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lady-literature · 4 years ago

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for us to collide (part 4)

anyway who actually expected me to end this thing in 4 chapters lol

rip me ig

After the not-so-impromptu interrogation courtesy of her friends (because there was no way they hadn’t planned that, it was too coordinated) Robin doesn’t stop by for two weeks.

Which is… fine. Marinette is plenty busy anyways. The extra time she has free now that she isn’t entertaining a bratty vigilante, goes to more productive uses of her time. Like watching bad horror movies with her friends and jeering at the horrible acting and special effects.

(Red Hood stops by in the middle of watching Grizzly Rage and proceeds to rant for twenty minutes about ‘shitty, unrealistic blood splatters’. Marinette has long since passed the point of being worried about it.)

So, yeah. She doesn’t see Robin.

But Damian, oddly enough, seeks her out.

It’s early, and there isn’t anyone else in the studio right now which means Marinette has her music blasting and she’s humming along as she hand paints silk for Clara’s dress. It’s loud and she’s in her zone, so it’s only by Tikki warning her that she realizes someone entered her sanctuary.

Her eyebrows raise when she sees who it is.

“Uh, bonjour Damian," she greets confusedly, reaching over to lower the volume on her speakers. "I hadn’t expected to see you here. Is there something you need?”

He stops before her workstation, only slightly bigger than the ones the rest of her staff use due to the sheer amount of open commissions she normally has. She has an actual office on this floor, but Chloé uses it more than she does. Marinette likes the open space and being around her designers more than she likes the privacy.

His eyes catch on the two bouquets of flowers she’s yet to take home, neither of which have even begun to wilt—and likely won’t. (She’ll have to take them home soon before people start asking questions.)

“I was called here by Father, but he’s currently indisposed. I’ve been told to wait.”

She waits a moment for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, she asks, “So you came to visit me?”

“Yours is the only tolerable presence to be found.” His lips purse, and he crosses his arms. “And that includes that imbecile Drake who is no doubt still in his office like the pitiful insomniac he is.”

Her tongue is already halfway around a joke about excuses—she didn’t befriend Felix for nothing, okay? She knows how people like Damian work—when she realizes what he just said.

“Wait. Tim’s been here all night?”

Damian snorts. “He certainly didn’t return to the manor.”

She’s out of her seat in an instant, frowning and muttering up a storm as she rummages through the storage cubes pushed up against the far wall. She has a blanket, pillow and plain cotton shirt in her hands before Damian registers that she even moved.

“I’m going to kill your brother,” she says simply. “Would you like to come with?”

She’s gotten closer to Tim since working in Wayne Tower. He’s a notorious recluse and rarely leaves his office when he’s in the building, but Marinette makes it a point to visit him during lunch and before she leaves for the night.

He isn’t one of her Waynes, but he is a Wayne and her Waynes love and care for him so there’s not much of a difference really. She does like to think they might be something close to friends at this point though. And if the way Tim comes down to visit whenever he ventures out of his office means something, she might even be right.

Another thing that should be noted, is that Marinette is very much a ‘ride or die’ kind of person when it comes to the people she cares about. She will ruthlessly bully her loved ones into taking better care of themselves on threat of death because she is the semi-hypocritical mom friend and damn proud of it.

Damian looks her up and down, eyes lingering on the items in her hands and the determined set to her jaw and says, “Of course.” Then he’s plucking her things from her hands, offering her his arm and saying, “Shall we?”

Marinette laughs as she loops her arm with his. “We shall.”

***

She spends ten minutes scolding Tim before wrangling him onto the couch in his office and wrapping him up in the blanket so tightly he’d need to be an escape artist to get out of it. He tries to struggle anyway, but Marinette has too much practice at this and he doesn’t stand a chance in hell.

Damian stands at her shoulder and smirks the entire time, eyes dancing with amusement as she forces the CEO of Wayne Enterprises to take a fucking nap. Then, she’s treated to the sound of his surprised laughter as she begins switching out all of Tim’s regular coffee for magic-decaf—not that Damian knows it’s magic.

(By the devilish smirk playing at his lips, she’s starting to think that maybe Damian really is just as sadistic as Duke and Jason say he is.)

***

Damian starts dropping by more often after that (read: starts dropping by at all). Not that Marinette minds. She quite likes his company, actually.

He normally stops by first thing in the morning when Marinette is the only one in the workshop, walking in like he owns the place. For the first couple days, he asks about Ladybug and the rest of Paris’ Court, claiming that he’s curious about them.

She answers them, but only as far as she’d answer them for any reporter and is careful not to give away any sensitive information not known to the public. He gets a bit frustrated at one point, complaining that she must know more, but she stays stubbornly silent about it and, sometimes, steers the conversation deftly to the Great Bat and his Flock instead.

He eventually stops asking about the Parisian superheroes and instead their morning conversations turn to a thousand random things. Complaints and anecdotes and a silly back and forth between the two.

Marinette’s never been much of a morning person but having Damian there to keep her company is… nice.

She almost finds herself looking forward to mornings now.

***

When her Waynes learn that she’s started a food kitchen and makes a habit of spending her weekend there, they immediately insist on joining her, despite her protests.

“You guys really don’t have to do this,” she says even though the three of them are already in their aprons and Cass is eyeing the boucher, Vivian, and her collection of knives with glittering interest.

Duke grins at her, “We know, M. But we want to.”

Jason finally turns back to her from where he’s been staring at the kitchen with something just shy of awe on his face. “You’re downright incredible, you know that?” he waves a hand out at the seating area, and then at the people in the kitchen assembling the healthiest and cost-efficient meals she and Felix could find after days spent researching. “I would’ve killed for something like this when I was on the streets.”

“It’s not just me who’s got this up and running-” she tries protesting but then Fiona, the woman Marinette actually put in charge of this place, is at her side and all but shoving the four of them into stations.

Marinette ends up by the pastries, like always, and she can see Jason making sandwiches. Duke's been roped into making eggs and bean casseroles and Cass, by some grace, actually ended up by Vivian and is having a blast cutting up all the meats as fast as she can.

They don’t stop until lunch, all four of them helping prepare meals for the upcoming week in bulk. After, they all go out for ice cream by the pier and Jason smears chocolate on her nose and Duke carries her around on his back when she complains about being tired.

Cass takes pictures of it all and later, Marinette gets them all printed out.

It ends up being a really good day.

***

The buzz from the charity gala and all the press regarding her and Damian’s non-existent relationship had calmed down weeks ago. There was still the odd article about Marinette being seen with her odd assortment of Waynes and the newspapers still called her ridiculous names when they got a picture, but it was about as close to normal as she gets.

The quiet lulled her into a false sense of security.

Ice Prince and Sweetheart Finally Seen on Date: Fairy Tale Romance or Publicity Stunt?

The ‘date’ in question was a coffee and lunch run for her designers and also Tim (because kwami knew he'd work through lunch if allowed).

Damian normally didn’t stay past Lilliane arriving in the morning (the poor dear was chronically late and always the last to arrive) but he hadn’t shown up until after she came that day and overcompensated by hours—which she hadn't minded. He kept to the fringes of her workspace and didn't distract her, instead focusing on his own thing. She wasn’t quite sure what he was up to, but she knew he was switching between his computer and sketchpad every so often.

(She's pretty sure he was hiding from Dick for some reason. He’s the only Wayne brother who doesn’t visit her at work, seeing as they have their bi-weekly gymnastic sessions; recently, with the addition of Mar’i, who still calls her ‘twin’ and whom Marinette still adores.)

And then lunch had rolled around, and it was Marinette’s turn to go out so she brought Damian with since he was still there.

They were out together for forty-five minutes. Tops.

“Why me?” she whines into the surface of her desk.

Damian, the asshole, just laughs at her and she can’t even be mad about it because he’s only just started laughing around her and not hiding behind so many of his walls. He laughs and Marinette knows it's precious so instead of shooting him the glower he deserves, she finds herself having to hide the smile slowly creeping on her face.

***

They’re splashed across the papers again less than a week later, only this time she has her Waynes there too.

Marinette's wearing her bright red sundress and she's somehow convinced Damian to wear a jacket with elaborate crowns and snowflakes embroidered up the sides. Because, as Chloé says: if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

They see the camera this time and the photo splashed across the page the next day is of Marinette laughing with Jason’s arm slung across her shoulders as both he and Damian flip off the camera. Meanwhile, Duke and Cass stand just far enough in frame to capture their expressions of pain and amusement respectively.

(Marinette makes a mental note to order apology gift baskets for the PR department.)

There are a lot of headlines the next day about Marinette’s ‘harem of Waynes’ and how she’s a ‘horrible influence on such bright children’. She spends about ten minutes trying to decide whether she should be horrified or laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it and eventually decides on both.

Adrien, the little shit, sees the headline and immediately prints it out to hang in her kitchen.

It reappears every time she tries to take it down.

***

Gotham does not smile upon daytime heroes.

Not to say that Gotham really smiles on anyone, but it’s especially vicious to those that think they’re owed anything. She’s heard the way Gothamites talk about Superman and The Flash—it’s not exactly what one would call adoring.

But Ladybug's been a daytime hero her entire career and it is not difficult to see that there's something distinctly different about the way daytime heroes and Gotham’s vigilantes operate.

Something more vicious, maybe; something more restrained.

Without the light of day and without the people’s eyes watching them at every moment, the Gotham Bats have become something else entirely.

Signal, their Daytime Protector, is especially strange.

A bat who's meta, straddling the line between day and night. The Day Patrol, trained by the night.

Sometimes, when she and Signal talk about heroing, there is such an odd type of disconnect that it throws her. Nothing horrible or major, but little things she’s sure she wouldn’t notice if she wasn’t so intimately familiar with it all herself.

They don’t always talk about heroing though. After two months, Ladybug is proud to say she seems to be worming her way past his outer shell nicely. He tried so hard to keep his distance from her, but Ladybug’s always liked a challenge, and it isn’t long before she has him relaxing around her.

Well, for a definition of relax anyway. He's still a bat after all.

But then, it’s pretty easy to get past Signal’s barriers when she’s already had practice breaking through the more stubborn bats like Robin and, to an extent, Hood. Not that Signal, or any of the bats, know that.

Which, speaking of the bats, isn’t it a bit weird she’s only met three spread across two of her alter egos? As Ladybug, she’d expect to be hounded by a few of them but the only one she’s met is Signal. She can’t decide if it’s because he’s the only one that operates in the daylight, or if they just don’t want to spook her into running or something.

Either way, they’re going to start giving her a complex. She’s heard so much about the rest of the Batfamily, and not one of them even wants to meet her? Either her?

(Maybe Marinette should ask Robin and Hood what’s up with that? The way they talk about how nosy Red Robin is, she’s surprised he didn’t drop by months ago and- is it weird that she’s offended by vigilantes not prying into her private life?

…Probably.)

***

Marinette blinks, stopping dead in her tracks.

Damian's on her fainting couch, sketchpad in his lap as he waits for her.

“Why are you wearing a beanie?” she blurts out instead of greeting him like a normal person. "You never wear beanies."

Luckily, Damian scowls at her question rather than at her. It’s a subtle but very important difference.

“Sorry,” she apologizes anyway, putting her bag down. “I haven't had coffee yet.”

He hums, then nods to her desk where she finds a steaming to-go mug. Her face lights up and she quickly snatches it, breathing deeply the lovely aroma. “You’re a godsend.”

That brings a quirk to his lips, closer to a smirk than a smile, but progress nonetheless.

After a moment, where she sips at her overly sugary monstrosity—just the way she likes it, when had Damian even noticed that?—and he continues sketching she asks again. “Okay but, I actually am kinda curious. What’s up with the hat?”

He sighs heavily, closing his pad. “It’s… better than the alternative.”

Marinette snorts. “Alternative to what? A top hat?” But instead of snapping back like she expects, he just continues to frown. Immediately, her lips turn down into a concerned frown. “Is there something wrong?”

“Yes,” he grounds out and Marinette puts her coffee down. She’s just about to open her mouth and say something else when he reaches up and rips the beanie off his head.

For the second time in less than five minutes, she stops dead.

Marinette opens her mouth. Closes it. Blinks, but the scene doesn't change.

His hair is still blue.

Damian Wayne's hair is blue.

Damian Wayne’s hair is vibrantly electric blue.

Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth as she tries to stifle her giggles.

Damian’s scowl deepens. He moves to shove his ridiculous beanie back on his head but her hand snaps out before he can.

“No! No, I’m sorry I just-” she giggles again. “You looked so upset by it and you took me by surprise. I like it!”

He glares up at her, still sat on the fainting couch so it’s her who has the height advantage for once.

“Don’t patronize me.”

She rolls her eyes, the hand that wasn’t settled on his arm reaching up to touch the bright strands. It's slow enough that he can stop her, but he, surprisingly, makes no move to.

His hair is a lot softer than she expects it to be. But she supposes he didn’t use that gel stuff today, planning on keeping his hair under a hat the whole time.

“It looks good on you,” she says softly.

He snorts disbelievingly and she smacks his shoulder lightly. “It’s true! I swear you could look good in any color.” She clicks her tongue longingly. “I wish I had your skin tone. I’m too pale to wear pastels like I want.”

He wrinkles his nose at her. “Pastels?”

“Oh you hush,” she quips, finally pulling her hand from his hair. “Anyway, if you don’t like it, why’d you dye it blue in the first place?”

“I… lost a wager with Todd.”

She laughs, starting to move around and get ready for the day. She doesn’t have any meetings scheduled, which means she gets the whole day to create. She’s pretty excited about it.

“I should’ve guessed it was Jason’s doing.”

Damian shrugs, settling back into the cushions. He drapes himself across them in a way that’s effortlessly elegant and like he’s ready to be photographed for a magazine cover or something. Must all her friends be so pretty? It’s playing hell on her self-esteem.

“But blue is your favorite color, right? So there’s that at least.”

Damian hums. “Todd had threatened to dye it pink or some other equally garish color.”

“Hey!” she exclaims in mock outrage. “What’s wrong with pink? I’ve been wanting to dye my hair pink for ages.”

“Nothing. It’s just simply not a color I appreciate.” He makes a face. “Like orange.”

Marinette huffs, but there’s a smile on her lips. It's quiet for a moment, for long enough that she thinks the conversation's been dropped. But then-

“Why don’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Why haven’t you dyed your hair?” he repeats. “Your friends—Couffaine and… Kubdel? They both have colored hair.”

Marinette shrugs. “I dunno. Never got around to it I guess. I suppose I could do it now. Dye mine in solidarity,” she jokes. “Oh! We could match even! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“I thought you wanted pink?”

“Well, yeah. But blue is nice too. Besides,” she smiles wryly over her shoulder, “you just said pink was ‘garish’.”

Damian frowns slightly, shaking his head, “On me, perhaps. But I think you’d look very fetching in pink.”

“Oh,” Marinette pauses, feeling her face grow warm at the sudden compliment. “Well- Uh, pink it is, then.”

***

(Damian watches the blush rise on her cheeks as she turns away to try and hide it. Yes, he can’t help but think, fetching in pink, indeed.)

***

Luka insists on being the one to dye her hair, citing that he’s the one who had dibs all these years, but Alix and Jason both all but demand to be there too.

Her bathroom is not big enough for all four of them to sit in.

Not a single one of them cares.

Cass and Duke ask for progress pics along with Uncle Jay, and all her Parisian friends cycle through standing at the bathroom door to see how it's going.

The constant stream of people looking at her makes her feel not unlike an animal at a zoo. (When she wryly tells this to Alix, all she gets is her friend cackling on the ground.)

But, after all the bleaching and conditioning and waiting, she stares into the mirror with soft pink hair the color of bubblegum and thinks, yeah, it was worth it.

She thinks it again when Damian walks in the next day and almost trips over his own feet.

(She’s also wearing her Robin themed sundress, complete with hood, matching boots and personal touches not found on the mass-produced version—but Marinette doesn’t know why that would be relevant.)

Her favorite reaction to her new hair color though is, by far, Mar’i’s.

Marinette doesn’t see the young Grayson until a week later when she’s invited to the monthly family dinner Alfred insists all the Waynes attend—which includes her now, apparently (she tries not to show how pleased she is by that).

She arrived with Damian, who was kind enough to pick Tim and her up from work, and Mar’i takes one look at Damian and her standing next to one another before she starts babbling excitedly about Lilo and Stitch and Angel. A character who is—apparently—Stitch’s girlfriend and the complimentary pink to his blue.

Marinette is momentarily surprised, but Mar’i’s enthusiasm is contagious and it isn’t long before the rest of the Waynes are teasingly calling them Angel and Stitch. Marinette thinks it’s all very funny and adorable.

Damian, on the other hand, most certainly does not and threatens everyone who calls him that ‘ridiculous nickname’ with graphic depictions of bodily harm.

‘Angel’, oddly enough, sticks for Marinette. She finds she kind of likes it.

***

Later, Damian asks her about nicknames.

Well, he calls them ‘asinine titles’ and doesn’t so much ask as demand she explain why she allows anyone to call her by them seeing as she has a ‘perfectly serviceable name,’ in his opinion.

Ignoring the fact that she’s heard Dick call him multiple nicknames he hadn’t protested to, she says, “Well, I guess it’s that everyone uses Marinette. A nickname is something… special. A little more personal, I guess. And, I dunno. My parents named me Marinette, but it’s nice to share something between other people. And it shows they care.”

Damian looks confused after she’s done, but also thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything to that and Marinette doesn’t really expect anything to come of it.

She's proven wrong when, a week later, Damian calls her Starling instead of Marinette.

(And the transition from Dupain-Cheng to Marinette had been enough to make her beam—this is just ridiculous.)

***

When Robin disappears a second time, Marinette doesn’t get the chance to notice his absence on her own. He’s only stopped showing up four days ago—which is longer than normal, but not unheard of—when she hears unfamiliar voices on her balcony.

Looking out, she finds three semi-familiar individuals clustered around the plate of treats she leaves out for Robin and Hood.

Nightwing and Red Robin are both stuffing their faces full of the fruit tarts she had made while Spoiler glares at them and seems to be cursing the fact that her mask covers her mouth the same way Hood always does when she makes those raspberry scones he likes.

The scene is… odd. For many reasons but most pressingly that their arrival has come out of nowhere.

“Well,” Nightwing explains when she asks, “We wanted to visit ages ago, but baby bird threatened to stab us all if we tried.”

“He’s very… particular about you,” Red Robin tacks on while Spoiler nods sagely like she hasn’t crafted some strange straw monstrosity just so she can drink tea while still wearing her mask. Red Robin has one too, but his for the aesthetic rather than out of necessity.

Marinette stares at the three of them. “That… does not explain why you are here now.”

“Robin can’t stop us now, obviously,” Red Robin says casually, like he hasn't just kicked her heart into high gear with a few words.

“What? Why?” she demands, trying very hard not to sound panicked. “Is he okay? Was he hurt?”

Red Robin blinks, going quiet in that way Hood and Robin do when they’re judging her just a bit. She hates this family.

“No, he’s… fine.”

“B’s just benched him for the time being,” Nightwing helpfully supplies, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. “He’s a little too… conspicuous at the moment.”

Marinette’s shoulders relax even as her brows furrow. Conspicuous? What in the world is that supposed to mean?

“Does that mean he won’t be coming around for a while?” she asks before she can think better of it.

The three vigilantes in front of her share a look before Spoiler says, “Probably. But the gremlin’s never been one to sit still so who knows?” she smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners as she leans toward Marinette conspiratorially. “But don’t worry. We can keep you company in the meantime!”

“We’re much better company than the demon anyway. Certainly less insulting.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad. He’s an ass, for sure, but you can tell when he means it and when he’s just stumbling over himself.” Marinette smiles fondly, “For someone so dignified, he trips over his tongue quite often.”

Now the vigilantes are really staring at her. She’s starting to feel pretty uncomfortable about it all when Nightwing beams at her, jumping up from his seat to sweep her into a hug. It startles her, but she doesn’t push him away, instead laughing at the sudden affection.

“Oh you really are perfect!” he exclaims, setting her down and still grinning like an absolute lunatic.

She’s smiling, because Nightwing’s joy is infectious, but she's even more confused than before. And then, before she can ask what he means, Red Robin’s wrist computer lights up—and damn, isn’t that cool? Marinette wonders if Tikki could do something like that for the Ladybug suit—and the three are moving to swing back out into the night.

She waves them off and they all promise to visit again.

Marinette shakes her head before going back inside with the empty pastry plate and four empty mugs.

***

Damian knows of Marinette’s friends of course. It'd take more effort not to when she talks about them every chance she gets and tells him all the wild stories about their escapades and misadventures.

(They also all came up in the background check he ran on her when they first met.)

Most of her friends are exceedingly normal oddly enough. Well, they’re all mildly famous and the leaders of their various fields, but they’re just civilians.

The only exceptions being, Bourgeois, Agreste, and Graham de Vanily.

Bourgeois is a former hero like Marinette, only she doesn't seem to still be in contact with the Parisian Court. All the articles he could find spoke about how Queen Bee was deemed unfit for her mantle and later replaced by the new bee hero, Ambrosia. Agreste was caught up in the scandal of his father being Hawkmoth, but he was found innocent and ignorant of his father's crimes (something Damian made sure to confirm). He now works at and is being groomed to own the bakery Marinette's parents run, seeing as their daughter has little interest to do it herself.

And finally, Graham de Vanily, Agreste's cousin, has a history of causing trouble wherever he goes. Nothing villainous, and rarely even malicious, but there's something about him that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Not everything is as it seems with the Graham de Vanily heir.

Besides those three outliers, Marinette's friends seem to be untouched by the vigilante life. Which means he thinks they must be utterly boring.

Only, when her friends start coming around to visit and drag her out for lunch or some other random outing, Damian keeps finding himself baffled by each of them.

They act strangely and with a dangerous air none of them should possess, except for Tsurugi. The questions they ask him are strange and the jokes they make have no sense. He's been warned about how he better treat Marinette so many times, he's started to lose count. (Which is ridiculous. He treats her just fine and would never intentionally harm her. What are they trying to insinuate?)

But, by far, his most memorable encounter is with Lahiffe. A veritable wolf in sheep's clothing.

Marinette is excitedly babbling about her newest idea for her summer collection, pressed up against him on the chaise and practically shoving her sketches in his face as she demands his critique and thoughts.

Her hands are waving every which way and, on more than one occasion, he has to quickly lean back so she doesn't hit him in the face.

He’s focusing on what she’s saying so much—because she has a habit of forgetting things if she doesn’t write them down and needs someone to remind her of the ideas she had at a later time—that he doesn’t even realize Lahiffe is there until he clears his throat.

Marinette jumps, almost elbowing him in the stomach. “Nino!” she shouts, springing up and flinging herself at the other man who catches her like this is something she does often.

“Heya, Nettie.”

“Wait- what are you doing here? You’re not-” she jolts back to look at Lahiffe’s amused expression. “Oh kwami, is it time already? Shit. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry! I have to give this one thing to Publishing but then I promise we can go, okay? Like, just five minutes!”

She's already moving before she finishes speaking, sweeping up papers and rearranging files and putting things away with all the swiftness and agility of a speedster. Damian watches her go about her routine, occasionally handing her something she’s dropped or pointing out a thing she’s missed, weaving around her chaos with practiced ease.

Then she’s sweeping out of the office with a distracted “be right back!” and he’s alone with Lahiffe.

The second Marinette leaves, the man’s attention swings onto him with a strange weight. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything and Damian’s hackles raise with every passing second.

He doesn’t snap at him though, because he’s one of Marinette’s friends. Insulting him would only serve to make her upset and that’s something Damian's been trying to avoid causing as of late.

“Man,” Lahiffe says at last. “Alix wasn’t kidding about the whole besotted thing, huh?”

Damian rears back, straightening up to his full height. “I beg your pardon?”

Lahiffe laughs and waves his hand about like that’s supposed to mean something. “Ah, no need to be embarrassed about it, dude. You’re far from the first of us to fall for her charms.”

“What.”

“Yeah, we've all been there. I think over half of the Paris crew crushed on her at some point, including myself. None of us are into her like that anymore, so as long as you treat her right, you got nothing to worry about."

“I’m not- I'm not interested in Marinette,” Damian tries to protest but Lahiffe just calmly steamrolls over him.

“Nah. Everyone loves Nettie. It’s universal law or something. First, there was me and Adrien, then Luka—who she actually liked back for a while there but are now practically siblings. Chloé liked her in collége, but she hadn’t really come to terms with that at the time. Alix might’ve, but she’s pretty grey-ace and fluctuates on the romance points, so who knows.

“Oh! And Nath. He also snagged a date with her, but he was an Akuma at the time so I’m not technically sure that it counts. And he’s with Marc now anyway. Thinking of adopting a kid, last I heard. Anyway- my point was: everyone loves Nettie. And don’t bother trying to fight it, because it only makes her pull of gravity worse.”

Lahiffe then claps him on the shoulder like their talk amiable and not the most confusing speech Damian’s ever heard.

And then he doesn’t even get to say anything to that because Marinette is sprinting back through the door, grabbing her jacket and bag, telling him goodbye, and dragging Lahiffe out to who knows where.

Damian stands there longer than he cares to admit trying to make the world make sense again.

***

A week and a half after she learned Robin was benched, Damian catches her staring off into space as she doodles tiny robins in the margins of her sketchbook.

He gives her an odd look when she scrambles to hide them, blushing hotly and babbling about how she’s “Just fine! Nothing to worry about! I’m just, maybe, perhaps, a little worried for a friend even though I shouldn’t be, because his family says he’s just fine and-”

He looks contemplative when he leaves that day, but he didn’t ask about her outburst, so she extends the same courtesy to him.

***

That night, Robin returns.

“What,” she says around the laughter threatening to bubble out of her throat, “are you wearing?”

Robin scowls from behind the full cowl he has on that she’s pretty sure belongs to Red Robin. It makes him look a whole ten years older and she can’t get over how ridiculous he looks. If he keeps doing stupid things with his face while wearing that monstrosity, she is definitely going to laugh at him.

“What are you wearing?” he shoots back petulantly.

She blinks in confusion, then realizes she’s still wearing her Red Hood inspired jacket right now. Tan colored fake leather with fuzzy, red inner lining, done with all the same pockets, buttons, and zippers Red Hood has on his own jacket. It looks almost exactly like the jacket she fixed for him all that time ago, except she's also added a soft, crimson hood and his own personal bat symbol stitched across her shoulder blades.

As far as things she's designed goes, this is one of her simpler ones. It's nothing like the elaborate creations she makes for the Ambrosia or Ryuko themed items.

But Red Hood was a simple kind of person, and she likes that it’s reflected in her work.

Robin doesn't seem to agree if the poorly concealed disdain on his face means anything.

“What?” she asks teasingly, “You jealous?”

He scoffs and looks off to the side. “Of course not. I simply do not understand why you’d want anything to do with that simpleton. Especially not when I know you have clothing articles referencing far superior individuals.”

She snorts good-naturedly, "What 'individuals'? You mean you?"

The way he raises his nose self importantly is answer enough, and she can't stop herself from rolling his eyes. "Well, it's certainly a start. But I'm not the only one."

"Oh, yeah? And who else is marvelous enough to stand on the same level as you?"

"Multimouse."

Her mouth goes dry, and she can tell Robin is pointedly not looking at her.

“Come inside,” she blurts in lieu of all the things she really wants to say—which are mostly just embarrassing variations of I missed you. “I can, uh, make us tea. If you want.”

It's the first time she’s ever invited him inside and she can see the small bit of shock on his face—well, what she can see of it anyway—before he schools it.

“Yes,” he says in a tone of voice that implies it was his idea in the first place. “That sounds… good.”

She steps aside, allowing him to pass her by into the flat. Only instead of just walking past her, he stops halfway through the doorway and stares at her. She’s about to ask what’s wrong when he reaches out with his hand to gently grab a lock of her hair.

“Pink suits you, by the way.”

She quirks her lips, “Yeah? You don’t think it’s… too much?”

The corners of his mouth turn down, “Absolutely not. You look…” he trails off, mouth flattening into a line and dropping his hand.

She blinks at the odd behavior. “Nice?” she offers tentatively.

He nods, but it’s a little jerky and strange. But before she can ask about it, he’s already turning to enter her flat like he owns the place, remarking about her choices of tea and if she’s finally acquired an ‘adequate teapot’.

She shakes off the moment and goes in to follow him before he wrecks her kitchen in his careless search for tea supplies.

***

MinnieMouse: COME GET YALL JUICE

and by juice i mean me

I still do not have an american license

JaneAustenStanAccount: what do we get out of it?

MinnieMouse: ???

the pleasure of my company??

also youre literally the one that invited me to watch megamind

JaneAustenStanAccount: and??

daisyduke: shut up jay

we all know youre soft for M stop tryin to play tough

MinnieMouse: this is why duke is my favorite

he’s a living callout post

swanlake: :(

MinnieMouse: second favorite

im so sorry cass ily

swanlake: :)

daisyduke: i aint even mad

JaneAustenStanAccount: I AM

guys wtf

MinnieMouse: you brought this on yourself

maybe you should be nicer to me

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

daisyduke: ‘get fucked jason’ -marinette 2k20

btw im omw for you now

MinnieMouse: thnx ur the best

also im bringing scones as movie snack

daisyduke: noice

swanlake: !!!

JaneAustenStanAccount: FUCK YEAH!!!

MinnieMouse: you dont get any Jay

JaneAustenStanAccount: >:(

i hate it here

***

Marinette doesn’t know a lot about Robin’s past, which she assumes is by design. Secret identities don’t lead well to handing out details and concrete information about one’s personal life.

But, she thinks, one would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to not see that whatever facsimile of a childhood Robin had was about eight different levels of fucked up.

It’s in the vague allusions to ‘training’ and the scorn filled way he says the word ‘mother’. It’s in the not-quite-confusion—because whatever family he has is better now, at least—of Marinette telling him about her own parents. About the happy memories she’s shared with them, of learning to bake bread and croissants and macaroons under the loving guidance of her father and practicing delicate designs and frosting techniques with her mother.

So, yeah. She knows he’s kind of messed up and definitely checks off the childhood trauma box that’s apparently one of the requirements for being her friend.

So when Robin suddenly decides to go against everything she’s learned about him up until this point and actually share something about himself—and when that thing he shares just so happens to be a story from his childhood—well… Marinette wouldn’t say she’s prepared, but she’s not- prepared.

He’s in her kitchen, because Marinette has learned her lesson about bleeding vigilantes on her couch, and she’s pretty sure he could’ve gone back to the Cave for this, but he came here for whatever reason. (Was closer, he said. Marinette doesn’t know if she believes him.)

She’s cleaning the knife wound on his arm, and she has his cape laid out across her island. There’s a hole in it she plans on sewing back up after she finishes sewing the hole in her reckless vigilante back up.

“You need to be more careful,” she scolds. “You’re lucky this didn’t nick something important.”

“It's hardly the worst wound I’ve ever acquired,” he tells her in a tone of voice that he probably thinks is reasonable. “At seven years old I had to dig a bullet out of my side in the middle of a Himilayan snowstorm while still making it back to base with time to spare after having successfully assassinated a Russian ambassador.”

Marinette pauses where she’s smoothing the gauze onto his bicep. Her eyes flick up to his, and she sees the exact moment he seems to realize what he just told her. He’s gone utterly still beneath her hands, with terror or worry or the effort it takes not to bolt out the window immediately, she doesn’t know.

“That’s horrifying,” she tells him as she finishes securing the obnoxiously bright bandage, “Never tell me that story again.”

She then drops a kiss onto his bicep, subtly imbuing it with enough luck that it will keep off any infection—the wound was filthy when he came in, seriously, was he in a sewer?—and pats his cheek warmly before moving to clean up all her supplies.

She feels his eyes on her the rest of the night, but every time she turns to him, she can’t tell what he’s thinking. All she knows is that he seems… softer, in a way.

***

Three days after Marinette’s unexpected look into Robin’s past, she finds a box on her desk. It’s a jewelry box, and the only reason she doesn’t immediately freak out is the fact that it lacks any of the miracle box markings.

Still, she opens it hesitantly, and inside, she finds a necklace. A completely normal, non-magical necklace that’s simple and pretty and very much shaped like a tiny toy mouse.

There is no note.

***

(Lahiffe was right.

The Earth spins around the sun. The sky is blue.

Everyone loves Marinette.)

***

The necklace is obviously supposed to be a reference to her Multimouse days, but that doesn’t exactly narrow down who could have left it for her.

Or well, it does, but all the people it narrows down to don’t make any sense.

Multimouse is a badly kept secret, but it’s still a secret. Most people outside Paris don’t know about her and the people in Paris didn’t exactly recognize her off the street either.

Her Court knows, obviously, and so do the Waynes and the bats. But her Court wouldn’t leave her mouse themed gifts, they tend toward ladybugs or their own animal motif as a gift (the amount of cat and bee themed items she owns is ludicrous).

Which leaves the Waynes and the bats.

But her Waynes wouldn’t leave the gift on her desk, and they certainly wouldn’t forget to put a note, so Duke, Jason, and Cass are out.

She must stand there thinking about it too long, because then Jeremy's walking in, just as bright and early as ever.

He sees her holding the box and his face turns a strange mix of curious and outraged. “Is it your birthday? I swear, Boss if you didn't tell us it was your birthday-”

“No, Jeremy,” she says, amused despite her confusion. “That’s not for a while yet. I found this when I walked in,” she shakes the box slightly for emphasis, “but there wasn’t a note.”

“Oh.” A smile slowly spreads across Jeremy’s face. “Oh?” he purrs, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Does the boss have a secret admirer?”

Marinette blinks and- what?

“What? No. I can’t- That doesn’t-” she splutters but Jeremy just laughs and walks over to his station to start setting up for the day, leaving Marinette to her breakdown.

Because this can’t have been left by a secret admirer. That��s just crazy.

There are exactly two people who could’ve left this for her and neither of them would be an admirer of any kind. And she wouldn’t want them to be anyway because that would be stupid and ridiculous and weird.

She doesn’t like Robin or Damian like that…

Right?

***

(It’s impossible not to love her, he realizes, mostly by accident.

She loves, wholeheartedly and unafraid and so much more than Damian had ever thought one person could. She loves with a ferocity and passion no person deserves or can match.

And Damian, foolishly, loves and wishes to be loved by her anyway.)

***

There are roses on her desk the next day, potted and still healthy.

The day after that, there’s a box of expensive chocolates. Like, the kind only Adrien, Felix, and Chloé buy without a second thought. The gossip has spread far enough that all of her designers know about the gifts and probably-admirer.

On the fourth day, there is a box full of high-quality pencils and a new sketchbook, one with nice thick drafting paper, but small enough to fit in her favored bag. Her name is embossed across the front, along with her personal motif of delicate apple blossoms.

On the fifth day, she shows up to find there is only a drawing, which should point to it being Damian, but drawing-her is holding a robin in her cupped palms which cannot be a coincidence. Drawing-her also looks serene and beautiful with her mouth curved slightly and her eyes gentle and soft and Marinette is as touched by the image as she is frustrated by it.

There are hair sticks on the sixth, and delicate pins shaped like flowers on the seventh. Another stunning drawing of her on the eighth, a bottle of wine older than Master Fu on the ninth, the softest cashmere blanket on the tenth, a basket of sweet floral lotions, a glass statue of a bird in flight—she gets so many gifts, Marinette has to stop keeping count.

It’s somewhere around day six that her designers must’ve ratted on her to either Felix or Chloé because it’s not long after that, that all of her friends learn about the gifts and start being terrifically unhelpful about the whole situation.

They each try to give her advice, which would be sweet if it wasn’t all equally terrible and conflicting.

They’re also placing bets on who they think her admirer is, Damian or Robin. They’re trying to be discreet about it—which means they’re failing miserably.

Marinette, admittedly, never expected any different from them.

***

Marinette begins watching Damian in the mornings with a newfound interest.

The gifts are always there before she arrives, which means they're also there before Damian arrives, so she’s in a prime position to catch his reaction.

Or, she would be, if he ever reacted. He barely glances at them and never says anything unless the gift is particularly obnoxious, like the giant stuffed mouse she found sitting in her chair last week. (It was almost as big as she was. Adrien, Nino, and Alix had ended up on the floor from laughing so hard when they’d seen it.)

Damian almost never comments on the gift she received that day, but whenever she uses or wears something that her mysterious admirer had gotten for her, he makes sure to compliment her. Which would be very suspicious except that Robin does the same thing.

It’s just- they’re both so frustratingly silent about it all! Marinette is this close to just grabbing one or both of them by the shoulders and just shaking until they tell the truth.

It’s driving her insane! Before the necklace appeared on her desk, she didn’t even know that she liked Robin and Damian.

And now she’s overanalyzing their nonreactions. She hates it.

It feels too much like she’s back in collège, trying to sort out her feelings for Adrien and Chat. (Who ended up being the same person—which was just very inconsiderate of him, really. The least he could do is let her angst have meaning dammit!)

And- ugh. What if she doesn't even like either of them? What if her mind is just making her think she does because the idea of them liking her was presented? What then? Or what about the fact that the two boys are also ridiculously similar when she thinks about it. What if she only likes one and is just projecting her feelings onto the other because her mind associates the two?

Oh, she doesn’t like that thought. That thought makes her feel upset and like she wants to cry into a tub of ice cream.

Nino happily indulges her and doesn't even complain when she eats her way through his stash of mint chip as she dramatically complains about stupidly confusing boys.

Honestly, she may as well be back in lycée.

***

(What Marinette does not realize in the midst of all her careful analysis of his reactions, is that it’s not the gifts he’s focused on.

When she wears the necklace and hair sticks, she misses the way his eyes linger on the slope of her neck. As she cares for her roses, she doesn’t notice the way he follows the easy nimbleness of her fingers. She uses her sketchbook and eats the expensive chocolates and doesn’t pay attention to the way he steals glances at her lips. She doesn't see the way his hands twitch when she ventures just near enough to touch.

(She exists next to him, in any form or light, and he is captivated by her very presence.)

Marinette looks, but it is in all the wrong places.)

***

Strangely enough, it’s Signal who helps her with her internal crisis—completely unintentionally and in a very roundabout way—but he helps all the same.

He’s taken an… interest, she supposes, in her magic. One that is entirely his own and has very little to do with that Bat from what she can tell.

His abilities and hers stem from different origins, but she would be lying if she said his weren’t oddly complementary to her own. His precognition abilities stemming from his photokinesis has been useful on more than one occasion regarding the experimental spell matrices she, Tikki, and Nooroo have been testing out.

The magic is normally invisible to people without a Miraculous, but Signal seems to have little trouble seeing what she’s doing, even if he can’t interact with it the way she can.

(There is also the fact that she seems… more when he is around. Days that he spends watching her do her work go by faster and smoother than when he is away. Her magic is easier, and her mind spins with ideas and creations faster.

It’s an odd phenomenon and Ladybug is looking into it.)

There has been more than one occasion where Signal had warned her of the matrix’s imminent collapse with enough time for her to prepare herself for its blowback.

The version she’s working on today is their fifth iteration. It’s supposed to pull the miasma out of the building, filter it through her and Tikki’s own magical energy, before flowing back into the brickwork. Marinette had thought of the idea while talking with Nooroo.

If she can get it to work, it will shift the misfortune into good luck and order and release it back into the environment. Then she’ll only need to cleanse strategic portions of the city in a lattice network, and the creative and destructive energies will mix from there, balancing themselves without much input from her at all.

Of course, that’s only if she can actually get it to work. It’s been almost a month and this is the fifth version and it’s already collapsed on her three times in the last hour. Signal must see the frustration on her face and has taken to trying to distract her with small talk.

She’s very thankful for it, actually. If he wasn’t doing that, she would probably start screaming right here and now, on this random rooftop in the residential district. Which would just be very startling and embarrassing for everyone involved, so. You know. Glad she doesn’t have to do that.

Eventually, she asks him, apropos of nothing, “You’re a detective right?”

He pauses, and blinks at her, likely trying to follow the train of thought that led her to that question. She assumes he did not find it because when he speaks, he still sounds confused.

“Yes? I guess that’s technically what I am.”

“So you’re good at figuring out who’s behind a crime?”

Signal only looks more confused. “Yeah? But Ladybug, what-”

“Great, so. Hypothetically, if you had two suspects for a—well it’s not a crime. A… thing? Situation. How would you figure out which one of them is actually behind the… situation?”

Signal’s lips quirk, just a bit despite his confusion. “I think I’m gonna need a little more to go on than just ‘a situation,’ LB.”

Ladybug purses her lips and stares down at the light weaving intricate patterns in the space between her palms. Slowly, carefully, she tells him, “There are items being left where a person can find them. But the identity of the person leaving them and their intentions are unknown.”

“Are the items dangerous?” he asks worriedly.

Ladybug shakes her head. “No. They're more like gifts.”

“Are the gifts unwanted or creepy? Unsettling? Threatening?”

Another head shake. “Just confusing and… thoughtful.”

“Someone is leaving you thoughtful gifts and you're worried about that… why?” Signal asks, slowly and disbelievingly.

“It’s because I- wait! I’m not the person!” she panics, causing the magic to spark dangerously in her hands but she barely notices. “The person doesn’t even exist. It was a hypothetical question!”

Signal stares at her. She can’t see his eyes or the top half of his face, but she just knows he’s raising his eyebrow judgingly at her.

“Stop that!” she snaps. “Stop being perceptive! I have enough perceptive people in my life so knock it off!”

Signal laughs like the horrible person he is. “But don’t you need me to be perceptive? That’s like, a requirement to be a detective.”

“Stop it,” she says again, mulishly and very childish.

And isn’t that an odd thought to have? Ladybug being childish.

How novel. Ladybug has never once been childish. She can’t afford to be, because when she is behind the mask, she is all the most important parts of herself. She is the Grand Guardian, is the one who must be in control at all times because she has an entire team to keep safe and alive.

Behind the mask, she’s all of her greatest responsibilities.

But here, in Gotham and with Signal, she is none of those things to him. She is simply another hero, that is his age and very much like him in ways so few are. Ladybug, in the moments she spends with Signal, is probably the closest she has ever been to carefree while in the mask.

It’s as comforting a thought as it is terrifying.

Signal raises his hands in surrender, but his lips are still quirked in amusement.

Ladybug regrets starting this conversation.

She regrets it even more when, five minutes later, Signal manages to pull the rest of the story from her… along with a name.

She realizes her mistake a second too late to stop herself, and then all she can do is watch.

She watches, with ever-growing horror, as Signal slowly puts the pieces together. She watches, as her whole secret identity starts unraveling around her for the first time ever. She watches, stricken, as Signal opens his mouth to speak.

And then she grabs both sides of his head and Orders him to sleep.

***

The second Marinette bespells him, she regrets it.

She was panicking, okay? And Marinette panicking is very different from Ladybug panicking and truly, she creates messes just by existing.

Nooroo flies out of his hiding place to make distressed noises at the now unconscious Signal with her, which is… actually kinda soothing, if not exactly helpful.

At least she knows she’s not the only one upset right now.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Nooroo frets, flitting around her head with agitated wings. Hers aren’t much better, if she’s being honest. “What are we going to do, Guardian? He knows who you are! This is bad.”

Marinette worries her thumb between her teeth, shifting her weight from foot to foot. With a thought, she's back in her civvies and Tikki is perched on her shoulder, blinking at the scene she’s suddenly a part of.

“Well,” Tikki says, sounding far too calm for the situation. “This isn’t ideal.”

The laugh that escapes Marinette is on the edge of hysterical. “You think?”

“It’s not ideal,” Tikki repeats firmly, “But neither is it a disaster.”

Nooroo lands on her other shoulder as she kneels down beside Signal to rearrange his limbs to not be so uncomfortable. “But he's unpredictable!” he argues, curling into the side of her neck like she will hide him from the world. “We don’t know what he’ll do with this information!”

Tikki hums thoughtfully. “Then we will have to ask. There are far worse people we could have been revealed to. We're lucky it was a friend rather than foe.”

“You think so?” Marinette asks softly, voice barely louder than a whisper.

She knows the Bat’s flock are good people. Many of them are her friends, or people she hopes to call friends soon.

But she doesn't know if these people Marinette calls friends could be Ladybug’s allies.

The bats hoard secrets like black holes, and perhaps they would keep hers just as well, but they could just as easily use it against her. Batman barely tolerates her presence, she can tell by the way Signal talks sometimes, and it is no small stretch of the imagination that he would use this to try and kick her out of Gotham.

Marinette cannot, as a Guardian, leave Gotham.

But more importantly, she doesn’t want to leave Gotham. It’s… her home now. Her friends are here. Her family is here. Robin and Hood and the other bats are here. Damian and all her Waynes are here.

Leaving Gotham would not only make her sick and jittery at the imbalance, but it would break her heart.

If, when Signal tells Batman, he reacts poorly, there is so much that Marinette is set up to lose. And that terrifies her.

Some of that thought process must show on her face—or perhaps Nooroo has just picked up on the turmoil in her chest—because the two Kwami are pressed on either side of her face, nuzzling and hugging as much of her as they can reach.

“We’ll make it through this, Marinette,” Tikki says firmly, no room for argument. “Don’t worry so much. Both of you. Everything will turn out just fine, you’ll see.”

***

@bluesimani @how-to-fuction-properly @chocolatecatstheron @mystery-5-5 @nickristus-dreamer @mochegato @thenillabean @animegirlweeb @novaloptr @darkdaysandfakesmiles @optimistically-pessimistic0524 @clumsy-owl-4178 @g-arya @undecisioned @smolplantmum @blackmagicforever @i-wanna-be-a-ninja @wannajointhecrabcult @paintedhope7 @redscarlet95 @roselynfey @ira-sairain @lozzybowe @tumbling-down-hills-and-stuff @2confused-2doanything @pepelachanel @too0bsessedformyowngood @miraculouspenta @itsmeevie01 @corabeth11 @jalaluvsu

#maribat #daminette #ml x dc #my typewriter #for us to collide

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goldandbluesmiles · 5 years ago

Text

Nickname Game

Summary: Bruce wakes up with a drug in his system and shenanigans ensue.

Ao3

XXX

Jason was about to have lunch when his phone buzzed. He was going to ignore it until he saw who was calling him.

"Oracle," he said after picking up the phone, "Why're you ringing me during daylight?"

"Bruce has been kidnapped,"

A beat of silence.

"What?"

"Bruce-"

"Yeah. Yeah. I heard you," said Jason, "From where?"

"Lunch break," said Barbara, "Only a few witnesses and they've been kept quiet,"

"Okay," said Jason, already switching the call to Bluetooth and grabbing his keys, "What's the plan?"

"All the other Robins are out of town. You're with Cassandra on this one,"

"Okay," said Jason hopping on his cycle

"Jason?" said Barbara

"Yeah,"

"Good Luck," she said, "And be careful,"

xxx

There was no ransom demand. The kidnapping was done by a disgruntled former employee that Bruce and Tim had personally seen the termination of. Jason didn't need to know why it had happened. Neither Bruce or Tim was in the habit of firing people for no good reason. There had probably been something fishy going on.

He was more worried about how long it was taking them to find the man. Cassandra's taut muscles showed him she was worried too.

He's batman. He's fine.

It didn't help.

They did find him thirty-seven hours after the kidnapping. He was chained to the warehouse ground, covered in cuts and bruises. There were needle marks on him showing that something had been given to him.

He was unconscious, resembling a dead man more than an alive one.

It took all his will power and Cassandra's firm hand on his shoulder to keep from beating the perp to a pulp.

"Take him home," said Cassandra

Jason took a deep breath and steadied himself. She was right because of course, she was. The only bat with at least some common sense.

"Okay," said Jason, "Okay,"

xxx

The good thing about keeping the kidnapping out of the media was that they were able to bring Bruce home without raising too many questions. He was instantly taken to the med bay where Leslie did her tests as the various children of the manor slowly trickled in.

"He's stable," said Leslie, "From what I can tell he's on some cocktail of sedatives and pain mediation. I'm not sure what they were trying to do but it's nothing overly harmful. He'll probably just be a little loopy when he wakes up. If he's not up for another 48 hours, we should probably do some more tests,"

Jason can hear Tim and Alfred asking more questions but all he can do is stare at the nearly lifeless body was his da-former mentor.

"You did good," said Dick, gently squeezing his shoulder.

Jason tried to nod, tried to give any reaction. It didn't work.

He wondered how long it would take- how long it would take for this oily dark feeling in his stomach to go away this time around and if he would ever stop feeling it every time he saw the older man laid up in bed.

He wondered if he even wanted to stop feeling it.

xxx

When Bruce started to stir awake thirty-two hours after the rescue, Jason was the only one awake, the rest of the bats having dozed off at different spots around the cave.

"Hunghhhh," said Bruce as he stirred awake

"Hey," murmured Jason gently touching the man's shoulder, "You with us, B?"

Bruce blinked slowly, looking as if he was having a hard time focusing. Jason gave him a few minutes to adjust. Once he stopped blinking, he noticed that bruce was looking at him with an odd tilt to his head and a confused look in his eyes.

He frowned. Maybe the injections had some side effects.

"Hey Bruce," said Jason, "Do you know who I am?"

Bruce frowned in concentration and then a bid dopey smile spread across his face.

"Murder Baby," he said

Jason couldn't believe his ears, "What?"

"Murder Baby!" said Bruce, this time a little more enthusiastically

"What?" this time his question came out in a screech and prompted everyone in them cave to wake up. Dick fell off the chair, Timmy and Duke accidentally elbowed each other from where they were curled up together. Everyone also looked ready for a fight. Cass was the only one who looked even a little calm.

Bruce grinned and waved when he saw all fo them.

"What's wrong Little Wing?" asked Dick, "Everything okay with him?"

Jason didn't know how to answer.

"Uh, B tell me again who I am?"

Dick frowned but Bruce answered without missing a beat.

"Murder Baby!"

There were a few murmured 'what the hell's around the room?'

"Father what's wrong with you?" asked Damian, coming to stand beside Jason

Bruce grinned again and bopped Damian on the nose "Little Cutie!"

"Oh my God," said Dick gleefully, "It's the drugs,"

Bruce turned at the sound and smiled at Dick, "Birdie!"

"Well okay then," said Tim.

Bruce grinned and made grabby hands at Tim. Tim carefully came closer only for Bruce to bodily haul him up on the bed.

"Hi dad," said Tim, a happy grin on his face. Jason thought it looked good on him.

"Coffee boy," murmured Bruce, gently poking his cheek.

"Ain't that accurate," scoffed Stephanie

"Eggplant girl!"

"That's also accurate," said Tim, "Hey B who's that?"

Bruce followed Tim's finger to Cass and smiled, "Dancey girl,"

A few chuckles were heard around the room and a game was made of it.

Duke was dubbed 'little mister light'

Kate was 'Kit Kat', apparently a childhood nickname by Bruce

Barbara was 'Little Red', another childhood nickname

Selina was still called 'Cat'

Harper was 'blue brat'

Cullen was called 'Cute bug'

But the real kicker came when Alfred finally came downstairs.

"What ever is going on down here," he asked

A few voices went up to explain but it Bruce's words that cut through everything.

"Hi, Dad!"

Silence. You could have heard a ghost pin drop.

"Master Bruce?" asked Alfred

Bruce held out a hand and made an impatient motion, "Dad!"

Alfred quickly came to his side and squeezed his hand, making Bruce smile a big dopey smile all over again.

"What is happening here?" asked Alfred, sounding both bewildered and happy

"He's giving everyone nicknames," Jason told him, "We think it's the drugs. He keeps calling me Murder Baby,"

"And apparently you're dad," said Dick, a soft smile on his face, "Makes sense really,"

Alfred smiled, a little wetness in his eyes, "I see,"

"You should hear what he's calling the rest of us," said Stephanie, "Hey Bruce, who am I?"

And then the nickname game began all over again.

"I didn't think he would use the word murder in association with me so...affectionately," said Jason

"You guys have come a long way," said Dick

"He's high on drugs," said Jason, trying not to let hope swell in his chest, "Probably doesn't know what he's saying,"

"He called Alfred Dad, Jay,"

Jason didn't have anything to say to that.

The real shock came when Leslie came over to check up on Bruce.

"Mom!"

Leslie stopped in her tracks.

"What?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"It's the drugs. He's giving everyone nicknames," said Tim

"And I'm..."

"Mom!" Bruce finished for her

"Well, baby," said Leslie, voice suspiciously rough, "Let's get you checked out,"

Bruce complied with a grin and nod.

Half an hour later, Bruce had dozed off again while everybody settled down around him.

"You all should really head upstairs," said Leslie

Nobody moved

xxx

Bruce woke up again two hours later but this time everyone was alert. Kate, Selina and Leslie had left while Alfred had gone back upstairs but the kids had all stayed.

Jason was once again the first one to notice that he was waking up.

"Hey, B," he said, "You with us?"

"Hmm, Jay?" said Bruce, prompting everyone to surround him once again.

Jason smiled, "Yeah. Yeah. It's me. How're you feeling?"

"I'm okay," he said, carefully, "How long was I out?"

"The first time nearly two days after. You woke a couple of hours ago and then fell asleep again," said Dick

Bruce frowned, "Please tell me you all haven't been here the whole time,"

"Don't worry about that," said Tim, "Do you remember anything from when you first woke up,"

Bruce frowned, "No, Should I?"

Everyone in the room shot each other looks, trying to but not succeeding in hiding their grins.

Bruce gave a resigned sigh, "Just show me the video,"

Four different phones were extended towards him. Bruce took Stephanie's and played the video displayed. They all watched him carefully as he cycled through very different emotions. Surprise, amusement, happiness and then utter bewilderment.

"I called Leslie, mom?" he asked, looking up at them

"Yeah," said Dick, "We were a little surprised,"

"I'm gonna have to talk to her aren't I?" he asked

"That's probably a good idea," said Duke

"Have you ever called her that before?" asked Tim

"Once," said Bruce, "I was around ten. I ran away and hid in my room for a full two days,"

"Wow,"

"Yup,"

There was a beat of silence and then Damian spoke up.

"Father, now that all this sentimental commiserating is over, I would like to bring up a complaint about the nickname you gave me,"

"Really brat?" said Tim, "Bruce was drugged for god's sake,"

"Quiet Drake," said Damian, "As I was saying, my nickname should not involve the work cute. I will allow little as I am the smallest right now but not cute,"

"But Dami," cried Dick, "You are cute,"

"I am not-Grayson! Get off of me- Father! Help!"

Bruce just shook his head and smiled.

Eventually, everybody wandered away from the cave, leaving only Bruce and Jason behind.

"So," started Bruce, conversationally, "What about this is bothering you? The murder part or the baby part?"

Jason stared at him, "I have no idea what you're talking about,"

Bruce raised his eyebrows and yeah, that was about eight on the Did you forget I'm Batman scale.

Jason sighed, "I don't know,"

"Is it a bad thing?"

Jason thought about it and landed on 'no'. Hearing it threw his for a bit of an emotional loop but it wasn't something that needed talking about. He would probably forget about it the minute he started eating Alfred's cookies.

"Nah. I'm good,"

"Okay," said Bruce, "Jay?"

"Yeah,"

"I love you,"

"Love you too, Old man,"

Yeah. It was good.

xxx

A few days after the incident, the family were all gathered in the den, having a rare night of pizza and movies. Well, the pizza was the rare part, not the movies.

Damian was grouchy about something like usual and talking-well complaining-Bruce's ear off.

Bruce was looking at his phone though and at one point pulled Damian close while shushing him absentmindedly.

"Hush, Little Cutie,"

There was a moment of silence and then the room exploded with Damian's screeching and everyone else's amusement.

Poor Bruce just looked bewildered.

"I-I didn't mean to say that," he muttered

It made Jason roar and double over.

"Your face!" he said between gasps

Bruce glared.

"Shut up, Murder Baby,"

It only made Jason laugh harder.

#bruce wayne #Jason Todd #batfamily #batdad #fluff #humor

163 notes · View notes

calpalirwin · 5 years ago

Text

Hair or Lungs

A/N: I’m all for giving credit where credit is due, so big thanks to @carebearofriddles for the idea. Hope you guys like it!

And away, and away we go!

~~~

Calum made sure you and Roy were out before he finally came home from his holiday abroad. He, never being an early riser, often caught you and Roy chatting in the kitchen whenever you were over. In eavesdropping on those conversations, he had learned a lot about you. Like how your parents had a rule that you were allowed to do whatever you wanted to your body basically, provided it was temporary, and that you had shamelessly tested those boundaries by coming home with wild streaks of colors in your hair or a new piercing because “it’s temporary!”

You had since grown out of that rebellious phase, only keeping the piercings in your ears and dying your hair less frequently and more normal colors when you did. But you had loved your parents for allowing you that freedom to be you in the most you way, and it was something you planned to do for your own kids when you got to that point in your life. Because “hey, as long as it’s not addictive or harming anyone, what’s the problem?”

Well, Calum had changed up his hair. When you last saw him he was still rocking his blackish fluff of a hairstyle. The length was still the same, but the color was now a silvery blonde. And he couldn’t wait to film your reaction. So, he set up the camera, hit record, and waited.

~~~

“Roy! He’s here!” Calum heard your voice call out happily as your keys unlocked the front door. “Cal?! Cal!” you screamed before running into his arms. “I missed you!”

“I missed you, too!” he said, dragging you into the kitchen where he had his camera still waiting.

He reached down to scoop up Duke who was barking happily at him. He mumbled some cute nonsense at the dog before setting him down. Then, he ran a hand through his hair, drawing your attention to it.

“Oh, my God!” you said, clapping a hand to your mouth. “Cal! Your hair!”

“Looks good, yeah?”

“It looks great!” you said, running your hands through it. Damn, your man looked good. “Upstairs?”

“Now.”

~~~

“So, if he quits smoking before the end of the year, you 2 can’t have sex for 2 weeks,” Roy grinned over at you. Your roommate was tired of your late night sexcapades with Calum keeping him up.

You weighed the options. It was only February. Was this a bet worth taking? Yes, you decided. Calum was about to have a busy year ahead of him which meant your boyfriend would be smoking up a hell of a storm. “You’re on!” you grinned, shaking Roy’s hand.

You and Calum had been dating for close to two years, a relationship only your closest friends knew about. You both had agreed in the beginning of the relationship to keep each other off of your social media accounts and to only be intimate with each other when you were out of the public eye. It was hard, not being able to so much as hold his hand in public, but you respected Calum’s right to keep his relationship with you between just you and him. And, if you were being completely honest, you were scared for the world to know about your relationship. You had seen the type of nasty comments Crystal and Sierra received. No, it was much better to let the world think you and Calum were just friends. Because you were. He was your best friend, and you were his- “girl best friend, Ash, you’re still his guy best friend, calm down”- you just also happened to be dating him.

Calum kept himself hidden as he listened in on the conversation, smirking to himself. He had never had a reason to quit smoking. Until you. And now with this bet hanging between you and Roy, he was more determined than ever to make quitting stick this time.

~~~

The next drastic change Calum did to his hair was he cropped it super short, dying it silver in the process.

Again, he set up the camera to film your reaction.

“Jesus!” you said running your hands through it. “What are you gonna do next? Shave your head?”

Now that there was an idea! He just grinned. “Look, now you can mess it up and I don’t have to fix it before shows,” he told you, running his own hands furiously through his hair. “See? Nothing!”

You pouted. “I liked messing up your hair…”

“And I like not having to fix it,” he said, tapping a finger to your nose.

“We want the curls, Cal.”

“We?”

“We. Me. The fans. The curls. Give them back,” you said, giving a playful tug of his short hair.

“So, you can tug more of my hair? No thanks.”

“You love it, don’t lie,” you smirked, giving his hair another tug.

His eyes closed and he held back a moan. “Upstairs. Now.”

~~~

When he did eventually shave his head, he was in Korea, and you were home with Duke. Recording your reaction was going to take a little more work.

“Oh, God damn it!” you giggled when he Facetimed you. “Your beautiful hair… it’s gone…”

“It’s not all gone,” he insisted, giving his hair a rub. “Ah, that feels weird.”

“Yeah, cuz you shaved your damn head!” you laughed at him. “Oh, Cal…”

He pouted. “You don’t like it, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So?”

You sighed. “You look great, Cal. You always do. Now, hurry up, and come home so I can not mess up your hair.”

“Just got Australia left, and then I’m coming home to you.”

“You better.”

“I’ll be home before you know it, baby.”

~~~

“Cal!” you shrieked, coming home to find him home.

“Baby!” he smiled, taking you in his arms.

“Damn it! You’re gonna kill me with these hair changes!” you laughed, running your hands through his hair. The shaved head had grown out into a super short buzz cut, and your boyfriend’s hair was silver again.

“Are you saying you don’t like it?”

“I’m saying you’re gonna give me a heart attack with all these looks you keep serving. Just when I think I can breathe easy again, you drag me back to square one with a new look.”

“So, you do like it!”

“Upstairs. Now.”

He smoked his last cigarette after that.

~~~

“So, you actually quit?” Ashton asked as both men sat in salon chairs. Calum was getting his hair dyed blue, while Ashton was reverting back to his natural brown.

“Yep. Haven’t had a smoke in a week.”

“Damn, you really like her, huh?” Ashton teased.

“Fuck you, mate,” Calum laughed.

“In all seriousness though, I’m proud of you for finally quitting.”

“Me too.”

“So, are you finally going to go public with your relationship with her, too? I mean, you’ve been together like what? 2 years? You live together. You quit smoking for her. You just gonna marry her and still keep her a secret or what?”

Calum let out his breath in a huff. “I dunno, Ash. I mean, I asked her to move in after a year of dating 1.) because I love her and shit and 2.) because I felt guilty she’s stayed by my side while I act like we’re just friends in public. Like she deserved for me to show that I’m serious about her, and that was the best I was able to give her.”

“But that was then. This is now. Are you able to give her more now?”

“I quit smoking…”

“Cal…”

“Look, I’ve been making these videos of her, right? Every time I change my hair, I record her reaction. Ryan’s helping me make it into a video to give to her for our anniversary. When I give it to her, I’m also gonna tell her that I quit smoking for good. She makes me want to be a better man, mate.”

“That’s sweet Cal. I’m happy for you, really I am. Y/N’s a sweetheart. But, aren’t you ready to stop hiding behind the anti-love act and own up that you’ve actually been in love with someone this whole time? I know you guys were both scared at first. But, it doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I know,” Ashton smirked. Then, “She’s gonna be pissed you made her lose her bet with Roy. No sex for 2 weeks? Damn…”

“Yeah, that’s gonna suck.”

“Is that why you’re changing your hair so much? To make not smoking easier?”

“Shit, maybe… Hair or lungs I guess.”

“I’m glad you’re going with hair.”

~~~

“Calum… Thomas… HOOD!” you screamed, running to put your hands through his bright blue hair. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Keeping you on your toes?”

“More like slowly killing me.”

“I take it you like it?”

“Always, bubs, always.”

“Upstairs?”

“Now.”

~~~

“Oh, Cal…” you breathed, dabbing at your eyes as he showed you the video.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

“Happy anniversary, bubs.”

“So, you like it?”

“I love it. Thank you.”

“Good, I thought you’d be mad I was filming you in secret.”

You laughed. “Is that why you were changing your hair so much? To make a video?”

“Well that and because it’s stopped me from smoking.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I quit two weeks ago.”

“Oh, Cal! That’s great!”

“I can’t take all the credit. You helped.”

“You quit for me?”

“Yeah. It was do crazy temporary things to my hair or keep damaging my lungs. And I need my lungs healthy because I plan on loving you for a long time.”

“Good, because I plan on loving you right back for just as long.”

“Now, sit, I want to show you something.”

“Show me what? Cal? What did you do now?”

He showed you how he posted the video to his social media accounts with the caption: “So, I’ve been keeping a secret. I’m in love with the amazing, beautiful, and incredibly smart @faby/n and today is our anniversary. She inspires me to be a better man, a better man who changes his hair instead of smoking. Happy 2 years, baby, and may we never stop counting the years together.”

“Oh, Cal…” you said, wiping at your eyes again. “I love you so much, bubs.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask first. But, I’m tired of hiding. I want the whole world to know how much I love you.”

“This is perfect.”

“And as much as I hate to break up this lovefest, you lose Y/N,” Roy said, snapping you and Calum out of your love daze.

“Damn it!” you groaned.

“Lose what?” Calum asked.

“Roy bet me that if you quit smoking this year then we couldn’t have sex for two weeks.”

“Oh, right.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I knew. I heard you guys make it.”

“You made me lose on purpose?! Calum!”

“You bet I wouldn’t quit!”

“Because I know how hard you’ve tried in the past!”

“I get to SLEEP!” Roy cheered.

You pulled a five dollar bill out of your pocket and tossed it at your roommate. “Buy some ear plugs, Roy.”

“What?! No sex! Two weeks! That was the bet!”

“Roy, lemme tell you how this is gonna go down. We all know it’s Cal keeping you up, not me. And you said no sex. There’s still plenty of other things I can do to Cal,” you told your roommate.

Calum cleared his throat as he knew exactly what you were talking about and tugged at his pants as they tightened at your words.

“That’s cheating!”

“It’s called a loophole, Roy. Now, I suggest you run, cuz I’m about to show the world how much I love me some Calum Hood.”

“Wait…? The world? Did you and Cal stop hiding?!”

“Yeah, mate,” Calum grinned at him, showing him the post that was blowing up with love for you both.

“I should’ve known Cal was whipped. Treat my brother right, Y/N. Have fun, you two,” Roy said, clapping a hand on Calum’s shoulder and leaving the house, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’m not whipped…” Calum said, watching Roy leave you to enjoy each other in privacy.

“Cal?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Upstairs.”

“Yes, baby.”

#hair or lungs #calum hood #calum blurb #galcal irwin

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rosesisupposes · 5 years ago

Text

Skin Deep

Two royal twins, Remus and Roman, alike in almost every way, trained to be military leaders, trained to serve their nation as generals. But in a society that sees any body irregularities as signs of moral defect, one will never hold the same status as his brother. How could he ever be a proper Face of the Nation?

or, What If Roman Was The Unacceptable One?

Word count: 9,203

Main Characters: Remus, Roman

Appearances by: Patton, Remy, Logan, Virgil, Mentions of Deceit

Relationships: Platonic/Brotherly Creativitwins; background Losleep, past Moceit, beginnings of Royality, Platonic Sleepality, Platonic Sleepxiety,

Warnings: graphic descriptions of war/battle; societal prejudice based on appearances; discrimination based on appearances; trauma-induced body modifications; mentions of emotional abuse including forced starvation/food deprivation;

Credit to @hawthornshadow for being my wonderful co-creator in the worldbuilding especially, and to dear @vintage-squid for beta-reading!

read on ao3

Roman’s muscles were burning as he blocked the attack, catching the down-swinging blow at the hilt. He pushed back, threw his assailant off balance, and swung out his leg to send him sprawling. Without pausing for breath, he followed through, swinging his sword to stop mere inches from the fallen man’s throat.

“I yield,” the man said, chest heaving. “Also, fuck you, Your Grace.”

Roman grinned and sheathed his dull practice sword, offering an arm to help the man to his feet. “My only goal is to help you improve, my dear Toby. By pointing out the weak points in your defense. Repeatedly.”

“Thanks ever so, royal pain-in-the-ass,” Toby said, letting himself be pulled to standing. He stretched, wincing, and picked up his fallen weapon. The other men of Roman’s squad surrounded them, patting Toby’s back with sympathy and slapping Roman with what were framed as claps of victory but were probably harder than they needed to be. Roman brushed his hair out of his face, his bright red curls turned dark with sweat. One of the men tossed him a damp cloth to wipe his face, and he caught it with thanks.

Roman and his men were chatting and planning their next training session when a servant entered the yard.

“Your Grace, your father requests your presence.”

Roman immediately broke off from the group. “Is it an immediate request, or do I have time to make myself presentable?”

“His Majesty is aware that you were in the training grounds, and it is not an urgent matter.”

⁂

Roman, cleaned up and outfitted in his dress uniform, knelt before his father’s throne, waiting to be spoken to. He felt a slight trickle of sweat on his neck, and he spared a moment to hope that he wouldn’t sweat on his face as well. He would hate to have the makeup he’d carefully applied get smeared. Yes, his scars were common knowledge, and weren’t ever fully made invisible even when he caked on concealer and foundation, but he knew his father preferred it to be less noticeable. His father, and most everyone else too.

He wondered, not for the first time, if his brother would continue to require Roman to wear makeup once he ascended to the throne. He was never quite sure how Remus felt about the whole process.

He looked up under his lashes to see Remus inclining his head to speak into their father’s ear, advising him on some court matter. It appeared he’d been to the castle barber today - his hair was neatly shorn and perfectly shaped. Not a single strand blocked the view of his defined cheekbones, round chin, or his smooth, unblemished skin. Ideal, without flaws. He looked just as one would expect him to, the future Face of the Kingdom.

Currently, he was frowning. He looked up and seemed to notice his brother kneeling.

“Roman, thank you for coming. Father and I need your advice on the next advance.”

Roman rose, finally, and walked over to the map spread on the table by the throne.

“We expect the vanguard to be entrenched at the top of the mountain, but we might be able to draw them out with a flank attack-”

“But we’d run the risk of getting pinned down by their artillery and archers-”

The three royals broke into a flurry of strategy and tactics, Roman giving an on-the-ground view from the thick of battle to his father and brother’s eagle’s-eye-view. He noted more than one moment where his father urged bold, aggressive, and risky strategies that made Remus hesitate. But each time, the crown prince agreed with his father’s methods. Through the involved discussion, a battle plan was crafted.

“I expect well of you both,” the king said, nodding decisively. “We will meet on the peak in three day’s time. Gather your men and arms.”

Roman and Remus both bowed to their father. Roman waited a moment to allow his brother to exit the throne room before him, but walked by his side through the hallways leading to the family quarters.

“Are you quite alright, Reme? You seemed distracted in council-”

“I’m fine, Ro,” his brother responded, cutting him off. “It’s just another battle. Good night.” He entered his room and shut the door behind him with a thud.

⁂

“-no need for such theatrics, Your Highness, it’s just another battle.”

Remus stared up at the general, hardly aware of the tears on his cheeks or the vomit still lining his mouth. He was 12, on his first trip with his father to the battlefield. He hadn’t been prepared.

His tutors had spent years stressing the need for the royal line to fight alongside their men. The glory of war was the glory of generals, directing and rallying troops, inspiring hope and righteous fury from the front of the charge. Remus, as heir, must be the generals’ General. Plain in speech, getting directly to the point. Curt. No fancifulness, lest he be distracted. He was instructed on how to be the perfect leader, the perfect soldier, and one day the perfect king.

But what they hadn’t told him was the reality that all soldiers knew: there is little glory on the field of war. There was the Cause at home, of course, a grand narrative that justified sending the troops out for King and Country, a declaration of glorious purpose and righteous smiting.

But on the field?

There had been the initial clash, of course, the charging of lines against one another. But that was where the resemblance to the theory Remus had been steeped in ended. He’d been brought to a battlefield and saw the charge, heard the horns and drums, and at first, his heart had swelled with the glory of which he’d only heard of.

Then he saw the aftermath. He saw the wounded scattered around like leaves after a storm, limbs detached and bloody like some terrible mockery of dolls, the flies buzzing over blown-out heads… he had barely made it out of the command tent before he started to vomit, long and hard, until he was heaving with nothing left to retch.

But the generals, and his father, had merely frowned and scoffed at his immaturity. Why did he dwell on this? It was a fact of life and war. He wasn't to mind it. He was to do his duty.

So Remus cleaned his mouth and pushed those sights to the back of his mind. They were to be expected, as part of the cleanup. No need to think about the wounded and marred.

Roman, the younger twin, was much older when he was brought to battle. He saw small skirmishes first, before the carnage of all-out war. But the sheen of glory faded for him too.

Remus remembered the voices of the public as they brought Roman home on a stretcher. The country’s champions were only supposed to lead, not get hurt. Or if they must be hurt, it wasn’t supposed to be in lasting or visible ways, they were supposed to at most suffer some injury, bravely soldier through, and return home triumphant in a sling. Why couldn’t Duke Roman have been properly injured, those who sat at home in their solars asked. A broken arm. A leg. Something that would heal and look dramatic doing it. Soldiers, especially noble ones, were expected to recover without a mark to show for it. Once the war had left the public consciousness, the injuries should have vanished, too. “Better to have been a martyr than to return home like that,” they whispered.

Not that Roman ever had a chance.

He’d been born with facial markings. Skin that looked almost painted with a pink mark, a wine stain imbued in the tan skin of his face. He looked wrong, the whispers said. Wrong for nobility. Certainly wrong for royalty. Imagine if such a one had been born the elder. How could such a one lead the nation, be the culmination of the bloodline and the clear face of morals that his people needed?

The king and queen had known of the double heartbeat, known that two children were on their way at once. And the nation and family knew, of course, that Remus was the elder, if only by half an hour. What a relief it was to know that the proper heir didn’t have such a deformity. The royals announced them both at once, hadn’t proclaimed each birth separately as was sometimes done. But then, of course, that was surely because of the queen, may she rest in peace. The midwives and servants didn’t speak of that day. Out of respect for her memory. A day of both joy and sorrow. King and country lost their beloved queen. But they gained the sons of the nation. Duke Roman, who served in battle honorably and mostly well. And Prince Remus, who was soft, and smooth, and blemish-free. A proper heir.

And he never returned from battle with injuries so dire they would leave unmistakable scars.

⁂

Three days later, Remus sat astride his charger, waiting for his father’s signal. The army’s flags snapped in the brisk wind, and he heard the creak and jingle of tack and armor around him as the soldiers shifted in place, maintaining formation as they waited.

The horn sounded, and Remus lifted his morning star with a yell and kneed his horse into a charge, soldiers streaming beside and behind him.

The fight was a blur. Remus remembered moments like the new technology of moving photographs, brief clips only a few seconds long. Catching a blow from an enemy horseman on his shield. Swinging his mace low and alongside his mount, catching a footsoldier from behind. Seeing Roman, bright in a white jacket that would soon be stained as he and his force streamed down a hill to join the fray.

It was just another battle. He played his role in the plan well, and their army won. He sat on a bench outside the command tent, cleaning his weapon and listening to reports. The victory was resounding - the only enemy soldiers not killed had been captured. The day was theirs.

Remus looked across the battlefield as one of his advisors continued to report. The ground was churned by the hooves of hundreds of horses, where it wasn’t obscured by bodies or fallen weapons. He found his eye caught on one lone body at the base of the hill from where he sat. An enemy soldier, now defeated. That's all the man should have been to him. Right?

But he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t. The man’s head was bloody, the wound jagged and terrible and... and it matched his morning star. The punctures, the dent, they matched the pattern perfectly. He’d just cleaned it - the blood and mud and matter had taken so much effort to clean. And there was where the blood had come from, that young man’s head, now part of the carnage, lying in a tangle of the fallen like logs ready to be burnt.

Remus’ hand started to shake, morning star still in his grasp.

“Your Highness? Are you alright?” the general asked.

Remus nodded, still shaking, and tried to flash the man a reassuring smile. His mouth split open, but it stretched too wide, too far, too fake. He started to laugh, air forcing itself out of his lungs in staccato bursts. The general’s eyes widened with nervousness, and he looked around them for someone else, anyone else to help.

Remus’ laugh went on and on, humorless and shrill. He couldn’t stop himself.

“Can't think about it, you know!" he cackled between laughs. "Can't dwell! It's a fact of life!"

The general backed away, heading for the other tents that housed the king and the other leaders.

When they returned to the hilltop, Remus was gone, without a trace. All that remained was a morning star, abandoned in the mud.

⁂

Two weeks later, the king paced the throne room fretfully.

“We fear the worst has happened to the Prince,” the king said. “An ambush, perhaps? Some straggler who escaped our forces, desperate for one last kill? Perhaps they recognized him and mean to ransom him, but wouldn’t we have received a demand letter by now? He’s clearly noble, anyone could tell that from a glance, why haven’t we received word? What shall we do without our heir? What will become of our nation?”

Roman stood at attention, silent. He had not heard from his brother either, but from the general’s report, he was far less optimistic that something so simple as kidnapping had occurred. But his father wouldn’t hear of it.

They hadn’t made an official announcement to the public, besides half-hearted excuses. But the rumors had begun, whispers noticing Prince Remus’ conspicuous absence. Only Duke Roman had presided with the King at the victory procession. How could the Prince allow “feeling under the weather” prevent him from attending? What was wrong?

Roman’s fingers beat an anxious rhythm on his sword hilt as he watched his father pace when they were both jolted by the loud slam of the throne room door opening.

In the doorway stood… well, it appeared to be Remus. But Remus had… changed.

His hair was long and straggly, and dyed a sickening swamp green. Metal spikes pierced the cartilage of his nose and ears, sprouting out like a mockery of armor. Studs were embedded in his cheeks. Black tears were inked under his eyes. His lips were painted a screeching shade of neon green, and when he smiled wide, they saw that his tongue had been disfigured, split into two.

They both stared, but Roman was the first to speak.

"Remus?" Roman asked. "I- we were so worried, what happened?"

"Oh I just got my head out of my ass, brother dear! Didn't want to be like all you shitheads anymore!" Turning to the king, the prince grinned lopsidedly "Daddykins, didn't you miss me? Did you have to slaughter children by yourself or did you bring ickle Romeo with you?"

"Remus!" Roman interrupted, shocked. "We don't-"

"Oh but we doooo!" Remus sang. "Me and Daddy do! We do our doody, don't we, Pop?"

The king finally spoke. "What," he demanded flatly. "Have you done to yourself."

Remus fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh I just stabbed my own face! Professionally, of course. almost as professionally as you with your broadsword. Not nearly as much blood, though, I know you'd be disappointed."

The prince approached the throne, heedless or because of the way the king recoiled from him.

"Hope I can still be your little boy, though, Poppy! Hope I can fill your big dick shoes! Can't you just wait for me to take on our glorious legacy? Aren't you delighted to hand off that big ol' crown to you eldest son?!"

"Let you be the face of the kingdom, looking like that? " his father said coldly. "Let you rule, when you have clearly abandoned all we hold dear?” The King rose, pointing past Remus with a finger that shook with rage. “Get out of our sight. We have only one son."

Remus grinned widely, and Roman realized with a sickening start that he hadn’t seen his brother smile this much since they were children.

“Whatever you desire, dearest darlingest popsicle!”

“Out!” the king roared, and Remus obeyed, his cackling laughter echoing back through the halls.

The king breathed deep, chest heaving as he calmed himself.

“Roman.”

The duke swallowed the lump in his throat to answer, “Yes, Father?”

“We name you Crown Prince, sole heir to our throne and fortune. We disown and disname the former Prince Remus. The realm places its full trust in you, our son.”

Roman knelt, hearing the unspoken end of the sentence. Don’t you dare fail.

“I thank you for this honor, father. I will serve to the best of my ability,” he said graciously.

The king took a medallion on ribbon from the wall - the sunburst seal of the royal house, only worn by kings and direct heirs. He placed it around Roman’s neck. “We- I know you will, Roman. I know you will be all that our country needs you to be.”

King and newly-named-prince made eye contact. The king’s eyes blazed, with anger and grief and unspoken warning: Don’t fuck up, like he did.

Roman bowed his head, lest his father see the heartbreak in his eyes.

You were what fucked him up.

⁂

Roman was introduced to the kingdom as the future king. It was not quite the joyous affair that Remus’ coming-of-age had been, not when the king spoke as if the former prince had died, when the announcement of Roman replacing him was practically perfunctory. When Roman had sat at his vanity for a full hour as the artists worked to cover up his birthmarks and battle scars. And for what? It wasn’t as if the kingdom didn’t already know that he was… imperfect. Marred. Flawed.

But appearances, his father told him coldly, must be maintained.

Roman was the heir, unable to be disowned too, not when the king had no more options. He needed the king’s advisors and generals to respect him if he were to ever properly reign. He needed the nobility to support him. He needed to get the ones in power, the Noble Council, to see past his face, to believe in his ability to rule despite his impurities. But he knew they would never be ignored.

Hadn’t he grown up with the whispers? Hadn’t he seen how others who were injured or disfigured be dismissed from court altogether? Hadn’t he watched as the mere rumor of a nobleman’s secret tattoo pushed him out of the public eye in shame? When a pair of clip-on earrings were scandalous just by resembling a body modification, what hope did Roman and his birthmark have to be accepted?

But he smiled, and waved, and spoke with the oldest generals, and accompanied his father to court days, and filled his role as heir. In battle, he was pulled into a higher level of command, no longer directing just his contingent of soldiers, but entire armies. He and his father led the charges still, of course, but he no longer trained with his men. His missed them, as he’d missed the relative privacy of being just a Duke instead of Prince. But it was his duty.

⁂

It had been months since Remus’ disownment when another major battle came to pass. The king brought Roman to the field with him, keeping him involved in the planning for the entire process. Roman was pleased to discover that the generals actually respected his strategic and tactical contributions - it seemed his closeness with his direct force had given him a keener sense of the risks and rewards of maneuvers that the command tent often lacked. That day, though, his father seemed a bit distracted. It didn’t seem to interfere with his reasoning or fighting, though. Not until the height of battle.

And then the King saw him. A young man with a morning star. It was a common-enough weapon for nobility, but... the boy had smooth skin and no scars and no piercings and he fought well, methodically and with only the required level of ferocity. He was a once-familiar sight on the field, one who had been there every battle until now.

And the king just... snapped.

He charged down the hill, ahead of the signal. Alone. It was unwise. Roman saw his father charge, tried to warn him back, tried to call to him and break through the distraction.

The King probably could not have articulated why he charged. It was out of anger, yes, but was it anger at the boy for being a reminder? Anger because of what he lost? Anger at Remus for no longer looking the way the young man did, for no longer being what the king had wished him to be?

He would never get a chance to explain.

The boy saw his danger. So did three of his fellows. The king brought no backup. He fell.

Roman continued the fight. What else could he have done?

The boy had frozen him too, a shadow from the past, one with a smile that Roman hadn’t seen on his twin’s face in years. Remus’ smiles had been growing stiffer ever since they were 12, pasted-on grins that never reached his eyes. And the last time he’d seen him- it had been even more unfamiliar. Manic. Pained. He’d laughed, but with no true amusement.

Even as he performed the steps of his role as heir, Roman couldn’t rid himself of the thought that the lack of genuine happiness in his brother’s face could only have been due to the king himself and the weight Remus had borne as the Crown Prince.

Roman ascended in the wake of his father’s death with that same weight, grown heavier through guilt and shame and the bitter knowledge that none of this was ever supposed to be him.

⁂

Roman had to be king. There was no one else. His father had been an only child. The next closest relatives were two different third cousins who were quite proud to be in the line of succession. If Roman wasn’t king, the country would fall into a civil war of family against family, fighting for the ‘truest’ claim to the throne.

The nobility accepted the necessity of his reign. That didn’t mean they were happy about it.

Whispers followed him through the halls, stopped suddenly as he entered the audience chamber, rumbled around him when he took his weekly rides through the capital city. He wanted to be an accessible king, one his people knew as more than just a bloodied general returning from the field. He even spent a single afternoon hoping that with enough exposure to his face and his scars, the country might grow to see past his appearance.

It was a foolish hope. Prejudices that have been passed down for over five generations don’t melt away because of one king, much less one who gained power under less than ideal circumstances.

And yet, it didn’t change his determination to be a presence in his people’s lives, not just a face seen from a distant castle balcony. After much cajoling and convincing of his personal guard, Roman began spending evenings mingling in the capital city restaurants and taverns. As a commander, he’d learned how best to let his soldiers get used to him, and he used this skill again across town, night after night. He would sit near the corner of the bar, or at a less-traffic corner of the dining room, or at the end of a shared table. He would eat quietly, only speaking when others greeted him, seemingly very focused on his food alone. And slowly, his fellow diners got over the shock of seeing their king among them and start chatting about their lives, their children, their heartbreaks and dreams. He would listen and nod and quietly pay their tabs, then leave before they got too embarrassed or self-conscious. And when it was commoners, it worked well. With the nobility, or the higher classes of commoners that desperately wanted to be nobility, he had to fend off the comments. Usually, it was surprise that his birthmark and scars were really that obvious. Or passive-aggressive comments about how it was “wonderful how cosmopolitan the Noble Council is these days.”

Roman would just grin and bluster and respond, “Royalty’s more than skin-deep, darling.”

It was just charming enough to satisfy most, or at least end that line of conversation, and he could go back to being a silent listener. But when eyes lingered on his birthmarks or traced down the long line of stitching scars down his cheek, he couldn’t help but flinch internally, preparing himself for the darts and daggers of judgment. The sting of disapproval never really faded, no matter how many times he endured it with a smile.

⁂

He risked it, one night, to go to a place he’d only heard about in hushed tones. It was a scandalous place, certainly not one that any self-respecting noble would be caught dead in. But Roman was desperate with hope. So without telling anyone, not even his bodyguard, he slipped out of the castle to visit Au Naturel.

The sign had been vandalized recently, bright red spray paint across it like blood splatters, but what could be expected when a slur was reclaimed with such audacity? Roman hesitated on the threshold, but surely it would be far worse to linger there on the street and risk being seen for minutes versus the seconds it would take him to enter or exit. With a deep breath, he walked inside.

The first thing he saw was a bouncer, a hulking man with navy blue hair and glasses. He stared down at Roman’s identification papers critically, eyebrows barely twitching in recognition of the kingdom’s regnal name. Roman tried to avoid staring, but the man was pierced in dozens of places, with visible tattoos curling out of the collar of the sensible black turtleneck. But he didn’t look distraught or distressed, just cool and collected.

Roman fought back a shiver of excitement as he reclaimed his papers and was welcomed into the heart of the bar with a wave.

He’d expected dim lights, maybe a smoke-obscured room, something out of the speakeasy fictions he’d read about in the edgier forms of media. Instead, there were golden lamps that lit everything well, and bright neon signs that threw off a rainbow of lights from the walls. The rainbows were reflected back off the many piercings in the crowd, off shiny gelled hair, even off prosthetic limbs. Roman had expected a huddled crowd of solidarity, of societal misfits in their one safe space. Instead, he found a party of delight, with faces that were all relaxed and at ease instead of just in temporary relief.

He shuffled to the bar, avoiding eye contact, a bit overwhelmed and unsure how to start mingling.

A smiling bartender greeted him. They had a mohawk, dyed in blues and purples with glitter sprinkled through like stars. They wore a lipstick of a startling bright shade of pink that contrasted with their tan skin. A huge silver hoop dangled from one ear lobe, accompanied by spikes around the cartilage, and they acknowledged Roman’s quiet request for a gin-and-tonic with a wink. As they turned to the racks of drinks, Roman realized with a start that their skin was perfectly smooth, besides the alterations. No visible scars or marks or even freckles, and the mesh shirt they wore meant much more skin was visible than normal. And yet, they were here. As they returned with Roman’s drink, they asked, “First night, hun?”

Roman nodded. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”

The bartender leaned, tilting down tinted glasses to fix Roman with a look. “What do you mean, babes?”

“I- the way people talk, I’d expected the folks here to be much more… I’m not sure. Bitter?”

“If there’s one thing I know about ‘people’, it’s that they always expect and want outcasts to be as miserable as they believe we ought be. But the owner puts a lot of effort into making this more than just an escape. She wants it to be an oasis. And she seeks out newbies to make sure they know it’s safe to just be here. Here, lemme introduce you, I think you’ll like her.”

Roman nodded his agreement, and watched the bartender flit and weave through the crowd, greeting people and they went. They were apparently a favorite, with patrons squeezing their shoulder or kissing them on the cheek as they passed. They only paused once, when they reached the stoic bouncer from the entrance. He was sitting in a booth, apparently on break, ignoring the room, until the bartender touched his shoulder gently and he turned to look at him with a smile lighting up his face. They exchanged a brief kiss, and then the bartender was sliding into a door labeled ‘Employees Only’.

Roman let his gaze roam. Everywhere, there thronged people with piercings and tattoos and colored contacts, and they all looked happy. He even saw others with scars and birthmarks like his own, but no one stared at them or seemed to care. And they couldn’t all be lashing back against trauma like Remus had, right?

“Welcome to Au Naturel, kiddo! I’m Patton, the owner.”

Roman turned to see a bright smile and an outstretched hand. The owner was like no one he’d ever seen. The majority of her skin was a dark, rich brown, but it was interrupted with splotches of pale skin. And where the skin was light enough to see, it was speckled with light brown spots. She was the kind of face that nobility put on dramatized posters of the ‘less fortunate’, those who were born with so many impurities that they clearly couldn’t hope to be any more than the lowest rung of the serving class. But here she stood, bright teeth flashing at Roman in the club she owned, in an atmosphere of pure joy that she’d created. A silver chain around her neck held a ring and a magenta charm affirming her pronouns.

Roman shook her hand gently. “It’s good to meet you, Patton. I’m Roman.”

“Oh, I know! Thank you for gracing my humble establishment with your presence, Your Majesty. I was a bit surprised when Remy told me who was sitting at the bar- I wasn’t sure if your facial marks were really as obvious as the gossips say.”

Roman cringed internally. He’d been recognized, clocked by bartender and owner, and he’d been here barely 20 minutes. The common refrain rolled off his tongue with the perfect intonation of repetition. “Well, royalty’s only skin-deep, darling.”

Patton blinked. “Oh- oh, Your Majesty, pardon me, I didn’t mean to offend.”

Roman faked a smile with practiced ease. “No offense, my lady.”

“No, I- I meant, I assumed they were exaggerating your appearance from just some small beauty mark, because I had assumed anyone who looked like us wouldn’t be allowed to ascend to the throne. I’m delighted that you’re real! And you have these beautiful marks of the gods’ favor, just like me, and you’re our King without having to cover them!”

Roman blinked, started to speak, then blinked again. “Marks of what?”

Patton grinned and sat next to Roman. “Of the gods’ favor, of course! You and I, we were painted in the womb, blessed with more than one color, claimed by more than one patron. Some people get just freckles, a smattering of kisses. Some get a beauty mark, a touch or two. But you and I, they couldn’t bear to refrain, and look at me! I got a whole big hug, from top to toe.”

Roman did look. And he found he got more and more confused by the second. Because here was this woman, multi-colored, a floppy fro bouncing in dark curls with strips of light blonde among them, speckled with freckles along her pale patches of skin. She was everything Roman had been told was impure, imperfect, pitiable- and yet, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.

“I’ve… never thought of it that way,” he said softly. “Particularly with…” he trailed off, pointing to his scars.

“I don’t really trust the gossips on the news- how did you get these, King Roman?”

Roman traced the line on the back of his hand, remembering. “It was a particularly bad battle. A young soldier whose fellows had fallen on either side of him had a knife hidden in his belt. I was arrogant, back then, just foolish enough to believe that the norms of the battlefield would always be respected, that the separations of class meant anything in the melee. So I was caught completely unawares by the blade, thinking the young man was just a commoner and so no real threat. I was lucky, though. I survived.” Despite how the Noble Council reacted on my recovery.

Patton’s eyes softened. “I am glad you survived, Your Majesty. And gladder that the prejudices of some against your tapestry didn’t prevent you from becoming King.”

Roman ducked his head. “Thank you, Patton. And please- call me Roman.”

She giggled. “Oh, how scandalous, little ol’ me on a first-name basis with the King! At least let me comp your drink first!”

Roman felt his cheeks heating up as he watched her laugh, curls bouncing. “Please, I’m sure you pay more than your fair share of taxes already. Let me. Consider it a subsidy, if you must.”

Patton tilted her head, contemplating the royal man sitting in her bar. “If you insist, my liege,” she said with a sly smile.

Roman was sure he was visibly blushing now, but caught the owner’s hand in his. Brushing his lips against it, he looked up into Patton’s wide, blue eyes. “And insist I do.”

Patton was quiet for only a moment, before her face split open in a bright smile. “Oh, I like this one. I think we’ll just have to keep you.”

“Kidnapping a king? Now who’s being scandalous?”

“You can only kidnap someone if it’s against their will,” she replied with a wink.

Roman was saved from having to respond by the bartender returning. “Ooohh, Patty, I knew you had expensive taste, but flirting with actual royalty?”

Patton blew a kiss to her employee. “You would know, Remy.”

Roman realized he’d yet to let go of Patton’s hand, but didn’t feel particularly inclined to change that at this particular moment. Until Remy responded, “If even the absolute disgrace of the Dormions clan can recognize royalty, anyone can, but go off I guess.”

Roman turned. “You’re that Remy? Remington?”

Remy grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. I was going to change my name entirely but Lo already got it tattooed so…”

Patton smacked them lightly. “No lying to new friends, Rem.”

“Fineee, I like the name if not the fam.”

Roman fiddled with his glass. “I- I’ve only heard the court gossip, but-”

Remy rolled their eyes. “Oh yeah, they love me. Perfect little first son completely wrecks and malforms himself and refuses to fit in the box we made for him! Which, while irritatingly misgendering, is all true. I came here on a dare once, tried to sneak in the back-”

“And then they met Logan!!” Patton interjected, hands cupping her cheeks in delight. “And it was love at first sight!”

“More like lust at first sight-”

“But then it became love, let me have this.”

Remy grinned fondly at their boss. “Yeah, it did. Lo was one of the first times I’d seen a real person with body mods outside of the PSAs and I had no idea how attractive they could be. I met him, we went off to-”

“Have a nice chat,” Patton interjected primly.

“Of course, Pat, I chatted at him for four straight hours,” they responded with a wink to Roman. “And then I had to come back and I started to get to know Patty here and the regulars and well... My parents were wrong about literally everything. Including thinking I was their son. But obviously, they didn’t love having that pointed out to them, so…” they trailed off with a shrug.

“Dramatic disownment, Patton hires you, you get your own tattoos and piercings?” Roman supplied.

“That’s about it, yeah.”

Roman looked around the room, the warm likes and mingling crowds. “I can see why you fell in love with it all so easily, why you wanted to have a place like this to call your own community.”

Patton reached out and squeezed Roman’s hand. “It’s yours too, now, Your Majesty- Roman. Please, feel free to come back whenever you like.”

⁂

The king was still hesitant to return. What if the other patrons hadn’t been as comfortable with his presence as Remy and Patton had been? What if he’d been spotted by less understanding people and they were waiting for his return to catch him in the act? And yet, he knew he needed to go back to Au Naturel. He’d learned so much in just one night, had his mind opened to so many different interpretations of the societal expectations that had plagued him his whole life. He couldn’t bear to never hear that again, to go back to the Noble Council and ignore the echoes in his brain that whispered “marks of the gods’ favor” whenever he looked in a mirror.

So two nights later, he steeled himself and made his way back to the bar. The same bouncer was at the door.

“Logan, was it?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“It’s good to see you again.”

His brow unfurrowed, and he nodded again, this time with the slightest hint of a smile stretching out his pierced lips.

Roman smiled back, and entered the main room.

He made his way over to the bar more confidently this time, but was distracted by the crowd from looking at the bartender as he ordered.

“Oh holy fuck shit heck fuck?”

He turned to see a much younger bartender with dark black hair, bright purple lipstick, and hoop earrings staring at him wide-eyed and a bit panicked.

“Uh, sorry, have we met?”

The young man just stared and continued to swear under his breath until he took a deep breath and called out, “Remy?”

They returned from the far side of the bar and saw Roman. With a wave, they said, “Hey there, Majesty. Gin and tonic again?”

Roman nodded as Remy turned away, arm around the young bartender’s shoulders. It didn’t stop him from hearing their quiet conversation.

“You could have warned me that the actual king might come in-”

“I did!”

“I thought you were exaggerating! Or talking about a drag king-”

“Okay fair, but Patton agreed with me-”

“I thought he was humoring you!”

“Logan backed me up!”

“...he just smiled at you. He does that all the time.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t fully prepare you, Virge. I didn’t know if he’d come back.”

“He’s not going to- we’re safe, right?”

“Look at him, of course we’re safe. And also Patty charmed the pants off him, we’re fine.”

“...literally?”

“I mean, maybe, Pat doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Roman started to blush and realized it was probably time to indicate that their conversation wasn’t secret. “I’m right here,” he cut in. He smiled as both bartenders turned to face him. “Patton is indeed quite charming, but I believe I’ve retained my pants.”

Remy smirked, not missing a beat. “So far, anyway.”

Roman tried not to color further and was saved (or ruined) by the appearance of Patton himself. “Remy, are you poisoning Virgey’s mind again?”

The young man grimaced. “Sorry! Virgil’s mind,” Patton corrected, sliding into the seat next to Roman. “Good to see you again, Roman.”

“It’s good to see you as well, Patton. It’s alright that I’m back?”

“Of course it is!”

“Because if I’m making anyone uncomfortable, I don’t want to take this space away from them-”

Patton laid his hand over Roman’s on the bar. “This space is for you, too, Your Majesty. I think in some ways, those like us born into noble families need it even more. Not to say that anyone has it easy, but…”

“But it’s expected that lower classes are ‘imperfect’,” Virgil said, returning with Roman’s drink. His mouth was twisted into a bitter line. “And when you’re not, you never get to be yourself again.”

Roman looked at him curiously. “I confess, I have only been allowed to mingle with mixed classes in my command. What do you mean, if you don’t mind talking about it?”

Virgil looked at Patton with a question in his eyes. Patton smiled. “He’s safe, Virge. Promise.”

Virgil nodded and reached up to his ears. He removed his hoop earrings, showing that they were clip-ons and that his ears were unpierced. “According to this crap system, I’m ‘perfect’. I don’t have birthmarks or discoloration or even freckles. Which means of course I’ve been banned from getting tattoos or piercings or dying my hair. I keep this stuff here with Rem, because it’s the only place I can wear it without my parents getting… upset.”

Roman frowned. “They don’t hurt you, do they?”

Virgil laughed hollowly. “They never hit me, perish the thought, that might cause bruises. Or scars. But you may have noticed, nothing about this damn value system accounts for things like, you know, mental health. Or being well-fed. As long as it doesn’t go as far as like, hair falling out or jaundice.”

“But why enforce it?” Roman asked. “The families I know, it’s to maintain their status and reputation…”

Virgil clipped his earring back on, fiddling with it nervously. “If I’m being generous, it’s a hope thing. That if I can just look refined enough, I’ll be seen by a noble or someone who wants the status of a ‘perfect’ partner and be whisked up into a life of luxury. If you ask my parents, they’d say they’re trying to help me get a better life.”

“But you don’t agree with that.”

“Not for a fucking second. Sure, I believe they believe that. But they refuse to see how shitty it is in the meantime and explode at me when I object.” He adjusted his hoodie, playing with the zippers on his wrists. “This is the only place I can cover myself up this much. They want me to show off as much ‘perfect’ skin as possible, so I can be spotted. Even in the middle of the fucking winter. And even if I wasn’t freezing, it makes me a target. People hope for that Scarella story even if they don’t admit it. It’s like those people who enter the lottery constantly, hoping that with a fancy enough schedule of plastic surgery, one day they’ll be part of the beautiful people. So when they see someone who’s already smooth… they resent it. And they want to ruin it.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the thick hoodie. Patton reached out and squeezed his elbow in reassurance, earning a weak smile.

Roman was quiet in contemplation. Sure, he knew it was the most classic trope in media - someone with a Pure Heart (as shown, of course, by their unblemished skin) was seen among the unclean masses and swept away into the sunset by a generous benefactor. He’d fantasized about it himself when he was younger, that someone would see his worth and help him fix his skin so that his outside could look like his inside. After his injuries added to it, though, he’d given up entirely. But to know that the trope caused such harm to people like Virgil…

“I’m sorry I haven’t done more to fix this, Virgil,” Roman said quietly. “I have influence and power, I should and I will.”

Virgil flashed him a wry smile. “I think you’re doing a lot by just appearing in public without covering up your scars, really. I don’t think it’s gonna change fast, but with your help, it might start changing.”

“But you’re at risk and it won’t be fast enough for you.”

“Yeah, I am at risk,” Virgil said with a shrug. “But I don’t need to be protected. With all due respect, Your Majesty. Rem & Lo keep my stuff for me, Pat makes sure I can still make it here, and I’m earning my own money to get out of my parents’ house. I have a plan to earn my own freedom. So don’t change all this shit for me. Change it for everyone else.”

Roman nodded. “I promise, I will.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I believe you’ll try…”

Roman raised his hand, pinkie outstretched. “I will. I mean it.”

Virgil smiled, but linked his pinkie too. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

They shook solemnly, before both starting to snicker and laugh, Patton joining in too. But none of them doubted Roman’s determination, all the same.

⁂

Roman returned to Au Naturel multiple nights a week for two weeks straight before he finally managed to ask.

“Pat, how did you manage to open this place? And keep it open, despite, well, everything?”

The response was a melancholy grin as Patton fiddled with the ring on the chain around their neck, right next to their pronoun charm.

“I got a loan from my late fiancé, Diego. He was the son of a noble house.”

“Late? I don’t mean to cause you distress, dear Patton, you don’t need to talk about this if it will be painful-”

“No, no,” Patton explained, reaching out for Roman’s hand. “I- I want to talk about him. Because he was a wonderful man and remains a wonderful memory.”

Roman nodded in understanding and squeezed their hand reassuringly as Patton began to explain.

Diego, too, was one of a pair of twins. His brother was named Cedric, and they were identical in almost every way. The one way they weren’t was Cedric’s eczema. Their faces matched, their laughs sounded like echoes of each other’s, but Cee had red scratchy scales that grew and faded but never fully vanished, and Dee had none.

And according to Diego, Cedric was better. Smarter, kinder, more optimistic, a faster friend to those he met. Yet society valued Diego more because of a condition that could only be treated, never cured.

“And so Dee became a huge advocate for us ‘imperfect’ folks,” Patton said softly. “He used his smooth face as an entry into places we’re barred from, tried to use the family money and influence to change discrimination policies. But, well. One man can only do so much.”

Roman nodded somberly, in perfect understanding.

“There used to be underground meetings of people like us, the underbelly of the city. We rotated locations and kept moving to avoid the zoning laws that made it easy to kick us out at anyone’s request. We’d found Cee and invited him, and he brought Dee too. And I- oh, he was the first person who looked at my skin and saw a work of art,” Patton said with a misty smile, hugging their own torso at the warm memory. “And he had the idea of using his name, using their family’s money to establish this place. They couldn’t take the title away from me if it was under his name too, so after only a couple months of dating and falling madly in love, we got engaged. The deed is technically still under his name, which means it’s secure, and the city can’t take it back.

“But then the household draft came through, three years ago. I was safe,” Patton said with a wry twist to their normal smile. “It called for one son per house, and my family doesn’t acknowledge me as a son those times I want them to, much less for the state. Not that they know where to find me anymore. But - their family wanted to send Cee. Because he was more ‘expendable’. And they didn’t tell Dee until he was already gone off to war. Of course, I was scared for them both, but I knew how important Dee’s brother was to him, so when he said he needed to get to the front immediately, I didn’t hesitate. I gave him the money and advice from my friends here who’d survived previous wars. He listened to it all, then went off to go save his brother.”

Patton paused, a tear creeping along their cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Patton,” Roman said gently. “He didn’t make it back?”

“Neither of them did. Dee threw himself in front of a blow to shield Cee, but it wasn’t enough.”

Roman hesitated, then hugged them firmly. “I’ve lost so many of my soldiers, but it never gets easier. I can’t imagine what this loss has felt like to you.”

Patton hugged back. “Thank you, Roman. It’s been years, but remembering-”

“I know. It’s perfectly normal, my dear.”

Patton smiled up, eyes still shining with unshed tears. “Thank you for listening, Ro. It means a lot.”

“Anything you need from me, Pat. I’m here.”

The next day, Roman quietly requested a meeting with the head of the zoning board of the city, and used the royal seal to confirm Au Naturel s deed to not just Diego and Patton but to anyone Patton ever decided to transfer ownership too. A copy of the document found its way, without fanfare, into the files at the bar. Roman never brought attention to it, nor did Patton, but a golden drink was left at Roman’s typical seat that never appeared on his bill, and a portrait of the nation’s first scarred King found its way to hanging among their other icons above the rows of bottles.

⁂

And then, one night at Au Naturel, there was a new customer who most had never seen before. Or at least, they hadn’t seen this face before. But Roman had.

“...Remus?”

The former prince turned. He’d added more tattoos since the last time Roman had seen him, lines of red drops down his neck to his bare arms. His hair was spiked into a faux-hawk and it almost hit Roman as he turned to face him.

“Is that the golden boy? Romano Cheese Man?”

“Reme, it’s been months, I’ve-”

“Stop right there.” Remus interrupted. He held up a finger topped in an elaborately manicured nail. “Don’t you dare say you’ve missed me, Roman Candle. I haven’t been hiding, you could have found me.”

“I looked!” Roman insisted, reaching out to grab his brother’s arm. “I tried to look, at least, but Father and the generals forbid me to leave the castle-”

“Ooohhh, is the royal baby disobeying orders tonight?” Remus asked, eyebrows dancing.

Roman frowned. “Not exactly, not when there aren’t any…” He looked for any flicker of understanding and found none. “Reme. Have you not heard?”

“Heard what, that the country is just sooooo pleased to have just forgotten the embarrassment that was the old crown prince? Didn’t need to check with the town crier for that one, queen bee.”

Roman squeezed Remus’ arm, a lump forming in his throat. “Brother-”

“Don’t you call me that!” Remus snapped. “I’m not in the family anymore, don’t you remember anything-”

“Father’s dead, Remus!” Roman practically shouted. Remus went silent, eyes wide. “Father died and I have to be the goddamn king now, and I’ve been looking for you for months but no one wants to acknowledge you still and you left me to rule alone.” Roman’s voice cracked on the last word, and Remus stopped trying to pull away. His eyes darted around Roman, taking in the signet ring, the badly-concealed bags under his eyes, and the tear coursing down the royal cheek.

“...how did he die?”

Roman took a shuddering breath. “In the field. He charged alone, after an enemy soldier who looked just like you- well, you three years ago.”

“Did you charge with him? Trying to get back that old shell of a royal? It was never real, brother, just a bundle of neuroses wound so tightly they acted like a person-”

“I know that, Remus! You think I didn’t see how much he pushed you? You think I didn’t know what being in the field did to you?” The other patrons of the bar had edged away, giving the brothers space, while Patton watched nervously without moving from her seat at the bar. “Reme - all I ever wanted was to be able to help. I trained so hard in the hopes that maybe you would be able to sit out for a battle or two. Get a break from the violence. But he didn’t want me, didn’t want the charge to be led by this,” Roman said, gesturing at his own face. Tiredness showed in every inch of him as his shoulders slumped. “And look where that got him. He’s dead, I’m leading anyway, and both his sons are miserable.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ro. I’m not miserable. I’m wonderful,” Remus replied. “I can do whatever and whoever the fuck I want to, now. No one breathing down my neck, no one saying I’m improper, no blood on my hands except for what I choose to be there.” He lifted his arm, showing off his tattoo, the line of red drops marching down his bicep and forearm and returning back up the inside of his wrist and elbow.

Roman looked down at the marks, blinked, and looked back up. Green eyes met green, as identical as the day they were born. “Are you really?”

Remus scoffed. “Of course I… well. I’m happier. Happier than I was. Wacky, isn’t it, I think my incredibly violent and restrictive upbringing may have given me some issues.”

“But you’re not just… I don’t know, bursting at the seams, doing whatever you think Father would have hated for the sole sake of knowing he would have hated it?”

Remus paused. “Hey, I didn’t come here to have my someone dig through my head, I only wanted someone to give me head-”

“Reme!”

“What, it’s true!”

“We were having a moment-”

“And I was planning on a different kind of moment!”

Roman frowned at his brother, ready to keep arguing, but instead, he started to laugh, and Remus did too, and soon there were just two very similar-looking men leaning on the bar, wheezing with laughter.

Roman wiped his eyes. “You really are happier.”

Remus smiled. “I really am. I’m… still working it out. What’s terrible by his standards versus the society’s. Which society standards are probably actually shit and which make sense. I don’t understand it all. But I will.”

Roman impulsively flung his arms around his twin. “I believe in you, Reme. Just, please- don’t leave me to do this alone?”

Remus pushed Roman a bit back, holding him by the arms. “I’m not coming back to the palace, Ro. I can’t do that. I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to. But you’re still my brother. As long as I’m the head of the family, you’re part of it. And I…” Roman looked back at where Patton was chatting to other patrons. “I have a lot to learn about what our society is doing to people. We both have a lot to learn, and unlearn. Can you help me?”

Remus grimaced. “Of course I’ll be your brother, but…”

“It doesn’t have to be official- no ‘advisor’ or any title unless you want one. But dammit, if you don’t deserve the crown’s money after all you had to do in its service- any land you want, any title, any income, say the word and it’s yours, Reme. Just, please... don’t shut me out.”

Remus looked down, and back up. He raised his hand and traced Roman’s birthmark lightly. “Can I get this as a tattoo on my face, too?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Well, twins should match, shouldn’t we?”

Roman smiled, understanding perfectly. “Yeah, twins should match. Scars and all.”

⁂

Taglist: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed

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pointycorgiears · 5 years ago

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Blackbird In The Dead Of Night

Hastur struggles in the Post Non-Apocalypse era. Beezlebub attempts to comfort him.

Note: I wrote this to help me setup the storyline to the sequel to my previous fic, Out of Hell. I also just really wanted to write something with Beelzebub and Hastur.

_______________________________________

Beelzebub moved like a shadow down the halls. They were nearly unseen by those around, but the heaviness of their presence was still felt. Other demons instinctively knew to stay out of their way, automatically stepping aside, clearing a path whenever they felt Beelzebub's energy coming close. No one wanted to inconvenient or upset the Prince of Hell, accidentally or otherwise, especially these days. There was a commotion. A small crowd had gathered around three demons caught in a rough scuffle on the floor. The group dispersed as soon as their boss appeared, pretending to be busy with whatever it was they'd been doing before getting distracted by the fight. Beelzebub let them wander off, only concerned with the individuals punching each other in the face on the ground. "HASTUR!" Beelzebub's voice was loud enough to shake the walls. It was enough to cause the two other demons that had Hastur pinned jump back in fear. They stared at Beelzebub with wide eyes, as if facing the Almighty instead of the small demon. Beelzebub shot them a look as Hastur picked himself off the floor.

"Consider yourselves fortunate I don't have time for you right now," Beelzebub told them. "Get out of my sight." The two scampered off as quickly as they could, not even daring to look back. Hastur lowered his head in apology, straightening his coat. "Forgive me, Your Disgrace," he muttered quietly. His face was bruised. A trickle of blood slid down from his temple to his chin. "My office. Now." Beelzebub didn't wait for him. They turned and stalked off, flies trailing behind their head. Hastur limped along, slowly behind, wondering what kind of wrath he had just brought down upon himself. Beelzebub was seated in the chair behind their desk when Hastur finally caught up. He stepped through the threshold, closing the door behind him. Beelzebub watched him as he entered the office. Hastur couldn't help but divert his eyes to the floor at the piercing stare. He walked up to the desk, his head lowered in shame, waiting for the Prince to bestow their chosen punishment. "I will not stand for infighting among the ranks," Beelzebub said, voice hard and stern. "See that it never happens again." "It won't," Hastur responded. "I will take my punishment as required and without protest, my Lord." He paused, and waited. Beelzebub was silent, and he lifted his dark eyes to look at the Prince. Beelzebub was watching him intently, studying him, but made no further effort to speak. "W-What is your judgment, my Lord?" he dared to pry, his voice shaky and confused. "My judgment is that your own judgment is clouded," Beelzebub stated in a flat tone. "This is the fourth incident this month and the second one this week. You're floundering, Hastur. I need you to stay focused. Will you stay focused?" Hastur darted his eyes as if searching for a good enough answer. "I...try to...but it is hard for me, after..." He trailed off. His jaw tightened. "You're strong, Hastur," Beelzebub said. "You always have been." "Not anymore." "Yes, you are. You doubt yourself too much." Hastur grimaced. "Because I am no longer whole!" He moved forward, slamming his hands on the desk in anger. "Crowley destroyed Ligur! He took him from me and you still allow him to walk free!" Beelzebub was unfazed. "Crowley was the only demon who willingly came to my aid when I was exiled to Earth. He has proven his loyalty to me." Hastur shook his head, frustrated. "He still needs to face punishment. I wish to remove his head from his body with my own hands!" "Yet, it will not bring back Ligur." Hastur stared at them, a wave of sadness washing over his features, and Beelzebub knew their words had struck deep. Hastur remained silent. Beelzebub could see the stark realization of the new reality he'd been thrown into consume his face, and they couldn't help the small pang of pity they felt for him. It was not entirely Hastur's fault that he was lashing out. Beelzebub understood that. They knew of the relationship that existed between him and Ligur. The two were Soul-Bonded. A link that ran through the very fiber of their being since their creation. It was not a romantic or a platonic connection. It was deeper than that. When God had crafted the angels into existence, She had sometimes used the same mold to create two individuals. Twin souls, vibrating on the same frequency, perfectly balanced together, but still retaining their own autonomy from each other. They were complimentary. Like night and day, it was hard for one to exist without the other. And Hastur was struggling to exist without Ligur. In the beginning, he had managed well enough. The anticipation of the Great War had helped him keep it hidden. However, now that everything had calmed, and the world was settling into a new order, Hastur was slipping. The cuts were starting to show, and his headstrong resolve was suddenly faltering. Half of his very being had been shattered, and it hurt. A shadow darkened his face. "I do not know what to do. I don't know what I am anymore." Beelzebub leaned forward in their chair. "You are Hastur, Duke of Hell. My Right Hand. That will not change until I say so." "I will fail you." "No, you will not. You will continue your duties as normal, and I expect them to be completed to my satisfaction." At least Beelzebub could keep him partially distracted with work. Despite his current state, Hastur was strong and intelligent. Beelzebub needed him on their side. Since their return from exile, the atmosphere in Hell had been a little tense. Beelzebub had no doubts there were those that agreed with their punishment for failure to begin the Apocalypse, and were none too happy when Beelzebub returned. The Prince was not oblivious to the talk and rumors that crept around Hell. They had their own special ways of knowing. The flies that circled their head were for more than just dramatic effect. Beelzebub would be a fool if they allowed themself to believe their power could not be questioned again, and Beelzebub was no fool. They had already caught Dagon whispering things into Hastur's ear. A storm was brewing, and Beelzebub needed allies. Hastur nodded sadly to the other. "I will do my best, my Lord." He turned to leave. "Stop," Beelzebub said before he could take two steps. Hastur looked back at them. Beelzebub held his gaze. "You will not leave this room until you pull yourself together. Consider this your punishment." Hastur felt a little confused at the sentence, but complied, remaining still in place. Beelzebub regarded him for a moment longer, then commanded, "Come here." Hastur obeyed, stepping carefully around the desk. Beelzebub was keen enough to catch the split-second hesitation in his movements, even though he tried to hide it. "Sit." Beelzebub motioned to the space on the floor next to their chair. Hastur did so. This was it, he thought. He was either going to be personally tortured by the Prince or decapitated by one of their blades. He only hoped the discorporation wouldn't last too long, and he would be allowed back in a new body soon enough. Beelzebub watched him kneel on the floor next to the chair leg, his eyes turned down and his usually proud shoulders sagging. They reached their hand out and ran their fingers through his dirty white hair. They felt him jerk a little at the touch but then relax again when it became apparent Beelzebub was not going to harm him. "Do not leave this spot until I say so," Beelzebub ordered, but voice soft. "Yes, my Lord," Hastur mumbled in response. Beelzebub seemed satisfied with that, and reached across their desk for the report they had been reading before getting distracted by the fight down the hall. They took the papers in one hand, continuing where they left off, and kept petting Hastur's hair with the other. Their hand mindlessly ran over his head, softly scratching at his scalp. The touch was unusually calming, and Hastur wondered if Beelzebub had done this before to any other, or if it was only him. It was definitely not the reprimand he had been expecting. His eyes drifted shut from the circles Beelzebub traced on his head with their fingers. Time passed, but he didn’t know how much. It could have been minutes or hours. He leaned against the chair, his shoulder braced against the wooden leg as his head fell on Beelzebub's knee. He felt so tired... A deep slumber wanted to take him, but Hastur resisted it. Even though Beelzebub had found a way to calm his nerves, he doubted they would appreciate him falling asleep on their office floor. He focused his attention on the sounds around him, keeping his eyes shut. The gentle scrape of fingernails against his hair, the hum of the lights overhead, the echoes of voices down the hall, the turning of a page. The variety of different sounds kept his mind blank, giving him a momentary reprieve from the constant dwelling on the part of his soul that was missing. A few flies buzzed in the air, one after the other, quietly. One went past his ear. He could always tell Beelzebub's mood by the activity of their flies. When the things flew about in a frenzied storm around their head, he knew to keep his distance and watch his words. That was the case more often than not. Except for right now. The Prince was currently at ease. The flies were calm, only two or three fluttering about, searching for a good place to perch on their master's arm or hair. If Beelzebub was in a good mood, then he shouldn't worry about the earlier fight he very much instigated. He sighed deeply. He listened to the sound of air rushing out of him. Escaping him, leaving him forever. He missed Ligur... Something crept into the din. A new hum, light and sweet. It swirled with the other noises, graceful and melodic. Entrancing. Beelzebub was singing a song. He didn't know if it was meant for him or because they were bored, but it was pleasant. It was an old hymn, sad but hopeful, written after the Fall. Hastur had heard rumors of Beelzebub's singing. They were said to have had one of the most marvelous and powerful voices in Heaven as an angel, leading choruses, creating songs, and bringing music into the young world. No one had heard them sing after the Rebellion, though many suspected they were still capable of it. Demons liked to throw dance parties and were good at that, but there wasn't much to impress with the ridiculous singing that usually went along with it. No one could ever successfully tempt the Lord of Flies to attend a party and have a real singer lead the way. Beelzebub was content to stay in their office and do their work uninterrupted. Hastur didn't know why. Their singing was beautiful. Beelzebub could wipe the floor with all the weak-voiced demons in their ranks… He let his head sink further against their knee, the song leading him into a trance. He followed it, Beelzebub's cadence providing him a peace he had not felt in an eternity. Beelzebub felt Hastur slump against their leg. They hadn't even realized they started humming this tune. It was a habit they formed while working alone, going through endless piles of paperwork at night. Beelzebub had forgotten Hastur would be listening, but it was too late by then. Their song seemed to ease his pain a little. At least there would be no more fights tonight. Beelzebub tossed the last page of the report on the desk, tired of looking at the same drabble again. They studied Hastur, leaning on their leg, completely submissive to their hand and voice. He looked dreadful, more than usual anyway. His hair was unkempt. Spots of blood spattered his neck and coat. He wasn't taking care of himself, which was slightly concerning given that Hastur had a certain standard about the way he appeared to others. They lowered the hand petting his hair down his back, pressing into his coat, feeling his spine. They prodded gently at the bundle of nerves situated below the shoulder blades, the sweet spot every demon and angel possessed, and coaxed out his wings. The black feathers spread out slowly, and Beelzebub took one wing in their hands, laying it flat over their lap. They inspected the feathers. Their song briefly paused as they made a noise of disgust. "You have ash fleas," they chided before falling back into their tune. Hastur sighed, defeated. "I know. I can feel the itch..." The fleas were a pest that lurked in the ash piles around the smelting pools. They liked to feed off the oils from feathers in demon wings. Beelzebub brushed their hands through the wing, smiting the little beasts in a tiny flame from their fingertip whenever they found one. "You need to groom your wings, badly." Hastur grunted in acknowledgment and lifted his head. Beelzebub continued the grooming for him though. He remained where he was, listening to the song wafting in the air as Beelzebub tended to his feathers. The words spoke of something lost, yet something still left to gain. Beelzebub delivered it perfectly, and something twisted in Hastur's chest. His body shook and Beelzebub watched the movement ripple through the wing on their lap. The image caused a recent memory to appear in their mind, when they had sat near the pond with Crowley, lost and uncertain of the future. The similarity in Hastur to that moment left Beelzebub feeling unsettled. Their voice lowered until the song faded away altogether. They studied Hastur's sunken form. They remembered what Crowley had said, what he had done, to comfort them. Beelzebub struggled to find something to say to Hastur. They couldn't say it would be alright, because he would truthfully never be the same ever again. That would be false hope. But then again, Beelzebub had been certain they were going to be destroyed on Earth during their exile, yet the hope Crowley provided them had given them strength despite feeling completely false at the time. Perhaps any kind of comforting words would be of benefit, especially if they wanted to keep Hastur in their favor. It was still hard to make them come out. Beelzebub ran their hand from the wing's elbow joint, up the arm bone, to his shoulder. They squeezed lightly. "When the pain gets overbearing like this again, come to me first before picking a fight. Understand?" Hastur nodded his head slowly. "Understood." Beelzebub could barely hear him, but accepted his quiet answer. They manually folded his wing back into its usual resting position. Their hand combed over his hair once more, then slid down the side of his face, turning his chin towards them. Beelzebub's cold blue eyes pierced into his glossy black ones. "If you do get into a fight, at least do it well. Don't let a couple of weaklings pin you down like that again. It's embarrassing." "Never again, my Lord," Hastur replied. The slight humor in Beelzebub's tone caused a small smirk to turn at his mouth. Beelzebub's gaze softened, and Hastur had never seen them look so kindly at another living creature in his lifetime, much less him. It was shocking, yet somehow reassuring. "A moment will arise when you will find your strength again," they whispered, brushing his hair from his face. "I found mine, and I can tell you that it will not happen while you're on your own. Choose the ones you need wisely."

Hastur nodded, a sad smile on his face in affirmation, but still a smile.

Beelzebub released him. "You may go now," they said, turning back to the pile of unread reports on their desk. "Make sure you see Zorikith for a potion to get rid of those fleas." Hastur stood, hiding his wings once more and bowing respectfully to Beelzebub. He walked slowly to the door, still solemn, but a minuscule spark by the Prince's words providing enough will to continue his work for the time being.

End.

#good omens #beelzebub #hastur #ligur #wing grooming #beelzebub sings #angst #hurt/comfort #sort of fluffy?#hastur is sad about ligur #good omens fanfiction #short story #myart

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dukereviewsmovies · 5 years ago

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Duke Reviews: Ant-Man And The Wasp

Hello, I'm Andrew Leduc And Welcome To Duke Reviews Where Today We Are Continuing Our Look At The Marvel Cinematic Universe...

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Where Today We Answer The One Question Everyone Had On Their Minds When Watching Avengers: Infinity War...Where Was Ant-Man?... By Watching Ant-Man And The Wasp...

In The Aftermath Of Civil War, Scott Grapples With The Consequences Of His Choices As Both A Superhero And A Father As He Struggles To Rebalance His Home Life With His Responsibilities As Ant-Man When He's Confronted By Hope Van Dyne (Who Has Taken On Her Mother's Identity As The Wasp) And Hank Pym Who Come To Him With A New Mission...

Will They Succeed?

Let's Find Out As We Watch Ant-Man And The Wasp...

Starting In 1987, We See Janet Van Dyne (Played By A Digitally Aged Michelle Pfeiffer) And Hank Pym (Played By A Digitally Aged Michael Douglas) Tell Their Daughter They're Going To A Conference When Really They're Going Another Mission...

And Unfortunately, It's The Mission That Cost Janet Her Life When She Shrank Between The Molecules Of A Soviet Missile So She Could Disable It Shrinking Smaller And Smaller Until She Entered The Quantum Realm...

With The Hardest Thing He Did Being To Tell Hope That Janet Was Dead, We Cut To Now Where Hank Recalls How Scott Went Subatomic And Came Back Which Give Him The Idea To Dust Off Some Old Plans Of A Quantum Tunnel Which Will Shrink Them Small Enough To Enter The Quantum Realm To Get Janet Back...

Meanwhile At Scott's House, We Him Spending Time With His Daughter, Cassie In A Homemade Playhouse That He Made And Is Running With The Help Of Luis, As Scott's Been Under House Arrest After Helping Captain America In Civil War Which Was A Violation Of The Sokovia Accords...

But After Taking A Plea Deal, Scott Was Allowed To Return To The US And Was Sentenced To 2 Years Under House Arrest And A 20 Year Prison Sentence Waiting For Him If He Leaves His House Or Defies The Accords Again

And As Pym And Hope Had Provided Lang With The Technology He Used Against Iron Man, They Have Also Been Ruled In Breach Of The Accords And They Have A Warrant Out For Their Arrest Which Forced Them To Go On The Run And Sever All Contact With Scott...

Spending The Next Two Years Trying To Find Ways To Keep Himself Busy Including Learning Close-Up Magic And Setting Up A Security Company With Luis And His Partners, He Unfortunately Has A Dream Where He Relives Of Janet's Memories Of When Hope Was A Child 3 Days Until His Release From House Arrest...

Contacting Pym On A Burner Phone He Put Away, Scott Briefly Tells Him What Happened Before Realizing He Sounds Like An Idiot, He Apologizes For The Trouble He Caused Before Smashing The Phone...

Later That Night, Scott Hears A Buzzing Noise Before He's Knocked Out By A Small Tranq Dart...

Waking Up The Next Morning, Scott Finds He's Been Kidnapped By Hope, Who Left A Decoy In His Place To Not Arouse Suspicion From The FBI. Angry At Scott For Helping Cap And Forcing Her And Hank Into Hiding, Hope Tells Scott That His Dream Coincided With Hank Briefly Opening A Quantum Tunnel...

Seeing Scott's Message As A Sign That Janet Is Alive, Hank And Hope Work In Their New Lab To Create A Stable Tunnel So Hope Can Take A Vehicle Into The Quantum Realm To Retrieve Janet...

Reuniting With Pym Who's Bitter For Scott's Actions But Puts His Anger Aside As He's Their Only Hope Of Locating Janet Inside The Quantum Realm...

Hope Arranges To Get A Part From A Black Market Dealer Named Sonny Burch (Played By The Unicorn) But Realizing The Potential Profit From Pym And Hope's Research, Burch Double Crosses Her Which Leads Her To Suit Up...

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(Start At 0:06)

But Despite Getting The Component, Hope Soon Faces A New Opponent In The Form Of The Ghost, Scott Goes In To Help Hope With The Ghost But Unfortunately The Ghost Escapes With The Part And Pym's Mobile Lab...

Hiding Out At Scott And Luis' Security Firm, They Tell Hank That They've Heard Tales Of This Ghost Of Theirs While Also Wondering If He Had A Tracker On The Lab Which He Did But It Was Deactivated At The Time The Lab Was Stolen And That Not Only Did The Person Who Stole It Knew What They Were Doing But They Were Phasing...

With The Lab Emitting Radiation, Hope Suggests Modifying A Quantum Spectrometer To Track It But To Do That It Means Going Into The Matrix...

I'm Just Kidding...Or Am I?

Meeting Hank's Former Partner, Bill Foster (Played By Morpheus) At The College Where He Works, He Helps Them Locate The Lab Just As The FBI Shows Up On The Campus...

Wondering If Foster's Idea Of Tracking The Suit Through The Regulators Could Work Hank Says It Could But They'd Need An Old Suit As The New Ones Don't Have Diffractors Which They Need To Track It...

Luckily, Scott Saved His Old Suit After Using It To Fight With Cap But The Bad News Is It's Inside Of A Trophy That's At Cassie's School For Show And Tell...

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(Start At 1:01, End At 4:02)

Getting The Diffractor Out Of The Old Ant-Man Suit They Use It To Track Down The Lab To A House In The Middle Of The Woods Where They're Immediately Captured By The Ghost...

Wow, You Guys Think You Can Go 5 Minutes Without Being Captured By The Bad Guy...

Capturing Hank Too, Ghost Reveals Herself As Ava Starr...

Any Relation To Ringo?

Surprisingly No, But She Is Related To Another Former Partner Of Hank's Named Elihas Starr Who Hank Not Only Fired But Discredited And In An Attempt To Get His Good Name Back He Continued His Research Only For It To End In The Death Of Him And His Wife During A Quantum Experiment That Caused Ava's Affliction...

Though She Was Found By Bill Foster, Who Has Tried His Best To Keep Her Safe Since The Accident, He Couldn't Protect Her From S.H.I.E.L.D. Who Built Her Containment Suit And Used Her As A Stealth Operative In Exchange For A Cure..,

But Discovering That They Were Full Of Bullshit, Ava Left With Foster Who Created A Containment Chamber To Slow Her Decay But It's Too Progressive For Him To Stop...

Despite Ava Wanting To Kill Hank For What He Did, She Instead Watched Him Where She Discovered That Hank Was Building The Quantum Tunnel Also About Lang And His Vision Of Janet..

Revealing That They Want To Use The Quantum Tunnel So They Can Extract The Quantum Energy From Janet So They Can Repair Ava's Molecular Structure But Knowing That It Would Kill Janet, Hank Says No...

But Threatening To Turn Scott Over To The FBI, If He Doesn't Help, This Leads Hank To Fake A Heart Attack So Bill Can Open An Altoid Box With Ants That Will Grow Large When Opened So They Can Escape...

Getting The Lab Back Before They Leave, Hank Grows It Back To Large Size So They Can Get To Work Where Hank Reveals That Elihas Starr Was A Traitor Who Stole His Plans For The Quantum Tunnel As They Work...

But As They Do That Burch Captures Luis And His Partners So He Can Question Them About Scott As Ava, Desperate To Be Cured Decides To Kidnap Cassie But Before She Does Bill Tells Her That If She Does She's On Her Own Which Leads Her To Go After Other Options...

Injecting Truth Serum Into Luis, We Get Another One Of Luis' Stories As He Tells Burch Where Scott Is...

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(Start At 1:14, End At 3:21)

Knowing That If Ghost Gets The Technology, He'll Be Ruined, Burch Decides To Call The FBI Believing It'll Be Easier To Steal It From Them As He Has A Contact There..

And While That's Understandable I Still Kinda Have To Say Where's The Logic In That?

Despite Having One Contact It's The FBI, There Are Agents That Are Likely To Recognize You And Are Likely To Get You...

Opening A Stable Tunnel, Pym And Hope Are Able To Contact Janet Who Gives Them A Precise Location But Warns Them That They Have 2 Hours To Do So Due To The Quantum Realm's Unstable Nature...

With Scott Back To Normal, He Gets A Call From Luis Who Tells Him Everything That Happened With Burch, Telling Hank And Hope Everything They're Rightfully Pissed And Sever Ties With Scott Once Again As He Takes The Suit To Rush Home Before Woo Can See Him Breaking House Arrest...

That Which He Doesn't But That's Just The Good News...

The Bad News However Is That Hank And Hope Are Arrested And The Ghost Kills Burch's Man On The Inside And Takes Back The Lab...

Convinced By Cassie To Rescue Hank And Hope From The FBI Despite The Risks, He Decides To Help Them Escape The FBI And Use A New Tracker To Track Down The Lab, While Scott And Hope Distract Ghost While Hank Deals With Bill Before Quantum Realm To Retrieve Janet...

Shrinking The Lab, Ghost Is Rightfully Pissed As Luis And Hope Drive Away With It Only To Be Confronted By Burch And His Men Which Leads To A Car Chase And Our Stan Lee Cameo...

Stan Lee Cameo!

With The Lab Going Back And Forth Like A Football On A Football Field Between Ghost, Burch And Team Ant-Man, It's Team Ant-Man That Gets The Lab Back However At The Last Second, Ghost Steals It And Enlarges It In The Middle Of Pier 39 In San Francisco...

But As All That Was Going On, Hank Finds Janet In The Quantum Realm, But With The Lab In Ava's Hands She Attempts Sabatoge Their Return So She Can Start Stealing Janet's Energy But Luckily Scott And Hope Stop Her And Hank And Janet Return From The Quantum Realm...

Using Some Of Her Quantum Energy, Janet Stabalizes The Ghost So Her And Bill Can Go On The Run While Burch And His Guys Are Arrested And Scott Manages To Get Home In Time For The FBI To End His House Arrest Despite Being Suspicious Of Him...

While Scott Reunites With Cassie And Gets His Buisness Up And Running, Hank, Hope And Janet Restore The Family Home On A Beach So They Can Live Happily Ever After For A While...

Or Until The Mid Credits Scene, Where Scott Ventures Into The Quantum Realm To Collect Particles In An Attempt To Heal Ava While Being Monitored By Hank, Janet And Hope, But Despite Being Successful He's Unable To Return As The Pyms Have Been Snapped Out Of Existence By Thanos...

There's Also A After Credit Scene But It's Not Important To Go Over So I'm Skipping It...

And That's Ant-Man And The Wasp And I Will Say It's Better Than The Original Ant-Man...

The Story Was Interesting, The Characters Were Better Written Than They Were In The First Movie, The Villain Was So-So But She Was Interesting I Will Say That Either Way I Say See It...

Now, Before I Sign Off I'd Like To Say A Few Words And Tell You About The Future Of Duke Reviews After We Finish The MCU...

First, I'd Like To Apologize For The Lack Of Clips In This Review But That's Because I Could Barely Find Any Good Ones On YouTube And Unfortunately It's Going To Be The Same Story With Next Week's Review Of Captain Marvel, I'll Post What I Can But For The Next 2 Weeks Be Patient With Me...

And Second As I Said I Want To Go Over The Future Of Duke Reviews After I'm Done With The MCU, Good News Is We Are Not Going Into The DCEU Or Any Other Superhero Properties For A While (And I Do Mean A While) As We're Going To Be Covering The Movies Of A Company That's Been With Us For Generations...

In Fact We're Going To Be Covering It For So Long That I'll Have To Pause In October, November And December So I Can Continue Our Traditions Of Duke's Monsterween And Duke's Yultide Reviews But Know That In January Of Next Year We'll Probably Be Back Working On That...

Now As To Which Studio I'm Not Going To Reveal Which Until My Spider-Man Far From Home Review Which Will Be In 3 Weeks But Next Week As I Said We'll Be Looking At Captain Marvel, So Until Then, This Is Duke, Signing Off...

#ant man and the wasp #paul rudd #evangeline lilly #michael douglas #lawrence fishburne #randall park #judy greer #bobby cannavale #Marvel #marvel cinematic universe #Ant Man #The Wasp

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the-writerly-night-owl · 6 years ago

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Crashed the Wedding

Desire and Decorum/ MC x Mr. Sinclaire

Summary: there are some people preventing the wedding of Clara Mills to Duke Richards. It was pretty easy to stop the wedding before it started.

Authors Note: for the choice march challenge day one: wedding. This was fun! It’s long but it’s fun! I’ll probably do another wedding fic later too.

Tag list: @flyawayboo @cosigottahavefaith @countrymusicandncis-blog @fluffy-cat-whisper @melodyofgraves @symonde @paisleylovergirl @mariamulroney @queen-among-writers @am-i-invisible777

Clara felt that rock in her stomach grow as she glared down at the gown adorned on her body. It was extravagant with lace, satin, and silk. Bows and flower designs embroidered on the gown and her stays laced tightly. Next to her Duke Richards was practically yelling at everyone to hurry.

“Bishop Monroe you can see that I can’t marry this man,” said Clara through her tears. “He’s forcing me, I know that’s illegal to force someone into marriage.”

Duke Richards snorted as the bishop just looked sympathetic. “What do you know about laws?” asked the duke with a jeer on his face.

“I know that you can’t force me to marry you,” she said rounding on him, her voice hard. “Lady grandmother doesn’t give you permission and neither does Henrietta or Edmund. If my father was here you know he wouldn’t allow it either.”

“You still want Edgewater though and marrying me is the only way you can get it.”

“I’d rather give it all to Mr. Marlcaster,” she spat meaning it. “Besides I have these, this is proof that this marriage is a farce and it’s an unsuitable match.”

With that Clara pulled out the papers she had found the past several months. The Duke’s face paled before hardening as Bishop Monroe read the top paper. His own face practically white himself. This was talks of a revolution against the crown, a mutiny. By now everyone had cleared out of the room to finish prepping the church. Only Briar remained finishing the dress for Clara, her hands nimbly taking the copies out of sight.

“Listen here and listen well girl, I don’t know how you got those, but nobody would believe you if you showed people that. What’s your word against mine?” he growled pulling Clara in close. “Tonight you will be mine and I’ll do anything I want with you.” His eyes settled down on her breast as if he could look down her dress.

“People would listen to me,” said Bishop Monroe as he held the papers firmly in his hands.

The Duke only looked a little annoyed at this. “You wouldn’t refuse to marry us,” said Duke Richards with a smile on his face. “I have special permission from the queen…”

“That doesn’t mean anything if a legal guardian doesn’t approve,” said Bishop Monroe cutting him off. “The Dowager countess retracted her permission.”

“Even if she refuses, are you really going to refuse me? Think of stopping an engagement to the Duke of Karlington. That would by your reputation and Miss Mills’ reputation at risk. Who would want to marry Miss Mills if some rumors spread about her? Who would want to return to your parish? Besides imagine how it would be if every fund from this parish gets pulled. Or imagine a new better cushy position at a new parish…”

The Bishop looked stunned at what he was implying. He was trying to guilt him and bribe him from ever putting a stop to this engagement.

“You can’t bribe a clergyman,” said Briar suddenly. “It’s against the bible.”

Even more annoyed then ever Duke Richards rounded on her. A hand raised as he slapped Briar across the face. She cried out as a hand print burned on her face. Both Bishop Monroe and Clara gasped at his sudden act of violence.

“Don’t touch her,” said Clara before Duke Richards grabbed her by her arm.

“There will be more of that on you tonight where it really hurts,” he said digging in her arm. Tears stung her eyes as the Bishop’s eyes were watching them. “Your friend is officially dismissed after today. I expect you to be walking down the aisle in a half hour.”

He took her papers that she had found before ripping them up and throwing them into the fire. With that he stalked off out of the room satisfied with himself. Bishop Monroe patting Briar’s back as he looked sorrowful at Clara.

“I’m sorry Miss Mills; I have failed you, your father, and the church,” said Bishop Monroe. “Had I had known...”

Clara was about to say something but thought better of it. They didn’t have plan to keep the duke from spreading anything about either of them. “I have a plan,” said Briar as she straightened herself up. “He didn’t take all of those papers. Wasn’t Miss Sutton a gossip? Maybe if we tell her it will get all around the church and someone will call out no at the vows. This is bigger than anything he could say about you.”

“That could work,” said Bishop Monroe quietly. “The more people that know the better chance that it would be stopped, that’s an act of treason. The wedding could be stalled once people learn that the duke didn’t have permission.”

Clara gripped her hands as she threw off her gloves. Thankfully the Duke’s hands didn’t leave a mark on her skin. She thought back to Mr. Sinclaire’s will in her reticule. Ernest… She straightened up and put her back to Briar.

“I know one way to stall a wedding and that’s a run-away bride,” she said. “Unlace my dress Briar. I can’t tell you where I’m going but I’m going to disappear. I don’t care about my reputation anymore. I’m going to find Ernest and marry him if I can reach him.”

She nodded starting to unlace the gown.

“Miss Mills,” said Bishop as he turned his back for privacy. “I have given into temptations of corruption before and cannot any longer. I can’t stop your marriage to the duke, but I have my way of stalling. I will be resigning my position formally today. Don’t worry about where I will go, I need to care for my mother. By announcing to the crowd, there should be enough time to escape.”

With that the three of them hatched their plan. Clara was to use the service doors to get out to a horse. Bishop was going to make a show of resigning and explaining what he can while Briar spread the remaining papers and truth around the church.

“I also have this for you Miss Mills,” said Bishop Monroe. “This is a letter explaining the situation. How you were being forced into a marriage, what the duke’s plans are, and my permission along with grandmothers to marry Mr. Ernest Sinclaire if you should find him. It’s the least I can do.”

The door opened behind them as Clara ducked behind the screen. Briar splashed some of the wine meant for the service onto her gown. At least they could say they have a reason for her being unclothed.

“Miss Daly,” said Edmund as he peeked into the door. “I have something you might need for your plan.” She looked alarmed as she grew quiet. “I have overheard part of your plans and kept the duke from coming back. I told him that Clara had something on her gown and they were working on cleaning it right away.”

“And you might need Mr. Sinclaire,” said Mr. Woods from behind him. He pushed the man into the room to obstruct him from any line of sight. “The duke was going to force him to watch. I helped him back here and well…”

“Ernest!” said Clara as she ran to her real fiancé and threw her arms around him. They were hugging and kissing each other as fevered as ever. “How did you know?”

“We heard the duke yell,” said Mr. Marlcaster.

“And then slap someone. We knew it wouldn’t be you and thought it might have been…” said Mr. Woods as his eyes lingered briefly on Miss Daly. They were helping her to help Miss Daly. It was a bit backward but okay, thought Clara.

Using the service doors did Clara and Ernest make their daring escape. Gideon Payne was outside the doors keeping people from leaving and entering depending on who. Once they were far away and crossing into another shire could they breathe again. The next parish would surely marry them with the Bishop’s letter and special permission.

They had left the church buzzing with talk about the duke’s wrong doings. His fliers being passed around from person to person. The Bishop’s public resignation. Gideon Payne’s name in passing conversations and his former deeds. The bride missing wasn’t that big of a deal after realizing that the duke was going to stage a coup. The church in utter chaos.

Meanwhile Clara felt her heart pounding in her chest as she took a deep breath. She had decided to wear her pale pink dress that she wore at the garden party. It wasn’t that gaudy thing that the Duke had picked out for her. Behind her was four witnesses, four people she didn’t know. Their friends couldn’t be here since it would be suspicious for all of them to be gone, even Briar didn’t know where she was.

Next to her was Ernest as she gripped his hand, they had exchanged much kissing and words of love on the way here. In front of them the special license and the register book. This was it, they had already exchanged their ‘I wills’ and the truth would spread around London and society.

“Alright all we need is your names signed,” said Bishop Perry passing them the quill and ink. Clara leaned in and wrote her name in the register proudly. The columns perfectly lined and their signatures on the pristine pages.

Ernest Sinclaire. Clara Mills. She marveled at the certificate line by line at what they filled out. Name, spouse, the church, even her parents’ names had to be included. No matter as the witnesses came forward. Four random strangers that knew everything the Duke has done. Four random strangers that promised her happiness.

“Thank you,” said the bishop as the women smiled softly at them. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. By the Church of England, I now introduce you Mr. and Mrs. Sinclaire.”

With that Ernest took her hands before heading toward the doors. By now the others surely would know what had happened and where they had gone off to. The Bishop nodded at them to go ahead to the doors. The butterflies in her stomach exploded as they exited the doors of the church.

Once outside Ernest pressed his lips to her cheek softly.

“And where are we going Mr. Sinclaire?” she asked coyly as he opened the carriage door for her.

“Perhaps our summer cottage my angel?”

A wide smile formed on her face as she was just thrilled to hear the word ‘our cottage’ leave his lips. His childhood summer home by the sea would be their first vacation as a married couple. Ernest shut the door firmly leaving them alone for the first time in so long.

Unable to help herself she threw her arms around him and kissed him. The kiss was long, hot, passionate, and deep. Clara was tempted to let him take her now in the carriage, her hands eagerly undoing his cravat. Ernest kissing just as passionately back rubbing her shoulders down. She groaned into the kiss her body ready for him. Her limbs loose as she surrendered to the ache for him running across her body. He had successfully unpinned her hair as it lay in waves around her hips.

Clara had managed to undo the top half of her dress their kisses now faster and more furious.

A n hour later they heard a voice. “Wait! Stop!” However, the carriage as they just continued. “The Duke, he’s been arrested, you can stop the carriage please!”

They broke apart before Ernest knocked on the front of the carriage as they pulled apart. Cautiously, he gestured for Clara to remain low in case this was some trick. She sneakily peered out the window to see Briar on the back of Mr. Harper’s horse. How long did it take for them to be found?

“Mr. Sinclaire,” said Briar as she was panting slightly. “Please tell me Clara is with you.”

Ernest didn’t have to say anything as Clara sheepishly peered out of the carriage. Her unbound hair and the fact he didn’t have his cravat on seemed to say exactly what they were doing. From where he stood watching them, Mr. Harper averted his eyes. Briar hid a smile as best as she could.

“Did you two elope?” asked Mr. Harper a little surprised at that though.

“No,” said Clara. “Bishop Monroe wrote a letter to one of his colleagues at a nearby parish to marry us by special permission. He explained everything and we had a special license.”

At this Briar squealed in delight, to be married by special license was a huge deal.

“Wait how does that work?” asked Mr. Harper. “Even if the duke was arrested, nobody else knew about your marriage. What about your reputation?”

Ernest smiled gently at her putting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s something else Bishop Monroe and the dowager countess could explain as well. They’re going to explain that we wanted the marriage to be handled discreetly to keep the Duke from finding out, as we had permission from both.”

“Oh, this is so romantic,” said Briar.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t use any of you as a witness. To avoid suspicions we couldn’t tell anyone where I had run off to. It was better that nobody knew where we were. “What happened after we left? “

“I understand that,” said Briar. “The letters that we found circulated around the church. The prince regent’s guards surrounded the church and put him and Gideon Payne in chains after we kept him for there a while. Bishop Monroe admitted to everyone that he was bribed into marry you two. Everything was labeled illegal since he didn’t even have parental consent. Anyway, now that the duke is locked up, are you at least going to tell everyone good bye for now?”

“That was a brilliant move,” said a new voice.

“Once the rumors started I got Prince Hamid, Miss Parsons, and your family out of the church,” said Briar. “We figured that this was the county you could easily get to.”

The newly married couple flushed still aware of what they looked like. Clara still trying to fix her hair to be a little presentable in a simple bun. Ernest flattened his own hair and retied his cravat. The other carriage finally caught up to them to reveal their friends, grandmother, Edmund, and even Henrietta. Dominique looked rather mortified to see her granddaughter in a compromising situation yet still happy.

“Clara, I’m so happy for you,” said Annabelle running over and hugging her. “I’m glad we caught up.”

“That was a brilliant move in setting the duke up,” admitted Henrietta begrudgingly. “Now it means that I have to set up a new plan to…”

“There’s no need,” said Clara. “Once I get back from our wedding trip I’ll help arrange it for Mr. Marlcaster to inherit half of Edgewater and the title.”

She looked surprised and Edmund hugged her without it being too awkward.

“Thank you,” said Edmund, “I think I’ll get my lands back now, but we’ll find out soon enough.” Clara grinned and Ernest squeezed her hand.

“Let’s forget the formalities and get to the best part. Here’s my present,” said Hamid eagerly passing them a box. “Open it first when you get the chance.”

“And mine,” said Annabelle passing over one too. “Congratulations. I really wish I could have been there but I understand.”

“I will have something special planned for when you arrive,” said Domiique. “And I’m sorry about all the pain I have caused you two.”

Politely Clara nodded hugging her and waving their goodbyes. Edmund pulled her trunk onto the carriage before they drove off toward the east coast of the country. They had their sea side home to enjoy and each other for the next month together. Their location still a secret from most. Once their friends were out of sight once more, the pair turned to one another. Clara already untwisted her hair as it curtained her face.

Ernest pressed his lips against hers as fiercely as possible. Any remaining thoughts on what happened dashed for the hope of a new and better future together. Clara put a hand on his chest Ernest backed her against the carriage wall.

“Shall we finish what we started?” asked Ernest and Clara smiled knowingly.

“But of course, I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off of you for the next month,” said Clara dipping her fingers along his chest.

“And I you,” he said as they resumed their kissing until the inn they had to stop at first to really consummate their wedding that night. Now, this was the wedding that she always wanted - with the man she loved.

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cynicaldefense-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Spring Heat

This is a Trigger Warning - This chapter contains mentions of abuse suicide and a graphic depiction of rape. If you cannot handle these things, you should turn back now.

She sits wrapped in a dull gray wool blanket, the edges of which are wrapped in a decorative cord. The blanket was furnished by the cops swarming around her, but by the owner of the motor lodge, they had been staying in. The old woman, the mother of the man running the lodge, was sitting next to her, her hands gripping lithe shoulders tightly. Oddly enough, it was the old woman that was crying and not Marnie. Her hair a quieter shade of red, a near strawberry blonde which would darken with age, is matted to her with sweat, blood, and saliva.

The ruby red paint of her lipstick is smeared across her face, the hairpin curve of her lips is swollen towards the left side of her mouth. While the rest are puffy and chapped from overuse. Her body is on display, even though the blanket is covering her arms and her legs. The pale sun-kissed flesh of her petite chest is clear, a long bar of angry welted skin lay right across the meager swells of her breasts. The blue of her eyes is dark and nearly lifeless, an aimless haze had descended upon them while she sits there shocked into silence.

What she was born with between her legs, a quirk of genetic mockery that had made her different from other women. An XXY instead of an XX, that had made her a freak to most people was clearly displayed. Its length dangling between her thin thighs, still slightly hard, still dripping from something that had been forced upon her.

In her right hand, which hangs limply down over one knee is a loosely held revolver. The gun that her traveling partner had brought with them just in case they needed protection. He had been her boyfriend. For the longest time, she had been what she thought was bisexual, and this man had told her so much about how he had loved her, and how he wanted to take her to the Gulf of Mexico for Spring Break.

There's a smear of unseen blood on the backs of her legs, the tight private hole of her rear in so much pain that it made sitting unbearable, but she was sitting anyway. The pain was almost forgotten to the shock she had fallen into. There was blood, not her own splattered across her face, sprayed across her young, slightly chubby features.

Marnie Stiller was only nineteen and barely two years into college.

She had been lucky enough to get into Duke and put into the running for their law school at such an early age. Her family had been wealthy enough to afford that privilege for her despite her father believing that she was some kind of curse on the family. Some sort of punishment for some unknown wrong that had been perpetrated by them. Now, though, she had to wonder if he had been right. What if she were some kind of monster? What else would be the reasoning behind her being treated like this? She had to be some kind of monster if the only way she could be fucked was to be taken so violently.

Her eyes slowly drift down to the gun in her grasp. Those bowed lips part to let out a long drawn out breath and to allow the snub-nosed barrel of the gun to push between them. Her thumb pulls the hammer back but her finger isn't on the trigger. The old woman slowly reaches over to push the gun from her mouth just as Marnie's finger wraps around the trigger and pulls, only to leave the gun clicking. Each chamber housing an empty shell.

It had been emptied just minutes ago.

Emptied into the man who had attacked her.

The man that she had loved.

That had said he loved her.

The day leading up to that moment had been as perfect as any day of their trip had been. They'd spent it lounging in the sun, cuddling on the beach and drinking. Of course, she wasn't supposed to be drinking, but he was three years older than her and already in Duke's Law program. He was what she wanted in life, or so she had thought. He had money, he had promise, he had the charm and charisma to take over an entire courtroom if he wanted.

He certainly had taken her over.

Scott was a good guy when she had first met him nine months ago. They'd taken things slow, and they'd even spent the holiday break with one another. Splitting half the trip between their respective families. It was all shaping up to be the perfect relationship, a perfect partnership. Sure Marnie was younger. But he was such a sweetheart, and she was so devoted to him. Marriage was in the cards, they both knew it. Everyone around them seemed to know it.

This Spring Break was supposed to be the big thing. It was supposed to be what turned everything around for them, and that morning, it held so much promise. He'd woken her with a kiss, a kiss, and a whispered promise. That she'd love what he had in store for her today. Of course, Marnie was innocent at the time. She'd never had sex, with anyone. She didn't think about sex. It wasn't an option for her, and Scott knew what she was. She had been honest with him, and he had been accepting and gorgeous about making her feel wanted and accepted. Almost gone out of his way to do so, saying that if she had ever wanted to have surgery to “fix the problem” he would pay for it himself. That she wouldn't have to worry about anything.

Ever.

It had meant so much to her at the time. The promise of having someone there that didn't care about it, but made sure to now they were supportive of whatever decisions she would make about her body. It had made her feel special and beautiful. When really she didn't feel either of those things very often in her life.

Their day had progressed with an anticipatory buzz throughout everything they did. It was like a constant high that was electrifying in her veins. She wanted to know what was coming so bad, like a child waiting to open presents on Christmas morning. Marnie had been nearly bouncing by the time night fell over the sleepy beach town they were in. The sky was orange and purple, the water was rocking the shores in loud waves just yards from their motor lodge. So loud that she could hear them over the sound of her bated breath, and her big blue eyes took to staring at Scott as he moved closer to her.

Something held behind his back, something she had hoped was a ring. As it had turned out, it wasn't a ring. It was a necklace, a beautiful necklace. It had made tears spring to her eyes and brought her leaping upon him and driving them both down onto the bed.

Their lips had met and their kisses grew from content innocent love to a deep passion. A lustful passion that made Marnie nervous and unsure of what was about to happen. She didn't like it, it made her … it made her hard, and it made him groan underneath her. Their bodies moved together, he was growing so achingly hard beneath her and she didn't know what to do. Pushing off of him, her hands pressing against his broad chest, Marnie had never meant for it to go this far. But his hands are on her, pulling down her bikini top and pinching at her nipples.

Yes, it made her feel good. It makes her moan, her lips parting as she shakes her head in refusal, “Stop, Scott … please, I'm not ready for this, okay? You know … you know why ...”

“I don't care about that, Marn, you know I don't. It's okay, honestly. You're beautiful anyway.”

Smiling softly she shakes her head once more while taking his hands into hers. Pushing them away before bringing them up to her lips so that she can kiss his fingertips. But he breaks a hand free and strikes her across the cheek. The heaviness of his ring cuts her lips, busting them up, smearing her lipstick with the action. She's horrified from her place sitting atop him. Leaving tears stinging at her eyes, a lump growing in her throat, “What the fuck, Scott?!”

His hand curls into her strawberry blonde hair and pulls her around and throws her off against the headboard. His belt is pulled off in one slick motion before being slung against her chest, making her scream loudly in fear more than pain. Despite the massive welt that was growing on her pale skin. His hands are so strong, so rough, they grip her and throw her around like she's nothing. Even though she's fighting it takes everything she has to do so. To even try and push him off of her.

She doesn't succeed in her goal, however. He slammed a hand into her back, forcing her ass into the air and keeping her face pressed into the mattress. With one angry motion he rips away her bikini bottoms and smacks her ass violently, punishing her as many times as he can before his own palm begins to hurt from them, “You teasing little whore, did you really think you could tease me so much without doing anything to me? It's been nine months you little slut. Nine. Nothing more than a fucking hand job and I get you all of this stuff, pay for everything and you can't even give me a little ass to make up for it? It's the only thing you got to give anyway like I'd ever let you stick that freaky little cock into me … please.”

“No … no please don't do this … please … just give me a little … NO! SCOTT! N-”

Her words are cut off mid-scream as she feels him shove himself into her. The sound of his pants being undone, the way the metal clack and clinks together while he wraps his belt around her wrists. Tying her down and keeping his hand there on that slim bit of leather keeping her captive.

His cock is so big, so hard, tearing her apart as he thrusts into her. Ripping her, making her scream and cry, begging him “no … no … please … I love you, Scott … no … please … don't do this ...”

He took his time too, starting slow, as if he was letting her adjust to him. Using her blood as lubricant to slowly build speak. His balls slapping against hers. Making her scream, making her hard, making her feel things she didn't want to feel. Not this way. Not in this moment. Not by him.

He was a monster. A deep, dark ugly creature who had been using her this entire time to feed some kind of sick kick, “Shut the fuck up, you stupid dick girl.” Bellowing at her he slapped the back of her head while pounding into her. Her ass bouncing against him, her legs pinned underneath his.

Eventually, she just stopped. Stopped fighting, stopped feeling, stopped yelling, stopped pleading. All but her breath had stopped, and if she could have stopped that she would have. But that wasn't enough, something inside of her felt the pleasure of his length brushing against that thing inside of her and it made her twitch, made her body involuntarily buck against him, “That's right … fucking take it,” Marnie had lost track of all time before he was done, but she had not lost track of the explosion of slick, sticky unwanted cum that coated her belly and the sheets below her. He emptied into her with throbbing pulses that empty white hot liquid into her torn and painfully ripped ass. He left her there, pulling his belt off of her and walking away. His lips pulled into a twisted grin, “I'm going for a shower, you stupid bitch, you bled like a stuck pig.” His laughter carries as he entered the bathroom to start the water. His pubic area, the thick width of his cock painted red with her blood.

She laid there on her belly watching him taunt her, grinning at her like he knew he had won, “Don't bother telling anyone about this either, because who do you think they'll believe? Some little freak dick girl or a real man?”

His hand had pulled a towel off the rack before disappearing into the shower.

Marnie had laid there for a while, and it sounded like he was taking his time cleaning himself. Of course, she had been hunting before and knew how long it took to get blood off of skin. He'd been in there a while, thinking he had won. Thinking he had taken what he wanted from her without having to pay for it.

Falling off the bed she fumbled with the drawer of the nightstand next to his side of the bed. The gun was heavy in her bruised hands. Which could barely keep themselves still long enough to make sure it was loaded and that the safety was off. It took all she had to stand up and walk into the bathroom, her left hand braced against the door to keep herself standing, “Scott … look at me ...”

Over the sound of the pouring water, her voice was meek and broken. Shaken to the core and her throat hoarse from her screamed pleading that had fallen upon deaf ears. Raising the gun and taking aim at him when he turns around, a dumbfounded smirk on his lips as he points a finger at her, “Put that goddamn gun down before I'm forced to get out of this shower and fuck your ass wi-”

The first shot silences him while shock blooms in his features. It blew through his shoulder, knocking him backward into the shower wall, “Don't … don't do this, Marn … c'mon … you know I was only playing around!”

He pauses and dares to ask, “Right?”

“Fuck you.”

It's her only verbal answer because the next shot blows apart his cock and balls. Shredding them into flaps of bloody flesh that hang from him impotently.

The next four shots land wherever they want. The third blew open his cheek and tore away his jaw, the fourth caught him in the neck, causing a spurt of arterial spray to catch her in the face, though she doesn't flinch at its warmth. The fifth in his chest, collapsing his lung. The sound of blood gurgling and the wet sucking noise told her that much. Reminding her of the time she took down an eight point buck with her father in much the same way.

Somehow he was still alive, his eyes blinking fruitlessly, one hand clutching in her direction, begging her not to kill him. He had slipped down into the tub, water washing the blood down his body, letting it mingle with the stains of her blood on his thighs. Stumbling towards him, she grips the edge of the sink and fires the last shot directly between his eyes, blowing the front of his skull out the back of his head.

When all was said and done she had made her way back to the bed as the door to their room was pushed open by the owners, screams and terrified whispers fill the air outside. Sirens were quietly blaring in the distance.

But she was gone. Even when the police questioned her, they knew what had happened. The evidence was all over her. Bruised wrists, blood on the bedding, blood dripping from her ass, the bruised, swollen flesh of her face.

The corpse in the bathroom.

They called her family, who in turn called the family lawyer, won in turn made sure that nothing happened to her. No charges were pressed. Nothing stuck to her, no records were made or kept that could ever indicate that she had done anything but protect herself from a man who would no doubt kept abusing her if she had given up that night.

She may not have gone to jail. But that didn't mean she hadn't been delivered to a jail of Scott's own making inside of her head. One that still haunts her. One that kept her from being sexual with people, one that kept her from truly engaging in relationships out of fear of what could happen. Of what had happened to her.

Until Zoe showed up, that was and scared her into taking a chance on something other than playing it safe.

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