#anyway. sighs audibly for ten more years.

[mrs-elijah-wood]

You know, I think it’s actually for the best that my laptop can’t run veilguard

[shitouttabuck]

this could be the year for the real thing

buck/eddie | 1.7k | 7x06 coda(ish)

Eddie can count on one hand the number of times he’s been this horrifically hungover. His pre-teenage-pregnancy body bounced back blessedly quickly from tailgate parties and keg stands and beer pong tournaments, but after that? His cousins threw his bachelor party before he married Shannon, which involved a lot of mixed liquor, and then there were a couple miserable nights out after she left him, and now, last night, him and Buck the sole bachelor party members standing after Chim didn’t show up.

This is his worst hangover, because at least all the other times he wasn’t seized with worry about one of his closest friends and regret that he and Buck hadn’t noticed the empty hotel bed the night before. The nausea from hell doesn’t help, either.

Chim’s safe now, under the careful monitor of Cedars hospital staff and Maddie no more than three feet away from him at all times. The relief is a palpable thing, and Buck offering him a steaming paper cup of green tea soothes the churning in his gut a little bit, too.

He takes a sip and sighs gratefully, slumping against Buck in the hospital waiting room chairs when he takes the seat beside Eddie.

“Still queasy?” Buck asks, voice a rumble.

“Mm,” Eddie says, “back-to-back shots of tequila and sambuca are not it.”

Buck shudders beside him. “Don’t,” he begs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “I’m still very much in range of hurling.”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Eddie’d only managed half a banana when he went home to shower and change, but he knows Buck’s been with Maddie most of the day, and when it comes to taking care of other people, he sometimes forgets about himself.

“Had a granola bar,” Buck says, eyes still closed. “Can’t—don’t wanna think about food yet.”

His stomach chooses then to grumble audibly, with traitorously comedic timing, and Eddie snorts. Buck opens one eye to grin at him.

“Don’t listen to her,” he says, patting his belly. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“She doesn’t, huh? Then I guess she’s not interested in stopping by the juice bar on Sunset on the way home? Some sweet, sweet smoothies, all that fresh fruit and hydration, don’t even have to chew…”

Buck’s stomach rumbles interestedly and they both laugh.

“That sounds—so good, actually,” Buck admits. “We can pick up the peanut butter one for Chris, he’s always hankering—”

He breaks off as Hen appears at the end of the hallway, looking around and hurrying over as soon as she spots them. Eddie doesn’t think anything’s wrong—she’s beaming—but he and Buck sit up quickly in their seats anyway.

“Ugh,” Buck says, and Eddie’s dizziness at the sudden movement wholeheartedly agrees.

“We’re having a motherfucking wedding,” Hen grins, tugging them both to their feet, uncaring of their delicate dispositions. “Right here, right now.”

“Hospital wedding?” Buck asks, eyes wide. “Holy shit, okay, what do we need—who do we call—fuck—”

“Calm down, Buckaroo,” Hen smiles. “Just get friends and family over here, Karen’s gonna pick up Maddie’s dress, I’m gonna call Bobby, and we’re having a wedding.”

Buck’s already pulling up a copy of the guest list on his phone, squinting at it and muttering names under his breath.

“You boys got this?” Hen asks while dialling Bobby.

“Yep,” Eddie gives her a mock salute. “We’ll split the list and make some calls.”

He types out half the names Buck reads off to him in his notes app, and the two of them work through them methodically, calling Chim and Maddie’s nearest and dearest for this impromptu ceremony.

“Chris will kill us if he misses it,” he says suddenly, and Buck looks up at him, mid-text.

“He’s with Isabel, right? Pepa’s place is only a ten minute drive from here.”

Eddie nods. “I don’t have my car, though. You drove me.”

Buck tosses him the Jeep keys. “I’ll finish calling people, you go get them.”

“Cool,” Eddie says, and nearly bodies himself with the instinctive urge to lean over and kiss Buck on the cheek as he stands. It’s surprising, even though it shouldn’t be, because it’s an urge he fought and failed about thirty times last night, Buck’s sweaty skin pressed to his, salty under his mouth every time he dropped an innocuous, friendly kiss to his face with nothing but alcohol in his veins.

It hadn’t seemed out of place then, everything shiny and bright, Buck leaning right back into him.

Now, under the fluorescents of the hospital, organising a makeshift wedding for their family? Eddie doesn’t think it would land quite the same.

“Back in twenty,” he tells Buck instead, and has to physically tear himself away from the smile Buck turns his way, warm and golden under the harsh lights.

Chris and Abuela are delighted to be included, and, true to his word, they’re back at the hospital as the rest of the guests begin arriving, too.

Eddie’s—okay, he’s not going to say he’s not a crier, it’s just that his best friend is Buck, who cries at anything remotely tearjerky, so in comparison, Eddie’s not a crier. Now, though, they’re both very much damp-cheeked, much like everyone else crowded into this hospital room, watching Maddie and Chim exchange rings and vows with little Jee between them.

They’re a family, have been and would still be even if they never got hitched, but the fact that Chim refused to wait another few weeks, another few days, another minute before marrying Maddie? Eddie’s chest aches in the best way, and he slings an arm around Chris, and, before he knows he’s doing it, he looks for Buck.

The ceremony’s over, and Buck’s grinning at his phone, and Eddie pats for his own automatically, anticipating a goofy text.

But Buck’s edging backward, slipping out of the room, still grinning at his phone, and the ache inside Eddie spreads like an inkstain, blotting his insides.

And then Buck reappears with Tommy, which Eddie knew he was going to do, because who else would have Buck smiling at his phone like that, leaving his sister’s wedding even for a minute. Not me, Eddie doesn’t think. He doesn’t.

He’s not ready to make sense of the churning inside him—he doesn’t think he can blame the hangover for this one—when he clocks Tommy’s soot-stained everything and the way Buck’s own smudgy face matches like a puzzle piece.

He sees the way Chim notices, and Hen and Karen, Bobby’s eyes going wide and then soft. He sees the way Margaret Buckley doesn’t even attempt to school her face into anything but distaste and he hates her, but Buck’s not even looking at her. He’s looking at Bobby, and then he’s looking at Chim, and he’s smiling, this wide, guileless spread of happiness across his face.

Eddie’s helpless to smile too, the churning too complicated to parse beyond easy joy at every step of Buck’s sexuality journey, and this second-hand relief he’s not sure he’s got any entitlement to—he doesn’t, does he? Sure, he can be relieved that Buck doesn’t feel like he has to stay closeted, that everyone who matters loves him just the same, but he doesn’t get to feel like any of the relief belongs to him. Not now.

Not—yet.

Tommy’s made his way to Chim’s bedside to congratulate them properly, and Buck’s squeezing through the guests to get to the Diazes.

“Hey, bud,” he says to Chris. “Hi, Isabel.”

His face is still a smear of soot, and Chris giggles. “Buck. Your face.”

Buck frowns in confusion and Eddie steps over to him, hand already reaching to wipe the soot off his face, just like he has a hundred times at work. Except Tommy’s already there, licking his thumb and rubbing firmly at Buck’s chin, a gesture so familiar to Eddie that watching it happen separate from him feels like getting punched in the throat.

And beside the joy and the second-hand relief, there’s—this sense of profound loss. This emptiness, a space inside him he didn’t realise Buck had been occupying all this time. And now it’s like Eddie’s entered the room, finally, but the door is swinging shut on the far wall and Buck’s footsteps are echoing softer and softer as he leaves. Eddie’s late, he’s missed something he didn’t know was waiting, much less had a timeline on it.

The room empties out slowly, everyone giving the Buckley-Hans some space to rest, and Buck disappears down the hall hand-in-hand with Tommy.

“Y’all ready to go home?” Eddie asks Abuela and Chris. “We can get take-out.”

“Is Buck coming?” Chris asks.

“Uh, I don’t think so, mijo,” Eddie glances down the hall. “Although—” he pats his pocket, retrieving the Jeep keys, and startles when Buck appears by his shoulder.

“You have my keys,” he informs Eddie, stretching his hand out for them. Eddie drops them in his palm dutifully. “Juice bar? The fancy one on Sunset.”

Chris whoops excitedly, and Eddie smiles, even as his brow furrows.

“You’ve not got a hot date?” he asks Buck quietly as they walk to the exit.

“I drove you,” Buck shrugs.

Eddie rolls his eyes, stopping Buck with a hand at his elbow. “I think we can manage getting a cab.”

“I seem to recall you promising me a ‘sweet, sweet smoothie,’” Buck says, raising an eyebrow at Eddie. “You tryna stiff me, Eds?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eddie lifts his hands in surrender. “Uh—do you wanna ask Tommy along?”

“Nah,” Buck says easily. “Maybe another time. He’s just gotten off shift. I’m seeing him tomorrow, anyway.”

“Okay,” Eddie nods slowly, ache bittersweet. “Just us, then.”

Buck beams. “Me and my boys,” he crows, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and tugging him forward so he can wrap the other one around Chris. Isabel makes a noise of offense, and Buck hastily amends, “Me and my boys and Abuela. Dream team!”

Christopher groans at the very public embarrassment and Abuela smiles indulgently at Buck and Eddie lets himself get pulled along, safe in this room in his heart that won’t ever be empty, even if Buck’s not filling it in the same capacity as Eddie’s getting ready to allow himself to want.

It doesn’t matter. The door on the far wall’s not quite swung shut after all; it sits ajar, crack of light and Buck’s love spilling through. Maybe one day he’ll come back through it. Maybe one day Eddie’ll follow after him enough to ask.

[ww2yaoi]

here have another sneak peek of tasteful breeding kink et al. fic I am feeling crazy tonight. cw for the f slur I guess. and general homophobia (web's family sucks ass)

“Someone’s going to break in one of these days and steal that TV.”

In the living room, Joe tears his eyes away from the variety show he’s watching and looks at Web from the sofa. Web is in their cramped kitchen washing the dishes leftover from dinner — tonight is his turn — and rambling to himself about one thing or another, naively believing that Joe is listening to every word. His sweater sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, damp with dishwater, and his hair is an uncombed heap on top of his head. They usually spend their Sundays at home, which means looking their worst and doing as little as possible.

“What?” Joe asks, balancing his beer on his knee. “The hell are you talking about in there?”

“Do you have your fucking fingers in your ears? I said there’s been something like ten break-ins in this neighborhood in the last week,” Web says, drying a plate. “Read a newspaper for once, Lieb. Someone’s going to steal that TV.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Well, whoever steals it probably needs it more than we do.” He takes a sip of his beer, eyes flicking back to the screen where a comedian is bribing a cocker spaniel to do tricks. “What do you care anyways? You don’t even watch the thing.”

Joe had bought it for Web’s twenty-ninth birthday last year, though he’d really used the occasion as a thinly veiled excuse to splurge the money on something he’d wanted but couldn’t justify buying. Web had hated the set immediately, thinking it noisy and ugly. He complained it took up too much space in their already small living room and nearly made Joe take it back. What an argument that had been, but the joint birthday-makeup sex they’d had afterwards was fan-fucking-tastic. Web has barely touched the TV in the year since, although Joe sometimes catches him watching the local newscasts over his shoulder.

Web continues puttering around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and putting away pots and pans. Joe tries to ignore the clattering of plates and silverware that drowns out the low murmur of the television. Web runs the tap and Joe hears the water spurt. Web swears loudly.

“Ugh, Lieb!” he calls, drawing out the vowels in his nickname.

Joe keeps his eyes trained on the TV this time. Ed Sullivan is introducing the next guest.

“Yeah?”

“The tap is leaking again.”

Joe has to stop himself from audibly groaning. “You just have to tighten the thingy on the faucet. I left the wrench underneath the sink.”

Web sighs. More cupboards open and slam shut. Joe hears him tinker around for a few minutes before he turns on the tap to test it. The water spurts again, more forceful sounding this time, and it continues spurting, dribbling tinnily into the sink.

“Fucking Christ. Joe!”

Joe finally gets up off the sofa, setting his beer down on the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. The tap has gone haywire, spraying water all over the countertops and the floor in front of the sink. It erupts from the loose nozzle like seawater from the blowhole of a porpoise. Web is standing in the middle of the kitchen, the front of his sweater soaked.

“What the hell did you do?” Joe asks, quickly shucking off his short-sleeved button-down.

Web just shrugs. Joe throws his shirt over the spurting leak to stifle the spray so it doesn’t douse him, then tries to turn off the tap. It doesn’t do anything; the water continues to spurt and soak through his shirt. He crouches down to open the cupboard beneath the sink, reaching inside and turning the valve to shut the water off. He straightens back up again.

“Give me that.”

Joe holds his hand out for the wrench and Web wordlessly relinquishes it. Joe removes his now sopping shirt, tightens the nozzle on the tap, turns the valve back on underneath the sink, then runs it. The water streams uniformly into the basin.

“Righty tighty, lefty loosey, sweetheart,” Joe says, gesturing towards Web with the wrench.

He scowls. “I know that.”

Joe laughs out of his nose, a self-satisfied snort, then sets the wrench down on the counter. He invites himself into Web’s space. The embroidered H of his well-worn Harvard crew neck is dark with water. There are droplets on his face and in his hair.

Joe smirks. “It looks like you went swimming, doll.”

“It’s not funny, Joe.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s hilarious.”

Joe runs his thumbs over Web’s cheeks to wick the water away.

“This is why you hire a handyman,” Web says.

“Why the hell pay someone to do something you can do yourself?”

“I think we just saw a demonstration as to why.”

It’s times like these when Joe is reminded of how different their upbringings were. Web, the eldest son of a New York socialite and an esteemed businessman. Joe, the first-born of six to immigrant parents, German-Hungarian Jews who came to this country with only the clothes on their backs. The Websters, firmly Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, had a constant rotation of housekeepers. Meanwhile, Joe’s mother was a housekeeper.

Their disparate childhoods are easier to forget about now than they used to be, before Mr. and Mrs. Webster found out why exactly their son had moved to California and quietly disowned him. It had been done with a cold politeness that made the whole thing worse than if they had screamed at Web or called him every cruel name in the book. Instead, he had gotten a letter from a lawyer, informing him that he was cut off from the family purse. To add insult to injury, his inheritance would be rescinded unless he returned to New York and checked himself into a sanitarium at his parents’ behest.

Web had ripped up the letter and then fucked Joe within an inch of his life. After that, he had laid in bed for a week.

At the very least, Web’s family loved him enough not to turn him in to the authorities or notify his employer. He’d thankfully already finished his education, the copious amounts of tuition money from David Sr.’s deep pockets irreversibly spent. With his Ivy League diploma and a stint in the military that looked good on paper, Web had no trouble finding odd writing jobs until he was hired at the Chronicle two years ago. The pay is shit, and so are the long hours, but Web seems to enjoy it. He sometimes jokes that he was his parents’ most expensive failed investment. Joe pretends to find it more funny than sad.

“Is it fixed?” Web asks, skeptically raising an eyebrow.

“It should be,” Joe says. “Don’t you have any faith in me?”

“Don’t ask me that question.” Web doesn’t look any less displeased. “Why do we even live in this shitty apartment in this shitty neighborhood anyways.”

“Well,” Joe says, still holding Web’s face in his hands. “The rent is cheap, it’s close to work, we’re both homos, and I like jazz.”

Web wrinkles his nose. “My coworkers don’t know I’m a homo. They think I’m some kind of bohèm contrarian whose neighbors are all criminals and prostitutes.”

“Oh, I’m sure you love that,” Joe says, smirking. “And hey, I happen to like criminals and prostitutes.”

Web huffs. “Joe—”

“Alright, alright.” Joe smoothes his thumbs over the high points of Web’s cheekbones. “Are you really that unhappy, Schatz? I know it’s not Manhattan, but it’s not so bad.”

“I’m not unhappy,” Web says. “And I never lived in Manhattan.”

“I thought your dad had an apartment in the Financial District?”

“Yeah, to entertain his whores, but I never lived there.”

Web gently grabs Joe’s wrists, pulling his hands from his face, and Joe realizes he made a mistake mentioning Web’s father.

Web goes back to the sink, wiping up the water on the counter and the floor with a fistful of dish towels. Once that’s done, he begins putting away the rest of the plates and glasses that have finished drying on the rack. Joe thinks that must be the end of their conversation, but Web starts back up again like he usually does. He’s not often short for words, just the right ones.

“It’s just that people at work get the wrong impression.” His hands go still around a dinner plate. “They know I’m almost thirty and I’m still a bachelor, and I live in fucking Tenderloin.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So” — Web elongates the O — “According to polite society, this is no place to get married and raise a family. What if they think I’m a fag? What if that’s why I haven’t made senior reporter yet?”

Joe clenches his jaw. They’ve had discussions like this before. Joe has always left them feeling like Web is ashamed of himself and what they have, like being with Joe has turned out to be a much bigger sacrifice than he was ever willing to make.

Joe feels unmoored in the middle of the kitchen in his undershirt, his arms crossed over his chest and Web still avoiding his eyes. He hates it when Web does this, poses delicate questions and then sets him adrift without any of the correct answers. Without anything to tether him, Joe’s anger is free to swallow him up, and swallow him it does.

“How can it be the wrong impression?” he asks.

Web opens the cupboard to stow away a clean wine glass. “What do you mean?”

“How can it be the wrong impression?” Joe repeats, his face hardening. “You are a fag, Web.”

The pejorative hangs in the air. Web goes stiff, his arm halfway inside the cupboard and his hand still around the stem of the glass. Joe can’t see Web’s face, but he can see the ball of his jaw flexing. For a moment he fears for that glass, but Web only retracts his arm from the cupboard and slowly closes the door.

“I’m well-fucking-aware, Joe.”

His voice is soft and willfully flat, but it quavers slightly around the edges of Joe’s name, like saying it stings the inside of his mouth. Joe feels himself deflate at Web’s poorly masked hurt. He’s never been very good at hiding his emotions, for better or for worse.

Joe takes an experimental step forward, but still, Web won’t look at him. He reopens the cupboard where the wine glasses are, takes out the one he just put away, and grabs the open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon they abandoned by the toaster earlier. He pours himself a generous ration. Joe doesn’t like that he’s drinking so much again.

He sighs, frustrated, and runs a hand over his face, raking his fingers through his hair.

“David,” he says.

“Joseph,” Web immediately volleys back, sarcastic, like he’s mocking Joe’s attempt at conciliation.

It hits Joe in the sternum like a well-landed punch. Web says it the Hungarian way — the J turning into a Y, the O slightly more exaggerated — and Joe feels like he’s five years old again, listening to his parents bicker in a Frankenstein dialect of German and Yiddish in the kitchen of his childhood home.

“József,” his mother used to say whenever his father caused her any strife. “With you, a drop of love brings an ocean of tears.”

“Mária,” his father would reply. “You are my ocean.”

Web is silently nursing his wine when Joe presses himself against his back apologetically. His lips find their way into the crook of Web’s neck like it’s muscle memory.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Joe says and kisses the warm slope of his skin. “I’m sorry.”

He can feel Web’s shoulders sag as he lets out a breath. “Fuck,” he says and his throat sounds tight. “Joe—”

“It’s okay,” Joe mumbles against his nape. “I’m not angry.”

He holds Web against his body by his waist, letting his fingers slip underneath the bottom hem of Web’s sweater so he can sink them into his sides. The flesh above his hips is softer now than it was during the war. They’ve both gone soft, Joe supposes. With every passing day, he feels more and more like the teary-eyed men he used to see coming out of the Legion during the Depression. Given enough time to sit, rage often becomes despair.

“I don’t want to lose my job,” Web says and sips his wine.

“You won’t.”

“I need to make more money.”

“You will. Give it time.”

“I want to buy us a house,” Web confesses. “An old Victorian one by the Bay, with a grand staircase and lots of bedrooms.”

Joe smiles, his nose tucked behind Web’s right ear. “Sounds nice. What are we going to use all those bedrooms for?”

He gently shifts his hips against Web’s ass to punctuate his lazy stab at flirtation. Oddly, it takes Web a moment to answer, like he’s busy thinking about something else.

“We can get inventive,” he says eventually, but there’s something inexplicably melancholic about his tone of voice.

Web sets his wine glass down on the countertop and finally turns to face Joe, raising a hand to his cheek and resting his palm against it.

“You’re all I have,” he says. “You know that, right?”

Joe shoots him a look, disbelieving. “Come on, Web. That’s not true—”

“No, Liebling, listen to me.” He presses his fingers insistently into Joe’s jaw. “You’re my family now. You’re all I have.”

Web’s eyes lock with Joe’s, and Joe immediately knows that this isn’t a good time to argue with him. His eyes are especially piercing right now, bright enough that they almost hurt to look at, even in their dimly lit kitchen. Joe feels like he’s staring directly at the filament in a lightbulb, at a thread of searing white. He thinks if he blinked, he’d see Web’s irises imprinted in the nothingness behind his eyelids. A painful blue blare and then just black, black, black.

“Okay,” Joe says. “Okay.”

They both lean in, roughly slotting their lips together. Web tastes full-bodied and red, like the wine he just drank, and his fingers are immediately in Joe’s hair, holding him like a lifeline. Web has always kissed Joe like a dying man gasping for air. There’s no time for gentleness. It feels like they never have long enough. Web has been with Joe for the better part of a decade, but Joe still dreads that one day he’ll slip from his grasp, whether by accident or by design. Granted, Joe may have never even held onto him in the first place. In between his usual rotation of war-related nightmares, sometimes Joe dreams of something more abstract, a feeling more than anything with a form. An absence, a nothingness, a hole. Joe never knows if he’s leaving or if he’s being left. Signs usually point to the latter.

The kiss breaks, but Joe takes the opportunity to pepper a few more over Web’s stupidly beautiful face. Then he peers past his head at the television. The Ed Sullivan Show has ended and the station has gone off air, its programming replaced by a fuzzy test pattern. Joe’s eyes skirt over the rest of their apartment: the brown patch of water damage on the ceiling above the sofa, their mismatched hand-me-down furniture, the cracks in the paint they meticulously picked out when they first moved in. Home, yes, but maybe not a permanent one.

“I think you’re right,” Joe says.

“Well, I’m glad you agree,” Web says. “What am I right about exactly?”

Joe smirks, briefly brushing his thumb over Web’s cheek before kissing the corner of his mouth. “This is no place for a family.”

Web is smiling softly when Joe pulls away. Something about it still comes off as sad, but Joe thinks there must be hope in there somewhere, nestled amongst the hurt. It might be stupid of them to wish for more when the world works the way it does, but naivety can be resistance. Just look at the promises lovers make during wartime. Joe and Web should know all about that.

“Are you alright?” Joe asks after a moment.

“Yes,” Web says, “but please get me out of these wet clothes.”

Joe chuckles. He reaches between them and fiddles with the button on the front of Web’s jeans. “I really wish you would’ve led with that, sweetheart.”

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Puppy love

Masterlist

Starring: Dad!August, Mike, guest appearance; Syverson

Summary: August is not happy when his daughter first starts dating 'that Syverson boy'.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Fluff, overprotective dad!August, family drama, teen angst, super-duper unreasonable parents, and vague mentions of teens having sex, I guess that needs a warning or something?

A/N: And now for something completely different... Written from August's POV. Unfortunately, he got married, and they had a baby, and unfortunately the baby was a girl, who is now unfortunately 16 years old, and unfortunately wants to date boys, who unfortunately happens to be the son of his college rival; James Syverson. 80% of this fic is just August being on the verge of having a fucking heart attack because of teen shenanigans. And they're not even that bad.

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @littlefreya @mayloma @summersong69 @livisss @winter2112rose @changenameno @wa-ni (still not allowed to tag you, sorry :( )

“Daddy, come on, it’s just a date!”

“Princess, you’re too young to date.”

“Oh my god! Mom!” She stormed out of the kitchen, and you foolishly thought you could pick up the paper again. “Please talk some sense into dad!”

And there she was again. Both of them, even. You sighed and put the paper back down.

“August, for the love of God, she’s sixteen! She can date!” Your wife put her hands on her hips — you hated it when she did that.

“Not with that...” You struggled to find the words without letting the entire house in on why exactly you didn’t approve of this boy. Other than him wanting to do unspeakable things to your daughter, of course.

“He’s a sweet kid,” your wife said, rolling her eyes — you hated it when she did that, too.

“He’s a Syverson!” you blurted out. “She’s not going out with the son of that sleazy, good-for-nothing son of a—”

“Only if you can say it in church, August!” You didn’t even go to church! Neither did your wife, but it was her go-to way of keeping you from swearing, and as much as you hated to admit it, it worked.

“Junior can forget it,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Go get ready, sweetie,” your wife said to your daughter. Your blood was boiling. Did you have absolutely no authority in your own damn house? Not usually, no... “I’ll have a chat with your father.”

“So, you want to take my daughter out?” You took pleasure in staring the boy in front of you down, and you were pleased to report he was scared to death. Or at least he had the decency to fake it.

“Yes, sir,” he said, swallowing audibly, “we’re going to see a movie. I’ll have her home by eleven.”

“Ten,” you replied brusquely.

“Dad!” your daughter squealed as she came down the stairs. “Can you be normal for like... Five seconds? Mom! He’s doing it again; he’s ruining my life!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, princess!” you scoffed.

“August, that’s enough!” You glared at your wife, who turned to the boy in front of you.

“You two have fun,” she said. “Bring her back in one piece, James.”

“Eh, it’s Mike, ma’am.” He didn’t look at her as he said it.

“I’m sorry?”

“My middle name is Michael. I’m not overly fond of the whole ‘Junior’ thing,” he admitted. “Anyway. When is her curfew, exactly? I really don’t want to get her in trouble.”

“Then leave—ow!” Maybe you deserved that kick in the shins.

“She’s late,” you grumbled. “And I mean he brought her home late.”

“Oh, August, please! They’re right outside, you can hear them!” She rolled her eyes at you again.

“There’s too much giggling if you ask me,” you sneered. And right when you said it, the giggling stopped — which was far more disconcerting, as far as you were concerned.

“August, don’t,” your wife sighed as you got off the couch and walked towards the front door.

“That’s quite enough, young man,” you snapped when you pulled the door open and were met with the unpleasant sight of the Syverson boy harassing your precious little girl. That had to be it, right?

“Dad, oh my god! Stop embarrassing me!” She let out a frustrated scream and turned to Mike. “I’m so sorry, Mike... I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

As soon as the door closed behind her, you knew you were in for it.

“Dad, you are certifiably insane, okay? It was just a kiss, for fuck’s sake!”

“Language, young lady!” you tried, but you were fairly sure you’d find no backup in this case. Your wife was staring you down from the couch in the living room.

“No, dad,” she yelled. “You’re nuts. That’s it. Why can’t you just be normal? Why do you have to be crazy? You just totally humiliated me, like...”

“Princess, I’m just trying to protect you,” you said as you reached out to pull her into a hug, but she pushed you away.

“Daddy, I’m serious! We went to the movies, we had a really nice time and then he drove me home and so what if he kissed me? Like, you didn’t have to show up like that, acting like a complete psycho. It was beyond cringe! I’m literally mortified, like what were you even thinking?” She sighed dramatically and threw her hands up. “Whatever. I’m going to my room. Stay out of my business!”

“Well, that went... Well,” you said as you sat down on the couch, with the — admittedly false — hope of getting some sympathy from your lovely wife.

“No, August, it did not.”

“Ok, so, we’ll be in my room,” she said, already tugging Mike along towards the stairs, and before you could say anything, they were gone.

“Hold on—” you started, but your wife grabbed your elbow, calming you down slightly. But only slightly.

“Let them,” she sighed, the sound cutting through you like a knife, “remember when we were young?” She wrapped her arms around your neck and kissed you, and it took everything to not push her away, knowing where her mind was — with her sixteen-year-old self, in her bedroom, fooling around with her high school sweetheart: none other than James Syverson.

Yes, James Syverson senior, the father of the boy who was upstairs with your daughter right now... The man who had beat you for captain of the football team. Twice. The man who had made a pass at your then-girlfriend when you were years into dating her and she was wearing your ring and your jacket with your name on it. Twice. Was it really so weird that you trusted his son about as far as you could throw him?

Soft lips on your neck pulled you away from your thoughts. “Try to remember that I married you?”

You smiled at her before leaning in for a kiss, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. “I’m a lucky man.”

“Ew, gross. Can you, like, not?”

A devilish smile played at your wife’s lips for a moment before she kissed you again a tad too theatrically.

“Oh my god, stop it! You’re old!” The look of disgust on your daughter’s face was absolutely priceless. “This is a kitchen! It’s a communal space!”

“So is the porch, princess,” you replied.

“How many times do I have to tell you two; this door stays open—oh for the love of God! I don’t need to see that!”

“Then by all means, dad, leave the door closed!” You caught the pillow she threw at you, and Mike made a point of moving as far away from her as the bed would allow while mumbling an apology.

Your wife had been right — which you were never telling her, which didn’t even matter because she already knew, anyway — and Mike really wasn’t a bad kid. That didn’t mean you were okay with him feeling up your daughter, though. Or worse.

“We��re not doing that, princess. Nice try though.”

On your way downstairs, you were fairly sure you heard the bedroom door close again and you sighed.

“It’s okay, love,” your wife said as she wrapped her arms around you.

“It’s not,” you sighed. “I wish that boy would keep his filthy paws off our daughter.” Was it genuinely too much to ask for her to find a nice, non-hormonal boy her age who only wanted to sit next to her on the couch and hold her hand under strict parental supervision?

“Yes, August, that’s entirely too much to ask,” your wife snickered. You hadn’t even realized you’d actually voiced your thoughts. “Boys like that don’t exist. I remember you when you were eighteen… We were doing much worse things than they are.”

“But we were in college. Can’t we just… ban him from the house?” You slumped down on the couch and took the cup of coffee your wife was now holding out to you.

“We could,” she said, and for the first time, a smile appeared on your face that she managed to wipe off immediately: “But I’ve seen the inside of that car he drives.”

It had been an interesting phone call, at one o’clock in the morning, from your daughter’s best friend’s mother, asking if her daughter had come home yet.

“How would I know that?” you had snapped at her. Surely, she didn’t expect you to know who was in her house in the middle of the night? It was her house…

“Because she’s staying with you,” the concerned mother had answered.

“Ah,” you answered, grabbing your wife’s shoulder and shaking her until she was awake. “We were under the impression that our daughter was staying with you.”

Your wife had called Mike’s parents, who had also established that their son was not where he was supposed to be.

Long story short: Everyone was in serious trouble.

And now you were on your way to some club, your knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and you barely managed to stifle a yawn. In the passenger seat, your wife threatened to drift off to sleep. The only reason you had taken her with you was so you wouldn’t make a gigantic scene — no matter how much that was exactly what you wanted to do.

Syverson and his wife were already there, attempting to convince the bouncer to let them into the club without paying some ridiculous entrance fee, while your daughter’s friend’s parents stood off to the side, looking more and more nervous by the minute.

Your wife walked to the door. “Now you listen to me, pal,” she snapped. “My daughter is in there and if you don’t want me to get everyone here fired and then sue this place to high heavens for letting minors in, then you let us go in there and look for her right now, or so help me God!” She could be impressively scary, you noted as a smile slowly grew on your face.

She paced back to you and scowled at you when you kissed her on the forehead. “What the hell was that for?”

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” you said.

Your kids were, indeed, inside. They — your daughter and Mike, at least — were unlucky enough that you were the one to find them. Dancing. If you could call it that — and you quickly decided that you absolutely couldn’t call it that.

The music — again; if you could call it that — was incredibly loud, giving you a headache on top of your already particularly murderous mood, and you held on to your last shred of self-restraint with all your might to make sure you wouldn’t genuinely murder your daughter’s… boyfriend. Even just thinking the word made you want to punch something. Him, preferably.

Mike spotted you first, and you felt an overwhelming sense of pride when his face morphed into an expression of complete and utter terror. He also had the common sense to step away from your daughter immediately, who looked up around at him when she felt Mike suddenly disappear from behind her. He pointed at you, and she turned around again. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. Good.

With a single finger, you beckoned them both to come over, and when they were standing in front of you, you dragged them both outside.

“What were you thinking?” your wife snapped at your daughter, who looked up at you.

“Daddy, I…” You just shook your head and let your wife handle this.

When she was done — your daughter was now grounded for a month — you turned to Mike: “And your involvement in this was…?”

“They wanted to see the DJ, and I… I told them I could sneak them in. It was stupid and irresponsible—”

“Not to mention illegal.”

“—yes, that too. I’m sorry.” Mike looked down, clearly doing his best not to tremble visibly. He failed. Good.

“How’d you even swing this, James?” Mike’s dad wanted to know, his wife standing behind him, clearly trying very hard to keep her mouth shut to prevent herself from saying something she’d regret.

“It’s Mike,” Mike corrected.

“Not when I’m this goddamn mad at you it isn’t, son.”

“Hello, mrs. Walker,” Mike greeted your wife while handing her a bouquet of flowers. You rolled your eyes, even though you had no reason to. He handed a second bouquet — it was just a handful of daisies — to your daughter. “Thank you for the invitation.”

It wasn’t exactly n invitation you’d been all too excited to extend, but alas. Here he was again. Maybe grounding them hadn’t been such a good idea (even though you’d laughed at Syverson’s idea to have Mike’s punishment start two weeks later than your daughter’s, so that they’d have to go without each other for longer), because now they were just unnecessarily and inappropriately touchy.

“Thank you, Mike, these are lovely,” your wife said as she handed you the flowers. “August, darling, could you put these in a vase, please?”

You were glad to have something to do. “Of course, my angel.”

“Gross,” your daughter said while rolling her eyes, and you glared at her, biting your tongue to keep yourself from making your sarcastic remark.

“Eh,” Mike shrugged, “my parents are worse. I think it’s sweet.”

You watched over the edge of the newspaper while Mike helped your daughter set the table, while your wife continuously glanced at you in her signature ‘I told you so’ kind of way. You had already tentatively agreed with her that he wasn’t a bad kid! What more did she want?

Dinner was unbearable, and your wife had to warn you more than once to stop cutting your food so hard you nearly sawed your way through your plate on more than one occasion, and you gritted your teeth as you tried to focus on your dinner instead of watching the two lovebirds. At least they were trying to keep it decent, which was much appreciated, but it didn’t necessarily make things much easier for you.

“What did you tell her?” you asked your wife — calmly, you hoped — when your daughter slammed the door behind her after an unusually quick escape from the house.

“Not much,” she answered. You knew for a fact she’d been pretty on top of the sex ed stuff for years now. “A reminder that she shouldn’t do things she isn’t ready for. And to use protection.”

“Hmm.” Whether you were finally getting used to the idea of your daughter going out with Michael Syverson, or your wife and her relentless support of their relationship had finally worn you down, you didn’t exactly know.

“August,” she said as she sat down next to you and leaned into your side, “I know you’re trying to protect her, but you can’t stop this. It’ll happen sooner or later. Sooner, rather than—”

“I know,” you growled.

“You were sixteen when—”

“I know.” It hurt to clench your teeth the way you did, but it was all you could do to stop yourself from screaming. “If he hurts her…”

“She takes after you, dear,” your wife chuckled. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“He asked you to where now?” Your eyebrows shot up a mile and at least a month’s worth of acceptance disappeared like snow in the desert when your daughter told you the news that Mike had asked her to prom.

“Prom, dad. You kn—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you don’t have—”

“Senior prom, dad. His prom.”

“You’re a sophomore,” you grumbled, your eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Yes, dad, Mike asked me, a sophomore, to go with him, a senior, to his senior prom, which I wouldn’t be able to go to unless I was invited by a senior. Like him. Can you exit psycho dad-mode for three seconds? Can I please go?” Your wife had been right when she said your daughter took after you in many ways, but damn if she didn’t have her eyes. And you were powerless against those.

“Yes, princess,” you sighed softly. “You can go.”

She wrapped her arms around your neck, and for the first time in months you saw a little more of your princess and a little less of the teenage monstrosity she’d grown into over the past few years. Apart from the horrible shrieking in your ear, that was.

“Can you do me one favor, please?”

“Tell me you’re not asking to approve my dress, or whatever?” Ah, there she was again. The monstrosity.

“Take your mother shopping for it. She’d like that.” And, hopefully, she’d come home with something halfway presentable, at least.

The doorbell rang at seven o’clock on the dot. At least Syverson had bothered to teach his boy some manners. He handed another stunning bouquet to your wife — which might have been more impressive if his mother hadn’t owned the flower shop in town — and nervously fidgeted with the box that held a rather beautiful corsage. No doubt also a courtesy of his mom.

“That’s a very nice tux, Mike,” your wife said with a smile in an attempt to diffuse the ever-growing tension in the hallway while you waited for your daughter to finally finish getting ready.

“Thanks, it’s mine,” he answered. “Dad has a ridiculously big family; I have a million cousins… lots of weddings.”

“Hey.” You all turned to the source of the sound; the voice of your daughter standing at the top of the stairs.

“Holy sh—” Mike cleared his throat — smart move. “Wow. You look… wow.” He rushed towards her to help her down the last few steps of the stairs.

“You look good too,” she said shyly.

“Not next to you, I don’t,” he managed — but barely.

As you watched Mike awkwardly trying to help your daughter with the corsage, memories of your own prom came flooding back to you, and you couldn’t fight a smile off your face. It wasn’t for lack of trying, of course, but the sight of them was simply too… adorable to stay mad about. Next to you, your wife grabbed your hand and squeezed it. She had tears in her eyes, you noticed, when she rushed past you to get the camera.

“Mom. Mom, stop. You took like four thousand pictures already, it’s enough. Enough! Please, let us leave, we’re going to miss the whole thing… Mom! Dad, tell mom she’s being insane!” Finally, you weren’t the one who was considered insane!

“I think that’s plenty, darling,” you said as you pulled your wife back and put a hand on the camera to get her to lower it. “Get out, you two, I only have so much to say around here. Have fun… but not too much fun.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your wife added.

You rolled your eyes. “Like that narrows it down.”

“Dad!” your daughter shrieked before pulling Mike towards the door.

Your wife had successfully convinced you that going to bed early would be best. You needed a distraction, after all, and if she was so kind to offer to provide you with one, who were you to refuse her?

It was nearly midnight when you woke up with her curled up next to you, to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A set of footsteps too many, that was.

“August, don’t,” you heard next to you when you attempted to get out of bed to put a stop to these shenanigans immediately. What did she mean ‘don’t’? You were just supposed to let them… “If it weren’t for you, I’d have let him stay over the first time she asked. Going in there, guns blazing, is not going to make this go away. They’ll find another place. Another time. And I meant what I said about the backseat of that car… If you have any faith in the way we raised our daughter, then trust her.”

Falling asleep again was hard, but nowhere near as hard as not throwing Mike down the stairs when you ran into him a few hours later, when he was on his way to the bathroom.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?’

You took a deep, shaky breath to steady yourself before speaking. “We’ll talk about that over breakfast. I can and will promise you right now, that you’ll be in some real trouble if you sneak out before then.”

“Coffee?” you grumbled when your daughter appeared in the kitchen the following morning, freshly showered, with Mike walking a step behind her.

“Yeah. Thanks,” she whispered as she sat down as far away from you as possible. You looked at the two trembling teens in front of you and realized your wife had been right — yet again — when she had said that if you handled this wrong, they’d never come to you if they were in trouble. Ever.

“It’s been brought to my attention that I may have been a bit… overbearing,” you said, ignoring the eyerolls from both your wife and your daughter. Mike just stared at the table. “And I’m sorry.”

You sighed as three jaws dropped in complete and utter bewilderment. “That being said… The two of you still broke the rules, and he stayed here without permission, which means you, young lady, will be grounded for a week,” you said, watching your daughter grab Mike’s arm. She looked hurt… “Starting tomorrow.” The two exchanged a surprised look and finally smiled.

“Does he have to leave?” she asked carefully.

“No, princess,” you said softly, “he doesn’t.”

“Where’s that ruthless jerk I married?” Your wife wrapped her arms around you and pulled you close while you let out a deep sigh.

“He said ‘I do’,” you grumbled. “And he had a daughter.”

“Daddy?” Your daughter’s voice was soft and small. The hurt in it crushed you, although you had to admit you were relieved to have confirmation that Mike was upstairs in your shower all by himself, if you were honest. “Are you mad at me?”

You reached for her, and she hugged you — almost like she used to. “No, princess, I could never be mad at you.”

“I’m still your—”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Are you mad at Mike?” Her voice got even lower than before, and she avoided your eyes.

“No,” you answered truthfully. “Unless he hurt you in any kind of way, in which case he’s a dead man.”

“Did you forget you forced self defense classes on me until I was a black belt?” she laughed, wiping away the single tear that had escaped her eye.

“That’s my girl.” You couldn’t have fought back the grin if you’d tried.

Your daughter wrestled herself out of your embrace and made her way towards the hallway again, turning around in the doorway. “Ehm, does the door still have to stay open?” she asked innocently.

“I think we’re past that point,” your wife answered, ignoring your exasperated sigh.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispered as your daughter sprinted up the stairs.

“Does she know you’re here?” It didn’t take you two guesses to figure out why he was at your door. You actually remembered the moment you knocked on the door of your then-hopefully-soon-to-be-in-laws all too well.

“She does,” he answered, thanking you quickly as you impatiently gestured at him to come in. It was cold out, and money didn’t grow on trees…

“Does she know why?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not here to ask for your permission, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said with a smirk that brought out some residual feelings of wanting to smack him. “I’m actually looking for Mrs. Walker.”

“You’re right not to,” you admitted. “She’d kill you.”

“It’s a bit of a catch-22.” He laughed. “My dad will kill me if I don’t ask, so…”

“So it’s a matter of who you’d rather be murdered by.”

“I think I’ll take my chances with my old man,” he said. “At least he’s not related to you.”

Smart man.

You followed him into the living room, where you found your wife with her nose in the book she hadn’t put down for hours. As soon as Mike walked in, she slammed it shut and put it away.

“Michael, can I help you?” she said in an unusually quirky tone, with an unusually happy smile on her face.

“I think so, yeah,” he stammered. Those nerves were finally kicking in, huh? Good. “I… Eh… She told me something about a ring… eh… her, eh…”

“Her grandmother’s engagement ring?” she helped him along gently.

He nodded furiously. “Yeah. She said that, eh… When the time came, she’d eh… She’d like to wear it. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“God, Mike, I think I’ve never seen you more scared of me than of August,” she laughed, and you gladly joined her, leaving the poor boy standing there with bright red ears and an uneasy smile.

“First time for everything, right?”

Over the years, you’d been subjected to many a feminist lecture on outdated patriarchal values and whatnot, so it had come as quite the surprise to you when your daughter had come to you, asking you if you’d walk her down the aisle. Now that you were standing here, with her to your left, squeezing your arm so tight you feared it would result in lasting damage, you wished you’d declined, so that you’d just have been able to sit quietly next to your wife, instead of being here with no prayer of getting a handle on your own nerves.

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice taunting but with an obvious shakiness to it.

“You’re one to talk, princess,” you retorted, “I can barely feel my fingers.”

She relaxed her grip on your arm a bit, chuckling softly. “Will you behave?”

“Me? Always.”

As far as you were concerned, the walk could have lasted forever. You knew it had to end, and it did — way too soon — and all that was left for you to do was…

“I love you, daddy,” she whispered before you managed to move.

“And I love you, princess,” you replied softly. “Always.”

Then, you finally placed her hand in Mike’s. “She’s your problem now, son. And I have a very strict no-return-policy.”

[possibilistfanfiction]

for surgeons AU could we get some early days, maybe first date or something? obsessed with your work as always

[s/o to everyone who asked for their first date, love u, crossposting this au to ao3 now too i guess lol!]

//

‘don’t laugh.’

‘i’m not.’ 

you glare. 

‘i swear, i’m not,’ she lies.

‘cam, you’re actively laughing. physically. audibly. at me.’

camila takes a deep breath and forces herself to frown. ‘okay. sorry. continue.’

‘bea is just — hot.’

you can tell that camila fights a grimace, which is fair, maybe, because she’s known beatrice for years through medical school. ‘she’s also very kind and understanding, if you wanted to, like, do something that would actually be fun for the both of you.’

‘hiking sounds fun.’

‘ava.’

it’s not all that often you feel the tightness in your chest that you remember from childhood: things are far less limited to you now. you have care you need, and your physical therapy and surgeries and medications are usually effective at letting you do whatever you want day-to-day. ‘just — don’t.’

camila sighs. ‘okay. but i promise bea wouldn’t think any less of you.’

you flop back on her sofa. ‘i know that, i really do. but it’s just so not sexy. and you know what is sexy? beatrice without a shirt on hiking ten miles, all sweaty and —‘

‘— it’s november, i’m pretty sure she’ll be wearing a shirt and a jacket —‘

‘— that’s not the point.’

camila loses her battle and does outright laugh at you now. ‘okay. well, to answer your question, you can borrow whatever of my gear you need, and i won’t tell bea.’

‘you’re a saint.’

/

to be fair, beatrice picks you up in her extremely clean subaru — you refrain from saying anything; it’s way too easy for it to actually be fun anyway — and offers you a breakfast sandwich and a coffee from, apparently, her favorite place near her house. it’s a cool, cloudy morning, typical november fair, and it’s still dark out, but you’re used to being up early or really at any time of day or night at this point. you’d done every spine decompression stretch you’ve ever learned in physical therapy, taken some ibuprofen, and truly have no plan other than hoping camila’s trekking poles — a very serious name for very fancy walking sticks — are enough to see you through.

beatrice, for her part, is clearly nervous, and it’s charming: she spends at least twenty minutes talking to you about all of the features of the hike and why it’s an ideal one for the two of you — ‘it’s moderate elevation gain up to the crest, about 2.5 miles, and, since it has southern exposure, we won’t get too much wind today.’ and, ‘if you want to keep going, it’s beautiful along the ridge, and there’s two mild peaks we could summit.’ and, ‘i’ve packed enough food and water for essentially however long we want to go; you can carry some if you’d like, if you didn’t pack much yourself.’ and, ‘anyway, the entire thing is wonderful and, in my experience, fairly empty, especially as it grows colder. but, just our luck: not much rain forecast for today.’ — and then asks, almost painfully awkward, about your last shift.

‘it was fine,’ you say, finishing your sandwich and making sure your trash is neatly packed up in the bag, with hers too. ‘but enough shop talk. i want to know about you.’

she blushes and you see, not for the first time but maybe in a way that’s more obvious than you have before, that beatrice is just a person after all, even if she’s unflappable at work. 

‘it’s okay,’ you say, so she doesn’t shut down or feel embarrassed. ‘i don’t mind shop talk, but i’m just — i’m glad to spend the time with you, away from work. plus you’re like a total enigma. very mysterious. it’s kind of hot.’

you haven’t said explicitly this is a first date, but you’ve been on lots of first dates and you’re fairly certain this is one. you’re definitely certain when she laughs, her shoulders loosening down her spine, away from her ears, and says, ‘only kind of?’

‘well, i wasn’t sure if we were just colleagues or just friends or whatever.’ 

‘or whatever?’

you groan. ‘you’re extremely hot, are you kidding? i think it’s affecting my residency, actually. i get distracted by your hands and then i lose the plot.’

she takes that in, maybe more than you had meant to say but who cares at this point; you’d gotten up at 5 am for her on your day off, so it’s fairly clear how you feel. ‘you’re quite distracting yourself, dr. silva.’

‘in a good or bad way? like, sexy or annoying?’

she rolls her eyes; you can tell, even if she’s still watching the road. ‘it depends. often both.’

you grin, lean back in the seat. ‘i contain multitudes, what can i say. triple threat.’

‘sexy, annoying, and… ?’

‘brilliant, obviously.’

‘oh yes, obviously.’ you pull into a deserted parking lot amidst a lush green forest and a heavy early morning fog; it’s beautiful, and you don’t ever regret that you ended up here, but you feel particularly grateful for it now. ‘you are brilliant, ava.’ it’s serious, the way she says it and the way she squeezes your hand, just once, before she gets out of the car with a soft smile. 

you watch her as subtly as you can as she puts on her gear, following suit as closely as you can without being too obvious about it. you know this is, objectively, really stupid and unnecessary, and jillian is probably spidey-senses yelling at you from somewhere in the world, but you have never wanted to impress someone so badly in your entire life. once beatrice is all ready to go, in her warm fleece quarterzip underneath a waterproof shell, a similar setup for her pants, her boots tied securely and her pack neatly zipped, poles ready at the correct height — so your elbows are at 90 degrees, camila had explained yesterday — and a beanie pulled down securely over her buzzed hair and ears.

‘the most important part for me,’ she says.

it takes you a second, but then you laugh. ‘you’re being funny.’

she makes sure her car is locked, zips the keys in a pocket inside her jacket, and then takes off down the trail. ‘i’ve been known to have a sense of humor from time to time.’

she’s not even walking that fast but it’s cold and jillian is mad at you all the time for how much you have to stand just for work, definitely without the however-many-long mile hike you’re about to go on. ‘the other interns are terrified of you, you know.’

beatrice turns toward you with a smirk. ‘and you’re not?’

‘well, i’ve seen you cry, once not even about a patient but about the fact that the coffee cart was out of earl grey tea.’

‘i hadn’t slept in thirty hours.’

you shrug — that’s probably true, but still — and bump her in the shoulder. ‘i like you,’ you tell her, honest, finally, amongst the moss and the ferns, the sun barely up, no one around to hear you. there’s a different kind of fear you feel when it comes to beatrice: not as dr. choi, indomitably talented and ruthlessly efficient resident, but as someone whose cologne you recognize, as someone who you want to make your grandma’s vatapáfor. ‘you’re kind to me.’

beatrice slows down for a moment — thank fucking god — and takes you in. you feel out of place often, and especially here, but the best thing about her is that, even if she senses it, she never faults you. ’that’s what you deserve.’ and then, ‘i hope i am. i want to be.’

you don’t know much about her, really: you know that she went to boarding school at 14 and had been at the top of her class at the best schools and programs in the world ever since; that she loves to be in nature and has known lilith for forever; that her accent loosens, just slightly, when she’s especially excited or especially exhausted. she likes otters, you’ve gathered, from a little pin on her coat, and she wants to go into cardio because it’s endlessly fascinating to her, and impossible, and miraculous. she runs so much admin for the free gender affirming surgery clinic even though it’s not her speciality and she certainly doesn’t have to; she learned asl last year, in addition to a host of other languages she speaks, to better communicate with patients and colleagues. you think, of anyone in your program, maybe of anyone at the hospital entirely, she’s chief superion’s favorite.

there are so many things you want to learn about her: what makes her scared and who she let take care of her after she had top surgery and what her favorite song is and what book made her cry as a child and if she likes comedies or is more of a drama kind of girl. you want, you can admit to yourself, to know everything about her in a way you’ve never quite wanted anything before.

‘you’re the best person i know.’ you’re worried it’s too much before she smiles — not at you, too shy, but you catch it anyway before she looks away.

‘that’s generous.’ 

‘still, true.’

she worries her lip before saying, ‘i am, technically, your boss.’

‘barely.’

‘ava.’

‘hmm. not dr. silva? doesn’t sound very position of power to me.’

‘i — i like you too.’ you watch her push her poles into the soft ground a little harder, like her whole body is fighting — to say what she means, or to not say it, you’re not sure. 

you’ve had crossroads in your life before, most of them really fucking horrible — until they weren’t, until the world stretched out before you and opened up before you. you’ve talked over and over about this with jillian and the therapist she made sure you went to before you consented to any truly dangerous and experimental procedures or injections: disability was limiting, sure, but the real harm was done by the lack of care afforded you, not your lack of movement. you work so, so hard to believe it on good days; it’s nearly impossible on the worst.

but this is the best day, you decide. camila is right: beatrice is kind and caring and brave in ways you know; in ways you have yet to find out. 

you’ve made it maybe half a mile into the hike but your back is aching, left foot going numb already, your right hand clenched too tight around the handle of the pole, so much so that even the soft cork of it hurts. so, instead of moving and moving and moving like you always do, like you have since the moment you could close your hands into fists so tight you swore you’d never let the world go: you stop.

bea takes a few more steps and then notices; she turns around and looks at you curiously.

‘sorry,’ you say, impulse and fear and habit, then shake your head. ‘actually, uh. i’m not? yeah, i’m not.’

she stands steady, unfazed by that. ‘okay.’

‘uh, well. i like you too. i already said that, but i really like you. i don’t — god, this sounds so stupid. but i don’t want to be your intern.’

the small, amused smile on beatrice’s face makes you feel better. ‘am i not a good teacher?’

‘i think there are lots of other things i would enjoy you teaching me.’ you close your eyes for a moment as she laughs, trying to regroup. ‘okay, i am sorry for that one.’

‘don’t be. i quite enjoyed it.’

‘before — before we tell chief superion anything, if you wanted to try, just — you should know that i shouldn’t have said yes to going on this hike.’

beatrice’s brow knits together, so immediately concerned you reach for her hand. 

‘not because — it’s beautiful,’ you say. ‘you’re beautiful, and i’m so happy you asked me.’

she doesn’t look any less worried, which is fair.

‘i have a spinal cord injury,’ you say, and her face softens into something you’re terrified of for a moment, until you realize it’s only patience, only an opening for understanding — not pity, and certainly not anything close to contempt.

‘okay,’ she says, calmly and as kind as ever.

stupid, annoying tears burn at your eyes. ‘i just — you love hiking, and you asked and planned so nicely, and you wanted to share this special thing with me, and —‘

‘ava,’ she says, then brings her thumbs to wipe your cheeks with a gentle smile. ‘i just wanted to spend time with you. you’re right, i enjoy hiking, but i also enjoy lots of other things. things that i would also want to share with you.’

‘i should be using a cane at work,’ you admit, in the middle of this beautiful forest where no one but her can hear you. ‘i haven’t been because i didn’t, i don’t —‘

‘— while i think it’s wise you’re moved off my service,’ she says, ‘i will burn down that entire hospital if anyone looks down on you for that.’

‘that seems counterintuitive to do no harm.’ the way you say it is wobbly and your nose is full of snot and it’s kind of all so terrible, but then you catch up: ‘you don’t want me on your service?’

beatrice steadies herself. ‘i want to kiss you.’

‘even after —‘

‘ava, listen. i want to kiss you.’

‘yeah,’ you say, and lean forward.

it feels like your entire body lights up, even though it aches in the damp cold — golden light everywhere. 

/

you laugh a little afterward, then beatrice smiles and takes off back toward her car without any complaints. 

‘it’s still rather early,’ she says as you go on your way, ‘and we’re only about twenty minutes from the car.’

you grimace. ‘yeah, sorry.’

she shakes her head. ‘there are undoubtedly so many things you need to apologize for daily, ava —‘

‘— hey —‘

‘— but this is not one of them.’

‘fine,’ you huff.

she’s unfazed. ‘i was going to ask if perhaps you wanted to come over to my place. among other things i like in addition to hiking, i do like to catch up on rest as well. and then perhaps lunch? there’s a spot near me that has wonderful oysters.’

‘a nap? in your sexy house? lunch? with your sexy face?’

she ignores most of it: ‘it’s a rather normal house.’

‘i bet it’s sexy. lilith told me you were rich.’

beatrice grimaces.

‘it’s okay. like, really. i just bet you’re, like, the kind of person who has bespoke everything, aren’t you?’

‘no,’ she says, but she’s blushing and looking away from you.

‘you know, you’ve got a terrible poker face.’

‘only when it comes to you, i’m afraid.’

‘ah, what a terrible fate.’

‘the worst,’ she agrees, shaking her head with a smile. ‘it’s got a good view, i will say.’

‘well, lead the way then.’

‘ava, we’re just walking back to the car.’

you roll your eyes. ‘you know what i mean.’

/

beatrice’s house is beautiful, perched on a hill with giant windows overlooking the sound and the olympics. she laughs — not unkindly — when you admit that all of your hiking gear is actually camila’s, says, ‘i thought that pack looked familiar,’ and then lends you a hoodie and some comfortable running shorts to change into. you don’t ask her so many things brimming inside of you; she doesn’t ask you either, although you’re sure she — as bea and as dr. choi — has a billion questions. you’ll ask and answer everything in due time. 

for today, you bully her — with far too little bullying involved to make her argument of i’ve never seen it before and i don’t waste my time on shows like this — to start binging season 4 of real housewives of salt lake city; even less convincing when she knows all about jen’s escapades last season and then clamps her mouth shut when you laugh into her shoulder.

‘it’s compelling, fine,’ she says with a very dramatic pout, and you’re kissing it off her face before you can think twice.

she smiles into it, your nerves dissipating, and it’s good, and right, and safe. you eventually kiss her cheek and run a hand over the soft bristles of her hair — which you’ve been dying to do — while she smiles and then settle into her side. 

‘thank you.’

she lets out a big breath, peaceful under the blanket, thick socks on your feet, cold rain outside but only warmth in this house with you in it. ‘no, ava. thank you.’

[mintmatcha]

jjk manga spoilers:

It's a simple headstone. No dates or adornments are carved into the stone, just his name. Yellow flowers wilt in the vase at the base, their cold rotted petals already begun to drop and scatter themselves across the granite. The tiny amount of water that was once in the bottom is frozen over, locking the stems in place. You crouch down and unscrew the cap to your water bottle to top it off anyway, a futile nicety.

"His sister must have been here." Nanami's breath curls at he talks. Against the sea sick winter sky, he looks paler than ever, almost the same grey as the clouds that threaten to spill even more snow. He stands there and watches, eyes tipped low.

"Mhm," you hum, picking up each petal individually and gathering them in your palm, "This morning."

She had texted you in warning, to make sure your paths didn't cross. Maybe it was too painful to see you, maybe she just wanted to respect her brother's wishes to avoid the sorcerer world. Either way, you can't seen her face since she was a child. Either way, it was better this way.

You take the piles of gold you've collected and pile it below his name. There's not quite enough to form a heart, so it kind of looks like a butt.

Haibara Yu: butt.

He'd laugh at that. Probably a bit too hard.

Nanami breaks the thin layer of humor and it shatters, like ice underfoot.

"I still can't believe he's gone."

Sometimes, when you fight sleep for much too long, you swear you can feel his hand in yours, warm, plush, and soft just like always. You cried when they changed the way they made his old deodorant because it'll never smell the same.

"Me neither." you agree as placidly as you can.

"It's strange to think it's been ten years." He breathes into his hands to warm them, the slightly hint of pink returning to the tips of his fingers, "You two would have been married by now."

"Nana, you're so dramatic," you offer the wisp of a laugh, "Yu and I were, what? 16? 17?"

Seventeen. You knew that for sure. He called you his little dancing queen on your birthday and balked when you didn't know the reference.

"Even if he was still with us, we probably would have gone our separate ways." Your knees already ache from squatting like this. Age and use have already set into your joints. "He'd probably be--"

Your imagination fails you. You're unrecognizable from who you once were. He would be the same, nothing more than an unknowable possibility that you never had the chance to meet. Haibara will always be the boy you once loved and the boy you still do. You'll never be the same.

"He'd probably be doing something much better than hanging with me."

If you passed each other on the street, would he recognize you? Would you recognize yourself?

The wind sighs. Someone down the way is speaking, voice mumbling just below audible. A warm hand cups your shoulder, and the thumb traces a line back and forth, back and forth.

Grief is a shared experience. You and Nanami are linked by it.

"He loved you," Nanami says, "Very much. I don't know if he would have ever let you go."

The rhythm of your heart bounces against your ribcage, even paced as you stand. The feel of it chips away the pit in your stomach, crumbling away bits and pieces of yourself and letting them fall away.

Your companion throws an arm around your shoulder and hesitates before pressing a kiss into your temple. His lips are warm compared to the day and his grasp is firm. Everything about it is chaste and platonic, filled with unspoken comforts.

If Yu was alive, he wouldn't wear the same scents he did as a child. His hands wouldn't be the same width you remember, his laugh the same timber. He would change, just how you've changed in immeasurable ways since you were seventeen.

And yet, the fact remains that you still love him, same as before.

Maybe Nanami is right. Maybe, if things were different, Yu would still be in love with you.

"Ten whole years." You wipe your face with the back of your hand, "Feels like no time's passed at all."

[tokki-tteokbokki]

𝐵𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇

Chapter One: The Rest of my Life

Bang Chan x Fem Reader

•🤍requested🤍•

MDNI

18+

• It’s you and Chan forever. Is love enough to overcome the obstacles that lie ahead?•

Warnings:

fluffy as fu-, wedding, happy tears, super emotional, dw your smut comes in the next chapter;)

Finally, after three years of dating, six months of planning the day was almost here. Tomorrow you get to marry your best friend, your greatest love, your soulmate.

You were busily packing Chan’s suitcase for him to take to the hotel he’d be staying at for the night. Like usual, he was working hard and would be home late. You didn’t mind much because you’d have the next month to have him all to yourself, just you and him in paradise.

You walked over to the bedroom door, gently setting the packed bag down on the side. On the door hung the suit Chan would be wearing tomorrow, your heart jumped at the thought. You were nervous but in a good way, you couldn’t wait. You gently unzipped the cover to look at the beautiful garment, your fingers traced around the fabric. You couldn’t help but smile.

Suddenly, you heard the lock chime on the front door. You quickly zipped it back up and opened the room door. There he was, your perfect fiancé. “(y/n)” He warmly smiled, coming towards you with open arms. You returned the gesture like second nature, landing yourself snugly in his embrace. “Hi..” You cooed into his chest. He gave you a little squeeze before giving you a gentle kiss.

“Sorry, I’m a little late. I just wanted to make sure there were no loose ends to interrupt us later.” His fingers pushed your hair behind your ears, “It’s okay.” You smiled looking into his eyes “Thank you.” He gave you a kiss on the forehead. You stepped back allowing you both to walk into the bedroom. “Oh baby, you packed my suitcase!” He said noticing “What would I do without you?” He pulled you into another embrace, showering your face with quick kisses that make you giggle. The kisses slowed down and began to move to your neck, you gasped lightly at the feeling. “Christopher..” You breathily called, his arms tightened around you and he let out a quiet moan into your ear. He loved it when you called him by his full name, for some reason it always sounded ten times better when you said it.

“My wife is just so beautiful..” He whispered softly. My wife. You pulled away to look at him, your cheeks flushing pink. “Not your wife yet.” You teased “It’s getting late, honey. We’ll have plenty of time after the wedding, don’t you worry.” You playfully kissed him. It’s not like you were saving sex for marriage, you both have done it plenty of times with each other. But you wanted abstain the night before your wedding, it just felt right.

Chan faked a cry before kissing you one more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked while the spinning the luggage around. “I’ll be the one in white.” You smiled as he took the suit off the door. His dimples deepened as he raced back to you to give you one more kiss before leaving.

Snug in your bed, you turned off the lamp on the nightstand and began to drift off, your last night alone.

You groggily opened your eyes, hearing the blaring sound of your phone ringing. You groaned as you reached over to answer it “Hello?” You yawned “Ya! It’s already 8am!” (bsf/n) yelled, making you hold the phone farther from your ear “So? I set my alarm for 9am. Wedding isn’t until 1pm anyways.” You rolled over onto your back “Not enough time! Hurry up and buzz me up!!” She demanded. You sighed audibly at her loudness. It’s no wonder her and Changbin were perfect together.

As you got up and walked out of room you heard the lock chime and the front door opening. “Surprise!” She held up a bag of takeout and smoothie from your favourite breakfast joint. “I was right to choose you as my maid of honour.” You laughed, taking the smoothie. She set the bag down on the island, still holding her smoothie “Ready for today?” You nodded taking a sip “Very!” You swallowed “Mm you have the dress right?” “It’s in the car. Let’s eat up first.”

You spent the next couple hours getting ready with (bsf/n). Laughing and joking. Your heart leapt every time you looked at the clock, it wouldn’t be long now. You thought about what Chan was doing, how he looked… Today, your forever was beginning.

“Okay! Dress time!” (bsf/n) chimed.

You were beautiful, your dress perfectly flowed from your cinched waist, your back elegantly exposed with the off shoulder sleeves complimenting the look. You looked in the mirror and saw a bride, it felt so much different from when you initially said yes to the dress. This time it was time, it was real.

“Ohhh..!” Your best friend praised, holding back tears “(y/n), you’re stunning.” You looked at her in the reflection, incredibly grateful for all her love, support, and hard work she’s done. “(bsf/n)… Thank you for everything..” Tears began to well up in your eyes “Stop!! No crying!” She ordered with a tear falling from her eye. Suddenly, you heard the front door open. “Hello?” A familiar voice called, you heard multiple footsteps tumbling in.

You both walked out and were greeted by a friendly face, dressed to the tens. “What are you doing here?” (bsf/n) exclaimed, jumping into Changbin’s arms. “Playing chauffeur.” He answered as he nestled his head into her neck. “You guys ready? Your chariot awaits” He pulled away to joked making your friend playfully shove him. She looked at you with reassuring eyes telling you it was time.

The venue you and Chris had chosen was a low key one, something intimate and romantic. You arrived at the venue and were greeted by your family. Your mother almost in tears at the sight of her little girl, not so little anymore. She pulled you into a tight hug, over your shoulder you could see your father approaching, trying to keep a straight face. He was beyond happy for you, both your parents adored Chris and were overjoyed when he asked for your hand in marriage.

“It’s time!” (bsf/n) announced, linking arms with Changbin who was undoubtedly Chris’s best man. Your mom gave you a kiss on the cheek and raved once more about how beautiful you looked before she headed in. You and your father stepped to the side out of view so the first look would be authentic. Pachelbel’s Canon in D began to play softly by the live band, made up of two violins and cello. The doors opened and Changbin and (bsf/n) began their slow march down the aisle.

The doors shut behind them and you and your father stepped into place. Your arm snugly tucked in to his, your other holding your bouquet of white roses accented with a soft pink ribbon. You looked over to him, the realization finally hitting. “One step at a time, sweetheart.” Your dad comforted, giving a kiss on your forehead. The band faded out briefly and you heard the guests stand in unison from the other side of the door. Your procession song started to play, the wedding version of Turning Page.

Closing your eyes, it was like time slowed. Your lungs took in a breath and the doors opened. Your eyelids slowly lifted and your head followed. Your lungs released the breath and your eyes looked down the room.

There he was.

His smile large, dimples deepening. Almost with instinct, you moved forward towards your forever. You could feel the welling of tears in your eyes, your smile was ever growing. Intently watching Chris, you noticed his expression change. His emotions couldn’t be contained and he softly cried watching his bride come closer to him. Your everything now within reach, you came to the altar.

Your father giving you one last kiss before shaking Chris’s hand and giving you away. Feeling his hand felt like everything had finally fallen into place. He led you closer to the officiant to begin the ceremony, quietly he leaned and whispered to you “You’re beautiful.” with the most sincerity he’s ever spoken. You were beautiful, you were ethereal. He felt the three years of love pouring out into a contagious aura that surrounded you both.

“We gather today to celebrate the union of two hearts, two souls, and two families.” Chris felt his heart bouncing around his chest, your own heart fluttering, it was real. “Please face each other.” Your bodies turned towards one another, your hands placed delicately on his palms, a stunning moment in time you’d both remember for the rest of your lives.

“The couple have decided to recite their own vows.”

Chris shuffled in place before clearing his throat “(y/n)…” Already, you could see his eyes glisten with tears “My best friend, my peace, my joy, my soulmate.. I promise to love you, to stand by you through all life’s hardships. I promise to celebrate and cherish you. Today, I lay my heart in the palm of your hands… I give you all of me… my heart, my loyalty, my love, my soul.” Tears began to fall from both your eyes as he continued “I-I.. love you, now and forever. I’ll never forget how blessed I am to spend the rest of my days with you by my side.” He quickly dabbed his eyes, drying the tears that had fallen before gently wiping yours. “I love you.” You quietly mouthed to him.

You took a deep breath and began your vows “Christopher, it has been an absolute privilege to have spent the last three years with you. There are no words to describe the immeasurable amount of joy I have because you have chosen me to be your wife..” You lightly sniffled “I promise to stay by your side, regardless of how difficult. I will be your weight in the stormiest of seas, keeping us grounded through the rough. With all that I have and all that I am, I will love, support, and honour you… for the rest of our lives.” He patted his tears again quickly.

“Do you Christopher Chahn Bahng take this woman to be your wife, forsaking all others until death parts you both?” He looked into your eyes, as if it was just you and him. “I do.” Such comfort in his word to have you forever “Do you (f/n)(m/n)(l/n) take this man to be your husband, forsaking all others until death parts you both?” Looking into his deep brown eyes “I do.” Chris’s smile deepened “The rings, please.”

Changbin stepped forward passing one ring to Chris and the other to you. Taking your soft hand, Chris slipped the ring down your finger. Inhaling deeply, you repeated. Both of you couldn’t contain your happiness “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The officiant smiled “You may now kiss the bride!”

Tenderly, Chris caressed your cheek before leaning in and sealing your marriage. His lips met yours with such genuine love and purity. Suddenly, time stopped moving and it was as if it was just the two of you existing in the this perfect frame in your own infinity, like the universe collided and everything made sense. You both pulled away to the sound of applause “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs Bahng!” You both faced your guests, radiating the beautiful glow of your love to the room.

The reception was full of congratulations, conversations, and laughter. Watching Chris’s band mates foolishly dance on the floor, it was quite the sight. You’d think for being some of the best fourth generation idols, they could dance at a party. You watched as the mother son dance unfolded after your dance with your father. You smiled watching your husband and mother in law twirl around. A thought came into your head briefly, dancing with your possible future son at his wedding. Kids, that’s right. You and Chris both wanted children at some point but never really talked about when.

Suddenly, Chris began to prance towards you. “Time for the first dance, please clear the dance floor.” He held out his hand almost cartoon like “May I have this dance?” He exaggerated “Of course” You stifled back laughter, taking his hand. Elegantly gliding to the middle of the dance floor, the lights dimmed and the fairy lights around illuminated the space. Your first dance was to Merry Go Round of Life from Howl’s Moving Castle. A movie you both loved. Floating around the floor, Chris led you effortlessly. A dance you wished would never end. He looked at you with the utmost adoration in his eyes, his princess was so gorgeous.

After a few hours of partying, the reception ended without delay. Now the fun part could begin, your honeymoon. Changing into more casual clothes, you both made your exit after the car was packed. Bubbles floating around from your guests bidding you farewell as you both got into the car. “Ready?” Chris asked as he started the engine. You looked at him “Ready.” You smiled, both of you waving goodbye as you pulled away to head to the airport.

Your little bungalow on Jeju Island awaited.

[bi-focal12]

i feel like my writing has been on a steady decline lately, so pls enjoy this offering from a writing class that i took last spring (when i felt my writing was getting a lot better). it was one of the first, serious original writing pieces i worked on and i definitely leaned on bakugou katsuki's personality to help inform how i wrote Tony lol, but i was pleasantly surprised with the outcome!

i'd love to hear your thoughts (and if anyone's interested in beta-ing my i7 work, pls message me!)

it never got a title but i suppose ill call it...

In Ten Year's Time (1,737 words, original one-shot)

The bus was late.

Tony slumped further in his seat, trying to tune out the chattering next to him while the hard metal rungs of the bench dug further into his back. Tony didn't care if Maria's youngest child had finally started kindergarten or if the acne-ridden line cook sitting in between them was saving up to go to flight school. He did care that their conversation was making the words of his essay prompt swim on the page, 'night shift' and 'empty nest' burrowing an unwanted space between 'where do you see yourself in ten years?'.

Hopefully by then he'd be done waiting at this stupid bus stop.

Maria cackled loudly at something Acne Face had said and Tony took a deep breath through his nose, bouncing his left leg and focusing more intently on the notebook balanced on his right.

In ten years I will be, he wrote, pencil jerking when one of them- Maria, probably- began playing a video clip that started out like an air raid siren. Old people never knew how to fucking lower their volume in public. Tony didn't bother erasing the jagged line that streaked across his page or the one knitting his eyebrows together.

...in anger management, he finished wryly. Or jail.

Maria's shiny clump of necklaces caught the light as she leaned forward and Tony made the mistake of glancing up to investigate, caught in the headlights of her searching gaze while the large man in between them tried to respectfully shrink into nothingness.

"I'm sorry honey," she said apologetically, the remnant of a laugh still caught in her throat. "Are we being too loud?"

Tony grit his teeth against his instinctual, biting response. As much as she was getting on his nerves now, Maria was unbearably nice to him and always dropped off an apple pie during the holidays.

"A bit," he forced out, along with his best half-smile.

Her pleasant expression- endlessly patient while he searched his vocabulary for words that wouldn't sting- turned apologetic and Tony's stomach soured. "It's- it's whatever," he amended, turning away. "I was gonna wrap it up anyways. Bus should be here soon."

"Still," she said softly, followed by an awkward apology from the line cook that might have been the result of an expectant look from Maria. Tony couldn't be sure, eyes locked on an uninteresting pebble.

He rolled it around beneath the sole of his show for the five seconds it took for him to become bored, then kicked it and watched the rock skate clumsily over the curb and into the empty space beyond. Where the bus should be.

"Tory's not picking you up, today?" Maria continued pleasantly.

Tony shook his head, biting down a mean grin while imagining the way his mother's face would scrunch up at the nickname. "Nah."

"Well," Maria replied, the sigh and shifting fabric letting him know that she'd given up on eye contact, "might still be faster if she gets you from here."

"What?" Tony asked, turning his head only to be met with a pale, tattooed bicep. With a barely audible huff, he leaned forward to see around the line cook. "But the bus is supposed to come at four," he insisted.

The line cook chuckled and Tony scowled at him, unencumbered by apple-pie shaped shackles.

The man reigned himself in with an awkward cough. "I don't know where you heard that," he said, "but this bus never shows up earlier than five."

Tony stared at him, then Maria, then the line cook again. The man offered him a shrug.

"Five," Tony repeated blandly.

"Five," they agreed.

Tony clenched his fists, silently burying himself in his backpack to escape their sympathetic grimaces but he could still feel their eyes on the back of his neck like a rash. He rifled carelessly through notebooks and folders and textbooks, crumpling half of them in his wake before coming back up with a fresh sheet of paper and the stub of a pencil.

The stubs were harder to snap.

Tony chewed on the inside of his cheek and tuned out the tentative chatter starting up again on his right.

Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Tony scribbled his name on the top of the page, first and last. Then the date. Then the name of his homeroom teacher just for the hell of it, trying to at least look like he was busy and not avoiding the rest of the page.

"College applications, huh?" the line cook commented.

Tony's nostrils flared. Apparently he didn't look busy enough.

"Oh, Angelica had such an awful time with hers," Maria lamented. Tony had already chosen his prompt but he leaned further over his paper to write down the other two. "Something about who you'd want to have dinner with? Honestly, how a college can pick you based on your dinner guests makes no sense to me," she complained, huffing, "and if Mother Teresa isn't good enough for them then they're not good enough for my daughter."

The line cook whistled appreciatively, a bit of mirth slipping out in the shade of his voice. "You tell 'em."

Tony slowly uncurled from his hunched over position, not quite turning his head to face them.

"Angelica got rejected?"

"Mm," Maria agreed solemnly. "Three times." Then she shrugged, the bitterness alighting from her shoulders like birds on a wire. "But she'd happy where she is."

Tony tapped his pencil stub against his knee, retreating from the conversation once more.

Angelica was two years older than him and he only ever really saw her at church or the odd Christmas party but he knew for a fact she had ranked first in her year. Hell, he'd overheard her reciting her valedictorian speech instead of prayer during communion too many times to count.

Tony pulled out his phone, tapping until he found the right screen.

He held his breath.

S. Antonio, 42

And kept holding it, idly wishing that he could just pass out and not have to deal with college applications anymore. He imagined a puppet doctor in a crisp white lab coat saying, Sorry ma'am, turns out your kid's terminally ill and needs to be exempt from college applications. Bed rest only.

His little wooden limbs would jangle as he shrugged.

Then he imagined his puppet mother pointing in the doctor's face, demanding that they heal him because Tony wasn't allowed to die before becoming a doctor himself and the puppet doctor would droop like his strings had been cut and do as he was told because Tony's mother controlled the universe.

"Uh...hey, kid? Everything alright over there?"

Tony's head snapped up to the line cook, blinking away his daydream and the black spots while he heaved in a lungful of air as subtly as possible. "I'm fine," he spat on the exhale.

Tony's pencil stub lay on the ground between his feet, having slipped from his shaky hands. The sheet of paper, still mostly blank, lay plastered to his thigh.

"Essay that hard?" the line cook asked lightly, lips quirked up in a careful smile.

Tony sneered in the face of it, bristling. "No," he snapped. Heart pounding and lungs still trembling, Tony sat up straighter and gave the man a onceover. "I know damn well where I don't want to be in ten years."

The man's eyes widened but a chuckle was quick to follow. "On your way home to the love of your life after a good day at work?"

Tony's mouth fell open, letting loose a weak, "I-"

"Antonio!" his mother called, her sleek gray car pulling into the space in front of the bench. Right where the bus should be. "Get in, what're you waiting around for?"

Tony scrambled to shove his things back into his bag, staunchly avoiding eye contact and standing before he was finished, nearly tripping for his efforts. The back of his neck burned.

"Nice to see you, Tory," Maria called.

Victoria's mouth pursed, then smoothed out into what she probably thought was polite neutrality, fingers tapping the steering wheel at regular intervals. "You too," she said, voice so falsely sweet it could rot your teeth. Tony wondered if they could tell. "How's Angelica doing? I heard she moved back home?"

Tony paused, hand on the open frame of the passenger side door. His mother's interest might not have been genuine but Tony knew as soon as he was inside the car she'd be off without waiting for the answer. He stepped away to load his bag in the backseat, instead.

"She's happy," Maria replied, the serene smile audible in her voice. "Rediscovering her passions." Tony's mother offered a noncommittal hum, sharp eyes darting to her son's hesitating form. "And your children?" Maria inquired.

"Oh, they're wonderful," Tony's mother replied. "Brock's nearly finished with law school now. Columbia. And of course, Antonio here's getting ready to apply to all the best schools in the country." She smiled, polished teeth flashing. "A little doctor in the making."

Tony kept his eyes low as he slipped into the passenger seat and his mother hardly waited for the door to shut behind him before pulling away. For a few, long moments neither of them said anything, letting the quiet hum of the engine permeate the empty space the way other families listened to the radio. Tony's leg bounced silently.

"Maria's nice," he finally said, the statement hanging in the air like a reprimand.

His mother's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Mhmm."

Tony rolled the words around behind his teeth, weighing the risks, before adding a careful, "So's her wife."

"Did I say anything unsavory?" his mother snapped. Tony shook his head, shifting in his seat to stare determinedly out the window, cursing his inability to disappear or turn back time or sew his mouth shut.

"Well?" she pressed.

Tony wished he hadn't said anything at all. "No."

"That's what I thought," she said shortly. Then she sighed. "I don't know why you always have to paint me as the villain, Antonio."

"Sorry," Tony muttered quietly.

In his head, he wrote, In ten years, I do not want to be like my mother.

In his head, he wrote, Maybe I'll sit on a bus bench with a friend after a good day of work and won't daydream about dying.

Maybe I won't even mind if the bus is late.

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

As per Monday's poll, here we have the Prisoner Exchange AU! If I added everything I've got for it this post would be super long, so what I'm actually doing is giving you the angsty bits from the beginning here, and later this afternoon I'll post the later and less angsty part HERE and THERE

_________<________<________<_______<____

"Shift change."

Tomsin couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. The prisoner -- gods it felt wrong to even think that -- hadn't moved much since the force field went up, but it was still unnerving to sit in the silence with him.

"Thank the Precursors. I'm gonna lose it if I have to stare at these walls another second." Tomsin stood up and stretched, trying not to show how eager she was to escape.

Her relief, Giles, shifted uncomfortably. His arm was still in a sling where Jak had all but snapped it in two. Green eco was rationed, even for soldiers now. It would take a few days for the bone to mend.

"How's he doing?" Giles asked, peering around Tomsin's shoulder at the figure crouched in the cell.

"He was pretty violent for a couple hours, but then he just went quiet," Tomsin admitted.

"Well can you blame him?" Giles shifted uncomfortably and crept closer to the force field.

Jak, their one time hero, huddled in a corner, knees pulled to his chest and staring blankly at the wall. He rocked back and forth, completely silent.

"This feels wrong, this feels so wrong," Giles whispered.

"This isn't what we got the tattoos for."

"I know." Tomsin looked away.

"Heard the stories. But I only ever saw Jak in creature mode, y'know? I didn't think he was this young."

Giles winced at the pitiful figure's silent rocking and let a traitorous thought escape.

"Is this really worth it?"

Tomsin gaped at him. "Giles, this is Torn we're talking about! Loyalty aside, losing him would compromise the whole city! And then Veger would be the governor's second in command."

Giles shuddered. Nobody wanted the pompous nobleman taking Commander Torn's place.

"I know, I know. I just...he can't be that much older than my Rosie. Feels bad."

"It's him or all of us," Tomsin said, but she wouldn't look at either of them.

Giles knew it was to hide the uncertainty in her eyes.

Tomsin signed out and Giles took her seat. Working up his courage, he swallowed hard and called softly, "Hey, hey kid. You hungry? I can...I can get something delivered if you want. You want anything?"

Jak curled tighter -- the first reaction Giles had seen so far -- and barely audibly croaked,

"No drugs."

The words soured and withered away on Giles's tongue. The kid expected them to drug his food? Giles thought of his daughter, twelve and full of pre-teen impudence. His stomach churned, imagining her in Jak’s place.

Are we selling our souls to get Torn back? he wondered.

"I'm sorry, kid," he said quietly. "If...if I had the passcode, I'd let you out."

He was not that surprised to find that he meant it.

"The governor is pretty darn sure those Wastelanders don't want to hurt you but- well. Who ever trusted a Praxis anyway?"

"I did," Jak answered unexpectedly.

He buried his head in his arms.

"Wish I hadn't."

____________<><><><><><><><>______________

In any other context, the morning would have been beautiful. Birds were beginning to fill the empty buildings of Dead Town with their nests, and for the first time in more than ten years, signs of life filled the ruined streets. It was a perfect summer morning, still spared the waves of heat that were already sweeping the western archipelago.

It was, in Ashelin's opinion, deeply inappropriate weather for what might as well have been an execution.

Jak hadn't spoken to her since the night before. Actually, Jak hadn't spoken to anyone since the night before. He glared at the ground, but didn't seem to be really seeing it. His movements were mechanical, a kind of autopilot just quick enough to prevent the Freedom League guards from dragging him bodily to the stretch of land where the exchange was to take place. He looked...broken. Like he'd finally lost his will to fight.

Ashelin wanted to be sick.

"I...I'm sorry, Jak," she whispered. "The Council overruled me. There was nothing I could do."

She tasted the lie on her lips and closed her eyes.

"I know that you're the only person who can get through this, and beat these raiders at their own game. I hope- I hope one day you'll forgive me, Jak."

From his shoulder, Daxter bunched himself up and growled, "Don't count on it."

Count Veger marched out ahead of them and raised his staff to signal the warlord they called The Dune-Wolf.

"Show us the commander, unharmed, and we'll release the boy to you."

"Well look at that," a Wastelander -- Sig, Ashelin thought his name was, Krew's heavy-- jeered.

"A Praxis can do the right thing after all! And it only took a hostage and some blackmail to accomplish."

The Wolf snorted, an echoing sound behind his mask. "Thank heaven for little miracles," he said sardonically, and once again Ashelin was struck by the familiarity of his voice.

She could have sworn that for just an instant she felt the ice in his stare, piercing her throat when he caught sight of Jak and stiffened.

Cold and hard, he hissed, "You bring him to me in chains?"

Jak’s eyes flicked upward for a brief second, meeting his, then they seemed to cloud over again. It was the most reaction he'd shown to anything since they'd taken him from the cell.

Veger hid his nerves better than the soldiers. Better than Ashelin.

"For your own protection," he murmured, feigning deference as he stepped back. "The boy is...violently unsuited to society. Feral, in a word."

"You want feral?" Daxter snarled from Jak's shoulder, "Oh, I'll give you feral-!"

Sig stepped forward at a gesture from his commander and shoved Torn in front of him. Torn stumbled and nearly fell. He sucked in a breath. Jak looked rough. Disoriented. Clearly, this wasn't a willing trade. He looked to Ashelin, to Veger, and knew in his heart that this was always going to happen. But this marked the second time he had betrayed Jak, albeit unwittingly this time. And this time, Jak wasn't coming back.

"I'm so sorry, Jak-! I didn't want this!" Torn croaked.

Jak did not seem like he was even aware of his presence.

When the two prisoners reached the halfway point, Sig all but threw Torn at the Havenites. He grabbed Jak by the arm and yanked him away from the guards as if they were going to change their mind and whisk Jak back into the city.

"Easy, cherries," he murmured, softening his grip, "Y'all just sit tight. S' gonna be okay."

The Wolf tilted his head to watch Jak for a moment. The boy was slumped, listless. Resigned. Slowly, the warlord's posture tightened and tensed until he looked to be a hair's breadth from killing someone.

"Take them back to base camp," he commanded.

"Aye, sir."

Sig wrapped his arm around Jak’s shoulders -- and Daxter by extension.

"Come on, boys. Let's get that wristwear off you."

The Wolf watched as Sig led Jak to one of the ominous looking vehicles behind them. Then he lifted his chin and gestured with his staff at the Havenites in a parody of a magnanimous benefactor.

"The House of Mar thanks you for your...cooperation, Count. Governor," he declared mockingly.

His guards kept their eyes trained on the slack, horrified faces of Ashelin, Torn, and Veger until the Wolf had swung himself back in the retrofitted Hellcat.

[foggyfanfic]

Of Mothers and Mysteries

Oneshot Summary: Bruno's middle child tries to find some answers.

Main Story Masterlist

Amada Corazon Madrigal had two mothers and two fathers and very complicated feelings about that. 

On the one hand, her Má and Pá were two of the best parents a girl could ask for. They were supportive and patient, asked for explanations before jumping into lectures, loved her and her siblings endlessly, and of course, gave great hugs.

On the other hand, she had had another pair of parents once upon a time. She didn’t know anything about them other than her mother was sad and beautiful, and her father was a sailor. She didn’t know if they were both dead, or were alive and had abandoned her, or were alive and thought she was dead. She didn’t know their names, since Gabriel had just known them as Tío and Tía.

She just knew they weren’t there.

A part of her felt that was the only detail that mattered.

Amada was eleven years old, and she’d had her gift for six years now, almost for as long as she could remember. If she was honest, sometimes it felt more like she had the gift Mirabel was supposed to get than like she had her own gift, but she had learned that telling Mirabel that just made her cousin uncomfortable.

And she didn’t want to make her cousin uncomfortable, because as far as Amada cared, Mirabel was the coolest person ever. She knew most people saw Camilo as the cool one, and she didn’t see him as uncool (maybe a bit annoying), but there was a small little detail about Mirabel that only Amada knew.

Amada’s gift was hard to describe, she could look at the world around her and see the first steps and final results of potential chain reactions. She couldn’t see the in between, just the start and the end.

Because of this, Amada knew that Mirabel was always one chain reaction away from saving somebody in a major way.

If Tío Agustín tripped over that rock instead of the raised cobble stone, Mirabel would end up pulling a kid out from in front of a spooked, rampaging, donkey in five years. If that lady in the giant, ridiculous hat picked up that papaya, Mirabel would end up talking the butcher down from beating up a customer in ten years. If Luisa accidentally slammed her door instead of closing it gently, Mirabel would end up putting out a grease fire that may have burned down the coffee shop in fifteen years.

Mirabel didn’t have a gift, and she wasn’t as effortlessly charming as Camilo, but she kept her cool in a crisis and always helped where she could. Mirabel was a hero.

Which was why Amada was dragging twelve year old Mirabel around the village at that very moment.

“Stand here,” Amada said, and with a sigh, Mirabel obliged. Amada blinked, and the world got just a little blurry, she watched various beginnings turn into even more various endings.

She blinked again, frowning. Still nothing.

“Amada, what are we doing?” Mirabel asked, her patience audibly straining against either boredom or aching feet.

“I’m checking for something.”

“Sí, got that,” Mirabel shifted her weight, unwittingly kicking off a series of events that would end in the Guzmans having pork for dinner instead of chicken, “What are you checking for?”

Amada ignored the question, “Come on, let’s try over here.”

Mirabel’s expression could be best described as extremely unamused, but she followed Amada anyways and let herself be positioned three more times before trying to get answers again.

“Seriously Amada, what are we doing? I can’t help if I don’t know what the goal is,” Mirabel groused, hands flinging about the way they did when she was annoyed.

“Yes you can,” Amada said, “if anyone can help, it’s you.”

Mirabel took in a sharp breath, and when she spoke again, some of the irritation had leaked away, “Help with what?”

Amada didn’t respond until she saw a large, distinctive looking boulder, “Stand on that.”

Mirabel huffed, but stood on the rock.

Amada blinked and looked at all of the potential chain reactions. She turned her sight off and sighed, it came out almost sounding like a growl. She closed her eyes, trying to keep the despair and anger from creeping in, but only ended up stomping her foot and balling her fists.

“Amada,” Mirabel said, gently, “What are we doing?”

She threw her hands up in the air, “Wasting time, apparently!”

���Wasting time trying to do what?”

“I don’t know,” she rolled her eyes, “I don’t- make my birth parents show up, I guess. O-or maybe just, make some sort of answer appear.”

Mirabel didn’t respond for a long time, and when she did, all she said was “Oh.”

“Forget it, it’s stupid,” Amada kicked at a pebble, even though doing so meant she would have to get new shoes one month sooner than she would have otherwise, “let’s just go home.”

“I mean, we can keep trying, if you want?” Mirabel climbed off the boulder, “We’ve only checked half of the Encanto.”

Amada shrugged, shaking her head, “What’s the point, if they were going to show up, they would have done so by now. A-and it’s not like I need them to, even if they did fall out of the sky, I already have parents. I don’t think I even want-. I just… I just want to know what happened. A-and I don’t think there’s anything I can do to get any more information than I already have, you know?”

Mirabel nodded, although Amada suspected she didn’t fully get it. Mirabel had her own big mystery, however, she didn’t yet know it was a mystery.

When Abuela had demanded a vision from Pá on the night of Mirabel’s gift ceremony, he and Má had come back with a story about the miracle storing a bit of itself in Mirabel’s heart for emergencies. Every once in a while, the potential for Mirabel to find out this story was Pá’s best guess, and not actually certain, would pop up. It never ended well, so Amada always actively avoided that line of dominoes.

Mirabel would know, someday, Amada was pretty sure. This didn’t seem like the sort of thing that could stay secret forever. Until then, however, Amada doubted Mirabel knew what it was like to have this big gaping mystery in your own life story.

Gabriel had told her that his birth father had been a bad man, and in some way related to her birth father. Her birth mother had married into the family, and may have been the only woman living in the house. Gabriel remembered other women being there, but he wasn’t sure if they lived there or were just visiting. One day, Gabriel’s birth father snapped? Or something. And his Abuelo/her great uncle(?) got the two of them out of the house and brought them to Encanto.

Their Má and Pá were able to tell her that when Gabriel’s Abuelo arrived, Gabriel was seriously injured, and his Abuelo seemed on the edge of a complete mental breakdown. He had been largely incoherent in his explanations, and had left to go get her mother and bring her to Encanto as well before they were able to talk him into resting at least for the night.

Then he never came back, and nobody ever came looking for her.

The next time the town’s merchants had wandered into the city, they had asked around at Abuela’s request. All they had been able to find was a newspaper obituary for Gabriel’s birth father. Apparently, he had been executed for starting a fire that killed two people.

Amada stayed up many nights wondering if her parents had been those two people. Or maybe Gabriel’s Abuelo never made it back to the city and her birth parents were out there wondering where she was, maybe they loved her and would be hurt to discover she didn’t need them. Maybe her mother had been dead before Gabriel and Amada even got to Encanto, and Gabriel’s Abuelo was just in denial about it.

Amada wiped away a tear, “This was stupid.”

“No it wasn’t,” Mirabel said, “it’s-, I mean come on! I can’t even imagine not knowing, a-and this is Encanto! We’re the Madrigals! Magical miracles is our whole thing. It is totally worth a shot.”

Amada smiled tightly.

“Seriously, come on, this was-, it was not stupid,” Mirabel insisted.

“Gracias Mirabel,”

“And any time you want to try again, I am there. Whatever I can do, I am totally, completely, happy to help.”

“I know. That’s why I thought this would work,” Amada sighed, “you make good things happen. Even if they don’t actually happen, you would, every time there’s an opportunity to make good stuff happen, you would.”

Mirabel smiled a little, and blushed a lot, “I- well I hope I would help whenever I could.”

“You would,” Amada reassured her.

They walked in silence for a while, Amada playing with the tassels on her shawl. Mirabel had made it for her birthday, and considering every once in a while Amada saw Mirabel potentially running off to the big city and becoming a big-shot designer, Amada figured that meant her shawl was essentially the highest of high fashion.

Eventually though, Mirabel asked the question Amada was dreading being asked, “Have you asked Tío Bruno if he can see the answer?”

“No,” Amada held the shawl tightly closed around her, “because what if he looks and sees me never finding out? Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, right.”

Amada shrugged. Hoping Mirabel would drop it.

Unfortunately, Mirabel was a deeply loving person, and now that she knew this was bothering Amada, she was determined to find a solution. Amada was lured into a false sense of security when they made it back to Casita without anymore mention of her mystery, however; that sense of security was shattered when Mirabel commandeered Dolores and Gabriel the next morning at breakfast.

The three put their heads together, glancing at her every once in a while, not being nearly as subtle as they probably thought they were.

When they left a couple hours later, Amada made to follow them. She wasn’t sure why, obviously if they were scheming to do her a favor, she should just let them. But Amada just couldn’t stand the idea of sitting around, knowing they were off trying to help her, and hoping they’d have more success than she had.

“Amada, mija,” her mother’s relieved voice stopped her, one foot out the door, “can you help me with this real quick?”

Amada turned, and found her mother emerging from the hallway to the laundry room, holding a wicker laundry basket that had seen better days. The bottom was coming loose and her Má was awkwardly trying to hold it in place. Some of the laundry was falling out the bottom, awkwardly clutched between Leandra’s thumb and the frayed wicker. 

Sparing a quick glance at her brother and cousins, Amada rushed to help her Má.

“I got it Mamá,” she said, holding up the bottom so her Má could focus on recovering the clothes before they could reach the ground. Once all the clothes were back in, her Má took on most of the baskets weight so that Amada was merely keeping the bottom in place.

“Ah, gracias. Vamo. Back to the laundry room,” Má carefully led her down the hall and they put the basket on the folding table, “gracias míja, I’ll just grab another basket, you can get back to whatever you were doing.”

“De nada,” Amada shrugged it off, they both left the laundry room, her for the front door, and Má for the closet by the stairs. When Amada stepped out front, however, her brother and cousins were gone. She turned her sight on and looked around, but no matter what direction she walked in, she would come back empty handed. 

She sighed, wandering back into Casita. Now what would she do?

“Everything alright?” Má asked, closing the closet door with a basket in hand.

“Yeah,” Amada said, morosely.

Má raised an eyebrow, “Convincing.”

Amada shrugged. She didn’t actually see the need to bother hiding her bad mood. Her parents’ had a Tell Us When You’re Ready philosophy born from her Pá sometimes needing time to process his visions before discussing them.

“Well come, you can pout while I re-fold the laundry,” Má wrapped one of her strong arms around Amada’s shoulders and led her back to the laundry room, “I have it on good authority that I am very good at folding laundry in the presence of miserable seers.”

Amada snorted, and allowed herself to be led. Her Má waved off her offer to help fold so she sat on the table and watched in sullen silence as her mother worked.

Eventually, she asked, “Mamá? Do you ever wonder about your birth parents?”

“Not really,” she shrugged, “my Pá was very good friends with my madré, like your Tío Agustín and I, so he could answer any question I had about my parents. I do wonder about my baby brother though.”

“Your baby brother?”

“Sí,” Má leaned her hands on the table, staring straight ahead at nothing, “he would have been two years younger than me, but he wasn’t born right. It had been a bad winter, lot's of illness and very little food. The birth had all sorts of complications, and he died at two days old. My madré never fully recovered, physically speaking, and although she tried to stick it out, she died when I was three. At least, that's what I've gathered, I never asked too many details about all that. My Papa missed my parents more than I do, but I do wonder what having a little brother would have been like. Especially since getting with your padre.”

“Oh,” Amada drummed her fingers on the table, she hadn’t even known her Má had had a baby brother. She hadn’t really wondered about her Má’s birth family other than wondering if her Má wondered about them.

“Not really the same, is it?”

“No, not really,” Amada shook her head.

Má shrugged, giving her a sympathetic smile, “Wish I could magically hand you all the answers you need on a silver platter. Maybe when you’re a bit older you and Gabriel could take a trip into town with the merchants. See what you can find out.”

Amada considered this, “You think so? You don’t think… I don’t want anyone to think I’m not grateful-.”

“Oh, you better not be grateful,” her mother cut her off, and started wagging a finger at her, “you listen here míja, I didn’t adopt you and your siblings out of the pure goodness of my heart. I adopted you three because I wanted to be a mother, and now I am. I wanted kids to love and you have let me love you, as far as I care, that’s that. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain by eating our food and waking us up when you have nightmares. You don’t need to be grateful for a damned thing. I am the one who is grateful for you.”

Amada’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She wanted to reassure her Má that of course she understood she was loved and all that. But she was struck by the thought, would her birth mother have said something like that? If Amada was having this conversation with her, would she have been so quick to insist Amada owed her nothing for the love she had given.

“If you need to go hunting for answers, all I ask is you take your brother, and maybe Luisa or your Tía Pepa with you to keep you safe out there,” with that said, Má put the last shirt in the basket and lifted it. This time she put it on her broad shoulder, so that even if the bottom came loose the laundry wouldn’t spill out.

Amada slipped off the table and thought about what she wanted to say as she followed her Má through Casita.

Eventually she arrived at, “If your birth parents had magically appeared when you were my age, would you have wanted to live with them instead of Abuelo?”

“Not really,” Má shook her head, slipping into Camilo’s room to drop off one of his shirts then continuing when she re-emerged, “I didn’t know them, it wasn’t their fault, but they weren’t there for me like Pá was.”

“Do you… do you ever feel bad about that? That you were happy without them?”

“Oh,” Má stopped bustling towards the nursery and turned to look at Amada, she thought about it, “I sometimes felt guilty that I didn’t miss them the way my Pá did. But now that I’m a mother… I don’t know, it’s not that I wouldn’t want you to miss me if I were gone. I just-, you missing me would be fine, but not if it interferes with your ability to be happy.”

“You think my birth parents would be ok with it then? That I am happy here?”

“Sí, if they are worthy of the title Parent, they’d be beyond relieved to hear you’re happy,” Má leaned over and kissed Amada on the forehead, then continued on her way.

She watched her mother go, then returned to the courtyard where she sat and waited for her brother and cousins to return.

When they finally did, it was almost dinner time, and they were looking absolutely exhausted.

“Where’d you go?” she hopped to her feet, not planning to give them a moment’s rest before launching her interrogation.

“To the top of the mountain,” Dolores said, the only one who hadn’t startled when Amada had spoken up, the other two must not have noticed her.

“The top of the mountain?” For her?

“So I could hear outside the Encanto,” Dolores nodded, collapsing onto the chair Amada had just vacated.

“Ah,” Amada thought about this for a second, “did that actually work?”

“Sí,” she said, “I heard everything in the city.”

“And?”

“And what?” Mirabel jumped in, a big nervous grin on her face, “th-there’s no and! This was just, you know, an experiment!”

“So you didn’t learn anything about my birth parents?”

There was a long drawn out silence, Mirabel and Gabriel exchanging guilty looks, before Dolores finally just said, “No. I don’t know what we were expecting.”

“We’re sorry Amada, we tried,” Gabriel said, eyes large with concern.

“It’s alright, I- thank you. For doing that,” Amada shrugged the concern off. He hugged her anyway, and she let him. Gabriel loved mollycoddling her, usually she would shove him off, but all things considered it seemed the least she could do to let him.

When he finally released her, Dolores was gone, but Mirabel was standing off to the side. She looked a lot more disappointed than Amada felt, she also apologized, but Amada just shook her head and reassured her it really was fine. She sat between Mirabel and Má at dinner, moving the pitcher of guava juice three quarters of an inch to the left so that Tíos Agustín and Félix would end up playing Mirabel’s favorite song after dinner.

She leaned on her Má as dinner wound down.

Amada Corazon Madrigal had two mothers and two fathers, but only one family, and very complicated feelings about that.

[whumpcloud]

Routine

taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @gala1981 @whump-in-the-moonlight @ohwhumpydays @morning-star-whump

content: extremely toxic relationship (arguing and physical fighting), implied past injury, broken arm, punching mirrors and walls

"Can you please come back?" Derian whispers.

Charlie covers his other ear and sighs. Again? "Derian, I--"

"Please." Derian's voice cracks. "I need you."

Charlie bites his lip. "Fine. Give me ten minutes, okay?"

"Can you stay on the phone?" Derian asks.

"Fine."

"I love you."

Charlie sighs. Softens. "I love you too."

He makes his way out of the party without too much notice. It's not as though he had anything to drink, or talked to anyone, except to greet them. He doesn't like going to parties. He likes getting out of his apartment, and away from Derian. He feels like he's going stir-crazy when the two of them are in the same space for too long.

Derian doesn't really talk. He makes soft noises of response when Charlie asks him a question to make sure he's still conscious, but he keeps quiet. Maybe he thinks that Charlie will only get more annoyed if he speaks. It's probably true.

When Charlie finally pulls into the parking lot, Derian hangs up. Charlie takes a deep breath, slams his head against the steering wheel, and gets out of the car.

Derian isn't in the living room, or in the section of it with the kitchen. Charlie quickly finds him huddled on the bathroom floor, surrounded by glass shards, bleeding from the knuckles. The mirror is no longer on the medicine cabinet. Derian doesn't look up, just digs his nails into his arms and softly sobs.

Under his breath, Charlie mumbles a string of words in Japanese to calm himself, then sighs. "Just sit tight and I'll clean up the glass, okay?"

"Mhm."

It's no effort to brush the glass shards into a dustpan and give the floor a vacuum to clean the rest. Derian staggers upwards, leaning heavily on Charlie, and lets Charlie lead him out of the bathroom and onto the sofa. There's a moment of silence.

"I'll get some bandages," Charlie says.

"Mhm."

Charlie is careful, picking the glass from Derian's skin. Practiced, gentle movements. How many times have the two of them sat here and done this exact thing? Charlie drops the tiny shards into the dustpan with the rest of it.

"I'm sorry," Derian says.

"It's fine," Charlie replies. "I didn't wanna be there anyway."

"I always do this," Derian mumbles.

"Stop." Charlie already sees where this conversation is going. "Just be quiet."

"Sorry." Derian's voice is barely audible.

Routine. Derian's hands are bandaged more often than not, so often that the artistic director at the ballet company has started checking on Derian twice a week. Derian doesn't think Charlie knows that. Charlie is always, always the one bandaging him.

"I'm going to bed," Charlie says.

"I won't sleep," Derian whispers. "Please stay."

Why does he always do it? Because he loves Derian? He knows he did, once. A long time ago. When he was a first year art student looking for study references, and instead they made out on Charlie's shitty leather sofa that his mom forced him to take when he moved out.

Charlie puts an arm around Derian and kisses him on the cheek. Yeah, Charlie loves him. More than anything. He's fucking terrified that one day he's going to lose him.

"I'm sorry," Derian says again.

"Stop apologising."

"I keep--"

"And stop trying to start a fight."

Derian's eyes widen, and he curls in on himself. "I'm not trying to."

"Whether you're doing it on purpose or not, you are," Charlie says flatly. "So stop."

Derian bites his tongue, and presses up against Charlie, bandaged hand wrapping itself in the fabric of Charlie's shirt.

"You wore the nice cologne," Derian whispers.

"Yeah." It's the one Derian got Charlie for his last birthday, that he saved for to the point where Charlie had to start making him meals so that he would eat. "I feel like I never really wear it, so…"

"You should wear it more." Derian flinches. "I-If you want to."

"Maybe."

"I'm sorry you have to keep taking care of me."

"I know."

"I'm sorry I make you mad."

"Jesus, shut up!"

"I-I'm just trying to--"

"I get it!" Charlie doesn't mean to snap like this, but he always does. "Just stop. Seriously."

"Can't you let me apologise?" Now Derian's starting to get angry. He pulls away from Charlie. "If you're gonna be like this--"

"Stop talking." Charlie hides his face in his hands and groans. "I'm going to bed."

"Don't just leave!" Derian chases Charlie into the hallway, grabbing at his shirt. "I'm trying to be fucking nice for once-"

"Don't start with your self-hating shit!" 

Charlie shakes Derian off, and Derian grabs him by the wrist instead. Charlie shoves him, directly in the chest, but only forces the both of them forward, toppling onto the floor.

"Let go of me!" Charlie snaps, clawing at Derian's wrist. "You fucking asshole!"

"I was just trying to apologise!"

"Is this apologising to you?!"

"You're so fucking condescending!"

Charlie usually throws the first punch. He always just wants Derian to shut his goddamn mouth. But Derian has the advantage of being smaller, and better at using underhanded methods. He spits blood into Charlie's eye.

In the moments while Charlie can't see right in front of him, Derian gets to his feet. Charlie stumbles upright, and catches Derian as he rushes at Charlie, shoving him up against the wall.

"We can never be nice to each other, huh?" Charlie hisses. "You always have to cause a fucking problem."

"I didn't start this! You're the one who--" Derian dodges Charlie's next punch. "Swing at me again and I will bite your fingers off, I swear to God!"

Derian shoves his knee into Charlie's stomach and slips out of reach. He takes a deep breath, digs his nails into his forearm, swallows back all the venom in his voice.

"I don't wanna fight," he says, suddenly quiet. "Can we please not fight?"

"You're the one who grabbed me." Charlie clutches his stomach and breathes heavily. "And before you say I punched you, I wouldn't have fucking done that without the grabbing."

"Why is it always my fault?" Derian squeaks. "You always make it my fault."

"It is your fault!" Charlie hits the wall and inhales sharply. "No. I'm not having this argument with you. I'm going to fucking bed."

"I'll sleep on the couch, I guess," Derian mumbles.

Charlie bites his lip sharply, and screams a little. "Just. Come to bed. When you're ready. Okay?"

"You clearly don't--"

"Derian!"

"I'll leave the house if you want," Derian whispers.

Charlie whips around and storms towards him.

They underestimate each other. Someone gets seriously injured, every time they fight, but they never expect it until it happens. Until they hear the snap, or the crunch, or the choked gasp.

It's Charlie, this time. As soon as he's in reach, Derian grabs his arm. Twists it. Charlie slaps his hand to his mouth, muffling his cry.

Derian lets go just as suddenly, stumbling back. "I- I thought--"

"Get out," Charlie snarls, squeezing his eyes shut. "Get the fuck out of my apartment."

"I-It could be broken!"

"I don't care. Get out."

Derian swallows. "You can't drive yourself to the ER with a broken arm, cariño."

Charlie swears. Bites his tongue so hard that he's sure he can taste blood. The worst part of it all is that he has to admit that Derian is right about something.

"Fine."

They're lucky enough not to be recognised this time. It's not broken. Just fractured. Needs a cast. They go through the motions. Derian doesn't say a word, not until they get back into the car.

"I'll go to my dad's," he mumbles.

"Don't bother," Charlie sighs. "I just wanna go to bed. Can we just go to bed?"

"...okay."

They've put Charlie's arm in a splint for now, and Derian is careful not to touch it. He presses up against Charlie's back in bed, and chews his lip.

"I'm sorry," Derian whispers. "I love you."

Charlie sighs. "I'm sorry too. Goodnight."

A pause. Charlie has no excuse for this. Derian has the tragic life and the severe mental health issues and all that other bullshit that makes him the way he is. Charlie is just the type of person who has to try so damn hard to be good, to be nice, to not lose it constantly. Derian makes it so easy to lose it. It's not his fault that everything seems like his fault.

"I love you too," Charlie says.

[titanicfreija]

Bickering

Freija met Thomas with sunshot in hand, but apparently unscathed. He led them back to the flooded corridor.

"So how do you know it's knee deep?" Freija asked.

"Measured it out with a piece of rebar."

"How far out?"

"As far as I could reach."

Freija heaved a breath and Thomas chuckled. "I can't tell if I'm amused with you being scared of something so simple or just impressed with how well you handle facing it."

"Fuck off," breathed Freija.

"Oh, there it is," he laughed. "You get mean when you're nervous, huh? Rex, too."

"Oh, is that what's wrong with him?"

"You should see when he actually is nervous, he starts twitching more than Sunny."

"Really? Wow."

"Okay, but the part where the water collected here means that there's walls that deep, and also, how do you know it's knee deep?"

Thomas brandished a long piece of rebar and Freija grunted at him. "Alright, but why is the floor that much lower?"

"This is the basement," Thomas promised. "No farther to collapse."

"And above?"

"You've had a bad experience, huh," Thomas asked.

"Couple-few," she agreed. "You've seen at least one."

"Do you even feel anything?"

"When I'm dying? No. Sunny makes sure I know it was a mistake."

Thomas chuckled softly and looked up. "Can you do a ward of dawn?"

"It'll be ten minutes of meditation. You good with waiting?"

"I'll go venture elsewhere."

~

"All that for nothing," sighed Freija. "Good find, but the hardware back here has been wet so long it's melting."

"Damn. Thanks anyway."

"We can use the wires tracing through here to find a bigger computer room," Sunny said. "There's a cable back here with a specific mercury compound, I'm really sure it's a hardware line to a backup computer, a server or something."

"On it," Freija said. 

"See? She didn't ask why."

"Because Sunny told me why in the first place. I'm sorry you're an asshole, Rex, but you're really gonna have to quit picking on him with us," Freija snapped. "It's gross. You're both jealous, at least be as grown up as Thomas about it."

Rex's eye flickered and his comm indicator flashed twice before he gave up. "Your Guardian is insufferable," he whispered to Sunny.

"Isn't she great?" The sparkling Ghost couldn't have sounded more giddy. "It's been so much fun to see someone match you, I got exhausted years ago."

"Where'd you get your name, Thomas?" Freija asked. "The name is English, but you said you spoke German."

"I let the humans name me," he admitted. "Primarily English speakers, and why I learned English. I don't know how I got where I ended up, but I assume I was buried in a grave at some point."

"Oh?"

"In a forest in the middle of nowhere wearing dress clothes. We guess it was a graveyard before the collapse, maybe. No telling, really. I was close to the surface, but I did have to dig myself half up. That was no fun."

Freija flinched. "I got it easy."

"I agree, but mostly because you had a Tower to get to. There was a hollowed out mall nearby where several Fallen– Eliksni– had taken up, I snuck in there and stole a couple of guns. Rex wanted me to fight but I told him no, because as much as I trusted him to get me up, I really didn't wanna get shot."

Freija turned to face skyward so fast that Thomas thought she'd been hit, and then he thought she saw something, and then he realized the truth. "What'd she say?"

Freija and Sunny laughed. "Nothing, but she said it really loud. You know?"

He did, but he still wanted to give her a funny look. 

Eventually, the Titan found herself looking at a flat wall.

"Please tell me I'm gonna witness what I think I am," Thomas breathed.

"Depends. Is it Freija literally going through a wall?" the Titan asked, studying the panels at the edges.

"Yes, that's what I expect," Thomas agreed. "It's also what I'm hoping for. I love when you do this kind of thing."

"Don't encourage her!" Sunny cried as Rex said, "Me, too."

Freija grinned audibly and found a seam she liked. Faster than Thomas could follow, she punched one side, freeing it from the binding, and ripped the remaining solid panel off in one big piece, which she tossed aside.

The wiring behind the panel looked much more natural than the wiring in the server rooms. Poorly sorted by colored zipties and electrical tape everywhere, Thomas could appreciate a job done if not done well. 

Freija peeled the other panel back, wrenching it far enough to get her shoulder between it and the supporting wall beam. She then leaned inside to get a closer look. "Pick it out for me." Immediately, she reached in and practically crawled into the wall, and then back out of it. "Next floor up," she said. "I'm fine with wall panels, but floors are too easy to fuck up, I'm not going through those the short way."

Thomas laughed and led her to the stairs.

~~~~

"Got it," Freija and Sunny sang together, discordant and merry. They set the pieces of power adapter, the battery, one of the servers labeled as master, and, the hardest part, a working visual interface. They gave up on finding a working computer screen and instead found a holographic projector that Sunny said was used for advertisements.

"Thank you," Thomas said. "This is going to take me a while, and as much as I appreciate everything that you're doing for me, I really don't want you to try to help."

Freija apparently expected that, as she was already kneeling at her pack. "That's fine. I wanted lunch and a nap. You should eat, too."

Thomas opened his mouth and turned to argue, but his lunchbox struck his face, interrupting him. It fell cleanly into his lap and he sighed with exasperation. "Thank you," he groaned as he bit into his sandwich.

Freija peeled open her MRE, which Thomas had never been masochistic nor hungry enough to try (not since they were available, anyway), and he tried to hold back the question, until he couldn't. "Do you actually like those?"

"What? Yeah," Freija said, looking at it. "I mean, kinda? It's not like I eat 'em at home, and sometimes I can fish, but it beats foraging. Which I can do, but I've never had to."

Thomas grunted and frowned. "I guess."

"I know, right?" she chuckled. "I've heard it before. They blamed it on how young I am. I don't care, really." She shrugged and looked back down the hall. "How long do you think we have?" she asked. "I keep waiting for a shrieker scream or Eliksni chitter or something."

"Haven't I told you not to complain?" Sunny sighed. 

Freija didn't answer except to curl up on the floor with her arms folded under her head. 

"You can just…do that?" Thomas asked.

"Yep." 

"Neat trick. I can't get my thoughts to stop long enough."

"My brain is apparently much quieter than yours."

Thomas, not sure if it was safe to keep up the teasing, returned his attention to the wiring.

Neither of them noticed the subtle flashes of the Ghosts' eyes as they argued. 

"I don't care. No."

"The fact that you won't let me take over is proof that you do care! Let me help! It will be faster!"

"He's fully capable of rigging a battery to a computer interface, thank you."

"This is ridiculous! This is what's wrong with both of you! It's like you don't want him to succeed!"

"You will never understand what I want. No. Be quiet."

"I would let you use Freija's helm! If you could actually do anything with it!"

"No you wouldn't. You can hardly say it. You'd do that disgusting thing where you dive into her clothes and rub on her. We all know there's no practical reasons behind that, by the way, you can stop pretending it's for any real reason."

"Wanting to be close to my Guardian is a real reason and you make me feel sorry for Thomas."

Sunny muted Rex without another word, and she used a laser pointer to guide Thomas's hands, ignoring the trembling Ghost beside her.

Thomas heard a loud clack! and Sunny's laser twitched hard.

He looked up fast enough to see Rex charging a frozen Sunny. He wasn't fast enough to stop the angry Ghost, but that turned out to be Rex's problem – Sunny waited until he was right on top of her and met him with such force that Rex stopped and dropped a foot before he recovered and went to try again.

Thomas, seeing that Sunny could handle this, watched the sparkling Ghost rotate to face her would-be assailant. 

Rex lined up and shot forward–into Freija's hand as she snatched him up.

Thomas reflexively lunged at her to rescue his Ghost, but the look in the Titan's eyes said that he was more likely to get Rex hurt, and he rocked back.

She didn't have to fight Rex at all, even as his pillars twitched and stretched, and she turned the little drone to look into his eye. "I'm gonna be real nice right now, 'cos I'm sure she got you real good, and you're my friend's Ghost. But if you. Ever. Charge at Sunny again. I will throw you through the fucking atmosphere."

She didn't squeeze, to Thomas's relief, but she held tight long enough to worry them before she let go. Rex disappeared the moment he could, returning to Thomas's pack.

As the Titan sat back on the floor, Thomas realized that she moved the instant she woke up, and she was only now catching up to herself, blearily blinking and looking around.

"You can wake up like that, too?"

She didn't look at him to answer. "Sunny said I sleep light."

"It's a sign of sleeping poorly."

"Yeah." The Titan slow-breathed back to calm, looking at the device. "Okay, it's only been a few minutes," she mumbled, and she curled back up on the floor. "Be glad Sunny checked him," Freija snapped. "If I had been any less awake, I wouldn't have even thought about it until after I finished crushing him. Wouldn't have even had the time. Would have had my own head screaming, "no no no wait" and the only word I'd hear would be 'wait' because the rest would be washed out by crunching, squealing noises."

"You don't have to threaten us," Thomas said. He couldn't be certain how sincere they were, but they sounded too genuine for comfort.

"You hear me? You'll be king of dust and my boots."

"He hears you." Thomas didn't glare at her, not wanting to start a fight with this particularly powerful, angry war criminal, but still wanting her to stop.

"It's okay, Freija. I started it." Sunny pressed to her Guardian's collar and Freija cupped a hand over her.

"I don't give a shit, I've picked my side," the Titan growled, not moving again. "My Ghost."

"Of course that's why you tried to shoot her last year."

Thomas mentally weighed defending Rex or letting him suffer the consequences of being antagonistic to someone like Freija. The blast of heat didn't surprise him, but even as brilliant orange and yellow stained the Light in her skin, she didn't move. 

"That's why I decided that any threats to my Ghost are not to be forgiven, yeah," she spat, apparently deciding to meet him head on. "That was the worst thing I've ever done. I'll never forgive myself. And I'll never forgive anyone else for it, either. Including you. If I thought there was anything but bitterness left in you, I would be angrier, but that jealous rage is your only form of affection." She leaned on an elbow and pointed viciously at Thomas. "You're welcome to be a malignant growth on the Light itself, but you will not target Sunny."

"I got him, Freija," Sunny insisted, soothing voice low as she continued pushing on her Guardian's chest. She finally relaxed and curled back up to rest her head on her arms. Sunny stayed barely visible in the center of Freija's curl 

Thomas knew she was talking through his helmet to Rex, but he still wanted to fight with her about it. He also didn't, because Rex was being dreadful, and he could usually trust her to burn back down to an ember as long as no fresh air got in. Rex had no choice but to back down– he just took his best shot and it pissed her off.

Freija's maturity caught Thomas off guard. Even talking shit like that, he expected a hammer. The snapback was more (or maybe less) than he expected. "Thank you."

She didn't move, choosing to mumble into her arms. "What for."

"I know you wanted to get a lot more violent than you did. You scared me for a second, but you really held back, even when he was just trying to hurt you."

She didn't move, except she did, with her spine tensing and her arms folding closer. "I don't want to hurt Rex. I just…. Nothing ever again." He heard the creak in her voice when she whispered, "You warned me. I didn't want him going after my feelings." She sniffled softly and cleared her voice. "That was a good one. He got me." 

Thomas took a few seconds to remember that he did warn her about Rex's capacity for being actually malicious, instead of the general asshole they knew and loved. "Yeah. He's good. I think part of the things that makes the Ghosts individuals is sensor ranges and sensitivity, and I think that thing where he can't find my paths but can find exactly what I'm looking for, I think he's extremely sensitive at close ranges, and good at finding one very specific thing in a given space without being able to actually scan the space. But my theory is that when he's close to you, he's able to tell when you're angry, and he wheedles at this. You, having undergone a psyche-rattling trauma lately, didn't even need that much effort."

Freija sniffled again. "That was a shitty, shitty day."

"It was," Thomas agreed softly, surprised again at her maturity. He didn't realize she'd made any progress coping with that. 

"It was last year," she said in the creak. "I got her bunny shell soon after that." She shook herself and laughed, sitting up to wipe her face clear with a hanky. "Okay, shitty day memory clear, new shitty day memory. Shitty day where I won at the end. 'cos I'm great."

She collapsed back to the tile floor and curled back up around her Ghost. "See you later."

Thomas had it half set up when, finally, they heard it. 

Freija flung herself to her feet and had her M5 in her hand before her helmet finished 'matting on. "Hive," she gasped. "Not here yet. How portable is that?" She looked at the pile of electronics on the floor and the warlock fiddling with them.

"It's not." He scowled at the adapter and wiggled a wire. "Unless these can be used elsewhere."

"This hardware is fifteen hundred years out of date," Sunny replied. "I can get at it with just the power, but that'll only tell us where to look for you, this is only here for the filemap."

"I'm not that stressed, I'm not so curious that I'll fight the Hive over it." Thomas eased to the door. A strong hand closed on his coat, and the Titan hauled him backwards as if he weighed nothing. She lifted Sunshot and smiled. "No circle. They're wandering. At best it'll be a wizard and a knight with a bunch of acolytes and thrall."

"How do you know there's not a circle?"

"Didn't hear one. They tracked our Light. I probably got their attention when I spiked. So I'm gonna go keep their attention." 

She checked all her guns for ammo and vanished around a turn in the corridor.

"Useful idiot," Rex growled. 

"Only useful because I need her to do what she's doing," Thomas pointed out passively, returning to the adapter. 

Thomas could hear the explosions outside and slowly relaxed as his trust in her solidified. 

The wizard scream echoed clearly and Freija returned, smoking and covered in ash. "All done," she sang. "We do need to hurry up, though, there's no way they're the only ones."

Thomas plugged it in and set it down. "I think I got it."

Sunny lunged in to scan, and she flew into the server room with Freija close behind. 

They returned with the device as Thomas plugged in the visual interface, and they swapped out the servers. As the hologram flickered and flashed to life, Freija left to patrol and give Thomas a chance to read about himself.

Thomas scanned through the numerous Zaunbrechers, looking for Ambros. One of the three had a birthday that matched the resumé. 

Open…. Medical history… registrations for various science organizations… tech logs… and a file labeled Misc.

Social Media… photo albums… news articles….?

"Oh," he said softly. 

"Oh?" Freija asked. 

"Ambros doesn't have a very good story," Thomas said, trying to figure out how much he wanted to see, let alone share. 

"We died. As a rule, the stories can't end well."

"I tried to whistleblow on Clovis Bray," he said. 

"I've never heard that specific term, what's it mean?"

"This sucks," Thomas sighed, ignoring her. "Sunny, can you do me a favor and save this for conversion to a readable type?"

"Yep-yep! On our way."

"I'll do it." Rex finally emerged and scanned the server. Thomas offered him a datapad for him to copy to.

"We can go," Thomas said once they finished.

"Do you want to look anymore? Also, it's a good thing we didn't try to amp up in here, you would not believe the mess of electrics."

"Nah. I've got gigs and gigs of ugly pictures to sift through. It does look like my hair was fashionable at the time. That's a relief."

~~

Request

Communication

The Database

Something Else

Campfire Stories

Jealousy 

Bickering 

Revealed

[electricbluebutterflies]

8, 15, and or 42 for your dune babes from the list of 69 smut prompts!

Look y'all I finally did mid-era Jessica/Leto after SO much internal complaining about how that era is the hardest for me to write for them. Very vaguely NSFW, probably pushes some plausibility boundaries here but in the hot way, and also on ao3.

mental/psychic sex + accidental stimulation

Jessica is bored. Never a good start to a situation.

Worse, she’s bored and exiled to her end of the hallway due to… various diplomatic maneuverings that she’s decided she doesn’t care about, but the relevant detail is this week’s sanctioned invasion does not involve anyone pitching a marriage alliance. Which means she should, in theory, be able to maintain her normal routines and make herself useful at the end of these very long days and-

Instead, for yet another reason she’s choosing not to know for the sake of her fragile sanity and the survival of whomever might reveal it, temporary exile until it all blows over. Just to her end of the hallway. Just for a few days. Still.

Jessica has learned vividly in these past ten years that she is very territorial. It’s interesting sometimes how she and her partner have the same flaws, and she suspects this separation is weighing on him too – they’ve barely had the chance to make eye contact in three days, and she would be so useful if it were just slightly more acceptable for her to-

It’s late enough that the complex is quiet, and the rebellious part of her is tempted to just clear the distance for a few hours and then slip back where she’s supposed to be with no damage done, and… no, that is not who she is. There are limits to her defiance, let her hold to that, let her-

With that option out of the running, she decides this is an acceptable time to experiment. The limits of her abilities are so vague sometimes, and projecting parts of her consciousness through a few walls doesn’t feel impossible right now. Something no one else in her world should ever find out she can do, yes, but that’s half her range anyways and-

“Can you hear me?” Her own voice audible in the spacious quiet of her bedroom, somehow making the space seem even more desolate. She’d adapted the décor to what passed for her preferences upon her arrival and hasn’t really done anything since, hasn’t spent enough time here to need to, but tomorrow she’ll see about getting less heavy curtains and-

“Jess?”

The short form of her name is never a good sign. She can almost see every muscle of his body tense, how easily he worries, the justifications and the rising panic at once and-

“Nothing’s wrong, love. Breathe.”

“You could’ve started with that.”

“I wasn’t sure this would work.”

“You, less than confident?”

“I try to stay out of your head, I didn’t know if our bond was-“

“I can hear you. In my head but as if you were here next to me.”

She hopes her sigh of relief doesn’t project through, but her pride is another matter. She’s done something she knows is at the very least more difficult, a skill she wasn’t supposed to need, and-

“I miss you. Nothing more.”

“A few more days and then as soon as they’re gone I’m finding a reason to slip away and-“

She feels the flickerings of desire through the connection, and feels herself become warm as well. She has trained herself to be responsive, to shift blood flow at the slightest stimulus, and this is enough to provoke but it won’t go far enough and-

She really, really ought to slip into something more revealing and go down the hallway. She has no intention of doing so.

“Not if I do so first,” she murmurs instead.

This too gets results. From her current distance she can feel the vague outline of her partner’s form, his primary focus and emotions. He’d like that, she processes. He likes when she’s assertive, rare as it is, how much more comfortable she is with subtle provocation until he snaps but sometimes she just doesn’t have time for that and-

“You’re impossible sometimes.”

Jessica takes that comment for the compliment it is and tries to project herself further, to reach her consciousness into his as deep as it’ll go, tries to hide the fear of having no idea what she’s doing and-

“Tell me if any of this gets unusually strange.”

“By your standards or by anyone else’s?”

She can easily envision his delight right now – how long it took for her to accept the purity of his fascination with her, the usually quiet awe she covers herself in. “By ours, love.”

“So far… unusual but alright, whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m supposed to leave you alone. Technically I’m still following the rules.” And sleeping alone in an uncomfortable bed, and covering her face every time she leaves this space, and doing a dozen other things she’s less than happy about, and-

“You have never seen a boundary you didn’t immediately want to find a way around.”

“I was perfect before I met you.”

“You still are.”

If they talk more, she’ll say things she really shouldn’t and get herself in far more trouble and… trying to play with the limits of her projection is less likely to go sideways. Reaching into her lover’s body, not to control but to help, how is this different from using pressure points as she does so often, how is this-

“Let me lead. Let me have you. Get… get comfortable and-“

She can almost feel the shifting of garments, an understanding of what she’s trying to do and that from their distance she will need cooperation. This will make things easier, next time will be better, next time will-

“Are you touching yourself too?”

“You know I don’t need to.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

She turns her body up all the same, lets herself ache. If anything about this night were normal, his hands would be on her now, somehow distracted and attentive at once, making sure everything is real before he covers her and-

“Do you not feel that? Is it not enough?”

“Not the same. But if this is what you want…”

“Tell me to stop and I’ll-“

“Don’t stop.”

She focuses herself as she can, letting memories guide her. How familiar they have become to each other, how easy it is to feel the echoes of her partner’s fingertips, the fact that she is fully clothed is irrelevant and-

Focus. If there were not physical distance, she would return the favor, cautious touch until he aches for her and one of them snaps and-

“You amaze me.”

There’s something breathless in the projection, and she can feel the need of it all as she lets her own desire match. Her lover has been kind in their bed; there may be a casual comment the next time they entwine about how his hand is no match for her softness, but these things happen, she is making the strange situation work, she is-

Something in the connection bursts, and for a moment she worries she’s broken it but her own mirrored response shows otherwise. She’s so impeccable about reaching her peak at the same moment as her partner, and she didn’t even process-

“A few more days,” she repeats. “And then I fully expect to be pinned to a wall.”

“You hate that.”

“Not always. I’m giving advance permission.”

“Which means by the time we get the chance you’ll-“

“Hold me to it. As soon as we get a moment I want-“

“You’re handling this worse than usual.”

“Usual is I’m trying to keep you from getting stuck with some vapid trinket half your age,” she murmurs, almost a laugh. “That at least keeps me occupied. This doesn’t even give me that pleasure.”

“You are truly wasted as a display object.”

“You know how much more I am.”

“I do. And I keep it close.”

Her domestication, volatile as it has been, has given her more freedom than she’d ever dreamed. Her partner’s fleeting awareness of what he’s done is… sweet, most of the time, and-

“Rest, love. Tomorrow is more of the most boring meetings you’ll ever endure and-“

“You should stick your head in. You’re respectable, it’d be more comfortable for you to watch from the sidelines than through the walls and-“

“You assume I’m actually interested enough to listen. I have no opinions on these matters. Trade deals are… not something I was ever trained to meddle in anyways.”

If they were in the same physical space, she knows she’d get a comment about how she’s gone right past anything she was ever supposed to do, but-

“The option is there. If you want it.”

“We’d distract each other too much.”

“A good daydream would at least keep me from losing consciousness.”

“You can daydream perfectly fine without a visual. Not that I’m much of one in a cocoon dress anyways.”

A few moment’s silence – the stability of being together and apart, bodies shifting in their respective locations for comfort and-

“You should rest too. I can’t imagine this has been-“

“I feel fine. Really. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hurt myself for you.”

Whether or not he believes her is a conversation they’re both too polite to have, but-

“Rest. You do push yourself so far.”

In the same space that would be a provocation, but apart she takes it for the genuine concern that it is. “I’ll try to… I won’t do this again. It’s just a few more days, I won’t-“

Jessica drops the connection before she can say something she shouldn’t. Always the restraint, always the knowing when to hold back, always-

Someday, she thinks, someday she’ll be brave. Until then, at least she can improvise.

[shadamyheadcanons]

Headcanon #277

This is an extended version of Headcanon #227.

Cross-posted on AO3.

Remember when Sonic got locked up on Prison Island in SA2? This is the explanation for it in the English dub...

...but in Japanese, it’s this:

No idea why they got rid of that in English. It’s so Sonic.

--

Amy bit her nails and shifted in her seat aboard the space shuttle, feeling her heart pound as a robotic voice counted down over the intercom.

TEN...NINE...EIGHT...SEVEN....

That golem was awfully big, but if there’s anyone who can handle it, it’s Sonic! He’ll make it in time...

SIX...FIVE...FOUR...

...right?

Tails pressed a few more buttons on the control panel and hopped into the seat across from Amy, and Knuckles clambered into the seat next to her. All three of them watched the open door on the side of the shuttle.

THREE...TWO...ONE...SHUTTLE LIFTOFF!

Amy heaved a huge sigh of relief when she heard the unmistakable sound of Sonic’s rapid footsteps on the metal platform leading into the shuttle, barely audible over the roar of the rockets. Within a second, he’d swung the door shut, skidded to a stop in the cabin, and leapt into the seat next to Tails. He buckled his harness in the nick of time and met their relieved expressions with a brilliant grin as the shuttle started its ascent.

“You guys weren’t actually worried about me, were you?”

“Of course we were! I was worried sick!” Amy scolded, shouting to make herself heard over the rockets. Tails fidgeted and nodded in agreement.

Knuckles crossed his arms and smiled wryly, clearly not as concerned. “Had to wait until the last second, didn’t you? I thought I’d have to go back out and save you.”

Sonic shrugged off their concerns. “Nah, I could take him. Just got off to a rocky start.” He snickered. Knuckles rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and Amy couldn’t help but giggle.

It wasn’t long before the rocket boosters detached, dropping the volume level considerably. Amy sighed in relief. Finally able to hear herself think, she started up a proper conversation. “When are we supposed to get there, Tails?”

“It’ll only be about an hour! We’ll be leaving the atmosphere soon!” Tails piped up, clearly excited.

Amy perked up, happy she wouldn’t be stuck in the shuttle for hours on end. She counted the time on her fingers. “So that’ll give us a little over two hours to stop Eggman before the cannon can fire again.”

“No problem! We can deal with him in half that time,” Sonic bragged. Amy’s heart warmed at his confidence.

Tails jumped back to the previous topic, apparently unwilling to abandon the shuttle discussion so soon. “At first I thought it was just a normal rocket. I saw a documentary on the Discovery shuttle not too long ago, and this looks just like it!” His tails waved excitedly. “You can tell it apart by the materials used on the fuselage!”

Amy grinned. She’d always found Tails’ enthusiasm for technology to be contagious and kind of cute. Sonic was used to Tails’ fixation and didn’t mind humoring him, so he lounged back in his seat to let Tails excitedly explain the unexpectedly comfortable interior that allowed them to sit normally instead of lying back like in most shuttle cockpits.

Knuckles, on the other hand, had no patience for such things. He held a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Sonic caught the look. A mischievous smirk spread across his face, and he turned to Tails when his rant started to wind down. “Hey, Tails, how are we supposed to walk on that station, anyway?”

Amy caught on. “Yeah! Won’t the lack of gravity be a problem?”

Tails’ eyes brightened further. “That’s a great question, Amy! I did some research on the ARK’s design a few years back, and the science behind it is fascinating!”

Knuckles hid a quiet groan behind his gloves. He lowered his hands to level Sonic with a heated glare. Sonic just shrugged innocently. Amy held in her giggles as best as she could while Tails happily infodumped about space and artificial gravity. Knuckles turned his grumpy scowl her way, but his frown turned milder as he squinted at her quills. He reached over and plucked something out of them. “What’s this?” he asked, interrupting Tails without hesitation.

Tails pouted. After a moment, Amy’s eyes widened. “Oh! That must be a quill from that black hedgehog I met!”

“‘Black hedgehog’?” Knuckles and Tails chorused.

“Yeah,” Amy said, nodding. “I ran into him on Prison Island. He must have left just before you got there, Tails.”

“Be glad you missed him,” Sonic cut in, crossing his arms. “What a piece of work.”

Amy tilted her head, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Sonic side-eyed her. “Uh, my impostor? The fake hedgehog? He’s a jerk!”

“What? No way! He seemed nice to me,” Amy insisted, side-eyeing him right back.

“Oh, come on. He attacked me!”

“Why? What’d you do?”

Tails and Knuckles exchanged looks of confusion. Sonic gawked.

“Well...the first time, I guess I just ran at him because he had that Chaos Emerald, but--”

“Why did he need a Chaos Emerald?” Amy interrupted.

“How should I know?” Sonic grumbled, irritated.

“So you just assumed he was up to no good?” Amy asked, clearly unimpressed.

Sonic choked. “He stole it! Of course he was up to no good. And I’m the one who got blamed for it!”

“If we needed a Chaos Emerald to save the world and it was being held at the federal reserve bank, would you just give up on it?”

Sonic opened his mouth, then stopped and narrowed his eyes at her. She smirked. Not to be deterred, Sonic moved on.

“That’s not all. After I got out of prison, I ran into him on the island, and he attacked me!”

“Why’d he do that?” Tails asked.

“I called him out for the faker he was, and then he had the nerve to call me the faker, and then he attacked me!”

The other three were silent for a moment. Tails opened his mouth to reply, but Knuckles shook his head, silently warning him not to get involved.

Amy had no such reservations. “Are you sure that’s exactly what happened?”

Sonic opened his mouth, then paused. He averted his eyes. “Well...I guess we kind of argued and attacked at the same time...but it was still definitely his fault!” he tacked on hastily.

Amy crossed her arms. “Sooo...let me get this straight. You just met this guy. All you know is that he needed a Chaos Emerald--maybe for something important! Then, other people happened to mistake him for you, so you called him a faker and picked a fight with him?”

She was tapping her foot rapidly. Sonic pouted. Knuckles and Tails glanced between the two of them with wide eyes, wisely staying out of it.

Instead of acknowledging her statement, Sonic narrowed his eyes. “Why are you defending him so much, anyway? He’s been nothing but rude so far.”

“He was nice to me!”

“Pfft! Shadow, being nice?! No way!”

Amy’s eyes lit up. “’Shadow’...so that’s his name!” She thought back. “It suits him. He seemed so mysterious...”

“Hang on.” Amy focused back on Sonic just in time to see a smug smirk spread across his face. “Now I know what’s going on! You like him, don’t you~?” he sang teasingly.

Amy gasped, indignant, while the others laughed. “I--of course I don’t! I barely know him!”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Sonic replied, still grinning smugly. “You think I don’t know an Amy crush when I see one?”

“He is kind of the expert,” Tails pointed out. Amy choked on her words, unable to argue with that.

“Hmm...” Everyone turned to Knuckles at his inquisitive noise. He was examining the black quill in his hand. “How’d this end up in your quills anyway? What were you two doing?”

Amy balked and snatched the black quill out of Knuckles’ hand. Sonic snickered. “Yeah, Amy, what were you two doing? Were you cuddling~?” he asked, his voice turning sickeningly sweet.

“N-NO!” The other three flinched at her sudden shout. Sonic smirked, and she puffed out her cheeks. “It was an accident! I thought he was you, so I ran up and hugged him.”

Sonic’s smirk faded into something disgruntled and disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Even you?! He doesn’t look that much like me. We’re different colors!”

“Y-you weren’t there!” Amy stuttered out. “The sun was in my eyes, and his back was turned!” She pouted. “I was just so excited to see you. I was really worried about you, Sonic!”

Sonic crossed his arms and grumbled something incoherent.

Tails shrugged one shoulder. “She’s not exactly the only one, Sonic. The entire military confused you two,” he pointed out. “The footage on satellite TV was pretty grainy, and it was nighttime. I wasn’t sure myself. I only came to Prison Island because I couldn’t picture you doing those things.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sonic allowed. He stayed quiet, seemingly mulling it over, but then his eyes widened. “Hang on! Amy, are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Amy gasped and held a hand over her heart. “Aww, Sonic, you do care!” He rolled his eyes. She brushed off his lukewarm response. “You don’t need to worry, though. He didn’t hurt me. I pulled away on my own.”

He uncrossed his arms and squinted at her. “Really? Nothing? He didn’t shove you away or anything?”

“Nope! He even smiled at me a little when he turned around.” She gazed down at the quill cradled in her hands. “I basically sneak-attacked him and clung onto him, but all he did was wait around and then smile at me once I let go.” She looked up with a determined expression. “That’s how I know he’s a good person. He was so gentle! He can’t be a bad person if he was that kind to me!”

Tails and Knuckles made skeptical noises, and Sonic snorted. “Amy, you’re too kind for your own good.”

She clasped her hands under her chin. “You mean it?!”

“Ugh.” He dropped his head in exasperation.

Knuckles laughed briefly. “If he was that nice to you and you thought he was Sonic, I’m surprised you let go of him at all.”

Amy crossed her arms and looked away. “I did figure out it wasn’t Sonic eventually. After all, he didn’t try to push me off or run away from me.” Sonic averted his eyes, almost looking guilty, and Knuckles and Tails sucked in air through their teeth awkwardly. Amy moved on. “He didn’t feel like Sonic, either. His chest was nice and soft, and he smelled really nice!” She sighed at the memory.

Sonic cocked his head. “Do I smell bad?”

She froze and started to fidget. “N-no! Of course not! You just...smell like you run a lot...?” She grinned sheepishly, and Knuckles tried to hide a laugh. Curious, Tails leaned toward Sonic and sniffed. He immediately leaned back and tried to hide his grimace. Sonic sniffed his own armpit, then shrugged obliviously.

To Amy’s relief, Tails shook off his distaste and changed the subject. “I still want to know how in the world you got to Prison Island in the first place.”

“Wait, didn’t you give her a ride?” Sonic asked.

Tails shook his head. “She actually beat me there.”

Amy nodded proudly. “I did my daily tarot reading this morning, and the cards told me I had a destined encounter with someone who needed my help!” She sighed dreamily. “With that description, I knew it had to be you, Sonic! I found out you were on Prison Island. It wasn’t too far, so Big brought me part of the way on his fishing boat, and when the waves got bad near the shore, Cream flew me the rest of the way. I told them to go back home afterward because I knew it wasn’t safe, and I was right!” She nodded with authority, then winked at Sonic. “You should be thanking me, you know. You really needed me today!”

Sonic wagged a finger. “Not quite.”

“What?! You were on an island that exploded!” Amy protested, clenching her hands into fists. Knuckles and Tails recoiled, but Sonic was unfazed.

“Not exactly. Didn’t I tell you I got caught on purpose?”

“You were still locked in a jail cell, Sonic. You definitely needed me!”

“Tails was there, too,” Sonic pointed out. “He was on his way to save me.”

Amy turned her glare on Tails. He winced and shook his head furiously. “Oh, no! Don’t drag me into this!”

Amy glared right back at Sonic. “My tarot cards are never wrong! Who would’ve needed my help more than you?”

Sonic thought for a moment, then chuckled. “What about your new boyfriend?” Amy cocked her head, then choked when she realized who Sonic meant. Sonic smirked once more. “He’s sweet on you, isn’t he? Maybe you’ll save him with the power of love!~”

“That’s...that’s not how it works! I don’t even know him!”

“Hmm...this sounds kind of familiar,” Knuckles said, sounding suspicious. “Hey Sonic, didn’t she act like this around you on the day you met?”

Sonic’s eyes lit up. “Oh, snap, you’re right!” Before Amy could argue, he started counting off the similarities on his fingers. “Let’s see...we’d never met, she said we were soulmates because her cards described a ‘destined encounter,’ she hugged me right off the bat and trusted me immediately...and then I had to fight a rampaging lookalike, Eggman was trying to destroy a whole planet--”

Amy suddenly gasped in realization, surprising the other three. “Oh, no! Shadow was on that island, and it blew up...” Her face paled in horror.

“Good riddance if you ask me,” Sonic mumbled. At Amy’s withering look, he shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He knew about the explosion, and he can teleport. He definitely got out of there.”

Amy sighed deeply. “Thank Chaos!” After a moment, her expression turned from concerned to impressed. “Shadow can teleport?! Wow...not even you can do that, Sonic! Maybe you could learn a thing or two from him,” she teased.

Irritation crossed Sonic’s face, but then he turned thoughtful, as if he were considering something.

Before anyone could ask, Knuckles chimed in again, much to Amy’s chagrin. “So Shadow can teleport himself while you can teleport objects by summoning them, you’re both hedgehogs, he actually likes it when you cling to him...maybe you two are soulmates!” He snickered, and Sonic and Tails joined in.

“Knuckles! Oh, you guys--!”

The teasing continued until Amy was red and flustered from embarrassment. It only abated in the last five minutes of the journey when Sonic and Knuckles started bickering about who should land the ship, even though Tails was clearly the best option for that. Amy sighed and examined the black quill in her hands.

I know there’s good in you. I just know it.

--

Aboard the space station they were approaching stood a conflicted black hedgehog. He frowned down at the pink quill in his hands.

I hope she made it out alright.

He shook his head.

No. It doesn’t matter. That planet needs to die, and she’s still going to be on it. This is no time for second-guessing.

His face turned pained.

But she seemed...so sweet...

Before he could dwell on it any longer, he heard a pair of high-heeled shoes echoing down the hall. He raised his hand, fully intending to toss the quill aside...but he hesitated. He gazed at it for a moment longer before tucking it back into his own quills where he’d found it, trying not to think about his conflicted feelings.

[abbynx]

Approval

Adrian "Vigilante" Chase X older sibling Reader

Genre: Platonic (Familial), a little angsty

Warning: Mentions of sex, cursing, your typical violence, drugging, riddles

A/N: 👉👈 okay okay, maybe this is more of a Riddler X reader, I love the riddle man okay? I just live for a protective brother that is Adrian. There will be part 2.

Another note, this Riddler can be any incarnation of Riddler. Whether from Young Justice, Arkham city, Gotham, The animated series, etc etc.

"Eddie-darling, stay put. I'm going to make a quick phonecall." Stealing a quick peck from your occupied fiance out of instinct, you exit his office and made your way into your shared bedroom.

Edward knew of your need to contact your remaining family back at your hometown, he didn't mind you leaving him one bit. Actually, he thought it would be for the best, as much as he is one clingy bastard. Your phonecalls with your younger brother can be... Questionable. Questionable and loud. The Riddler likes his silence in his office, that's where he centers his attention to his newest schemes to unleash upon Gotham. The first time he overheard your call with your brother back at Evergreen, was also the first time he was more bewildered with you than ever. He always had his line of thoughts coherent, but after hearing your call he couldn't quite comprehend it.

Amidst your anticipation, you couldn't help but to scribble nonsense on a pad of paper. How busy could he be at this time of the night to not answer your calls? Normally he would answer your calls without skipping a beat. So what? Does he have a girlfriend now? Boyfriend? Fuck buddies?

Whatever he was dealing with, it could wait, couldn't it? What's more important than you telling you're engaged?

Knowing him, this would call would be quite the lengthy one. Talking to him out of the ordinary is already difficult sometimes with your brother, what's the worst that could happen if you explain to him— a hellbent Vigilante— that you're engaged to a kind of people he is pursuing and eliminating? And you decided to fall for the The Riddler, no less. Not only that, Adrian isn't even aware of you having a relationship. Ten years of dating your Edward, he was your well-kept secret from Adrian, knowing full-well how the man would react.

You let out a satisfied hum once your younger brother picked up, "Finally. What took you so long?"

"Not even a 'hi'?" Adrian passive aggressively whines from the other side of the line.

You roll your eyes and sighed, you tried again, "Hi Adrian. Now what took you so long?"

You heard him sigh exasperatedly. "Just came back from work you know how it is. Why are so impatient anyways?"

Alright. It's now or never.

You took a breath. "Remember that time I was caught as a um... Hostage here in Gotham?"

"Yeah? I was worried about you! I was just about to drive all the way to Gotham to get to you and kill that motherfucker!"

It was headed in a certain direction you were expecting and you hated it. You sheepishly chuckle, staring at the glimmering bond on your finger. Well, that motherfucker happened to be your boyfriend for a decade and had just proposed a week ago.

"Yeah. Um... He and I are kinda... Well, he and I are in a relationship..."

...

"For ten years now..."

...

"And we just got engaged..."

...

...

...

"Adrian?" "YOU WHAT?!"

Ahhh, there he is! Loud and deafening as ever. You weren't in time to pull your phone away when he decided to spontaneously combust.

"YOU'RE DATING THAT RIDDLE WIMP OF ALL PEOPLE?! THAT'S WAY WORSE THAN BATMAN! HELL, YOU MIGHT AS WELL DATE BATMAN THAT WIMP!" Even if your phone wasn't in speakers, and is far off your face, his voice continues to be audible to you. "WHAT'S WITH YOU A GLASSES WEARING PSYCHOS?! YOU HAVE A TYPE OR SOMETHING?!"

I mean... Yes.

"AND YOU'RE TELLING NOW?! JUST NOW?!"

"You're going to damaged your vocal chords if you go any further."

"Right, sorry," Adrian clears his throat. His voice then drops to a low whisper. "Why though?"

"Because I love him." You sigh, picking at your nails nonchalantly, fully aware your brother might be on the other side of the line, rubbing his head with disappointment.

"Why didn't you tell me?" You hoped it would be obvious to him by now, given the fact that is the Vigilante. Unfortunately, your brother isn't that much bright.

"Seeing how you reacted, I think you got your answer."

"He's a killer! Murderer! Riddler! Of all people!" His loud voice was back again, but tamer than the previous ones. "I'm going to kill that motherfucker—"

"If you try laying a hand on him, you'd lose all your toes, some of your teeth, and possibly your insides on the outside." Your face may not have been visible, but Adrian could hear the glare in your eyes.

"Why chose him, anyways? He kills people!"

You bit your tongue for a moment, resisting the urge to call him out in his hypocrisy. But then again, so were you. "Because I love—"

"Yesyes, I know that! But why?" Your expression fell further at his dumb question. Your silence continued and your brother remained clueless. "Damnit Y/N, this is why we didn't want you to go to Gotham."

"And this is why I want to go to Gotham to get away from you guys."

There was silence on the other side of the line. This time you were ready for him to scream his lungs out again and prepared in advance, pulling your phone away from your ear.

"I don't approve of it." His voice came to you as cold.

"I didn't ask for your approval." You stood your ground firmly, despite voice dying within your throat.

"For fuck's sake, Y/N! He kidnaps people and kills them, all for what?! And he took you as a hostage once! Are you fucking stupid?!"

"As if you're any better!" You yell back. "You know what, I don't even know why I called you. Whatever."

Before he could protest to that, you shut your phone and slammed it against the table.

You hated when you were right. Of course your Vigilante brother wouldn't like it if you're getting married to criminal. It was a mere fantasy wherein your brother would approve of your relationship. You claimed his approval doesn't matter, but it was a bold-faced lie. He was your remaining family, you would love to think that he would be happy for you despite his beliefs and morals.

Eddie truly is a good man. To you at least.

Your unconventional love story had an unconventional beginning. You had just graduated college and moved to Gotham for their myriads of career opportunities, you just happen to find yourself working as an assistant for a psychiatrist in Arkham Asylum, where you had met him. The high pay grade this work has been giving you for a reason, and that reason being in the line of danger. You've been threatened by a makeshift knife by an patient (Harley Quinn) after a particular patient of her subject of obsession (Joker) took a liking to you. You've been in a chokehold courtesy of Ivy's vines, almost shot by Arkham guards, was almost baked into pie by Professor Pyg and the list goes on. It was an absolute nightmare. All for the price of not returning to Evergreen, where your worst nightmares come true.

Then there was Eddie. Good ol' Eddie. Not the most and certainly not the least dangerous of the bunch. He was tolerable to you at least, he didn't made an attempt to kill you that time. Your interaction with Edward consists of giving him newspapers every morning, with him giving you snide remarks of how much of a painfully inferior person you are compared to him... Oh and of course, the riddles. God the riddles. You don't really mind the guy, deciding to be the bigger person and just let him be. Besides, you knew he was just compensating for something. It must have something to do with his recent defeat and reason for reincarceration. But yes, that was basically it... Until one day.

You woke up hazy, memories in gaps and you were in an enclosed space lit by a monitor. A monitor with a green question mark against a purple background. You recognized the set-up and sighed, "I quit." There's a certain tipping point for you, after you had gone through too much working your ass off in Arkham.

That was the hostage situation you had been in.

Recalling it is... It's certainly something.

"Riddle me this; A man shoots his wife, holds her under water for ten minutes, and finally hangs her, but soon they both go out to dinner. How does this happen?"

You remembered how damn annoyed you were at the time. The enclosed space offered you little to no air conditioning, no water, and the effects of drugs still hung above your head like a haze. Of course the Riddler escaped his cell and decided to pick you as a hostage just as you were heading home to rest your bones after a forty eight hour shift. Waking up lying on the floor with the lingering effects of drugs isn't really what comes to mind when one states a comfortable rest. Given, sometimes the cold floor looks absolutely tempting during an overtime shift, but this night was supposed to be your off.

Riddler, on the other hand, he is beyond entertained. It took you long enough to wake up. Granted, it took way too long for the knock out drug's side effects to wear off and have you wake up. As for the riddle— please, everyone and their dogs knew what's the answer to this riddle. But if you didn't, well, that would be unfortunate. How would you fare from this if you could not answer the easiest, most common riddle? It would be a shame if you fail the warm up riddles already.

Without skipping a beat and a sense of safety, you blurt out your answer with a deadpan voice, "He's a cannibal."

"WHAT? NO!" And the fact that you answered so confidently! Makes his skin flare from irritation. God help you, it was the easiest riddle! "He 'shoots' meaning captured her on camera like— photoshooting and holding 'her' aka her picture under in a process of printing! Hangs 'her', her picture on a frame. Then he takes the real her, not the photographed her, on a dinner!"

"Have you considered the fact that the guy could be... You know, a cannibal? You never know, his wife could be cheating on him and he resorted to killing and eating his wife to hide evidence." You shrug.

The Riddler watches you from the monitor with bewilderment. What the fuck were you going off about? Where the fuck were you going on about? Was the knock out drug that strong?

"NO?!" Was all he could muster to say amidst the clutter of thoughts in his head. "THAT'S NOT HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO GO!"

His voice reverberates with a synthesiser, high pitched against your ear and is particularly not making the ache in your head feel any better. As he throws a hissy fit over your lackluster of an answer, your vein convulsed against your temple painfully. Eventually, you were at your tipping point. There's a limit to what Y/N Chase could take and once it's reached its peak, your rage was inescapable.

"HEY LISTEN HERE, YOU BRAT!" You interrupt his whinings, garnering an offended sneer from him that isn't visible to you. "I'VE JUST HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU BITCHING ABOUT ME GETTING A RIDDDLE 'WRONG'! DID YOU NOT CONSIDER THAT THERE CAN BE MULTIPLE ANSWERS TO EVERYTHING?!"

"LIKE WHAT?!" He screams from the intercoms, his voice bouncing at the walls again, fueling your headache further.

"WHAT'S GREEN AND ABOUT TO BE FUCKED OVER?! THE ANSWER IS TREES BUT THE ANSWER COULD BE YOU ONCE I GET OUT OF HERE!"

"THAT'S NOT HOW THE RIDDLES WORK— BUT I WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU TRY AND GET OUT!" There was an assured tone in his voice.

The box he locked you in is one of a kind, nothing would break the thing down, nor could it be tinkered via the wiring system. But you're an angry Chase with something to prove. An immovable object is no longer immovable to a determined Y/N Chase.

Edward Nygma got what he was promised. You somehow got out of your cell powered by sheer spite and had, indeed, fucked him over. Not in a way he thought though. He expected himself to be covered in bruises and scratches but... These bruises were not what he had in mind. The scratches, too. He thought he would not feel his legs because you broke it with a sledge hammer, not because you decided to ride him until the crack of dawn. Honestly, it should be the other way around but the thought of you makes his mobility defective.

It was a detail you left out when you told your brother of your abduction. It was good you did, the man was livid and booked a ticket to Gotham if it weren't for you reassuring him one too many times that you were okay, and that he needs his money to feed himself. Adrian got a refund for his ticket and returned to his normal life.

Quite frankly, you were proud of it. Maybe too much.

Other than his body, you had his pride fucked over— you took his v-card, you got him moaning, he was begging. The way he threw his pride over his shoulder just to chase his relief, panting like a dog, being done on his office table, the once organised papers scattered and out of order... Edward "The Riddler" Nygma, begging to be granted the blissful release? Repeating your name again and again, only for you to delay his gratifications? To allow you to be in control of him?

...

Maybe he didn't chose arbitrary staff from Arkham to bring to his latest riddle box. He denies to himself that he chose you for a reason, claiming you were just another one of the run of the mill staff working your ass off to feed yourself and live. He denies that he looked forward to you coming to his cell with a newspaper. He denies that he may have, perhaps, mayhaps, caught feelings for you after your one too many trips to give him his daily newspaper and listen to him.

The next thing you knew, you accepted to be his assistant, his little errand runner after your little rendezvous that one fateful night, why not? He paid quite the sum. He couldn't look you in the eye, any vague or not-so vague mentions of the incident will grant you a childish fit, sending threats at your direction, "I will burn your house down and dance on your grave."

You stuck around, having way too much fun enjoying the power you had over him. But you were merciful, you didn't use it to your advantage... Not too much. You were there for him at all times though, it comes with you being under his employment after all. Threatning to straddle him on his bed to get him to sleep was a nightly occurrence, fecthing him something to eat was also a chore as the man cannot, for the life of him, let go of his work.

You took a week long break and took the opportunity to visit Evergreen, and a certain riddle-loving dork was extra irritable. Your coworkers joked to you that one of them should dress up as you and tuck Mister Nygma to bed. It was fun imagining the burly guys dress up as you and in their baritone voice imitate yours.

But other than that, Mister Nygma got it bad. He knew deep down, he had contracted a disease after being exposed to you. Ah yes, the disease.

I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I'm sometimes the hardest to express, but the easiest to ignore. I can be given to many, or just one. What am I?

The only person who he can submit to and not feel inferior. It occured to him naturally that he could trust you with his secrets, tell you about his plans, and he couldn't believe how he let you in on his past. He learned you share the same circumstance of lacking a proper father-figure to look up to, being constantly held back, disgraced and poke fun of... Though in his case, stab fun of.

You were there for him, rescuing him from the stickiest of situations he got himself into. You welcome him in your arms after too many failures, a shoulder to lean on, the one who has his back... And for that, he want nothing more than your happiness.  It occured to him naturally to slip a ring on your finger, as he doesn't really know what to do if you weren't by his side.

You just wished your brother would see how much you love your riddle-dork Eddie and how much he loves you, that your Edward's perspective wouldn't matter to Adrian, as long as you're happy.

[legendofzelda4life]

You... You What?!?!

Bro these aint even in a pattern anymore lol. Anyway, yall can have this because of the new BOTW trailer Wild and Sky angst… Lessgo… ig…?

-------------------------------------

“When do you think Wild will come back?” Wind asked for what must’ve been the tenth time since the champion had left. Sky took in a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know, Wind. But remember, time in his Hyrule passes much slower, so maybe he doesn’t think he’s been gone long” That’s what he hoped at least. Each day without Fi’s presence on his back was another day of anxiety that almost felt crippling.

Sometimes, he’d hold the sword’s hilt when he felt anxious. His adventure was quite lonely at times but Fi was there from start to finish, always calming him when he’d start to panic.

But now…?

Now Fi wasn’t with him. Sky was now a ball of worries.

The constantly tired hero got barely any sleep now and would sometimes even take double shifts for watch.

“Portal!” The traveller’s voice cut Sky from his thoughts as he gazed upon the portal ahead of them.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Time said, guiding Sky by the shoulder through the portal

“Where…?” Four trailed off.

“Where in the - by the heavens above and all that is holy, what in the FUCK is that?!?!” Legend exclaimed, pointing at the green figure in front of them.

“A hinox?” Hyrule questioned, never having seen one for himself.

“Made of rock? Surely not. It’s more of a golem?” Warriors added in a suggestion. Before anyone else could speak, it’s gaze landed on them.

One singular, giant, red eye was the most notable thing. Two huge white stones for shoulders, floating arms, the dash for the boys.

Wait…

“It’s running at us!” “We’re well aware, captain!” “Guys, focus!” Voices rang within seconds but before it could reach them…

drip, drip

“Was that fire?” Whoever asked got a disapproving look from Legend, Sky could feel it in the air.

“Wild?” “He’s not here, Wind.” “No! Wild!”

Everyone looked towards the source of fire.

Is that…?

A canon?

No one spoke as Wild made quick work of the enemy, never once using the sword on his back.

“Hey, guys.” Wild said, rubbing his neck.

“What did you do to your arm?!?” Wild chuckled in response. “I’m fine, Twi.” “By the goddess above, no you’re not.”

After Twilight hogged Wild for a bit, everyone got to say their hellos.

Then Wild’s eyes met Sky’s…

Not a pretty sight.

The champion’s bright cerulean eyes flashed with fear. “Sky… I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” Sky questioned, embracing Wild.

That’s when he felt it.

Sky quickly stepped back, confusion evident in his features. “I- I broke it, properly this time…”

“You what!?”

Wild looked away from Sky, slowly unsheathing the master sword, regret in his eyes.

Everyone audibly gasped.

Sky, however, was silent. Mixes of rage, confusion, and guilt streamed through him; rage because Wild broke the sword, the confusion asking how, but guilt because he knew Wild didn’t even want to take it.

“How did it…?” Sky asked softly.

“Zel- Flora and I were exploring the catacombs, Ganondorf’s body was down there. The malice it-” Wild shuddered, “there was so much of it. It grabbed the sword. Flora fell into the darkness. The body, it…” Wild trailed off, not wanting to remember what happened.

“Ganondorf? You said you only had a Ganon.” Hyrule carefully tested the waters. “That’s what I thought but this guy… He has a sword wound in his chest. Those catacombs are over ten-thousand years old and yet he stayed alive through sheer fucking will power. Well that and the spirit that now houses its energy in my arm.” Wild laughed a little.

“I’m sorry, a sword wound in its chest?” “Mhm.” Twilight’s face visibly paled. “No way…” The rancher seemed very offset but Wild’s attention was soon directed back to Sky.

“Fi, I don’t know if you can hear me anymore but; I promise Wild will fix you, okay? You’re going to be okay.” Sky’s eyes were full of tears as he spoke, looking over every imperfection in the sword.

Suddenly, the sword - or rather, what remained of it - glowed with a soft chime. Sky let tears fall. “Yeah, you did.” Wild sat down next to him. “What are you talking to her about?” He inquired. “She asked if she fulfilled the promise to guide those after me well enough. She really thinks she’s done for, Wild.”

“You don’t know what my adventure is!” Wild had it dawn on him, gaining everyone else’s attention once more. “I have to go to different shrines to fix the sword so I can save Zelda. Infuse it with sacred energy or something like that.”

“Where are they?” Legend was actually interested? Something new every day I guess.

“One up here in the sky, one in the lands of Hyrule, another in the oceans of Hyrule, and the last in the deepest part of the catacombs.”

“We’re in the skies?” Sky looked around, finally taking in the scenery around them. It seems they were.

Within a second, the boy born in the clouds stood up, sword at Wild’s throat.

“You hurt Fi again; I can and I will throw you off this island.” Wild swore Sky’s eyes flashed with lightning for a second before he turned soft again. “Understand me, Wild?” The champion quickly nodded.

Now for the next question…

“Hey, Wild, how do we get down?”

Oh…

Shit...

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Wasn’t really too much angst was it? Idk i had a good idea but now im tired and also the characters went off script so this is not my fault /hj

Feel free to leave requests. Your requests must include: Characters (2+) Type/genre/category (fluff, angst, etc) Platonic or not

I will write only about Zelda or Lu characters, not whole other fandoms. Willing to do aus or reader/oc inserts