#and that he was going to quietly accept whatever scrap they would throw at him

[rickybaby]

I know everyone has their own theories about how the rumours started, but I’m pretty convinced red bull itself was the one who put the rumours out there. I know Sky sports are not exactly bastions of accurate reporting, but the way they went so fucking hard at it and had the whole career montage ready to go, I don’t think they would have truly gone to the extent they did if they had not received that piece of information from a very senior and legit source from the team itself. They probably did it to twist Daniel’s hand into accepting the reserve role because they literally have no contractual mechanism to demote him to reserve driver but they forgot that Daniel walked away once because he felt he wasn’t being offered what he deserved and he walked away again because once again, he chose his self-worth.

[erabundus]

anonymous &&. said... Ren meeting Acer tho

short  answer  —  he  throws  acer  over  his  shoulder  like  a  sack  of  potatoes  and  runs.

long  answer  —  oh  boy  would  he  ever  be  HORRIFIED!  ren  has  a  very  strange  relationship  with  guilt  by  default.  i  swear  i've  talked  about  it  before,  but  he  has  a  habit  of  trying  to  shoulder  the  blame  for  things  that  aren't  necessarily  his  fault.  (  a  very  black  and  white,  all  or  nothing  way  of  thinking.  )  he  looks  at  kazuha  and  sees  himself  wholly  responsible  for  every  scrap  of  misfortune  he's  ever  had  to  endure  in  his  life,  completely  ignoring  how  unrealistic  or  impossible  that  actually  is.  despite  how  often  he  goes  on  and  on  about  the  inherent  CRUELTY  of  the  world,  he  isn't  content  with  simply  seeing  a  tragedy  as  a  tragedy  —  there  has  to  be  some  explanation,  some  reason,  something  to  justify  it  beyond  simply  chalking  things  up  to  random  chance.  to  assume  otherwise  would  be  to  admit  to  one's  powerlessness,  to  accept  the  role  of  a helpless  VICTIM in the grand scheme of things  —  and  he  refuses  to  view  himself  as  that.

he  basically  tries  to  shoulder  the  guilt  for  everything  as  a  way  of  taking  back  CONTROL.  because  if  something  is  his  fault,  then  he  can  also do  something  about  it  —  he  can  seek  out  accountability  and  try  to  right  his  wrongs  in  whatever  way  he  possibly  can.

all  this  to  say,  ren  would  meet  acer  and  see  himself  as  personally  responsible.  he  would  make  whatever  leaps  in  logic  needed  to  justify  it  —  if  his  family  were  still  alive  and  flourishing,  the  circumstances  that  saw  him  pushed  into  the  fatui's  hands  presumably  would  have  never  come  about.  (  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  reasoning  with  him  is  impossible.  )  it's all his fault. this  would  basically  be  ren's  equivalent  of  the  worst  possible  timeline, and it's all his fault.  he's  the  balladeer's  subordinate,  he's  wielding  a  delusion  that's  slowly  killing  him,  no  doubt  the  fatui  is  going  to  use  him  up  for  all  that  he's  worth  —  then  TOSS  HIM  to  the  wayside  like  all  the  others.  the  only  blessing  is  that  scaramouche  doesn't  know  who  he  actually  is,  otherwise  his  blatant  favoritism  would  turn  sour  very  quickly.

it  was  a  joke,  but  genuinely  i  think  ren's  first  instinct  would  be  to  get  him  out  of  there.  even  if  acer  would  be  opposed  to  it  —  he  would  basically  see  it  as  the  best  possible  thing  he  could  do  for  him  at  that  point.  ultimately,  ren  wants  any  version  of  kazuha  to  live  a  long,  happy  life.  he  doesn't  care  whether  he's  the  one  to  make  him  happy  or  otherwise  —  on  the  contrary,  he  still  sees  their  RELATIONSHIP  as  a  very  selfish  indulgence  on  his  end.  (  and  probably  always  will,  even  if  he's  gotten  better  at  ignoring  those  feelings.  )  he  was  content  to  stay  in  quietly  pining  hell  forever  before  kazuha  went  out  of  his  way  to  show  him  that  his  feelings  were  not  only  reciprocated,  but  he  was  INTERESTED in  having  a  relationship  —  with  him.  in  the  fatui  au,  he  would  see  getting  acer  out  and  as  far  from  the  fatui  as  possible  as  the  best  way  to  fulfill  that  goal  of  a  happy  life.  he's  not  going  to  have  a  life  if  he  continues  to  work  for  them;  he  would  believe  very  strongly  that  they  would  get  him  killed  one  way  or  another.

assuming  he  can't  pluck  acer  out  of  the  fatui  like  a  garden  carrot,  he  would  probably  (  though  very  reluctantly  )  settle  for  trying  to  WARN  HIM  at  least.  stress  that  he  should  go  —  that  he  needs  to  stop  using  his  delusion  and  that  he  cannot,  under  any  circumstances,  allow  the  balladeer  to  know  his  name.  probably  with  a  hefty  side  of  "leave  him,  you  can  do  so  much  better,"  because  ren  is  nothing  if  not  scaramouche's  number  one  hater.

no  matter  what  happens,  he  is  extremely  unhappy  with  this  turn  of  events.

[aggravatetheaxe]

"Don't do that. Don't act like you don't give a damn." from the prompt list? Use whoever you want!

emotional prompts

Hi! I put my list in a randomizer for this one.

BRAHMS HEELSHIRE X GN!READER

cw: angst! and brahms being a little dick!

Masterlist

He was such a little monster.

You knew that logically. No rational, compassionate human would do to you what Brahms did ... would demand of you what Brahms did. But every time he did something new to hurt you, he sank to a new low, and you were disappointed all over again.

You didn't even remember what you'd done. You followed all his rules, so it must have been something you'd denied him. An extra scoop of ice-cream, a goodnight kiss, a scary story - sex, maybe? Whatever it had been, he felt entitled to it, and when he didn't get what he wanted...

This.

It was destroyed. Ripped apart. You'd sent Brahms from the room several minutes ago, screaming, but you still sat on your knees, lifting the broken scraps and letting the tears flow down your cheeks. Your beloved stuffed dog, the one you'd had since you were a baby, the one you took everywhere, who'd been through everything with you ... he was gone.

Because of some stupid, petty bullshit Brahms had decided to be mad about. Because you hadn't given him exactly what he wanted, when he wanted. Because you'd dared to have a little autonomy, a different plan for yourself, a moment not completely and utterly dedicated to him. He'd destroyed something you loved with his own hands out of pure spite.

Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

You held the last remnants of your friend close, letting yourself cry. You wanted to sob like a child, you wanted to throw things, break windows, slam doors, but then you'd be just as bad as him, wouldn't you?

Fuck him.

When you sensed his presence, heavy and dark, in the doorway behind you, you sucked your sobs deep into your chest. You simply let the tears fall quietly as you gathered up the bits of cloth and stuffing. Maybe you could piece your dog back together ... maybe it wasn't a total loss. But that didn't erase what had been done.

There was a creak on the floorboards behind you, and your entire body tensed. You stood and turned and found him waiting, shuffling closer with open arms. He cooed softly behind his porcelain mask, eyes big and glassy. He was trying to give you a hug - a child's way of apologizing without really saying anything.

You knew, after the way you'd shrieked at him, that you were lucky he hadn't come back with a vengeance. You were lucky he was trying to mend things instead of punishing you for raising your voice. But he wasn't a child.

You sniffed hard and dodged his hug, going to stuff the remains of your dog into the trunk at the end of your bed. You should hold your tongue, just accept his hug and count your blessings, but you couldn't. "Don't do that," you choked out, wiping your nose messily with your sleeve. "Don't act like you give a damn."

Brahms lowered his arms, completely silent under his mask save for shallow, slightly shaky breaths. His gaze bored holes into you. After a few more seconds, he raised his arms again, whimpering, "Hug ... please ... please, Y/N? I didn't mean it..."

You could feel your face twist as you struggled in vain to hold back your venom. "Brahms. You're not sorry, don't lie!" Turning to him, "You just want things to go back to normal. You don't give a damn that you hurt me, you only want ... whatever it is you want!" You slammed the trunk closed. "You're not a baby, you're a man. And you're the most selfish man I've ever met."

His demeanor shifted, then. His shoulders slid back slightly; the way he held himself changed before your eyes. When he spoke, his voice started out high and thin, shaking, but gradually became deeper, and you knew you were dealing with the real Brahms - the scary Brahms. "You're being very rude."

You watched him with wide eyes, trying to calculate when and how he would strike, if he did at all. His primary goal at any given time was to keep you with him, and keep you alive, but that didn't mean he wouldn't hurt you.

Let him try. You were tired of being nice - tired of being the adult, the responsible one. He was about to find out just how rude you could be.

[ohheyitsokay]

nicknames

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x reader

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings: none to my knowledge, just a silly thought I strung out

Summary: the things we call each other are an intimate look into how we regard them

>>

“Why do you call him Mandalorian?” Cara was never subtle with you. You had been friends with her for years, and you should’ve known she would notice something after only a few days of your traveling with the three of them.

Shrugging, you looked at her. “I never told you?” You’d completed a lot of tasks together, as a very well balanced pair. And honestly you’d become close quickly, so it surprised you that she didn’t know you inside and out yet.

“I just feel like nicknames are too affectionate. On my home planet they're…” you searched for the word, not wanting to offend her, “intimate? Soft, maybe?”

Cara's dark eyebrows drew together.

“Mando… it sounds like a word some use for ‘dumpling',” you laughed, and her confusion broke - she grinned at you. “Mandu,” you offered, trying to explain. The words were similar under your tongue, thus the core of your problem.

“I cannot walk around professionally and call a warrior I just met dumpling.” And she nodded, laughing along with you.

It was too ridiculous, too cute, and far too intimate. Even without the double meaning, you didn’t want to be overly familiar with the Mandalorian. After all, you would only be traveling with him a few more days, and you’d hardly talked.

The mission went smoothly, however, and you were surprised to find that they offered for you to continue to team up with them. Another set of skills was welcome, and another pair of eyes on the little child was even more so. Your resolve stuck, though. It just didn’t fit, to call him anything other than the title he had given you. And you liked him a bit too much to open that door for yourself.

-

Din Djarin knew there was something special about you from the very beginning. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, at first, but certainly he had been very aware.

You were interesting, for someone in his field. Not at all the large, muscular fighter that he was used to seeing. But also not a seedy assassin. He’d learned quickly that your skill set came primarily in observation. You had no need to manhandle or shove your way to your bounty, instead choosing to melt into the background and watch until you’d identified the perfect strategy.

It made the first week of the job so much easier, he was content with the idea that you would travel and work with them. But then:

“How did you even know that corridor was there?” Cara was clearly excited by your field work, too. She was hardly paying attention as she walked through his ship into the cockpit.

Shoulders rising slightly, you followed her. “Micro-glitch in the holo-projection shield. I’m sure the Mandalorian's helmet identified it too.” You looked at him.

You looked right at him.

Effortlessly, your eyes found his through the visor. You were smiling a little bit, unaware of his state of shock.

Din had been wearing this helmet long enough to be used to never truly making eye contact with people. Sometimes a person got it right at random, but he could feel the difference – they couldn’t tell. But here you were, your gaze in his casually, like there wasn’t a solid layer between you.

He shrugged, reminding himself to get it together. As you turned back to Cara, he felt like he could breathe again.

Din had heard stories, children’s tales, of catching your soulmate’s eyes across the cantina - or maybe a palace room?, and being drawn together by fate. They were ridiculous, of course, but the very idea that you could bring up the memory was more than jarring.

Still, surely this was a one time thing, and he could forget about it.

For the first few weeks, it seemed like he was right. You rarely directed your gaze in his direction, anyway, being very professional and what he could only assume was shy.

You were more than happy to help with the child sometimes, and you talked freely to Cara, but in his presence you were polite and quiet. All your tasks were completed with efficiency and you would often complete other’s just because of who you were as a person. Normally, this was ideal for him - useless chatter had never been something he was good at. He was more than occupied making sure something was not breaking or mysteriously floating away, or they weren’t in danger. When you offered him silence, he should have been content to do the same, and watch the stars race by.

But… well, Din wasn’t sure he liked that either. Certainly it was strange to feel seen by you, but it felt worse that he could be making you uncomfortable, particularly as his comrade. And the more and more your eyes met his, the more it became exciting, and if maybe he wanted you to be even more than that.

So how could he get more if you hardly ever talked to him? Din shook himself, feeling silly for having zoned out in these thoughts. After all, he didn’t really talk to you, either.

-

After two months traveling with this strange little group, you were more than settled.

It took no time at all: you had hung up a spare scrap of fabric and made a little room for yourself, and the team functioned like a well oiled machine.

You got up before anyone else, this particular day, and were happy to enjoy the quiet sounds of the Crest as you checked everything needed for the day.

“Good morning, Mandalorian,” you heard the weight of his footsteps through the quiet halls. You didn’t even need to turn around, focused on correcting the flight pattern of the ship.

He had not questioned the use of the full title, had hardly questioned you at all. Outside missions, you two had only had a couple of actual conversations which seemed at first to be just fine. But there was a small nagging in the corner of your mind. His armor and helmet made reading his behavior hard, but you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off between you two. His body language was … almost gentle with you, not the same as he was with the little one, but as if he was afraid you’d startle if he wasn’t.

Unbeknownst to you, he had grown to like the way you said Mandalorian. It rolled off your tongue, as if it really was his name, as if you liked to say it. Din had been increasingly nervous about making you feel uncomfortable, awkward in his efforts to learn about you enough to make you stay. The prospect of sharing pieces of himself with you had become an indulgent fantasy, if only he could figure out how to talk to you.

“Good morning,” you could hear the sleep at the edges of his voice, and the softness you’d learned to recognize.

You hummed for a moment, thinking, before adding, “Good morning too you, too, little one.”  You were rewarded with a sleepy little noise, and you smiled as you finished your task before turning towards them both. Thank goodness the child was awake, and you hadn’t caused any problems. His wide eyes were staring at you from above his father's armored forearm, and you smiled. It was these moments you were reminded of mandu – he was being soft.

You looked up to the Mandalorian, half wanting to tell him, but he stiffened: his shoulders rising and back straightening. Biting your lip, you averted your gaze.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” you turned back towards the stars, letting him think in silence for a moment.

“No,” he said, and you both relaxed. Whatever it was between you was gone for now, and you sat together, listening to the child wake up fully and begin to babble. It occurred to you that maybe he relished these moments, the times in which there were no expectations weighing on his shoulders. You wanted to give him more of those, if possible, to thank him for accepting you into his fold. Besides that, you spent much of your work life manipulating people, and you certainly wanted to establish that you weren’t like that here.

“How did you do that?” his voice, clearer now, interrupted your thoughts.

“Do what?” the Mandalorian rarely initiated conversation with you and it caught you off guard.

“How do you know what… is happening? What is going to happen?” he tone was genuinely curious, and you had to think before you responded. Of course, he knew you mostly just took the time to be more observant, instead of throwing yourself in head first. That’s not what he was asking.

“People are the same wherever you go. The more you watch and the closer you listen, the easier they are to predict,” you said, trying to be both brief and candid. “I was almost no one where I come from. One day, I decided instead of hating that, to use it.”

A small, deep, thoughtful hum came from the helmet beside you.

Silence settled over you for awhile before he quietly begin to talk.

Din told you of his people, his creed, and for the very first time you felt as though you were actually getting to know him. It was nice, not being professional.

“Do you ever want to be seen?” the conclusion of his talking was another surprise for you. Of course, this man who had sworn not to have his face shown would wonder at your apparent comfort with it.

The question felt as if it was seeping into your mind as you pondered it. It occured to you that this conversation had made you ache to be seen by him.

“I think everyone wants that, in their own way,” you said, and as you finally turned towards him, he held your gaze and nodded.

-

For someone so smart, it was infuriating how you seemed to completely miss the way he was around you.

Din Djarin, a warrior, had finally mustered up the courage to ask you to help him with a bandage on his lower back. The gentle touches and soft brush of your skin against his were foreign, but wonderful.

Unfortunately for him, you had noticed his awkwardness and assumed it was your fault. Ever the problem solver, you’d found a piece of mirror and rigged some wire to hold cleaning pads. It effectively made it easy for him to patch himself up on his own – and ruined the chance for him to steal your touch.

His previous fear had been wrong – you were not soulmates across the room, instead comrades sharing the same space. You were not exactly story royalty, but in spite of that, he was still falling hopelessly for you.

The way you talked to people – who weren’t bounties – with care and kindness. How good you were at your job, and how nice you made their shared space. How you laughed and rolled with the punches that came with this lifestyle. Din had never met anyone quite like you, and beyond all reason, he wanted to know everything about you, share all of himself with you. But you were so clever and polite it made him want to bang his head against a wall.

He couldn’t stop trying though, to get closer to you. Previously, you and Cara had left him and the child occasionally for a personal missions, and it left his feeling strange the entire three days. When you came back his heart had felt light and he wanted desperately to hold onto that feeling.

It wasn’t the same, when Cara went out for the afternoon a day or two after the patch up incident. In fact, he quite enjoyed the jolt of excitement that came with a whole few hours of potential.

Din couldn’t finish his tasks fast enough, even putting the child down for an early nap before nervously setting out to find you.

As expected, you were settled in the common area, reading through articles on your upcoming bounty. He sat next to you, willing himself not to betray his heart with his behavior and scare you away.

He said your name, his blood pumping even before you met his eyes.

“Yes, Mandalorian?” he had no idea why he was so nervous. He’d rehearsed this moment in his mind, it had been aching to be brought to life.

“You… you can call me Din… Djarin.”

It was not exactly as planned.

You’re eyes, ever in his, were wide.

“Din Djarin,” you said it reverently, before saying, “I promise I will keep it safe.”

He held back a small groan. There you went again, being so considerate he was afraid you’d never actually use it.

The frustration overwhelmed him, filling him with boldness and he pressed into your space insistently.

“No,” he said, “Well, do, but use it, please. I cannot stand you calling me Mandalorian like nothing has changed since we first met. I trust you, use it.”

You were adorable, the fear of his confession was damped by how intoxicating it was to be close to you. His hands found you, turning your body in your seat so you were facing him, and settling on the tops of your shoulders. He gently tugged you into him, encouraged that you didn’t pull away, but relaxed into his touch.

“I don’t want to slip,” you said, your voice barely audible.

The forehead of his helmet was so close to yours, you could feel your breath bouncing off of the mask.

“Please,” he said, and it smashed through all the walls you had created.

“Din Djarin,” you said again, tasting it on your tongue. You felt metal above your eyebrows and realized your eyes had closed, savoring the intimacy of the moment. You didn’t open them, allowing your heart to beat at lightspeed, and the tingles radiating from his gloved hands flow through you.

He was being soft with you.

“What if we compromised?” you could hear the smile in your own voice, and he gave a rumbling hum. You wondered if he was as absorbed in this moment as you were, unable to think straight.

“Mandu,” you murmured.

He was silent for awhile, the only indication he heard you being his palms, which slid to where your shoulders curved into your neck.

You could almost hear him thinking.

“I don’t understand,” he finally said, nearly inaudible. Your hands had reached out for him, one wrapping around the armor on his forearm, the other in the soft fabric on the side of his neck. He was distracted, bliss clouding his brain.

“Dumpling,” you said, and if it were anyone else, he would have thrown you across the room. “When you are being my strong and capable leader, you will be Mandalorian,” you continued, unaware that your words and actions were making his whole body fill with warmth and pride. “When you are being yourself, at home with us, I will call you Mandu – it sounds enough like Mando that no one will know it’s because you are truly soft.” He found himself smiling, despite his embarrassment. For you, he was soft. “And I will call you Din when it is just us, and I can be with you as you are now.”

There was no question that these moments would come again. He had made you give in to reading him completely, without any personal doubts.

“Okay, cyar’ika.”

<<

Taglist: @fangirl-316 @scribbledghost

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S3:E1; Chapter One, Suzie, Do You Copy? - [Pt. 5 - FINAL]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

Summer brings new jobs and budding romance. But the mood shifts when Dustin’s radio picks up a Russian broadcast, and Will senses something is wrong.

a.n: thank you guys so much for waiting, I know it must have frustrating but I don't regret taking time off. FYI i ended up skipping some scenes like Hopper's talk with Mike and Joyce going home cause I just kept getting stuck

||𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

Dustin is the first to reach the top of the hill, his sister, the last. And when she does, she hastily unhooks the bag from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground before she does.

"We made it!" Dustin happily declares, choosing to ignore the bitter attitude of his cranky and overheated friends.

"Yeah, only took five hours." Max sighs, dumping her weight on the grass beside Y/n who buried her heated face in the cool grass.

"Quick," Y/n groaned, rolling herself over onto her back. "someone... water. I'm gonna be a raisin soon... please,"

Lucas's face lit up at the mention and instinctively he dropped the bag off of his shoulder and retrieved their shared canteen of water. Y/n's eyes fluttered closed and a frail smile strung across her face when she saw this. Lazily, she reached for it, expecting Lucas to hand her the refreshments she had asked for.

But a frown quickly flew across her face when she heard the flat splashing of water on grass and the obnoxious sound of guzzling. Hesitating against the downpour of golden sunlight into her eyesight, she allowed her eyelids to unscrew just enough to see Lucas downing the rest of the group's water.

Her lips drew back into a snarl, ready to chastise the boy, but her friend had beat her to the punch.

"Did you seriously just drink the rest of our water?" Max deadpans, her icy glare piercing Lucas.

"Nope," Answered Y/n from her spot on the grass, eyes peeling open again to scowl at Lucas. "I know for a fact he wouldn't do that, Max, cause that would mean I'd have to kick his ass."

Lucas cautiously met her eye, his puffed-out cheeks filled with water slowly drained themselves back into the canteen leaving behind a sheepish smile. He held out the container for Max, then Y/n as a peace offering. All he was met with were tired glowers.

"That's it. Your ass is grass, Sinclair," Y/n seethed, no real threat behind her words. Or her actions, as she showed no signs of moving other than the depleting motion of her tired heaving from her spot on the grass and a lazy pointed finger hanging in the air in his direction. It fell back to the ground. "You know, after I get up. The moment I do, it's over for you,"

Despite the creeping smirk, Max rolled her eyes at the duo as she grabbed for the duffle bag she had previously been carrying.

"Is it just me," she addresses the group as she unpacks, her mischievous smirk blossoming on her pink cheeks. "or has Y/n gotten meaner?"

Everyone shares a hum of laughter that floats amongst them, including Y/n who smiles to herself pleased, her eyes once again closed.

Unknowingly, Dustin does the same as he unpacks his duffle. A fleeting sense of deja vu passes over him.

"Yeah, it's my probably my fault," he says, beginning to put the first pieces of the Cerebro together. "all that time we spend with 'that douchebag' Steve Harrington,"

"Hey," pipes Y/n shortly. Thinking of the running joke that had started up earlier in the year thanks to Robin, her voice falls into a mocking tone. "don't talk about mom like that, Dustin."

Dustin gives her a funny look before ultimately rolling his eyes as she laughs quietly to herself. The sight drew a smile on Will's face and he briefly paused his unpacking to smile at her, then shook his head returning to work.

"Weirdo," Dustin mumbles. "Alright, sunbathing time is over. Come on. Get up and help us!"

It's Y/n's turn to roll her eyes and she does so with another impressive groan, though she does comply. She rolls herself over and sits herself up so she is sitting on her folded legs, and gets to work on the bag she had previously discarded.

What members of the party remain pull together underneath the setting sun and got to work. Under Dustin's word, the team was able to make quick work of the scraps they had lugged with them.

Lucas, Max, and Dustin took up the work of assembling the base of the radio antenna as Will and Y/n got to work dismantling several bare umbrellas for the makeshift directors. Dustin, who had been so engrossed in his work, had gotten to his third strip of tinfoil only to realize the roll was running thin and that Y/n had been sneaking strips to make various types of hats; one shaped like a baseball cap resting on her head, the second on Will's was shaped like a wizards cap to match Will the Wise, and a third, half-finished cowboy hat sat tucked away behind her back on the grass when Dustin's suspicions grew.

Dustin had learned better with the duct tape; keeping it on his person and only distributing it to those who asked. And he had been so caught up in it guarding the duck tape to avoid another incident he failed to stop the first.

After finishing her section of Cerebro, Y/n had gotten to work on her "side project", this one in the shape of a bucket hat for Max. Dustin tried to scold her again, but she knew they were just about one strip of duct tape away from finishing.

After some conniving on Max and Y/n's part—out of an act of spite, Max defiantly accepted the cap with honor as Y/n placed it on her head, both of them glaring at Dustin—the party came together to hoist the now finished Cerebro into the summer air.

"Pretty impressive, right?" Dustin declares as they all gaze up at their finished work.

Several of them nod.

"Now," he says, all but throwing himself on the grass beside the receiver. "ready to meet my love?"

Dustin is met with scattered agreement.

"Yeah,"

"Sure,"

"Go ahead,"

Y/n, however gladly takes a seat across from her brother, stretching herself out in the grass as she finally enjoys the absence of work in the sun. "Dustin, as your sister, I can honestly say that I have been waiting for this moment all my life. Fair warning though, I will be talking her ear off."

A hopeful grin touches Dustin, slowing blooming on his face. And despite her next words, he finds himself laughing a little.

"But I'm afraid I can't promise I won't be telling her anything and everything embarrassing about you."

His face falls flat, a hint of playfulness still lingering. And as he does so, Will gives into Y/n's lead and takes a seat beside her in the grass. Dustin only narrows his eyes at the pair.

"Telling you really was a mistake, wasn't it?"

Y/n breaks out in a devilish grin and she is unable to stop the quiet cackle that tumbles out of her, yet still it turns Will's insides to jelly. He, like his friends, had been watching the siblings' exchange with great amusement.

"Yes," she agrees, eagerly. "yes it was."

Dustin rolls his eyes before bringing the device up to his mouth, his fingers already on the speaker button.

"Suzie, this is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

A silence falls over the group as they wait, the only sounds to fill it are the crackling of the Cerebro's interference and the sweet sounds of nature that put even Max at ease. But no response comes.

Dustin shrugs it off, scratching his nose nervously as he mutters softly up to his waiting friends.

"One sec. She's probably... She's still there," he smiles, turning back to the speaker in his hand. "Suzie... This is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

The others begin to shift uncomfortably where they stand; the awkward tension growing heavy in the air and they share uneasy glances outside of Dustin's field of vision.

"I'm sure she's there," says Dustin, his voice so soft and quiet it was nearly carried away by the breeze. "You know, maybe, she's just like, busy or--"

"Yeah," Lucas quickly agrees, avoiding eye contact and adjusting his cowboy hat.

"You know, it's around dinner time."

Everyone is quick to mumble an agreement, and Y/n, desperate for something to keep her busy and her mind off of whatever was happening mindlessly pulled a pack of gum from her pockets. Her eyes were fixed on a random spot in the grass as she unwrapped a bit of f/f gum and slipped into her mouth. Before putting the packet back, she just as mindlessly pulls another slip and offers one to Max who gladly accepts.

"Suzie," Dustin tries again. "this is Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

Will watched Dustin continue his efforts to contact his girlfriend and couldn't help but note the bit of sadness growing in his chest at the sight. Dustin seemed so hopeful, and to see—

The spiraling thought was interrupted when he felt something move his hair; he smiled when he realized Y/n was readjusting the tinfoil wizard's cap on his head that had been slipping. He breathed a quiet laugh, watching her lips twitch up in a smile as she readjusts a few strands of hair she had messed up

"Suzie, do you copy? This is Dustin. Over."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"...do you copy? Over."

The summer moonlight spilled out onto the hill still occupied by five of seven party members; Max and Lucas, who lie on their backs side by side as they stargaze together while Dustin was still at Cerebro. Will—like his friends—wanted to make most of the scenery and found himself sprawled on his back in the grass. The back of his head was resting on Y/n's leg as she mindlessly played with his hair, her stare a million miles away. His eyes began to flutter closed having grown content by her warm and soothing touch.

"Suzie! This is Dustin, do you copy? Over."

The breeze picked up in a pleasant wave, making the trees sing around them. And it was gentle enough to pull Y/n from her thoughts, and back on her brother.

"Suzie, this is your Dustin. Do you copy? Over."

It dawned on her just how hard it was to see him in the darkness, and it hit her just how long they had been there. As her fingers continued to fiddle with Will's bangs, her downcast eyes landed on his face; the sight of him in a state of such relaxation put a smile on her face and a warm feeling in her chest.

He had been through so much for so long and was given so little time to readjust. This was one of the many reasons she enjoyed planning campaigns with him; he was always in his element, supercharged and bursting with ideas. That is when he could manage not to lose concentration whenever a love song came on the radio that didn't make him all dopey and lovesick.

At the thought, Y/n felt a heat creep all over her skin as it always did whenever she thought about Will—but she knew it had nothing to do with her powers. It was just Will. And his innate ability to lift her spirits higher than the skyline while simultaneously bringing her back down to earth; A superpower all his own.

Just as it had happened only just the other night with Will, the lovesick gaze holding her hostage was broken when the other took notice.

"What?" Will whispered up to her in a funny smile.

The softness in his voice pulled Y/n back down and into reality where she was faced with the embarrassing truth of being caught. She shook her head with a simper, a mischievous idea blooming in her mind as one hand crept out of sight and curled around the discarded tinfoil hat he placed in the grass.

"Nothing," she whispered, shrugging. Y/n scrunched her nose as she put on a silly look of fake disgust. "Just getting tired of this ugly mug is all,"

She placed the tinfoil hat over his face where it wobbled, threatening to fall. Y/n smiled again, breathing a laugh through her nose as he laid there still. Oh, so easily she could imagine the unimpressed look now plastered on his face.

"Funny," came his muffled, echoed response.

"Right?"

"Suzie, this is—"

"Dustin!" Cried Max suddenly. Her frustration had been growing with every call and it was a wonder she hadn't broken yet. "Come on! She isn't there."

"She's there, alright?" Dustin argued. "She'll pick up,"

Will craned his head up to look at the disturbance and in doing so sent the tinfoil dunce cap tumbling off his face and back into the grass.

"Maybe Cerebro isn't working?" Will offered.

"Or maybe Suzie doesn't exist," wondered a greatly agitated Lucas.

"She exists!" Dustin defended, the pitch of his voice rising as he got more defensive.

"She's a genius AND she's hotter than Phoebe Cates?" Lucas countered. "No girl is that perfect."

Max shot up from her spot in the grass and cast down a look at her boyfriend.

"Is that so?"

Lucas is quick to back peddle and throws himself into a sitting position with a growing look of concern.

"I mean," Lucas stammers. "you're perfect. I mean, you-you're per—I mean like you're perfect in your special way—you're own special way."

Max finally releases the laugh she had been holding in and shakes her head. "Relax, I was teasing. I'm obviously perfect and Dustin is obviously lying."

"Max," Y/n sighs. Her eyes flickering sympathetically to her brother who is downcast.

But Max doesn't think much of it and climbs to her feet. She throws her hand out for Lucas to take and pulls him to his feet. "Come on, Don Juan."

Together they start down the hill, prompting the final couple remaining to follow as they pick up the pieces left behind.

"Where are you going?" Dustin calls out to Max and Lucas.

The redhead barely throws a look over her shoulders as they retreat. "Home,"

Y/n watches with great disappointment as they retreat down the hill. She finally broke away when Will offered his hand from where he was standing.

"Well, guess it's just us," says Dustin longingly, not yet realizing they too were heading out.

"Um," he checks his watch, wincing at the timing. Like his girlfriend, he sends Dustin an apologetic look. "it's late. I'm sorry."

Dustin doesn't bother to hide his disappointment, but Will perks up with a hopeful smile. "But maybe tomorrow we can play D&D?" He flashes a smile to Y/n. "We've been working on a campaign lately. We've been dying to show you, we think you'd like it."

Y/n nods eagerly. "Yeah, and maybe you can tell us more about Suzie?"

"Yeah," Her brother nods, sad eyes still locked on the grass and limply his shoulders rise in a shrug. "sure."

Will tries again, giving his friend an earnest smile. "Welcome home,"

Dustin nods again and Will begins down the hill. He looks back when Y/n's hand slips out of his own to see her lingering. "I'll catch up in a minute,"

Will nods and starts after his friends leaving the Henderson siblings alone. Dustin is the first to break the ice, his voice sullen.

"She is real, you know," he mumbles, head nearly sagging all the way to the grass.

"I believe you, Dustin," says Y/n. She gestures to Will's retreating form with a gentle smile. "We both do."

His mood doesn't lift but Dustin's gaze does curiously. He's surprised to find nothing but sincerity in her eyes.

"I'm sorry about today. I really am. We were really looking forward to it," pessimism flashes across her face. "well, I know Will and I were."

"Is that why you guys are leaving?" He can't help but ask bitterly, making Y/n frown.

"You know it's not like that," subconsciously she starts fiddling with her watch to take away from the worry that had been growing all day. Her gaze stays on Will and the longer it does the more obvious it is she's scared. "It really is getting late and... Well, honestly I think something's bothering him. Like there's something he's not telling me. I don't know, it could be nothing but I'd feel better if I saw him home."

"I guess I can't blame you for being careful with him. I just— I guess I pictured today going a lot differently."

Y/n nods. "I did too."

A small silence falls between them. It's filled with nothing but unsaid words and the melodic choir of crickets singing to the night sky.

"For what it's worth, I know I've been teasing you pretty bad but... I am really excited to meet Suzie. I'm sure she's great,"

"Thanks," For the first time since before the sun had set, Dustin's lips hook upward in a threat to smile. "She is..."

"Get home safe, Romeo," Y/n quips. When he sends her a soft 'you too' she decides it's gotten too chummy and impulsively she yanks his hat over his eyes, chuckling at the look on his face.

Dustin chuckles under his breath and eagerly fixes his hat just in time to watch Y/n scurry down the hill to catch up with Will.

"You too," he mumbles more to himself than anything.

He watches as Y/n casts one apologetic look over her shoulder and that's that. He now stands alone on the hill next to the homemade radio tower, watching sadly as everyone leaves. It's nearly enough to break the dam of tears he can feel collecting in his eyes but he perseveres.

And nearly jumps out of his skin when the transceiver comes to life. It angrily spits out static and Dustin throws himself to the ground, making a grab for the speaker.

"Suzie? Suzie is that you?"

A voice can be heard here and there; not the voice of his beloved Suzie but much deeper, and unmistakably Russain. He snaps himself out of his daze and makes quick work of doing his best to clear the interference. His assessment was right; the voice was Russian, and it calmly spoke a string of words he wished desperately to understand. And yet, no matter how confusing, he can't help but feel his skin crawl with excitement when he realizes...

Cerebro had just intercepted a top-secret Russian transmission. Arguably the most vital piece in the puzzle of what would come to be known as the most important summer of their young lives.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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[internalsealpanic]

The Mechanics of Living part 2

Summary:  You trick Tim into going to a closed-off sector. Things go well. a/n: I will be doing a director’s cut for this is anyone is interested (by anyone I mean @glorified-red) Warnings: very slight body horror and gore 

Main Masterlist

Tim Drake Masterlist

It was easiest to just tell Tim all the facts rather than rely on the goodwill you've built in 3 years to persuade him.

There's a reason sector 4-D was cordoned off last year. For some unknown reason, a section that had been little more than a concrete wasteland started teeming with infected life.

People say it was an abomination (An unidentifiable, Tim corrected but you still think abomination captured the appropriate dramatic for that.)  that wandered in from farther in the waste. Some people say it was one of Bludhaven's beasts they let loose. You highly doubt Bludhaven was in any shape to contain whatever it is ravaging sector 4-D. After all, it wasn't in any better shape than Gotham was at the moment. You doubt it's ever been in better shape. They're like two cities constantly caught in this vortex of awfulness, looking at each other from two different sides thinking 'poor bastards'.

Sector 4-D was an easy hunting ground where young scavengers got their feet wet before they could move on. Now it was a dead zone, a dead zone with too much potential to pass up.

Like every sector, sector 4 was vast and unexplored and supposedly, there had been a library there. A building full of books and most importantly, medical textbooks.

You feel a little bad plucking at Tim's heartstrings when all you cared about was the payout. Appealing to the guy's sense of responsibility was kind of cheating but-- BUT! The specified textbooks do have stuff about bacteria and illnesses so you aren't really overstating their importance.

You try to push down the number of zeroes the man had shown you as you zip past a rusted sign.

You don't really trust anyone other than Tim to help you with this. Besides, all the other people who won't stab you after cashing in the reward probably don't know half as many words as Tim so you'll definitely need him to get the right books.

You stare at the rows of cars before you. They're overrun with weeds and vines and rust. A stark reminder that your Gotham is just a fraction of what it had been. You stop your bike in front of a taxi with a faded yellow body.

"This is it. This is where your life as an adventurer begins."

You swallow back the wave of nostalgia, letting the bike roll past it into the mess of cars to keep it a little more hidden. It isn't illegal to go to this sector yet. At least not when you checked but you really don't wanna gamble your Scavenger's license on clerical errors by either of your guilds.

Tim steps out of the sidecar, careful not to jostle Basil in his bag. You want to point out that you should probably wake the cat up otherwise you were wasting food on him but you knew better than to expect cooperation from Tim's fur ball from hell.

“So which theory about the illness do you think is the most plausible?” He asks, tucking the walkman away. You both thought it was stupid name but you didn’t really wanna question the teller. “The one that involves the least aliens.” You pause, narrowing your eyes at Tim whose hand is currently being eaten by his cat. “Or alien adjacent things.”

“So, you're one of those people who thinks the government did it.” Tim is *such* a little shit. Maybe that’s why his guild master gave him the most useless cat on the planet. Grade A my ass, you think staring at the furball nipping at his knuckles.

“Not on purpose, no.”

Tim raises a brow. “I didn't know you had that much faith in humanity.”

“Pffff, I think they just fucked up.”  

“Here, I was accusing you of being optimistic.”

“A mistake really.”

You two come to a crossroads.  A giant large yellow lantern hangs in the middle of the street, swaying listlessly in the air. It’s strange.

“Do you think the people in the old world used those to scare away the sick?”

“If they did,” he looks around, “it didn't work.”

Your eyes flit over the area.  Stone walls crumble, vegetation willing in the cracks. Still, even with the overgrowth of life, the city feels hollowed out. Nearly a decade ago, you’d first laid a hand on one of the stone arches of the city hall just down by main street. Nearly a decade ago, you felt the stone crumble beneath the pads of your fingers. Nearly a decade ago, you had come the closest to knowing what it was like having the sickness. Even one of the great cities had been reduced to a fraction of its size.

“Do you think the color of the light matters?” Tim asks, pointing again to the lamp.

You squint. You hadn’t noticed it at first but yeah, the color of the lights was different.

“Maybe,” you tilt your head, “or maybe the people from before were just idiots.”

“You just have a bad opinion of them, don’t you?”

“Like you don’t.” You shoot back, tapping your bat against your boot.

Tim rolls his eyes and shrugs.

You try to smile at that but something’s wrong. Your skin bristling, the air is stale despite the wind. You watch the lantern sway back and forth, the thin wires holding it up, fragile and precarious. A bad feeling crawls up your spine.

There’s a pressure in the air, the atmosphere turning into a vacuum.

Basil hisses, looking as vicious as he can.

The wind stops.

The skittering voices rise like the fluttering of locust wings.

A writhing mass, pulsing and menacing, blots out the horizon. It opens its maw to wheeze and the stench of rot floods the air. Your insides curdle and wilt from the intensity of the putrid odor. Once the *thing* draws another breath, the skittering begins again and this time you know where it’s from.

You can see it in the way its neck twists and undulates, its rotting flesh rippling as the fragmented voices rasp out of its throat. Its limbs, deformed, move unnaturally as it ambles towards you.

You stare at it. Your limbs unmoving. That thing *is* an unidentifiable. In all technicality, it fits the neat taxonomy laid out by experts. It is neither man nor beast. Its form corrupted beyond recognition. It’s rotting and shambling. But the thing you are looking at cannot simply be sorted neatly because it is what it is.  

A creature that god himself did not touch.

An abomination.

You splay a hand on Tim’s chest, pushing him back lightly.  Glancing at each other, you nod as you slowly step back into an alley. You quietly curse Gotham’s gloomy weather for the thing’s appearance. You thought you would have at least ‘til sundown to look for loot before having to flee to a safer sector. But when in Gotham, nothing is ever certain even the rising of the sun.

All you have to do is be quiet. Easy enough. Being silent is the first thing you learn to be in this world.

It blinks at you.

It. Blinks. At. *You.*

Your heart stops, the blood running in your veins turning into lead.

Dozens of eyes blink at you. They’re not all human from the looks of them. It opens its maw again, your muscles bunch up in anticipation of its miasmal breath. The discordant voices coming from its mouth coalesce into a horrible sob.

Tim grabs your wrist and pivots towards an alley. The sudden change in movement shocks your body awake. You scoop Basil up and bolt down the alley, letting Tim lead the way.

Desperately, You try to concentrate on the scuff of your shoes against pavement instead of the creak of limbs and the plop of flesh as it drips off the creature. The pinching of Tim’s features tells you he’s doing the same.

You round the corner, shoulder hitting brick, narrowly avoiding dozens of hands reaching for you. Basil yowls and hisses and you would apologize but your shoulder is screaming at you and goddammit Basil, we have bigger issues.  

You and Tim squeeze into a space between the buildings seemingly too small for that thing’s gelatinous form. You make the mistake of looking back only to see its limbs skitter up the building and down the other end of the alley. It smiles at you, rows of teeth glittering in the sparse light.

This was it.

This is where your life ends.

Where else is there to go?

You expect the acceptance to come in like a flood or relief. Life was hard with very little room for breath. Scraping by, tooth and nail, knuckles bleeding for every scrap of stability. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You suddenly feel so tired like the adrenaline had been keeping you together for the past few years. Acceptance should have come easy.

But it doesn’t.

You open your eyes to glance at Tim, finally resignation sets. His features are still pinched and his hand is trembling beside yours. You really did screw this one up big time, huh?

You bite your cheek.

Watching Tim’s mind work, you know you have to keep him alive. You squeeze Tim's hand. He narrows his eyes at you. You give him a crooked smile and let his hand fall.

You pivot, foot pushing against the pavement as you launch yourself to the other end of the alley.

If your estimates are correct, you can buy him 15 minutes. 15 minutes would be more than enough for him to make it back to the bike--

Tim yanks on your hood, throwing open a door. The creature howls as Tim hurls both of you into the building.

"What the heck was that?!" Tim screams.

"A Dick." You answer, rubbing your head. fuck. Tim could throw.

"No! You were being fucking stupid."

You scowl at him in the dark. "Thanks Tim. I get it."

"No, you don't!"

"Can we argue--"

The door rattles and shakes. A fist-shaped dent embeds itself on the metal door. You glance at each other before scrambling towards the very safe-looking stairs.

You fly up the steps like hell was on your heels and as far as you're concerned, it was. You wrench Tim's bag from him and you're half tempted to throw him over your shoulder as well but you're not sure the stare case can hold that much weight.

If you climb to the roof--  If you... climb... It can climb. Fuck.

You and Tim seem to come to the same conclusion as you throw yourselves into another door.

You shove a sofa in front of the door and sit on it.

"Please tell me you've miraculously come up with a plan." You hiss glancing over to Tim who's staring at the window.

He glances over his shoulder to look at you. "If I could pull off miracles, you wouldn't be so dumb."

You sigh. Ok, yeah. He has every right to be mad. It was an incredibly stupid move but it's a numbers game and yeah.

Tim runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He needs to come up with something. He glances out the window. He walks over and leans out the window.

"We should jump."

"Would you like to elaborate?" You wheeze, still not really letting go of a

"Follow me."

"Tim, I have never trusted you less in my life." You snort, quietly. But you make your way to the window.  You set Basil down and look at what Tim is pointing to. There's a dumpster filled to the brim with trash. There doesn't seem to be any infected mice in there and the road to the right is a straight shot back to the bike.

You lick your lips.

"So we're on the same page."

"Uh, if that means what I think it means then yes."

Tim lets out a breath as he opens the window as quietly as possible. You listen to the steady beat of limbs thumping against the wood. You hold a collective breath. The window clicks into place with a loud snikt.

The thumping stops.

You practically shove Tim out the window while you stare at the door. It rattles and shakes.  A screech erupts the stairwell as you jump out the window. You land with a thump, sinking beneath the mounds of plastic.

Your heart is hammering and pressing into your throat. Its beat is in sync with the steady thump of the limbs. The wet squelching of rotting flesh scraping against the rusted metal of the dumpster. You want to heave but Tim shoves a hand in your face. You gag silently. Tim's hand smells putrid from the trash.

You hold your breaths until the thumping goes away. You don't dare breathe until Basil settles down.

You fall limp against the trash. Your limbs feel like jelly. You gag. Thinking about jelly right now is probably the worst thing for your health.

Tim nudges you with his foot. You turn your body over as quietly as you can.

You watch him make shapes with his hands. You frown.   You cycle through your memory trying to remember what the gestures mean then let go of Basil when you do.

Basil rises from the trash, padding against the plastic.

When you hear Basil jump down to the pavement, you dig your way out of the trash.

"For the record, I hate your plans." You say, gagging.

"What was yours?" Tim fires back, dusting his hair.

"..."

"Just what I thought."

You're the first to climb out, holding your arms out to him mockingly. He silently threatens to curb stomp your face. You snort and tuck your hands to your side.

Thankfully, you make it to the bike without incident.

Tim tucks his body into the sidecar, occupying himself by comforting Basil. You hand him a bat as you start the bike.

"Just in case."

You kick the bike into gear as you two ride into the sunset.

You breathe a quiet breath, letting your eyes slip shut for a moment. The road is clear for about 14 breaths.  That’s all you want to think about.

At the fourteenth breath, you open your eyes to an open expanse of road, endless and breathtaking. You turn to Tim and laugh. He gives you a sour look. You’ll just buy both of you some canned pineapples later and he’ll maybe forgive you. Basil certainly does as he doesn’t participate in Tim’s sour protest, opting instead to crawl into Tim’s bag.

Then you hear it above the roar of the engine.

The skittering.

Voices like the fluttering of wings.

It screeches, the raspy cry making your skin crawl. You don’t wanna look back. You don’t want to see the unnatural movement of its body as it bounds towards you.

You kick the bike to a higher gear. The engine will hate you but you can’t repair it if you’re dead.

The bike slows down. Tim stands up raising your bat over his head, bringing it down. It does not clang. The sound is squishier and moist. Your stomach rebels. Hazarding a glance behind you, you see the writhing mass holding onto your bike.

“TIM,” you shout.

“I--” Swing “-- AM--” Swing “--A LITTLE--” Swing “--BUSY!” “THERE’S A CAN OF HAIRSPRAY IN MY DUFFLE.”  

Tim ducks down, throwing you the bat. You swing wildly at the creature, summoning up a truly impressive bout of swearing.

Tim sprang up, nearly falling off the sidecar if not for you grabbing his shirt. Tim flicked the lighter, pressing down on the nozzle of the spray, and unleashing fire on the beast. The thing cries, voice shattering as it burns. You watch its flesh burn. Oh, what a pleasure it was to see it burn.

"We are never doing this again!" Tim wheezes.

"Of definitely fucking not." You bark, kicking the bike to a higher gear. The purring of the engine sounds like music to your ears.

"We are definitely doing easy sectors by a bit." You laugh.

When you don’t hear a snarky remark, you glance to your sidecar. Tim is slumped into his seat, breathing hard. You raise your brow but turn your attention to the road.  You shake him. You shake him again and again.

Tim doesn't respond.

You pull your hand away and it’s slick with blood.

______________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading!!!!

Tag list:  @batarella​, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @bungunz​ , @birdy-bat-writes​,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell   @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red @ marshmallow12435 @vvipgot7be​ @jadedhillon​ @notsostraightweeb​

[littleoldrachel]

"how much did you drink?"

for the utterly wonderful @gumnut-logic who asked for how much did you drink? with virgil and scott from this prompt list. tysm my lovely 💚💚💚💚 this ran away from me a bit and i am Not Sure but i hope you still enjoy!

[if you wanna prompt me, hmu! but beware i am slooooow]

Scott slinks through the sliding doors, relishing the cooling sweat on his skin as the sky begins its raspberry ripple across the tropical island. His dawn runs are the only time he gets to really be - he loves his family with everything he has and more, but that half hour with just the consistent crunch of earth beneath his feet is his own perfect sanctuary.

And goodness knows he needs it after the past couple of days.

A flash of Alan’s terrified face as the grapple line gave way and he’d plunged -

Scott screws up his face, crumpling the image like one of Virgil’s discarded “rubbish” (read: brilliant, if rough around the edges) sketches.

Speaking of which, it’s time for Scott to do the rounds and check in on his sleeping brothers.

There’s Alan, sprawled haphazardly across the floor of his bedroom - the only sign of his near-death encounter in the careful bandaging around his forearm (“I can too still game like this, Scott, I’m not balancing the controller on my wrists??”). Gordon too, is starfished on his duvet, but beginning to stir as fractured sunlight dances across his room.

Virgil, however - most unusually - is not burritoed in blankets, which sets Scott’s choir of alarm bells ringing. He hesitates, then sighs, patching through to Thunderbird Five even as he makes his way to Virgil’s studio (also empty).

“John?” he asks quietly, because John works on an unpredictable sleep schedule that gives Scott more stress than he cares to admit, but he would like John to be sleeping right now.

“John is sleeping, Commander. May I be of service?” EOS’ voice is more than a little grating in comparison to the bird song that floats through Virgil’s open windows. Scott resists the urge to grit his teeth - he is trying, okay?

“EOS. Hi.” He rubs his chin, eyes catching on the top sketch of Virgil’s messy pile: Thunderbird One streaking across a stormy sky mid-lightning strike. “Can you tell me where Virgil is?”

“Virgil is in the hangars, where he has been for the last thirteen and a half hours,” EOS says primly.

Scott’s head snaps up, even though there’s nobody there to stare at. “What? Did he fall asleep down there?”

“No, Commander, he is very much awake.” There’s something in her tone that riles him up, a pre-rehearsed nature to it, but he deliberately sets it aside for Future Scott. He’s given a curt thanks to EOS before he’s even registered that he’s striding down to the hangars, concern driving him with a speed usually reserved for rescues.

He hears Virgil before he sees him, a loud swear and a clatter of tools as he’s rounding the corner into the workshop.

Virgil is kneeling over a workbench, picking glumly through the jumble of parts skidding across the surface. Dark brows knitted tight, skin pale beneath fluorescent white lights, a graveyard of abandoned mechanisms, drained mugs, and scraps of graph paper all around him.

"Virgil."

It comes out a little sharper than intended, slicing through the silent workshop and causing Virgil to start violently.

"Scott! What are you doing here?"

"I came to ask you the same thing?"

"I'm…" Virgil gestures vaguely at the chaotic work surface. "Fixing."

"Have you had any sleep?

Virgil frowns. "I'm fine, it's not that late yet."

Scott stares, concern steadily rising. Virgil is known for losing track of time when absorbed in a task, but only usually with his art, and only for this period of time when he's upset, working something through, or...

Only then does Scott take in the way Virgil's hands tremble around the pieces of metal in his fingers, the jittering beat of his leg like helicopter wings, and slight dampness of the unstyled waves of hair across his forehead. He blinks at Scott, squinting a little in that way that Scott knows means a killer headache is brewing.

Methodically, the Commander of International Rescue surveys the room, searching for the source of the issue. His eyes land on the culprit: a coffee-stained jug, completely drained save the dregs of coffee grounds plastering the sides of the container.

It’s a big jug.

Scott swears.

“Virg. How much did you drink?”

Virgil’s eyes dart all over, not resting for a second on Scott’s face. “I - I don’t know. I just had some whenever I got tired and now I’m-” He wrings his hands, sending metal parts spilling from his palms.

“But why? What the hell were you thinking?” Scott’s tone is chiding, too harsh, and he makes a deliberate effort to reign in the reprimand that’s rearing up inside him.

“I just... “ Virgil swallows, meeting his eyes for a moment, looking away at the disappointment there. “I just needed to understand what happened to the grapple lines. To make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Oh, Virg.

Scott softens, Commander melting back into Protective Big Brother because he gets it. God knows he gets it. He steps towards Virgil, wraps a hand around his elbow, feels it shake beneath his touch.

But why like this, Virgil?

“For thirteen hours?”

Virgil blinks and the genuine surprise in his eyes is enough that Scott accepts that this wasn’t a deliberate act of self-destruction and that loosens the anxious knot in his chest a little.

“I didn’t mean -”

“I know.”

Virgil ducks. “I just needed to find out -”

“I know.”

Virgil bites his lip, and Scott knows the image of their littlest brother’s panicked face is stuck on repeat in his mind. Scott closes his eyes, allows the video to roll in his own head, and the pain that rips through his chest has him tugging Virgil into his arms for a hug. Big as he is, Virgil is never one to say no to a hug, and he folds himself into Scott’s chest with a sigh. Scott can still feel the tension thrumming through Virgil’s body, and he instinctively tightens his grip.

Trust Virgil to hurt himself with his bean-juice addiction. Frankly, they’re lucky this hasn’t happened before with the amount of the stuff he pours into his body.

“I know I’m not having a heart attack, but -”

“You know I love it when you begin a sentence like that -”

Virgil tries to laugh but it comes out a little shaky. "Shut it, you." He rests his head on Scott's shoulder. "My heart is going so fast it hurts. Feels like a goddamn panic attack."

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

“Mild caffeine overdose,” Virgil’s voice comes out muffled. “Sorry.”

“Mild. Caffeine. Overdose.”

Virgil laughs again, a little surer this time and pulls back from the hug. “I’ll be okay. Just gonna feel horrible for a bit, I think.”

“You think. Let’s see if Grandma agrees.”

“No! Let her have her time away - this is - it’s stupid. I’m fine.”

Scott gives him a Look, but Virgil glowers right back.

Scott loves him, but Jesus, does he wish he could trust Virgil to be honest with him about his health.

“Don’t make me set you up in the infirmary. You know I’m not bluffing.”

The glare intensifies. “I’m fine, Scott.”

Scott resists the urge to roll his eyes with a truly Herculean effort. “I want to do a scan, just to be sure.” “Scott -”

He plays the trump card (regrets playing it at the look on Virgil’s face, but needs must). “I could have lost Allie too, Virg. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Virgil sags. He taps his watch. “EOS?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“Please can you pull up my vitals for my dear big brother to fret over?”

“Of course, Virgil. Though I don’t understand why you want Scott to fret, he seems grumpy en-”

“Thank you, EOS.”

A holograph flickers into view, and Scott scans them, relaxing slightly at the lack of danger. Virgil’s heart rate is too high, as expected, and he’s dehydrated and exhausted, but otherwise, he really does seem okay. Still, Scott knows how dangerous dehydration and exhaustion can be, and more to the point, so does Virgil.

“You’re a stubborn idiot, you know that, right?”

“I learned from the best.” Virgil’s smile is teasing, but he’s okay, and Scott releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, Scooter, whatever you say.” Scott glares. “Right. You’re grounded for at least a day -” To his credit, Virgil only looks a little crestfallen. “- And you’re going to rest.”

Scott can practically see the cogs turning in his brother’s mind as he seeks a loophole or way to escape, but for now, he’s going to ignore it. Another problem for Future Scott, poor guy …

“Let’s go. Up to the lounge, now.”

“I should clear up -”

“Nuh-uh. Lounge. Now.”

Virgil lets out a loud sigh, and with much griping about leaving the workshop messy for Brains, leads the way up to the lounge. Scott follows closely, eyeing how Virgil’s feet drag with exhaustion even as his fingers tap away with restless energy.

Scott deposits him on one of the couches, tosses a throw over him, and resists the urge to tuck him in, but only because -

“I’m not sick, Scott. I’m okay! This isn’t necessary,” Virgil calls after him. Scott returns seconds later, a glass full of water.

“Drink all of this. And then have these.” Scott drops two electrolyte tabs beside Virgil. “Now excuse me, but I’m going to consult a qualified medical opinion before I believe you.”

“I am a qualified medical opinion -”

“- Who hasn’t overdosed on caffeine this morning.”

Virgil scowls. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

*****

Scott returns with Gordon, whose concerned professionalism quickly morphs into a shit-eating grin when it becomes apparent that actually, Virgil - for all his brilliance and talent - is an idiot.

But he’s surprisingly gentle when he fetches Virgil another glass of water and suitably soothing as they take a calm stroll around the flatter paths of the island to help Virgil burn some restless energy. The waft of pancakes draws them back into the lounge where Scott has stacked up thick, fluffy pancakes that melt on their tongues and warm them inside out.

By now, Virgil is visibly less shaky, and Gordon’s concern has dissipated to the extent that he blatantly steals three pancakes off Virgil’s plate. To be fair, Virgil probably doesn’t need six pancakes, but still. It’s the principle of the matter.

Scott - bless his heart - has also queued up the latest series of the ocean documentary that Gordon and Virgil gush over, but that Scott himself finds mind-numbing. The three of them squash together on one sofa, chomping pancakes and squabbling over blankets as the sun rises on another beautiful day.

Alan strolls in, nose first and still half-asleep. “Pancakes?” he says hopefully.

He catches sight of Virgil and seems to shake himself awake immediately. “Virgil? What the hell are you doing up?”

“Language,” Scott says thickly, the effect lessened by the mouthful of pancake and chocolate spread inside it.

“What the heck,” Alan waves a dismissive hand. “It’s barely ten, Virg?”

“Tell him what you’ve gone and done,” Scott says, because damn straight is he going to hold onto this one the next time Virgil’s yelling at him for taking a stupid risk. Well, at least I can drink coffee without poisoning myself, Virgil can just hear it now. .

“I drank too much coffee,” Virgil tells the ceiling.

“Sorry, V,” Gordon says, his smile wicked. “Allie didn’t quite catch that.”

Virgil sighs. “I overdosed on caffeine,” he says loudly.

“That’s a thing?!” Alan splutters. And then he bursts out laughing and Virgil wants to glare because he’s exhausted and his head is throbbing and there’s an anxious wriggle in his chest that keeps poking at his limbs.

But he also thought for one terrible moment yesterday that he wouldn’t get to hear that laugh again. The relief is infectious.

It never takes much to set Gordon off, but cracking Scott is a true victory, because for a second, the lines around his eyes crinkle with something other than stress.

Alan sets himself up with pancakes (far too smug that he’s allowed the chocolate spread on his where Virgil was only allowed syrup), and plonks himself down on Virgil’s right, bandaged arm and all. Whilst Gordon and Alan quarrel over species of tropical fish, Scott looks over at Virgil, raising his eyebrows. Are you okay? it says.

Virgil smiles and nods.

Inevitably, Scott and Gordon are called away on a rescue, just as Alan has grown tired of the nature documentary and is demanding something more exciting. Virgil consents to the first movie Alan picks out, because he’s too busy watching Gordon fly his beloved ‘Bird away with an expert hand.

God, he’s so tired. His limbs are heavy and aching from the tension of holding them in place all night and his head pounds in beat with his too-fast heart..

He’s utterly exhausted. If only his mind could get the memo. Instead it careens between thought processes: the grapple lines, his failed calculations, the disaster zone he’s left the workshop in -

It doesn’t matter though.

Because Alan’s alive and that’s all that matters.

Alan, whose gentle hand snakes through Virgil’s hair in a tender, soothing way that plucks at the knot of anxiety in Virgil’s chest, whose ministrations are a blessed, momentary pain relief for his sore head.

*****

It’s dark when he wakes, though he doesn’t remember his overwrought brain finally giving into sleep. His limbs no longer feel like they’re spasming out of control and his head aches with a more manageable pain, but he’s still drained. On the floor next to him, Alan is snoring at the centre of a nest of blankets - at least two of which Virgil is sure were wrapped around himself before...

He raises his head to look for his water glass, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of his oldest brother standing in the shadows, watching. He’s still in his uniform, which suggests Thunderbird One just docked - presumably her engines through the open patio doors are what woke him.

“What the fuck, Scott?” he hisses.

“Sorry,” Scott says, though he doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. He moves into the light, and repositions Alan so that he can rescue one of the blankets for Virgil once more. “Go back to sleep.”

“Did the rescue go okay?” Virgil asks instead, relieved at Scott’s easy nod - and relatively clean, dry appearance.

“Gordon’s heading back now, all good. And no issues with grapples today, thank God.” Scott’s voice is low but Virgil still flinches from it.

“I’m going to find out what happened, Scott, I swear -”

“I know you will.” Scott’s voice is so firm, so strong that it momentarily steals Virgil’s breath how much faith Scott has in him. "I know you’ll figure it out, Virg. But you don’t have to do it on your own. You and Brains will work on it and find a solution, John’s going to identify the person responsible, and EOS will make sure they can never do it again. But it’ll be when you haven't overdosed on caffeine. Do you understand?”

It’s the kindest of reprimands. The same kind of pleading why won’t you just take care of yourself tone that Virgil finds himself using more and more on Scott these days, but with so much understanding and love, Virgil finds himself blinking back tears.

He can only nod and Scott steps back. “I’m going to go shower. Get some rest, Virgil.”

Scott turns to leave and Virgil forces himself to muster up his barely replenished energy reserves. He snags Scott’s sleeve, “Scott - thank you.”

Scott smiles a smile that’s just them, soft and trusting and concerned. “God knows you’ve looked after me through far worse hangovers than this. But don’t you dare do this again, Virg. I mean it. Don’t make me confiscate all the coffee on the island, because you know I’ll do it if I have to.”

“I know you will.”

Scott runs a hand through Virgil’s messy waves fondly, letting his hand rest at the nape of his neck where the headache pain is regrouping. “Sleep, Virg.”

And he does.

[sepublic]

Disparity between the Knights of Ren and Kylo

           But something about the Knights of Ren, in contrast to their leader, is that they seem so much more… scrappy? Dirty, unorganized, but also used and worn-out, and thus genuine? Like they’ve really put themselves out there into the harsh work with rolled-up, tattered sleeves, and you get this sense of them actually being in the fray and on the frontlines.

           You’ve of course got their dirt-covered boots and whatnot, but also you have people like Vicrul or Cardo, who use the hides of animals as part of their attire… Ap’lek’s cloak is oiled to shed aside water, he’s clearly someone who works within the elements to take advantage of them as part of his stealth, they’re his dirty unglamorous home. Clearly the Knights of Ren do a lot of work putting together scrap metal, like you see with Ap’lek’s mask, Kuruk having those pieces bent around his helmet to help focus his vision, Cardo’s mask is just a repurposed furnace plate! Ushar’s mask has a straight-up dent in it that he’s never bothered to fix, even when he has access to Albrekh; Likely as a twisted memento of honor and tribute to the victim who inflicted the damage. Trudgen straight-up has part of a Death Trooper’s helmet incorporated into his own mask as well!

           Then you’ve got the Night Buzzard, which is dirty and grimy, and has received constant modifications, likely by Kuruk, that cause it to spew noxious gas. Vicrul’s pistol has also been pushed to its limits with alterations, and Cardo is obsessed with modifying and enhancing weapons, keeping them up to date and ready for the next battle; The Knights of Ren have weapons that are a more cold, dull steel and gray, not polished and refined. Their armor and outfits feel much more scratched-out and faded, used and worn in. You get the sense almost that they’re kind of like scavengers themselves, similar to Rey; Making do with what they find, not too focused on aesthetical neatness nor tidy appearance, just getting the point across, salvaging trophies from victories.

          And, it fits with their philosophy, the Ren- Which revolves around basically just living in the moment, unapologetically taking and consuming and resorting to nature and instinct… Letting the ‘Shadow’ guide and feed them, like they’re always on the fringe of society, gathering and appreciating what they can and making use of it, having to make the most of their tools, constantly altering and patching themselves up. They don’t have the access to the best resources, not fancy luxuries or anything like that; It’s almost rather working-class, I’d say! It of course matches with their origins as essentially criminals and a cult-ish biker gang, a ragtag group of mercenaries.

          Even their original, nameless leader kind of fits this more down-to-earth, cobbled-together aesthetic, with a gray mask that he’s customized with a red symbol, amidst the scratches; Not wearing much save for a tattered cloak and glove, and his pants and boots, and that’s about it! Nothing particularly polished nor clean. He’s dirty, roughed-up, and covered in scars, he has not gone unscathed and he doesn’t need to protect himself from the elements, he wears his damage and past on his (metaphorical) sleeve and possibly even has a cybernetic hand, to go with the Vader parallel that Charles Soule intended!

           All of this of course contrasts with Kylo Ren, who… His mask is clearly hi-tech, up-to-date, with a full-on vocoder and mechanical function that causes it to open up and close, possibly somewhat vacuum-sealed as well. The metal is polished and shiny, the mask a smooth, likely painted, matte black. His clothes are tidy and almost prince-like, made of what seems to be more comfortable and fancier cloth and fabrics, a nice deep black that’s clearly taken care of, shiny boots, the works. While the Knights of Ren make do with just their Night Buzzard and weapons they scrounge for, constantly patching up and honing them between battles to keep them almost good-as-new, Kylo Ren has his clean and sleek, modern ships supplied directly from the First Order; He’s got his command shuttle, the TIE Silencer, and at least two TIE Whisper’s.

           His vehicles have red, vibrant and glowing lights and paintjobs, and are likely the sleek pinnacle of First Order engineering, with Kuat and rich backers from Canto Bight to contribute to development. Kyle Ron probably has his entire team of engineers to prepare and take care of his ship before him, even before becoming Supreme Leader- Especially when he tells a pair of officers to prepare his TIE Silencer for him, even before he usurps Snoke. He was clearly the golden child throughout his life in a sense, born into a privileged, luxurious family with a lot of power and fame; And then serving Snoke, who himself had all of the inexplicably vast resources of the First Order behind him, invested everything into Kylo Ren’s training and upkeep… Kept him well-fed and taken care of (at least physically).

           Yeah, Kylo has trained vigorously, and his own lightsaber is a patchwork job, but that was built back when he was ‘just’ leader of the Knights of Ren, newly anointed, and before he’d started serving in the First Order; And as a major political influence, with a LOT of authority and power behind him, serving as a triumvirate alongside Hux and Phasma, right beneath Snoke himself! You get the sense that he always had something to fall back to, a comfortable safety net- That when all was said and done, he had a retinue of medical droids to patch him up, a team to keep his laundry nice and clean and ‘presentable’. That he always had his parents who were welcoming of him, trying to be patient, always offering him the opportunity to go back home; He had SO much, and yet he really threw it all away for some fantasy, didn’t he?

           Kylo Ren really comes across as like… A privileged rich kid, a pampered brat who doesn’t really know what it’s like to work out in the fringes, to have to constantly fight and kill just to survive, to be fed the next day. To not have the luxury of mindlessly destroying the hard work and machinery, the craft of others he’s taken for granted, every time he has a temper tantrum- Leaving people to clean up the mess and replace it good as new. The Knights of Ren couldn’t be so frivolous with THEIR resources, they had to make everything count, reuse and recycle, scavenge from scrap metal, tidy things up at least a little; But they didn’t have the luxury to make themselves sleek and polished, nor access to the most up-to-date technology of an entire military junta.

          They had to get their hands dirty and personal, all of the time, they didn’t have the pride and privilege to turn down jobs; They took whatever mercenary work was offered to stay fed and clothed. And yet they remained just as vigilant and dedicated to the Ren as ever, never wavering as far as we can tell; Even when their original leader was slain, they didn’t throw a fit, but just made do with the situation, accepted that this was all they had left, and had Kylo as their new master.

           While Kylo was no doubt living the high-life at the very top of the First Order pyramid, we rarely see the Knights of Ren, who don’t have Snoke’s personal precious attention and protection. They’re likely out there doing the dark, unknown and unglamorous dirty work, quietly coming back to restock and refuel, no ceremonies nor worship from Stormtroopers, most of whom seem to regard them in disgust as ‘Ghouls’. Unlike Kylo, they fully chose and accepted and embraced their roles, they provided their ‘good’ deaths and earned their spots within the group, not fighting it, not constantly lamenting and whining about how they deserved better, because anything is good.

          Even when Kylo Ren became Supreme Leader, it seems that for whatever reason, the Knights of Ren didn’t embrace the new resources at their disposal- Did Kylo not bother to take care of them, or were they just so used to working as scrappy little mercenaries, that the high-end luxuries of the First Order somewhat bothered them? That they preferred to keep doing things as they did, that this organized, political and polished structure wasn’t for them. Hux regards them as distasteful for it, but while he and Kylo have entire armies and servants at their beck and call and disposal, the Knights of Ren have only themselves and each other to carry out the missions assigned to them, and they do their tasks silently, dutifully, and without complaint.

           To contrast, Kylo Ren has a much cleaner, brighter aesthetic, flashy and red like his lightsaber, and later the Sarrassian iron that puts together the fragments of his helmet. He’s a leader, a political figure, who intentionally draws attention to himself as the heir to Vader, he thinks he’s entitled to Anakin’s lightsaber, and can afford to draw attention to himself, he wants it. But the Knights of Ren, they have to be practical and dark, hiding to survive, Ap’lek especially, although of course some manner of exception is made with Ushar and Cardo. It’s not like they’re just hunters, but also prey as well, like the Mandalorian coverts… Their dirtied, roughened-up appearance, more battered and humble like what you would see with the Millenium Falcon, paints the Knights of Ren as more underdogs than their leader.

           In essence, you get this sense of privileged disconnect between the Knights of Ren and Kylo; That he’s this bourgeoisie rich kid, whose parents bought him everything, that he never REALLY had to work for things, there was no genuine struggle nor danger for him. Work and training may as well have been a hobby for him, he can afford to throw things away, while for the Knights of Ren it very much is a matter of survival, life or death. And with how Kylo wants to join them for some reason after leaving the Jedi Order, even though he only had ONE encounter where they tried to kill him, Luke, and Lor San Tekka; And all their previous leader did was just leave an open invitation…

           And again, you get the idea that Kylo Ren has this idealized, glamorous, almost fetishizing and romanticized view of what it’s like to be a Knight of Ren, that it’s some cool club to join- And not a genuine, forged-in-fire, rigorous existence. That it’s tough and painful and very much a deliberate choice, not something done lightly and for fun, which he finds out when he tries to join them for ‘comradery’ I suppose, only to be oh-so shocked at seeing them kill people, as if he hadn’t always known this. Kylo Ren didn’t really want to be a Knight of Ren, just his cool idea and fun of what it’d be like, how he doesn’t REALLY want the Empire back, just the idealized version of the past. He’s a pampered brat playing pretend, so psyched up for the dream of the job, but when he actually has to do the hard work and unglamorous parts, he caves and hesitates, while the actual Knights of Ren roll their eyes, because of course this little kid does. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into, he’s so dumb and naïve and reckless.

           It’s telling that the Knights of Ren have no issues working with Albrekh, an alien, especially because they know they can’t afford to be picky with their allies and friends, beggars can’t be choosers; While Kylo “My parents didn’t love me enough” Ron is willing to kill an officer for asking a reasonable question, and throws aside all of the people in his life that he takes for granted. Similarly, the only person resembling an alien that we see Kylo Ren actually work with is Snoke, whom he hated and eventually killed, and even Snoke was at least part-human, so given his worship of the Empire, and Kylo Ren likely looks down on non-humans.

           Not to mention, with how Kylo sometimes refers to Rey as ‘the scavenger’, and you get this sense of like… disdain from him towards her more humble, downright impoverished, background and conditions of her home life, and the way she had to keep herself fed. And you can’t help but wonder if the Knights of Ren picked up on this, that part of the reason they never enjoyed the First Order’s resources was because they knew that they didn’t belong in this neat and tidy, posh hierarchy of political society and advanced tech; That they were regarded as savage monsters and ghouls by the First Order, dirty and unkempt. Their own leader didn’t really know or understand them, he only had leadership by virtue of power and affinity to the Dark Side, but not much else; And he was constantly fighting the Dark Side, always in the hand of Snoke, never really leading the Knights of Ren alongside them as equals and comrades like their past leader.

           He probably didn’t care for, nor appreciate them- Kylo probably even looked down on them, even! Not fully and openly, but there was likely this implicit disdain and disgust… Or at the very least, he made an ‘exception’ to them, but with how he regarded scavengers and lower-class people like them… The Knights of Ren could only wonder just how conditional his tolerance was. He praised and elevated them, borderline glorified and romanticized; But he could never truly be one of them, he never knew what it was like, he had no idea, he could only guess and play pretend, and never admit that truth. There was a growing disconnect, likely a dissatisfaction between the Knights of Ren towards Kylo, and it just worsened with his agendas with Rey, forcing them to do the work of capturing her by themselves, forgetting the Knights in his own confrontations, etc.

           Kylo didn’t really feel like one of them, like a part of them- He saw himself as elevated and separate, more like lapdogs and attacks dogs, tools to point in a direction, not true brothers-in-arms on the same level, regardless of leadership role. And this ignorance, this subtle lack of regard and attention, quickly abandoning the Knights of Ren to focus on his drama with his parents, Luke, Snoke, and Rey… It must’ve been frustrating and alienating for the Knights of Ren.

          The closest Kylo ever got was when he repaired his shattered helmet using Albrekh himself, with the dented and scratched-up look more akin to them, uniting the aesthetic more… But again, there was always that fancy, graceful training from Luke and Snoke, and his special little lightsaber. Then the attention from Palpatine… And when he had to go to Exegol, when he confronted Rey, Kylo never did so with the Knights of Ren, because he never truly trusted nor felt like they had his back, he never truly saw himself as one of them, and didn’t think it necessary to bring them alone, to include them all.

           They weren’t special, chosen ones with the cool bloodlines and parentage that gave them special innate talent and Force powers, they were more like Voe if anything else. The Knights of Ren had force-sensitivity, but it was stunted and much weaker than Kyle’s natural, unearned talent and gifts; Everything they got, they had to fight and train and work for, self-taught and without the guidance of some wiser leader, because I doubt Kylo trained his own Knights either. Their fighting style is more brutal and utilitarian, with the use of a wide variety of tools and actual blasters- The Knights of Ren had to make a name for themselves, carve out their own reputation, because they started from nothing, and their original leader best exemplifies this with his lack of name, the closest being the title of Ren that he shares with everyone else anyway.

           The Knights of Ren didn’t have a special destiny, nor a bond as part of some sacred, prophesized dyad- If anything, they were more like Rey, before THAT reveal… Just lowly nobodies who had to make a name for themselves, stumbled across their own version of found family in a sense- Did what they needed to survive, had to go through the grueling agony of existence on their own. They actively looked for new members to add into their group, other lowly and despised criminals and others of society, as could’ve been the case with Karrst. There was no special place for them within the story, and yet they were still relegated to doing nameless, thankless jobs and tasks, not even acknowledged individually, and forgotten and abandoned by even their own leader, for some stranger he’d just met.

          When he turned to the Light Side, did their time together mean nothing for Ben to leave them- Of course it did, because there wasn’t REALLY anything there, and he never tried, or at least never could’ve understood, and never realized this from the position he was in. He tried to force his way in and it just created this uncomfortable, begrudging toleration by the Knights of Ren, until finally their resentment boiled up and bubbled over and burst; And they took their sweet time, vengefully confronting their former leader and beating him up slowly, because they wanted this to hurt. They wanted him to know what it was like to be beaten down with no hope, with no glimpse of light, nobody to pick him up and comfort him, no luxury nor resources or sacred destiny; To have only darkness and shadow to hide and thrive in, to embrace and become grateful towards… As they scrounged up and kept fighting, determined, not entitled by any parentage or destiny, but because they simply chose to keep biting and survive.

           Nobody seemed to care nor remember the Knights of Ren, they were just disposable tools for everyone, except their original leader, who really did seem to be on amicable relationship with them; Addressing them by name, in a casual manner that alluded to past comradery and shared knowledge, bonding… Someone they felt safe actually speaking up and talking to, asking questions instead of silently waiting for orders and accepting things as they were. There was no special Force powers, for they did not expect anything from the Shadow, and when they did receive, they made sure to venerate it in return, for of course this was owed back, they had to pay back the force that guided and fed them.

          They had a gratitude, and as their Ren codified, the Knights learned to disregard societal norms and obligations, and attitudes, and just live, doing what they needed to survive. No apologies, no glorifications, they just were, that’s all they wanted and needed. Obviously this independent, not-caring-what-anyone-thinks attitude was no doubt ‘cool’ to a young Kylo Ren, which was why he wanted to join them, while misunderstanding so badly how the Knights of Ren even got to that point in the first place, and what came with this. Kylo kept being concerned about how others perceived and looked at him, because he was a sad, pathetic, insecure little child; While for the Knights of Ren, it just didn’t matter.

          They could be hated, or beloved- It wasn’t important at all how others regarded them, because they didn’t heed how outsiders felt, they didn’t apologize nor account for their existence, didn’t try to justify anything. It was Us VS Them, they found solace in just each other, and recognized and prepared themselves for an entire world against them, anyone else as fair game and a potential enemy. Their prior leader rightfully regarded Kylo with suspicion, kept a cautious distance- So nothing was lost when they confronted Kylo on Exegol to kill him, no tears shed nor regrets made whatsoever, besides having not done this sooner.

           But of course, special Ben Solo gets his redemption or whatever, he gets his spotlight and glory as he saves the day, or at least sort of tries to contribute. He is glorified by the narrative and likely in-universe, venerated for his ‘noble’ turn and sacrifice, especially by the real-life fandom; But the Knights of Ren, nobody cares for them. And it doesn’t matter- They’re used to it, they’ve learned to accept and adapt, this is just the normal status quo for them. They don’t need veneration nor hatred, they’re just here to get through the day and only focus on what matters, themselves and each other.

           …In that sense, with all of this meta about the Knights of Ren being more like ‘nobodies’, poor and scavenging, having to work for things; And Rey, the contradictions of her character be damned, feels like she’d be a more welcome fit as a new leader than Kylo. Maybe there could be an AU where she joins them, and the Knights of Ren bond with this new kid, this little sibling, who’s a dirty feral gremlin like them who likes to scavenge and experiment, modify, messily and shoddily cobble stuff together.

          I do have to wonder if Rey calling herself a nobody, initially intended at one point to have no special place nor destiny in the narrative, besides the one she made for herself with her found family- If that was meant to be a parallel to the Knights of Ren and their former leader, who also calls himself a nobody, and goes by no distinctive name himself. I can only imagine, but I bet that a Dark Side Rey would be a much more attentive, down-to-earth, and ultimately preferable leader to the Knights of Ren, as someone who actually bonds with and understands them, and learns to value them; To the point where if she DID make a turn to the Light, she’d probably invite them to come with her out of concern, and the Knights of Ren would be touched enough to even consider, or at least spare, Rey…

           At the very least, I don’t think Rey would immediately throw them aside like the garbage they always were, because she was good now and too enlightened and heroic to be level with these evil monsters; She knew someone who was a masked ‘monster’ himself, Finn, and she fell in love and found acceptance with him, and vice-versa. Rey, for better or worse, has the patience to reach out and give others the benefit of the doubt, to hope for them, to not hypocritically condemn, for she knows her own mistakes and weaknesses as well… So I think the Knights of Ren in this AU would be much more likely to be touched- And that even if they were to lash against a reformed Rey, it’d come from a genuine sense of hurt and betrayal, grief and loss; And not just a relieved desire to get rid of this pesky brat that’s been bugging them for the past several years.

[tealquacks]

They Share a Kitchen 4: Breakfast in Bed

Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317644/chapters/69731439

It’s been many months, I know, but I hope you all like this chapter! 

Remus knew he should get out of bed. 

Out of bed, down the stairs. 

Down the stairs and into the kitchen.

He owed Janus rabbit, and he wanted to talk to Logan.

Logan…

It had been a few days since they’d gathered ingredients, and they’d talked almost every single day since. They met in the kitchen. Talked at night. Sought one another out. But it would never last. Logan would say something about the light sides and then scurry away, or get all quiet if he thought he heard footsteps. It never felt like it did when they were alone, truly alone. 

He rolled over in bed, curled in on himself. 

Come on. Up, out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen, make something with rabbit, then find another reason to talk to Logan. Maybe they could find a good paella recipe. And that would get Logan to come into the kitchen and talk to him. He could talk to Janus, too, and cook as he did so.

Up, out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen.

Remus stared at the wall. 

Up, out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen. It was 7:30 am. Janus would be in the kitchen soon. And if he wasn’t in the kitchen before he left, he’d get that look from Janus, one of those looks that said ‘are you okay?’ And made him feel all queasy and miserable.

The long and short of his situation was that the bed was nice and soft, and he didn’t see a point in getting out of bed. Even though there was food to be made and conversations to be had. Remus sat up, but didn’t get out from under the covers.

He got like this sometimes. When was the last time? Remus looked down at his hands. Maybe he could paint his nails. In bed. Then he’d get up, out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen. What had he been—

—yes, when was that last time he couldn’t— right after Thomas decided to skip the fucking callback. He’d spent most of the wedding laying in bed, marinating in a horrid, heavy feeling that he couldn’t quite identify. It was like trying to pin a still flapping butterfly to a board. Remus flopped back onto bed.

Now it was 9:00 am. Where did that time go? He must’ve fallen back asleep, or zoned out. He sighed. At least he had a reason to feel heavy then. Now he was just being stupid.

“No, you feel heavy because he abandoned you,” a deep voice echoed, “like all the others.”

“Shut the fuck up, Orange,” Remus grumbled, “I’m tryna fucking sleep.”

“No you’re not.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Orange laid his hand on Remus’ head. It was freezing cold against his skin. He gently ran his fingers through the brown strands. They stayed like that for a few minutes, in a cold, uncomfortable silence.

“Green, you know they’ll never apologize to you,” Orange whispered, “they’ll never accept you. They’ll never stay by you. It’s a fact of life, it’s alright-”

The words drifted away as Remus shut his eyes, mind wandering far, far away. It left the room entirely- bed, stairs, kitchen, Logan- and found itself back at that night on the dock, Logan’s pale skin under bright moonlight. He’d offered him a castle, a cottage. He gave him a pearl. Had he kept that pearl? Or did he throw it away? 

Orange chuckled darkly, hand still in his hair. He pet him slowly, as if consoling a dying animal.

“You poor little creature.”

“I’ll kill you,” Remus growled.

“You can’t even get out of bed.”

“I’ll still kill you.”

It had been several days— four, maybe— since Logan and him dove into the cool black of the ocean. He returned to the dock just yesterday. Slow waves lapped against the shore, illuminating the night in a bright blue bioluminescence. If Logan had asked, he would’ve made him a cottage on the beach. He would’ve turned the black sand to glass. He would’ve destroyed it all. 

“You’ve let yourself change too much. Remember, Green,” Orange mumbled, playing with Remus’ hair, “you are nothing but one part to a whole, a scrap, a husk. You’re empty and hated, hated by Red, by Purple, by Indigo—“

Remus moved without thinking, hands wrapping fast around Orange’s throat, squeezing with whatever might he had. Orange toppled off of the bed, and Remus went with him, slamming his knees into Orange’s chest as his back hit the floor, hands clasped around his throat like a prayer.

“Don’t you fucking dare say anything about him you goddamn piece of shit,” Remus snarled,  "He is nothing like them— nothing like me! And that’s… that’s none of your business! That’s what it is! Do you hear me?”

Orange just grinned, his unreadable face flickering. Remus throttled him back and forth, slamming his head into the dirty floor of his room. Orange’s face never shifted. Still cold, unreadable. Remus dug his nails into his throat. His breath came in shallow puffs.

“Do you fucking hear me?”

Someone knocked on the door quietly. Janus, probably. Remus held fast to Orange’s neck.

“Do you hear me, motherfucker? He doesn’t hate me! HE DOESN’T HATE ME!” Remus screeched. All Orange did, the absolute bastard, was raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Look at that, I got you out of bed. You should thank me, Green.”

Remus punched him in the nose as hard as he could, a loud crack echoing through the room. Orange’s blood dyed his knuckles a shifting cascade of color. 

The door quietly creaked open.

“I heard something fall, and then yelling,” Logan began carefully. "I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Remus looked up from where he knelt on the floor, hands clasping at nothing but air. Cowardly bastard had up and vanished without a trace. Even the blood had vanished from his knuckles. Logan was still looking at him, tray in his hands, angelically haloed in the light of the hallway. Remus coughed, attempting (and probably failing) to not look like he had just tried to brutally murder someone.

“Hi, Logan, what’cha got there?”

“Janus said he didn’t see you at breakfast, so I, um. Grabbed some pancakes Virgil made, and made you a little plate. Are you alright?”

Remus stood, brushing dust off of his dirty pajama pants. He hadn’t washed them in… had he ever washed them? He sat back on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m perfectly peachy, Logan.”

Logan frowned. “It’s 9… 9 something. I didn’t check the time before I came up. But I thought you’d be hungry.”

Remus tilted his head, sloshed the sludge of his brain around trying to find coherent thought. The urge to scream at Logan welled up within him, a thick feeling in his throat as if he was about to puke up a torrent of slugs. He wanted to ask him for so many things- stay with him, hold him, tell him he doesn’t hate him. He gingerly pat his bed. 

Logan stepped inside of his room, closing the door behind him. Remus turned on the lights with a clap of his hands. Logan sat (on the bed,) facing him, and set the tray between them. There was a plate of pancakes— probably banana nut, knowing Virgil— as well as two glasses of water with lemon on the rim, and an orange. Two glasses of water.

“Were you planning on eating with me?” Remus asked quietly. Logan picked up one of the glasses.

“If you wouldn’t be averse to that,” he muttered. Remus snorted.

“You know I love spending time with you.”

Logan sipped his water, the slice of lemon bumping his glasses a little. Remus couldn’t help but stare. He wanted. He wanted. He didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, he wanted. 

“How have you been?” Remus asked. Logan swallowed a mouthful of cold water. 

“Well. And you?”

Remus picked up the fork and knife on the tray, gingerly cutting into the stack of pancakes. He poked one with a fork, and lifted it to his mouth. Banana nut, just as he’d expected. He hated the taste of banana nut, but Logan didn’t know that. 

“Good, I’ve been doing good. I couldn’t get out of bed this morning, but besides that, I’m all good. I haven’t washed my sheets in close to twenty years and I’m so glad I’m not a human or else they’d smell absolutely horrible and be covered in dead skin.”

Logan looked down at the blanket. Remus chewed slowly.

“That’s okay,” Logan mumbled.

Remus chewed, then swallowed.

“Do you still have that pearl I gave you?” He asked.

Logan sipped his water. Remus’ heart started to pound.

“Do you still have that pearl I gave you?” Remus repeated. Logan lowered the glass from his lips, then nodded.

“Of course I do. It’s beautiful, Remus.”

“Just beautiful? No little scientific quip about pearls?”

Logan opened his mouth, then closed it. He cleared his throat.

“Cleopatra, according to legend, dissolved crushed pearls in vinegar to drink them. The pearls would dissolve in the vinegar, since pearls are 85-90% calcium carbonate, which is also the main component of snail shells, and eggs. Calcium carbonate is also suspected to be found on Mars.”

“Space oysters!” Remus said between bites of pancake, “speaking of Cleopatra, how has Roman been doing? Get it, since Cleopatra fucked Caesar and Caesar was Roman, though I doubt Roman is getting any. Did you know Cleopatra made a vibrator by sticking a bunch of bees in a dildo?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth twitched up.

“That is quite an interesting fact.” “So how is he? Roman, I mean.

Logan raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, he’s been hanging out with Virgil a good deal. They were working together. I… don’t know if Roman is feeling any better, though. The two of them, surprisingly enough, seem to bring out the best and worst in one another. Roman makes Virgil brave, in an odd way.”

Remus nodded.

“I regret teaching him to cook.” 

“Who, Virgil?”

“Yes,” Remus said, “cooking’s my thing and I hate him so much and I hate Roman too, they left me, they hate me, and I hate them.”

Logan went silent.

“...Virgil made those pancakes. Do you want to move downstairs? We could make pancakes, and they wouldn’t be his.”

Remus nodded. 

“That sounds great! Are you sure the others won’t be there?”

“The kitchen has been mostly empty since Roman and Virgil’s little… escapade. It would be just the two of us.”

Remus stood, leaving the tray of food on the bed.

“Alright then! Race you to the kitchen!”

He lept off of his bed and burst through the door of his room, almost slamming into the wall before turning and running down the stairs on all fours. He toppled over his arms, and slid down the rest of the stairs on his back. His feet touched the floor, and he sprinted into the kitchen, only to find Logan already standing there.

“How the fuck?”

“I teleported,” Logan said, a small smirk lighting up his features. He still held the glass of water with a lemon slice on it, “we’re not real, remember?”

“You little shit,” Remus said with a smile. Logan raised his glass in a mock toast. Remus walked over to the cupboards, keeping his eyes on Logan the whole time. He wanted.

“The griddle is still out at least,” Remus observed, “Virgil never was one to clean up his own goddamn messes. Now sit down, unless you have an award winning pancake recipe!”

Logan sat, and said “your pancake recipe has won an award?”

Remus snorted.

“No, but Janus once told me it deserved an award.”

He knew the steps. Get the flour. Scoop some into a bowl, then baking powder, eggs, sugar… it felt like too much. He’d made it so many times. Now it felt like too much.

Logan stared at him.

“...do you wish for me to help you make them?”

“Yes, please,” Remus said, absolutely relieved, “get the flour.”

Logan stood from the table, and went over to the cabinet. He reached up, and Remus couldn’t help but stare at his arms as he got the milk and eggs out of the fridge.

“You should wear less clothes,” Remus said, “you have nothing to be ashamed of, really, you’re just as handsome as everyone else here.”

“Nobody else is here except you.”

“Are you saying I’m not handsome?” Remus teased, conjuring a bowl.

“I certainly am not.”

Logan pulled the flour down, as well as the baking powder. 

“Is there anything else we need from the cabinet?” He asked. Remus grabbed the milk, eggs and butter from the fridge.

“Salt and sugar, and the rest is moist ingredients!”

Remus used his fingers to squeeze 3 tablespoons of butter from the stick, watching Logan get all the ingredients lined up on the counter.

“How much of each ingredient do you need?”

“One point five cups flour, like, four teaspoons powder, tablespoon of sugar. You seem much more alive today, is that because the others aren’t around?”

Logan sighed.

“I constantly remind you that I have to keep up appearances in front of the others—“

“And I constantly tell you that you don’t have to listen to them. You can make them listen, too.”

Logan took out the measuring cups, starting to measure the ingredients. Remus melted the butter into the bowl with a snap of his fingers, then cracked the egg into the bowl.

“How would you suggest I go about making them listen?”

Remus giggled quietly.

“Patton’s afraid of death, right? Just threaten him. Say you’ll tear his throat out. Or stomp on his neck until he dies. And then when he comes back up you explain everything to him! Or you just scare him! Make your face all scary and spook him!”

Logan frowned.

“I don’t think that would do much for the situation, especially considering that Patton doesn’t listen to you because you scare him.”

“Have you tried asking Patton and the others to listen to you?” Remus asked, stirring the butter and eggs together. He wasn’t really focused on the recipe, just on Logan. That odd heaviness still lingered, but he tried to push past it.

“No, I don’t think so. If I did, it didn’t work.”

Remus sighed.

“My offer still stands, you know. A cottage, a castle, anything you want.”

Logan looked up at Remus, then back down at the measuring cups.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. With how much Thomas’ emotional state has been spiraling, I can’t leave him or the others unsupervised. Relations between the sides can move from arguing to breakdown inducing levels of tension.”

“When has that ever happened?”

Logan frowned. All of the ingredients sat neay measured in front of him, sat on the counter.

“Besides the memorable incidents concerning the wedding, Janus was the one who encouraged you to become more present in Thomas’ day to day life, was he not?”

Remus shrugged. He walked over to Logan, grabbing all the measuring cups and dumping them into the bowl, one by one, haphazardly mixing them together with a summoned spoon.

“I’ve always been in Thomas’ life, and I always will be. I just decided to become more present in his life, to piss off Patton and Virgil. So I’d wait until he was about to sleep, and scream my ideas into the imagination, which certainly terrified Patton and Virgil.”

Logan raised his eyebrow.

“You did all that because Janus told you too?”

Remus stared at Logan blankly.

“He’s the only person that’s always been there for me.”

An awkward silence fell between them. He mixed the contents of the bowl until all of the chunks of flour and baking powder were mixed in, making a liquid smooth batter. He considered adding blueberries or chocolate, but Logan liked simple things. Water with lemon, saffron crocuses. Remus looked over to Logan. 

“A cottage, would that be nice for you? Or would you want a more modern house with lots of bells and whistles? A smart house like that one Ray Bradbury short story, you know the ones with the lions and the kids and the lions ate the parents? I could make it in the crocus field you helped me make and you’ll have infinite saffron— you’re frowning, is that not nice? It sounds pretty nice to me.”

Logan shook his head.

“I’ve told you many, many times, I can’t.”

“Because of how your little light sides would feel?” Remus snapped, “What about how I would feel?”

“And how do you feel?” Logan asked sharply.

“I want to eat your heart,” Remus blurted. He felt his face burn. Logan blinked, staring right at him. 

“I don’t have a heart, Remus,” Logan whispered.

“What if you had a heart, if you were human? Would you let me eat it then?”

Logan looked away from him, staring down at his hands.

“If you wanted to,” Logan mumbled.

“I do,” Remus exclaimed, “with saffron and sea salt!”

Logan’s face burned bright red. His hands pressed flat against the counter, and he turned to Remus.

“It’s a damn shame I’m not human then,” Logan spoke, “because I would love every second of that.”

Without thinking, Remus dropped the bowl and the spoon, letting batter splatter all over himself and the stove. He turned, pressing himself close to Logan, placing one hand on his chest where his heart would be. It covered his shirt in batter, but Logan didn’t seem to mind.

“Then let’s pretend we are human.”

Logan turned to face him, eyes wide, and face flushed.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Remus smirked. He leaned in, just enough to smell the coffee on Logan’s nervous breaths.

“Do you want me to?” He asked. Logan swallowed. He looked over Remus’ shoulder, then grabbed his wrist. 

“What about the others?” Logan whispered. Remus’ face fell. He set his hand on Logan’s cheek.

“If this makes you happy, the others won’t care who kisses you,” he promised. Logan smiled softly. 

“Then I want you to, Remus. Kiss me,” Logan said breathily. Remus leaned just a little closer, foot happily tapping against the ground.

Remus leaned in closer, closing the distance between them, and gently pressed his lips against Logan’s. He tasted like coffee, warm and inviting, and something very familiar. Probably spit. But it was good, because it was him, it was Logan, Logan kissing him and moving his hand from his wrist to the small of his back. Wonderful, so wonderful. Remus pulled back, just for a breath he didn’t even need, and pressed his lips to Logan’s cheeks, then his nose, his brow bone.

“Is that necessary?” Logan mumbled. Remus laughed quietly, pressing a small kiss to Logan’s eyelid. They fluttered open. Remus stared into his eyes, and cupped Logan’s cheek in his hand.

“A cabin,” Remus muttered, “a cabin where we can be alone and I can kiss you all the time, and you never have to be scared again.”

Logan sighed, leaning closer to Remus. They bumped their foreheads together, Remus wrapping his arms around Logan possessively. 

“I can’t leave. But we can still kiss,” Logan whispered.

“I’m so glad I got out of bed.”

“What the fuck is going on?!?”

Remus turned his head quicker than he ever thought he had before. There, standing in the middle of the kitchen, Virgil glared at them.

“Oh, hi Virgil, don’t you look cheerful as ever,” Remus crowed. He looked back, Logan’s face as pale as a pearl. 

“Get the fuck away from him,” Virgil ordered. Remus tilted his head.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, then I’ll fucking kill you.”

Remsus’ brows shot up. 

“Over what, you perpetually pissed purple pussy? Just because Logan wanted me to--” “I doubt he wanted anything from you,” Virgil growled, “what could he possibly fucking want? Get away from him. Now.”

“Why don’t you just ask--” “Get. Away.”

Remus glanced back at Logan. Any trace of emotion had vanished, replaced with that cold, stony stoicism. Remus wanted to grab him. Grab him and scream at him to say something, scream until something got through to him, scream until Logan realized that even if he did piss the light sides off, he wouldn’t be alone, they’d always have the ocean and the kitchen and one another--

“You are a really, really shitty person, Virgil. And the worst part is that I don’t even think you see it. I mean, what gives you the goddamn right to come wandering in here and tell me what to do, and assume what Logan wants?”

Virgil took a step forward. “I know that he wants nothing to do with a shitbag skunk-cunt like you.”

“Oh, what an original insult!” Remus exclaimed. He laughed, then the smile suddenly dropped from his face. ”Actually, it isn’t. That was the same thing I called you when you left me, left me behind to rot, you and fucking Roman, and you know, I know what you want with him. You want everything about him, you want to leech off the love he gets from the others since none of them fucking love you, and you know that deep down, don’t you? That nobody likes you!”

Remus reached behind him. He grabbed Logan’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Logan’s hand was limp in his grasp. Virgil glared at him. “Wow, I’d sure be hurt if you weren’t such a fucking hippocrite. At least I’m wanted. I may have my moments, sure, I can be paranoid and snappy, but that’s not my constant state of being. You’re just a rabid dog. Sure, Janus may tolerate you, but once he really figures out how useless you are, he’ll leave. I’m sure that’s why he suddenly decided to play nice with the light sides, he realized that you couldn’t do anything for him anymore-- you certainly can’t scare me or Patton-- and you’re useless to him, time to throw you away like the shitsack you are. You’re useless to everyone, you know? If you just locked yourself in your room for the rest of Thomas’ life, nothing would change. You’re Roman’s lesser half, his fucking shadow-- are you crying?”

Remus touched his face. It was wet. His feet felt like they were glued to the floor. 

“What,” Virgil mocked, a shaky smile on his face, “Can’t handle the heat? Then get the FUCK out of the kitchen!”

Remus raised his arm to throw a punch. Logan’s grip tightened on his hand.

“That is enough, both of you,” Logan said calmly. He stepped in front of Remus, letting go of his hand.

“Virgil, thank you for being vigilant, but I assure you it’s fine.” Virgil stared at Logan’s chest. His usually neat dress shirt had a messy stain in the shape of a hand, right over his heart. “Did he hurt you?” Virgil asked.

“He didn’t hurt me, I’m okay. We were having a simple conversation, nothing more.”

Remus stared at him sadly. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. They weren’t just talking, they had something. They kissed, for gods sake, they kissed--

Remus grabbed Logan’s shoulders and spun him around. He slammed Logan against the table, and kissed him deep and hard, desperate. Logan’s hand pushed against his chest. Remus could feel Virgil’s hands grab his shirt and yank, the collar choking him, but he didn’t need air or water or food, he didn’t need anything but Logan, his Logan--

Logan shoved him away with both hands, staring at him sadly. As if he was nothing but a hurt animal. 

“I--” 

“Virgil, let go,” Logan said. Virgil let go of his shirt with a quiet grumble.

Remus stared at Logan. He backed away, until he could feel the stove against his back, the heat of the griddle.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Virgil shouted. Remus stared at the floor. If Virgil said anything else, it was lost in the dark tidal wave of emotion that hit Remus. He didn’t even know what it was. He was drowning, and the water was devoid of any life. Dark, too dark, too cold. He shook. A sudden heat jolted up his arm-- when had he set his hand on the griddle? He could smell his skin cooking. Bubbling. He watched Logan. He said he wanted to kiss him, he said he wanted him to, and they kissed and it was so wonderful. Virgil left. Logan walked out behind him. His palm burned on the griddle.

“What’s cooking?” 

Remus looked up. Orange sat in front of him at the kitchen table, straddling a chair. Remus stared at him, trying to see past whatever Orange did to make himself imperceptible, but his form kept on shifting in dizzying spirals of color, like oil on water. Remus slowly raised his hand from the griddle. If he was human, the skin would be white and blistered, maybe even peeling in a few places. But just like Logan, he wasn’t human. His hand was fine.

“A heart,” Remus mumbled, “and I’m eating it with saffron and sea salt.”

Orange tilted his head.

“There’s no need to repeat yourself, Remus. I heard everything. And I’m here to say that I told you Indigo would leave.”

Remus moved without thinking. He rushed at Orange. Instead, he collided with a chair, sending it clattering to the ground.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Remus screamed. 

“No you won’t, because you know I’m right. I’ve always been right.” This time, Orange sat atop the counter. Remus summoned his morningstar with a flick of his wrist.

“No you’re not, you’re not right,” Remus growled. He swung at Orange. Orange vanished into thin air before it could even come close to hitting, the heavy iron ball instead slamming into the counter. It cracked the counter, and sent flour flying.

“I’ve always been right, Remus!” Orange said from in front of the fridge. He leaned against it oh so casually, “I’ve been right that you’re only playing house because you think they’ll all leave. Well, look at you now. Making pancakes, right? How sweet.” Remus swung again. The morning star collided with the fridge. It dented the door, and made a horrible screech of metal on metal. He pulled back, ready to strike again.

“You believe that Indigo deserves to be listened to no matter what, correct?” Orange asked. He laid on the table. Remus swung. The morning star collided with wood, splintering the wood.

“I take that as a yes,” Orange said. He was back on the table. Remus swung again. It hit the table in the same place as last time.

“Fucking stay still!” Remus screamed.

“You think he should be listened to no matter what he says or does. No matter who he truly is. And yet, you hold yourself back.” For the third time, the morningstar slammed into the table. This time, it broke through, splitting the table in two. Splintered wood flew in every direction.

“You cook because that makes you palatable,” Orange repeated. He sat on the stove. Swing. The griddle broke under the force of the morning star.

“But you aren’t.”

Swing. Miss. Break.

“You are a monster, that’s how you were made, that is who you are.”

Swing. Miss. Break. 

“You’re really good at swinging that thing around. Did you know that Lucifer was called the Morning Star? And he got punted out of heaven for defying God. His brother was an angel, I believe.”

Remus stilled, panting. Orange stood on the countertop, back pressed against the cabinets, 

“You’re nothing like them. You are the parts of humans that they hate, the beast in the brain, a reminder that humans evolved from animals. They hate you, Remus. They all do. Because they don’t understand you.”

Remus’ hands tightened around the morning star. Orange tilted his head.

“If Indigo loved you, wouldn’t he have said it by now?”

He hefted up the morningstar, and swung recklessly at Orange. The wood of the cabinet splintered and cracked. Glass shattered with a massive crash, like a wave hitting the shore, and millions of glinting shards flew at him, some sticking in his skin and others harmlessly bouncing on the tiles. 

“You are so much more than what they think you are,” Orange said, breath tickling the back of Remus’ neck, “so why try to make them like you? Do you really care that much about them? They’ve done nothing but abandon you, Remus. Over and over again. Nothing has or will change that.”

Remus whipped around, morningstar in hand, but Orange was gone. Remus dropped the morningstar. It clattered to the ground with a thud. He opened his mouth to scream, but no words came out. Nothing came out. He shakily walked to the destroyed table, and sat down on a chair. He looked around. Broken glass littered the floor. The stove had a massive dent in it, and the griddle had been snapped in two. The fridge had a dent, the counters had a dent and harsh scratches from his mace’s spikes, and the realization that he did that just because Orange made him angry made bile rush up his throat.

He didn’t scream or cry or vomit. Just stared at the mess he’d made.

Really, he’d made a mess. Maybe Logan didn’t want to kiss him. Maybe it was an experiment to him, like that stupid fucking schedule that had started this all, made Logan come to the kitchen, see him cooking…

Remus closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he sat on the edge of his dock, watching the glowing waves crash against the shore without end. The place he’d shared with Logan, offered him everything he wanted. Their skin was pale under the moonlight. Remus pulled his knees up to his chest.

He still owed Janus rabbit. He’d make it, then that would be the end, and he’d never set foot in that fucking kitchen again.

He watched the waves.

Tag list: @alexalexisalexej @breezy-skribblz @the-real-comically-insane @gravestone-monarch @heartwitchhouse @appleflavoredkitkats

[charincharge]

Cruel Summer, Part 20

cruel summer masterlist

AN: This was supposed to be ready hours ago. SORRY. Only five chapters to go. Have I mentioned how much I appreciate all of you who read, reblog and review this? It has seriously brightened up a shitty time in my life.

Rowan feels like he’s barely slept when Aelin’s alarm goes off. He grumbles and pulls her closer, so he can bury his face into her shoulder, away from the thick rays of sunshine pouring through her window. “No…” he groans.

“Yes,” Aelin laughs as she turns over to face him. Her finger traces over his lips, and he kisses it softly. Her eyes lock with his, and he can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest at her staring.

“What?” he asks, kissing her finger again. Her eyes flit across his face, observing him closely.

“You’re pretty in the morning,” she says, and Rowan narrows his eyes at her.

“Pretty?” he asks, incredulous. She nods and giggles quietly as Rowan climbs on top of her, pinning her hands beside her head on the mattress. “I’ll show you pretty…” he growls. His lips dive onto her neck, and he can feel her laughter against his chest.

They both hear her door open and slam at the same time. They freeze, their heads turning in the direction of the noise, praying against all odds that it isn’t one of Aelin’s parents.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Dorian stands with his back pressed against Aelin’s door, his hand covering his face again. Rowan sighs a breath of relief and rolls off the bed. He can’t believe how close that came to being a nightmare. They really need to be more careful. He grabs his work uniform, which is crumpled on the floor and pulls his pants on quickly.

“Dor?” Aelin asks from under her covers. “Why are you in my room?”

“I volunteered to wake you up,” he says, eyes still closed. “I had a feeling. Your entire family is downstairs. It’s Saturday, remember?”

“Shit,” Aelin mumbles as she rushes to her closet and throws on shorts and a tank top.

Rowan looks at the clock. Thirty minutes until works starts. And he has no idea how he’s going to escape this house with Aelin’s entire family downstairs. It’s not like he can climb out her window – he’d be spotted in a second.

Dorian finally cracks his eyes open and sees that everyone is fully dressed and relaxes slightly. He nods to Rowan, who nods back uncomfortably.

As they exchange hellos, Aelin heads straight into her bathroom and plugs in her curling iron. Rowan stands in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. He shoves his hands into his pockets and watches as Aelin starts wrapping her hair around the hot metal rod. She examines her bruise in the mirror and dabs some makeup over it with her free hand.

“Dor?” Aelin calls from the bathroom. “Can you tell my family that I am curling my hair, but I will meet them at the park shortly?” She pokes her head out of the bathroom. “Just, get them out of the house quickly. Please,” she implores him with wide eyes, and Dorian salutes her and takes off.

By the time Aelin’s hair is curled, and her family has officially left the premises, Rowan has about five minutes to make it to work. He kisses Aelin and makes a mad dash for the park.

“See you there,” Aelin calls out after him as he takes off into a quick sprint. His cross-country skills are put to the test as his feet sink through the sand with every step. By the time he reaches the park entrance, he’s only one minute late. He’s impressed with himself.

Breathing hard, he slows to a brisk walk, making his way through the throngs of crowds lined up to get in.

Rowan pauses, his brain finally catching up to him, and looks around. The park is packed. Shockingly crowded.

The line of cars to enter the park is so long, it extends past the parking lot and onto the street, and at the front gate, a hefty crowd is gathered, waiting to get in.

“What the fuck?” Rowan mumbles to himself.

Inside the park, a very stressed out Lorcan mans the admissions booth with Fenrys. “Rowan!” he calls out. “You’re here! Come help us.”

Rowan apologizes for being late, but Lorcan just attributes it to the long line of cars and waves Rowan off. He’s just grateful for the help.

As Rowan starts handing out tickets and wristbands, he finally asks Lorcan what the hell is going on. Apparently, the park was featured on some big reality show called Hometown Hotspots earlier in the week, and the park is seeing the after effects. Lorcan has never been more stressed. He’s not exactly a people person, and these people are impatient, entitled, and anxious to get into the park. Rowan feels for him.

The overflow of people is never ending, and Rowan ends up staying at admissions until well into the afternoon. He barely has time to even think about missing Aelin, being kept so busy. Until, finally, he checks his phone during his lunch break and sees he has a slew of texts from her.

WHOA, what’s up with these crowds???

You were so busy this morning, you didn’t even see me come in! Luckily, Fenrys was far more cordial ;)

Rowan glares at Fenrys, who eats his lunch across the table from him. He can’t believe he didn’t’ even see Aelin enter the park.

Lys wants me to tell you that she knows this is not a curler burn. *facepalm*

Gavin heard your name and got excited, and now my family is insisting you join us for dinner.

You’re going to go down in history as being Gavin’s favorite person ever, just for buying him cotton candy that ONE TIME.

Rowan can’t help but smile at this phone screen, despite how tired he already is. He texts back quickly.

I’ll be there.

At the last second, he adds a red heart emoji and sends it. He’s never been an emoji person before, mostly using texting for utilitarian purposes only. But with Aelin, he can’t help himself. It’s silly, he knows. But the red heart sitting in his texts is his silent way of opening up more. Of silently insinuating the three words he’s tried to push to the back of his head and not let overtake his thoughts. He smiles when Aelin immediately returns his text with three kissing face emojis.

He must be smiling like a mad man, because Lorcan chuckles loudly as he takes a seat next to Rowan and asks, “How’s your girlfriend?”

Rowan’s smile disappears as Fenrys perks up from across the table. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Uhh… no… not really…” Rowan fumbles his words.

Lorcan senses his mistake and flashes Rowan and apologetic glance.

But Fenrys is undeterred. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me, Rowan,” Fenrys pouts, sounding all of his young age. “So… who is she? Townie? Someone who works here? Rich summer home crowd?”

“Someone way out of your league, kiddo,” Lorcan says, slapping his large hand onto Fenrys’s shoulder. His voice is gruff, but Rowan sees the hears the affection in his tone. He weirdly feels like he’s turned a corner with Lorcan. Maybe they could even be friends.

“It’s nothing,” Rowan assures Fenrys, who still looks on with hopeful eyes, begging for scraps of information. “It’s super low key, so we haven’t gone public, or whatever.”

“Then how come Lorcan knew?” His whining would be almost comical if Rowan didn’t want to exit the conversation so badly.

Luckily, Lorcan saves him. “Caught them in the break room the other night.” He pauses. “Which, no one should be doing, by the way.”

“What should we not be doing?” Elide asks, entering with a giant funnel cake in her hands. She’s followed by Connall and Vaughan and Gavriel, which means that Rowan’s lunch break is up. He groans. He’s not ready to deal with those crowds again. And if the group’s faces are any indication, nothing has slowed in the minutes he took off to eat. Elide looks exhausted.

“Making out in the break room,” Rowan laughs.

“Oh please,” Elide scoffs. “What do you think Lorcan and I do every night when you guys leave?” Elide wiggles her eyebrows at Lorcan, who turns bright red. His hands tug at his long hair, unsure what to do with himself. Rowan can tell he wants to be mad at Elide, but he thinks Lorcan is physically incapable of actually getting angry with her.

“Ellie,” he whines, but she just giggles as she stuffs a piece of funnel cake into her mouth. Her lips become coated in powdered sugar, and she purses her lips and motions to Lorcan.

“Come get some sugar.” She winks, and Lorcan looks conflicted as he looks at her lips and everyone else in the room. Ultimately, Elide’s lips win, and Lorcan leans down and gives her a quick kiss as everyone else in the room whoops. His entire body is flushed as he narrows his eyes at the bystanders.

“Not a word,” he warns.

Fenrys sighs loudly. “Man, did everyone get a girlfriend this summer but me?” he asks. Connall and Vaughan sit down next to him, and as the conversation turns to summer gossip, Rowan extracts himself and heads to the kiddie section of the park, where he’ll be on rotation all afternoon.

The rest of the day is even more miserable than the first half. Children are crying, upset with waiting for hours and missing their nap times; Rowan sympathizes – he’d love a nap, too. The crowds become angrier the longer they have to wait, and Rowan realizes the park is not equipped for this many people. They have no idea how to manage the crowds. And he almost witnesses a full on riot when one of the food stands runs out of ice cream bars. It’s a mess.

Somehow, he manages to keep his cool with the angry patrons, and he practically runs back to the Ashryvers’ as soon as the day is finished.

The entire family, plus Dorian, sits outside on their back patio as Emrys brings out platters of food, which smell absolutely delicious. Fleetfoot waits happily under the table, tail wagging, ready for scraps to fall. Rowan’s stomach rumbles as he approaches, seeing the spread of salads, biscuits and corn on the cobb.

“Wine?” Aelin offers him a large glass, and Rowan accepts it happily.

Gavin runs straight for his legs and wraps his tiny arms around them. He pats the top of the small boy’s head, unable to interact much more than that in his current state of exhaustion.

“Oh, sweetie, I can get you a beer, if you prefer,” Evalin says, but Rowan shakes his head and takes a large sip of the cold wine. “You look utterly exhausted.” She holds out a chair, and Rowan slinks into it without a second thought.

“The park was…” Rowan begins, but he stops himself short, not wanting to insult his bosses. Aelin sees it in his face.

“A nightmare?” Rhoe laughs. “We know.” He fills his own glass again. “We left early in the afternoon. We were not ready for those crowds.”

Evalin sighs. “The board is meeting about it tomorrow. We need to come up with some kind of solution other than hiring people to help with the parking lot. Luckily, this summer is almost over. But if this is how it is next summer… We need to get organized.”

Rowan thought the same thing throughout the day, but he’s unsure if he should bring up his suggestion. He knows his opinion likely holds no weight with this family, despite how outwardly friendly they are to him.

“Have you ever been to Disneyland?” Rowan asks, deciding to speak up after all.

“The competition?” Evalin raises an eyebrow, and Rowan becomes slightly self-conscious. He takes another sip of his wine. But Evalin cracks a smile, clearly teasing him, and Rowan relaxes. “I’m kidding. Yes, we’ve been there. But not since Aelin was nearly a baby.” Evalin smiles wider, staring at her daughter. “All Aelin wanted to do was to meet Mickey. It’s all she talked about the entire trip. We waited for over two hours to meet him, and when we got to the front, she screamed bloody murder. Just cried and cried…”

Aedion laughs loudly. “Oh my god, I remember that. She was terrified of him.”

Aelin frowns. “Okay, when you’re a toddler and you love Mickey, you expect him to be the size of a mouse, not a GIANT.” She shudders. “I still don’t like the characters.”

Rowan laughs and rubs her arm reflexively. He only realizes what he’s done when Dorian catches his eye. He pulls his hand away quickly, and prays no one noticed. Aelin seems unfazed as she sips more of her wine.

“A-anyway,” Rowan continues, “I know Disney is very different from Playland, but… the one thing they’re great at is crowd control.”

Rhoe and Evalin nod in agreement, so Rowan continues.

“Besides hiring people to direct car traffic and foot traffic, which, is definitely an important part of it – I think they really got a handle on things when they created their app,” he explains. “It’s an interactive map of the park where you can check ride wait times, see the daily schedule, preorder food, make reservations…” Rowan looks around the table and notices all eyes are on him, listening with rapt attention. “Playland isn’t big enough to need all of that, but it couldn’t hurt to have some of it. Everyone loves an app.”

“That’s not a terrible idea.” Evalin looks to Rhoe.

Lysandra turns toward Rowan and narrows her eyes. “Rowan, weren’t you telling us you used to work as a programmer for a start up?” she asks, and Rowan nods uncomfortably. He doesn’t like this many eyes on him. Especially when he’s talking about himself.

“You did?” Rhoe asks.

“Yeah. Not for very long,” Rowan admits. “The start up went under pretty quickly. Bad investors.” He pauses, then continues. “But I did computer engineering for the Army before then. I could make you a mock up, if you wanted?”

“That is very sweet to offer,” Evalin says, her voice sounding too saccharine to Rowan’s ears. “But I don’t think we’re anywhere near that step yet.”

Rowan smiles, but he can’t help but feel like he’s been blown off. He should have known they only see him as park staff. He does appreciate Lysandra taking him seriously, though.

The conversation dies down as Emrys brings out a large plate of brightly colored lobsters. Rowan can count the amount of times he’s had lobster on one hand. It’s a delicious luxury, one that Rowan absolutely loves, but is completely inexperienced with. He watches Aelin pull the claws with a slight twist away from the body and crack the shell, pulling the meat out. He mimics her actions, but somehow ends up crushing the shell into multiple pieces with his clumsy fingers.

As Aelin dips her piece into butter and drops it into her mouth, she sees Rowan’s struggle and leans over to help.

“Here,” she whispers as she takes her knife and cracks open the knuckles for him. He feels like a child. In fact, he notices Lysandra doing the same thing for Gavin and Evie.

“I can do it,” he protests, but Aelin has already finished cracking it for him. He sighs as she moves to twist off the tail, hoping his cheeks aren’t red with the embarrassment he feels.

His embarrassment fades quickly, though, when he sees Evalin reaching over to do the same thing to Rhoe’s lobster. Rowan looks at Aelin, who doesn’t seem to realize she’s completely mirroring her parents’ behavior and smiles behind the rim of his wine glass, which has been magically refilled.

Dinner is just as delicious as Rowan hoped it’d be, and by the end of the night he’s feeling sated and sleepy and buzzed on wine. Evalin tells him he should spend the night, since he’s not safe to drive yet, but Rowan can’t actually justify wearing his gross uniform again tomorrow. And as loathe as he is to spend a night away from Aelin, he knows he needs to go home.

“I can stay for another hour or so and sober up and then head home,” Rowan says, but his large yawn gives away his current state of fatigue.

“We can give you a ride if you want?” Lysandra offers, and Aedion readily agrees, but Rowan isn’t sure how he’d get to work the next morning without his truck.

“Fireheart, are you sober?” Rhoe asks, and Aelin nods. Rowan did notice she stopped drinking after her first glass of wine. He should have, too, but she just kept refilling it. It barely takes Rowan a second to realize that Aelin was trying to get him drunk, trying to get him to stay over. He shakes his head, sorry for her failed efforts.

“Why don’t you drive Rowan home, and then you can take an Uber back home?”

Aelin agrees, and says she’ll be quiet coming back in, in case her parents are asleep. After a round of goodbyes, Aelin and Rowan walk back to his truck where it’s still in the far corner of the Playland parking lot.

He tosses her the keys and watches as she moves her hand over the gears. As they drive, Rowan realizes he’s never seen Aelin behind the wheel before, and there’s something incredibly sexy about watching her maneuver his giant truck. By the time they reach Rowan’s street, Rowan can’t wait any longer. As soon as Aelin parks, he pulls her over to his lap and kisses her.

She squeals as he plants sloppy kisses on her face. Their kisses become more heated as it continues, so much that the windows start to steam up. His hands roam across her back and slide up her tank top, relishing in her bare skin. He just wants her all the time. Always.

Aelin pulls away and smiles. “I thought you were tired.”

“I am,” Rowan admits through another yawn. “That’s why if you come up, you’re going to have to do all the work.”

Aelin snorts, making Rowan laugh. It’s the cutest thing in the world. When she snorts. No other girl could make snorting cute, but Aelin somehow manages to.

“This is what you get for getting me drunk,” he says, letting her know he was well aware of her plan.

Aelin snickers as she opens the door and slides off his lap. She pulls on his arms, and Rowan stumbles out of the cab. And when they get upstairs, Aelin shows Rowan she’s more than happy to do all the work, and then some.

Rowan’s drunk heart feels like it’s going to explode as she moves on top of him, and he has to physically stop himself from saying the three words he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about all day. I love you, he thinks to himself. I never want you to leave. I want to be with you forever.

His resistance snaps. He’s too tired, too ready to put his entire heart into this thing. The lid he’s tried so carefully to keep on his feelings, explodes. The dam bursts, crumbling and cracking under the weight of his emotions, and he lets them tumble out, spilling everywhere, coating his skin where she touches him. He is lost to her, and he’s ready to burn.

~*~*~*~*~

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[commonwealthoccurences]

Now Sleep (It’s Not Even Light Out)

TW: Description of wounds, throwing up mention, many corpse descriptions (and not the YouTuber), funeral description. Overall very death centered and angsty.

Word Count: 4,298

Prompt: Character Death

Day: 9/27

Song Listened To While Writing: The Moment I Said It by Imogen Heap

Arrogant. That’s how Preston would look back and describe himself years later, despite Nick shaking his head in disagreement and Deacon huffing a disbelieving laugh in response. He was arrogant, though. With Sole by his side he found himself feeling invincible with the entire world in front of him; terrified about what could happen but finally believing they could change the world together, if only Sole would give him the chance to help them.

Selfless. That’s how Preston would look back and describe Sole. They’d walked into the fight with so little other than their wit and bravery and returned on a makeshift stretcher, made of a piece of scrap wood, four Minutemen carrying them, solemn. Their hats were tipped forward to hide their swollen eyes and the hopelessly lost expressions on their faces.

He hadn’t even noticed it at first. There was a sea of dead after their fight with the Institute; brave soldiers of a wide range of ages, their faces all far too young to be part of a funeral parade through the main street of Sanctuary. Yet when someone stepped forward and they stopped in front of him, he very quickly went from naïve confusion to horror. They never stopped in front of him; he had no family left other than the distant bond he formed with every settler. There could only be one reason that they’d pause for him, as they did when returning the dead to their loved ones. All had been lost.

Preston looked between the front soldier’s faces for an explanation. He refused to accept that they were returning a body to him, the body of the one person he had left to look up to, the one person he could let his guard down in front of. When they pulled back the sheet on their face and revealed his nightmare to be true, he simply bowed his head and gritted his teeth. Compartmentalization was his specialty. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to stop the way the dirt spun below his boots, the way the world began to turn on it’s side. 

Instead of throwing everything to the wayside and collapsing, as he so wanted to, Preston simply gathered himself and looked up, far calmer than he should’ve been, and moved to the side to allow the Minutemen to carry them into their home for the last time. Someone should’ve seen the way he refused to show any emotion, the way his fists clenched at his side before relaxing and the grief flushing to the back of his mind, and raised the alarms. A person in mourning wailing was normal; the way Preston simply lifted his head and continued on was certainly not.

There was more lost than Sole, however, and the community was too busy mourning the rest. Preston had a decision to make. Did he wait to announce what had happened to Sole? He wasn’t sure they could take the news straight after they had been led into what was essentially a high-tech slaughter. They had already lost family. A loss of leadership would jar them even more hopeless. The world was still spinning and nausea rose from his stomach to his chest, the feeling of acid climbing his throat overwhelming as he stood in the cool breeze. 

Leaves danced in the light wind, swaying back and forth under the soft, blue sky. It was too bright, far too bright. Preston gathered what was left of him, the will to fight that had landed at his feet with the image of Sole cold on the board, the strength he had left to lead scattered somewhere down the street by the same wind, and turned to head inside. To join Sole.

The Minutemen who had carried them in were now posted at the door, heads bowed in respect to Sole, their rifles held straight up and down in front of them. Preston wanted to shout at them, drive them away and tell them to find somewhere else to take up space where he didn’t have to look at them and realize how badly he had failed to protect them, the soldiers and Sole themself, but he didn’t have the heart. Sole had been a symbol of hope, he knew that better than anyone. How was he supposed to be so cruel when they had brought them home?

Preston crossed the room with quiet footsteps, as if he were trying not to wake them. He didn't even have the mind to correct himself internally. It was so much easier to imagine them simply peacefully asleep, despite the fact that they had been positioned with their hands crossed over their chest. He could tell from the way the sheet fell over their body, and that made him glance around for the nearest trash can. Was it real? None of this could be real. He had to throw up. He was going to throw up. 

Once he reached their side and sank to the floor next to them, he felt the urge to remove the sheet. It didn't look right; the Minutemen only covered their dead in sheets, out of respect, and there was no way Sole was dead. They couldn't be dead. He reached down with a trembling hand and peeled back the sheet slowly. What greeted him confirmed his worst fears and he lurched to the side, grasping onto the metal bin that sat in the corner, and hacked up whatever he had eaten last.  

There was a smattering of bullet holes in their stomach and chest. The blood had seeped into the wood under them, staining it a dark red-brown and dyeing parts of their hair the murky color. It wasn't right. Somewhere near the doorway he heard sniffling; so the other Minutemen had broken down, too? Shame crept up his face, hot and overwhelming. Some leader he was. He hated himself, for letting them get killed and for letting the soldiers see him lose himself like this.  

When did he start crying? He wasn't crying. He wasn't sure where the dampness on his cheeks had come from, but it wasn't his fault. He had no reason to cry; they weren't dead. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and was forced to curl in on himself, hands braced on his knees for support by a wrenching sob that nearly cracked his ribs in two. Some part of him wished it would, that it would shatter him into tiny pieces and someone would come in and sweep up everything that had held him together and he could forget about the rest of the world and simply not exist anymore. 

Selfish, he scolded himself. He shifted his hand to reach over and straighten their dog tags where they sat between their collarbones when he noticed something clutched in their hands. A piece of paper poked out between their fingers, protected on either side of their palms from the blood that stained everything near them. Mindlessly, he noted that someone would have to throw out the rug their stretcher had been placed upon. One of the Minutemen by the door spoke up, throat clogged, sounding no better than Preston felt. "They, uhm, survived long enough to relay some last words. Said they wanted you to read it and that you would tell the people what you felt they needed to know." 

Preston tried to suck in air but it simply wasn't coming. Last words? He hadn't accounted for that. Something told him not to read it, that if he didn't he didn't have to accept what had happened and they would sit up, pouting jokingly, asking him why he wouldn't play along. He stared down at their chest and the way it failed to rise. So still, like if he held himself in place it would look like an old photograph. Them, in the living room together, so still.

His hands were trembling so badly he couldn't even aim properly to shift their hands. If he touched them, would they be cold? He knew what the dead felt like; God knows he'd watched enough people die, buried enough of the people he cared about, that he knew what there was to know about dead bodies. But Sole? They didn't belong in that category. He couldn't imagine them as anything but warm and welcoming. There was no way they could be cold and limp. Empty. Lifeless. But the warmth that usually resided in their cheeks was no longer there, instead replaced by a smearing of blood. Preston shuddered.  

Once again, he reached out. This time he would get it right; he'd fucked up enough, the least he could do was read their last words to him. With a harsh swallow he touched their hand and nearly cried out at the feeling. They were cold as ice; this may be their body but it wasn't them.  Trying not to hyperventilate, Preston shifted their hand and took the folded piece of paper slowly from their grasp, trying so hard to ignore the way it simply fell from their clutch. 

Preston,

Who knew it would end like this? I told myself over and over as we prepared to infiltrate that after the Institute was gone, we would have all the time in the world. I suppose I was wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, but you know that already.

I won't get into the ugly details, cause that's not why I'm having this written. I do know that the Minutemen like their records, though, and considering I don't think any of us are going to make it out of here, I suppose this is the next best thing. Everything went according to plan at first. We got more people out that we thought we would; X6 included. Thank God. On the way out, though, someone managed to get a shot on me. 

The ink was smeared, or maybe Preston’s vision was going hazy with tears. Maybe it was both. The paper was rattling quietly as his hands continued to shake, and he swallowed the lump in his throat with a bitter clenching of his jaw. Why wasn’t everyone paying better attention? How was the leader of the Minutemen not better protected? Why did it have to be them?

Johnson helped me into the nearby storage area and we have a few others standing guard; Morrison and Crane, but we're low on ammo. I know I'm not making it out of here. We can't get to the teleporter without others taking out the synths that have found it and are waiting nearby, but I'm bleeding fast. 

So I suppose it's time for my on-the-record last words. Thank you, Preston. I need you to know that none of this was your fault, and that I'm simply grateful that I've lived long enough to see this to the end. I have no doubt that you're doing the best you can, and as usual, your best is phenomenal. There is no one I'd rather have known. No one I'd rather have had by my side through everything. I have no regrets other than wishing I could see you before it all ends. 

I have to ask that you go easy on yourself. I know you do your best to take care of everyone around you, to be the pillar of support, the courageous leader that never wavers, but it's going to kill you. No one can live how you're making yourself live. You're allowed to be human, Preston.  

I'd also like to add that I'm sorry. I know that my inheritance is the heaviest to receive; the role of leader. Are you ready to be General, Preston? Probably not, and for that I'm sorry, sorry that we couldn't do this slowly, easily. But no one can do things better than you can, and I believe in you. Just remember that a leader has to be taking care of themself as well for the community to thrive. You told me that, remember? You're right. Please take your own advice. 

And, if you’ll be so kind as to keep this off the record, I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself, but I'm sorry we didn't have more time. I told myself that when this was all over and the threats were mostly gone, well, as gone as they could be in the wasteland, I would tell you how I felt. How shitty of me, to leave you with this burden as well, but I suppose I can't take it back now that it’s been written down. Morrison's laughing at me. Apparently everyone knew but us, go figure. I suppose we both were a little blind to everything that didn't involve work. 

Take care of yourself. Ask for help, even though it's your least favorite thing in the world. Give yourself time. Tell Dogmeat I said goodbye, and I love him, and everyone at Sanctuary that I miss them already. That it was an honor to serve them. Tell Deacon to stop smoking, and Nick too, just for the principle of it. Tell X6 he’s braver than he knows and he’ll get through the adjustment period, no matter how uncertain it is. I will see you again in another life, I swear to you. It was the greatest honor to know you, Preston Garvey.

I love you.

There was a smudge of blood on the page, he realized, after rereading it the fifth time. Sole’s, probably. He wanted to laugh at the sheer horror of it all, for lack of a better reaction; he’d run out of tears the third time he’d read their last words. Was it theirs, before they died? Or was it someone else's? Had they survived long enough to get caught by the synths? Had they bled out just before help had arrived? Was there a chance, at all, for them to survive?

Preston had so many questions left for them. He wanted to know how they could believe in him when he hadn’t been there to save their life, despite the countless times they had saved him. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he knew it was impossible for him to have done anything, that he was on the other side of the teleporter making sure that things ran smoothly. That if he had tried to help them he would’ve been shot dead the moment he stepped through the portal. But he hated himself for not being there as they drew their last breaths.

He folded the paper back up as carefully and neatly as he could and pressed it into his palm. How he wished the letter was at least in their handwriting. Did someone at least hold them as they passed? Or were they left leaned up against a cold Institute wall, the very culmination of the worst their world had to offer? If the others in the room survived, he didn’t think he’d ask them. He was afraid of the answer.

If only it was Preston in their place. Sure, he didn’t exactly want to die, didn’t seek it out, but it was better than Sole going. He’d done his part, made the effort to get the ball rolling for repairing the Minutemen. But the Minutemen needed Sole like children needed their parents. He would’ve died, alone, and been okay with it. A hero’s death, but a hero insignificant enough that it wouldn’t have broken the Minutemen. If only it was him.

He leaned over them, still clutching their last words like a lifeline, and pressed a kiss to their forehead, trying his hardest to ignore the way his falling tears collected bits of the dried blood on their skin and began washing it away. They deserved to be buried looking less like how they died and more like who they were when they were alive. “Can I…” He began, his voice cracking and barely audible. “Can I get some water? And a cloth?”

The Minutemen didn’t move, but footsteps shuffled around the house regardless. Someone had entered while he was repeating their letter over and over in his head like a mantra. When he looked up as the bowl of water and cloth were placed next to him, he met eyes with X6-88. At first, a flash of rage and hatred flooded through him. Maybe if they hadn’t met him and believed there was more for him and subsequently gone to find the Railroad, Sole would still be alive. Then he was calm. At least he had lived. At least their last mission had been successful. That’s what they would’ve wanted.

X6-88 stepped back, steps whisper quiet, and folded his hands behind his back as he stood nearby, looking straight ahead. Sole had said he would have trouble adapting to the outside world, understanding what it was like to be a regular settler in the Commonwealth, but something about his actions was familiar. He was hiding in his own mask of emotionlessness. He was doing his best to cope.

Preston braced himself for the next steps and reminded himself that this was the best thing for Sole. It didn’t matter how he felt right now, it was about Sole’s dignity and the way they deserved to go. With a shaky breath he dipped the cloth in the water and brushed it over their forehead, wiping away the blood that had long made itself home where it didn’t belong. When he dipped the cloth back down and began to ring it out, he swallowed bile again at the way it turned a light pink.

Slowly, he peeled back more of the sheet and washed away the blood on their skin. Their overshirt was still stained with blood; he’d have to get them a new shirt and wrap their wounds so they wouldn’t bleed through again. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, but there was some time before they’d have to announce Sole’s death and prepare them for a funeral. God, he was tired of funerals. He’d seen more than he could remember off the top of his head, a list a mile long, stretching out and wearing him thin.

After a moment of holding the cloth against their forearm, unable to continue as the cloth and water turned muddy red, he felt someone grip his hand. When he looked up X6-88 was kneeled neatly on the other side of Sole’s body, his other hand upturned and open, silently asking to take over. “Ask for help” Sole’s words echoed in the back of his head, their voice reverberating in a way that was so hauntingly them. Would there be a day when he could no longer remember what their voice sounded like?

Preston dropped the cloth into X6’s hand with a grateful nod and sat back, collapsing from how he had been kneeling onto the floor. There was blood on his hands and wrists, blood brushed up his forearms from where he had just barely touched them while cleaning. He wanted to scratch the skin underneath off, rip it apart with his fingernails until there was no trace left of their blood or himself.

Silently, the world continued to spin. X6-88 calmly resumed his task of cleaning Sole’s cold skin, gentler than he had ever been before. Perhaps it was his way of grieving; removing all traces of the Commonwealth and what it had done to them from them. Preston had his back against the wall, silently suffocating with his head in his hands, tears dripping down onto the floor below him. The two guards remained stock still and silent, also silently weeping, their heads raised in pride. At the way the Minutemen would continue despite yet another catastrophic loss. At the way their General had sacrificed so much to give them what they couldn’t have.

Outside, the rest of the world fell silent. There were others to mourn, so many others, and they had left behind families as well. The four inside the room with Sole needed time, and so they let the news wait for another day, with Sole sleeping peacefully on their stretcher, covered in a new, clean shirt and sheet.

Word had been sent out to Deacon, Valentine, and Piper rather quickly. They’d been added to the Minutemen radio long ago, just in case, at Sole’s orders, so it wasn’t hard. They made the trip to Sanctuary in record time, arriving with solemn faces and for Piper, swollen eyes. The trio had remained resolute in their need to keep a brave face until they went down like dominos.

Piper went first, letting out a sob as soon as she saw Sole’s body, turning away and hiding her face in Nick’s shoulder. Deacon rested a hand on her shoulder and simply stared down at Sole, their eyes shut, skin now clean. Nick patted her back and held her up when Preston began reading Sole’s last words with a wavering voice. Deacon went second, choking on grief when Preston recited, “Tell Deacon to stop smoking, and Nick too, just for the principle of it.” He wasn’t one to cry, but God did the situation make for exceptions.

Nick went last. Despite the fact that he couldn’t cry, when he left the house to get fresh air after the letter was read, he threw his hat at the side of the house and collapsed to a crouch, pressing his hands against his face. No one looked each other in the eyes; it would’ve been more than a breaking point, it would’ve caused them all to shatter apart.

The funeral was put together rather quickly after the announcement was made to the rest of the settlers that their General had made one of the biggest sacrifices to protect them. Preston stood on the podium, X6-88 standing just behind him with his hands still folded formally behind his back, head bowed, and read out the list of losses, Sole’s name at the very end. Nick had written a eulogy, but the words blurred together. Preston stopped paying attention to the world around him once he was down from the podium.

It was a military-style funeral. They did their best to make sure all high-ranking Minutemen officials had one, but this was the first time in a while that it was put together so well. Sole deserved nothing but the best. Sturges had been kind enough to stay up through the night to put together a makeshift coffin for them, the best that they could do, and Deacon had taken his anger at the world out on digging their grave. Nick had taken Piper away so she didn’t have to watch and picked flowers with her to go on Sole’s chest before they were lowered into the ground.

Everything came together in a sickening blur, but the world allowed them a small reprieve. The burial went well. A large crowd gathered in the fields of Sanctuary, heads bowed grimly, as they listened to Sole’s companions tell stories of their adventures, their shining personality, and their generous heart. When the row of Minutemen fired their rifles into the air Preston didn’t even flinch; he was too used to it. Somehow, he made it up to the grave to take part in shoveling one scoop of dirt onto their casket, but after that it was black.

The next time he became aware of himself was in the main house, where he was reclined in one of the chairs, Sole’s dog tags pressed to his lips in thought. Nick was still somewhere around, cursing the fact that he was incapable of sleeping, Piper passed out in one of the back rooms from emotional exhaustion. Deacon had vanished into thin air, as he often did. Preston wouldn’t be surprised if they never saw him again, and he couldn’t blame the other man; he was feeling the urge to run very far away right about now, too.

The cold metal was grounding against the skin on his face and he took in a deep breath, closing his swollen eyes. Maybe if he was lucky the universe would grant him a moment's rest, and he would wake up the next morning to Sole rapping their knuckles against his door, teasing him for accidentally sleeping in on them. But they never left their dog tags behind, no matter what. No, it was real. They were gone. And it was sure to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Three years later, it was a hushed topic for anyone to ask a question about the fact that General Garvey wore two pairs of dog tags around his neck. He was a good man, kind, but it was obvious something had changed him to the new settlers; he was quiet, his face drawn and bordering grim at all times. No one had really seen him laugh, which was a shame, because many commented that there seemed to be a light in the depths of his eyes that was begging to come back out. Not to mention the way his second in command glared when someone tried to ask what had happened.

Every July 4th he visited a lone grave in the middle of the fields and rested bouquets of flowers all around and changed out the Minutemen’s flag that hung off the cold stone. He sat, the entire day, undisturbed by the settlers who merely stopped and stared at a distance out of curiosity, in silence. At the end of the day, when the sun had just dipped below the horizon, his second in command would join him in the field and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Preston,” X6-88 would say. “It’s time to get some rest.”

[iselsis]

Off the Streets

Summary: Omega Jason Todd needs to get some food and go to ground quickly, before his heat hits. This plan is destroyed by Batman and his habit of impulse adopting children the way some people impulse buy gum at the cash register.

“Get back here, you thief!” the clerk hollered after him.

Jason, not an idiot, did not go back there, or even stop to pick up one of the bags of food he dropped. The clerk wouldn’t go far from the corner store, or he’d have more than just one kid grabbing some packaged food and sprinting, so all Jason needed to outdistance the beta to get away scot free.

His rush of pride was quickly squashed by reality, and the flickers of pain that had started in his stomach and promised a heat, soon. Without a calendar, he’d been forced to guess when most his heats were, and heats for younger kids like him could be inconsistent anyways. The first signs of heat had only just shown themselves, warning him to get food and hide quickly.

Food, down, he thought to himself, rather smugly. The beta hadn’t even been a challenge to outrun. He’d even snagged two water bottles and shoved them in the pocket of his hoodie, which was more foresight than he’d had the last time he’d gone into heat. It had been one of the nice working girls had found him and taken pity on him that had kept him from crawling out of his nest on day three to track down some water.

Jason ducked into an alley that he knew even the bravest of store clerks wasn’t stupid enough to enter a dark alley at night. You might run into strangers.

And speaking of strangers, Jason slammed directly into a wall of concrete. Jason stumbled back, rubbing his sore nose in confusion. There had not been a brick wall there when he’d been casing the joint that afternoon, but apparently one had conjured itself up.

“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” the brick wall commented in a deep, gravelly voice.

Jason looked up – and kept looking up – until his eyes saw the yellow and black bat symbol, and the pointy black bat ears above them.

Oh, hell no. Jason spun on his heel and made a break for it, but Batman collared him immediately and yanked him back.

“Let me go! Let go!” Jason dropped his hard won food and desperately clawed at the gauntlet holding his hoodie. He’d go hungry if he had to. It would suck hard, but he couldn’t let Batman arrest him and throw him at the GCPD right before he went into heat. He’d be lucky to come out alive.

It was useless, though. Batman was probably three times his size, and wearing armored gloves. It took Jason a minute to accept that, and that he was just wasting energy he’d need to live through the beating he was in for and stop fighting.

Batman waited a few more moments after he’d stopped struggling, like he was waiting to see if Jason was really done.

Once he was satisfied, he gave Jason a small shake and jerk his head at the mess that Jason had dropped. “Pick those up.”

Jason scowled fiercely at him, but knelt slowly, Batman’s hand following his hood, and started feeling around for the food without breaking eye contact. His stomach made a loud growl at the sight of all the pretty food, all packaged up and ready to eat….it had been a couple days since he’d last found more than a few scraps. He hadn’t been able to find a job, or anything easy to steal until the food, and now he had to get away and bunker down for his heat. Without the food, that meant that it would have been at least a week before he got to eat again.

Batman might have mercy if he behaved, though.

“Here,” he grumbled, standing up and holding out the armful of food to Batman. “Now let me go.”

Batman didn’t move to take it, which was damn rude. Instead, he stared down at him for several seconds, his head tilted in a calculating pose. “Why did you take that food?”

“That’s a stupid question,” Jason snapped before he remembered the he needed Batman to like him if he wanted to beat the clock and get back to his cozy little nest of rags and shredded pieces of cardboard. He deflated somewhat and looked to the ground to hide his flushing cheeks. “I’m hungry.”

“And your parents won’t feed you?”

“Does it look like I ha-” Jason started sarcastically, then cut himself off and muttered in a less hostile tone, “No. They’re dead.”

His mom was, at least. She’d wasted away from the drugs until there was so little that even her tricks didn’t want her anymore, until she couldn’t talk or do more than stare vacantly at the ceiling, and until she finally stopped breathing on their couch. It still hurt, thinking about her, even though it had been a whole year. The blanket he’d pulled from her nest and stuffed into his backpack before he ran now smelled of him and of Gotham’s underbelly, instead of the sunshine and honey that she’d smelled like before – before she’d gotten sick. He missed her so much.

His dad was in jail. Probably. Didn’t really matter one way or another, because Jason wasn’t going anywhere near him anyway.

“I see,” Batman said quietly.

Jason dared a quick glance up, then froze. Batman looked…sympathetic. Like he actually understood. It just looked wrong on the Unholy Terror of the Night. He was going to die. He had broken Batman, and the universe, or Batman’s fists, was going to demand vengeance.

“Who takes care of you?” Batman asked him, kneeling down to be closer to Jason’s height, but still keeping a hold on his hoodie.

Jason swallowed hard and tried not to look intimidated. Even down low, the alpha was huge. “I do. Can I go now?”

Batman frowned. “Why aren’t you in foster care?”

Jason fixed him with an incredulous glare. It was a bit more daring that he should have been giving out when he wanted to get on Batman’s good side, but seriously, wasn’t Batman supposed to be some great detective? The foster system was in the hands of the mobs, and even if it wasn’t, and they were in some other city that wasn’t like Gotham, omega pups weren’t safe in foster homes.

“’s not exactly safe for people like me,” Jason muttered. He was normally good about keeping his scent covered, but with his heat approaching, everything was out of whack. There was no way that Batman hadn’t noticed what he was.

Batman nodded and stood up. “Come with me.”

Jason’s eyes widened and he tried to back away, but he couldn’t get far. “Where are you taking me?”

Batman started walking toward the mouth of the alley and gave Jason’s hood a slight tug. “You’re going to return what you stole. I’ll deal with you after that.”

And then he’d give Jason a firm talk on why stealing was bad, and Jason would pretend to be thoroughly repentant and be up and at it again as soon as his heat was done? Batman nodded because he understood that Jason wasn’t safe in foster care, right? So he wouldn’t try to put Jason in there? Or maybe he was just going to beat the hell out of him for stealing, like he did to every other thief he’d met. He’d seen what Batman gave his dad for stealing, and his dad had been an adult alpha with friends. A packless omega pup would be lucky to survive Batman’s wrath. If he did survive, then he was going to be broken, immobile, starving, and in heat a mile from the safety of his nest in the middle of Crime Alley.

Jason’s legs felt like lead as he trailed after Batman. He knew that he needed to hurry, get whatever was coming out of the way so he could get back to his nest, away from any alphas who could smell him, but he didn’t want to fork over the food he had stolen, and he didn’t want to get beaten.

The clerk was scowling when they walked into the store, an expression which quickly changed to shock, and then to smug satisfaction when he realized what was going on. Batman released his hood and gave him a nudge toward the counter. Jason scowled and shuffled up to it.

He tightened his hands around his ill-gotten goods one last time before he opened his hands reluctantly and dumped it all on the counter.

“Here’s your dumb shit,” he grumbled.

The beta growled in smug triumph. “Looks like the little thief met the big bad bat. He beat the shit out of you yet?”

Jason scowled at him and stormed back to Batman, but his heart was pounding wildly in his chest. “There, I gave it back. Can I go now?”

Batman put a hand around Jason’s upper arm and led him out of the store. He said nothing as he pulled Jason in a new direction. Jason focused on deep breaths. Panic might make his heat come quicker, but the clerk’s question rang in his ear: he beat the shit out of you yet? Batman understood why he wouldn’t go to foster care, probably understood that meant the cops too. He still had to be punished, though. Jason shuddered and tried half-heartedly to pull away.

“Please let me go,” Jason begged quietly. “Please, I’ll be good. I won’t steal again, I promise.”

Batman looked down at him, but didn’t loosen his grip. “I’m not going to hurt you. Calm down.”

Jason’s heart sank. The no was bad enough, but expected. Was Batman trying to lull him into a false sense of security? He’d thought that only the Rogues were freaks, but now he realized that the guy dressed as a vigilante bat probably should be in Arkham too. Jason struggled a little harder, but he hadn’t eaten in two days, and even if he had, he was no match for the giant alpha.

“Please, please let em go,” he tried. “I learned my lesson, okay? Please!”

Batman stopped and grabbed Jason’s other arm, forcing Jason to face him. Jason flinched hard, but no blow fell.

“I’m not mad at you. I know that you were just trying to survive,” Batman promised, his voice losing a slight edge on the gravel, but he was still scentless, and his face was covered, and with his body so close to Jason’s, he couldn’t tell if the man was telling the truth. Why would he be telling the truth, though, and where was he taking Jason if he was?

“If you’re not mad, then can’t I go?” Jason whimpered helplessly.

Batman sighed and shook his head. “You aren’t safe on the streets. You need to come with me.”

With that, Batman stood up and tugged Jason suddenly into an alley. Jason had to bite his lip hard to hold back the terrified scream – it would only make Batman angrier, and angry people hurt more. He was going to be beaten, no matter what lies Batman was telling him.

What was this place, Batman’s favorite alley for beating up stupid kids? He’d been pretty purposeful about coming to this place, so there must have been something.

Then he saw it – a glint of light on metal. The shell of a car.

He was an idiot. A damn idiot. Batman wasn’t going to beat him up, Jason was a starving, packless omega pup on the brink of heat who no one would miss.

Batman was going to rape him.

Jason suddenly threw all his energy in trying to break free of Batman’s grip, hoping to take him by surprise, but Batman just picked him up and carried him over to the car despite his protests.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Batman repeated, grunting a little as a well placed elbow jabbed into his ribs. “I’m not angry with you for stealing. You’re about to go into heat, and you need to be off the streets now.”

“No, please, let me go!” Jason begged him, clinging to the cape as Batman opened the door and tried to put Jason inside. “Please, I’m fine on my own, you don’t have to do this, please!”

Batman unclipped his cape when he couldn’t get Jason’s fingers off it, and tossed it in on top of Jason, then closed the door behind him. Jason made a half-hearted attempt at the door handle. It was locked, of course. He wasn’t going to be able to escape his punishment so easily. Tears welled in his eyes, and another, vicious cramp sent them spilling onto his cheeks. He felt the first flicker of heat start in his stomach, and knew that he had maybe an hour before that tiny spark had consumed his whole body. If he was lucky, Batman would be done with him by then, or at the very least, drop him off outside the abandoned building he’d taken shelter in when he was. More likely, Batman would keep him for his entire heat under the guise of protecting him.

The driver’s door opened, he could hear Batman climbing inside, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man. His breath hitched and his entire body flinched at another cramp. He buried his face in his knees and groaned.

“Is your heat starting?” Batman asked, his voice losing even more of its gravel. “I can help you with that.”

Jason flinched. Batman’s voice was becoming less and less disguised, and there was no way he was going anywhere once he’d hear the man’s real voice.

What did he tell Batman? When alphas offered to help omegas with their heats, it only ever meant one thing. But that was going to happen anyway, and maybe he could hurry it all up and get it finished so Batman would let him go. Earn some good will by being a compliant little bitch.

Jason nodded miserably.

He didn’t look up, but he could hear Batman opening and rummaging through the center console for something. That protection he kept talking about, probably. The kind that came in foil wrappers.

There was a small rattling noise, painfully familiar, that had Jason looking up in confusion.

Batman was holding a small white bottle and checking the label on it.

“How old are you?” Well, that came out of nowhere.

“Twelve,” he answered without even meaning to. It must have been the randomness of that question shocking him.

Batman grunted. “You’re supposed to take two pills, then.”

Jason watched in stunned silence as Batman uncapped the jar, shook out two white pills, and held them out toward Jason. It was almost in a daze that he reached up and took the pills from Batman’s hand, and the water bottle that he was passed a moment later. That was…not what he’d expected.

Unless Batman was trying to drug him.

“What are these?” Jason asked suspiciously.

“They’re just Tylenol. Would you like to see the bottle?” Batman told him, more patiently than Jason would have expected.

Jason hesitated, not sure if it was a trap, then nodded. Batman calmly handed over the small plastic bottle in his hand, and Jason snatched it and read the ingredients, directions, and warnings three times before he had concluded that yeah, that was…actually probably just a painkiller.

Jason cautiously took the pills with a swig of water and a sideways glance at Batman to watch his reaction, but there was no crow of victory, no smug smirk at Jason for having drugged himself. Just a painkiller, for real, then.

“Buckle up,” Batman instructed, slipping the key into the ignition and bringing the car to a purr.

Panic tightened Jason’s throat, and the scent of it was immediately thick in the car, mixed with a cloyingly sweet omega heat scent. His breaths were fast and shallow, and he found himself clenching his eyes tight shut again.

“Where are we going?” Jason cut a glance to Batman. Scentless, unreadable Batman.

Batman paused, frowning slightly at Jason’s reaction. “I’m taking you to my home.”

Jason couldn’t breathe, and his eyes welled with fresh tears. No wonder Batman was giving him the medicine; he wasn’t being kind to a random orphan he was gonna fuck once and abandon, he was providing for his future mate.

“Can’t we just do it here and get it over with?” Jason pleaded. He’d never be able to escape from Batman’s headquarters, wherever that was, and he was sure by the offering of the medicine that Batman was in for the long haul. If he went with Batman, he was going to die a slave to a hero, probably fairly young.

Batman tilted his head slightly as he fixed Jason with a stare. “Do what here?”

Jason flinched and his cheeks flushed bright red. Batman was going to make him spell it out? His heart hammered, and he turned begging eyes on Batman. “Please, I won’t fight you, but only once. I’ll do just what you want me to do, I won’t struggle at all, but please do it here, and let me go when we’re done. I-” His mother, coming home late at night or not at all, covered in bruises and bitemarks that she hadn’t been before. His mother, not even recognizing him because the drugs her pimp had her on were so strong and kept he more firmly under the beta’s control than shackles ever could. His mother, scared that she might be pregnant with the child of an alpha she didn’t know, only to lose the baby and get even worse than before. “Please, I don’t want to be a whore.”

Batman’s jaw dropped, and he actually, physically recoiled from Jason at the suggestion. “I’m not- I-“

Batman’s grovel was entirely gone, and he couldn’t seem to find the words for how revolting he found whatever it is he was mad about. Was it that Jason had asked him to let him go after a light demonstration of courting? Jason’s eyes stung fiercely.

“I didn’t bring you here to rape you,” Batman said firmly at last, still not in his Batman voice. Jason was definitely never, ever leaving. It wasn’t going to be rape, it was going to be mating while Jason was in heat, and that didn’t even count in courts that weren’t in Gotham.

Jason tucked his face against the window and let the tears fall. There was no one but Batman to see, and Batman had singled him out probably because he could already tell how weak Jason was.

Batman sighed. “What’s your name, son?”

Jason sniffed and muttered thickly, “What’s it matter?”

“I want to know what you like to be called so I can call you that,” Batman told him.

Jason didn’t want to give him his name, but he also realized that he was probably never going to see a single other person ever. He didn’t want to lose the name his mother gave him, or use some sort of fake name for the rest of his life.

“Jason,” he whispered.

Batman sighed again. “Alright, Jason. I’m not going to hurt you. That includes any kind of sexual touching. Adults touching kids that way is very wrong, even when it’s an omega in heat. Not everyone believes the same way, though, so you have to get off the streets before your heat gets any worse. I’m not trying to keep you forever, just until your heat is finished. Then we can figure out where you want to stay. Does that sound good to you?”

It sounded good. It sounded so good. For a moment, hope sprang up, burning with painful, wonderous brilliance, but then it flickered out and died.

“Everyone’s seen what you put Robin in! I’m not an idiot!” Jason snapped at him.

“Robin designed his outfit by himself. I didn’t particularly like the lack of pants either, but the design was sentimental to him and I allowed it. I did not ever touch him sexually, and you’re welcome to ask him about that yourself when you meet him,” Batman said, then started to pull the car out of the alley like the conversation was done. If he was done talking, then it was. Batman held all the power in their relationship.

“I’m meeting Robin, then,” Jason drawled, trying to hide the wobbliness in his voice as they travelled at breakneck speed down the streets. It had never been proven, but a lot of people thought that Robin was an alpha too. “You usually invite friends over for this kind of thing?”

Batman had the nerve to give a long suffering sigh. Asshole. “If Robin comes by the house, then you’ll meet him, but he isn’t going to touch you either. Jason, you’re safe. I promise.”

Safety and promises. Jason snorted bitterly. He’d stopped believing in fairytales a long time ago.

[blitzturtles]

Title: It Starts Like This, Ch. 2/?

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind

Pairing(s): BruAbba, Platonic Bucci Gang

Summary: “Giorno can’t fix this.”

Abbacchio’s breath hitches. “What?”

Notes: Turns out being dead has a bit of a long term effect. Who would have thought?

This fic got away from me, so I'm breaking it down by character interaction (sort of). This is Fugo & Abbacchio's part of this very Bucci-centric fic.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

______

Content warning for Abbacchio being Abbacchio. There's a bit of self-deprecation. Mentions and discussions of death, mostly centered around Paolo Bucciarati, and how his death weighs on Bruno.

______

“He’s never had these before,” Fugo says with a detached tone.

“I know,” Abbacchio replies in a near whisper. He brushes his fingers through Bruno’s hair; the motion earns him a small hum, but Bruno doesn’t open his eyes.

“Which means…” Fugo’s words trail off. He has a few dozen thoughts going through his head all at once.

“Yeah, probably,” Abbacchio sighs and reaches up to free his own hair. He doesn’t plan to leave this room for the next few hours at least.

“It could be permanent,” Fugo adds, thinking aloud more than conversing.

Abbacchio tries to stamp down his irritation. This isn’t Fugo’s fault, and the kid is only trying to work through everything that’s happening. Abbacchio can’t blame him for that. He’s already replaying every moment of his and Bruno’s interactions in his head. Thinks about setting Moody loose on a few incidents that he had written off before. He needs to see them again. To evaluate with clear eyes. How long had Bruno been suffering? How could he have missed this? He knows the answer already, but acknowledging it only makes him feel worse. Denial has clearly been at play, and his partner is the one to have suffered the consequences.

“Giorno can’t fix this.”

Abbacchio’s breath hitches. “What?”

“Messing around in Bruno’s head is too dangerous. He- it could-” Fugo fusses with his tie, brushes off something imaginary.

“Shut up, and get in bed,” Abbacchio can’t handle this right now. He’s only managed this far because he felt like he had to. Feels like he owes Bucciarati that much.

Fugo startles out of his own thoughts. His brows furrow together.

“You want to stay close to him,” Abbacchio says, like it’s obvious. It is, but Fugo doesn’t know if that explains the suggestion.

Sensing the hesitation, Abbacchio sighs, “Look, it’s only fucking weird if you make it.”

No, it’s definitely still weird, but Fugo carefully climbs on the edge anyway. They haven’t done this since they were both teenagers (never mind that Fugo is one, still). Fugo used to wake up from nightmares, screaming and too terrified to go back to sleep. But it had only been the two of them back then, and definitely not with Bruno’s partner right there.

Abbacchio snorts in amusement but climbs under the blankets on the other side of Bruno. He’s beginning to feel that post-adrenaline rush exhaustion creep in, and he’s not about to be jealous of Fugo wanting physical reassurance. None of them had needed the reminder that Bruno had died. Had been without a pulse and most of his blood supply for long enough that he might have seizures for the rest of his life.

He wants to laugh at the thought. How cruel. The one person on the team that deserves, more than anyone else, to be able to live his life in peace, and now he has a permanent reminder of the events that led to his death and his near second death. Fantastic.

Moody breaks him out of his thoughts with a click and a whine. Stick Fingers must have been pulled back to Bruno when he settled into a deeper, more restful sleep. Or maybe they feel satisfied that their user will be cared for now. He recalls his own stand for the time being.

To Abbacchio’s surprise, it’s Fugo that falls asleep first. He presses closer to Bruno in his unconscious state. Less inhibited. The problem with that level of intelligence is the tendency to overthink. Doesn’t help that he knows the kid has plenty of reason to be apprehensive about physical contact, though Abbacchio is relatively certain that it’s his own presence that makes Fugo uneasy.

He watches them for a while. They look peaceful, though the kid looks like he could use a blanket of his own. Abbacchio eventually rolls off the bed to dig through the nearby dresser. He finds the extra throw that Bruno keeps and tosses it over Fugo before he gets back into bed.

------ ------

“Abbacchio,” his name comes out as a hiss, but Abbacchio can’t tell where it’s coming from. “Abbacchio!” He hears again, but he can’t find who the voice belongs to. He turns his head, gets a surprising smack to the face that jolts him upright.

It takes him a moment to clear the confusion, but his attention is quickly drawn down to his right by an odd, strained sound. Something forced out of the back of someone’s throat, and he instantly identifies it as Bruno. Fugo is already trying to roll him on his side.

“How long?” Abbacchio asks, reaching out to help. Bruno isn’t moving much, other than the hand he managed to get Abbacchio with.

“A few seconds,” Fugo says with a strained sound to his voice.

“Good, that’s good,” Abbacchio isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince. “Bruno?” He asks and is startled when Bruno turns his head in his direction. It has to be a fluke. “You with us?”

“Mm.”

“Huh, that’s-” Weird. “Can you tell us where you are?”

“M’hm.”

Abbacchio waits a moment, but nothing comes after that. Bruno’s eyes trail away. “Bruno.” The same unfocused gaze returns again.

“That’s good… right?” Fugo asks with a frown, uncertainty at the edge of his voice. Like he knows that he’s probably lying to himself.

“No idea, my training didn’t include this,” he tries a few more times to get Bruno to talk to him, but he doesn’t get more than quiet hums and half-mumbled words. There’s a few attempts that get nothing at all, but Bruno finally-- finally-- blinks at him. Slow and sluggish. Abbacchio has to resist the urge to pull him close to his chest. Instead, he talks to him quietly and gets Fugo to turn off the lights that he had forgotten about.

“‘m sorry,” Bruno mumbles with his eyes closed. He presses his face against the pillows, and he looks so exhausted. It’s killing Abbacchio to watch him.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Abbacchio reassures. He risks running his fingers through Bruno’s hair after several moments have passed. “Fugo’s here,” he adds, more as courtesy than anything.

“Oh,” Bruno answers. He gives an aborted nod, but Abbacchio isn’t sure how much he’s actually processing.

“I can go,” Fugo offers, already starting off the bed.

“Panna,” Bruno reaches blindly behind himself for Fugo.

The nickname freezes the teenager in place long enough for Bruno to get his fingers into one of the holes of Fugo’s suit. He hums and closes his eyes.

For several minutes, no one moves. Fugo isn’t particularly comfortable where he is, more on the edge of the bed than actually on the mattress, but he doesn’t want to disturb Bruno. Abbacchio counts each of Bruno’s breaths like that might be of some use to them.

“Love,” Bruno speaks up again. He looks frustrated, and the way he presses his lips into a thin line tells Abbacchio that he’s struggling to put his thoughts together. He makes a vague motion with his hand, but it doesn’t exactly convey whatever he’s going for.

“We love you, too,” Abbacchio says, because he knows Bruno. He notes the way Fugo looks like he’s been kicked in the chest. All this time later, and he can’t accept that Bruno’s affection is undying and unconditional. Abbacchio gets that, actually.

“C’mon Fugo, get comfortable. Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day,” he isn’t about to let this continue without getting a professional involved. If they can’t use Giorno’s stand, then they’ll find someone that can help. Bruno’s not the first person in the world to have seizures. There’s research and medication for this.

Fugo does as he’s told, pulling the blanket that Abbacchio got for him tight around his shoulders. He barely seems to register that it exists, but he’s going to hide himself in it anyways.

Neither of them fall asleep nearly as quickly as Bruno, but it happens eventually.

------ ------

The next time Abbacchio awakes, it’s to find the bed half covered in books and various scraps of paper littered about.

“Complex partial seizure,” Fugo says before Abbacchio has sorted out what time of day it is.

“What?”

“Bruno had a complex partial seizure. Apparently seizures don’t always affect awareness,” Fugo explains as he vaguely gestures to one of the books that’s open to a page with a black and white picture of a brain on it. He’s sitting criss-cross on the other side of Bruno with his brows apparently stuck together in a look of deep thought. “Though obviously his did, but he maintained some level of consciousness. That’s what makes it a complex partial seizure. I think-” Fugo frowns as he flips through the pages, “I only managed to get these an hour ago, and I was more invested in the information about the grand mal seizure.”

Abbacchio groans and tries to clear the sleep by rubbing his eyes. When that doesn’t work, he scrubs his hands over his face. “Where did you get those?”

Fugo raises an eyebrow.

Abbacchio sighs and makes an aborted gesture with his hand, “Never mind. So, a-” he squints, “What did you say?”

“A complex partial seizure.”

“Right,” Abbacchio needs caffeine before he can digest any of this, “Is that… better or worse?”

“Well, they’re all dangerous,” Fugo chews on his bottom lip as he turns the question over in his mind. He looks like he’s considering his answer at a level that Abbacchio isn’t ready for this early.

Instead, he focuses on Bruno. Makes sure he’s breathing first and foremost, which he is. He looks over the zipper Sticky Fingers’ had placed and feels a bit queasy at the size of it. That isn’t the most reassuring thing he’s seen in recent history, but surely Giorno can heal that without possibly screwing up Bruno’s brain.

“I’m going to go grab a cup of coffee, and you’re going to run all that by me again. After I drink my coffee,” he moves to stand, stretching as he goes. He’s still in his undershirt and pants, which isn’t comfortable, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Want any?”

“Please.”

------ ------

By the time he gets back to Bruno’s-- really both of their-- bedroom, Bruno is awake and talking quietly with Fugo. He looks surprisingly good for a man that’s had two seizures in less than twenty-four hours. More alert than Abbacchio thought to expect.

Bruno has one of Abbacchio’s shirts on. Fugo must have gotten it for him. Probably hadn’t realized it wasn’t Bruno’s until it was hanging off of him. His hair is still down, loose. It hangs in his face every time he moves a certain way. The only tale of the wear on his body is the obvious bags under his eyes. His shoulders are slumped, too, but he talks to Fugo as if nothing ever happened.

Abbacchio passes one of the cups of coffee to Fugo, who takes it gratefully. He turns his attention back to Bruno, “I didn’t think you’d be awake. Do you want some tea?” Of the non-caffeinated variety. He doesn’t specify, but Bruno drinks tea more for the motions than the energy boost. It soothes his nerves when he’s antsy or aggravated.

“I’m alright, thank you,” Bruno offers him a small smile. A gentle reassurance that he’s alright.

Abbacchio doesn’t buy it, but the smile does settle something in him.

The conversation resumes after that. It’s not about the seizures, surprisingly. With the way Fugo is trying to rip through the information, he half expected that Fugo wouldn’t be able to help infodumping everything he’s learned. Bruno would-- under ordinary circumstances-- happily oblige him by listening. Abbacchio isn’t sure if it’s for Bruno’s sake or Fugo’s that the teenager refrains.

------ ------

Eventually, Fugo dismisses himself and Bruno gets dressed. Abbacchio wants to say something, but the words won’t come together. They stay in a heavy silence; one that threatens to smother the oxygen from their lungs. There’s a familiar ache between Abbacchio’s ribs that he dismisses in favor of keeping his focus on Bruno.

They aren’t avoiding each other. Both want nothing more to touch. A reassurance for one; an attempt to cement for the other.

They aren’t avoiding each other; they’re avoiding the truth.

------ ------

“Giorno!” Abbacchio barks the kid’s name a little rougher than he intended to.

Giorno looks up instantly, eyes widening slightly, then more significantly when he sees Bruno following after Abbacchio.

“Bucciarati!” The Pistols cry in unison, taking the name right from Mista’s own mouth.

“Oh man, you scared us,” Narancia says before he can think better of it.

Abbacchio shoots him a dirty look, but Bruno pats him on the shoulder. “It’s alright. I’m sure I gave everyone quite the scare.”

“Man, that’s the understatement of the year, but we’re glad to see you’re okay,” Mista answers brightly.

Abbacchio can see the shadow that hangs over all of them, despite their best attempts to pretend everything is okay. At least they’re trying. His attention turns back to Giorno, “Bruno’s got a cut he has sealed off with a zipper,” that’s as much of an explanation as he’s offering, even though it’s something Giorno already knows.

Giorno nods anyway. He gets up from his seat and moves to pull out Bruno’s usual chair. “If you have a seat, I can get a better look.”

“Of course, thank you,” Bruno slides in easily and reaches his hands up to help part some of his hair. It’s substantially thicker without his usual braid. The zipper is largely obscured, but, between he and Giorno, they manage to part it in a way that keeps the majority of the strands out of the wound once Sticky Fingers releases the zipper.

Narancia whistles when he leans in for a look, “Jeez.”

Abbacchio’s inclined to agree, but he knows that wounds to the scalp can be superficial, both in depth and in how they can sometimes appear more severe than they are. He hopes that’s the case here. Bruno doesn’t need a concussion on top of the apparent brain injury they were all oblivious to.

Gold Experience gets to work quickly, closes the wound within seconds. The only sign of Bruno’s pain is the way he grinds his teeth together, but he holds perfectly still until Giorno is finished.

“There, that should be it. I didn’t feel any new bleeding underneath either,” Giorno explains.

“Thank you, Giorno,” Bruno smiles up at him fondly.

Giorno ducks his head and makes his way back to his seat with a quiet, ‘you’re welcome’.

The rest of breakfast passes in something of a blur. Trish makes her way downstairs and expresses her own relief to find Bruno sitting with everyone else, awake and alert. They all find themselves glancing his way every now and then, but the morning passes by without event.

------ ------

It’s after everyone else has dispersed that Abbacchio finds himself sitting next to Bruno and unsure of how to proceed. They need to get Bruno to a doctor, but the man is notoriously impossible when it comes to treating his own wounds. Before Giorno, if Bruno couldn’t put a zipper on it… well, he would try anyway, and he would have died a few times over if not for someone (Abbacchio) else’s intervention. He suspects that Bruno was mildly better as a teenager, if only because he had to make sure that someone took care of Fugo. He thinks it went downhill when Fugo’s own stray ended up joining Passione. The kid wouldn’t be alone, then.

He sighs and turns to his partner, “You- we should go to the hospital.”

To his surprise, the response he gets is a soft, “I know.”

He peaks over at Bruno, sees the way his shoulders are sloped in defeat. No, fuck. Abbacchio feels sick, because that’s not defeat. That’s fear and devastation in those beautiful blue eyes.

Abbacchio reaches to brush his fingers through the longest parts of Bruno’s hair. The pieces he typically keeps braided. “It’ll be okay.”

“Logically, I know that,” Bruno says. Quiet, staring forward. He won’t look at Abbacchio. “But, logically, there’s always the possibility that it won’t be.”

Abbacchio tries to keep his own emotions in check, but he remembers seeing Bruno on the floor of that damn colosseum, more dead than alive. And he remembers hearing Giorno tell them about the extent of Bruno’s injuries at the church. The ones that had actually killed him.

“I’m not afraid of… the worst case scenario.”

“I know,” and Abbacchio does know that. If death were a deterring factor, Bruno wouldn’t be where he is now. “But you can’t run away from us.”

Bruno makes a noise in the back of his throat, confirming what Abbacchio already knows. Bruno isn’t afraid of the possibility of this being more than seizures or brain damage or epilepsy. He’s not afraid of death. He’s afraid of taking them all with him on a road he’s already been down. His own father never recovered from the devastation wrought on his body. Every one of the five years he lived after had been filled with pain for a man that wished nothing more than to shield his only child from the truth. As if Bruno weren’t knocking on Passione’s door and doing everything the fuckers asked him, no matter the consequences to himself.

The dying don’t go quietly.

Abbacchio reaches for Bruno’s hand. He tangles their fingers together. “If-- and I mean if-- it’s something like that, then we take the risk of Giorno fucking up your memories or personality or whatever. Maybe you’ll be a little weirder,” he gets a huff there that he delights in. A small success. “But I think we can all live with that, if it means you being with us.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Bruno says after a minute or so of gathering his thoughts and putting his emotions back in order.

“Has to happen sometimes.”

Bruno laughs again, but he shoots Abbacchio a glare for self-deprecation.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Lecture me later,” Abbacchio squeezes Bruno’s hand. “C’mon. Let’s go get ready.”

Once they’re on their feet, Bruno follows behind him, looking more like a lost puppy than his usual self. It only strengthens Abbacchio’s resolve to be the stronger partner for a change.

[badger-writes]

@badthingshappenbingo​

Prompt Filled: Jealousy/Envy

Fandom: Star Wars

Ao3 Link

The children of Mos Espa seek out each others’ company, as children do. They are slaves, orphans, scrum-rats – peasants, all. They don’t all like Greedo, exactly, but they do tolerate him. He can accept that – stars know he’s not fond of every one of them, either.

They seem to congregate around one boy in particular, like planets around a blazing star. His name is Anakin. He still lives with his mother. They are both slaves, owned by the junk dealer Watto. Though a slave, he lives well, and is growing up hale and healthy. He’s building a podracer in the back lot behind Watto’s yard, and to hear him tell it, he’s working on a protocol droid in his home that’s almost finished. He’s cheerful and kind and seemingly all of Mos Espa likes him. The children all think he’s wizard.

Some people get all the luck, Greedo fumes to himself.

===

There’s only one other Rodian in their little clique – he’s three years younger and about a head shorter than Anakin, and goes by the name of Wald. A nice kid, Greedo supposes, though his attitude could use adjusting. No one with so little to be happy about should be that happy, even if it’s still more than Greedo has.

Eventually - because Wald is a perceptive sort of child, the kind that doesn’t keep his mouth shut - he asks, “Hey Greedo, how come you’re so jealous of Ani?”

Greedo scowls. He’s always scowling, but this one is worse than usual. “I’m not jealous,” he insists, rubbery Rodian brows scrunching up his forehead.

“Pfft, yeah, and I’m the Tusken King!” Wald cups his hands around his snout and twirls around in place, hooting his best imitation of a Tusken Raider war cry. It is, as one might expect of a Rodian child aping a Tusken Raider, not very good.

“Stop making fun of me,” Greedo pouts, crossing his arms.

“I’m not making fun! I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so jealous.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Well, why shouldn’t I be?!” He spits, and feels something wound tight deep inside him come unpinned, like steam breaching a gasket and hissing into open air. “He’s already so much better off than the rest of us!”

“I dunno about that,” Wald says. He’s halfhearted, wishy-washy. “He’s still a slave, after all.”

“What other slave gets to build his own podracer? Or his own droid? Or race in the Boonta Eve?” Greedo shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at the dirt as he walks. “I never get to do anything like that. It’s not fair.”

“What can I say? Ani’s a lucky kid,” Wald says, shrugging.  “Then again, he’s still living in Slave Quarters Row with his mom, so what can you do?”

“At least he has a mom.”

The corners of Wald’s mouth pucker inwards. He plays with his fingers behind his back and tries to look very interested in the rivulets of sand shifting around on the ground.

Greedo grunts. “Whatever. It’s not like he’ll ever leave Tatooine.” he mutters. The slave tracker inside him would see to that. Wander too far away and … poof. “No matter what, he’s still gonna waste away on this dustball like the rest of us.”

“Is… that supposed to be a good thing?”

“It sounds good to me.”

Wald gives him a funny look. “You’re a weird kid, Greedo,” he says, chortling. Then he tugs on the sleeve of his roughspun tunic. “C’mon, let’s go toss rotten tip-yip eggs at Nobot. That always makes me feel better.”

===

Anakin wins the Boonta Eve podrace, along with his freedom. He’s going to leave Tatooine forever and fly with his offworld stranger friends to live in the Core, in the Republic capitol. He’s going to become a ‘Jedi’, whatever that is. All of this happens in the space of maybe a standard hour.

Greedo doesn’t buy it.

“You cheated,” he hisses at the boy after the race.

The radiance of victory hasn’t left Anakin’s face. He’s clearly taken by surprise at being accosted so while basking in the moment of triumph. It gives Greedo a sickly sort of pride that he’s able to strip the sheen off his hull plating so easily.

“No, I didn’t!” Anakin insists. “I won that race fair and square. Everyone saw it!”

Greedo had seen it, too. No one could have pulled an upset like that off. “Yeah, right. Against Sebulba? With a busted engine? No way.”

The fix had to be in, somewhere. Maybe Ani’s ‘Jedi’ friend paid Sebulba to take a dive, since apparently he likes him so much.

“I did win,” Anakin whines again. “You’re just jealous.”

Greedo snorts rudely through his snout – but the other street-rats are already listening, picking sides, tittering quietly amongst themselves. He can’t very well back down now.

“You did cheat, you little sneak. They’re gonna find out how, and once they do, they’re gonna drag you back to Mos Espa by your hair and give you back to Watto.”

Something in Anakin’s expression cracks. Greedo can see the fear in his eyes. “No, they’re not.”

“Oh yes they are,” the Rodian sneers. “They’re gonna put your tracker back in and make you polish scrap and work you til you’re old and gra—”

He would have said ‘gray’, if not for the tiny fist connecting with his jaw; the impact throws him down onto the sand. Anakin is on him just as quickly, pounding his face and shoulders with wild jabs, blinded by anger. The crowd of children around them settle into the familiar chanting which accompanies any street fight.

And then –

The moment is parted, like wind cutting smoothly over the dunes. There’s a man here now that wasn’t here before – tall, long haired, middle-aged, human. His clothes are simple, but he bears himself almost regally, as if detached or above the squabble unfolding before him. The crowd is hushed; the beating stops. In the lull, Greedo is finally able to push the little cheater off of him and sit up.

When he speaks, it’s with the voice of a father. Or at least, what they imagine a father must sound like. “What’s this all about?”

“He says I cheated,” Anakin says from the ground, fuming.

“Did you?”

“No!”, the boy replies, incredulously.

The man looks to Greedo expectantly. “Do you still think he cheated?”

His tongue probes a sore spot inside his mouth, tasting copper. “Yes.”

“Well, Ani, you know the truth,” the man says as the two climb to their feet. “You will have to tolerate his opinion. Fighting will not change it.”

Anakin is visibly not satisfied. Neither is Greedo. Both of them have lived long enough to know that this is how adults settle most disputes between children.

The man spares Greedo one last look before turning and striding away; Anakin, pointedly, does not. Neither of them offer so much as a token apology.

[libsterslobsters]

What Is And What Should Never Be Pt 4

Summary: After what was supposed to be a week-long mission (but stretched on for over a month), during which she found out more about their "little stranger", the reader is more than happy to welcome Bucky home.

Also, I suck at summaries.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem! enhanced! Super-soldier Reader

(Reader can see pieces of the future in visions as well as speak every language)

Warnings: Language, pregnancy, smut, fluff

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

Series masterlist

--------------------------‐----------

“They should be calling me back soon.”

 It’s not the ideal way of communicating with your husband while you’re waiting impatiently for  an ultrasound in your OB-GYN’s office, but texting is all she has, so it’ll have to do. A week long mission has stretched into four and a half weeks, and although they can’t share phone calls (anyone could be listening in), texting has received the all-clear. She’s grateful that, for the sake of this doctor’s appointment, it’s nighttime in his part of the world, so he’s tucked safely away and can at least somewhat experience this with her.

 “I’m gonna give these guys hell for making me miss the chance to spy on our girl.” She chuckles at the message on her screen before typing back her own.

 “What are you going to do if it turns out we’re having a boy?” Since the day she told him she was pregnant, Bucky’s  been convinced this baby is a girl, but they don’t know for sure. Despite trying her best to concentrate on anything her visions can tell her, she’s come up blank. For all they know, the “little miss” they’ve been talking to for the past few months is really a little mister.

 “Teach him how to treat a lady instead of teaching her how to throw a punch.” She snickers. It’s a good response. Still-

 “You do realize she’s the child of two super soldiers. She could have the worst right hook in the world, and the other person would still walk away with a black eye.”

 “Barnes?” That jerks her attention away from her phone. The nurse is standing just outside the waiting area, eyes searching the room. On instinct, she glances around her, making sure no one has reacted to her last name. She’s not the most recognizable of the Avengers, but still, she’d rather not have the world know she visited the obstetrician today. If anyone has put two and two together, they’re doing a good job of hiding it so, readjusting her shirt in an attempt to hide her bump, she stands and follows the nurse out of the room.

 For what feels like the millionth time, she gives her full name and date of birth. The nurse’s eyes widen in recognition, but other than that, she keeps it professional.

 “Just wait in here, hon. Someone will be right with you, okay?”

 “Thank you.”

 The ultrasound room is small, barely more than a broom closet, but at least she’s away from prying eyes. So, she hops up on the table in preparation and takes advantage of the time alone to read the latest message.

 “It’s still a valuable life skill. If she takes after her Mom, she’ll be a looker. I want her to be able to make people think twice before they forget their manners around her.” The message brings a smile to her face, but also makes tears prick at her vision.

 “I wish you were here.” As quickly as she types the sentence, she erases it. He’s simply not able to be here, and that’s all there is to it. No need to make him feel bad about something he’s already beating himself up over.

 The door opens, this time revealing the same ultrasound tech she met at her first appointment. There’s another round of name and date of birth, then settling onto her stool next to the machine, the tech asks,

 “Did you want to know the gender if we’re able to tell today?” When they discussed it, she spent a solid fifteen minutes convincing Bucky that yes, this is a thing they can tell just from those black and white pictures, no she’s not pulling a prank on him, they can find out if they’re having a boy or a girl before the baby’s born. Ultimately they decided-

 “Yes.”

 It’s only the second time she’s been in this position, so everything is still relatively new. A warning about the gel being cold, the pressure of the ultrasound wand against her, and then the screen coming to life. This time around, the baby actually looks more like a baby instead of a blob, and as she watches, she sees a hand go up.

 “You’re feeling movements at this point, right?” She nods. “Good.”

 Starting at the head that still looks far too large, they work their way down the body, different images being captured over every organ. Then-

 “Are you ready to find out if you’ve got a little boy or a little girl in there?”

 She pulls up her phone and rapidly types, “About to find out he or she.” then answers.

 “Yes.”

 There’s a momentary pause, then-

 “Congratulations. Looks like you have a little girl.” This time there’s no stopping it. The tears spill over.

 “Sorry.” She swipes at her cheeks. The tech offers her a sympathetic smile and offers her a few tissues, which she readily accepts.

 The scan goes on for a few more minutes, picture after picture being filed away. Finally, the wand is removed and the tech informs her,

 “I’ll have to confirm with the doctor, but everything looks good. Did you want some pictures to take with you?”

 “Yes, thank you. That would be great.”

 The machine spits out a few images which are torn off and handed to her.

 “I’ll give you some privacy to get cleaned up. Someone will be with you shortly to take you to an exam room, okay?”

 “Thanks.”

 The tech stands and starts towards the door. Hesitating just outside it, she turns.

 “By the way, I couldn’t help but recognize the name on the file.” Oh. Here it goes. “I just wanted to say we really appreciate all you’ve done. The other Avengers too. My little girl loves to pretend that she’s the Soothsayer and runs around telling me, “Mom, I had a vision.” “

 She laughs, a mental picture forming in her mind of a smaller version of the woman in front of her wearing a Halloween costume version of the Soothsayer uniform.

 “That’s good to hear. I’ll pass the word along to the team.”

 The tech disappears down the hall and she cleans herself up. Holding up the clearest ultrasound image, she snaps a picture and attaching it, texts, “It’s a girl.”

__________________________________________________________________________________

 He’s been staring at his phone for the better part of the last four hours but still, Bucky can’t bear to look away. The picture isn’t the best, a little blurry around the edges, but it still has his full attention. That, and the text attached: “It’s a girl.”

 “That thing’s gonna die on you if you don’t put it away soon.” He chuckles in response to Sam’s words.

 “We’re only half an hour out. Somehow, I think I’ll make it.”

 “What’re you staring at anyway?” He hesitates for a moment. Sam knows their big secret, as does Wanda, but so far no one else has caught on. Is it okay for him to share this? His gut tells him that it is, so he holds up his phone, careful to tip the screen so that only Sam can see it.

 “Oh.” Immediate recognition blooms on his partner’s face. “That a recent one?”

 “Yesterday.”

 Not looking away, Sam continues.

 “You know, I sorta thought you were joking before, trying to throw me off what’s really going on, but I guess it’s true.” His eyes narrow, and it’s obvious when he reads the text on the bottom. “A girl?”

 Bucky couldn’t hold back his smile if he tried.

 “A girl.” He would’ve been okay if his hunch turned out to be wrong, but now that he knows for sure that they have a daughter on the way, he’s excited. Excited… and terrified.

 “Damn.” Sam chuckles. “It’s too bad you got rid of the long seventies hair. She could’ve put flowers in it when you play tea party with her.” He snickers. If this baby, his daughter, does indeed want him to have a tea party with her in a few years’ time, he’ll do it, and do it gladly. Hell, he’ll even wear a feather boa and funny hat if that’s what she wants. The world may think that his job is to be an Avenger, but he knows that his real job is at home, taking care of his two girls.

 Eventually the never-ending flight home does indeed end and, after bidding Sam and the rest of their squad goodbye, he climbs into his car and starts the engine. He thinks about shooting her a text letting her know he’s on his way, but the clock on the dash reads four a.m., and he decides it’s best to let her sleep. She’ll more than likely wake up when he crawls into bed next to her anyway since she’s such a light sleeper.

 As the miles pass, his weariness from the mission fades with them, quickly replaced with anticipation. During the war, when his buddies would hang onto the hope of receiving a letter from their sweethearts or wives and once the letter did arrive, keep it close to them, often inside their jacket pressed close against their hearts, he didn’t get it. Sure, there were people at home he missed, and even a few girls he’d had dates with who sent the occasional note, but these guys were so attached to that scrap of paper and the words scrawled across it that they’d read so often, they could recite them at the drop of a hat, and that it just didn’t make sense to him. Well, now it does. Instead of letters, he has texts and voicemails, a few pictures taken over the years of them together (or the occasional snapshot he’s sneaked when she wasn’t paying attention because really, it would be a crime not to capture how perfect she looked right then for all eternity), and most recently, the image of his unborn daughter. Whatever he’s had to do that day, whatever is weighing him down, he knows that it’s all for them, and that makes the load seem bearable.

 Finally, he pulls into his driveway. Killing the engine, he climbs out, leaving his duffle bag full of dirty (and smelly) clothes to be dealt with tomorrow. Right now, he’s on a mission; infiltrate the house quietly, shower covertly, and then crawl into bed with his two girls.

 Parts one and two of his plan go easily enough. He removes his shoes at the door to decrease the chances that she’ll hear his footsteps and takes the stairs agonizingly slowly. The guest bathroom is missing a few key items (like razors; god, he needs a shave), but it has soap and shampoo, so he’s able to shower. The one key element he forgot about is that he doesn’t have any clothes located in this part of the house but, as he tiptoes into their bedroom, he realizes he’s in luck. The closet door is open and- he stifles a chuckle- a pair of his pajamas is laid out on his side of the bed. Looks like she had a vision that he’d be coming home tonight. At least she didn’t wait up.

 After tugging on the bottoms (he disregards the shirt; somehow, they always end up migrating towards the center of the bed, and with her so close to him, he’ll be more than warm enough), he pulls back the covers and eases into bed. Sure enough, she immediately snuggles closer, pressing her back against his chest. He’s not sure if she’s awake until-

 “Welcome home, stranger.” Her voice is rough with sleep, but he can still hear the smile in it.

 “Thanks, Doll. It’s good to be back.” He readjusts his flesh arm to wrap around her waist, his hand instinctively falling to caress the swell of her middle (much larger now than it was four weeks ago), and he’s just about to close his eyes in hopes of getting a few winks when he feels it.

 At first, he thinks he’s imagining things it’s so soft, but then it happens again. A nudge against his palm, harder this time. It takes a moment for him to realize what’s happening, and when he does, he can’t help the shaky breath he exhales against her neck.

 “You okay?” He means to reassure her that he’s fine, but instead what comes out is-

 “She’s moving.” As if in response, he receives another kick.

 “Yeah. She’s saying hello to her dad.” He knew that she was feeling the baby move thanks to a text sent two weeks back, but this is the first time he’s been able to feel it himself. And it’s… unbelievable.

 “Does it hurt you at all, sweetheart? Is it uncomfortable?” She chuckles softly.

 “No, it doesn’t hurt. The only time it’s uncomfortable is if she gets my kidneys, or if I’m trying to sleep.” Which is what she should be doing now.

 Without thinking, he sits up and, leaning over so that his cheek is pressed against the bump, he murmurs,

 “Hey, little miss. This is your Dad. I can’t wait to meet you.” Her hand comes down to cart through his still-damp hair. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk again and you can kick me some more, but right now you need to calm down so your Mom can get some rest. She’s got a big job, looking after me and growing you all at the same time. So why don’t you settle back in and go to sleep, and me and Mom will try to do that too?” He receives one more kick for his efforts and then… stillness.

 “I’m never going to hear the end of this am I? How she already listens to you?”

 He chuckles and eases back down on the bed, pulling her against him once more.

 “Never.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

 “… Mom told me to run, and then took off. Didn’t know if she was crazy or an enemy agent or what, so I ran after her.” The words are barely above a whisper, so quiet that she wonders if she’s still dreaming. However, a stirring in her middle settles the matter. She’s awake. This is real.

 “I know. Looking back on it, I probably didn’t make the best first impression, but cut me some slack. It’s not every day the woman you just walked into thirty seconds ago tells you there’s an ambush waiting for you on the next street up. And you should be glad I chased her down. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” Is he-

 “Not that I’d recommend going up to strange men and saving their lives, Little Miss. It’s a good way for someone to get hurt. Probably not you if Banner’s right about the serum being passed down from parent to child, but still. Not a smart idea.” Yes, it’s exactly what she thought. He’s talking to the baby. “Of course, if anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll kick their ass. Or Mom will. One of us. The other one will stage the scene so it looks like an accident. And, that’s probably something I shouldn’t be telling you on the off chance you’re hearing any of this.”

 “She has ears now.” Her voice is hoarse from disuse, and she grimaces at the sound of it. “Week eighteen’s when they start to work. She can hear us.”

 Blue eyes peer up at her, startled, before melting into the familiar, soft expression he usually wears around her. “Hey, Doll. Did I wake you up?”

 Shaking her head, she reaches out, covering his metal hand still resting on her middle, with her own. “No. She did.” As if in reply, there’s a bump against their palms, and a smile spreads across his face.

 “Yeah. I felt her kicking when I woke up, so I thought I’d try to calm her down for you. Looks like it did just the opposite.”

 “No, you succeeded.” With a yawn, she stretches. “Usually she’s ready to rumble at six a.m. This is an improvement.”

 A mock frown crosses Bucky’s face. “Now listen here, Little Miss. There’s a limited amount of driving your mom crazy that can happen in a twenty-four hour period, and since I’ve known her longer, I’ve got seniority. You’re gonna have to dial it back by an hour, thirty minutes at least in the mornings. It’s not a smart idea to piss off your landlady.” Apparently, their little one doesn’t agree. His eyes go wide at the sudden, strong movement. “What-”

 “She rolled over.” And, that brilliant, genuinely happy smile is back

 “That’s…” He searches for the right word. “...amazing.” It is, but if she focuses on it, she’ll start tearing up, and now’s not the time for a hormone-fueled crying jag.

 “She’s usually active in the morning. Settles down after breakfast.”

 He chuckles. “Is that your way of saying you’d like me to get you something to eat?”  Oh, that sounds good. She has some fresh fruit in the refrigerator, but there’s also mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer, and then there’s ramen noodles, which she kind of wants to eat raw for some reason… but no.

 “I’ve got it.” She starts to sit up, but doesn’t get very far before he’s easing her back down.

 “No you don’t. I’m home now, so I can get back to my real job.” Pecking her forehead, he stands. “Taking care of my girls.”

 “Get back here.” It comes out more petulant than she meant it to, which is probably why he pauses just outside the doorway and turns back around to look at her. He didn’t bother with a shirt last night, did he? And those sweatpants… she shakes her head to clear it. “You need your rest.”

 He raises an eyebrow. “I think that’s my line, Doll.”

 How many days worth of scruff is that, she wonders. The last time he’d let it grow out that long was when they were on that mission in Siberia. It was cold as fuck, and even with their enhancements making them more resilient to the weather, when they finally got back to their hotel room that night, they were nearly frozen solid. The heat wasn’t doing a great job, and so the only logical way to stay warm was to completely undress and lie as close as humanly possible in bed under all the blankets they could get their hands on. Of course, naked cuddling usually leads to naked making out, which lead to what is now a very vivid memory of exactly how that stubble felt between her thighs-

 “Which one of us is growing a human right now?” The question snaps her out of her lecherous daydreams. The hormones. That has to be what’s causing this sudden boost in libido.

 Clearing her throat, she shoots back, “Which one of us just spent a month getting shot at?” A month. It’s been a whole month since the last time they did anything in this bed other than sleep. She’s fully capable of getting off by herself, but her fingers are a poor replacement for-

 “Forget it, solnyshka. You’re not gonna win this one. You’re staying in bed. That’s final.” She’d have something to say about him telling her what to do, but that commanding voice… it’s probably best that she stay in bed. At this point, she’s not sure her legs would hold her up.

 “Fine.” It comes out shaky, but it doesn’t appear that he notices.

 “Anything in particular you want?” Yeah, she can think of a few things. “Are you still having food aversions-” Oh. He’s talking about food. “-or has that cleared up?”

 Grabbing hold of her last shred of sanity, she gasps out, “Anything’s fine.”

 He smirks. “Great. Sauerkraut and pickled pig’s feet it is.”

 She’s not sure if she manages a laugh, too busy staring as he walks away. Dammit. She needs to take a few deep breaths, get a hold of herself. With a frustrated groan, she pushes back the covers and climbs out of bed. She needs to splash some cold water on her face. Oh, and pee. She’s constantly peeing.

 The vision hits her just as she’s dabbing her face with a hand towel. He’s leaning over the stove, cooking… are those pancakes? It’s domestic and sweet and infuriatingly, it riles her up even more. Muttering curses in several languages under her breath, she returns to bed and pulls the covers over her head. Maybe if she concentrates on her slight annoyance that he’s cooking shirtless, which is a damn good way to get yourself burned (of course, they heal fast, so it’s not a huge concern), it’ll help her ignore the ache between her thighs.

 Fifteen minutes later when she hears his footsteps on the stairs, she feels like she’s about to spontaneously combust. With a huff, she sits up and attempts to appear normal. As soon as the door opens, she knows it’s a lost cause.

 “Here you go. Pancakes, bacon, and tea.” Setting the tray on the nightstand, he climbs back in bed next to her.

 “Thanks.” It’s nothing out of the ordinary, him leaning towards her, cradling the back of her head with one hand as he kisses her. It’s not unusual for her to wrap her arms around him, nearly pulling him on top of her as she probes his lips with her tongue, begging for entrance. It’s not even odd for the kiss to go from innocent to filthy, his teeth teasing her bottom lip, making her gasp and tug at his hair. What is odd is that, with a chuckle, he pulls away.

 “You’d better eat before it goes cold.”

 Smirking, she hooks the chain holding his dog tags (and his wedding ring, still hidden safely from his mission) around her finger and gives a tug. “You know, there’s this amazing new device called a microwave…”

 His lips curl up into a knowing smirk. “Oh, so that’s what you’re after, huh?”  She feels heat rise to her cheeks as she nods. Luckily, she doesn’t have long to feel embarrassed before his lips are on hers once more.

 She can’t contain her gasp as he pushes aside her panties, fingers trailing over her heat. “Sweetheart, you’re drenched.” A moan escapes her as the tip of one cool, metal finger enters her. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed this earlier? I’d be more than happy to help you out.”  His palm grinds against her clit as, slowly, he begins to thrust his fingers into her.

 Her hand clamps down on his wrist. “Fuck! Bucky-”

 He shushes her, lips trailing wet kisses across her jaw. “Just relax. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

 That’s all well and good, but as he eases a second finger into her, the thin, cotton tshirt that’s covering her upper half feels far too restraining. “Please-” She gasps out. “-don’t tease.”

 “I’m not.” A peck to her nose. “I’m not teasing you.”

 “Yes you-” A shudder passes through her as his fingers nudge against her g-spot. “-you are.”

 A sigh fans over her exposed collar bone. “I don’t want to hurt you, Doll.”

 Gathering all her willpower, she tugs his head down to her level. “James Buchanan Barnes, I am not made of glass. If you don’t get inside of me right now-” A particularly well-aimed thrust of his fingers makes her gasp.

 “Alright.” She suppresses a whimper at the sudden emptiness. “How do you want it?”

 Her gut screams to tell him, “Anything! Just get on with it!” but a lazy movement in her middle jogs her memory. She can’t comfortably be on her back at this point, and it’s been a month, so she wants to see him…

 “I could ride you.” His eyes turn a shade darker at her words, pupils blown with lust.

 “Well, I’m not gonna say no to that.”

 She’s briefly apprehensive as, after kicking off his bottoms, he eases the t-shirt from her body. She looks a lot different than the last time they did this. What if he doesn’t like-

 “Fuck.” His bottom lip slips between his teeth. “Yeah, you’re definitely on top so I can look at you.”  And just like that, any residual fear melts away and she can’t push the final offending garment from her body fast enough.

 Once he’s resting propped up against the headboard, she takes him in her hand, making him hiss, and slowly, carefully, settles on top of him.

 “Oh, fuck.” She’s not sure which one of them moans, too overwhelmed by the sensation of once again, having him inside of her. Finally. Getting used to the feeling, she circles her hips.

 “Shit.” At any other time, she’d make a joke about how desperate he sounds, but right now… grasping his shoulders for leverage, she gives an experimental rock against him… she’s beyond teasing.

 In the beginning, she sets an easy pace, but with one of his hands grasping her hips, the other one trailing over her middle towards her breasts to tease at the swollen flesh, it doesn’t take long until she’s completely lost, moving against him like her life depends on it.

 “That’s it. Take what you need.” She’s not sure if it’s the words or his thump passing over one sensitive nipple that drives her over the edge, but before she can so much as utter a warning, her orgasm crashes over her.

 When she opens her eyes, she realizes that he’s staring at her, awestruck. “That’s the first time you’ve been able to cum without-” Oh. She didn’t realize, but neither of them have so much as brushed a thumb against her clit. Her surprise must show on her face, because he grins. “Oh, we’re definitely gonna have fun with this.”

 After that, she loses count of how many times she hits her peak, too lost in the feeling of their bodies moving together. One of the advantages of the serum is that they both have incredible endurance, but this is different. It’s something primal, a need she didn’t realize she had being met. Finally, after coming down once again, she wilts against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

 “Tired, solnyshka?” She nods, not lifting her head. His chest rumbles with a quiet chuckle, one she doesn’t have time to understand before she’s being lifted off of his cock and placed gently on her side. A whine escapes her at the momentary loss of contact. “Don’t worry, Doll. I’m not going anywhere.” His body curled around her, he eases back into her, making her hum contentedly.

 After doing all the work so far, she can’t help but think to herself that it’s nice to just lay back and let him take her, his hips snapping against hers as his cock nudges against her g-spot.

 “Do you think you’ve got one more for me, Doll?” His voice is gruff with effort. He’s close, she can tell.

 No sooner has she murmured a quiet “yes” than his hand is between her thighs, fingers toying with the bundle of nerves. Her walls contract, and with a strangled cry, he follows her over the edge.

 It takes a few minutes for her to come back to herself, for the murmured words of approval and “I love you”s to have any meaning, but eventually she does recover and, offering him a lazy smile, she whispers, “Welcome home, Barnes.”

[starshine583]

Le Paon Part 4

(Here’s another part of the Le Paon AU! Tell me what you think and if you want more!)

Part 1 / Part 3 / Part 5

Felix didn’t bother hiding his scowl as he marched straight to his father’s office. Sitting in a room with nothing but the monotone voice of underpaid teachers blandly explaining things he’d mastered at the age of five gave him plenty of time to stew about the events of today’s akuma. 

Adrien, smartly, didn’t question his intentions, instead quietly shuffling for the stairs. 

Nathalie, foolishly, stood in front of the door, arching her brow.

“You’re father’s busy right now, Fe-”

“Can it, Sancoeur. I’m not in the mood.” He grit, pushing right past her and ripping the door open.

Gabriel stared down at his computer screen, unblinking, no doubt sketching another design that would look to be inspired from a trash bin. 

Felix curled his hands into fists. The man didn’t so much as glance his way! Did he even care about what happened?

“What was that!” He yelled. 

Gabriel looked at him then, a sharpness in his eyes that made Felix falter for only a moment.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

Felix rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Adrien’s out of range so drop it. You nearly killed at least half a dozen people today, me included!”

Gabriel sighed- as if he was the one being outrageous! “I can’t predict where the akumas rampage. If you’re so distressed about it, though, I’ll try to steer them clear of you next time.”

“Forget about the akuma getting to the school!” As annoying as that was. “We almost killed people today!” 

As far as he knew, they probably did kill somebody. “I thought this was supposed to be about the miraculous.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “It is, but sacrifices must be made, Felix.”

Felix opened his mouth to argue, but Gabriel held up his hand to silence him.

“When we get the Ladybug miraculous, everything will be fixed. In the meantime, Ladybug has her ‘miraculous cure’,” A smirk- unsettling, at that -crossed his lips as he gestured to Felix’s chest, “As you’ve seen today.”

Felix tensed, his hand instinctively coming up to touch the previously healed injury from the fight. “How did you..” 

“I see what my akuma sees. I knew everything that happens during the battle.” Something in his tone sounded sinister to Felix. He couldn’t decide if the statement was a threat or simply new information.

“What about Adrien?” He asked next. His little brother might be a bit more naive, but he wasn’t stupid. They couldn’t keep this a secret from him forever. What happened if he found out first? What would he assume? What would he do? 

“He will know when the time is right.” Gabriel answered, turning back to his screen. “Now go finish your homework before your brother gets suspicious.”

Felix bit back a snarky response, spinning on his heel and leaving as told. He made sure to send Nathalie an overly cold glare on his way out, which she returned with an ever-so-faint smirk. Gosh, he couldn’t stand that woman, acting so high and mighty simply because she worked for Gabriel Agreste when in reality she was only a brainless- and infatuated, apparently -puppet who scrambled after his every word. Disgusting.

He opened his bedroom door, and a flash of black zipped by. Felix blinked, reaching up to rub his eyes. Did the lights just black out for a second? Or was he seeing things now? This better not be a miraculous effect.

“Oh, hey, Fe. Done with Father already?” Adrien asked, taking Felix from his thoughts. 

“I only had a few questions to ask him.” He replied, hanging up his bag and turned slightly, just enough for Adrien not to notice Duusu flying into his vest pocket.

“Huh. I thought you’d take longer than that. You looked pretty mad.” 

Felix shrugged, passing the room to lounge on the couch. 

He rolled his eyes when he caught a glimpse of Adrien’s computer screen. “You’re reading that tabloid?” 

Adrien swiveled around in his wheely-chair, clicking the “minus” button on the Ladyblog. “It’s not a tabloid, Felix. All information on the Ladyblog is fact checked and straight from the heroes.”

Felix scoffed, settling on the couch with his book. As if any reporter would ever be that genuine. People who went into that business were nothing more than talent-less idiots desperate for a scrap of fame. 

“Come on, you don’t want to know about Paris’ heroes?” 

“No.” He knew enough about them already, like the fact that Ladybug’s insecure despite being more than capable of her job, and that she probably hated his guts after what he did that morning.

Adrien sighed and turned back to his computer screen. “Well, I think they’re cool. Sucks that the Le Paon guy turned out to be a jerk.”

Felix sat up at that, nearly dropping his book on the floor. “What did you say?” 

“Oh, you’re interested now?” Adrien retorted, rolling back to show him the computer. 

An image of his alter ego clearly kicking Ladybug in the chest resided on the screen, and Felix winced. Adrien kept scrolling, revealing picture after picture of their fight. Who took these? How did he not notice a random citizen taking his photo?

The horrifying collection ended with a video of Alya Cessaire talking with none other than the citizen he saved from The Constructor’s wrecking ball.

~Yeah, I guess he saved me, but who’s to say he wasn’t the reason I was in danger in the first place?~

Note to self: Maybe we should just let the civilians fend for themselves. Felix thought bitterly, though he knew they had a point. It’s hard to appreciate someone saving you when that someone is also the cause of your peril. 

“I heard he even tricked Ladybug into thinking he was a hero before trying to take her miraculous. How can someone be so cruel?” Adrien said, shaking his head.

“Well, neither of us were there.” Felix found himself saying. “Maybe we don’t have the whole story.”

Like their mother currently laying underneath their mansion in an incurable coma, and the possibility of her being saved if the two miraculous were brought together. 

Adrien furrowed his eyebrows. “Fe, he lured her into a false sense of trust for his own personal gain. Only a villain would do something like that.” 

You don’t have to remind me. He mentally groaned. The way Adrien talked made Le Paon sound like some sort of monster. Maybe he was.

“I suppose.”

“Hey, what’s up with you today?” Adrien frowned. “You’re normally the ‘logical’ one here.” 

Felix pulled a small smile. “I’ve been preoccupied is all, adjusting to school life and all of that.”

Adrien hummed. “I guess that makes sense. Anyway, since you’re in a talking mood, what do you think about Chat Noir? He’s pretty awesome isn’t he?” 

Felix tisked, rubbing his side. He remembered the blonde’s staff more than the hero himself. “A good fighter, I’ll give him that, but he’s also reckless. He doesn’t think things through when he attacks.”

Adrien sputtered, obviously trying to find an argument for the statement. 

“I- you -I thought you said you didn’t pay attention to the heroes.” He finally replied with crossed arms. Why did he look so offended?

“I don’t. It’s just an observation.” Felix stated, picking up his book to resume reading. 

“Whatever.” Adrien grumbled, turning back to the computer.

Felix rose a brow, but didn’t bother questioning the shift in mood. Adrien was the one that asked about his opinion. If he didn’t like it, then that was his problem. 

~~~~~~

“Did you guys see the pictures?” Claude asked eagerly, throwing his bag on the desk.

Felix sighed and closed his book. There was no point in trying to read when Claude started one of his stories. 

“The pictures on the Ladyblog?” Allan guessed. 

“Yeah! Credit to the awesome cameraman, of course.” The brunette grinned, straightening with pride.

“Claude, are you sure you should be that close to the fight? Someone almost got crushed yesterday.” Allegra frowned as she sat down next to Allan.

Claude scoffed and waved his hand. “That’s what makes it interesting. Besides, I can’t let Alya down. Who else could get those awesome camera angles?”

“Well, there’s-”

“No one. That’s who.” Claude interrupted, placing his hands on his hips.

Felix rolled his eyes. “Was there a point to this conversation?” 

“Oh, yeah. Did you hear about Le Paon yesterday? What a jerk!”

Felix resisted the urge to face palm. He should have known better than to ask.

“I watched the video, but I didn’t understand what happened. They say the blue guy from yesterday was a villain?” Allan asked. 

“Le Paon and yes, he’s a villain working with Hawkmoth. Rumor has it that Ladybug thought he was a hero at first. Can you believe that? Tricking someone into believing you’re good just to literally kick them down? Even Felix isn’t that heartless!” Claude huffed.

Thank goodness the others were too invested in Claude to see Felix twitch. He couldn’t get a break could he? I mean, he deserved every word, but that didn’t make it any less aggravating. Was everyone going to remind him of his rash decisions this week? 

Allegra hummed, setting her chin on the back of her hand with an amused smile. “Someone more heartless than Felix? That is interesting. Maybe you should make a blog about Le Paon instead.” 

“As if. A blog about Le Paon would never be popular.” Claude replied matter-of-factly.

Allegra narrowed her eyes. “And how would you know?”

“Um, do you see any Le Paon blogs? Have you heard of any?” Claude continued before she could answer. “No. No, you haven’t. Case in point.” 

“Maybe no one’s thought of it yet?” Allan spoke up.

Claude threw him a light-hearted glare. “Don’t side with her.” 

Felix, for once, nodded in agreement. Alya and Claude were bad enough without Allegra and whoever she’d drag along on the scene. It was just more people to save and keep out of trouble, more distractions to keep him from Ladybug and Chat Noir.

“You know what, Claude? You’re on. I accept your challenge.” Allegra decided.

“What?” Felix and Claude asked in unison. Challenge? What challenge? Nobody initiated a challenge!

“I’m gonna make a blog for Le Paon, and you’re gonna sit there and watch the views skyrocket.” She stated, a determined gleam coming to her eyes.

Felix sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. How did he not see this coming? It’s only his luck that these three would inconvenience him in both his civilian and his miraculous life.

“That takes a lot of work, you know. You have to set up the account, find someone for the footage, work out names and contacts. Not to mention listing all of the sources..” He listed off, hoping to dissuade her.

Unfortunately, his words only fanned the flames. 

“Oh, so you’re doubting me too?” She asked, raising a brow.

“I simply-”

“No, I understand.” Allegra cut him off. “You guys don’t think I can make Le Paon a hit because he had a bad first impression.”

“I didn’t say that.” Allan said, somewhat sheepishly.

The blonde smiled, leaning forward to pat him on the head. “I know you didn’t. You’re safe.” 

Allan blew out a sigh of relief and went back to his music. 

“Anyway, I’ll be waiting for an apology when my blog drives Claude’s into the ground.” 

Felix rolled his eyes. So this was really happening. Wonderful. Perhaps Father could persuade some of the akumas to give the reporters a free pass? 

Claude scoffed. “Oh- oh, I see how it is. I was just gonna let you do whatever, but fine. May the best blogger win.” 

Allegra stood, narrowing her eyes with determination. “Don’t worry. I will.”

~~~~~~

Marinette stared down at the screen, a frown tugging at the corner of her lips. What’s the nicest way to say “No” to someone?

“I don’t know, Allegra..”

“Come on, Nette, please.” The blonde pleaded. “Alya has a cameraman for her blog, and I need to out-do her.”

“Why me?” Seriously, why did it have to be her? Why not Allan? Or Felix? Or anyone else who didn’t have a miraculous and a crucial responsibility to protect Paris.

“You’re an artist, which means you have an eye for the best angles and such.” Allegra explained.

“I’m not that kind of artist.” Marinette sighed. “What about Nathaniel?”

You know, someone who actually knows a thing or two about angles?

“He’s too scared to run into the action with me. You’re the only one I’ve seen run towards an akuma fight aside from Alya and Claude!” 

Marinette grimaced under Allegra’s puppy-like gaze. There was a reason she ran into those fights! A very important reason that couldn’t be pushed to the side because of something Claude said earlier!

Her eyes flicked to the phone again, looking over the blue and purple-themed blog that had “Birds of a Feather” at the top. Honestly, why would Allegra even want to make a blog about Le Paon? He’s nothing but a manipulative liar who only cares about himself. 

Allegra waited patiently for her reply, though Marinette knew she wasn’t going to back down if her answer was “no”. If anything, she’d either continue to bug her or find another cameraman to get herself killed with.

“I’ll think about it.” She finally relented, ignoring the thump of her purse against her leg. At the very least, she might be able to steer Allegra out of the akuma’s grasp.

Allegra grinned and threw her arms around Marinette. “Thanks a ton! You won’t regret it, promise!” 

Marinette chuckled, hugging Allegra back. Tikki’s lecture was already playing through her mind. “You shouldn’t put yourself in complicated situations like this. You’re responsibility as Ladybug always needs to come first. At worst, you lied to your friend about being able to make time for her.”

In her defense, it’s not like she could just decline. Everyone knows that when Allegra’s mind is set, there’s no changing it. If she wanted Marinette to be her camerawoman, then that’s what was going to happen, whether it took Allegra constantly asking or “conveniently” finding her during akuma fights and throwing her the phone. That could jeopardize her secret identity. So, when you think about it, she had to help Allegra.

At least, that’s what Marinette told herself during the walk home. 

“Marinette, You forgot to do the dishes last night.” Her mother commented as she opened the front door to the bakery.

Marinette winced. “Ah, sorry Maman. I’ll go do them now.”

Sabine gave her a fond smile and nodded. “There’s a bowl of fruit on the dining room table to snack on while you work on your homework afterwards.”

Marinette kissed her on the cheek with a “thanks!” and headed upstairs. She’d start on the dishes as soon as she let Tikki out of her bag in her room. 

Pushing open her trap door, Marinette gently set her bag to the side and climbed the ladder. Tikki flew out of the unzipped top, fixing her with a displeased look as she pulled out her laptop.

“Marinette, you know better than to make promises you can’t keep.” The small, god-like being began, exactly as she had predicted.

“I know, I know, but what was I supposed to do? She wasn’t going to stop asking, and at least this way, I can keep an eye on her.” Marinette said, repeating the argument she’d prepared earlier.

Tikki sighed, zipping over to the plate of cookies on her desk. “But how are you going to manage recording the akumas and fighting them?”

Marinette bit her lip. “I.. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

She opened her laptop and searched for Allegra’s blog again. Because of her internal freak out during the blonde’s request, she hadn’t been able to read the few posts Allegra made. It was a hope that she would have something useful on the mysterious villain.

How did she have time to make this? Marinette thought as she scrolled through the web page. Didn’t she say the argument took place that morning? “Birds of a Feather” already had a theme, introduction, and several pictures- albeit a bit blurry -from the news reports. Unfortunately, the blog didn’t have any new information for her.

“Marinette, you should do the dishes before you forget.” Tikki advised, munching on her second cookie.

Marinette, knowing she was right, sighed and stood up, leaving the computer on. She could always read through the blog later. Dishes shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, anyway.

She walked back downstairs and turned on the faucet. While the water filled the sink, the dirty dishes were piled on the counter, and a clean space was made for the freshly washed ones. The purple dishrag twisted easily in her hands, letting the soap bubbles run over her fingers. 

Bells chimed faintly below, and Marinette pictured the customer that might be walking in. Maybe a young woman looking for sweets for her daughter’s bake sale. Or perhaps an esteemed gentlemen in need of a caterer to really sell his newest ideas at a business meeting. It might even be a little kid who’d wandered into the store. 

“I’d like two batches of truffles, please.” 

Marinette stopped short when a familiar voice echoed softly through the vents. 

“Of course! Anything else?” Her mother asked politely.

“No, that’ll be all, thank you.” 

Her dish slipped back into the sink. Was that.. Felix? That couldn’t be him, right? She couldn’t sworn Adrien mentioned his distaste for sweets the other day. 

Marinette swiftly washed and dried her soapy hands. Maman shouldn’t mind a small interruption as long as she finished the dishes at some point.

~~~~~~

Felix grumbled under his breath as he felt the car roll to a stop in front of the bakery. He thought that platter of truffles would last Duusu about a week, but she ate them all in one night! How could something so small eat so much? 

A soft bell chime greeted him as he pushed open the glass door, and the smell of freshly baked croissants prompted him to take a deep breath. 

“Can I help you?” 

A small, Asian woman stood at the cash register, offering him a smile that seemed vaguely familiar. 

“I’d like two batches of truffles, please.” He requested.

She nodded, her short, raven hair bouncing with the notion. It reminded him of two pairs of pigtails, one from a spotted heroine and one from a scatter-brained classmate.

“Of course! Anything else?” 

“No, that’ll be all, thank you.” 

The woman took his credit card for the payment and gave him the receipt. She then crossed the shop to a certain glass case and put his truffles in a bag.

“Felix?” 

Felix spun around, surprised to find bluebell eyes staring at him.

Speaking of scatterbrained classmates.

“Marinette? What are you doing here?” 

“It’s.. uhm.. It’s my parents bakery.” She replied, gesturing to the white words ingrained in the glass of the Cashier’s counter.

D-C Boulangerie Patisserie

D-C. 

Dupain-Cheng.

Felix face palmed. “Ah. Of course.”

Marinette giggled and closed the gap between them, choosing to lean on the counter as she asked, “What brings you here? I thought you didn’t like sweets.”

Felix ran a hand through his hair, mind suddenly blank. Why did he come here again?

A small shift in his pocket reminded him, but he couldn’t tell her about that little secret.

“Adrien likes sweets, and the personal chef took the day off for some family emergency.” A half truth. Both statements were accurate, though neither were the reason for his visit.

“Gotcha. Hope everything’s alright with the chef’s family.” 

He nodded, hiding his surprise by glancing at her mother again. (The relationship between the two explained the similar hair and smile.) To be honest, Felix hadn’t thought much about the chef’s situation. He just knew that they were gone, and it was inconvenient. 

Mrs. Dupain-Cheng picked that moment to approach them, bag in hand.

“You two know each other?” She inquired, an odd sparkle coming to her almond eyes.

“Maman, this is Felix. He just started attending our school last week. Felix, this is Sabine, my mom.” Marinette introduced, gesturing between them as she spoke. 

Felix extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng.”

Sabine scoffed, taking his hand with both of hers. “Oh no, dear, call me ‘Sabine’. There’s no need to be so formal.”

He returned her soft smile and nodded. It was amazing, honestly. He’d thought Marinette was the only one who could be so warm and inviting, but this entire family screamed “welcome home”. Then again, he supposed she had to learn it somewhere.

“Oh! Marinette, why don’t you show him upstairs? I’m sure he’d love a tour.”

Felix tensed. A tour? Of what? 

“Uh.. sure, but does Felix have time for that?” Marinette asked, sparing him a glance.

The concern was reasonable. Adrien’s schedules were usually packed with lessons and photo shoots and other things Father assumed he needed. Felix, however, had the convenience of being on the business end of the company, meaning he didn’t have to model for their products. It gave him far more free time.

“My schedule is clear for the time being. What are we touring?” 

Duusu could wait for his truffles a little longer. Right now he wanted to indulge on the opportunity to see what exactly made the Dupain-Cheng household so open and relaxing.

Marinette perked up. “Just the house. I mean, you can see the big kitchen too, if you want.”

“I think I’ll save it for later.” He replied, a smirk crossing his lips.

She put a hand to her mouth as she chuckled and spun on her heel. “It’s right up the stairs.”

He followed her up the blue staircase, sliding his hand along the banner as he went. The layout reminded him of an apartment building, with the cracked, wooden floors and old carpet rolled out in the hallway.

Marinette stopped in front of a lone door and easily pushed it open. Felix walked in after her, stepping into another small hallway that led to a decent sized kitchen and family room. 

“This is our place. It’s sort of small, but I like to think of it as ‘cozy’.” Marinette said, stopping at the stairs just inside the house. 

Felix hummed, taking in the environment. A cream colored couch resided on the far left side of the room, with a tv sitting across from it and a small, white coffee table in between. Their kitchen was to the right, mostly counters with a few bar stools to create a useful table when necessary. The many windows shed light on it all, making him wonder how dark it must be at night. 

Next, she brought him up the other set of stairs to a trapdoor. A bit unusual, but Marinette didn’t seem to bat an eye as she threw it open and climbed inside.

The first minutes in the room were spent letting his eyes adjust. If he thought the living room below was bright, then this attic had to be the sun itself. Not to mention everything and anything was all one color: pink. 

“And this is my room.” Marinette announced, walking over to the desk that was tucked between a ladder and the crawl space above.

I can’t imagine it looking any different. Felix thought to himself. Her desk was cluttered with papers and pictures, some of her family, some of her friends, none of him. (Why that bothered Felix, he didn’t know.) Her vanity had a few trinkets on it- a semi-circle shaped box with a notebook inside, a brush, and a round bottle of perfume. A large chaise sat to the right of the room, next to a black, full-length mirror. Lastly, there was a mannequin that stood next to the mirror, wearing an interesting choice of clothing.

“Did you make this?” He found himself asking, feeling the fabric of the pink, fluffed out dress. It’s a design he’d seen yet, and Felix prided himself in memorizing the popular fashions around Paris, Agreste brand included, of course.

“That?” Marinette replied, coming to stand next to him. “It’s just something I’ve been playing with, but yeah, I made it.”

Playing with? The dress was obviously hand-sewn, but in a masterful, refined way. She’d practiced- no, perfected -this craft. The ruffles that started from the waist down were swept over each other like rose petals, soft and delicate. Two butterflies were sewn into the side, almost like ribbons. Each pattern was carefully aligned, spreading black flowers across the pink fabric. Not a single stitch looked to be out of place. This wasn’t something she was “playing with”. This was-

“Amazing.” He muttered. “This is incredible work, Marinette.”

A blush bloomed across her cheeks. “What? No, no- I mean, it’s not even finished yet.”

“Nonsense. This dress is better than most of the atrocities people try to present to my Father.” He insisted.

Her blush deepened, and Felix couldn’t help smiling at it. 

“Do you have any more of these?”

Marinette furrowed her eyebrows. “More of the dress?”

“More of your designs.” He elaborated, straightening to look at her desk full of papers. “I’m sure Father would love to see them.” 

“Your- the Agreste?- I mean, Monsieur Agreste? He’s gonna- my designs?” She sputtered, putting her arms around her face in an odd, box-like position. 

Felix laughed. “If you don’t mind.”

Marinette whimpered- he hoped out of nervousness. It wouldn’t be a good first impression in her home to make her uncomfortable.

“No- uh- It’s just.. What if he- he doesn’t.. Like it?” She asked, fiddling with her pigtails.

“Impossible.” He scoffed. “This dress alone proves how much raw talent you have, and it’s not even finished. If my Father doesn’t see that, then he might as well close his business right now.” 

Felix put a hand on her shoulder. “Marinette, You are unbelievably brilliant. Don’t cut yourself short.”

A bashful smile spread across her lips, but she nodded. “O-Okay. Let me find some that are finished though!”

His hand slipped off her shoulder as she scrambled off to her closet. He followed, ignoring the strange feeling of disappointment at the loss of touch. 

Clothes were thrown this way and that as she searched through the outfits, deciding which one to give him. A small pile had grown in the corner of the room by the time she finally found a suitable arrangement. Two, to be exact. 

“These are the ones I like best. I have the original sketches for them in a drawer, if you want those too.” She offered, handing him the outfits.

“That would splendid, thank you.” 

Marinette crossed the room again, giving him time to inspect the other creations she’d given him. The first was a white, turtle-necked crop top with a pink jacket and black, ripped up jeans. The other was another dress- this time light blue -that was, in a word, frilly. Nevertheless, the material was just as impressive as the outfit on the mannequin.

“Here are the sketches. If you need anything else..” She trailed off.

Felix took the sketches with a nod. “That’ll do perfectly.”

~~~~~~

Tikki quietly watched Felix and Marinette interact from the safety of Marinette’s bed. He’d never see her up there, and if he did, he would most likely assume she’s a toy. 

Her eyes narrowed when the blonde put a hand on Marinette’s shoulder. Something about him seemed.. Off. She couldn’t put her finger on it. There was a certain feeling about him that made her suspicious. What were his motives? Why was he there?

Marinette seemed happy talking to him, blushing and stuttering from his proposal. It was a sweet thing to do, really. Vouching for the ravenette’s designs would certainly help her career.

...but there was still that feeling!

Tikki huffed, zipping down to hide behind Marinette’s computer. The closer she got to him, the stronger the feeling became. Yes, she’d felt this before. It was unique. But where? Why did it bother her? 

Marinette walked over to her drawers while Felix studied the clothes she’d given him moments before. It gave Tikki the cover she needed to sneak over to the chaise. Sitting so close to the boy now, the feeling seemed to overwhelm her- a sensation rippling through her entire body. It wasn’t unsettling, though. It was.. Familiar.

Duusu.

“Here are the sketches. If you need anything else..” Marinette’s muffled voice trailed off, and Tikki peeked around the chaise just in time to see Felix take some papers from her. 

“That’ll do perfectly.”

Tikki frowned. Why would Felix have Duusu? Didn’t Marinette say he was the boy that taught her painting? He was just a high school student. How did he even find a miraculous? 

A buzzing interrupted them, and Felix pulled out his phone.

“Ah. I’m sorry to say I must be going. Father wants me home for homework and violin lessons.”

“You play violin?” Marinette inquired, clearly awed by the fact.

Felix smiled- a smile much too soft for one of Paris’ most wanted. “I do. It’s another talent he thought I should have.”

“Will you.. Do you think you can play for me some time? If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

Tikki couldn’t help chuckling at her chosen, always so sweet and thoughtful.

The boy’s smile faded, but he didn’t show any contempt either. He looked more of.. Grieved. 

“I’ll have to think about it.” 

“Of course, I completely understand.” Marinette replied, obviously picking up on his shift in mood as well. “See you tomorrow?”

His expression softened again, and he nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

Tikki followed the blonde out of her room- as he insisted he remembered the way back- and made sure to stay well hidden. Marinette had a habit of letting her out of her bag when she thought no one was around. Maybe this boy did the same for Duusu. 

Sure enough, when Felix stepped out into the hallway, He took one of the truffles he’d purchased and stuffed it in his vest pocket. Someone who wore designer clothing wouldn’t put chocolate in their pockets so casually.

A few seconds later, a small voice piped up. “Mm, these are delicious! So much better than the bland ones your chef made!”

Tikki barely held back a gasp. She’d recognize that energetic voice anywhere.

“Hush, Duusu. Wait until we’re at home to talk, remember?” Felix scolded in a whisper, shooting his vest a disapproving look.

“Of course! I’m sorry.” Duusu apologized.

“It’s fine, just wait till later.” 

Tikki frowned. The character Felix had shown so far was nothing but respectful, solemn, and kind. None of those traits were usually found in a villain. So why would he help Hawkmoth? Why betray Ladybug’s trust and choose to fight for the wrong side?

“Oh, there you are, Tikki! Where did you go?” Marinette asked when she flew back to the room.

“Just checking something.” Tikki answered, going back to her plate of cookies. She didn’t want to tell Marinette about Duusu yet, not until she spoke to the Master. He would know what to do about all of this.

“Oh.. okay.” Her chosen shrugged. “Well, did you see Felix? Did you hear us talking?” 

“I did, and I’m excited for you!” Despite her concerns about Le Paon, the boy was promising a future for Marinette’s dream career. That was something she could support for the time being.

Marinette squealed, falling onto her chaise in a puddle of pure bliss. “I’m excited too, Tikki! He was so sweet and- oh, he liked my designs! He said I was brilliant!” 

“That’s because you are brilliant, Marinette.” Tikki remarked, snuggling her holder’s cheek.

The ravenette giggled, returning the hug by cupping her with her palm. “I hope we get to talk again soon.”

Tikki simply smiled. Marinette deserved to be happy. She didn’t want to ruin that until she knew she had to.

-

The silence of the night strengthened Tikki’s resolve to stay as quiet as possible. Marinette mustn't find out about her sneaking out. The Master was adamant that he be kept a secret until they were told otherwise.

So, as her chosen cuddled under the covers and muttered about hamsters and paintings, Tikki flew through the trap door above and headed for Master Fu’s. 

To say she was surprised when she found him already talking to Plagg was an understatement.

“Hello, Tikki. You’re just in time.” Master Fu greeted, gesturing for her to take a seat on the table.

“Hey, Sugar cube. What brings you here so late?” Plagg asked with a grin, causing Tikki to roll her eyes.

“Don’t call me that, and I’m here about Duusu.” 

“Oh, so you figured out Chuckles was Le Paon, too?” He guessed, before putting a whole slice of cheese in his mouth.

Tikki gave him a look. “Who?”

Plagg took a minute to chew, before answering.

“He’s-” Bubbles forced themselves out of Plagg’s mouth before he could finish. 

“He’s my kid’s brother.” He rephrased.

“How did you find out about it, Tikki?” Master Fu interrupted, focusing on the task at hand.

“Felix came to-” Bubbles came of Tikki’s mouth as well.

“Felix came to our house today,” She continued, “And I heard him talking to Duusu on the way out.” 

Master Fu nodded, stroking his chin with a thoughtful expression. “Plagg hasn’t been able to get information about Hawkmoth from Duusu. Have you heard her say anything?”

Tikki shook her head. “I only heard her talking to Felix about the truffles.”

“Should I tell the kid? We’re supposed to be stopping them as soon as possible, right?” Plagg asked.

“True. Neutralizing an enemy would be helpful.” Master Fu began slowly. “However, we still don’t know who Hawkmoth is. If we take Felix’s miraculous, Hawkmoth will know we’re onto him. We need to be careful.”

“So.. what do we do about our chosens?” Tikki dared to ask.

“Keep them in the dark for now. Once we find out Hawkmoth’s identity, they will be able to know everything. Until then, I don’t want things getting out of hand.”

Tikki and Plagg nodded. 

“Now go back to your holders before they get worried.” He instructed, shooing them off.

The kwamis did as they were told, each flying off in different directions, both hoping everything would turn out better than the situation deemed it so.

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