#but apparently. some people need to chill out on ao3

[faeriekit]

Times which I have been unintentionally racially microaggressed against on fandom-based webbed sites:

[amywritesthings]

press four for more options. | part one.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. | masterlist

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”

God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.

A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.

God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.

Maybe, up to this Friday evening.

You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.

Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.

Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.

(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)

The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.

Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.

Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.

(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)

Well, no missing that now.

Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.

The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.

In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:

You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.

She wasn’t kidding. 

Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.

So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.

Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.

Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.

Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.

“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.

Did she already have a match?

Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?

She's always so chill. It would make sense.

There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown. 

At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?

Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.

So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.

At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.

The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.

The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.

“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”

Tempting.

Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.

“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”

“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.

“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”

For a solid five minutes you wait.

Contemplating.

Deciding.

You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.

After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?

The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”

You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.

Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.

It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.

“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”

A name.

You should give a name that isn’t your real name.

But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?

“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”

“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.

Petra laughs musically.

“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”

Why are you doing this again?

“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin. 

Did Annie have a fake name with this service?

“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”

Real or fake?

Committed or just testing the waters?

“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.

Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.

“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.

Are you going to be seriously this easy?

“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”

“Female.”

"Pronouns?"

"Um, she and her."

“And you’re over eighteen?”

“Definitely over eighteen.”

“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”

You want to scream.

Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.

“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”

“I have just the person.”

You pause.

Blink.

But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.

A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.

You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.

“Wait, you do?”

“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”

A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.

Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.

(Or a clue.)

“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”

“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”

You can’t hide your surprise.

“Really?”

“Really!”

Ha, your fucking luck.

“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”

You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.

“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.

You hear something shift on her side. 

Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?

God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.

“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”

Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.

“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.

A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.

Is that even a real kink?

Has the bar really gotten that low?

Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.

As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.

Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.

You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.

Moment of truth.

With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Holy fuck.

Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.

While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it. 

A rumbling.

At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.

You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.

You don’t even know your home address.

You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.

“You there?”

Right, you’re meant to talk back.

“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”

“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”

The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water. 

His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.

“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”

All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.

“I’m…” 

What do you even say? 

How come you have to say anything at all? 

Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?

Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”

Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.

“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”

“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.

How mortifying. 

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”

“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”

Silence.

You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.

Did you scare him away? 

Was that too much of a depressive dump? 

You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.

But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.

“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”

“Listen?”

“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”

It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.

“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.

“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”

The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.

“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”

Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”

“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.

“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”

“A what?”

“A wet dream?”

“No, the other thing — ASMR?”

“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”

“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”

For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.

God, you could scream into your pillow.

If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.

“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern. 

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

No, this entire night is weird.

If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.

“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…” 

You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.

“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”

There.

It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.

You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.

“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”

“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”

“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”

The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.

His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.

“Nope.”

His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”

The demand does something to you. 

Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.

“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”

“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.

“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”

“Even if it’s just to talk?”

“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”

The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”

“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”

One second the bottle of water is in your hand.

Next it’s on the floor.

“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”

“Not cheap.”

“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”

It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”

Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.

“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”

“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”

“Shut up.”

“You do, and you are.”

“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So a lot.”

“Confidential.”

“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”

“It’s per minute, so.”

“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”

“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”

“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”

“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”

“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”

“Fair, can’t blame you there.”

There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.

Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.

You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah, baby?”

It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.

Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.

Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.

Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—

Whoa.

You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”

Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”

“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”

(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)

You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.

“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone’s voice, apparently.

“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”

You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”

“It’s a movie?”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”

“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”

“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”

“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”

So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face. 

Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.

His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Or boxers?

Maybe nothing.

Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.

Contemplating.

Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.

“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”

“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”

“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.

But—

“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”

“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.

14:02

So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.

God damnit.

Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your extension?”

Because you have to know.

Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.

Levi waits a moment before responding.

“Two-five-one-two.”

2512.

You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!

“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”

You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.

(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)

“I’m not sure if—”

Click.

“Hello? Levi?”

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”

Out of time.

You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.

Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.

.

.

— —

.

.

    Saturday is a wash.

You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.

For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.

Levi.

Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.

(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)

Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.

Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.

The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.

The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.

You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.

You could call.

It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.

Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.

Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.

Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.

 [A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?

[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.

(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)

 [YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.

[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)

[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?

[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.

Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.

 [YOU]: Can I ask his name?

[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?

[YOU]: jfc annie

[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert

    So not Levi.

For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.

Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.

Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.

You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.

Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.

The number is already in your phone.

Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.

One more call can’t hurt.

Levi may not even be working.

Hell, he could be talking to someone else. 

A regular.

Several regulars.

For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.

(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)

The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think. 

You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

You continue staring.

Are you really doing this?

It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.

A distraction.

A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.

How bad can it get?

“If you’re looking for someone specific —”

You press one.

.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.

There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

[porcelana-r0ta]

JOYRIDE

Fandoms: Batman, Danny Phantom

Relationship: Dan Phantom/Jason Todd

Word Count: 3,823

Ao3 Link: Available only to registered users

Summary:

Dan doesn't want to join his Habitudes group for their dumb community service project, which is why he lets two idiot goons kidnap him off the streets. When said goons turn out to work for The Joker, Dan decides to do something about him, maniac to maniac.

Or: The Joker tries to live stream a ransom, but ends up live streaming his own execution.

xxXxx

When Dan Nightingale is grabbed off the streets of Gotham, he makes a half-hearted struggle, just so he can seem human. The kiddie hero business and the indiscriminate genocidal tendencies no longer call to him like they used to, and while he’s still an impatient person who is intolerant of disruptive bullshit, he needs a little excitement in his life. 

Plus, he wants an excuse to get out of his Habitudes community service project. His pretentious trust fund baby groupmates chose to volunteer at some fucking coffee shop instead of something normal, like a hospital or an animal shelter. (Dan didn’t even know a coffee shop was an option, but anything goes for wealthy elites who want to roleplay as an impoverished barista, apparently.) Well, Jay Peters wasn’t so bad, and he was just as irritated as Dan was about the others’ choice. Plus, the chill that settles into Dan’s unused lungs when the other student is around shows that he’s at least Death-touched like him, even if they’ve never acknowledged that to each other. 

So, yeah. He lets himself be kidnapped by two goons, even if he could easily break free and make their insides their outsides. It could be interesting! Enrichment in his pandimensional parole! Everyone’s got to have fun sometimes! It’s like a little joyride, as a treat! But he isn’t the one committing the crime! How quaint!

Dan is a very polite captive. He lets himself be pulled into a creeper van with minimal resistance. He lets the goons zip tie his hands. He lets them put a black bag over his head, even though it smells of weed. He doesn’t count the number of turns they take, nor does he try to talk them into letting him go. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. When they eventually park, he allows the men to pull him out of the creeper van and into some building—likely a warehouse, judging by the echo of their footsteps on the floor. And finally, he lets the goons cut off the zip ties around his wrists and then tie them to the metal arms of a chair. 

He’s a great captive. And he’s so going to be excused from that stupid Habitudes community service project!

He’s content to sit and wait. The Bats of Gotham City usually have a good response time for villain bullshit, and if they don’t, then it’s not like any Fear gas or sex pollen will affect him. Dan’s not really human anymore, even if he is capable of looking so. 

Dan does not have to wait long. The footsteps increase and then stop altogether, and then a cackle fills the air. “Camera man ready? Mics? Charges?” The voice is familiar, yet grating. Where has he heard it before? In his past future, maybe?

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply from several different people. 

A pleased cackle, “Then let’s get started!”

“We are live in three… two…” 

At the silent one, the cackle echoes through the room once again. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen of Gotham City and beyond! I’m your favorite Joker, LIVE! With one of your favorite Wayne children!” 

Dan, who has been relatively chill this whole time, tenses. The Joker. That’s why he recognizes that cackle and voice. He had killed the clown before in his original timeline. Ugh, clowns. He fucking hates clowns. Hates their stupid pale makeup and their stupid dumb wigs and their exaggerated eyes and he fucking hates how they make him feel like he’s not in control. 

And what was that about a Wayne? 

Dan doesn’t think killing someone like The Joker in his original timeline should be held against him. Honestly, the guy is a megalomaniacal terrorist who abuses the guise of mental illness to get away with crimes against humanity. Dan had at least owned up to his own sanity, and never tried to hide from the law or anything like that. He just kind of… killed the law. 

….ACAB? 

A hand suddenly grips at the bag on his head, grabbing hair with fabric. “That’s right, folks! Here’s Gotham’s beloved Dick Grayson!” The bag is yanked off his head, revealing Dan in all his scowling glory. And Dan is a lot of things, but an exact Dick Grayson copy he is not, so while the goons may have mistaken him as Grayson, The Joker does not. 

He pauses, studying Dan’s face. Dan raises a mocking eyebrow, then looks around the warehouse. 

It’s empty and dimly lit, but it’s not a problem for his superior vision. The metal walls are an ugly beige and the floor is a gray cement, its color only broken by mysterious brown stains, and now the discarded black bag. Dan is up against a wall, surrounded by filming equipment. The camera in question is just a fucking iPhone 12 attached to a ring light. There’s one goon behind the camera, moderating the live stream. There is another goon holding a boom mic above Dan and The Joker, and there are four others behind the camera. All of the goons who are not handling equipment are holding toy musket guns. It is probably safe to assume that there are similarly armed goons guarding the doors that Dan cannot see from his position tied to a chair. Likely two goons per exit. In a warehouse of this size, there have to be at least six more goons that Dan isn’t seeing. 

The Joker grits his teeth. “Who brought the Grayson kid here.” It’s not a question so much as it is a demand. 

“We did, boss,” two goons pipe up proudly from behind the camera. 

“Why don’t you two come up on camera so I can congratulate you for good work?” The Joker grins beseechingly. 

One of the two goons, the blond, shuffles nervously at this, whereas the other puffs out his chest. So only one has any brain cells. 

The prideful one grabs his comrade by the arm and drags him up to the camera with Dan and The Joker. They stand in front of Dan, blocking him from the camera’s view.

“I always reward good work, you see,” he says to his henchmen. “Now, you think this is good work?” 

“Yes, sir,” says Pride, while Blond frowns. 

“Take a good look at his face.” The villain gestures angrily to Dan’s unimpressed face. “What do you see?” 

“Dick Grayson, sir,” 

Blond shuffles, “He looks like he isn’t scared.” 

“No! Wrong! This isn’t Dick Grayson! This– This is some—” The Joker takes another glance at Dan, noting the black Gotham U hoodie that hides his muscles. “This is some fucking college twink!”

“Twink?” Dan mutters to himself, disgruntled. Sure, the hoodie is baggy and he’s seated instead of standing, but do those two things add up to him looking like a twink? 

The color has drained out of even Pride’s face at The Joker’s words. “Sir, please—”

But The Joker is already pulling out a comically large toy gun that probably has real bullets, and Dan sighs. It would probably be bad for his parole if he let a bunch of humans die in front of him. 

He phases out of the ropes binding him, safe from view with the two idiots in front of him. Then, he kicks The Joker down to the floor, sending the toy gun scattering across the cement floor of the warehouse. He stands and knocks Pride and Blond’s heads together, knocking them out as The Joker screeches with rage. 

The goons behind the camera aim their guns, but Dan is already moving behind the camera. He snags the guns out of their hands, snapping them in half with strength he doesn’t even have to think about. He moves so fast that at first they don’t even realize what’s happened. By the time they connect their missing firearms to the broken bits of metal on the floor, Dan has already clobbered them over the head, knocking them unconscious. 

He takes out the cameraman, too, and the goon holding the boom mic. Then, in mere seconds, he takes out all the goons at each exit, and he’s back at the filming station by the time The Joker has staggered to his feet. His original estimate had been off by two—there were eight other goons in total. 

Dan checks the iPhone—still live streaming. On TikTok, of all the goddamn apps. The comments are going wild on what’s going on: where’s the college student, how did he kick The Joker like that, do you guys think that those two goons have brain damage now, what was that metal scraping sound, where is The Joker? 

“Hey, brat!” snarls The Joker, clutching at his ribs. “That was not part of the script.”

Dan hates clowns, and he especially hates The Joker. Sure, Dan wiped out nearly all of humanity. Who doesn’t have a bad decade of villainous activity? But he did it quickly, and he didn��t do it under the guise of insanity. He owned up to it. And if Dan’s being honest, he’s… disgusted by it all now, even if it hurts himself to admit. 

If Dan isn’t human, then neither is The Joker. 

Still off camera, Dan moves so fast he basically teleports in front of The Joker. The other man stumbles back, but Dan reaches out and grabs him by the throat. He chokes and claws at Dan, but Dan isn’t human anymore, and so his nails catch on nothing but the cloth of his hoodie. He doesn’t even feel it.

He drags The Joker to the chair in front of the still live camera and shoves him into it. While he recovers from being choked, gasping and shuddering and so fucking human , Dan forces his hands behind him and uses the ropes he’d phased out of to tie The Joker up. When he ties the last knot, Dan stands tall, staring into the camera. 

“Hello, friends and family,” he greets the audience. He gives a small smile, and he makes sure that he is perfectly, utterly human with normal blue eyes and normal black hair and normal human skin. “As you can see, things have turned around for The Joker here. Now, I’m sure his original intent was to ransom out the Wayne kid, and it would be a shame to see that hard work and planning go to waste on a mistake, wouldn’t it? So why don’t we hold a… reverse ransom? Only, I don’t need funds. I’ll accept donations. My venmo is vladsucks03. My cashapp is dannight07.”

Dan’s smile grows into a wide grin. “Feel free to donate if you like. But even not a single person donates, The Joker dies today.” 

The Joker spits out a gasping laugh, “Ha! You think you can kill me? I gotta admit, that’s a good joke. But Batman—”

“Batman what?” Dan asks, stepping off camera to grab the black bag on the floor. He shoves it halfway into his pocket. He walks to The Joker’s toy gun, the only one he hadn’t broken, and he picks it up. 

“Batman is already on his way here,” The Joker says. “He always is by this point.”

“And Batman will save you?” Dan snorts. He moves to check the live stream, comments coming in so fast that the only reason he can read them is because he’s not human anymore. 

Is this for real

fuck yeah kill that guy

💥🔫🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

extremely common gotham uni W

im donating 50$ rn

Can we vote on how joker dies

Lol does he fr think that batman would help him

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Does anyone else find this incredibly attractive or is it just me 😳

guys my joker/batman fic update is gonna slap after this

Joker’s cooked

bro is about to have ao3 level donations

Hey what’s his cashapp again

Omg i think that guy is in my bio class

I’ll donate when hes acc dead

doin god's work 🥹👍

If bro doesnt do it he’s cooked

This guy is gonna have infinite rizz if he pulls this off

The Joker scoffs, “Of course he will. He’s done it before.”

Dan yanks his gaze from the comments to The Joker’s face, “What?”

The Joker nods his head up arrogantly. “Batsy can’t live without me. He saved me after fickle-ickle Nightwing killed me.” 

“Huh.” Dan blinks consideringly, switching his gaze back to the comments. They’re all freaking out about this new information. He steps back into the camera frame, pulling the hammer back on the toy gun. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it sticks.” 

He points the gun at The Joker’s face and fires. As expected, rainbow confetti is the only thing that flies out, dusting over The Joker in celebration of what is to come. 

The Joker laughs. 

“Cute,” says Dan. He walks around The Joker to stand behind him, directly in front of the camera. He removes the black bag from his pocket and puts it over The Joker’s face. 

He shoves the muzzle of the gun into the back of The Joker’s skull. Pulling back the hammer, he asks, “Any last words?” 

He pulls the trigger before The Joker can say anything. It’s funny. As expected, the second gunshot is a real bullet. The Joker’s head and body jerks forward. Blood splatters on Dan’s face, but it’s mostly on the floor and the unconscious Blond and Pride and on The Joker himself. 

For a moment, Dan can only stare. The Joker’s body is crumbled in on itself, held up only by the bindings on his arms to a chair nailed to the ground. 

He feels big. He feels good. 

He feels… dirty.

He clears his throat. He drops the gun. He lifts up the soaking black bag up just enough to check for a pulse. After thirty seconds of nothing, he says, “Well, that’s the end of The Joker.” 

He looks up, staring into the camera lens, and he chuckles. “I missed my community service project because of this bozo. You guys think my professor will accept this as community service?”

You guys think this will affect my ghost parole? he doesn’t ask. 

He bends down to check the pockets of Blond. He finds his phone and uses Blond’s thumbprint to bypass the password. His stomach curdles at the home screen—a picture of Blond and a little girl with his eyes and his nose. His eyes burn and he calls 911, trying not to blink.

“911 dispatch. What is your emergency?”

“Yeah, uh, I killed The Joker. But he kidnapped me first, so. Turnabout.” 

“You— sorry, you what?”

“I killed The Joker. He’s dead. I checked his pulse and everything.”

“O-oh.” The woman on dispatch sounds strangled. There are muffled sounds, frantic, that the receiver only barely picks up. Dan wonders what she’s doing, Asking for verification? Trying to triangulate his location? Celebrating the fucking good news? “Do you know where you are, sir?”

“Some warehouse, I guess. Probably at the docks. Do you want me to check?”

“No, sir, please stay where you are if there are no immediate threats.”

“Got it.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Can you tell me your name, sir? Are you injured somewhere?”

“I’m Dan. Uh, Dan Nightingale. I guess he thought I was the Grayson kid. Um. Dick Grayson, I mean. And no, I’m fine. His henchmen are injured and unconscious, though.” 

“Right. Okay. Hi, Dan. I’m Claire. First responders and patrol units are on their way to your location now.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess.” He almost wants to ask if she thinks that he’ll end up in Arkham for this, but he’s pretty sure that there’s no jury on Earth that would convict him. Well, maybe not. He did ask for donations for murdering The Joker, after all. That might put a damper on his defense. 

“Dan?” asks Claire. 

“Yeah?”

“Is– is he really dead?”

Dan looks at the body and kicks a limp leg, avoiding looking at the gory black bag. Nothing. “Yep. As a doornail.” And he knows death intimately. 

She breathes a shaky, staticky sigh into the receiver. “Thank you, Dan.”  

He blinks, “Can you get fired for saying that?”

She laughs, “Honey, everyone not on break right now is listening to this. My boss just broke a bottle of tequila out from his desk.” 

He barks out his own laugh. “Oh?”

“You’re about to be very popular, Dan.”

“Well, I—” 

And seventeen minutes late to the party, the windows at the top of the warehouse shatter open. In cascades of broken glass and grappling cables, the Bats drop down to the floor. 

“Away from the body,” commands Batman as soon as his feet hit the ground. His little birdies, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and the newest Robin fall in line with him. Robin makes quick work of rounding up the unconscious goons and binding them. 

Dan obligingly puts the hand that isn’t holding the phone up in the air, but before moving away from the camera’s view, he says, “Just a reminder guys, my venmo is vladsucks03 and my cashapp is dannight07. Please remember that I might need a lawyer soon.”

“Okay, funny guy,” Nightwing says, entering into frame and pulling Dan away by the shoulder while Red Robin shuts down the live stream.

“It was self-defense and defense of another. A whole population, if you will,” Dan says. 

Red Hood snickers, “Only crime here was the kidnapping.” 

“Dan, are you okay?”

“Bats are here, Claire,” Dan tells her. He watches Batman lift the black bag off The Joker’s face, revealing the viscera and gray matter beneath. He’s not smiling anymore. Dan hasn’t seen that kind of gore in years. He’s the cause of it once more and he doesn’t regret that. It feels invigorating. It feels devastating. “I guess I’ll hang up now. If The Joker is mysteriously alive after this, it’s because Batman couldn’t handle not being the hero.” 

“Dan—” He hangs up as Batman’s shoulders go minutely tense at his words. The man stands fully, turning his head slightly to narrow his cowled eyes at Dan. 

“Problem, sir?” 

“You killed The Joker.” 

“I saved myself and his two idiots.” He shrugs. 

“You had him restrained.” 

He rests an offended hand against his chest. “I was frightened that he would escape, sir, just as he escapes from the very place you put him every eight to ten months.” The Bat doesn’t want to be judge, jury, and executioner. Fine. Whatever, he gets it. Dan hadn’t wanted to be that, neither as hero nor villain. He’d wanted to save, he wanted to be saved, and then he wanted everyone to feel like he did. But he’s not so prideful now to know that he wouldn’t have stopped then, not unless someone handled the job permanently. 

The Joker needed permanence. 

The Bat can play fucking judge all he wants. But he’d be just as villainous if he tried enforcing his own moral code on other people.

“You asked for donations,” Red Robin says dryly. “You were basically putting a hit out on him.”

“My art in life textbook is $300. How much do you think a lawyer is going to cost?”

“Hn.” 

“Stop giving the man a hard time for doing a public service, Batman.” Red Hood shoulder checked Nightwing away and held out a gloved hand for Dan to shake. He takes the other’s hand and firmly shakes it. The contact, while not to skin, gives Dan goosebumps and chills his lungs. 

Jay?

“Let’s hope my Habitudes professor agrees with you.”

“She will. Everyone with three brain cells to rub together will.” The man cuts a glare at Batman. 

Dan didn't say what pronouns his professor uses. 

The rumble in Red Hood’s voice is enticing. He looks at the other man, really looks, and notices his broad shoulders, how tall he is (though Dan towers over him even  disguised as a human), and his muscled arms. Arms that Dan’s pretty sure are normally hidden beneath a Gotham U hoodie, just like his own. 

He smirks as sirens sound in the distance. “Let’s hope the cops agree with you.”

“They will,” Hood says. It sounds like a promise for something entirely different. 

“Gag me,” Red Robin mutters.

Robin says, “For once I agree with you.”

Without looking away from Dan, Red Hood flips the two off, and yeah, maybe redemption can be more promising than he initially thought. 

xxXxx

A week later, Dan finally goes back to his regular schedule. His ghost parole is intact—he’d even been thanked by some Gothamite ghosts, and Danny begrudgingly told him that there were ghosts who said they’d riot if Dan was given any punishment. As for the mortal side of things, Vlad Masters had graciously sent his team of attorneys to Dan’s aid. While Dan still hates him, he has no issue about using a free team of lawyers to defend him. He’s guaranteed to walk.

Jazz had called him. It made his core unsettled and stony. She wasn’t disappointed, and he doesn’t know how that makes him feel. He doesn’t regret it—The Joker would never change. But what does that say about him and his progress? 

Jazz in general makes him uneasy now. She used to be his big sister, and now she’s younger than him, and he tried to kill her, and— she’s different from his Jazz, is all. But if she’d always known like she said, then his Jazz did, too, right? Could she still be his Jazz, a Jazz who got to grow up? Still be his sister? It would be stupid to hope so, right?

He feels bitter.

She said she’s considering Gotham University as her college of choice as she nears high school graduation. Apparently, their psych department is amazing. 

So maybe hope isn’t so bad. 

Dan sits down at his 10:00 am Habitudes class. Everyone already in the room stares at him. Before they can offer any congrats or thanks or swarm him, Jay sits down next to him. 

Dan looks at Jay’s mostly black hair and his tuft of white at his front bangs. He’s wearing his usual Gotham U hoodie, a hoodie that likely hides muscled arms. A chill builds in his lungs like it did when speaking with Red Hood, like it has every other time he’s talked with Jay Peters. 

…Hm. A hoodie that definitely hides muscled arms. 

“Hey,” says Jay with a grin. “Crazy week, I hear?”

“You’re a Gothamite. I’m sure you’re aware of exactly how crazy it’s been.” 

“You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Sure. After class? We can grab an early lunch. Make it a date, maybe.”

Jay smiles, cute and small. His eyes flash green—a baby Death-touched soul, still can’t control his spooky abilities, how adorable—and he says, “That sounds perfect.”

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 33

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 30, part 31, part 32

“No,” Wayne says. Nothing more to follow. Just no.

“I know it’s a big offer,” Steve continues to explain. “But Dustin brought it up and I wouldn’t have accepted it if it wasn’t a good idea.”

The offer is too much. Too big. Too unnecessary. Wayne can figure all of this out on his own. He doesn’t need someone’s charity. Especially a rich boy’s charity.

“And I heard you out. But now I’m saying no.” He walks down the hall, away from the waiting room. He hears footsteps following him but can’t seem to care.

“Did you actually?” Steve insists. Coming up next to him. “Because I would back off if I thought you actually heard me out.”

Wayne doesn’t want to deal with this right now. He doesn’t even want to think of the offer. It’s a ridiculous thing to even think of in the first place. There is never a reality where Wayne would accept this, so why would he hear Steve out. Whether it was Dustin’s plan or not. It’s not his job to pander to what other people want for him.

It was the end of this discussion, and Steve needed to know that.

Wayne stays silent for the rest of the walk to Eddie’s room. Stopping outside of the door with a thick sigh.

“Kid, I appreciate the offer, I really do. But my answer is no, and you need to respect that.”

When he opens the door, Eddie’s sitting up on the bed. Looking confused and a bit intrigued. It’s a cruel thought, but Wayne misses when he was in the coma and anything he said, Eddie didn’t hear. Or at least, couldn’t react to.

“What offer?” he asks, putting down the puzzle he was doing.

“One that doesn’t matter, because it’s not happening.” Wayne sits down, giving Steve a look that he hopes makes him drop it.

Eddie would probably be on Wayne’s side. He hopes. But there’s something between him and the Harrington boy that he doesn’t understand. Something that he doesn’t even think they understand quite yet.

All he knows is that Steve is here a lot more than he used to be. Ever since that blow up, him and Eddie have been closer. There are days when Wayne shows up and it’s just Steve. Sitting close to Eddie and they’re just talking. Whispering between each other like there are other people in the room. There aren’t, but apparently that doesn’t matter.

It scares Wayne, just a little bit. He knows Eddie is gay. He told Wayne himself a few years ago. Scared out of his mind and a bag already packing in his room. He was ready to be kicked out and skip town. When Wayne would never. Not about this, or anything really.

Eddie was his kid, through and through. There was nothing that would make that change. Even with the murder allegations. It wasn’t going to make Wayne think differently about him.

But now, he’s scared. Because Eddie looks at Steve with some kind of awe and reverie that he’s never seen. Wayne’s not stupid, he knows what that means.

Doesn’t mean he likes it, but he knows it.

He has no clue about Steve. What this would mean for him. Whether he’s accepting, or maybe gay too. There’s nothing there for him to go with. All he knows about that is from stories, and none of them are good.

But when he looks at Eddie with the same look in his eye. Giving back as much as Eddie gives. Wayne’s starting to think that there is more there. There shouldn’t be, but there is.

He’s refusing to think more about this. To wonder if that is going to go anywhere. Or that he’s right. Because it’s rude to speculate about people. Especially about this. So he doesn’t. And does all at the same time because he feels the need to look out for Eddie. Eddie’s already been hurt so much, he doesn’t need heartbreak on top of it.

So living in the same house with this kid is not a good idea. Even if it means bringing Eddie back to the motel while he looks for a place to live. That is better than putting Eddie in a situation where he could get hurt again.

“Dustin had this idea,” Steve starts, not listening to Wayne’s silent protest, “that you and Wayne could come and stay with me for a few weeks. Just until you find a permanent place to live.”

Eddie continues to look confused. “Oh.”

“Yeah, and I had this whole long speech to try and convince him before Dustin could get to him, because he will no matter what happens. But Wayne didn’t want to hear it.”

Eddie leans back in the bed, trying to wrap his mind around it all. “And you would be ok with that?”

Steve shrugs. “I mean, yeah. It’s not the first time I let someone stay when they needed to. I let Mrs. Mayfield stay when she was looking for a new house. And this one time, Robin’s house has to get fumigated, so I let her, and her parents stay for the few days they were kicked out.”

Wayne takes a bit of surprise to this. It somehow makes the offer more genuine.

“Your parents don’t have a problem with this?” he asks. Realizing this is the first time that Wayne’s ever even mentioned them to Steve.

He hasn’t heard Steve mention them at all. Or anyone, for that matter.

Steve scratches at the back of his neck. “They kind of officially moved out of town after the mall fire. They’ve been back a few times, around holidays, but only for a day or two. If it weren’t for me still living there, they would have sold the house already.”

“Didn’t you get, like, badly injured in the mall fire,” Eddie asks. Looking sympathetic.

“Yeah,” Steve said with another shrug. “They stuck around for about a week after it happened to help me out a little. But after that, they were gone.”

Wayne’s not sure how he’s supposed to react to this. He would never have imagined moving away without his kid. Even if they were an adult, which Steve barely is. Wayne would still stay until it was the kid’s choice to leave. After that, there would still be a room with all of their old things. A space that they could stay in, if they ever needed to.

Apparently, that’s not the same for everyone.

He rethinks over the offer. Taking out his own stubbornness, as much as he could at least. It’s honestly really kind of Steve to offer up a space in his home for them. For anyone. With a house that big and only him in it, it had to be lonely. Maybe for a while, he and Eddie could make it a little less lonely.

“What was the rest of the speech?” Wayne asks. Causing both Steve and Eddie to look at him with shock. Wayne ignores it. “You said that you wouldn’t stop until I heard you out. I’m hearing you out.”

Steve smiles just a little bit before launching into all the benefits of moving in with him. There was a gym in garage that had everything Eddie needed to do his physical therapy from home. And a ground floor bedroom with a bathroom so he didn’t have to use the stairs. A pool that Steve could fill if Eddie wanted to do some water therapy. Plenty of space for Wayne and Eddie to live comfortably while Wayne searches for a place to live.

Plenty of empty bedrooms for storage if Wayne needed it. He doesn’t know why that stands out the most to him, but it does.

They were right. It would be nice to bring Eddie back to a place that had an actual bed. Somewhere with a lot of space for his recovery. Somewhere where Wayne could save up most of his paychecks for a house.

He might actually find a place a lot nicer than what he was looking at now.

Wayne accepts the offer before he can find a way to reject it. Hoping that it’s the right decision.

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[milf-harrington]

the overwhelming feeling of being watched in the dark

steddie | 2.3K | read on ao3

---

There was something under Steve Harrington’s bed. 

It hadn’t always been there– once upon a time, there’d been nothing but empty space between the bed-frame and the dark blue carpet lining his bedroom floor. Once upon a time, he’d sleep sprawled across his bed like it was bigger than it was, arms and legs dangling over the sides carelessly, no thoughts spared towards monsters that could be watching through the gap in the closet door. 

No thoughts spared towards monsters at all.

Until three years ago, when he found out one had apparently been running around in the woods behind his house. Of course, he found out about that little tidbit of information after he’d fought the thing off with a baseball bat that Jonathan Byers had stuck nails in. 

Curiously, in November of 1983, Steve developed a troublesome fear of lights.

After the shitshow at the Byers house, he couldn’t stand the quiet buzzing of the bulbs or the way adrenaline gripped his throat every time too many appliances made the lights pulse. Lights flipped on, or off , without warning threw him into fight or flight mode, one hand reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. 

So instead he kept the lights off as often as he could, relearning the shape of his house in the dark, right up until Halloween of 1984. 

1984 brought junkyards, traversing an underground maze while concussed, and the chittering screech of dogs-that-weren’t-dogs. His hallway at night became a winding tunnel with the potential to fill with writhing, faceless, bodies whose heads peeled open like some sort of fucked up banana, and suddenly lights didn’t seem so bad. 

And then, like the universe just couldn’t help itself, 1985 left him with blood in his eyes and drugs in his blood and the chilling understanding that some very bad people had some very sensitive information about him and his friends. 

By his 4th brush with death-by-alternate-dimension, his new fear of the dark had become a downright hassle. Embarrassing and impossible to logic his way out of.

Steve was frozen in the doorway of his bedroom, watching Eddie take his rings off. He did this thing where he'd poke his top lip with the tip of his tongue, concentrating hard on twisting each bit of jewellery off before reaching forward to drop it onto Steve's fancy writing desk. They clattered against the wood, ringing sharply when they skimmed each other, and Steve was trying very hard to focus on all of that and not the sight of Eddie’s ankles exposed to the underside of his bed. 

A grown man could fit under there and Steve knew that because sometimes he hid under his bed when the world was too much. 

Eddie looked over his shoulders, eyebrow cocked somewhat playfully. He was always some level of playful, like he didn't know how to exist in the world without turning it into a game. “You planning on standing there all night?”

Steve’s eyes dropped from his face to the space between the carpet and the bed-frame. A man could fit under there. Someone who knew his name and had his keys because his pockets had been emptied when he and Robin had been captured. 

He swallowed, trying to ignore it, and looked back to find that Eddie’s expression had softened into something else. Something concerned. “Stevie?”

There’s someone under the bed , he wanted to say. Even if the logic wasn’t foolproof, the connection had already been made in his head and there was no thinking his way out of it. Someone could fit under there, so someone had fit under there and now if Steve turned off the light they were both going to die. 

He glanced at the light switch, sitting innocently by his shoulder, and a cold panic coiled tight in his stomach. 

“You can keep the light on.” Eddie offered, gently, fiddling with his hair. “I’m not going to judge you man, I’ve needed the bathroom light on since I was a kid. And after the shit you’ve seen?” He blew air through his lips, cutting a hand through the air. 

And Steve knew that, had been there on some of those nights. The ones where Eddie kept his bedroom door open because sometimes the kid that still existed in his brain got scared of things that hadn’t happened in over a decade. 

But it didn’t work the same for Steve. After so many years of not being afraid, of having no reason to be, he still found it almost impossible to sleep without total darkness. Like the damaged part of his brain was ringing alarm bells, but the older bits still recognised the safety in the shadows.

“It’s not that.” Steve admitted, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling childish. There’s someone under the bed, he wanted to say. Could feel the words squeezing his throat like tails and vines and the hands trying to hurt. If I turn the lights off I don’t know what will happen.

God, his bat was under there– the one with the nails driven through it, crooked and rusted with old blood. Whoever was under there probably already had their hands wrapped around it, waiting for the cover of dark to use it.

There were lots of things under Steve’s bed. They weren’t always there at the same time, but the possibility of them was burned into the wooden slats holding his mattress up.

The Soviets had known his full name. 

There was a lot you could find out just by knowing something like that, especially with a name like Harrington in a town like Hawkins. And yeah, Starcourt had burned down, half the base blown up, but there had been survivors because some of them had dragged Hopper off to Russia. 

Which means there were still people out there who might know his name.

Most of Steve’s nightmares were set in that base. 

Eddie was looking more worried the longer Steve went without saying anything, just standing next to the light switch and not doing anything. He bit the inside of his cheek, cracking the knuckles on one hand to assure his friend that he wasn’t being Vecna’d or anything.

He should check.

He’d probably look like a fucking weirdo but there was something under the fucking bed and there would be until he could make sure there wasn’t. It was a reckless sort of certainty that burned through his stomach, tight and cold around his throat. 

---

read the rest on ao3 'cause i didn't wanna post the full thing on here

[sugar-crash]

🍬King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader👑

(Sleep Edition!)

(Request here! Sorry this came out way later than it was supposed to, some personal stuff is happening that’s I won’t divulge into... But I’ll just say that the fanfiction🔑 curse is apparently real and doesn’t stop at AO3.)

- He’s more tolerant than how he is Turbo when you start sleeping with one another but still has those selfish habits of hogging the bed, but seeing how he’s royalty now it probably isn’t much of a problem— He feels like the type to have a overly large bed or something like that.

- Snores a bit louder than he used to, cause,, old man disguise. Uhhh old man in general, whose supposed to be whimsical but falling back on it.

- But like again they’re not going to keep you up at night, at least, I hope they don’t cause you guys probably spend a lot of time together.

- More cuddly for sure, like I touched upon earlier after all those years of hiding and being all alone did something to me, he probably realized that being more affectionate would help him and this relationship.

- I like to think that as a creation of humans it isn’t much of a stretch to say like any other piece of art it imitates life, and what is life with those moments of desire, belonging.

- A part of him probably wants to belong to Sugar Rush desperately, and being in charge of it is what makes him feel like does, at least to a degree. Giving you affection and space when you need it, sleeping in Sugar Rush is always the best, sleeping on literal marshmallows.

- Maybe even wants to feel as if he belongs in this relationship in general, His actions in this relationship trying so hard to be genuine at times when he feels it warrants them, like hugging you close and lulling you to sleep.

- He’s making an active effort to be what he thinks you need in this relationship, thinking he knows what’s best for you more you do, that sense of entitlement he has seeping into this relationship almost covertly.

- Who knows what’s going on in his brain most of the time, maybe ways to insult people who he deems below him but I digress, like sometimes his emotion is unreadable when you finally nod off after a conversation about your place and why never comes over or leaves Sugar Rush itself where he is able to quell you enough for the time being.

- He has so much going through his brain constantly, mostly stemming from that anxiety that has the tendency to keep him up at times.

- Still a terrible insomniac, that’s not up for debate he has lost hours of sleep over his own self imposed fears of being replaced by the original ruler Venallope.

- One word to describe both Turbo and King Candy is Paranoid, whether it be about his popularity or maintaining a power of authority over something that isn’t his.

- He’s so afraid and that mixed with sleep deprivation and denial of what he truly is, getting him away from everything is how you get him to stop and think critically before finally calming down and taking a chill pill after being strung up for so long.

- He gives you credit for your care for him, thanking you softly but never repeating himself when you ask him to, you know what he said.

- Again he doesn’t hang on your every word, that self reliance still being a very important part of who he is, especially now as a ruler.

- The amount of lectures you get when you guys first start dating and he has to explain away how weird Sugar Rush gets is far too many.

- I think with your help he’s a bit less paranoid, like a relationship with you definitely lessens the edge he has about him— Hell he’s probably even more conniving to others than he is in the movie because he takes the time to really think about what he can do without needing to think on the spot.

- His tendency to think later on is still very much intact, and I believe your relationship has both their benefits and drawbacks— A part of him definitely becomes more smug and full of himself, he got someone to love him as King Candy after all, further adding less suspicion on him.

- I think in a way to keep him from going “too soft” convinces himself that your relationship is that, but no amount of justification can hide that genuine caring he has for you, years of being together only amplifying that.

- In a way, you give him ease, just not in a literal way he does for you, a way that he doesn’t really recognize till he reaches the point of no return.

(Bdr aqfdk dr rljcsbdko kl lkc wdhh squhy nljmqcbcki fki d ilks sbdkg fkylkc wdhh cvcq sbc nbfknc sl fs hcfrs kls sbc mclmhc lt sbc fqnfic.)

[ungodly-amounts-of-godly-trauma]

wotw round 1

propaganda under the cut!

will graham:

OMG where do I even start??? A lot of the fandom (not the whole fandom, but a lot of them) are obsessed with Will Graham being traumatized helpless baby boy sub and it's just like… Hello? Did you watch the same show as me?

"Oh no he got his brain caught on fire with encephalitis he needs his big strong psychiatrist Hannibal to take care of him and spoon feed him and protect him from the world"

"Oh he's in love with his friend Alana but she just sees him as a friend and a psychiatric project I just need to wrap him in a blanket and cuddle him and protect him from all these people who hurt him"

Like the list goes on and on but guys, come on. Will Graham lives by himself with his 7 dogs and takes care of all of them. He's an FBI agent. HE'S LITERALLY KILLED PEOPLE BOTH WITH HIS BARE HANDS AND WITH WEAPONS. THIS MAN IS A SCRUFFY OUTDOORSMAN WHO'S LIKE 6'0" AND MAYBE NOT BUILT BUT DEFINITELY NOT SCRAWNY AND IN NEED OF PROTECTING. I think a lot of people get caught up in the fact that Will Graham is played by Hugh Dancy and he was very much a "pretty boy" character in a lot of stuff before he played Will Graham and this is also exacerbated by Hannibal being played by Mads Mikkelsen who is "slightly taller rugged silver fox European man who is going to fix my daddy issues" and since Will and Hannibal are the main couple a lot of people are like "well they can't both be big tough top guys so obviously it's the guy who's slightly bigger and buffer and older"

Will Graham is a 38 year old FBI criminal profiler who has killed dangerous people with his bare hands, went to prison for some time, masterfully manipulated others, also hunts and fishes, and he's like very good at reading people and their motivations. Incredibly smart everyday man.

Sweet JESUS sometimes the fandom makes him out to be more of a helpless puppy than he really is. Granted, even if he has his moments of mental vulnerability, it's never treated as weak by the show. He's managed to persist through some of the hardest situations. AND LIKE I GET IT, HE'S REALLY PRETTY WHEN HE'S IN PAIN AND SUFFERING BUT HE'S NOT!!! A BABY!!! Anyway I've seen a lot of fandom takes where he's been twinkified to high hell or portrayed as helpless/submissive and often it entirely diminishes that he's a grown fucking person (who has KILLED AND WILL DO IT AGAIN).

had encephalitis in s1 so everyone calls him sweaty & got framed for murder so when he actually murders people people say it’s not his fault and that he was manipulated into doing so (how do you manipulate someone into putting down a shotgun and beating someone to death with their bare hands when you’re not even there? fuck if i know. also, the manipulator in question (hannibal, his sort of therapist) actively stopped him from killing someone). “someone help will graham” is an actual tag on ao3. people treat him like a child. he is a serial killer and people act like he can’t even feed himself. it’s terrible. will graham is a liar, a murderer, a cannibal, a manipulator, and i love him for it

jason "jd" dean:

shoutout to my lovely friend who knows who they are who talk abt how jd does no wrong and hes so slay when like. he does slay. he did slay. he slayed three whole people. and tried to slay a school. like, jd does a lot of wrong. all he does is wrong. and sometimes the fandom acts like everything he does is super chill and fine and sane, and ignores what he did altogether. like yea christian slater was fit in the movie. yk whats not fit? homocide

hes also treated like an innocent lil baby who can do nothing for himself but im watching the movie rn and he just bashed veronicas head off of an emergency fire hose, and shes apparently the love of his life

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 6 - Legends & Destiny

Happy second to last day of @nessianweek! I have for you a Witcher!Cassian and sorceress!Nesta AU.

You can read here or on ao3!

Out of the Fog, Into the Mist

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to underage marriage and sex trafficking.

In the town of Mulbrydale, just north of the river near Hanged Man’s Tree, whispers rode the chill autumn air like restless ghosts. For weeks, the townsfolk held their breath as a dark shadow loomed over them: girls had begun to vanish. Four in total, all last seen in the gnarled woods at the fringes of their fields. And so a notice was put out on boards around Velen, that anyone who could find the girls (or the culprit) would eat and sleep well in any house, and could lay claim to a hefty sum.

It smelled like trouble, the sickly sweet of a body left long to rot, but Cassian needed the coin. And after four nights sleeping on the hard-ass ground of this war-ravaged cesspool, he wasn’t picky about how he got it.

“They go over the ridge to let the goats feed in the scrubs. Come sundown the goats come back, but not the girls,” the local innkeep explained, and Cassian saw the ripple of fear pass through him as he said it, the curl of his stooped shoulders.

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the stink wafting off his new employer, though maybe he’d ceased to be nose-blind to himself. “So you want me to find what’s killing them.”

“Not killin’, Master Witcher - snatchin’.” The man’s voice was grave despite the lilting accent. “We’ve searched these wood a dozen times and found naught, not a bone. Tweren’t even no blood. Must be a fearsome thing to take them without a trace.”

He gave Cassian a look he’d seen a thousand times then, the furtive dart of a gaze that lingered on the cat-like yellow of his mutated eyes, the two swords at his back: steel for men, silver for monsters. He tried to ignore it, along with the rage that bubbled up at how common folk saw him, a beast barely better than those he slayed.

“And it’s only girls? No boys, too?”

The innkeep shook his head, leaned in to whisper, “The boys come home all dazed-like, remember nothin’. Except for Young Ian, but he were half mad already.”

Cassian sighed and considered the possibilities. There were the tragic but mundane - the girls got lost, or else ran off, ending up for the wolves either way. Then the tragic and unjust, that someone or something was abducting them: slavers, traffickers. It seemed less likely the cause was supernatural, though hags were known to have a penchant for young females, maybe a lesser vampire.

He didn’t relish any of the outcomes, if he was honest with himself. But he’d seen the lavish church at the end of the high street and knew there could be no drought of money in this town, despite the dilapidated dwellings. Crisis had a habit of making converts of even the most secular, and the people of Mulbrydale shed their coin for the Church of the Eternal Fire like the yellow birch leaves now littering their street.

“What did this Young Ian claim to see?” he asked, and the innkeep shrugged where he’d turned to wipe a grimy mug. Whether beast or bastard, Cassian figured the snatcher must have a stash spot nearby since none of the bodies had been found, or else there’d be tracks from a caravan or band of outlaws. 

“He says he saw a lady in the wood, the same day the last girl disappeared. Said she spoke to him day afore yesterday when he went lookin’ for his own sister, Abby. Didn’t find no trace of her, but came back babblin’ like a loon about how he met some Gray Lady. Blue eyes and hair spun of gold, he says.”

Instincts prickling, Cassian leaned closer across the grubby counter, trying to hide his voice below the din of other midday patrons who apparently had nothing better to do than drink. “Did he seem.. Out of it? Acted strange ever since?”

“Well he’s never been quite right, but he did turn down a sympathy romp with Marna over there when he came to tell the tale. Never afore he done that.” 

The aforementioned must’ve heard her name, for a dull-eyed woman rose her head from where it had been plastered to a scrubbed wood table and offered him a watery smile. The innkeep gave him a significant look, eyebrows raised.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place, an artist’s first pass of paint over a canvas. It definitely wasn’t wolves, and while he hadn’t ruled out some other creature it was clear this being was intelligent, enough to cover his own tracks. That left fewer options, all of them dangerous.

Cassian straightened, confident he’d wrung every bit of useful information out of the man, tossed his last few coppers on the counter before draining his ale.

“Thank you. Tell me where to find this Young Ian, and the families of the girls, and I’ll be on my way. And as for my fee..”

They haggled for a moment, and he managed to get the innkeep up a few more crowns, enough to see him through until he reached Oxenfurt. Once there he could rest a bit easier, in more comfort with the dearth of contracts in the city. Maybe even spring for a sympathy romp himself.

Cassian left his horse tethered outside the inn and made his way to the main street. Townsfolk froze in their churning and smithing and general idling to gawk at him, some spitting in his path or crossing themselves and mumbling prayers to the Eternal Fire. Even the reedy looking man in the pillory had the gall to sneer at him, but they were all reactions he’d endured for many years, and Cassian only sent his well-practiced curse to his parents for selling him off so young.

For it was a witcher’s lot in life to be both needed and reviled, a freak mutated with poisons to be stronger, faster, with keener senses and quicker healing. His kind were made, not born, though he might as well have been for all the choice he had in it. 

At the first three girls’ houses Cassian found similar scenes - weeping mothers, dull-eyed siblings, fathers crackling with impotent rage. And the same story thrice over: that their daughter walked over the ridge to the forest like she always did, and at sundown only the goats came home, no trace to be found. 

The tale was simple enough, but something snagged in the back of Cassian’s mind as he trudged up the lane toward the last house. Maybe it was that all the girls were near age thirteen, all described as both comely and disobedient by their fathers. The way the mothers cringed away from their husbands, the young boys in each house better nourished than their sisters.

Abby was the third girl who’d gone missing, who also happened to be the sister of the young man who’d claimed to see the phantom in the forest. Her former house was a sad little cottage of pitch and straw at the end of the lane, leaning drunkenly to one side from time and shoddy construction. Its owner leaned in much the same manner where he sat out front, propped up on a stool with a jug between his feet, dirt and sweat caked along his hairline.

Cassian cleared his throat and the man jolted upright at the sound, somehow startled even though Cassian was big enough to cast a shadow across him from several feet away.

“I hear your daughter’s gone missing,” Cassian bit out, already expecting no useful information. “And your son saw a woman in the woods. What can you tell me?”

The man hiccoughed and blinked up at him, weaving slightly though he was sitting still. “My Abby. She’s gone. The Gray Lady took ‘er.”

“What Gray Lady?”

“Ian seent her, my - hic - son. When he went lookin’ for his sister.” He gestured toward the forest and belched wetly, making Cassian take a step back. “Said he saw a figure in the woods before passing out, and when he woke this was - hic - in his pocket along with one of Abby’s hair - hic - ribbons.”   

The man nodded downward. Cassian looked closer now at the jug between his feet and saw a small flower sticking from the opening, an ordinary celandine. But the yellow petals shimmered in the light, strange, unearthly, and he felt his witcher’s medallion hum against his chest at the presence of magic.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It won’t die. The priest says it’s an omen from the Eternal Fire, that it marks the unnatural has - hic - taken ahold of her. That I gotta pay to have my home cleansed so the blight don’t spread to my others. But I think she sent it as a sign she’s still out there, that she needs me to come save her. Somethin’s not right in those woods, I’m tellin’ you. Somethin’ wicked snatched my girl, I feel it.”

Zealots and swindlers, all priests of that bloodthirsty religion, but Cassian couldn’t deny the wrongness that radiated from the flower, a clumsiness in how the magic wavered he couldn’t quite place. The girl’s father burst into pitiful tears then, and Cassian almost felt sorry for him, as much as he was capable of, anyway. 

“And it would take her of course, my Abby. Most beautiful girl in Velen. She was supposed to be - hic - married next month, you know. I knew one day some important man would come through and see her and have to take her for a wife. Offered a handsome sum, too. My girl. Knew she couldn’t have been born so pretty for - hic - nothin’.” He dissolved once more into weeping, mumbling to himself, a man lost in his own head.

Yet despite the way his voice trembled, something about his grief left a bad taste in Cassian’s mouth, like beer gone slightly off. And not because of the myth that witcher mutations robbed one of normal human emotions - he had more of those than this man was having coherent thoughts at present - but he seemed much sadder about the lost coin than his own flesh and blood.

After a few additional questions that got him nowhere, Cassian left the man cradling the flower, stroking it with one delicate finger and muttering about farm equipment that needed repairing. 

The mystery was starting to come together more clearly, though parts still felt obscured, a thick bank of fog blocking the places where it all connected. The flower was strange, the magic rudimentary, but Abby at least had reasons to run away, or perhaps a suitor uninterested in paying her father what he thought she was worth.

He trudged back up the lane, stomach growling.

With information from a street urchin he cajoled by letting her hold his sword, he soon found Young Ian hiding in the community stables. He could’ve been no older than twenty, sprawled in a pile of straw with one hand tugging hard at his fluffy hair, a ragged feather quill in the other. There was a piece of grubby parchment stretched over his knee, and Cassian wondered if the innkeep was right about his sanity when he saw line after line written and crossed out, fitful scribblings of an unsound mind. 

“Wanted to ask you some questions about the missing girls,” Cassian said gruffly, and the sandy-haired head whipped upwards, startled.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” he grumbled, muddy green eyes hazy. “Now git on with ye, I’m in the middle of somethin’.”

“Yes I can see that. Mind taking a break so we can both get on with our business?”

Ian bared his teeth to retort but seemed to catch himself, spotting Cassian’s leather armor, his twin swords. “Aye, you’re one o’ them witcher’s, ye are. I heard stories about ye. No feelings, none at all.”

“Thanks for your input. Now tell me about the woman you saw.”

“N-no, I didn’t see no-” Ian stammered, but Cassian felt his patience growing short. His belly was empty and so was his coin purse, and none of that would be remedied by debating his own emotional capacity.

“I don’t fucking care what you were doing out there, just tell me what you saw.”

“She told me not to tell.”

Beyond aggravated, Cassian felt his hand moving up to cast Axii before deciding to do so. Ian’s eyes instantly went glassy, his own will dampened, and he glanced out the stable door before leaning in close.

“I saw her,” he said, voice wavy with delight. The reverence that broke across his face crinkled the dirt at the corners of his eyes. “The Gray Lady. She was there in the woods, in naught but a robe, and she was the most beautiful -”

“This was a human woman?”

“Tweren’t nothing human about her, Sir Witcher, sir. She was - She -”

A faint buzzing sounded, and Cassian felt his medallion hum against his chest again. Something was preventing the young man from telling what he’d seen despite Axii’s influence, perhaps from remembering it altogether. He could read now the scribbled lines on the parchment - poetry, declarations of love to a golden-haired goddess. The gifts he’d lavish upon her, where he’d lick - 

With a groan, Cassian lumbered away from the young man, who returned moony-eyed to his musings with hardly a second glance. This job just kept getting worse.

It was too late to back out now, he reasoned, and he returned to the inn to wait for nightfall. And to stew over what the fuck he was going to do.

For this was no common trafficker or hag or even an incubus that took those girls, any of which would be preferable to what it probably was. It was most likely a creature more formidable than all others, against which he had a particular weakness. Cassian sharpened his silver sword while the townspeople descended into drunkenness that evening, trying to ignore the dread that had begun to coil in his stomach, wondering if the blade would even make a difference.

When the moon was a pale wisp on the horizon, he slipped out of the tavern and proceeded into the woods on foot, not trusting his horse to resist whatever tricks may lay in wait. The forest was dense and silent, quieter than it had any right to be, and he met none of the usual night creatures as he wound further between the trees. Cassian found himself holding his breath at intervals, the creeping feeling that he was treading somewhere he ought not go, pressing ahead in defiance. Perhaps in foolishness, too. 

Water sounded close by, the smell of wet earth and something sweeter, trunks thinning to indicate a glade ahead. The ground was softer here, and with his witcher’s sight he noticed a crisscross of small footprints in the mud, a scrap of flowery fabric snagged on a branch. A twist of magic drifted on the air, sharp and metallic, making his lip curl and his medallion shudder.

Yet at the same time his better sense begged to turn back, a thread tugged low in his gut, pulling him forward. With the blessing of vision in the dark, Cassian crept through the trees until he came at last to a starlit clearing.

A gray-robed figure stood in the pool of a silver waterfall, hood shrouding the details of her heart-shaped face. He could tell it was a woman from the contours of her body, from the long, golden-brown hair that swayed like reeds in the updrafts from the falls. Though he’d approached on silent footsteps, she turned in greeting like he’d come crashing through the brush, her full mouth bracketed with annoyance as if he’d kept her waiting.

Slender hands reached up to remove the hood, and the woman beneath was unlike he’d ever seen, tall and willowy, her face glowing like the moon. And those eyes - he could see why Ian was trying to put his passion to paper. They were the blue-gray of a winter sky reflected in his sword, smoldering like white-hot embers in the night. His empty stomach fell out then, for such unnatural beauty only graced one kind of creature.

A sorceress.

All around him plants rustled in a phantom breeze, giant tropical flowers, willows with branches that trailed in the clear pool at his feet. He could see silver-scaled fish flashing in the water, chiming where they brushed against one another, against her shapely legs. Legs he’d die to have wrapped around his waist, or crushing his head as he -

A tendril of magic wrapped about his throat, choking off his breath before he could shield himself. Cassian saw one elegant eyebrow raise when he didn’t pass out immediately, knew it was a trap but oh, what a trap to die in.

Fucking sorceresses.

“You seek the missing girls.”

Her voice was like liquid starlight, and he tried to stammer out an explanation but found only a dumb groan pouring from his throat. “Do you mind toning down your glamour?” he managed once he’d collected himself enough. “It’s giving me a headache.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, and he wondered if she expected him to fall to her feet as the village boy had. As many others had before, he suspected. 

But she relented, the intense aura around her dimming somewhat to reveal a woman more earthly, yet somehow more beautiful still. She had a severe look about her, her face all angles, and he couldn’t help how his eyes traced her lush body, more gorgeous than he’d seen in many long years. Not that it meant anything about her potential to rip him in half, though it certainly was an.. Obstacle.

“You know where they are,” he choked out.

She smiled, cloying, and the wind brought the scent of lilacs drifting toward him once more. “I take it you’ve come to rescue them from evil, brave knight.”

Her countenance was soft and inviting, but Cassian knew what wolves could live in pretty clothing. Knew the dangers in taking her kind’s word, drilled into him through experiences both vicarious and personal.

Don’t ever trust a fucking sorceress.

He should be better at learning from his mistakes by now.

“Where are they?”

“Safe.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it.”

He’d heard of crooked mages snatching girls to sell to the academies, earning commissions based on each student’s aptitude. In a dream world the law would put a stop to it, a fool’s dream given Velen had a skewed view of justice these days. But something about the woman before him gave him pause, a crispness in her manner that belied a stronger moral code. Mostly the fact she hadn’t killed him yet.

“What other choice do you have?” she said in her silvery voice, and a shudder threatened to steal through him.

“I could kill you.The families think some evil creature stole them. Want me to bring back its head.”

He knew it was a gamble, but he wanted to gauge her power, how much of a threat he posed to her. Her moonbright eyes darted toward his weapons - he saw genuine fear there, and Cassian wondered if he’d misjudged her before her expression melted back into smugness.

“Two swords. I should’ve known.” She wrinkled her delicate nose and gods, he wanted to kiss where the skin crinkled. “They’ve hired you to dispatch the monster, and here you are.”

“Tell me where the girls are and there’ll be none to kill.”

“Those zealots wouldn’t know a real monster if it were clawing at their hollow legs,” she muttered to herself before straightening. “Then it seems I must plead my case. Come. Let’s see if I can’t convince you to spare me.” 

She flashed that sensual, terrifying smile again and Cassian was half tempted to turn around and sprint away. Sorceresses were of a duplicitous ilk at best, abjectly cruel at worst, and whatever this one was doing out here on her own, the whole thing spelled trouble. He got the distinct impression she was concealing something, though what it was difficult to say. But when she extended a hand out toward him, Cassian couldn’t find it in himself to deny her, to think anything but whether its owner would let him press his lips to it, among other places. 

“Well?” she asked. “Are you coming in, or must we do this in the cold?”

She beckoned him forward before turning and walking straight through the waterfall. Cassian  followed dumbly on leaden legs, braced himself for the rush of chill water but was met with only a whisper of warm air, the scent of lilac and parchment dancing on the wind.

They emerged into a circular courtyard, surrounded on three sides by a stone villa tucked into a mountainside, archways leading to various chambers beyond. The remaining side stood open to the night air, the steep drop beyond, shadows shifting in the light of several braziers along the perimeter. His hostess looked different, too, her roughspun cloak transformed into a high-collared gown, the deep plum fabric spotless where it swept against the polished stone floor. A lush banquet was laid out before them, and even as his stomach growled Cassian knew this was a mistake, knew she already had her hooks in him and was just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“Let’s have dinner before you decide to kill me.” Her smile was luminous and terrifying, and he swallowed in spite of himself. She gestured to a plush-cushioned seat at one end of the long table, draping herself in the one opposite. “Well, witcher. Have you the courage to drink for a sorceress’ cup?”

Along with her clothing, she’d transformed into an even smoother, more self-assured woman now they were in her bower, a spider biding time at the edge of her web. A goblet appeared before him when he eased into the chair, as if dropped out of thin air. The wine within was blood-red, and Cassian felt himself overcome with a thirst that he tried to resist.

“Depends.”

“On what?” She quirked her head to the side, amused.

“Whether I can be of some use to you.”

Her eyes flashed, and he thought saw something like his own hunger mirrored there, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.

“Oh I’m sure you can be very useful, Lord of Bloodshed.”

He balked when she used his nickname, the one he’d earned on the battlefield in the last Temerian rebellion. Her smile widened. 

“Let’s negotiate. You believe I’m involved in the girl’s disappearance. The villagers have asked you to come kill me, and offered you a certain amount of coin to do so.”

“That’s right.”

Cassian eased his swords off his back and set them against the table beside them. That she’d let him keep them would’ve been comforting to a novice, but he knew enough now to tell she wasn’t foolish. Just secure enough in her own power not to worry.

“So it would stand to reason that if I offer you the same amount of coin, you’d happily be on your way.”

It might not be an empty promise - along with the fine dishware on the table, all manner of gemstones and arcane artifacts cluttered the high shelves between the archways, any one of which would’ve doubled his commission.

“That would be true if I didn’t have a reputation to uphold. A witcher doesn’t skip out on a job without good reason.”

“Am I not a good enough reason?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. 

His eyes were immediately drawn to the supple curves of her breasts visible above the table. With great effort Cassian managed to keep his expression stony and shake his head. 

She huffed. 

“You’re a harder nut to crack than the rest. I don’t imagine threatening you out of it would work either. Oh, don’t get twisted about yourself,” she added when his hand moved automatically toward the hilt of his silver blade. “All that would happen is you’d break a lot of my things and then I’d have a great bloody mess to clean up. Truthfully I can’t be bothered.”

“You’re wasting my time, sweetheart,” he growled, patience waning. “Where are the girls?”

“Don’t be beastly,” she scoffed, disgusted, and Cassian bristled at her offense, at the accusation in her eyes. Here she was trying to lure him into a trap, bribe him from his duty, yet acted like she saw nothing but a brute across from her, just like the townspeople.

“Snatching children from their homes, I could argue you’re the beast. No better than a bog hag, bathing in blood to stay young.”

It was a low blow but he didn’t care, wanted to see her face twist with fury, relished the silver fire that sparked at her pale fingertips.

“Of the two of us at this table, who was crafted to kill?” she snarled, jumping to her feet to lean toward him, an accusing finger pointed at his heart. Rage pounded harder through his skull, and Cassian found himself on his feet too, fuming at her across the banquet table.

“Tell the truth for once in your crooked life, sweetheart. All this is an illusion. At the end of the day, you’re just like me. Blood and guts, bones and coin. Only you like to pretend the dirt doesn’t cling to your skirts.”

“The girls are never going home.” Her skirts whipped up in a sudden wind, a whirl of violet, lighting crackling overhead. “Tell the families they’re dead, bring back my head if you must. It will not change the facts.”

“Then you’re every inch the fucking monster you pretend not to be.”

He braced himself for her wrath, the wave of magic coming to steal his breath. But to his surprise she stilled, watched him for a moment, that same evaluating stare from the clearing. Something sad passed across her face, and Cassian felt like he could see through a chink in her armor, just a peek at the scared girl she’d likely once been.

“You think I look at you and see a brute. But I know you and I both have curses to bear. Doomed to live on the outskirts, worth just what we offer to others. I only wish for my freedom.”

An understanding passed between them, of two people stranded in an eternal no man’s land. For himself, Cassian had surrendered long ago to his fate straddling the fringes of society, helping people who smiled in his face and spat at his back. He’d tried living away from civilization altogether for a few decades but found it brutally lonely.

There were respites, of course, when he found favor with a noble or a woman who could tolerate him for more than a night, but he aged so much slower that eventually everything permanent proved it was not.

They both sat back down in unison, a truce. Cassian took a sip of wine, and her stormy blue eyes tracked the movement, a blush creeping across her chest.

“You could have both,” he observed, and she wrinkled that perfect nose again. “A sorceress like you could easily find home in a court. Why hide out in this shithole?”

“A boring, sad question with a boring, sad answer. You and I have more interesting things to discuss, I think.”

The hunger rose in her eyes once more, and he saw them rove over his body, pink tongue coming out to wet her lips. He chuckled. So this was the trap at the web’s center.

“You must be wanting for bed partners if you’ll have me, sweetheart.” An understatement given he’d been sleeping outside for a week, but his hostess stood after downing her own glass, waving a bored hand.

“Nothing a little water can’t fix.” 

She crossed to one of the archways and opened the door to a lush bathing chamber, the sunken pool steaming with fragrant water, lilac and sage. Cassian rose and followed, but he caught her arm on the threshold, heard her breath hitch when he pulled her body flush to his.

“I don’t make a habit of bedding women whose names I don’t know.”

“It’s Nesta,” she said, smiling, and the wind echoed her: Nesta Nesta Nesta.

He let her have her way with him the first time, knowing from experience she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was on his knees before her, where he belonged. She combed his hair while he recovered, and atop her silk sheets had her way with him again, only allowing him to explore her once she was wrung out and purring. Squeezed those lovely legs around his head and ceded the high ground at last, crying out beneath him as he took her as he’d wanted to from the beginning, hard and fast and desperate. Whimpered so sweetly when he kissed a line down her back and claimed her from behind, though they both knew who was in charge. He thought he might die from it, from her pressing back into him just as eagerly, the roundness of her hip in one of his hands, her pleasure in the other.

He brushed the hair from her forehead where she lay against his chest after, skin glistening under the soft blanket of the moon. Her bedchamber was cluttered with books, piles of them on the dresser, the small desk. A portrait of her and two other young women hung over the hearth, all with the same gold-brown hair.

Nesta flinched when he bent to kiss her soft cheek, just the smallest amount, that mortal eyes would likely miss. There was something heartbroken about her he couldn’t quite place, a loneliness even their coupling hadn’t remedied. Like she still expected to have to kill him.

Then light shifted in one of the archways, the air rippling, and he knew.

“They’re here.”

She hummed in annoyance and kept her eyes closed. “Don’t speak yet. You’re ruining this for me.”

“Tell me where they are.”

She pulled back and regarded him for a long moment, evaluating, and he tried to be whatever it was she was looking for, if only so she would keep looking.

Nesta nodded, having found it, and strode toward one of the archways wrapped in the blanket, drew back a curtain of air with a graceful sweep of her arm. A portal.

Inside lay a stone chamber filled with moonlight, a round table in the center carved with runes and littered with herbs and gemstones. Beyond a door on the far wall he could see rows of bunks built into the stone, the forms of children sleeping, their gentle snores carried to him on a lilac-scented wind.

“Are they here of their own will?”

“Somewhat.”

“So, no.”

“They are my pupils.”

“Some would call them hostages.”

She clenched her fists, incensed, and he saw the waves of power gather about her, Chaos begging for her touch. “What shall I do, leave them to be used as pawns by their families? Sold to wretched old men or wasting away in that cesspool? I’m giving them a way out.”

“And condemning them to walk alone in the process.”

“They deserve to decide their own fate.”

“And be like you? Hiding in the woods?”

“Do you pity me, witcher?” She was so close he could see the veins of magic in her eyes, as if her very blood was luminescent. “I may not have the splendor nor the influence of a court mage, but I am shackled to nothing but my own desires. Do you not seek the same?”

I seek nothing but a warm bed and a hot meal, he thought. But when he tried to say it, Cassian bit his tongue so hard he drew blood, and her eyes blazed brighter. He tried again and bit down even harder, the spell preventing the lie from passing his teeth.

“Do you not?” she repeated, and he heard the broken edge there, the plea. “When you sleep on the ground, do you not do so with a glad heart because it is ground you have chosen?”

“We’re all shackled to our fate, sweetheart. Trying to defy it only makes it come faster.”

Before Nesta could respond, there was a small cry from the bunk room and she rushed to attend to it, exposing her back to him without a second thought. Guilt leapt in his stomach, and Cassian couldn’t tear his eyes away as she comforted the girl, pulled the quilts back up over her and stroked her hair.

Feeling intrusive, he moved to don his trousers, and was just reaching for his shirt when she reappeared. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You weren’t wrong. About the solitude. Though it does help to have visitors, to pass the time.”

She trailed over to kiss him again and her mouth was sweet as Toussaint wine. They tumbled back to bed once more, slower this time, and he pretended not to see the shine of her tears in the starlight.

“One of your pupils sent something to her family. An everlasting flower. Gave them hope she’s still alive,” he panted when they were spent, having somehow ended up on the rug before the fire.

“Foolish girl. Her father was preparing to sell her to a traveling merchant. Thirteen years old.”

“One of them will go back one day. Bonds of family are strong. ”

“Not for us though, right?”

Cassian swallowed, knew it wasn’t worth bothering to refute her. His own family was likely long dead by now, and he didn’t even know where they were buried.

“You put yourself at risk doing this,” he warned, not wanting to touch that tender spot any longer. “You’ll have to stop or move on soon.”

“I don’t recall asking for advice.”

“Not advice. Concern.”

“I can take care of myself, witcher.” Nesta looked down from where she sat astride him now, smirking. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Cassian woke hours later at the edge of the waterfall’s pool, a spray of shimmering lilacs tucked in his pocket, sunrise just a few breaths off. Felt the ringing in his head as he plodded back through the woods, the fuzz of wine, the ghost of her fingers in his hair.

He didn’t bother thinking of a tall tale to appease the townsfolk, didn’t even consider stopping at the inn to finagle his commission. On the way out of town he passed Abby’s father sprawled stone drunk by his front gate. Clutched in his hand was the enchanted celadine, still glinting weakly.

Cassian made the sign for Igni and set the flower alight before kicking the man awake.

“Your daughter’s dead.”

He turned his back on the howls of despair, tucking his cloak tighter about him as he headed down the road toward Oxenfurt.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Dodgeball

day 3 @youngroyals-events <3 tack

Simon is determined to win the neighborhood dodgeball game. Mostly so he can rub it in Wille’s face.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.5k).

“Henry, put down the goddamn soda. It’s almost game time,” Simon growls, pointing at the offending beverage.

Ayub sighs and cuts in, “Simon—”

“No!” Simon bursts out, “I will not have my team distracted! I don’t just need to win. We need to crush them.”

Looking across the field to the other team, he finds Wille in the crowd and scowls at him. Wille smiles brightly and blows a kiss. Simon crosses his arms and turns back to his team. 

It’s a lovely summer day and maybe Simon will enjoy the weather later, but right now he has bigger things to focus on. Namely, the annual neighborhood dodgeball tournament. Every year, he’s put on the opposite team as Wille, and every year, Simon makes it his mission to rub the man’s face in the dirt. Simon maintains that he is not typically a competitive person. When it comes to this though, to Wille, he admittedly turns into a monster. It doesn’t matter. His neighbors are very aware of Simon’s stance on the importance of absolutely destroying the other team, except for Henry, apparently. He’ll make it up to them later with the strawberry cake sitting in the cooler. First, he needs to whip them into shape. 

“Okay! Circle up!” he shouts, clapping his hands together and nodding approvingly as his team gathers around him. “I want all of you to remember how it felt to lose last year. Our performance was embarrassing, and I expect more this time around. Carol, I see you going to Zumba every week. Don’t slack on me today. Henry, I swear to God, stop trying to catch the balls. You don’t have the hand-eye coordination for it. Stick to dodging. Also—”

Simon’s eyes land on Rosh, who’s staring across at the other team and grinning slyly, waving at someone. He tracks her eyeline and finds Maddie wiggling her fingers back.  

“Rosh! Stop fraternizing with the enemy!” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “Chill out, Simme.” Then she smirks. “Mads said, if we lose, that she’d—”

Simon holds up a hand. “Please stop. I cannot believe this.” 

“Bror, it’s just a dodgeball game,” Ayub says, patting him on the shoulder. “Neighborhood bonding and all that.”

“It’s not just a game!” he exclaims. “If we lose, I have to—”

Simon’s cut off by the sound of a whistle, signaling it’s time to start. 

He sets his shoulders and gives his team one last glare, then slowly walks to the middle of the field, stopping one pace behind the balls that separate his side from the other side. 

Wille meets him in the middle and smiles, giving Simon a once over glance. 

“You ready for this, baby?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Simon scowls. “Are you ready? To lose?” 

He chuckles lightly. “I’m ready to play a fun game of dodgeball.” 

“Don’t you dare go easy on—”

“I would never,” Wille smirks and holds out a hand. “I have a prize to win.” 

Still glowering at him, Simon shakes Wille’s hand roughly then spins on his heel and stomps away. 

With another minor threat to the well-being of his teammates, the whole group spreads out across the grass, getting ready to run. 

“Three… Two…” 

Another loud whistle signals the start, and, in a burst of yelling, everyone rushes forward — some more quickly than others — and the game begins. 

Simon goes in headfirst. In the back of his mind, he focuses on dodging, but uses most of his brain power to get as many people out as possible. He aims for the slower people on the other team and tries not to get too frustrated with the older folk on his own team. It’s meant to be a game for the whole neighborhood to participate in, but a team is only as strong as its weakest player and Simon can’t risk losing, especially not to Wille. 

Wille, he notices, is sticking to the back of the crowd, pushing wayward balls back into play and shouting encouraging words. Most of the time, he’s too shielded by other people for Simon to hit him, which is very rude and unfair. 

He’s not positive, but it seems to be a pretty close game. There’s still about 10 people in play on each side, and Simon is surprised to see Henry hasn’t been taken out yet. The skinny blond is following Simon’s instructions and not trying to catch anything, and he throws his arms up, whooping happily, when he manages to hit one of the elderly men who’d opted to join. For anyone else, getting out a ninety-year-old wouldn’t be too big of a feat, but for Henry it’s quite impressive. A second later though, distracted by his celebration, Henry takes a ball to the stomach. 

Rosh is still in, easily catching balls coming for her and taking people out left and right. Simon knew he could count on her. 

A ball just misses his head, and he whips around to see Wille grinning at him. 

“You did not!” Simon yells, jumping sideways to dodge another ball. 

Cheerily, Wille shouts back, “Get your head in the game, baby!” 

In the end, it doesn’t take more than ten minutes until it’s just Simon and Rosh against Wille and Maddie. 

Simon glances between Rosh and Maddie, nervously watching the smirk spreading on Maddie’s face. 

“Rosh…” he says slowly. “Don’t you dare.”  

Maddie mimes lifting her shirt, pretending to flash Rosh, and he knows his friend is done for. 

Rosh grins, “Sorry, Simme,” not even looking at him, as Maddie hits her in the shoulder.

“Who are you and what have you done with Rosh?!” he shouts, ducking to avoid the barrage of attacks, now two on one. “I am so disappointed in you!”

Lucky for him, Rosh strolling away to the sidelines is enough to distract Maddie that he gets her out with a solid hit to the knee. 

That just leaves Simon and Wille, prowling on either side of the field, eyes locked on each other. Pretty much everyone else seems to have lost interest already, heading for the tables full of food and coolers full of beer, but this game is not over for Simon. 

Simon picks up a ball, eyes never leaving Wille, and frowns when the other man barely moves, looking quite unconcerned. Pride flaring, Simon snaps, “If you let me win—” 

Wille cuts him off with, “In your dreams, Eriksson!” and squats into a ready stance, motioning for Simon to try to hit him. 

It becomes a tense back and forth between them, chasing each other around the field, dodging and diving. The party carries on around them, but he and Wille stay locked on each other. 

“Your ass looks great in those shorts,” Wille grins, then chucks a ball right at Simon’s chest.

Simon catches it against himself and rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that to distract me, darling.” 

They continue on for, honestly, a little too long. Simon starts to get a little bored, and he can tell Wille is over it, too, but neither of them is going to be the first one to give up. 

Simon gets too cocky. He’s thinking about the orange soda he knows is waiting for him on the sidelines, and starts making compromises in his head about Wille’s ‘prize’ and how it won’t really be that bad. Then, Simon makes a mistake. He tries to catch a ball that’s a little too high over his head and it slips through his fingers, falling into the grass.

Simon swears loudly, glaring at the offending ball that’s just lost him the annual dodgeball game and ignoring the few cheers that come from the others. The cheers seem to be more about that the game is finally over, but Simon’s pride is bruised. Wille’s by his side in a second, wrapping him up in his arms and smacking a kiss against his cheek. Maybe if Simon pouts a bit… 

“Good game, love,” he murmurs into Simon’s hair. “Come on, let’s join the others.” 

When they make it to the sidelines and Wille rushes to get a drink into Simon’s hand, Ayub finds them. 

“What’s the prize this time?” he asks, glancing between him and Wille. 

Simon takes a swig of his soda and frowns deeply. “I have to do the dishes for a week.” 

“Only a week?” Maddie exclaims, appearing out of nowhere with a large slice of watermelon. “You guys gotta come up with better prizes. Rosh gets to—” 

“Hey, Mads,” Wille cuts in, slipping an arm around Simon’s waist, “there’s kids around. Maybe don’t finish that sentence.”

The soda helps to soothe the heat on his skin from the summer sun, and Wille’s arm around him helps ease the sting of the loss. 

“Congrats on making it through another year without getting a divorce,” Rosh says flatly.

Wille grins and pulls Simon closer into him. Simon grumbles a bit but quickly softens once Wille makes him a plate of food and he receives high praise from everyone for the strawberry cake they’d brought. (Technically Wille made the cake, but no one needed to know that.)

It’s a nice day, and Simon can take the loss if it means spending time like this with the people he loves. 

That next week, Wille helps him do the dishes anyway. 

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Muted/Unmuted

Summary: A visit to his brother's university doesn't go as planned - but it's what was needed.

Characters: Virgil, John

Words: 3K

Warnings: depression, hinted.

A/N: I have a small contribution. Look, it's been so long, I'm going to drop this and run. Have 3K of Virgil playing piano.

Or, Read on Ao3

~*~

Muted/Unmuted

The restaurant had a coat check, and that’s how John knew he’d have to use the Tracy name to get himself a table coming in without a reservation like he was. Taking advantage of their privilege wasn’t among his favorite things to do - or any of theirs really - but he made a mental note to donate to a local food kitchen, deciding the time with Virgil was worth him using his name for personal reasons.

“Near the music, if available,” he advised the hostess once he’d handed over his gray overcoat. Though it looked flat on the hanger, it was specially tailored to his silhouette. Around his neck, he continued to wear the long, wide scarf he’d walked in with. It had kept him warm walking through the campus of Denver Tech. Though it was warmer inside the building, he’d carried some of the outside chill with him. He’d been out walking a lot longer than he’d intended - once he’d managed to find the Edwards building from Virgil’s scrawl, one of his suitemates had redirected him into town, here, where Virgil had apparently picked up a last minute shift. 

John hadn’t even known that Virgil was working, not with the coursework he had on his plate to keep up with his two majors. But Virgil was like Scott, like John himself, and like their father before them: a man of action. He liked to keep his hands busy. 

He couldn’t deny the skip in his step, for it had been too long since he’d had a chance to visit Virgil in person, let alone had the chance to listen to his music live. Gordon or Alan or even Scott would’ve lamented the time lost, especially when the weekend was already so short to begin with, before finding something else to keep themselves busy. But John had arrived earlier than expected and it made him smile to know nothing had really changed about his brother since going their separate ways to University. Virgil would always step up when he was needed. 

There was nothing John would rather be doing with his first evening visiting than spending a few hours listening to his brother play the piano. The large textbook adding weight to his satchel reminded him he had his own studying he could do. It would be just like old times -  him lounging in the armchair deep in a book and Virgil practicing his scales and arpeggios before launching immediately into whichever piece was his current creative outlet. Sometimes it was the school play, sometimes a competition piece, and for a while his Juilliard entry, back when he thought he might apply. 

“I’ll likely settle down here for a while,” he advised the woman seating him as he relieved himself of the weight on his shoulder and placed his bag on the private booth before sliding in himself. 

“Of course, Mr. Tracy.” 

Privacy curtains blocked out the tables in his periphery, and though he wasn’t directly in front of where Virgil would play, they had secured him a space adjacent to the small stage space with two pianos, currently empty. 

He worried not about the clientele, letting the people fade away from his mind. But he was curious about the place his brother spent so much of his time, noting the soft, warm lighting, swirls of cloudy marble for each table counter, and seating cushioned with velvet. The kind of luxury they’d grown up with. 

Movement at his left caught his eye as Virgil situated himself at the piano. A black suit, slimming, but not among those specially tailored to his form, gave him the appearance of similar elegance. John recognized it for what it was, a uniform just as much as those worn by the other employees. A tie, nondescript enough that he couldn’t make out its coloring in this light. Though his hair was gelled into his usual coif. 

When he noticed John's eyes on him, Virgil gave him a small smile in acknowledgement from across the tables as he flexed his wrists in preparation for his set. John waved back, then opened his textbook to the latest chapter.

The piano keys, pliant under Virgil's capable fingertips, fluttered familiar melodies with the accompaniment of gently clinking glassware and the hum of dinner chatter. For awhile, John lost himself in physics, math, possibility, and theory. A glass of amber, cooled by stone, opened his mind to think a little looser and with a little less pressure sitting behind his brow. 

He thanked the server for bringing out his first course and used the opportunity to glance around the room. For as much as he liked to keep to himself, people-watching was among his favorite pastimes. When they were younger, he and Virgil used to make up backstories for the people they encountered. It had been a simple form of entertainment and yet great practice for their respective creative endeavors where they both relied on their powers of observation and expression. 

But for all the exercises in years past, his brother stole his gaze this evening, so familiar and yet changed in the months since they'd seen each other last. His face had filled out a little around his high cheekbones, five o'clock shadow a bit more prominent in the evening light. The suit squared his strong shoulders, and it made him seem bigger behind the instrument. Not that Virgil ever seemed small sitting at the piano keys, not with the way he enchanted audiences and conjured emotions in tones. 

Virgil was unaware of his prying eyes, his expression locked on the space where his sheet music usually rested. It was blank. Where his fingers flew over the keys with ease, the music itself was beautiful. Light and ever so gentle. But looking over the crowd, enamored with their respective dining partners or focused on the business portions of their dealings that evening, not one gave a care to the direction of the music. So much so that Virgil was practically background; when he paused between songs, there was no applause or acknowledgement to his performance. 

John’s antipasto turned in his stomach, the silverware suddenly loudening in his ears in a moment where Virgil paused and caught him looking, no doubt his expression bewildered. Barely a breath, and his brother was back in his set. And this time, with his mind less divided with his schoolwork set to the side, John heard it. 

The music was beautiful. That hadn’t changed, and Virgil was as precise as ever.

But it was soulless, as lifeless as the chestnut eyes that refused to meet his. 

~*~

Virgil performed two more sets after the first finished, three in total spanning from six to half after nine, with short breaks in between where he scurried somewhere in the back. John tried both times to catch him on his way to the restroom, but both times his brother had eluded him. After the second, a part of him wondered if the disappearing act was intentional. 

“Would you like a refill, Mr. Tracy?” a server asked, a gloved hand reaching for his glass of water before he could answer. “Do you know him, sir?” she asked, noticing his gaze during the final set. “The pianist?”

The more he watched, the more he noticed. There was a lack of embellishment, and his heart pounded over the lack of flourishes in the melodies. After a while, every tune started to sound like the same song repeated, Virgil’s movements rote and uninspired. 

“No.” 

“Oh, well, if you are into music, we have dueling pianos every Thursday night. It’s a bit more lively with two of them.”  

“Does V- he ever play?” 

“Oh, yes, sometimes he’s on the schedule. But you’ll want to come for Monsieur Allard. Should I see about securing you a reservation this upcoming week, Mr. Tracy?” 

John shook his head and broke the news that he was just in town for the weekend, waiting until she’d left to hiss out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t the server’s fault that Virgil was playing at barely half his talent, stifled and muted in this space of opulent luxury. It was apparent they didn’t know who Virgil really was, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked. And if John knew his brother, that had been intentional, a place to unwind where he could just play and not be his father’s son with their name marketed for the clientele. 

But, oh, the cost. He didn't know everything, yet. He intended to find out, but one thing he knew - this place was bleeding the life from him. 

He paid his check long before Virgil finished, loath to linger any longer than he needed to in the restaurant. His meal had been as luxurious as their menu boasted, and though the decadent flavors had turned flavorless in his observations, he sent his compliments to the chef and left a generous tip nonetheless. 

Out front, he received in message form. And with that he slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, retrieved his coat, and happily left the building behind him.

Virgil beamed when he saw him, his arms laden with a garment bag and struggling with his phone. He'd since changed into casual jeans and flannel where the collar peeked through a similar overcoat. 

"You made it!" he laughed, pushing off the wall he was leaning on and slinging his free arm around John's thin shoulders. 

"A bit early," John admitted, the excitement infectious. 

"Come on," Virgil gestured In the direction of campus. "A short walk then we can get you out of the cold." 

They walked in step, and Virgil voiced the directions as they went. John had memorized them on his way in the first time, but there was no reason for him to tell Virgil that, especially when the instructions came with storytelling about which classes he had in the buildings they passed or which dormitories had the most drama. 

"The arts building is to your left." 

John didn't know what to say. He knew Virgil didn't have any classes there; they'd discussed their respective semesters at length this past summer. 

Virgil smiled at him, and it seemed genuine. 

But those eyes. John couldn't ease the turn in his stomach left by the way they looked through him. The glassiness he'd witnessed was long gone, but that didn't mean whatever was doing that to his brother was resolved. 

And they'd seen this before. 

"Are you okay?" The words burst out of him. "You'd tell one of us if you weren't, right?" 

Virgil's expression crumpled. 

John stopped in his tracks, a tentative hand reaching for his elbow "Virgil?"

"Why do you ask?" he replied, spinning toward him. 

“You - you just didn’t seem like yourself.” John dropped his hold on him.

Virgil sighed, wincing as the instinct to tug at his hair left residue on his fingers. He rubbed them anxiously on his jeans. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“It’s who they want you to be.”

He bowed his head. “I’m Vince Tanner there; I really thought I’d be doing right by mom’s name. I’d be playing after all. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t come say hello; they have rules around us approaching the dinner patrons.” 

“They what?!”

“Anything on the set list has to be pre-approved, all these crowd pleasers. They all sound the same after a while, you know? And I’m not normally so irritated by repetition; but I can’t even -”

Virgil reached out his hands before him, as if invisible keys had sprung out to answer where the words couldn’t, and he played a tune John couldn’t hear. “I tried once. They said I was too disruptive to the guests.” 

John hummed. “What about this Allard person? He any good?”

Virgil snorted. “He sounds sophisticated and smart.”

“Do you get to release any of that,” - he didn’t have the music theory knowledge for the right descriptions, but he knew Virgil understood what he meant - “during the dueling piano nights?”

“No. That whole thing is a joke, and we’re supposed to be there to make Andre sound good. That’s all.”

“Virgil!” At this time of night, the campus was still busy with night owls like themselves or those returning from evening festivities at their party or tavern of choice -  some even on their way to. John didn’t care how his voice raised. There was no visible wound, but Virgil was being bled dry nonetheless. “Why do you even show up?”

“Diego called out sick.” 

“Not just today. Any day. Why are you letting them do this?”

For that, if Virgil had an answer he didn’t share it, his jaw tight. In the yellow light of the street lamps, his skin turned sallow, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest. To protect himself from the cold or from the conversation, John didn’t know fully. But Virgil always did wear his heart on his sleeve. 

“You’ve given me an explanation. Thank you,” John stepped in front of him and grasped him by the shoulders. “But that’s still not an answer.” 

“Can you let it go?” Virgil pleaded, his voice small and deflated. “I don’t want to bring this visit down anymore than it has been.”

“No, I can’t.”  

He glanced up, his eyes welling. “I’m fi-”

“You’re not.”

“No,” Virgil shook his head finally, “I’m really not.” He tightened his arms around himself, breathing deep to push back the swell of tears threatening to fall. “I’m not okay. I’m not.”

This would be the moment big brother would have wrapped him in a hug, Gordon would’ve done the same long before, and Alan wouldn’t have known to push that hard. But John? John had a different answer. Keeping his hands firmly on his brother’s heaving shoulders, he urged them both out of the walkway and toward the building they’d just passed. 

~*~

John let Virgil believe the door had just been open; his rule-abiding would’ve had him running all the way back to Kansas if he’d known they’d broken into the music and arts building. The lock jammer built into his watch was a gift from Parker upon John’s graduation. He hadn’t known if it would work on its own; he’d only had his hope that Denver was as unaware of their security issues as Cambridge. But sure enough, John budged the door open easily and ushered his older brother through the threshold. 

After admitting his struggles Virgil had gone silent. That was ok, John knew. At this stage, the music would speak where Virgil couldn’t yet. 

“Do you know where the music room is?” he asked him. “That’s ok,” he continued when Virgil shook his head mutedly. “We’ll find it.” To the center seemed to be a concert hall, with a gallery lined along the walls of the surrounding hallways. Likely the classrooms would be further back. John stepped further into the left hall, looking for any indication of whether it was approaching the art wing or the music one. 

“Here.” John cocked his head at his brother’s voice, where Virgil was holding the door to the concert hall open and gesturing for John to come back the way he came. “They have a few performances this weekend,” Virgil explained thinly. “I figured the piano might still be here.” 

The theater was Virgil’s space, not John’s, and within a few minutes, Virgil had found the controls he needed to give them a bit of light. The grand piano was situated stage right, facing towards the orchestra seating to provide the audience a side view of the instrument and the pianist. 

While the audience seating looked much more comfortable, John opted for grabbing one of the chairs set up for the back violins and pulled it closer to Virgil’s side. He wanted to stay close. Virgil hands hovered over the keys. Bright eyes looked over to him, unsure.

 “I don’t know where to start.” 

“Play something you wanted to play tonight. Something not on the approved setlist.” John couldn’t help the condemnation laced in his words, nor did he try to. 

Virgil’s flat smile twitched at the edges, and he huffed in agreement, though the sound was shadowed by a trickle of tones that molded into an elaborate musical story. 

Angry and somber, the melody from Virgil’s hands was familiar and the instinct to fill in the poetry of the words overtook him - not enough for John to sing out loud, but with each progressing chord he felt a jolt to his gut. 

It was a cry, a song lamenting the loss of times of war. 

“It feels so wrong to feel the way I feel when there’s this happening. Every day, when I wake up my thoughts drift to Scott, and I wonder what he’s seen that day. How much worse it must be to be in the thick of all this violence.” 

His breath hitched. 

“I want to play something that matters.” 

A harsh crescendo of notes from Virgil’s left hand. The right continuing the melody, softly while the chord bounced along the auditorium and faded. 

“Something mom would be proud of.” 

He stopped. 

“You know,” John tried. “Others’ experiences don’t negate your own just by being worse. I’m worried for Scott too.” 

A flicker of life with a trill, and his hands fell to his sides. 

He looked at John. “Every day my decisions feel like mistakes. Would dad be proud of the path I’ve chosen? Would mom understand? I feel so wrong and worthless. All the time.”

“Oh, Virgil.” 

He sucked in a breath and turned away, hands poised back above the ivory. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Doesn’t need to be, just make it real.” John leaned forward, then asked if Virgil wanted him to go.

Virgil shook his head. “No. You can stay.”

Vulnerable with the cover of night, in a space sacred to Virgil, emotion poured from him, fragmented at first - anger, sadness, jubilance quieted all too quickly - before they converged into a jumble of sound and frustration. 

His soul bled beat after beat. A refrain of Juilliard’s audition pounded from the heart. 

Slashed with another, until it was the two melodies speaking to each other before one assimilated the other.

The cry of war mashed with the trill from earlier, turned minor with panic and worry, persisting. Unrelenting - soulless and lifeless. 

And then it built back up from a singular note, repeated into a quickened pulse, blurred with discordance, then the themes came back, louder, fiercer. Crescendoed while Virgil’s heart purged itself upon the keys.

Songs from the restaurant cascaded around them, the pretty made furious as it washed over them.

Virgil pushed back from the piano stool, standing, his whole self looming over the the movement of his hands, while he borrowed from the strength of his trembling arms and shoulders and back as he pounded on the instrument - and pounded until the music left them breathless, choked of air until there was only heat and noise. Until -

He broke.

A sob slashed the last chord, and Virgil fell to the stage with a thump of his large form. John tumbled forward to his knees in front of him, the pressure behind his own eyes released from watching. But at least Virgil hadn’t been alone. And as soon as he was near enough, Virgil launched himself at the closest brother he had while John gathered him close and whispered not that he was ok, but that he wouldn't be alone.

[tuliptired]

Hiii!!! I love your fics sm ahhdhsbsb 🤭🤭🤭

Can I request a Ray or Egon one-shot with a GN or male rockstar reader? It could be present time or college days, I think them having a bit of gay panic would be fun, have a good day!!

Warrior in Woolworths

Pairing: Ray Stantz/Rockstar!Male!Reader

Warnings: Minor violence/blood

Shoutout to the Ray fans out there I salute you all

Better formatting on Ao3!! (italics and such)

 Ray pulled his trusty leather jacket closer to himself, hands in his pockets when a chill ran through the dark street. If he was going to this thing, he was gonna look the part.

He was given two tickets to a concert held in a venue he just couldn’t find. They were a gift- given to him by the short redheaded girl in his advanced algebra class for bringing all her work when she was stuck with tonsillitis.

“Gee, thanks!” Ray took the two slips of paper from her in the empty hallway. He pursed his lips, willing to take a chance. “Would you like to come with me?”

Her smile weakened. “I’m sorry. My boyfriend wouldn’t want me to.”

That crossed one person off the list, at least. In the moment, he wasn’t really trying to insinuate any sort of date. Back in high school, most of his friends were girls, and they loved live music. Their moms would get tons of pictures before they left and thank him for being such a good friend. College was surely complicating things.

He would’ve asked his sister, or one of his cousins, but they had their own things going on. Besides, the name of this band seemed a bit too extreme for his Aerosmith family. Where was this place, anyway? He’d circled the block at least twice, and the little part of New York felt more like a place where good kids whose parents paid for tuition shouldn’t be strolling around.

He had his friends- they were guys. Apparently guys were the ones to invite to concerts. But Peter wanted to have an early night. Which corner store did he have to solicit to get directions around here? Egon was a laughable option. Ray finally stopped his aimless wandering when a few kids in denim ran down the street, skipping down some steps and into the basement of a dimly lit dive.

Ray followed, the excitement and body heat of the minuscule hall spilling out when he opened the door, squeezing through and trying to hand a ticket to someone he assumed was supposed to handle them, though he was slumped back on a stool, smoke surrounded him. Ray just slipped the paper into a cardboard box filled with others, suddenly anxious at how packed it was. Even more smoke hazed up the air, floating up to a skylight and dancing above the heads of those who chose to hang off a balcony that wrapped around the room. He found himself imagining what this place used to be, velvety red remnants of what was once a hidden and cozy Italian place or even a comedy club covered up by large stage lights, posters, and spray paint.

Your little group made it out amidst screaming. Lots of screaming, so loud that the uproar alone shook his shabby barstool from the ground up. It was dark, the only things visible above countless people were the silhouettes of instruments and their attached handlers.

No introduction, no opener, just pure noise. Even bigger than the screaming, bass and bass drum fighting for capital over the space. Guitars cut through everything like a laser, sharp and clear. Everyone was going absolutely insane, and Ray just needed a second- just a second to pick apart sound and voices and words. 

The first song was over as soon as it started, a commotion of applause around him. The lights finally came up, ever so slightly, and he was starting to understand the hype. 

There you were, guitar around your shoulders and gripping a microphone like your life depended on it. You looked like you’d gone mad, in chunky boots and reflective leather.

“I’m pissed,” your voice rang out into the mic, and you were greeted with cheers across the board. When those died down, you started again. “People are trying to change what we do. They’re trying to make it something it’s not.”

You really knew how to get a crowd going. And maybe the butterflies in his stomach coming out of their cocoons- you sounded nothing like he expected. “Rock isn’t digestible. It isn’t a commodity. It’s dirty, it’s improper, it’s starved.”

The next song started after that. Harder, more aggressive, but more vocals than anything. You sang even better than you sounded. Ray could feel his bones rattling, hair sticking up on every part of his body as your fingers glided across your guitar. You played even better than you sang.

He stopped keeping track, at some point just feeling like pure energy. He was in a vacuum while the drummer hit the snare, a raging and vibrating vacuum. But it was far from unpleasant. This was a room full of people who had been wronged, downtrodden, ignored, and this was their release, musical or otherwise. Someone brought out a saxophone, something he could appreciate as a fellow woodwind. It helped that the frontman- frontperson? Was pretty damn good at what they did.

There was a slower song, sardonic and dark, where you were practically having relations with the microphone stand. Everything about you was teeming with a gnarly power, and Ray couldn’t even make out your features. Only the shine of white light bouncing off your clothes and accessories. You kept playing guitar like it’d kill you otherwise, and it all made him incredibly flustered. He clutched his hand over his heart. He wanted you bad, and he couldn’t even tell if you were a girl or not.

Ray wished it would never end, feeling the adolescent indignance and passion flow through him like it was intravenous. But, all good things had an expiration, and your band was backstage not long after midnight. He felt he’d be imposing if he mingled among the revolutionaries, but he needed to walk a bit, before he got too excited and tried to hit something.

When Ray found his car the next street over, he could barely get off the sidewalk when a police officer blew into his whistle.

“How long have you been parked here?” The man had his hands on his hips.

Ray blinked. “About an hour or three. Is that a problem?” The officer pointed up to a sign, which read that parking had been restricted here for most of the night.

He pulled out a pad of paper, muttering about “college kids” and “no one listens”, when Ray’s pulse quickened, clammy hands rubbing the nape of his neck. He’s never gotten a ticket before- whether that was because he was a good driver or conveniently avoided the cops was beside it all. There’s no way he had the money to pay for it, and no way he’d wanna bother his parents for it. How much were tickets, anyway? 

“What’re you doing?” An unfamiliar voice sounded from down the sidewalk, somewhat hidden in darkness.

The officer squinted and went back to scribbling out the fine. “Mind your own business and go home,” he shouted back.

“You can’t give him a ticket, I know that guy!”

He looked between Ray and the stranger, pen in hand. “You know this guy?”

“Duh.” There was a second of silence. “That’s Steve.”

The policeman stared at Ray like he was a felon, and Ray stared back just as dumbly. He’d go along with anything, if it kept his record clean. He stuffed his things back in his blue shirt pocket, stalking off slowly and continuing to talk of “damned punks” and “too old for night patrol.”

Ray stood under the orange street lamps, dumbfounded with his back against the passenger door. His wallet’s savior emerged from the shadows, and his breath hitched when he got a better look. You were the one on stage! With the guitar and the voice and a lot of dark stuff under your eyes. Crazy hair, at least to his understanding. You don’t see more than 5-6 different styles at an Ivy. Chains and rips on taut black leather- you definitely don’t see that at an Ivy. You had your jacket tied around square hips, exposing arms and shoulders with discreet tattoos. Self-done, perhaps? Regardless, that was NYU behavior, not Columbia. And you weren’t a girl. Should he still want you?

“I don’t think your name is really Steve.” 

His mouth opened and closed while he tried to remember English. “No. No, it’s Raymond.” He cringed inside. Why use the objectively lamer version of his name? He’s embarrassing himself in front of the funky rockstar. “Ray,” he corrected.

And the funky rockstar smiled at him. “You gotta fight back, Ray. Don’t let them take your $2.”

“You lied to a policeman over $2?” Ray questioned some of the virtues he’d been raised on.

You shrugged. “Money is money. You shouldn’t get hassled for parking on the street.” Huh. He’d never thought of it that way. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy getting a ticket?”

“No, dude, the show.” 

Oh yeah- he was at a concert for a super awesome band and their frontman, as he just found out, just covered for him. “Yeah, it was great.” It was more than great, dummy. It was electric, exhilarating, galvanizing, bewildering. “It was really, really great.”

Ray felt a tinge self conscious as you watched him, unblinking, fearing he had offended you somehow. “You don’t go to these things often.”

He nodded, guard dropping a bit. “What gave it away?”

You pointed out the clunky glasses tucked into the pocket of his shirt. “My mom said I should bring them wherever I go,” Ray laughed bashfully, pulling them out and sliding them into his dark jeans. 

He felt proud at making you snicker. “It’s cool. Half my bandmates wear contacts.”

“Where are they, anyway?” Ray realized you were out and about without them. He was probably holding you up from something. 

“They’re around here, somewhere. We’ll run into each other eventually.” Your attention shifted to his Camaro, running a hand over the paintjob. “Your car’s awesome, man.”

He already knew that, but the confirmation was nice. “Really? It still needs work.”

“Can’t even tell,” you peered into the passenger side window, “I’ve only seen these when they’ve been stolen.”

Ray didn’t wanna just leave you here, if that was true- even though you seemed more than capable of fighting off a few muggers. Perhaps he just wanted more time with the cool musician. “Wanna take a drive?” he ran a thumb over the back of his own knuckles. “See if we can find your friends?”

Ray went to a concert, alone, got a parking violation, and there’s a really peculiar guitarist sitting in his passenger seat, Doc Martens on his dashboard. And he couldn’t even bring himself to care about your shoes scuffing the interior fabric. 

“Where’re you looking to go?” He took note of how empty the city street seemed, the only light coming from lamp posts and 24-hour shops and restaurants, occasionally poking out of home curtains.

“Wherever you’re willing to take me.” Ray swallowed, bringing the car to life as you sat back, hands behind your head. He hadn’t been with many girls romantically, but they’d never been so comfortable so soon- not even his other male friends, let alone a stranger. A very alluring stranger.

You turned your head to face him casually. “No one gave you shit, right?”

He drove slower than you should on a residential road. “I don’t think so. I was at the bar the whole night.”

“Good.” Your belts and chains made clinking sounds as you crossed one ankle over the other. “The bar’s no fun. Find the guy messing with the speakers and tell him you know the color of my underwear, that’ll get you up close.”

“I’m not sure my guess will be correct.”

“It’s always green on show nights, I can show you-” Ray struggled to keep his eyes on the turn he was making when you shimmied up, thumbs in the hem of your pants.

“I believe you,” he successfully got onto another street without veering onto the sidewalk. “When’s your next show?”

Ray had a small grin as you slumped back down. “Not for a crazy long time. Not here, at least.” That news sucked. He should hassle you for a phone number, if that wasn’t too bold. So you could be pen-pals, obviously. “We’re friends, right?”

He kept driving, not entirely sure of where he was going and scared he’d instinctively take the route back to his dorm, but at ease at the feeling of rolling rubber on asphalt. “In all of 10 minutes.”

Your laughter filled his car. “If- when we find them. We usually bounce around a few more shows, drink some, crash somewhere for the night. Wanna come with?”

Ray would’ve leapt at the opportunity to have the night with his new friend, but his old friend needed him. Peter went to bed early to be rested to see his dad the next afternoon. He wanted Ray there as a buffer, in case his day at home was as grating as he expected it to be. “I’m sorry, I promised my friend I’d go out with him in the morning.” he frowned, seeing that it was already past his bedtime.

He’d like to think you were a bit disappointed. “No problem,” you pulled out two little white things, “the least I could do is treat you to a smoke.”

The car slowed at a fairly useless stoplight in the desolate intersection. You lit his own before he lifted it to his lips, but the one in between your fingers refused to ignite next to the sparking lighter. “Outta fuel,” you uttered.

Before Ray could finish gazing down at the center console for his own, your calloused palms held onto either side of his jaw, pressing your unlit cigarette to his ablaze one. It was so close to a kiss that he found himself wondering where to put his hands, one gripping the steering wheel and the other the firm shoulder of the seat next to him. Which was stupid, because kisses were reserved for his mother’s cheek. And girlfriends who called him Raymond and kissed him at the door but never ended up calling again. And girl friends who called him Stantz and only kissed him at the door to get their moms off their backs.

You definitely weren’t his mom, or a girlfriend, or even a girl friend, and Ray felt himself wishing, deep down and with sweaty palms, that there weren’t two rolled partitions between you both. Something about your presence made him want to let go of the engineering department, cutting the lights during the day to save energy, always having his glasses in case of an emergency. The casualness in which your fingers framed his face while the embers burned from one end to the other made him wanna be something dirty, improper, and starved.

Someone appeared behind them, probably waiting a while, and mashed their horn impatiently. Ray remembered that he was behind the wheel, green light reflecting into the car when he hastily pulsed the gas. His father would be incredibly disappointed with his son- nearly sullying his record (for $2), letting a stranger dig their heels into his leatherwork, smoking. Pretty much half his extended family smoked, they just managed to hide it from each other. The shame was still there. Blowing nicotine inches away from the face of another man when you had a duty to everyone else on the road. Dirty, improper, starved.

The car rumbled along. Ray wouldn’t call himself innocent or inexperienced. 6-foot-something and pretty solid, he drank, cursed, had to shave every so often, got into plenty of trouble. It just didn’t seem like your kind of trouble. But was that always a bad thing? 

You had your nose pressed to the glass of the window, suddenly taken by something outside. “Pull over real quick! You’ve gotta try this one place.”

He did as you said, parking in the white glow of a Chinese spot, following you in after you took a final drag, crushing the tobacco under your heel. “I’m telling you- instant hangover cure.” you held the door open, jacket now back over your shoulders.

“You’re hungover?” Ray questioned, eyes adjusting to the bright ambiance. It was a smaller place, not unlike any other takeout spot in the city, void of customers at the late hour.

 “Not yet,” you smirked over your shoulder. Ray watched timidly as your hand slid a few wrapped, green candies to a girl sitting behind the counter. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

The girl, who probably should be in bed, fought you quietly in Cantonese, and you simply apologized. “Alright, I’m sorry. Two of the usual. Oh, and two beers. Please.”

Ray took the liberty of grabbing two frosty bottles from the freezer, not missing how the girl disappeared up the steps into her house, rather than the restaurant’s kitchen. “How much?” he asked over your shoulder.

You shook your head fervently. “Doesn’t cost anything.”

“You’re stealing?” he whispered harshly.

“No!” you whispered just as intensely. “They never make me pay.”

“Oh,” Ray dropped his defenses, following you to a round table in the middle of the square floor, “how come?”

You leaned back in your seat, wooden legs an inch or two off the ground. “Some guys tried to rob the owner. I stopped ‘em, watched the store a few nights, and now she lets me eat for free.” Ray’s eyes just short of popped out his head when you lifted the hem of your shirt over a bit of your abdomen. “It’s how I got this.”

There was a dark, running scar close to your ribs. “How- why- are you okay?” He fretted, astounded at your laissez faire attitude.

“It’s fine, it’s old. I knew he had a shiv.” you slung your arm over the back of the chair, having opened your beer.

“You knew, and you still spat with them?” He could imagine you in a narrow bathroom, attempting to stitch yourself up. “That’s…brave,” he couldn’t lie.

You leaned forward, opening his drink for him. “Just community. She made sure everyone was fed at night, anyway.” 

“That’s your movement,” Ray ran a finger up and down the damp glass, “isn’t it?” Getting shanked in the dark to keep a small business safe was definitely the unseen side of the subculture you subscribed to. 

He watched as your eyes lit up with the same passion you had on that stage. “Yeah! Community, safety, liberation- can’t survive if we’re all taking from each other. It’s why I make music.” Ray smiled at your selflessness. Handsome and heroic, in a roguish way. He was wrong. He still wanted you, bad. 

“You’d be a hot drummer.” That certainly caught him off guard, almost sending alcohol flying out his nose. 

Ray put a hand to a dry nostril, just in case. “What?”

“I mean it,” you bent at the waist over the table. “Little hairspray,” you mussed his growing hair, “little eye-gunk, tighten the shirt, shoulder tat- you’d be perfect.”

“You’re just saying that,” Ray sat obediently as you tried to dry-style him. He’d let you do that all night, if you felt like it.

An older woman, probably the owner, came down the steps, carrying two bowls in pink pajamas. You sat back, leaving his hair a mess when you rubbed your hands together in excitement. “Thank you, Mrs. Tsang.” you passed him a set of chopsticks. “You’re not ready for this.”

“Where to next?” You asked Ray, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“Wherever you want,” he tried his best to etch your image into his long-term memory before you both ran into some guys.

Tall, big, guys, managing to tower over you both, each in more leather than you had in your closet. You didn’t look as scared as Ray felt, his knees threatening to buckle, as you just held onto a plastic bag holding the remains of your dinner. “Were we in your way?”

“The old lady around?” the biggest one grunted, getting awfully close.

You stood, unfazed. “Yeah, and I am too.”

He jabbed his finger into your chest, barely far from nose to nose. “You wanna get cut again?”

“Barely felt it last time.”

The drop of sweat on Ray’s forehead hardly had a moment to roll down before a fist flew to the middle of your face, a grotesque sound ricocheting off the walls of the empty street. The gang of strangers, once they saw you were sufficiently hurt, bolted into the night, Mrs. Tsang appearing in the window of her establishment.

“Are you okay?” Ray panicked, helping you steady yourself inside, collecting your gushing blood in your cupped hands, ignoring your complaints about how he made you drop your noodles. His heartbeat raced as a few drips got onto his shirt, feeling even more disoriented when the owner said a few things in another language.

“Bathroom,” you pointed a red finger down a hallway near the steps. Ray got the door open, and you woozily sat on the sink, body weight leaning away from the mirror at your back. “Aid kit in the cabinet.”

You were right, and it was sitting next to a half full bottle of liquor. He slowly pried your hands from your nose, bracing himself. “Let me see,” he coaxed you, cringing at the air you hissed out through your teeth.

It wasn’t all bad, Ray could tell that underneath all the blood was just a little discoloration and a deep gash. “At least it’s not broken,” he said shakily, ducking behind you to let some cold water run over a towel he found in the little white box.

“Another point for me,” you managed to get out through pained groans, blood trickling into your mouth. 

Ray tried to remember his boy scout training, bringing himself to wipe away some of the drying nastiness from your face. “This happens often?”

He scarcely touched you when you recoiled in pain. “Why d’you think they kept this stuff in here?” you attempted a weak smile.

This wasn’t gonna get done without some outside help. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, passing it to you, hands on his hips as you pretty much emptied the entire thing. Ray resumed, and the gentleness of the cool cloth, combined with the alcohol, seemed to relax you. “You’re pretty dauntless.” he stood in between your legs.

You hummed lazily- apparently a pretty crazy lightweight, at least when you were losing liters. “Someone has to be.”

When all the reddish brown was gone, Ray inspected that wound. It was fairly deep for a punch, still red and open to the air. Stitches, this needed stitches. “You’re gonna hate me for this,” he frowned, plucking a suture from the sterile container.

“I’d never,” you half-slurred, though you swallow at the sight of the barb.

Ray was halfway done, stuffing his fear and channeling a camp counselor as he brought the thread in and out the skin of your nasal dorsum. He didn’t know where he was expecting this impromptu outing to go, but definitely not here. But he didn’t really mind, either- he’d stitch you up a thousand times over if it meant he could hold your face. He couldn’t be bothered with what that said about him when he had your skin under his fingers.

“Taking care of me,” you muttered, not even flinching when the needle dove out to be tied in a knot.

“Someone has to,” Ray stepped back, pleased with his medical handiwork. His mother would be proud. “How’s that fee-”

“Be in my band.”

“What?”

You looked catatonic. “Go to Canada with me- California- wherever.”

Ray had a humorless chuckle, doing his best to wash his hands behind you. “You’re drunk,” he rationalized with himself, not looking into your eyes when he put a child’s bandage over the now closed wound.

You tried to turn to him completely with your butt perched on the edge of the sink, but you lost your balance and had to be held upright by him. “I’ll teach you the drums- something. I just don’t wanna lose you. Forget about that stuffy school.”

Hands on your ribs, he so desperately wanted to agree. To do what your spirit had been begging him to do and run away. Dirty, improper, starved. You changed his perspective in a matter of mere hours- shouldn’t he have to?

“I have to stay here,” he forced out, “I have things here.” 

Your eyes were partly pained, partly glazed with your intoxication. Your green Lamb Chop adhesive stuck out like a bullseye somewhere below knitted brows. “Can we compromise?”

“I don’t understand how this is a compromise,” Ray sat mortified in the 24-hour tattoo clinic.

You laid on your stomach, pants hiked down just under your tailbone, where a tattoo gun was currently inking you with “R.S.”. “You didn’t wanna run away with me,” you laughed drunkenly, the humorous part of being inebriated manifesting itself.

He shrunk, a pang in his chest somewhere. The tattoo artist eyed Ray for a moment. “I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry,” you let your eyes close. “I don’t wanna remember you sorry.”

“Are you sure you don’t want one?” you nabbed a marker from the front desk as you both left. 

“I’m sure,” Ray nodded, trying to figure out where to go. He should find your friends- drive morning and night until he found them, before he dropped everything and drove out the state with you in the backseat.

A few accented voices interrupted him, and he abruptly realized that he was grasping your hand. Your bandmates, hobbling over after their own adventures.

“This is where you went?” the British bassist started. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Ray heard you groan, and you wordlessly started pulling down the collar of his jacket, exposing the tag. “Can I?” you clumsily held up the stolen marker.

He let you, and you meticulously scrawled your initials into the white slip of fabric. A reminder, for as long as he kept it- almost like a tattoo for those who weren’t ready to be dirty, improper, starved. And he was never getting rid of this thing.

You finished, adjusting it for him and just taking a moment to hook your fingers in his pockets. Ray was gonna miss you, so hard. He felt like a teenager again, except this time he didn’t feel like he wasted your time, in an uncomfortable suit, spending date money his parents trusted him with. Maybe he could learn to live like you did, if you’d wait long enough.

“Could you and your boyfriend hurry?” your friend complained. You sighed, booze still in your system.

“You won’t forget me?”

“Never.”

You reluctantly peeled away from him and down the street with your friends. Ray watched your retreating figure as you walked off into the darkness, until you turned fast on your heels, sprinting over and jumping into his arms. The kiss was messy, and rushed, probably splitting your stitches and aggravating your sinuses. Laced with the fact that you’d be scattered around the country for an unknown amount of time. But it was the realest one Ray’s ever had.

[lunar-wandering]

scatter!

apparently watching the windara arc gave me enough energy to write the mini boboiboy x genshin crossover i'd been meaning to write for a while-

Word Count: 3k

Read on Ao3

Halilintar opened his eyes to a wide open sky above him.

He blinked, slowly. This was definitely not where he was before, if he remembered right- Remembered. Remember. He had to remember, he couldn’t forget- he was separated from the others right now, he could not allow himself to forget-

He had to find the others.

In a bright red flash, he pushed himself to his feet, getting his bearings as fast as he could.

Huh. The surrounding buildings here were a little odd. Had he been teleported to another planet or something? …He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing before he woke up. That wasn’t a good sign. That wasn’t a good sign at all. But… this place seemed nice, at least. Maybe he could just chill here for a bit, maybe find some people to tell him more about what in the world was going on here? There was probably enough time that he could have a short conversation or two with some people, just enough to get the information he needed-

Aaaand those were balloons attached to that building. A lot of them. Now that he was noticing it, this entire place did have a sort of carnival like theme to it…

Halilintar stared at the balloons in silence for several moments.

Screw the information. He had to leave this place immediately.

~

Taufan was having fun.

He wasn’t sure where he was, but the whole place screamed of wind. The sheer power boost he was getting here was nearly comparable to the one he got on Windara!

Taufan bit down on his lower lip to keep himself from bursting into manic laughter. A few small chuckles still managed to slip out. He couldn’t help it- being here was just so- freeing! It was almost like he didn’t have to care of if he slipped up and turned into-

Beliung.

Taufan froze mid-flight. Slowly, he brought himself down closer to the ground.

Suddenly, this didn’t seem so fun anymore…

“Oh, hi there!”

Taufan startled, whirling around to see someone dressed in green waving an arm at him with a small smile.

“What’cha doing all the way out in Windrise? Practicing?” The dressed in green person who felt like the wind didn’t even give Taufan the time to answer before continuing, “Ah, but it’s getting late- come, I’ll take you back to Mondstadt!”

Taufan found himself unable to argue, silently following the other, staring at him in suspicion- until the feeling of freedom and fun slipped back into him, and he was doing circles in the air on his hoverboard, rambling off any joke he could think of to the stranger as he followed them down a worn down walking trail.

~

“Oh, you’re finally awake!”

Gempa shot up into a sitting position at the unknown voice, mind whirling. How long had he been asleep? How long had he been split? Were the others okay-

“Woah there, calm down.” A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he glanced up to see a woman with long blond hair crouching down beside him in concern. “You were knocked out cold when I found you- you don’t want to make any injuries you may have worse. My name is Navia, tell me, do you remember your name?”

“…It’s Gempa.” He stared at her with hesitation.

“Alright, Gempa.” Navia stood up, then held out a hand to help Gempa to his feet as well. “Do you know why you were passed out in an alley?”

“I can make a few guesses.” Accidental teleportation via power sphera being the main one. He had a vague memory of some form of portal- and he did not like that the memory was vague. That was never a good sign.

Navia started talking about some form of restaurant just around the corner where they could get a bite to eat while they figured out Gempa’s situation, and Gempa, despite just wanting to get out of there as fast as possible to try and find the other’s, hesitantly agreed.

~

Blaze slowly sat up.

Directly beside him, Ice did the same.

They stared at each other, and then at the strange building they’d found themselves in, the both of them noticing that the place smelled strongly of tea.

Neither of them could remember how they got here.

“…This is bad, isn’t it.” Blaze said. Ice nodded silently in agreement. Blaze let out a groan, flopping back onto the floor, before rolling over, extending his hand out to Ice. “Pinkie promise to not start a war this time?”

~

“Hey there! Woaaaahhhh, your hat is so cool, it’s no wonder Nahida calls you Hat Guy! Oh, and this part of it is so dangly- so cool!”

The Wanderer was given absolutely no warning as Thorn crashed into him, hugging him tight. He struggled for just a brief second, before succeeding in shoving Thorn away, a gust of wind accompanying his action.

“Get off of me!” He hissed, before crossing his arms. “What are you doing in the Sanctuary of Surasthana?”

“Double cool, you’ve got powers just like Taufan!” Thorn seemed to have either not heard the Wanderer’s question or was choosing to completely ignore it. “Though, you’ve got the personality of Halilintar, kinda… Are you some new fusion between the two of them? And nobody told me about it?”

“Fusio- what in Teyvat are you talking about?” The Wanderer asked, thoroughly confused at this point. Thorn opened his mouth to answer- and then shifted gears to stare at something behind him.

“Oh, what are those?!” He didn’t waste a second in running past the Wanderer, who whirled around to find that Thorn had summoned some vines and was now swinging after some Aranara.

The Wanderer stood there for a moment in absolute silence, watching as Thorn swung around. Then, slowly, he turned to Nahida, who was standing off to the side with a small smile on her face. Slowly, he let out a tired sigh.

“Bu’er. What nonsense is going on this time, and how do I make sure I’m not involved in it.”

“You’re already involved, I’m afraid.”

“Oh for fu-”

~

Solar should really, really, be using his teleportation ability to hunt down the others right now.

Really, he should. He knew the consequences of remaining split for too long full well.

…But he was also sure that, even if the other’s succumbed to the memory loss, he himself could probably hold on for a lot longer than them, so him taking a bit of time to learn a bit of the history of the strange area he’d ended up in would probably be fine…

~

Navia seemed pretty nice. Still though, Gempa wasn’t sure if he should really give her the full details of his… situation. He’d given her a base explanation that he’d been separated from his siblings and needed to find them, which was true enough, but…

The more she insisted that he wait a day to rest before heading out to try and find them, the more Gempa started to wish he’d just outright told her about the other half of the story. He didn’t have a day to waste.

Still though, he couldn’t seem to find a way to break away from her as she showed him around the nation she called Fontaine. Not a place that Gempa could ever remember hearing about before- which didn’t really say much, considering, well, the amnesia that would eventually sink it’s claws in him, and that was already making some things slightly hazy.

Gempa was starting to consider the idea of using his abilities temporarily trap Navia within a stone circle and run off when a bright flash of crackling red light caught his attention- just in time to see Halilintar fall backwards into the fountain Navia had named the Fountain de Lucine mere moments ago.

“This is not what I meant!” Halilintar yelled, his entire body crackling with red lightning as he stood up, wringing the water out of the bottom of his shirt.

“Halilintar!” Gempa didn’t hesitate to run over, ignoring how Navia briefly tried to reach out a hand to stop him. He skidded to a stop beside the fountain, reaching out and pushing Halilintar’s hat up a little in order to better see his face. “Are you okay?”

“…Tch.” Halilintar batted Gempa’s hand away, reaching up and pulling his hat back down to hide his face again, muttering something under his breath that sounded like “at least they didn’t send me to Thorn”. Gempa let out a relieved sigh. The lightning element was fine.

“Um, Gempa, is this… your brother?” Navia sounded… confused. And a little worried- oh. Halilintar was still doing the red lightning thing. Yeah, Gempa could see how that might be a little strange to someone who’s never seen something like that before.

Gempa quickly elbowed Halilintar in the side, silently telling the other to knock it off. Halilintar at the very least seemed to clue in, the crackling electricity vanishing in an instant, leaving him looking less like an actual scary threat and more like an angry wet cat.

“Yep!” Gempa purposefully ignored Halilintar’s grunt of protest as he threw his arm around the other’s shoulders. “One brother down, five left to go!”

~

“I’m hungryyyyy. Do you guys have any food? Oh, I could go for soups, or cakes, or sandwiches, or chocolate, or-”

The Wanderer sighed, resting his head against the wall behind him. Did this kid ever shut up? It’d been hours, and Thorn kept rambling on over this and that-

Thorn was glowing.

The Wanderer sat up straight instantly, alarm shooting through him as he took in the way Thorn’s eyes and hair had started to slowly glow green as he continued to ramble on about food. Some small vines and flowers had started to grow around him. He glanced over at Nahida, checking to see if she saw what he also saw- only to see the same alarm and concern that he felt present on her face.

Ah. This was definitely not good then.

The glowing was getting stronger.

What exactly was he meant to do in this situation?

Before the Wanderer could even begin to attempt anything, there was a sudden loud crack of thunder that had him flinching- followed shortly after by a red flash.

And suddenly a hand was gently whacking the back of Thorn’s head.

“Owie!” The glowing stopped, Thorn effectively snapped out of whatever state he’d been in. Thorn spun around to the person who had appeared behind him. “What did you do that for Hal- oh! Halilintar! I finally found you!”

Thorn didn’t waste any time in hugging the other. Halilintar stumbled for a moment, clearly caught off guard and thrown off balance, before he forcibly shoved Thorn away with a strained “Get off of me!”.

Wanderer had to blink away a sudden strong sense of deja vu. He could just sense Nahida staring at him. He chose to ignore it.

Halilintar had yet to notice anyone else in the room, having one hand placed on Thorn’s face, keeping him an arm’s distance away from him.

“Found us, huh?” Halilintar said, “It’s more like we found you.”

“We?” Thorn looked around- “Oh! Gempa’s here too!”

He scampered away from Halilintar- which had the lightning element not so subtly breathing out a sigh of relief. Thorn’s hat tilted to the side as he wasted no time in jumping into Gempa’s arms, who laughed a little as he caught him.

“That’s two!” Gempa gently fixed Thorn’s hat for him, before setting him back on the ground. “Were you nice to the people here?”

“Yes sir!” Thorn gave him an unnecessary salute. “I was polite! I didn’t even talk that much!”

Wanderer’s eye twitched. If talking ceaselessly for hours was this kid’s idea of “not talking much”, he’d hate to find out what his idea of actually talking was.

~

Solar teleported exactly one half of a second before Halilintar’s hand closed on the space where he’d been just moment’s before. Halilintar, having not been able to reach his target as he had predicted, stumbled a little, only just barely regaining his balance before he could fall over.

“Nice try.” Solar said, from his position of standing on a nearby roof. “But I don’t plan on leaving until I finish these books- the history of Liyue is so fascinating, did you know that this is where the money of this planet was created- agh!”

While he had started rambling, vines had snuck their way up around him, and had quickly tightened, causing him to drop his book as he squirmed, trying to break out. His fingers briefly flickered with light, but-

This was a crowded city. He couldn’t use his abilities in a place like this.

“Thorn! Let me go! I’ll buy you some candy-” His attempt to bribe the plant elemental was not working, if the way he was suddenly being dangled upside down was any indication. “Oh c’mon-”

“Sorry! Gempa already bought me candy!” Thorn said, grinning. Gempa, beside him, crossed his arms, a small smile on his face.

“That’s three.” He said… and then the smile on his face faded, as he remembered what Nahida had told him about the other nations before they had left Sumeru. “We don’t have the time for your curiosity right now, Solar. We’ve got to get to Mondstadt.”

The ‘freeing winds of Mondstadt’… Nahida had said it as a compliment to the nation, not as a warning, but considering that the tier three wind element was still highly unstable… if Taufan was there… well, it wouldn’t spell anything good for the nation, that’s for sure.

~

“Well, that’s four, but…”

Wind shifted nervously, whistling innocently as the other four elementals openly gaped at him.

“Why… why are you in your tier one form?” Solar and Gempa said in sync. Wind winced.

“Ahaha… well, there was an… incident.” Wind avoided eye contact, knowing that the other elementals were currently making a very accurate mental guess as to what exactly the incident was. “Wenti over here uh. Is holding on to my power for me?”

Venti gave the group a wave from where he was floating in mid-air, a ball of blue and teal anemo energy glowing in between his hands. Gempa sighed, though he couldn’t deny the sense of nervousness that came over him from the idea of someone, anyone, being able to ‘hold onto their powers for them’. That concept had never ended well for them before…

“It should be safe to give him the rest of his power back now, sir.” He eventually said, watching carefully as Venti landed on the ground. “The rest of our elemental presence should be enough to keep him stable here.”

“If you say so.” Venti shrugged, “But man, that was scary! One minute he’s just a happy go lucky kid, the next he’s cackling like a maniac and pulling out hurricane level winds! Normally the only person at risk of causing hurricane level winds around here is me! Also, almost getting sliced by an axe was not fun. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

Still, he opened his hands, and the elemental energy flowed back into Wind, turning him back into Taufan with a soft blue light.

“Haha! That’s so much better!” Taufan spun around for a moment, and then paused, looking at Venti sheepishly. “Ah, haha, sorry about the axe, Wenti…”

“Ehe, no real harm done. …Also it’s Venti, not Wenti.” Venti said, placing his hands on his hips- only for Thorn to catch his attention by pulling on the edge of Venti’s cape. “Hm? What’s up?”

“Your whole glowy thing is super pretty!” Were the first words to come out of Thorn’s mouth- before he shook his head, seemingly refocusing himself. “Uh- but we were wondering, if you’d heard anything about our other two brothers?”

“I could ask around… why do you ask?” Venti’s eyebrow rose as he took in how the whole group suddenly seemed nervous. “Surely, it can’t be that bad-”

“The longer we’re separated, the higher the chances are of Blaze and Ice starting a war.” The five elementals said in unison. Venti blinked.

“Ah. I suppose that is pretty bad.”

~

Shockingly, by the time they got to Inazuma, Blaze and Ice were not at war.

There was however, a lot of charred grass and patches of ice strewn around, so it was plainly obvious that things had gotten close.

Blaze and Ice themselves were sitting in the middle of the chaos, a tall lady with long purple hair standing in front of them-

And then Blaze noticed the rest of the group.

Immediately his face broke into a blinding smile, and he nudged Ice awake, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him over to the others.

“And that’s five and six.” Gempa breathed out yet another sigh, a lot of the stress finally leaving his body now that all the elementals were in the same space.

“Man, what took you guys so long, me and Ice were starting to think we’d gotten left here alone, y’know!” Blaze said, hands on his hips like he was reprimanding them. “We almost started a war we got so bored- the Saiden Rhogun stopped us though… She started telling us stories- about the myths and herself- most of em were pretty boring though, Ice kept falling asleep-”

“My name is Raiden Shogun, boy. I do not understand how you keep forgetting.” Ei said, joining their small group with an air of suspicion. Halilintar returned said look with his own glare, though he subconsciously took a step back.

She felt like lightning.

“Oh, right, the forgetting! Uh- we need to recombine!” Gempa held his hand out- then paused. “Uh- maybe lets all sit down for this- Boboiboy will probably be affected by how long we’ve been apart…”

The rest of the elementals agreed without question, and Ei watched with confusion as they all glowed with a faint orange light- before six of them vanished without a trace, merging into one boy- who immediately swayed to the side, collapsing onto the grass.

Ei stood perfectly still for a moment, shock coursing through her veins. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like the boy was unconscious, as he groaned pressing his hands against his face, muttering something about now having to figure out a way back home- before he paused.

His whole body flickered with red lightning, and suddenly Halilintar was back, gripping onto Ei’s arms in a split second. She made to ready herself to fight, but-

“You put yourself into a sword?!” Halilintar all but shook her, what she could see of his expression under his hat one of pure distress. “Willingly?! What is wrong with you?!?!”

Before Ei could even think of a response, the boy was gone in another flash of red light, leaving her standing alone in the charred and iced mess of an area.

~

Halilintar practically burst through the door of the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

“Ah, you’re back!” Nahida said, “I take it you’ve recombined, then?”

Halilintar stared at her wordlessly for a moment, before his body flickered, and Boboiboy took his place, stumbling a little from the sudden change.

“Ah- uh, yes!” Boboiboy cleared his throat, “It’s a little hazy, but, I think you told Thorn a way we- I, could get home?”

Nahida gave him a gentle smile.

“I’m still working on it! But don’t worry, what Thorn’s memories showed me is more than enough for me to make a way home for you, it’ll only take a few more hours.” She said, “I would tell you to hang out with the Wanderer, but I think he’s had more than enough social interaction for the day…”

To the point he’d locked himself inside of his room, actually. Nahida knew better than to force him to be social after he’d spent his energy dealing with Thorn earlier.

“Ah, that’s okay.” Boboiboy said, sitting down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. “Um, if you don’t mind, would it be alright if I… slept, here?”

“It’s perfectly fine.” Nahida stepped over, gently placing her hand on top of Boboiboy’s. “I’ll ensure you have a nice dream. By the time you wake up, your way home will be waiting for you.”

“…Thank you.”

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

Well... I was having brain riot and making fun of Sanzu's silliest moment ever (the train xD), because I always thought it was hilarious that he planed something so chaotic that could go so wrong so easily (yeps, ignoring the implications of who he was willing to sacrifice for Mikey). And suddenly, I thought "What if no one stopped him and everything went the worst way possible?"

And bam, this drabble was in my mind and I needed to write it and share this pain. I'm so sorry.

Hits Different

(this is a train wreck)

(drabble)

(link to ao3 in case some one preferes to read it there)

Summary: Apparently, when it comes to the Sanos a train wreck and a plane crash aren't that different.

Warnings: Manga Spoilers. Angst. Hurt/No Comfort. I'm pretty sure the summary itself is a big warning of where this is going. Expect only pain and a broken Sanzu. I'm so sorry, really.

(English is not my first language, so be nice please 🙈)

Sanzu looks around, a big grin on his face. He did it, he managed to derail the train and ran over the pests that dared to compare themselves to his king.

Their irritating noise sounds a lot better turned into screams while he walks katana in hand, admiring his work. A familiar pink hair tries to steal his attention from the corner of his eye, but Sanzu doesn't stop. He's an only child, why would he care to check if she's even breathing?

There is only one thing that matters, only one focus on his mind amongst the bloodshed that he created. Mikey. Making Mikey proud, being finally acknowledged for what he's capable of doing. Earning his rightful place next to the king.

Sanzu turns his head when he hears an annoying voice screaming. Hanagaki. That fucking cockroach survived. He approaches to him, clenching his hand around the katana, decided to finish the job.

He's going to do it, he feels the adrenaline, a smirk plastered on his face now that he's finally close enough. Close enough to recognize the blonde head sticking out of Hanagaki's arms.

No.

No. It can't be. No, no, no, no. How? This can't be, Mikey was on the top of a container, he planed everything, he made sure, he... No, no, no!

Suddenly, reality hits him and Haruchiyo's world comes crashing down. Whatever delusion was feeding his mind disappears, he can't breathe. He looks around gasping for air and all he can see is blood, body parts scattered around. People screaming in pain, the smell of death.

Wakasa. Benkei. Senju.

Senju.

It's a fucking carnage and it's his fault. This was what he wanted. But it wasn't, it wasn't, this is not what it was supposed to happened. Why is this happening?

Haruchiyo's body collapses, his legs don't answer him anymore. The katana falls to the ground next to him. He pukes, completely horrified by the views. He's breaking, shaking, crying, unable to control himself.

“Mikey... No... He wasn't supposed to be down here...Mikey...”

His voice is weak, the words don't even make sense between whimpers. But Hanagaki looks at him, still hugging Mikey's body, something indiscernible in that pair of eyes that burns Haruchiyo's soul.

“Mikey isn't dead, he's still breathing. He was on top of that container, but he fell when the train...” Hanagaki stops, seemingly trying to pull himself together. “Mikey fell and hit his head. I'm gonna take him to the hospital, you can help or get out of my way, I don't fucking care anymore, but I'm taking him to the hospital. Are we clear?”

Haruchiyo just nods, allowing the hero to pass next to him with Mikey's body hanging on his arms. A chill runs down his spine when he feels it. When he feels that again. In that exact moment, he knows. Mikey is never going to wake up, he will whiter for years before finally dying.

'Laugh, Haruchiyo'

A maniacal laughter escapes his mouth. The universe is mocking at him, the cycle repeating itself.

It was always going to end like this, wasn't it?

[raaorqtpbpdy]

Highway Home

Jazz and Kyle have a little chat about their brothers after the brothers in question leave the two of them stranded on the freeway and forced to walk home.

Based on the prompts: Jazz and Kyle are stuck wandering the freeway after their brothers show up and steal Kyle's car. [from @camels-pen], and “So how do you feel about the fact that ‘that Fenton kid’ always refers to your little brother, whose infamy has made him far more well-known in the school than you?” ...Maybe Jazz wants some crazy rumors too. [from @dragonsdomain]

Read also on AO3

[Warning for death threats (to siblings), and a creepy guy showing up for a hot minutes, but thankfully Jazz and Kyle aren't stupid]

"Well that just happened," Kyle Weston said flatly as his car drove away with his brother and that Fenton kid inside, apparently chasing after something, although Kyle hadn't seen what.

He looked to his side where the other Fenton kid was standing with her arms crossed, looking only mildly annoyed, given the circumstances. She had been catching a ride with him back from the academic decathlon team victory party—they'd kicked Elmerton Central High's ass, and Jackie Calloway threw a huge party at his fancy house in Polter Heights to celebrate.

The party had been awesome, but Kyle wasn't really a night owl, so when Jazz—the team's MVP—said she was gonna head home early, and then her parents wouldn't pick up the phone, Kyle offered to give her a ride.

Now the two of them were standing on the side of the freeway as it grew steadily colder and darker. Which was... significantly less awesome than hanging out at Jackie Calloway's party.

Even so, the two of them knew their respective brothers well enough that a circumstance such as this was all but expected at this point.

"Guess we're walking home," Jazz said with a sigh.

Kyle groaned, but didn't outright complain as the two started to walk along the side of the freeway toward home. The cars on the road passed them at frighting speeds, throwing gusts of wind their way that did nothing to combat the rapidly cooling evening air.

"At least it's only one more exit," Jazz pointed out optimistically.

That one more exit was over a mile away, and they would have to walk the whole way like this. Kyle hadn't even had the chance to grab his jacket when Wes forced him out of his own car, yelling that it was some kind of emergency.

"Wes doesn't even have his driver's license yet," Kyle grumbled. Wes only had. a learner's permit because he spent all his time screwing around with Danny Fenton instead of doing driving lessons with Dad. "If he wrecks my car, I swear I'll kill him."

"I wonder what all the rush was," Jazz said thoughtfully. "They didn't exactly explain much when they kicked us out. I hope they'll be okay."

Kyle really didn't understand what Wes' deal was with the Fenton kid. It seemed like Wes hated him one day, but they were buddies the next, and then enemies again a week later. He hoped they either made out, or broke up, or whatever needed to happen to make the two of them chill out.

He looked over at Jazz again, and reminded himself for the second time that she was a Fenton kid, too. He wondered if it ever made her self-conscious, that even though she'd been going to Casper High for tree years compared to her brother's one, his reputation was so much more significant than hers.

Sure, pretty much everyone knew Jazz Fenton. Her tutoring list was substantial, so a lot of students even knew her personally, but if they didn't, most still knew of her. Kind, helpful, in line to be valedictorian, highest scorer ever on the CAT exam. But people knew Jazz in the back of their minds, whereas what they knew of her brother was front-and-center. His reputation spread far and wide, so basically everyone in town knew of him.

The passing cars had been too loud to let them carry a conversation, but when there was a lull in traffic, Kyle figured he might as well take the opportunity to ask while it was just the two of them.

"So hey... does it ever, like, bother you that when people say 'that Fenton kid', it always refers to your little brother?" he asked. "I mean like, how does it feel that his infamous reputation has made him way more well-known around school than you are?"

Jazz side eyed him, pulling her cardigan closer around her.

"I'd think of all people, you'd know," she replied. "Aren't you basically in the same situation with Wes? I don't think I've ever heard anyone say 'that Weston kid' and mean you."

"Fair point." He shrugged. "But still, I'm curious. Same situation, different people right. Maybe you feel differently about it than I do."

"Alright, I'll bite," she relented. "But you've gotta tell me your feelings on the matter so we can compare. Otherwise, it's not very scientific."

"Deal," Kyle agreed immediately.

Another car drove passed, and they paused their conversation until the Doppler effect had faded enough for them to be hear.

"So how do you feel about it?" Kyle prompted once it was gone.

Jazz looked into the distance, her lips pursed in consideration, and then she shook her head.

"I don't know really," she said. "I guess mostly I'm just concerned for my brother, you know? What if this reputation he's developed as a weirdo and a troublemaker follows him into college and his future career? What if it prevents him from being able to network with people, and make new friends? But also...."

"Yeah?" Kyle encouraged, sensing that this 'also' was gonna be pretty juicy.

"Well... maybe I want some crazy rumors too, you know?"

A car drove by right as she started to reply, and she had to yell to be heard.

Kyle put on an incredibly satisfied grin at that. He was right. That was a juicy 'also'.

She waited for the noise to fade before continuing.

"I mean, there are people at our school who genuinely, unironically believe that my brother's bladder can predict ghost attacks," she said. "How nuts is that? Your brother swears up and down that Danny is a ghost himself. And ever since all that pirate stuff, the entire freshman class thinks he's some kind of ghost hunting badass, even though he still gets bullied by the football players.

"There are people on the academic decathlon team—some of the smartest, most logical kids in school—who are completely convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Danny is some kind of bad luck charm, because of a series of total coincidences that happened when he sat in on one of our practices. None of them were even remotely his fault, he was just waiting around so I could give him a ride home from school because he sprained his ankle.

"Obviously, I don't want people thinking I'm bad luck, but maybe something just a little weird going around about me would be fun," she finished. "Or make me seem like a little less of a goody-two-shoes at least."

"You want some kind of bad girl reputation?" Kyle teased.

"Well... no," Jazz said, half-shrugging and half nodding. "I like being a goody-two-shoes, but that's not all I am, you know? I can be just as creepy, and badass, and mysterious as Danny can." She punctuated her statement with a pout that was neither creepy, nor badass, nor mysterious.

Kyle shook his head and chuckled.

"To be honest, I don't get what the deal is with our school's obsessive ghost superstition," he said. "I've got a lot of friends online in gaming groups and I've never met anyone as adamant about the existence of ghosts as our classmates at school. I don't know if it's a gimmick, or some cultural thing I missed out on, or what, but it's so over the top."

Jazz laughed out loud, although, for the life of him, he couldn't tell if she was laughing with him or at him. She didn't say anything though.

He knew that she used to be just as much of a staunch skeptic as he was, but at some point in the last year, public opinion on the existence of ghosts had shifted dramatically, and he wasn't sure if her opinion had shifted with it or not. Even if she did believe in ghosts, at least she wasn't as much of a fanatic about it as everyone else was. At least she never spent an hour trying, unsuccessfully, to convince Kyle that ghosts were real.

"Alright, I've said my piece," she told him with a smile like she was humoring him. "Your turn. How do you feel about your brother being so much better-known around school than you are."

"Hmm...."

Kyle thought about it for a moment, his brows furrowed under the edge of his baseball cap. He probably should have thought about it before. It wasn't like he didn't know this was coming.

"I would have to say... I guess I'm like, half annoyed, and half relieved."

"Interesting," Jazz replied. "Elaborate."

Another car drove by, and they both shivered in the wind it blew their way. It was fully dark now, and Kyle was really regretting the fact that he hadn't thought to grab his Jacket when they got stranded.

When the chill passed, and the sound of the engine faded, Kyle chuckled to himself.

"Alright, sure," he allowed. "I'm annoyed because most of the people I talk to, when I mention Wes, they immediately recognize his name, and then they say they didn't even know he had a twin brother. So like, at least people know you exist, even if your brother's more well-known than you are.

"And I'm relieved because have you heard Wes' reputation?" Kyle all but snorted. "People think he's a total nut-case, some kind of raving mad conspiracy theorist. I'm much happier to wallow in anonymity than be the target of constant mockery. He's got such a reputation that people won't even believe him when he says something objectively cool.

"In computer class one time, a girl remarked that she hadn't seen any ducks at the pond in the park lately, and Wes said that was because they migrate south for the winter. Common knowledge, right? Except because it was Wes that said it, she opened a new tab and googled it right in front of him."

Jazz busted up with laughter. "Oh my god, really?"

"I swear to god," Kyle confirmed. "So yeah, if my choice is between obscurity and whatever Wes has got going on, I think I have the better end of the deal, honestly."

"Okay, I can see your point. At least for as wild a reputation as Danny has, his credibility is still pretty high."

"He did get featured in Genius Magazine," he remembered. "Some... gorilla thing, right? That'll boost anybody's credibility."

"Ha! Fair enough, yeah," she agreed. "Somehow, I always forget about that."

"Too bad my brother's just a doofus and not a genius," Kyle joked.

But Jazz didn't laugh at that, only smiled in such a way that was knowing as much as it was amused.

"I don't know," she said, and Kyle didn't like her tone as she said it. It wasn't... mocking exactly, but she spoke as if she knew something he didn't, and that bothered him. "Maybe he's just misunderstood."

"Maybe he's just a pain in the rear," he retorted with a scoff.

Another car came by, but this one slowed when it got close to them.

Kyle saw Jazz tense up, and he put himself between her and the strange vehicle, just in case.

A man leaned out the driver's side window to talk to them. "You kids need a ride?" he asked.

"No thanks," Kyle told him, smiling politely. "We haven't got much farther to go."

"Just the same, it's gettin' late," the man insisted. "I don't like the idea of two kids wandering the highway in the dark for any distance."

"And you like the idea of two kids climbing into a stranger's car any better?" Kyle raised an eyebrow. "If it's all the same to you, we'd rather take a mode of transportation that's guaranteed to get us where we want to go, instead of landing us dead and buried in the woods."

The man scowled. "Is that anyway to talk to a good Samaritan just trying to help?"

"What did you expect?" Jazz pitched. "You're a total stranger trying to pick us up off the side of the road even though we didn't indicate in any way that we were looking for a ride? You can't seriously be worried about us running into a creeper and not realize that you're acting like one, can you?"

Kyle glanced back at her and her thoroughly derisive look, impressed for a moment, before fixing his gaze back on the man, who scowled at the both of them, but pulled his head back in his car and drove off, grumbling the whole time. They waited until the man was a long way down the freeway before they started moving again.

"Damn, you sure told that guy," Kyle commended. "You can be badass."

Jazz flipped her hair for effect and rolled back her shoulders. "I did tell you, didn't I?"

"That you did."

"Now, come on. Our exit's just up ahead, let's take it before another creep drives by that we can only hope takes 'no' for an answer."

"Good call."

Their conversation faded as the two of them started to run ahead to the downtown Amity Park exit where they could finally get off the free way and onto the much safer surface roads.

Once they were back in town, they struck up a conversation about academic decathlon, and the computer camp Kyle went to, and the colleges Jazz had been touring lately as she chose where to apply.

Kyle's apartment was much closer than Jazz's place, but since it was already well after dark, he offered to walk her all the way home if she wanted. She thanked him, but politely declined, assuring him she could handle herself for a few blocks, and it wasn't a dangerous neighborhood. All the same, he asked her to shoot him a text when she got home so he wouldn't have to worry about her, and that, she did agree to.

He was just logging into his favorite online game, about ten minutes later, when the text came in from her, letting Kyle know she hadn't died on the way home.

It turned out Wes wasn't as stupid as Kyle thought he was, because he brought Kyle's car back in the same condition he'd taken it, and he'd even filled the tank. After examining it for scratches and dents, Kyle decided that his brother could live another day.

He asked Wes why he had taken it in the first place, of course. But Wes had replied with a long, convoluted story about the Fenton kid losing his powers and they needed it to chase after some evil, uber powerful ghost. After a couple of minutes, Kyle just cut him off and said he didn't need an elaborate lie and if Wes wanted it kept private so bad, he could just say so.

That, of course, made Wes irrationally angry, which was hilarious, and made the whole ordeal worth it in Kyle's opinion. He got to see his brother seethe, and he had a nice conversation with Jazz Fenton, so all in all, he couldn't even find it in him to be that mad about his car being stolen.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 28

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 25, part 26, part 27

It is a lot easier for Wayne to find Steve than he thought it would be. He had the vision of tires screeching out of the parking lot. Speeding down the road to his house or somewhere worse. But here Steve is, sitting on the curb outside the hospital doors. An unlit cigarette in his hands. Looking like he’s debating the world.

Wayne’s not sure why he followed him. He has every right to yell. Every right to question what that was. Why he came at Eddie with so much anger? Lashing out as decisions that had already been set in stone. Already dealt with.

After all this talk of telling Dustin that he can’t change what Eddie did, how he got hurt, Wayne thought that Steve was over it. That whatever happened between them was in the past. And all of them were ready to move forward and try to forget the pain.

But as he looks at Steve, the way his shoulders hunch and his arm wraps around his knees, the pain isn’t forgotten. Just hidden under the surface of someone trying to keep everything together. To be the strong one while the world falls apart. The bandage that keeps the dam from breaking.

Wayns sighs. Sitting down next to Steve and extending that olive branch. Telling Steve that he didn’t come here to scold him, or break whatever trust they’ve formed in these past few weeks. But here to be a person who will listen without judgement. The same way that Steve has for him.

“You know you’re supposed to light those.”

Steve stares at his hand, giving the cigarette a gentle flick. “I haven’t smoked in years. Don’t even know why I have it to begin with.”

“Because it’s familiar, doesn’t matter how long you’ve gone without them. Or how long you smoked them to begin with.”

There’s a long break of silence. Wayne waiting for Steve to open up. Explain himself. Or maybe just get ready to put the mask back on whenever Dustin finds them. Either way, Wayne will be here next to him. Attempting to understand whatever is going on in his head. Be the sturdy post that Steve needs in this moment. Giving him the permission to crack.

Steve eventually hands Wayne the cigarette, giving up on trying to smoke it. Wayne takes it, feeling the weight he’s so familiar with rest in his hand. Finding his lighter and holding it up to the end. Not letting it go to waste.

After a shorter silence, Steve takes a deep breath. “Barb Holland, Billy Hargrove, Jim Hopper, Max Mayfield, and Eddie Munson. Those are all the people that either died or got hurt while I could do nothing to stop it.”

Wayne can’t find the right words to respond to that. He doesn’t have to, Steve still has more to say.

“I didn’t really know some of them well. And some of them, I didn’t really care about that much. But I knew people that did, and I see what they all left behind. And each of them could have been me. It could have been me that died or got hurt. But somehow, no matter how many times I’ve almost died, no matter what I’ve done, the universe keeps picking me to save.”

“And it makes you feel guilty.” It’s an obvious statement, Wayne knows that. But he can’t seem to find the words to say. Trying to find something comforting without minimizing how Steve feels. Knowing that whatever he says isn’t going to stick.

Steve’s nod is full of guilt. Like he’s the reason all of this happened. That everyone got hurt because of him. And maybe they did, Wayne doesn’t know the full story. But what he does know is that Steve is still a victim in this. The scars are only a proof of that. Whatever’s going on with his head is proof of that. The way he’s feeling right now is proof of that.

“I’m still in the dark about most of what’s happened in this town, apparently. I only know what you’ve told me, and I know that was only a partial story. But I can���t imagine that these people blame you at all. I know Eddie doesn’t. I can guess that Jim doesn’t. And Max. It seems like the only one who blames you, is you.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Steve tries to correct.

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. That doesn’t matter right now. Right now, all that matters is that you think that your life is worth less than theirs. I can tell you right now that isn’t the case.”

Steve’s huff is full of self-deprecation. Refusing to believe that what Wayne is saying is true. It breaks Wayne a little bit. Finally seeing the cracks beneath the hard exterior Steve presents himself in. He's what, a year younger than Eddie? Barely an adult and holding himself to an unreachable standard. Pining for perfection that isn’t wanted.

“You don’t know me that well,” he says. Like that makes some kind of point. “I don’t think you can make that call.”

He has a point. Wayne doesn’t know Steve that well. But he knows enough. He knows that this kid will do anything and everything for the people he loves. Fight the unfightable just to protect them. Shelter them with everything he has. Even if it breaks him in the process.

He drives Dustin to and from the hospital day after day, no matter how he’s feeling. He sat with Max while she was still here, and with the kids while they were dealing with everything. He sat out in the waiting room while Wayne wouldn’t let him in Eddie’s room, just to show that he was there. That he wasn’t leaving them behind. Not again, or never at all. Wayne’s not sure.

What he is sure of, is that these people care about him more than Steve realizes. He sees it in the way Dustin trusts him. In the way all the kids trust him. Even in the way Eddie lights up every time he enters the damn room. In the way Eddie’s voice broke when calling out to Steve to stay.

Wayne can see how much Steve is loved while knowing so little about him. It crushes him that Steve can’t see that for himself.

“I don’t need to know you to know that your life is worth something.”

Steve shakes his head like he still can’t believe what Wayne’s saying.

“How old were you when this all started,” Wayne asks, trying a new approach.

“Seventeen,” Steve answers in a whisper.

Wayne has to bite his tongue to keep himself from cursing. Trying to keep this conversation in the place it is, instead of his own shock. “You were just a kid yourself, how could you have made the right decisions?”

“I still could have made better ones. I was a dick back then. Kinda still am.” He says this like it’s an excuse. It's not.

“I’ve heard the stories, so I’m not going to fight you on that. But who you were doesn’t decide who you have to be. Or what punishment you think you deserve. Yeah, you might regret the actions you’ve made, I do the same thing. But it’s that regret that shows you that you are a good person. Bad people don’t regret their decisions. The fact that you do tells me a lot about you.”

Steve shakes his head gently. Almost forcing the words to bounce off whatever wall he’s built up. The disbelief in it’s mortar refusing to break. But Wayne can see how he hasn’t said a word out loud to dispute it. He’s still listening.

“I can tell you right now that those kids don’t believe a word of what you’ve said right here. They still want you here. And that girl, Robin, that you hang out with all the time. She does too.”

Wayne’s just trying to make the point stick. Not quite sure where the words are coming from, or how effective they are. But something about them seems right, so they continue.

“Eddie wants you here. Hell, I do too. You mean more to these people than you know. Your life is worth something to them. Don’t let it mean nothing to you.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders starts to break. Loosening from the ball he’s curled himself into. For the first time, Steve turns his head and looks Wayne in the eye. A wealth of sadness and hurt hiding behind his eyes. Something that can’t be built in a few years, but a lifetime.

Whatever this feeling is, it runs deeper that what he’s saying.

“You really mean that?”

“I do,” Wayne says with a nod. Nothing but truth in his words.

There’s nothing but silence after that. Steve going back to staring at the concrete. But looking less troubled than before. Something knew ruminating in his mind.

He eventually stands, wiping off the palms of his hands on his thigh. Wayne takes a second before following, feeling the regret of sitting on nothing but a curb for this long.

“I’m going to go-.” Steve motions to the hospital doors. “You know, apologize.”

“You sure? You’ve been through a lot today. I don’t think he would mind if you waited a day.”

That’s a lie, he would mind. Probably would spend the night thinking about it. But right now, Wayne can lie. He can lie to give someone who’s gone through so much grief some peace of mind. Even if it’s just for a moment.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I think it might make us both feel better if I do.”

Wayne watches him walk back into the hospital doors. Leaning against the wall and pulling a new cigarette from his pocket. Stands out there as the wind starts to chill and afternoon turns to evening.

Eddie wouldn’t mind one day without him saying goodbye. Not since he’s in there talking it out with Steve. Probably on to something else at this point. With that glint in his eye that tells Wayne there’s about to be a whole new problem.

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[only-lonely-stars]

Orange is the New Black (Chapter 2 - Doppelgängers)

[Chapter 1] // [Chapter 2 - you are here!] // [Chapter 3] – (FFN) (AO3)

Part of @ninjago-fic-fest!

Summary:

A rift opens in the sky above Ninjago City just as Cole continues his track record of falling from tall places. The place he wakes up in isn't the same as the one in which he fell... and who's the kid with a man bun who looks just like him?

Chapter summary:

Cole receives a few mediocre explanations and meets some "new" people.

Cole stared at the teenage boy in front of him. “Uh… care to run that by me again?”

‘Cole’ glared at him. “You’re not the Black Ninja. So who are you? Are you impersonating me?”

“No! Dude, you’ve got it all wrong.”

The boy scoffed. “Garmadon put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Garmadon? Woah, woah, woah. I’m not working with him!” Cole crossed his arms. “Now I’m sure something weird is going on.”

“Yeah, it’s weird that you’re impersonating me!”

“No, not that kind of weird!” Cole laughed in disbelief. “Geez, kid. You gotta believe me here, I’ve already said it twice. I am not trying to impersonate you. How do I explain… it’s like I’m from an alternate dimension, okay?”

The boy scoffed, but before he could argue the shorter boy piped up, “That’s impossible. There are no alternate dimensions.”

“Actually, there are! There’s sixteen. Yours must be one of them.” Cole reached out a hand to shake his. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy was hesitant, but he shook it. “...Lloyd.”

“Lloyd Garmadon?”

“Yeah. But I’m not like him, honest!” The boy looked on edge, close to panic. “Trust me, I don’t want to be a warlord and attack the city all the time. I don’t even live with him. I just want to be a normal teenager!”

“Woah, chill!” Cole put his hands on the kid’s shoulders, ignoring how the other Cole gave him the stink-eye. “I believe you. I’ve got a Lloyd back home, and he’s not like his dad either. Our Garmadon even turned good, if you can believe it.”

Cole scoffed. “That’s not possible.”

“It is, but that’s irrelevant.”

Lloyd laughed, but it sounded a little hysterical. “My dad is an evil warlord. He cries lava! I couldn’t do that, even if I tried.” 

“Oookay, so ours doesn’t do that, but he really did get better!” It seemed convenient to leave out the part where the evil version of Garmadon had been resurrected as an Oni monster, so Cole ignored it. “Anyway, that’s not so important. Are you a ninja too? If you guys are both ninja, do you have a team? Maybe a teacher?”

Lloyd and ‘Cole’ looked at each other before Lloyd spoke. “My uncle, Master Wu, teaches us. We can bring you to see him.”

“Yeah, that’s great! I’d love to. Maybe he knows how I can get home.”

It was wishful thinking, and Cole knew it, but it would have to do. If Wu didn’t know what to do, he didn’t want to think about what kind of trouble he’d be in.

Besides, this world was weird. Seeing Wu would really help. It wasn’t as good as talking to his own Wu, but it was something. Cole already missed him… and the rest of the team too, even though he’d barely been separated from them.

These days, any time apart was like a wound.

—

On the walk to the Secret Ninja Force’s base, Cole learned several important details.

One: The other Cole wasn’t quite the same as him. For one, his last name was Hence, not Brookstone. Cole wasn’t used to hearing his mother’s maiden name so much, but it helped to just call the other him ‘Hence’ instead of his own name. Hence didn’t seem to mind it too much, besides the odd eye-roll.

Two: Dragons didn’t exist in this world. At all. The only dragon either Lloyd or Hence knew about was Lloyd’s dragon mech, which obviously didn’t count.

Three: The Ninja kept their identities secret here. Why? Because Lord Garmadon didn’t seem to know who his son really was, and apparently, no one wanted him to know. There wasn’t a prophecy, so they could keep this going indefinitely. 

Cole remembered Garmadon being a pretty good dad when it counted, always showing up when he was needed most. Apparently in this world, he was a warlord and a deadbeat. Already, Cole’s opinion of him was in the dumps.

It was a crazy hour or so, all told, but Cole felt like he was pretty caught up on the differences… until they arrived at the Secret Ninja Force’s warehouse base.

Hence and Lloyd brought him in through the back door, expertly disguised by a neon yellow sign.

WARNING: RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS!

In Cole’s opinion, it was not the best hiding place.

Lloyd pushed open the door, the two gestured for Cole to enter, and Hence flanked him from behind. They came out next to a bank of bright red lockers, of the type Cole remembered from Marty Oppenheimer’s School for Performing Arts. The back was messy, filled with video game consoles and mis-matched furniture, with a clunky old refrigerator in one corner.

The rest of the warehouse was an enormous garage with a retractable ceiling, filled with six incredible mechs.

Cole was grinning at the thought of driving one when four teenagers suddenly showed up in front of him, the first skidding to a stop in front of the other three.

“Lloyd!” A brown-haired boy dressed all in red with a bandaged temple reached out and hugged him. “Hey, Green!”

Lloyd laughed softly, hugging back for a moment. “Kai, hey, what’s up.”

“Dude, we’ve been waiting for you!” Kai was about to say more when a girl stepped up, pulling out a knife from somewhere Cole couldn’t see. 

“Who are you?!” 

The rest of the teenagers gasped, but Cole snickered. “Hi. Nya, right?”

“How do you know my name?!”

“Because I know you!” Cole snickered more, glancing at Hence. “C’mon Hence, help a doppelgänger out here.”

Hence rolled his eyes, but he stepped forward and leaned one arm on Cole’s shoulder. “Guys, this is me from another dimension.” 

Four pairs of wide eyes watched them in disbelief. “What?!”

Cole snickered, even as the team crowded around and gaped at him. Their versions of Kai and Jay were curious, though Jay seemed oddly shy, and Kai had no problem with touching him and messing with his hair and gi. Cole let him, feeling oddly nostalgic. It felt like when Wu had been going through his ‘fussy toddler’ stage.

Their version of Zane– oddly robotic and with a stiff smile on his face, but with the same piercing blue eyes– trundled over and looked him up and down. “You are not a cool teenager like us!”

“Nope. Sorry, buddy, I’m almost twenty-seven years old.”

“How does it feel to be a geriatric ninja?”

Cole laughed. “Geriatric? Who are you calling geriatric, tin can?”

Other Zane turned his head in confusion. “I am not a tin can. I am a regular, teenage ninja.”

Before Cole could push it any further, he was interrupted by the quiet voice of Jay. “Why are you carrying so many weapons? What if someone sees you and figures out you’re a ninja?”

“Because it’s not an issue?”

“But ninja are supposed to keep their identities secret,” Jay insisted, slowly seeming to become more confident as he realized Cole wasn’t about to snap and eat him… or whatever weirdness this Jay expected. He couldn’t be too different, even if he was quiet, and Cole knew Jay well enough to know he never had a quiet moment inside his mind.

So Cole launched into his explanation, telling the story of how he’d arrived. The rift, landing on the football field, meeting Hence and Lloyd. It felt like telling a story to a bunch of school kids who sat on the floor with rapt attention, listened closely, and asked all their burning questions.

He didn’t mind it. Not really.

Even if Lloyd was fidgeting and pulling on his hoodie strings like he did when he was nervous. Jay buried his face in his bright orange scarf so he could barely be seen. Kai had scratches all over, most of them without bandages. Nya toyed with a knife. Zane sat too still and smiled too widely. Hence, most normal of them all, didn’t seem to be able to sit still at all. 

The whole world was knobbly and scratchy and bumpy and wrong. 

When he got to the end of the story, Cole took a deep breath and delivered his summary. “So, I’m stranded in your version of Ninjago. I think you guys are probably my only ticket back, so I need your help.”

The teenagers looked amongst themselves as Lloyd spoke for the group. “We don’t really know anything that could help.”

Before Cole could speak, he was cut off.

“Then it is a good thing I do.”

A chorus responded to the interrupting voice. “Master Wu!”

Cole looked around for the source of the voice. He found it above him, the ninja master sitting on a railing near the ceiling. Upon eye contact, he leaped from his perch, sprung off a wall, and landed as nimbly as a cat on the cement floor.

Master Wu looked at Cole with calculating eyes, shrewdness hidden under a faint layer of secrets. It was at that moment Cole knew he was truly Sensei Wu, no matter what he did or said. Only Wu could look like that. 

Wu folded his hands behind his back, his shoulders seeming a little strange as he did so. “Students, who have you brought to your secret base?”

The whole team began to protest at once, giving excuses.

“We didn’t bring him here!”

“It was Lloyd’s idea!”

“He just showed up!”

“Master, he said he’s me–”

“We are just clueless teens, Master.”

At last, Lloyd spoke over the cacophony. “Master, he says he’s another version of Cole! Cole and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Cole?” Wu raised an eyebrow, glancing at Lloyd and Hence. “So that is why you brought him here.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. He’s a ninja too, and he knows all of our names. He’s not a real stranger.”

Wu scrutinized Cole with the watchfulness Cole remembered from his first few weeks of ninja training. Seeing weak points, exploiting them for students’ benefits and drinking far too much tea… it was all present in this wizened man’s face, staring him down from where he stood. “You’re right, he is not a real stranger. Who did you train under, young man?”

“Uh… under you, Master. My version of you. It was a long time ago, I’ve been a master ninja for years.”

Wu hummed, then nodded several times. “How did you arrive here?”

Deep down, Cole suppressed a sigh. Would he have to explain the story again in full? “I just fell through a rift in spacetime. It was magenta, it looked like this place. Then I arrived, and I want to go home already.”

Wu brushed off his homesickness. Instead of sympathizing, he pulled a wooden staff out from behind him. He put it to his lips, and as Cole watched in amazement, began beatboxing and playing it like a flute. A short rendition of The Score’s “Going Home” came through, somehow sounding right despite lacking every background instrument.

Cole glanced at the rest of the team, who seemed frustrated as they rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Secretly, he wished for a camera. If only his brothers could see this Master Wu!

“Master,” Lloyd complained as Wu was coming to the end of the tune, “What do we do? We don’t know how to get Co– him home!”

Wu, finishing his ditty, brought the flute down on Lloyd’s head with a quiet thwack. “You interrupted my music. Not very ninja of you.”

“This isn’t a very ninja situation!”

“Not important. Not my problem.” Wu turned to Cole with a grave expression. “Yes, we must send you home. I know of a magical device which will return you to your own realm.”

“Really?” Cole laughed in delight. “Talk about fast.”

“Not so fast, young ninja.”

“Young?” Kai sputtered. “He’s older than all of us!”

“Hush. We must travel a long, long way… to the Wanderlust Woods.” Wu pointed toward the back wall of the warehouse with his staff. “That way, on the other side of the island.”

“We’re on an island?” Cole frowned, glancing around as if the unseen scenery could help him verify the claim. “I guess we can take the Bounty, or maybe mechs…?”

“No!” Wu now brought the flute down on Cole’s head, a thwack making his scalp sting for just a minute. “‘Cool mechs are weapons first, not vehicles. We will walk. It is not far.”

The teenage ninja all groaned. “Come on, Master, we can’t be gone that long!”

“Today is Thursday. We will go after your classes end tomorrow.”

“Master,” Zane commented, with little emotion, “we have homework.”

“And what will our parents think?” Jay added. “My mom said we’re going to the flea market this weekend…”

“You will figure out something to tell them.” Wu shook his head, clearly not amused by his students’ excuses. “Not my problem. You are ninja, you will need to find a way for yourselves to remain secret. You do not need my help.”

The six teenagers groaned, but they didn’t argue any more. Instead, they turned to talk amongst themselves. Cole heard snippets of whispered conversation, mentioning clones and call it a sleepover at my place and are we sure this is a good idea?

He tuned them out, deciding to talk to Master Wu instead. He opened his mouth to speak, only for Wu to cut him off.

“You have no place to stay here.”

Cole blinked twice. “Uh… yeah. That’s what I was going to ask you about– one of a few things.”

“Come to my ship, the Destiny’s Bounty. You will stay with me.” Wu turned and gestured with his staff, walking to the other side of the warehouse and its great bay doors. “Come. Let them decide for themselves.”

After a moment of hesitation, Cole followed him. “Yes, Master.”