#fic: I worry I’ll die young

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹⛑️

Thank you, my lovely friend <3

Jamie really should’ve stayed at Roy’s, but he had wanted to sleep in his own bed and pretend the night had never happened. Pretend that his Dad hadn’t shown up and shined a spotlight onto his broken soul in front of everyone, but then he showed up again and shattered both his peace and his hand with one stomp of a boot. Now, instead of sleeping in Roy or a teammate’s lush guest room, he was sitting in an A&E waiting room alone, his hat pulled down low, hoping no one recognised him, an ice pack held on his throbbing hand.  Just as Jamie was beginning to think his night couldn’t get any worse, Roy fucking Kent walked in. He really was here, there, and every-fucking-where, weren’t he? Jamie slumped lower in his chair, good hand to the brim of his hat, attempting to block his face. How had Roy known he was here? 

Jamie watched through his fingers as Roy spoke to the woman at the front desk. A thin layer of terror drummed through his body as he waited for Roy to turn, fix his gaze on him, and storm over, but the woman simply buzzed open the waiting room door.  “Are you Jamie Tartt?”  Jamie had been so preoccupied watching Roy that he hadn’t noticed the kid approach him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roy stop and slowly turn around.  Fuck.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Short Mob!bucky fic for yall. Enjoy!

“Why the fuck did you think coming here was a good idea?!” You whisper angrily at the bleeding mob boss in your home.

“I didn’t know your dad was coming over!” Bucky loudly whispers back in response.

“Exactly! You didn’t know which is why the smart thing to do would’ve been to call or text me to let me know you planned on coming!”

The mob boss scoffs, “Well sorry, I was a little too busy trying to not to die from a stab wound!”

“Bug, everything okay?” The chief of police, aka your father, asks through your bedroom door.

“Yeah! Sorry, America is having some issues with her girlfriend and needs someone to lend an ear to. You can start eating without me!”

“You sure!”

“I’m sure! I’m not sure how long this’ll be but I’ll do my best to speed it up.”

“No worries. Go be a good friend. I’ll be here.”

“Thanks, dad!” You listen as your father’s footsteps fade away as he heads to the kitchen.

You look back at Bucky. He’s shirtless, slumped against your wall, holding a ripped piece if his shirt to his knife wound.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh, “Out of nights you get hurt, it had to be the night my dad and I have dinner together.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “My bad. I’ll make sure to schedule my stabbings at a more convenient time.”

“Idiot,” you mumble as you grab your first aid kit.

You work in a quick and efficient silence. Bucky doesn’t make an effort of conversation because he knows you prefer silence when you work.

This wasn’t an ideal relationship you two had. Years ago, he was sure he was going to marry you. Now, he yearns for the days when life wasn’t so complicated. He wished he was still a young man, in love with a girl. When he didn’t have to worry about running his family’s organization and you were just the daughter of an ordinary detective.

Things were much simpler then.

But now he’s head of the Barnes Family, doing his best to keep up with his father’s legacy and you’re the daughter of the chief of police works as a pediatric nurse during the day, and Bucky’s nurse during the night.

It was only supposed to be a one time thing, but Bucky kept coming back whenever he or one of his people got hurt. He paid you for your services. But still felt guilty for helping him.

Especially since this is the man your father has been trying to take down for years.

“Stay here. Take some meds. I’ll check up on you, but please be quiet. If dad finds you, he’ll kill both of us.” You state with concern and seriousness.

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Go enjoy dinner with your pop.”

“Just text me if you need anything. I’ll pretend it’s America or something.”

“Got it. Thanks,” Bucky says as he slowly sits up on your bed after you stitched him up.

He watches as you quickly clean up and exit your room. He listens to the distant sound of you and your dad talking.

Bucky’s shoulder slumps as he lets out a shaky sigh. He wishes it never came to this, sneaking around and pretending like he still didn’t love you.

Because he does. He always will, even if you two are now worlds apart from each other, on opposing sides, never meant to be.

[blueberry-rose]

Hello!!! It's nice to see new genshin wlw writers!!! I have a request, feel free to take creative liberties with it. Can I have a Harbinger! Reader x Arlecchino, where basically Arlecchino shadows reader to learn from about harbinger duties and responsibilities? The more they're together the more they like and fall for each other.

I struggled a bit on how to write this so I hope you enjoy it.

Arlecchino x harbinger!reader

Arlecchino is 19 at the start of this. Your age is not mentioned but you’re implied to be a little older. Mentions of alcohol.I might have made Arlecchino an angsty teen (but let’s be honest who wasn’t an angsty teen)but the fic is has a two year time skip.

You’re a harbinger and the new fourth harbinger has been assigned to shadow you. She’s so young no older than 20. She was pardoned not even a week ago and already a harbinger. You haven’t been a harbinger for long but you had to work for years to become one. And here’s the new big shot, a criminal turned harbinger.

You got dragged out of your thoughts when your door opened. You set your work down, looking up. She stood there. Her hair was too her shoulders clearly hasn’t been cut in a while, she just got out of jail what did you expect. She wore a suit. “So you’re the new harbinger?” You gathered your work up. Putting it in your drawer.

“Yes.” She had no emotion in her voice. God it was true Crucabena was a monster, you heard rumors about it, but you thought it was over exaggerated. But the look of this girl, it’s clear it’s true, sure she was good at hiding it but you could tell she looked like her whole world has been destroyed. Her voice rang out again dragging you from your thoughts a second time. “my name is Peruer- I mean Arlecchino.”

You laughed. “Not used to the new name? Don’t worry it took me a while too. I’ve read your file, you were raised in the house of hearth. Now you are the knave, and moth-“ she cut you off.

“I’m the father. The title mother died with that woman.” You saw the blacken part on her arms to rise slightly.

“Father? Ok, ok sorry, that woman was a horrible person. But most of us are. You will have to control that anger and curse of yours.” Her fists unclench her face going blank again. You sighed. “I’ll be honest with you harbinger work is not as fun as it seems. We do paperwork I lot, we do get the most important missions. But we usually delegate the work. And if you need anything you can ask me. Now come here I’ll show you most of the work we tend to do.” She walked to your side and watched you. You went on explaining how to delegate work and getting to know your agents to make sure they can handle the work. “Now I do actually have a mission we have to do, it’s nothing too much but it’s something.”

Arlecchino followed you she’s not much younger than you but it’s clear she’s used to shutting up and doing what she’s told. “you can talk, I don’t care if you have questions. You are here to learn not to just mindlessly follow orders,”

“I don’t do small talk, not after her.” Arlecchino clearly doesn’t like talking all that much.

“Her?” It was clear she peaked your interest. Her eyes widened slightly. “Was it a girlfriend?”

“No.” She said it coldly. “She was just my best friend.”

“Did she die, was it the former knave’s fault?” You wanted this woman to open up a bit. Getting to know her was a need.

“Yes, she’s dead, but her death wasn’t that woman’s fault entirely. I killed her.” Her eyes looked dead, it was heartbreaking.

“Oh,” you didn’t know what to say. “Why?”

“Why? Because that woman that I called mother found a it funny to force children to fight to the death.”

“What?” She- she. That bitch. children?” You were surprised this was monstrous. “I’m sorry it must have been hard. Living like that.”

“she impaled herself on my sword. She was mother’s own flesh and blood.” She said all of this with a straight face. Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” you put your hand on her shoulder she tensed, it was clear that she’s been abused. “You don’t have to worry about the old mother. You’re the father of the house now, you can create a new beginning. For the new children as well as the ones that survived her. And rest assured that I will be there if you ever need help.”

She looked at you pushing your hand off her shoulder, it wasn’t hard she just grabbed your hand to took it off. “Alright. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind”

It was like this for a while, she shadowed you for a month before she was allow on her own. You could see her slowly piece her mask together. She was gracefully, and calm. Seeming to be uncaring. You knew better though she seemed to trust you. She comes by your office every once in a while. It’s been about two years since she became a harbinger. And you two ended up on a mission together. It wasn’t hard pretty easy in fact you barely did anything.

“It was nice working with you again, it reminded me of when I was shadowing you.” You smiled at her as she talked.

“You were still piecing together your mask. I think I’m the only one that knows about how angry you were when you got out of prison.”

“I was still a child. I couldn’t help but get mad.”

“Child? you were like 20”

“19 actually, I’m 21 now”

“Oh, a year off forgive me.” You were messing with her. When she stopped suddenly. “Arlecchino?” You looked back at her.

“You’re important to me. You know that right?” You felt your face heat up, Arlecchino’s changed a lot from when you first met her. She was angry, and a reckless teenager, now she was a graceful and calculated woman. “Be ready at 8 pm tonight I’m taking you somewhere fancy to thank you for everything.”

“You don’t have to do that. I swear”

“It’s to late I already have a reservation. Do not keep me waiting.” She walked forward. You walked along side her.

“You don’t take no for an answer do you?” You teased her

“You didn’t say no technically. But no I am taking you to dinner tonight.” She looked at you her Crimson x’s burning into you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go to dinner with you. Fancy you say?”

“Yes I’m taking you to a fancy restaurant, it’s the least I can do, you’ve always did whatever you could to help me and the house. It means a lot to me.”

It was 6:30 when you got home. Arlecchino’s taking you to dinner. You barely had enough time to get ready in fact you barely put on your shoes when you heard her knock. “Come in” you touched up your lipstick as she opened the door.

“Are you ready?” She walked into your room, archons she was beautiful, her once short hair now reached her butt, pulled into a low ponytail. She was wearing her normal suit. While you were all dolled up, in a full face of makeup, your hair curled, a long skintight black dress, black heals and a silver clutch. “Well look at you all dressed up.”

“You told me we are going somewhere fancy. So I dressed up.” You were blushing slightly, Arlecchino is so much taller the you and the way she was leaning on the doorframe had you melting. You forgot when you started to like her, but you never did anything you know she’s not one to form relations. Your relationship with her was purely based on work.

“You look beautiful, truly” there you go again your face is definitely super red. Arlecchino grabbed your hand and pulled to to follow her, you did of course,

“You’re not one to dish out compliments.” You giggled a bit.

“Then you should know I’m being sincere” she didn’t let go of your hand, she held it all the way to the restaurant. She only let go when you were sat, in a private little corner. “Go ahead and pick out anything you want, I’m paying after all” you looked at the menu. Everything was pretty pricey, now with you being a harbinger the price would be no problem but still you live way below your means. So going to fancy places isn’t something you do often.

“I’ll just have the steak.”

“I’ll order the same then” after a bit the waiter arrived.

“What would you like to drink, ladies?

“Just get us on red wine,” the waiter nodded before hurrying off. And coming back with the wine. Pouring two cups of wine, Arlecchino took a sip of wine.

“So why did you wish to take me to a restaurant? Especially such a fancy one?”

“Am I not allowed to treat my closest confidant.” She raised her eyes brow at you, her expression barely changing but enough for you to notice.

“I’m not saying that, it’s just” you sighed. “You treat me so differently from everyone else”

“Well maybe that’s because I think of you differently.” She grabbed your hand. Placing a kiss on it. “And I always have.”

“Arle.” Your face heating up. When she raised her eyes to meet yours. This crimson x’s focused on you. And only you.

“I, you’re not someone I can lose. Ever.” She placed a kiss on your hand again.

[neo-nomatrix]

Give you the world

Joel Miller x reader

summary: You love Joel more than you can explain, you just can’t figure out if he feels the same

warnings: age gap, angst ig

my last joel fic

a/n: could be read as a part two of my last Joel fic but it can be read as a stand alone

You haven’t seen Joel truly happy in a while, the closest it’s come to is now. You’re standing with Ellie when Joel runs up to his brother, Tommy, who you’ve heard little about. You swear you hear him sniffling as he walks back to you.

The gates of Jackson are unbelievable. It’s somehow so incredibly warm despite the thick layer of snow below your feet. Everyone is beyond inviting and kind, it reminds you of before the outbreak.

“It’s amazing here,” you tell Tommy and Maria as you, Joel, and Ellie eat the plates of food in front of you.

“I’m glad you all like it,” Maria responds, smiling,

“It’s safe here,” Joel mumbles while leaning over his plate.

You can tell he’s thinking about something, whether it’s a good thing or not, you don’t know.

-

Maria leads you and Ellie to your home for the next day? week? month? You’re still not sure how long you’ll spend here. You secretly hope it’s a long time but you can tell it won’t last.

Since you’ve arrived you haven’t seen Joel in at least three hours.

“Hey, El, do you know where Joel is?” you ask the girl, slightly concerned.

“No, are you going out looking for him?” she asks.

“Probably, don’t know where I should start though,” You respond.

Something drew you to the carpenter's shed when you were searching for Joel. You peer into the window and as you suspected you saw him sitting there. Toying with new boots you assumed Tommy had given him. As you open the door Joel didn’t look up like you had expected.

“Joel,” You say quietly.

“Joel,” you say again, this time tapping his shoulder and using a firmer voice.

He slightly jolted back like he was shocked.

“Oh, hey,” he said reluctantly.

“Is something the matter? You seem upset,” You ask worried.

“How’d you like it if you stayed here for a while?”

“This sounds like a trick,” you tell him.

“I’ve asked Tommy to take Ellie the rest of the way. I’m gonna leave too, and you’re gonna stay here,” He said, his eyes not meeting yours.

“What?” you say, as if you didn’t hear him the first time.

He still wasn’t looking at you.

“And what makes you think you can just decide that for us?”

“It’s the best option for you and Ellie,” he said.

He still wasn’t looking at you.

“Like hell it is! Joel, you are the only person I trust right now, and as far as I'm concerned you are the only person who can take care of me. You promised me you’d protect me, you fucking promised!” You’re both standing now, in a fit of rage you start lightly hitting his chest with your fists.

“Hey, hey I know what I said. You can call me a liar all you want. Just please, stay here. Where you’re safe. This is how i’m protecting you,” He says, you don’t miss the way his voice breaks.

“Joel, don't do this! I’ll never fucking forgive you. I’m gonna hate you if you do this,” You sob into his chest as he holds your clenched hands.

“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry. I just- I just can’t take care of you. I’m worthless to you now,” At this point his eyes are threatening tears too.

“You can’t! You can’t leave me too. No, no, no, I won't let you.”

“Doll, you have to trust me. I’d give up everything for you if I could. But you’re young, you have so much more life to live. If I take you with me I'm endangering that. And I'd rather die than see you hurt,” he admits as he picks up his boots and leaves you to settle with your own pain.

_

Ellie had told you about her own fight with Joel only a few hours after your own. Part of you still can’t believe he would just let go of the two of you so easily.

You’re walking beside Ellie and Tommy to the stables. You’re still processing the fact that this is “the end.”

“So what? This is it? Everything we did all for just this,” Ellie asks you.

“Maybe not,” you nod towards Joel who’s standing by one of the horses.

“Are you here to say goodbye?” You ask Joel, walking up to him.

“Look, I still think you’d be safer here and Ellie would be better off with Tommy. But you both deserve a choice. You can-” Joel gets cut off by Ellie throwing her bag at him.

“Let’s just go already,” she tells the both of you.

“You have every right to hate me, doll. I don’t blame you if you want to stay here now. But I need you to know how much you mean to me, okay?” Joel says, his hands cup your face.

You sure as hell don’t miss the way his eyes finally meet yours.

[tigirl-and-co]

How Finite is Love?

This is a short little piece set in @shirecorn‘s super cool mlp AU! This is just a first pass at it, I’ll definitely refine it if I post it to a fic site. I just HAD to get this out though, the au hits all my sweet spots!

Shining Armor considers the ponies he loves, and how a mortal pony can love goddesses.

Shining Armor held no resentment towards his two favourite mares. It wasn't their fault. They had no choice. Shining wasn't certain he believed in destiny, but whatever happened to his wife and baby sister sure was close.

First it was his wife, and that he could handle. She was an adult. They had fallen in love in highschool, they had grown together, Shining knew how strong Cadance was. If anypony deserved ascension, it was her.

If anypony could weather this, it was them.

He loved his wife with every bone in his body, every fiber of his being, every ounce of magic he could channel. And he knew she felt the same. If she didn't... this never would have happened.

Can love be a curse? Can loving somepony too much damn your soul? Can it save it?

About a month after Cadance gained her horn, Shining Armor decided dwelling on these questions wasn't helpful, and the answers didn't matter. He loved Cadance, and Cadance loved him. He couldn't change the past, wasn't sure if he even would -- but he was dead set on building a happy future.

At least as happy as he could give her. He couldn't guarantee that the love his mortal body held would last into her infinity, but he was determined to try.

He hoped it wouldn't destroy her to leave him behind, when the time came.

He loved her too much for that.

===

He had celebrated when The Sun took notice of Twilight.

The young stallion was oblivious to the looks of quiet worry on his parents' faces, the body language that said they were resigned to a cautious optimism. How could the attention of the source of Equestrian life bring anything but fortune?

He wasn't yet old enough to have heard the whispers. The old fables weren't circulated in school for fear of divine retribution, and Shining Armor was not as studious as his sibling.

Now?

Had he the power, he would have torn The Sun from the sky.

His baby sister, the sweetest and most sensitive mare he had ever known, damned to an eternity of watching her friends die.

She was a child (she was older than Cadance had been) she needed protection (she had brought down false gods) she wasn't ready (The Sun had learned from its mistakes, this new goddess was more than prepared).

She needed him.

Didn't she?

(She did, once.)

He was proud of her, of course. And if he had been watching for the signs, he wouldn't have been surprised.

Twilight Sparkle had always had an innate love for those around her. Before she had locked herself away in that tower amongst the tomes, she had been a kind filly. And even then, she had never quite managed to harden her heart.

She was still openly affectionate with him, with Cadance, with Twilight Velvet and Night Light. She shared her knowledge with them because it was how she said 'I love you.'

Leave it to a goddess to exploit that trait.

When Shining managed to find time to talk with his Twily after she had earned her wings, she had said her job as goddess was 'to spread the knowledge of friendship' and to teach others what friendship truly meant. She sounded excited, happy. She had found a purpose for her research.

Shining Armor wasn't sure if his baby sister hadn't yet considered the consequences of eternal life, or if it simply didn't bother her. He didn't ask.

He realized that while she was still his Twily, and would be until the day he died, she was more. She was Ponyville's friend. She was Celestia's Twilight Sparkle.

She was Equestria's new goddess.

He renewed his vow to remain her BBBFF forever, to keep her safe from turmoil and danger.

He swallowed down his anger and despair that night, in favour of his inevitable role as protector. He had his cutie mark, and he knew what it meant.

===

Shining Armor loved the mares in his life, and he would go to the ends of Equestria to keep them safe and happy, whether they needed him or not.

He was glad, at least, that they would have each other.

[blingblong55]

Epiphany- John "Soap" MacTavish x Reader x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Based on a request: Hello do you do limbless? If you do would you write for reader who has no arms or legs and Soap and Simon finds her somewhere after she got lost while out (she doesn’t have fake body parts) it’s fine if this makes you uncomfortable but I’ll like to know if you do these types of writings ---- F!Reader, comfort?, fluff?, angst, platonic!relationship ----

A/N: I believe I did some limbless fic some time ago but yes, the answer is yes I do. 

Hello do you do limbless? If you do would you write for reader who has no arms or legs and Soap and Simon finds her somewhere after she got lost while out (she doesn’t have fake body parts) it’s fine if this makes you uncomfortable but I’ll like to know if you do these types of writings

A/N: I believe I did some limbless fic some time ago but yes, the answer is yes I do. 

It was the same old tale for a soldier like you. Losing part of your body for the greater good, but what does that even mean when no one remembers you?

It took months of therapy to get used to not having an arm and half of your right leg, but with so much support, you prevailed and now roam the streets of your town when the home gets too boring. It's also the reason why today, you're out and about. 

However, as good as the day seemed, all went wrong. A loud noise from the busy road workers triggered a deep memory of yours. The noise is all too similar to gunshots, the men yelling reminding you of the hours you spent thinking they'd be the last time you saw the moon. And before you knew it, there you are, sitting on some bench, creeping others away as you hold yourself. 

This wasn't meant to happen. 

Where's home? I need my home. 

Home...home...please...

Where am I?

What is this place?

Shit...I'm far from home. 

"Y/N!" the man says over the bombs. They are closer now. The guns are all out of ammo except yours. The blood and body parts of fallen comrades were scattered all over the grounds. "Y/N!" they keep yelling, knowing you were the last of them to do something. Do something. 

Your helmet falls to the ground as you try and cover the small child that crosses the fire. "Ma'am, I think he's bleeding out!" one of the young soldiers yells over the noise. Your gaze falls on the child. Oh...oh dear god. 

The things bombs and guns can do to a small child. The worry a war brings to those innocent. The memories a soldier takes to their grave. 

As the bombs get closer, the empty cases fall to your side. 

There are things you can never speak about and the child in your arms will be one of them. This isn't something they ever taught you in school. Grief was never part of the training. Death of a soldier was but never of a child. 

You serve the nation, the innocent and those soldiers with you. You would serve and die with them. Never leave a soldier behind, you remember. 

I want to go home. 

"I need to go home. Please.." you whisper as you silently cry. Your limbless self brings all the memories of those days. "Y/N?" Soap's voice stops all the memories. Ghost knew that look in your eyes. "Let's get her out of 'ere," he tells Soap and in some quick motion, you're carried out of the bench. 

You shut your eyes like a child that's in fear. 

"Where am I?" Your voice is soft, but the fear and worry leak through your mouth with these words. 

"You're home, Y/N," Soap whispers. 

Home, what a tragic word it must be to those in war. It'll always be a word you think about right before you reach the tunnel. 

Once in the comfort of the cosy and small place you call home, you hear the whispers of your friends. "Should we call Price?" Soap asks and for a second, you can hear the hesitation I Ghost's voice. "...No, she will be fine. We'll make up some excuse to stay the night here." And that they did. Never leave a soldier behind, they remind themselves. 

When Soap hands you your medication, they see as you drink it down. Within minutes, they can see a glimpse of relief. To many, this small glimpse is nothing but to you, it helps make sense of all the horror you saw. 

It's a sad kind of relief. 

For days, Soap and Ghost always rotated in taking care of you. They made sure to keep the home quiet if needed and never brought up the sad tales you whispered in the night. 

Your restless body looks a the missing parts, wishing that for just one more time, you could use them. That those scars from childhood would be there again, but now they are gone. All you have left is an appointment to be given prosthetic body parts and the two men who swear to care for you until their bodies give up. 

And today, as you woke up from some midday nap, they were sitting there. Arguiig over some game show, the same one they told you was absolute shit. You smile. Maybe after all, all will be fine. 

"Did yer see that! He fuckin' missed it! How do you miss it?!" Soap says as he stands up and with so much anger he walks away. Ghost laughs. " what's s'funny?" you ask with a small smile. "I recorded an old episode of the show and made sure it was one of the episodes where all goes bad," a sly smile on him. You laugh and shake your head. 

Yeah...all will be fine. 

Tags:

@liyanahelena @sampaisleyriot @uniquecroissant

[dcficrecs]

The One Where the Justice League Almost Didn’t Figure it Out: The Training Room Incident

By batsandthebirds on AO3

The premise of this fic is "Nightwing joins the Justice League and no one knows he was the first Robin, so they think he's crazy for being so normal around the goddamn Batman." My favorite scene is the entirety of chapter 2, where the League sets up a sort of test fight while Nightwing is still pretty new to get a sense of his abilities as a fighter. I'm not gonna spoil how it goes, so here's the excerpt from it:

 “Look, I’ll fight him if you want, but I’m not sure it’ll be that useful. If pitting me against someone because of superpowers is really the issue, why don’t I just fight him?” Nightwing pointed, and it took Clark a moment to register that he wasn’t pointing at him or Diana, but between them, where Batman had stood looming silently this entire time.

You could have heard a pin drop. Before Clark could attempt to let the kid down easy, explain that there was no way he was fighting Batman as a new recruit and lasting more than a few seconds, and also that he’d really rather not have their newest member further on the Bat’s bad side than everyone else way, Batman stepped forward between him and Diana and regarded Nightwing with a frown.

“That’s not a good idea,” Batman growled.

Somehow, this just made Nightwing smile even wider. “Oh, I think this is a great idea, B.”

Clark had just enough time to think, Okay, that settles it, Nightwing has a death wish, before he registered that the corners of Batman’s mouth twitched up in a nearly imperceptible smile.

Without any other words spoken, Batman and Nightwing positioned themselves on either side of the mat and the small crowd of spectators all stood back. Clark thought about trying to stop this, and he could have, in theory, but he thought it prudent to let this die now. A lot of new recruits came in with a bit of a cocky attitude, trying to prove themselves against the more powerful heroes on the roster. A lot of times that meant trying to beat Batman at his own game. Best Nightwing got knocked down now, rather than screw something up on an actual mission later. But there was still a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something was off about Nightwing. He came off as cocky, yes, or maybe just too fearless for his own good, but something told Clark that there was more substance to that disposition than most young heroes had.

The two opponents squared off, and Clark took one look at Batman — imposing, heavily armored, and trained to his absolute peak — and Nightwing — young, lithe, relatively short, and still a virtual unknown - winced inwardly on Nightwing’s behalf, and signaled for the fight to begin.

The fact that Nightwing didn’t immediately end up on his back was a miracle in itself. He dodged the first blow, then the second, then the third, and flipped out of the way of the fourth, kicking Batman in the chest as he did so. Batman stumbled, recovering in a fraction of a second, but it was enough time for Nightwing to get the escrima sticks off his back. They crackled with nasty looking blue electricity, which would have worried Clark, if he didn’t know that they had no chance of getting through Batman’s suit.

Clark thought that Nightwing’s luck would run out, and soon. But the fight went on like that. Nightwing dodged any blows that would have knocked him down in an instant, and traded his own blows back with a vengeance. Neither could get the upper hand. After a minute, Clark remembered that he was supposed to be analyzing Nightwing’s abilities, not just staring dumbly as the young hero continued to stay on his feet. He was fast, that much was obvious, and his brain could certainly keep up with his body, if not think ahead. He landed strategic hits, trying to knock Batman off balance, using the weight of his suit against him, and, at one point, even managing to tangle Batman up in his own cape momentarily.

Then — absurdly — Nightwing started laughing. As the opponents traded blows, Nightwing cackled like he was having the time of his life, dodging when he could, taking the hits he couldn’t get away from without faltering, and landing his own blows in the slight windows of opportunity afforded to him. Clark caught sight of a fierce smile on the young hero’s face too, different from the rehearsed, easygoing expression he wore around the League. It was pure, unbridled excitement.

Just as Clark thought that the fight might go on forever, Nightwing raised a hand to throw one of his escrima sticks, but Batman lept at him, swinging his fist in an arc that Nightwing easily should have dodged, but he didn’t. Batman’s fist connected with the side of his face, the laughing stopped, and the weapon Nightwing was throwing went wide. Nightwing reeled from the harsh blow, and that should have been when Batman knocked him to the mat, ending the fight. He could have, easily. But Clark watched as Batman faltered, just for a split second, but it was enough for Clark’s ears to pick up on a ping, ping, ping noise, before Nightwing suddenly sidestepped, and the escrima stick that Clark thought he’d thrown wide connected squarely with the back of Batman’s head, having bounced around the room and off the back wall.

Batman fell forward, hitting the mat hard, and Nightwing stood victorious, laughing again as red bloomed on the side of his face and blood poured out of his mouth from a split lip. He picked the escrima stick up off the mat and attached both of them to his back again, then offered a hand to help Batman up.

To Clark’s further surprise, Batman clasped Nightwing’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. This was so unprecedented that Clark had no idea what to expect next, but Batman wordlessly turning and leaving the training room wasn’t it.

I cannot express how this is one of my favorite moments in any fic ever. I left a comment saying that writing a character outsmarting Batman usually doesn't end well: the writing doesn't make sense, it falls flat, or underestimates a character's (usually Batman's) abilities. This fic, however, does it so perfectly. Nightwing using Batman's care for him against him, and embarrassing him in front of a bunch of Justice League members including Superman and Wonder Woman. Later on in the same chapter, Bruce asks Dick why he didn't dodge the punch and Nightwing explains the whole "using your fear of hurting me to my advantage" thing and Batman is obviously disapproving of that, but it is so in character for Nightwing. He would totally get punched in the face if it meant harassing and/or embarrassing Bruce. It is so clever and absolutely brilliant and everyone should totally read the whole fic. I am in love with this.

[heliads]

Your other Strollonso fic was AWESOME so can I request a Strollonso mafia!AU maybe? Like maybe it’s an arranged marriage so mob boss Nando can keep his alliance with Larry Stroll and they’re super awkward around each other at first but get closer and then Lance gets kidnapped and hurt by a rival and Nando just flips his shit and tears apart the city to find him and they have a really nice lil kiss once Lance is safe and ok? Thanks so much 💕💕

'not just one of your many toys' - fernando x lance

masterlist

It is Fernando Alonso’s own wedding day, and he’s already half an hour late. It’s not a good look, certainly, but no one in their right minds would ever say that the head of the Spanish mob has ever been good, so, according to Fernando, this just fits right in with the rest of his grim reputation. It’s all about appearances, isn’t it?

Today, though, it’s not beyond Fernando to admit that he should have done better. Today matters. Fernando is not stupid enough to have actually fallen in love with someone, so he doesn’t have to worry about disappointing a heartsick fiancée. Besides, if he wanted someone like that, he would have managed to twist his way inside their mind enough that they would forgive him for this tardiness the second he asked.

No, today isn’t a matter of love. Rumor has it that the Spanish mob had their hearts cut out in an expensive procedure when they turned eighteen, and although that’s an obvious fabrication since they’re all still bleeding rich red, it’s true enough by emotional standards. If you love, you die. Fernando Alonso does not accept weakness. If he ever fell in love, he would kill the object of his desires first so they could never drag him down again.

This, then, is yet another business transaction. Fernando has been courting the Stroll family for years now, eyeing their billions ever since they made their first killing, but now, he’s finally managed to force his way in. A young man is waiting on an altar somewhere across the city; Lawrence Stroll’s only son, Lance. Fernando and Lawrence cut this deal a month ago, and it took far too many pulled strings for Fernando to fuck it up like this now. If he were smart, he would have been there early.

Instead, his knife is halfway inside another man’s chest cavity, and Fernando is no closer to wrapping this up than he had been fifteen minutes ago when he realized he was late in the first place. He can’t afford to rush this, though. Traitors never flourish in the mob, least of all with Fernando’s men. Fernando has a reputation to uphold, his marital status be damned. If he doesn’t make this guy a prime example of what happens when you cross Fernando Alonso, his whole business will be riddled with holes until it all comes crashing down.

Still, Fernando can’t afford to piss off the Strolls more than he has already. Jerking his knife out of a partially deflated lung with a hiss of annoyance, Fernando turns to his second in command, Carlos Sainz. The younger, that is. The father is somewhere getting rich off of his son’s bloodlust, as all dutiful parents should be. “You’ll have to carry on with the rest. I was needed thirty minutes ago.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “Shit, I forgot about the wedding. I can make Alguersuari take over if you want me there. It can’t hurt to have backup, I don’t trust the fucking Canadians not to pull some shit.”

Fernando shakes his head. “Stay, I need a guarantee this is handled properly. Besides, I’ll have others there. This isn’t the day that I die.”

Carlos doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going into their stronghold. All of their guys will be there.”

Fernando chuckles. “It’s not a death trap, Carlos, it’s a church. Even Lawrence isn’t bloodthirsty enough to off me en una iglesia.”

Carlos makes a snorting sound that lets Fernando know just what he thinks of that, but one sharp look from Fernando silences the last of his objections. Carlos is a good kid, and Fernando trusts him the most out of anyone here, but in the end, it’s Fernando’s show, and he’s got to make sure none of his men are bashing his soon-to-be husband’s father any more than absolutely necessary.

Fernando cleans off his hands with a rag, grimacing at the spots of purple and green already starting to flower over his knuckles. Bruises on his hands don’t exactly add to the wedding atmosphere, but everyone there already knows what he’s capable of, so this should be no surprise. He exits the building and directs his driver to the church. They get there as fast as they can, but, judging by the stony expression on Lawrence Stroll when Fernando arrives at last, it wasn’t fast enough. He’s only thirty-five minutes late, though. By all accounts, it’s not even that bad.

Lawrence takes him by the arm, leading him casually yet forcefully to one of the small rooms in the back of the church used for the wedding party to prepare themselves before the big event.

“Where have you been?” Lawrence glowers the second the door closes.

“Traffic,” Fernando muses. “It’s terrible in these parts.”

Lawrence arches a silver brow. “You have blood on your cuffs.”

Fernando glances down at his sleeves and fights a wince. It’s only a few drops, but the copper stains still manage to stand out against the fine material. “Really bad traffic. Tourists should have their licenses revoked if they go more than ten below the limit.”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, which is good, because neither is Fernando. None of them like this deal, but they have no better options, so here they are. “Do not forget what rests upon this agreement,” Lawrence intones. “This is not some pretty spring wedding. I must admit, I was relieved when I signed my son over to you because I thought you of all people would understand everything that depends on this. And then you showed up late.”

Fernando tilts his head to the side slightly. “I know exactly what this means. I signed the contract. Let me be the first to assure you that I have no second thoughts. I was merely handling business.”

The air in the prep room is damn near icy. Lawrence is good at the scary act, but Fernando has been inspiring fear in the hearts of better mob men for decades now, and he isn’t the type to back down. Fernando may have coveted the Stroll money, but Lawrence wanted something too, or he never would have agreed to this in the first place. Fernando has had a long and bloody climb to the top of the Spanish mob, and Lawrence wants the notoriety and security of being forever associated with that kind of success. What tie could be better than a marriage? Lawrence had already married off his daughter to a lesser gun of the Bulls, but, well, there was always the other heir.

The legalization of gay marriage did a lot for mob patriarchs. One piece of paper, one actual legal thing about their whole enterprise, could genuinely complete an union between two families. Now, when searching for tenuous threads on which to conduct alliances, wealthy fathers with bloody hands wouldn’t just have to pray for daughters, they could also marry off their useless sons. 

Fernando knows for a fact that there’s been talk of Charles Leclerc from the Chevaux Rouges getting married off to one of the other dime-a-dozen Frenchmen. Pierre Gasly’s father has been pushing that agenda since both young men were boys, but Fernando also knows the way that one of his own best men, Carlos, has been eyeing the Monegasque, so maybe the deal wasn’t yet set in stone after all. Fernando should get after Carlos for that. Pretty boys aren’t worth toppling alliances. He’ll get himself in trouble faster than a sports car can accelerate. 

After all, this was supposed to be about politics, not actual affection. Fernando is the perfect example of this. He could count the times he’s seen Lance Stroll on one hand. The boy lingers in the back of his father’s meetings, pulling exaggerated faces when he’s certain nobody can see him, but Fernando isn’t even sure he’s actually talked to him more than forced interactions conducted in an effort to make it seem like Fernando is a team player. Then again, he doesn’t actually have to enjoy Lance’s company. He just needs his hand in marriage.

One of Lawrence’s men hurries into the room, holding his phone aloft. “A body was just discovered across town. Strung up by the church spire.”

Lawrence eyes Fernando coolly. “Traffic?”

Fernando just sinks his teeth into a matching icy grin. “Traffic,” he agrees.

Lawrence reaches forward, taking hold of Fernando’s hands like he’s praying the rosary. “Do not put any further stains upon my family,” he intones. “Waste the money I give you, fine. Kill your enemies on my own dime. But do not misuse my son. And do not keep him waiting any longer.”

Lawrence squeezes abruptly, causing the rapidly forming bruises on Fernando’s knuckles to twinge with fresh pain, then pulls away. Fernando follows him into the sanctuary of the church. Men in varying shades of black suits watch him like hawks from both sides of the aisle, women most of them probably don’t know lingering on their arms. At the front, Lance’s best man eyes Fernando with particular hatred, but Esteban Ocon has despised Fernando ever since a certain deal went south last year, so Fernando doesn’t pay him much attention. It’s very easy to ignore the Frenchman, which makes Esteban even more irate.

Fernando studies his fiancé. He’s not even certain that Lance was in the room when Lawrence and Fernando agreed on the marriage union, but it’s not like it would have mattered anyway. Lawrence makes the decisions for the Strolls. In a way, Fernando feels like he’s been courting the Stroll patriarch more than his son, but it’s all in the interest of a pawn to move around. Both Lawrence and Fernando can agree on that, apparently.

Lance considers Fernando with vague interest, eyeing him up and down with a lifted brow. He’s not bad to look at, all things considered. He supposes it could have been worse; for a while, that Russian upstart, Mazepin, was thought to be someone to coerce into a marriage, but then his family was revealed to be a bunch of rats and were subsequently driven out of the business. Fernando feels he dodged a bullet there.

The ceremony is conducted without much difficulty. Lawrence insisted on an extravagant reception so they can at least pretend this is a wedding and not just a job reassignment, and Fernando has been dreading this part all day. Carlos turns up an hour into the reception, matching bruises dotting his knuckles. Fernando tells him to enjoy himself as a reward for his good work, but not to have too much fun. Drunkenness and debauchery on a night like this would condemn Fernando even more than showing up late to his own wedding.

Fernando completes circuit after circuit of the event hall, shaking hands with Stroll associates and hearing congratulations from his associates. Many mob men are here as a sign of respect; Esteban brought Pierre as well, so the French are adequately represented, plus young Mick from the Germans. 

Nico Rosberg usually turns up to these sorts of things, so Fernando is sort of surprised that he didn’t show, but then he notices Lewis Hamilton talking with his fellow Silver Arrow George Russell by the bar and the pieces click together again. Now that had been a split to remember. Lewis and Nico had run things together since they were kids, but when Lewis switched sides overnight, Nico had been left without a right hand man when he was about to consider a major deal. It was a stab in the back from the one person Rosberg had thought was his most loyal ally. All of the informants had been simmering for ages afterwards. Talk about a scandal.

After greeting both Arrows, Fernando has to steer Carlos away from the Chevaux Rouges again– he’ll have to have a conversation with the younger man about that later, it does no good to make it so easy to tell what you want– and spoken to Charles Leclerc once he was alone again. Lawrence Stroll has been satisfied by the turnout, so he’s actually in a good mood when he and Fernando talk lightly about business later on.

By the end of the reception, Fernando has managed to have a conversation with everyone but his new husband. When the lights are turned off at the end, they’re both in the same car heading to Fernando’s mansion, but Fernando has to take another half dozen quick calls from regretful allies who were otherwise occupied tonight, so they don’t say a word until they arrive at the door.

Fernando lets them in, muttering something under his breath about needing to get Lance a set of keys. He gives Lance a rough tour of the estate, essentially just enough to know where to sleep, work, and take meals, but when he’s done talking, Lance still stands there expectantly in front of the door to Fernando’s office.

At first, Fernando hardly even notices that he remains. He would have assumed the younger man would want to go to bed. It’s late, and although Fernando still has plenty of work to be done, Lance is likely used to a life of comfort, so he’d want to catch up on sleep. It isn’t until he starts grabbing files from a cabinet at the far side of the room that Lance coughs pointedly.

Fernando glances up as he stacks papers on his desk. Now that he’s got access to Lance’s funds, he’ll need to go over potential expenditures for the coming months. There are a couple of business ventures he’s been waiting to accelerate until this windfall, but now he can race towards whatever he pleases. So long as it turns a good profit, of course.

“Do you need something? There should be servants down the hall if you require anything.” He says, glancing back down at the files in his hands.

Lance shakes his head. “No, I was waiting for you.”

Fernando frowns. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange to see someone so high up in the mob who still hasn’t yet learned the value of a good poker face. Fernando can actually see the incredulity appear in Lance’s eyes and spread to his dropped-jaw stare. “It’s our wedding night, Fernando.”

“I am aware,” Fernando says. “I was there at the wedding.”

Lance scoffs. “Yes, but– come on, man, do I have to say it?”

Fernando looks Lance dead in the eyes for what might be the first night all evening. “You don’t have to say anything, Lance. I’m not oblivious, even if you seem to be. This is not a normal marriage. We are wed in name and fortune but nothing else. If your bed is cold, turn up the heat or imagine someone else is there. I have work to do.”

Lance’s brow furrows with indignation, but when he speaks again, his words are tight and controlled. So he can manage his anger, at least. That’s a start. “I see. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Fernando says, just barely managing to keep his mouth from twitching into a disbelieving smile when he says it. Are they children? Should he offer Lance a nightlight? Wishing him goodnight. Please. Fernando is a professional killer. They do not tell each other soft goodbyes when they wipe out entire bloodlines.

Fernando has no idea what his husband ends up doing, but he stays up late to sift through more ledgers. The second his mind begins to cloud from exhaustion, he goes straight to bed, and wakes respectably early into the morning. He works out with the same base routine he’s used since he first entered the business, of course adding a few repetitions or new drills here and there where he can sense the weakness in his muscles. 

By the time he’s showered, dressed, and entered the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, Lance has just begun to stumble downstairs, hair flattened by his pillow and half sticking up. He’s still in his pajamas, which consist of sweats and a shirt for some tennis player Fernando doesn’t recognize.

Fernando arches a brow at him. “Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” Lance grumbles, the syllables turning into a yawn halfway through.

Again, Fernando feels the need to swallow a laugh. He doesn’t think anyone’s spoken to him without an undercurrent of fear in a very long time, yet here Lance Stroll is, oversleeping and walking around his mansion in leisure wear. Technically, it is Lance’s mansion as well now, but still. Fernando doesn’t even think his sister dared to wear anything other than business casual when she visited.

Fernando does need Lance to feel valued, though. The last thing he needs is Lance complaining to his father that Fernando keeps judging him or something, then this whole thing could go up in flames. Fernando can be a dutiful husband even if it kills him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Fernando asks politely. “We have fruit, eggs, anything. Our chef can make it.”

“A bagel, maybe?” Lance says, yawning again.

Fernando nods. “I’ll ask the chef to prepare some.”

Although Fernando does his best to keep his true emotions in check, Lance, apparently, is beyond the same need to not laugh at his spouse. “Dude, it’s a bagel. One ingredient. Surely you don’t need the chef.”

Fernando scowls. “I just wanted to ask him what types we had in stock. I am aware that bagels are a simple food to serve.”

Lance chuckles again. “You’re telling me the head of the Spanish mob knows every one of his enemies but not every one of his bagels? Terrible priorities, man.”

Fernando is starting to realize that marriage might be difficult. See, if Lance could just be properly nervous around him like every other son of a mob boss Fernando has met, they wouldn’t have to have this terrible interaction, but no, Lance seems immune to everything. Delightful.

He extends a hand towards the extensive pantry. “Feel free to check by yourself. I’m sure it’s incredibly important for the sons of mob bosses to be able to verify their own information. Even on bagels.”

Lance grins sarcastically. “Technically, I’m not just the son of a mob boss, but the husband of one, too. If you’re going to mock me like everyone else, at least do it well.”

Fernando frowns. “I’m not trying to mock you.”

Lance spares a disbelieving glance towards Fernando, then turns back to his search for breakfast. “Really? Is that why this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me since you realized you could get my dad’s money by marriage?”

Fernando can’t entirely argue with that, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to hate me, Lance.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Lance says cheerfully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Seeing as we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I would advise you to do the same. And in case you were curious, you have both plain bagels and cinnamon raisin.”

With that, Lance breezes back out of the kitchen, carbohydrate prize secured. Seconds later, Carlos files into the kitchen, glancing curiously back in the direction Lance had gone. “Sorry to bother you, I just had the information on Verstappen that you wanted. What the hell happened there? And since when have you had bagels in the house?”

“No idea,” Fernando says tiredly. It answers both questions well enough.

Lance Stroll proves himself to be more and more of an enigma as the days go by. He joins Fernando for meals only when Fernando asks, but then he seems disappointed that they don’t do anything else together. He zones out when Fernando talks business, then always gets annoyed when Fernando so much as alludes to the conditions leading to their marriage. Fernando can’t decide if Lance is actually happy with the arrangement– or, as Fernando is beginning to suspect, if he had any say in the matter at all. Strange for the heir to the Stroll legacy to have grown up with so little sway over his father’s business. It is as if Lawrence expected to live forever, so he never bothered teaching Lance the ropes.

Fernando tries to make it work. A little. Not enough. He’s busy, that’s all, he doesn’t have time to babysit a husband who seems compelled to fuck with him on each and every turn. It’s like Lance gets joy from being a nuisance. And yeah, sometimes when Lance’s attitude is directed towards Carlos or anyone who isn’t Fernando, it is pretty funny, but Fernando has not made a career of getting laughed at and he doesn’t intend to start now. 

Once, Lance insists that his room is far too cold to be slept in, so he’ll just have to sleep in Fernando’s room instead. Fernando personally walks into Lance’s room to check it out himself, but it’s actually freezing in there despite adjusting the thermostat, and Lance refuses any other solution, so they spend a silent night on polar opposite sides of Fernando’s bed. The next day, Fernando is informed by the staff that a wrench was discovered in the heater that led to Lance’s room, jammed perfectly so that the temperature could not be changed. Neither of them mention it again, and Lance goes back to sleeping in his own room.

Carlos asked him once why he puts up with it– Lance’s teasing, his sarcasm, everything– but it’s not like he has any choice. If Fernando truly gets desperate, he goes to the printouts of his bank account and just stares at the numbers. Solace can be found in deposits of numbers followed by many, many zeroes.

Over time, the good moments start to crop up like a five o’clock shadow. Fernando takes Lance on a drive to visit some allies and they drive through glorious countryside in a sports car more expensive than any of the land as far as the eye can see. They play a couple of rounds of tennis in a court on Fernando’s estate. Lance’s sister visits and everyone’s in a good mood.

Somehow, though, something always happens to sour each and every small win. Lance squirms in the passenger seat of the car Fernando bought with his father’s money and picks a fight about missing Sebastian, who was the second best marriage candidate until Fernando put his name in the ring. When they’re out on the courts, Fernando asks why Lance seems far more passionate about tennis than business; Lance doesn’t realize it’s a joke and asks how long until Fernando gives up on him, just like Lawrence. Fernando is walking through his mansion late at night when he overhears Lance talking to Chloe in hushed voices about what she did to make Scotty like her, as if Lance needs coaching to even handle Fernando at all.

They fight and they make tentative peace. The ground gets shakier before it solidifies. Eventually, they manage to keep a respectable truce that varies throughout the week. They drink together, they talk together. Lance keeps lingering at the door of his room in a way that makes Fernando want to do something he regrets, but he never commits. Somehow, he knows that even one mistake is all it will take to destroy him forever.

Fernando is in between conference calls one day when Lance pops into his office. “I’m going to be back late tonight,” he announces. “Meeting Esteban.”

Fernando nods. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re in meetings,” Lance points out.

Fernando shrugs. “I can skip them.”

This makes Lance grin triumphantly, like he’s somehow proved himself far more valuable than even Fernando’s beloved ledgers and printouts. “That’s so unlike you, I’m charmed. I’ll be fine, we’re just grabbing drinks. See you later.”

Fernando lifts a hand in farewell when Lance does the same, and watches the man disappear back down the hall. Although it seems strange to say, Fernando swears the mansion seems emptier that evening. It’s just one person gone, he reminds himself, and besides, he and Lance don’t see each other all that often anyway. Too busy. Still, Fernando feels like his steps echo up and down the hallways in a way that they haven’t in a long time. Since before the wedding, perhaps. Since before he got used to having someone else around.

Fernando hadn’t intended to wait up for Lance, but he’d also assumed that the man would be back before too long. A few hours past midnight, Lance still hasn’t returned, but this probably doesn't mean anything. Maybe Lance is on a hell of a bender and he’ll find his way downstairs the next morning in even more disarray than usual. The thought makes Fernando smile.

Fernando wakes up the next day and decides to check that Lance had actually made it back, just in case. A bit of paranoia, but that’s how he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Fernando drifts by Lance’s room, but the door is wide open, revealing– an empty bed, the sheets untouched. Wasn’t even slept in. Ignoring the skip in his heart rate, Fernando pokes his head inside, but he doesn’t see any evidence that Lance had been there.

Maybe he was drunk and passed out downstairs. Fernando can’t pretend like he hasn’t pulled that move before. However, after conducting an extensive sweep of the mansion, Fernando still can’t locate Lance. The questioning text sent to Lance’s phone goes unanswered. Fernando gives it five minutes before giving into his panic and calling him. Three times, it goes unanswered. By the final ring, Fernando is genuinely starting to panic.

Esteban does not sound happy to have Fernando calling him, even though it’s not even that early in the morning, all things considered. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Lance?” Fernando asks, abandoning all pretense.

Esteban sounds confused. “What do you mean?”

Fernando wants to throttle him. “He was out with you last night and he hasn’t come back. Is he with you or not?”

There’s a pause over the line, and when Esteban speaks again, his words are very deliberate. “What are you talking about? Lance was never with me.”

Fernando feels his heart drop. “That makes no sense. Lance told me he was meeting up with you for drinks. Did he never show up?”

“No,” Esteban says, and finally he sounds just as nervous as Fernando feels, “I never texted him at all. It must have been someone else impersonating me.”

Fernando swears. “Who? The Strolls have plenty of enemies, but who would go to the trouble of luring him out of my estate just to take him?”

Esteban is silent for a while, and then he speaks again in a rush of static. “Do you remember the BWT incident?”

Fernando lets out a low breath. “Of course I do. It’s half the reason I considered the Strolls in the first place.”

BWT was a sizable mob family of their own back in the day. Although they’d never been at the forefront like the Spanish, the Chevaux Rouges, or, hell, even the Bulls, they’d been there, and that’s more than most wannabes can say. Then Lawrence Stroll had gone and fucking bought them out. It’s unthinkable. Imagine having the money to purchase an entire black market ring. The Strolls were on the up-and-up, but after that, they solidified their place among the elite. That’s when Fernando had started looking at them in earnest.

“Nice one,” Esteban harrumphes. “Way to appreciate Lance.”

“I do,” Fernando insists, which feels strange. He’s never bothered to defend himself against Esteban’s feckless complaints, but he has the overwhelming need to exonerate himself from this one.

Esteban sighs. “I know Otmar Szafnauer signed the deal to give the Strolls control over BWT, but his right hand man, Sergio Pérez, was furious about it. He never forgave Otmar, and he’s had it out for Lawrence ever since. Everyone else in this goddamn city wouldn’t pick a fight with Lance, especially not so recently after they were all at the wedding, but Pérez wouldn’t care about something like that.”

“He’s probably been biding his time for a while now,” Fernando realizes. “Waiting until he could get back at Lawrence. This was his chance.” He stands up, signaling to one of his servants to rally his men. “Where is he? I need an address.”

Esteban tells him the location of his estate after some searching then hangs up, but not before reminding Fernando to get Lance as soon as possible, a sentiment that Fernando has no problem following. Carlos shows up just in time, the best killers under their employ with them. He starts to ask Fernando what the plan is, but Fernando silences him with a single glance. There is no plan. Fernando’s only want is to get Lance then burn the whole damn place to the ground.

Fernando Alonso is no stranger to killing. This is not the first time he’s gone after a rival. Still, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it like this in a very long while. Every bullet in the head of one of Pérez’s guards is one closer to getting Lance back. From the moment Fernando’s cars show up at Pérez’s property, he hopes the man is terrified.

They break down the gate, smash through the double doors, and everything goes to hell. The constant ricochet of bullets is like a drumbeat in Fernando’s ears. He is methodical, tactical, going from room to room. There will be no survivors. Blood starts to coat his shoes, his clothes, but Fernando does not care. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing at all until he breaks into a locked room somewhere in the basement and he finds a figure tied to a chair.

Lance.

The guards don’t stand a chance; they fall before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Fernando races to Lance’s side, undoing the bonds. Lines of dried blood arc across Lance’s face, his arms, and Fernando feels a bout of rage descend upon him, even stronger than when he first found out that Lance had been kidnapped.

“I’ll kill him,” Fernando pledges, “I’ll kill him, and I’ll make it long. He’ll be begging for mercy at the end, but I won’t give it to him. Not when he did this to you.”

Lance reaches up a trembling hand. Fernando catches it at once, pressing it between his two palms. “Fernando?” He asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. You’re alright, Lance. I’m so sorry.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not your fault. I should have seen through it.”

“No,” Fernando insists. “He tricked all of us. I’ll put a bullet in his mouth to stop his lies.”

Lance stands up slowly, unevenly. Fernando catches him, helping him to the door. “I just want to go home,” Lance tells him. “You got your revenge. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Fernando says. “Let’s go home.”

On the way out, he passes Carlos, who tells him in terse Spanish that they have Pérez waiting for him. Usually, Fernando would insist on handling the matter himself, but Lance looks up at him and Fernando knows he can’t put this off any longer. He tells Carlos to handle it quickly, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

They get into a car together, Fernando driving and Lance in the passenger seat. The low light from occasional street lights shines on Lance’s face, reflecting the dim planes of his countenance.

Lance catches him looking and smiles softly. “I’m alright, Fernando.”

Fernando still isn’t entirely convinced. “I’ll get a doctor to look at you. I wouldn’t put anything past that coward. And I’ll get more guards on the estate, just in case. Around the clock.”

Lance scoffs. “We don’t need that. He’ll never touch us again. And besides, I know you’ll handle him if he does.”

Fernando is well used to being a source of fear, a reason not to attack. Hearing Lance’s sincere trust in him, though, even after being kidnapped, makes his frantic nerves finally start to settle. “Why would you have such faith in me?” He asks quietly as he parks the car in his garage, sitting in the stillness of the car now that the engine is off.

Lance actually smiles. “Let me prove it to you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Fernando.

It explains a lot.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Bullet For You: Part One (Xiao)

This is part one of two, because this turned into a whole fic not just a drabble. You can expect Gorou next. I may not do a third character because I have another angst with a happy ending request after this. But I hope you enjoy it. It really is a genius prompt

Summary: Xiao’s s/o takes a blow for him. 

CW: Angst, hurt/comfort, happy (or at least hopeful) ending 

Word Count: 1052

Requests OPEN

Xiao x fem!reader

Xiao

Xiao has been serving Zhongli and Liyue for millennia by the time the two of you got together but never before has time simply frozen for him. Not even when his fellow Yaksha died. 

The day you take a blow for him, that changes

It’s a fight like any other. Since you and Xiao have gotten together, you’ve taken to accompanying him as he protects Liyue from the shadows.

He’s never said as much, but you’ve noticed that he enjoys the company and finds comfort in you having his back.

It was a fight like any other, sun blazing high above your heads as you take out what seems like an endless stream of hilichurls.

It was a fight like any other, until it wasn’t, until you saw the glint of an arrow, trained on Xiao’s blind spot.

In the heartbeat between seeing the hilichurl take aim and the releasing of the bolt, you’re already moving.

Thwap! Xiao spins around, expecting to intercept a crossbow bolt. as he has many, many times before.

Instead he finds you, placing yourself between him and the threat. 

When the bolt hits you with a sickening thud, the world stops, vision narrowing down to you, falling, bleeding. Someone screams your name. He screams your name, but he doesn’t recognize the voice as his.

What he does recognize is elemental power, constantly honed in the centuries he’s served as a Yaksha, bursting from his skin in wave after wave.

He’s never moved faster than he does then, darting from one opponent to the next, leaving each dying in a pool of it’s own blood.

It takes mere moments for the hilichurls to fall, letting Xiao rush to your side. He kneels, touching the bolt buried in your side and swears when you don’t react.

The yaksha gathers you close to his chest. “Hold on, y/n. I’ll get you to help.”

The Yaksha takes a deep breath and teleports, leaving the bloody battleground behind and bringing you to the covered area outside the Bubu Pharmacy.

“Guardian Yaksha. What bri--” Baizhu runs over from where he was speaking to Zhongli. “What happened?”

“She took a crossbow bolt for me. Please, Baizhu, you have to save her.”

“I see. Give her to me. I’ll take her to Qiqi.”

Xiao’s arms tighten around you.

“Let her go, young adeptus.” Zhongli stands over them, arms crossed over his chest. “If you don’t, she’s going to die.”

Xiao’s breath catches at the thought. He look down at you and at the blood dripping from your side.. 

“Please save her, Baizhu,” Xiao asks, letting the pharmacist take you from him.

“Don’t worry, Guardian Yaksha. Qiqi and I aren’t going to let her die.”

Xiao hands shake as he watches as Baizhu takes you away.

Zhongli regards the young Yaksha with a soft look. “She’ll be well, my young Yaksha. Follow me.”

The ex-archon starts down the steps, leaving Xiao to follow in his wake.

As they pass through the wide streets of Liyue Harbor, the residents greet them with deep bows and soft whispers of  “Mr. Zhongli, Guardian Yaksha.”

“They all know you.” Xiao says, skin prickling at the extreme deference showed to them.

Of course, Xiao figures Zhongli deserves it, though the people around them will never understand why. But him? A simple warrior contracted to the Lord of Geo and burdened with a karmic debt that could kill each and every one of them if he’s not careful? Humans really do make no sense.

 Zhongli guides him up through the city and to well-kept building, not far from The Third Round Knockout. “Come in. Xiao. Welcome to my home.”

Despite your condition, Xiao’s heart stutters when he realizes that Zhongli, the great Geo Archon and the one who saved him has brought him to his personal abode. Any other day he’d ecstatic, but not with you injured and out of reach. 

A few minutes later the two adepti sit around a table, watching a pot of tea boil.

“What happened to y/n?” Zhongli asks when it becomes apparent that Xiao isn’t going to speak of his volition.

Xiao avoids the burning gold of Zhongli’s eyes and the compassion held there.

“We were out on the Guili plains, clearing out some corrupted hilichurls. She ended up taking a cros-- no I could have handled the bolt easily, but y/n put herself in the way. Why did she put herself in the way? I couldn’t react. I---”

“Enough, Xiao. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

Xiao glances up. “But---”

Zhongli shakes his head and reaches for the pot of tea. “As long-lived as the adepti are and as powerful as we are, we cannot claim to be perfect. You know as well as I do just how unpredictable battle is. Indarias, Menogias, Bonanus, and now we know what happened to Bosacius... if battle were predictable, if we could control the battlefield perfectly, they might still be here, fighting at your side.

“It is impossible to know what would have happened had y/n not taken the bolt for you. It’s possible that something so small as an unseen opponent could have robbed the world of the last Yaksha. Y/n made a choice to protect you, knowing it could cost her life. I doubt you could have anticipated that, young one.”

Xiao remains quiet for a long moment, thinking over the ex-archon’s words. 

The unexpected. Nothing could be less expected than a human attempting to sacrifice themselves for an adeptus. Except, when he thinks about it, he finds the thought rings false.

You’re a human woman who chose to remain by his side and give him a kind of love he’s never had. And he finds that he’d have done the same for you. He’s always been prepared to die defending Liyue. Expects it even, assuming he doesn’t lose himself to his karmic. But he’s never been prepared to die for a single special person. The realization that he would do as you did, moving without thought, without hesitation--that he has so closely tied his fate to yours-- chills him to the bone and warms his heart in equal measure.

 “I don’t think I could stand to see her die in front of me,” he whispers, a single tear slipping down his face.

“This is what it means to love.”

It was a supposed to be a fight like any other, or So Xiao thought. But no fight like any other could show the last of the Yaksha the truth of a loving heart.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Finished my under 5K AU for the @ficwip August challenge and it clocks in at…4975 words lmao

Also, this is the fic I’ve posted about as coal before and I have changed the name, and elaborated on the concept. There will be a sequel coming from Roy’s perspective where this is from Jamie’s.

I’ll put another snippet under the cut (cw abuse):

Jamie Tartt was sixteen years old when he realised his father would likely kill him one day, the first time a forearm pressed against his throat and made it impossible to breathe, the first time Jamie realised he might have survived the night, but his luck wouldn’t last forever.

It was the first time Jamie learned it was safer to not fight back.

It had only been a little shove—a slight push after James had grabbed Jamie’s hair in his fist and pressed his face so close to his that James’ alcohol-tinged breath made his eyes water. Just enough to give Jamie some space, nothing compared to the marks his father’s hands had left on Jamie’s body over the years, but that was all it took to set James off. That was all it took for him to ensure Jamie never forgot this particular lesson.

[lauronk]

I wish you would write a fic where...

Joel and Anna get together after Sarah goes to college. Ellie is their kid and Sarah is the cool aunt figure.

hi! thank you so much for the prompt! ngl, i struggled with it a little because i do not know how to write Romantic Joel, he exists only as Dad in my head lol but i gave it a good shot, i hope you enjoy!

the best day with you today

length: ~1.2k words tags: canon divergence; modern au; everyone's alive; joel/anna; joel & ellie & anna & sarah; family feels; pregnancy; family bonding; dunking each other in the river; no beta we die like david

Joel had never really planned on having another kid. Hell, he’d barely even planned on having the first - definitely not as young as he’d been - but Rae had gotten pregnant and they’d gotten married and then barely a year after Sarah’s birth, she’d decided she wasn’t cut out for motherhood, and she bailed. Sarah had no memories of her, but other than a few growing pains here and there, she’d never seemed to be worse off without her.

Joel had raised her and watched her graduate and sent her off to college (all the way to San Marcos, which really isn’t that far, Dad, I’ll come visit plenty) and then realized he had no damn idea what to do with his life now. No soccer practice to cart her to, no sleepovers to host, no extracurriculars to plan around.

Now it was just him and his empty house and enough woodcarvings to fill the time that Tommy finally confiscated his knives and said he could have them back if he left the house once a week for two months.

So, after digging around on the internet a little, he’d gone to the library down the street, picked up their calendar, and signed up for the monthly book club and the Spanish conversation group. Both of which, it turned out, were attended by a woman named Anna who had a habit of shooting him amused looks when one of the other book club members made an asinine remark.

True to his word, Tommy returned the knives to him after two months, but they started collecting dust almost immediately because Joel spent all his free time with Anna. A coffee date turned into a dinner date and within two weeks they were seeing each other near daily.

Sarah had been astonished - and more than a little skeptical - when Joel sat her down and told her that he and Anna were planning to get married, with her blessing of course, barely ten months after meeting. Joel could see it all over her face that she didn’t think it would last, that he was having some kind of midlife crisis - not helped by the fact that Anna was nearly ten years younger than him - and that they wouldn’t last the year.

But she could see how important this was to him, so she gave her blessing anyway. No matter her own reservations, she wanted her dad to be happy. And she liked Anna a lot, thought her a good match for Joel, even if everything was moving unsettlingly fast.

They’d done a small ceremony in the backyard, just Sarah, Tommy, and Anna’s best friend Marlene in attendance. And for another two years that had been their family; neither of them had planned on having kids.

But then Anna started throwing up, missed her period, and those two lines on the test turned pink. And suddenly, they were having a baby.

Ellie made her arrival a week before Sarah’s twenty-first birthday, and Joel’s eldest spent what should have been a night out partying pacing laps around their living room cradling her sister, while Joel and Anna snagged a few precious hours of sleep. He’d been worried that getting a baby sister when she herself was full grown would be a problem for Sarah, but it had been the opposite. Ellie was Sarah’s favorite person ever, a feeling that went both ways as Ellie got older.

Wild, Joel thought, watching Ellie and Sarah float in their tubes ahead of him and Anna, how his girls could be so far apart in years and yet be so close and so similar. Maybe not wild, just…lucky.

The two of them are shooting mischievous grins over their shoulders now, and Joel shares a wry look with Anna. Her nose and cheeks are tinted red with the sun, tips of her fingers tracing lightly through the water as they float down the San Marcos River.

“Here,” Joel says, carefully tossing her the small tube of sunscreen. He points to his own nose and cheeks. “Think you need a bit of a touch up, you’re gettin’ a little crispy.”

Anna gives him a wry smile, rubbing a fresh coat over her face. “Not all of us were made to roast in the Texas sun, sweetheart.”

Joel shrugs. “Can’t help it that I tan and you don’t, darlin’. Y’know –”

Something pushes hard on the bottom of his tube, and Joel goes ass over head into the river, the cold temperature jolting him into opening his mouth and damn near inhaling enough water to fill his lungs. When his head breaks the surface a chorus of laughter greets him - six feet away Ellie is clambering back into her tube while Sarah tries to hold it steady. Next to him Anna is howling, her own hand barely maintaining a grip on his tube while the other clutches her stomach. He doesn’t bother climbing back into it; instead he propels himself forward through the water until he’s caught up to the girls.

Ellie shrieks and tries to paddle away, but she’s too slow, and Joel has her flipped into the water in a matter of seconds. He waits until she surfaces, gulps in a bit of air, and then promptly dunks her again.

She comes back up sputtering, a hand frantically trying to wipe her face clean. “Rude!” is all she manages, scooping a hand through the water to splash him. It hits him in the chest - he can still hear Sarah and Anna laughing - and he propels himself forward to hook an arm around her waist and hoist her up over his shoulder. It takes more effort to keep them afloat - his back is gonna hate him for this later, fifty-seven is really a bit too old to be lifting teenagers, even ones as scrawny as Ellie - but he paddles them unevenly back over towards Anna.

“Caught you something, huh?” His wife calls, shielding her face when Ellie aims a splash of water her way too.

“Sarah neglected to mention the river was full of gremlins,” he says back, giving her a grin before sucking in a breath and plunging himself - and his squirming daughter - under the water once more. Only once they’ve surfaced again does he release her, the two of them treading water.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an ass?” Ellie says playfully, splashing him again.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a little shit?” He retorts, splashing her right back.

“Anyone ever tell either of you that you're exactly the same?” Anna cuts in from behind them, one hand still holding Joel’s tube.

“No,” they reply simultaneously, and she lets out another bark of laughter, echoed by Sarah on the other side of them.

“I’m never bringing y’all floating again,” she says teasingly, her head tipping back dramatically.

“Oh please,” Ellie doggy paddles forward, hoisting herself back into her tube next to her sister. “You’d be so bored doing this without us. You love us.”

Sarah scrunches up her nose, pretending to think for a moment before she leans over - nearly upsetting her own tube - and smacking a kiss onto her younger sister’s cheek. “Yeah, guess I do.”

thanks for reading!

[trqelove]

i’ll stay for as long as you need me to.

in which florence shepherd loses her brother, and jackson avery is the air she needs.

A/N: hi! i hope you enjoy this fic. please read and consider following me and sending requests. this is unedited and 955 words. 🤍

“Florence, how much longer do you think you have in here?” Jackson whisks into the OR, mask over his face.

Florence Shepherd does not look up, her eyes trained on the patient in front of her. 

“Hell if I know,” she scoffs out. “It was going so well, until it wasn’t.” 

When Jackson doesn’t respond, Florence shrugs. “An hour, tops. Why? Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, of course, Flo. Mind if I watch?” 

Florence glances up, but only for a second. “I never mind. J, are you okay?” 

Jackson scoffs. “Yeah, just, yeah. I’ll stay out of your way, promise.” 

Florence focuses back on her work, she loves Jackson, he’s been her best friend for as long as she can remember, but sometimes, she simply does not understand him. 

The youngest Shepherd continues her surgery, Jackson stands in the corner, shifting uncomfortably every so often. Florence isn’t sure what’s wrong with him, maybe nothing, but she doesn’t care, she enjoys the company of her best friend. 

Florence completes her surgery just before the hour mark, assigning an intern to close the young boy up. “C’mon, J, you can tell me what the hell has got you so anxious in the corner of my OR,” Florence teases as she walks out of the OR, and begins scrubbing out.

It’s when Jackson says nothing that Florence begins to worry. As she scrubs her hands, she looks to him, “What happened?” 

“Just-uh-keep scrubbing out,” he offers, scratching his head. 

“J, what the hell is wrong. You’re scaring me!” Florence turns the water off and faces him. 

Florence studies his face. The way his forehead creases and his lips are pressed shut. His eyes are filled with the despair and sorrow she is far too used to. “Who?” 

Jackson reaches for her, but she pulls away. “Who, Jackson?” 

She can’t bring herself to say the word, but she doesn’t have to, he knows. 

“Flo, please. Come sit with me.” 

“Is it Amy or Mer?” Florence paces the room, her breathing rising.

Jackson doesn’t answer, so Florence keeps talking. “No, Amy is on call. She’s in the room next to me. Is it Meredith? Or is it Derek? It can’t possibly be Derek, he’s too fucking smart to die. And he’s supposed to be in D.C. meeting with the president, or whatever.”

Florence inhales, stops pacing, and looks at Jackson. “But Mer said the White House called and he hadn’t arrived.” 

Jackson reaches out for her again, but she steps back. “No, I’m- You’re kidding, right? There’s no fucking way.” 

Jackson finally manages to grab her hand. She stares at the door though, not meeting his eye, or even turning towards him. 

“How?” She shudders out. “He’s too damn smart, Jackson. How?” 

Jackson swallows thickly and pulls her arm, tugging her towards him. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

Florence laughs. “He’s my brother, of course I do.” 

“There was an accident, he was taking a different route to the airport. He stopped to help them. After the ambulance came, he got back in his car, a semi came out of nowhere and hit him head on.” 

She stays silent for a moment, “Did he die on scene?”  

Jackson shakes his head, though she still isn’t facing him. “He made it to the hospital. They didn’t do a head CT and he had a brain bleed, I think. The police went to the house and took Meredith there. She waited, then they..”

Florence’s laugh cuts him off. “Meredith waited and then pulled the plug on my brother? Without calling anyone?”

“Let’s go somewhere more private, Flo. You can be with Amelia and..”

“Derek survived a shooting, nope, two shootings, then a plane crash. And he died because of a semi?” Florence’s laughter grows louder, before fading into sobs. 

She goes back and forth between laughs and sobs, the weight of the world sitting on her shoulders, as she gasps for more air. She can’t breathe, her heart is pounding and her lungs are being filled with water. She’s going to die, too. And then who will Amy have? And Meredith? And their poor mother. Two kids in one day. She’ll be devastated.

She doesn’t realize she’s on the ground until Jacksons’ arms wrap around her. They’re tight and secure, his hand fans through her hair, whispering comforting words. She wonders if the people assisting with her surgery can see her. She wonders what they think, she wonders if they know Derek’s dead, and she wonders if they even care. 

They have to care, though. Derek Shepherd is dead, and everybody cared about Derek Shepherd. 

She sobs until the sobs turn into incoherent hiccups, until Jackson carries her into an on-call room, laying her gently on a bed and curling in beside her. She lays against his chest, hearing his heartbeat. She cries again, because Derek’s heart isn’t beating, and she wonders if hers is, and if the water in her lungs is ever going to kill her. 

“Who made the call not to get a head C.T.?” She wonders aloud. “What kind of person makes that kind of call?” 

Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t know, Flo. I don’t know.”

“I hate them.”

He nods. “I know.” 

She sniffles and pulls away from him. “You probably have somewhere to be, don’t you?’

He shakes his head, pulling her back in, and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Nowhere.”

“Then you’ll stay? I want to sleep, but I know I’m going to wake up in the morning and remember this is real, and it’s going to hurt all over again. And I am so scared.” 

“I’ll stay for as long as you need me to.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Night Nurse - Ch 8

A John Wick x Helen Fic

When nurse Helen Morgan is caught in the crossfire of a shootout and aids the injured John Wick, she’s faced with two options: serve the High Table, or be executed as a Witness. She tells herself her choice to work at the Continental has everything to do with survival, and excellent pay, and *not* her growing feelings for the Tall, Dark, and Handsome Assassin™ who got her into this mess in the first place, thank you very much. │ Masterlist / Chapter Map │

VIII.

This was a day for firsts. John found himself seated at his dining room table, the modern behemoth that could seat ten, but had only ever serviced dinner for one. Later, there would be two. Now, it was being used as a medical table while Helen administered fresh stitches.

“This time,” she mused while finishing off a knot, “Let’s wait for you to heal completely before engaging in strenuous activity.”

“I would never get anything done.” She leveled him with a look, indicating this was not the correct answer. Though he knew he walked on dangerous ground, the corners of his mouth twitched. “Yes, Nurse.”

“That’s more like it.”

She applied a fresh bandage. “Try not to get this wet in the shower.”

He was no stranger to wound care routines. “Sure.”

As she pressed the last bit of adhesive her fingertips lingered over the curve of his deltoid, tracing the black cross there lightly. It caused a shiver to run down his spine. This time, he didn’t try to hide it.

“Are you…a religious man, John?”

He shook his head slowly, anticipating her next line of questioning.

“You have a lot of religious tattoos.”  

“They mean a certain thing to people in my world. It has very little to do with Christianity, believe me.”

“You mean, our world?”

John titled his head in a silent question of Really?

“Just saying. I made my oath to the High Table. No one’s come after me with a tattoo gun.”

“You haven’t done hard time,” he answered quietly. “And I would like to keep it that way.”

Her eyebrows shot high at that. “Were you in prison?”

“Once.”

“For how long?”

“Three years.”

“You didn’t get three years for homicide.”

“I was very well behaved.”

She narrowed her eyes, weighing him with that molten caramel gaze. “I think you’re fucking with me.” Hearing her say it, no matter the context, twisted him up with a sudden unforgiving wave of desire. Then, she sighed. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”

He caught her hand before she could draw away, so quickly she’d barely seen him move.

“I’ll tell you,” he offered quietly.

“Okay.”

She stepped closer, standing between his splayed legs, as though sharing these dark secrets required a more intimate proximity. Her fingertips toyed with the ends of his hair, and not for the first time, John thought he might just die.

“I...said I was an orphan.”

“Yes.”

“My mother died in a car accident, when I was very young. Not long after, my father was…killed, in a street robbery.”

“Oh, John.”

“I spent years in the orphanage. When I proved strong enough to survive...I was adopted. Sold, more like. To a crime organization that took children to mold as they saw fit. They taught me how to kill, and they gave me these tattoos. The arm cross, for my first kill. It signified my devotion to their cause.”

Her eyes went wide. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Shit.” There was the glimmer of tears in her eyes, and he felt a tremor inside, a fissure in his armor, cracked open by her compassion. He could not stop himself from holding her hand against his cheek with a desperation that he had not felt since he was a young boy. John closed his eyes, knowing he could not go on speaking while looking upon her lovely features pulled with such worry and pain, for him.

For him, he marveled, a creature so cloaked in darkness and destruction so as to never deserve forgiveness.

She truly was an angel of mercy.

“The praying hands came when I graduated from their school. It’s like a brand of ownership. It means…the bearer is asking for mercy that is rarely granted. Not from God though. From…Her. The woman who ran the syndicate. She was our God. Our judge. Our Executioner.” John found he couldn’t bring himself to name the Ruska Roma to Helen. He had a sinking intuition that it could be dangerous. A feeling that she might do something brave, and stupid, like ask around until she found the Tarkovsky theatre, and march out to tell The Director off on his behalf, with that magnificent Irish temper of hers. 

“That is horrible. You can't own people,” she protested, her words brittle. He almost smiled for her naivety.

“You can, where I come from. Where life is cheap, and freedom is a fairytale. It’s how most of the world lives, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. She did not seem to take offense though, so absorbed in the horror of what he was telling her.

“But...this wasn't the Tarasovs who did this to you?”

“No. They bought me, essentially, when I was a young man. I was becoming difficult to control. She didn’t quite manage to break me, like so many of the others. I wanted…more, than the enclosed world She allowed us to inhabit. I think She sensed I would tear down what she’d built, if She didn’t let me go. In a way…Tarasov was a blessing. At least in the Bratva you can have a life that is somewhat your own, so long as you get done what Viggo needs done.” 

“Oh, John…”

It was so heartbreaking to her, that his formative years had been so brutal that joining the fucking Russian mob had been a kinder placement.

But there was more, and now that he’d started talking about it, it was as though he couldn’t stop. The words just kept pouring.

“I didn’t put it together until I was much older, but I suspect my father was like me. He came from the same…syndicate. Raised to do what I do from a young age. But he must have run away to be with my mother. I think they found him and killed him for it, then She took me as…revenge? Payment? A warning? I’ve never known for sure.”

He had not found out, from an offhanded comment here and some digging there, until long after he’d left the Ruska Roma. If he’d known when he was a young firebrand, he absolutely would have burned the Tarkovsky Theatre to the ground no matter the consequences.

“Jesus, John.”

John finally opened his lids when he felt her fingers sliding through his sweat-damp hair, her eyes filled with compassion. He did not resist when gently she pulled him into an embrace, his cheek resting against her chest. The steady beat of her heart beneath his ear calmed him, grounded him from the spiral calling up these memories could inspire. Her hand rested on the crown of his head, and maybe it was ridiculous, but…for the first time, in a very long time, he felt safe.

He could have stayed there forever, but it seemed…disingenuous, to take advantage of her compassion that way. Little did he know, she would have held him for hours if he asked her to.

She looked down at him like she could see straight through him, nodding slowly to all this information he’d imparted, her fingers still sliding languorously through his hair.

“If I ever meet this bitch, I’m going to punch her in the face.”

The very thought pulled the tiniest suggestion of a smile from John’s lips. “I believe you. And that’s why I’m not giving you a name.”

“Are there that many women-led crime syndicates in New York?”

“You might be surprised.”

“Hmm. So…if the Tarasovs bought you….Jesus, I hate that…do they still own you?”

His heart felt as though his blood had thickened to lead. But they’d come this far, and he owed her nothing less than the truth. 

“I’ve climbed the ranks. I have standing. I’m not a slave, but no one gets out, when you’re in as deep as I am. It would require…an Impossible Task.”

The furrow between her brows broke his heart. He wondered if that quick and beautiful mind was absorbing all this information, sorting it out and weighing the gains and the consequences…and inevitably arriving at the only sane conclusion: how can you be with a man, if he’s owned by someone else?

It was a conclusion she had every right to make, but it hurt. It hurt in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, an ache deep in a part of his heart he hadn’t managed to numb over the years.

“Are you happy now, at least?” 

The question only further twisted the knife. Only recently, had he begun to actually feel that elusive emotion. It had more to do with her than any of the relative freedom or vast wealth he’d accrued.  

“I'm...getting there.” A part of him wanted to finish the thought. Because of you. But his conscience stopped him—he didn’t want the burden of his happiness resting on her shoulders, when already this amazing woman carried so much. He had to lighten the mood, or their evening would be ruined, and it would be all his fault.

“You know there was one good thing She taught me.”

“Oh?”

“How to dance.”

“What?”

“Ballet.”

Helen frowned at the absurdity of this notion before laughing out loud. “I think you’re fucking with me again.”

John decided to take that moment to stand, the fronts of their bodies nearly pressed in a line. His hands found her tiny waist, as though it was their natural resting place. “I’ll prove it to you. Want to do a lift?”

“Don’t you dare!” she squealed, skipping away across the floor, putting a chair between them. “I am not redoing your stitches again!” It took every iota of his self-control not to give in to his hunter’s instincts and chase her, grab her up, and finally slant his mouth over hers to make her his. He found his cheeks hurt from the strain of grinning wider than he ever had, though he feared it might more resemble a baring of teeth.

Helen’s eyes shone with laughter, her lips parted. She really was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

   “Did you do that just to cheer me up?” she asked, the softness in her voice squeezing his heart like a fist.

“Would I do such a thing?”

She narrowed her eyes, seemingly for the umpteenth time that day. “I am going to go take a shower, Mr. Wick. And you had better get started on that dinner you promised me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He watched her disappear down the hall towards the guest bedroom, a lightness in his heart that almost confused him. Was this the relief to be found in confessing one’s sins? Or was it her? Just the miracle that was Helen Morgan, and these feelings she inspired in his breast. He dared not name it; for anything John Wick had ever loved, had died in some way.

He couldn’t bear to curse Helen too.

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

I’m so glad you reblogged that post about asking about your fics because I have so many questions!

In the stepdaughter/daemon fics you write how do you imagine their lives would go once viserys dies?

Would the dance still happen the same way?

Would rhaenyra use her authority as queen to annul stepdaughters marriage? Would she take some sort of revenge on stepdaughter for ‘stealing’ her husband? If she does try to get back at stepdaughter would daemon kill her? If he does how would that affect the rest of their family? Whose side would stepdaughters brothers pick? The young ones are easily manipulated but luke and jace are old enough to have their own opinions. In a serious lethal conflict between rhaenyra and stepdaughter, would they pick their mother or their sister?

Since the relationship between stepdaughter and the greens seems more positive than the relationship between rhaenyra and the greens, would the greens agree to stepdaughter being queen? Would jace bend the knee to his younger sister?

This is getting long so I’ll save the rest of my questions for a different time

Now this would be interesting, if Viserys passed away and reader was Rhaenyra's eldest many would probably question if she would have her daughter as her heir considering she married her husband and they do not have a good relationship but also Rhaenyra would be considered a hypocrite if she were to pass the throne to Jacaerys after her. I believe the dance would still happen, the greens would still attempt to steal the throne and maybe this war could amend a little of the relationship between Rhaenyra and her daughter, they would bother mourn Lucaerys and reader would be very much down to help in the war either on dragonback or by giving strategies. The greens would ratehr die than see Rhaenyra or her offsprings on the throne, as long as Alicent and Otto are alive they would do their absolute best to not let that happen, Otto married Alicent to Viserys to get his own blood on the throne.

After Rhaenyra takes the throne, I doubt she would try to annul the marriage between Daemon (If he were to survive) and her daughter (Also if she were to survive). First of all she would fear Daemon's wrath, he is not called the rogue prince for nothing and he was unpredictable. Secondly since her relationship with her daughter improved they would build some kind of rhythm or harmony with each other and be more at peace with the idea of sharing a husband.

But if she were to actually annul the marriage between her daughter and Daemon (if they were not married in the ways of Old Valyria which can not be annulled) after the war then I see Daemon just taking his young wife and their children and just leaving. He would grow tired after the war and let's not forget his age as well by the time. Reader would defiantly agree with him and would leave with him and their children and he would a hundred percent marry the reader in the ways of Old Valyria so Rhaenyra then cannot push them apart and maybe then he would return to the Keep but after ensuring that he could keep reader by his side.

Jacaerys would be torn between the two, one is the woman who birthed him and raised him while the other was his sister that he grew alongside of and protected. He probably would try to be the voice of reason, the peace maker and probably the messenger between the two women. Rhaenyra was not heartless and she would use Jacaerys as way to get information on her daughter and her grandchildren like their wellbeing and she would probably grow worried if she were to hear one of them got sick but try to hide it but by then Jacaerys would see the weak spot and he defiantly would cease the opportunity and try to make amends between the two.

But if Daemon would go all rogue and instead kill Rhaenyra instead of taking the hard way out then the first thing he does after marrying the reader in the ways of Old Valyria would be crowning her queen after her mother. Even if that started a war with Jacaerys or Lucaerys (If he were to survive Aemond). He would fight his wife's war happily to protect her and their children. I think he would also keep Aegon and Viserys close, they were his sons after all, and would insist they were to be raised with reader's children and defiantly manipulate them to think Jacaerys or Lucaerys were evil and wanted to harm their family. Jace and Luce would think their sister was in danger and try to save her from Daemon but if she showed that she was on Daemon's side then they would not bend the knee for her to show mercy but if she did show that she was being forced into this by Daemon then they would do their best to save her and her children.

Your questions are very welcome and you can send as many as you wish. ❤️

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Wishes & Dreams

First posted: April 23, 2019

Focuses on: Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth

Favorite bookmark: "👌👌👌👌👌👌👌 that good shit"

Tier: Middle of the pack at best

This is my “behind the scenes” series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

Another ficiversary request, and this was one I allllllmost declined, just because "Breathing" was so perfect for me just as it was. But because I used TQT as a framework for the last fic, I knew I had to continue that with this one, so it was fun to figure out whose POV and how. Alfred as a kind of Petrus just made sense.

The nightmares were bad that night. He knew they would be. When the screaming began, it was not a question of if or even when, but rather a question of who and in what order.

It's one of those things that are so obvious once they're said out loud, but until they are... Like, of course Jason is going to have some PTSD consequences, but so are the others! Even Tim and Damian, who weren't affected by Jason's first death, saw him get stabbed and almost die and also their dad faint. Lots to process.

No one had slept on the flight back either, not truly. Master Jason had dozed off and on, twitching and muttering in his sleep only to quiet again when Master Bruce murmured in his ear. Masters Tim and Damian also had subsided into hooded, disassociated states close to rest but not quite there. Alfred himself had split his time between the entirety of the family, assessing young Damian’s bruises, monitoring Jason, and taking turns at the helm with Master Dick. As for his part, Bruce never left Jason’s side.

The whole title thing is such a bother. I go back and forth on how Alfred refers to them all within the privacy of his own head. Here I just split the difference and established the initial naming with the title and then dropped it from there.

Ordinarily, Jason would protest being called a boy. Much like Damian he was in that way. And, truth be told, there was little boyishness left in his appearance. Death had filled him out in ways Alfred could scarcely believe, broadening his shoulders and deepening his voice. Death and that wretched al Ghul clan. It was a man, not a boy, who had protected his brothers at great cost to himself, a man who had hid the truth to spare them further damage. But it was still a boy who had fussed under Alfred’s care, the same boy who used to squirm away from plaster over skinned knees and ice packs to swollen eyes blooming black. And it was, in many ways, still just a boy who had fought to reach his father’s side, when he had thought there was danger afoot.

I will never be over Jason dying as a child and coming back so radically changed physically. Like, think about the cases where kids are abducted and are found years later as adults themselves, how wild that seemingly instantaneous shift is for their families.

Alfred couldn’t wholly stifle the grunt as he heaved himself to his feet. His hip had gone stiff in the waiting, the movement sending a twinge down his leg to match the ache in his lower back and the gritty burning behind his eyelids.

I love seeding human fallibility into Alfred.

“Master Jason.” Alfred’s voice was soft now, low and conciliatory in the proper way for frightened children and dangerous men.

🥺

The sweat-plastered head snapped in the direction of his voice. Blue eyes stared but did not see. A splotch of red was beginning to spread across his abdomen, staining the cotton t-shirt. That would be stitches popped, then.

Let me tell you, writing a KOA scene from Petrus-as-Alfred's view is such a trip. (Not in the least because Alfred is far more Galen.)

“Is there danger?” “Does he need water?” “Aw, Jay—Al, I’ll get him a new nightshirt, don’t worry.” “I can fetch some clean bandages.” “Was it a nightmare?”

I think they would be offended, being compared to the attendants, but they are. yap yap yap

Into the silence, Bruce spoke. “Your brother has made his wishes clear. To bed with you, or to the kitchen for warm milk if you can’t sleep, but it is time for you all to leave.”

I don't know that Bruce would like his TQT foil any better, though. 😂

He was watching Jason on the off-chance that the boy decided to throw the second knife now clutched in his hand. They would likely be safe—though thrown in panic, the first projectile had not been aimed to injure—but Alfred thought it wise to monitor against, regardless.

Jason would never, even in anger or panic or fear. As long as he recognizes them, he wouldn't.

“That was the worst,” Jason groaned as he sagged into his father. Bruce hummed. “You always were an overenthusiastic puker.”

This pops up again in later fics and is stolen directly from my brother, the kid who would puke so aggressively that he would bust blood vessels in his face.

Jason huffed a shaky laugh, then turned to press his forehead against the side of Bruce's neck. That was something he used to do as a child, Alfred remembered with a start, wondering how he could have forgotten. When compared to Dick, Jason had always been the more standoffish of the two, but he had been known to cling when truly distressed. 

It isn't only Bruce and Jason who forget the little things. Loss and distance steals from us all.

“Bruce,” Jason whispered, “promise me you’ll make sure I’m dead next time. Promise me you won’t bury me alive. Or cremate me. And promise me you won’t bring me back.”

I love it any time this is addressed in a fic, even in passing. Sometimes other people have Jason want the exact opposite, and that's okay too. I just like it when it's something he's clearly thought about and stressed over, because of course he has!! (And if you know TQT and know what this conversation actually was in that story.......)

Bruce had his face turned so his lips were pressed into his son’s sweaty, matted curls. A single tear had streaked his face, shimmering in the light before disappearing into the tired lines that creased his skin. Old. They had all become old when Alfred had looked away.

😭

“I’ll make sure you have some sort of alarm, how about that?” Bruce offered. Despite the hitch in his voice, he sounded warm and soothing, much like his own father, God rest his soul.

They've lost so much.

Alfred sniffed disdainfully as he reemerged, his heart tucked neatly back into his pocket. 

That's him. That's Alfred Pennyworth.

“Alfred’s not old,” Jason protested with a yawn. “He’s immortal. That’s a different thing.”

That's him. That's Alfred Pennyworth. But also wow what a thing to say immediately after their last conversation.

Despite the night’s fright, both of the bed’s occupants were blinking dozily by the time Alfred closed the kit again.

That's an adverb we as a society should use more often.

“The privileges of an old man. You are all still little boys to me.” Alfred bent and pressed his lips to Jason’s forehead, then to Bruce’s. “Goodnight, sirs. Only the sweetest of dreams to you both.”

Alfred as Petrus. Alfred as Phresine. Six of one, half dozen of the other.

[tantive404]

Willeia fic idea. Double agent Leia and Tarkin as her handler and lover

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

That sounds…. so cool? 😍 And has a lot of potential! The intrigue, the drama… and of course the ultimate question of how Leia ended up in this position to begin with. Did Tarkin corrupt and manipulate her? And what motivated her to become an imperial agent? I’ll definitely have to write this AU; thank you anon!

Have a snippet as a sample of what is to come:

The Grand Moff drummed his fingers on the table before him, waiting for her response. His most faithful of agents… so promising and skillful in her manners… placed firmly in the ranks of the enemy where she would least be expected.

By all accounts, Princess Leia of Alderaan was the model citizen of the Empire. Youthful, bright eyed and eager to please. Quite a charming young lady, if he did say so himself. He had snatched her away from those treasonous influences of her early years, reshaped her into his image.

He was extraordinarily pleased with the results.

A tone rang at the door, and despite the discipline with which Tarkin typically conducted himself, his heart rate increased at the sound. He knew it could only mean one thing— she had arrived.

He pressed the button to open the door, letting her in. Dressed in a slinky, seductive black dress, she was quite the picture— and the Governor knew she must have worn it for his eyes and his alone.

Despite her girlish appearance, she still made a rather sweet attempt at behaving like a soldier, folding her arms behind her back and twisting her features into a stern scowl.

“Sir,” she reported. “I’ve managed to map the rebels’ latest battle plans. They’re preparing to relocate their base, out of concern that the Empire’s forces are tracking them. The Hoth system… an ice world in some far-off corner of the Outer Rim.”

“Excellent work, agent,” the Grand Moff smiled appraisingly from his seat. “And is there any suspicion directed toward you?”

“None, sir,” she answered— a sense of pride evident in her tone.

Satisfied, Tarkin’s manners relaxed— moving from the stern dignity of a military man to the tender lover Leia knew so well. The Wilhuff whose manners she had come to learn so intimately, the man behind the rank, reserved for her and her alone, in the stolen moments they managed to snatch between missions.

“Come here, Leia,” he whispered, patting his lap. Obedient, she moved toward him, perching herself lightly on his chair and turning to face him. She leaned in and gave him a sharp kiss on the cheek. Savoring his taste… the reassuring scent of linen and lavender which she had been left without for so many long months.

“Well, old man…” she spoke up in that playful, cheeky voice of hers. “Did you miss me while I was away?”

He stroked her hair fondly, his slender fingers entangling themselves in her braids.

“Of course, of course,” he purred. “You know how I worry when my good girl is missing, stranded among those rebel vermin…”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Stars, Wilhuff, I’m not a child; I can handle myself just fine. You shouldn’t underestimate me…”

“Certainly, my pet. Far be it from me to demean the skills of my favorite agent…”

He pressed a kiss to her neck, causing shivers to break out all across Leia’s flesh. Secure in his grasp, she gazed out toward the stars, pondering what strand of fate had led her down this path. What strange incidences had brought them together.

She knew had been a time when they hated each other, when she was always at his throat… that the Leia from back then, so naive and full of hope, would have said she’d die before submitting to him. But that Leia felt like a stranger to her. So far away… as if it were a different galaxy entirely.

She wanted only him. Only him and a measure of peace and order for her people— the security he’d promised her when she first joined forces with him. She would remain safe in his strong arms.

She looked up at him, warm adoration in her eyes.

“Let us adjourn to my chambers,” Wilhuff said. “I know there is a great deal I’ve missed out on in your time away… I want to learn all about it…”