you approached, “I’m fixin’ it anyway!”

“Because it’s funny.”

“It ain’t funny… You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“It’s kinda funny,” you agreed as you rounded into the dining room with a table too grand for the three of you, plates set out with each of your favorites from the only restaurant in town.

“I told him,” Joel defended, dropping a pitcher of lemonade onto the table hard enough to have some sloshing out, “I swear.”

“Is this Ellie’s famous lemonade I’ve been hearing about?” you asked after giving Joel a sarcastic nod of agreement, his flustered groan the reward you were seeking as he left to find napkins in the kitchen, “I’m surprised they gave you enough lemons to make all this.”

“Who says they gave them to me?”

A knowing scoff huffed free from your lips, Joel rounding back in with three old cloths he passed out before sitting down beside you and across from Ellie, the head of the table left empty. Joel’s penchant for leaving his elbows on the table had been something you’d grown fond of, awkward bumps soon turning into shoulders pressed together when space became sparse without a blink. He’d been bashful about it initially, the first time it happened during one of the group’s nights at the Bison, his cheeks burning red as he attempted to make his large, broad frame smaller by gluing his elbows to his sides and pinching his knees together beneath the wooden table. But it had grown to a common occurrence, soon bringing with it fleeting touches and gentle contact like it was a natural thing, entirely normal, almost expected. 

“So what games did you get?” you asked Ellie as Joel filled your glass with lemonade, a small smile thanking him before you flicked your attention back to the excited teenager in front of you.

“There’s a few but the only one I care about is ‘The Turning’,” she replied with thrill and competitiveness in her voice, “Riley told me all about it. Can’t believe I finally get to play.”

“Do you know how to?”

“No… Not really. Her and I pretended to once at… But I’ve never actually played.”

“What about you, Greybeard?” Another side eye earned, but the corner of his mouth twitching at the link to his own nickname he’d used on you earlier. 

“Never tried,” Joel huffed, “I never liked those things.”

“A grump even before the world went to shit. How fitting.” He may have thought the side-eye he gave in response was discreet but he found himself wrong as you laughed. “Guess you’re both learning today.”

“I assume you’re world champion of whatever this game is?” he drawled, leaning back in his seat and draping his arm over the back of your chair.

“No. I was always terrible. My brother always beat me. So I look forward to winning my first fight tonight against you.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Are we ready?” you diverted, standing from your half-finished plate under Joel’s scrutinizing gaze. 

Ellie’s suite as you’d come to call it welcomed the three of you, Joel looking massive in the small space that contained everything a home would. A small bathroom was nestled beside a functioning kitchen thanks to the hot plate you’d found, her bed nestled on one side, a desk, wood stove, and small living room on the other. She’d set up the Super Nintendo unit on the TV across from her bed, the welcome screen of the combat game “The Turning” already sending the tacky techno music of its home screen ricocheting off the walls. 

“I hate it already,” Joel mumbled as he took a seat on the edge of the mattress, you and Ellie sandwiching him in as she threw a control into his lap, “What button does what?”

“Hell if I know,” Ellie retorted, mashing the B button, then A, then Start and finally finding success. 

“Well you know,” Joel pointed out, turning his attention to you, “How do we play this thing?”

“I’m gonna let you figure it out,” you taunted, crossing your legs in front of you and staring at the TV, Joel’s angry grumbles under his breath the only real victory you wanted that night. 

It was all mashed buttons, excited yelps from Ellie as she landed each kick, punch, and combo with her chosen character—Angel Knives—and a follow-up frustrated groan or “Oh c’mon now!” from Joel as his eyebrows furrowed further than you’d ever seen them descend. 

“I landed that!” he bellowed at the screen as his character dropped dead yet again, “I landed that hit! This is…rigged or somethin’.”

“One more!” Ellie challenged, “Best two out of three.”

“You’ve won twice.”

“Three to be the best.”

As she queued up another round, Joel glanced over at you beside him, his eyes gentle and gracious. He asked if you were having fun, a question to which you nodded in response with a content smile settled on your lips, one that he mirrored as he stayed trapped in the bubble of your gaze. Ellie was nudging him, telling him it was time to choose, he had to pick his fighter (he’d chosen differently for each other round), but it was only after you averted your attention did he finally refocus on the task at hand. 

“I’m gonna whoop your ass, you old fogey,” Ellie growled through gritted teeth, her expression all fire and focus. 

“You say that like it’s hard,” he teased, mostly himself.

It began as all the others had, Joel’s fingers fumbling over the buttons, Ellie landing combo after combo, and that’s when your pity for the man beside you finally won out. 

“Hit the two on the left at the same time,” you instructed, your palm sliding over his knee as you leaned over to watch his hands closely. 

“Wh-what?” he stammered, cheeks flushing crimson, “Oh…”

Art from @natendo-art 🥺

The combo landed, Angel Knives taking some significant damage much to Ellie’s dismay, her calls about cheating beginning immediately as you continued to coach Joel through the moves, your hand staying pressed against his thigh. Thanks to your narration, he was able to focus his eyes on the buttons, pressing each one with each of your commands with almost foolproof accuracy.

“You need glasses,” you whispered to him as Ellie groaned in frustration at her loss, Joel smiling ear to ear at his victory, “But congrats, old man.”

You were up next to face the vicious ire of retribution against Ellie and Angel Knives, your victories coming with difficulty but you pulled them off nonetheless, Joel cheering right along with every kick and punch landed. He muttered under his breath, you were positive he assumed you couldn’t hear him, or perhaps he had no idea he was doing it, but when you won the third of three (to be the best) you got a taste of what the man was probably like watching the football games he still reminisced about.

“All right you two,” you announced through the two of them bickering again about their final match being too close to cheating for Ellie to accept, “I’m heading home. I’ll see you,” you shoved Joel’s shoulder playfully,” tomorrow night. And you,” you pointed at Ellie, “tomorrow morning for practice.”

“Yes ma’am,” they said in unison, Joel’s tone much happier than Ellie’s who found target practice annoying. She had a right to. She didn’t really need it, but you weren’t about to relinquish her to the possibility of patrol training just yet.

“I’ll walk ya home,” Joel tacked on, giving Ellie a one-armed hug goodnight before following you out the door. 

For the last 20 years, routine had felt like a pipedream. It was survival, basic and primal, not a steady pillar walking beside you every time the streets were dark to ensure you made it home safe in a town where risks didn’t exist within the walls. They were typically silent, so comfortable and soothing, the scrape of his boots against the pebbles along the road always enough to fill the space. A heavy canvas jacket was hung silently over your shoulders, your hands pulling it tighter as you bathed in the heat trapped in the fabric. There was that familiar smell again battering against your tired brain, the moon bathing the silver strands of his hair bright enough that you could see it in your peripherals. The sight of your house was almost unwelcome now, it meant the night was coming to an end, and not even the guarantee of this happening again tomorrow, as it always did, was comfort enough to soothe the ache.

“My brother died before the outbreak,” you blurted out three houses down from your own, “Cancer.”

“Oh,” he sighed, coming to a stop beside you, “Sorry I asked.”

“No. I-I don’t know why I didn’t just…”

“S’fine.”

Always so forgiving and willing to forget, unless you were Paulie to which Joel still held a brutal vendetta against. He didn’t let the man within two people of you at any time, his eyes were always watchful when you shared a space. Paulie had already tried to get him to ease up, he’d apologized profusely, but it fell on deaf ears. Clearly for Joel, what had transpired was unjustifiable, and it was a fate Paulie had finally accepted.

“Hey, look,” he cooed tipping his head and turning you at the shoulders to face your right.

The lights of the Aurora Borealis shone brightly in the sky. Greens and purples erupted over the mountain tops, your breath hitching as you took in the sight for the first time. His hands remained perched on your upper arms, and in your shock and awe, you found yourself leaning back against him. The rise and fall of his chest was rhythmic and entrancing once again, but this time there was no fear as there had been earlier this afternoon as you stared down the gaping hole that had almost claimed you. Here it felt like home. 

“Ever see that before?” he asked softly in your ear, and you shook your head, too stunned and comfortable for words, “Me neither. C’mere, let’s get a better view.”

Your eyes were locked on the sight as he led you through town, you had not the faintest idea where you headed, only knowing that you trusted the man leading you implicitly. Before you knew it, you were faced with a ladder, the watchtower of the East gate reaching high into the sky above you. Jesse was up there, one of the newer patrolmen, and Joel told him to go take a breather and leave his gun as you both climbed up onto the small landing. 

"Everything you hoped for?" he asked barely above a whisper, his voice cracking, the quietness of his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

It was a better view up here. The colors rippled across the sky as the cool air bit against your cheeks. Joel had nestled up behind you once again, his body far enough away to leave you space but close enough that a simple adjustment would have you pressed against him once again. You opted for the latter, two thick forearms caging you in as he braced himself against the railing. It was here you stayed until Jesse’s arrival back cued it was time to leave. You’d thought you’d known peace here in Jackson; your turmoil had settled to a manageable level, the friendships built far more than anything you’d had in the past, and the security swaddling you like a blanket had created a world you never thought possible. But it wasn’t until now as the warmth behind you pulled away that you realized it wasn’t any of those things that helped silence the long-raging storm. 

It was him.

Chapter 9

[hiccupbutpurple]

One thing I love is listening to httyd eps while imaging different AUs and cause I’m bored, can’t go to my room rn (and found half of this sitting in my drafts from last month lol), I’ve decided to pass the time sharing one.

It’s from the latter part of Midnight Scrum (going from when Hiccup gets taken) and it’s a royalty AU (which I’ve seen a lot of floating around here recently too)

It’s the standard ‘Kidnapped Bride’ plot line, with King Viggo wanting Prince Hiccup. He puts the bounty on Hiccup to bring him in.

- Amos and Berthel are still bounty hunters but they are a bit more threatening and less silly, most of their sillier lines I ignore and imagine them said in a more threatening way. They still retain their gay energy though.

- Savage was originally one of Viggo’s servants and when Hiccup was first held captive, he was there to guard Hiccup’s cell. He was slightly kinder to Hiccup in that situation but then when Hiccup escapes, he gets blamed and exiled. That makes his whole motivation to get Hiccup to Viggo being to get back into Viggo’s good graces. Hiccup doesn’t trust him either way cause even if he was kinder then other guards, he still wasn’t kind. He does hold hope that he can reason with him originally though (because Hiccup knows he knows what Viggo is like) but Savage is very blinded by his goals.

- Throk is a well known assassin but gets hired by Mala a lot (and their relationship, I picture it platonically but romantically also works, grows over time until he becomes her personal assassin. At this time though he could be hired by anyone). The Defenders of the Wing are also another kingdom but there isn’t a war against Dragons and they hold no real allegiance to Berk and aren’t actual enemies to Viggo either. They are a neutral party but Mala does prefer Hiccup (but she’s not forthcoming about it) and thinks Viggo is cruel, so decided to help him by hiring her favourite assassin.

- Krogan is also an assassin/bounty Hunter (He and Throk have competed a lot in the past). He has no ties to Drago and was more Viggo’s personal assassin (and lover) before they had a fight. He decided to get Hiccup to see Viggo again and remind him of his skills in a threatening way. It’s a mixed message of ‘remember how much you need me’, a ‘here’s you new lover, I’m stronger then him (thus being more on you’re level, and I could kill him easily if I wanted)’ and a ‘dont forget how dangerous I can be to you and your goals’ type thing.

Some lines I’ve decided to alter slightly:

Berthel: What's that? Dragons? -> Berthel: What's that? / Amos: His friends. (Since they already knew of the dragons)

//////

Hiccup: Viggo will never respect you. He's playing you for a fool. -> Hiccup: You know Viggo will never respect you. Please. He's always played you for a fool.

//////

Savage: I don't know what they're gonna do to Hiccup. It's his own fault he got grabbed, not mine. -> Savage: I don't know where they’re gonna take Hiccup. It's his own fault Viggo sees him as a whore, not mine.

//////

Hiccup has a rough material built into his chest plate capable of creating sparks when striked against and uses that and a stone to light a stick on fire rather then the dragon blade. (Kinda a little hint of magic because I said so)

//////

Ryker: Oh, I'd love to drop you, but Viggo wants to kill you himself. -> Oh, I'd love to drop you, but Viggo wants you for himself.

[sarucane]

OFMD Spiral Narrative Analysis 40: Izzy Being Wrong Part 1

Intro: What I love most about how season 2 builds on season 1 of OFMD is the spiral narrative structure. Ground is repeatedly and explicitly re-trod from season 1 to season 2, but in season 2 everything goes deeper than season 1. Meanings are shuffled, emotions are stronger and truer, and transformation is showcased above everything. The first season plucks certain notes, then the second season plucks the same ones--but louder, and then it weaves them together to create a symphony.

---

Most of these posts are about scenes in OFMD that repeat certain element from season 1 to season 2, but this little series is going to be looking more closely at Izzy and how his character arc spirals to its conclusion.

This was inspired by my noticing in a rewatch that in season 1, Izzy is like always wrong. Always. Almost every scene he's in, he's wrong. And the interesting thing here is that Izzy actually doesn't know about this. When he says something, he seems to believe it. He isn't lying. He's just wrong. Here's how:

He makes a statement that is factually incorrect or proved wrong by later events within the same episode

2. He demonstrates a profoundly inaccurate understanding, which is later contradicted by his own character development and/or by the show's overall narrative itself.

So, shall we begin?

Episode 1: Shout-out to Izzy's first scene, where he does actually manage to (mostly) accurately read a situation: Stede and company are, indeed, idiots.

That said, this does still juuust barely fall under category 2, because this assessment of Stede is later complicated by this scene

In the first season, Izzy hangs on to his idea of Stede as moron long past where it's useful. In the second, he gets that Stede isn't actually an idiot, he just has 0 skills, and he hilariously marvels at how this somehow doesn't translate into death.

Then there's this Category 1 scene, where Buttons says he thought the island was deserted and Izzy says this. Izzy's clearly suggesting that he and the boys are the only ones here, but there's a whole village of indigenous people living this island.

Nope. Category 1

Is Ed half insane though? Or is he just weird? And trapped? Putting that in category 2.

Episode 2:

He was. Category 1 and 2.

You're a pirate, Izzy. Don't make excuses. Category 1.

The future of Izzy, Ed, and this crew will not follow this narrative. Category 2.

When Izzy meets Stede at Jackie's, he does actually manage to avoid both categories. That said, he also manages to not actually tell Stede who he's working for, so still got a definite thread of untruth there.

Category 1 here: no you didn't, Izzy. You just thought you did. A misunderstanding on Izzy's part that actually rebounds on him: if Stede has met Ed after being brought to Ed's freaky room, on Ed's ship, and hearing god-knows-what from Izzy before he went in for the meeting...seems likely that things would have turned out very differently.

Episode 3

Yes but also no, Izzy. And worth noting that despite the embarrassing performance here, the ship actually is repaired a few hours later, so they managed in the end.

These both fall firmly into category 2. Izzy's going to die for these people he's calling useless and planning to murder.

Ed has a plan, and has the whole time. Category 1.

They're eating right now, Izzy, so clearly they do get food when they've been invaded.

No they don't, they live at Ed's pleasure, and Izzy's very clearly the only one who wants to kill them. Ivan whacks Pete a few times (I think Ivan might remember him...), but in this scene Fang and Ivan are just chilling in the background the entire time. The situation's already gotten well away from Izzy, even though he clearly doesn't understand that: category 2.

Category 2. Izzy refers to the "years" he's spent with Ed one more time, in season 2.

The second scene casts the first scene in rather a different light. How much of Ed's erratic behavior was actual mania, and how much of it was him acting out to try to escape a situation he felt trapped in? A situation whose continuation Izzy worked for years to maintain. When we first meet him with Izzy, Ed's sitting alone in a dark room. How long had Izzy been the only intermediary between Ed and the world?

Izzy in the first scene is describing his woes as a middle manager, making sure Ed could stay Blackbeard. But doing that was closing off avenues of possible escape for Ed. Izzy in the second scene is acknowledging that this was...just not an okay thing to do. And that it was about him, not Ed.

Nope.