#despite on the surface you thinking the ‘evil’ and ‘good’ parent should have these rolls swapped

[vic-does-battlecats]

Stay with me

speedpaint

[dannyphantom-zero]

Doctor Danny Chapter 9

The jet was surprisingly efficient. The landed on a private airfield and found a taxi into the town.

"So where exactly are we going?"

"Danny's childhood home"

Jason raised an eyebrow, "we getting his parents?"

Sam crisply should her head no.

"They don't know about Danny's condition, and it'll stay that way if I can help it"

Sam made the cab let them out a street before the house.

"I've got to make sure they aren't here" Sam said as she stealthily slunk around the house, peaking in the windows.

Jason admired the strange architecture of the house. What were these people? Supervillains? Mad scientists?

The Fenton Assault Vehicle was nowhere in sight. Always a good sign.

Sam forced a window open from the outside.

"Breaking in, nice." Jason commented.

She rolled her eyes and climbed through the window. Jason followed her despite his remark.

Sam noticed that the house hadn't changed much at all.

She made her way to Danny's old room.

Jason smirked at the mess. Typical teenage mess.

Sam pulled out a math textbook and flipped a few pages. A worn looking paper fell out. She dropped the book and grabbed the paper.

"This is going to be our map" Sam said handing it to him.

Jason unfolded it and scrunched his face in confusion. It didn't look like any map he had seen before.

Sam almost felt nostalgic, her nostalgia turned to anxiety as she reached the lab door.

"What is it?" Jason asked.

Sam opened the door, "this is where Danny had the accident" she said as she took carefully steps down the stairs.

Jason's eyes took a calculating sweep over the inventory of this lab. Almost every surface was taken up in space by some weird looking gun or belt or fishing rod?

Sam walked over to a large medal door.

"What's that?"

Sams expression seemed tense.

"It's, the ghost zone. Officially called the infinite realms"

She pressed a button and the mechanical doors opened up to reveal a bright swirling green vertical pit.

"We have to go in there"

Jason felt a cold sweat taking over.

"You sure this is safe?" Jason asked keeping a careful distance away from it.

"I've been in there before and I'm still alive. The portal itself is harmless. What it contains is not."

Sam smacked a large mechanical space rocket looking thing.

"Get in"

Jason wanted to dismantle the crazy portal and bomb this house but Danny needed help, so he got in.

The machine started up and lifted off the ground. Sam shifted a stick and it went forward.

Jason looked out the window in morbid curiosity.

All around were floating doors.

"What are those?"

"Doors to other dimensions, times zones, they could be spacial anomalies or fields of flowers." Sam responded keeping her eyes on the path ahead of them.

"This map is so weird, but I think it's starting to make sense now" Jason said. Sam glanced at it.

"Your holding it upside down"

Jason turned it the correct way.

"Ah now is see. This must be the evil castle and that must be the pit that swallows up anything that goes near it" he said pointing to a circle with a swirl in it.

"Basically yeah"

Suddenly the temperature dropped leaving Jason shivering.

"Welcome to the Far Frozen Jason" Sam said as they touched down in a snowy patch.

"Am I going to end up frozen?" He asked his teeth chattering.

"Don't be a baby" Sam said rolling her eyes. She tossed Jason a spare coat that was a little tight on him and they made their way to a nearby cave.

"FROSTBITE!" Sam yelled as they walked in. Jason tried not to stare at talk the yeti people. The cave turned out to be giant with tons of systems where he guessed the yeti people lived.

"Is that you Lady Sam?" A heavy voice asked.

"Yeah, it's me. Phantom needs your help"

A large yeti with a cloth sash made his way towards them.

"The great one is in trouble?"

Jason shot a look a Sam when he heard the nickname only to be ignored.

"He was poisoned with blood blossoms, I think it was a diluted version though"

"Ah, blood blossoms. And your friend here? He seems to be in need of some assistance as well"

"What Jason?" Sam looked at him suspiciously.

"Step forward of you please"

Jason followed his command. He felt a sudden cold radiat throughout his chest spreading through his upper forearms and entering his veins.

"This should naturally filter out your contamination"

Jason had to admit he felt clear. The heaviness on his chest was gone and he didn't feel particularly pissed off either.

"Thank you" he breathed out.

"As for the great one, you need to give him this"

Frostbite took a small bottle from the other yeti. Inside was a cosmic looking liquid.

"Make sure he gets this. His core might be in danger as well. He will need time to recover. Send my wishes of health to the great one please Lady Sam"

"I will" she nodded taking the bottle.

Once they were back in the Fenton shuttle Sam soared Jason a glance.

"So what's up with you?" Sam asked.

Jason tapped the window, "I died and was revived with a toxic liquid that a cult famously calls the Lazarus Pits"

" you and Danny have that in common"

"What?" Jason asked alarmed.

She laughed, "sorry, I meant dying and coming back. Danny changed because of the accident. His ghost half, the dead side, is what is ironically keeping him alive"

Jason relaxed a bit.

"Yeah, he told me he was half ghost"

"He did! Danny has always been way too trusting. Not that I don't think you can be trusted, it's just, I worry about Danny you know?"

Jason thought about how soft Danny seemed to be, an image of him shoving Jason out his window played in his head.

"I know exactly what you mean"

The shuttle went back though the portal and they stepped out. Sam closed the portal and put a passcode so the Fenton's couldn't open it.

Suddenly the loud booming voice of Jack Fenton could be heard throughout the house.

"Shit" Sam whispered.

"I know Jack, we were so close this time" Maddie said as they walked down the steps in their lab.

"We'll get em next time, no ghost is any match for Jack Fenton!"

Hanging very close to the ceiling from a grappling hook, were Sam and Jason.

Jason let them down slowly and released the grappling hook and the two made a break for the stairs. The Fenton doctors stayed oblivious to the break in.

Sam loud out a loud 'whoop' after they successfully escaped the Fenton household.

"Don't tell bats we broke in to someone's house" Jason said.

"What about the portal?"

Jason tilted his head, "yeah that's going to need explaining"

Sam smiled, "you know Danny Is technically king of that so, it could be like diplomatic. Maybe the JL will leave him alone"

Jason shook his head, "Bats is another breed. Trust me. If he wants to know something he's gonna find out what it is."

Sam sighed, "yeah he seems like the type"

The jet was ready for them when they finally managed to get back to it.

"I hope Tucker was able to help"

"Tuckers Danny's

other friend right?"

"Yeah, he's the tech support of our group."

The corner of Jason's mouth twitched up.

"I have someone like that, we call her Babs"

The jet landed back in Gotham and they made their way back to Danny.

"Tucker!" Sam exclaimed as she ran in and hugged him.

"Hey Sam!"

She pulled away and  held up the bottle.

"This is it, Frostbite said this would work"

"Frostbite?" Superman asked confused.

"He helped Danny before when his powers almost froze him alive" Tucker explained.

"Wow, poor guy" Flash said, "say what's that stuff made out of?"

Sam shrugged, "no clue".

She put the liquid in a clean IV bag and hook it up.

Danny face twitched and scrunched up before relaxing again.

"Now we wait. His core is still recovering from his fight. He hasn't worsened at all has he?" Sam asked.

"No, all his readings are consistent to his normal levels. I noticed some internal burning, I hope that's resolved by your medicine " Superman said.

"Me too" Sam said patting Danny's hand.

"Is Vlad in prison?" Tucker asked with venom in his tone.

"No, he's not in prison" Bruce answered.

"Tch, figures. I hate rich people!"

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You don't count Sam, you don't live on your parents money"

Sam thought about for a second, "yeah but not all rich people suck. Just most of them"

Jason started cracking up.

Bruce glanced at Jason. When was the last time he had seen Jason smile?

"Oh yeah, status report on the pits. I'm  slowly being healed by cold magic stuff"

Sam slapped her forehead and groaned.

"We have to explain the infinite realms"

Sam took some time explaining the ghost zone and how it worked. Luckily Tucker had already shown them ALL of Danny's enemies. All Sam had to do was explain how the ghost zone was the "flip side of our world".

"The observants are like the kings council, they kind of have more authority than the king. Its around the same. Then there's clockwork. Hes a ghost who can interact with timelines"

"They sound powerful"

"They are, luckily they're more or less on our side, the non-evil side. Since they're dead they can't really become evil either. They aren't swayed by humanity"

Bruce nodded. He couldn't make a contingency plan against the Lord of time. That's like saying you know how to kill God.

"Only one time did he mess with time and it was for Danny. Danny has that kind of sway. It makes you want to do whatever you can for him"

"That's impressive"

"Hes incredible" Jason said sitting down.

"Yeah, he is" Sam smiled.

Danny's condition stabled enough to move him to the manor. They did so in citizen form. It would look suspicious if a bunch of heroes showed up at Wayne Manor.

Jason sat by Danny's bed. It was decided Sam and Tucker would stay at the manor until Danny woke up.

Which might be a while. Sure the medicine was working but Danny's core needed time to recover.

[five-rivers]

Beltane

Written for Ectober 2021 Day 1: Trick vs Treat. This is part of the Exhumed series.

.

Danny Fenton walked into the precinct. As often happened when he did this, all attention slowly turned to him. “Hi, Detective Patterson. Have you ever heard of Beltane?”

Patterson took a long swig of coffee through the plastic stir straw, because she felt the need to be at least a little drugged before dealing with whatever this was, and then said, “Is this the kind of thing the whole precinct needs to know about, or is it more specific to me?”

“Mm, not specific to you, but I’m not sure if everyone needs to know about it, yet.”

Despite only select members of the Amity Park police force knowing Danny Fenton had another identity, he’d become a sort of ‘ghost liaison’ for the precinct. Better him than the adult Fentons, who tended to break things even (especially) when they were being careful.

“Actually,” continued Danny, “you might have already noticed some things about it. I mean, it’s seasonal, and Mom and Dad were detecting ectoenergy and ghost activity spikes for events like this before they got the portal up and running. Although, the portal was supposed to stabilize and reduce those spikes… I guess reducing one isn’t bad?”

“Okay,” said Patterson. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Do you want me to go find Collins?”

“Oh, that might be a good idea.”

“Great,” said Patterson. She turned her head to shout across the room. “McGee. Go find Collins.”

“Still the new guy?” asked Danny, sympathetically.

“It isn’t like we’re a popular posting,” said Patterson, “and, thanks to the ghosts, we don’t really need new people.”

Danny nodded placidly. “I know. But it must be hard for him, don’t you think?”

.

McGee had done his job. He’d discovered the corruption in the Amity Park Police Department and plumbed its depths. The problem was that he could never, ever, report it. Even if they didn’t have a perfectly good cause for it all, what they were ‘hiding’ (and they were only barely doing that) was so ridiculous that McGee had thought he’d gone crazy at first.

Ghosts.

The whole of Amity Park was haunted. Just like it said in those touristy brochures at the front of the local diners.

He stuck his head into the break room. “Collins, Patterson and Fenton want you,” he said.

“In the normal room?” Collins asked, shoving a sugary monstrosity of a donut into his mouth.

“I have no idea. She didn’t say.”

“Normal room then. Great job, McGee.”

McGee rolled his eyes. Great job, he said. As if he’d done anything.

God. What would Halloween be like?

.

“So, it’s like, reverse Halloween?” asked Patterson.

“Well, not exactly,” said Danny. He patted Daisy, the department mascot slash corpse sniffing dog who had followed them into the small interview room, gently on the head. “Actually, there are more similarities than differences. Basically, like Halloween, we’re going to get a spike in ectoenergy. Maybe even some ectoplasmic storms. More portals. That kind of thing.” He shrugged. “Most holidays and seasonal divisions have them, you know.”

“So… we’re getting Halloween round two?” asked Collins.

“What do you bet that this is what gets McGee to snap?”

“He’s been here since December,” said Collins. “I think he’s too stubborn to leave.”

“Is he still spying?” asked Danny.

“No,” said Patterson, waving a hand. “He gave up on that, after a while. But there’s a new office bet about whether or not he’ll stay stay, or if he’ll decide to quit. We’re not allowed to join in because we know him too well.”

“Mm,” said Danny.

“I don’t actually know if I feel like I know him that well,” said Collins.

“Well,” said Danny, “it shouldn’t be as extreme as Halloween. Since, I mean, there aren’t as many religious holidays directly associated with death and stuff happening on or around May first. So. Yeah. But the thing is, there are some traditional, er, activities. Spirited activities.”

Collins suppressed a groan, and was glad that Captain Jones wasn’t available today. He and Danny could sling puns at each other for obscenely long periods of time.

“I’ve never noticed ghosts doing anything on May Day,” said Patterson.

“This is only the third year anyone’s even acknowledged that ghosts exist,” said Danny, “so I’m not really all that surprised. But the reason that I came to talk to you guys is that some of the ghosts want to do Beltane stuff. Like the fire blessings. Also, I’ve been told that some of the trees in town are secretly ghost trees, and if we don’t want to deal with another tree army, we need to do some stuff to appease them.”

“Secret ghost trees.”

“My source is very reliable,” said Danny. “Also, while I say ‘we don’t want to deal with it,’ I think we all know who’d be dealing with most of it.”

“You would,” said Patterson.

“Got it in one. Like, I can convince most of the ghosts to either do their Beltane stuff in the Ghost Zone, or somewhere out of the way. They’ll be disappointed, but I can do it. The ghost tree thing, though…”

“Can’t we just, I don’t know,” said Collins, “get rid of the ghost trees?”

“Well, they aren’t really evil ghost trees. Or even really ghost trees. They’re more… ghosts that live in trees?”

“What, like dryads?” asked Collins, raising his eyebrows.

“That’s what I said, but they’re different species, apparently.”

“Okay,” said Patterson, “so. Appeasing the trees. How many trees are we talking about here, and how are we going to appease them?”

.

“Okay, so, this is definitely a whole precinct kind of thing,” said Patterson.

“And possibly an ‘all civil servants’ type of thing,” added Collins. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where are we going to get the funding for this?”

“Oh, don’t worry about money,” said Danny. “I’ll just blackmail Vlad, and if that doesn’t work, I can get Mom and Dad to pay for it.”

“What,” said Collins.

“I think this might be a bit beyond your parents’ budget,” said Patterson, “but knock yourself out as far as Masters goes.”

“Well, I guess if it is,” he allowed, dubiously, “I could get the cults to pitch in?”

.

“This is nice,” said Danny. The sky was a bit overcast, which was a shame, but the hundreds of bright flowers and cheerful music more than made up for that.

The May Day celebration was, in Danny’s opinion, a success. At least, this half of it was turning out to be. He’d have to wait and see how the Spirit Bonfires went tonight before he could really make a judgement.

He’d only had to blackmail Vlad a little, too. It turned out that the ‘ruthless businessman’ in Vlad was ludicrously easy to manipulate, and once Danny brought up how a celebration like this one could revitalize local businesses and bring in tourism, he’d caved.

Although, that might have been the threat of an angry tree army. Vlad had definitely come off worse for wear in the last one, on all fronts.

Then, publically putting the Phantom Stamp of Approval (and Necessity Given The Potential Angry Tree Army) on the event had gotten buy-in from his fans and (sigh) the cults. The cults were, in fact, very enthusiastic about their new Holy Day. Danny had made a map of all the places they’d set up booths, and was studiously avoiding them.

Sam and Tucker were doing a walkthrough of that area, now, to check for problems and unadorned thorn trees. They’d arranged to meet up soon.

So, Amity Park was decked out in ribbons and flowers. All of the schools had gotten Maypoles and the day off of classes. Several bands, both human and ghostly, were playing in different parts of town.

It was chaotic, but great.

Danny briefly cut into the street to dodge a pair of college-age men play-fighting with tree branches (a genuinely important tradition symbolizing the battle between winter and summer), then walked through a wall to avoid two ghosts doing the same thing.

Finally, he reached Madame Babazita’s table.

“Hi,” he said, “three readings, please.”

“Three?” she asked. “Just for you?”

“My friends should get here before mine’s done,” said Danny. Was he channeling some predictive powers? Maybe. Holidays did make his powers weird.

.

“I have no idea what your reading is saying,” said Madame Babazita, after fifteen full minutes. “The cards simply aren’t speaking to me today. Also,” she held up an Uno card, “I’m not sure how this even got here.”

“That’s okay,” said Danny, “I just wanted to make sure it was the same as last time.”

.

“Hey! Phantom!” called Ember across the crowd of ghosts that had gathered in the cemetery. Most of them were fire or nature themed. “You’re in for a treat!”

Danny, who had been examining the flowers left on his grave, looked up. “I am?”

Ember draped her arm around Danny’s shoulder. She’d been a lot more friendly with him since the corpse incident. “Sure are.” She stepped up onto the surface of his memorial, pulling him up behind her. Danny shook off a brief chill and looked around.

Ghosts were streaming into the cemetery from various directions, bringing armfuls of flowers with them. Danny could see two, huge bonfire piles of flowers growing near the cemetery gates.

“Are there going to be cows?” asked Danny, who was still fuzzy on the details of the ghostly side of the celebrations.

“I don’t know,” said Ember. “When I’ve seen this done in the GZ there are. Here? Who knows. Maybe we’ll just walk through.”

Danny nodded, unworried. Beltane sure was an interesting holiday.

The last armful of flowers was placed, and every flower in the cemetery caught on fire at once. Including the ones on Danny’s grave. Danny yelped, jumping into flight. As an ice core ghost, he vastly preferred cold to heat.

This went without saying, but fire was very hot.

Ember grabbed his foot, and he almost kicked her. “You knew that was going to happen,” he accused.

“Sure did, babypop,” said Ember, grinning. “Come on, don’t you want to pass through the bonfires?”

Danny eyed the very large bonfires on either side of the cemetery gates. They were lit up with sparks like fireworks, shifting like flowers blooming and withering and blooming again. They were beautiful and impressive, and Danny felt like melting just by looking at them.

“I don’t know…” He wanted to, but… melting…

“Well, if you want to go out the other way and be horribly unlucky for the next year…”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “Is that another trick?” he asked.

Ember’s grin grew wider, and she took off towards the gates. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Danny sighed and followed her.

.

“Unbelievable,” said McGee. “Absolutely unbelievable.” He gave the elderly cultist a boost into the wagon.

“I know, right?” said Patterson. “All this property damage and a low-key kidnapping,” she gestured to the hapless late night partier who had called the police when the cult got too insistent about their message, “and they didn���t even have the good drugs?” She shook her head. “Not that we ever arrest anyone just for drugs in this town.”

“I did not just hear you say that,” muttered McGee.

“We’ll make an Amity Parker out of you yet,” said Collins, heartily, slamming the back door of the wagon. He thumbed the button on his radio. “Any other disturbances?” he asked.

“No, you’re good to come back,” said the dispatcher.

“What I don’t get,” said McGee, leaning against a nearby wall in a moment of weakness, “is why we aren’t breaking up whatever cult thing is happening in the cemetery.” They’d seen it quite clearly on their way here.

“Because those are ghosts,” said Patterson.

McGee took a deep breath. “The ghosts are having some kind of ritual in the cemetery, and you aren’t worried.”

“Not really, no.”

“I hate it here,” said McGee.

“Do you, though?” asked Collins, sounding genuinely interested in the answer.

McGee opened his mouth to snap back that, yes, he did. But…

Hm. Huh.

Collins patted him on the back.

[cdroloisms]

so... the red banquet, huh?

im not going to lie, i was cheering on the eggpire the entire time (/lh) - what can i say, something abt the demon possessed resident evil crew just speaks to my heart. theyre FUN, ok? 

anyway, a lot of people were theorizing abt what c!dream showing up at the banquet could look like - and, well, i thought i’d write my version of it. this takes place in the “guard dog au” developed primarily by a gc im in on twitter (@stabbysideblog being the main originator of it, do check sunny out !!) - the basic premise is post-getting the revive book from c!dream, c!quackity continues to get his, uh, “use” out of him by basically treating him as a bodyguard/guard dog as he goes around the server - which should probably give you a pretty good idea of how this is going to go :] 

tws: death, grief, implied torture, starvation, abuse, blood, murder, unhealthy relationship, dehumanization, possession, trauma, mental illness, violence, dark content, dark imagery, emotional distress, mental instability, pandora’s vault/prison arc, c!quackity critical (not really, but a very dark portrayal of him) 

A strangled sob claws its way up Puffy’s throat as she watches Foolish fall.

He drops in a spray of golden ichor in the crimson, brilliant green eyes trained on hers, jaw slack in horror, pain, dipping to the ground and whiting out before he’s even fully collapsed. The others’ screams hardly even meet her ears; all she can see is her son, falling, her son, dying, her son, that same sunlit kindness still held in the curve of his lips in this room that knows nothing but pain and betrayal, gone gone gone gone-

Because of her.

Ant’s still staring at her, pupils thinned to needles from the brightness of the lava at their backs, ears alert but stance entirely calm as he twirls his sword, still dripping gold. His mouth is moving but she cannot hear anything above the ring ring ringing in her ears, the world swirling and blurring dangerously from the tears gathering in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks, Ant’s eyes polished rubies where there had once been a cloudless sky. Bad gestures at the crowd, pushed back towards the lava’s fire in their fear, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room as one desperate dying scream, the egg, standing as a silent witness to it all-

“Bad-” a flash of blue, and there’s someone standing in front of her, shoulders pulled back, a diamond sword glittering their right hand, “Stop it.”

“Quackity.”’

Bad snarls, tail whipping back and forth; Puffy takes a step back, then another, shoulders still shaking in grief for her son, for her friends, for everyone who’s about to lose their lives in this twisted realm of crimson and hellfire. There is no fear on Quackity’s face though he stands unarmored, and for the first time in this awful day something like worry flashes over Bad’s face. There’s history here, she realizes - what did Bad say about Quackity attacking? - but none of this is making sense, not the self-assured way Quackity is carrying himself, wings relaxed and folded at his back, not the simmering unease making itself known in the foreign cadence of Bad’s voice.

“Oh my gosh, look at what you’ve done,” Quackity says, voice almost patronizing, like a parent stumbling in on the mess their child has made out of their bedroom, “this is impressive, I’m not going to lie, this is quite impressive.” Puffy swallows thickly, hears the shuddering gasp of someone behind her - Fundy, probably, or Sam - as Quackity’s voice drops. “You have to stop right now.”

“Stop?”

“This whole Egg thing is just getting out of control - you just killed a man,” Quackity stalks across the netherbrick floor like he has all the time in the world, ignoring the crossbows that the Eggpire has trained on his back, guarded only by the off-white shirt he’s wearing, an untied tie hanging limply around his neck. She sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth - my son, they killed my son, she means to say, but the words stick to the walls of her throat and only escape her lungs in another series of wracking sobs. “Is that what you wanted to do, Bad?”

He laughs - laughs, of all things, and there is something here that Puffy is missing, that isn’t clicking through the muddied fog of grief hanging grey and suffocating around her head, but Quackity is speaking again and she can’t think about it all, not now, “-and I’m not gonna have it anymore, Bad.”

He slips over by the crowd, eyes glancing all of them huddled in one fearful mob over the tables, eyes dark and daring and cold; the Eggpire keeps their eyes trained on him, Bad’s eyebrows furrowed, Ant’s muzzle twisted in a snarl. Puffy watches, their words passing over her like water skidding against the surface of a rock splitting a stream in two, heart thudding in her ears, marking out the heartsick beats in this poisoned melody - one-two, her-son, her-son, her-son-

He stops in front of her in the middle of monologuing, eyes trained on her own like he’s trying to tell her something. His eyes flick down and she follows their gaze to his other hand, the one not clasped around a sword handle, watches as he gestures vaguely in the direction of the Eggpire. She frowns, confusion cutting through the grief - what is he trying to say? - and Quackity sighs, index finger slashing in the air in the shape of what might be an A as he spins on his heel to walk back towards Bad and the others.

“So how about we just stop playing?”

Quackity smiles, teeth white and glittering from the lava’s glow even as the Eggpire surrounds him, pushes him back against the wall. Bad seems to hesitate, hand clasped around the trigger of a crossbow he keeps pointed at the other’s head; when he speaks, he almost sounds mournful.

“I can’t,” he mutters, quiet, stepping forwards as his shoulders straighten, pushing Quackity back in a motion that the others are quick to follow. Puffy watches, an awful sinking feeling falling through the hole left in her chest by the sight of her son, falling, her son, dead - watches as Quackity’s wings open, shine golden in the lava’s light - what is he planning?

“You know why I can’t stop.”

Quackity heaves a heavy sigh through his lungs, “Bad- you and all your buddies here, drop your weapons, and leave. Let all of these people go.”

“Or what?” Ant’s voice is sharp, but Quackity barely pays him a second thought, swinging a glare at his head and cutting him off.

“I’m not talking to you,” he laughs, dismissive, “I’m talking to Bad.”

“No-” Puffy watches as Bad’s hand tightens on his crossbow, punctuating the word with a step forward. “You put your weapon down. If you wanted to stop us?” He’s too close to Quackity for Puffy to make out either of their faces, crossbow bolt aimed and ready to send straight through his skull. She stiffens, sees from the corner of her eye as the ones beside her look away, and resigns herself to the inevitable spray of blood on brick - not again not again don’t make me watch again - “You should’ve brought more than just yourself.”

Quackity laughs.

“I did,” his voice is dangerous in its levity, making Bad, then the rest of the Eggpire step back as his wings spread open further, watching with bated breath and wide eyes as a swarm of white descends from a hidden hole in the wall, “Or, well, I did the next best thing. I brought my worst enemy.”

“What?”

“Alright Quackity, where’s this Egg thing?”

Technoblade jumps down into the room in a familiar purple-black blur of expertly enchanted netherite armor, form impeccable despite the seeming exhaustion in his voice. At his feet, a pack of wolves gather, pace, muscles coiled and clearly ready to strike; he rolls his shoulders back, signature fireworks loaded into his crossbow, and the crowd behind Puffy immediately breaks into shocked murmuring and soft cheers.

On Quackity’s other side, someone else flips into the room, wearing a suit of all things, crisp and well-pressed; Purpled grins, entirely too gleeful as the Eggpire presses back further, held off by the dogs swarming and growling at their feet.

“Purpled- we hired you!”

“To be frank with you, Bad, a sword appears in Purpled’s hand and he flips it casually, blade thin and gleaming, “Quackity just had the better price.”

“We- we still outnumber you!” Bad’s voice is a near-scream in its desperation, his tail lashing back and forth as he shifts his weight forward, “It’s four against three- we’ll still win-” Despite herself, Puffy’s mind spins; either way, they’re still at a disadvantage from sheer numbers alone, never mind Quackity’s lack of armor. Maybe if they all work together, they’ll be able to sufficiently stop them, but there’s no way she can see this ending in anything less than a bloodbath-

“I didn’t want for it to come to this, Bad,” Quackity’s voice drops low and sweet, the sincerity in his tone belied by his glittering eyes and jagged grin. The shift in tone sends a shiver down her back, has even his allies shifting uncomfortably in what seems to be confusion - Puffy catches something like a murmured no from Sam, behind her, before Quackity whistles, loud.

It all happens too fast for her to follow; one moment, the Eggpire is standing, weapons raised and ready to fight; the next, and there is a new netherite-clad figure in the middle of the room, signature sparks of purple from a pearl still glittering around them, axe buried into Antfrost’s chest. The room devolves into shrieks as his body dissolves, Bad gasping sharply and something dark bubbling in Puffy’s chest - good - as the newcomer in the room moves over to Ponk, bloodstained axe swinging in a downward arc, only barely stopped in time by a diamond sword catching on the crook of the blade.

“Go!” Quackity’s voice rings out above the chaos, and Techno and Purpled - seemingly shaken from their shock - fly into motion, fireworks bursting in flashes of red and black that send Puffy blinking out stars from her eyes, Purpled moving to match blows against Hannah and Techno’s army biting at the ankles of the Eggpire leader. Around her, people scream in relief, cheering as the Eggpire, clad in eggshell-blue, are pushed back one by one, hindered by a shifting wave of teeth and claws and clashing blades and netherite moving smoothly over the uneven floor - Bad screams, “RETREAT!”, and they disappear into the wall.

Purpled curses; “I’m going after them.” Puffy watches, still reeling, as he dives into the corridor that Bad had revealed, a flash of purple and blue melting into the shadows; the mystery figure - still hauling a heavy, bloodstained axe, nearly dragging against the floor - moves forward as to follow.

Quackity snaps his fingers, and the figure stops, turns, immediately moving to the winged man’s side. Behind her, Puffy can make out cheers, gasping, hysterical sounds of relief; she can’t join them, feels nothing but the shuddering weight of her grief pressing further on her lungs as the adrenaline fades, head dizzy with Foolish’ sharp gasp in pain, Ant’s yowl of agony. Her eyes flick to the side, catch on Sam pacing, muttering under his breath; when his eyes meet hers, they widen in something like - alarm?

She shakes her head; she can’t think about all of that, right now. Her hooves stumble over the vines and rot strewn over the floor, carrying her forward to the glitter of gold on red, to where her son had fallen and she could do no more but watch with a scream caught between her teeth.

A hand lands on her shoulder- “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it in time.”

She whirls around; Quackity’s looking down at her, face twisted in sympathy. Behind him, the armored stranger looms, hair long and tangled, helmet keeping their face in shadow and hiding their features from view. There’s something distantly familiar to them, in the way they shift from one foot to the other, something that makes her eyes narrow and throat tighten-

“Who are you?” The words tumble from her mouth, making Quackity freeze, jaw snapping shut, the figure behind him tensing almost imperceptibly under their armor. “Who-”

Quackity’s eyes are dark, piercing; she can’t read them, the flat line of his mouth as confusing as it is frustrating. His eyes flick up to somewhere over her shoulder before moving back to her own

“How rude of me,” He smiles, gold tooth glinting, “I didn’t even introduce our special guest.”

His right wing presses against their back, and they drop, immediately, to their knees, making her step back in shock. Quackity’s hand slips easily under the edge of their helmet, ripping it off with little care and letting their hair fall in a wave of dusty browns over their face; he pulls the strands back roughly, revealing the paleness to their skin, the hollows in their cheeks-

“Dream?”

Her breath shudders in her chest, eyes snapping up to Quackity, still smiling, hand still pressed against the back of his skull. Dream’s face is pale, thin, clawed with new scars that highlight the jut of his cheekbones and the dullness of his eyes. He looks up at her, eyes glassy, skin almost grey, and for a moment she’s looking at Foolish, eyes unseeing in death, the luster of his skin stolen like the air from his lungs, and she nearly screams.

“Puffy, Puffy,” Quackity murmurs, almost kind, “It’s alright, see? Everything’s fine now.”

“He- he’s supposed to be in prison,” she hisses, not missing how he flinches, not missing how even that is hindered by the hand braced against his head. He looks strangely small kneeling at Quackity’s side, dwarfed by the netherite he’s wearing; even with an axe strapped to his back, the blade still wet with crimson and reeking of iron and decay, he hardly looks like the villain that had terrorized the server, the son she could no longer recognize in the midst of the bridges he burned.

“Oh- don’t worry about him,” Quackity shrugs, wings fluttering, “It’s all being done with the Warden’s permission, Puffy, I know what I’m doing.” As if to prove his point, his hand tightens on the other’s hair, tugging his head back by the roots; Dream hardly even reacts, simply letting himself be manhandled, throat bare and exposed to the air, similarly criss-crossed by scars. “He’s perfectly well-behaved now, you see?”

Her throat closes, the pit in her gut torn open by the sight of her son with a blade skewered through his heart only growing wider, hungrier, by the dullness in the eyes of the other. Foolish’ death had happened too fast for her to react: one moment, he was staring at her, eyes mournful in goodbye; the next, he was a tumble of gold and green and blue against the floor, half of his name still not having left her lips. Dream’s head swivels to hers, face entirely blank; there is nothing quick written in the gauntness of his face, more scar tissue than skin, in the shadows under his eyes or how they seem to stare, unseeing, in the long, knotted strands of hair twisted over Quackity’s knuckles. He looks like he’s been dying, slowly, for months, and the screaming cry of YOU FAILED ringing in her head in Ant’s voice only grows louder.

“What did you-” the words scrape roughly against the inside of her mouth, “What did you do?”

Quackity shrugs, letting go, and Dream’s head tips forward to stare at the floor. “What had to be done.”

He clicks his fingers again, and Dream stands, falling behind Quackity with his shoulders pulled up to his ears. Quackity hands him back his helmet, keeping his hand stretched out, palm up, even after Dream takes the netherite and fastens it back over his head. Puffy watches, heart stuck in her throat, as Dream fiddles with something by his throat, pulls out a thick coil of iron chains, pressing the end to Quackity’s outstretched hand - the other side, she realizes, fastened around his neck.

Her breath stutters when he looks back at Quackity, gut roiling at the familiarity - it’s an imperfect copy of the way he used to look at her, a skittish shadow at her tail, all awkward smiles and fidgeting hands. Only now, his eyes don’t dance with the same light, his lungs shivering in fear instead of wheezing laughter; she watches as his head follows Quackity like he’s the only person in the room, a duckling imprinted on the nearest person and ready to follow to the ends of the world and further, and her heart shatters all over again.

“Anyway,” Quackity’s eyes soften, lips curled in sympathy, “My condolences, Puffy, for your son. It really is a tragedy.”

She watches him leave with tears in her eyes, a sob once again caught in her throat. The images overlap - Foolish, smiling under the sun’s glow, sitting on the roof of his summer home - Dream, grinning in the treetops, eyes as green as the leaves surrounding him - Foolish, falling in a spray of ichor and a gasp of pain, Dream, grey-eyed and silent, dead as the crimson rot surrounding his beaten body-

My condolences for your son, Quackity’s words echo in her skull, and not for the first time, she laughs miserably, tears falling from her eyes.

Which one?

[all1e23]

Honey & Whiskey [Pt.1]

Pairings: Alpha!Billy Russo x Omega! Reader

Summary:   Falling was sweeter than honey and warm as whiskey.

Warnings: None for this chapter. Typical A/B/O dynamics.

A/N:  I know I am your dealer for soft Bucky but I’m trying out some new product. Soft Billy Russo. Just take a little taste. I promise It’s worth it. This is largely a self-indulgent fic and also for my beautiful beta @moonbeambucky​​. If you like it write me a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

You heard his car in the driveway before you caught the sound of the front door. This probably wasn’t the way to handle something like this. Prominent families didn’t behave like this. They didn’t cause a scene, and they certainly didn’t question a match this good. It was hard enough to find an Alpha that came from a good family, but one who wasn’t a complete knothead and genuinely cared for you? That was next to impossible. You managed to find that one in a million, and here you were pulling a stunt like this.

When you were a little girl, you read stories about the princess finding her prince, being saved from the tower, and living happily ever after in a big castle. So, you waited for your very own to come. You waited and waited by your window, but your prince never showed. You stayed locked in your tower with no sign of a savior. As you became older, you realized you didn’t want to be rescued, taken from one dungeon, and moved to another. You could take care of yourself without an Alpha there to defend your heart and fight the evil queen on your behalf.

Turned out you could handle her on all on your own.

Then you met James one evening at a friend’s wedding. He was sweet. Dark hair, blue eyes, and a charming crooked smile. He offered to buy you a drink and didn’t flinch when you reciprocated with the second. It was easy with James right from the start, and your parents were thrilled. They were simply over the moon. He came from a long line of senators, and his family were members at the club where your father plays golf. Everything was perfect. It was all working out the way it was supposed to, and in one short week, you would be married and bonded to James.

In the two years you’ve spent together, James has done everything he could to make you happy, not once has he abused his authority over you or made you feel as if you were less than him as his Omega. James has never given you a reason to fear him. Everything on the surface was perfect, but if you looked close, the cracks were easy to spot. Your heart had never had cause to race when he was near, and you never did learn what it would feel like to go weak from his touch.

It was doubtful you would ever know what it would be like to tremble from the brush of your Alpha’s fingertips. The odds you would find that love in this lifetime were slim, but if you stayed where you were, there would be no chance.

“Uh, Y/n…’ James stopped in the doorway to your shared bedroom and looked fairly amused, albeit confused by your attire. “What’s going on? Isn’t this bad luck?”

You glanced down at your wedding dress and grimaced. It wasn’t that the dress wasn’t beautiful, it was. It wasn’t you, though. It was huge for starters. Your mother had insisted this was the one from the moment it graced your frame. The skirt was so large you weren’t sure you would make it into the limo Saturday morning, and the bodice and lace sleeves were covered in so many crystals it felt like you were carrying an extra thirty pounds of glitter. This wasn’t the dress you pictured when you spent your days playing princesses in your bedroom, and all of this felt wrong.

You looked back up at your fiance, who was by your side in an instant when he saw fresh tears falling down your cheeks. James quickly wiped them away with only his thumbs. No tender kisses brushed them away, his touch was gentle but not in a way that soothed the restlessness in your soul.

“Do you feel something seeing me in this? I mean, really feel something? Because I don’t feel anything when I put it on. I’ve been trying so hard to feel something, anything but... I don't."

James tossed his keys on the dresser and stuffed his hands in his pockets now that he realized what this was. It wasn’t a simple case of cold feet or some cute moment you were going to bring up at the rehearsal for a quick laugh during toasts. He didn’t look mad, he was disconcerted, and you couldn’t blame him for that.

You didn’t fully understand why yourself, so you couldn’t expect him to.

“Okay. What is this, baby? What’s going on?”

As good and kind as James was, it wasn’t there.

“I’m not in love, and I don’t think you are either.”

The confirmation you needed flashed in his eyes. He didn’t feel it either. You stepped forward and held your hands out for his. James placed his hands in your hands without any hesitation, his fingers tightened around yours the longer the silence stretched between you. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when his eyes opened again, there was something different about them. They were filled with acceptance and a little bit of relief you knew he wouldn’t want you to see.

“I do love you, and I would take care of you,” James offered as if he was giving you one last opportunity to change your mind. One more chance to do the right thing.

You kissed his cheek and pulled your hand back from his hold, leaving the three-carat oval cut diamond resting in his palm. People lived that lie every day. Your parents, James’s parents, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find out it was the foundation on which most of the marriages you knew were born. Its prevalence among your social status was hefty and typical, but that wouldn’t be fair to either of you.

It wasn't a lie you could spend the rest of your life telling.

“I know, but I want more than that. I want to feel it.”

-----------

“Okay, May. I am out of here,” You chirped. It had been a long, exhausting day. You worked a double shift after one of the other waitresses, an Omega, called out claiming she was in heat, but this was her third heat in four months. It was entirely possible that she was being truthful and not using her designation to get extra days off so she could play house with that Beta she’s been dating since Halloween. Maybe she was a medical marvel, and her heats really did come three times as often as every other Omega on the planet.

All you knew for certain? Your bed was calling your name, and you could not wait to get out of this diner.

“The rush seems to have died down, and I am dead on my feet, so I’m leaving before we get the late dinner crowd, and you beg me to stay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Always complaining,” May teased with a grin and a motherly gleam in her eye. “Take your cut from the tips, and then I want you to eat and get some sleep. You can come in for the dinner shift tomorrow.”

“You gonna clear that with Roger?”

May rolled her eyes at the mention of your boss; Alpha and every bit the knothead prick.

“I’ll deal with him. Don’t you worry about it.”

"Hey, Y/n.” You glanced at Karen, who had a taunting smirk making her pale cheeks flush, she was pointing to the far back of the diner with her order pad, and she mocked with a teasing grin, “Look who it is! Your boy arrived just in time to see you off."

Your eyes followed her bright purple pen, and your knees went weak the moment you laid eyes on him. You didn’t know he was coming tonight. It’s been four days since you last saw his pretty face (not that you were counting or anything!), and you hadn’t realized how much you missed him until that moment. The handsome, dark-haired Alpha was sitting at one of your usual tables and looked uneasy, his leg was bouncing up and down at a vigorous pace, his dark blue hoodie pulled up over his head, and he was wringing his hands together as he scanned the small diner for you -- what you hoped was for you anyway.

"Don't get any ideas about that, Alpha." May Parker huffed.

The older Omega was a little cynical from the cards life had dealt her, and from the second you showed up looking for a job, she took it upon herself to look after you the way a mother would. It wasn't as if your mother had any interest in your life at the moment, not after you embarrassed her and left a black smear on your family’s name. A mark didn’t suffice for the choices you made. Your actions affected everyone in the family, bled onto the very fabric your ancestors stitched together, and made a tear that thread and needle could never mend. Apparently, you should have married even though you weren’t in love and simply found a way to fall in love with James after vows and rings were exchanged.

At least May understood your choice, and you couldn’t blame her for the fire in her eyes and the ice in her touch when it comes to Alphas; life had not been kind to her. Despite losing her true mate at a young age, only to end up with a sad stand-in for the man she lost. He abused his designation and using it to control her and her son. It took years to rid herself of him, but she built a nice life without him. She obtained assistance from an Omega Shelter, went through therapy to break their bond, and even bought a place of her own. Even after all the good that has come over the last seven years, the clouded memories have left her jaded and wary.

"You need to find someone that will take care of you, and he's not it. You stay away from Billy Russo, you hear me? He's not a good Alpha. I’ve known him longer than you have.”

That was true. You’ve only been in the city for eight months and working at Sunrise Diner for seven. Billy was a customer long before you came around, but according to Karen, he would pick up an order to go, barely spoke to anyone, and never tried to get a table. May didn’t know him any better than you did. It wasn’t as if they had some long-standing relationship or history. You were grateful for the advice, but you could make your own judgments.

You’ve let someone else be your eyes and voice for far too long, and you weren’t about to allow yourself to repeat past mistakes.

Billy finally found you standing behind the counter, and the second your eyes locked his own lit up, his legs settled, and the smile on his face just about knocked you over. Your smile widened as you stared at each other for what felt like ages.

"Y/n, are you listening to me?” May snapped her fingers in front of your face, forcing your eyes to focus on her.  “He's trouble. Ex-marine with more issues than one person can handle."

You tossed your apron under the register in the black bin that held all the dirty smocks for the night. You glanced at your reflection in the silver napkin holder, resting in the order window and swore under your breath. Your hair’s frayed and sticking out every which way, and your lip gloss faded the first hour into your shift. It was too late to do anything about that now. Not with May watching your every move and Billy sitting so close, his eyes trained on you now that he found you.

Having Billy watch you fix your lipstick because he came in would be an embarrassment you wouldn’t survive.

"That's why he should have someone he can lean on. We are friends. I have a feeling he needs someone that won’t judge him for a past he can’t change.”

"Trouble,” May huffed. “You're asking for trouble."

You practically skipped over to the table Billy sat at. Same one as always. The booth at the far back of the bright restaurant where he had a view of the bathrooms and the front door. He always sat with his back against the wall, and every few minutes, his eyes wandered over to the exit door on his right. You didn’t know what happened, but you knew it was enough to keep him on edge at all times.

"Hey, Stranger."

Billy's near-black eyes looked brighter now that you’re near, and he gave you that toothy grin that made your stomach flip.

"Hey, sunshine.”

Sunshine.

Billy has called you that from the moment you met, you weren’t sure why, but it made your heart race every time it rolled off his tongue. You have to admit you didn’t hate the feeling.

"You haven't been in for a few days. I was starting to think the mac and cheese scared you off."

That wasn’t really true. Though, you did question the state of the mac and cheese on a regular basis. The way the noodles all stuck together in that round ball wasn’t natural. This was more about you than sticky elbow pasta goop. You were slightly worried that he may have started seeing an Omega and would no longer be coming by for these late-night visits. Not that it was any of your business. It’s not as if you’re bonded or even potential mates. You haven’t spent a moment with  Billy outside this diner. You had not an ounce of claim on him, and you certainly didn’t have a say in who he spent his days with -- or his nights.

Billy let his hood fall back, and he ran a hand over his buzzed hair. His scars were no longer as angry and red as they were when he first came in on that rainy Tuesday afternoon seven months ago. You can still recite every word he said to you that day like some silly school girl daydreaming about the cute boy in study hall. Some nights you did just that, on evenings when he didn’t come by or stayed far too late and left your heart aching for another ten minutes.

Scars or no, he was still the most handsome Alpha you had ever seen.  

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I, uh, it's been a tough few days is all, and I haven't had a second to come in."

You eyed him for a long minute, and you realized what he meant by a tough few days. More like it smacked you right in the face -- rut.

Did he share his rut with someone?

No. No, probably not.

Billy didn’t seem to give his trust freely, so you doubted he called a Service Center to help him through his rut. That didn't mean he didn't have an Omega in his life, one he trusted enough to share it with. It shouldn’t matter if he did, so why did you want to know so badly? It would be easier if you could simply scent him to find out. That’s what you wanted to do. You were aching to scent him right there in the middle of the damn diner in front of Karen, May, and anyone else that wanted to stare. You wanted to be sure there wasn’t a hint of another Omega anywhere near him, maybe leave a little bit of you on him.

What the hell was wrong with you?

You’ve never been this possessive before. Even with James, you never cared if he came home smelling like another Omega. Hell, you never gave it a thought. Billy wasn’t yours, and you needed to remember that.

"I’m glad you’re back. I missed you."

Billy tried to fight off his grin. He tried hard, but it still showed up brightly enough to make you simper. He must have liked that because his scent sweetened, and it was so thick it had your knees shaking. You stood up as straight as you could and locked your knees. Letting your legs give out over some handsome Alpha like a stereotypical Omega would be a shame you could never come back from.

"Is that right?" Billy drawled, smirking as he took in the tremble in your knees and the honey sugaring your scent.

"Yeah, you're my favorite customer,” you answered with a slight shrug. Billy chuckled and ducked his head to hide the pink spreading from his cheeks down his neck, but you caught the rosy hue regardless.

"Favorite." He recited the word as if he didn't like the way it tasted on his tongue like he was confused as to why you would use that word in association with him.

"Without question,” you assured him.

The hesitation in his eyes and confusion had your heart breaking. Someone along the way, recently or long ago, made him feel as though he wasn’t worthy of being someone’s favorite, of being that important to someone. The thought made your gut clench in the worst way. Billy was more than deserving of that title.

"So, I'm about to get off. My shift actually ended about ten minutes ago. Well, technically, my shift ended at two, not eight, but one of the girls is out making medical history, so here I am."

"Oh,” Billy murmured. He was disappointed, that was plain to see. The light in Billy’s eyes instantly faded, and he began to slide out of the booth. You had a feeling if he left now, he would end up picking tacos off the dollar menu at some fast-food chain, eating all alone back at his place. You couldn’t have that now, could you? Besides, friends have dinner together all the time. Isn’t that what Karen told you every time she had dinner with Frank?

Yes, friends could have dinner together, and it didn’t have to mean more than noodles and cheese.

”I can- I'll go eat somewhere else. I don’t want to keep you if you’re going home.”  

You rested your hand on his shoulder to keep him from sliding out past you and shook your head, still smiling down at him. "Oh, no, you don’t. Unless you want to leave, of course. Food here isn't great."

Billy looked up at you, and his eyes have gone dark again, but it wasn’t in the way you liked. He was struggling to figure out what he wanted to say. You could see the moment Billy gave in to whatever it was, he was wrestling with and confessed, “I don't come here for the food.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you swore you could hear it in your ears. No doubt, Billy could pick it up in your scent. You never considered buying suppressants until you met Billy Russo. Then again, there were a lot of things you never considered until you met him. You blew out a shaky breath, and your words came out in as a stuttering mess, "Then… w-why do you come h-here?"

Billy held your gaze but didn’t elaborate further. It was probably for the best. If he had said what you thought could be the reason you might have melted right there at his feet and would have been forced to quit your job citing irremediable humiliation.

"Okay, um, well, I maybe thought I could eat with you? I haven't eaten since this morning, and I've been working all day, so I’m starving."

Billy frowned at that, and he quickly pressed for more, "You haven't eaten all day? So, that means you worked all day without taking a break?”

"Yeah, it happens. Some days it's really busy, and I don't get a second. Roger, our boss, he’s not great at following labor laws. If things get busy like they were today, there is no way he’s letting me take a break.”

If it was possible, Billy’s eyes blackened, and his normal candied scent turned sour. It was a subtle change to the whiskey and brown sugar scent you’ve come to know. He wasn’t on blockers, nor were you, it made his feelings easy to read. You weren’t sure he liked that fact at the moment. The scrunch of his nose and the wrinkle in his brow said he was trying to control his feelings to keep them hidden from you, or maybe he was attempting to understand whatever feeling was jumbled in his head.

“I don’t-- I don’t like that. You should be getting breaks so you can eat. You have to eat.”

You didn’t like it either, but there was little you could do. You had no way to prove that Roger refused to let you take breaks, and it wasn’t like he said he would fire you if you went on break. It only was heavily implied, and he knew when to use an Alpha command, with the tiniest drop in his voice, he had Omegas scampering to do as he wished. Thankfully, you have yet to be on the receiving end, and you had no intention of experiencing it. You needed this job whether or not Billy approved of your break schedule. You couldn’t do anything about Roger or your schedule, but you might be able to fix Billy’s spoiled mood and catch another glimpse of his pretty smile.

"How about you feed me then?" You suggested with a grin.

Billy’s frown quickly faded into a crooked smirk, a gentle chuckle followed, and everything turned sweeter. Whenever Billy was smiling, there was a little more sugar and a little less whiskey floating nearby, and it often left your head spinning for days after. You’ve never been one to fall for a sugar rush over a whiskey high -- until now.

"Okay, Sunshine. I can do that. Do you want to eat here or somewhere else?"

"Where are you most comfortable?"

"Where am I most comfortable…” Billy repeated the question, brows furrowed in thought, and he responded without thinking, “I’m most comfortable when I’m with you."

Billy quickly realized that was not what you meant when he looked up to see your eyes widen.  He cleared his throat and sat up straighter as he tacked on an addendum, hoping you would ignore his first admission. "Nowhere that’s loud. Or, um, crowded. I’m not great in large rowdy groups. I need a place I can sit like this. My back against the wall and know my exits."

You knew that already and now you were mad at yourself for making him admit it out loud, but you had to confess not all of his revelation sounded so bad.

"I'll tell you what I live right around the corner. How about you come over, and I'll make you dinner?"

Inviting an Alpha you barely knew back to your place wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. Everyone knows, Omegas at least, you never tell an Alpha your address until you’re courting, and you know what kind you’re dealing with. You couldn’t explain why but your heart and your head were telling you to trust him and when they agree on something you listen.

“You want me to come back to your apartment?”

Billy seemed to be questioning your judgment, but nothing felt wrong about having Billy in your home.

“Only if it will make you feel more comfortable. If not, I know a pizza place a few blocks away, but we will have to catch a cab.”

You truly didn’t mind either way as long as Billy was comfortable. He took a few thoughtful seconds before he nodded. “Your place is okay. If you’re sure, you want me to know where you live.”

You grinned and stepped back so he could stand. “Let me grab my purse, and I’ll meet you by the door, okay?”

Billy didn’t have a chance to answer because you were bounding off towards the counter and the group of nosy Omegas watching you both with interest. Billy stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching you share a few hushed whispers with the older woman behind the register.

“You’re leaving together? Y/n, this is not a good idea. Why can’t you stay here together where we keep an eye on you? It would be safer that way.”

“I said I’m fine. I don’t need you to look after me just because I’m an Omega. I can handle myself, and I can handle Billy.”

“He’s not what you think. I only want you to be careful.”  

You jerked your jacket out from under the counter and slipped your arms into the black puffy arms. You were already done with this. She didn’t know Billy any better than you did. Maybe she saw some things, or he came off like a typical asshole Alpha once when they first met, but the only conversation they have had revolved around grilled cheese sandwiches and you. You stopped in front of May, and you couldn’t keep the ice out of your voice even if you had wanted to. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe he’s not what you think? I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night, May.”

Billy glanced over your shoulder and back at you as you approached. “Everything alright over there?”

“Oh, you know.” You shrugged as you stepped out the door Billy was holding open for you. “Co-worker drama.”

There were tiny bits of moonlight shining down on the sidewalk next to you. It was awkward at first. This wasn’t your normal dynamic. Billy came in and ordered the same grilled cheese and fries every night; not that you could blame him for that, it was probably the only edible thing on the menu. You would make some cute comment about melted cheese and Billy would give you that smile that set skin on fire, he left a tip that was always triple the cost of the tiny sandwich and promised to see you real soon. You knew the risks that came with what you were doing. You are breaking the first rule they teach you in Orientation class, but you didn’t care, and it didn’t scare you.

Billy didn’t scare you.

“You know you really shouldn’t invite Alphas you don’t know back to your apartment. It’s not safe. I could be anyone. I could be some asshole Alpha using that sweetness in your heart to take advantage of you.”

Maybe that was the thing that should scare you -- your blind trust for an Alpha you barely knew.

“No, you’re not, Billy.”

“Yeah? How do you know that, Sunshine?”

Billy was teasing you, the mile-wide grin on his face told you so. You shook your head and matched his smile. The answer was pretty simple, really. It was the one thing missing with James. You felt the tension in your shoulders lift, and you told him the only thing about tonight that mattered.  

“I can feel it.”

Masterlist // Part 2

[taxicabinmemphis]

Red and Yellow on Your Wrist

Angsty Roceit Soulmate AU where you have your soulmate’s name on your wrist. Post-ish SvSR

Word count - 5,929

Pairing - Roceit

Warnings - No real happy ending, blood, self-harm, Roman has a meltdown, self-deprecation, mentions of murder but it’s just Janus being the angsty dork he is, please tell me if there’s anything else I should warn/tag!

“My name…”

No.

This couldn’t be happening. If Deceit reveals his name…

...they’ll trust him.

“My name is Janus.”

No! Wait…

...what?

His name is Janus?

Roman’s eyes widened in surprise, horror, and devastation. He didn’t need to look at his wrist to know the deceitful side’s name was the one written there. Unless it was Janice. Janice was a name too, right? Right, like a middle school librarian.

Roman laughed.

He laughed. Laughed, to lessen the effect of his name reveal, to show that the simple reveal of a name wasn’t enough to trust.

But it wasn’t simple, was it?

Because Roman laughed to throw suspicion from his realization too.

“Pfft, Janice. What are you, a middle school librarian?”

Yes, that’s all he was. A middle school librarian. Not some deceitful, half-snake, selfish, lying…

Not Roman’s soulmate.

i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e

“It’s a stupid name.”

Yes, it was. Deceit may not have parents, but who would name their kid Janice, if they only wanted to damn them to a life of stacking books for hormonal teenagers? A name so old, so out of style, so easy to laugh at, so out of touch…who would do that?

Who would name their kid something that would tie them forever to someone like him?

i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e

“Roman, thank god you don’t have a mustache. Otherwise, between you and Remus—I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.”

Roman’s stomach dropped. His face contorted. Shock, pain, a stab to the heart. Why would Deceit reveal his name to him, to Roman, to someone he knew to be his soulmate, if not to tell them they were destined to love each other?

No, that couldn’t be it. If they were soulmates, why would he do that? Maybe his name was indeed…

i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e, i-c-e

No. He just wanted Thomas to trust him. He must have believed that revealing his name was the only way to truly get Thomas to trust him, to accept him. But that comment wasn’t a retaliation, a shallow insult.

It was Deceit telling Roman he didn’t want him.

It was a “Yes, you’re my soulmate. But don’t get any ideas.”

Because Deceit hated him. He must. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have said that. His soulmate—someone who was supposed to love him no matter what—hated him.

Was that even possible?

Deceit had just compared him to Remus, his brother, everything he didn’t want to be. Roman was heroic, light, kid-friendly, passionate, loving, protective, and above all, a good person. His brother was practically the opposite. He didn’t want to be him, to be compared to him. Deceit knew this. He knew how terrible that comment would be, how much it would hurt.

“Are you guys seriously going to take his side?”

“No, I…”

Why? Why were they taking Deceit’s side?

Roman is good. He puts what is in Thomas’ heart out into the world. He’s worked so incredibly hard to be kinder, selfless, and better because Patton, nay, everyone encourages him to. And they were going to side with a lying, manipulative, identity thieving snake?

“Over me?”

Over Roman?

“He…”

Roman was the hero. Wasn’t he?

“Thomas, I thought I was your hero.”

“Y-You are.”

But how could he be? How could he be Thomas’ hero if Thomas were to side with a cruel, evil liar over him?

So he looks at Deceit. His evil enemy, yes, but also the side who always knew when Thomas was lying. He gives him a look, one that says ‘is he lying?’.

Deceit nods. And nods only mean yes.

Roman suppresses a bitter laugh, blinking back tears before they could form. How could he still be Thomas’ hero?

“Wow. I can’t believe this. Did you forget that he’s evil?”

He’s evil, he’s evil, he’s so evil.

Roman’s soulmate is evil.

He can’t let Thomas be evil too.

“You’re not. Or, you’re not supposed to be. You’re supposed to be good. You can’t-”

“Roman. Everything’s going to be okay, kiddo.”

No. No, it wasn’t. Roman, the hero, was meant for the villain. Roman, the romantic, was meant for someone who didn’t love him.

“We love you.”

But love, love is a strong word. Too strong a word to be used for whatever this...this treatment of him was. They thought they loved him. Or, rather, Patton did. But no. They didn’t.

Should they? Should they love him?

“Right.”

Roman was meant for a villain, after all.

---

Janus was anxious about revealing his name. He knew that ultimately, he had to, so Thomas could trust him. Thomas trusting him would help him save Thomas’ mental health. But there was also Roman.

Passionate, heroic, do-gooder Roman. Roman, who was currently refusing to trust and accept him. Roman, the name written in messy but charming red script across his left wrist.

Roman, who he wished he was able to reveal his name to at any other time than this.

But he couldn’t. He had to get Thomas to trust him so he could save his mental health and perhaps teach a valuable lesson that Thomas would take to heart. So, he had to reveal his name, despite Roman’s present hatred of him.

Was there a part of him that thought that revealing his name would get Roman to lay off of his insults? Maybe. Maybe Janus thought that Roman knowing they were destined to love each other—romantic, platonic, or otherwise—would get him to stop, think, and then perhaps give him a chance. At least, he thought Roman would at least pause, think, and cool it.

But Janus didn’t expect Roman to laugh. No. That, the laughing, that took Janus by surprise.

“What are you, a middle school librarian?”

Roman was teasing him. But he was also pretending that he didn’t know the way Janus’ name was spelled. Maybe Patton and Thomas would buy Roman’s deception and think that he thought Janus meant ‘J-a-n-i-c-e’ but Janus knew better. He was Deceit, after all.

However, this could be Roman’s way of telling Janus he didn’t want him.

Was it?

Because Roman knew—he had to have known that Janus’ name was spelled ‘J-a-n-u-s’ and therefore was his soulmate. Janus had ‘Roman’ on his wrist so obviously ‘Janus’ was on his. Roman didn’t want him, did he?

No. He didn’t. And that hurt him more than he was willing to admit.

So he lashed out.

“Roman, thank god you don’t have a mustache. Otherwise, between you and Remus—I wouldn’t know who the evil twin is.”

He lashed out. And the moment the words left his mouth, he was already regretting them. He realized that the insult would hurt Roman terribly. And he would never, ever want to hurt his prince. Even if his prince wouldn’t want to have him.

And the look on Roman’s face...it was something he never wanted to see again. In any other circumstance, he would swear to murder whoever put that look on his face. Despite never wanting to, he hurt Roman. If Roman was still considering having him before, he never would now. No matter what their wrists said.

And when Roman gave him the look? The look that asked if Thomas was lying about Roman being his hero? He nodded. Nodded because Thomas was telling the truth. But when Roman took it the wrong way…

Janus couldn’t help but wonder if Roman not wanting him was a good thing after all.

---

Roman appeared in his room, just having sunken out from the conversation. The tears he had been holding in fell the second his feet were firmly planted onto the floor of his room. His cry was silent at first, the tears falling with nothing but silence accompanying them as he buried his face in his hands. He kicked what was likely a crumpled piece of paper that was on the ground near his foot, but the action did nothing to satisfy his anger.

His hands strayed from in front of his eyes enough for him to catch a glimpse of a picture of him with his fellow sides (barring Remus and Janus, of course). A few more tears escaped his eyes and a strangled sob tumbled from his lips.

He angrily kicked the picture off the desk it was resting on, letting it clatter to the floor. He repressed another sob and reached an arm out in the picture’s direction, perhaps regretting the harsh treatment of the harmless photo, but caught sight of his wrist.

Extending his arm had made his prince outfit ride up his arm a small amount.

And he could see the faintest hint of a name written in the prettiest yellow.

He collapsed onto the ground, banging his right fist into the floor. He didn’t hold his sobs in anymore. The sobs were loud, ugly, and left his body like a broken gumball machine. There was no stopping their endless attack on his throat.

What is wrong with me?

He screamed and coughed through the sobbing, and later Roman would attribute a least a few of his tears to the utter pain his crying had caused him. His right fist continued banging against the floor, not stopping even when the hand was red. The parts where the fist collided with the floor were sure to bruise up.

What is wrong with the universe?

He slammed his face into the ground, screaming into the ground and not caring whether he would be heard.

Why put me through the pain of tying me to someone I hate, if that person will never find it in their heart to love me?

He dug his nails into the floor, scratching with all his strength. He could feel a couple of his nails break.

Why was the universe so cruel?

He lifted his head a bit from the floor, rolling his left sleeve down so he could fully see what was written on his wrist. The five-letter name written in cursive, the yellow ink showing clearly despite his pale skin. It used to be beautiful and give him hope. It used to make him feel loved, worthy, and that his quest for romance was not in vain. Now, it was evil, disgusting, taunting, and made him feel like a Disney villain.

He crawled over to his desk and fumbled his hand across the surface, eventually picking up a black permanent marker. His shaky hands worked the cap open and then gripped it awkwardly in his right hand despite his left-handedness. He started to scribble over his wrist.

However, the ink ran out after a couple of seconds. The marker had apparently been very low on ink already and was now out. He sobbed, hurling the marker into the trash. He turned to lean back against the desk, still sitting on the floor. The five-letter word seemed to stare up at him mockingly. He growled and instead of a marker, he took his own hand to his wrist.

He scratched at the name, digging his nails as deep into his skin as he could manage, some nails breaking skin easier as they were already rough from scratching the floor.

He watched as blood spilled from the wounds, rolling down his arm and fingers, leaking onto both hands as his right was still marring his wrist. He didn’t allow himself to look horrified, he just focused on how the teasing, cruel thing that was the word Janus was slowly getting concealed from view by either open wound or blood.

Eventually, once Janus was fully covered, he stumbled to his feet. He dragged his right hand against the wall, trying to get the blood off, but eventually staggered his way to his bathroom when that didn’t do the whole job.

He turned the faucet on, and let warm water run over his right hand. The blood, still wet, was washing off quite easily. He refused to wash his left hand, though, as that might wash the blood off his wrist and expose his soulmate’s name to the world.

His soulmate.

Roman spat into a nearby trashcan.

He turned off the water, leaving the restroom and standing near where he had been earlier. He put his right hand to his face, crying into it. His cries weren’t as rough and painful as before, but he was still crying nonetheless.

Roman didn’t want to admit it, but he was confused. Confused about many things, but mainly this whole dark side business.

When Creativity split, he had learned that dark sides (namely his brother) were bad. Evil. Not to be trifled with. So he acted like it, especially with Virgil. Yes, Virgil did bother him by convincing Thomas to not do what Roman suggested, but he was also a dark side. And dark sides were evil, pure evil.

Weren’t they?

Apparently not, considering his fellow sides, as well as Thomas, had gotten on his back about his cruelty to Virgil. They scolded him and told him Virgil was good, and someone to be trusted. Someone to be loved.

Cut to a while later when Deceit enters the scene. Patton agrees with nothing he says, Virgil hates him, and everyone is scared of him.

But dark sides weren’t inherently bad, were they? Just look at Virgil!

So, Roman sided with Deceit in the courtroom. Deceit was advocating for what Roman wanted! Deceit agreed with him, understood him.

But then Roman is chastised for his actions—because dark sides were all evil except for Virgil.

And now, today, Deceit comes in and treats him like the others did in the courtroom. He treats him like he is an evil, manipulative liar. But instead of everyone doing the same, they get angry at Roman again?

What was the answer? Were dark sides good or evil? Roman had been getting conflicting answers from the same people.

If they were evil, what would that mean? That would mean that Virgil had defected, was an exception, and could no longer be associated with them. Roman liked Virgil now, so obviously he would be an exception if that were indeed the conclusion. It also meant the others were wrong for siding with Deceit.

If they were good, that would mean something entirely different. It would make Virgil’s defection a decision of pure preference, and his brother...good. Remus? Good? That was something he couldn’t fathom. The Duke was everything Roman didn’t want to be.

But the dark sides being good...that also meant Roman wasn’t destined for an evil man.

That Roman’s soulmate—the person he was supposed to love always and forever—was, in fact, a good person. Roman wasn’t destined for a Scooby-Doo villain.

But that would also make Roman’s words in their argument misplaced and wrong. It would make them unforgivably mean, and that their receiver was undeserving of them. It would make Roman the villain for saying such cruel things.

Such cruel things, thrown at his soulmate.

A soulmate who didn’t love him.

Roman could understand why.

---

Janus had sunk out, eventually getting bored of watching Thomas hang out with Lee and Mary Lee. He appeared in his room and tried to settle into a book.

It wasn’t far into the novel that Janus threw it down. He couldn’t focus—thoughts of Roman and what had transpired between them overwhelming his brain. He put his hands to his face, running over the skin and scales with his fingers and palms, mulling over what Roman had done. What he’d done.

He thought back to when Roman sunk out, remembering that Roman took Janus’ nod as a confirmation of a lie, that he in no way showed signs of taking Patton’s reminder of their love for him to heart, and that he sunk out looking more dejected than a person whose partner had just denied their proposal of marriage. Janus knew he messed up.

He thought over what Roman had done. Roman hated him at the time Janus revealed his name, so when he found out…

Janus understood why Roman laughed. Roman didn’t know what to say, what to think, and if he didn’t do anything or let everyone know why he was shocked then they’d have to go over a private topic Roman hadn’t even accepted yet. So he laughed—because yes, Janice is a name that people will mock. It is in no way a desirable, stylish, or attractive name. He wouldn’t be suspected of anything if he laughed, except perhaps rudeness and insensitivity. Roman didn’t know what to do, so he took the easiest way out.

Janus also figured it was a way for Roman to try to convince himself that Janus’ name was spelled ‘J-a-n-i-c-e’ instead of what was on the princely side’s wrist. By outwardly expressing belief that he interpreted the name incorrectly, he could start to believe it—especially when no one corrected him. Roman could try to believe that he was destined for a completely different Janus.

But he had to have stopped that charade by now. Roman had to have realized that he is Janus’ soulmate, and has likely acknowledged the correct way his name was spelled.

On the flip side, how could Janus expect him to? Roman learned the identity of his soulmate under one of the worst possible circumstances Janus could fathom. Roman was probably under the impression that Janus didn’t like him right now.

Oh gosh...what if Roman thought Janus hated him?

It was certainly a possibility.

This meant that there was a chance that Roman discovered the identity of his soulmate—only to believe just a moment later that said soulmate despised him. And, if this was indeed what had transpired, Roman was going through this alone. He had all of these running thoughts, revelations, assumptions, and opinions to sort through and he was going through it all alone. Yes, Patton promised to check up on him, but would anyone really think Roman would let him? Patton, while a sweetheart, was not someone suitable to consult with for such a topic. Janus knew he would refuse Patton’s comfort if he were in Roman’s shoes.

But Roman, going through all those relentless thoughts, cognitive distortions, and overall confusion alone—that was something Janus hated to think about. It didn’t matter if Janus thought Roman currently hated him. There was no one else Roman could properly speak to about the matter at hand.

Janus sunk out of his room, appearing in front of Roman’s door as he didn’t want to intrude on or scare the side. He knocked.

Janus’ knock was followed by a few seconds of silence. Eventually, he heard a voice from the other side of the door.

“I told you to leave me alone, Patton,” he heard Roman say. “I don’t want nor need your assistance.”

Janus paused, before knocking again and accompanying the action with an introduction. “I’m definitely Patton, Roman.”

Janus’ correction was followed by silence for a minute or so. Janus didn’t want to knock again as he didn’t want to be taken as rude or impatient, but he feared he might have to as Roman wasn’t interacting with him.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“What do you want, Deceit?” Roman asked, voice closer than it was before. Janus guessed Roman had approached the door during the silence.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Roman scoffed. “Talk? Didn’t we do that earlier? Look how that ended.”

Janus shook his head. “This is different, Roman. It’s just you and me this time.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Janus paused, contemplating his response. “I believe there are many things we need to go over. Would you consider letting me in?”

Roman laughed bitterly. “That’s just your way of saying that you’ve come here for my apology.”

“No, it’s not. Anything apology-related coming from you was not something that crossed my mind when coming here. And even if it did, I believe I would be right in saying you aren’t quite ready to apologize.”

Silence from the other side of the door seemed to prove him right.

“Which is fine, Roman. I don’t require it now.” Janus took a deep breath. “Look. I’ve had some time to think over our conversation and analyze everything that was said down to the letter. Suffice it to say, we have a lot we need to talk about. I understand you not wanting to speak to me—however, we have both had some time to be alone. Also, there is almost no way you aren’t being negatively affected right now by cognitive distortions, and considering where they likely come from, a conversation between the two of us would be a terrible way to resolve them. But, even if you aren’t being illusioned by your mind, we still need to talk.”

He heard a click of the lock after a substantial pause before he heard footsteps walk away from the door. Janus feared that Roman had locked the door, but waited for a statement from him before doing anything.

“You may enter.”

Janus slowly moved his hand to the doorknob, bare right hand grasping the cold metal of the door handle that made a shiver run down his spine and turned the knob with shaking fingers. He didn’t want to admit or show it, but he was just as nervous about this talk as Roman, if not more. But, he also knew it was necessary.

He entered the room, closing the door softly behind him. He turned the lock, hearing it click. Janus figured neither of them would want anyone intruding.

The serpentine side turned to face Roman. Or, rather, Roman’s back. The prince was standing at least five yards in front of him, and Janus was left facing his back. Roman had his right arm at his side, his left presumably in front of him (Janus couldn’t see a majority of Roman’s left arm), and his legs were stiff. Too stiff.

“Locking your knees cuts off blood flow to your calves and feet, and I would love for you to pass out while we’re talking,” Janus remarked.

Roman shifted and unlocked his knees. Janus noticed that the loosened legs were now shaking violently. Silence befell them for half a minute or so, Janus attempting to compose himself and his thoughts before speaking.

“Well, Roman,” Janus started quietly. “What should we start with?”

Roman didn’t respond. He just stood there in silence for a few minutes.

“You know, I don’t blame you,” Janus started. “I’m not mad anymore. Again, I didn’t come here for an ap-”

“You knew. You had to have known,” Roman interrupted, voice small. “You had to have known since the beginning. That we were...you knew, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes…”

“You knew!” Roman exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve known for forever, and you didn’t say a word! And not even before or after your name reveal. You just...pretended like it didn’t exist.”

“Roman, you have to understand, I had just introduced myself to people who hated me.”

“I get not saying anything at first, but what about after? What about after the courtroom episode, you could’ve come and talked to me after that. You could’ve told me your name. Spared us this terrible day. I would’ve known, and you wouldn’t have put me on the spot like you did today! Forcing me to participate actively in a conversation when I’m going through an identity crisis—why would you do that?”

“I didn’t think there was a good time to tell you, and then I had to tell Thomas my name to get him to trust me,” Janus explained. “If I could do it all again, I would, and I’d tell you sooner. I just didn’t think I’d have to reveal my name.”

“It...it doesn’t matter anymore, Deceit!”

“My name is Janus, you might as well use it, now that I’ve said it!”

“Why should I?” Roman shot back. “Its first usage decimated me. I don’t have to write with what penned my execution warrant.”

Janus took a few seconds to process Roman’s scathing statements. “That’s not an expression, Roman.”

“You know what I mean!”

Janus sighed. “Either way, I don’t call you Creativity.”

“That’s because the title belongs to my brother too.” Roman took a deep breath when Janus said nothing. “Look, Deceit. What’s done is done and we can’t change it.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for not telling you earlier.”

Roman ignored him. “You knew what would happen to me. You knew what I was going through. You had to have known.” Roman paused, shaking his head. “You know why I reacted the way I did. There’s no question!”

“Eventually, yes, but-”

“So why did you say it?!”

A small silence followed Roman’s words. They seemed to echo across his room, but that could have just been Janus’ mind exaggerating as he processed the exclamation. “I…”

“You knew what I was going through. Everything...all of my actions. They had a reason. My mind was working a mile a second and I had to react somehow. You knew this. You probably considered it before you revealed your name.”

Janus opened his mouth to reply, but Roman beat him to it.

“But you said it anyway! You said it, that statement, that insult, that you knew would break my heart. You knew it would! You knew exactly what it would do to me. But you...oh, you. Despite knowing what revealing your name then and there would do to me, despite knowing my reaction was very likely going to be bad, you took time out of your day to craft the perfect little scathing remark that would ruin me on the spot.”

“Roman-”

“I bet you thought it up earlier! I bet you planned this all along. You knew you would reveal your name, you knew I would respond like I did, and used that as an opportunity to insult me. I could probably find the exact words you said to me written down on a sticky note in your room.”

“Roman, no! That’s not-” Janus was getting desperate.

“How fun was it? How satisfying? How completely and utterly fulfilling was it to finally be able to knock me down?” Roman asked venomously.

“That’s not how it was at all!” Janus cried. “I...I didn’t mean to hurt you. Your insult to my name hurt me...I thought-”

“And yours didn’t hurt me?”

“I thought you were rejecting me!” Janus blurted.

A small silence followed his words, Roman eventually breaking it with a scoff.

“Why would you say what you did, then, if not to destroy any possibility of something happening between us?” Roman asked, shaking his head. “No. I know how you lie, Deceit, and you lie all the time. You needed to make sure I knew your name reveal meant nothing. Did you need everyone to know of your hatred for me? Or did you say it just in case I said something to the others about our wrists, to let them know nothing would come of us? You just said that to-”

“No, no I didn’t. I said that because I was stupid and selfish and hurt. I don’t hate you, Roman. I never have and I never will. I never could.”

“You don’t show that well!” Roman paused for a quick second. “You can’t say you care right after you destroy any possibility of good things happening between us.”

Janus closed his eyes and turned his head to the floor. He didn’t want to damn him and Roman to a hateful relationship, but Roman said he did—and Janus knew he’d never be able to forgive himself if that ended up being true.

“I thought you did,” Janus responded after a few moments.

“W-What?”

“I thought your laugh...your comment...I thought it was an indication that you didn’t want me.”

“I don’t want you.”

Janus winced. “I thought you meant it as a way to say you hated me, that you didn’t want us to be what we are, that you wanted to destroy any chance of it happening.”

Roman sighed. “I didn’t want to destroy it, I was just surprised! I said it as a knee-jerk reaction to mask my shock and identity crisis—who knows, maybe I would consider something happening if I was given time to process—but then you said what you said, and I can’t help but see it as your way of stomping on a young flower that has yet to bloom. You don’t need to sugarcoat it and pretend you’re sorry, didn’t want to hurt me, and didn’t mean for what you said to have that much of an effect on the future of our relationship.”

“Look, Roman,” Janus started, trying to keep his emotions separate from his voice. “I was hurt and lashed out and I'm sorry, however, I now understand your actions and don't need nor want an apology from you. My name reveal was cruel to you and I'm sorry about that. Just please believe me when I say I mean mine with all my heart. I don't hate you. How could I, with your name on my wrist? I've known your name for forever, but I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't think you were ready. I ended up being too late. Please know that I meant nothing of that insult; you and your brother are so incredibly different and you are not evil. You're not evil at all. You're Roman, good Roman, Roman who gives his heart away too much and now tries his best to hold it close to his chest.” And now he keeps his heart from Janus. Roman didn’t want him, after all.

But did Janus want Roman?

Yes. Absolutely. Of course he did.

“Roman. I didn't mean to destroy us. I don't want to destroy us, and I hope you know that. I hope you know that Patton was right; we love you. I hope you know that I care for and love you. And I hope you know that I want you. So, so badly.” Janus shook his head. “And here I am, having ruined my chances.”

He took a couple of steps forward, before stopping. He didn’t want to alarm the prince right before saying what he was preparing to.

“I know this. I don't expect anything more. But please, before I leave, let me see the face of the man I have been so incredibly stupid with and wronged. Please, let me see you before I go,” Janus pleaded, not hiding the begging tone of his voice. He wanted to see his soulmate, for what could be the last time when it was just the two of them. He wanted to see the damage he had done. He wanted to feel all the guilt he should be feeling.

“I can’t,” Roman said harshly, voice firm. It sounded like he was trying to take all emotion out of it.

Janus sighed, staying put behind Roman for a second. Janus had just opened his heart to Roman, and now...well, who could blame Roman?

“Just go!” Roman shouted, throwing his left arm out forcefully and pointing to the door. He then winced in pain, immediately retracting his arm and clutching his wrist.

Janus’ eyes widened. Concern crossed his features, and he approached Roman. “What happened, Roman? Are you in pain?”

“N-No, just go.” Tears started to fall down Roman’s face.

Janus shook his head in refusal and stood on the prince’s left. He tilted his head, eyes focused on the wrist Roman was clutching, but not able to see what had transpired. He placed his right hand on Roman’s shoulder lightly and used his other to softly work Roman’s fingers away from what Janus presumed to be a wound.

“P-Please, Deceit. Please leave,” he begged, gasping in a breath. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” Janus was hardly able to hear Roman’s last sentence.

Janus sighed, tsking. “Oh, Roman.” His voice was delicate, not wanting to sound overbearing or teasing. “I would never judge you. You are clearly in need of help, so let me.”

Janus had finally worked the last of Roman’s fingers from his wrist, and Janus pulled up Roman’s sleeve, causing whimpers of protest to leave the creative side. He looked down and saw it.

Roman’s wrist had been scratched like it was done by a werewolf who hadn’t had dinner. Blood, some of it in somewhat of a liquid form but a lot of it dried, covered his wrist and a good amount of his forearm. There were scratch marks all over Roman’s wrist, and Janus knew instantly what had happened.

“Oh, Roman,” Janus lamented quietly. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” Roman said through tears. “Please. J-Just go.”

Janus frowned, fingers hovering over the wound. “I didn’t want to push you to this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Roman replied, gritting his teeth.

“Maybe not directly,” Janus agreed, “but this was to cover my name, wasn’t it?”

Roman didn’t reply. Janus took that as a yes. He wiped away a small amount of blood with his thumb, uncovered a cursive J that had a scratch through it.

“Why would you let me stand and talk to you,” Janus started almost silently, “when your wrist has become all but a canvas for the yellow of my name and the red of your blood?”

“Leave me alone, Deceit!” Roman started to raise his voice. “Go away!”

Janus shook his head, indicating a refusal. “No. I won’t let you suffer. Let me help; it’s the least I can do. I can take you to the bathroom, we can clean you up-”

“No!” Roman yelled. “I can deal with it on my own.”

“What a great idea, Roman. Marvelous, really. Just let your wrist bleed until-”

“Stop,” Roman said, shaking his head. “No. I won’t let you help. The door is over there, I trust you know how to walk.”

“Roman-”

“You’ve done enough already.”

“I…”

Janus couldn’t speak. Tears came to his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. Roman’s current pain was enough for both of them. Roman didn’t want Janus’ help, his care, his words. He just wanted him gone. Janus couldn’t blame him, but gosh, did it hurt.

“Roman, you know how much I play into self-preservation. It would be infringing on my function as a side to just leave you here and let your blood dry till it hurts to wash off and let your wound be exposed so long it gets infected. You can’t just expect me to-”

Roman raised his right hand, and Janus disappeared from his room. Janus’ eyes widened, but instead of directing his surprise to Roman’s beautiful face, it was to the empty space in front of him in his room.

---

Roman sighed, dropping his hand. He walked over to his desk, slamming his right hand onto it in exasperation. Deceit had been so nice—or was at least trying to be.

Maybe that was the problem.

Roman had seen Deceit as evil, unkind, inconsiderate, and unloveable. To see him be kind, caring, and protective challenged all that Roman had decided about him. Considering how confused Roman already was, it only made whatever was going on inside his head worse.

Roman wanted love. He had always been excited to meet his soulmate. But did he want Deceit?

No, he couldn’t keep calling him that. He was his soulmate, whether Roman liked it or not. His name was on Roman’s wrist.

Did Roman want Janus, even after everything he did?

Maybe. He didn’t know.

Only time could tell.

~

This is something I wrote a few weeks ago. I hope you liked it! (Also I do have an addition which is a happier ending but it's nonessential to read it's just to make things end happier.) Tell me if I should tag/put anything else in the warnings!

[ladyryukyo]

spicy sweet potato chips

inspired by this incredible art piece by @artisadie 

ao3 link

It has recently come to Ryo's attention that he is, it seems, perplexingly, a father figure to an unreasonable amount of children. Yes, that is apparently a Thing.

Ryo doesn't know who decided that all of these reckless, brave, stupid, brilliant kids should be put under his supervision but he would like a word or two with the responsible authorities. Where are these kids' parents? Who thought giving a twelve-year-old a spinning top with the necessary power to kill a man and then telling him to save the world from evil would be a good idea? Ryo doesn't actually know if any of them are twelve years old, all children look the same to him, even if one of them is his own kid. He just knows that there is no one to look out for them so he doesn't even hesitate to step up to the challenge.

Not everyone of the children immediately likes the idea of being supervised (protected). Some have been on their own for so long that they believe they can protect themselves better than any adult ever could (and he's not naming any names but he finds that Kyoya is the worst of them all). Ryo tries to respect their need for independence but- Ryo is stubborn. He'll wear them down.

Ryo knows that he finally succeeded when, one weekend in the middle of the night, he is woken by glass clinking outside of his bedroom. A glance at the too bright screen of his phone on the nightstand tells him that it is two in the morning and decidedly not the time for anyone to be surprise-visiting. He grabs Burn Fireblaze from its place on the window sill and prepares himself for whatever burglar was unfortunate enough to choose Ryo's apartment for a break-in.

When he steps into the kitchen with his launcher raised, the sight that greets him stuns him badly enough that he freezes for a good fifteen seconds. Kyoya glances at him briefly but seems to decide that he is not an immediate problem and sips calmly from his water glass. On the counter, Ryo can see two bottles of milk and the last bag of Ryo's favorite spicy sweet potato chips. The only light illuminating the strange scene is a streetlamp shining through the window and the light coming from the half-opened door of the fridge.

"Hey, dude. What are you doing here?" Ryo asks when he finally manages to unfreeze himself and lowers his launcher. He is a little embarrassed but he's not going to show it in front of the teenager who broke into his kitchen and stole his chips. He is not.

Kyoya looks between Ryo and the milk on the kitchen counter. He puts down his glass of water. "I ran out of milk," he says.

"Ah." They both pause. Ryo fidgets with his launcher and Kyoya drains the rest of his water. Ryo feels increasingly awkward. "How did you even get in?"

"The window lock is broken."

Ryo pauses, furrows his brows and throws Kyoya an incredulous look. "We're on the second floor."

"Yes," Kyoya says and doesn't elaborate further. He grabs the milk and chips from the kitchen counter and squeezes past Ryo through the doorway. "Bye. Sorry for... disturbing you."

The front door clicks shut behind him and Ryo is left staring at the wooden surface, thoroughly confused. He takes another look at the clock, sees that it's still two in the morning and decides this is a problem for his future self when he has had enough sleep and more brain capacity to think about this. He quietly mourns his chips and goes back to bed.

It doesn't take long for it to become routine.

The next time Kyoya surprises Ryo in his own kitchen, it's fortunately way past the middle of the night and Ryo is eating noodles directly out of the pot. He looks up when he hears his window sliding open and they make eye contact while Kyoya climbs in and jumps gracefully over the sink. It's not the first time Kyoya has done this since that strange two am encounter that Ryo isn't even a hundred percent sure actually happened. He knows this because in the last few days he noticed his spicy sweet potato chips going missing right after he went to buy three new bags. Kyoya stealing them is the only explanation he could come up with unless there are other people breaking into his apartment and taking nothing except for his chips and that just doesn't seem very likely.

Kyoya doesn't say anything when he opens Ryo's fridge like it's their regular Thursday afternoon, just raises an eyebrow at Ryo's noodles-out-of-pot situation. Ryo doesn't think Kyoya has room to judge considering that he's stealing from Ryo's fridge once again. Ryo is a functioning adult with adult eating habits, okay? He has to remind himself that despite his attitude and general approach to life saying otherwise, Kyoya is still a teenager. If Ryo knows anything about teenagers, it's that they're always hungry and just plain fucking weird.

He watches as Kyoya pulls out the last bottle of orange juice and chugs it straight out of the container while continuing to rifle through the fridge's contents. Exhibit A.

"I'm getting you a key," Ryo says suddenly. Kyoya barely pauses in his search for something edible that meets his standards but hums - in agreement, Ryo is fairly sure. He nods to himself, encouraged in his plans. Kyoya looks at him, sees him nodding, frowns and turns back towards his orange juice.

"You don't have any more chips, do you?"

Ryo snorts quietly at that. "No." And whose fault is that?

Kyoya purses his lips unhappily, and closes the fridge. "Buy more." He leaves the orange juice opened on the counter when he (once again) squeezes past Ryo to exit through the front door. He didn't even close the window, Ryo thinks resignedly, before going to close it himself.

The next day at the supermarket he looks at the three bags of chips in his shopping cart, struggles briefly with taking orders from a teenager, and then adds five more.

About a month later, one of Kyoya's raids coincides with a visit from Gingka. It was only a matter of time until this happened, Ryo knows this, but he still feels unspeakably weird about the whole thing. It's like two worlds that shouldn't collide colliding. It's, well, weird.

Gingka is telling him about his latest fight with Kenta, his eyes alight with excitement about the close outcome, when they suddenly hear the front door open. Gingka falters in his retelling and shoots Ryo a confused look. Process of elimination tells Ryo that this has to be Kyoya because the only other person who has a key to his apartment is Hikaru and she never shows up unannounced (as opposed to Kyoya who always shows up unannounced). He doesn't know what to tell Gingka other than shrug and watch what happens.

As always, Kyoya doesn't say a word to greet Ryo or announce his presence when he enters. They hear him rustling in the kitchen for a moment before he finally pops his head into the living room. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he sees Gingka.

"Hey, dude," Ryo greets him in an attempt to squash any awkwardness before it can occur. "What's up?"

Kyoya's eyes linger briefly on Gingka. It seems even he knows that this is kind of weird. "You're out of eggs," he eventually says and disappears back into the kitchen.

Gingka is staring very intensely at Ryo. Ryo squirms uncomfortably under his gaze but doesn't really know what to say to explain the situation. Yes, this is normal. Kyoya, your friend that usually avoids people but his own friends especially, steals from my fridge regularly, about twice a week. No, we haven't really talked about it. Yes, he has a key.

"Kyoya has a key to your apartment?" is what Gingka decides to focus on. "I don't even have a key to your apartment!" Okay, maybe Ryo can sort of understand why this is a concern for his one and only son.

"I can have one made for you," Ryo tries even though he knows that this isn't the actual problem. Gingka just continues to look at him, obviously weirded out.

Kyoya chooses this moment to pass the doorway of the living room with six bags of spicy sweet potato chips in his arms, one of which is held between his teeth. Gingka looks frantically between Ryo and Kyoya like he can't believe that this is happening right now, trying to discern who of the both of them is more qualified to explain this to him. It probably says a lot about Ryo that Gingka ultimately turns to Kyoya and his chips and ignores Ryo completely. Ryo gapes at his son's back but only Kyoya is in a position to see it. He openly snickers at Ryo's expression, the sixth bag of chips falling to the floor at his feet. It seems everyone is a traitor in this family.

"Are you," Ryo and Kyoya both turn back to Gingka, "are you stealing my dad? Is that what's happening here?"

Kyoya is shaking his head before the question fully leaves Gingka's lips. "No. Definitely not. You can keep him."

Ryo is so offended. He has never been insulted like this before. Inexplicably, he feels the urge to clutch his metaphorical pearls to his chest like a scandalized noblewoman, but realizes that's a tad too dramatic even for him before he can completely embarrass himself.

"Then what are you guys doing?" Kyoya and Ryo exchange a look over Gingka's head. Kyoya's eyebrows are raised almost imperceptibly. Ryo raises one shoulder then drops it back down when Kyoya frowns. Gingka is looking rapidly between the two of them, incredulity increasing. "Hello? Dad?"

Ryo straightens abruptly. "Right, yes." He turns to Kyoya. "What are we doing?" Gingka's frustrated groan quickly turns into a snort of reluctant amusement.

Kyoya rolls his eyes. "I'm going home. This is getting ridiculous." His gaze falls on the bag of chips he dropped on the floor. For a short moment, Ryo thinks he's going to ask one of them to hand it to him but then he doesn't. It's a shame. Ryo would have loved the image of Gingka holding up the bag of chips and Kyoya yanking it out of his grip with his teeth. He grins just thinking about it.

"Bye, dude. Get home safely."

Kyoya doesn't reply to that, of course, but he doesn't slam the front door shut with as much force as he could have so Ryo is counting this is as a win. When he turns toward Gingka, he is frowning at the bag of chips Kyoya left on the floor. He looks up at Ryo.

"Is that the last bag of your spicy sweet potato chips?"

Ryo stares at his son for a few seconds then puts his head in his hands. Unsurprised but mourning his loss nevertheless, he says, “Yes. Yes, that's the last one.”

[renaroo]

Telescopes and Ladders

Disclaimer: Batman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics Warnings: lighthearted nonsense Rating: K+ Synopsis: Alfred leaves for England on business and leaves the Manor to Bruce and a young Dick for a week. Bruce realizes he doesn’t know how to Adult for a child on his own.

A/N: I’m honestly fascinated by the time between Bruce taking Dick in/solving the Grayson family murder and when Dick became Robin. I always tend to lean on the B:TAS tradition of there being a gap of years between the two (8 for Dick’s adoption/guardianship and 12 when he became Robin officially), but that leaves a lot of very important years of development. Not just for Dick but for Bruce and Alfred, too. That really doesn’t have that much to do with this story because I also am a pushover for family fluff and there’s not enough of accidental!parent Bruce fluff ever.

Few things could strike fear into the heart of a man who had faced some of the world’s greatest evils and come out to the other side. Few things could make a shudder break through the rigid back of a man who had already lived through losing absolutely everything.

But the prospect which faced Bruce Wayne was too horrible, too frightful to fully comprehend.

By the time Bruce realized the full gravity of what he was about to face, it was too late to make any changes.

He stood, helpless, in the doorway as Alfred finished packing up his things. The number of clothes was a staggering reminder that this was a two-week-long trip.

Losing Alfred for any amount of time was hard enough for Bruce, even as a man in the prime of his life. But losing Alfred after the last six months of drastic changes was an inconceivable terror.

“Master Richard prefers his sandwiches cut into triangles,” Alfred reminded Bruce as he folded his fourth identical suit. “The crust remains, but the triangles are essential.”

Bruce squinted at Alfred and then looked down to his notepad, jotting down the detail. “He never mentioned that to me before.”

“I don’t imagine he ever saw you in a kitchen, Sir,” Alfred said dryly.

Unable to repress it, Bruce felt a frown tug at the corners of his mouth. One day he would have a witty retort that Alfred would not be prepared to immediately smackdown. Not in the foreseeable future, but one day.

“His school uniforms are pressed and hung up for the coming school week, but there is not a rotation for two weeks in a row,” Alfred continued. “I would recommend laundering them over the weekend.”

“I am fairly certain I could have figured that one out, Alfred,” Bruce replied, writing it down all the same. He slowed his pencil toward the end, thinking. “By launder—“

“I have put the name, address, and phone number of my preferred local dry cleaners on a note on the fridge, along with other contact information,” Alfred answered.

Crinkling his nose, Bruce looked at Alfred. “Alfred, it couldn’t possibly be that difficult to just… leave instructions for the machine, could it? It’ll look ridiculous to take all of our clothes to a dry cleaner for two weeks. I think I should be capable of at least doing that much.”

Never once in all the time that Bruce had known Alfred — which had been his entire life — had the man rolled his eyes while still within Bruce’s line of sight. However, the careful and methodical way that Alfred slowed his packing to a crawl and slowly looked into Bruce’s direction was about as humanly close as one could get to a full-body eye roll.

“I had once thought, in all the time it took for one to travel the world, train in a hundred forms of combat, perfect studies of chemistry, art, and history… that in-between moments of developing an engineer’s penchant for invention and a detective’s mind for compulsory criminal actions, that penciling a laundering cycle into the schedule could have happened,” Alfred mused out loud. “The fact that it hadn’t should be evidence enough of why, should you touch the washing machine before my return, I will take it upon myself to never touch your unclean wears again.” His mustache twitched almost testily. “Including a particular rancid suit. I should like to see that taken to the dry cleaners with a proper explanation.”

Bruce’s eyebrows could not have reached further for his hairline. Nodding slowly, he then looked down and dutifully wrote in his notepad as he said out loud, “Don’t… touch… Alfred’s… washing machine.”

Alfred’s gaze did not drop until Bruce had finished punctuating the machine, then he snapped shut the final suitcase. He seemed satisfied.

There was not much left on the particulars. Even if Alfred hadn’t left detailed notes on how to run the washing machine, it was one of the few parts of the Manor’s livable space that didn’t have precisely written notes on it. Alfred’s were taped to the relevant surfaces. Bruce’s were in his notepad, carefully inscribed and yet still leaving him woefully underprepared for whatever came next.

The air was stiff, and they were seemingly out of stalling tactics.

“Dick is going to miss you,” Bruce said, filling the silence.

“I imagine nearly as much as he does you during your travels, Sir,” Alfred said.

Bruce furrowed his brows. “That isn’t fair.”

“It seems our lives never are,” Alfred admitted.

They weren’t that far apart from each other. Perhaps arm's length for Bruce.

But Alfred didn’t come forward and neither did Bruce.

Instead, he hoped Alfred understood what was there. That Bruce would be missing him too.

Dick was a good kid. And saying even that really seemed to sell him short.

There was hardly anything Bruce had to say to him during the time Alfred was gone and Dick knew his times and appointments for everything, and even how many times to remind Bruce. Which, given, was more than it should have been. On instinct, Bruce’s responses tended to be rather unhelpful.

“There’s a school thing in thirty minutes,” Dick called from the top banister, standing on his hands without care.

Bruce, who had been walking through the foyer on his way to the kitchen for a snack paused and looked up at his young ward. It had been six months and his heart would still seize when he saw Dick using the Manor as a jungle gym. Dependent on the stunt it was either for Dick’s safety or for the Manor’s.

“Is that necessary?” Bruce asked.

Dick blinked owlishly and tilted his head, albeit upside down. “The school thing?”

“No,” Bruce said before gesturing unhelpfully, “the…”

Without really emoting, Dick shifted to a one-handed headstand and Bruce thought of all the bones that could break from a fall at that height depending on the angle of landing.

“So it’s in thirty minutes,” Dick reminded him again.

“Okay,” Bruce answered, not following because his ward — his responsibility — was dangerously close to paralyzation. If Bruce closed his eyes he could practically see it unfolding before them.

After another agonizing moment, Dick lowered his free hand and then somersaulted easily backward onto the third floor’s top stair. He didn’t even take a moment to pause as he looked over Bruce with severe skepticism and judgment.

“Do you want me to take a cab?” he asked seriously.

Smacking his own forehead, Bruce cursed under his breath and shook his head. “You need me to take you.”

Rolling his head to one side, Dick shrugged. “Not really. I can take a cab.”

“You’re eight,” Bruce reminded him like he needed to.

“I used to ride in the back of a truck with a petting zoo,” Dick argued back.

Bruce squinted at him, considering the option. “Is it normal for eight-year-olds to take cabs to school?”

“I don’t know,” Dick answered honestly. “Should you call Alfred and ask?”

It didn’t take more than one iteration of that phone call playing out in Bruce’s head for him to realize that it was a poor idea. And that Alfred would be very disappointed in the world’s greatest detective for his deductive reasoning skills.

He preferred keeping the phone calls short and reduced to good reports. On both sides.

“I think I should drive you,” Bruce said far more decisively than the precluding conversation should have allowed.

Dick casually walked down the long staircase of the foyer. He was walking down them upright, but Bruce had the terrifying feeling that even a blink would allow Dick to slip into another acrobatic feat that could endanger lives and fancy artisanship that Bruce pretended to pay homage to.

“I’m okay with that,” Dick reported as if it was up to him to provide permission for it. “Do you have time for it?”

Bruce Wayne had all the time in the world, but Batman was in between important and pressing cases that the commissioner had given him to look over the night before. There was also a new APB out for Poison Ivy the was concerning. A stack of forensic science publications had been delivered that morning which covered technology and theories that Bruce was hoping to pilfer through to keep up to date on his own methodologies and equipment. Not to mention the tune-up that the Batmobile desperately needed he had put off in favor of working on the training facility he was putting together for Dick.

Dick’s school was a fifteen-minute drive one way, which meant at least thirty minutes lost to taking him, dropping off, and coming back to the manor. And that was only if Bruce threw Dick out of the window while looping past the school.

“What is this thing?” Bruce finally asked, realizing it was something the start of their conversation properly required.

“Stargazing,” Dick answered, beaming. “I joined the astronomy club! Remember?”

A faint recollection rested on the horizon of Bruce’s memory. “Yes,” he answered instead.

“Tonight’s the first night. Jimmy’s dad is making hotdogs while we watch, and Mrs. Gupta is giving extra credit to everyone who comes!”

“They give extra credit in third grade now?” Bruce asked, genuinely surprised.

Dick raised an eyebrow at him. “Your third grade didn’t?”

Despite his best efforts, Bruce couldn’t help the automatic withdrawal he felt. He bit back on his molars and glanced away from Dick’s earnest gaze. He couldn’t remember much about the third grade at the end of the day. He didn’t finish it in regular school with other children, he was homeschooled. By Alfred.

Alfred who left him with another little boy that had his time as an eight-year-old changed forever. One that Bruce, admittedly, took in himself without any clue what he was doing for the boy other than “more.”

It was six months, and Dick was going to a school thing. Perhaps it was working.

“Okay,” Bruce said again. “How long are we going to be at this school thing?”

Genuinely surprised, Dick shook his head. “You don’t have to go. You’ve got the stuff.” He glanced around cautiously before bringing up his index fingers to poke out by the sides of his head. His fingers wiggled. “You know. Your stuff.”

“I’m aware,” Bruce said. “I’ve got some folders I’ll be taking with us but… We’ll be fine.”

Dick’s entire face lit up. “Oh! Okay!”

Alfred would have thought to bring blankets, like many of the other parents had. But Dick liked laying in the grass, and Bruce didn’t mind it, too.

After a long, wet night on patrol, Bruce collapsed into his bed for what he felt was a much-deserved sleep. He had positively no intention of waking up.

Until an alarm went off on the other side of his bedroom, of course.

At first, Bruce only vaguely recognized the noise. It was a dull throbbing that was interfering with the only thing he could think to desire — sleeping in. But as it persisted, his disbelief gave way to anger. He threw his pillow at it. Then another pillow. Then another.

It wasn’t long before the noise was continuing and there were no more pillows within Bruce’s reach.

Throwing his sheets off, Bruce leaped to his feet and stormed over to the alarm clock, ripping it out of the wall with the same force he had used just hours ago to punch out one of the Riddler’s neon green question marks. That, at least, had been enjoyable and profound in its moment. The alarm clock’s cord nearly jerked the socket out of the wall.

Having never been one for alarms before, Bruce tried to fight through the fog of early morning to figure out why he had set the damn thing to begin with.

Then he noticed, on the dresser beside the alarm’s former place, was the notepad full of Alfred’s instructions.

He was supposed to take Dick to school. The school started in fifteen minutes and was a fifteen-minute drive from the manor.

A string of Not-Dick-Friendly words escaped Bruce as he grabbed sweat pants lying on the floor and rushed out the door.

Bruce had one leg into the sweats and was struggling with the second as he slid down the hall. “DICK!” he called out loudly, facing down the dark hall. He should have set it earlier — should have known he needed to wake Dick up and get him ready. Did he dry clean Dick’s uniform? Did they have extras?

He should have picked up the notepad while he was at it, too.

“I think I’m going to be late,” Dick yawned from the opposite end of the hallway.

Skidding to a halt, Bruce turned with relief to see that Dick was standing, backpack already over his shoulders, rubbing his eyes wearily.

“We’ll be fine,” Bruce declared, finishing putting on his sweatpants. Without even a thought of getting more than that for his attire, Bruce raced down the hall, scooped up the third-grader, and was headed down the stairs and through the foyer. They would use the Maserati still parked in the circle just outside the main entrance. That would be quick — and the drive quicker given Bruce’s lead foot.

“I can walk,” Dick grunted, unhappily squirming in Bruce’s arms. “I’m not a baby!”

“I’m faster and we’re getting you to school,” Bruce snapped a little harsher than he meant to come off, pushing the entry door open with a broad shoulder. “Good,” he muttered as he began down the stairs, “it’s not raining—“

Perhaps it was Dick’s squirming, perhaps it was the distracting way the sunlight was peaking out from the approaching dawn.

Maybe Bruce was off his game from no sleep.

Regardless, his shoeless heel hit the edge of the stone step’s puddle at an angle just so. The water, pouring over the gutters just above the eaves of the entrance, was running over the steps and Bruce’s entire body went running with them before hitting hard on the cement that he and Dick tumbled down together. Bruce more than Dick after the barrel roll he maneuvered them into.

They landed at the base of the stairs, Bruce flat on his back and Dick on his chest, feet from the wheels of the Maserati.

“Dick,” Bruce said, shirtless and cold.

“Um, yeah, Bruce?”

“You’re not going to school today,” Bruce informed him. “We’ll come up with something.”

By noon, the water had stopped pooling around the grounds of the manor. Instead, they stayed collected around the bushes and shrubbery that Alfred had kept expertly in line like a moat.

The moats were not a part of Alfred’s design. Or, if they were, it had been a request made when Bruce was distracted and noncommittally responding to requests from the butler. Both were likely, despite Bruce’s discomfort with the latter upon some self-evaluation.

Going on the leap of faith that his mind had not been so distracted in the last few weeks that he wouldn’t completely forget a request like building moats in the garden, Bruce began examining how the morning’s incident came to be.

It took nearly an hour to finally realize that in some areas of manor’s roofing, water was still pouring over the concrete gutters.

That was not how they were designed. Bruce was certain of it.

Going out to the uninhabited stables, Bruce found a fifty-foot ladder collapsed together. He folded it under his arm and carried it out promptly to the sites of the manor where water had escaped the gutters the most and set to work. He unfolded the ladder, secured its every latch, leaned it carefully against the manor walls, and began to ascend the great height between himself and the eaves of his home.

Halfway up the ladder, he wondered, idly, why he hadn’t just used a grappling hook. It seemed far more practical.

Reaching the gutter, Bruce glanced down both ways. There was not much of an inspection needed to see it was backed up with debris from the storm.

Curious, Bruce looked around for where the branches and leaves could have come from nearby, but the largest trees within twenty feet were spruces. That didn’t match his culprit in the gutters at all.

For a brief, irrational moment, Bruce thought of Poison Ivy and wondered if she had a reason to be near the manor during the storm. It wasn’t nearly as logical as the winds carrying tree limbs from the further trees in the rather large and sprawling Wayne estates, but it at the very least made it more of a Batman problem than a Bruce problem.

Bruce was really wishing, the longer he went without Alfred, that there were some less Bruce problems in the world.

“What’re you doing?”

Bruce startled with surprise. Then, as he glanced down below the eaves and toward the third-floor window nearest him. He could see it was opened with a curious eight-year-old hanging out of it.

More Bruce problems.

“Dick, get down from the windowsill!” Bruce snapped.

Dick blinked at him, almost surprised at the tone. “Are you still mad about falling?”

“I was never mad about falling,” Bruce lied through his teeth.

“I won’t ever tell anybody,” Dick offered, a genuine smile on his face. “Even though it was really funny.”

Bruce felt a strange and worrying tightness in his chest as Dick leaned out further and craned his neck to look up and down the ladder. The eight-year old’s feet dangled on the inside of the window as Dick’s center of balance migrated toward his hips. He was teetering back and forth — closer to forth and the perilous drop to the shrubs and impromptu moat with each moment.

“I don’t care!” Bruce yelled, thinking of cervical vertebrae and swelling brains. “Get back in the house — feet on the floor.”

Dick gave him a look. “That’s the least interesting place for feet to be.”

If Dick wasn’t so precariously close to getting himself killed, Bruce could have sworn that the boy was trying to get Bruce killed of a heart attack.

“It is the only place your feet are going to be in the next ten seconds or I’ll ground you from everything,” Bruce strained to get out. Then, thinking the threat wasn’t making much of an impact, added, “For life.”

It must have sounded as lame as it felt for Bruce to say because Dick looked at him, rather unimpressed. All the same, he dipped back into the manor and out of Bruce’s line of sight.

Exhaling strongly through his nostrils, Bruce forced himself to calm down. His heart really had felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest for a moment there. It was arguably more exhilaration than he had received from even his grandest case.

Unlike cracking a case, he hated every moment of that particular moment.

Shaking his head, Bruce tried to think of his task at hand again. The gutters.

Even though his gloves were thick, the cool splash of murky stagnant water felt uncomfortable for Bruce. He hadn’t realized that rainwater was capable of collecting so much soot and rust in its travels. There was positively nothing clear with the gutters’ collection.

Bruce could only assume that was normal for gutters. He honestly had no idea.

He was elbow deep in dragging his gloved hands through the gutters, clearing out leaves and branches with a splash before he was interrupted again.

“You never said what you were doing,” Dick’s voice came like an accusation.

“Clearing the gutters,” Bruce grunted in reply, less taken by surprise that time around.

At least, there was less surprise until it registered where the voice was coming from. Then Bruce looked not down to the window, but up over the gutters and toward the rooftop itself. Dick was sitting on his haunches, balanced in the middle of the roof itself.

For a moment, Bruce’s mind short-circuited as he stared at Dick. He couldn’t register when Dick got there, how Dick got there, why Dick got there. His mind was entirely consumed with vivid images of the sweet little boy tumbling out of reach, falling to certain doom. Forget cervical vertebrae, there were punctures and broken things and cracked skulls and subcranial hemorrhage—

No words came out of Bruce’s mouth but a wide range of noises ripped their way from his throat.

In return, Dick tilted his head to the side with the innocence of a labradoodle. “You okay, Bruce?”

There were many things Bruce could have said to inform Dick that he needed to get down, that he was in a dangerous position, that he was doing something bad and unspeakable, or that Bruce was back on the brink of a heart attack. But they involved words and Bruce was short on them.

Instead, without a second’s reflection, Bruce flailed out his free arm and brought it down on Dick’s knee.

The boy jerked in surprise, looking at Bruce’s hand, but was unprepared for Bruce to use his vice grip to drag him down the roof and tuck him under his armpit. Instead of a physical escape, Dick hung like a sack and called out a muffled, “Bruce!” that his elder hardly detected with the blood pumping in his ears.

With all the swaying and lunging and panic-inducing, the ladder began to sway uncomfortably beneath Bruce’s feet.

“What’re you doing?” Dick demanded angrily.

Bruce didn’t answer, his attention shifted to holding onto the ladder with his free hand while looking down to the ground where the feet of the ladder were. The ladder continued swaying further and further to one side, aided by its rapid sinking into the muddy moat below.

“You didn’t close the window?” Bruce demanded sharply, already in motion hoping for the best answer.

“Huh?” Dick answered unhelpfully.

Leaping from the ladder, Bruce aimed for the third-floor window which was still open. It was at least one less window to replace.

The momentum that carried them into the window forced Bruce to tuck into another roll with Dick — his second for that day — and it took them across the entire stretch of the guest room Bruce was fairly sure he’d never been in before.

By the time they came to a stop, hitting the opposing door, they could hear the timely crash of the ladder outside.

Bruce was panting, still keeping Dick coiled up against his side.

Dick was quiet for a long time before finally uttering, “You sure have a lot of accidents, Bruce.”

Alfred had said he would be back in the morning, and Bruce had honestly never felt such relief in his life.

There was no mention of the previous day’s watery catastrophes. There was a hint of detecting something based on Alfred’s line of questions, but he was never specific enough that Bruce had to outright lie. And, therefore, Bruce didn’t have to offer up any stories either.

Dick had not said anything either. Perhaps he had meant it when he said he wouldn’t tell anyone.

Bruce squinted at the bottom of the takeout box and poked at it with his chopsticks. The Thai food had been satisfactory, the portions had not after a rough week.

Perhaps he was simply missing Alfred’s food.

Dick was staring at him. Then, slowly, Dick lifted up his own box and began poking at it with his own, much messier, chopsticks. Of course, without the finesse of an experienced takeout consumer, Dick did poke rather hard, ripping a hole through the bottom of his takeout container.

If the eight-year-old noticed he didn’t say anything before setting the box down.

Feeling a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, Bruce set his box down as well. “Are you happy Alfred is coming home?”

Dick’s eyes shown brightly for a moment. “Yeah!” He then glanced away, pressing his mouth closed.

Curious, Bruce raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked.

“I kind of liked it being us,” Dick sighed.

Bruce took a moment and then furrowed his brow. Everything that had happened in the past week had felt like a fairly unmitigated disaster in his book. He had only assumed how much worse it had been from the place of a lonely, fearful child.

“Really?” he asked.

Looking mortified for a brief moment, Dick straightened up in his seat. “I miss Alfred a whole lot,” he assured Bruce. “But you’re lots of fun, Bruce.”

That only served to confound Bruce even more.

“No one called me fun. Ever,” he told Dick. “Not even in kindergarten.”

That seemed to take Dick by surprise. “Huh,” he said. “I guess they didn’t get you like I do.”

“No,” Bruce said slowly, “I suppose not.”

When Bruce glanced over again, Dick was searching his face carefully, eyes shining with some gentle curiosity. “Did you have fun this week?” He asked timidly.

It was a remarkable question because of the timidness. Timidness was not something Bruce saw in Dick often.

The boy had climbed up to the roof of a three-story manor without blinking.

“Fun in what sense?” Bruce caught himself asking.

Immediately, there was some deflation of Dick’s esteem as he settled back into his seat. And Bruce knew he had made a mistake that needed to corrected immediately.

“Obviously it has been fun in every important sense but one,” Bruce made up on the spot.

Dick’s disappointment gave way almost immediately to bright curiosity again as he sat up in his seat, wide-eyed and attentive toward Bruce. “What way?”

“The Alfred kind of way,” Bruce answered. “Hard to do that without Alfred around.”

A warm smile spread across Dick’s features. “But he’ll be back tomorrow,” Dick took his turn to comfort Bruce. “But I do hope we get to do more Bruce and Dick stuff in the future. Just us two.”

“You know, Dick,” Bruce chuckled, “I have the feeling we will.”

The rain returned on the same day that Alfred had.

Trips back from England were not abnormal for Alfred to take, which meant he and Bruce had worked out a rhythm even in their care. Namely, Alfred took a cab back to the manor and Bruce met him there. The butler positively protested any other arrangement.

Which meant, with rain pouring, Bruce and Dick sat in the manor. Waiting.

Dick’s eyes followed the hands of the grandfather clock in Bruce’s den. He was laying on his stomach with his chubby cheeks propped up by tiny fists. His interlocked ankles swayed to and fro to the rhythm of the clock.

Bruce was thumbing through his forensic magazines at long last, pretending to be buried in their knowledge and development. It took a great effort to not simply join Dick in staring at the grandfather clock expectantly.

“I think we should get a dog,” Dick announced without prodding.

“No,” Bruce answered easily enough, flipping the page.

“Well, what if we want to have Bruce and Dick adventures while Alfred’s still here? Wouldn’t that be lonely for him?” Dick whined keenly. He looked away from the clock just long enough to make pleading blue eyes in Bruce’s direction.

In what could only be considered a mistake, Bruce made eye contact. It was too late, even as he immediately ripped his eyes away from Dick’s gaze.

“Maybe,” Bruce answered.

“What’re we gonna name the dog?” Dick asked, satisfied.

“Dick,” Bruce said, a smirk on his lips. “He’ll be your replacement.”

“You can’t replace me,” Dick snorted.

“Maybe,” Bruce conceded. “But Dick the dog wouldn’t get on the roof.” He thought for a moment, then flipped another page. “Probably.”

“He would if I taught him to before I left,” Dick said eagerly. “I’m gonna teach him how to cut his sandwiches like Alfred, too. Help him out.”

“Alfred would like that, a dog touching all his food,” Bruce mused. He glanced over to Dick. “Remember—“

“Don’t tell Alfred about forgetting school,” Dick listed off on his fingers, “or falling, or the gutters, or the roof, or the broken ladder.”

“Or the takeout boxes,” Bruce added. He had taken the pains of driving their trash bags to the dumpster at the far end of the estate himself to prevent any unfortunate discoveries. Surely if they were at the dumpster already, Alfred would have no reason to inspect them.

Though, Bruce supposed that had never stopped him as Batman from digging through the trash before.

A slight panic traveled through him.

“Are we forgetting anything?” Bruce asked, more rhetorically than anything else.

All the same, Dick gave him an honest shrug. “Did you brush your teeth?”

Bruce began to respond to that when there was a buzzing sound from his desk. Both he and Dick glanced at it, though it was not necessary to confirm what the two of them already knew.

The buzzer was to the main gate for the estate, which meant that Alfred had buzzed himself in.

“He’s here!” Dick exclaimed.

“Don’t get too excited, he hates that,” Bruce warned, as though he wasn’t already on his feet.

He and Dick were neck and neck out of the doorway to the den, though Bruce regained his composure and remembered himself once through it. He had a demeanor and expectation to fulfill, after all, no matter his excitement.

With the bliss of youth, Dick exploded out of the den, ran through the hall, and was flipping onto the banister before even a word could be uttered. “Alfred!” He yelled out.

Bruce’s heart warmed as he heard the main entrance open then close to the howling winds and rain. Alfred, in his trench coat and bowler hat, stepped through, tipping slightly as he closed his umbrella under his arm and looked confidently into the manor.

The old man’s smile could not be hidden by his tidy mustache as it reached up into his soft eyes, looking up from the foyer floor to the stairs where Bruce slowly descended.

He looked good and cheerful. Bruce wanted to run over to him and wrap him in a hug then and there.

Dick, sliding down the banister and leaping at Alfred, had the pleasure of acting on Bruce’s hidden impulse. “Alfred! Welcome home! We missed you! But everything was great!” Dick’s words were hurried and calculated to cover all the bases he and Bruce had discussed.

Had Alfred not been known for his keen eye, Bruce would have offered the eight-year-old a thumbs up in approval.

“My, my, Master Richard, I do believe you have grown a hair since I left you,” Alfred chuckled, patting the boy wrapped around his waist.

“I hope it’s on the top of my head so I can get taller,” Dick joked back.

By the end of Dick’s hug, Bruce’s careful approach finally brought him to Alfred and he was able to regard the man who raised him. He took a deep breath and then, carefully, hugged around Alfred’s shoulders.

“You were missed, old friend,” Bruce got out, his voice strained beyond exception.

“As were the both of you,” Alfred said, hugging Bruce back. “Now,” he broke the hug and held Bruce’s shoulders at arm’s length. His mustache twitched as a twinkle grew sharp in his eyes. “I noticed my ladder was broken in the yard.”

Bruce tightened his smile into a small frown and glanced toward Dick whose eyes were approximately the size of their takeout boxes from the previous night.

“I am sure it’s an entertaining story,” Alfred tutted, releasing Bruce and beginning to take off his hat and coat. “I expect you both will share it with me eventually.”

Dick didn’t break his eye contact with Bruce and neither did Bruce back, but the energy shifted and both were able to breathe.

“I don’t know, Alfred,” Bruce said somewhat jovially. “Some adventures are just… between Bruce and Dick.”

Immediately, Dick’s grin spread from ear to ear and he leaped back to his feet with a flip.

“Oh! But Alfred! I can tell you about the astronomy club!” Dick crooned, taking off after the butler.

Bruce released a breath and felt a calm in the manor that had been gone for a long time.

It was good having the entire family home.

[bi-outta-cordonia]

Ebb and Flow

Last chapter moved kinda quickly in terms of progression and maybe there’s a miniseries lodged somewhere in all the development I’m shocked we didn’t get to see. Hopefully there’s more hiding in the later chapters. We’ll see!

Blades of Light and Shadow. Tyril Starfury x f!elf MC (if you squint, now complete with light touching!) sfw, all ages. Tags include: Tyril has secrets, that’s why his hair is so long, because it’s full of secrets, also he’s still grappling with some of that juicy early onset sexual tension with Ashala, maybe he’ll deal with it one, maybe. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Salt of the air, taste of the fury on the tongue. The high winds rise as the sea roll low. Clutch the vessel starboard and let Honerva flow!”

Tyril’s ears twitch along to the melody, lifting and bending easy from years of involuntary practice. The priestess—Nia—her song is familiar to him but also completely foreign. Parents of Undermount sing the same tales to their restless and misbehaving children, not as an upbeat shanty but rather as a warning to the wise. Honerva is a goddess that demands much from the mortals that traverse her realm. Stay humble but maintain vigilance. Stay the course but do not ignore the many weaving paths that make up the sea. Honerva may grant safe passage or she may dash a ship full of innocents against craggy stones, whichever mood strikes her first. 

Nia does beautifully as her voice ebbs and the sailors whoop heartily. She offers a dainty bow and heads back to her bunk beneath deck with Threep still perched on her shoulder. 

Much like the odd whims of Honerva, the air shifts as soon as familiar magic cuts through the thin barrier around him. He often erects a small shield when he stands on his own, nothing like the ones he forces up in battle. It’s just enough to give the humes pause as they walk by him—perhaps they’ll turn away so he doesn’t have to stomach looking at them. He knows how they take to him all too well. Better to steer them clear of him before something unpleasant unfolds. 

Even so, there is no guarantee that all the walls around him will remain in tact. Ashala Venralei is impossible to miss and her magic is advanced enough that crossing into his doesn’t give her the overwhelming need to be elsewhere. She quietly folds her hands one over the other and leans against the wooden rails. 

“Honerva is not a gentle goddess yet humans have such cheerful songs about her,” she says. 

“I see,” is all he says. “I didn’t think you’d know of the stories surrounding her.”

“Did the mage miss the morning ritual I conducted prior to our departure?” she teases, head turning completely towards him. He glances at her from the corner of his eye and frowns heavily. “Perhaps I am more elf than he cares to admit—I practically begged for safe passage. Honerva changes moods as often as Mal changes the details of the stories he’s already told. We should be grateful that her temperament has not changed yet.” Her lips quirk. “And that Mal’s stories are amusing. We move amongst seasoned travelers, it seems.”

“Ah, you speak not of I, lowlander,” he corrects. “Undermount has been my home for decades until now. What stories Mal provides come from his adventures. The ones I provide belong to me yet seem to surface whenever it suddenly becomes the fancy of one extremely nosy lowlander.”

She doesn’t laugh and it irritates him in a way. Instead, he watches that sly smile of hers crack across her face, golden eyes as bright as the beaming sun. What little she conveys with her body he can read upon her face. 

Sometimes.

“You could always stop me yourself,” she says. “Two days out from port and you’ve yet to spend time with anyone aside from myself. A choice, I presume?”

Tyril doesn’t answer for a long moment. In the skies above, a flock of gulls circle and swoop down towards the sea to scoop up fish for their meals. White feathers shine wetly as they beat their wings and head back to land. He averts his gaze and stares at the distance ahead of him—nothing but miles and miles of endless sea, the horizon almost indiscernible between the place where the sky meets the water. 

“I don’t…” He stops and narrows his eyes. “All that I could say about the life I’ve grown accustomed to matters little compared to the reality I embrace now.” He stands taller but takes a shaky breath of the salty air. “Stories of the past often matter greatly depending upon the context but my stories are nothing. Just the ramblings of…”

He grows quiet, bowing his head a bit, and he dares not risk a glance towards the woman beside him. His old governess would give him a whack on the knuckles for such weakness. First and foremost are the lessons of propriety—how to maintain veneer with ease and how to trick one’s enemies into believing the face displayed for them. Of all the sickly sweet smiles and taut smirks, nothing delivers more emphatically than the look of unwavering curiosity brimming in Ashala’s eyes. 

Slowly, Tyril turns his head towards her and meets that gaze with his. She exudes smoke and ash, chokes the world around her into a violent submission for it has walked its course over her. She will walk her own path to save a man unrelated to her by blood but in between, the natural well of magic in the world will tip in her bend and the elements all around her will move aside for she refuses to be moved by them. 

“You are…” he starts, resting his chin upon his hand. Her eyes flash—a warning or amusement? He isn’t entirely sure. “A strange creature.”

Ashala shrugs. “You are blue. And tall.” She squints at him. “And horribly gruff. I expected elves from the city beneath the stone to be a lot more refined.”

“I can be if I choose so.”

“But you choose not to be in any given moment.” Her head nods towards the door leading to the bunks beneath deck. “Save for when you interact with Nia, of course. Imtura seems unbothered but Mal does everything in his power to crack the frosty exterior you put up.” 

He chuckles. “And you seem to think I exist for the sake of reciting old stories. You and Mal are no different in that sense—you are both bothersome. Only he seems to do it because nothing else in this world could possibly entertain him more.”

“You have a vein that pops up on that rather large forehead of yours when you get riled up,” she says. His fingers twitch and his jaw works. He will not rise to the bait. He is better than this. 

Better than the coy smirk that tugs at her lips when he does reach up. 

And much better than the playful glint in her eyes as he silently tucks his hair behind his ear, very much avoiding the spot on his forehead where the vein could be. 

He will not think about this later. 

“Is there something in particular you desire, lowlander?” he hisses. “Or have you come to pester me for yet another story?”

She remains silent for a long moment. Her golden eyes sweep back over the water and take in the sight of clear skies all the way in the distance. Her body closes off, turns away to face completely forward. There is a blankness about her face and his brow furrows. 

“We all carry secrets, Tyril,” she says quietly. Ashala’s head remains high despite the strange air settling between them. Before the words leave her mouth, he knows the question sitting on her tongue. “Undermount is your home, yet the minute you called out the next destination, there seemed…there was a hesitation on your part.”

His lips press together. “I see.”

“Your skill is unparalleled. Of the five of us, it is clear your training as House Starfuy’s heir—” His jaw works, “—has granted you the boon of power beyond imagining. Knowledge, tactics—there is much to speak of regarding you but we respect your need to hold such truths to your being. Perhaps there is something we are unaware of that is too painful for you to recall—something that would leave you vulnerable.”

He sighs and lays his arm flat against the railing. 

“No, it…” 

Memories flood the empty space within his mind. Meditation keeps it clear but there are nights where he is restless, tossing and turning as events of the past play out in the form of nightmares most unimaginable. Where there is wisdom there is pride most evil, most corrupting of those that cross its path. His mother—her face is there but hazy. Fanciful feasts, the boisterous laughter of men and women dressed in the finest of silks as servants present delicacies from far and wide—

There was a man whose lips he can still taste—

The woman with straw blonde hair that smiled so beautifully—

House rankings, climbing the rungs of hollowed out ladders that snap so easily but mend just as well if only he would think.

Climb faster.

Push harder. 

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again. 

“It’s…far too complicated to explain at the moment,” he finally answers. Weight presses on his shoulders and a knot forms in his belly. He remembers a sensation like this back then, only it was much more constant. “In some ways, I envy the life you’ve led.”

Ashala offers nothing at first, her eyes never straying from the horizon slowly moving in the distance. “You’ve been surrounded by luxuries most of your life. Your knowledge of our—of your culture is far more extensive. I cannot fathom the idea of envying one born to nothing.”

“I...I was not lacking for anything, no. You assume correctly in a sense. Even the happiness was constant for a time.” Quiet again. At the very least, she does not push. “Everything moved towards a single goal and that was the most exhilarating aspect. To be able to provide for the house meant just as much as being a part of it. Climbing the ranks was a ruthless game but standing atop the other children brought glory beyond compare.”

“You were heir,” Ashala says. 

A rueful smile tugs at his lips. “Everything I could ever want at my very fingertips—and now? Now, I travel the world committed to a mission that the others of our kind would rather blatantly ignore.” His head shakes. “What good does it do to only partially stop an evil that would destroy us all? Why stop at splitting the shards and why not completely cleanse the world of the Court’s influence?”

Ashala hums but does not respond immediately. Her head turns and she observes him quietly. 

“Then it was pure altruism that saw you abandon such a lucrative role?” His eyes dart away and he knows the exact number of whacks on the knuckles the gesture would earn him. 

“I’ve been away from Undermount for a long while,” he says. “It’s been months at best yet I know the exact number of whacks I’d get for being so loose with my feelings.”

“Oh? How rare to see such a sight,” she says, hand raising to point at the corners of his mouth twitching. Tyril jerks his head away and snorts, drawing a small laugh from her. “A rare yet delightful thing to see. Perhaps I was mistaken about your ability to express any emotion aside from disinterest and disgust.”

“You could stand to repress some of yours more often,” he fires back. “Humes are widely regarded as loud creatures—you are an elf. Some stoicism would make you tolerable at the very least.”

Her laugh is a full-hearted cackle. None of the heat nor venom of his words take for she finds any slight instance of his annoyance enjoyable. Heat floods his cheeks and he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips as she howls with laughter. 

“To have an elf accuse me of not being stoic enough!” she wheezes, wiping at the corners of her eyes. “Would you believe that humans find me to be the most unapproachable creature that walks this land? The children would often run from the pull of my magic lest it would swallow them whole. I suppose those in possession of magic naturally terrify the folk who have so little experience with it.”

He nods. “Much of yours was self-taught, however. Being able to conceal it is one of the first lessons a proper instructor should’ve taught you, but…” He coughs. “I suppose I could…show you. It would be a useful skill when we face certain enemies.”

She quirks a brow. “Now you instructing me? Perhaps it is a moment I eagerly await if only to see the bitter disdain on your face when you realize how difficult it is to teach me!” His eyes roll but she ignores it. “You still didn’t answer my question, Tyril.”

“It was…” He pauses for a long moment. “It was mostly for that reason, yes. But in truth, it is like you mentioned before. There are some secrets I would still prefer to ‘hold to my chest,’ as you say. It isn’t…it isn’t the most pleasant thing to recall, not now. I…”

Again in an instant—

The faces of hundreds who looked upon him with hope—

That looked broken and angry when he turned his back on them—

There is no shame in doing what needs to be done—for doing the right thing. Pride is not the only source of his sense of self. It makes up only a small portion of all of him but the thought still eats at him—the question of what could’ve been always lingers no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it isn’t important to know the answer. 

Tyril crosses his arms and gently smooths his fingertips over his bracers. His head bows and he stares at the water violently lapping at the hull as Imtura’s ship cuts through the sea. 

“You don’t regret this,” Ashala says, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“No, not at all.”

“But there are things you wonder about. Things that you cannot change or reverse as a result of your actions…”

He stands still for a moment before nodding once. “All that I do here matters more to me than the circumstances that put me on this path. I chose it, yes. There are factors that led me here, that is also true.”

She stares at him for a long while, that piercing gaze stirring something a bit unsettling within him. It’s like looking into the base of a flame all consuming, a void all encompassing. Ashala Venralei—would he ever tell her the truth about her name and all the reasons why no person in Undermount would ever consider stringing such words together to form a child’s name? He knows what Tyril is—Orthonus, Livienna, Myhri, and Rashki.

“The child born from ash and dreams”—to get to where they needed to go, Ashala’s parents burned a considerable bridge that meant that home would never be a place they could return. 

“We will stop the Shadow Court,” she says and she does something dangerous—far too dangerous—

She reaches across and lays a warm hand on top of his. He swallows and stares into her eyes once more, something far more uncomfortable welling in the pit of his belly. It’s a warmth and a storm in one that starts in his gut before it shoots through the rest of him in uneasy webs. 

He wills himself to nod curtly. When she graces him with a warm and genuine smile, he quivers. 

It must be luck she turns on her heel and leaves him before she notices. 

[ofviclentdelights]

“ YOU GOT A TASTE FOR BLOOD WHEN YOU WERE LICKING YOUR OWN WOUNDS. ” is that DAVID CASTAÑEDA? oh no, that’s ANTONIO REYES, born on the 5TH of APRIL, 2014. i heard HE/HIM (CIS MAN) is a SOLDIER in WYOMING MILITIA. apparently, they can be LOYAL and RESOURCEFUL but also known to be FACETIOUS and RUTHLESS. spends most of their free time BETTING ON PIT FIGHTS, probably smells like WHISKEY. is that a bite mark i see?

Age: Twenty-nine Orientation: Bisexual & biromantic Immunity: Immune & aware of it & not open about it Moral Alignment: Chaotic Stupid Evil Loyalty: Grizzlies, specifically Yen

you are only a small child and feel afraid.

Antonio was born the second child to the Reyes family in the unfortunate year of 2014, leaving him too young to ever know what “normal” was. Still, his early childhood was marked by his mother trying her best to let him be a kid for as long as he could be despite the disapproval from his father and older brother who was subjected to learning harsh survival tactics. The difference in treatment left a rift between the boys that would only continue as the years rolled by.

He was only ten years old when his parents were attacked by infected and died. It’s hazy to him, but he heard some of it before his brother dragged him away to safety. He knew they died protecting him and his brother, and that his brother largely blamed Antonio for it -- he was the one the cried when he was first taught how to hunt and usually hid behind his mom after all. Despite this, his brother felt responsible for him and didn’t abandon him, instead opting to teach him how to take care of himself and toughen up. 

Three miserable years full of grueling survival lessons passed without anyone to hold his hand. His relationship with his brother never improved despite the two having no one else to lean on. 

Still fairly young, he could potentially survive on his own if absolutely necessary -- which he wrongly assumed wouldn’t happen for quite some time. He was bit on his ankle while scavenging for supplies and unsure of what to do, he confided in his brother. The obvious solution was to shoot Antonio before he turned -- an outcome that sounded just as horrifying as turning to Antonio so he tried to run off. Still feeling a sense of responsibility for Antonio, his brother took off after him to put an end to things and in a desperate act of self-preservation, Antonio made sure he shot his older brother before he could shoot him. Though consumed with guilt from the added blood on his hands, he knew he had to carry on if he didn’t want to die (assuming he wouldn’t turn).

A few months passed of him on his own (waiting to see if he’d turn and being surprised when he didn’t) until he stumbled upon a small group of survivors. He lied to them and told them that he got separated from his last group and no one seemed to question it -- he was still just a kid after all and why would he lie? He was accepted in quickly and made himself fairly useful, though he purposefully made it seem like he still needed a little guidance in fending for himself against any kind of attack.

Throughout his four years with this new group, he discovered they had a knack for pissing other groups off, meaning human threats were a very real thing now. The group was attacked by another unaffiliated group and through a mixture of luck, skill, and being severely underestimated, Antonio was the last one standing -- the people who became like family to him were nothing more than lifeless corpses now.

Unsure of what the world would throw at him next, he didn’t allow himself any time to process or grieve what just happened. A few moments later a member of the Wyoming Militia stumbled upon the bloodied teenager rummaging through the deceased belongings. It was obvious he had been in the middle of whatever happened and after a brief conversation, he was offered a place in a new group due to his potential. With nothing else to do or anywhere to go, he accepted.

Antonio has been with the Grizzlies ever since, thriving in the violent environment.

what doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms & a really dark sense of humor.

On the surface level Antonio is a thrill-seeking, borderline overconfident person who can’t take much seriously these days. He still carries some guilt around from what happened to his family, but it’s hidden under layers and layers of humor and dumbass comments.

His sense of humor is mostly sarcastic. Honestly conversations with him are like being a poor NPC that has to deal with the player selecting the sarcastic/smartass dialogue option almost every single time.

Should really stop betting on pit fights because jesus christ he’s not good at it. But honestly, he leans more on the impulsive side so it probably won’t happen anytime soon.

Speaking of pit fights, the ones with people versus infected freaked him out when he first joined the Grizzlies and to this day he still tries to avoid those or ends up blackout drunk at them because he may not have seen his parents die, but he definitely heard some of it and being exposed to similar noises is not a good time.

Though his joking attitude may not make him come across as a serious threat, he’s been with the Grizzlies for over a decade now and is extremely brutal and efficient while doing tasks for them.

Would 100% try to squeeze in a pun before killing someone. Very “But I think -- if you’re gonna kill a bunch of people -- you might as well...have some fun with it.”

Super loyal, though he’s more loyal to individuals than he is to groups and organizations.

Claims to not get attached to people because “you can only count on them to die” but would get attached to anyone that showed him a crumble of genuine care/affection.  

quote from man stabbed “what are you gonna do, stab me?”

CONNECTION 01: PERSON HE OWES A GAMBLING DEBT TO (01, Wyoming Militia) Betting on pit fights and almost anything else is all fun and games for Antonio meaning he’s prone to rack up quite the debt. He owes this a fair share of favor, rare trades, etc. I’m flexible on whether this person doesn’t take the debt too seriously, if they absolutely expect repayment, or if they’re somewhere in between.

CONNECTION 02: RIDE OR DIE/PARTNER IN CRIME (01, Wyoming Militia only) This person and Antonio make a brutal and efficient pair when taking care of tasks together. It’s more than just working well together though, they have a strong bond making this person someone Antonio would willingly risk his life for and follow to hell and back. They’re also one of the few people that can get semi-serious responses from Antonio.

CONNECTION 03: FORMER MENTOR (01, Wyoming Militia) This is the person who found him and offered him a spot in the Wyoming Militia. After he accepted, they took it upon themselves to sort of look out for him and teach him anything that would make him useful enough to keep around.

CONNECTION 04: SOMEONE WHO SEES A BIT THROUGH HIS FACADE (01, probably Wyoming Militia) Honestly just think this will be kinda funny because Antonio will finally be the one annoyed with someone. Also I apologize in advance because Antonio will be incredibly petty and childish in his defensiveness about this.

I’m sincerely open to anything you want to throw at me: exes, hateships, friendships, found family, enemies, frenemies, whatever I’m down for it all!

[andtails]

A Prelude to Chaos Control - Chapter 1: A Brighter Day

Note: I hope you enjoy this story! You may also find this story on FanFiction.Net or Archive of Our Own.

Story Summary:  "It's my fault the Chaos Emeralds were lost, so it's my duty to find them before Eggman does!" An immediate prequel to Sonic X, this story explores Tails' struggles with self-worth as he attempts to build a detector to locate the mystical gems. Action/adventure elements with brotherly moments between Sonic and Tails contained herein.

Chapter 1: A Brighter Day

Waking up a few minutes before his alarm clock was set to go off, a young, orange fox rose out of bed, stretching his thin, furry arms. After a few brief yawns, muffled by his large white gloves, he firmly planted his feet to the floor as he began to collect his bearings.

Rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes, the fox cub approached the window dividing his modest bedroom from the gorgeous view from the second floor of his home, drew the curtains, and slowly opened the window. While the rejuvenating sunlight warmed his fur, and the brisk breeze replaced the stagnant aroma of his bedroom with the refreshing smell of the outdoors, Tails looked out over the world beyond. As he slowly filled his lungs with the outdoor air, he listened to the sound of flickys chirping in the distant forest to the east and the shallow waves of the ocean waters to the west, steadily crashing against the mountainside.

“Today is going to be a good day,” Tails said as he placed his hands on his hips in determination.  

After making his early morning prediction of the day’s events, and stealing one final stretch, Tails stepped out of his bedroom into the narrow hallway leading to the staircase.

“Wonder if Sonic’s still asleep,” he pondered to himself as he crept his way across the second floor stretch, walking past his big brother’s bedroom in the process. Twitching his triangular ears in the direction of the occupied bedroom, Tails could only make out the consistent sound of light snoring coming from the blue hedgehog.

Walking a bit more briskly, but still light enough to prevent the bitter end of Sonic’s well-deserved slumber, Tails finally made it to the main floor of their home, comprised of a moderately-sized, sparsely-furnished living room and an open kitchen, complete with a small table wide enough to accommodate a gathering of four.

Stepping outside to begin his daily morning routines, Tails performed a visual survey of his property for any damage caused by the thunderstorm the prior evening. While Tails could be fearless when fighting Eggman’s array of mechs alongside his big bro, the young kitsune had a devastating fear of thunderstorms, a phobia that caused him to roll into a fetal position and bury his face into the fluffy protection of his twin tails.

After walking along the perimeter of his yard, Tails was relieved to find that his home completely withstood the ravaging storm. Then again, why wouldn’t it have? Even a tornado would’ve failed to do a modicum of damage to the brilliantly engineered, albeit almost plain-looking homestead. In fact, if it weren’t for the large satellite sticking out from the top of the roof, the adjoining workshop that was at least twice the size of his living quarters, and the large runway strip that led right off of the cliff overlooking the ocean, most would consider the house nothing extraordinary.

But this was to the liking of Tails, a scientific and mechanical prodigy who prioritized utility over style and would rather prevent unwanted attention.

“That’s Sonic’s job, after all,” Tails said to himself, lost in a daydream while gazing upon the deep blue ocean, a sight that never ceased to bore the young fox. This was in stark contrast to his older brother, who was unable to swim and feared any body of water larger than a pitcher. Not as much as Tails’ overwhelming fear of lightning, but still enough to refuse Tails’ offer to provide him with basic swimming lessons.  

Tails made a quick stop to the mailbox before coming back inside, grabbing a freshly delivered letter. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he delicately opened the envelope to reveal a typed message on thick cardstock paper, complete with official-looking letterhead.

The letter read:

Dear Sonic the Hedgehog and Miles “Tails” Prower,

On behalf of the Mobian Federation of States, I would like to commend your continued support in the collective struggle against Dr. Ivo “Eggman” Robotnik to keep the citizens of Mobius safe from his evil schemes.

In recognition of your outstanding bravery and commitment to protecting the innocent, the President of the Mobian Federation of States has indefinitely extended your service contract and increased your compensation by 15 percent.

May you stay in good health and continue the good fight.

Sincerely,

General H.W. Pitliff

“Outstanding bravery, huh?” Tails questioned to himself, putting the letter down and resting his head with both arms against the table. His muscles tensed as memories of being saved by his big bro filled his thoughts. Feelings of self-doubt and worthlessness followed suit, creeping back up from the recesses of his mind.

Tails was a master mechanic whose quick cognitive processing power had helped Sonic thwart Eggman’s dastardly deeds time and time again, but despite this, the prodigious fox was often overcome with anxiety, feeling he wasn’t living up to his big brother’s legacy and, worse yet, only serving as a liability on the battlefield, cowering with fear the instant the duo were separated in the heat of combat.

As far as he could tell, he’d always been like this; back in the day, Tails was constantly bullied for his twin tails, a rare genetic mutation that made him stand out amongst all other Mobians. Coupled with the lack of parents to provide a warm, comforting home, the abnormal kit roamed the lands until he first met Sonic, who’d later adopt him as his little brother. Just being around him washed away his loneliness and crippling self-doubt, but even living with the one whom he greatly admired hadn’t cured his emotional woes.

“Clearly this letter was intended for Sonic,” Tails said with a sigh, twirling the letter along the surface of the table with a finger.

“Intended for me?” came a voice from behind the young fox. Tails turned around to see Sonic, wide awake and emitting his ever-present positive aura.

“Heya Sonic,” Tails said, his sadness instantly replaced with joy upon his brother’s unexpected arrival to the kitchen, smiling wide enough to brighten anyone’s day.  

Before Tails could explain the good news, Sonic dashed over to the kitchen table and snatched up the expensive-looking paper. He gave a long whistle as he finished reading the letter.

“Let’s do something fun to celebrate!” Sonic exclaimed. “Anything you’d like to do, Tails?”

The young fox pondered potential ideas for a few moments, rubbing one set of fingers against his furry chin in thought.

“Well, I guess my idea of a good time vastly differs from yours!” Tails said, giggling to himself.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Sonic asked with no hint of seriousness in his voice.  

“Oh, nothing,” Tails replied. “I was just imagining you sitting quietly in a library reading a book.”

Both Sonic and Tails laughed at this ludicrous idea.

“Well,” Sonic said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something to do.”

“As long as we don’t break the bank, I’m up for almost anything,” Tails said, subtly reminding Sonic that they shouldn’t dent their savings account by partying. While the duo was not strapped for cash by any means, especially since they had just received a raise from their freelance government partnership, Tails was solely responsible for balancing the checkbook and ensuring that their household remained fiscally solvent, a duty that he took quite seriously.

“Of course,” Sonic agreed, as he began to playfully rustle Tails’ hair. “Now, how about we fuel up before our morning run?”

******

Some time later, after Sonic and Tails enjoyed a delectable three-course breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and toast, the brothers began their morning run preparations. Sonic, who had already gotten a few stretches in while Tails finished washing the dishes, dashed outside in anticipation of his favorite pastime. Meanwhile, Tails prepared more slowly, ensuring that he didn’t cramp-up after consuming more food than someone his size should be able to stomach.

“C’mon, Tails!” Sonic called from outside, as he performed his signature foot tap. “The day is wasting away.”

“Coming, Sonic!” Tails replied, hopping on one foot out the door as he slipped on his sneakers.

“Ya know,” Sonic began, chuckling at the sight of Tails hobbling out of the house. “You’d save so much time if you just wore your shoes everywhere like me.”

“Yeah, and get dirt everywhere,” Tails retorted, continuing a long-running debate between the two companions that pitted convenience against cleanliness.

Instead of prolonging this friendly spat, though, Sonic took his place at the edge of the yard, facing the direction of the wooded path to the east that served as the daily stomping grounds for the two brothers. Taking the hint, Tails quickly joined him.

In unison, Sonic and Tails gave their pre-race countdown.

“Three…two…one…go!”

And with that, they were off.

******

Making their way through the green planes on the outskirts of the Mystic Ruins, any passersby would likely only see parallel blue and orange blurs speed past them, with the former going slightly faster than the latter. While Tails could run at impressive speeds on-foot, there was absolutely no way the young kitsune could keep up with the “fastest thing alive” without using his trademarked twin tails as propellers.

“C’mon, Tails,” Sonic playfully taunted as he began running backwards for comedic effect. “You’re too slooo-oww!”

Aided by Sonic’s goading words of encouragement, Tails kicked it into high gear, spinning his Tails faster in order to prove his speedy brother wrong.

And he almost did.

Flustered by Tails’ rapid advancement, Sonic spun back around to continue their friendly racing competition.

“First one to that oak tree is a rotten egg-man!” Sonic declared, widening the narrow gap between the companions.

“You won’t win that easily,” Tails replied, ensuring that Sonic would have to work up a sweat if he were to beat him.

As Sonic was about to touch the oak tree, solidifying his continued winning streak, he heard a yelp from behind.

Tails had focused so much on rapidly spinning his tails that he didn’t see the incoming tree trunk that stood as the only obstacle between him and victory. Not having enough time to increase his altitude, Tails’ dangling feet collided with the trunk, causing him to lose his balance mid-flight and dive headfirst into the ground. Before impact, however, Tails took to his spherical shape, rolling down the remainder of the path towards the oak tree, only his namesakes distinguishable in an otherwise blurry orange ball.

Sonic watched in awe as his little brother quickly recovered from the fall by adapting his signature rolling technique. Unfortunately for the blue hedgehog, though, Tails was rapidly rolling towards him much faster than he anticipated. Without enough time to defend himself, or jump out of the way, Tails barreled right into Sonic’s chest, launching the hedgehog back-first into the oak tree.

After sliding to the ground, and shaking the imaginary flickys from his vision, Sonic looked down to see the young fox, resting on his lap, panting heavily, sweat soaking through his orange fur coat.

“Are you alright?” Sonic asked. He took no damage from Tails’ unintentional attack, but even if he did, his priority would always be the safety and protection of his little bro.

“Did I…” Tails struggled to speak between gasps for air. “Did I…win, Sonic?”

After a few moments of pause, Sonic replied, “Yes, Tails…Yes you did.”

“Hooray,” Tails said in a slow, quiet voice, hardly able to keep his eyes open from utter exhaustion.

“Good job, buddy…I’m proud of you,” Sonic said. Tails smiled brightly before dozing off to sleep in the comforting arms of his big bro.  

Sonic allowed himself to get comfortable, not wanting to disturb Tails’ peaceful slumber. Placing his arms behind his head, gazing up at the mid-morning sky, Sonic allowed his mind to wander.

Tails needs this. He tries so hard to make me proud. Little does he know how much I already am.

Basking in the comfort of the cool breeze and the warm sun peeking through the tall oak’s wide branches, Sonic succumbed to sleep himself, allowing his arms to fall from behind his head and gently land beside Tails.

******

By the time Tails woke from his morning nap, the sun was already high in the sky, reflecting over the small lake just down the hill from the tree. Apart from a slight stiffness from lying in a semi-awkward position, the fox felt well-rested and in good spirits.

I wonder where Sonic is.

Of course, Tails didn’t need to look far. Not seeing him within his peripheral vision, he tilted his head up to see his big brother sleeping soundly behind him, resting against the oak tree which now served as a permanent reminder that, with great perseverance, even he could overcome his obstacles.

In this case, it was finally beating Sonic at his own game.

Careful not to disturb the heavy-eyed hedgehog, Tails slowly rose from his comfortable naptime position, planting his short legs firmly to the ground while brushing himself off with his gloved hands, even though he wasn’t dirty at all. Tails peered down at his older brother, still sound asleep after their thrilling race a short while ago.

I suppose it’s time to wake up.

The orange kitsune looked around to see how best to disturb Sonic’s slumber. He didn’t need to look far, noticing a small branch a few feet away with a small green leaf attached to the far end. Chuckling to himself in anticipation, Tails grabbed the twig from the leafless end, got down to his knees, and slowly drew the branch closer to his sleeping friend. Tails was careful to ensure that the wood didn’t touch his face as he positioned the leaf below Sonic’s black nose.

The sensation of a flat, smooth surface rubbing against his nose slowly brought the sleeping hedgehog back into consciousness.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle,” Tails said, as if talking to a baby, attempting to laugh his brother awake.

“Heh heh, cut it out!” Sonic said between bouts of laughter.

This, of course, only egged Tails on further, as he tickled Sonic’s sensitive nose more ferociously than before, causing the hedgehog to roll from side to side while laughing so loud as to disturb the birds roosting in the tree above. As Sonic stopped rocking and rolling below the big oak, he slowly tilted his head back, opening his mouth in preparation for a signature Sonic sneeze.

Tails was caught unawares, lost in his quest to continue tickling his older brother until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“AaaaCHOO!” Sonic sneezed, directly in Tails’ direction. Of course, while the force of the sneeze was small, the loud noise caused Tails to lose his footing and fall backwards. Almost by instinct, Tails rolled back into a ball before making impact with the ground, causing him to roll downhill.

By this point, Sonic resumed his raucous laughter, although not from tickling, but from his little bro’s comical clumsiness.

Splash!

Sonic stopped his laughter and immediately faced the nearby lake. At first, he only saw the patch of disturbed water, bubbles rising to the surface, but then an orange shape began bobbing up and down in the lake. Only the back of Tails’ head, his back, and his namesakes were visible as his seemingly lifeless body floated still in the deep blue water below.

“Tails!” Sonic exclaimed as he ran to save his little brother from drowning.

Sonic dove headfirst into the water mere feet from the lifeless fox. The blue hedgehog flapped his arms in the surprisingly deep waters for a few seconds before securely placing his hands on Tails’ shoulders, half-sunk below the water’s surface. It was at that moment the small kitsune’s propeller tails sprang to life, raising the fox above the water, leaving Sonic to fend for himself.

“Ho ho ho!” Tails bellowed, imitating the laugh of a certain evil mastermind while depicting a fake moustache with his finger. “It looks like I’ve finally got rid of that meddlesome hedgehog!”

Sonic, meanwhile, continued splashing about in the water, doing his best to keep his head from bobbing below the surface. After a few more laughs, Tails hovered close to the drowning hedgehog, extending an arm out to help his blue friend out of the lake. Sonic gladly accepted the assist, their hands locking together before Tails transported them both back to the safety of the oak tree.

Sonic laid flat on his back upon returning to dry land. Tails joined him, still laughing under his breath.

“I thought I was a goner for a second!” Sonic exclaimed, shifting his head to see his younger bro staring back.

“Yeah, but you should know that I’d never let you drown,” Tails replied with a hint of humorous sarcasm.

As Sonic and Tails’ laughter slowly started to die out, the two companions stared up at the clouds, allowing enough sunlight to naturally dry their wet fur from their lakeside escapade.

“You know, Sonic,” Tails began, placing his arms behind his head in a fashion not unlike Sonic. “Don’t you wish that everyday could be like this?”

“What d’ya mean, little buddy?”

“You know…just the two of us hanging out and having fun. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more at peace.”

Sonic looked over at his younger brother once more, all but confirming Tails’ current emotional state as he stared at the sky, a smile on his face, not a care in the world.  

“Ya know, Tails,” Sonic replied as he stood up from the refreshingly warm grass and lowered an arm in Tails’ direction. “As long as we keep Eggman at bay, what is there to stop us from always having fun?”

Tails thought to himself as he allowed Sonic to pull him up from the ground. “I guess nothing, now that I think about it.”

“Then it’s settled,” Sonic said, pressing his fist against the palm of his other hand. “We won’t allow anyone to stand in the way of our adventures, and if they do, they’ll have to answer to us!”

“You said it!” Tails replied, flashing a thumbs up that was quickly met with Sonic’s own mere moments later.

“Now let’s say we get ourselves home,” Sonic said, pointing back in the direction of their abode. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

Tails nodded in agreement. “Maybe after lunch I can get back to working on my latest project.”

“What about our party plans?” Sonic asked, as they both started walking towards the direction of their shared abode.

“To be honest,” Tails replied, “spending a nice, quiet afternoon in my workshop is as much excitement as I’ll ever need.”

Sharing a few more laughs, the brotherly duo enjoyed a brisk walk back to their cozy, mountainside home.

******

Spacious by design, Tails’ workshop, directly connected to his shared home, was an absolute paradise for any professional mechanic. Spanning several yards in all directions, and equipped with two floors, the well-organized space was full of workbenches, high-tech computers, complex tools, storage cabinets several times taller than Tails himself, and a host of spare parts, components, wheels, gadgets, widgets, doodads, and other advanced contraptions beyond the comprehension of most.

The mid-afternoon sun poured through an open window on the east side of the facility as the young kitsune sat at his messiest workbench, tinkering with a handheld device with one hand while taking a large bite out of his half-eaten chilidog with the other.

A droplet of sweat rolled down Tails’ forehead as he focused on meticulously taking apart the contraption, a ritual that he had repeated several times that afternoon alone.

“Maybe if I recalibrate the sensors, I’ll be able to get a reading,” Tails theorized to himself as he continued unscrewing components with his specialized multitool, his head bent over multiple work lamps.

“So this is the project, huh?” Sonic said from behind Tails’ chair. Sonic didn’t enter the workshop particularly quietly, but Tails was so involved in his work that he didn’t notice his big brother’s approaching steps.

“Woah!” Tails exclaimed. The surprise caused him to stand up with a jolt, only to hit his head on one of the overhead lamps. Rubbing the new bump on his noggin, Tails accidentally swiped the device and several loose components off the desk with his wandering tails. Reacting quickly, Sonic snagged the device and a few components before they could fall to the ground. The remaining pieces scattered around Tails’ chair, flipped over after his fright.

“Gosh, buddy…are you okay?” Sonic asked. He set the items he saved down on the table in order to properly inspect Tails’ head.

“Yeah…I think so,” Tails replied, moving his hand out of the way to allow the hedgehog to feel through the fur for any damage.

“It looks swollen already,” Sonic said, identifying the cranial bump. He looked down at his fingers to find a small amount of blood from Tails’ wound. “I’ll go and fetch a bandage and some cream,” he said, allowing the young fox a glimpse of his lightly bloodstained glove.

Before he could respond, though, Sonic was already gone, leaving a blue afterimage in his wake, before quickly returning with the items he promised: a square-shaped, sticky bandage and a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

“Thank you, Sonic,” Tails said in a somber voice, looking up at his big bro with wide eyes while Sonic applied the cream to the bruise.

“I shouldn’t be thanked at all,” Sonic replied, as he affixed the bandage to the bump. “After all, it was because of me that you got hurt in the first place.”

“But it was due to my clumsiness that I got startled over something so trivial,” Tails argued, always preferring to find fault with himself over others, especially when compared to Sonic. At this point, Tails was sitting back on his chair, looking down at Sonic’s shoes as the hedgehog eyed the fox with concern.

“Well, I gotta make it up to you somehow,” Sonic replied.

Still looking at the floor, Tails noticed his components scattered all around him. Ignoring his big brother’s offer, Tails got up and began picking up the pieces. Before he could grab the third component, however, Sonic dashed around the desk, swooping-up the pieces as he went, and placing them back onto Tails’ workbench.

“Heh heh, thanks Sonic,” Tails said, smiling while placing an arm behind his head. Sonic simply replied with a thumbs up.

Tails looked back at the device, resting undamaged near the pile of components. Tails got to work organizing the parts into smaller piles on the desk, giving at least some breathing room for the device so that he could better work on deconstructing it later.

“Mind if I help too?” Sonic asked.

“Well,” Tails replied. “I suppose organizing these components isn’t too difficult, so we can separate them out together.” Sonic rolled another chair over from a different workbench a few feet away and placed it next to his fox companion. He sat down, and they both got to work.

After a few minutes of meticulous organization, Sonic broke the silence.

“So, what’s the device you’ve been working on?” Sonic asked, eyeing the contraption that he saved from colliding with the floor moments ago.

“Oh,” Tails replied, just realizing that he never actually explained the project to Sonic. He picked it up and showed it to him. Its circular shape was covered by a glass screen, a small button resting at the top. It almost resembled a pocket watch, albeit larger and more technological looking.  

“Well, you see, Eggman hasn’t caused any mayhem for a while, right?” Tails said, as he set the contraption down on the desk again.  

“Right,” Sonic replied. “But what does that have to do with your project?”

“I’m getting to that,” Tails replied with a patient smile. “I fear that the good doctor may be up to no good, possibly trying to collect the Chaos Emeralds after they were scattered during our last showdown.”

“Oh yeah,” Sonic replied, thinking back to the last time they battled the evil mastermind. He remembered fighting one of the doctor’s large mechs before using the power of the emeralds to transform himself into Super Sonic, granting him a temporary boost in power that allowed the glowing, yellow hedgehog to fly and deal greater damage for a limited time.

At this point, Tails stood up from his chair once again and began pacing, fingers scratching his chin as his eyes looked down in thought.

“The process of re-collecting the emeralds is incredibly tedious,” Tails continued. “But what if we could track them down easily using a detector?”

After a few moments of pondering, Sonic replied, “That sounds like a brilliant idea, Tails!”

“Thank you very much,” Tails said, performing a humorous bow with his right arm against his belly as if he just concluded a theatrical show in front of a live audience. “But there is one problem that I’m unable to figure out.”

“Oh?” Sonic replied, stunned that his little brother encountered a mechanical quandary that he couldn’t solve with ease.

“Yeah,” Tails replied. “The issue is that I can’t get the detector to register the presence of the unique energy that emanates from the emeralds.”

“Huh,” Sonic replied, scratching his head. “If it’s any consolation, I probably could’ve taken out Eggman’s mech without the emeralds, so I probably shouldn’t have used them.”

“It’s fine, Sonic,” Tails replied, remembering how the mech had held him captive, unable to break free from the giant machine’s heavy grasp. He began to breath heavily as the memory of Super Sonic cutting through the thick arm of the robot and teleporting him to safety made him feel worthless, the self-loathing invading his thoughts once more. “I was the reason why you resorted to using the Chaos Emeralds in the first place,” Tails continued, a few tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

Sonic, unable to see his brother in pain, extended his arms. “It’s okay, Tails.”

Wiping the tears from his blurred vision, Tails saw Sonic approaching him for a hug. As soon as he entered into his brother’s embrace, his heart rate slowed and breathing eased.

Still choked up while hugging the blue hedgehog, Tails began to speak again.

“I figured that a device to help us gather them back up would make things right.”

“I’m sure this will make things easier,” Sonic replied, rubbing Tails’ back, “but don’t think for a second that it was your fault.”

Sonic ended the embrace, still holding onto Tails’ shoulders. His young companion sniffled a bit, looked down at the floor once again.

“Now how about you take a break from work and I prepare us some ice cream sundaes?” Sonic offered. This caught Tails’ attention.

“But it’s only three in the afternoon!” Tails countered, concerned about spoiling dinner.

“Okay, mother,” Sonic replied in a teasing voice, eliciting a playful shoulder punch from the orange kitsune, whose spirits appeared back on the upswing.

“Tell ya what,” Sonic offered. “I’ll prepare our treats while you finish cleaning up down here. Sound good?”

“Yes it does,” Tails replied with a smile, his eyes still slightly red from crying.

As Sonic left for the kitchen, Tails’ smile began to fade.

He stared intently at the semi-organized piles of components remaining on his workbench. He felt a little better, but the guilt, shame, and sense of incompetence were still ever-present in his mind.

Tails sighed as he returned to his workstation, sitting back down to continue the organizing that he and Sonic started.

“I’ll try my absolute hardest to make things right,” Tails said out loud to himself. “For the safety of my friends, and to prevent Eggman from gaining absolute power, we must prevail.”

I must prevail.

*****

Chapter 2

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which, instead of going for each other’s throat, they reach a little lower (and Lion gets more than he bargained for). (Rating E, explicit, ~3k words) - written for @big-r6s-fan! 💗 I will never tire of thanking you for commissioning me and allowing me to write this because it was super fun :) Find my commission info here!

.

“Flament, a word.”

The tone of voice effortlessly conveys the blatant lie in Doc’s statement – what he really means to say is: The only thing keeping me from writing you a novel is lack of time. Lion narrowly avoids rolling his eyes in annoyance and obliges, throws Montagne a meaningful look which implies they’ll finish their rudely interrupted conversation later and trails after his other teammate. If he could’ve gotten away with it, he’d be dragging his feet just because the murderous glare Doc would send him never fails to be hilarious. He’s reasonably certain he knows what this is about and boy, is he not in the mood for this.

And of course Doc marches him into his office instead of just any room which would’ve served the same purpose. With his inflated ego, it’s no surprise he enjoys chewing people out in a place where he’s comfortable; Lion can’t even begin counting the occasions on which he ended up on this side of the mahogany desk, having his person and skills and ethics challenged by a man too naive to be in this line of work and who genuinely thought he could pull off that frankly ridiculous moustache for a few years of his life. Lion is almost sad it’s gone by now, it befitted Doc’s general absurdity.

It doesn’t matter. He’s secretly begun rebelling against the man’s authority in a satisfying way and now he puffs himself up whenever he comes face to face with the very desk which used to make his temper flare purely by existing, but by now has lost its sting. It was customary for him to view the solid piece of furniture as an unsurmountable obstacle rendering any proper communication between them impossible, yet his view has shifted. It’s converted. It’s working for him now.

“I will not stand for you endangering more innocent lives.” Doc’s French is clipped, efficient, yet more than a tool to be used – he has the same intonation and melody to his words as Lion’s parents, as Sophie, as former teachers.

“Then stop endangering your own”, he replies and wants nothing more than to stuff something down Doc’s throat to make him stop talking. His holier-than-thou attitude has always rubbed Lion the wrong way, created sparks of fury, hostility, and something… entirely different on occasion. There’s dust from the debris in Doc’s hair, making it whiter than it already is and Lion wants to bury his fingers in it and then pull sharply.

He needs to stop getting distracted.

“Stop interfering with my work”, Doc snaps and it’s wonderful how easily Lion can get under his skin. At this point, it’s almost a hobby for him to rile up his colleague. And while private hissy fits are a necessary-turned-amusing evil, they serve another purpose as well: providing excellent material for long, gratifying ‘self-care’ sessions in which he fantasises about what would’ve happened if instead of quoting a specific law to shut down Doc’s argument, he’d just crowded him against a wall, rumbled filth into his ear and showed him how unprofessional he really can be.

“Then stop interfering with mine.” He has to suppress a smirk at the frustration on Doc’s face and doesn’t mind in the least that he’s doing the grown-up version of ‘no you’.

“Pray tell, Flament, what exactly does your work entail then? Does it state anywhere you should prevent me from administering first aid to a wounded civilian? Hm?” His tone is cutting, sharp and sweet like a rose’s thorn, and he actually abandons his safe haven behind the desk to come down to Lion’s level – or rather lower. Because he is noticeably shorter and Lion gladly stands up straighter to emphasise this fact.

“Above all, my work entails keeping my colleagues safe, for example preventing an altruistic idiot from rushing head first into a potential ambush.”

Doc’s eyes narrow. Their faces are uncomfortably close together, a result of too many altercations in the past where both of them got scolded for raising their voice, so now they rely on dangerous hissing. His smell is making it hard to breathe because it’s earthy, mesmerising, distinct. Lion wonders how it’d feel to force him to his knees and have this defiant gaze directed up at him while his sharp tongue is used for something other than reprimanding him for - “Is that your way of saying you’re worried about me?”

Lion is halfway through formulating a reply in his head when his thoughts screech to a grinding halt. Nothing has changed, Doc’s posture is just as defensive as before, expression stony, intonation accusing, and yet the atmosphere has… tilted a little. Spilled into uncharted territory. Lion isn’t sure what to make of it. “I worry about all my colleagues”, he eventually responds neutrally.

“That doesn’t absolve you from jerking off at my desk. Repeatedly.”

Oh.

Well fuck.

He blinks owlishly, utterly speechless because how in the world is he ever going to recover. Doc knows. How does he know?

Sensing he’s not going to get a sensible response from Lion any time soon, Doc continues: “If you have a problem with me, I’m sure we can work something out.”

His mouth is faster than his brain because there’s no way he’d in his right mind shoot back: “Yeah, you can work out on my cock.”

Okay. Alright.

This is still salvageable. All he needs to do is to back off immediately, apologise for the inappropriate comment, not mention that Doc needs to stop wearing these blasted form-fitting shirts or else Lion will really end up doing a briefing with a raging hard-on in front of everyone, and then steer clear of Doc for the rest of his entire -

“Real mature, Flament, but I expected no less. I’m afraid you’re mistaken, though, as it would be the other way round.”

Once again, words elude him, this time out of indignation. The audacity. Lion has no doubt he’s the more experienced one, is taller and heavier, certainly more masculine and dominant, and Doc has the gall to imply… Shock slowly morphs into smug disbelief and he finds himself shaking his head at this bold claim. “You haven’t got the balls.”

And Doc grabs him by the collar and smashes their mouths together.

Lion just – he stops functioning for a few seconds until he realises that it’s Doc’s tongue prying his lips open so he parts them willingly with an involuntary moan he regrets the moment he utters it. His brain still refuses to acknowledge the whole situation, making it easy for Doc to overpower him, guide the messy kiss and shove his hands under Lion’s sweater and holy shit, is this really happening? The desk’s edge digs into the backs of his thighs and Doc’s teeth into his lower lip and it’s Lion who’s making these horribly embarrassing noises, isn’t it? Like a mixture of a dying whale and a prisoner of war about to be freed and this is not at all how he pictured this to go.

Despite the suddenness of it all, there’s a particular part of his body which has no trouble keeping up and draws even more attention to itself the moment Doc’s thumbs brush over Lion’s nipples and good heavens, he did not expect Doc to be such a fantastic kisser. Desperate to regain any sort of control, Lion tries to fight the onslaught by grabbing Doc’s hands, wrestling his tongue into submission and spinning them around – with an emphasis on tries. Because Doc chooses that second to push a thigh between Lion’s legs, presses it directly against his achingly hard erection in all the right ways and makes his brain short-circuit yet again. The gesture results in vague flailing on Lion’s part, a particularly vicious swipe of Doc’s merciless tongue which turns his joints into butter and some ungraceful bumbling of which Doc makes use by basically lifting him up and setting him down on his stupid desk.

Well, so much for that.

“If you want me to stop, now’s the time”, Doc murmurs against his mouth and curls his tongue around Lion’s in a way he didn’t think possible. His inner monologue has turned into no more than incoherent screaming because while this general situation is a wet dream come true, he’s conflicted about the details and yet the thought of stopping the other man doesn’t even enter his mind. When calloused fingertips twist his nipples, all he can produce is a throaty groan full of arousal and longing, and when his legs (the traitors) wrap around Doc’s to pull him closer, his opponent breaks the kiss to regard him with a disgustingly smug expression. “That’s what I thought”, he says and starts unbuttoning Lion’s trousers.

Why don’t you start lubing up my cock with your throat so the sliding in becomes easier, the monkey part of Lion’s brain provides helpfully, sends the signal to his mouth and witnesses in stark horror how he instead chokes out something very, very different: “Please, hurry up, I want you.” It seems his entire body has set out to betray him: his upper body gives in at the slightest push and lies flat on the largely empty surface he’s defiled in the past, his hands lie uselessly by his side instead of struggling, and his dick is magnificently hard. Painfully hard. So hard it’s continuously throbbing and will probably ejaculate as soon as Doc looks at it wrong.

“I noticed my hand lotion depleting unusually quickly and asked Meghan for a Black Eye when I couldn’t locate the source”, Doc informs him conversationally while ripping down Lion’s trousers with minimal resistance. And oh, that explains how he knew. And… also means that Doc saw him. Oh God. “Tell me, did you fantasise about me, Olivier?”

His cheeks are crimson. It’s impossible to provide an honest answer, not when Doc pulls his underwear down as if they’d done this a thousand times and throws his uncomfortably hard cock an appraising glance. “I”, Lion starts stupidly and then Doc’s mouth envelops him in wonderful tight heat, prompting him to thrust his hips up at the unexpected stimulation and the next thing he hears is a sharp snap.

Doc just slapped his ass as punishment.

It stings, but even worse is the realisation that Lion isn’t going to top anybody today. “You can’t do that!”, he gasps, appalled, yet the look he receives is unbothered.

“Watch me”, Doc says and does it again. This time, Lion moans at the sensation, can’t help himself, it’s just – he doesn’t even know what’s going on, only that he’s in too deep already, and he’s not only talking about Doc’s mouth and oh God, his tongue really can do what it promised earlier. A mere minute later, Lion is writhing on the cursed desk in agonising bliss, trying desperately not to come down Doc’s throat while producing so much noise it’s a miracle no one has checked on them yet. He’s so resigned to his fate that he at first doesn’t notice the warm hand creeping up his thigh and getting dangerously close to his crotch, up until the pad of a finger strokes over his entrance and absolutely no way.

“Don’t”, Lion pants and nearly knees Doc in the temple, “just – keep sucking, please, but not -”

Doc pulls off his dick with a wet pop and, unperturbed, conjures up a bottle of lube seemingly out of thin air. “Should’ve used this instead of the lotion”, he states. “Then you could’ve fingered yourself in preparation as well.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing”, Lion protests and yelps when Doc hoists his legs up, folds them in half and places Lion’s hands on his own calves. He’s much too overwhelmed to complain and so he simply holds his legs up, spread invitingly, and then there’s a slippery finger inside him.

He opens his mouth to object. The finger crooks in a way just as magical as Doc’s tongue earlier and a fierce wave of pleasure rolls through him. Lion closes his mouth again.

“I don’t believe it for a second”, Doc counters and adds a second one and good Lord, how is he doing this? Lion’s thoughts are running haywire and he’s ashamed to admit that at least half of them are focused on replacing those fingers with something else. “This looks like your natural habitat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” He flinches when the digits withdraw and narrowly stops himself from substituting his own. It really does feel phenomenal.

“It means”, Doc replies while unzipping his own trousers, “that you’re a slut.”

Lion is stupefied. Did Doc just -

And before his brain even processes the insult, it shuts down completely because that’s definitely a dick pushing inside him, giving him the opportunity to adjust and then rubbing over all the right places. In utter disbelief, Lion stares down at himself and can’t fathom how he ended up here when by all means, he should’ve -

“Hold this too.” The hem of his sweater gets shoved between his teeth and he bites down automatically; his reward is warm palms stroking over his chest and fingertips finding his nipples yet again and he’s sizzling, he feels hot and weird and his skin prickles wherever Doc touches, and above all he never wants this to end. Especially when Doc starts thrusting. “Do you like this?”

Lion’s only answer is a muffled moan about an octave higher than he’d like. There’s something like fireworks going on and it almost drowns out Doc’s next words. Almost.

“You, Olivier, are a nasty little slut”, and Doc emphasises this with a particularly deep thrust, “and you deserve to be punished. Do you know why?”

He shakes his head, too preoccupied with the sight before him, the incredible feeling of becoming one with this man, something of which he’s been dreaming for a long, long time.

“But you do. Because it wasn’t just my desk, was it?” Panicked, Lion looks up and is met with a half amused, half heated gaze. Doc seems to be enjoying this at least as much as he is. “My underwear has gone missing a few times. So has my uniform. I know how you look at me.”

Oh shit. Lion’s face starts burning and it’s only partly the hard movements which rock his entire body. He must make for a shameful display: presenting himself, incapacitated of his own volition, whimpering and squirming on Doc’s magnificent cock. And he realises that he doesn’t even care – because it looks like Doc is having the time of his life, and that implies they’ll do this again.

“Look at you, you’re taking it so well.” His voice is mesmerising and Lion notices himself giving in to the thrumming desire, relishing the sharp motions reaching deep and causing small explosions of need, of want, of delight. When a hand closes around his throbbing erection, he throws his head back and arches his back, feels fingernails dig into his ribs and scrape over a sensitive nipple, prompting an elated groan. “You’re sucking me in and gripping me so tightly.”

Lion wants it to last so badly, wants to hear Doc talk some more about all the depraved things he’s done because he hasn’t even mentioned half of it, can’t know the full extent, but as always, the universe is against him and gave Doc not only a gloriously talented tongue as well as a perfectly shaped dick, but also awarded him with skilled fingers who identify Lion’s weakspots in seconds and massage the ridge of his glans, torture him with long, slow strokes just like he would himself and that’s right, Doc knows exactly how he does it because he’s seen it, and this knowledge mercilessly shoves Lion off the edge without so much as a warning.

He comes with a series of moans, abs contracting marvellously and sending shocks of pleasure through him while Doc milks him, keeps jerking him in time with the almost violent spurts of come Lion unloads on his belly. Doc fucks him through it and creates white noise in Lion’s head with his thrusts, the stimulation flirting with discomfort but never really reaching it; and if it wasn’t for Doc’s own orgasm, Lion might’ve passed out cold with how hard the relief hits him. His rhythmic spasming must’ve been too much for Doc, causes him to climax while Lion is still tensing up and riding the last of his high and he looks beautiful. Doc tilts his head back with a satisfied groan, hips stuttering, and comes deep -

He – he’s actually coming inside, dick pulsing, eyes rolling back. And if Lion is honest, it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

The hem of his sweatshirt snaps back the moment he lets go and he rests his head on the uncomfortable and frankly ostentatious desk with a sigh, lowers his legs but refuses to let Doc go by wrapping them around him once again. The fight has left him, but so has the heat of the moment which has shifted into an odd uncertainty. He’s not sure what to do other than enjoy the gentle afterglow.

As if he’d read his mind, Doc bends down to him for a kiss which lasts much longer than Lion expected it to, and when they separate after a good while, they’re both smiling. “How about we think of an excuse as to why our conversation took this long while we get you cleaned up?”, he murmurs good-naturedly.

The warmth spreading in Lion’s chest easily replaces the insecurity he felt, and so he nods happily.

“Really, though. Don’t touch my stuff again.”

He almost laughs at Doc’s serious tone and decides to take a chance: “And what if I do?”

To this, Doc smirks and Lion didn’t even know he was capable of doing that, is actually glad he didn’t find out earlier because it apparently doubles his heart rate and steals his breath away.

“Then I’ll see you in my office, Flament”, he says and raises a meaningful brow.

[wlw-imagines-blog]

What Are You Waiting For? Kiss Her! Kiss Her Now!

Anon asked: Would you mind writing a Hermione Granger and Slytherin reader? Maybe R is a Malfoy but very reserved, she doesn't care bout her class or house but she sticks close to her brother because theyre family. She and H have been close off and on again since first year and R finally steps out of her shell to defend H? Sorry if this is too much, love your stuff btw!

A/N: Hey anon, i love this request, I love writing for hp, it reminds me of when i was a tween. I wanted to write the reader as a Malfoy, but whether or not she is adopted is up to you (the reader). ps ive rewritten this twice and mobile has collapse, also twice, losing both pieces of progress, im yelling.

You clutched your notebook close to your chest, watching puffs of breath cloud in front of you. From across the lake, Hogwarts rose up amidst the snowy trees, full of elegance and solitude. You scribbled more notes into the leather bound journal, about school, your classmates, your brother, Draco, and the festivities that were consuming Hogwarts, surrounding the Yule ball. 

The cold bit your nose savagely. You leaned against a fallen log, legs frozen. In front of you, the lake before you was solid ice, the giant squid no doubt swimming far below the surface, perhaps closer to the Slytherin common room’s window. You promised yourself you would check later, after finding Draco and pestering him about Pansy’s obnoxious Yule Ball proposal to him that unfolded in the Great Hall that morning. 

You cringed and laughed at the memory. The way Pansy assumed he would say yes, and how red your brother’s face had been. Neither you nor Blaise would let him live that down. 

“What are you doing out here?” A high voice called to you.

Looking up from your journal, you saw Hermione stood there, braced against the cold wind. Despite the weather, warmth flickered in your chest. You always felt warmer when she was around you. Whether or not when she sat next to you in class, or talked to you, or laughed. She felt like pure magic. 

You closed it, standing up straighter. “Nothing, just getting some peace of mind. I have a break, I wanted to get away from Pansy and Draco for a bit.” 

She wandered over to you, grinning from cheek to cheek. “I heard all about that from Ron, it was quite a scene i hear.”

“You should have seen it Hermione,” you laughed. "It was almost as bad as the ferret incident last week."

Hermione giggled, caught between amusement and the fact that student transfiguration was definitely illegal.

A strange giddiness swept through you when you heard her laugh.

"If you don't mind me saying, y/n. He deserved it." she said.

"No," you responded. "I agree, he was being awful."

Hermione gave you a sidelong glance.

There was history between the two of you. In first year, you met on the train. You were refreshed by her lack of knowledge to the Malfoy name. After being sorted into Slytherin, you didn't see her much, outside of shared classes. There were moments in class, where a universal force controlled the teacher, and you were paired for assignments.

Sometimes, you would sit next to her in the library, completely silent, and just work next to each other in solidarity. You tried to talk to her as much as possible, but Draco watched you like a hawk.

"You can't be around her, y/n," he sounded exasperated. "She's not a pureblood."

“I just don’t understand,” you had said. “This is getting ridiculous.”

He had placed a hand on your shoulder. “I’m telling you this because I’m your brother, and our parents would never let you leave the house again.”

You ignored him, naturally.

"Has anyone asked you to the ball?" Hermione asked out of the blue.

"No," you responded. "I probably won't go with anyone. What about you?"

"There's been... an offer."

You raised your eyebrows. "Really? Pray tell, who?"

Hermione swallowed uneasily. “Victor. Victor Krum.”

A stone sunk to the bottom of your stomach. “Are you going to say yes?”

“Maybe,” she seemed apprehensive. “I wanted to see if someone I knew better would ask me. No one has.” She looked at you again, a glimmer of suggestion and hope in her eyes.

You clenched your teeth, but said nothing. 

Hermione rushed past the silence. “What about you? any boys lining up?”

You laughed nervously. “No. No boys. A couple of girls actually.”

“Really?” She asked, a grin still at the edge of her lips. That was a good sign. “Anyone I know?”

“Uh, Padma, Parvarti’s sister. She and I might go together,” you played with your fingers. Your nerve began to build itself. “But, it’s not her I’m really interested in, Hermione, I want to go with yo-”

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” a shrill, mocking voice broke your reverie. 

From the clearing of trees, Pansy Parkinson stepped out, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the hand of a sullen-looking Draco. Her nose pointed up to the heavens, accentuating the triumphant appearance she wore. From behind her, Crab and Goyle materialized, armed crossed and dim looking. Draco seemed bored, but you could tell he was feigning anxiety. 

“Oh boy,” You muttered under breath. “Here’s trouble.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Hermione’s back straighten harshly.

“Y/n,” Pansy sauntered over. “Didn’t Draco tell you to not to hang around mudblood scum?” Her voice was unbelievably annoying. 

“Come on,” you whispered to Hermione, gently taking her arm. She took your hand. “Let’s just get out of here.” 

Pansy let out a cold laugh. “Hmm, that’s just like you, y/n! running at the first sight of danger. It’s a wonder that you’re even related to a family like Draco’s. I can already tell what type of witch you’re going to be.” she pointed a finger at you, poking your chest with narrowed eyes. “A disgusting, blood-traitor.” 

You sighed and rolled your eyes, not willing to pick a fight right now. There were days you wanted to snap back at Pansy, but there was no point in stoking the flames. It would just rile her up more.

Draco seemed uncomfortable, hands in his pockets, unable to meet your eyes. He said nothing.

“And you,” Pansy turned to Hermione. “Miss perfect prissy Mudblood. I’ve had enough of your know-it-all attitude. Acting like you’re a real witch.”

Anger thrashed in your stomach, an uncontrollable beast that clawed up your throat like bile. All sense of pacifism was tossed out the window the moment you saw Hermione’s jaw clench tears well in her eyes. “That’s enough, Pansy.”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Finally! the recluse speaks!” That evil glint still sparkled in her eye. “What is it, blood traitor?”

“Yeah, you finally got me talking. Congrats,” You sneered a little before continuing. “While I don’t give a shit about what you think of me, I will not tolerate you belittling my friends.” You stepped forward, up into her space. “Call me a blood traitor all you want! You don’t have the capacity or ability to make me care! But if you call her any names, bring up blood or class, or even look at Hermione ever again, I will curse you into the next plain of existence. Okay?”

There was silence. Pansy blinked twice while Draco tried not to smile at you. Something between pride and concern flickered on his face. Crab and Goyle looked at each other, unsure what to do. You could feel Hermione;s eyes on you.

At last, Pansy stalked away, and you could practically see the smoke billowing from her ears. Crab and Goyle bumbled after her. Draco left as well, but not before grinning at you. 

You sagged against the fallen log, looking to Hermione, who was all alight with a warm smile. “Thank you, y/n.”

You shook your head. “It’s alright, Hermione. I’m just sick of her and all the politics. I don;t want to be told who I can talk to, or who I can be with. I think that was the most I’ve said to Pansy for the past four years.”

Hermione slipped her hand into yours. “Before we were interrupted, you were saying something about who you wanted to go to the Yule Ball with...”

“Right,” you coughed. “Hermione, I was wondering, if you would possibly want to... um.. maybe if you would like to.. go with me to-”

Hermione stepped forward and pressed her lips to yours, tender and warm amid the snow and cold. Her hand reached up to smooth your hair away, as you pulled her flushed against you.

“I want to go with you, y/n,” she whispered.

You smiled, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her once more.

[ladydwarfbadari]

A Woman, A Dwarf, and A Bear Walk Into A Swamp...

[ineffablecolors]

So I had to jump on the new Neal POV bungalow. And then I didn’t actually follow the formula :D This has no smut to speak of inside, however, there is definitely some things Neal would rather not notice.

Set in an alternative 3B where they stopped Pan’s curse.

This is going so overboard. Honestly. What’s all the fuss about? So some planks have come lose and a mast has fallen down. He is sure Hook – with all his boasting and swaggering – would say The Jolly has seen much worse and lived to set sail again or something pompous like that.

“What’s this?” he kicks lightly at the crate pushed to the side.

He has been on the Jolly Roger for a solid half hour now and no, he hasn’t really done anything. If Neal is being honest with himself – and hey, he has no trouble in that department – he is just here to watch over Henry and Emma and make sure the pirate is not trying to shove his way into his family. He would’ve hoped he could trust David with that task but it turns out it was the man’s idea to “help Hook out with the repairs”.

“His Charming Highness informed me that you are supposed to provide refreshments when you ask people to help you move out, move in, clean up, put together furniture or— What was it again, mate?“

Hook’s pretense to have forgotten the last part is overdone in Neal’s personal opinion but any joy he might have derived from David’s eyeroll is offset by Emma’s clearly amused snort and the way her gaze seems to linger a bit too long on the shirt that is literally sticking to the pirate with perspiration at this point – yeah, right, very attractive that.

“Fix up your ship.”

“Aaah, of course! I knew one of those did not sound like the rest.”

“Is it sweaty, heavy-lifting work? Then we’re supposed to get beer out of it,” David states as if it is law.

“Hence, the ale,” Hook inclines his head towards the crate before turning his attention back to the rope he is securing.

“And you might wanna start helping, if you want any.”

Neal doesn’t appreciate David’s slightly derisive tone any more than he appreciates the way Emma hasn’t looked at him even once since they set foot on deck.

“Hey, what can I do?” Henry emerges from below deck, having put on the “work clothes” he brought especially for this “operation”.

“Nothing, buddy, you can just come check out the ship’s wheel with me.”

He knows that at least Henry will always be on his side. Which is why the way his son’s face falls is probably the harshest blow of all.

“But you already did on the way back from New York. And then Hook showed me on the way back from Neverland.”

Neal grinds his teeth and tells himself Henry is not the one he should snap at.

“I thought I will actually get to help.”

“Sure you will, kid, come here.”

Oh, fantastic. Now she is looking at him, that “your parenting is subpar” look. He gets enough of those from the fucking literal Evil Queen.

“Look at these,” Emma unfurls the managed sail and point to two singed holes.

Most of the destruction to the ship was the work of their latest mini-villain as Emma called them but, if the extra evil looks Hook was sending Regina the other day were any indication, those specific holes had been collateral damage in the witch’s contra attack.

Any villain that they manage to deal with in under a week is apparently a mini-villain. Frankly, Neal is tired of those as well at this point. Frankly, he may have missed out the last two. Whatever.

“You check how big those are and then Hook is gonna show you where you can look for cloth that will be big enough to fill them up, ok?”

It’s a stupid task if he has ever heard one but he can’t make himself scowl too hard when it brings that megawatt smile to Henry’s face.

The scowl comes natural though when Hook happily urges the boy below deck to show him where he keeps potential replacements. He is just about to ask if leaving the pirate alone with their son is really such a good idea, when David groans loudly.

“Alright, I know I suggested this and hey, I don’t mind the fresh air and Hook has a decent taste in beer but – remind me again why we aren’t using magic for this?”

Emma throws the length of the rope in her hand over her shoulder and Neal admires the light sweat that has already formed on the surface of her skin. What he does not admire are the arm muscles. They are not ugly, per say, but they are far from feminine and befitting a beautiful blonde like Emma, in his opinion.

“Because I think it will be at least another month before Hook allows Regina on his ship again and she herself didn’t seem all that eager to offer some help. And I know what guys are like with their cars and this is like… ten times that. Ain’t no way I’m trying to work my amateur magic on his baby.”

Neal follow her pointed look and sees that Hook has emerged back on deck. He hasn’t even noticed but, of course, Emma does right away. Figures.

Hook looks like he wants to say something less than decent – when does he not – but a quick glance at David seems to change his mind and he tries to replace the lecherous look on his face with a more sincere one.

“Come now, Swan, you’ve been working hard on your magic and it shows. I will… almost trust you with her.”

“Wow. I’ve earned myself an “almost”.”

She says it in a deadpan voice but only a blind man would miss the way she preens a little under the backhand compliment. Neal wishes he was blind.

“You know what, I really didn’t dress for this kind of mess. I’ll… I’ll see you guys at Granny’s when you’re done here, yeah?”

He doesn’t really wait for anyone to acknowledge him. Well, he does… just a minute… then he slips off the ship.

*****

The pirate is a fucking nuisance. Not only did he apparently accompany everyone else to Granny’s – which Neal is sure he had no reason to do – doesn’t he have food on that damn ship they’d been fixing all day – but now everyone has to listen to his idiotic attempts to handle a smartphone.

“That is not even a little bit what I did.”

“It is exactly what you did.”

“Are you blind? Is it the age? It’s the age. I should take you to get glasses. We’ll get the really big, thick black frames ones.”

Alright, so it’s not that everyone has to listen, it’s that Neal would prefer it if everyone was listening, instead of Emma being literally pressed against that man in the booth literally across from him – there are not that many people, there is no need for them to be sitting that close – whispering and fucking giggling – because, no, after a certain point too much laughter is simply annoying giggles and that’s that – over the smartphone that he was pretty sure she personally bought for the damn pirate.

“But why do you have to put in both a person’s name and phone number? I thought you said this phone was smart, Swan. Shouldn’t it just know whose number it is without me having to tell it?”

Emma opens her mouth, obviously more than ready to answer the absolutely ridiculous question, and Neal simply cannot take the indulgent expression on her face a second longer.

“Jesus, man, it’s not that fucking complicated. Five-year-olds can work smartphones, you know? Figure it out on your own.”

Hook and Emma fall silent. And so does every other person on their table. For a moment Neal almost feels guilty for cursing, then he thanks his lucky stars that Regina already took Henry home.

“Right,” Hook clears his throat and, despite the awkwardness that has settled into the previously cheerful air, Neal is gratified to see the pirate’s ears flame up and his shoulders tense up with an unusual bolt of self-consciousness. “I’m sure I can navigate my way through the numbers and internets.”

Neal rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to correct him. The dumbass probably doesn’t even understand that the Internet is not an actual net.

“Why?” Emma gently pries the phone from Hook’s white-knuckled grip before Neal can get a word in again. “It’s so much more fun to do it together.”

Beside Neal, David suddenly chokes on his fries and an oblivious Snow starts thumping him on the back while Neal grits his teeth and feels all the blood rush to his face as Hook’s eyes zero in on Emma, his damn eyebrows as far on his forehead as they can go.

“Like photos,” Emma supplies a full half minute later, the mock innocence in her voice certainly fooling no one but Snow White.

Then her hand reaches for the pirate’s hook and places it firmly on the table in front of Neal – for a second he is sure it is a threatening message and he cannot believe Emma is—

But then she puts her own next to it and curls her fingers so that her hand and his appendage form a heart before she pulls her other arm back and snaps a picture.

And that, Neal realizes, is the real message.

[minddofbecka]

(long) gc fic rec

All The Days Of My Life by rilla - 41k

It's 2016. At the end of the band's last tour, Zayn and Harry get married in Vegas. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to them, but it certainly comes close. Half fix-it fic, half woke up married.

Trust Me by alnima - 78k

Zayn has trouble trusting Harry to catch him when he falls, but Harry is determined to be there no matter what it takes. Part 1.

Stay With Me by alnima - 173k

Zayn and Harry could never get it quite right. And now isn't any different. Except it is. Part 2.

and you and i were fire, fire, fireworks by trishapocalypse - 21k

espresso yourself yeah?? I stopped by there today

YOU WERE? what time??? maybe I saw you???

oh it was like half-eight? had an early class and all

oh ): i was hoping maybe you were there when i was… woulda been like fate, huh??

(Or: the one where Zayn is drunk and lonely and Harry is a number graffiti'd on a loo stall door that Zayn texts. A lot.)

like a sledgehammer by colourexplosion - 5k

Harry’s a good flatmate otherwise. He doesn’t ask questions when Zayn leaves without telling him for a few days and comes back looking refreshed and a bit younger than before. He doesn’t burst into Zayn’s room unannounced and he respects the fact that Zayn doesn’t go out during the day unless it’s absolutely necessary.

And if he’s figured out Zayn’s a vampire, he’s never brought it up.

Or, Zayn's a vampire and Harry's his human roommate.

let me be the one who calls you baby by alnima - 8k

“You look lovely, you hunk of man meat,” Harry declares, winking at Zayn.

Zayn blinks at Harry, his movements stilling for just a second before he continues to crawl into bed. He settles back against the pillows, wets his lips, and says, “What did you just call me?”

“Hunk of man meat,” Harry repeats, and it sounds kind of silly the second time that he says it.

“Right, I thought so."

Dancing On My Own by rilla - 59k

A Four Weddings and a Funeral au. Zayn and Harry keep meeting at weddings over the years, and slowly fall in love.

baby i’ll never leave if you keep holding me this way by estrella30 - 10k

“Does he have your mark?” his mum asks. Zayn shakes his head. He’d looked at Harry’s wrist explicitly for the edgings of Zayn’s family crest but couldn’t find anything. Not that that means Harry’s not the one; it might need a touch or connection to come to the surface. Zayn’s not sure he wants to find out though. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to know for certain.

“Ah, well. It could be coming,” she adds, and Zayn shrugs. She’s silent for another moment, before quietly adding, “You could pick him, you know.” She sounds thoughtful, distant even. Zayn wonders what she’s thinking about, what she’s remembering. “If you want to that is. I know you’ve not been looking for your mate Zayn, but maybe this was what you needed. Maybe you needed your mate to find you.”

or - Zayn is an immortal modern times non evil sexual incubus who is reluctant to find his mate. And then he meets Harry.

all that is gone and all that’s to come by greenandgolden - 10k

Once upon a time, Zayn’s Instagram had been littered with photos of Harry. Some of them together, some of him alone. One of Harry sleeping in Zayn’s bed, his face a bit puffy and his hair a wild mess sprawled across Zayn’s pillowcase. Pictures of them with each other’s families from holidays and birthdays, everyone with smiles on their faces and their arms wrapped around each other. Most of those photos are saved on Harry’s phone, hidden away because he couldn’t bear to delete them but at the same time he can’t stomach looking at how happy they were together versus how miserable he is now that he’s alone.

a post break up au

i fall in love whenever we meet by leighbot - 5k

“You had on operation on your back, babe. D’you not remember?” the man says as he reaches a hand out to rub gently at Harry’s chest.

Harry turns back again, feeling queasy with all of the movements. “No. I’m sorry… are you my doctor, too?”

“No, I’m not your doctor. My name is Zayn, H. Do you remember me?”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats, enjoying the way the word buzzes at the tip of his tongue.

Or, the one where Harry has temporary amnesia after surgery; he doesn't need his memories to know he loves Zayn.

He Feels Like Home by moonstarwrites - 21k

Under the impression that he would never meet his soulmate because others in his family faced the same circumstance, Zayn married Perrie and built a life with her. While that life wasn't anything out of the ordinary, it would do. Then, Zayn met his soulmate, Harry.

Love Is Blind (and darling, right now, I can’t see you) by purpledaisy - 35k

Harry had squeezed his eyes shut pretending it was real for the moment, that Zayn was actually his. Still, it doesn’t matter if the lights flashing behind his eyelids were the brightest they’d ever been because Zayn must have had his eyes wide open just waiting for it to be over. - Written for the prompt: pretend boyfriends

Boy with a Coin by Archangel_Blood - 29k

A piece of paper falls out of the bundle, and Louis snatches it and starts reading before Zayn can prise it off him.

“He’ll have eyes as green as frogs.” Louis arches an eyebrow at his brother. “Very romantic, Zayn. He’ll wear sparkly boots and he’ll be marvellously kind. He can juggle, and he—four nipples?” Louis barks out a laugh. “Zayn, such person doesn’t exist!”

“Exactly!”

Slide

by thisonegoes - 87k

Zayn's dad explained it to him in a small speech, the day she was born."No one prepares you for it. There aren't any manuals. Sometimes being a good parent means simply keeping your kid alive. Keep them breathing, make sure they're safe, love them until you could burst with it. On days when everything feels especially hard, just remember that your kid is Number One. Everything else becomes secondary. Less than. Minuscule by default. And believe me when I tell you this: when she eventually paints you a picture, sings you a song, does a cartwheel... always be sure to clap. If you're proud, make sure to say so."An AU about being a father, having faith, and growing up.

What If This Storm Ends by Archangel_Blood - 18k

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Harry does actually know how to take a hint; sometimes he just chooses not to. It’s not that he particularly enjoys disappointment, but he can deal with it. What ifs, on the other hand, those are the paper cuts and grazed knees that seem like nothing much, yet they take forever to heal, itching and stinging and driving you mad.

Give It All Away To You by disarm_d - 10k

“Zayn’s got love at first sight,” Louis says. “Again.”

University AU in which Zayn and Harry figure out how to give each other what they want.

we can take the darkness by leighbot - 72k

“I’ve met the guy and he’s always making eyes at you when you’re not looking.”

“No, he isn’t,” Zayn dismisses, finishing off his second glass of water. “I would have noticed if Harry ‘made eyes’ at me,” he says, using the air quotes. “We’ve been best mates for over three years.”

“That’s why I said: when you’re not looking,” Griff repeats. “It’s like you’ve never seen a Sandra Bullock movie.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and stands up. “Harry Styles and I are best friends,” he says, loudly and clearly. “Nothing more.”

Entangled Arms (or a vacant space) by vinoharry - 43k

When Harry first approached him at the bar, hips swinging and walking dick first, Zayn thought it was going to a night of perfunctory small talk before they fell into bed together. But Zayn got so much more than he bargained for.

new clothes, bloody nose by dutty (vodka) - 22k

The one where Zayn is an escort and Harry happens.

a sky full of stars by weddingbells - 20k 

In which Harry Styles is a librarian and Zayn Malik reads lots of books, and Harry pines and Louis Tomlinson and Niall Horan tries to help him to get the boy who might be the boy of his dreams, and Harry just wants to know everything about the tattooed angel he can't stop thinking about. Basically.

You Might Just Be What I Need by PornyZiallFeels - 47k

Saw Zayn again today

Figured you would that’s the thing with dot n his daughter being mates

Runnin into him might become a regular thing now

Fuck me

your love is a waiting game by alnima - 26k

It’s been four days without Harry and Zayn’s feeling brave. He loves him, but he’s not waiting for him, not anymore. If Harry can’t love him – won’t love him – then he’ll find someone else.

When All I Want Is You by estrella30 - 9k

The flat is small. It’s tiny and cramped and nearly everything that’s inside is either broken or on its way to needing to be fixed. They’re never going to fit all of their things here, and will be in each other's faces every second of their lives.

Zayn absolutely cannot wait. It’s tiny but it’s theirs. It’s going to be theirs.

When Harry moves out a year later and Zayn’s left alone, the flat’s never seemed so big.

or - Zayn and Harry move in together and don't have a lot of money and everything falls apart (and then gets put back together)

where did the party go by shuttermutt - 34k

"…insofar as the two parties who want to wed should decide to do so before they have both reached the age of eighteen (section 1.ii) they will have a period of one year henceforth to decide if the marriage is fruitful and if not, they shall be allowed to part as if having not been married in the first place…" Section 2 of the 'Romeo and Juliet law', passed into law in Britain and its territories, 1803

They duck into a tattoo parlour that’s halfway between the city centre and Harry’s mum’s and Zayn gets two black lines carefully inked onto his left ring finger. He smiles up at Harry while it’s being done.

"It’ll last forever," he says. "Just like us."

Conspire Against the Odds by whatwasthatharry - 38k

“Louis?” he asks, eyebrows knitted together as he tries to process what just happened.

“Yeah, Z?”

He sounds tired, and Zayn finds himself wondering if it's because it's clear something is weighing on Harry..

“Is everything okay with Harry?”

(A story in which Zayn meets Harry during their senior year of college and immediately becomes infatuated with him. But Harry disappears most nights, and it's clear he's hiding something. Zayn wants desperately to know what's going on, but no one seems to want to tell him anything.)

In A Flash by hmarie - 24k

Zayn found Harry slouched in the corner of the destroyed nursery. His hands covering his face as tears streamed down his cheeks. The white crib Zayn had spent five hours making sure was put together 100% correctly, flipped over and smashed to pieces. Zayn had to step over the crumpled blue bedding in order to even get to Harry.

“I can’t do it anymore, Z.” Harry’s sobs tore their way from his chest.

Zayn’s fingers trailed across Harry’s cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears. He cradled Harry’s face between his palms as a few more tears slid from his own eyes. He slowly nodded. “Regroup, we can do that.” Zayn let his forehead rest against Harry’s as he gently leaned forward to capture Harry’s lips. “Let’s get out of this room.” He quickly stood and pulled Harry with him.

Or- Harry and Zayn give up on their dream but Gemma won't let them.

you can drive all night by liquidmeasure - 25k

"Harry needs someone to guide him, to tell him where to put each part of himself. It feels right somehow, and lately maybe something more than right, because sometimes he catches himself contemplating intentional accidents, just to see if Zayn will come running, where he’ll touch Harry. An elbow, a shoulder, the curve of his waist."

Harry doesn't know where to put his parts. Zayn helps him figure it out. Louis yells a lot.

Million Dollar Man by soyane - 50k

Harry is a student, who'd much rather focus on writing articles and participating in conferences than working to pay for his bills.

Zayn might have a proposition for him.

What If This Storm Ends by Archangel_Blood - 18k

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Harry does actually know how to take a hint; sometimes he just chooses not to. It’s not that he particularly enjoys disappointment, but he can deal with it. What ifs, on the other hand, those are the paper cuts and grazed knees that seem like nothing much, yet they take forever to heal, itching and stinging and driving you mad.

Once upon a different life by withbatedbreath (heart_eyes) - 45k

Zarry version of The Vow

When it comes to love you're an easy fight by orphan_account - 11k

AU. Harry never really could say no to people.

Hands All Over by blainedarling - 8k

“Point is,” Louis leans over the back of the sofa. “Point is, that Harry Styles has got a very good bum. And I feel very confident in saying that having seen it up close and in person now, too.”

The room goes very still, and quiet. Even Niall stops eating.

“What was that?” Zayn asks, as calmly as he can manage. This is Harry Styles they’re talking about. It’s not like he’s got a crush or anything, but— He might have gotten off to that photo of him on holiday in the tiniest of tiny yellow shorts more times than he would care to admit.

“Harry Styles,” Louis replies coolly, his eyes twinkling. “Was signing off on his pre-exercise questionnaire upstairs when I was on my way down.”

—or, the one where Zayn tries and fails to massage his celebrity crush without getting massively turned on.

Tight Lips and Cold Feet by mmaree - 17k

He remembers an intensity of feelings but not a lot of words.  He recalls drunken laughter with mates, sunny days and shy smiles, shit weed and tattoo parlours, cold sheets and burning touches.  Harry recalls a fantasy where real life took a backseat, where all that mattered was that they were young and alive.

At some point, Harry got scared.  He needed something he could hold on to, something he could be sure of.  But the more he dug for reassurance, the more Zayn clammed up.

And the more they f*cked.

Maybe Zayn saved his words for his books when he should have spoken them aloud.  Maybe Harry should have ended it better instead of running away like a coward.

Then again, maybe he should just stop dwelling on the past.

Or the one where Harry gets cold feet.  Three years later, Harry’s an editor and Zayn is the new writer he’s been assigned to work with.  

They have a lot more than just a book to work out.

Readiness is Near by greenandgolden - 13k

“Morning everybody, sorry I’m late.”

Harry looks up from his tablet, his heart dropping when he sees Zayn walking into the room. He’s heading for the desk in the front and no, this is not happening. Harry did not just douse his professor in coffee. He did not just give his professor his shirt and his phone number.

A teacher!zayn, (adult) student!harry kidfic.

hey moon (please forget to fall down) by leighbot - 7k

He spots a tape on the nightstand on his side, next to a glass of water and two small paracetamols. Zayn, watch me is written on a sticky note and Zayn smiles, confused, as he scoots closer to the edge.

Or, a 50 First Dates AU.

on the line by alnima - 32k

Zayn nods and watches him, feeling like he should feel relieved. Mostly he’s worried. It’s a silly thought, but sometimes Zayn wonders if Harry has some boyfriend across town that he goes to see on nights like this, nights where the air feels different between them. And because even after six years, it’s never made sense to Zayn why Harry, a salesman, needs to spend so much time at the office at night. But who is he to have suspicions when he’s about to head out and deal with some drug trafficker across town?

Or, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the Zarry version